#visit all the pretty churches i see across the world !

[rosylamb]

What kind of things are on your bucket list?? Would you mind sharing some?

My friend !! 🧸 ⊹ * ･｡ 🤍

I would be happy to . . cus it’s actually something I’m *really* hyped about !! ♡

Ok, ok the first thing on my list —

Create a sanctuary for abused animals !!

This is my heart’s biggest wish c:

Cus volunteering and seeing all the hurt animals in the shelters has shown me that not enough is being done, and I want to help ♡

(They don’t have a voice, they need *us* you know ??)

What do you think? Do you think I can do this ??

Well, I’m going to give it my all, and I hope you do, too! No one should ever be afraid to try and go out there, and make a difference !! ♡

I truly believe everyone is capable of great things, you just have to try :D

Sending a warm hug, and many kind thoughts to you !! Thank you so much for the ask, anon ♡

It was really nice hearing from you, and I’m praying that your day is nothing but bright and blessed today ~ !! XO

ʚ 🤍 ɞ ⊹ ♡

⊹ 🧸 ˚ . 🎀

🧁 ･ ｡ ⊹

⊹ 🎀 * 🧸 ･｡ 🧁

[skinandscales-if]

S&S Anniversary

Today officially marks the 1 year anniversary of the demo release Skin & Scales! The first of many, I hope! I’m so very lucky and fortunate to have such cool people interested in my work, and I’m so delighted to see where the future takes us.

The story is still a baby, with much more to go, but I feel so honored to have built up exactly what the story sets out to create: community. You all have been an incredible part of this journey, and I could not be more grateful, especially to those who send me messages and take the time to interact, big or small. I want to do you justice, and I want to create the best product from everyone’s patience and love over this past year and onwards. This world and the characters have always been a welcome place to return to, and that’s thanks to you all. Thank you so much and here’s to more years to come. ❤️

To celebrate, here’s a little lore tease :)

BELOW IS THE WRITTEN TRANSCRIPT OF PRIVATE POLICE QUESTIONING. DO NOT REPLICATE.

REPORT BY OFFICER LEWIS BRANDY

SEND TO INSTITUTE IMMEDIATELY

DATE: 02/29/1990

QUESTIONS START 09:32

OFFICER BRANDY: Can you state your name for the record?

DARLING: Yes, of course. My name is Samantha Darling.

B: Great. Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Darling. I'd like to start by asking you a few questions regarding last night, the twenty-eighth of February.

DARLING: Ash Wednesday, yes.

B: That's actually what I'd like to start with. You’re a member of St. Cadoc’s Church in the western district, correct?

DARLING laughs.

DARLING: Yes, though I suppose that doesn’t matter too much anymore. I hadn’t visited in a while after the… new management.

B: Right. You were present at the incident, correct?

DARLING: That is correct.

B: Mind stating where you were in relation to the incident?

DARLING: I was checking in on a neighbor of mine down the street across from the church. I live in a small apartment a few blocks down, meaning I crossed by right as things got intense.

B: You saw the smoke?

DARLING: Easily. It hadn’t reached my house yet, but the smoke was already taller than all of the nearby buildings. It was… it was pretty horrible.

B: Understandable. I’d like for you to detail all that you saw when you arrived on the scene, Mrs. Darling. If you’re able.

DARLING: Of course. When I could see the ashes I pivoted from my street to get a better look, and by the time I could see other people, it was clear that the church was burning into nothing. It was… really hot, and pretty suffocating up close like that. But the fire didn’t look normal it was…

DARLING stops talking and folds her hands into her lap.

B: Blue.

DARLING: Blue. And hot white, but it wasn’t as significant to me at the time. It wasn’t like any other fires I had witnessed.

B: And what did you see around you?

DARLING: Around me? A handful of other folks, mostly shifters, all really scared and confused. I thought maybe one of them would know, but they were all either speechless or just as perplexed as me. It… it was pretty horrific to see, even if we didn’t hear screaming or anything.

B: Was anyone fleeing from the scene? Or anyone around looking suspicious?

DARLING: I… um… no? Not really? I wasn’t paying that much attention, but I saw shadows flickering in the fire, along with some noises from within. Not anyone who sounded hurt though.

B: Yes. And no one around you who saw anything either?

DARLING pauses.

DARLING: I didn’t ask…? It didn’t seem like it. We were all a bit preoccupied. I think someone ran to get a firefighter.

B pauses and shuffles his papers.

B: Right. You mentioned hearing noises inside the church, correct? Could you make any of it out?

DARLING: No. I thought it was just the fire at first, but then it sounded like… well it might sound odd, but it sounded like a conversation. Probably something closer to an argument. I might have heard a roar.

B doesn’t say anything right away. DARLING frowns then leans in a bit.

DARLING: I know Firespitters can withstand extreme heat longer than most but do you think there really could have been someone in *that*? I heard the priest perished in the fire, he may have been one of the voices inside, but I’d never been to a sermon of his. He was one of those, though.

B: Mrs. Darling, please remember I’m asking the questions here. This is a very intense case, and we are taking all possible precautions to make sure this can’t happen again. You understand that, right?

DARLING is quiet for a moment.

DARLING: Right. Yes. Sorry.

B: It’s alright. You’ve given us a lot of important information today, ma’am. Before we wrap up though, are you sure nothing else caught your eye?

DARLING goes quiet again.

DARLING: Well… I did see a larger man leaving right as I arrived. He didn’t look suspicious, he was helping a woman around his size leave the scene, but they traveled down a back alley before I could get a good look. I don’t think they were responsible though, I was worried they were hurt it looked like the woman-

B: Thank you for your time, Mrs. Darling.

DARLING straightens up.

DARLING: Ah- sorry?

B: You’ve given us a lot of valuable information today, ma’am, and the city thanks you for your service. It cannot be understated. Outside, we’ll just gather a quick survey of information in case we need to contact you again, but you are otherwise free to go.

DARLING: Oh- okay… alright, thank you for your time, Officer.

DARLING stands.

B: Be careful out there Mrs. Darling. Plenty of people who’d love to take advantage of the good folks in this city. Give us a call if you need it.

DARLING leaves.

QUESTIONS END 09:40

OFFICER NOTES: Follow up with Director about sent special forces. Include report on spotted witnesses. Question at further radius. Don’t press peculiarities.

[bharv]

Also I planned this and shared with some folks and others might find this interesting!

In my little canon world Gortash has many lovers, and I compiled a little list of his favourites!

Everybody listed here happened multiple times over a time period, so people like Haarlep which was a very set period and one off seductions like Liria (the name I gave to the elf whose head can be found in the workshop in Moonrise) don't count here.

Neither technically does Manva Warhelm, though she sits on top for always being on his mind sue me.

Putting under the cut because Enver Gortash is a bad, bad, bad man.

Bane. I mean this goes without saying. Visits from his God are always eventful. 

Musahn Mensahn (Human) a Calishite importer of people who docks every few months. One of the few people Enver is actually fond of, Musahn is a shrewd, cultured man who spins a good yarn and is an attentive, gentle presence in his life. Afternoons with him are like a little holiday.

Del Dawnstar (Dwarf) A young employee at Mistress Yare’s flophouse in The Wide, Enver has been seeing them since they were a teenager starting out. Their position fluctuates; on the one hand they will do anything he asks of them as long as their price is met and he has been able to shape them to his tastes, but on the other hand, sometimes he likes a bit more of a fight (features in Let Me Adorn You)

Hester Ashenheart (Dwarf) A servant in Gortash’s household. He knows Hester does not like him, but that is part of the appeal on both sides. She has found herself in his bed on a number of occasions, often when he has received a less than pleasing letter - and she bears the brunt of the worst of his temper (Features in The Portrait)

Franc Peartree (Human, deceased) Franc and Enver have been working together for around a decade and have been lovers for almost all of that time. Franc has been a close supporter of Enver’s rise across business, politics, and religion, and their affair has always been one of a mutual understanding of his place.

Kruugar (Half-Orc, deceased) Kru is a mercenary who has worked for Enver across jobs. This one is pretty much just physical, and Kru has a prosthetic that Gortash fitted himself as a prototype (having also cut off his arm)

Kerrie Lovelace (Half-Elf) Gortash traded Kerrie and her brother Ellyan from Calimshan, and let her be bought by Karlach Cliffgate in what he saw as a very funny and misplaced moment of chivalry. She went on to become Ulder Ravengard’s mistress, which then sparked his interest; he blackmails her for her company when he feels he wants that particular feeling of power, and she cries all the way through, which is exactly what he is looking for (features in The Portrait and Ammunition)

Ivo Thorngrove (Halfling) A very shrewd moneylender, Ivo has been working with Enver for decades. They had a much more physical relationship when both men were younger, which has petered out into something more familial for the most part, though Ivo can sometimes be persuaded…

Helsik (Dwarf) A completely transactional, only occasional relationship when he wants something. He admires her business sense. 

Wisteria Jannath (Human, deceased) Another transactional relationship, Enver nonetheless enjoys her sharp wit and warmth, and her understanding of what their relationship is.

Ettvard Needle (Human) Editor of Baldur’s Mouth. Enver met Ettvard when working on improvements to the efficiency of print and they formed a close working relationship which became closer when he joined the Banite church. 

Ffion Goldgrind (Dwarf, deceased) Another working relationship, he sees Ffion when he needs a heavy reset.

Fariza Linnaker (Human) Technically his wife. Fariza was kidnapped and held as collateral for ransom to attempt to get Lady Ruth to hand over some of the family’s gold. She did not play ball, a move that Gortash deeply admired, and instead suggested that he keep her if he really wants the investment of the Linnakers. She has gone from locked up in a safehouse, visited only by Manva who “trained” her in what to expect should she live, to being locked up in his estate. He loathes her weakness.

Avery Sonshal (Human) Avery is a recent addition, an ambitious young man who is a Banite “friend of Gortash.” Enver doesn’t think much of him, but he takes a cock well and is eager to please, so is also easy to subjugate.

[dougrobyngoold]

Govan District & Pollok Park - Glasgow, Scotland

We started today off with a visit to the Govan District, fairly close to where we are staying. The area looks like it has seen better days, but I did find a couple of things that I thought were worth checking out. First stop, a memorial to Mary Barbour (pictured above). Ms. Barbour was a Scottish political activist - she worked to improve living conditions for Glasgow's working class.

Cardell Hall (originally a church) and a statue of Sir William Pearce in the foreground - Pearce was a British shipbuilder in the 1800s. His shipbuilding company, on the River Clyde in Govan, became the leading shipbuilding company in the world.

In looking for things to do in Glasgow, I came across an article about the Govan Stones. This was definitely off the beaten path and, of course, ended up being a very cool experience. When we arrived at the site we were bummed to discover that the historic church didn't open until 1:00 - it was only 11:00. So we thought we would just wander around and check out the old church and graveyard before we moved on to our next activity.

We could see that the door to the church was open and that there were people inside, but we thought that it was just employees going in and out. We took a few more photos:

As we were getting ready to leave, this older gentleman came out of the church door and walked toward us. He greeted us and proceeded to tell us all about the church and invited us to go in and check it out. Apparently, the church graveyard is an active dig site and he was the lead archaeologist. He told us to check out the church and then to come out to where they were digging and he would have one of his students tell us all about things. Wow! What we thought was a bust had turned in to a one-of-a-kind experience. We went into the church to learn about the Govan Stones.

Pictured above (top to bottom): the Sun Stone, the Jordanhill Cross, and the Cuddy Stane.

There are 31 Viking-era stones on display inside the church - dating back to the 9th-11th centuries AD. The inside of the church is actually a museum, full of information about the site. It was free and it was very cool.

Five "hogback" stones that were found in the churchyard, these burial monuments were called "hogbacks" due to their shape.

The sarcophagus of St. Constantine, circa late 8th century AD. The archaeologist we met was hoping to find the lid for the sarcophagus - he was pretty excited about getting permission to excavate at this time.

Interior of the Govan Old Parish Church (above and below).

We left the church and went out to the dig site in the churchyard. We had the chance to talk to a couple of the people working the site, they were very gracious with their time and we really appreciated that. We decided that we had bothered them enough and took our leave - time to head to our next destination.

We headed south from Govan, making our way past Bellahouston Park, which was showing signs of fall:

After a bit of a walk, we arrived at Pollok Park - our final stop for the day. It was HUGE and a beautiful oasis in the city.

One of the lovely paved paths in Pollok Park.

There were still a few rhododendrons blooming!

Everywhere we went we would find something of historical significance - so many things to learn!

We continued our meandering through the tree-covered walkway - so pretty!

In the middle of the park is the Burrell Collection - a gorgeous museum full of wonderful art pieces and it was free.

We only visited a couple exhibits in the museum before we were overwhelmed and decided to leave. Here are a few of the things we viewed:

If you like art museums, you MUST go to this one - it is beautiful and the exhibits are incredible. Hard to believe one man collected all of these artifacts.

We left the museum and continued our walk around the park. We stopped to appreciate the inanimate and the animate:

Our final stop in the park was the Pollok House, which we did not go into, but did stop to take a picture of it:

On our way home, we stopped for a drink at a local pub. It was quite the experience, we could not understand a word of what was being said by any of the patrons. The brogue was so heavy - it was fascinating to listen to and we were happy that they could understand us enough to take our drink order! Perfect way to end our stay in Scotland!

[queen-esther]

Please forgive me and ignore if this is too personal to ask. I converted to Catholicism a few years ago. I find the Orthodox church very beautiful and intriguing. I'm curious what your reason was for converting.

No worries at all! I enjoy talking about this. :)

My main reason was really looking at early Church history and realizing the Catholic claims about the papacy aren't as cut and dry and "obvious" as many Catholics would have you believe. I looked back and didn't actually see a single, unified force backing the pope in the very beginning, and Catholic attempts to argue around this by insisting there was "development" in regards to the pope's leading and universal authority over all of Christendom just stopped making sense and came across as suspicious after a while. The Bishop of Rome did have a leading role among the other bishops in the early Church, but there were limits to how much authority the other bishops accepted from him, and the Great Schism didn't ultimately happen just because those pesky and heretical Eastern patriarchs up and stubbornly decided to stop submitting to Rome one day.

If I have to give the entire situation my honest assessment, the massive distance between Rome and the East, combined with the difficult logistics surrounding communication and travel over time, caused a rift in everyone's understanding of the Bishop of Rome's role over the rest of the Church. By that time, the Roman Church had gained an insane amount of power and influence over the Western world, so the pope grew to see himself as having more authority over the rest of the Church than the patriarchs of the Eastern Churches understood him to have. Now that I have taken a more honest look at pivotal moments in Church history instead of just blindly following the Catholic talking points, I happen to agree with the Eastern side of that conflict.

Along with that, the more I learn about Orthodox theology, the more it just...connects? Makes more sense? I see more of God's forgiveness and compassion in the East than I did as a Catholic. There are a lot of aspects of Catholicism that are very rigid and legalistic. That's not to say rules are bad, nor is it to mean Orthodoxy doesn't have its own laws and practices, but the approach in Orthodoxy just feels different, more accepting of the fact that everyone falls short, but should try our best to live Christlike lives anyway. The concept of Confession seems a lot more like going to the doctor to be healed. There isn't this detailed idea of, "You committed X type of sin, so you must not receive Communion until you have fulfilled Y obligation." You don't do X amount of prayers or visit Y parish on a feast day in order to have Z number of hours removed from your time in Purgatory. Our priest described Confession more along the lines of, "If there's a particular sin you've been struggling with, you should go ahead and confess it. But you shouldn't hold yourself back from receiving Communion unless your spiritual father sees avoiding the Eucharist as a beneficial move towards overcoming a particular sin, because consuming the Body and Blood of Christ is largely about healing your soul, too. It's not a 'reward' you get for doing a good job."

And there are other aspects, too. The Orthodox argument that the bread becomes ONLY the Body of Christ and the wine becomes ONLY the Blood of Christ lines up perfectly with how Christ talks about this in Scripture. Christ doesn't say, "Take this, all of you, and eat of it, for this is my Body AND Blood," nor does He hold up the wine and go, "Drink it, for this is my Blood AND my Body." In the Bread of Life Discourse, Christ specifically mentions eating His Flesh and drinking His Blood. Speaking of Communion, I 100% think having babies receive the Eucharist is the right call, and when I found out this was how the Catholics did it in the early days, too, I was like, "Hmmmm," and stopped buying the "age of reason" argument the Catholic Church uses now pretty much on the spot. I'm also impressed with how the Orthodox Church has maintained rich history and Tradition through the Divine Liturgy.

This response is longer than I thought it would be, but that more or less sums it up! I do regret not looking into all claims about Apostolic Christianity back before I first decided to convert to Catholicism, because I feel I didn’t give Orthodoxy the fair shake it deserved when making my decision of which branch to follow as a Christian. I’m fairly certain I would’ve gone Orthodox in the first place had I known more about it at the time.

[chaletnz]

Arequipa: City Walking Tour

I’d slept pretty well all things considered with changing bus in the middle of the night and we were whisked off the bus and dropped off at around 5am to our hotels. The receptionist said it would cost an additional 15% to check in early, and 4% for the card payment fee but for $43 in total for 2 nights this was the nicest place I had stayed so far on the trip! I took a shower to refresh and then put in my laundry at last, hoping like mad that they would actually wash it for me, and then headed out around 7am for a walk around the city. It was very quiet with everything still closed, but I could see the Plaza de Armas without any people there which was awesome! It was Sunday too (Mother’s Day to be exact) which meant a lot of the places I had starred on my map to visit for a good coffee were closed today and the only one open was Pukupuku. I was satisfied with my flat white and enjoyed it on their rooftop listening to the magical city sounds of blaring music, and blaring sirens. Breakfast was now required since my plans would lead to a walking tour in a few hours so after my coffee I stopped in at EcoBrunch for a yoghurt bowl topped with fruit, seeds and granola and hoped my stomach wouldn’t have any problems. At 10am I joined the walking tour with about 15 others and our guide whose name I didn’t quite catch – Javier or Edgar? He passed around some samples of 70% cocoa chocolate and then led us to our first stop at Alpaca Mundo to see some alpacas, feel the wool fibres, and see how the garments are made. On the way he explained that Arequipa is the second largest city in Peru at 2,325m above sea level. It is known as the White City because of the Spanish who colonised the city and the buildings actually being white in colour since they are made from volcanic rock. The last eruption of the volcano was over 5000 years ago but the last earthquake was only in 2001 and the next one shouldn’t be far away… At Alpaca Mundo Edgar showed us the garments that were for sale made of vicuña hair – a scarf for 6,000 soles, a sweater for 8,000 soles, and a shawl for 18,000 soles. The vicuña is the rarest camelid and is native to Peru, it has the finest and softest hair in the world for clothing. They are also a protected animal by Peruvian government and if you cause one to die such as hunting or hitting it with a car, you will go to jail for 5 years. We walked through the city streets which are totally different from those in the likes of Cusco where the Incas lived. Arequipa didn’t have Inca inhabitants and was solely occupied by the Spanish so the buildings have a very European feel. We came across a small market and Edgar recommended that we go to the Central Market and try the special juice – it’s made with fruit like normal, but also includes beer, milk, honey, egg and Viagra for the ultimate health boost apparently! Edgar then took us to Templo la Compañia de Jesús where he described a lot of the façade sculpture to us and then we headed inside to see the church. There was a last supper painting inside where the disciples were enjoying their roasted guinea pig as this was a sacred animal, they also sat at round tables instead of a long rectangular one to be closer to one another. Our last stop was Plaza de Armas where Edgar shared the detail that all cities in Latin America have a main square that is the same, one side has the city hall, the other side has a church or cathedral and there is a fountain in the middle. I thought back to all the main squares I had visited through Nicaragua, Guatemala, Cusco and they all fit this description! The only ones that don’t follow the pattern are in Venezuela and Brazil so I’ll be on the lookout for them when I eventually visit those countries. Edgar quizzed us on which bell tower had fallen down repeatedly over the years (the left) and then took us up to a bar with a viewpoint. We were allowed to pass through a little gate and walk out on to the roof for views of the city.

[milla-frenchy]

There is one thing I've always thought, and given this story you probably think the same: angst suits Javi perfectly

(sorry Javi, baby, but yes it does)

So, of course I wanted to read your series, and I knew I'd love it

Because it's angsty, and because hello genius????? 😍😍😍

These time jumps are perfect ❤️

Javier sighs. At eleven, he’s already burdened by the weight of the whole world, and you don’t know why.

jfc. In one sentence, about 11 yo Javi, you summed up what will haunt him all his life, what we know him for. I am amazed

The girl he’s dancing with now is licking his neck.

the way i tensed, reading this 😂

You lie to yourself. To the version of your heart that never got older than eleven, enraptured as you were the moment he walked into that classroom and hijacked your life. A bedtime story blooms in your head: you get him, somehow, over everybody else.

"Hijacked your life" damn, gurl. I think I'm in love with your writing

One week from now, his mother will give you her rosary when you visit her hospital room. Green beads polished to pearls by her prayers.  Two weeks from now, she will die. The chemo has failed, unbeknown to the two of you.  You’ll watch Javier shoulder her casket from church to grave with Chucho, his uncle and cousins, in a suit that’s too snug across the breadth of his shoulders and the tie she bought him for prom. You’ll watch Lorraine hold his hand the whole ceremony, the whole wake, and afterwards he’ll spend a week in your bed, unable to sleep without your arms, ignoring Lorraine’s calls and chain-smoking like a man who wants to die. If he cries, he won’t let you see it. But he’ll lie with you in the burrow of your duvet, his face planted in the bowl of your neck, sometimes kissing there. Tiny, needy grazes you’ll wordlessly allow. Kissing in return the top of his head, his forehead, his cheeks and knuckles. Never his lips. 

Damn. Fuck yeah, I'm in love with your writing, the angst is amazingly written

At least you won’t have to watch the waitress fall in love with Javier the second he sits down.

Love it, love it, love it

“Second worst?” Then a long whistle. You turn. Javier, not Chucho, stands at the foot of the stairs. Four years older than last you saw him, sober and smiling, brown eyes glinting shyly. Beautiful, same as always, but what did you expect.

holy fn damn. I'm speechless (are you in love with him as much as I am? seems so 😂)

When you try to draw away Javier’s grip locks them in a vice, pulling them from his face to look down at your fingers where, on your left hand, sits a gold band. Two tiny diamonds bracketing a sapphire—not an heirloom, but it’s pretty. Beautiful, even. You’ve come to love it. “Shit,” Javier mumbles, his brows high and chin hung down as he ghosts his fingers over the gem in disbelief. “Look at you.” You hardly hear it. What you really hear is a reverie, a ghost. A ship that passed too far from your harbor, scared off by the beacon of you. Warned of your lethal shores. Pensé que me casaría contigo. Rambled when he was drunk and hollow and out of his mind. A whispered confession spoken in those tiny hours he spent in your bed in which nothing beyond the mattress existed but the two of you, intertwined. I thought I’d marry you.

Freya, you stole my heart. I love Javi so much, and I'm so picky with Javi's fics, but the way you write him... well 👏👏👏

I'LL CARRY YOU: part II

YOU CARRY IT

RATING: Explicit (18+) PAIRING: Javier Peña x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 7.7k CW: Smut (piv, characters are drunk but sound of mind and consenting), drinking, and a lethal amount of yearning.

SUMMARY: Four years after he disappeared from your bed in the early morning, Javier returns to Laredo once more—exhuming a lifetime of memories.

part I | series masterlist | series on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

dividers by @saradika-graphics & insp for one moment from this post (wink)

ELEVEN

You don’t know you love him, but you do. Grass-stained and grubby, dirt beneath your fingernails, digging for jewels in the front yard that yields nothing but squirming things. Earthworms, pillbugs, a slug. Beside you, Javier is on all fours, scanning the lawn through squinted eyes, his head haloed by the sun as he blocks the light. “Don’t see nothin’,” he groans, elbows bent as he dips his face close to the ground. So earnest in his hunt for something that’ll delight you—buried treasure.

You grin, watching him, knowing in your heart there isn’t anything good buried in the square of grass outside your house, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is this: the afternoon spent in the company of the lanky kid whose arrival has punched your whole life out of orbit, rewriting all that is possible for you. Reimagining. 

With a huff, Javier sits back on his heels, his t-shirt stained with soil. His mom’s gonna whack the back of his head when he gets home—lightly, lovingly—for ruining another set of clothes, but he’ll never learn his lesson. “Sorry,” he mumbles, meeting your gaze with round, warm apologies swimming in the earth of his eyes. “Can’t see anything good.”

It’s obvious he means it, obvious he’s disappointed in himself for not accomplishing the impossible. Fulfilling some childhood fantasy you’re well aware will never be real. For Javier, it’s not enough to see you dreaming; he wants to make it come true.

Small smile on your lips, you reach out to nudge his skinny arm. “I forgive you,” you tease, and he blinks once before he catches the joke in your tone and a grin grabs hold of his face, briefly creasing his cheek.

Just then the wind chime sings from your porch and both of you turn to see the sea glass shiver prettily in the breeze. In a moment that feels beyond time, you and Javier sit transfixed by its gentle magic—the sparkling tune of blue-green glass chiming in the wind. The moment ends only when Javier slumps down to lie in the grass, dropping his head into your lap. School’s only been in session for three weeks—which means you’ve known him a grand total of twenty-one days—but somehow, though he’s never done this before, his touch feels to you as natural as breathing.

Javier sighs. At eleven, he’s already burdened by the weight of the whole world, and you don’t know why.

Shy, your hand hovers over his head, stilled by hesitation. Then he wiggles a little, adjusting himself to lie with one cheek pressed to your thighs and the other turned up to you, and your hand falls softly against his temple, brushing an unruly lock away from his eyes. He makes a soft sound sort of like a hum as if you’ve done what he wanted, and pride surges in your chest—a sudden tide. Dark lashes fluttering, his eyes close. His cheek pink and gold beneath the carpet of sun.

“Sad?” you ask him softly, carding your fingers through his hair, unfazed by the sweat that wets the curls at the nape of his neck. You don’t find him gross, not for a second, but you don’t know yet what that means.

His shoulder bobs with a tired shrug. “Wanted to find you somethin’ good,” Javier mumbles.

“That’s okay. The fun part is looking.”

“Still wanted to,” he sighs.

And you know, sudden as a lightning strike, that this boy’s your best friend in the world. Doesn’t matter that you don’t know his middle name yet, or all his secrets, the feeling thrown down at you from above hits you without any warning, rearranging your cells—you love him all at once. That’s all it takes. You’d do anything for him.

EIGHTEEN

You love him, but so does everyone here—Javier Peña is an incredible drunk. Three red solo cups deep and barely eighteen, he doesn’t dance through the packed dormitory lounge, he swims. Graceful and lithe, though the occasional splash of shitty beer gulps golden from his cup, splattering on the floor. But Javier dances with his whole body, especially when he’s drunk, outweighing any mess with his charm: head thrown back and eyes closed as he sings along to whatever record someone’s put on, hips balletic, boneless, fluid. He focuses on someone for a song or two like they’re the only person in the room, then moves right along to find someone new. 

The girl he’s dancing with now is licking his neck.

You think you’re ready to go home.

When the next song ends, he comes down panting from his lyric high and his head sways in your direction: perched on the back of the couch with your feet on the cushions in the corner of the room, worrying the slit that’s cracked in the plastic rim of your cup with your thumbnail. You’re not sure how many drinks you’ve had, only that two of them were jello shots that went down like slugs and made your mouth taste like a rancid ice pop. Still does, unfortunately. No quantity of beer seems capable of rinsing it out.

Javier bends down to whisper something in the girl’s ear and she removes her lips from the column of his throat, slinking off to be swallowed by the dance floor with a smirk on her face. And that’s it: the magic of his attention—hardly anyone seems mad when he moves on. There are, from what you can see in the dark, no jealous glares or bitter remarks spat from anyone. 

Perhaps Javier gives his lust freely, fleetingly, but it is always earnest. 

Now he’s headed straight for you.

The minute he reaches you with that lazy grin, you’re cured. Happy again, drunk on the dazzle of the black lights someone tacked up on the walls with duct tape. The writhing mass of limbs and hips made neon in the dark—shocks of ultraviolet and blue raspberry and the brightest white ricocheting from painted bodies. Biceps and back pockets and necks branded with electric green acrylic. Beaming in his white button up, the top three buttons undone and collar open loose around his throat, Javier is a dream. Luminous and stained by a slender handprint low on his shirt like whoever left it had grabbed his hip.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asks, frowning. He blinks up at you, his gaze narrowed and face shadowed in the dark, and drops onto the couch to settle between your legs. 

You’d be surprised if you were sober, but you’re not, so you think nothing of it—though he’s never touched you like this before, in front of so many eyes.

“Too clumsy,” you reply.

Sitting above him, you’ve got the perfect view of the crown of his head. Dark curls dislodged by dancing and beer and the way he keeps running his hand through it, fingers carding between sweaty locks. When he bumps his head against the inside of your knee, you know what he wants. He never asks because he doesn’t have to. You know him. He knows you.

“Should dance with me,” he says as your hand slips mindlessly into his hair, scratching in the way that takes him apart. “I’ll let you step on my feet.”

“I’d have to get in line,” you tease, scratching harder for a second so his gaze lifts to the center of the dorm-turned-dance-floor where three girls are watching Javier as they roll their hips—three, and you don’t even have a full view of the crowd from where you’re sitting—and though his head points in exactly their direction, what you can glimpse of the expression on Javier’s face is what you’d expect to see if he were looking at a wall. Not callous, just vacant. Like there isn’t anything to see or form an opinion about.

You feel pleasure fill you in great, crashing waves—grateful for these moments when all he cares about is you.

He shrugs, tilts his head up again, and shakes his head to tell you he’s noticed you’ve stopped scratching. When your fingers move again, he hmphs, settles back against your knee. All senior year you’d wondered if he’d bore of you in college. You waited for it, figured he’d get on with new friends and stop needing you. Course Javier’s made friends, and while crossing campus together between lectures you’ve more than once witnessed girls approach him alone or in packs, and he always knows them by name. It’s not a secret that he’s fucked two girls since the semester started. Nothing is a secret between you.

And yet, here he is: tucked between your legs on this nasty couch like there ain’t a soul for miles but the two of you. Not a single thought about outgrowing you in his gaze at all.

Glaringly upset that you aren’t enjoying yourself like he thinks you ought to, too.

“Dance with me, cariño,” Javier insists—and your stomach yelps, sudden and breathless. He’s never called you this before, but he grins the moment it falls out of his mouth, so you must be smiling.

You shake your head, summoning his pout. Bottom lip jutted, licked, and glossy under elemental light. The girls who want him haven’t broken their gaze, despite your hand in his hair and his ignoring them. 

“Don’t have to be embarrassed,” he says. “Ever’one’s drunk.”

“You’re drunk,” you tease.

Javier cuts his eyes. “You’re drunk,” he grumbles, and as if on cue you hiccup once, yanking up the corner of his mouth. You stop scratching to sweep a curl off his damp forehead, charmed by the way he leans willingly into your hand. 

“Let’s go home,” he mumbles. 

You don’t question it; you take his hand without knowing whose dorm he means.

Turns out he means yours—bronze in penny-dark light at the edge of residence, a whole four blocks further from the party than his, but you’re not complaining. He has terrible pillows, a roommate. You’ve got a cozy shoebox with memory foam all to yourself.

At the front door, you drop your keys trying to fish them out of your bra, and Javier kneels to snatch them from the pavement. A single coin of light shines down outside the entrance in which he is now brightened, eyes glassy, head loosely attached. He sways, crouched still at your feet as he gazes up at you, not quite kneeling, not quite praying—but close, you think. This feels close.

“Smooth,” he chides softly, and offers you your keys. 

“Not m’fault,” you grumble as you take them. “Dress doesn’t have pockets.”

A grin. The magic of his face when he smiles properly, if only for a moment. With the light how it is, harsh and clear, all it touches is pristine. The flat of his jaw, the freckles between his collar bones, on the tanned triangle of his chest. You wonder about them, suddenly. How it might feel to make a constellation of him with your fingertips. 

“Pretty though,” Javier says.

How it would feel to make a constellation of him with your tongue.

You take the keys, face shied from illumination as if he might read the thought from your face—he probably could. A blessing and a curse, to be known by someone this well. Then the moment slips gone, gone, gone, and you and Javier walk hand in hand inside. Up three flights of stairs, down the echo chamber of your silent dorm, your hallway. He never once lets go. Long past quiet hours, now. No one awake, it sounds like, to make a peep but the two of you.

You only get one short, tremored jab of the key—it misses, then Javier whirls you around. Your spine meets your door and his eyes have never quite been this color, you think. Never quite this vibrant, this wanting, this terrified. Never quite this close to yours.

Warmth holds your face. His hands. 

“Javi?” you whisper, as he draws closer and your fool of heart skids rampant in your chest, smashing into your ribs.

He exhales sharply, fogging your face with the heat of his lungs, and you can smell the beer on him, his sweat and aftershave. You’re certain, too, that every time you’ve ever seen him nervous before now doesn’t hold a candle to the tremors you feel in him as he presses his chest gently against yours, pressing you cautiously against your door. 

Javier shakes his head, scoffs mirthfully, and licks his bottom lip. You watch his mouth—transfixed by the muscle of his tongue—and he watches yours. 

He’s going to kiss you, you realize. It looks like he’s going to—

“Porfa,” he whispers. “Una vez.”

One time.

Then you’re nodding before you can fear what nodding means, and Javier casts his shadow over all the world, disappearing everything that isn’t him, the careful press of his lips, and the way his shaking doesn’t stop until your arms have slid around his neck. He makes a small, needy sound passed from his tongue to yours as he sinks against you, whole and heavy. The sort of weight you’d carry as far as he needed, as far as you could take. 

His hands make a map of you, skimming places they’ve never ventured: high on your ribs, low on your stomach, the back of your neck, just under your chest, just over your ass. 

It’s a little clumsy—often your teeth bump in your enthusiasm and you part briefly to laugh—but it doesn’t feel wrong in the slightest. Every time Javier dips back in to kiss you again, you want more. When you slip one hand to his chest, the gold vee bared between open buttons, the slick of his skin rips a soft moan from you and Javier’s chest stutters beneath your touch. 

“Is this—” he whispers, pausing to catch your bottom lip between his again. “Is this okay?”

Giggling, though you don’t mean to—Javier draws back to look you in the eye and his are black: a body possessed. Helplessly searching for a sign you want him to stop or go on. You shake and shake your head, lay your fingertips over his soft lips, and Javier’s eyebrows dent low over his eyes, utterly lost and confused. His hands stop their trail to rest on your hips. 

To you, it’s hilarious that he could possibly wonder when it’s so obvious that this is what you should’ve been doing all this time. Now you can’t imagine how you ever avoided it before. Smiling, you feel him breathe on your hand as he scans your face for a clue before you finally get out, “Mhm,” and then, quieter, “Don’t stop.”

“Thank fuck,” Javier mutters, before crashing back into you—with meaning this time, lips needy, hands heavy in their roam, not pinching but squeezing, pulling, holding you hot against the lean of his body, those fluid hips. 

His lips, emboldened. Trailing now to your jaw, finding a spot beneath its hinge that makes you mewl and tonguing it sweetly until you wiggle him off you to kiss him properly again. 

You manage to stumble inside, eventually, Javier’s shirt shedding before the door has closed. He scoops you into his arms the moment it’s off—your feet leave the floor, lose one shoe, and he trips over it and you yelp, accidentally biting his tongue as he catches himself against your shitty dresser. It creaks beneath his hand. 

“Gonna hurt ourselves,” he grumbles into your mouth, a little frustrated, his broad hand palming your ass to grind your hips against his.

“Worth it,” you grin.

You’re young, in love with him without rank or title or practice. Still mostly a child, all wonder and cravings that haven’t yet solidified into their final form—so it’s impossible to get this right the first time. You’ve had sex just once before for a grand total of eight minutes, and though Javier’s had a few more tries he hasn’t cracked it. Doesn’t help that you’ve got just the twin bed, and he’s all limbs. Has only his concentration to give you, his gravity, his ardent hunger. 

The way you feel all night that he wants you in his new, thrilling way. Always mumbling hotly into the curl of your ear.

Fuck, you feel—feel so good.

Pretty like this, so pretty like this.

And worst, maybe, which is to say best—want you, baby—wanted you so fuckin’ bad.

Despite the champagne grape color of his blush when he loses it halfway through, you think this is the closest you’ve ever come to transcendence. Every star aligned in perfect syzygy—at last, one piece of fate has clicked into its rightful place.

“Shit,” Javier mutters as he pulls out, soft and ashamed, but you just shake your head, tugging him back to you by the nape of his neck.

“Don’t care,” you insist. “Just wanna touch you.”

You mean it; you don’t care, but Javier still looks down at you with those round eyes guileless in his shame, open as any book. Fine, you’ll prove it. Tongue wet and doting, you lick between his freckles, kiss over his collarbone, across his chest, up his neck—an act of sincerity in which you make him the sky, a chain of constellations joined by your mouth. 

Then he’s hard again, hips canting against yours, and you resume.

It’s a kind of fullness that belongs not just to the body, not purely physical—but you dismiss this as nothing more than some nonsense, drunken thought.

In his fervor, your skull bumps against the wall and he gasps a sudden apology, one hand moving to cradle the crown of your head as he rocks into the cradle of your hips. Then your sudden laughter makes Javier’s whole body freeze suddenly, ceasing all rhythm. His hands pinch warningly at your waist.

“Gotta stop—shit, nena—quit laughin’,” he rasps, breathless, desperate. 

His sudden seriousness has you lost to besotted amusement, unable to keep your laughter from bubbling out.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Javier pants, with his eyes squeezed shut as he fails to concentrate. “Gonna make me—fuck.” 

Then he’s undone, his sweaty forehead dropped to your chest as he comes down, disappointed, from his high.

“S’okay,” you whisper, hands slinking through his hair which now is beyond salvation. A hopeless, shaggy cause so sweet between your fingers. In an instant he’s melted, body leaden on top of yours, squishing you to the mattress, safe, secure.

For a while you stay like this, both catching your breath. His forehead pressed to the skin between your breasts. Then Javier fetches a t-shirt from your dresser and helps you clean the mess of your stomach, both of you snickering, in awe of how strange and ridiculous this all is. Shirt tossed from his hand, it jellyfishes in the air, falls deflated to the floor like a gunned down hot air balloon and Javier crawls over you, stripes your cheek with his tongue just to get you to gasp, clumsy hands shoving him off you with a gross, Javi, while he sits back on his heels. He shrugs, dark eyes drifting to your lips. 

He doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking; you just roll your eyes.

“Shut up,” you tell him, blushing as you tug on clean underwear. “S’not the same.” 

When a sleep shirt comes next he grunts in disapproval, earning a soft shove to his arm.

He drags his pants back on but the paint-stained shirt stays off, his body all cricket at the foot of your bed: leaning back on one hand, legs bent at the knee. Lean muscle and sudden joints. His smooth, tanned chest. Beautiful, same as he’s always been, and somehow entirely new. He cracks your sorry excuse for a window, asks if you mind if he smokes.

Your eyebrows rise. “That’s a disgusting habit,” you scold, all smirk as you extend your arm expectantly. “You absolutely cannot smoke in my room, alone.”

With a smirk, he lifts his hips to pull a carton from the back pocket of his jeans—one of many pairs that make a meal of his thighs. Filter pinched between his teeth, brings the cup of one hand to the end as he flicks his lighter, birthing no flame.

“Drunker than I thought,” he mumbles to himself, defeated as you sigh.

Your hand, still open and waiting, folds twice. Give it to me, you mean, and he does; you thumb it a few times before tossing it back. “Just empty,” you say. 

The hem of your shirt slips up over your ass as you stretch for your desk drawer, and Javier—not yet broken from the spell of your entanglement—makes a low sound not unlike a growl that has you grinning. You produce a matchstick like a promise, bite it between your teeth, and hold his gaze as you draw it quickly from your mouth.

The red tip sparkles, flames.

“The hell d’you learn to do that?” he asks, crawling over once more to hold his cigarette to the small fire in your hand before it dies. Lit, he sucks once before handing the cigarette to you.

You shrug coolly. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” you smirk, drinking tobacco like it’s water until your lungs too protest and hack. As you cough, Javier lights a second from the match in the last moment before it snuffs, and leans back against the windowsill to take a drag that hollows his cheeks.

He knocks his foot against your bare knee with a pointed stare. “Teach me,” he says. So you do.

TWENTY-ONE

You love him. All night, he buys everything you drink. Twenty-one at last, you’re crowded against the sticky bar of The Last Man Standing amidst the Saturday high, bodies hot and impatient in every direction. So many adults who seem so much older than you. You think you spot your old algebra teacher smoking in a corner booth with a woman who is not his wife. Javier sweeps you against his barstool with a scowl when a man twice your size elbows you out of the way to order. 

“Here,” he grunts, and smacks his thigh twice with meaning, so you climb onto his lap, pleased that his arm hooks around the small of your back to steady you against his chest. 

Tipsy, that’s what he is. What you are. 

You lie to yourself. To the version of your heart that never got older than eleven, enraptured as you were the moment he walked into that classroom and hijacked your life. A bedtime story blooms in your head: you get him, somehow, over everybody else.

Call it a birthday wish.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease. 

“Just take your shot,” Javier grumps, dark eyes rolling in that way that means he’s fighting off a grin. Stashing his cigarette between his teeth, he nudges the shot glass toward you and you watch a lick of tequila spill onto the bar before you grasp it.

Together, you swipe your tongues across the back of your hands: you his, and he yours, before Javier showers salt from little paper packets he stole from a stranger’s basket of fries. He winks as the salt clings to your skin, folding the packets neatly to stash in his back pocket. Then you clink your glasses, hook arms, lap the salt, and swallow.

Tequila stripes hot down your throat, hits the churn of your stomach, and you grin as you set down your empty glass next to his on the bartop. Tipsy in the dreamy way that can put you to sleep if you don’t drink on, your head tips onto his shoulder to rest a while and Javier, without you having to ask, tightens his hold around your waist like he knows you want him to. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” he says, before his eyes flicker to the ceiling. “Got traditions to uphold.”

Above you, bras in every color known to man hang from the rafters and ceiling fans. Lacy things, plain things, hideous things—all polluted with a sheet of charcoal dust. You stab your elbow into his ribs, but Javier only holds you tighter, keeping your body in the cage of his.

“C’mon, baby,” he says. Eyes round and dark and twinkling with mischief. He clicks his tongue—daring you though he doesn’t have to. The heat of his proximity alone would do you in. That clumsy meeting of your bodies freshman year has not returned and you don’t think it ever will. He’s got Lorraine now, but the nicknames have stuck around. It’s normal, mundane, the way you call each other baby, cariño. Endearments felt with the whole heart but not the whole body.

Nena, however, was uttered by his plush lips just that once. Out of his mind on the precipice of release, probably doesn’t remember he said it. Probably didn’t realize even at the time. 

You try not to wonder if he calls Lorraine nena now, but he probably does. Definitely does. He loves her.

“Rules are rules,” Javier presses, eyebrows flicking up.

Rolling your eyes, you wrestle your arms behind your back to unclasp your bra through your shirt. His eyes hold yours as you drag the straps down your arms—left, then right—and you’d swear desire flares briefly in his eyes as you drag your bra from the sleeve of your shirt without having to undress. Must be the alcohol. Must just be him teasing you. 

Still, your cheeks burn. 

It’s not a nice bra, not one you’d show anyone, but Javier looks down as you hold it and moves below you, repositioning how you’re sitting on his lap. 

“C’mon then,” he urges you, patting the small of your back with his broad hand. 

You toss, someone across the bar lets out a masterful whistle, and your bra catches on the blade of the ceiling fan overhead perfectly. First try. Straps swinging, scalloped from the band. You beam—delighted by the applause that roars from the patrons nearest you—and the bartender slides down the line to offer another round on the house. 

Smug, Javier leans forward to take one while you grab the other. Righteous in his posture: chest broad and upright, pressed against you. Shirt unbuttoned at the top like some swash-buckling pirate you’d swoon over in a movie. Seems it doesn’t matter how much you try to forget what it felt like to be wanted by him, you just can’t. In some other version of your lives, he might not have met Lorraine. Or he met her but didn’t want her, because he already had you.

But he has you now, anyway. Javier gets it both ways. A girlfriend—blonde, pretty, wry—and a best friend who love him in the same way, while he only has to return that affection to one.

One week from now, his mother will give you her rosary when you visit her hospital room. Green beads polished to pearls by her prayers. 

Two weeks from now, she will die. The chemo has failed, unbeknown to the two of you. 

You’ll watch Javier shoulder her casket from church to grave with Chucho, his uncle and cousins, in a suit that’s too snug across the breadth of his shoulders and the tie she bought him for prom. You’ll watch Lorraine hold his hand the whole ceremony, the whole wake, and afterwards he’ll spend a week in your bed, unable to sleep without your arms, ignoring Lorraine’s calls and chain-smoking like a man who wants to die. If he cries, he won’t let you see it. But he’ll lie with you in the burrow of your duvet, his face planted in the bowl of your neck, sometimes kissing there. Tiny, needy grazes you’ll wordlessly allow. Kissing in return the top of his head, his forehead, his cheeks and knuckles. Never his lips. 

The ashtray you set on the nightstand for him will never move. It’ll stay there, unused, for years. When you move, it will move with you, set out on new nightstand, waiting for his return.

But you know nothing of that now. Today is all tequila and the glory of his attention, and everyone you love is alive.

“I hate you,” you grump as your glasses clink again.  

Javier hmphs, feigns impatience as he squeezes your hip. He does love you. You know that—you tell yourself so all the time. He loves you, just not in the right way.

“Drink, cariño,” he says. “Before we’re twenty-two.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

You love him, so you’d wait all night. Twenty minutes ain’t that late. Try telling that to your sputtering heart, but it’s fine. It’s just twenty minutes, and the look of this place. Just the glooms of shadow between each red-clothed table and cosmos of chandeliers that willow whenever someone opens the door and lets in a draft. 

It’s just that, now that you’re here, you have no idea why he picked this place. You’ve never been, and sat at a small table by the windows, it’s obvious why. This place, with its jazz band testing sound levels on the sunken stage, with its waitresses who are all, somehow, the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen—the kind of gorgeous so grand you can’t even hate them, can’t envy them, you can only sit in awe—this place is romantic. Unbelonging to you. 

This is the sort of restaurant you take someone when you ask them to marry you.

Which—given the last two weeks—is sort of hilarious. You’re inclined to believe Javier chose this place for dinner as a joke. Planned for the two of you to sit here, stuff yourselves stupid and tipsy and quip under your breath all night at the expense of the other patrons who all appear to be having a lovely night.

Except the joke’s not so funny when no one’s here to make it. 

Your watch spins its hands, laughing at you, making you the joke.

Thirty minutes late. 

You already have a feeling he isn’t gonna show—which is to say, you know for sure. Heavy and anchoring. Disappointment can center you, plant you where you sit. Sure, it’s not the first time Javier has flaked; his own head can often get the best of him when he’s restless or spent. But it’s different, knowing the depth of his heartache. Sensing it even when he isn’t in the room and isn’t anywhere nearby, like somehow your bodies can speak to each other at any distance. 

It’s not just your hurt you carry, but his shattering. The death of all his life was about to be that he ran like hell from.

When the waitress swings by, you accept a top-up on your wine. Might as well.

Soon the jazz band is playing, piano swooping acrobatic through the air, trumpet singing, sax crooning. As the sun drops low in the sky, flirting with rooftops, the chandeliers inside the restaurant dim. Then it’s alchemy, the aura of the room. Straight out of some movie that’d break your heart half as much as you fear it breaking any second now. 

You wish you knew why he asked you to meet him here.

You wish you knew why he told you to dress up—just a little, Christ, cool it, baby.

You wish you knew why he hasn’t come.

Not that this day on your calendar hasn’t been circling around in your head like water in a tub that won’t fully drain. There isn’t anything good to tell someone who just left their fiancée at the altar, even if he is your best friend—Javier knows this. 

Maybe that’s why he still hasn’t shown. 

Seems cruel to ask you here, gussied up for nothing in the dress he ten years ago peeled off you—reverent in his gaze and fixation, alight with obvious pleasure—when he must have known he wasn’t going to come.

Might have jinxed it when you hauled it out from the grave of your closet this afternoon. Feels pathetic, now, that you put this thing back on. Desperate.

You drain your wine, let it fill you, bitter and bloody and absent of any enjoyment. 

He isn’t coming.

Still, you wait, praying you’re wrong.

As the band’s first set comes to a roaring end, the whole place alive with praise, air filled by cheers and clapping hands. Even the waitresses halt where they stand to clap, poised in their practiced intermission, perfect as marble deities each kissed with red lips. The bartender, too, in his stupid bowtie and perfectly gelled hair. Everyone here is having the time of their lives but you, who can’t shake the feeling that you’ve never wanted to be anywhere less than you want to be here right now, alone.

One glance at the menu and all you see are the dollar signs that’d gut your bank account, send you back into the overdraft you’ve just paid off. 

You sigh, try to make a game of silver linings. 

At least you won’t have to pay for some stuffy meal.

At least you won’t have to watch the waitress fall in love with Javier the second he sits down.

At least you won’t have to call a cab because you’re too buzzed to drive.

At least you won’t be up late enough to be fucked tomorrow at work.

At least you don’t have to wear these stupid, pointy shoes until the little hours.

Needless to say, you lose the game. No amount of silver brightens the rift widening to a chasm through your chest. Hollowing you out. Splitting you in two.

One more glass, then the next time the waitress swings by, you wave the white flag and she hastily brings your receipt. Obscene, for three glasses of wine and an hour and a half spent watching pleasure flame in strangers’ eyes, but you pay for it. You take the loss and its drowning weight. You carry it.

“Do you have a—” you start to ask, as the waitress takes your bills, but she cuts you off, already nodding.

“Course, sugar,” she says, and points one lacquered nail in the direction of the bar. As if rehearsed, the bartender swipes his crisp white towel along the right wing of the polished bartop, revealing a phone on the wall behind him. You nod, thank her, and are so grateful that the bartender ducks into the back as if he just now has remembered something urgent in the other room that you consider crying. 

Chucho always picks up on the third ring. Reliable, steady. Like you.

“It’s me,” you say, when he’s on the line.

“Oh honey,” he replies.

Behind you: clapping again, except this time the band’s taking five. When you turn, the plastic phone pressed clammy to your cheek, someone’s down on one knee beside their table with a ring.

You close your eyes.

“Just—tell me he’s not in a ditch somewhere,” you say to Chucho. “Just need to know he’s, I don’t know, accounted for.”

Not dead, is what you mean. Not passed out, drunk, in a ditch, is what you mean. Not blackout somewhere without you to catch him when he leaps. Without you to carry him home.

There stretches—beneath the drone of jubilation marking the best day of someone else’s life—the long, brooding quiet in which Chucho remains silent on the other line. When he speaks next, it’s in the middle of a sudden piano solo. Celebration, or their next set, doesn’t matter. You don’t hear shit. Have to plug your open ear with your hand.

“Sorry, once more?”

Crackling static. A slow, apologetic breath.

“Told him to tell you, sweetheart,” he repeats. “Would’a called if I knew he hadn’t and saved you the trip.”

Not dead. The first real silver lining. You don’t so much breathe as you deflate.

“Kid took that job,” Chucho sighs. “He flew down this morning.”

THIRTY-SIX

You love him, and when you wake in the warm arms of morning he’s long, long gone. Already a thousand miles skyward, Colombia-bound, returning once more to the jaws of something that wants him buried and dead.

There’s no note, but you knew there wouldn’t be. Javier never writes anything down, never leaves you any proof. Last photo of you together must be from college, early on. Any presence he’s had in your life since then is smoke—it dissipates with the wave of his smooth, freckled hand. Gone, like he was never here at all.

Gone, like he never kissed you.

Gone, like he never picked you.

Gone, like he’ll never come back again.

FORTY

You love him, but it’s been four years. Nothing’s the same; it can’t be.

Except for you. Not just in your love, but in your being. A lighthouse for better and worse: beacon in any storm, buried on land. Immovable. Still living thirty minutes from the house of your girlhood, ever accessible, predictable, and lodged in the filth of all that has birthed and broken you. Entirely, utterly, incapable of leaving. Trapped in the case of your unshed skin.

Today is the equinox for the red and dying. Autumn at last unfurling its cool tendrils, usurping the summer’s reign. Air sweet and temperate, tinged with the promise of showers. You—running late, neck sore, caffeine-deficient—hustle the gravel tongue of Chucho’s drive, arms heavy with a batch of groceries. An old habit you never kicked—his hip’s been fine eight months now but you still come around every other Sunday with groceries to save him the trouble, craving his company. His calloused hand soothing your back in small circles, telling you everything’s gonna be fine without uttering a word. 

You dig out the key you’ve had since sixth grade from the void of your pocket. Not graceful, but you don’t drop it. The key wasn’t Javier’s idea, but his mother’s—a woman who took one look at you and felt exactly what you did. Eternal. Took the key off her own ring and handed it over, said she’d make herself another copy. 

“Anytime.” That’s what she’d said to you, eleven and heart scared as a rabbit’s by how much more the Peña house felt like home than your own. Her key, passed to your palm, was warm from her hand. 

Now in your own it’s warm again. Like a piece of her still lives in there, same as the rosary in your car. 

“Chucho,” you call into the house, when you’ve let yourself in. Late morning light bars the old wood floors. A gem, this house. Worn as it is welcoming. All broken in leather that’s butter to the touch and floorboards that croak like frogs. As you toe out of your shoes, you huff, your shoulders already easing into their right positions just by walking in the door. 

No sign of him yet, but that isn’t strange. Could be outside already, sleeves rolled to his elbows and hat low over his eyes. Still, as you haul the groceries down the hall, you call out again. 

“I’ve had the second worst morning of my life. Come take your food, viejo.”

While you wait, you set the bags in the kitchen, plastic crinkling, the burnt roast of coffee still rich in the air. The smell of cut grass weaves through the vented window. Rosy, this room, at this time of day. Blushed by the old lace curtains that have colored with age. There’s a kind of charm to a house like this—lived in, loved in—that you’ve never felt anywhere you’ve lived. 

You’re tucking eggs into the fridge when the floor ribbits upstairs, dragging a grin across your face. Coming home. That’s what this place feels like, when you come to visit Chucho and he insists on making you tea even though by the time he gets to you, you’re usually pouring him a mug of his own. 

There he comes now, you think, as you smile into the fridge. A man who ought to get some of the credit for raising you. You listen to him descend the creaking stairs one slow foot at a time as you toss old food from the forgotten corners of his refrigerator, replacing it with what’s vibrant, green, and new.

But you aren’t really listening. Not all the way. 

If you were, you’d know the second those feet hit the ground floor that they aren’t the footsteps of Chucho at all. Wrong Peña.

“Second worst?”

Then a long whistle. You turn.

Javier, not Chucho, stands at the foot of the stairs. Four years older than last you saw him, sober and smiling, brown eyes glinting shyly. Beautiful, same as always, but what did you expect. Wearing a white button up with long sleeves rolled just like his dad, though decidedly more unbuttoned—if he were closer, you’d see the freckles on his chest, his neck. The spots you once connected like knowing him was a game. 

Are those the same jeans he was wearing, that night in your bed? Better not to linger, wonder. Wondering is a terrible thing.

Whatever’s on your face melts Javier’s smile clean off. 

He’s put it together, then. He knows what the worst morning was.

You’ve gone eight years apart, but these last four feel like decades. There’s a wisp of silver at his temples that wasn’t there before.

“You’re home,” you hear yourself say.

He clenches one hand, fidgeting fingers. Guilty, then. Sad, then. Nervous, then.

You wonder if he’s reading you the same. If you still live side by side, on the same page.

“Yeah,” Javier says, hardly louder than a breath.

And you are running, rushing. Already against him, arms thrown, anger slinking back to the bottom of its well. For the first time in your lives, Javier doesn’t immediately return your touch. He stands for two long seconds like a statue in your arms as his heart smacks against his chest and into yours. 

You hold him tighter. Four years collapse like a stack of playing cards. He feels exactly the same, like he belongs in your arms. 

When he comes to himself, your feet lift until only your toes brush against the floor—that’s how tightly he grabs you, how wholly. You hang, held in his arms as he presses his face into your neck. 

“Smell good,” he mumbles after a while, lips brushing your neck in a way that could be accidental or entirely on purpose—either way, you don’t care.

You wind one hand into his hair. It’s shorter now, just a little off the back. The next breath that leaves you is sharp, almost a laugh. 

“You smell different,” you say, and pull your head off his shoulder to get a look at him properly. 

Javier keeps you where you are, not quite on the floor, held tight to his chest. Grinning in that boyish way. You press your thumb to his dimple and gasp—having figured it out.

“You quit,” you say, eyes wide. 

His are so close. Deep, rich, inevitable—flickering between yours. He rolls them, caught by you so easily, and rocks his jaw, smacking his gum as he sets you down to shrug. Rearranging his face to appear indifferent, but you see right through it anyway.

“Tryin’ it out,” he admits.

Neither of you let go, not yet. His thumbs stroking your waist where his hands have settled; yours moving to his temples to rake through the soft of his curls, introducing yourself to the newfound grays you don’t recognize.

“Gettin’ old, Javi,” you tease.

Then his hands rise to cover yours and a moment before they do—mere atoms away from touch—you think he looks how he did in your hallway freshman year, right before he kissed you. But his hands envelop yours and you watch his mouth twitch. Not up, not to the side. Down. His brows dipping for a millisecond as he puts it together.

You’ve forgotten. You forget all the time—hardly feel it anymore after six months of wearing the ring. Used to drive you crazy, always spinning the wrong way around, but it’s become just a part of your hand.

When you try to draw away Javier’s grip locks them in a vice, pulling them from his face to look down at your fingers where, on your left hand, sits a gold band. Two tiny diamonds bracketing a sapphire—not an heirloom, but it’s pretty. Beautiful, even. You’ve come to love it.

“Shit,” Javier mumbles, his brows high and chin hung down as he ghosts his fingers over the gem in disbelief. “Look at you.”

You hardly hear it. What you really hear is a reverie, a ghost. A ship that passed too far from your harbor, scared off by the beacon of you. Warned of your lethal shores. Pensé que me casaría contigo. Rambled when he was drunk and hollow and out of his mind. A whispered confession spoken in those tiny hours he spent in your bed in which nothing beyond the mattress existed but the two of you, intertwined.

I thought I’d marry you.

But he didn’t. Javier left without the grace of a goodbye. Now he stands with your hands in his, thumbing the sapphire of a ring someone else put on your hand while he was gone. Four years in which you had no idea if he’d come back, or when, or for how long. No idea if he’d ever want to see or speak to you again. 

Your mouth, dry, deserted. Your hands shaking in his—you have to ask. Break this moment in which he seems unable to take his eyes off the stony, cobalt blue.

“How long are you back?” you ask softly.

Javier lets go of your hands to rub the back of his neck and takes a tiny step away from you. 

You know the answer the moment he moves, but you let him say it anyway. You let him cut that tiny hole in your chest that’ll bleed dry your heart.

His smile is mirthless, doomed. Like he’s putting it all together in his head.

“For good,” Javier says, staring at the floor, then the window beyond your shoulder, into the yard. Anywhere but at you. “For good, this time.”

tag list & some mutuals:

@thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @tuquoquebrute @thundermartini

@jessthebaker @pastelpinkflowerlife @ak-vintage @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @leslie-lyman @biggetywitch @jeewrites

@burntheedges @studioghibelli @la-eterna-enamorada29 @goodgirlwannabe @janaispunk

@littlemisspascal @luxurychristmaspudding @tonysopranosrobe @undercoverpena @pedritosgfreal

[nancypullen]

Basel, Switzerland

Today we decided to cross a border and visit Switzerland. Of course, when we think of Switzerland we usually think of the Alps, Zurich, Lake Geneva, and probably the cough drops with the guy blowing the loooong orn and yelling. "Riiiiiicola!"

This was not that Switzerland. Basel is just 85 miles from Strasbourg, barely over the border and a little over an hour by local train.

We had waffled on whether we wanted to make a day trip into Germany or Switzerland - we could literally take a tram fifteen minutes to Kehl, Germany for lunch, but opted for Basel. Not gonna' lie, it was just okay. Basel had the misfortune to be on the calendar the day after Colmar, my new favorite spot in the world. It had big shoes to fill. When we exited the train station in Basel we walked right down a main drag on the way to the "Old Town". It was like Rodeo Drive, or maybe Worth Avenue in Palm Beach. Cartier, Rolex, Louis Vuitton, all of the garish trappings of people who need for you to know they're wealthy. Lots of old ladies walking little dogs. I felt very chic in my Skechers.

We grabbed a coffee ad continued our stroll. Within ten minutes we were in the heart of things.

Most of the doors were labeled with the year of the homes construction. Can you imagine living in a building built in 1390?

Everything was very, very tidy. Not as ornate as the French villages we've visited, but charming in its own way.

We explored the city hall (Rathaus) that has been the political center of Basel since 1290.

And of course Mickey had to climb the highest tower in town in the old, old Basel Minster (Basler Münster) Cathedral.

The original church was built on this spot in 820. The current church was constructed beginning in 1019 with the last spire added in 1500. Funny story, it costs 6 francs to climb the tower and when Mickey went to the window to pay the man insisted that he had to produce me before he could go up. If you are asolo traveler, you're out of luck. We thought that perhaps they needed to see his next of kin because of the climb and maybe we looked old? They didn't want to get stuck with his body. But while he climbed the tower I did a quick internet search and apparently it's a popular suicide spot. I'm not sure how having a companion with you would stop that from happening, so I'm back to the not getting stuck with the body theory.

While he climbed I enjoyed the pretty stained glass.

They were especially pretty with the fall leaves outside.

I walked around and looked at all of the dead people that are forever occupants of the cathedral. This was the only woman I saw, she must have been special. I'll have to look her up.

We went down one floor and looked at some more crypts of people we don't know. and then Mickey pointed out yet another door with stairs. It led to a an excavation site of the oldest crypts. One was marked 800, so I assume he was moved there after the church was built.

It was wonderfully creepy.

Back out in the light of day (and among the living) we watched boats ferry people across the Rhine River using a cable.

The boat just sort of slides sideways across the river and the cable keeps him from going downriver with the current, I guess.

We opted to just walk across the bridge.

We ate lunch, explored more, and finally decided to call it a day around 5 o'clock and hope a train back to Strasbourg. All in all, certainly not a wasted day, but not one I'd do again. Pleasant, interesting, but not nearly as beautiful as the other spots we've visited. Here's what we said all day..."Hmmm, Basel is just okay, but the flag is a big plus."

See what we did there? A big plus.

I'm obviously tired, so this little dork is off to bed. Tomorrow we say farewell to the Alsace region and take a train to Paris. It'll be a leisurely afternoon, settling in and maybe just a stroll over to the Eiffel Tower and dinner. Then we'll have three full days before flying home. So much to see! Until tomorrow, stay safe, stay well. stay silly. XOXO, Nancy

[robertleechestateagents]

The Reigate Knowledge by Emma West

In this series of blogs we give you the opportunity to find out a bit more about one of the Robert Leech team. What they think is good and not so good about the area. Here Emma West, Sales Manager at Robert Leech Reigate, shares her thoughts on Reigate and the surrounds.

What’s your favourite local area?

Although I spend a lot of time in Reigate at work, I think it is a wonderful town and great place to visit. Reigate has an abundence of fabulous tea and coffee shops, independent retailers, and restaurants along with the historic and scenic Priory Park.

What’s your favourite building?

This has to be Nutfield Priory, a Victorian mansion house dating back to 1872 and was inspired by the Neo-gothic splendour of the Palace of Westminster. It holds a special place in my heart after being the venue of my wedding breakfast a few years ago. Not only is it a beautiful building but the views are also incredible to the South.

What’s building would you redesign?

The Harlequin in Redhill is very of its time and could do with a facelift, it is just not my taste in architecture at all. The regeneration around Redhill has definitely improved the area and I’m a big fan of the new improved Sainsburys!

Where is your favourite view?

We take our dog for a lovely long walk on a Sunday morning to the top of Reigate Hill, along the North Downs. The views over Reigate and all the way across to Dorking are breathtaking. On a clear day you can watch the planes taking off and landing at Gatwick.

What’s your most interesting shop?

Priory Farm shop is a wonderful place, great for meat, fresh vegetables, cheese and other organic treats as well as having a super gift department too. My children often cycle down to Priory Farm for a last minute Birthday or Christmas present.

What’s your favourite bar, pub or restaurant?

I have a couple of restaurants that I love locally, La Barbe has always been a family favourite, its authentic French cuisine and has been established for nearly 30 years now.

How would you like to spend your ideal day off?

It would be a long family dog walk, lunch at a country pub, perhaps The Skimmington Castle on Reigate Heath or The Sportsman in Lower Kingswood, and home to a good film with a roaring fire.

Where would you take someone visiting from overseas?

Brighton, a bracing seaside walk and a wander through the quaint little shops in The Lanes. Chips on the Pier are a must.

What’s your favourite open space?

Reigate Heath is a wonderful open space which includes wonderful heathland walks, a golf course, riding countryside, football and cricket pitches, the windmill has been restored and is now used as a chapel. It is thought to be the only windmill in the world which is a consecrated church.

What’s your personal landmark, something that makes you feel at home when you see it?

Driving down Church Hill in Nutfield, just before I get to my house, I pass St Peter & St Paul’s church, it is such a pretty church and where I got married.

Content source - https://www.robertleech.com/the-reigate-knowledge-by-emma-west/

[azvolrien]

Ireland - Day 2

I woke up to an 8.30 alarm after a surprisingly solid night’s sleep. I usually don’t sleep very well on the first night in a hotel, but this was fine. The aircon probably helped; it’s been warm enough recently that I haven’t been getting much sleep at home, never mind in a hotel.

I had breakfast at the generous hotel buffet – they weren’t checking room numbers, so really anyone could have wandered in off the street – and headed out for the day. My timeslot for the Book of Kells wasn’t until 10.30, so I had a little time to kill before then and stopped off for a look around Christ Church Cathedral, almost right across the Liffey from the hotel.

It’s a church, albeit one with a pleasant flower garden out the front, and the main nave didn’t strike me as anything particularly, well, striking. Some nice stained glass, elegant vaulting and a pretty tiled floor, but still: just a church, and on a smaller scale than any other cathedral I’ve visited except maybe Dornoch. Downstairs, however, is a bit more interesting, as the cathedral’s crypt runs all the way under the building and houses a number of artefacts from the cathedral’s history, including a few sets of altar plate, a copy of Magna Carta, and – more gruesomely – the mummified remains of a cat and a rat that got trapped inside the organ pipes however long ago.

I left the cathedral behind and walked along Dame Street to Trinity College, where I joined the queue for the Book. The exhibition starts off with a few big panels both about the illuminations and calligraphy in the Book of Kells and in other contemporary manuscripts for a bit of historical context, as well as some about the physical structure of the Book, such as the preparation and binding of the vellum pages and the sources of the various pigments the scribes used.

I took a few photos of the display panels, as photography in the next room wasn’t allowed, and went through to see the Book itself.

They had it open at a page from the Gospel of Luke showing the genealogy of Jesus – not one of the big-ticket illuminations like the Chi-Rho page, but still rather charming in itself. The initial letter on each line had been beautifully decorated, and the scribe responsible had added what might have been a little tribute to the Book’s possible original home: a merman had been drawn pointing towards the “Who came from Jona”, or, in the Latin, “Qui fuit Iona”.

I followed the exhibition upstairs from the Book to see Trinity College’s other main attraction, the library’s famous Long Room. It’s not showing its best face to the world right now as they’re working on moving all the books out for a big conservation project, but there are still a few shelves full and the room itself, two storeys of warm dark oak, would be a beautiful sight even if it were completely empty. It currently also houses a few other artefacts such as one of the original proclamations of the Easter Rising and the Brian Boru Harp, i.e. the Irish harp, the one they use as the Guinness logo and, flipped, on all the government buildings. It isn’t actually old enough to have anything to do with Brian Boru, however.

The last bit of the exhibition is in a separate building, with a 360-degree film about the history of the Book with lots of moving copies of the illuminations. I wondered if they’d worked with Cartoon Saloon for this bit – if anyone has experience animating the Book of Kells, it’s them – but couldn’t find anyone to ask.

After a quick look at the Irish elk skeletons in the impressive foyer of the Museum Building, I visited the College’s Zoology Museum, which is in a completely different building. Overseen by a group of enthusiastic students in yellow t-shirts, these two rooms in the zoology department house a wide array of specimens including lots of skeletons, Things In Jars, and some truly horrifying old taxidermy such as an unnaturally smooth Indian rhino.

More horrifying taxidermy was to follow, as I then set off for the National Museum of Ireland’s natural history branch, locally nicknamed the Dead Zoo. Only the ground floor is open at present, but that alone has plenty of specimens on display. It’s a proper Victorian-style natural history museum: none of this nonsense about dumbing it down to appeal to The Kids, just rows of glass cabinets filled with dead animals, including three (3) Irish elk skeletons – two stags and a hind – and several more disembodied skulls mounted on the walls, one of them upside down for some reason. The labelling does make the point that they’re more properly called ‘Irish giant deer’, as they’re not closely related to either extant species called elk, but I am set in my ways and will continue with the wrong name. Another impressive specimen is the rather terrifying basking shark hanging from the ceiling – an actual taxidermied skin rather than a model.

The next museum on the list was the NMI’s nearby archaeology branch, which houses – among other things – the famous Ardagh Chalice and a great many Celtic brooches and gold collars. The artefact I found most memorable, however, was one of the bog bodies. Although not remotely complete, consisting of the upper half of a decapitated torso, the man’s hands are so perfectly preserved that you can see the ridges of his fingerprints.

I then walked back up to Dublin Castle to see the Chester Beatty, as its manuscript collection had been recommended to me. Said collection is indeed impressive, with a lot of western books including illuminated manuscripts like the Book of Kells as well as lots of others showing beautiful Arabic calligraphy from across the Middle East and Persia, and further afield still with illustrated scrolls from China and Japan.

My route from the archaeology museum to the Chester Beatty chanced to take me past the Gaiety Theatre, so on a whim I booked a ticket to see Riverdance that evening. The manuscripts had put me in an Asian mood, so I stopped off at a Japanese restaurant for an early tea of duck gyoza and chicken and prawn yaki soba before returning to the theatre.

It’s quite a small, intimate theatre for such a big-name show: I was right at the back of the stalls next to the guy working the lights, but I still had a fine view of the stage.

It really is a classic. The dancers must have to spend God-knows-how-long in rehearsal, because they all had the timing both with each other and the music down absolutely perfect. The title number – used as the Act 1 finale – got a particularly strong response from the audience; from the cheering, it sounded like there was an especially enthusiastic group up on the balcony. The dancers looked like they were having fun too; they weren’t as stone-faced as Irish step dancing often seems to call for, and a definite undercurrent of ‘Oh my god we’re actually in Riverdance’ came through much of the show.

The weather’s been really sunny all day. I hope it holds for tomorrow, as the current plan is to visit Dublin Zoo (the not-dead one).

[queerworldtravelers]

Palermo, Sicily - Part 2

38°07'55" N, 13°20'8" E

“We live on second times. First times are for hasty and urgent people. For those who are surprised when the clock chimes and don’t realize that, on the contrary, wonder lies in repetition, time and again, in choosing for the second time the first time.” - Antonella Salamone

Set your pulse on fire:

As the days passed we were able to see deeper into the layers of the city. Space opened up for us to reflect and ponder what questions to ask. We ventured into corners and alleys taking the time to say hello and to connect in meaningful ways to the people of Palermo, or Palermitani. We also ate a billion more oranges and we may never be able to go anywhere else simply for the quality of the citrus present here. We also ate almost all of the street food. 

Several sources name the Palermo Botanical Garden, or Orto Botanico di Palermo, as the most beautiful in the world. We are avid botanical garden visitors and we have to agree. The space is a welcome break from the constant buzz of Palermo traffic. There is an antiquity surrounding all of the plant specimens in a patina that is like nowhere else. The ground below the cactuses is blanketed in what other gardens may call weeds. Spent oranges are everywhere. Just over the garden wall the rusty skeletons of the neighboring gas plant peek through the trees. The garden, much like Palermo itself, isn’t pretentious. In that modesty it is a stunning respite from perfection. A reaffirming lesson that we are all incredibly beautiful just as we are: weeds and all.

According to a Wikipedia article with no sources there are 106 churches in Palermo. We venture to guess that number is about right. On a rainy day we visited two of them. Chiesa di San Cataldo is a part of the Arab-Norman Palermo, a string of UNESCO World Heritage sites. The structure dates to the era of the Norman kingdom of Sicily, built in 1154, and serves as an outstanding example of a socio-cultural syncretism between Western, Islamic, and Byzantine cultures. Today you'll have to pay a separate fee at each church to get in, but they'll give you a discount if you visit them all. Admittedly it is outstanding to see the confluence of cultures. The craftsmanship and preservation, in spite of extensive damage of WWII bombings, has us in deep gratitude for every historian and archeologist committed to preserving relics of the past for future lessons. From what we have observed, Palermo is a city of tolerance and has quite a bit to share with the rest of the world. 

Sicily is the largest island in the Mediterranean and has been a strategic location for trade routes making the history here pretty epic. We wandered into the Salinas Regional Archeological Museum after strolling past the sito archeologico domus Romana, Roman ruins encapsulated in a worn iron fence with a faded sign indicating that the ancient mosaics from the floor could be found across town. We arenʻt really sure if we ever found the mosaics, but we did find piles of history. The museum has so many columns they are stacked up in the courtyard! Key takeaways: the Romans wandered around with curses scrolled on sheets of lead in their pocket (that’ll teach you for being mean to other people); Khaled Mohamad al-Asaad was a renowned archeologist in Syria and was publicly beheaded by the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria in 2015 at the age of 83; and that it would take a lifetime to truly grasp the history of this place.  

Top secret: the best cannolis in Palermo are made by the nuns in a little shop called I Segreti del Chiostro in the Chiesa di Santa Caterina d'Alessandria. If you wander in close to sunset you just might get the courtyard to yourself and then you can pay €5 each (they won’t give you a discount from the other churches) to go to the roof. The trek up is a spine-chilling wander through the back halls of a very old church. Venturing to the top at sunset was possibly the most centering experience during our time in Palermo. From a few stories up the city is radiant and glimmers in the setting sun. Surrounded by the tolling of at least ten different church bells we embraced the opportunity to support the teenage security guard’s make out session with her boyfriend after they told us we had to leave in Italian. We all agreed that none of us understood so we could all stay just a little bit longer. 

The UNESCO Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity includes many interesting things, and specific to our adventure Sicilian puppetry. We attempted to catch a show, but seemed to keep just missing them so we adventured to the museum to surround ourselves with hundreds of puppets. While standing amidst the suspended animation of many creatures Mary asked “do you think puppets have spirits?” Yikes! 

We know our time in Palermo is not over by any means. We will certainly return. The city is filled with incredible art, epic food, and a historic undercurrent that is impossible to ignore. Our next stop is Santa Flavia and the Bagheria area. Home to all of Krystal’s Sicilian ancestors.

“But you don't come to Palermo to stay in minimalist hotels and eat avocado toast; you come to Palermo to be in Palermo, to drink espressos as dark and thick as crude oil, to eat tangles of toothsome spaghetti bathed in buttery sea urchins, to wander the streets at night, feeling perfectly charmed on one block, slightly concerned on the next. To get lost. After a few days, you learn to turn down one street because it smells like jasmine and honeysuckle in the morning; you learn to avoid another street because in the heat of the afternoon the air is thick with the suggestion of swordfish three days past its prime.” ― Matt Goulding

FEBRUARY 7, 2023

[lovethesagefan]

AN EASTER MEMORY

Growing up as the dull grey wintry days turned to the bright pastels of Spring, Easter was a holiday far different from the rest. As a child, you didn't get presents, other than a basket full of candy and maybe a toy, like a stuff rabbit. One year my daddy gave my sister this small rabbit. It was lime green and white. By the time it went the way most worn stuff animal went, one of the ears was torn. I do not know if it had a name, other than Rabbit. But Easter meant other things, for instance, clothes.

We got clothes at Christmas, but it is now Spring. you have to have Sunday Best clothes. That means, if you were a girl, the family focused on you. You had to have a white cape, usually some type of knit thing. We had to shop all over town for the perfect black or white patented leather shoes. Don't forget the white gloves. Lastly the dress which made rustling sounds when my sister walked. One year, she had a dress that had a tiny bell somewhere on the dress. I could never find it, I think. But girls had to be pretty. They get their hair done either at the beauty parlor or at home, which meant the hot comb! Being a male, I never had to deal with such torture, but watching is nerve wrecking. You take a metal comb and set it on the stove and heat it up, then you proceed to run it through either your or your female child. You had to sit very still or else you will get burned. But boys were different.

Boys may get to go to the barber shop with their father. They listen to the conversation and learn the language spoken in the barber shop. The will get a suit. Most likely it was a suit out of the Sears or JC Penny Catalogue. Mother would hem it. Boys are good to go.

Then the big day arrives. All goes to church to hear Easter speeches. The same 3-4 lines you have been listening to for the last month. When it's time to perform, all they can say is "Happy Easter." Which enough said.

Church ends and a traditional meal is had by all. You didn't eat with your family alone. You had extended family. Often times you ate at an elder house or in our case our great grandmother's or grandmother's domicile. In the latter, my grandmother wouldn't go to church with us cause she had to cook. She may slip off to the little church across the street or walk up to the United Methodist church from the house. She was confident that she could go and still get back in time to make sure the ham was ready. She moved the formica breakfast table next to the wooden dining table. She would spread the white table cloths over the table place the chairs and lay out the colored plates.

The door bell would ring and the once quiet house is now filled with talk and laughter. Small children who now wanted to recite their Easter poem for Grandmother. Adults discussing any and every thing imaginable. I can hear my grandmother say, "Y'all come and sit down. It's time to eat."

The one rule at her house, when you ate, we had to bless the food plus everyone had to know and say a Bible verse. Woe to you if you didn't catch on to the game. One of my brother caught on early so he had his verse already in his head. It was the shortest verse in the the entire Bible: "Jesus wept." My grandmother let him get away with that. So the rest of us had to scrabble for another one. It was ok cause our grandmother would help us out and give us a verse, though she had her favorite she always would say: "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." I saw my grandmother as a saint. I have no doubt she is seeing God now.

After ham, green beans with Irish potatoes (pronounced "Ish" potatoes), rolls, souffle, cabbage, and a sorted other vegetable to eat. This is the South, so everyone consumed the nectar of the South: Sweet Tea. I declare, I think my grandmother had the best sweet tea in the world. She made it practically every day cause when we come to visit, we would drink it up. You ate but you had to leave room for banana pudding. My grandmother was one of those old cooks who said she never measured a thing. I used to try to get her to teach me her secrets, but I need exact measurements. She don't deal in such nonsense, however, when we cleaned out her house, we found a ton of recipes she either cut out of magazines, newspaper, or in cook books. I guess she enhanced what was already written.

After the dishes were cleared and the eldest brother volunteered to wash the dishes, the rest of the family would go into the living room and watch t.v. or just talk.

I am telling this story in hopes that family gatherings like this won't disappear. We are not cutting ourselves off from family and just sticking to the single cell nuclear family...people that we know. A lot is lost when we don't connect with other parts of the familial body. Easter is a time of rebirth. Please let's keep the tradition of family dinners with extended family alive.

Happy Easter.

[betweenandbeloved]

Touring Day 1

After getting some much needed rest, we woke up today to the most beautiful sunrise over the Sea of Galilee, visible from our hotel room! We enjoyed an incredible breakfast of pastries, cheese, salads, and pasta(?!). I’ll be sure to post a food blog at some point, but for now I’m sure you’re more interested in the pictures of everything else.

Our first stop of the day was to Cana of Galilee: the location of the first of the seven signs that Jesus is the Messiah or the first miracle. The story is found in John 2:1-12.

Weddings in Jesus’ day averaged between 700 and 1200 people at them. Everyone was invited: neighbors, immediate family, extended family, anyone with any relation to you; which at that time, could mean everyone. Not only was the guest list large, but the celebration lasted 6 days with the actual wedding happening on the 7th day. The church we visited, The Wedding Church at Cana, sits on top of the ruins for the only first century synagogue in Cana; therefore, this is pretty much where it happened.

Top: outside of The Wedding Church at Cana

Below: looking down into the ruins of the first century synagogue

John 2:6-7 reads: “Now there were six stone water jars there for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to the servants “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them to the brim.” Pictured below is one of those jars with me for size comparison. They were huge and it was so cool to see it in person.

Two funny bonuses from our time at the church: we got to taste “Real Cana Wedding Wine” which is a total tourist trap because there are no wineries in Cana and we got to renew our marriage vows in the chapel (because after two months of marriage we already needed it right? HA no, everyone just told us to jump in the group participating because, well, why not!). Regardless, it was still fun to look Jon in the eyes and promise to love him forever, again.

Our next stop of the day was the the Mar Elias Educational Institution, a school helping to build relationships across barriers in a very divided country. We met with Archbishop Elias Chacour, the founder of the school, who told us about his life and mission with the school. We bought one of his books and had it signed before heading off to lunch.

Pictured above: Jonathan and I getting our book signed (I think this is the first “our” book in the library, guesses on who will read it first?)

After lunch we went to Nazareth to the Basilica of the Annunciation: Mary’s House and the site of the Annunciation. This is my absolute favorite place in all of the Holy Land. I was so excited to go back that I ended up crying on and off the whole time we were there. Surrounding the outside of the Basilica are images of Mary donated by countries from all over the world. Here are a few of my favorites:

Going inside the Basilica you can see and walk up to Mary’s house. What I love about it so much is how normal it is. Most people in Nazareth lived in caves, nothing fancy, just rocks. They know this specific one is important because there is an inscription on the wall that dates to the first century that says “Hail Mary.”

After the Basilica we went to Mount Precipice which is known as the place where the people of Nazareth tried to throw Jesus off a cliff after teaching in the synagogue (Luke 4:14-29). We watched the sunset and it was absolutely magical.

Tomorrow we will spend more time around Galilee and then head over to Bethlehem for Orthodox Christmas Eve!

[preyforthewicked]

14.

In July of 2010, I was accepted into the Young Writers Program at UVA. While visiting the States for summer vacation, I would spend three weeks among my peers participating in the intensive writing workshop. I was so freakin’ excited. I shared a dorm room with one of my best friends from middle school who was also a talented writer. 

This experience wasn’t free. In fact it was pretty expensive, especially considering my parents paid for it with savings and donor money. They weren’t paid a salary for the missionary work – our family was supported by the prayers and donations of our church, family, and friends. It was a big deal that my parents even considered letting me apply for this workshop. I’m so grateful I got the chance.

There were one hundred or so students and a handful of counselors. We stayed in residence halls left vacant by the college’s summer slump. I bunked with my friend, Emile, in Tuttle house, which was so old it has since been replaced with newer facilities. We had no A/C and it was July in southern Virginia - read: utterly sweltering. I would end each day taking the coldest shower the dials would allow me and then starfish on the sheets of my twin bed, casting envious gazes toward the fan at Emile’s bed blowing waves of air over her peacefully sleeping form. It was still warm air, to be sure, but it must have made a difference. It made me feel stupid for not considering that on my packing list.

Our days were full of adventures around town to local art museums and workshopping with our cohort. I had applied for the fiction cohort, as that was my interest, but got placed in creative nonfiction. The reason for this was unfathomable to me, but I didn’t complain. I gave it everything I had and enjoyed every moment. 

We were refused access to the Wi-Fi. It was policy, its intentions being to give us deeper immersion in the experience and be more present. This makes sense in the writing world, as it mimics some writers’ residencies where you are so isolated from the outside world all you have are your housemates to bounce ideas off of at the end of each day. It’s supposed to be good for the process, good for the art. With the uprising of social media and instant messaging, it also made sense; distractions such as constant internet chatter did not lend themselves to focused end products. 

I had anticipated having internet access for the sole purpose of being able to chat with David whenever I got the chance. I was used to talking with him almost every day and this felt like a gut-wrenching blow. I had no way of communicating across the 4,000 mile distance that, hey, I guess I’m going radio silent for three weeks, love you and see you when I come out the other side. 

I did not just roll over when my counselor told me there was no internet. Putting my technological skills to work, I did some digging on the UVA website and figured out how to use the credentials on my UVA student pass to login to the campus-wide Wi-Fi. I was so proud of myself for this achievement, of figuring out how to do this on my own even after I was told it was not possible. 

I signed into Skype chat with a big smile on my face.

David was keeping busy with the SVP (student volunteer program) he was running down in Peru for the summer. A handful of college aged kids had signed up to do what we were doing, just on a smaller scale – missionary work for a few months as opposed to years. They were there essentially as grunts to do whatever David needed them to, be it dig a hole to bury rubble in or paint walls. I had hung out with them every day before leaving for summer vacation and it was a lot of fun. They were vibrant people just a few years older than me and we got along quite well. They called me the honorary SVP since we did so much working together and enjoyed each other’s company. 

David supervised them from dawn until dusk, and so only had a chance for some private time (aka time he felt safe chatting with me) much later in the day when he was wiped out and readying for bed. Our schedules were similar in this way – I didn’t have much chance during the day to sign in because I was busy doing writerly things, naturally. So after my cold shower, I’d perch in bed and sign in to wind down with him.

I’m sure those first couple of days I prattled on and on about how much fun I was having and how convinced I was that being a serious writer was definitely in my future because all this writing wasn’t wearing me out one bit – in fact, it was invigorating me more than anything. Churning out all this creativity was simply begetting more. The well was infinite, I discovered. It helped too that I was around my peers; there is a certain energizing electricity in being around those like oneself, age-wise and otherwise.

A few days into the workshop, I had completed my showering ritual and sat cross-legged on my bed, booting up the heavy red brick that was my Gateway laptop. If I had any inkling what was coming, I wouldn’t have turned it on at all and simply gone to bed in attempt to avoid the inevitable.

David was caught in another one of his penitent tornadoes. I’ve no idea the catalyst – usually he seemed to think himself into the spiral all by his lonesome, no real trigger needed – and this time (not the first time) I couldn’t reverse it. He had done this exact dance on other occasions only to come crawling back days later, but somehow every time he danced like this, I was certain it was the last, and the devastation ripped at me again, the black hole threatening to suck all light from my life. 

We were done. (Again.) 

I couldn’t believe it. Here he was again, casting me out to sea without a life preserver. I had to go on through the rest of this workshop pretending like nothing had changed, that my heart had not once again been torn to pieces. My friend was in tune enough with my moods; if I acted too off, she would no doubt ask, and I was a terrible liar. What could I say? Oh, I’m just tired. What a laugh.

I did not sleep well that night.

My writings from the rest of the workshop took on a new and consistent tone. Here’s a snippet just to paint the picture:

She stood in the cracked, paint-peeling doorway, her eyes filling slowly with tears. His figure was a mere shadow as he slipped behind the steering wheel of his black Impala under the dim light of the street lamps lining the road. 

He had walked away without looking back. Without a proper goodbye.

Without her.

The car rumbled to life and purred steadily as it idled for a moment like a panther stalking its prey. Then he rolled out of the short driveway.

She hoped sadly from the porch that he’d look back at her, turn around and realize how he was leaving her. Realize what this would do to her. 

But he didn’t.

Dismayed, she walked back into the house with heavy footsteps. Just as the door clicked shut, he turned in his upholstered seat quickly, as if he had been forcing himself to stay facing forward.

She was gone.

He put the car in gear and drove away.

This writing is titled “Without a Goodbye.” I was consumed by my heartbreak. The “break up” playlist I had made the first time he broke things off remained on my iPod; it was all I listened to for the next few weeks. You Could Be Happy by Snow Patrol was the worst song off that playlist, but in the best way. The lyrics, so raw and real, spoke to my brokenness. And it was off an album David had given me, just to drive the knife deeper.

Outside of my head, I pretended well that I wasn’t broken. But inside, I was overflowing chaotic despair. 

It wasn’t until late one night (isn’t it always?), after the workshop was over, on the cusp of July becoming August that David caught me on chat. The SVPs had left and perhaps that had reminded him how lonely he was. My parents were in the States, too, so he was truly all by himself down there.

I had just come home from a rock concert with my childhood best friend and Emile, and was electrified by it. The energy of the bass and guitar and vocals still thumped through my body like a second heartbeat. My throat was hoarse from singing my lungs out. When the ping of the chat sounded and his name glowed from my screen, I held my head a little higher. I felt suddenly and inexplicably powerful, full of self-respect and independence. Sure he had torn me apart weeks earlier, but I had not messaged him once. Somehow, despite all the almosts, I had resisted the temptation to break first, to show the weakness that was my devoted affection. I was indignant this time. I knew he might come back, and this time, I would get comfortable while I waited to watch him crawl up to my feet. 

And here he was. 

He did not apologize directly for how he’d behaved weeks earlier. In fact, he more or less glossed over what had happened, avoiding the topic and hoping to start fresh. He asked me how I was, how my summer was going. I would not be back in Peru for another three weeks and so had a good bit left of my vacation to look forward to.

He missed me and was looking forward to having me back on the same side of the equator as him. We didn’t get back together that night, necessarily, but we did start talking on the daily again. By the time the plane landed in Peru, vacation over, we were once more an us.

[sunlitmcgee]

people touched the post! that means they wanna see-

HWHBH Chapter 109 Teaser tws for descriptions of rot, decay, death, mild existentialism and uncanny behavior

 “The Angel of Decay and Rot.”

 “Right, right. But what exactly does that mean? Like, what’s your job?”

 A buzz bubbled up from Beep’s throat when they hummed. It was joined by the low whirr that resounded when he fluttered his glossy wings, which caught the light as they vibrated and took on the shade’s dusky, rust-colored glow. There were patches of red-orange light littered across the forest floor where the sunlight could get through through the amber-brown leaves that cluttered the air overhead.

 "Hmmm…well. I don't exactly do much, pe se. It's more like I go somewhere sometimes when I'm told to."

 "By the gods, I'm guessing?"

 "Yes. By the gods."

 "They tell you to go places and to do…what?"

 "Stay there until it rots."

 Tommy raised a brow. "Rots?" He said. "They send you places so they rot away around you?"

 Beep nodded and gave another buzz-filled hum. "M-hmmm, that's right. And then once it's all gone, I go back home to my personal realm. It's my home…I like my home…it's quiet…and dark…"

 Tommy took another step and felt a twig crunch beneath his shoe.

 They'd been walking for a few minutes now. When he'd walked into the forest, Tommy didn't have a plan or destination in mind. He never did when he went out to explore. He just wanted to do something other than stand around out in the open up on the hill, and the towering trees with their damp brown trunks provided a sense of comfortable familiarity that he realized he'd sorely missed.

 Tommy missed going out on walks. He missed being outside. He missed the nature and the noise of the living world.

 There were lots of noises in the forest.

 If he remembered correctly, they were by the Holy Land, or at least somewhere close to it. He swore that over the rustling of the leaves and the low whistling of the wind he could make out the low hum of the church's bell being rung.

 Along with it were the sounds of various animals. Birds chirping, wings flapping, squirrels and other tiny beasts chattering as they ran around all hurriedly as they prepared for the approach of winter. Just as he looked up, Tommy saw several shades shift through the light of the upper branches.

 He watched the sunlight filter down and smiled. There was still life in the world, even in fall.

 On top of the sounds were the smells of the forest.

 Mud. Moisture. Wet leaves. Damp rot. The smell of mushrooms not too different to what he'd come to be familiar with from visiting George over in Kinoko. Animal shit.

 "Are you having fun?" Beep asked.

 Tommy batted his lashes and looked around while still smiling. "Yeah," he said, turning to look at the angel. "This is nice. Been a minute since I went out on a walk."

 Been a while since I felt alive enough to do it. 

 Tommy left that part unsaid. He glanced at the trees as Beep continued to plod along closely at his side.

 "You like being out in the forest," buzzed the angel.

 "I do," Tommy confirmed. "It's nice. Getting out and about, goin' on walks, feeling the air, soaking up the sun. It's good to get outside pretty often. Good for the soul. Good for your health!"

 "Health," Beep copied.

 "Do you know what that means?"

 "I am familiar…with the concept…of health…" Beep nodded and then looked up at him. "It is the opposite of what I do."

 Beep’s face was unreadable. Tommy couldn't pick up on their tone. He slowed down a little and looked him in the eyes, hoping to check if there was something in them that'd give him a clue as to if Beep was upset or if he'd touched a nerve.

 But Tommy saw nothing in Beep’s eyes. Just lifeless milky gray with a tinge of icy blue.

 He shuddered. He stiffened his wings a little and adjusted his coat.

 "Uh-huh," Tommy said slowly. "Say, Beep. Do you do anything else when you aren't going around doing stuff for the gods?"

 Beep was short for an angel(or at least Tommy had to assume that she was). They barely reached his shoulders, even with the horns and halo.

 Beep paused to think for a second before they responded. "I watch things…"

 Tommy asked if he could elaborate when he didn't say anything more. "Watch things? Like what?"

 "Plants," Beep said, "and animals. I watch them grow and go about their days. They move so much. They're so loud. They make so much noise. When they've been around for a while, I'm allowed to get close and see them in person."

 "And what do you do when you can do that?"

 "Touch them."

 "A…and what does that do?"

 "Makes them mine…turns them…into rot."

Who wants a proper little teaser

[mrpenguinpants]

Bennett: Affection HCs

I KNEW I HAD THIS ASK IN MY INBOX AND I JUST READ BENNETT’S BIRTHDAY LETTER TO YOU SO I SAID FUCK IT. I’M WRITING THIS. I MAY HAVE 2 FICS IN THE PROCESS BUT I CARE ABOUT BENNETT SO MUCH. 

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Xiao Ver: Affection HCs

Bennet: Windblume Love Letter HCs

[Masterlist]

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[taglist]  <- if you want to be added, please read this first.

 @mikeysbike @unionwitch @musekala @sunnshiii @stanzastic @akaasea @xoneaboveallx @adoring-ghost @asheseiler @childelover @dilucsz @dai-tsukki-desu @thicmitten @nonniechan @htnicayh @genshins1mpact​ @morthecreator​ @ aanne2601 @aklxojjk​ @fulltimeventisimp​ @hanniejji​

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Bennett: Affection HCs

Bennett has so much love and affection to share but he’s also so shy and awkward in his delivery. It’s so endearing that you can’t help but but try and stifle your giggles lest he get more embarrassed. He just get’s so nervous since this is his first relationship and he knows his track record on luck isn’t super bright so he’s always fumbling. Trying to force his nerves away when he wants to hold your hand but as soon as he reaches out to lace your fingers, you’ll turn around, and Bennett throws his arm back so hard that he accidently pops his shoulder out of his socket. While you’re fretting over him he’s trying to reassure you that he’s completely fine and that this happens all the time. Which isn’t very comforting, he thinks things could have been worse. What if he accidently slips and drags you down with him or even worse, his pyro vision acts up and he has sweaty hands? He’s screaming internally at that.

Bennett totally reads romance novels to get a better understanding on what a relationship is like but his execution is a bit questionable. He tries to be suave and attempts to wrap his arm around your shoulder but he accidently slips halfway and he’s fallen into the fountain. But when he hears your barely contained chuckles as you try and help him out, he can’t help but feel a flutter in his chest that he doesn’t mind the unlucky accidents that happen to him if it makes you laugh. He’ll shake the water out of his hair and grin at you before he takes your hand in his and you both go back to the church to dry him off.

Whenever he sees you he has to take a couple minutes to calm his heart. Even when he’s out with Fischl and she’s talking in her special way, as soon as he catches sight of you, he’s sighing in adoration with the love-sick puppy eyes. That’s when Fischl knows she’s completely lost Bennett and you’re probably behind her. She sighs out a bit exasperated as she shrugs before she’s dragging him to meet up with you. No matter how red Bennett gets or what he’s yelling, Fischl has a death grip on him and grins smugly before she calls out your name to let you know someone’s got heart eyes for you.

While he’s extremely grateful to the Adventures guild and Mondstadt, having you beside him really hits deep. That you accept and love him despite the unlucky streak he has. You are so special in his eyes and the fact you choose to stay with him makes him sniffle a bit. Somedays he wakes up and can’t help but feel the rush of happiness he feels just being able to see your smiling face. He might get poked fun from his Dads but it’s completely worth it. It’s actually really wholesome when Bennett wants to introduce you to his family since they already know plenty about you because Bennett will literally not shut up about you.

The praise he receives from his dads and Katherine make him grin happily but when you praise him, he ends up growing so shy and pink. Awkwardly scratching at his cheek as he says it wasn’t that big of a deal just because he wants to hear you praise him more. He’s pretty hard on himself so your words really mean a lot to him. Likewise, Bennett is super optimistic. He’s your #1 cheerleader and it’s contagious adopting his positivity outlook on life. Whatever you’re interested in or wish to do, he’s fully on board and supportive.

He’s always coming back from his adventures with scraps and cuts that it really concerns you when Bennett shakes his pain away. He’s always had a head-first battle tactic that’s not easy to change in one day, so instead you ask Barbara to teach your some healing abilities or tips to try and help him out a bit. While you’re a bit clumsy and not as well-versed as Barbara. Bennett still hugs you with so much force as he exclaims he’s never felt so empowered before.

When Bennett feels sad, he’ll lean his shoulder against yours and close his eyes. Slowly moving down until it’s his head against your arm. He stays there before you reach over and place his head in your lap and slowly run your fingers through his hair. It’s a small and ordinary moment but it means the whole world to Bennett.

Bennett always keeps whatever you give him in a special pouch, from a small slip of paper wishing him luck to the small four leaf clover you gave him, it’s always on him whenever he sets out. He knows that despite his best wishes, you can’t spent every waking moment together and he doesn’t want to endanger you with his bad luck on more dangerous expeditions. He actually full on bawled when you said you wanted to join the "Benny's Adventure Team" and actually stuck around even after all the unfortunate incidents that happened. But whenever he’s far away from Mondstadt, away from you, he’ll take a small break and go through the small trinkets you’ve given to him with the softest smile as he handles them with care. They are his treasures after all.

It’s been a rather challenging adventure today. Bennett and you took on a commission to investigate a hilichurl camp on Starsnatch cliff only to run across an Eye of the Storm instead. While you both managed to defeat it, you both got your fair share of cuts from the anemo winds and the hard ground when you had to dive away from the orb crashing down. You’re silently thanking yourself for taking those lessons from Barbara as you’re trying to patch him up. 

“Sorry, I didn’t expect an Eye of Storm to appear instead. I guess my bad luck is spreading again,” Bennett chuckles awkwardly to himself as he winces a tiny bit at the throb of his cuts. You simply shake it off as you try and gently place the cloth back on his cheek to wipe away the small amount of blood. You’re just happy that you both managed to get away from that monster without any serious injuries. 

“Don’t say that Bennett, we defeated it didn’t we? That’s one less problem for the Adventures guild right?” you say as you smile encouragingly at him. He nods in silent agreement but his eyes rake over the cuts and on arms and knees and he can’t help feel sadden. He gently pushes your hands away from his injury's as he opens his own pouch that carries his adhesive bandages to place upon your scrapes.

“Bennett?” you question. You’re so used to the happy go lucky Bennett that this sudden quiet atmosphere looms above you as Bennett quickly returns the favour. It’s only when he takes a small moment to scan your body for anything he missed before he takes your hands in his. Rubbing small circles over your skin, whether he’s trying to comfort you or himself into speaking you’re not entirely sure. 

“There’s a dream I want to tell you about. I want to find the most valuable treasure to give back to Mondstadt and get our Adventures guild to become the biggest branch in Teyvat. That way my Dad’s can take a break and we can go adventuring all over the world. We can go visit Fischl at her home or take Razor to see the ocean!” he grins happily at you as his eyes light up in such a way that it takes you a few moments to register what he’s saying. You can feel such a rush of love pour into your system at his wholesome dream that you can’t help but clutch his hands closer to yourself. 

“I’ll stay beside you the entire time and I promise we’ll make your dream a reality. Benny's Adventure Team will be the greatest adventure team there ever was,” you lean forward and boop your nose against his, “But you need to take better care of yourself first mister.”

“Now come on. Let’s go home together Bennett,” you smile down at him as you stand up and extend your hand out to him. It takes a few moments for Bennett to act as he gazes up at you. The hand that’s been placed in front of him as support in so many of his unlucky incidents, covered in the bandages he carries around from the family he cares about, the hand that is still there after everything. Bennet knows he’s always been unlucky. That’s just the way it is. He’s always running on what drops of luck he can grab and live life to the fullest but right now. Even with the dull stings of anemo winds on his cheeks, the throb of new bruises he’s probably developing, he reaches out and takes your hand. He’s never felt luckier in his entire life.

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Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go gag on the sugar I just wrote. I may have strayed away from the affection hcs but I care about Bennett and his character stories cripples me. I had to re-write this so there are some issues but I’m tired. Either way, Happy birthday best boy 💕💕💕