#two divas maximising their slay

[leclecsposts16]

Max congratulating charles 🥹❤️

They yapped too about the lando situation 😭

Pc: scuderiafemboy on twt

[deerinthefield]

Audrey Hepburn backstage at My Fair Lady on Broadway, paying a visit to Barbra Streisand (October 1964)

[baarra]

His name,   and then an absconding gaze.     Alert to a sound that is neither here nor there,   that couldn’t be uttered by anyone but the original.     Your native ear,   and her native tongue.     It died in New York.     There was no flurry in your street-slick shoulders,   nor in the sizzling pork and running yolks.     In her pre-wrinkled face,   no gasp or sob.     Barely a blink.     She knew.     No more me and him,   just me and me,   which coalesces into you:   deflected,   in their death,   from your own pronoun.     She spoke,   instead,   Nick.     Nick,   mi Barrito.     Mi Barrito final.     Nick.     And then,   nothing.     She couldn’t reach for your touch.     Nothing but the summon.     But here,   it appears.     Cardinal   /   Aloud.     This is no pastiche.     This is the original,   swathed in sheet and dried blood.     Just as he left it,   on a day unlike this.     Tail-end of a snowstorm,   maybe,   but muggy and sallow.

It all curls back into the word on their lips.     With careless intent.     Their tone holds that resignation,   but without salty vestiges of the knowing.     It wouldn’t do,   to maintain that charade between them.     He doesn’t answer verbally to the name,   but to their subsequent answer and question.     ‘   My grandfather.     Maternal.     Ah,   my mother,   I should say   ( … )   good choices,   I suppose,   to make them glad that we wouldn’t choose tradition.   ’     A stolid slant to his grin.     Something grimmer but not mean,   like a rough tide against the lighthouse.     It cants his head,   too,   discerning between the scalped ease in their form,   and the belying pink hurt.     He doesn’t move,   otherwise,   from the cabinet.     ‘   That was a nicer greeting than the first.   ’     Not the last,   but the first.     This tenderises his timbre.     Into recognition,   into tradition.     What becomes ordinal between you and them.     There’s another name wedged under your tongue,   almost slipping out in eager reprieve.     It will no longer consume your thought,   alone,   in due time.     ‘   Does she always make you soft?   ’

Stirrings awake. Clock ticking on a bare mantle. Patches of morning light striking the tiles with not much grace: there were no slats of floorboard here through which the sun could come in, no kinetic presence who could have stopped the interloper by the kitchen, living room. A door left unlocked. Nothing in the room left of value; the doctor reduced to a broken person lying in wait. The light landed on the cool slab of the floor and was absorbed a final time. Shaw could sense the rough-hewn boots caked with dirt, the shadow that had been carved through, the hunter’s legs unbroken and persisting. The hunter’s presence was unwelcome and unbidden but to attempt a fight was futile. This was not a game they could win. This was a cornering.

Instead: a surrender. Shoulders lifted of the weight of being anything but a body made up of bones and sinews and nerves and marrow all still wielding themselves back into shape. A rough draft of an animal. The bile that lurched in their stomach was familiar but had etched itself into the rest of the sensations, Nick’s nipping only an afterthought to everything else. Which was to say, what did another bite matter? It was a mockery of a blessing, that the hunter had come at least as an intruding but familiar shape. They would not make a move to sit up. “Nick.” His nickname was thrown, then, landing between the space between light and shadow. They stared up, eyes hooded, figure cloaked, the rest of their body tucked in the sheets that they once thought were warm. “My mother’s.” They spoke, candidly, honestly, this body that could no longer contravene with the mind. “Yours?”