#what strikes your heart profoundly at 14 never leaves you it seems

[tuningknight]

god. this username is so special to me

[nothingofpracticalgardening]

14 Versions of Sherlock Holmes Ranked from Most to Least Likely to Set a Building on Fire in a Fit of Rage

CURRENT UPDATED LIST HERE

1. Jonny Lee Miller — Elementary

This cool modern gent had a Moment™ in the very first episode of this series wherein he crashed Watson’s car into the side of the villain’s for absolutely no reason except the guy had pissed him off. That’s only like half a step down from setting a building on fire, which makes it almost canon, so this fantastic band tee-wearing lunatic gets first place for sure.

2. Yuko Takeuchi — Miss Sherlock

She may look cute, but this girl is fearless and feral. She would set a building on fire on a whim and dance away, leaving her poor Watson holding the matches as a joke. We haven’t really seen her angry, but she for sure would be unstoppable if she was. Sherlock Futaba has a secret heart of gold and a not-so-secret wit of arsenic and she’s not afraid to use either of them to end your ass.

3. Benedict Cumberbatch — Sherlock

He might tie for second place with Miss Sherlock, actually, because we all remember that one American who dared to slap Mrs. Hudson and fell out a window, several times, for it. I don’t need to tell y’all this Sherlock Holmes is vicious as a viper when he wants to be, but he’s also sweet as a newborn kitten deep down. Still, #3 is pretty high on the list and I think this emotion-driven drama queen deserves it.

4. Christopher Plummer — Murder by Decree

For most of this 1970s movie, you would never be able to picture this Holmes with a temper at all, much less one big enough to set anything on fire. He’s empathetic, easygoing, and even downright warm. But then, after discovering how a young woman has been mistreated by people in power, he suddenly goes for a guy’s throat—literally—and then it’s easier to see why he’s #4 on my list.

5. Basil of Baker Street — The Great Mouse Detective

Excuse me, it absolutely counts as a legitimate adaptation. This manic little guy might be cute as a button but he will go absolutely rabid on you if you push him (although he might feel bad about it a second later). I’m not saying it’s super likely, but it’s not super unlikely either. Honestly I wouldn’t take the risk.

6. Peter Cushing — The Hound of the Baskervilles (1959)

He might not be #1 on this list, but on a list of sassiest Sherlock Holmeses ever, he would definitely be at the top. More than once this sly gentleman was seconds away from Losing It(TM) in this movie; we might not ever have seen him show his temper completely, but between his impatient (but still affectionate) bickering with Watson and his mumbled sarcasm at every other character at every available opportunity, I wouldn’t doubt his capability of setting a fire in sheer annoyance.

7. Jeremy Brett — Sherlock Holmes

Calm but intense, this Sherlock Holmes is extremely popular, thanks mostly to Brett’s love and passion for the role; with all his self-control, every once in a while there’s a little flash of something much bigger going on underneath–his voice gets louder and his eyes get sharper and for a second you might wonder what he’s going to do. It would just depend on the situation, I think; hurt Watson, for example, and yeah…his fire will get you for sure.

8. Original Books

There’s no Sherlock Holmes like the original. Like Brett above, the Blueprint Holmes is cool, unruffled, and very much in control most of the time, but there are a few moments here and there when he turns into lightning personified, ready to strike someone down in a split second if they stir up his wrath. Nevertheless, he is softer and kinder and more patient than most adaptations give him credit for, so he’s lower on the list.

9. Basil Rathbone — Sherlock Holmes 

Ever wanted to see Sherlock Holmes take out Nazis? This might be the series for you, then. Despite the ‘40s vintage action vibe, though, this Sherlock Holmes really doesn’t have much in the way of a temper and a lot in the way of cool, observant preplanning. When it comes to high-emotion moments, this Holmes is more urgent action than fiery temper. With all that, he tends to lean more on the non-flammable side of the Sherlock Holmes spectrum.

10. Robert Downey, Jr. — Sherlock Holmes & Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows

Okay, you might have expected Action Hero Holmes to be higher up on the list, especially considering he literally did set a fire in the beginning of the second movie. But despite the flack he gets for not being “accurate” enough, I love this Holmes for so many reasons, and one of those reasons is that he’s so gentle and soft-spoken. He’d set a fire in a second for a case, but he faces evil with more melancholy than anger and really isn’t naturally violent at all when you get down to it.

11. Hannah Drew — Baker Street

Probably the most obscure one on the list, this fan-created Sherlock Holmes is blindingly intelligent and relentless, but also profoundly isolated, lonely, and deeply emotional. Still, the extent of her expressiveness seems to be playing obnoxious practical jokes when someone annoys her or shouting halfheartedly when she’s frustrated, not setting fires. (Also confession: she’s totally my girl crush. I would buy her all the ice cream in the world if she asked.)

12. Vasily Livanov — Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson

This Holmes is full of easy charm with emotions that tend to be more prominent on the softer side; he’ll start crying the second his Watson does, and laughs loudly and freely whenever he feels like it, but when provoked by a villain he maintains his cool demeanor like it’s not any kind of a challenge. Like I’ve said before, this Holmes has super-chill trustworthy older brother vibes to me, so he’s almost totally unlikely to be a firebug.

13. Henry Cavill — Enola Holmes (links to trailer)

While it’s true this Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the main character of this movie, we got to see enough of him to make a solid judgment, I think. And my judgment is that he’s one of the most gentle, mild-mannered ones out there. I mean, he might not have started out as a willing parent, but by the end of the movie this guy was volunteering to take in and raise his younger sister. Maybe he could be a fire-starter, but I just don’t see it so far.

14. Ronald Howard — Sherlock Holmes

By far the most adorable version in my opinion, this Holmes is more full of bright humor and childlike wonder than fury of any kind. Like with every version, he has his moments of righteous anger, but guys, come on…this man once spent a whole scene chasing a honeybee around their flat to trap it carefully and set it free. He’s not setting anything on fire anytime soon—at least not on purpose.

These are all the versions of the world’s favorite detective I like so far, but I’m still watching all the ones available, so consider this an incomplete list. If anybody sees this and has a different opinion or a Sherlock to add, feel free to comment! And thanks for reading my rambling.

[junker-town]

I rewatched Game 5 of the 2004 ALCS and it was magical

It took nearly six hours and 14 innings, but the Red Sox made it happen. 

My heart sank when my baseball-loving kid asked when we were going to watch a game again. Then I remembered after the Red Sox won the 2004 World Series I bought the full set of games on DVD, including the entire American League Championship Series. Having never actually watched any of the discs, I vaguely remembered stashing them in a box that had somehow made its way from Philly to Boston by way of several Cambridge apartments.

Eureka! I still had them.

Photo by Ezra Shaw/Getty Images

We started with Game 4 of the ALCS against the Yankees because even in a quarantine I wouldn’t bother with the first three games. My kid soon became familiar with Papi, Manny, and the whole gang of Idiots. He promptly proved his Masshole bonafides, yelling, “Come on Millah!” when Kevin Millar came up to bat in the ninth against Mariano Rivera. For the record, neither my wife nor I have a Boston accent and he doesn’t either. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was a proud moment.

My wife, incidentally, couldn’t care less about baseball, but she has fond memories of staying up late with her friends, living and dying with every pitch. When Dave Roberts stole second, she screamed like it was happening in real time.

Game 4 was iconic, of course. The whole sequence belongs in a time capsule. Starting with Millar’s walk to Dave Roberts’ steal through Bill Mueller knocking the great Mariano Rivera off the mound with the game-tying single like he was Charlie Brown in a Peanuts strip. And then, much, much later, Big Papi’s home run. Game 6 was even more famous with the whole bloody sock thing, while Game 7 was just pure cathartic release.

But Game 5 — holy shit, Game 5. I had forgotten how magically insane it was. Over 14 innings and almost six hours, it was like watching a slow-motion nightmare unfold only to emerge in a blissy dream state where unicorns are real and it ain’t over ‘til Big Papi takes a swing.

To set the scene, Game 4 ended after midnight, meaning Game 5 took place literally the same day. Your starters were Mike Mussina and Pedro Martinez, making perhaps his last start in a Boston uniform.

Photo by Ezra Shaw/Getty Images

The Sox took an early 2-0 lead but couldn’t bust out a big inning against Mussina, who settled down and pitched a gem. Martinez was also dealing, but that pitch count was rising higher as we got to the sixth with the Sox leading, 2-1, which is when I started taking notes.

Martinez is getting up near 100 pitches. I forgot that after 100 pitches he turned into Ramiro Mendoza. Thankfully, Joe Buck is here to remind us. Tim McCarver thinks pitch counts are overrated and now I’m yelling at McCarver to shut the fuck up. (For future reference, STFUTM will serve as shorthand.)

Earlier, he told an incredibly random story about Trinidad Hubbard that made absolutely no sense. Hard to believe, but there really was a point when McCarver was an insightful announcer. Happens to all of them, eventually.

Martinez gets Bernie Williams to pop up, but Jorge Posada reaches on a quirky infield single and Ruben Sierra follows with another hit. I’ve seen this movie before. It ends badly. Tony Clark strikes out and now it’s up to Miguel Cairo. Martinez just hit Cairo to load the bases. 2004 me is yelling at Terry “Tito” Francona: “GET HIM OUTTA THERE, FRANCONA.”

Photo by Linda Cataffo/NY Daily News Archive via Getty Images

Tito leaves Martinez in to pitch to Jeter and Buck notes that Jeter hasn’t put his stamp on this series yet. Oh God. The inside-out swing. The slicing line drive landing in right. Three runs are going to score. I’ll go to my grave saying Prime Nomar was better, but it would really help if Captain Intangibles stopped doing stuff like this.

Looked like Cairo may have been out at the plate, but it’s real close. You know what this game doesn’t have? Replay review. There were at least eight plays by my count that would have been subject to replay review and this game would still be playing if that was the case. We got along fine without reviewing every close play and I would like to return to that nebulous state of affairs when the world stops burning.

You know what else this game doesn’t have? Fans on cell phones. Everyone is hanging on every pitch and it’s beautiful. I know this because the broadcast keeps cutting away to the stands and I’ve seen the same woman clasping her hands in prayer between pitches a dozen times. Pretty sure I’ve seen her at the Fresh Pond Trader Joes.

LOL, Martinez plunked Alex Rodriguez just because he could. McCarver doesn’t like it. STFUTM. Now Gary Sheffield walks to load the bases. Um, Tito? I think you can go get him now. Francona leaves Martinez in and he gets Hideki Matsui to fly out. Good job, Tito.

The Yankees had a chance to break it open in the eighth, but Mike Timlin gets A-Rod to pop up with a runner on third and one out. This was A-Rod’s chance to be a True Yankee and he blew it. Shame, really.

On we go to the bottom of the eighth and it’s time for the WebMD update. Today’s injury is a broken heart. Thanks, guys. Really appreciate it.

Photo by Keith Torrie/NY Daily News Archive via Getty Images

Here comes Papi and he takes Tom Gordon over the Monster and off the Volvo sign. I miss the Volvo sign. Now Millar, who draws another walk. Dude could take a walk like nobody else. Roberts comes in to pinch run and Gordon throws over a half dozen times. He’s clearly rattled. It’s happening again.

We’ve officially reached the moment where Francona becomes a super genius. Everyone keeps expecting Roberts to steal second, but Tito calls for the hit-and-run and Trot Nixon executes it perfectly sending a line drive single to right center. God bless that dirtbag right fielder.

First and third, nobody out and Joe Torre calls on Rivera. Officially this will go down as a blown save when Jason Varitek lofts a sacrifice fly to center to tie the game, 4-4, but this is on Gordon. No Yankee ever scared me more than Mariano. Salute to him.

When McCarver gets what he considers a profound thought in his head, he slows his cadence for dramatic effect. Then he repeats himself like he’s delivering a dugout sermon from Whitey Herzog.

“After 169 games and eight innings, the Red Sox season comes down to one inning,” McCarver tells us before the ninth. “One inning.” Oh Tim, we’re just getting started.

Photo by Barry Chin/The Boston Globe via Getty Images

Keith Foulke is on to pitch the ninth. He worked 2 ⅔ the night before and will pitch tonight and then again in Game 6. Foulke threw 14 shutout innings during the postseason and was never the same. He gave up his career for this postseason run and was never properly appreciated because he made some crack about fans the following season that caused everyone to turn on him. Here’s to you, Keith Foulke. I have no idea how you ever got anyone out, but you were nails.

In the ninth, Tony Clark hit a ball to right that somehow crawled up the short fence and landed in the stands. Had it stayed in play, Ruben Sierra would have scored and the game would have been over. Sixteen years later, the universe hates Boston and its run of championships, but in 2004, this was all strange and new. Kind of miss those days.

Bronson Arroyo, fresh off getting hammered in Game 3, strikes out A-Rod and Sheffield en route to a clean 10th inning. The strike zone, by the way, has been a tad inconsistent. It’s hard to tell because there’s no K-Zone or pitch tracking and again, that’s totally fine! Maybe we were better off not knowing everything all the time.

Even though I know how this is going to turn out, I keep expecting Papi to hit a home run every time he comes up to hit. Instead, he strikes out.

On we go to the 12th and it’s Tim Wakefield time. The knuckleballer’s normal catcher/binky is Doug Mirabelli, but Tito rides with Varitek, who has absolutely no idea how to catch a knuckleball. Super genius.

Cairo singles to left and Manny kicks it like only Manny can, allowing Cairo to get to second. My kid smacks his forehead and says, “Oh, Manny.” He doesn’t even know the half of it. Fortunately, Jeter flies out and so does A-Rod. Crisis averted.

The Sox have stopped hitting. This seems bad.

Photo by Rick Friedman/Corbis via Getty Images

Ah, the 13th. Nothing bad can happen here. Sheffield is swinging for the Mass Pike. He’s legitimately terrifying. Somehow, Wakefield strikes out Sheffield with a nasty knuckler that Varitek misplays into a passed ball. I remember thinking at the time, “This is how it’s going to happen. This is how they’re going to kill us.”

Two outs now and Matsui’s at first. Whoops, another passed ball. Now he’s at second. Intentional walk to Posada. Everyone at Fenway is nervous as hell. My wife comes into the room and starts watching. Now she’s nervous.

ANOTHER passed ball puts runners on second and third. Missed opportunity by McCarver to say something profoundly stupid like, “Johnny Pesky held the ball. Varitek can’t catch the ball.” Actually, that would have been pretty good.

Seriously though, one more miscue from Varitek and he’s Mike Torrez combined with Bill Buckner. Somehow, somehow, Wakefield strikes out Sierra and Varitek miraculously holds on. Fenway erupts. My wife cheers. “Mom, you know what’s going to happen,” my kid says but none of us care. This was the greatest game I ever saw and even now it doesn’t seem real.

Photo by Corey Sipkin/NY Daily News Archive via Getty Images

OK, now the 14th. Esteban Loiaza is on to pitch for the Yankees and he’s somehow become Whitey Ford. His cutter is filthy. Johnny Damon, who has done absolutely nothing this series, draws a walk.

Two outs and here’s Manny. I always loved Manny in these spots because a) he’s a great hitter and b) he’s completely impervious to pressure. God, this is a great at-bat. He’s fouling off quality pitches and laying off sliders just outside the zone. Manny gets his walk and trots to first like it’s a game in June against the Orioles. Here comes Papi.

It took 10 pitches for Ortiz to end Game 5 with a bloop single to center off the handle of the bat. He fought off nasty cutters and sent one about 420 feet screaming into right that went foul. My wife is tense. My kid is yelling, “Come on, Papi!” Finally, the big man does his thing and Johnny Damon comes home from second with the winning run.

Buck had a great call. “Damon can keep right on running to New York.” McCarver immediately blows it by saying, “He didn’t do it again, did he?” Dramatic pause. “He did.” Thanks, Tim. Oh, and STFU.

Photo by Ezra Shaw/Getty Images

By the way, there’s no off day because there was a rainout prior to Game 4. I have no idea how either one of these teams turned around and played again the next night, but I’d give anything for another marathon Red Sox-Yankee game right about now. Thank Papi, I still have the DVDs.

[sonofhistory]

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

American Revolution RPF, American History RPF, 18th Century CE RPF

Nathan Hale (1755-1776)/Benjamin Tallmadge

Tags: Young Love, Last Kiss, Brief Smut, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Emotional Roller Coaster, Cuddling & Snuggling, This is the last time they ever see each other, Foreshadowing Death, Fight Scene, Tags will be updated

Part 2 of the Early American History | Stories They Won’t Tell series (fics places in the series get rearranged by date in happens in)

Words so far: 5,538

____________________

September 14th, 1776 || 8:02 p.m.

6 days, 14 hours, 48 minutes till Nathan Hale’s death

“My thoughts had once convey’d you home,

In safety to your wonted dome;

But gladly went a second time,

Attended by your muse and rhyme.”

_______________________

         Guilt waded over him violently. Nathan had to say it. If he waited any longer, who knows if he would ever conjure up enough courage to say it? He cannot keep it from him any longer. Down below in the grass, Nathan traced the Ben’s silhouette against the dramatic sky above him as he stood buckling back up the strap of his breeches, tugging on his boots again and buttoning up his shirt.

         “There’s a wrinkle in your collar”.

         Ben shifted, revolving around to raise a sarcastic brow, following the pointed digit to his neck and he smoothed the fabric with two fingers, flattening the crinkled area.

         “Thanks”, he rolled his eyes and tucked the ends flaps of his waistcoat into his belt area.

         Nathan seemed rather pleased, leaning back with his arms crossed behind his head, clothed again and the horned buttermilk grass tickled the sensitive spots of his nape and his bare wrists. Finished, Ben strided over, no longer blocking the sunset as Nathan cupped his face to the streaming light. The Setauket boy stood over him, catching in the blaze, glaring down with a smirk piercing his full lips in a rather menacing manner with the flare of peach that seemed to line the undercoat of his bones; flustered and gazing down in an amused presence of pride. Nathan swallowed, sitting up and brushing the fern off of his legs and the suspicious grass stains on his knees that he bemoaned silently over.

         Nathan had to tell him.

         Ben scratched his chin, clasping the other’s hand and gathering their fingers together, lacing them. The taller’s mouth went dry, gulping as his tongue turned to sand; he wanted to say so many things to him but he just couldn’t. He choked on the words caught like a searing lump in his throat, he struggled to set them free. It would ever be floating in space, the death of him from beginning and to the end.

         “General Washington has assigned me to a mission”.

         There, they were out and swimming in the breeze and he could never take them back for as long as he lived.        

         Ben didn’t stop, kicking a stone in his path with the toe of his boot, and it skipped away, raising the dirt into the air where it bounced. He kept his survey on the ground as if searching for better rocks, rocking his head back and forth and he kept towing Nathan’s hand along back through the trees where they'd come from. “Washington himself?”, he tuned to improvement, moving the corners of his mouth to a frown, nodding his head as they crossed the wall of ivy, “What sort of mission?”

         Nathan brought a hand to rub the back of his neck tentatively, “I-in New York.”

         At this finally something settled a seed in Ben’s cranium and it began to bloom. Palm growing sweaty as he trekked over a snarling, raspberry bush with dead jagged thorns that attempted to tear through his clothing. A thorn caught on the pad of his thumb and he winced, zipping it between his front teeth, a dot of blood rising above the surface. The meadow darkened with the setting evening sun across the plain and it slipped behind the sloping hills, glazing the heavens in amethyst, cerulean tinctures magnificently. They stepped back among the trunks, side by side with their palms still connected but both were too in thought to think of the danger were they to be spotted. The parting of trees fell less dry than before, and the crimson leaves danced around his ankles.

         Ben was still blinking several times with a thumb in his mouth, “What type of mission?”, he inquired again, letters a little more stern on the syllables, muffled by the pressed thumb, flaunting to his lateral with set brows.

         “Intelligence.”

         “Spying?"

         “Intelligence, Ben."

         “So you’re a spy now.”, his tone changed and he discontinued his walk on the makeshift path, he peeled a fox-tail off of his thigh and tossed it to the brush, releasing Nathan’s hand; he still limply held it out as if he might rejoin him and take it back up once again. He didn’t and the blonde began to feel naked. Ben’s lips pursed firmly together, a tiny blade forming, jutting out a hip and shewing his braid over his shoulder, flaring the man--the boy--in the face, his arms crossed over his chest. The buckle on his sash gleamed, catching perfectly in the releasing glimmer.

         Nathan’s glimpse declined to the turf and he rubbed his bicep, looking for some sort of reassurance in anything and found nothing. “Washington needs men in New York, men who can supply him troop numbers, boats, forces. Washington--”

         “To hell with Washington!”, Ben shouted, throwing his hands above his head. At this, Nathan’s eyes flew up, seeing that rage that collapsed like a universe in his eyes. Everything seemed to glow in the obscurity and it was painful how beautiful Ben resembled; he just willed to rush forward, gather him in his arms and smooth those two wrinkles in between his brow until they ceased existence like a stain and he saw that childish face he’d once witnessed. It was complicated discovering how lovely he looked right now, with his usual cheeky half-smile and the way his delicate fingers touched his hair and those sooty, pooling eyes drawing him in as slowly let go. Ben’s cheeks flushed roseate, lips screwed tight, widened and venomous and he worried he’d become paralyzed. “Washington is sending you to the slaughter house.”

         “I volunteered.”

         “You what ”

         Nathan became flustered once again and shifted his footing, nails itching at the fraying threads on his sleeves, “I volunteered to go.”

         Ben inhaled deeply, attempting to compose himself, “You are still ill, you were dangerously ill, you need your health.”

         Nathan gripped his fist, setting his jaw, and his shoulders rose to his ears before he reposed, “I must do it, Ben. For the war, for Washington, for our futures, for us.”        

         Ben surged a lip, leering, a hint of disgust plastering the corners of his face, “That’s it?”

         “I leave tomorrow”. Nathan endeavor to steal a step forward, gather his lover up, quench all of his fears that clearly fostered below the outrage, wrapping himself up in just their thoughts. Ben faltered, stepping backwards, heel sliding on loose brambles beneath his footing, racing a hand back to catch his fall. Their eye contact relinquished and Ben rose to his feet again, shaking the twigs from his wild curls and clenching his teeth. A subtle wind rushed it and rustled those strands until they fell in his eyes once again.

         He angrily slapped them back, “I’m not going to stop you,” Ben declared.

         “Then why do you care?”

         There was no answer and Nathan printed away, turning his back on perhaps one of the longest things he’d ever loved. The chaos and the grace and everything that came with it and not a single thing that he’d ever regret; there was nothing to. That was how the light managed to escape through the broken cracks.

         “You thought you’d just use me?”

         Nathan understood everything he meant and his anger subsided, revolving back and shuffling through the brushes, getting closer, “No, Ben---”

         “---You thought you’d get good ol’ Benjamin Tallmadge to get you off once last time.”, his eyes narrowed, like a predator.

         Nathan snapped, gasping profoundly and jamming a finger into the very core of their chest and hovering over him as scarlet, blank vehemence shrouded the edges of his vision, rushing forward and his hand balled the anterior of Ben’s shirt, ripping him close. Their was a scuffle as the shorter man attempted to stifle himself away, shoving on the other’s shoulders. The fist released off the front of his shirt and a loud groan took the place and Ben tumbled, uprooting Nathan into the dirt, to where Nathan rolled on top of him and wrestling him into the soil, rising a fist and striking Ben right in the nose. He moaned and blood trickled down onto his lips like wine after the sickening crunch settled underneath his knuckles. He shoved Nathan’s chest, capitulates rapping against the base of his ribs and Nathan lost his breath, regaining it quickly, fumbling and pinning down Ben’s shoulder.

         “You came onto me first!”

         Ben awaited another strike to the face as Nathan rose a fist again.

         “And you let me."

         It was soft, a quiet voice with every sense of vulnerability.

         Nathan faltered, blinking in surprise, and stopping his clutch mid air, pausing and lowering it back down to his side. He leaped off of Ben’s abdomen and tumbled into the ground, covered in dirt and a bruise scarping its way to the surface of his cheek, underneath his heavy, protruding eyelids. There was quietude between them as Ben sat up, wincing, filth caking his countenance and blemishing his elbows. Coughing, a seep of blood streamed from his nose, advancing the surface of his hand to wipe his upper lip, ruby lining the cracks of his white teeth. Nathan covered his forehead with his hand, shrouding his face as his heart drummed in his ears.

         And you let me.

         Those few words, hanging thick in the draft like sin, caping their letters around them, drawing each other closer together. Ben simpered, lightly tapping the bridge of his nose. Neither of them had noticed how shadowy it had grown and how they could barely see around the separate trees, for of the somber illusion that brimming the earth. A breeze blowed across his fair skin, eyes closing slowly, breathing in depth, filtering the air into the lungs. There was the scent of firewood, a little salt on those tides with ashy smoke and crisp, sun burnt leaves. He opened them again, the serene atmosphere flooding relief across his bones like sparks, rotating his cranium to his side expecting to find Ben glimpsing back.

         Ben was balancing his elbows on his knees, his own hands interlocked at the wrists, hanging his head in between the space, following the ground, the arch of his spine shuddering up and down, crimson from his nostrils dripping to the soil below his feet and crossed ankles. Nathan made no advances, knowing he was a second and Ben seemed to intertwine himself around eternity. As if he was just a hand on the clock, and the other was swirling around the stars. In that moment, he did not deserve to place a hand on his shoulder and suggest they forget all of their fears until day breaks and dawn surges forth, toxic, golden and the spy miles away without a single word said. They just sat there in the eclipse of the woods, hung in shame away from the galaxy.

        There was no need for Ben to declare everything thing he was frightened of because Nathan already knew. He pictured himself up on a gibbet with a noose around his life, scraping the mole on his neck and rumors it told. He would be hung. It was the pain of remorse, not for his own life but for the one seated across from him. What would he care? He would swing from the gallows to death without a recognition in place, but Benjamin Tallmadge and his five syllable name would carry the speck, the weight of this on his soul for the remained of his life. How does one go on believing they were responsible for the downfall of another they loved?

         “Ben…”

         He was cut off immediately, “Nathan, please, don’t”, pain lingered in his voice, emotional, wavering unsteadily, sticking in chord in his spirit.

         Nathan scooted forward on his knees, fetching himself nearer but Ben did not look up from where he had dangled his visage. “Ben--”

         “Stop.”

         “Ben...”

         “No."

         “Damon?”

         “No!”, he barked, his head flying up from where it was laid at the song of such innocence, facing Nathan in the eyes where they unlocked bolted doors to his rather secure soul. There was the contamination of tears scattering on the pitter-patter of his cheeks, streaking the dirt on his cheeks, a tear gathering down his jaw; fierce, desperate where his eyebrows arched and that dangerous little wrinkle impregnated his face so pregnantly. Rouge underlining his eyelids, he rubbed his nose, faltering away and leaning his chin on his hand. His sorrow seemed like rain; everyone adored the idea of the sun but he was always in love with the belief that the universe too, felt pain. Ben’s tired orbs bowed, pressing them shut, tears leaking from the edges with memories swinging trapped in their skulls.

         Nathan’s stomach tied in knots, as if palms made of things he did not quite understand were twisting his gut underneath the layers of externity. His hand hesitated, rising and landing on Ben’s shoulder, “Please…”

         Ben rolled his shoulder in the joint, brushing, throwing off interaction, rubbing the heel of his hand into his forehead, hair tumbling in his eyes rather messily as another sob rippled through his chest, lips parting, holding it back as it grew, climbing out his throat. His chest shook and Nathan couldn’t help but imagine the heart and everything wrapping around the lungs and ribs rattling together.

         “Please, leave. I cannot have you here.”

         It felt like a slap to the face, “No.”, it still stung, a pulsating hand print formed.

         Ben seemed rather displaced, leaning up his head and following with dignity, grinding his teeth and the blood that soaked them, “Can’t you fucking listen?”

         Nathan tipped his head, buckling, “Only to the truth.” He had found such a place in between those arms, in between kisses and soft whispers. Between the warmth of embrace, the scent of him, that fierceness in his touch; he found a place lost wandering in another’s soul. Watching his lover shake, and tremble before his very eyes with tears flooding down his cheeks along with wounds he’d created. He could sense contractions in his stomach and the suppression of his beating and the emotions hidden his lung's in the empty rooms. He wish he just saw a person and not poetry, because he didn’t know if he would ever run out of rhymes.

         Maybe it was the attraction to every way he’d pushed away his advances, and how he’d done the same at Yale years ago; turning away the best thing he'd ever seen. But he knew Ben better than anything, read him like an open book and he’d memorized all complex pages of text. He traced the outline of Ben’s lips, catching in the moonlight, a reflection. He could walk away now and only regret every moment after. Nathan ran his fingers through his scalp and curled a lock back behind his ear. Ben still didn’t look him in the eye, their thighs were now connected, hip to hip with leaves down the back of their shirts, still adjusting to the milky obscurity around them.

         The firmament was glistening that night as he tipped his chin back, attending to the stars scattering in the sky, blinking down at him with reassurance. The stardust gleamed across his own eyes they night, soaking them in like desperate inspiration, scintillating and ushering back. “I’ll throw my voice in the stars, if you will not listen”, this caught Ben’s attention, perking his head up, clearly he was listening with the way that his ears twitched against the tips of his hair, “Perhaps, the echo of my words will be written for you in the clouds by sunrise.” Their fingers brushed, tinging Ben’s shadow and his aimless eyes that was defeated to the interaction,“A brief summary, Damon, is that I will cherish you through the darkness.”

         Ben sighed, leaning his head back, opening his throat, bare and clear and Nathan fought the temptation to plant a kiss on the clear skin, trailing up to his jaw. He fell in the grip of those verses, “As always, your words are said as if they are only so, dear Pythias, while they have always been planets swirling around dim stars.”, his vocals were somewhat smothered by the currant blotch widening on the bridge of his nose

         “But, there are so many more stars than planets.”

         “Ah, but planets make homes among the stars and yours, do indeed live inside me.”

         The corner of Nathan’s mouth moved, matching Ben’s growing smile and their eyes met when he twisted his neck to the side, sincerity there in the softness of his glance and the creases softened.

         “Pythias--”

         “Damon--”

         They began at the same time, Ben grasping the attention.

         “I’m sorry.”

         “Don’t worry, I forgive you,” Nathan flashed a ballsy grin, and Ben slugged him in the shoulder. Ben fell back, leaning into Nathan’s longing arms and soaking in the warmth of his neck. There was calm before the quivering began once again, and the blonde’s hands tugged him tighter, roaming over the curves his back and his vibrating shoulder blades. The wind had paused, and he inclined his jowl down to lay against the top of Ben’s head and where his warm hair frayed.

         “I can’t lose you,” warm breath on the shell of his ear. That tepid exhalation seemed to remind him how delightfully chaotic he had remembered, with a passing glance and a handshake across the space at Yale the first time they ever met. The first time he witnessed beauty, grace and forests where they both could get venture in and never get lost because of such the memorization. A beautiful mess, loving him, his most splendid adventure. “I’ve heard you never fully feel another until you’ve lost them. I am worried it will take me a lifetime to truly know you.”, fingers declined to his knee, knowing the ghost of those fingertips will forever wander across his skin, “You’ve filled up so many pieces inside me, who will I be then?”

         Nathan Hale bit his lip, gripping his embrace along the cross of Ben’s hips where he sat, coiling their legs together and ankles knocked together through boots with the most intimacy. In this time, the man he held in the circle of his arms was thunder, that smile rattled his bones, and his heart was the best piece, it would always calm the storm when he was afraid of a little rain. “You’ll be Benjamin Tallmadge; rugged soldier, talented scholar. You’ll be the man who graduated early, the one who tossed rocks through the windows at Yale and passed me notes in our lessons. You’ll be just the same because I’ll always be here, I am not going anywhere.”

         Ben beamed, fluttering his eyelashes up, “Maybe one day we’ll find that place where you and I can simply be together.”

         Nathan reached his touch to cup Ben’s jaw, leading those auburn optics up to meet his face, staring down at the bruise on his jaw and those wrinkles in the center of his forehead that seemed all consuming, his nails eased those growing wounds. “Believe that we shall meet again, until then, I am already missing you.”

         Their worlds had color the moment the sky witnessed a pair of woods. Drowning and teaching each other to feel things above the trees. Nathan stood up, extended down a hand and carving out his own silhouette against the eventide with the moon in his hair and the faded stardust sprinkling off those strands whenever he shifted against the heavens. Ben took his awaiting hand, not bothering to brush off his clothing of dirt but picking a twig off of his forearm, tossing it away.  

         “We should head back to camp,” suggested and the shorter nodded in agreement, glowing in the tangled and perplexing darkness.

         Nathan switched away slowly, tracking his way through the thorns on his calf, he started to walk when a pair of arms pulled him back, looping around his waist and a cheek digging in his spine. His arms stayed arisen, taken aback before he let them down, shifting around and grabbing Ben by the waist, connecting their lips when their bodies met, filling in the space and coves as made molds. Fingers circuiting across his scalp, kissing that boy underneath the looming luminescence and the ardent night that altered around them as if the whole atmosphere was peering through the gaps of the top tree branches, glancing their lips switch, revolving and moving over each others with closed eyes and only loving intent. Nathan felt tears on his cheeks and did not know whose they were, but that it did not matter.

         They fell apart, still holding their arms together. Nathan swore that every time eyes flickered up to him, they were saying everything his lips failed moving to say.