#which i REFUSE to draw differently. he needs his anime boy bangs to live

[yourminecraftboyfriend]

brush and color practices with nygmobs <3 theyre so special to meeeee. lineart under cut

[mattbrothersscriptwriter]

My Top 20 Films of 2019 - Part Two

I don’t think I’ve had a year where my top ten jostled and shifted as much as this one did - these really are the best of the best and my personal favourites of 2019.

10. Toy Story 4

I think we can all agree that Toy Story 3 was a pretty much perfect conclusion to a perfect trilogy right? About as close as is likely to get, I’m sure. I shared the same trepidation when part four was announced, especially after some underwhelming sequels like Finding Dory and Cars 3 (though I do have a lot of time for Monsters University and Incredibles 2). So maybe it’s because the odds were so stacked against this being good but I thought it was wonderful. A truly existential nightmare of an epilogue that does away with Andy (and mostly kids altogether) to focus on the dreams and desires of the toys themselves - separate from their ‘duties’ as playthings to biological Gods. What is their purpose in life without an owner? Can they be their own person and carve their own path? In the case of breakout new character Forky (Tony Hale), what IS life? Big big questions for a cash grab kids films huh?

The animation is somehow yet another huge leap forward (that opening rainstorm!), Bo Peep’s return is excellently pitched and the series tradition of being unnervingly horrifying is back as well thanks to those creepy ventriloquist dolls! Keanu Reeves continues his ‘Keanuassaince‘ as the hilarious Duke Caboom and this time, hopefully, the ending at least feels finite. This series means so much to me: I think the first movie is possibly the tightest, most perfect script ever written, the third is one of my favourites of the decade and growing up with the franchise (I was 9 when the first came out, 13 for part two, 24 for part three and now 32 for this one), these characters are like old friends so of course it was great to see them again. All this film had to do was be good enough to justify its existence and while there are certainly those out there that don’t believe this one managed it, I think the fact that it went as far as it did showed that Pixar are still capable of pushing boundaries and exploring infinity and beyond when they really put their minds to it.

9. The Nightingale

Hoo boy. Already controversial with talk of mass walkouts (I witnessed a few when this screened at Sundance London), it’s not hard to see why but easy to understand. Jennifer Kent (The Babadook) is a truly fearless filmmaker following up her acclaimed suburban horror movie come grief allegory with a period revenge tale set in the Tasmanian wilderness during British colonial rule in the early 1800s. It’s rare to see the British depicted with the monstrous brutality for which they were known in the distant colonies and this unflinching drama sorely needed an Australian voice behind the camera to do it justice.

The film is front loaded with some genuinely upsetting, nasty scenes of cruel violence but its uncensored brutality and the almost casual nature of its depiction is entirely the point - this was normalised behaviour over there and by treating it so matter of factly, it doesn’t slip into gratuitous ‘movie violence’. It is what it is. And what it is is hard to watch. If anything, as Kent has often stated, it’s still toned down from the actual atrocities that occurred so it’s a delicate balance that I think Kent more than understands. Quoting from an excellent Vanity Fair interview she did about how she directs, Kent said “I think audiences have become very anaesthetised to violence on screen and it’s something I find disturbing... People say ‘these scenes are so shocking and disturbing’. Of course they are. We need to feel that. When we become so removed from violence on screen, this is a very irresponsible thing. So I wanted to put us right within the frame with that person experiencing the loss of everything they hold dear”. 

Aisling Franciosi is next level here as a woman who has her whole life torn from her, leaving her as nothing but a raging husk out for vengeance. It would be so easy to fall into odd couple tropes once she teams up with reluctant native tracker Billy (an equally impressive newcomer, Baykali Ganambarr) but the film continues to stay true to the harsh racism of the era, unafraid to depict our heroine - our point of sympathy - as horrendously racist towards her own ally. Their partnership is not easily solidified but that makes it all the stronger when they star to trust each other. Sam Claflin is also career best here, weaponizing his usual charm into dangerous menace and even after cementing himself as the year’s most evil villain, he can still draw out the humanity in such a broken and corrupt man.

Gorgeously shot in the Academy ratio, the forest landscape here is oppressive and claustrophobic. Kent also steps back into her horror roots with some mesmerising, skin crawling dream scenes that amplify the woozy nightmarish tone and overbearing sense of dread. Once seen, never forgotten, this is not going to be everyone’s cup of tea (and that’s fine) but when cinema can affect you on such a visceral level and be this powerful, reflective and honest about our own past, it’s hard to ignore. Stunning.

8. The Irishman

Aka Martin Scorsese’s magnum opus, I did manage to see this one in a cinema before the Netflix drop and absolutely loved it. I’ve watched 85 minute long movies that felt longer than this - Marty’s mastery of pace, energy and knowing when to let things play out in agonising detail is second to none. This epic tale of  the life of Frank Sheeran (Robert De Niro) really is the cinematic equivalent of having your cake and eating it too, allowing Scorsese to run through a greatest hits victory lap of mobster set pieces, alpha male arguments, a decades spanning life story and one (last?) truly great Joe Pesci performance before simply letting the story... continue... to a natural, depressing and tragic ending, reflecting the emptiness of a life built on violence and crime.

For a film this long, it’s impressive how much the smallest details make the biggest impacts. A stammering phone call from a man emotionally incapable of offering any sort of condolence. The cold refusal of forgiveness from a once loving daughter. A simple mirroring of a bowl of cereal or a door left slightly ajar. These are the parts of life that haunt us all and it’s what we notice the most in a deliberately lengthy biopic that shows how much these things matter when everything else is said and done. The violence explodes in sudden, sharp bursts, often capping off unbearably tense sequences filled with the everyday (a car ride, a conversation about fish, ice cream...) and this contrast between the whizz bang of classic Scorsese and the contemplative nature of Silence era Scorsese is what makes this film feel like such an accomplishment. De Niro is FINALLY back but it’s the memorably against type role for Pesci and an invigorated Al Pacino who steals this one, along with a roll call of fantastic cameos, with perhaps the most screentime given to the wonderfully petty Stephen Graham as Tony Pro, not to mention Anna Paquin’s near silent performance which says more than possibly anyone else. 

Yes, the CG de-aging is misguided at best, distracting at worst (I never really knew how old anyone was meant to be at any given time... which is kinda a problem) but like how you get used to it really quickly when it’s used well, here I kinda got past it being bad in an equally fast amount of time and just went with it. Would it have been a different beast had they cast younger actors to play them in the past? Undoubtedly. But if this gives us over three hours of Hollywood’s finest giving it their all for the last real time together, then that’s a compromise I can live with.

7. The Last Black Man in San Francisco

Wow. I was in love with this film from the moving first trailer but then the film itself surpassed all expectations. This is a true indie film success story, with lead actor Jimmie Fails developing the idea with director Joe Talbot for years before Kickstarting a proof of concept and eventually getting into Sundance with short film American Paradise, which led to the backing of this debut feature through Plan B and A24. The deeply personal and poetic drama follows a fictionalised version of Jimmie, trying to buy back an old Victorian town house he claims was built by his grandfather, in an act of rebellion against the increasingly gentrified San Francisco that both he and director Talbot call home.

The film is many things - a story of male friendship, of solidarity within our community, of how our cities can change right from underneath us - it moves to the beat of it’s own drum, with painterly cinematography full of gorgeous autumnal colours and my favourite score of the year from Emile Mosseri. The performances, mostly by newcomers or locals outside of brilliant turns from Jonathan Majors, Danny Glover and Thora Birch, are wonderful and the whole thing is such a beautiful love letter to the city that it makes you ache for a strong sense of place in your own home, even if your relationship with it is fractured or strained. As Jimmie says, “you’re not allowed to hate it unless you love it”.

For me, last year’s Blindspotting (my favourite film of the year) tackled gentrification within California more succinctly but this much more lyrical piece of work ebbs and flows through a number of themes like identity, family, memory and time. It’s a big film living inside a small, personal one and it is not to be overlooked.

6. Little Women

I had neither read the book nor seen any prior adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s 1868 novel so to me, this is by default the definitive telling of this story. If from what I hear, the non linear structure is Greta Gerwig’s addition, then it’s a total slam dunk. It works so well in breaking up the narrative and by jumping from past to present, her screenplay highlights certain moments and decisions with a palpable sense of irony, emotional weight or knowing wink. Getting to see a statement made with sincere conviction and then paid off within seconds, can be both a joy and a surefire recipe for tears. Whether it’s the devastating contrast between scenes centred around Beth’s illness or the juxtaposition of character’s attitudes to one another, it’s a massive triumph. Watching Amy angrily tell Laurie how she’s been in love with him all her life and then cutting back to her childishly making a plaster cast of her foot for him (’to remind him how small her feet are’) is so funny. 

Gerwig and her impeccable cast bring an electric energy to the period setting, capturing the big, messy realities of family life with a mix of overwhelming cross-chatter and the smallest of intimate gestures. It’s a testament to the film that every sister feels fully serviced and represented, from Beth’s quiet strength to Amy’s unforgivable sibling rivalry. Chris Cooper’s turn as a stoic man suffering almost imperceptible grief is a personal heartbreaking favourite. 

The book’s (I’m assuming) most sweeping romantic statements are wonderfully delivered, full of urgent passion and relatable heartache, from Marmie’s (Laura Dern) “I’m angry nearly every day of my life” moment to Jo’s (Saoirse Ronan) painful defiance of feminine attributes not being enough to cure her loneliness. The sheer amount of heart and warmth in this is just remarkable and I can easily see it being a film I return to again and again.

5. Booksmart

2019 has been a banner year for female directors, making their exclusion from some of the early awards conversations all the more damning. From this list alone, we have Lulu Wang, Jennifer Kent and Greta Gerwig. Not to mention Lorene Scafaria (Hustlers), Melina Matsoukas (Queen & Slim), Jocelyn DeBoer & Dawn Luebbe (Greener Grass), Sophie Hyde (Animals) and Rose Glass (Saint Maud - watch out for THIS one in 2020, it’s brilliant). Perhaps the most natural transition from in front of to behind the camera has been made by Olivia Wilde, who has created a borderline perfect teen comedy that can make you laugh till you cry, cry till you laugh and everything in-between.

Subverting the (usually male focused) ‘one last party before college’ tropes that fuel the likes of Superbad and it’s many inferior imitators, Booksmart follows two overachievers who, rather than go on a coming of age journey to get some booze or get laid, simply want to indulge in an insane night of teenage freedom after realising that all of the ‘cool kids’ who they assumed were dropouts, also managed to get a place in all of the big universities. It’s a subtly clever remix of an old favourite from the get go but the committed performances from Kaitlyn Dever and Beanie Feldstein put you firmly in their shoes for the whole ride. 

It’s a genuine blast, with big laughs and a bigger heart, portraying a supportive female friendship that doesn’t rely on hokey contrivances to tear them apart, meaning that when certain repressed feelings do come to the surface, the fallout is heartbreaking. As I stated in a twitter rave after first seeing it back in May, every single character, no matter how much they might appear to be simply representing a stock role or genre trope, gets their moment to be humanised. This is an impeccably cast ensemble of young unknowns who constantly surprise and the script is a marvel - a watertight structure without a beat out of place, callbacks and payoffs to throwaway gags circle back to be hugely important and most of all, the approach taken to sexuality and representation feels so natural. I really think it is destined to be looked back on and represent 2019 the way Heathers does ‘88, Clueless ‘95 or Easy A 2010. A new high benchmark for crowd pleasing, indie comedy - teen or otherwise.

4. Ad Astra

Brad Pitt is one of my favourite actors and one who, despite still being a huge A-lister even after 30 years in the game, never seems to get enough credit for the choices he makes, the movies he stars in and also the range of stories he helps produce through his company, Plan B. 2019 was something of a comeback year for Pitt as an actor with the insanely measured and controlled lead performance seen here in Ad Astra and the more charismatic and chaotic supporting role in Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood.

I love space movies, especially those that are more about broken people blasting themselves into the unknown to search for answers within themselves... which manages to sum up a lot of recent output in this weirdly specific sub-genre. First Man was a devastating look at grief characterised by a man who would rather go to a desolate rock than have to confront what he lost, all while being packaged as a heroic biopic with a stunning score. Gravity and The Martian both find their protagonists forced to rely on their own cunning and ingenuity to survive and Interstellar looked at the lengths we go to for those we love left behind. Smaller, arty character studies like High Life or Moon are also astounding. All of this is to say that Ad Astra takes these concepts and runs with them, challenging Pitt to cross the solar system to talk some sense into his long thought dead father (Tommy Lee Jones). But within all the ‘sad dad’ stuff, there’s another film in here just daring you to try and second guess it - one that kicks things off with a terrifying free fall from space, gives us a Mad Max style buggy chase on the moon and sidesteps into horror for one particular set-piece involving a rabid baboon in zero G! It manages to feel so completely nuts, so episodic in structure, that I understand why a lot of people were turned off - feeling that the overall film was too scattershot to land the drama or too pondering to have any fun with. I get the criticisms but for me, both elements worked in tandem, propelling Pitt on this (assumed) one way journey at a crazy pace whilst sitting back and languishing in the ‘bigger themes’ more associated with a Malik or Kubrick film. Something that Pitt can sell me on in his sleep by this point.

I loved the visuals from cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema (Interstellar), loved the imagination and flair of the script from director James Gray and Ethan Gross and loved the score by Max Richter (with Lorne Balfe and Nils Frahm) but most of all, loved Pitt, proving that sometimes a lot less, is a lot more. The sting of hearing the one thing he surely knew (but hoped he wouldn’t) be destined to hear from his absent father, acted almost entirely in his eyes during a third act confrontation, summed up the movie’s brilliance for me - so much so that I can forgive some of the more outlandish ‘Mr Hyde’ moments of this thing’s alter ego... like, say, riding a piece of damaged hull like a surfboard through a meteor debris field! 

3. Avengers: Endgame

It’s no secret that I think Marvel, the MCU in particular, have been going from strength to strength in recent years, slowly but surely taking bigger risks with filmmakers (the bonkers Taika Waititi, the indie darlings of Ryan Coogler, Cate Shortland and Chloe Zhao) whilst also carefully crafting an entertaining, interconnected universe of characters and stories. But what is the point of building up any movie ‘universe’ if you’re not going to pay it off and Endgame is perhaps the strongest conclusion to eleven years of movie sequels that fans could have possibly hoped for.

Going into this thing, the hype was off the charts (and for good reason, with it now being the highest grossing film of all time) but I remember souring on the first entry of this two-parter, Infinity War, during the time between initial release and Endgame’s premiere. That film had a game-changing climax, killing off half the heroes (and indeed the universe’s population) and letting the credits role on the villain having achieved his ultimate goal. It was daring, especially for a mammoth summer blockbuster but obviously, we all knew the deaths would never be permanent, especially with so many already-announced sequels for now ‘dusted’ characters. However, it wasn’t just the feeling that everything would inevitably be alright in the end. For me, the characters themselves felt hugely under-serviced, with arguably the franchise’s main goody two shoes Captain America being little more than a beardy bloke who showed up to fight a little bit. Basically what I’m getting at is that I felt Endgame, perhaps emboldened by the giant runtime, managed to not only address these character slights but ALSO managed to deliver the most action packed, comic booky, ‘bashing your toys together’ final fight as well.

It’s a film of three parts, each pretty much broken up into one hour sections. There’s the genuinely new and interesting initial section following our heroes dealing with the fact that they lost... and it stuck. Thor angrily kills Thanos within the first fifteen minutes but it’s a meaningless action by this point - empty revenge. Cutting to five years later, we get to see how defeat has affected them, for better or worse, trying to come to terms with grief and acceptance. Cap tries to help the everyman, Black Widow is out leading an intergalactic mop up squad and Thor is wallowing in a depressive black hole. It’s a shocking and vibrantly compelling deconstruction of the whole superhero thing and it gives the actors some real meat to chew on, especially Robert Downy Jr here who goes from being utterly broken to fighting within himself to do the right thing despite now having a daughter he doesn’t want to lose too. Part two is the trip down memory lane, fan service-y time heist which is possibly the most fun section of any of these movies, paying tribute to the franchise’s past whilst teetering on a knife’s edge trying to pull off a genuine ‘mission impossible’. And then it explodes into the extended finale which pays everyone off, demonstrates some brilliantly imaginative action and sticks the landing better than it had any right to. In a year which saw the ending of a handful of massive geek properties, from Game of Thrones to Star Wars, it’s a miracle even one of them got it right at all. That Endgame managed to get it SO right is an extraordinary accomplishment and if anything, I think Marvel may have shot themselves in the foot as it’s hard to imagine anything they can give us in the future having the intense emotional weight and momentum of this huge finale.

2. Knives Out

Rian Johnson has been having a ball leaping into genre sandpits and stirring shit up, from his teen spin on noir in Brick to his quirky con man caper with The Brothers Bloom, his time travel thriller Looper and even his approach to the Star Wars mythos in The Last Jedi. Turning his attention to the relatively dead ‘whodunnit’ genre, Knives Out is a perfect example of how to celebrate everything that excites you about a genre whilst weaponizing it’s tropes against your audience’s baggage and preconceptions.

An impeccable cast have the time of their lives here, revelling in playing self obsessed narcissists who scramble to punt the blame around when the family’s patriarch, a successful crime novelist (Christopher Plummer), winds up dead. Of course there’s something fishy going on so Daniel Craig’s brilliantly dry southern detective Benoit Blanc is called in to investigate.There are plenty of standouts here, from Don Johnson’s ignorant alpha wannabe Richard to Michael Shannon’s ferocious eldest son Walt to Chris Evan’s sweater wearing jock Ransom, full of unchecked, white privilege swagger. But the surprise was the wholly sympathetic, meek, vomit prone Marta, played brilliantly by Ana de Armas, cast against her usual type of sultry bombshell (Knock Knock, Blade Runner 2049), to spearhead the biggest shake up of the genre conventions. To go into more detail would begin to tread into spoiler territory but by flipping the audience’s engagement with the detective, we’re suddenly on the receiving end of the scrutiny and the tension derived from this switcheroo is genius and opens up the second act of the story immensely.

The whole thing is so lovingly crafted and the script is one of the tightest I’ve seen in years. The amount of setup and payoff here is staggering and never not hugely satisfying, especially as it heads into it’s final stretch. It really gives you some hope that you could have such a dense, plotty, character driven idea for a story and that it could survive the transition from page to screen intact and for the finished product to work as well as it does. I really hope Johnson returns to tell another Benoit Blanc mystery and judging by the roaring box office success (currently over $200 million worldwide for a non IP original), I certainly believe he will.

1. Eighth Grade

My film of the year is another example of the power of cinema to put us in other people’s shoes and to discover the traits, fears, joys and insecurities that we all share irregardless. It may shock you to learn this but I have never been a 13 year old teenage girl trying to get by in the modern world of social media peer pressure and ‘influencer’ culture whilst crippled with personal anxiety. My school days almost literally could not have looked more different than this (less Instagram, more POGs) and yet, this is a film about struggling with oneself, with loneliness, with wanting more but not knowing how to get it without changing yourself and the careless way we treat those with our best interests at heart in our selfish attempt to impress peers and fit in. That is understandable. That is universal. And as I’m sure I’ve said a bunch of times in this list, movies that present the most specific worldview whilst tapping into universal themes are the ones that inevitably resonate the most.

Youtuber and comedian Bo Burnham has crafted an impeccable debut feature, somehow portraying a generation of teens at least a couple of generations below his own, with such laser focused insight and intimate detail. It’s no accident that this film has often been called a sort of social-horror, with cringe levels off the charts and recognisable trappings of anxiety and depression in every frame. The film’s style services this feeling at every turn, from it’s long takes and nauseous handheld camerawork to the sensory overload in it’s score (take a bow Anna Meredith) and the naturalistic performances from all involved. Burnham struck gold when he found Elsie Fisher, delivering the most painful and effortlessly real portrayal of a tweenager in crisis as Kayla. The way she glances around skittishly, the way she is completely lost in her phone, the way she talks, even the way she breathes all feeds into the illusion - the film is oftentimes less a studio style teen comedy and more a fly on the wall documentary. 

This is a film that could have coasted on being a distant, social media based cousin to more standard fare like Sex Drive or Superbad or even Easy A but it goes much deeper, unafraid to let you lower your guard and suddenly hit you with the most terrifying scene of casually attempted sexual aggression or let you watch this pure, kindhearted girl falter and question herself in ways she shouldn’t even have to worry about. And at it’s core, there is another beautiful father/daughter relationship, with Josh Hamilton stuck on the outside looking in, desperate to help Kayla with every fibre of his being but knowing there are certain things she has to figure out for herself. It absolutely had me and their scene around a backyard campfire is one of the year’s most touching.

This is a truly remarkable film that I think everyone should seek out but I’m especially excited for all the actual teenage girls who will get to watch this and feel seen. This isn’t about the popular kid, it isn’t about the dork who hangs out with his or her own band of misfits. This is about the true loner, that person trying everything to get noticed and still ending up invisible, that person trying to connect through the most disconnected means there is - the internet - and everything that comes with it. Learning that the version of yourself you ‘portray’ on a Youtube channel may act like they have all the answers but if you’re kidding yourself then how do you grow? 

When I saw this in the cinema, I watched a mother take her seat with her two daughters, aged probably at around nine and twelve. Possibly a touch young for this, I thought, and I admit I cringed a bit on their behalf during some very adult trailers but in the end, I’m glad their mum decided they were mature enough to see this because a) they had a total blast and b) life simply IS R rated for the most part, especially during our school years, and those girls being able to see someone like Kayla have her story told on the big screen felt like a huge win. I honestly can’t wait to see what Burnham or Fisher decide to do next. 2019 has absolutely been their year... and it’s been a hell of a year.

[evakuality]

Episode Ten: the last one!!! (and just in time for s4 to start!).  Previous episodes can be found here:

Episode one        Episode two        Episode three

Episode four        Episode five        Episode six

Episode seven    Episode eight      Episode nine

So here we are at the business end of this venture.  Our two boys have grown and developed and while their stories have been similar, they’ve diverged quite a bit by this stage.  I said way back at the start of this thing that the opening shots/songs kind of summed up the journeys each of them needed to take: Isak’s into being real and not using social lubricants to hide behind a mask, and Matteo’s into being fully present in his life in a way he wasn’t then.  And I think we see these two contrasting things in the first clips of each of these episodes.  Isak’s is very quiet and soft, and he’s real in a way that he doesn’t often let himself be.  His kindness, which he has in spades but hardly ever shows, is out in force in this scene.  With Even, with Sonja, just in general.  There’s nothing brash or cocky about him, which he often uses when he’s feeling vulnerable with and around people.  Instead, he’s quiet and calm, he asks for guidance from Sonja and he applies that guidance to Even.  He’s ready and willing to stand up for what he wants, too.  There’s no deference to Even’s experience (eg: ‘yeah okay Even, you know best, we’d better break up now in case it’s all bad later’) as he has so often done in the past.  It’s ‘no you have no idea what’s going to happen in the future and I’m refusing to let you go without a fight.’  This is a moment for Isak to reconnect with himself, with who he truly is and what he truly wants.  

Matteo, on the other hand, has been working up to this.  He’s been getting stronger in terms of who he is and being able to articulate that to others.  He’s actively tried to be more present for people and for himself even when he’s been feeling bad or something has gone wrong.  The last week he’s been holding back, unnaturally waiting and having to be inactive.  He’s chafed against it the whole entire time, even while doing it fairly willingly.  Having sex with someone is a very vulnerable thing, and it does require (when done right) for you to be fully present and engaged.  It requires openness, and that’s where these two are at this point.  They did most of the soft, quiet reunion stuff off screen via instagram, but we know it happened.  But what we have here is really Matteo fully allowing himself to feel and to be.  Sex has been a difficult topic for him the entire season, from the boys’ constant talk about it through Sara’s constant attempts to get him to do it.  So it’s really fitting that here he gets to experience that in this way with this person who he loves.  It’s not something he has to hide from anymore.  It’s something he wants and is engaged positively with.  Which he genuinely hasn’t been for the rest of the season.  It seems right that he’s doing this now when everything is secure and he has a firm commitment and he’s totally comfortable being actively engaged in his life.  Isak, I think, needed that connection when he got it because it was at a time when it cemented who he is and helped him be properly comfortable in his identity.  Matteo has always been more comfortable with, and accepting of, his sexuality.  

Both boys at this point in their seasons are getting what/who they want and taking active control of their own destinies, but each is showing it in different ways.  Isak’s quiet intensity is a powerful reminder of how ‘fake’ some of his other personas have been, and Matteo’s active engagement from the start of this scene is a powerful reminder of how disengaged he was at the start.

Again the differences in how they got to this point are highlighted in what comes next.  Isak continues his trend of being kind and caring and thoughtful (which he always was, just hiding it), as he talks to Vilde and agrees to host the next kosegruppa meeting/party.  He knows she’s caught up in it and while he really doesn;t care, he agrees to do it because he wants her to be happy.  Then he has his reconciliation with Emma, which is much briefer than the one Matteo had with Sara.  Partly because the history is less intense and so he owes her less.  But again, it’s a kind thing to do.  He wants her to know he cares about her as a person, and even though she doesn’t accept his offer to go to his party she clearly appreciates what he’s doing.  Matteo now gets his ‘morning after’ scene with David which Isak got so many weeks ago with Even.  It’s a quiet bonding moment, interspersed with their own brand of affection: teasing and physically irritating each other.  One thing that’s always been true with Matteo is that he doesn’t tend to talk a lot, but here we see him talking more and again being fully engaged in the conversations.  Of course, it’s always been like that with David; he’s always had the ability to bring Matteo out of his shell.  But even with Laura, and despite being still fairly quiet overall, we can see Matteo is taking an active part in this conversation.  He’s no longer on the sidelines.  On another note, at this point both boys are far more comfortable just giving in to their desire to touch their partners.  Isak caresses Even through almost all of their previous conversation, though a lot of that is for comfort as well.  Matteo is now taking every opportunity to drape himself all over David as much as possible.  The fact that he’s very tactile comes out now.  It was there before, and we saw hints of it, but now that he’s completely secure in David and what they have there’s no stopping him at all.

This of course, spills over into the next clip with the boys.  Matteo starts out with the boys and actively engaged in the conversation, though quieter and more laid back than the others.  The thing with this is that, while he’s much more animated in general and has managed to get over his apathy and the way he was checked out at the start, he’s still an introvert and he still will have some of the issues that affected his mental health at the earlier parts of the season, and so he’s still going to have times when he feels like being less energetic and less active in engagement with other people.  But now, instead of choosing to completely check out or isolate himself, he chooses to stay with his friends and be part of things, taking as active a part as he wants to.  When David arrives, he chooses to snuggle and again take part when he feels he has something to say, knowing he’ll be respected and listened to.  This continues his easy way of leaning all over David whenever he can now.  He’s not insecure or afraid at all of what people might think and he’s absolutely rock solidly sure of David’s feelings and so he’s able to be as open and loving as he’s always wanted to be.  This is such an intrinsic part of who he is and it’s so lovely seeing him able to be like this now.  In fact, he never stops - hasn’t stopped yet even though the break and on all his social media.  Isak, too, has become much more comfortable when he hangs out with his boys.  His interaction with the boys and the dancing girls is filled with a confidence and ease that he has often lacked.  Gone is the cocky bro guy and in his place is one who can be cheeky and send out put downs but in a more gentle, teasing way.  He’s happy to talk about who he’d ‘bang’ and even admit to it being Jonas, so he’s settled into his sexuality in a much more definitive way.  Even when the girls are quite disrespectful about why they want him to come to their party (‘it’s insanely cute with two guys together’), he takes it in good spirits and basically plays with them, and with the boys.  He has fun with his ‘no, sorry, I’m going to the kosegruppa gathering’ and again when the boys are horrified that he denied them ‘the gates to paradise’.  He’s very comfortable being open and having fun with who he is.  In the past he’d probably have gone with the boys and helped them get the girls but now he’s happy enough to tell them to do it themselves.

It’s interesting that Isak’s conversation with Eva happens at the end here rather than earlier like it does for Matteo and Hanna.  Isak hasn’t really needed this, but it’s a bonus for him, knowing that he can properly reconnect with her and that he hasn’t completely destroyed his friendship.  The tone is happy and while Isak is apologetic, he’s in a good place and is able to explain to her why he feels secure in who he is and why it doesn’t matter what’s going to come.  For matteo, this conversation was one that was needed to start drawing him out of his deep slump.  The connection he got from Hanna (a much less secure character at this point than Eva is) is a sense of companionship, of someone who knows how he feels and is just as lost as he is.  It happened when he needed it, and Isak never needed a similar conversation in that way at that time.  And now the reunion he has with Eva is when they, too, are on an equal level.  But in this case they’re equally happy and secure in who they are and how their lives are going.  Had this happened earlier, it would not have been the same sort of meeting of equals and it wouldn’t have the same power as a rekindling of this friendship.

So, by the time each of them gets to his final party, he has come a long way from the start of the season.  They’re both surrounded by the people they love, celebrating a moment of joy, and they’re both at peace with themselves and those around them.  Isak’s mask is completely gone and in its place he is relaxed and comfortable with who he is, with no desire to be playing a role or trying to please anyone else with being someone he’s not.  Matteo has the confidence to be able to express himself and be a little sarcastic (like when he told Abdi he’d sleep with him, then took it back), he’s actively participating in his own life in a way he’d never have been able to imagine at the start of the season, and he’s happy and content.  He’s not struggling with the fear of not knowing what to do in the future anymore, content just to live in the now with the people he cares about.  Isak, too, is happy where he is.  He’s finally real in a way he’s not allowed him to be in the past and he, too, is living in the now.  Day by day.  Minute by minute.

[hyunsracha]

home — seo changbin

word count: 2.8k

summary: you hated everything about your school. even the stupid galas your best friend forced you to go to.

You hated your school.

You hated the long, winding hallways that led to dull, lifeless classrooms. You hated the grey courtyard, meant to give students a place to be free, but only made you feel more trapped.

More importantly, you hated the people. The teachers, people who didn’t care and only wanted you to pass so you could get out of their face.

And the students. Greedy, monstrous little demons who hold each other’s secrets like playing cards, ready to whip them out and ruin each other’s lives at any given moment.

You could only stand two people at your school, and one of them graduated last year. His name was Bang Chan, and he took you under your wing when you were a freshman, guiding you through the halls in a way that kept the hardwood floors from eating you alive.

And you did the same to Lee Felix the next year. He was a new freshman, and his shaking doe eyes made your heart cry. So you took him under your wing, showing him where to go and where not to go.

Chan made you tough, teaching you to stand up for yourself against the assholes on campus.

Felix made you soft, teaching you compassion and empathy for those other than yourself.

They meant everything to you, and you couldn’t really be bothered to deal with anyone else.

But now Chan was gone, and you were a senior, and Felix was a junior.

You always thought that your grim perspective would tear Felix apart, but two years later, he still glows like the sun.

Even when the two of you are sitting in the basement of the school, a cigarette between your lips as you doodle on your math homework.

“Y/N….are you even listening to me?” Felix whined, his brown eyes somehow still sparking under the shitty yellow lamp lighting.

“No, you know that.” You pulled the cigarette from your lips’ hold, exhaling smoke and raising your eyebrow at your friend.

“I was talking about the gala. They’re doing a super cheesy theme this year: Paris. Fun, right?”

You gagged, “Of course they would do something like that. Sounds awful.”

“But Y/N!,” Felix pouted, “We have to go! We go every year. And it’s my last year with you…”

“D-Don’t give me those eyes...Felix! Fine.” You sighed. Damn Felix and his stupidly pretty eyes.

You checked the time on your phone, a soft curse leaving your lips as you put out your cigarette. You were going to be late, and art was the only class you cared about.

You loved your art class. Your teacher didn’t really care what you drew, exclaiming that, “art is everything! Even your breath is art!” And you liked drawing; it was quite soothing. Plus, the teacher loved you and said that you works were “inspired,” so the ego boost is much appreciated.

You were feeling tired today, so your drawing was simple. Just made of pencil, you drew a bedroom scene. Of course, the bedroom was much nicer than your actual one at your house, and you would much rather be in your art’s room. You sketched a bed, big and warm. You sketched a nightstand, paintings on the walls, a dresser, etc.

Your teacher stood by your side, draping a comforting arm over your shoulders, “Missing home?”

Home. A funny little word. This bedroom you drew wasn’t home, and neither was your bedroom where you lived. You didn’t really have a home.

“Yeah. Just tired today.”

—

Felix was part of Anime Club. He had Anime Club every Tuesday and Thursday, so you spent Tuesday and Thursday afternoons sitting in the back of the classroom the Anime Club kids used, getting a quick power nap. Then you two would walk home together, the sounds of your shoes clacking against the hardwood floors making you even more tired.

“What are you gonna wear to the gala?” Felix asked, the faraway look in his eyes signaling his excitement.

“I dunno...clothes, I guess.”

“Nice clothes, Y/N.”

“Fine. Nice clothes, I guess.”

Felix lived three streets away from you, which you thought was weird because you had never seen him before he was a freshman. Those last three streets were your least favorite to walk through, because they brought you closer and closer to the place you didn’t want to be.

There was nothing wrong with your house. On the outside at least. It was quite pretty; it even had flowers in the front yard. But there was nothing growing on the inside.

The air inside your house was suffocating. Your throat felt clogged as you took your shoes off.

“Y/N.”

“Mom.”

“How was school?”

“Fine. How was work?”

“Fine.”

And you were in your room.

Your mom was never the same after your dad left.

You remember that day like it was yesterday.

You were seven years old. Your mom was out at work, so it was just you and your dad. He had spent the whole day coming in and out of the house, but you didn’t know why. You had been in your room, playing with your toys, so all you heard was the door. Around 3:00, he came into your room and scooped you up into his arms. His tears were wet in your hair.

“Daddy? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” You had asked. He sat down on your bed, setting you on his lap.

“Y/N, you know I love you very much, right?”

You had giggled, “Yes, Daddy! Of course I know that!”

He kissed your forehead before setting you back on the ground, “I’m going out for a bit, okay?”

“Okay!”

And you never saw him again.

When your mom came home at 5:00 to a house without her husband, she had asked you where he went.

When you replied with, “Out,” she broke.

She spent days in her room after that, refusing any of the little snacks you brought her.

When she did finally come out, something had changed. She was much more reserved, and the light had drained from her eyes, almost like she was just a walking corpse.

When you were old enough, she explained to you why she was so sad all the time.

You never had crushes on boys after that.

Her job was hardly enough to keep you two afloat, so you sold a lot of things. Your house was almost bare, only having a couch and a tv on the floor. Your room was like that too, the only furniture being your bed and dresser. When you turned 16, you got a part-time job, and almost all of that money went to paying bills.

You flopped down on your bed, immediately curling under the blankets. You never really bothered with doing your homework. You’d just do it the next day and get an A on it. It was always like that with you.

—

Time passed quickly. Too quickly. Two weeks had already passed and it was time for the gala. You were dressed in the nicest outfit you owned. Felix had come home with you and raided your closet, claiming that you needed his fashion expertise.

“Why don’t you have any nice clothes?”

“Felix I have no money.”

“Well neither-”

“You live in a mansion, shut up.”

But you cleaned up nicely, at least that’s what Felix said. You also had to promise him that you wouldn’t smoke at all that night. He gave you those stupid eyes again, so you agreed.

You thought the gala was even more boring every year. You only went as a freshman because Chan said you needed to have the full experience of New Haven Preparatory School. You didn’t know that meant having to watch all your peers grinding on each other, alcohol and God knows what else in their systems. One thing you didn’t know about prep schools before attending one: the kids were much more rebellious. Something about being so confined made them act out even more. You heard 3 different couples hooking up in the same bathroom when you just wanted to pee.

This year might’ve been the most boring. The way overdone theme made you want to gouge your eyes out. There was a cardboard Eiffel Tower and the lights were hung up to look like stars. If you squinted, it was kind of pretty.

Felix was having a good time though. While you leaned back against the wall, sipping on a punch you were 99% sure was spiked, Felix was living it up on the dance floor. Sometimes you forgot that Felix was a dancer, as he never really talked about it much. But when you saw him dance, you remembered all of the recitals you’ve gone to for him.

You become 100% sure that the punch is spiked when Felix holds out a hand, beckoning you to the dance floor, and you accept. You don’t know if you can dance, but you’re assuming you can’t based on the amused look on your best friend’s face. You two clumsily move to the beat of Top 50 pop songs, giggling whenever one of you trips. You were tipsy, and Felix was just a clumsy guy.

The gym hushes when the doors open, revealing someone you could care less about.

Seo Changbin.

Seo Changbin was practically made of money. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, Changbin could literally get away with murder. You assumed that was why everyone liked him so much.

After a moment of gaping silence, the party continued. There was more chatter, mostly from people with huge crushes on the senior.

“God, he’s so hot. Do I look good enough for him to talk to me?”

You just laughed listening to their conversations. Felix must’ve heard them, too, as he rolled his eyes.

You didn’t care about Changbin. He had never been mean to you, but he was never nice to you either. So you just didn’t care.

You cared so little that you merely shrugged when he tapped on your shoulder, taking your hand in his and dragging you away from your best friend.

You cared so little that you couldn’t be bothered to push him away when he pulled you into the janitor’s closet and suddenly had you pressed against a wall. You didn’t push him away when his lips connected with yours, with a fire you weren’t aware his possessed. In fact, you cared so little that you kissed him back, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him even closer.

You weren’t sure how long you were in that closet, or where your shoes were, or how many hickeys were on your neck, but you didn’t really care. You just went and found Felix, telling him that you were tired and wanted to go back to your house. And Felix walked you back, the knowing smirk never leaving his face, even after he dropped you off.

—

Seo Changbin was a complicated guy, especially when it came to matters of the heart.

People called him a player, and from most angles, he looked like one. But he swore he wasn’t.

But he never really talked about his feelings.

“Dude, you’re a fuckboy. Just deal with it.” His best friend Minho had said when Changbin tried to explain himself. His other friend, Seungmin, nodded from his spot in the corner, where he was reading a manga.

Seungmin was a junior, and sometimes Changbin thought about knocking his teeth out. But Seungmin could pay to get new teeth in a day, so what was the point?

He has tried to knock Minho’s teeth out once. He doesn’t really remember what they were fighting about, but he punched Minho in the mouth and got a beating in return. They’ve agreed to never fight again.

But Changbin swears he isn’t a fuckboy.

Seo Changbin, although rough on the outside, was soft on the inside. All he wanted was someone to fall in love with. Someone to hold at night and someone to make breakfast with and someone to kiss and hug and just…someone to love.

Seo Changbin was a strong believer in fate and soulmates, and believed that you would know who your soulmate was the moment your lips touched theirs.

So he spent his whole high school career trying to find his soulmate. So he’s kissed almost everyone at school. That’s actually how he met Minho...and Seungmin.

It took him four years to find his soulmate. He couldn’t understand the energy that passed through him the moment his lips touched yours. It was like someone had lit a match inside his body and set all his organs on fire in the best way possible. When you left, it was like all of the warmth in the world had been taken away from him, and he was left in the cold.

You were Changbin’s soulmate. He was sure of it.

Now all he had to do was make you his.

—

School had gotten weirder after the gala. Everyone looked at you, which is something they never did.

“Felix,” you whined, back in the basement, “why was everyone staring at me?”

“Oh, I don’t know Y/N, maybe it’s because you hooked up with Seo Changbin in the janitor’s closet.”

“We didn’t hook up! We just kissed for a little. I have self-control, asshole.”

You heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Your eyes widened as you put out your cigarette, making sure your foot was covering it as the person showed themselves.

“Seo Changbin, fancy seeing you here.” Felix sent a knowing glance your way, not even trying to make his wink secretive.

“I...I just wanted to give this to Y/N.” Changbin pulled out a single rose from behind his back, shoving it into your hand with a shy smile.

“You...you didn’t fall in love with me because of a kiss, did you?” You laughed awkwardly, setting the rose down next to you.

“I did, actually.”

Oh Jesus, you thought.

“Oh Jesus.” you said.

That wasn’t the last you saw of Seo Changbin that day. He walked you to your art class, then he walked you home, with Felix trailing behind. He wasn’t the worst person to talk to, and you actually found yourself laughing at a few of his jokes.

Changbin couldn’t even describe the joy he felt when he heard your laugh.

And this continued for the next few weeks, as the end of winter transitioned into spring. You could predict Changbin’s lines at this point, and it was pretty amusing.

“The flowers are so pretty today.” Felix mused.

“Like Y/N.” You and Changbin said in sync, sending each other sly grins afterwards. You hadn’t really noticed that his hand was holding yours. It happened a lot, and you didn’t mind it. You didn’t care.

You cared so little that you let him kiss your cheek as he left to go to his house.

You cared so little that you blushed when he said, “See you tomorrow, my darling Y/N.”

You cared so little that you walked home in a daze, hardly able to hear Felix’s teasing laugh.

“Mom.” You had said once you entered the house. Your mother jumped, not used to the lightness of your tone.

“Y/N.”

“I love you.”

A smile broke out on her face, the first one you had seen from her in years, “I love you too, my baby.”

And she hugged you, and she cried, and you cried. Your house felt a little bit more like a home, and you thought you should thank Changbin. He was always bright, bringing a new perspective of optimism into your life.

The next day, you decided you would thank him.

You took his hand in yours on your walk home, startling him enough to make him stutter. You watched him as he spoke, and you told him that he looked nice that day. By the time you got to his house, he was a blushing mess.

“B-Bye, Y/N.” He turned around to go to his house, but you stopped him. You wrapped your arms around his torso from behind, trying to pour every ounce of adoration you held for him into this hug. His eyes watered as he placed his hands over yours, immediately understanding what you wanted to tell him. He knew you well enough to not say anything, only turning around and pressing a kiss to your forehead before going home.

Home wasn’t a building. Home wasn’t a person either. To you, home was a feeling. A feeling of comfort and safety. That feeling started following you everywhere, leaving you feeling at home in your own skin.

You still hated your school. The hallways and the classrooms and the courtyard and the teachers and the students. But you still felt at home there, as your home was anywhere you went.

[lavender-lotion]

He Forgot to Mention the Damn Cat | 2,324k

Find the rest here! Read on AO3 here!

It all started with a stray cat.

Well, it all started because Peter was a drama queen who didn’t think before he spoke.

‘ November 25: Established Relationship - Do you want to make a gif set of Stiles and Peter getting married? How about drawing them adopting/having kids? Maybe you want to write about them arguing over mundane domestic issues as they navigate living together. Give us all your established relationship Steter feels. ’

All Stiles was trying to do was relax. He had never once thought being a high school teacher could be so taxing, but between creating lesson plans and grading assignments and dealing with all the obnoxious little shits he was forced to deal with on a daily basis - he was tired. It wasn’t enough that he was working full time, keeping up with his own art, managing a relationship with the biggest drama queen in Beacon Hills, but he was also keeping the town safe, his spark twisted with the magic of the forest.

So Stiles wanted to take a nap, which was pretty much what he’d been doing. The loft was incredibly cold this time of year - especially with the wolves never getting cold) and he was thoroughly wrapped up in the thickest blanket Derek owned. His head was in Isaac’s lap, the other man softly petting Stiles’ hair as he drifted, not quite asleep but far from awake. His face was mashed into the man's stomach, blocking out the rest of the world as he tried to fall asleep. The pack was talking around him, though they were mostly having soft conversations, respectful of his need to sleep but his desire to be here with the pack anyway.

He was almost asleep, toying the line of unconsciousness when the door of the loft slammed open, the bang echoing throughout the room and causing Isaac to jump under him so harshly that Stiles fell to the floor - something he couldn't even be mad about, since it was Isaac. He heard the too-familiar growl of Peter and looked up to see the man standing in the doorway, eyes glowing electric blue as he furiously pulled his arm from his back to reveal -.

Oh.

Oh.

Shit, he forgot to mention the damn cat.

And the cat was still wearing Peter’s cardigan.

Stiles blinked up with wide eyes, jutting out his bottom lip in a perfect pout. It was a look he had perfected as a child and had turned out to work perfectly well on the older wolf. It had won him many an argument during the years they had been together and Stiles wasn’t ashamed to use it to get this way.

And now, now with Peter staring murderously, a low, continuous growl emitting from his throat as he held the kitten at arms length seemed like as good as time as any to use it.

“Stiles, what in the goddamn fuck is this thing?” Peter demanded, voice enough of a growl to make Stiles nervous. Peter has always had excellent control over his wolf, being more in tune with his inner conscious than any other were that Stiles had met. So for the man to be so openly out of control - for his eyes to still be glowing, words slurred around his fangs - was incredibly worrying.

“That’s Luna,” Stiles answered after a too-long silence, Peter’s growling the only noise in the room now that all the others had turned away from their conversations to watch  interaction with wide eyes.

“Luna?!” Peter asked incredulous, waving the kitten where he held her up by the nape of her neck. The thing mewled pitifully and Stiles whined in response, shooting to his feet and snatching the little thing from the man.

“Peter!” He hissed, glaring at the man over his shoulder, keeping his body between the kitten and Peter, just in case.

“Me?” Peter actually took a step back at that, eyes opening even further, “That thing was not only in our bed, but it is wearing my cardigan!”

“I - alright, yes.” Stiles agreed easily, not being able to argue since it was true. The thing was wearing Peter’s cardigan, though that was hardly Stiles’ fault. Which, er, not exactly true either.

It had been an accident - a laundry mishap, you could say. It wasn’t Stiles’ fault that their washer took a ridiculously long time to complete a cycle, and was also not his fault that Peter refused to buy a new one. He had cuddled up on the couch, wrapping his favorite blanket snug around himself when Luna jumped into his lap, spilling his glass of milk all over said blanket. Stiles had then rushed it to the washer, blindly throwing it in and setting the cycle.

He’d thrown it immediately into the dryer (he was cold), after the hour and a half it took to wash, and must have gotten one of Peter’s more expensive cardigans into the dryer as well. It obviously wasn’t his fault, after all he wasn’t the one who left clothing in the washing machine inbetween wash days. The cardigan had fallen out onto the floor and Luna had swayed her way over, pawing at the fabric before curling atop it, meowing loudly until Stiles lifted them both up, fastening the thing around it’s little body - bringing both arms through the now shortened sleeves.

She looked adorable, and Stiles gently sat her on the couch behind him before turning back to his wolf, “I’m really sorry, dude, but it was already in the wash and-”

“It’s really not that hard to check the laundry -” Peter cut him off, snapping out his words, annoyance clear on his features.

“Look, I’m sorry, I know but -”

“But nothing Stiles! Chores shouldn’t always be a test of intelligence!”

“Okay that was a little rude lo-”

“Rude!? You shrunk my sweater!”

“It is just a sweater, Peter.”

“It is not just a sweater!”

“Peter, I can buy you another one.”

“I don’t want another one. I wanted to wear this one, but now it is filled with fur! And entirely too small to ever wear again!”

“Okay I understand you’re upset but it’s clothing an-”

“You didn’t even tell me!”

“I just knew you would react like this. Honestly it’s clothing,”

“It was three hundred dollars!”

“Uh, guys, maybe you should cal-” Kira had tried to intervene, her voice soft, but Stiles talked over her, all but yelling at the man.

“Please just calm down!”

“Down tell me what to do Stiles you are the you-”

“Don’t even fucking go there!”

“Well it’s true!”

“Okay look, I really think you may be overreacting -”

“I don’t even understand how we had a cat in the apartment!”

“Ok if you both would just st-” Malia started, only to stop when Stiles began to frantically wave his hands as he spoke.

“Well I found her all alone an-”

“You cannot just bring home animals without consulting me.”

“I knew what you would say, though!”

“Can you two go somewh-” Derek tried then, only to have Peter dramatically cut him off as the man all but shouted.

“Gee, well then maybe you should have just left it -”

“I couldn't leave her Peter!”

“You knew I didn’t want pets”

“Well you also don’t want children!” Stiles snapped harshly, face flushed and cheeks a blotchy, uneven red.

“Oh, so that is what this is about?” The man asked calmly, raising a brow.

“Yeah Peter, that’s what this is fucking about!

“Well I’m sorry I can’t be what you want!”

“Oh for fuck sakes Peter, you know that is not what I’m saying!”

“But isn’t it? Admit it, you���ve been waiting to break up with me!”

“Peter, what the fuck are talking about!” Stiles asked, his voice going high.

“I think we both know this was never really going to work, Stiles.” Peter said it calmly, face impassive and Stiles felt like he’d been struck.

The response already on his tongue died at that, eyes widening as he took in Peter’s words. He didn’t, he didn’t know Peter felt like that, didn’t know the man was just waiting till the end. Was he, did he not love Stiles? Did, did everything Stiles thought about their relationship exist in his own mind. Fuck, was Peter just going through the motions, hanging onto Stiles until he found someone better?

The boy stumbled back at that thought, that he would be replaced, could be replaced. He hadn’t - fuck he hadn’t even thought of them breaking up, not after they had passed their first year. It had been so hard at first, their sharp edges too often catching. The age difference could be so obvious at times, not helped at all by the years Peter spent in a coma. Not only that but Stiles often felt inadequate, especially during that first year.

For so long he hadn’t been able to contribute financially, bills from school and living away for four years still piled away, gaining more and more interest that, at his measly high school teacher paychecks, he could hardly pay for. He had felt trapped at a time, unsure how he would ever be able to support himself should the two break up. That had gotten better in time, Stiles getting a raise with running a few after school programs, tutoring on the weekends and some evenings for extra cash.

So it had been hard - at first. They really had jumped into things, and it took them a while to parse through their new relationship. It had been worth it, clearly, and four of years of them going strong proved that. So the thought that - the thought that they could end, that Peter had even been thinking about it?

“I - I have a ring!” Stiles accused, spitting the word at the man.

How - how dare he let Stiles plan his future around him, let him fucking hope. He was angry now, felt stupid and worthless. But, watching Peter’s face shut down didn’t please him at all. There had been a time, a long time, that hurting the man would have brought him joy. But that was years before their relationship, before soft Sunday mornings and goodnight kisses, and whispering fears and dreams in the dark of their own bed, inside their own house. Now, now it just twisted at his heart, and it hurt knowing he had caused the look on Peter’s face.

He watched Peter swallow and nod seemingly to himself, squaring his shoulders a little before admitting, “So do I.”

And no, because that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Peter could make his heart flutter when he felt so horrible, so desperate. And that, well it didn’t make sense? Wasn’t, wasn’t Peter the one who had started their fight, the one that had been responsible for this whole ordeal. He should be mad, furious even, that Peter would suggest they break up.

But that was hard, hard when the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with just admitted to wanting very much the same. What was Stiles even supposed to do with that. He shook his head again, trying to clear some of his confusion.

“Stiles-?” Peter began, his voice sounding far away. But Stiles just shook his head, wrapping his arms tighter around himself and turning his back to the room, trying desperately to parse through what he was feeling.

Heat lined his back, the familiar feel of Peter’s chest pulling a quiet whimper from him, not sure if this was going to be the last time he felt it. He was confused when Peter reached around him, grabbing Stiles’ hand and interlocking their fingers. It was a position they had been in a thousand and one times before, but the wolf had never held him so tightly before.

So desperately.

“I’ve had one too,” The man whispered into Stiles neck, repeating his earlier words.

“I am still so, so mad at you.” Stiles admitted quietly, voice hardly above a whisper.

“Mhm,”

“You’re sleeping on the couch,” He added, still trying to calm his heart.

“Of course,”

“I don’t want you thinking I’m not seriously upset,” Stiles reiterated, because he --was.

He - they didn’t fight often, never like this, either. Sure they argued occasionally, about small, domestic things that came with living with another person. They were never like this, never brought up such intense feelings. It could have also been that Stiles was sensitive from his nap and that Peter had already been upset - having had time to brew in his anger. They were both dramatic personalities and when Stiles really thought about it, he was surprised they hadn’t blown up like this sooner.

So Stiles sighed and turned in the man's arms, peering up at him and waiting for the other man to meet his eyes before pressing a light, barely there kiss against the man's lips. It wasn’t an apology, nor the acceptance of one, but more of a truce. He knew they were going to be okay, even if they would need to talk about what happened.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want,” The man side quietly, eyes on the floor.

Stiles shook his head, framing the man's face with his hand and turning him to meet their eyes, “No, no Peter you do! You are what I want!”

“I love you,”

“So I don’t mean to interrupt,” Lydia called, her voice entirely too pointed. Stiles pulled his mouth from Peter’s neck to stare at the banshee, “But what the hell is going on?”

“I - well. I think we almost broke up?” Stiles questioned, honestly too busy reeling from the emotional whiplash to think straight.

“Yes, that sounds about right, sweetheart,” The man replied, his own smile pulling at his face even as he tugged the boy firmer against his body. Stiles laughed then, bright and loud and free, and Peter chuckled as well.

“We are definitely missing something,” Isaac muttered under his breath, but Stiles was too distracted from where Peter’s hands were settled low on his back, pulling Stiles closer as though he were trying to merge them together.

Stiles just cuddled up, slipping his arms under the man's and hugging his waist tight. A mewl cut through the room and Peter growled on instinct, Stiles’ laughter drowning the noise out.

[epacer]

Story You May Have Missed

Crawford High football team coach jacked up

Go smash face

Late August: On this muggy morning, the air hangs thick under a gray, un-comforting sky. In a small hollow among small hills m East San Diego, several-score teenage boys and a few men gather at Colts Field, home to Crawford High School’s football team, for two-a-days, practice sessions held every weekday morning and afternoon in the last few weeks before school starts.

A handful of spectators, including some boys too young to be in high school and two teenage girls with babies in strollers, dot the rickety bleachers on the field’s south side and observe the practice as quietly as if they were watching lawn bowling. Their passive demeanor belies the barely contained mayhem erupting a few yards away.

"RUN! RUN! I NEED SOME HELP! LET'S HUSTLE, GENTLEMEN!" Echoing off the banks of ice plant, across the field into the bleachers, comes the screechy, house-on-fire voice of one of the men. "MAN TO MAN! PICK ONE MAN AND STAY WITH HIM!" The field is loosely divvied up, each sector occupied by a different squad — varsity in red jerseys and junior varsity in blue — each running a different set of drills. The loudest exhortations come from the area where players are being run through intrasquad scrimmages — rehearsals of offensive and defensive plays. The offensive squad tries various pass patterns and running plays, and the defense tries to read them and react.

The piercing voice belongs to the defensive coordinator for the junior varsity. He screams at his players almost nonstop, not angrily, but just because everything on the field is at a level where adrenalin counts more than words. His own intensity would no doubt consume his lean frame if it weren't allowed to escape in this way. "HEY. WAY TO WRESTLE IM TO THE GROUND OVER THERE! HEY. WAY TO HOLD ON. MAN!" The players are learning the particulars of the game, to be sure, but they are also being initiated into a rock-hard world where muscle and animal urgency mean the difference between prevailing and submitting, between elation and despair. "HARD HARD! HARDHARD HARDHARDHARDHARD, COME ON. GO!"

"GO BALLS OUT! COME ON. GET ANGRY!"

The offense tries a run. The ball earner slips a tackle and picks up speed on his way down the side of the field. Short, powerfully built, he swivels his hips as he easily shifts his weight to change course and elude more pursuers. Finally one defender draws a bead on him. The bodies fly at each other in the open field and meet with a trebly, plastic thwaack that echoes through the neighborhood. A herd suddenly thunders up; other bodies soar into the heap; pads helmets arms cleats, a rapid succession of muffled thwaacks, a crowd of unhhs, grass and dirt spraying over the pile, a momentary stillness and quiet, during which the sounds from other squads can be heard.

"NICE TACKLE!" The coach exchanges a few hand slaps as the bodies untangle.

"WAY TO GO, DEFENSE! GOOD JOB, D! HELLUVA JOB ... DEFENSE. YOU GUYS ARE DOIN' A HECK OF A JOB OUT HERE! GETTIN' BURNED A LITTLE BIT, BUT YOU'RE PLAYIN' SOME BALL!"

But the offense is playin' some ball too. A pass: The receiver streaks down the sideline The ball is underthrown. The receiver holds up, leaps a little into the air. The defender dives to knock the ball away. The receiver snatches it, spins, and prances the few steps into the end zone. He slows and turns around and jogs back. His smile visible the length of the field, he says simply, "Touch... down." They are the words of a victorious man. but they are uttered in the gentle, high-pitched voice of a boy.

On a run up the middle, one ball carrier is about to break free, when from the mass of thwaackmg bodies rises a pair of hands. They reach for him from behind, grasp him by the neck, and snap him backwards to the ground. He does not get up at once. He does rise after a few minutes, while the tackier is made to do 20 push-ups as penance.

The scrimmages wind down. All players now race through punishing drills designed to forge their bodies and reprogram then: reflexes. Several groups are made to run repeated 40-yard sprints, nearly halfway up V the field, full-out, to a specified yard line, then wheel and sprint back. If any one of them gives less than his all or stops short of (or overruns) the line, it doesn't count. The first sprints are run with spirit; the players shoot by. By the fourth or fifth circuit, there is little air in those lungs and the coaches must provide the motivation.

"SOMEBODY'S NOT RUNNING! YOU'RE GONNA COST THIS GROUP 20 SPRINTS!"

A little more effort on the next sprint. By the tenth time around, there is no more horsepower to be gotten out of their straining muscles. "THAT ONE DIDN'T COUNT!" A player lets out. "Shit."

The head coach alerts an assistant. "COACH. IF ONE GUY DOESN'T GO A MILLION MILES AN HOUR. IT DOESN'T COUNT." (Coaches address each other as "Coach,” the mutual recognition of a priestly order, as one senator might call another "Senator.”) The assistant replies quietly, as if receiving a sacrament — "Got it." The sprinters grunt, and cry out, and stagger, and sprint some more.

Finally, the practice ends. As the coaches offer a few last pointers and reminders — which may or may not be heard — the players collapse on the grass and strip their helmets, jersey, cleats, shoulder pads. Their faces are sweaty. Their uniforms are bruised with grass stains and caked with mud. Their breathing is heavy — almost desperate. Eventually, one by one. they find their feet and begin to file across the street to the gym, where they will dress and head home for lunch They will do it all over in a few hours and again tomorrow morning.

"To tell you the truth, I’d sell my soul to be able to go through it again. I still miss playing." Dan Armstrong is not kidding. He loves football, and it is an informed love. Now 36. Armstrong played fullback and linebacker at Kearny High School, Mesa Junior College, and San Diego State and has coached high school teams in San Diego and in Akron, Ohio, for a total of 11 years. He has coached at Crawford for the past 7 years, as head coach since last year He leans his chair back in the coaches' office, just off the locker room in the Crawford gym. In his tank top and gym shorts, he looks the part of a lifelong jock. His broad shoulders and powerful legs, though softening a little, clearly belong to someone who has spent many years in rigorous training. He carries himself with an easy, confident gait, sits relaxed, alert, and is content now to wax philosophical about this head-banging game. This is a man in his element.

What is it about this game that engages him so deeply? He smiles, his warmth and openness contrasting sharply with the roughneck tone of his sport. "Probably the controlled violence. It's a physical game, and there’s a lot of hard contact, hard hitting. But there's also a lot of strategy involved. It's very stimulating to sit down and scout somebody and break down film" — Armstrong and his colleagues spend every Sunday reviewing game films of upcoming opponents — "and try to find a weakness and exploit it." And then there is the aesthetics of pure athleticism "You can see some kid go down the field'and jump above everybody and catch a ball, and it’s like watching Baryshnikov When we're out there, and we see stuff like that." he adds, laughing, "we say, 'Great coaching.' "

For Armstrong, there are three indelible things football gives its devotees. "First of all. you establish lifelong friendships that you never forget. My high school football buddies are still my best friends. When you go through what these kids go through and what we went through, day after day with these guys, it's like going through the service together. And you form bonds that'll never be broken. Second of all. you learn the team concept and how to work together with a group of guys for one common goal. And thirdly, you learn that you get out of life what you put into it. If you absolutely refuse to lose, that only leaves one option. you have to win. But if you do lose, and you don't learn something from it, then you've lost twice."

Because it is played in a fever of teeth-grinding ferocity from start to finish, football can be seen as a fundamentally more emotional — Armstrong calls it "inspirational" — game than most. It both requires and produces a mindset that can only be called Fired Up. The player succeeds to the extent that he is aroused beyond himself, beyond his normal state of consciousness. "That's what they always say about guys who ‘play over their heads,' " Armstrong agrees. "That's because they get so pumped up. And that's what we try and do. We believe that if we are more inspired and more fired up, we're gonna win more ball games."

The largest part of the coach’s job is generating that arousal in his charges. In Armstrong's case, it often means providing motivation where none exists in a player's life; some Crawford students, he says, come from single-parent homes and are often unsupervised or otherwise left with little to deflect the temptation to hang out with local gangs. And for some of these same students, Armstrong says, football represents the only genuine chance to escape a life full of dead ends, the only potential ticket to a college education and a prayer of earning a decent living, in or out of sports.

In 1986, UCSD student Lorimel Arabe studied Crawford football players and their counterparts at University High School and found the predominantly white and more affluent University team less intent on football as a long-term career or short-term means of getting an education than was the Crawford team. So while Armstrong and his fellow coaches may have to spend a good part of their time cajoling players to keep up their grades or attendance, once the players are on the field and getting positive reinforcement for their efforts, they take to it with an abandon suggesting they have found a productive outlet for the violent urges experienced daily on the streets of the inner city.

Armstrong doesn’t shrink from this; in fact, it fits nicely into his program — he wants his players to go all-out. Asked whether this doesn't encourage injuries, he answers that the opposite is true: "When you get hurt is when you don't go all-out. You get someone going half-speed and someone going full-speed, and someone gets hurt." Beyond that, the team has, and wants to maintain, a reputation for being a "pretty physical football team." Eavesdropping offensive line coach Roger Engle nods approvingly. "We feel like we gotta out-hit a team to beat 'em."

Crawford's streetwise players take to this approach, continues Armstrong. "When you get a tough kid like that, it's easy to preach that mentality to 'im and get that pride developed that says, 'Hey, I'm gonna knock someone’s head off. and I’m gonna physically intimidate people.' I tell these guys something they can relate to. I say. ‘It's a goddang war with rules. It's a street fight with rules.’ " As the summer practices began, the coaches were frankly disappointed that the workouts weren't physical enough, but by this afternoon, "there were some big-league collisions and guys likin' it. We always kid 'em, we tell 'em, ‘If you're not half-dinged with snot runnin’ down your nose, you're not hitting anybody.' They like that, and they joke around; they'll get up and do this” — he wipes his nose on an imaginary sleeve with an exaggerated motion — "and see if there’s any snot running out of their noses. They're a good group of kids."

What they get for throwing themselves so wholeheartedly into the fray — for managing to. as Armstrong exhorts them to before every game, "go out and fly around and knock some butt out there" — is the evanescent joy of winning, of having prevailed, of being recognized by the tribe as an alpha male. Armstrong has been at both extremes, both as player and coach. "Winning is the greatest feeling in the world And so consequently, when you lose that one on the last second ... I mean, I’ve gotten sick to my stomach after a loss." But oh, those wins. The thrill never pales. "Probably the closest feeling you can get to it is when you have a kid. You actually think to yourself, 'It doesn't get any better than this. I'm as happy as I can be.' "

Late September: The Colts are preparing for their third game. They will play the Sweetwater High Red Devils at Sweetwater, having lost the opener to Patrick Henry High, 14-12, and won the second game, against Madison. 5-0 (a score more likely in a baseball game; "We pitched a six-hitter," jokes Armstrong).

In the cramped team room, under a sign that says "Dedication," eleven players are in various stages of dress. They don most of their uniforms here but carry the shoulder pads and jerseys with them on the bus to the site of the game and finish dressing minutes before taking the field. So a dozen or so shoulder pad sets, wearing their respective jerseys, now sit on the cement floor, like headless behemoths buried up to their chests, the jersey numbers half-visible. A player takes some aspirin, perhaps in anticipation of the pounding he will shortly receive.

The coaches enter for a few words before boarding the bus. Jeff Olivero, the defensive coordinator, speaks first. "All week long I been hearin' about ‘They got 11 guys comin' back,' " he begins, referring to Sweetwater's many returning seniors. Crawford's young team could be intimidated by this. "So what? They also got a quarterback who averages 232 yards a game — but he ain't gonna if we put pressure on him." He goes over a few defensive configurations and specific assignments and urges the team to “fly around and have fun out there."

Coach Armstrong has the last word. His voice starts out loud and gets even louder. "We been slidin' on offense," he admonishes the silent team. "There’ve been times when it seemed the best we could do was tie 0-0. But I'll tell you what. I know that no team in the county can go around us." The Colts' strength this year has been defense, and he wants them to maintain their stinginess with opponents while revving up their offense. Sweetwater has lost its first two games; tonight’s game is a perfect opportunity, he says, for Crawford to assert itself and all aspects of its game. And he doesn't want to have to tell the team twice. "We're not gonna have a half-time talk about smash-face football. We're gonna come out, we’re gonna stomp the shit out of 'em from the opening whistle. This is their back yard, and it's a pivotal game for us. Awright, let's go down and have a good game and knock the snot out of 'em. Any questions?"

"NO, COACH!"

Above the concrete bleacher stands on the home-team side of Sweetwater's stadium is a modest press box. Mounted above the press box is an aging .wooden sign. It depicts an endless chain of autos riding into infinity. Flanking the cars are the legends "National City Mile of Cars... is RED DEVIL COUNTRY." Added below, for good measure, is another legend, offering the simple, hyperactive ejaculation, "RED DEVILS!"

The Devils and Colts each take half the field for pregame calisthenics. Stretching. Jumping jacks Pivots. Players call and respond across the field, everyone gradually turning up his own and his teammates’ internal amps. Eventually, a few taunts cross the invisible border between the two teams. The Red Devils look big and sound mean, their voices low and gruff compared to the Colts'. "Num-buh 56, you a cry-baby!" shouts someone from Sweetwater. Before anyone from Crawford can reply. Armstrong forbids it: "Let those pads do the talking."

Calisthenics finished, the team runs through drills The defensive line's chore is to drop flat, bounce up, and wiggle forward. Their coach is Dave Grissom, and his voice is right on top of them. "GET THROUGH GET THROUGH GET THROUGH! COME ON, HIT 'IM! HIT 'IM! I LOVE THIS PART!"

The offense runs a pass play. Vernon Shaver, Crawford's talented, heavily recruited wide receiver, glides along in a graceful stride, easily adjusting his gait to catch a ball thrown over his shoulder.

The Colts gather in the end zone just before the coin toss. Already, they are breathing heavily and wiping then brows on their jersey tails. Armstrong reviews the toss choices with the captains who will attend the coin toss, then has a few last admonitions for his Colts. "Remember these guys — we scrimmaged them last year — they’re cheap-shot artists. I don't wanna see you guys fightin' these guys. I will not tolerate it, it’s not joart of our program." The players nod compliantly. Fight? Us? Armstrong continues. "Were in their back yard. What does a dog do in your back yard?"

"SHIT!" yell the players. "Yeah.” a few voices add. "that's what we're gonna do, we're gonna shit in their back yard!"

"When a team comes out and does jumping jacks in my face," says Armstrong, "that pisses me off!"

"YEAH!"

"Awright. We’re gonna come out from the opemng gun and smash then face. If we hit 'em hard from the first drive, you just watch them hang their heads."

"YEAH!"

From here the playing field looks so wide, so long, and — worse — so flat, with nowhere to hide.

Crawford kicks off, and Sweetwater begins its first drive from its own 30-yard line. Two quick runs take the Red Devils to midfield. Then the earth opens under the Colts as a Sweetwater running back breaks free and romps into the end zone. Barely a minute has elapsed. The Crawford team and coaches are thunderstruck.

Redemption: The play is called back as Sweetwater is penalized for holding. The reprieve enlivens the entire Crawford sideline. Olivero screams, "PLAY THE FOOTBALL!” Grissom merely yells, "Loosen up! Loosen up!”

Sweetwater's offense stalls, gaining little. They punt and Crawford begins a long, grinding drive from its own 10-yard line. More than a dozen plays later — most of them head-down, ram-the-wall runs — Crawford is deep inside Sweetwater's territory. Colt running back Peter Ervin takes the ball at the 30 and is barely brought down by the last Sweetwater defender at the 7. He slams his fist into the ground. He gets up to try it again. This time he's tackled behind the line of scrimmage, and a Sweetwater player soars onto the pile after the whistle has blown, driving his helmet between Ervin’s shoulder blades. Ervin lies breathless.

The officials whistle the penalty, and flags fly, but Armstrong races to the pile-up and begins berating the officials. The umpire will have none of it. "You come out here and take care of your injured man," he tells Armstrong, "but don't bad-mouth the officials or I'm gonna tag you. That’s half the distance to the goal on them, but five yards on you.”

If Armstrong is called for unsportsmanlike conduct, it will cost his team more, at this position on the field, than Sweetwater's late-hit violation. But clearly the penalties are not the issue. Armstrong has prohibited his players from retaliating against cheap shots, but he must back that up by defending them himself And he, no less than his players, must assert his claim to the entire expanse of contested territory — physical and psychological .

Crawford now has the ball a yard and a half from the end zone. A running play nets nothing. Armstrong calls time out, sprints onto the field, and joins the huddle. When play resumes, Ervin roars over the line for a touchdown. The sparse Crawford crowd, studded with parents and teachers in blue Colts jackets, erupts A successful point-after kick makes it 7-0. The air is thick with adrenalin.

The rest of the first half proceeds sloppily and uneventfully Sweetwater nearly returns a kick for a touchdown. Its beefy fullback at first seems unstoppable, but the offense can't get any momentum going Shaver fumbles a punt, and Sweetwater recovers but cannot capitalize. Crawford recovers a fumble only to throw an interception. This is not precision football. But the air is thick with adrenalin.

Halftime. Both teams leave the field through a single gate On their way to the gym, a few opposing players exchange curses. The Crawford coaches hustle their team away.

What do coaches tell their teams at half-time? About what you'd expect As the players sprawl on the floor and benches for some rest, Armstrong hammers at them, "We gotta go out there and put together the same kinda drive we scored on! We gotta go up 14-0! We can't let them think they’re back in the game.

"We're not fooling anybody lining up," he continues, his voice softening for a moment. "Get your butts up! We gotta get off the ball! Come on, guys." his voice rising, "we said we gotta get better from week to week! On kickoff teams" — getting sterner — "we don't have 11 guys wanna fly downfield. We've got 4 or 5 guys flyin’, and 4 or 5 guys sayin', ‘I hope those guys in front of me make the tackle.' Lemme tell ya. that happens again, we're gonna make wholesale replacements!”

Olivero chimes in, "DO WE WANNA PLAY HARD-NOSE FOOTBALL?"

"YEAH!"

The players have a few minutes to relax. Most use it to keep hyping up themselves and each other. "Know what?" lineman-linebacker Jorge Brathwaite asks of no one in particular. “They (Sweetwater) told me the game ain't over yet — and it ain't over! We ain't scored yet! We gotta get fired up!"

"YEAH!"

Before they leave the locker room, Armstrong has one last admonition. "Awright, let's show some maturity out there — let’s ice somebody!"

"YEAH!"

The Colts do just what Armstrong wants. They score to open the second half, covering nearly 70 yards in a drive capped by a long pass to Shaver. Ervin bulls across again, from close in, for the touchdown. 14-0. Sweetwater fumbles on its next possession, and Crawford recovers; a few plays later and another obstinant run by Ervin and it's 21-0. The Crawford side of the field is happily riotous.

But the game’s physical toll is becoming evident. Legs are cramping up. Guys are "flyin' around" out there, but some are making crash landings. On one running play. Colt tailback Richie McClees is tackled at the sideline and spun backwards off his feet, his head slamming to the ground as he slides on his back. Mike Hwozdek, a short, quiet guy built like a brick wall, is looking for another helmet; his is broken.

Crawford pours it on. Sweetwater grows desperate and attempts a long sideline pass. Colt cornerback James Hester reads it perfectly, keeps himself between the ball and the intended receiver, then flings himself through the air and comes down with the interception. right in front of his jubilant teammates. He walks to the bench to catch his breath. "I saw it was overthrown, and he didn’t," he gasps.

Meanwhile Crawford is driving. Quarterback Chris Townsend scrambles and hits tight end Allah Hillie, one of Crawford’s few big players, with a pass Hillie turns into a long gain. In the space of three plays. Crawford has two touchdowns called back for penalties. The first time. Brathwaite is called for illegal motion. In the exultant atmosphere, it barely matters. "Jorge is trying to keep it even," Armstrong jokes. They settle for a field goal. 24-0.

The coaches are not interested in letting up.

"GET TO THE QUARTERBACK!" they yell at their defense. "YA GOTTA BE READY TO GO! SUCK IT UP!" It works: Crawford sacks the Sweetwater quarterback on three successive plays for losses totaling 30 yards. The Colts dominate the field. The game ends without further scoring.

The coaches are the last to board the bus. The team is ready to tear the roof off. Armstrong quiets them long enough to say, “On behalf of the coaching staff. I'd just like to thank you guys for one helluva effort." The players roar in self-congratulation. On the way back to Crawford, they hoot out the windows, slap each other, joke and holler and sing. Brathwaite stands in the aisle and swings a pom-pom he has gotten from somewhere. "Jorge is kind of our spiritual leader," says Armstrong. "Reverend Jorge?" he is asked. "Yeah — the Rev," he laughs, finally starting to fully enjoy himself. He turns and quiets the team once more. "Hey, Jorge, you got a new nickname: Reverend Jorge — The Rev!" Deafening cheers.

As the bus turns down the street leading into the parking lot behind the Crawford gym, a single player prompts his confederates with "One! Two! You know what to do!" With that, they burst into the school’s alma mater, the credo of all Crawford Colts, the undying pledge of fealty to all that is Crawfordian:

   All hail. Crawford High School

   Crimson, white and blue

   Loyalty and honor

   We will pledge to you — FOREVER!

   Our banners always waving

   Crowned with victory

   All hail. Crawford High School

   We will be true to thee

These guys sing it as if their lives depended on it.

Before the team files off the bus, Armstrong wants just one more moment with his players. "I just wanna say, go home, get some rest, enjoy your weekend, stay outta trouble, and Monday we go back to work."

"YEAH!"

Late October. Crawford has won its next three games, two by scores of 29-0 and 36-0. They have won five straight. Their defense has remained strong, and the offense has improved — in the parlance of the game, "gotten untracked.'" They now prepare for their homecoming game against St. Augustine High, to be played at Patrick Henry High.

The Crawford campus is clean and tidy and received a fresh coat of paint a couple of years ago, so its institutional plainness is mitigated somewhat by an undeniable cheeriness. Sandwich boards in pathways and courtyards and the senior quad are emblazoned with inspirational mottoes: Your Thoughts Today Become Your Tomorrow. Organize for Success. I Am a Success. I Deserve the Best.

Whether because of or in spite of these signs and other official entreaties, the student body files into the gym for the lunchtime pep rally. Much of the student body, anyway. Twenty years ago, Crawford had more than 3000 students, all but a handful from middle-class white families. Today, the school serves roughly 1500 students, about one-third of whom are Indochinese. There are about as many-black and almost as many white students, and a few Hispanic, South Pacific, and other minorities. Blacks and whites remain keen on football, but the Indochinese students evince little interest in the sport.

Still, the rally is well attended. But the program comes off as perfunctory. (Maybe the ritual is wearing thin.) Conducted essentially by cheerleaders and emceed by one whose words were not made more lucid by the PA. system, the rally is a short course in why and how to root for the home team. First, the assembly sings the alma mater, the words to which are painted on a large wooden sign high on the east wall. Many of the girls form a kind of V-for-victory salute with their right hands and slowly wave then: arms back and forth while singing. (This may help propagate the supernatural mystery of homecoming, for it too has no apparent meaning.) Next come a succession of cheerleader chants, formations, exercises, incantations. A cheerleader displays a handkerchief, or sock, urging all to wave same during the game. "Our goal is for everyone to have ’em so we can wave 'em and really impress whoever we're playing."

Finally, the rally climaxes with the introduction of the homecoming court — the underclass representatives and the senior couples who are candidates for homecoming queen and king. These students are preceded by two faculty couples, who take the floor arm-in-arm to raucous hoots and cheers, the mock sexuality of their momentary companionship apparently too much for the easily aroused audience. The couples all enter through a makeshift portal, festooned with sequins and the legend "Crawford Colts." The seniors rotate to different parts of the floor so all can get a good look at them. Of the four eligible couples, three of the boys are on the football team. The only one who isn't seems to have his own booster club. From high in the bleachers comes a strident cheer as several girls unfurl a banner saying simply "Jeremy/King." The 500 or more students in attendance take all this seriously, dutifully filling out ballots and depositing them in sanctioned receptacles on their way out. Within a couple of minutes the gym is empty, the student body presumably pepped to the max.

In the team room, before boarding the bus. Armstrong is revving everyone's engine. "They’re popping off," he says about St. Augustine, "but if ten guys hit 'em on the first play, they’ll stop popping off. They won’t set the pace, we will. It’s our homecoming."

"YEAH!"

In the locker room at Henry, the players finish suiting up. The mood is quiet but nonchalant. A trio of Colts eyes with scorn the posted school records for Henry’s baseball teams. "Most home runs — 7?" A smirk. "We killed all those records."

Allah Hillie is fussing with a helmet. "Had to get a new one." he deadpans. Did his get cracked? "Naw, I do the hitting." The team is loose.

In the end zone before the coin toss. Armstrong inverts the alien-canine metaphor. "We re in our own back yard. Nobody shits in our back yard!"

"THAT'S RIGHT!"

"Awright guys, let's go out there and represent your school real well and have some fun. Let's do it all on the field, fellas." And they trot off toward another shutout.

Only this time the Colts are too loose Within the first few minutes, it becomes clear that Crawford's game is in disarray. The players seem listless, on the field and on the sideline. St. Augustine’s game consists almost entirely of sending an ox-like running back (with the lawyerly name of Hunter Buckner) up the middle or around the end with the ball firmly in his grasp. Crawford is unable to contain him. It takes until the start of the second quarter for the Saints to score — their band plays "When the Saints Go Marching In" — and the wonder is why they haven't scored several times by then. Crawford is making mistakes big and small. A long pass down the sideline, intended for Vernon Shaver, is overthrown, one of many errant passes that night by Chris Townsend. Shaver and the defender collide, but nothing comes of it. When the offense comes off the field, Olivero educates him: "You gotta hit the ground, Vernon! You tnp and it's interference; you keep runnin’, the officials don't see nothin'!"

Midway through the second quarter, Armstrong is yelling at Olivero. No one seems to know why, and everyone is unnerved — unnerved at the sight of it. at the shellacking being administered to them, at the prospect of being whupped at Our Homecoming. The five straight wins and four shutouts are a vapor, a phantom. The only thing that seems real is the sight of Buckner’s meaty calves plodding through the Crawford defensive line, slowly but inexorably.

At halftime the score is still only 7-0, but looming larger is the question of what the coach can do to rally his team in the face of impending disaster. Anderson throws the score in their faces. "You guys are real good at makin' a show of how fired up you are," Armstrong begins, "and goin' out and playin' like dogshit. We should be genin' beat 21-0!

"We got a guy more concerned about his tuxedo and homecoming than he is about playin’ football! Mission Bay beat this team 29-6! It's gona get down and dirty, son!" He admonishes particular players, picks apart elements of the game plan that are not being executed, again threatens wholesale replacements in the lineup if improvement isn't quickly shown. Last, he puts the team on notice to cede bragging rights to the Saints, who. he says, have earned them for the moment. "We're gonna go out there and keep our mouths shut and take our medicine like men, and then, at the end of the game, we'll see."

But the view will not improve. Crawford seems unable to do anything right. St. Augustine's slower but bigger lineup has them stymied. Midway through the fourth quarter, the Saints take over on Crawford’s 35-yard line and throw a touchdown pass on the first play. The St. Augustine fans are the ones waving hankies. On the Crawford sideline, players offer up plaintive cries to their cohorts. "Get the ball, defense!" "Hey! Pump it up out here!" But there is no pumping up, and hope drains from the Crawford throng as the last minutes tick off the scoreboard. Several late Colt injuries show how lopsided the game is, despite the meager 14-0 final score. Vernon Shaver is tackled in midair on an incomplete pass play and is a long time getting up; when he finally does rise, he leaves the field slowly, clutching his shoulder. Peter Ervin limps off the field with a painful ankle, removes his shoe and sock, and sits grimacing on the bench. Chris Townsend, who has taken a terrible pounding tonight and braved a series of injuries throughout the season, sustains a concussion, his third to date, in the waning moments His doctor will later refuse to permit him to play again this year. Mercifully, time finally expires.

The mood on the bus... imagine a charter carrying souls to hell. A fight breaks out between two teammates, flares, and dies. The parking lot is jammed; the team may be trapped here in its misery forever. Weeks go by. Crowds mill about and stare at the traffic. Coaches eventually board. Armstrong gravely apologizes for his poor coaching, then blasts anyone who wants to blame a teammate. "We all got beat." he says, and that's that. Quiet prevails.

Halfway home, the mood still somber, Armstrong gets up and addresses the team again. "Hey, there's something I wanna say, and I want you to hear it from me. I did something tonight that was totally inexcusable, and I want to apologize in front of all of you to Coach Olivero for it. I don't want you guys blamin' anybody else, and I shouldn't either. I was just outcoached out there, and I had no right to take it out on Coach Olivero. So Coach, I'm sorry, and it won't happen again." Olivero gives him a brotherly jab. Hey. Coach. I'd already forgotten about it.

The street leading up to the gym is blocked off due to the homecoming dance, and the driver is instructed to park in the alley out by the baseball field. Heading down the alley, someone offers a morbid "One. Two. You. Know. What. Tb. Do." And the team responds with a dirgelike rendition of the alma mater. If their earlier version was jubilant and the students' version at the pep rally was merely rote, this one is positively funereal.

Armstrong is first off the bus, and the team follows him silently the 100 yards or so up to the gym Turning a corner and ascending a few steps right at the gym, the coach and the first few following behind him pass an apparently inconsequential scuffle involving three or four high-school-age boys. A growing crowd is milling in the parking lot just beyond. As more coaches and players pass by, the scuffle suddenly dissolves — or rather, all but one of the boys suddenly vanish. The last fellow is on his back and staggers to his feet. He emits a moan that may be an attempt at speech. His eyes look toward the unaware players passing by but settle on none of them. He cannot stand steadily. There is blood.

As Armstrong reaches the door, a few school staff members appear — a vice principal, other coaches, the head of campus security — agitated, alert. Someone says there was gang-related violence at the game... some arrests ... a stabbing... this scuffle a few feet away seems also to be gang-related ... apparently only the fellow staggering is a Crawford student, his attackers gang members...

The players are hustled into the gym, although several want to get into it. The combination of a humiliating loss and an ugly skirmish (victimizing, it is suggested, a friend of some players), right in their own back yard, is more than some can bear. But the adults are commanding, and the entire team is soon safely inside the gym.

The injured boy is carried into the coaches’ office. The police are called. A coach who has been at Crawford some 30 years allows as how "I was popped one, but I'm okay."

The vice principal is bleeding on the cheek, blood dripping in a neat line down to his jaw, but he protests that he is okay. He will later take eight stitches in his cheek. The boy is lying on a desk. His broken nose is bleeding into his throat, making his breathing difficult. Someone is tending to him, calming him. He wants to get up and leave, but a friend who has come by urges him to "lounge, man. lounge."

A dozen, two dozen people are streaming in and out of the office. A few girls, who might have been hustled inside for then: protection, sit in the men's locker room, slightly embarrassed. Outside in the parking lot and in the street beyond. 100 or more young people hang around waiting — some for the dance, some for more dangerous fun. The police arrive. A white girl and a black girl embrace just outside the coaches' office and are consumed in tears.

The vice principal and the security chief confer; the chief adamantly declares the dance canceled. They will need more police to make the decision stick. More patrol cars arrive, and an ambulance. Slowly, the parking lot empties as a crowd of seniors, some dressed casually, others more elegantly, begins to realize they will not have their homecoming dance. The band hired for the dance must now reload the equipment they had just finished unloading. The police secure the area and gradually disperse the crowd without further incident.

Mid-November. The Colts have rebounded from their loss to St. Augustine with twin 28-0 wins, against San Diego High and Christian High. They finish their regular season with an 8-2 record, 4-1 in their league, the City Central League. Tied with archrival Lincoln for best record in the league, they have captured the title on the strength of having beaten Lincoln in their October 14 game. Crawford thus enters the countywide playoffs seeded fourth out of 16 teams in the 2A division (comprising schools with medium-sized enrollments). Their first-round opponent in the single-elimination tournament is Ramona High. Whether from the clear mountain air or the fresh apples, the Ramona players have a staggering size advantage over Crawford: The offensive line averages six feet four and 240 pounds to the Crawford defensive line’s five feet eight and 140 or so pounds "But I'll tell you what." asserts Armstrong, "these street kids, they're not intimidated by a big person in a football uniform. That's not the scariest thing they've seen. They're not afraid to go smash face into that." Once again the Colts promise to fly around and have fun out there. How much and whose butt gets knocked where ... that will depend on who is more fired up.

Compounding the task for the Colts is a curious psychodrama. Vernon Shaver has inspired doubt in him among his teammates and, in the process, come close to frittering away a golden chance at a first-class education and a career in the pros. The week following the loss to St. Augustine, Shaver abruptly quit the team under mysterious circumstances. A few days later, he came to Armstrong asking to be reinstated. It's not up to me, the coach told him; it’s up to the team. If they vote you in, you're in, if not, you're out. The team voted to take him back, on one condition: that he do 400 yards of belly-busters each day of practice. This grueling regimen calls for the victim to sprint 100 yards one way and then back, with the added feature that at any moment, at the sound of a coach’s whistle he must immediately flop to his belly, push himself back up quickly, and continue his all-out sprint Shaver did his daily belly-busters without complaint and went on to score a 56-yard touchdown in the last regular game After another absence from practice, this one excused, Shaver has shown dedication at daily workouts and appears committed to his team and his future.

Sometimes motivation is a slippery thing. Armstrong calls Shaver the most talented athlete he has ever coached. But anyone in the game can tell you that talent alone does not produce greatness. Shaver has the kind of athletic ability that could lead Crawford to a championship, if he finds the desire. If he waltzes away from his team, no major college in the country will have him. But that, as they say, is what makes a ball game. For every tale of unmaximized potential, Armstrong will tell you of a tough kid, this close to ruination, who found not just a meal ticket but salvation in football — like the Crawford graduate who now starts for San Jose State and who recently visited him to say, "If it weren't for you, I'd be dead by now.”

Finally, one sees it’s not just the love of sport, the delight m seeing a body hurtle through space and not only accomplish but repeat the impossible, that keeps Dan Armstrong motivated. Through endless sweaty practices. Through budget cutbacks. Despite working without a full-time teaching contract. In the face of crowd violence, which has again forced officials to reschedule games to afternoons, and gang warfare erupting mere inches from his office door. Dan Armstrong keeps at it and hopes to spend his life at it because, in a culture all but stripped of a sound means of ritually initiating boys into manhood, of welcoming them into the tribe, of endowing them with the powers and responsibilities of being a man, he has found a way. Not the best way nor the only way, but one way to turn aimless youths from self-destruction. He does it because it is a good way to bleed off excess testosterone at less risk to bystanders than, say, a war. He does it because "it gives me a chance to compete when my eligibility's gone," but more than that, he does it for the same reason his students and colleagues and everyone who's ever thrown or caught a ball or gotten up from a blinding tackle half-dinged, with snot running out his nose does it: because of the longing to be brave and strong and true: because he's a man. *Reposted article from the SD Reader by Phil Catalfo of November 22, 1989

[kartiavelino]

How to make the ultimate Super Bowl commercial

Right this moment’s the day advertisers attempt to do to one another what the LA linemen need to do to Tom Brady: crush ’em. However creating the excellent Super Bowl commercial for the sport’s 100-million viewers comes with challenges. “Each different [TV] present, advertisers know what number of males are watching, what number of [people] in an age group,” says Glenn Gerstner, an affiliate professor of sport administration at St. John’s College. “The Super Bowl has no demographic. It’s all people.” So the predominant purpose is to merely seize eyeballs, typically utilizing the aspect of shock. Certainly one of the buzziest commercials to this point is for Stella Artois and stars a really odd couple: Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker) of “Intercourse and the Metropolis” and The Dude (Jeff Bridges) from “The Huge Lebowski.” In it, Carrie arrives at a bar and is requested by the maitre’d, “Cosmopolitan?” However she refuses her signature drink, calling for a Stella as an alternative. (It’s not solely a curveball, however presumably the character’s first carbs.) Then The Dude exhibits up and eschews his anticipated White Russian for a Stella — whereas sporting the similar jelly sandals and Pendleton cardigan he wore in the film. As in, the very same ones. Bridges saved them. Authenticity was high of thoughts, mentioned Corinna Falusi, chief inventive officer at Mom New York, the company behind the advert. Michael C. Corridor stars in Skittles’ 2019 Super Bowl advert.Skittles “[The actors] mentioned that their concern about how the character can be perceived by their followers was the uniquely most essential factor to them,” Falusi defined. Bridges got here up with the concept to have The Dude order a “Stella Are-tose.” Parker, who glitters in gold sequins, labored along with her private stylist to selected an outfit that appeared like one thing Carrie would put on in 2019. (Anheuser-Busch, the father or mother firm of Stella, didn’t verify precisely when the commercial would air.) In fact, celebrities are at all times a giant draw, as advertisers attempt to connect optimistic associations to their model. Steve Carell, Lil Jon and Cardi B — all recognized for his or her humor — will shill for Pepsi. Easygoing Tony Romo will pitch the comfiness of Skechers. Christina Applegate, typically forged as the hip, humorous mother, chauffeurs round M&Ms like they’re her personal bickering youngsters. ‘[Viewers] need to share one thing, however don’t need to share one thing too sales-y in nature.’ “The important thing issue is the familiarity,” Kolenda says. “There are such a lot of emotional connections that individuals already possess with celebrities. The model doesn’t have to construct a bond from scratch.” Humor performs, however some manufacturers attempt to piggyback on extra critical feelings. It’s a method that female hygiene firm At all times used successfully again in 2015 when it interviewed younger women about what it meant to do one thing “like a woman,” turning what was as soon as an insult right into a praise. The advert was successful. This 12 months, Coke will run an animated spot celebrating variety, and Kia will tout school scholarships. Toyota and Bumble — sure, the relationship app, which managed to land Serena Williams — are celebrating the energy of girls. Entrepreneurs are additionally hoping for shareability. An advert despatched to associates or posted on-line will get advertisers extra visibility and bang for its buck. “[Viewers] need to share one thing, however don’t need to share one thing too sales-y in nature,” Kolenda says. “By creating one thing entertaining, advertisers can camouflage the promotional [aspect].” The famed child from Etrade’s 2008 commercial.Etrade Take the 2008 ETrade marketing campaign that starred a CG speaking child. The character was so standard, it confirmed up throughout Super Bowls till 2013. This 12 months, Doritos is attempting to go viral with a music video starring Likelihood the Rapper and the Backstreet Boys collaborating on an up to date “I Need It That Manner.” “Lots of people bash promoting when it’s too entertaining,” says Nick Kolenda, a client psychology researcher. “Geico is an effective instance. Their commercials seem to be an unrelated comedic tidbit, however they power model consciousness. They don’t need to promote in that second. However whenever you want insurance coverage, you’ll consider them.” One head-scratcher this 12 months is a Michelob Extremely Pure Gold commercial with Zoë Kravitz whispering right into a microphone and tapping on a beer bottle. It’s supposed to set off autonomous sensory meridian response (ASMR), a phenomenon during which specific sounds give listeners a tingling sensation. (In reality, there is no such thing as a stable science behind this, however there are a number of ASMR channels on YouTube devoted to soft-speaking ladies folding garments, crinkling paper and even stirring soup. Certainly one of them, Light Whispering, has greater than 1.6 million subscribers.) Zoe Kravitz stars on this 12 months’s Michelob Extremely commercial.AP After which there’s Skittles, which is taking a wild new method by pushing offline engagement. Final 12 months, it skipped the huge sport and as an alternative confirmed a multimillion-dollar advert to only one 17-year-old fan, live-streaming his real-time response on Fb Stay. This 12 months, the sweet as soon as once more received’t be airing an advert throughout the Super Bowl. As a substitute, it’s debuting “Skittles Commercial” — an precise staged 30-minute musical, starring Michael C. Corridor (“Dexter”) — right now at New York’s City Corridor at 1pm for one efficiency solely. All 1,500 tickets bought out rapidly, and the firm claims the present itself received’t be broadcast. The thought? Do one thing so out of the field that individuals buzz about the weirdness of it earlier than the Super Bowl. In fact, you’ll be able to spend buckets of cash and it nonetheless all backfires. “Certainly one of the tensions we regularly see is that corporations attempt to get too inventive,” Gerstner says. “Generally an advert is over and everybody appears at one another and may’t bear in mind what it was for.” Share this: https://nypost.com/2019/02/02/how-to-make-the-ultimate-super-bowl-commercial/ The post How to make the ultimate Super Bowl commercial appeared first on My style by Kartia. https://www.kartiavelino.com/2019/02/how-to-make-the-ultimate-super-bowl-commercial.html