#you read that gay brochure and read it good

[lamardeuse]

We'll find our promised land

by lamardeuse

911 || Buck/Tommy, Buck/Eddie || Rated M || c. 2700 words

Written for @911actions thanks to the kind donation of captnvalkyrie. Hope you enjoy!

Prompt 576: Fanfiction about Buck and Eddie at their first Pride as a couple with the rest of the 118.

2006

The first time Buck goes to a Pride parade, it's a mistake.

His parents are taking him to the Whitaker Center in Harrisburg to enrol him in summer science camp because he nearly flunked science last year. It's not that he doesn't like science – he loves it, actually – but he's been forgetting a lot of stuff lately, and even though he tried to keep on top of his assignments a few slipped through. His mom read his final report card with her face all pinched and he braced himself for the inevitable lecture.

I swear I was trying my best, but I – I kept forgetting.

Well, your best simply isn't good enough, Evan. Now that Maddie is gone, you can't rely on her to be your memory any more. You have to buckle down and smarten up.

He can't remember a time when he didn't feel like he was stupid every now and then, but lately it's been a near-constant thought, mainly because there's no one around to counteract the voice in his head, a voice that sounds more and more like his mother.

He's been to this place before and liked it well enough, even picked up the brochure for their summer camps and had a look at it the last time he was here. Now, though, it feels like a punishment.

Before they reach Market Street, his father slows to a stop and mutters under his breath.

“Why is the road blocked?” his mother asks.

“No idea,” Dad says. “There shouldn't be any construction, I was just here three days ago.”

“Well, a lot can change in three days,” Mom says primly.

His father grunts unhappily, then turns down another street where he finds a parking garage that's nearly full. By the time they trudge down the stairs to the bottom – because of course the elevator's broken – the mood is tense. Well, the mood's always tense, but – tenser. Whatever.

Evan hears the thumpa thumpa of a disco beat long before they reach Market Street. There are random cheers from what sounds like a huge crowd, which is confirmed when they round the corner and come up against a sea of people.

“Oh, for Heaven's sake,” his mother says.

“What's the parade for?” Evan asks. The Fourth of July is another week away, and he doesn't see an American flag waving anywhere. No one answers him.

And then a float goes by with about a dozen guys wearing really tiny shorts and body glitter and not much else, and Evan thinks, oh.

“We can sign him up tomorrow,” his mother says. “We can come back tomorrow.”

His father's jaw twitches. “We came all this way. I just walked down six flights of stairs and I'm going to have to climb up six flights to get the car. Let's just –”

“Do you really think this is a place for children?” his mother says, a little too loudly if the glares of a couple of people around him is any indication.

“I'm not a child,” Evan protests. “I'm gonna be fourteen in –”

“Evan, be quiet,” his mother hisses.

“And lots of gay and lesbian people have kids,” he blurts out.

“Don't remind me,” his mother mutters.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Evan demands.

“Don't take that tone with your mother,” his father snaps.

“How are we going to get through this crowd?” his mother says. “The museum is across the street.”

“I don't even want to go to this camp!” Evan yells. “I'm not stupid,” he adds, more weakly because he doesn't sound convincing even to himself.

“Then don't act like it,” his father says. They stand there for a minute in silence, watching the parade. There's a car going by now, one of those huge old convertibles. There's a really tall lady in a hot pink satin evening gown and matching gloves up to her elbows sitting in the back seat and waving at the crowd. She looks right at Evan and smiles. Evan can't help but smile back. She looks so happy.

“Six flights it is,” his father mutters, turning on his heel and heading back the way they came.

read the rest at the AO3

[rollercoasterwords]

oookay. finished the secret history let’s go

so the book itself was split into two separate books, book I and book II. for clarity’s sake, im gonna further split it into 4 parts, part 1, 2, 3 and 4. 

so first quick summary 4 bg information (no spoilers, as promised!!)

so basically a group of sexually repressed 20-something gays push the first homophobe they see off a cliff

OR

we’re told of Bunny’s murder in the first 2 pages, separating the book from other crime novels in that most of it was less a whodunnit and more of a whydunnit. in part 1, we’re introduced to richard papen, the narrator, who applied to a college, Hampden, miles away from his home state bc the colours on the brochure were pretty. he falls in with a group of students who are studying ancient greek; henry, bunny, francis, and camilla and charles (twins). So for a while, things look awesome. richard’s at a good college, with a large and tight-knit group of friends. What could go wrong?

this part transitions into two after richard and bunny find out about something terrible the rest of the group did in the past.

in part 2, bunny starts to become hostile to his friends after learning of it, while richard is able to wrap his head around it quite quickly. It escalates to the point where bunny becomes a potential threat, in that he might spill the beans to someone else. here, henry begins to plan bunny’s murder, and the rest of group just sort of goes along with it. parts 1 and 2 were pleasant, and paced really quickly. i was hooked the entire time. part 3 gets a bit dull, but it picks up again after Bunny’s funeral and hits the ground running.

book one ends right before bunny dies, and book two starts right after.

part 3 opens into a police investigation for bunny, who is believed to be missing until they find his body. in this part, tensions within the group begin to escalate. most of p. 3 is spent at bunny’s family’s house, who have invited many people bunny knew to stay with them during the funeral proceedings.

part 4, i believe begins after bunny’s body is found. here everyone’s like REALLY on edge. I will say most of it was just richard and francis running around frantically together while charles slowly goes insane with paranoia that henry’s trying to kill him as well. yk what, some of charles’ dialogue in this part is unsettlingly reminiscent of a panicked letter written by bunny that was found only after his death. In the book, there was only one passage of it shown, but that was enough. reading it, one could practically hear the panic, the desperation in bunny’s voice, one later mirrored in charles. vv psychologically thrillery. Im having hannibal flashbacks actually

and ohhh my god the ending. It was the climax to end all climaxes rae. ill never get over it. It was bittersweet ig, like all the best endings are. 

one thing i noticed is that throughout the book, there are these like future reflections littered through. like ‘thinking back on it now, i wish i had. . .’  or ‘funny, that was the last time i ever saw him’, which have the story a sort of They Both Die at the End quality. yk, like a tragedy waiting to happen. I think i remember you doing something like that once, rae, in atydsp. I believe it was right in one of the summer 1977 chapters but i could be wrong. I think something like that really makes a story gut-wrenching, especially with the whole looming impermanence that the reader is all too aware of. the very last lines in the epilogue read, ‘I suppose at one time in my life I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell.’ see? whenever one of these bad boys is thrown in there, the scene changes from just a regular scene to something golden and significant. I think i once saw a post that read, ‘in movies time travellers are always scared of drastically changing their future by doing something small, but no one in the present ever things they can drastically change their future by doing something small’. thats what that reminds me of.

in the epilogue, richard refers to himself as a bystander, and he’s not wrong. he’s the narrator, of course, but in the end, the story’s not really about him. it’s about henry and bunny. I kind of get now, those lines at the end of the epilogue. Bunny’s death, and the events that subsequently followed, are so much more important than richard himself will ever be. 

TSH is famous for that one line henry has, when charles asks him how he could possibly justify cold blooded murder, and henry says, ‘I prefer to think of it … as a redistribution of matter.’ but the line that got to me the most personally was an unassuming one, camilla in the epilogue about her twin brother charles: ‘actually, charles and i dont really talk anymore. It’s broken my Nana’s heart.’ not that she and charles should ever be in the same room together ever (very fucked up things happened), but it’s just the impermanence of relationships. how two people who may be at one point inseparable just drift apart. it’s not any one big fight or falling out that snaps the thread of their connection, but that thread just wearing out and growing thinner and thinner until eventually nothing is left anymore. thats what gets to me.

andd also one thing that kept happening was that i’d accidentally (or on purpose) flip a few pages ahead and reading something really fucking deranged or unexpected and just be like ‘huh???? what??? how?????’ and i’d go back and read up to that point until it made sense. i’d love love LOVE to give examples but i’m not allowed spoilers :(( the book is just the right amount of deranged though it rlly tickles ur brain in just the right spots without being overly ick

I think someone said that it was a francis/richard/charles/camilla/henry love pentagon but its most like a love diamond. grab a pen and paper folks, it gets complicated. imagine charles at the top, francis on the left, richard at the bottom, and camilla on the right, with a line extending from camilla to henry. there thats tsh.

all in all 8/10!! if it’s on your reading list like you said it was, definitely move it to the top.

one day i WILL read tsh i promise!! unfortunately it cannot go to the top atm bc im working thru the books i already own 😔 love this review tho i honestly didn’t really know what the book was about & this actually sounds really good…

[aclaywrites]

How to fall in love via Deneuve Magazine Personal Ads Circa 1993

❖ Go to your mailbox and see that your latest issue of Deneuve magazine has been delivered. It’s in a plain brown envelope, but you still take it all the way inside the house before you open it.

❖ Take a moment to gaze at the cover and appreciate the fact that it’s named after Catherine Deneuve in honor of her sex scene from The Hunger which awakened us all.

❖ Flip past the first few pages of ads. Do I want to fax away for a brochure about the chance to go on a Kenyan photo safari with the world’s first out lesbian commedienne? What about the Olivia Thanksgiving cruise?

❖ Enjoy the Editor’s Column about how our new President Clinton has pledged to make real progress for the LGBT community. Bask in the warm glow of happiness knowing that the gay dark ages are finally coming to a close.

❖ Chuckle at Alison Bechdel’s ad for the Feminist Bookstore Network and wish you had one of those stores near you.

❖ Keep up with the state of the lesbian nation via the letters to the editor. Aren’t the repressive laws being passed in Oregon and Colorado shocking? Goddess bless that Kentucky baby dyke having to dodge the KKK at her high school 🙁

❖ Read the wedding announcements and get all choked up, remembering why you’re here. Resist the urge to flip to the end and see if there’s anyone new from last month. Hope springs eternal!

❖ Oh, the 20th anniversary of Naiad Press! I love their stuff! Especially how all the covers look like they’re printed with ink that was on sale. I wonder if they have any more copies of that Lesbian Queries book from 1990???

❖ Audre Lorde sure is gonna give them hell at the march on Washington, eh?

❖ So many bookstores. So many books.

❖ An article about Safe Sex! Hell yes! Even though lesbians don’t get AIDS because we’re God’s chosen people, this will be fun to read about in theory! “After all, aren’t we told that lesbians and priests are in the lowest risk category?” lol people thought priests weren’t constantly having gay sex. Simpler times.

❖ An interview with Alison Bechdel! She’s so swoony.

❖ Articles about soap operas, speculation about Hilary Clinton, gossip about Madonna and Sandra Bernhard. And what about Whoopi Goldberg? And that Ellen lady? She’s been on Arsenio Hall acting all cagy about the men in her life. A list of women we wish were gay, including Joan Jett? Didn’t she sing Crimson and Clover without changing pronouns like waaaaay back in the 80s

❖ Music reviews: Sweet Honey in the Rock and Alix Dobkin! We’re almost to the ads…

❖ Labrys jewelry, freedom rings. C’mon, let’s get to the good stuff!

❖ Here we go! Classified ads– 30 words for $20! Queer personal finance, we buy used computers, a lesbian resort in New Hampshire.

❖ Personals at last! Is my woman here?

❖ Hey there’s that woman who has an ad every month expressing her ‘complete and sincere respect for’ women in military, fire, police, private security, corrections’. A gay male ad would say ‘Uniform fetish’ but apparently we’re too delicate.

❖ Bisexual boston babe ‘femalely handsome’ looking for someone who’s ‘nice to look at, not a feminist and not a bitch’. Next!

❖ Lonesome in Wyoming, Bisexual Bodybuilder, Softball is over, time to find someone warm for winter, Reubenesque Arkansas Buddhist…

❖ Find a girl who sounds promising– seems interesting and is not too far away. Spend a day or so composing a letter with a pen and piece of paper introducing yourself. If you don’t have a photo of yourself that you like, have a friend take one. Then finish the roll of film and bring it to the Fotomat and wait a day or so and then pick up the prints and hope you like one of them. Choose one anyway, and put it in the envelope with your letter.

❖ Get a stamp, hang it on the mailbox, never hear anything ever again.

❖ One month later, go to your mailbox and see that your copy of Deneuve has arrived.

[saleintothe90s]

478. 93 things about 1993, part 4

(part 3)

(source)

18. ValuJet flies for the first time (October 26)

ValuJet's first flight was from Atlanta to Tampa on October 26, 1993. By 1994, the planes with their silly mascot on them had made 15 emergency landings! 1 On June 8, 1995 one of their ancient planes had an engine fire on the tarmac in Atlanta.

We all know what happened to ValuJet just 2 1/2 years later.

19. Kenneth Junior French kills 4 because of "gays in the military". (August 7th)

He got four life terms + an extra 35 years tacked onto his sentence.

Newsweek, February 8, 1993

20. Socks Mania

People went absolutely feral over Bill Clinton's cat, Socks. There was merch:

Such as this Socks cat food container (eBay seller passalong)

This Socks watch that I still remember seeing at my local Kmart in 1996. Yes, the battery was dead. (eBay seller ha-340226)

This socks doll I also remember seeing at Kmart on a family vacation in Ohio that I desperately wanted. (eBay seller 13navybeans)

I don't have the date on it, but here is a clip of kids petting Socks at Christmas.

21. Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett get married (June)

When Roberts returned to the set of The Pelican Brief following her wedding, the cast and crew (including co-star Denzel Washington) threw her a party in which they all wore shirts that read: "He’s A Lovely Boy … But You Really Must Do Something About His Hair" on the back. 2

They only lasted til 1995, but they were cute together.

22. Base Closings (March)

Growing up, I thought this was the first time bases closed in the U.S., ever. No, a whole bunch closed just a couple of years prior!

(source)

23. Florida tourists killed

The state government ordered that all company logos be removed from rental cars, and it abolished special license tags for such vehicles. Rental car agencies now give customers detailed safety brochures in English, Spanish, German and other languages, and they play tape recordings with similar messages over the public address systems in their rental offices every five minutes. 3

There was even a bit in the SNL episode (hosted by Shannen Doherty) where Phil Hartman played Disney's Michael Eisner, alerting tourists that you'll won't get murdered in northern Florida where Disney is:

Hi, I’m Michael Eisner, speaking to you from the Magic Kingdom here in Orlando. You know, for the last few months, Florida has been victim to a terrible tragedy: the horrific murder of nine foreign tourists in Southern Florida. We here in Northern Florida express our sympathies.. to the families of those murdered hundreds of miles away.. in Miami, the capitol of Southern Florida.

8 tourists were killed in 1993. 4

24. Miller Clear

Faced with lackluster sales, the Miller Brewing Company has ended its market test of Miller Clear, the brewing industry's first clear beer. "We're not manufacturing it any longer for the near term," Eric Kraus, a spokesman for the Milwaukee-based brewer, said on Tuesday. "We had a tremendous initial trial, but repeat business was not necessarily as good." The beer that has been made will be sold, but no more will be brewed, Mr. Kraus said. In April, Miller began test-marketing its clear beer in Richmond, Minneapolis and Austin, Tex. 4

(there's some more about it on Weird Universe)

25. Tonya Harding's dress pops (January)

Earlier this year, a snap on her costume broke at the United States championships. At the 1992 Olympic trials, her blades were mounted slightly out of position, leaving her stranded with a broken axel. Skate problems also delayed her arrival at the 1992 Winter Games in Albertville, France, where she finished a disappointing fourth. By 1993, fourth was the best she could do at the United States championships. 5

Facebook | Etsy | Retail History Blog | Twitter | YouTube Playlist | Random Post | Ko-fi donation | instagram / threads @thelastvcr​ | tik tok @ saleintothe90s

“ValuJet - Airlinefiles.” n.d. Accessed October 13, 2023. https://airlinefiles.com/valujet?showall=1.

“TBT: Lyle Lovett and Julia Roberts Got Married After Dating for Just a Few Weeks.” n.d. InStyle. Accessed October 14, 2023. https://www.instyle.com/news/tbt-julia-roberts-lyle-lovett-relationship.

Rohter, Larry. “Tourist Is Killed in Florida Despite Taking Precautions.” The New York Times, September 9, 1993, sec. U.S. https://www.nytimes.com/1993/09/09/us/tourist-is-killed-in-florida-despite-taking-precautions.html.

Clary, Mike. “Woman Confesses to Killing German Tourist, Police Say : Crime: She Reports Being Angered When the Couple Targeted for Robbery Would Not Stop Their Rental Car. A Third Suspect Is Held.” Los Angeles Times. September 11, 1993. https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1993-09-11-mn-34072-story.html.

Longman, Jere. “FIGURE SKATING; For Harding, Not All Sequins and Music.” The New York Times, October 26, 1993, sec. Sports. https://www.nytimes.com/1993/10/26/sports/figure-skating-for-harding-not-all-sequins-and-music.html. https://archive.ph/G5T63

[arrowflier]

can you write a fic where they talk about having kids? maybe after the finale and mickey kinda starts the conversation 👀

It started slowly, and it started with Franny.

She had been staying over more often lately, Debbie taking night jobs again to make ends meet--though at least she was tending bar at a friend's place and not at risk of losing the rest of her toes this time. Debbie would bring Franny over after school and drop her at their door with a backpack full of clothes and crayons, staying just long enough to give her daughter a kiss and threaten Ian and Mickey with the same.

Sometimes Mickey pretended it annoyed him.

"What if we had plans, man?" he'd grumble as he helped Franny off with her coat and tucked her bag into the corner by the door.

"It's Wednesday, Mick," Ian would reply patiently. "We never go out on Wednesdays. Besides," he'd add as he ruffled Franny's hair and sent her ahead into the living room, "Debs asked us like two days ago."

"Didn't say goin' out kinds of plans," Mickey would mumble so Franny couldn't hear. "And she didn't ask, she fuckin' told."

Ian would just snort a laugh at his antics. "Please," he'd drawl, "you'll fall asleep with Fran on the couch by 10, you always do."

There would be no answer to that. Mickey would pout and grumble all day about it if he could, but as soon as their niece stepped through their doorway, it was all smiles and playful teasing and chasing each other through the apartment and down the hallways (much to the displeasure of their stuffier neighbors).

Ian loved watching them. For all of Mickey's insistence that he wasn't ready, or that he'd make a terrible father, he certainly did right by the children already in his life. And when you spent all day playing with a child, feeding them, bathing and dressing them and reading them to sleep, well. It wasn't that different from having one of your own. Not that he would ever say that to Mickey, though. He knew better now than to push.

So it was a surprise when, a few weeks into this new arrangement, Mickey brought it up on his own, albeit in his own, Mickey way.

"We gotta get a bigger place," he mused one morning as they brushed against each other in the narrow kitchen.

Why?” Ian asked, curious. “It’s just us, and we've been doing fine so far. Unless…,” he paused, turning from the open refrigerator to eye Mickey cautiously. “Unless you need some space...?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, and brushed past again roughly enough to knock into Ian's shoulder with his own.

“No, Ian, I don’t need fuckin’ space, jesus,” he answered. “But we need another bedroom." To Ian's confused look, he expanded on the thought. "Franny sleeps here all the time, man, think it’s time she gets an upgrade from the sofa, that’s all."

Oh. That made sense. Ian hid a smile as he ducked his head back into the fridge, pretending to search for the eggs that were right there on the shelf.

"Sure Mick," he agreed. "The lease is up soon, we can start looking for a two bedroom."

It's quiet behind him, and he pulls back just in time to catch Mickey biting his lip nervously, though the other man doesn't see.

“And maybe we can fit a couple beds in there," Mickey said casually, betrayed only by a slight hitch in his breath and the way his eyes darted everywhere but Ian's face. "Just in case.”

Just in case. Ian's heart soared.

"Good idea," he forced himself to say in a normal voice. He didn't want to scare this idea away. He knew by the way Mickey looked at him that he hadn't quite managed the nonchalant tone he was going for, but that was okay. They could both pretend it was no big deal.

--

They didn't talk about it for a while after that. Not until Lip started bringing Fred around.

"You sure your girl is okay with this?" Mickey asked the first time, holding the kid away from him like he was a ticking bomb.

Lip just chuckled. "Are you kidding?" he asked. "This was her idea, Milkovich, you can't get out of uncle duties that easy."

Mickey looked offended at that, automatically bringing Fred closer to his chest and putting a protective hand on his back.

Ian stepped in before he could say anything too brash.

"We're just surprised, that's all," he told his brother. "Tami doesn't usually let Fred out of her sight."

Lip shrugged, then clapped Ian on the back, squeezing the back of this neck once before letting go. "She sees how good you guys are with Franny, and we need a break, man," he admitted. "Besides, she thinks Mickey here is some sort of kindred spirit."

They both raise their eyebrows at him until he explains.

"You know, willingly joining the Gallagher crazy and all," he said, only half joking. "If only she knew what an upgrade it was for this one," he added with a nod to Mickey, darting out the door before they can do anything about it.

"Diapers are in the bag," he shouted back to them, "try not to kill my kid!"

Ian and Mickey stared at each other after closing the door behind him, the stared at Fred, who had settled his head against Mickey's shoulder and was staring up at him with soft, sleepy eyes.

"Well," Mickey said slowly. "What the fuck do we do now?"

--

As it turned out, Mickey was great with babies, too. Of course he was.

They had Freddie in the bath after he had ruined his last diaper, Mickey keeping him safely propped up while Ian scrubbed him down. Neither of them mentioned the last time they had done this, but they both remembered the drill.

"Kids are fuckin' nasty," Mickey said, wrinkling his nose as Ian washed away the last of the mess.

"You're fucking nasty," Ian retorted, and then they were splashing each other with the dirty bathwater until a wave of it got Mickey in the face.

He sputtered, trying to grab for something to wipe it off without letting go of Fred, who was watching them and giggling.

"You asshole," Mickey growled, "you know where that's been, jesus Ian!"

Ian laughed at him, but stood and fetched a clean washcloth. He threw it at Mickey, then grabbed Fred out of the water and bundled him into their fluffiest towel, leaving Mickey muttering curses behind them as they move out to the bedroom.

Later that night, with Fred sleeping quietly next to them in his worn pack'n play, Mickey brought it up again.

"Don't they make, like, little kid bath things?" he questioned in the darkness. "We should get one of those, make things easier."

Ian rolled over to face him. "Yeah," he said slowly, "but Fred will be too big for that soon anyway."

He could feel the sheets shift when Mickey shrugged. "Should get one anyway," he said. "Might come in handy."

Ian didn't answer for a long moment, then answered with a simple, "okay."

He fell asleep smiling that night.

--

Things finally came to a head a few months later, when Ian got home to find a brochure on the table.

A brochure for an adoption agency.

He stared at it. Grabbed a beer out of the fridge, took a long sip. Stared at it some more.

He was still standing there when Mickey came in from the bedroom, and stopped still for just a second before continuing toward the fridge.

"Hey," Mickey said as he grabbed his own beer. "What are you thinkin'?"

Ian just looked at him.

"About that," Mickey clarified, motioning toward the pamphlet with the bottom of his bottle. "The adoption thing."

Ian swallowed hard, and took another drink before answering.

"Not thinking much yet," he admitted. "But I'm wondering where it came from."

Mickey rubbed at his eyebrow with the thumb of his free hand, not looking at Ian as he answered.

"Got it from some lady a few doors down," he revealed. "Said they're lookin' for more couples to step up."

"We wouldn't qualify," Ian managed to say past the lump in his throat. "Two ex-cons, gay, self-employed?" He forced an awkward laugh. "We're like a nightmare for those places."

He wasn't sure what he expected from that, but it wasn't for Mickey to come closer, setting down his beer to wrap and arm around Ian's back.

"Hey," he said softly, shaking Ian a little. "It don't gotta be adoption, man, just..." he hesitated, but pushed on, "been thinkin' about it, you know?"

That made Ian smile. "Yeah, I know," he admitted. "You're not as subtle as you think."

He turned in Mickey's half-embrace, leaning a hip against the table and bringing his own arm up so he could tease the hair at the back of Mickey's neck.

"You sure you're ready for this, Milkovich?" he whispered, hand moving to cup Mickey's face, thumb stroking at his cheek.

Mickey smiled back, leaning closer. "Damn straight, Gallagher," he murmured just before their lips brushed. "Damn straight."

[yikesola]

Hiii!! I couldn’t resist and read all the spoilers you posted lmao 😂😂 thank you for posting them!!! But as you’ve finished the book- do you think there was a lot of juicy dan stuff in it? He kept saying there would be but I saw some perhaps questionable anons on some other accounts saying that it was all stuff we’d know already. What are your thoughts?

So I’m bundling these just bc it’s easier lol hope this helps!

It’s not a memoir, he didn’t get into salacious deets— but it’s not a wellness brochure promising a little yoga and celery and deep breathing will magically cure you either. he was personable and chaotic :’)

There were definitely moments he bared his soul, but it wasn’t an exclusive tabloid scoop, if that makes sense. It wasn’t “you won’t believe who Dan’s been sending nudes to” and “this relative said a ~slur~🤭” and “top five youtubers dan will NEVER collab with again!”

And the therapies/exercises were semi-familiar to me but explained in such a helpful way that like ,, I might actually effectively use them. Like instead of my therapist saying “just pay attention to your body when it tenses” and me saying “..okay?”

I also can’t praise enough that I think it’s so appropriately paced for what is immediate concerns (coming down from a panic attack) to turning point concerns (exiting a depressive episode) to long term concerns (meds and lifestyle and non-linear healing)

He wasn’t lying about the number of Easter eggs which us in the know ,, will know akdjf but I also think the general public will find it so damn helpful for what it is

there was A Lot about financial insecurity, which we like /knew/ about his upbringing and student loans and moving to london broke, but it just really put into context for me that like ,, until tabinof they were living off ramen and still not making rent :( which idk I knew they moved as a risk but then I assumed working for the bbc paid Something! It gave really good context for their work work work anxiety ;__; and it stopped any like “poor little rich boy” the mean corners of my mind would’ve wanted to pull forth, in a similar way to when he’d mention “and I’m British so I know I’m privileged to have health care, and I’m a white guy so I’m given systematic advantages in that way, other people will have additional hurdles and that simply isn’t fair” which was always a nice reality check

there was a bit about the canceled Philippine ii show which we all at the time assumed was a customs issue, and it kinda was but it was even Bigger than we thought, like all the stage equipment was detailed and the crew and them were detained and they couldn’t talk about it publicly and dan went into problem solving mode while Phil and the crew panicked and he admits like ,, he could’ve just panicked with them. It was a very panic-worthy moment, there was nothing HE could do to solve the problem! :( like I don’t want to say the Asian phannies who traveled very far specifically for that show had no right to be upset by the last minute change, I’m saying dnp don’t do things flippantly or callously and this is a really large scale example of how some things are simply out of their hands

he talked about making online friends on guild wars and how hard that is to make those specific friends but he did what we all do: scream at people and hope they like us lol and some of them did, some were weird, some ghosted him, and he’s got some he talks to all the time and who love him and check up on him and it reminded me so much of how us dumb phannies are and I hope he understands he and Phil have given us that :’’)

There was a lot of anecdotes that like the examples above we ~knew~ about, but now there’s a clearer and more human picture 🥺 stuff about his dad and about his “gonna get out of this small town!” compartmentalization and about his many many visits w doctors and therapists til he found the right ones, and so much more. It wasn’t necessarily brand new stuff he was offering unless Dan is new to you — what he gave was “Daniel and Depression: Extended Edition” and “Basically I’m Gay: Extended Edition” woven between genuinely digestible mental health exercises and contextual validation. Which makes sense, this isn’t a book Just for us, it’s gotta be accessible to more than his core audience, and saying things like “juicy” and “tea” might be kind of just promo language depending on what you’re looking for when he says something like that. But :’) I found it really satisfying. And it’s okay if you don’t, but I hope you do or at least helpful/enjoyable/interesting on whatever level you end up engaging with the text

It was good ;__; It wasn’t the big tell-all memoir I’m counting on him releasing for free as a pdf in 45 years, sure, but it was still very intimate and personable and Very Dan between the techniques and terminology ✨

[lovelylogans]

so idk if requests are still open for wyliwf but i’m a sucker for dee in aus and it seems like he gets a bit of redemption before the most recent oneshot. If you feel up to it, i’d love to read something on that

debutante

part of the wyliwf verse.

chapter one | next chapter

notes: this ask was sent right after odds are! look, i know i’m overlooking several of the rules of the debutante ball, but honestly, so did gilmore girls, so. source material, here.  i hope this can serve as a distraction for some of you today—please go out and vote if you are able and if you haven’t already! also happy birthday logan!!!

A debutante or deb (from French: débutante, “female beginner”) is a young woman of aristocratic or upper-class family background who has reached maturity and, as a new adult, comes out into society at a formal “debut” or possibly debutante ball. Originally, the term meant the woman was old enough to be married, and part of the purpose of her coming out was to display her to eligible bachelors and their families with a view to marriage within a select circle.

or: logan wants to dismantle the cis-heteronormative patriarchy with his bare hands and teeth if necessary, roman delights in dresses, virgil fucking hates tuxedos, patton’s really proud of his son, and dee thinks those sanders’ might not be so terrible after all.

⁂

“i need a dress.”

patton blinks, glancing up from the kitchen table where he’s organizing his notes for midterms for his business degree. bright side, last set of midterms patton would ever have to take! dark side, midterms. “just, like, generally, or…?”

the slight attempt at a joke dies when he catches the look on logan’s face—clenched jaw, eyes flashing—and he sets down his papers.

“i’m coming out,” logan continues.

“kiddo, you did that when you were about eight,” patton points out. “remember? i said i loved you and i was proud of you and i’m so glad that you trusted me enough to share that moment with you and thank you for telling me, and we went and got ice cream at lucy’s, and then you tried to use the whole sentimental thing to get me to ask out virgil because you were supposed to have a positive gay role model in your life, as if us being separately gay wasn’t enough in this town whose main tourist attraction is its rich history, from the times of our founding fathers to the times of pride.”

patton’s quoting the most recent town brochure, here.

“no, dad,” logan says, and arches his eyebrows significantly. “i’m coming out.”

the double-meaning clicks in his head.

“no,” patton says, hushed—he isn’t sure if it’s in awe or horror. “like—like, debutante coming out? or, um, wait, like—like—?”

“the male equivalent is a beautillion, and no, i mean like debutante coming out,” logan says. 

patton pauses, waiting, but logan says nothing, until patton says, “kiddo, either your attempts at trying to push this information into my brain via telepathy aren’t working or my brain’s too fried from midterms to catch the implications of what you’re saying, i’m gonna need more details than that.”

logan drops into the other seat at the kitchen table, huffing out a slow breath. 

“you remember dee.”

“your former rival turned weird allies that are still sometimes rivals, yes,” patton says. 

“who came over to our house once.”

“for the gsa poster-making thing?” patton says.

“right,” logan says, and arches his brows, waiting for patton to catch on.

“when… he mentioned he was also trans?” patton elaborates.

“right,” logan says. “i think dee’s parents are trying to out him, because they informed him of their intentions to sign him up for the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball.”

a cold feeling crawls uncomfortably in his stomach.

presenting him to society. a debutante ball. undeniably, harshly female. one of the main benefits of the timing of patton’s coming out had been so he wouldn’t have been a debutante—the very concept of doing that had given him this exact same cold, crawling feeling.

“dee gave me about five separate explanations as to why, of course, so i don’t particularly know why they’re choosing to out him now,” logan says briskly, “but i have a plan as to how that’s not going to happen.”

“you’re… going to be a debutante,” patton says slowly.

“well,” logan says, and fishes out a piece of paper from his backpack. “hopefully, not just me.”

FIGHT THE PATRIARCHY, the title screams in huge letters, then subtitled with Become a debutante or an escort today! Why should women be the only ones who have to go through this? Be a better feminist and put on a dress, if you’re a boy, or a tux, if you’re a girl, and if you fall outside of the gender binary, the choice of debutante or escort is up to you. Contact Logan Sanders for more details. there’s two copies—one blank, and one with an already modest list of names. which is probably to be expected, debutante balls were a big deal at chilton, except the usual names that would be listed under escorts are listed under debutantes, and vice versa.

“dermot, tristan, brad, henry, roger,” patton reads off, slow, and then he looks up at logan. “and madeline, lem, lisa, summer, and ivy.”

“well, it’s hardly fair that girls have to go through all this primping and glamming up just to be seen as presentable to society,” logan says briskly. “boys should come out into society, too.”

“which is your cover story,” patton says slowly, putting it together. that cold, uncomfortable feeling is turning into a warm glow that’s turning up the corners of his mouth.

“right,” logan says. “if a group of boys will show up in pretty white dresses, all very serious about their intentions of being presented to society, with their escorts of girls in tuxes, then—”

“then everyone will think dee is part of the ploy.”

“exactly,” logan says. “his secret is kept under wraps and no one has to know.”

 patton leans abruptly over the table to wrap logan up in a hug.

“hey,” logan complains, but patton just squeezes a little tighter.

“you are,” he says, choked up, “such an amazing friend, kiddo.”

it sounds like something he and christopher might have done as a prank back in the day—christopher in the dress, patton in the tux—but this—this—

patton lets go of him, grinning hugely. “i am so proud of you.”

“so you’re okay with it?”

“okay with it?!” patton laughs. “you’re protecting your friend from getting outed in a way that would be very embarrassing and schooling high society about how weird it is that they still present their daughters like they’re cattle for purchase! of course i’m okay with it!”

“so, dress?” logan asks, and honestly, patton’s just about ready to grab his wallet and haul logan to the finest dress store he can find, before logan continues, “if grandma still has it, we could probably steal the one she was intending to use for you from the cellar.”

that cold feeling is back. “ah.”

logan blinks. “what?”

patton sits back down. “i forgot about your grandparents.”

“what about—?”

patton chews at his lip. “mom’s a part of the daughters of the american revolution.”

“why does that matter?” logan says, and patton sighs.

“oh, you know by now that things work differently in grandma’s world than ours,” patton says. “just—i definitely support your right to do this, but just… know that if a fight comes out of this, i will not regret it or back down, okay? i’m always on your team.”

“well, i know that,” logan says, like it’s obvious, which, fair, it probably is, or at least patton hopes so, it’s his job as a dad to be on his kid’s side. “i’ll bring it up at dinner on friday, we’ll see how it goes over then. they’re less likely to yell at me.”

“it’ll just be us and grandma, your grandpa’s in… i think copenhagen?” patton says, considering, and waves a hand. “some historical city across an ocean, anyway, and virgil’s working.”

virgil is almost always working on friday nights. it’s only partly because he owns the diner, but it’s also because, well. friday night dinners. patton doesn’t blame him for avoiding them—even with the buffer of a couple months, it’s not exactly an easy relationship between him and patton’s parents.

“well, that’ll be something,” logan says briskly, then stands. “i’m going to go put one of these sheets on sideshire high’s bulletin board.”

“good call, a ton of kids here would want to crush heteronormativity and an excuse to wear a pretty dress slash tux,” patton says. “i’m betting you’re gonna ask roman?”

logan looks like he’s trying not to flush, and he adjusts his chilton jacket. “he’s the one letting me in. he’s still there for cheer practice.”

“ahhh,” patton says, only a little teasing. “well, let me know what your plans for the afternoon are, it’ll probably be virgil’s for dinner tonight, ‘cause,” and he lifts up a sheaf of his papers for emphasis.

“isn’t it always?” logan points out, and, with that, he departs.

“my little baby, off to destroy people!” patton calls teasingly after him, grinning, so proud he feels like he’s about to burst.

“i’m destroying the cis-heteronormative patriarchy!” logan calls, and then there’s the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut.

patton’s going to take him on a trip to bookstore and he’s buying him everything he wants.

⁂

“granmè, i’m home!” dee calls, dropping his backpack at the door and hanging his bowler hat on the coat rack.

“hello, mister slange.”

“nanny,” dee acknowledges. he’d address her by her first name, if he knew it. he admires that about her; it’s something they share.

nanny soledad used to be his nanny, back when he’d needed such things; she’s from the dominican republic, which his parents thought was “close enough” to being haitian that it would be enough to help him adjust. which is accurate enough geographically, but not culturally. honestly, he’s surprised his parents even bothered to look as far as geographically. 

but now he is too old for such things, and his grandmother’s memory problems are growing more and more apparent by the day, so nanny had made the transition from the ancestral slange manor to the slange family townhome, where his grandmother evelyn lives.

the townhome is a bit run-down, in comparison with the manor; no multiple wings, no murals on the ceilings, no precisely selected statues in the alcoves. instead, the townhome is a conglomeration of furniture collected by the family over the years; all of it high-quality, expensive, but almost none of it matching, with persian rugs thrown down over almost every hardwood surface, armchairs cluttering the spare corners, paintings hanging dilapidated with no rhyme or reason to their collection. it feels a bit squashed and claustrophobic, sometimes, with its dark woods and narrow hallways and secluded rooms, in comparison to the aggressively, purposefully airy nature of the manor with its open floor plan and silver accents and crisp, neutral colors.

the townhome is closer to chilton, so dee had reasoned to his parents that there was no reason to keep using too much gas to have him make the commute home every night. his parents, frankly just happy to have him out of their hair, had acquiesced swiftly.

well. they tended to like him out of their lives, until they needed him for something. until he needed to act like a doll. dee pushes those thoughts away; he’s thought about it quite enough today.

so dee and his snakes and his clothes were stationed in one guest bedroom, nanny and martha in the others, and dee would return to the ancestral home on weekends and long breaks. it would stay that way for as long as he and nanny could get away with it.

especially with the latest developments. dee suppresses a shudder at the way he’d handled himself earlier in the day, and instead turns his attention to nanny.

“where is she?”

“your grandmother’s in the greenhouse,” nanny says, then, seeing the look on his face, “not gardening, you know i would be supervising if she were.”

“the azaleas are in bloom,” dee acknowledges. “she does like the azaleas.”

“that she does,” nanny says, and falls into step beside him. “i’ve had martha gather some cuttings sent up to her room. bertie is out running errands, but he should be back in time for supper. ingrid will be in later for dinner and should be sticking to the menu, unless you have other requests. it’s lobster linguine tonight.”

“all fine,” dee says, and winces to himself at how distracted he sounds. he needs to stop thinking about it. he needs to focus on the now. the present. thinking about his parents’ ultimatum looming over his head would do no good right now.

“now, she’s taken her medicine for the afternoon and requested some tea. would you like some as well, perhaps a snack?”

“whatever she’s requested will suffice,” dee says. “thank you, nanny.”

nanny nods, and departs for the kitchen. dee continues through the house, to the backdoor, and into the greenhouse.

greenhouse is a bit of an exaggeration. it’s really more of a solarium that’s been overcrowded with pots and planters, in addition to the gardens outside. there’s floor-to-ceiling windows, and the room is overwhelmed with wicker furniture. it’s calming, in here; to say that there’s a lot of earth tones would be an understatement, and the light filters in gold and tangibly warm. 

it’s the most open-air part of the house, but less like the manor; if the manor was like some renaissance painter’s imagination of heaven, all pearly white clouds and soft pastels, this was an impressionist painting’s portrait of a landscape—plants and woods and life, verdant and vibrant and vivid. 

the greenhouse is also the warmest room in the house, which he’s sure is part of why it’s his grandmother’s favorite. dee’s already moving to shed his capelet and gloves; if he doesn’t, he’ll get disgustingly sweaty.

his grandmother is sitting in her favored rocking chair, seemingly not having heard him open the door. her reading glasses are perched on her nose, about to slip off, and she’s deeply absorbed in her book.

“hello, granmè,” he says in french.

that makes her look up, and she smiles at him, reaching out her hand.

“hello, my sweet,” she says warmly, and he reaches out and squeezes her hand carefully—he has an irrational fear that one day, if he forgets his strength, if he squeezes too hard, he’ll snap the delicate little bones in her frail hand easier than blinking. she switches to french. “did you have fun at school?”

he scowls, settling in the rocking chair beside hers, separate by an end table that’s teeming with books. “it’s school, grand-mère.”

“that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun,” she says. “did you learn anything interesting, at least?”

that logan sanders is just as unsurprisingly terrible at comfort that one would expect?

instead, he says, “we’re supposed to start reading sula for homework today.”

she brightens, as he knew she would—his grandmother adores all things toni morrison—and they begin talking about books, and other works by toni morrison, and their favorite parts of said books, which eats up the better part of the fifteen minutes it takes nanny to deliver the tea tray to the greenhouse.

“thank you, nanny,” evelyn says, still in french. nanny nods—she’s fluent in spanish and portuguese and english, not quite in french, but she knows enough to get by in a conversation—and withdraws from the room without a word.

dee swiftly takes the teapot before his grandmother can attempt to pour it herself—her plus a heavy pot of near-boiling water was a hospital visit waiting to happen—and switches to english, saying, “would you mind plating some of the battenburg for me, granmè?”

“as long as you have a crumpet,” she says. “you’re a growing boy, noodle.”

“yes, yes, fine,” he sighs, pretending to be put-upon at both the pet name and the insistence of somewhat healthy eating. “a crumpet too, then.”

he fixes her cup as she likes it—two sugars, a splash of cream—and trades her teacup and saucer for a plate of snacks before he works on making his own tea and she arranges her own plate. he notices that she has reached for none of the savory options, instead opting entirely for sweets.

dee hides his smirk in his tea. 

they continue chit-chatting about all kinds of things as they work their way slowly through tea, a holdover from his english grandfather. even though grand-mère’s french, she’s too fond of teacakes and snacking in general to really do away with it, even nearly two decades after his passing. they talk about the azaleas (yes, they look exceptional this year) running the household (bertie was going to visit his grandchildren next week, yes he’d make sure bertie would pass on her hellos, yes he’ll manage fine without him, it’s not like nanny and martha and ingrid won’t be here) and his academics (yes, he thinks the semester’s going well.)

they talk about everything except the thing that’s weighing most heavily on his mind. 

she might not know. she might not even remember.

dee pushes that thought away. once they’ve finished their tea, he excuses himself to do his homework, leaving her to her book and her admiration of the lilies, and nanny smoothly institutes herself in his chair, with the guise of a magazine to make it seem like she wasn’t supervising his grandmother.

dee picks up his capelet, gloves, and backpack on his way up to his room. back at the manor, he has a whole wing, but here he just has his room. it suffices.

he sits on the bed, briefly, in sight of the full-length, gilt-edged mirror, to sweep the capelet back around his shoulders and ensure that it’s sitting on him properly; he could probably get away with taking off his binder, as he’s home and they aren’t expecting visitors, except he very much does not want to do that right now. he pulls on his gloves, covering his vitiligo-ridden left hand first; his dermatologist swears his particular case is segmental, which typically doesn’t expand with time, but it feels like it has been.

but then again, it is just his left side affected. so. perhaps the woman who’d been to school for twelve years and was a specialist in his particular condition was right.

dee toes off his loafers, debating crossing the room and entering his walk-in closet to store them properly on the shoe rack, but decides against it—the singular item of clutter makes his room seem a little more lived-in.

it’s not that he doesn’t like his room here; they hired decorators to redo it back when his grandmother moved in and he started spending more time here, years ago, so the walls are a subtle shade of gold, with an accent wall plastered with an art-deco black-and-gold theme was behind his bed. his bed is massive and plush. everywhere he looks, things are black, gold, and white, in that order of frequency.

it’s just not very… well. lived-in.

his room at the manor house is worse, though. just about the only thing he likes there is the aesthetic of the gold. the chandelier and tufted wall and personal tv and absurdist decor that screamed “this is too expensive for you to even look at!” he could do without.

he might have to look at it all the more, soon. he’s dreading it.

“homework,” he reminds himself, “homework.”

he makes a beeline for his desk, where his snakes are settled in their vivarium, all lazily sunning themselves under the heat lamp, tangled together in a loose pile.

“layabouts, the lot of you,” dee informs them. luke, leia, and han do not seem to care.

dee settles at his desk, getting out his agenda, his books, and his notebooks. he gets out his favorite pen and sits, ready to get started on his to-do list for the day.

and that’s where his brain stops focusing on school, and starts focusing on what happened at school.

there are several locations in chilton that seem like they were designed specifically for crying.

the most popular ones are the almost-always abandoned bathrooms near the journalism lab were a good bet for most, with the stress of deadlines; and, considering they tended to share with the chemistry and biology labs, that was tripled, and therefore the most commonly-used choice. it wasn’t uncommon for med-school-aiming seniors to duck out around finals week and return after a carefully scheduled five-minute crying break, red-rimmed around the eyes. most were polite enough not to mention it to their faces.

then there was the kiln room; considering it was mostly empty, all bare walls and concrete, excepting for the periods of time where there were ceramics classes or art club, of course, it went mostly empty, and tended to be the discerning choice for arts-inclined students.

and then there was the option that he had opted for today; steal into the senior’s lounge, near the rear exit of the school, and hunker up into the most hidden corner, giving himself until the bell for the next class bell rings to have his breakdown where no one, not nanny or ingrid or bertie or martha or god forbid granmè would be able to hear him, the urge he’s been holding in since he descended from a lie-in yesterday morning to see his parents both sitting at the table. at granmè’s house. to speak to him.

which, really, was never a good sign in the first place, but even for his parents it was a particularly fucking terrible—

the exit door opens.

shit. shit.

dee hastily uses the ends of his capelet to wipe at his eyes and then rummages in his backpack, yanking out the first book he lays hands on, hoping against hope that he can pass it off as skipping class, he can manage that, his reputation wouldn’t even take a hit for that, whereas if someone like louise fucking grant caught him crying—

“are you skipping class?”

dee makes a show of glancing up, nonchalant, at the person who’s spoken.

“are you?” dee contests. logan sanders shakes his head, his hands braced on his backpack straps.

“no,” he says, then, “the bus popped a tire on the way to school.”

“another count against the bus,” dee murmurs, and he turns his attention back to the book, feigning a loss of interest.

logan has not walked away. in fact, he’s walking closer. dee clears his throat, hoping that he won’t get close enough to see his puffy, red-rimmed eyes. he’d specifically planned this particular crying jag so no one would see his puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

“are you skipping class?” logan repeats. dee stifles a curse. damn journalist.

“so what if i am?” dee says, and he might have pulled off his airy tone, if his voice hadn’t cracked on the last word. dee coughs, to cover it, but now logan is walking closer.

“were you… crying?” logan says uncertainly.

“no,” dee lies. and honestly, getting caught might be worth it for the expressions that wars across logan’s face—pained awkwardness overwhelms it, but there’s concern, and discomfort, and a sense of do i have to, and honestly, if dee wasn’t in such a shitty mood it would be pretty funny.

“may i sit?”

“will you listen if i say no?”

“probably not,” logan admits. “even if you weren’t crying, which i’m pretty sure you were—”

“—i wasn’t—” 

“—your attendance is as good as mine, i’d still want to know why you were skipping class.”

dee makes a show of sighing, but shoves his backpack a little further away and scoots further into the corner. logan nods, settling his backpack beside dee’s, and sits close to dee. not quite side-by-side, but just far enough away that it’s clear he’s offering dee the choice to lean closer. it’s strangely thoughtful. he remembers, distantly, logan at his birthday party; he’d ducked hugs a lot of the time, only accepting it when he couldn’t substitute a handshake. he wonders if logan doesn’t like physical contact, and tucks away the idea of investigating that for potential use later.

logan pauses, before he says, almost kindly, “the book’s giving you away. you’re reading the scarlet letter. we read that last quarter. i highly doubt you’d be rereading it. you made your dislike known enough as we were reading it, not that i blame you for finding it dull and archaic. it is dull and archaic.”

dee bites back a curse as he makes a show of glancing at the book. he knew he should have cleaned out his backpack after midterms, but no, he’d been too busy—

“i like the scarlet letter,” dee lies, and logan looks at him, arching an eyebrow.

“try again.”

“what?” dee says. “i could.”

“you literally overrode class one day to complain, at length, about how stupid the plot is, how overblown and over-long the prose is, and that hawthorne desperately needed an editor. which i agree with, by the way.”

“well,” dee says. “i could still like it.”

“please,” logan scoffs.

he turns the book in his hands and reduces a shudder. god, what a terrible book. he’ll toss it as soon as he gets home.

“well, i like sleep,” dee says lightly, “and one should always have sleep-inducing material on hand. it’s remarkably effective. i like it for that reason, how about that?” 

logan smiles, with a little hum of acknowledgement. a i don’t believe you but i think your excuse is funny enough that i won’t press you on it hum. dee’s heard it many times.

they sit in silence for a couple minutes. long enough that dee thinks that he’s going to get away with it—if they’re quiet until second period, then dee can steal away and have an excuse ready by lunch, if need be.

except logan clears his throat, and dee braces himself.

“if you’d like to… talk,” he says stiffly, and he coughs again. “i am—here. clearly. not just physically, as i am now, but as a means of support. i suppose.”

dee rolls his eyes. “how convincing,” he says, and ignored how clogged-up his voice sounds, all of a sudden.

“yes, well,” logan says. “of the many things my father’s taught me, one thing he apparently hasn’t been able to pass down is being particularly good at navigating these… emotional kinds of conversations is not one of them.”

dee would laugh at the look on logan’s face when he says emotional, if his brain wasn’t stuck on my father. 

“your dad,” dee says, a strange tone in his voice, before he can stop himself.

logan’s dad, who was raised in this environment, in this world, and, somehow, had managed to be openly, proudly trans.

logan’s dad, who had been trans, without his parents attempting to publicly interfere with the way he presented himself.

must be nice.

“yes,” logan says cautiously. “what about my dad?”

dee takes a deep breath, and, immediately, two concepts begin to war in his mind.

don’t tell him, one side screams. the whole reason you’re out here is because you don’t want people to see weakness!

he has access to a unique perspective that, to your knowledge, is only shared by yourself and that other person, he argues with himself. and the largest part of this that would be kept secret, he already knows. and you have blackmail in hand if he were to suddenly confess with this additional quest for information.

dee lets out his breath. he says, “does your dad talk about the way it was for him? back then.”

logan stiffens, ever so slightly, in surprise.

“not often,” he says, the cautiousness still lingering in his tone. “he’s only ever really told me a little; bits and pieces. not details, you understand, but…”

logan pauses, collecting his thoughts. dee almost snaps at him to hurry up; usually, logan’s a decent enough public speaker, but the whole dramatic pause thing he did sometimes was really quite annoying.

“i know that it wasn’t easy, for him,” logan says. “that in part, the reaction helped fuel his desire to run away, in addition to my existence and the further stigma that’s associated with that. there are likely old issues of the jefferson that could provide the nastier details; i’ve given him my word i wouldn’t seek them out. i don’t particularly want to. in addition to the writing skills of the jefferson being terrible, i am not particularly inclined to read transphobia and terrible rumors about anyone, much less my father.”

another pause. then, “he had a bonfire for all his dresses and skirts.”

dee turns to him, startled. logan’s dad? that soft little puffball?

“i know,” logan says, seemingly agreeing with how out-of-character it seemed. “my other father—christopher—helped. he’s been saving stories of his various teenage rebellions, too. he used to be rather…” a brief hesitation. “a rabble-rouser.”

dee snorts. it sounds very snotty and terrible and he immediately wishes he hadn’t.

(also—well, dee had known that logan was technically a hayden, it was just he hadn’t really heard logan outwardly express it, ever. he knows that christopher is located in california, somewhere. he wonders how logan handles that. something to look into.)

“why do you ask?” logan says.

“you know why.” 

“all right, that was poorly phrased,” logan says. “why ask about this now?”

dee hesitates. logan adds, awkwardly, “if you don’t want to answer—”

“it’s… fine,” dee says stiffly. he clears his throat. he looks at his shoes.

logan is one of the smartest people you know, he reminds himself. he wouldn’t tell. he knows you’d immediately move to destroy him if he told.

keeping his eyes on his toes, he says, forcefully light, “my parents have entered me into the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball. apparently, they’ve decided to stop humoring this phase i am going through, as i am now sixteen, it is time to cease such childish rebellion and enter society properly, as a—” dee stops, abruptly.

“as a gender which you are not,” logan finishes for him. his voice is very, very quiet.

dee clears his throat, and redirects his gaze from his shoes to the wall across from them. he’s very conscious of logan’s eyes on him, examining him, staring at his face for any sign of weakness.

“dee,” he begins, haltingly.

“it doesn’t matter,” dee says, except for the fact that it very much does matter. 

“that’s not,” logan begins, then, “i don’t,” and then, a frustrated sigh, before he says, “i’m sorry.”

“don’t,” dee snaps. “i don’t want your pity.”

“the definition of pity is the feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the suffering and misfortunes of others,” logan snaps back. “as a fellow member of the lgbtq community, of course i feel sorrow and compassion at the information that someone does not have the support of their parents, and that lack of support will cause that someone will be outed publicly without their consent.”

dee doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to stare at the wall. his jaw is clenched so tightly he thinks his teeth might break from the pressure.

“is there anything i can do?” logan says stiffly.

dee keeps his eyes on the wall. ���no,” he bites out.

they sit in awkward silence for a few more seconds. it feels like an hour. then:

“what if i stopped it?”

dee scoffs.

“what?” logan says.

“please,” dee says. “it’s the dar debutante ball.”

“we can get you out of it.”

“the bill’s already paid,” dee says. 

“then we’ll stop the ball,” logan says.

“i’m sorry, have you met the ilk of your grandmother and her friends?” dee says pointedly. “you think you’re going to rob them of the chance to trot their precious little darlings around in a circle for all the men to drool over?”

logan’s back straightens. dee, finally, turns to look at him.

it’s like dee can see the lightbulb go off over his head.

“what?” dee says.

“nothing,” logan says, except he’s smiling.

“what,” dee snaps.

“nothing,” logan repeats. “it’s just—i might have an idea.”

“might,” dee repeats.

“might,” logan agrees. he’s clearly about to say more, but the bell rings, and there’s the beginning of shuffling steps that means people will emerge into the hallways. logan scrambles to his feet, swinging his backpack over his shoulder, before, belatedly, offering a hand to dee.

dee considers it. he accepts. logan helps haul him to his feet.

“your idea,” dee says, picking up his own backpack.

“you’ll see,” logan says, and dee huffs at him, before beginning to head off to his next class—

“dee?”

dee turns, and logan offers an awkward little facial expression that might be a smile.

“if you want to talk about it—”

“we aren’t friends,” dee says, cutting off whatever platitude that he’s clearly building up to. an idea. probably a lie to try and make dee feel better.

“i know that,” logan says, firmly. “but if you ever do… want to talk about it.”

“i will,” dee says, and tacks on, “if i want to.”

“okay.”

“but i probably won’t.”

“that’s fine.”

dee hesitates. “but if i do—”

“i’m around,” logan says simply. 

“i doubt i will,” dee says, attempting to resume his haughty expression.

“you know where to find me, if you do,” logan says. 

dee rolls his eyes, as if that conversation was very trying and not something that threatens to create an even bigger lump in his throat, and resumes his route to his science class.

“mister slange, dinner!” nanny calls, and dee startles. he clears his throat and puts down his pen, rising to his feet.

“coming, nanny!” he calls down the stairs.

find him. right. like the idea of talking to logan sanders about anything else in his life is even slightly appealing.

no, he tells himself. the idea of getting to know logan sanders? maybe even becoming something other than rivals? not even a little bit nice.

⁂

as soon as virgil comes out of the kitchen, roman has this Look on his face that makes virgil immediately say “no.”

“you don’t even know what i’m asking yet!” roman protests.

“i can tell you’re plotting something just by the look on your face,” virgil says.

“ah, but technically i’m not the one plotting, logan is,” roman says, and, well. that’s outside the norm. roman tends to be the plotter of the things that give roman That Look on his face, the one that reminds virgil only a little painfully of remus.

“okay, why am i involved in the thing that logan’s plotting?”

“patton’s in on it too,” roman points out. “and, uh, my mom.”

virgil pauses, contemplates, and says, “i don’t know if that’s a warning sign or not.”

“well, logan and i can explain when patton and him get here for dinner,” roman says. “in the meantime—”

“please don’t order something that will make your mom kill me for violating your meal plan too terribly, i don’t think i’ve recovered from last friday,” virgil says wearily.

“ugh, fine,” roman says, and orders something that is at least passably healthy, which he could really teach to his boyfriend and—and virgil’s boyfriend.

virgil’s boyfriend, patton. nope, even after two and a half months, it’s still bizarre in the best possible way.

by the time virgil puts roman’s order in, and carries out about three more, he’s carting a tray across the diner as the bell jangles and two familiar faces walk in.

“hey,” patton says, and leans in to give him a brief, welcoming kiss. habit. routine. thrilling. patton runs a thumb along virgil’s stubble, grinning at him.

“hey yourself,” virgil says, and jerks his head. “roman’s in a booth over there, and apparently i have a plot to be brought in on?”

and then patton… puffs up with pride? literally, puffs up. whenever he’s proud of logan, his posture gets better and he puffs his chest out a little and his chin tilts up, like logan achieving something is an achievement for patton, makes him more confident in himself. virgil guesses a lot of logan’s achievements owe at least a little credit to patton’s parenting, though, so it’s a fair trade. logan doesn’t seem to be complaining.

“that you do,” patton says, a little smug.

“okay then,” virgil says. “brainstorm your pitch and i’ll be right over.”

he drops off dinner orders—mrs. torres and a gaggle of other older ladies who coo and giggle and wave to roman, who blows kisses back, because he’s the default adopted son/grandson for any active older woman in town—before he sidles up to the sanders/prince booth.

“right, okay, orders, then plot,” virgil says, flipping to a new page in his notepad and clicking his pen.

patton and logan put in their orders—virgil successfully convinces them both to trade in something unhealthy for either a salad (patton) or a side of vegetables (logan)—which he notes dutifully, before he slides in beside patton in the booth.

“okay,” virgil says, and he nudges patton. “pitch.”

“my idea, actually,” logan pipes up, and virgil obligingly turns his attention to the younger sanders.

“so,” logan says, folding his hands. “i am coming out.”

“um,” virgil says, dropping his gaze pointedly to where roman’s resting his hand on logan’s wrist. “you did that. like, eight years ago.”

“that’s what i said,” patton says, pleased.

“let me rephrase,” logan says, and his nose wrinkles. “i am coming out in the sense of the viennese waltz, i will be deemed of good breeding and marriageable age, must have dowry, seeking males with a trust fund, fluffy white dresses, et cetera.”

“oh, jesus christ,” virgil says. “what friend roped you into being an escort for this thing? because that is not a friend.”

“keep listening,” patton chides, a laugh in his tone.

“well, that’s the thing,” logan says. “i’m not going to be an escort.”

virgil considers this for a moment. “i’m not following.”

“logan’s creating an army to charge upon the daughters of the american revolution so we can destroy the patriarchy,” roman says, bright and perky.

“i’m recruiting like-minded members of the next generation to make a statement about gender equality,” logan corrects. “in other words: i shall be the one with a dowry, seeking males with a trust fund, in a fluffy white dress.”

“uh.”

“me too,” roman says sunnily. “i’m going to be wearing a fluffy white dress, too. plus a ton of other kids in our grade—the idea’s really caught on. ooh, logan, we can recruit some of the dance girls as escorts!”

virgil tries to picture it: a group of boys in dresses, girls in tuxes, gasping, scandalized rich people. the idea brings a smile to his face.

“oh, good idea, we should send put a sign-up sheet in the studio,” logan says.

“wait, you said i was going to be involved,” virgil says, his brain catching up with him. “where do i fit into all that?”

“well,” patton says. “isadora and i decided to set up a kind of etiquette-and-dance crash-course day for all the kids involved, because despite my best efforts i have not purged the viennese waltz or my numerous etiquette lessons from my mind—”

“you, cultured?” virgil teases, and patton smacks virgil’s arm playfully.

“with no help from you, thank you very much,” patton says. “anyway. since isadora and i are teaching the kids, and there will be an influx of fluffy white dresses and tuxes…”

it clicks. “alterations.”

“got it in one,” patton says cheerfully.

virgil’s a pretty decent tailor, for an amateur—he’s done his fair share of hemming dance costumes, or fixing suits, even some emergency repairs for some wedding dresses, over the years. he’s about to say something along the line of are you sure i should do this, i don’t think i’m qualified for something so fancy but then he catches the hopeful look on logan and roman’s faces, and—

“all right, fine,” virgil says, and he stands. “just let me know when and where, yeah?”

logan grins at him, and roman chirps a thank you, and patton giggles, soft, as virgil makes his way back for the kitchen.

fancy debutante tailor. he guesses he can handle that. it’s not really a step outside of the norm, so it’s not like he’s doing anything super out there, like the kids are.

virgil thought too soon.

by the time he re-emerges from the kitchen, ready to wipe down the counters, patton and logan are at the table finishing up the last of their meals, and roman’s at the counter, shifting his weight from foot to foot, eyes snapping to him. 

“hey,” virgil says. “you need a refill of water? because i’m telling you now, if you’re going to try for dessert, you may as well give up now��”

roman rolls his eyes. “no. it’s about the debutante ball.”

“okay,” virgil says, and tosses his towel over his shoulder. “what about it?”

“it, um,” roman says, and clears his throat. “ugh. apparently, your father’s supposed to present you at the ceremony.”

“oh,” virgil says. 

“and, um, since i don’t really have a dad,” roman begins.

“i could alter a tux for your mom?” virgil suggests. “since everyone’s already doing the whole ‘screw gender’ thing anyway.”

“i—no, no, she’s probably going to do backstage stuff to make sure that the sideshire kids aren’t spooked by the rich people,” roman says. “plus, she’d hate wearing a tux.”

“yeah, fair enough,” virgil says. he thinks the only time he’s really seen her dressed up is when she has to, during a recital or performance or something. “okay. i could help with the tux of… i forget his name, what’s that guy who was your one-on-one instructor during the nutcracker? sergio, right? i could drive you to visit sergio—“

“sergio is in portugal,” roman says, looking an odd mixture of helpless, amused, and frustrated. “y’know. where he’s from?”

“oh,” virgil says. “um, there’s always taylor? you know he’d be super into the whole pomp and circumstance thing.”

“taylor,” roman says. “virgil. you of all people. recommend taylor.”

“i know, okay, i know, but i’m kind of coming up blank here,” virgil says. 

“coming up blank?” roman repeats, the frustrated part becoming more clear.

“i’m trying here,” virgil says. “you could—”

“oh, for god’s sake, dumb-utante, i’m trying to ask you to escort me,” roman snaps. 

virgil’s jaw drops. just a little. 

“oh,” he says.

roman flushes a brilliantly bright red, and looks down at his shoes.

“i—just, whatever, okay, you don’t have to,” he mutters, and scuffs the toe of his shoe over the diner floor. he needs new ones—the white, rubbery part of his converse is overrun with mud and sharpie doodles, the aglets frayed, part of the high-top worn from where roman grabs it to shove his foot into it every morning discolored. 

remus used to wear green converse, sometimes, the most casual in his extensive collection of costume-style clothes. he remembers telling roman this, when roman was pretty little and ms. prince had enlisted virgil to take roman out for back-to-school shopping, and virgil had bought roman his first pair. he’d been little, then. six, he thinks. maybe seven. they’d gotten ice cream after. roman had gotten rum raisin, and virgil ended up having to eat the rest of it when roman pronounced it “ucky” and roman had ended up getting his usual chocolate-cherry. virgil had made roman pinky-promise that he would get a small one, so he wouldn’t spoil his dinner.

but roman prefers high-tops, and remus had always gotten classic chucks. roman loves red, and remus loved green. 

they’re different, remus and roman. like night and day. it still makes virgil feel a little strange whenever he thinks about how much longer he’s known roman than he’d known remus—really, it had topped out a few years ago, much longer if virgil was just considering how long he and remus had been friends. so much of his relationship with roman was built on the basis of being the last of remus’ friends still in sideshire, other than ms. prince, and so he was one of the only ones who could tell roman about his dad. do what his dad would have done.

remus probably would have bought roman his first pair of chucks when roman was a baby, those little tiny shoes that can sit comfortably in the palm of virgil’s hand with plenty of space to spare.

but remus is dead, and so buying roman his first pair of signature red shoes had fallen to virgil.

basically everything remus would have loved to do with his son had fallen to virgil, really, if ms. prince hadn’t taken care of it first.

apparently, your father’s supposed to present you at the ceremony.

“no,” virgil says, strangely choked up. “that’s—that’s a good idea. cool. i can, um. i can do that.”

“really?” roman asked, eyes snapping up from his shoes. he smiles like remus when he’s plotting, that much is true, but when he smiles when he’s just happy—all virgil can see is roman.

“yeah, sure,” virgil says, and then he coughs into his elbow to clear whatever’s lodged in his throat. “just, uh. just keep me updated on, y’know. details.”

roman’s grin grows a bit more delighted, a bit more remus-like. “are you crying?”

“what? no,” virgil scoffs.

“because you sound like you’re about to start crying.”

“i was chopping onions,” virgil says lamely. “this has nothing to do with you.”

“oh, i better check my calendar again, i didn’t realize it was opposite day,” roman says gleefully.

“you’re the most obnoxious teenager i’ve ever met,” virgil says, and roman laughs, even as he’s backing away, slowly, toward the door. virgil rolls his eyes, and moves to wipe down the counters.

“and you have to wear a tux!” roman calls, and virgil’s head snaps up.

“wait, what, no way—“

“shave off the five o’clock shadow, too, i won’t be looking scruffy by comparison!” roman calls, opening the door. virgil scowls, rubbing a hand along his face—yes, he goes stubbly sometimes, especially during winters or when he’s busy, but he doesn’t look bad with facial hair, he just looks a bit off today because he woke up late—and the reality hits him. a tux. dressing fancy. being involved in a high society ceremony.

“the tux is bad enough!”

“you’re forgetting the tails, the cumberbun, plus white gloves!“ roman says, ticking it off on his fingers.

“i take it back!” virgil calls. “i’m not doing this anymore!”

“too late, i already signed you up!” roman shouts, and disappears from the diner before virgil can yell at him anymore.

a tux. tails. white gloves.

a cumberbun.

dammit, of course roman would manage to net him into some kind of makeover.

⁂

it’s been a shitty day so far. 

something kept interrupting his sleep last night, so when he finally managed to get to sleep, he slept through his alarm. granmè was already having a bad memory day, repeatedly calling out for her dead husband and not recognizing nanny, which means she probably won’t recognize him, so he had to keep out of their way, and as he was walking out the door he saw bertie holding up something ensconced in a garment bag, lips pursed in disapproval, whose length could only mean the arrival of a fluffy white dress, a nice reminder of the thing that dee was dreading.

and it isn’t even eight yet.

“move,” dee snarls to the particularly amorous couple blocking the path to his locker—really, people, it was seven forty-five in the morning, did they always have to start the day attempting to tie their tongues together?—and they shuffle aside, to a vacant stretch of wall, presumably to resume their excessive pda.

dee rolls his eyes. typical.

except—

“slange,” one of the makeout participants says. dee ignores him, placing the books he’d had to bring home for homework in and pulling out the books he’d need for his morning classes.

“hey, slange, i’m talking to you,” he repeats. 

dee rolls his eyes with all the sarcasm he can muster, and directs his gaze to them; summer, absently wiping some stray lipgloss off with her finger, and tristan, leaning over.

“what,” dee says, in the crispest tone he possibly can.

“didn’t take you for a troublemaker,” tristan says, grinning still; dee notes, sourly, that summer could probably spare some energy to wipe off the sticky lip gloss on tristan’s chin, too. 

“excuse me.”

“oh, right, right,” tristan says, and rolls his eyes. “fighting the patriarchy, excuse me. hey, if that excuse is enough to make it look good on your college resume, you wouldn’t happen to know how to—”

“you already know all the people in our grade who write papers for a fee, dugray,” dee says, already exhausted and snippy and—he hates to even admit it to himself—confused. “take it up with henry, if you must. and wipe off your face before you go to class, you have holographic glossier smeared everywhere. it’ll give you away to julia, she doesn’t wear lipgloss.”

summer gapes at him, and immediately begins to screech something along the lines of “what is that supposed to mean, i knew you didn’t block her like i told you to!” but dee’s already tuning it out, slamming the locker door shut and making his way to homeroom. frankly, summer should have dumped tristan the second he told her that she wasn’t allowed to talk to other boys. the pair of them were toxic together—half the material he had on tristan were things that he wouldn’t want summer to know.

the other half would, if it made its way to the right hands, get him sent off to military school.

dee’s saving most of the rest of that for when he gets really annoyed with tristan.

he might be there in ten minutes if he didn’t get an answer—what did tristan mean, trouble-making? and tristan dugray, fighting the patriarchy. please. tristan’s as emblematic of a toxic, rich, straight white boy that there could be. tristan adores all the trappings of the patriarchy; it better allows him to pursue whatever girl he wanted into being his girl of the week, despite the fact that they weren’t particularly wanting to be his girl of the week, whenever he and summer were on a break (and, most of the time, when they weren’t.)

except that isn’t even the only time.

henry, dermot, lem—even shy little brad, who usually breaks out into cold sweats at the sight of him since the whole theater incident in sixth grade, seem to be attempting to make eye contact with him as he walks down the hall, like they were in with him, or something. like they were suddenly friends.

dee stews, furious, at the very idea they could know something about him that he doesn’t know—until he sees lisa approaching logan sanders, who seems to be loading up his backpack.

dee frowns. logan wouldn’t like lisa—well, obviously, he’s gay, but also, lisa subscribes to her parents’ politics, including the epithets of “fake news,” and he’s pretty sure that alone would spring logan into a furious tirade like little else could.

dee pauses.

fight the patriarchy, tristan had said. trouble making.

“what if i stopped it?”

and then he moves immediately toward the locker.

“—long as you don’t say why, then yes, of course,” logan says.

“duh!” lisa chirps. “hilarious, lo-lo, seriously.”

logan’s face twists up as politely as he can manage at the sound of a cutesy nickname, but he can’t really say anything, since lisa’s already flouncing off to be discriminatory and heartless on her parents’ orders.

presumably.

“what,” dee says, “was that.”

“i know,” logan says, turning back to his locker. “lo-lo. what am i, a puppy?”

“not that,” dee says. “you know she’s—”

“a terrible person who stands against everything i am, yes,” logan says mildly. “but she’s wealthy and has a fair amount of—” a near-sneaky glance at a notecard in his hand— “clout, amongst the puffs.”

“the puffs?” dee repeats, his voice already sounding strange.

“you know, the secret sorority,” he says nonchalantly. “one of them, at least, and certainly the most desired to join—”

“i know who the puffs are,” dee says, in a tone that clearly denotes do you think i’m stupid, i’ve gone to this school for longer than you have.

“ah,” logan says. “right. well, i would have gone through francie jarvis, who is less diametrically opposed to—” he makes a sweeping gesture up and down his body, “but she was absent yesterday, so. lisa was the obvious in.”

“why do you need an in with the puffs?” dee says. 

logan glances up and down the hall—god, way to show off you’re discussing something sensitive—before he pulls a leaflet out of his backpack, handing it to dee.

FIGHT THE PATRIARCHY!

dee skims it, and feels his eyebrows rise higher and higher, even as his throat gets disturbingly closed up.

“i noticed that a lot of the puffs are due for their debutante ball,” logan explains, even as dee stares at the—the excuse, the excuse that logan’s pulling for this elaborate ruse, that, if it works—

i won’t be outed.

dee swallows, hard. he folds the leaflet back up, and clears his throat.

“the puffs are a decent enough start,” he says, voice perhaps a bit thicker than normal. “as they’re the most socially prized secret society at chilton, it was a good place to begin—people will want to emulate them, especially those who are attempting to get puffed. mostly freshmen, but there are a few sophomores who are sixteen that’ll join. but you need to pivot your focus—the old crows and the skull and dagger would probably gain more participants per club capita.”

“old crows?” logan says uncertainly.

“the secret society for a select few seniors,” dee says. “who have likely already had a coming out, but it’s not uncommon to do multiple. skull and dagger would probably love an excuse to cause chaos, but that’s sorted, so long as you bother tristan some more. and if you’re going to come at it from the fight patriarchy angle, you’re going to need to get the clairosophic society involved.”

“the…?”

“another secret sorority,” dee says. “do you only know the puffs?”

logan abruptly looks sheepish, and dee sighs, put-upon.

“well,” he says. “clearly, you need my help pulling this off. of all the secret societies at this school, only ten are worth mentioning—”

“only ten?!”

“—so we can get people through those,” dee says, “and yes, ten, i thought you were a journalist, aren’t you supposed to know how to research these sorts of things?”

“well,” logan says. “i’ve already gotten a group of kids from sideshire, but clearly, i’ll need your help on the social side at chilton.”

a beat, and then, uncertain, “if you’re okay with this.”

dee stares at him for a long few seconds.

“if this works,” dee says carefully, trying to directly telepathically communicate i am okay with you attempting to cover for me like this, please count me in, “you’re going to have a hell of a college essay on your hands.”

a grin breaks out on logan’s face.

“as if i don’t have three drafts written already,” he says, and dee allows himself to grin back at him.

“now,” he says. “the clairs,” and logan readies a notebook, and, if dee were at all prone to clichés, he might say something like, this is the start to a beautiful partnership.

but he isn’t. obviously.

⁂

logan has his game face on.

patton’s seen this face countless times before; before he walks into mayor porter’s office to demand answers beyond pr statements, before they entered charleston’s office his first day at chilton, when coming face-to-face taylor after his latest piece that critiqued the way he handles town government.

he’s seen it while they were driving to the exact same place, too; before holiday parties, before birthday dinners, before the first-ever friday night dinner. but he hasn’t pulled up to the sanders’ mansion looking like that in months.

patton puts the car in park, removes the keys, and wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers for what must be the dozenth time that night.

“i’m on your side,” patton reminds him. 

“i know,” logan says and opens the car door, ready to storm up to the door and… well. tell emily that he was going to join the debutante ball.

which she’d probably be thrilled with, if he was the one escorting a girl in a white dress.

it would almost be a little funny to think about, if he wasn’t so nervous—emily expecting patton to go through a debutante ball in a fluffy dress, only to be derailed by the fact that he wasn’t a girl and, you know, the teen pregnancy; emily then expecting logan to escort a lovely young lady on his arm only to be turned around by logan doing it in a fluffy dress.

patton wipes his hands off on his pants again before he rings the doorbell. 

he has never seen the woman who answers the door before.

which isn’t surprising; new maids crop up at his parents’ house like weeds. he’s really hoping that therapy would help make a dent in that habit of his mother’s, but no dice yet.

“hi,” patton says, as kindly as possible—he always tries to be as kind as possible to the maids, just to make up for whatever future tiny offense that they might get fired for. one time he got grounded for two weeks for helping esperanza polish silver and practice his spanish. poor esperanza, he’d liked her.

plus, ever since the whole “being a homeless housekeeper” thing, his sympathy had really only escalated for them—he feels a level of solidarity, even if he’s not a housekeeper anymore.

“hello,” the maid says; she has an accent, patton thinks probably german. she’s blonde, and patton can see only half her face from the way she’s practically hiding behind the door.

“you’re new?” patton asks, and she nods.

“okay, well, hi,” patton says, offering a hand to shake. “i’m patton—”

she shakes his hand hurriedly, before pulling back further into the house.

“—and that’s my son, logan. what’s your name?”

“liesl.”

“hi, liesl,” he says warmly. “i’m emily and richard’s son, she’s expecting us for dinner?”

“oh! please, come in,” she says, flustered, opening the door further. 

“i, uh,” she says, “can i, um. get you a drink?”

“you know what, that’s okay!” patton says brightly. “we can handle it.”

a pause, before patton says in an undertone, “if you’d like to hide in the kitchen before my mother gets down here, please go for it.”

a look of relief breaks out on her face. “really?”

patton nods.

“thank you,” she exhales, and scuttles off to relative safety.

logan waits until she rounds the corner, before he says, “she won’t last another day.”

patton sighs, moving to hang his coat on the rack. he would tell logan that’s not a very nice thing to say, if he wasn’t right about it. “i know, poor thing.”

as they continued into the living room, patton could hear his mother coming down the stairs; less than a few seconds later, she rounded the corner, landline phone firmly affixed to her ear.

“—don’t forget that the dar meeting’s on tuesday, it’s at three o’clock and all the women are extremely punctual…”

emily makes eye contact with patton to roll her eyes, as if to curse the entire customer service industry; patton shrugs at her, just a little, before he lightly bumps logan’s shoulder and murmurs “soda?”

logan nods, drifting off to investigate the latest influx of tiny figurines that definitely weren’t there last week, and patton goes to the drinks cart to prep their drinks for the evening.

her mother’s talking about heddy cubbington—ah, so she’s talking to a caterer, then—and patton leans into her line of vision just enough to wiggle a bottle of gin at her, mouthing “martini?”

okay, he might try and make it a smidge stronger than usual. honestly, if she’s a bit off her game from more gin than usual, then maybe she won’t freak out as badly as patton is kind of expecting her to!

but regardless, his mother nods, even as she’s telling the caterer about her very precise tasting methods that they’ll have to follow to a t, and patton reacquaints himself with the process of preparing a martini exactly as his mother likes it—there was a stint of about a month or so when the hotel’s bar staff was incredibly short, way back in the day, so he picked up a few cocktail tricks here and there. 

he wonders if he could still manage to do a lidless shaker flip without spilling anything.

before he can try, though—and probably hear his mother’s outcry about trying his absolute hardest to stain her rug—his mother hangs up on the phone with a fervor, rolling her eyes as she did so.

“honestly, sometimes it’s like the only person with any sense,” she huffs. 

patton hums, carefully straining the martini into one of the coupes. he would do a martini glass, but those tend to spill more, the coupes hold more liquid, and she prefers the material of the coupes anyway—less likely to have fingerprint smudges, which also means one less thing to use to potentially snap at poor liesl. “troubles with the dar, mom?”

(okay, so maybe he’s busting out his old tricks to put his mother in a good mood—there’s almost nothing his mother likes more than gossiping and snipping at the members of the dar that aren’t pulling their weight, and once she’s expelled a bit of energy ranting like that, it usually meant less energy could be spent ranting at him.)

she sighs, settling on her usual spot on the couch. “constance betterton is running this event into the ground—” patton presses the martini into her hand, and she looks startled, momentarily, before thanks him briefly and continues on her tirade, including the perils of unsold tables and constance’s absolute inability to plan a function. 

patton hands over logan’s soda and directs him to the couch before he can crack open any books of interest, because logan will probably spend most of the dinner ignoring them if that happens, and since richard is on a business trip again that means it will be just him and his mom, and with how nervous he is over logan’s upcoming proposal he absolutely cannot do that, and then he goes and makes himself a plain club soda because him drinking sounds like a not-great idea right now.

by the time that particular train of conversation runs out of steam, it’s enough to carry them to the dining room. 

“so, logan,” emily says, as liesl attempts to set a land speed record for serving salads in her quest to get back to the kitchen, “is there anything new in your life?”

patton’s pretty sure that it would be impossible to pick up on who’s more nervous, him or liesl.

“there is, actually,” logan says, somehow entirely unfazed. “dee slange—you remember, you took me out to lunch with him and his grandmother evelyn—”

“oh, yes,” emily says, “wonderful woman, incredibly talented gardener. she’s coming out less and less lately, it’s been a while since we’ve had a good, long chat.”

“—we’re arranging a bit of an extracurricular project,” logan continues. 

“oh?” emily says, sounding interested. she picks up her fork and begins to eat her salad. “you two are getting along, then?”

“we’ve come to an understanding,” logan says coolly, and even as nervous as patton is, he can’t but grin a bit at his son. we’ve come to an understanding. really, logan, it wouldn’t hurt to say that you’re friends now.

“wonderful,” emily says briskly. “good that you’ve put that petty rivalry behind you.”

patton bites his tongue rather than start on a rant about the seriousness of physical assault.

“quite,” logan says. 

“so, what’s this project?” she asks, with a slight gesture of her fork. “you two are interested in journalism, from what i hear, is it something like that?”

logan sets his fork down. “actually, grandma, it has to do with you, tangentially. mrs. slange is a member of the daughters of the american revolution. like you.”

“a research project, then?” she says. “richard will probably have some books for—”

“not really,” logan says. “we’re both arranging for greater participation in the debutante ball. i’m coming out.”

patton holds his breath. here we go.

emily chuckles. “the correct term for the young gentlemen is escorting, logan. are you both escorting young ladies, then? anyone i know?”

“oh, i used the correct term,” logan says mildly. “i’m coming up with a partner later, but i was actually going to ask if you ever bought a dress for dad to use before he came out.”

emily lowers her fork.

patton’s pretty sure that even if he was about to breathe, he wouldn’t be able to.

“i’m going to be a debutante,” he says, very slowly, as if explaining something he thought to be obvious.

“you’re not serious,” she says disbelievingly.

“i am,” logan says. “we have approximately twenty-five participants so far, and we’re recruiting more. so. do you have a dress or not?”

“that’s absurd,” emily says. “i mean—my grandson, gallivanting about in a dress, how will that look?!”

“you were going to let dad do it,” logan points out, and before patton can say hey, nice point! emily swivels to face patton, piercing him through with a glare. “did you put him up to this?!”

before patton can squeak out anything, logan putting down his fork with a clang louder than necessary, and she turns to face her grandson.

“i was simply asking if you had a dress,” logan says. his voice is very, very even. the game face has reappeared. “i can ask again, if you’d like. do you have a dress suitable for this occasion, or should i shop for my own?”

emily and logan stare each other down. patton’s eyes dart between them both.

his mother has a variety of nicknames: the cobra, from her antiquing friends, because she’d squeeze and squeeze at you until you complied. wicked witch of the west, by some of her shopping friends, over the levels she’d go to over something as simple as a pair of shoes. 

christopher had joked once that “people considered what patton’s mother would do in a given situation, dialed it back, and they’d have what mussolini would do, then they’d dial it back, and they’d have what stalin would do, and then they’d dial that back and then it starts approaching what a sane person would do.”

she’d once forced an ex-president out of a hotel room because theirs had been bigger than theirs. a president. of the whole united states.

patton’s gearing himself up to provide as much supportive parent backup to logan that he possibly can, and also cursing himself for taking the time to hang up his coat, because if he hadn’t and just kept it with him they could make a quicker escape, and palming the car keys in his pocket. he puts together comebacks for my friends will be at this event and undignified and what will people say?!

and then patton takes a closer look at his mother’s face. it’s not her version of the game face, patton notices.

and then patton puts together what that expression is, with no small amount of surprise.

she’s calculating.

she’s calculating, patton realizes with no small amount of shock, if it’s worth it to go up against logan.

because logan is definitely wearing his game face, coupled with a defiant, angry look that, with another shock, it reminds him of him. it reminds him of him when he was a bit younger than logan is now—and, he realizes, his mother must be recalling those hellion days too.

at last, his mother sighs, wipes her mouth a napkin, and stands. “i might have something suitable.”

patton’s left sitting there, gaping. his mother. his mother backed down. his mother. did not fight with logan when it was clear what he was doing would interfere with her social status. 

his mother!

“well?!” emily snaps. “do you want to see it or not?!”

he and logan exchange a look before they scramble out of their seats, heading after her as quick as they can.

they’re going down to the basement, which holds a conglomeration of things and also patton’s second-most-frequently-used sneak-out route. the wine cellar’s down here, along with his parents’ collections of luggage, and matching white wardrobes filled with all kind of things, and gifts from granny trix that his mother has refused to display over the years, and art and furniture deemed out-of-fashion but were still held fondly enough to be stored in the house—it was, by far, the most disorganized segment of the sanders’ mansion.

of course, there were still clear paths to each segment of the basement, so it wasn’t as disorganized as, say, patton’s garage, but still. disorganized by his parents’ standards.

so patton follows logan who follows emily, past life-sized dog statues, past a stack of steamer trunks and matching carry-on luggage, past framed paintings of some of patton’s old family members, past the rows of old wines stored for an occasion fancy enough for them, past candlesticks and antique tables, past crates and cardboard boxes filled with, patton’s sure, more of the same, until they get back to yet another white wardrobe.

“it’s in here somewhere,” his mother says, already flipping her way through rows and rows of hanging garment bags, before she makes an “aha!” sound and plucks free a garment bag that looks identical to all the rest, before sparing it a fond glance.

“we got it in london,” she says fondly, “never actually worn, of course, but goodness, the plans i had for the seamstresses…” and patton feels a squirming sensation in his stomach that he hasn’t felt in a very long time; the same one he’d get every time he was dragged into a department store, the same one he’d get every time he knew he had to wear whatever was laid out on the bed for whatever party or get-together his mother was having, the same one he’d get when his mother’s friends, over for tea, would croon, my goodness, how pretty you are! 

patton clears his throat before his mother can start reminiscing on the times of dresses and skirts past, and says, “maybe show logan the dress, mom?”

“oh,” she says, seemingly successfully jolted out of whatever fashion-induced daydreaming session she’d fallen into, “yes” and unzips the garment bag, to reveal—

well, patton doesn’t know what he’d expected, really. all he can see is a lot of white, puffy tulle. 

“can i try it on?” logan says. “just to see it.”

emily hesitates, clutching the delicate fabric, before she hands him the garment bag with no small amount of reluctance.

“we’ll be upstairs when you want to give us a little fashion show,” patton says, carefully catching his mother’s elbow before she can rethink any of this. “let us know if you need help zipping it up or anything?”

logan nods, and begins the process of carefully unearthing the dress as patton steers his mother back up the stairs.

“he’ll need help getting into the dress,” emily protests.

“if he needs help, he’ll ask,” patton counters, firmly. “he’s sixteen, he’s helped roman with a lot of elaborate costumes like that before. he’ll manage. let’s give him a bit of privacy.”

patton glances back in enough time to see logan shooting him a grateful look, and patton shoots him a thumbs-up—he’d always hated it whenever his mother barged into a dressing room to “help,” so he’d always tried his best to let logan have his privacy when it came to this kind of thing.

also, okay, maybe the weirdness of having his pre-selected debutante dress he’d never worn or even really known about coming back to haunt him in some way is getting to him, just a little bit. 

“how did this idea get into his head?” she asks suspiciously, as soon as they’ve cleared the last of the steps and relocate to the living room; patton crosses to sit on the couch, and maybe walks a little slower than usual to get an answer straight in his head.

“i don’t… exactly know, why this, i mean,” patton says slowly—which is a little true, he doesn’t know exactly why logan chose this course of action over anything else—and fiddles with his suit jacket. “um, but i know it’s important to him. and dee,” he tacks on unnecessarily. “so, i’m all for it. a thousand percent.”

she surveys him, before she says, “you know more than you’re letting on, though.”

“not my story to tell,” patton says, and it surprises him, how firm his tone is. “but i am really behind logan doing this.”

she sighs, as if he’s a child all over again. “you would be behind logan doing anything. will you keep that attitude if he decided to drop out of school tomorrow?”

“okay, first of all, that sounds more like me,” patton points out. “in fact, that was me. logan is at least channeling any trouble-making tendencies toward something productive.”

“productive,” she says. “the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball—”

“—is an outdated, sexist ‘tradition,’” patton says, using finger quotes, “that will, at worst, turn out to be a college entry essay for logan, and at best be a nice, eye-opening event to some of your friends, who, if i recall, were not particularly enthusiastic about that whole upholding,” time for finger quotes again, “‘the promise of equality for all, and we share an obligation to help our nation fulfill that founding promise.’”

emily’s eyes widen, and oh boy, patton sure said a lot more than he meant to there, so he braces himself for what might be a fight, but luck happens to be on patton’s side tonight.

“dad?” logan calls.

“yeah, kiddo?”

“i need help with the buttons,” logan says, voice distinctly closer than before; like he’s hiding around the corner.

“okay, well,” patton says, about to get to his feet to go and help, but then logan turns the corner.

the dress, patton sees, is… surprisingly simple, for his mother’s taste. there’s delicate, appliqué straps, with a modest scoop neckline. the bodice is delicately embroidered, and the skirt is unadorned tulle. 

the dress is simple, he realizes, a little startled, because even before his mother was shopping for it, he had made his distaste for elaborate dresses and gowns clear. she must have picked this out for him in an attempt to garner his good graces with this dress; this was what she must have thought his tastes would have looked like.

he still would have hated it.

it twists up his stomach a bit more, thinking about what would have been, what his mother probably thinks should have been, but patton plasters a smile on his face, rising to his feet, pushing that out of his mind and trying to focus on how logan looks in the dress, not on the fight that would have happened if patton had seen this dress, if he’d had to wear it, before he’d come out.

it’s a little bit short on logan, but that’s to be expected—patton had been a pretty short teenager, and logan’s taller than patton is even now, after a half-foot testosterone-induced growth spurt. the skirt would have swept along the ground if patton was wearing it, if he’s calculating right; as it is, it hits logan somewhere above the ankles, giving it a “fifties flare skirt” kind of vibe. the bodice isn’t really thought out for someone with as flat a chest as logan’s, either, but at least it follows the path of his torso—no need to try and lengthen that.

“very handsome,” he says, before he rounds to logan’s back to examine—ah, yes, as he expected, the buttons up the back are all delicate and tiny and fiddly, and almost impossible for logan to fasten on his own, because he’d never had practice with things like this before. “yeah, okay, let’s see how you fit into it—gosh, i must have been almost a foot shorter than you are now when mom ordered this dress. we’ll definitely have to alter it—”

“do you have a tailor in mind?” emily says.

“virgil’ll do it,” patton says absently, as he’s a little surprised at how easily his fingers remember to maneuver the little pearly buttons—muscle memory, he guesses—and glances up to see his mother arching her eyebrows disbelievingly.

“i know he sews,” she says, voice clearly tinged with doubt, clearly about to say but.

“uh-huh,” patton says, turning his attention back to the buttons. “he’s really good at it, too. he’s done some emergency fixes on wedding dresses and stuff, so he knows how to work with gowns.”

there’s a soft hmph.

“he’s going to be altering dresses and tuxes for the sideshire kids involved in this,” patton continues, then, “all right, hon, that’s the last one. is it too tight, too loose…?”

“fine, i think,” logan says. “tight, but i think i can manage for now.”

patton flips a strap of the dress that’s gotten all twisted around, before sidestepping the skirt—they’ll need to get a crinoline so that it puffs out properly, patton can tell—and observing the entire look, how it seems now that logan’s fully dressed.

it’s a bit odd, definitely. logan’s only ever really worn dresses when he was roped into it as a kid, mostly while playing dress-up with roman—logan’s always been pretty attached to jeans or slacks to pair with his ties or bowties—so seeing logan in a dress is an unusual enough occurrence that it strikes patton’s brain as something completely new.

the dress, as delicate-looking as it is, combines with logan in a strange contrast that works; he looks nice in white, and all the delicate details seem to change what they emphasize—the scoop neck makes his collarbone look graceful, demure, but the thin straps emphasize the broadness of logan’s shoulders, the muscle there. the dress is all soft, sweet femininity, a look that logan doesn’t rock very often, because all the rest of it is logan—who usually favors a straight-forward, business-like, traditionally masculine look. 

he looks good.

“give us a twirl, kiddo,” patton says, mostly teasing, but logan obliges, lifting himself onto his tiptoes to spin himself around, the skirt flaring and settling. patton applauds.

and then he smiles, because logan is kind of smiling, but also kind of trying to hide that he’s smiling, because it’s probably the first time in about ten years that logan’s spun around in a long skirt, and hey, skirts of any kind might mess with patton’s gender dysphoria, but he also remembers how satisfying it is to spin around in a really long skirt.

logan plucks lightly at the skirt to make sure it’s all hanging straight, before he glances over and says, and patton only knows it’s tinged with slight nervousness because of how well he knows him, “what do you think, grandma?”

patton turns to look at his mother for the first time since he’d started fastening logan’s buttons.

emily’s staring at the pair of them. and staring. and staring. patton’s about to prod logan to maybe ask again, before—

“heels,” she says.

“what?” logan says, glancing up from the skirt.

“that dress will never work if you don’t wear heels,” she says, a glint in her eyes.

logan says, “heels are scientifically proven to cause foot, ankle, knee, and back problems. also, they are a tool of the patriarchy, designed to slow a woman down.”

“oh, it’ll be required,” she says. “as well as elbow-length kidskin gloves, pantyhose, a crinoline—”

“that’s ridiculous,” logan huffs.

“uh-huh,” patton says absently, recalling his own experiences with heels. “that’s a debutante ball, kiddo.”

“and if you’re going to do the thing, you may as well do it properly,” emily says decisively, standing up. “i might have a pair of heels that will fit you, just so we can see the amount of height you’ll need—”

and she’s off, heading straight for her closet. in retrospect, patton thinks, he probably should have expected his mom being more on board when it came to clothes.

“help,” logan says, looking at patton pleadingly.

“hey,” patton says, holding up his hands with half a laugh, “this was your idea.”

logan looks like he’s sincerely regretting it.

⁂

virgil’s putting away the last of the dishes he’d washed (patton would probably get on him, later, for doing chores that patton was going to do later, and how you don’t have to do that, honey!! but he was bored, he did some dishes, sue him, also patton always gives him this smile whenever he does things like this, so it is for slightly selfish reasons) when he hears patton’s car pull into the driveway, and the motor cuts off.

virgil smiles to himself, and makes sure that he’s put everything away properly, before he meanders over to the couch and tries to make it seem like he hasn’t been cleaning patton’s kitchen. he’s obviously going to get found out as soon as patton notices his sink is empty, but.

he can hear logan’s voice floating through the door, “—glad she took it okay, but dad, you had to stop at that store right then—?”

“i probably should have warned you,” patton, a laugh in his voice, “but honestly, well. you are gonna have to wear the gloves and crinoline at least, and since you’ve never—”

the door opens, logan carrying a garment bag, patton carrying a shopping bag, “—walked in a pair before, it’s probably smart that you—virgil, hi, honey!”

virgil rises automatically to his feet as patton’s face brightens, and patton rocks up on his toes to give him a greeting kiss. 

“i thought you were working?” patton says.

virgil shrugs, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “things were slow enough, i figured i could let jean close. hey, l, is that the dress?”

“it is,” logan says.

“so that went okay?” virgil says, and logan scowls, ever so slightly. 

“virgil’ll need to see you in the heels you’re intending to wear to get the hemming right,” patton says. “won’t you, virgil?”

“yeah, i’ll have to use it to see if the skirt needs more length—and heels, huh?” virgil says, glancing at logan.

logan scowls even deeper. “grandma seems to be under the influence that if i’m going to be a debutante, i’m going to have to do it properly. therefore, heels.”

“and elbow length kidskin gloves, and a crinoline,” patton says, ticking them off on his fingers. “i have a list.”

“should probably wait until you get the petticoat to tailor the dress,” virgil says. “could i see it, though? you don’t have to put it on or anything. i brought a—”

“oh!” patton says, catching sigh of the torso-only mannequin sitting in the corner of the room.

“i’ll just keep it here for logan’s dress,” virgil says. “i figured a headless one would be less… creepy.”

“it’s appreciated,” logan says, before he hands over the garment bag, and virgil unzips it, starting to unbunch the skirt and wrestle it onto the mannequin.

“i hate heels,” logan grumbles. “have you seen the studies on what wearing these things on a regular basis will do to your spine?”

“uh-huh,” patton says. 

“not to mention your feet,” logan says, scowling at the shoebox like it’s morally offended him.

“also,” logan continues, “heels are an invention of the patriarchy! they were originally meant to help men secure their feet in stirrups, and then it became a symbol of nobility and class, so they’re inherently classist, too!”

“oh, absolutely agreed,” patton says. 

“i can’t believe grandma insisted on heels,” logan says. “flats would be fine.”

“yeah, i probably should have guessed she wouldn’t let that part go, given the lessons,” patton says.

logan glances up, frowning. “lessons?”

virgil glances away from where he’s fluffing out the skirt of the dress, too, to see patton with a strange look on his face; half nostalgia, half regret. it’s a look he usually gets when he’s talking about growing up in the sanders house.

“oh, yeah,” patton says, reminiscent. “as soon as i was deemed old enough, we had walking practice lessons, me and your grandma.”

“…what,” virgil says. because. what?

patton laughs, just a little. “yeah, every day for half an hour a day, one summer! she’d make sure i had proper posture in heels. i had to balance a book on my head, too, to make it even more cliché.”

logan looks, perhaps, a little cowed. virgil, on the other hand, is just—

sometimes, it knocks him totally off-guard, whenever patton talks about the various absurd things he had to do, pre-transition, as the sole scion of a rich family. etiquette lessons and country clubs and going to the opera and flower arranging and walking lessons. patton remembers a lot of it, clearly—of course he does, for so long it had been deemed that patton would be a house spouse who raised kids for a similarly wealthy scion of an esteemed family—but it always throws virgil off, just a little.

he briefly pictures patton—long-haired, in the admittedly few pictures patton has shown virgil of himself at that age—chin tilted carefully up, but not too far up, one of the too-big grimoires from richard’s library wobbling on his head, eyes fixed on one of the portraits emily has dotting the house, walking loops around the living room as emily critiqued his posture and stance with a hawkish eye, the click-click-click of heels on hardwood the only thing to break up her commentary.

“i mean,” patton says, breaking that particular mental image. “you know. at least you’ve only gotta wear heels for this one thing. women are expected to wear heels all the time. and since you’re selling this to a lot of chilton students as experiencing what women experience for a day…”

“…i will shut up about the heels,” logan mumbles.

patton ruffles his hair, and, seemingly detecting the mood that’s dropped over logan and virgil—thinking about what it would be like, to be raised like that—and says, in a gentle tone, brushing logan’s hair back into place, “heels really aren’t so bad, once you get used to them. it does just take a bit of practice, i promise.”

logan sighs, and looks at the box a smidge less distastefully than before. “i suppose i’ll have to try it to see.”

“that’s the spirit,” patton says brightly, and virgil shakes himself and refocuses on fastening the buttons of the dress, before stepping out from behind it to get the full effect.

“it’s a bit short on you, huh?” virgil comments, already digging around in his breast pocket for the notepad he usually uses to take orders.

“i think it’ll look very audrey hepburn once we get the crinoline,” patton offers. “the flare skirt thing, y’know.”

virgil nods, jotting this down; as he is, he asks, absently, “logan, was it tight, loose, itchy, anything like that?”

“tight,” logan says immediately, “and a bit itchy.”

virgil’s brow furrows thoughtfully as he considers what to do about that—brick davis had already stopped by the diner to tell him their nickname they were going to use while they were considering other names to eventually adopt and show off their dress, and they had some sensory issues and had already told him that they loved the shape of the dress, but they already knew that if they could feel the itchy gemstones it would be enough to make them have sensory overload, so he was already brainstorming fixes for that—but he jots it down all the same, before reaching out to pinch at the skirt and lift it, then let it go, just to get a sense of how it moved.

“i mentioned earlier that it makes sense, since i was probably a foot shorter than he was when mom ordered that dress,” patton says. “but if there’s a way to just loosen it a bit, maybe, and make the flare skirt thing look more intentional?”

“that’ll all be in the,” he gestures, “crinoline, petticoat, whichever you get. a crinoline would probably be the better choice, if you really want the fifties vibe—logan, you’re cool with the fifties vibe?”

“fine by me,” logan’s voice floats from the couch, then, “how is this supposed to work?”

both patton and virgil glanced over in enough time to see logan holding up a high heel—white, of course, and very sensible-looking and, if virgil had to guess, three inches tall, maybe four, at the highest. 

patton blinks. “putting them on already?”

logan shrugs, and says, intentionally casual, “if they take practice, why not start now?”

patton pauses, before he clears his throat and crosses the room, and says, “yeah, okay. do you need help?”

virgil crosses the room, too, if only to get a look at the dress from a full-view angle, and he hears a ka-CLUNK as logan staggers to his feet. he turns in enough time to see logan pinwheeling his arms wildly, and patton reaching out to balance him.

“whoa, easy,” patton says. “let’s not walk yet—”

“not that i didn’t before, but i now, truly, know that i never would have been cut out to do pointe with roman,” logan announces, arms stilling, but still held out for balance.

patton laughs. “there’s a bit of a difference there—he’s been on tip-toe since he was learning to walk, honey.”

“you wouldn’t let patton set you down on wet grass until you were three,” virgil points out, which is true—he and patton had laughed a lot back then as logan had avoided bare feet on grass at all costs, doing some interesting baby gymnastics in his attempts to avoid it.

“i hardly see what that has to do with my balancing capabilities,” logan mutters, a little embarrassed, the way a teenager always is whenever someone brings up baby stories.

“okay, speaking of tip-toe,” patton says, “you’re putting all your weight on your toes, you gotta let the heel touch the ground.”

virgil leans a little to see—and indeed, logan is balancing on his tiptoes, as high as he can, the white heel hovering off the ground. logan, slowly, lowers and lowers until the heel thumps as it hits the ground.

“good,” patton says, hand still on logan’s shoulder. “let’s just get used to how that feels, yeah?”

logan frowns. “the weight distribution is different than i expected. i thought it would all be in the toes, not in the—” he cuts himself off.

“heels?” patton finishes for him. “that’s all okay, just—i’ll let you know how to walk. but you’re kinda getting the feel for it? is it okay if i let you go now?”

logan nods his assent, so patton takes a step back—not far enough that he wouldn’t be able to lunge for logan if logan fell—and logan wobbles, just a little, but he manages to regain his balance quickly enough.

“they hurt,” logan says, frowning.

“toe-pinching like it’s too small, hurt, or—?”

“i think it’s my feet aren’t used to it hurt,” logan admits.

“that’s perfectly normal,” patton says. “your grandma used to tell me to throw on shoes super early so that my feet would get all nice and numb.”

“that’s sick,” logan says. “the patriarchy is evil.”

“amen, brother,” virgil says dryly. 

logan preoccupies himself with shifting his bodyweight this way and that, trying to grow accustomed to it, so virgil goes over to inspect the dress a bit more—this dress, honestly, will probably be the most adjustment-intensive, so it’s probably good that it’s logan’s dress—half-listening to patton and logan discuss how logan should distribute his weight and any adjustments he might need to make to his posture and on and on.

considering patton was incredibly short, back then, it’s honestly probably a miracle that this dress even slightly fits logan well enough—and honestly, the fifties skirt effect would probably save virgil a lot of work, rather than spend any time on figuring out how exactly the lengthen the skirt to brush the floor. it’s not like virgil can really start any work right now, considering he really does need to have logan in the heels and crinoline to really get a feel for how the dress looks, but he can gather a few ideas on supplies he might need, fixes he could use for any potential problems.

it looks like his days are going to be filled with those kinds of questions for a while. brick davis wasn’t the only sideshire high student asking virgil to help with their dress; a large chunk of roman’s class had followed his lead, since, to virgil’s everlasting amusement while comparing him and remus, roman was a popular kid that people wanted to emulate, and roman’s friendship slash tutorship of all the students of isadora prince’s dance studio meant that there would also be an influx of tuxes—which, fortunately, were probably going to be way less labor-intensive than any of the dresses.

virgil’s busy jotting down things he might need to bring over or buy, not just for logan’s dress, but for all the dresses and tuxes of the sideshire kids, when patton says, “all right. walking time, do you think?”

“walking time,” logan agrees, with the grim, matter-of-fact determination of someone about to start to climb everest. 

“okay. now, remember, let’s start with half-steps, slowly, we can work your way up to your usual walk slash pace,” patton says, and virgil glances up in enough time to see logan cautiously put a foot forward.

he wobbles, and patton lunges forward, catching his hands—”i gotcha, i gotcha,” patton says, a bit of a laugh in his voice, as logan sways his way back to a balanced stance. a stray thought tickles the back of virgil’s brain, but he can’t quite identify what it is before patton starts talking again.

“don’t walk heel-toe, i’m sorry, i should have mentioned that—try putting weight on your toes first.”

“okay,” logan says, and renews his grip on patton’s hands, before carefully stepping forward once again. the thought pings at virgil again, and his brow furrows, ever so slightly, trying to identify what it might be.

“that’s it,” patton says, encouragingly. “just like that! you’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

and that’s when the thought clicks into place—it’s déjà vu.

virgil’s brain flashes—logan, all of sixteen, not quite secure on his feet, but nevertheless trying to walk forward, patton moving backward with him, their hands clasped together.

it reminds virgil of logan learning how to walk.

and the mental image blooms into his mind, crystal clear, like it was yesterday; logan, all of ten months old, wearing his tiny overalls and his tiny t-shirt and his tiny little tennis shoes, mouth open and showing off all of his newly-grown baby teeth, tongue sticking out as he’d take one toddling step forward, two, patton kneeling on the black-and-white diner tile and saying in the exact same, near-laughing tone, that’s it, honey, that’s it! papa’s gotcha! c’mon, lo-lo, you got this! the sight of logan walking new enough that it was enough to stop twenty-three year old virgil in his tracks, watching eagle-eyed as patton shuffled backwards on his knees, eyes wide, encouraging and watchful, and so thrilled as logan babbled a stream of nonsense at him, stamping his way forward, hands wrapped around patton’s fingers.

and a laugh breaks through the memory, and suddenly he’s back in the present; virgil, all of thirty-nine, watching a nearly-full-grown logan, in his officious suit jacket and tie, struggling to take a few steps forward in his new high heels, brow furrowed still, but no childish urge to stick out his tongue; patton, taller, healthier, happier, overall, voice deeper but the tone’s still the same—absolutely thrilled at the concept of logan learning how to do anything, another milestone for logan to succeed in, another instance to celebrate. 

virgil remembers, too, logan’s soft, chubby little baby hands, wrapped around virgil’s fingers, staggering toward him, the way virgil’s voice would get softer and how quickly it became second-nature to catch logan if he fell. logan’s shrieking laughs, logan’s babbling in his ear, logan’s cries going quiet when virgil shushed and rocked him.  the sweet, babyish sigh logan would let out whenever he fell asleep against virgil’s chest; his head resting against virgil’s shoulder, his weight and warmth in virgil’s arms. 

logan’s far too big for that now.

virgil’s heart pangs—when did they all get so old?—but especially at the sight of logan, almost an adult, taller than patton, nearly as tall as virgil, and almost as old as patton had been that day he’d crashed into the diner for the first time. 

and now here he was; in high school, and preparing to be presented to society as an adult. granted, as somewhat of a prank. but the idea’s still there; logan is almost an adult. soon, logan would be making his way in the world.

soon, he wouldn’t need them to hold his hands. 

“you got this!” patton cheers, as logan slowly, gradually, walks a lap of half-steps around the room without wobbling too much, without the fear of falling down. “you’re gonna be a heels-walking professional by the time of the debutante ball!”

virgil swallows, and echoes patton, voice perhaps a bit thicker than usual, “yeah, kid, you definitely got this.”

logan glances up from the ground to flash a quick smile in virgil’s direction, and virgil takes a deep breath before he crosses the room to take a look at how logan’s handling it; sure, patton had had walking-in-heels lessons, but virgil had definitely worn heels more recently than patton had.

and logan still needs them to hold his hands, for now. just a little while longer.

[bottleofspilledink]

God’s Watching, Put on a Show || Chapter XV

Now, normally a love confession would be followed by an answer. It was only rational. Declare your love and wait for a response. Either get a relationship or get rejected.

Lilith was not, however, what society by and large would actually deem ‘normal’ and neither was this confession. The word ‘love’ was not mentioned once, leaving her to wonder if Eve actually did understand her…

As the days passed, what was unspoken but clearly there blossomed, from a pinky-sized seed into a lush bouquet that filled their chest with an indescribable yearning and their conversations with heavy pauses, gazes overflowing with a tenderness that far surpassed what was appropriate between fond friends.

Soon, though, the rubber band holding the bouquet together would snap.

Soon, Lilith would come to know that Eve understood her quite well.

From the tension that sat in the five inches of space between their two chairs, something akin to electricity buzzing there, to the way Eve would eagerly ramble about the (not forbidden, she was still too shy to talk about what exactly was in the book Lilith snuck into her bag) books she’d read during lunch, to the patience Lilith would show as they ran through equations in study hall.

What was unspoken was slowly growing whether Lilith or Eve wanted it too. Like an unkillable weed that always grew back, no matter how many times you’ve pulled it out of the ground, no matter the chemical you chose to douse it with. But far more beautiful… That is, if the gardener would allow it to grow.

And everyone who was willing to see it would know it was there, what was there, even if the people feeling it were too scared to give it a name, even if the people seeing were too scared to admit it existed.

...

It was Thursday night on the same week as the incident, Lilith and Joan sat drinking cola in the shack, crickets and cicadas chirping in chorus outside, no one else with them busy with part-time jobs and family dinners and catching up on a week of homework.

“Hey.” Joan said, trying to steer the conversation away from their light-hearted chats and towards something a bit more… complicated, a tad more touchy.

“Yeah?”

“Are… Eve, I mean.” The brunette took a long sip from her can, the relaxed air between them shifting as she stalled what she needed to say. “Are you sure we can trust her?”

“What do you mean? She’s obviously gay and in denial-”

“That’s the point.” Joan fixes her with a soft stare, trying to strike the balance between firm and sympathetic. “I doubt Eve’s even admitted it to herself, and even if she has, she’s no friend of ours yet.”

“Where’s all this coming from all of a sudden?” Lilith can’t help but be defensive. After everything she’d told Joan about Eve and how she felt for her, after everything Joan had seen Eve go through just that Monday, how could she still be against the girl?

“They’re holding confession tomorrow.”

“What?”

“In the afternoon, just before club. There’s going to be confession.” Another sip from her drink, faster this time. “The holy type.”

Lilith knew exactly what Joan was implying, now considering the possibility herself having remembered what was happening tomorrow and every week after that. She wouldn’t admit it, though, refusing to doubt Eve despite the danger it may pose to trust her, to… love her.

Aster blue eyes widened, if only a fraction, in shock.

“And what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Are you sure she won’t crack?”

It hurt to think of. The chance of betrayal very real and very close, the things it may cost them all hung heavy in the air. What they’d worked for during the past year – the subject of many serious chats, full of tears and thinking and uncertainties, the cause of many sleepless nights, weighing risk and reward, planning – could vanish in an instant and make them vanish with it.

She could practically feel the ‘Godly Living’ brochures in her hand.

It was another thing she tried not to think of too much; her friends strapped into electric chairs and deadly hydrotherapy chambers, pumped full of pills that made them nauseous at the very thought of love with women or ones that didn’t let them think at all, the possibility of getting lobotomized.

“- could out us! She could out you!”

Joan’s voice pulled her from her mind before she could go too deep.

The emphasis on ‘you’ nearly made Lilith cry.

At the end of it all, even with the threat it brought to their gay little family, made up of people so vastly different yet somehow so similar, Joan was thinking about her.

And she was right to.

Tomorrow, if Eve did give her away, the others would be able to lie their way out of it, come up with alibis and excuses and cry ‘I have a boyfriend’ because Eve hadn’t spent enough time around them to gain anything as evidence because Eve had only been around Lilith.

“I don’t think she will.”

She tried not to sound scared.

“The only thing she really has against me are words anyways…” There was no reason to tell the other of the note she’d written for Eve. Painful as it was, the girl had probably thrown it out by now, especially since she knew what it meant. “And she can’t mention experience without admitting what almost happened between us a week ago.”

Joan was unconvinced.

“Are you really going to take this risk?”

She tossed Joan a few quarters. Enough for three phone calls on the payphone a mile or so away.

Maybe Lilith was going to risk herself for the sake of some girl.

But she’d be damned if she let her friends do the same thing for her.

“Call the others. Tell them to pack essentials and paperwork. Tell Colette to bring the check.”

“Only if you pack a bag too.”

It seems they would do the same for Lilith, whether she wanted them too or not.

“Joan-”

“No. If we have to leave tomorrow, you’re coming with us.”

And that was that.

...

It was a fine Friday morning in St. Agnes School For Girls. Maybe even her last.

Lilith tried to stay calm. Even as she packed her bags, even as she snuck into her grandfather’s office to retrieve her personal papers, even during the walk back to the shack, even while Paula and Joan and Julia and Colette went over what to say if they were questioned about their relationship with one another, their closeness, their relationship with Lilith, specifically.

It was agreed they would never throw each other under the bus. Agreed that, they’d deny all allegations against each other despite the proof, even if it may mean making them complicit.

After all, if they had to flee, they’d flee together.

If even one of them were found out, the plan was to run and pull a fire alarm, notifying the others.

Joan’s truck was parked just a few streets away from the school, no more than a quick sprint needed to reach it, key in her pocket, Paula carrying a duplicate, bags already in the back, fastened, Julia had forged a note for them about an after-school activity, buying them some time before a search was called if the school didn’t immediately call their guardians, and Colette carried all she needed to cash the check in on her person.

The last thing they did were practice statements, crafting sentences that left no room for interpretation and had no strange implications, absent of loopholes and additional clauses.

“What do we say if any of us are questioned about homosexual activity?”

“I know nothing about that.” They said, all in synch, drilling the words into their heads exactly as they were so there was no chance of them being taken out of context and used to spin a narrative. If the nuns wanted any of them sent to conversion therapy, they were going to have to lie through their teeth. “I’ve never taken part in such things and know no one who has.”

They sounded nothing like themselves, Lilith realized in between breaks.

Though she supposed that was the point.

“Again!” Said Joan. “What do you say if they accuse your friends of being homosexuals?”

“My friends and I are good, Christian people who would never willingly associate with homosexuals. I have personal anecdotes to prove the innocence of the girl you are accusing.”

It made them sick to their stomachs, having to say such things.

It made them safe, though.

And for now, that was all that mattered.

They were prepared.

But they didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

 ...

As the day went on, Lilith began to lose her cool, anxiety creeping deep into her bones, growing fidgety and restless. Her leg shook under the table, fingers tapping against the desk and clicking pens, eyes always shifting, looking for another sign that they needed to go.

Was this what Eve felt like every day?

The fear of being found out was in no means foreign to Lilith, nor was the fear of God, a tyrant she used to believe in and worship just like Eve did. But it had faded, her hiding of herself perfected to a science, fear turning into anger as she realized that everything she was raised on was a sham.

It had been too long since she felt this real, crushing anxiety.

She didn’t like it.

...

It was time.

Lilith and Eve sat next to each other in the small chapel on school grounds, just a bit behind the actual building but before the convent, not an inch of space between them as they were squeezed into the pews filled with those yet to receive the sacrament of confession. The seats were divided so that there were two groups of pews, one for waiting, the other for prayer, where many would do their penance. Two confessional booths were far behind them, having been placed like that so none of the girls would see who went in when or be able to hear a peep.

She knew how this was going to happen, how they could possibly get outed.

Priests were not allowed to break their vows and tell the nuns of the sins they’d heard during the confession but a penance was to be given to those who had sinned.

It could be anything from a prayer to an act of service.

It could be telling the nuns what you’ve done or know someone’s done as a way of repenting.

No doubt, if anyone confessed something of significance, they would have to tell Mother Cecilia.

And since most everyone who did this in earnest would believe their soul was on the line, if the girls in this school were truly the people they claimed to be, they would tell the nuns, friendships and loyalties and love be damned as the person they tattle on.

“Eve?” The girl whispered, finally snapping. “The note I gave you, do you still have it?”

The blonde did nothing more than look to the marble floor, hair shielding her face. There was no way for Lilith to tell if she was ashamed or guilty or planning to-

“Please answer me.”

“I still have it.”

For the first time in years, far longer than what most would consider healthy, Lilith felt herself minutes away from bursting into tears, eyes stinging from having to hold it all in.

“Where?”

“Why?”

Eve refused to meet her eyes when she ducked down to try and catch a glimpse of her face.

“With me, right now, in my pocket.”

Before the girl could answer her, a nun appeared to lead Eve into the booth, giving her a light scolding as they went.

“Time before confession should be used to reflect on your sins, Miss Peccator.”

“Yes, Sister Jane. I’m sorry.”

And with that, she was gone.

...

It was an eternity later when Lilith left the chapel, finding Eve just outside, to the right, standing amongst stone pillars that had barely started growing moss, waiting.

They were as alone as they could be, the only things watching them were the unseeing eyes of the statue saint surrounding them, whatever creature lingered in the cracks on the chapel’s stone, and God.

Perhaps what resided in the chapel was God.

“Eve…” She stepped closer to the girl, desperation potent. “What did you tell them?”

No response.

All she was given were downcast brown eyes and fidgeting fingers, guilt.

Lilith took another step forward, grabbing the other by her hands, letting Eve feel her warmth, her pulse, the softness of her flesh, of the blood that flowed through her veins, of her humanity.

“Eve, what did you tell the priest?”

Lilith had fallen to her knees, in a plea, in a prayer, the ground beneath her unforgiving and now stained with her blood, dark red and sinful. Eve’s hands clasped in hers and pressed to her sweat-soaked forehead as sobs wracked her body harder than it had in years.

She was screaming now, pulling on the other’s hands hard enough to hurt, something, anything to make the girl look up at her, unaware of the tears streaming down her own face.

“Eve? Eve?! What did you tell the priest?!”

They were the image of repentance, a holy figure, a dirty sinner; Eve towered above Lilith as she cried, immaculate and unattached as the girl wept into her skirts and her hands, a holy portrait commissioned by a long-gone pope.

If only they weren’t both sinners in His eyes.

“What did you tell the priest, Eve?!”

__________________

HAPPY HOLIDAYS HAVE A FUCKING CLIFF HANGER ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Lmao yes I know it's only the 24th but I’ll be back on actual christmas day with the next chapter tho so please don’t be mad at me and I’m very sorry for this (┬┬﹏┬┬)

Anyways, I would like some reblogs as my present this year <333

Taglist: @atahensic @anomiewrites @leahstypewriter @madame-ree @melpomenismask @littlemisscalamity @phillyinthebathroom @gaypeaches @extrabitterbrain @pirateofblood @i-wanna-be-a-rock

[inevitably-johnlocked]

I can’t find this fic, but it was essentially Sherlock and John going undercover at a hotel resort I think (maybe there was couple therapy) and having to do a fake relationship and they kissed to avoid being seen by a suspect and there was this other closeted guy called like Harold who kept hitting on John? I know it’s specific but also really wide but I’ve honestly forgotten what fic it was! Can you find it? Thankssss!

Hey Lovely!!

OKAY THIS IS REALLY FRUSTRATING ME BECAUSE I’VE READ THIS ONE. It’s on one of my Fake Relationships lists. And skimming all the fics I with keywords I recall from the fic, I’m not finding it. I think it’s one of these ones two:

Corpus Hominis by mycapeisplaid (E, 47,709 w., 12 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Case Fic, Fluff, Romance, Frottage, Angst, Anal, Blow Jobs, Rimming, Spas / Massages, Shampoo, Jealousy, Fake Relationship) - John knows the human body intimately. He’s had plenty of opportunity for study as a doctor, soldier, and lover. There’s one particular body, however, he knows very little about. When Sherlock launches himself head-first into a new obsession and they get sent on a case in an unlikely location, the pair discovers each other’s bodies with confusing yet delightful (and sometimes hilarious) results. (this is the one I THINK it is)

The Norwood Love Builders by flawedamythyst (T, 47,798 w., 9 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Post TRF Angst) – Sherlock and John go undercover to solve the murder of Joanna Oldacre, but things are complicated by the many feelings John has been repressing in the wake of Sherlock's faked death and return. (this is my second guess)

Other possibilities:

Rainbow Hearts Retreat by PajamaSecrets (E, 11,638 w., 8 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Case Fic, Undercover, Fluff and Smut, Bed-Sharing, Therapy, Humour/Crack, First Time) – "It's a same-sex couples retreat. For those experiencing troubles in their relationship. Consists of group and couples therapy as well as encouraging socialization between the couples. It's all in their incredibly dull brochure." "Rainbow Hearts Retreat," John read. "Sounds… quite gay."

Till Death Do Us Part by prettysailorsoldier (M, 15,390 w., 1 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, Fake Marriage, Christmas, Fluff) – When Sherlock links a recent spree of murder-suicides to a psychologist who specializes in marriage counseling, there's really only one thing to do: Go undercover as a couple in hopes of drawing the killer out. Faking a relationship seems easy enough, but things take a turn when their real issues start to creep into the sessions, and, all the while, a killer is watching, waiting in the shadows for their chance to strike.

The Sexual Awakening of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson by suitesamba (M, 24,579 w., 10 Ch. || Post-TRF, Case Fic, H/C, First Kiss/Time) – Sherlock owes Mycroft a favor. Mycroft calls in that favor by offering Sherlock's consulting services in a charity auction. Sherlock and John soon find themselves at the country manor of Mrs. Ives-Patton Smarmington III - not very coincidentally a long-time friend of Sherlock's mother - where they are reluctant participants in her Murder Mystery Weekend. It's a play within a play for Sherlock and John, and their roles for the weekend event bleed over into their real lives, waking the sleeping dragons within.

Bridging the Ravine by SilentAuror (E, 58,887 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Couple For a Case, Bed-Sharing, First Times, Confessions, Awkwardness, Sex Trafficking, Massages, Wet T-Shirt Contest, Group Therapy, Past Loss of Child) – Sherlock and John go undercover at Ravine Valley, a therapy centre for same-sex male couples in an investigation into a possible human trafficking ring. As they pose as a couple and fake their way through the therapy sessions for the sake of the case, it quickly becomes difficult to avoid discussing their very real issues. Set roughly six nine months after series 4.

A Case of Identity by jkay1980 (T, 91,009 w., 22 Ch. || Post-TRF, Fake Relationship, Case Fic) – John and Sherlock have succeeded in rebuilding their friendship after Sherlock’s fake suicide, but an unusual case puts their relationship to the test. They pretend to be engaged and attend a marriage counseling workshop. Under the pretext of the case, Sherlock turns out to be a master of seduction, and John finally learns he might like Sherlock more than he thought. Slowly, John discovers that he loves Sherlock not only in a friendly, brotherly way, but both men have to fight their own demons before they can think of taking their relationship to a new level…

-----

I hope to goodness that it’s there. It’s driving me CRAY.

[lesbianlovelanguage]

How about an aromantic character...?

Hi nonny!! I chose Aro!Will, hope that’s okay? 

Enjoy some Will/Billy bonding time ft social worker billy and a dash of harringrove hehe.

--

Will pushed open the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. He breathed a sigh of relief at finding the only other person out there was Billy, smoking a cigarette and leaning against the guard rail. He walked slowly over and stood next to him, looking out. 

The view from Steve and Billy’s apartment has always been beautiful, but in that moment, it really was a sight to behold. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the rooftops of the Chicago neighborhood while turning the sky all sorts of pinks and yellows and oranges. He knew if his brother were here, he would have taken at least a hundred photos. 

Billy looked over, noticing Will standing next to him, but stayed silent as he finished his smoke. This had become a common occurrence, both of them seeking a quiet refuge from the over-the-top party every time the kids, now almost ready to graduate high school, came to visit him and Steve’s apartment. It was always a happy time, but between Dustin and Mike’s bickering and Lucas and Max always on the verge of breaking up or making up, it was easy for the quiet boys to become overwhelmed. 

They simply stood like that for a while, until Billy finished his smoke and reached over to put it out in a glass ashtray. 

“Hey Billy?”

“What’s up punk?” Billy turned to look at him, still resting both forearms on the cold railing.

“I- I have a question.” 

“Okay, shoot.” 

“How- How did you know you were in, like, love with Steve?” Will turned away from Billy to twist his hands together. He could feel his stare, assessing and processing.

“Like, how did I know I was gay?” Will flushed.

“No no, not that part. The whole, like, being in love with him? How did you know?”

 Billy stared for a few more moments silently, and then he sighed and pulled out another cigarette. He lit up and took a deep inhale before responding. “Will, I’m gonna ask you  a series of questions, okay? Just, try to answer honestly.” Will shot him a confused look, but nodded. “So, question one. Have you ever daydreamed about yourself with someone else, in some romantic situation?” 

Will let out a quick giggle before coughing to cover it. “Like a fancy dinner with candles and roses and stuff?” Billy snorted.

“Maybe, or it can be just something simple. Like breakfast in bed with your partner, or going on dates.” 

Will’s eyebrows furrowed in thought as he said, “No. I don’t think I ever have.”

“Okay. Second question. Have you ever had a crush on someone?” Will wrinkled his nose. 

“Like someone gives me butterflies or there’s fireworks?”

“Sure, or when you see them you start to blush and feel happy and light?” 

“Is that how Steve makes you feel?” Will looked over to see a light blush rise under Billy’s freckles.

“Yeah, it is. Sometimes. Other times I think I could kill him, but we’ve been together for, shit, seven years now? When we first got together, it was like an addiction. I wanted him to only pay attention to me, and I wanted to treat him right.” 

“Oh. Well, then no. I guess I haven’t had a crush.” 

“I think, I might have something to show you. C’mon.” Billy put out his half cigarette and pulled Will back into the apartment. The party, plus Steve, were all sat in a circle, bickering about what toppings to get on their pizzas, and were so involved that Billy and Will were able to sneak through the living room back to the bedroom. Once they got safely in there, WIll flopped down on the bed while Billy went to his dresser and began shuffling around a pile of papers.

“I know it’s around here some- ahah!” He held up a bright green brochure and passed it over to Will before sitting down next to him. 

“You’re Not Broken: A Guide to the Ace and Aro spectrum?” He read, before looking over at Billy like he’d suddenly grown three heads. “Billy, what is this?”

“Oh, just some light reading I picked up from work, but it might help explain some stuff for you too.” Billy smiled as Will immediately opened the little pamphlet he had picked up from the lobby of his office and started flipping through it. He had an amazing job as a social worker, which meant he always had access to different guides and help books, and it felt good to be able to help one of Steve’s kids. 

A little while later, the noise from the living room seemed to increase significantly, and Billy could pick out his sister’s voice above it all, yelling at Lucas about dishonoring their relationship or something. Will sighed, and then put down the pamphlet. Billy pushed it back at him.

“Keep it. I can always get another one.” 

“Thanks Bill. You’re a good guy, and I’m happy Steve found you,” Will said earnestly, eyes wide and happy. Billy felt a stupid smile of his own grow before he tamped it down. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, twerp. We better get out there before someone sets something on fire again.” 

No one set anything on fire that night, and when everyone finally settled in to watch the latest X-Men movie, Will felt lighter than he had in a long time.

---

Also, I wanted to give a quick thank you to the nonny who sent this bc ironically enough while doing research to try and figure out how to write an aro character, I had like a mini-identity crisis and realized that I am aro haha

Also shout out to the ever amazing @gideongrace for not only helping me with my crisis, but also inspiring some of the questions Billy asks Will.

tag team: @lostnoise @gideongrace @stevefuckingharrington @a-magey @trashmouth-hargrove @catharrington @trashycatarcade @myboyfriendsteve @thesummerof84 (lmk if you would like to be added/removed from the list!)

[people-observations]

types of people: pride family™ edition

gay grandpa: highly caffeinated at all hours of the day, says "back in my old day" too much, fuzzy cardigans, brown leather jackets, brick walls, "do it for the 'gram", lovely smiles, very soft, always sending wholesome memes to the group chat, animal person, blushing when he's around that one specific boy, messy handwriting.

lesbian mom: baggy jean jackets, tattered converse sneakers, loves plants, very responsible when the time calls for it, hayley kiyoko, feather earrings, mischevious smile, isn't afraid to stand up for herself, protective, tangled headphones, tea person, old cars, has a pocket full of rants for a rainy day, has nothing to prove to you.

trans sibling: shops exclusively at thrift stores, movie marathons, rainy days, squeezes their own juice, friendship bracelets, always choosing kindness, coffee with honey, environmental activist, shameless self-love, can't sit still, cranberry-orange muffins, puts their hand up in class a lot, strong, emotionally supporting their friends.

bisexual sibling: neon lights, cat-eye eyeliner, probably instagram famous, wears vans shoes too much, poetry books, the new trend with sequins that flip over, gives amazing hugs, early morning jogs, late night coffee-runs, hand-drawn cartoons, "you might like getting choked, but turtles don't, so keep you plastic out of the fucking ocean".

pansexual sibling: smudged lipstick, tire swings, yellow sweaters, takes polaroid pictures, pink nailpolish, wanted to be the garbage man as a child, modern art galleries, always pursing everything they're interested in, passionate, peaches and cream, blue demin, shops at the farmers market, wholesome, drama festivals.

polysexual aunt/uncle: independent, self-satisfied smirks, loves all mediums of art, very decisive, but their decisions are a mash of every option, thinks outside the box, hates being limited, mom jeans, black pens, the smell of airports, strawberry-kiwi-blueberry smoothies, lovely laugh, unconventional to say the least.

polyromantic aunt/uncle: their hands are always inkstained, architecture magazines, values happiness over exorbitant wealth, sleeping in late, sunday cartoons, tea with honey, diy croptops, lives for black and white movies, turtleneck sweaters, trustworthy, pizza margherita, has a few really close friends, ice-cream runs.

queer grandparent: vintage shirts and combat boots, has dyed their hair at least twice by now, origami fortune tellers, blacklights, glow-in-the-dark paint, ripped jeans, nimble fingers, needs to teach their facial expressions to use their inside voice, a map with several plotted road trips hanging on their wall, accepting of everyone.

non-binary cousin: unironed clothes, doesn't half-ass anything, aveeno moisturizer, holographic backpacks, not a morning person, has broken at least three alarm clocks by now, alt-indie music, was that one kid in class who actually took social media safety seriously, summer rain, reading a good book under the blankets.

asexual cousin: loves fantasy novels, old photo albums, green t-shirts, has read all of rick riordan's novels, grey sunsets, hates being told what to do, white bathroom tiles, only looks at the photos in brochures, purple pens, keeps movie ticket stubs, drinks their milk with a lot of honey, eating leftover pizza for breakfast, plastic hairbrushes.

aromantic aunt/uncle: leather jackets, would die for their friends, smoky eyeshadow, never uses plastic disposable water bottles, lacy underwear, lace-up boots, their wardrobe is black skinny jeans and black skinny jeans only, hates diet culture, promotes body positivity, comes off as intimidating, is actually a sweetheart.

[hms-chill]

The Dewey Decimal System, and Other Love Languages

Alternate Title: Love in the Time of Midterms

Summary: A few weeks into his job at the library, a patron asks Henry where to find “the gay books”, kicking off half a semester of pining.

Henry is finishing shelving a cart of large print books when his life changes forever.

"Excuse me, hi. Do you have any gay books?" The boy asking is around Henry's age. He's short, and he's dressed casually in a polo and jeans, dress shoes and backpack categorizing him as a student at the local college. Henry's brain notes that he's attractive, though Henry refuses to acknowledge that thought.

"Of course! Fiction or nonfiction?"

"Oh. I... I guess either one? I wasn't sure I'd get to pick." Henry isn't offended that this handsome college student wouldn't think there were queer books in the library. He isn't, not in the slightest, offended that he seems to think the library is stuck in the 1940s. He refuses to let the other boy see how not offended he is, and he certainly doesn't use the excuse to show off a bit and display just how many queer books the library has.

"Alright, well, for nonfiction, you're going to want the early 300s for books on gender and sexuality. I believe it's somewhere between 303 and 307, and I want to say 306, but I've only been here a couple weeks and don't know the Dewey decimal system as well as I'd like to. I don't get to shelve much nonfic. If you're looking for fiction, we don't exactly have a queer section, but I could direct you to some that I've enjoyed or heard about."

"That would be good."

"If you like Greek mythology, Madeline Miller's A Song of Achilles is very queer. So are most of Rick Riordan's books, especially his later series. If you like travel novels or adventure books, Mackenzie Lee's The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue has a bi lead, and the sequel focuses on his aro/ace sister. If you're into fantasy or fantastic realism, Maggie Stiefvater's The Raven Cycle has queer characters, and Leigh Bardugo's Six of Crows is a heist story with a bunch of queer characters. There's also How to Fix a Mechanical Heart, Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit, and Kiss Number 8 in YA, though I haven't read those. In sci-fi, I haven't gotten around to them, but the Welcome to Night Vale novels under Fink would almost certainly have queer representation. The main character of the podcast is gay. He wrote an Alice Isn't Dead novel, too, and that podcast is about a woman looking for her wife, so I can't imagine the book would be... Sorry; this is probably more than you want." The other boy is typing furiously on his phone, brow furrowed just a bit as he tries to get everything down. The way his tongue pokes out the side of his mouth most certainly isn't the cutest thing Henry has seen all day. He has a dog, after all. David is, objectively, much cuter than a handsome boy seriously taking notes on queer fiction that Henry likes.

"This is good. It's perfect. Thank you," the boy says, still looking at his phone. He looks up a moment later, suddenly quieter, to ask, "Um, another question; do you have any books on mental health?"

"Mid or late 100s I think. They're before mythology in the 200s, but I'm not entirely sure where, sorry."

"No, don't be sorry. You're new. That's perfect. Thank you. Have a nice ga-- day. Have a nice day."

"You, too. If you need anything else, I'm working until six, and I spend a lot of time shelving in the kids room. I'd be happy to help."

"Okay. Yeah, thanks. Have a good one." With that, the boy turns to leave, and Henry finishes shelving his cart, trying to forget the other boy's smile and the way he'd furiously typed every book Henry recommended. He tries to forget the other boy's hesitation to ask about mental health books, the endearing shyness that most definitely did not tug at Henry's heartstrings. After all, there really isn't a point pining over a patron he'll never see again.

-

As it turns out, Henry does see the patron again. He's back a few days later, and Henry looks up just in time to see him dump a massive stack of books into the return slot. He smiles at Henry, making a beeline over to where he's shelving.

"Hi again, um, do you have any cookbooks?"

"Upstairs; 641."

"What the fuck. Hod do you do that?"

"We have a lot of cookbooks, and they're popular. I reshelve them a lot." It's really not that impressive of a thing to know. Some of Henry's coworkers know the Dewey decimal system forwards and backwards, but the other boy is looking at him like he's just done something incredible."

"What else do you have memorized?"

"Um, let's see. World War II is in the 940s. Current politics are in the 900s; The Meuller Report is in the 990s I think. I shelved that a lot. Mythology is in the 200s, folklore and fairy tales and stuff the late 300s. UFOs, cryptids, that kind of thing in the 90s, and computer stuff before that. Hobbies are in the 690s or 790s. Animals are 590s; sharks in particular are... 597? No. 587. I think. Airplanes 626. 808 is short stories, poems are after that and then by 811 you're into plays. Workout and health stuff is before cookbooks, so 639 or 640. Queer and gender stuff 306. Biography 900s is princess books, and 400s are foreign language. Travel is the late 800s or early 900s I think; they're in the back somewhere."

"That's incredible. I thought you said you were new. How long have you been here?" He's so impressed, and Henry isn't sure he's ever felt so proud of something so simple. The fact that this random patron is one of two people in the city to actually compliment him recently certainly doesn't help with the crush he's working hard not to develop.

"About three weeks."

"Holy sh-- cow. You're so smart. How are you this smart?"

Henry feels his face start to go red. "It's just one of those things you pick up."

"Still, it's incredible."

"Thank you. But you needed a cookbook? Any type in particular? We have a pretty large collection, so I can show you the online catalog if you want. It can give you more exact information than I can."

"Yeah, but if you teach me to use the catalogue, I won't have an excuse to come bother you." He winks, leaning against a shelf, and he really doesn't have any business looking so carefree and handsome. He came here to check things out, not get checked out. Not that Henry is doing any checking out.

"Well, I wouldn't mind if you still come bother me. It's a nice break from the monotony. The catalogue could just help for when I'm wrong or not here."

"Alright, fine. I'm not sure how much help a search is going to be, though. I doubt there's a book called What to Make When You Invite Your Family to Your College Apartment to Tell Them You're Bi." He freezes for a second, and Henry knows all too well the sudden nerves, the tense moment of waiting for a reaction.

"If you find one, let me know. I'm sure I could adapt it for being gay," he says, and the other boy relaxes. When he looks up, his smile is back, and he follows Henry to a computer catalogue.

He comes down from the cookbook section nearly an hour later, three cookbooks in his arms. He's headed for the checkout, but he turns when he sees Henry with an empty cart.

"Hey, hi. I, um, well, I found a rainbow cookbook. I'll have to change the colors and things, but I thought maybe I could do something from that? Like a layer cake with a pride flag or something? I mean, I know they'll be okay with it. At least I think they will. My... my dad's pretty catholic, but we have a family friend who's gay and my dad's done a ton to look after and fight for him. We all love him. And my best friend is bi, and they've practically adopted her so it should be okay. I don't... I don't think it'll go badly, but... sorry. This isn't part of your job."

"I don't mind. You're making a cake with a pride flag; what else are you going to make? Would it help to talk it through?"

"Sure. Yeah. I'm thinking elote, since we made that a lot growing up, and one of these has a recipe for doing it on a stovetop instead of a grill. And then I was thinking ribs, but I don't have a grill, so I thought instead I'd make some pulled pork? It's got that barbecue thing that'll go well with the elote, and it's really easy to make a lot, so I can just tell everyone at once and get it over with. And if there's extra I can freeze it."

"I think it sounds good, and it sounds like they'll be happy to support you. I can tell they mean a lot to you; you're lucky to have them. You'll have to let me know how it goes if we bump into each other again."

"I will, yeah. Thank you. You've been wonderful."

"Good luck."

The other boy smiles and goes to check out, and Henry takes his cart back to the staff room, hoping he'll get an update soon.

-

On Monday, the other boy is back, and he comes up to Henry with a giant grin.

"It went well! It was so good. My mom got a bunch of brochures about staying safe, which was awkward but it's how she shows love, and my dad didn't care, and my sister won't stop trying to get me to join tinder so she can set me up with someone. They... they love me, and they don't care that I'm bi. It doesn't matter."

Henry grins. "I'm so happy for you. That's huge."

"Thank you so much for everything. Seriously, talking to you helped a lot."

"It was the least I could do."

"No, it-- I'm trying to say thank you; just let me."

"Alright."

"Thank you for letting me talk to you about coming out. Was that so hard? You're more important to people than you give yourself credit for. Anyway, I've got to run to a thing, but I wanted to stop in and see you. And update you. And thank you. You helped."

He's gone before Henry can respond, but he's surprised to realize he can't stop smiling for the rest of his shift.

-

Over the next few weeks, Henry sees and hears a lot of the things that happen in the library. He hears a little boy complain that there's loud noises in the library, and he hears the woman with that little boy explain that by yelling, he is the loud noise in the library. Henry sees a little girl falling asleep on a parent's lap as they read to her. He sees the handsome boy from before help a fourth grader through her math homework in a tutoring session and hears him talking to a little boy about Nancy Drew. He doesn't see everything, though. He doesn't see the mystery patron re-shelve some of the books that are out of order, making Henry's job easier. He doesn't hear the other boy call his sister on his way out to gush about the cute librarian he just saw teach a mom how to find Percy Jackson books so she could teach her son. What he does get used to seeing, though, is the same cute boy, settled at a table that Henry walks past regularly.

By the time midterms roll around, Henry's gotten used to seeing the other boy in the library. On the first day of midterms week, he's already there when Henry's shift starts. Henry, who has three essays due soon and only one started, plans to stay in the library when he gets off work. If he can't find any open tables, well, it must be due to midterms. He certainly didn't avoid looking in a few less popular places in order to justify going up to the table where his mystery patron is sitting. The other boy looks up with a smile.

"Do you mind if I sit? It's full everywhere else. I swear I'll be quiet; I've just got to draft an essay."

"Not at all. Here; let me slide some stuff over. What's your essay on?"

"Identity and fluidity in Virginia Woolf's Orlando. What are you working on?"

"A study guide for the politics of international economics."

"Sounds thrilling."

"What are you writing on? A book about Florida?" and god, Henry has to fight not to laugh just a bit.

"A book about Virginia Woolf's girlfriend."

"No way. Wasn't she like... old?"

"The 1920s aren't that old; we have examples of queer folks going back to the 400s BCE. Sappho's poetry would be in either the 200s or 808 if we have any, and tons of queer folks from Julie d'Aubigny to Alexander Hamilton are in biographies."

"Maybe later. Tell me about your essay; I can't study anymore."

"Okay, so, this book is a fake biography of a person named Orlando who, halfway through, changes from a man to a woman. I'm arguing that by using water to symbolize major change, Woolf signals to readers that their sex change isn't actually a big deal in their identity. Basically, every time Orlando gets a new opportunity or something else major happens, there's water involved somehow. But when their sex changes, which at first glance is the most drastic thing that happens to them, there's no water anywhere. In fact, there's fire, and that fire is mentioned a few different times. So I'm arguing that this shows readers that gender doesn't actually have that much impact on who someone is, but it's instead just how we present to the world. Therefore, it shouldn't matter if Virginia's in love with a woman, because Vita's just another human, and this whole thing is just a massive love letter to Vita and also a screw you to everyone else, because they all knew it was about Vita and Virginia didn't care."

"Wait, people knew? People knew they were lesbians."

"Well, they were probably both bi, and Virginia was probably demi-romantic, but it's not fair to put labels on them because all of those terms are more modern than these women. But yes, people knew they were dating. Vita's mom complained that Virginia stole her daughter."

"That's incredible,"

"Portrait of a Marriage by Nigel nicholson, Vita's son, is probably upstairs in biographies. Chapter five especially goes into detail on their open relationships."

The other boy laughs at that, throwing his whole body back as he does. He has the weight of five midterms on his shoulders, but for the duration of that laugh, he is happy and free and light as a feather.

"You're amazing. I'll let you write your essay, but just know. You're incredible."

Henry pulls out his laptop and opens the file for his essay, but it's a good five minutes before he can start to actually write anything. When he's finished, he nearly asks the other boy to get dinner with him. He doesn't; he can't. He's not confident enough. Instead, he just wishes the other boy good luck on his test as he says goodbye.

-

When Henry gets to work on Wednesday, it doesn't look like his patron has moved. When Henry gets a bit of a break, he texts Pez, who responds immediately with a series of emojis. The man is an enigma, but fifteen minutes later, he's arrived with two of the cookies Henry made them the night before. Henry takes them to the table where his favorite patron sits, the eye of a storm of notes, highlighters, empty coffee cups, and granola bar wrappers.

"Hello. Sorry to bother you, but you look like you could use these," Henry says, setting the cookies on the table as he passes.

"What... thank you! Thanks."

Henry is gone before the other boy can say more, his face going red. He doesn't see the little smile that spreads across the other boy's face or the way his whole body relaxes as he bites into the first cookie. When he passes the table again, though, he does see an empty bag and a somewhat refreshed patron.

-

As midterms pass and life settles down a bit, the table where his patron sits starts to be empty occasionally. Henry tries not to miss the boy who used to sit there, surrounded by clutter and wearing adorable glasses. He must have other things happening, a life outside of class work and study sessions. Still, it's a bright spot in Henry's day to see the familiar backpack in a chair, even without his patron at the table.

He finds his patron a few minutes later, or more accurately, his patron finds him.

"Excuse me, hi. Do you happen to have any books about how to ask out the hot librarian who's super smart and puts up with my constant nagging and helped me come out to my family and brought me cookies during midterms?"

Henry freezes, then says, "If we did, I would assume the first suggestion would be to tell this person your name." He's doing his best to stay calm, but the other boy isn't making it easy. He's leaning against a bookshelf, casually, like asking to date another boy in a public place is the easiest thing in the world.

"Did I not... fuck, I-- I'm Alex. Alexander Claremont-Diaz. Sorry. Shit. Yours is on your nametag and I just kinda assumed we... sorry."

"Alex, it's nice to meet you. I'm Henry. Back to your question, if we had such a book, I would assume it would also suggest waiting until the person you want to ask out is off work. But, when he's not on the clock and can be his own person, you shouldn't have any problem. You're smart, and you're nice, and you're good looking."

"You think?"

"I do. And you didn't ask, but I get off at six, and I don't have dinner plans."

With that, Henry finishes sorting his cart and walks away to shelve it, leaving Alexander Claremont-Diaz, mystery patron, grinning behind him.

On AO3

Notes: 

To my knowledge as someone who's worked at a library for a month, the Dewey decimal numbers in this are accurate. 306 is definitely gay books, and that'll be the case at any library that uses this system. Also, the fiction books mentioned are all real and queer. Especially Orlando. - Speaking of Orlando, read it! It's so good! I'm working on the play (adapted by Sarah Ruhl, who's incredible) and I'm in love with it.

[boundinshallows]

Tommy/Alfie 12 Days - Day 6

Summary: Day 6 - Snowed In

-----------

The sound of knuckles rapping lazily on the door to his dressing room has Alfie lifting his head from the assortment of papers on his lap. Tommy doesn’t bother waiting for a welcome; he just slips inside and leans against the wall. There’s a comfort between them, built over several years in the business, and that extends to their respective spaces in the studio.

Sitting back in his chair, Alfie smiles at him, open and warm. He’s surprised to see Tommy, but pleasantly so. If he’s honest with himself, right—and he is, usually, because there isn’t much sense in living in denial—Tommy has been the best part of the job for a while now even if they seldom work together. Alfie’s carried a bit of a torch for him, and there’s an ache in his chest seeing Tommy here, now—today of all days—looking smart in a simple jumper and trousers.

“End of an era, eh?” Tommy says with a grin.

“Yeah, yeah,” Alfie replies, waving him off. “I didn’t know you were on set today.”

“I wasn’t. Just stopped by to pick this up.”

“Next script?”

Tommy snorts. “If you can call it that. One of Mosley’s.”

“Yeah?”

“Hung by the Chimney. A riveting tale of sexual exploits between two childhood friends who get snowed in at a remote mountain resort.”

Alfie does what he can to stifle his laughter—in his many, many years in porn he’s starred in some fucking awful films—but the deadpan expression on Tommy’s face undoes him. And his laughter is contagious, catching first with a smile and then a string of good-natured curses as Tommy shakes his head and rubs his face with his hands.

“Honestly, mate, that sounds tame for him,” Alfie manages when he’s finally caught his breath.

“Did I forget to mention the Christmas-themed sex dungeon housed in the resort’s basement? Unadvertised in the brochure, but most welcome by our gay-curious protagonists.”

“Fuuuck me.” Alfie exhales, amused. “That’s…yeah, that’s one of Mosley’s alright. Promise me you won’t let Darby talk you into takin’ a candy cane up your arse. It won’t end well, and it’s far too fine an arse to compromise.”

“Christ, I’m going to miss you,” Tommy says, a little sadly.

Pushing off the wall, Tommy crosses the room and sits on the beat-up sofa closer to Alfie. He settles in and looks like the twenty-year-old kid he was a few years ago, a little lost and uncertain. Alfie’d always been able to offer him some sage advice (that he pulled directly out of his arse, mind) back then when Tommy would plop down on the sofa and ask Alfie what the fuck he’d gotten himself into. But Tom’s been in the business long enough now not to need that from him anymore; he’d stopped coming to him awhile ago. So it’s a little strange then, right, to have Tommy here, like this, just now.

“You were in one of the first pornos I ever masturbated to.”

Alfie blinks. “I’m…honored?”

“I just meant that, well, what I said earlier, eh? It feels like the end of an era for me—you retiring.”

“It’s time though, ain’t it. It’s gettin’ more difficult to stay in shape. Goin’ a bit soft in the middle,” Alfie says, poking his stomach. “Besides, ain’t like I’m about to miss the golden age of porn, what with the likes of Mosley and Johnny Dogs writin’ scripts for Darby.”

“You’re still fucking fit, Alfie. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Thanks, mate. Really. But I’m over all this.” Alfie gestures to the room. “Paid the bills when I needed it to, but my heart ain’t in it anymore.”

“What are you going to do instead?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about startin’ a bakery. –Oi, don’t you fuckin’ laugh, you little shit. I make a clafoutis that would put you in an early grave, mate, on account of it being so delicious. Life after would pale in fuckin’ comparison, wouldn’t it?”

“You’ll have to let me know when you open then. I’ll be your first customer.”

“Yeah, well, I’m chargin’ you twice as much, ain’t I, for that little laugh track just now.”

Tommy’s bashful grin, the way his eyes flick up to catch a look at him, makes Alfie’s heart seize up just a bit. He’d read into it maybe if it weren’t for the fact that he and Tommy have been doing this for a long time. There’s always been an easiness between them that Alfie has occasionally read as real affection. But Tommy never acted on it, and Alfie felt like a louse for even entertaining the idea of pursuing a man seven years his junior. It hardly matters anymore, but it did when Tommy was a wide-eyed young man barely beyond his teens.

Tommy shifts a little and meets his gaze.

“Would you like to get a drink sometime?”

“Yeah, sure. We can go now if you like,” Alfie offers and then glances down at the dressing gown he’s wearing from shooting the final scene earlier that day. “Just let me change. It’ll only take—”

“I meant a drink. A proper one.”

When Alfie redirects his gaze to him, he thinks he sees Tommy blushing a bit. It catches Alfie a bit off guard. There’s no way to misinterpret the second invitation, but Alfie doesn’t quite believe it despite all that.

“A date?”

Tommy shrugs. “We can call it that.”

“And you just thought to ask me this now?” Alfie asks slowly. “When I’m leavin’ the business.”

“Listen,” Tommy says, huffing. “I don’t fuck my coworkers. At least not anymore. Not since Grace went to the tabloids and nearly sank my career.”

“But I’m not you coworker any longer.”

“I’ve felt this way for a while, but it seemed too risky. I apologize for any mixed signals I may have sent. The interest is genuine.”

Alfie hums and considers. And it’s all a bit for show really. He might’ve been surprised by all this, but he hasn’t completely lost his senses.

“Alright,” he agrees. “I suppose since I already know what your arse feels like that it’s high time I learn if you can hold a conversation over dinner.”

Tommy smirks. “That’s what you’re after: dinner conversation?”

Alfie neither confirms nor denies.

[deaky-disco-queen]

King!AU Week Day 2 - Roleplay

A/N: Here’s my first piece for @stayinqpower‘s Genderbent Week; Quick Disclaimer, I know Nothing About LARP except the quick Basic googling I have done; Enjoy!

+++

Johanna wiped the sweat off her forehead, breathing heavily as she straightened up and looked over the tent she had just set up. It was a simple, pavilion tent for one person but she was still proud of herself for setting it up all for herself. She was sweating profusely, though, and was glad she had opted for the shorts and a tank top for setting up camp. 

Once her tent was set up, she had to walk back to the parking lot to fetch more of her stuff she couldn’t bring on the first trip. A very nice, tall and buff man helped her carrying her camp bed and even set it up for her before disappearing into the crowd of people who were all busy preparing their campsite.

It took Johanna several hours to get all her things set up and her arms were hurting by the end of it but she was done and proud of herself. 

She had been looking forward to this LARP-Event for months now and still couldn’t quite believe she was actually here now. It had been so expensive- she was a college student with very few money in the first place- but she was so happy she decided to go anyway. Now she had two days to enjoy the camp before the game even started and then there were three days worth of roleplaying. 

It made her giddy with excitement. 

She took a quick nap after she was finished. She tried to take a nap, at least. It ended up being more of a doze since there were a lot of people around and her tent wasn’t really sound-proof. She still felt rested afterwards so she counted it as a win. 

At the entrance, one of the game masters had given her a pamphlet with things she could do before the actual game starts and she hadn’t had the time to read through it yet but she decided to catch up with it now. There were several rules for the premises, including no modern devices or clothes outside the tents and so on which were listed in the brochure, too, but most of it was dedicated to the concerts, the marketplace and the activities offered around the place. 

Johanna decided to check out the marketplace and see if she could find some interesting things at the vendors and so she got dressed in a white cotton blouse and a ankle-length green skirt, having brought this outfit especially for the ‘No Modern Clothes’ rule so she could walk around the grounds without breaking the rules. She completed the outfit with a belt and a small sack for her money before heading out. 

The vendors had set up their stuff the day before- according to the brochure at least- and she spent most of the day looking through their displays, purchasing a two rings, a bracelet and some earrings. She was at a stall that sold LARP weapons, arguing with herself that she didn’t really need a dagger no matter how pretty it was when somebody approached her from the side. 

    “It’s a struggle, isn’t it?” 

It was a tall women with long, curly hair in a red and black dress, smiling softly at her. Johanna blinked, taken aback and not really understanding what she was saying. 

    “I can never say no to those dainty headpieces. I have about a ten at home and just bought two more.” The women went on, chuckling at herself. 

Johanna snorted in amusement, knowing this feeling too well. The women held out her hand. 

    “I’m Brianna.” 

    “Johanna.” 

In the end, she didn’t buy the dagger, opting to let Brianna- who has participated in a LARP event like this several times before- show her around and tell her a bit more about how things were working and gave her some insider tips about how to handle things. She even took Johanna to the supermarket located at the outskirts of the grounds to stock up on some more rations for the week and even borrowed her her jute sack so they could carry the things to Johanna’s tent. 

“Are you going to the concert today? I know the band, they were here last year, too, and they are pretty good.” 

    “Yeah, sure!” 

Johanna hadn’t imaged ending her day by listening to a medieval take on rock music and actually enjoying it but she did, dancing with Brianna who turned out to be a miserable dancer but she tried. She also tasted the ale Brianna suggested to her and ended up coughing and gasping to her while the other woman did a terrible job of hiding her laugh. 

+++

    “How did you get into LARPing?” Brianna asked the next day as they learned how to make candles. 

Well, Johanna learned how to make a candle while Brianna already knew how to make one but had joined her anyway. 

    “My dad took me to a renaissance fair when I was ten and worked at one during college. This is just kind of taking it a step further, you know? And I relly wanted to try it out. And you?” 

Brianna laughed, a faint blush spreading over her cheeks and Johanna couldn’t help but stare a little bit when she licked her lips, obviously preparing for an embarrassing story. 

    “My friend Freddie took me to a costume shop to pick out my costume for her Halloween party and I fell in love with one of those medieval princess dresses and she wouldn’t let it down and showed me a small LARP event in our area so I had an excuse to buy more outfits. And now I’m here.” 

They spent most of the day trying many of the offered activities. Johanna even managed to show off her archery skills to Brianna- not that she planned to show off but she was pretty good at it and Brianna seemed very impressed how she cheered for Johanna whenever she hit the target. Brianna offered to cook that day and showed her how that worked if you’re not confined to the space of your tent. Which was what Johanna did because she really didn’t know what to do without her camping cooker. The spinach soup was delicious and was served in bowls Brianna had made herself. Johanna almost swooned at that, impressed by her skills and dedication. 

In the evening, they went to another concert, this time a more folk orientated band and Johanna taught Brianna how to dance to this kind of music, having enough experience from working as an actor at faires for several years. Turned out, as long as Brianna wasn’t leading, she was doing just fine with dancing. Much better than the day before, at least, but then they weren’t really dancing together anyway. 

Johanna did notice how long her fingers were, though, when she gently cupped her hand. Their hands were probably around the same size, she realized, trying to focus on teaching her the steps instead of getting distracted by the mental images of what Brianna could do with her hands. 

It didn’t work. 

+++

Sleep was fitful that night and filled with clever fingers and hot mouths, wet sounds and soft moans still ringing in her ears when she woke up. She pressed a hand over her mouth and pressed her burning face into her pillow as her other hand slid down her body and into her panties. 

Of course she was too much of a gay disaster to just go somewhere and not fall for a gorgeous woman. She kind of saw it coming from the moment where Brianna had showed her how to make a fire with flint and stone. 

Thankfully, the game started today and there was a very slim chance that she would actually interact with Brianna since there were hundreds of people here. She probably wouldn’t see her until the game was over and until then she could work this out and get over the fact that she spent her morning masturbating over the image of Brianna showing her how to do pottery and pulling a ‘Ghost’ moment on her. 

She got dressed in her costume, braiding her hair out of the way and stepped out of her tent. It was warm, especially since she was wearing a floor length gown with a cloak on top of it to fit the look of an alchemist as she had envisioned it. She was glad she went for the gown instead of the pants because it was at least a little bit cooler. Also, the leather corsage wouldn’t look half as nice with the pants and blouse she had bought. 

There was a piece of parchment attached to one of the guy-ropes of her tent. She tugged it free and rolled it open. 

Meet me at the river bridge before the game starts. If you want to, that is. -Bri

Johanna bit her lip, contemplaining for a second to not go- she was still very embarrassed about the whole dream thing- but Brianna didn’t know that nor did she deserve getting the cold shoulder out of nowhere. And so she made her way through the camp towards the river. 

She could see Brianna from a distance and her breath got caught in her throat. Brianna was wearing a deep blue dress and her hair was in a complicated updo, a crown poking out between her curls. Her face broke into a wide smile when she spotted Johanna. 

    “You came!” She said, hoisting up her skirt and rushed towards her. “Please tell me you haven’t signed up for any camps yet.”

Johanna shook her head and Brianna laughed, pulling her into a hug. 

    “Great! I hoped so, actually, because I want to recruit you! Please join the Camp Topaz which is lead by me. Well, my character Queen Corona but same thing, really.” 

    “I’d love to!”  

She gave Brianna a quick rundown on her character Samantha, an alchemist, so they could work out how to include her into the story so she had a good reason to be with Brianna. Johanna was glad, if she was honest, since she didn’t exactly have a plan on what she was going to do during the game.  

And then the game began and Johanna was preoccupied with roleplaying and generally having a great time. They followed the big questline the game masters had set up for them and competed with the other four camps for a magical artifact. 

It was incredible fun and by the evening Johanna was positively sore from all the running around she did and fell asleep as soon as she collapsed into her bed. 

+++

The next two days went pretty much the same, with Brianna fetching Johanna in the morning and both of them going off on quests together and with Brianna knowing exactly what she was doing, it was easy to really get into her character, Johanna noticed. 

Time seemed to pass far too quickly and Johanna found herself at the farewell party much earlier than she had hoped. 

Brianna was with her and they had chosen a spot a bit further away from the main event so they could talk more easily. Johanna was leaning heavily against her, warm and tired from the alcohol she had, eyes half closed. Brianna’s arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, absently rubbing circles into her blouse and she could feel the warmth of her hand through the fabric. 

She hummed happily, her hand that had been holding her mug slipping off the table and onto Brianna’s knee. 

    “Are you tired? You wanna go back to your tent?” 

Johanna shook her head as much as it was possible for her. Going back to her tent meant Brianna was going to go but she wasn’t ready for that yet. 

    “I think you are.” Brianna said softly, brushing a strand out of Johanna’s face. “Come on, let’s have a walk, it might wake you up a little bit.” 

She chugged the rest of Johanna’s wine and then stood up, pulling her up with her despite her whined complaints, walking them out of the tent pressed close together. The camp was filled with people celebrating and they had to find their way through it without getting too distracted. 

    “There we are.” Brianna said once they had reached Johanna’s tent. “Feeling more awake?” 

Johanna, who had gone from letting Brianna guide her to linking their arms together and paying attention to where they were going, nodded and sighed. Then, Brianna cupped her face and pulled her into a soft kiss. 

She made a quiet, surprised sound against Brianna’s mouth and she immediately tried to pull back and Johanna could already hear her stuttering out apologies for several minutes and so she leaned up to kiss her again before that could happen. 

Brianna’s hands came to rest on her hips when Johanna stepped even closer, pressing their chests together and opened her mouth to deepen their kiss. Both of them moaned at that and stumbled backwards. Johanna struggled to open her tent with one hand without stopping to kiss her which she didn’t quite manage but Brianna was more than happy to suck marks against her neck while she turned around to get it open. 

She pulled her inside, fingers tangling into her curls and Brianna pulled her skirt upwards, her fingers brushing over Johanna’s thighs and making her shiver. 

Their dressed didn’t prove to be the easiest things to get off in the heat of the moment while being a little bit more than tipsy but they managed and they fell onto her camping bed completely naked. Johannas hands roamed over Brianna’s body, experimentally flicking her nipples, grinning against her lips when she gasped and repeated the move. Brianna nipped at her lip in retaliation before kissing her way down her neck. 

Johanna whined when she licked over her nipple, sucking it into her mouth while her fingers slipped between her thighs, caressing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, causing her to tremble and throw her head back. 

    “Brianna, please!” She gasped and felt her grin against her stomach, pressing a kiss to her hip bone. 

Brianna tangled their fingers together, squeezing slightly as she kissed down further, hooking one of Johanna’s legs over her shoulder. 

+++

    “Are you sure you’re not forgetting anything?” Brianna asked for the third time and Johanna rolled her eyes, nodding patiently. 

    “Yes, I’m sure. You double-checked everything and I went over everything twice. I have everything.” 

Brianna hummed thoughtfully, a frown on her face but she leaned down to kiss her anyways, gently cradling her head in her hand when Johanna sighed happily. 

After waking up squeezed into Johanna’s tiny camp bed together, they had spent most of the afternoon packing their things together, helping each other take down their tents and carrying everything to their respective cars and clean up their camping spot. 

    “Okay, if you’re sure.” 

    “Yes, because we cleaned up everything and there was nothing else left. Are you sure you have everything?” 

Brianna chuckled, seeing the point Johanna was making and kissed her again. They broke apart with a chuckle.

There was nothing else to say and both of them knew it, smiling sadly at each other. Johanna could see the hickey she left at Brianna’s neck that wasn’t fully covered by her shirt and couldn’t help but smile proudly. 

    “Text me when you come home, yeah?” Brianna asked, brushing her knuckles over her cheek. 

    “I’ll be home before you, you know? But yeah, I will.” 

They kissed again, longer this time as neither was ready to part yet but they had to and eventually, Johanna got into her car and pulled away, watching Brianna wave after her through the rear mirror until she made a turn and couldn’t see her anymore. 

She was sad but more than anything she was excited, knowing she had Brianna’s number saved in her phone and could text her anytime. Never in her life, would she have thought that this week would end like this.

[techouspeaks]

Puzzleshipping: My Most Hated Shipping

Now before anyone tries to flag me or send me hate mail or both, look and read before you get mad. Also, if you do love this shipping, that’s perfectly fine. I have nothing against you. I’m not saying people who enjoy this shipping are bad people or stupid nor do I wish any ill fated action on them. None of that. This is just my personal gripe with this shipping.  I am ranting it here, on my page, on my blog. Not attacking anyone personally about it. I know how loved this shipping is, I may not get it but okay I‘m just sharing my views, to share a different perspective.

All I ask anyone is to read this with an open mind. Everyone is gonna have a different opinion. This is more so my reasons why I hate this ship for reasons of both sharing opinions and also as away to get off my chest.

To start off there are many reasons why I absolutely despise Puzzleshipping and some reasons are ones that fans probably heard a lot. If you dunno what Puzzleshipping is for followers new to my blog or this subject, it’s the shipping or pairing of YugiXYami/Atem in Yugioh Duel Monsters.

First is the whole Yami/Atem and Yugi look alike and are possibly related, thus getting into um inappropriate (family romance) levels.  (I’m honestly trying not to get this censored by tumblr). True, it’s never stated whether or not Yami/Atem and Yugi are related, except in one video game which is not canon to the series. 

Honestly, you can’t blame people for feeling like this shipping goes into that territory. They look exactly alike. If you had a stranger who knew nothing of Yugioh and they saw some questionable fan art of the two, it’s only natural that they would think fans are into inter-family relationships and think “What the actual hell?” 

When I was first really into the internet at a high school age, that was my main shock of the relationship because I’m like “Aren’t they related?”. I know this is still debatable but even then I’m like “Kinda creepy”.

Another obvious one is that Yugi blushes or gets more flustered around women. He is never this way around men. He’s never shy around men and especially Yami. Shoot, the moment a woman hands out sample ad brochures for Duke’s shop, Yugi blushes at her. Obviously, he doesn’t know her but still flusters around her since she’s pretty, indicating a more well obvious attraction to the opposite sex. Not to mention when Yugi is kissed by Rebecca and when Tea gets obviously jealous.

 Yami on the other hand, I would argue he’s even asexual or even aromantic because he doesn’t seem that remotely interested in anyone. Maybe, Mana but even that is still debatable. He cares for people sure, but never shows that much of an interest in that kind of way. He protects Yugi and of course, cares for him but the way he’s does so is more of a brother or father figure looking after their brother/son. It’s protective love but not romantic. He doesn’t want to kiss Yugi or show anything that would indicate a romantic relationship. In fact, he even encourages Yugi to go after Anzu in the Japanese version. Most of this over protective attitude stems for the fact Yami feels guilty for dragging Yugi and his friends in his personal endeavors that can be dangerous, which often Yami states through out the series.

Now, I’m not going to go on with superficial and typical reasons that are often heard of when hating on this ship. I’ll just get to my main gripe about it and it’s a very deep reason for hating it. It’s my inner core of why I hate this ship. This shipping is the top, number one shipping of any series I can’t stand and here is why.

I honestly believe Puzzleshipping goes against what the story of Yugi Mutou is about and even who Yugi is as a character. The story of Yugioh Duel Monsters and generally Yugi’s personal story is about growing up. Yugi becoming an independent, strong, individual that can hold up his own in personal fights. Yami helps Yugi along, first as an entity that Yugi isn’t aware of yet but feels the presence of. As time goes on and he realizes who Yami is, at first he’s afraid because of what Yami does to Kaiba. He goes against Yugi’s wishes to not hurt Kaiba, but thanks to Anzu/Tea, Yugi stops Yami.  After he vows to not go against Yugi’s wishes ever again, Yugi begins to trust Yami and become good friends, realizing that he is the confident entity that’s been protecting Yugi and helping him stand against tough foes, as well as gain the confidence to make friends.

Yami of course, goes against Yugi’s wishes again when he decides to use the Seal of Orichalcos against Rafael, though ultimately regrets this after Yugi pushes Yami and gets sealed away instead.  Though this leads to Yugi and Yami in a heated duel, that results in Yugi explaining that it was for Yami to finally defeat the darkness within his heart, thus allowing Yugi to help Yami grow this time. Yugi continues to lend in the strength that Yami needs as Yami did for Yugi during his times of needs.

Now after explaining all that, it does seem like Puzzleshipping is legit, right? Not really. See, my gripe and why I say Puzzleshipping goes against it is how the fandom depicts Yugi in Puzzleshipping. When the time came and Yami had to be sent to the past, this was basically Yugi growing up and moving forward to continue on with being his own person, while Yami learns to be a strong, individual leader that his people need. 

The way Puzzleshipping often depicts Yugi is the exact opposite to that. PS often depicts Yugi as a helpless damsel or someone that can’t live without Yami. The shipping seems to throw away all the development that Yugi gained, making Yugi look more helpless and more needing a man than Snow White and Sleeping Beauty! I know Yugi isn’t always strong and always confident but my goodness, he’s definitely come along way and I just feel that most PS works just throw this development way like it was nothing but garbage.

Same with Yami. Puzzleshipping often displays Yami as the hero that rescues Yugi or seductive flirty person, which he is not. While there are some that depict Yugi and Yami similar to the series, that’s also a problem too. It depicts Yugi and Yami before they grew and learn the lessons they learned.

Also why I am not showing puzzleshipping artwork in this post is because that would probably be considered art theft and I don’t want this blog flagged! Google it yourself!

Yugi is a character that in my youth, I looked up to a lot. When I was in middle school, I was bullied a lot and wish I had a large group of friends to stand by me. I probably wouldn’t have survived school without seeing Yugi during his struggles, showing he can be strong but also kind and accepting, thus giving me hope to find someone equally as kind and accepting.

Put it short, Yugi, his story and his friends helped me out during the toughest times as a kid. So seeing Yugi depicted as this prissy, helpless princess that needs his Egyptian Prince is just down right insulting to the character, I highly respect. Yeah, he’s fictional but again, he’s a character I grew up, highly respecting and looking up to as an example of a person I wished to be and a person that I wanted to be with. (Though I’m happy for Tea/Anzu, since she’s also really awesome.)  Yami is too though he got a bit emo for my tastes down the road, he’s still a character that certainly deserves some respect as well.

It’s sorta like how people can’t stand remakes and reboots, despite this is just pure fandom fluff. Yeah, nothing is gonna stop it but that doesn’t stop people from feeling the way they feel about it and wanting to rant about it now and then and I’m not saying that all Puzzleshipping works are like what I described, but a majority of them are, especially in artworks.

Puzzleshipping just ruins the long, struggling, development of our two main leads and what are a great, strong and reliable individual characters. The whole point of the Dark Side of Dimensions movie was for Yugi to settle with his conflict he had when Yami left him and finally move on and I just feel like Puzzleshipping throws this type of development out the window, for a more “Kawaii-ish feels” or often from my perspective, to just add more gay to Yugioh. 

I get there are AUs and people are allowed to have their fun and if I insulted fans well, sorry but call it even because I can’t search Yugi Muto without Puzzleshipping work being in my face and there’s only so much soft blocking I can do.  I’m not at all saying that people can’t ship these two because yeah, like I’m the queen of the world! Hell no! It’s also not like I don’t have a few questionable ships and shippings a lot of people may not agree with myself.

 (Drawing and Violet, child in the middle by me. Angel Dust and Vaggie belong to VivziePop)

Like I said, I’m just giving my reasons for why I personally hate it, why it ticks me off and why I think it’s one of the worst shippings in terms of pairings that are otherwise not that morally bad. There are far worse shippings that are more obvious on why they’re bad, but this one just gets under my skin for personal reasons, as I stated.

Think of this post as a dive into a different perspective, if you will. The goal isn’t to change the minds of puzzleshippers but to give a different point of view, especially to those that may not fathom why someone would hate this shipping. As I said, on the surface, Puzzleshipping seems legit but on the deeper levels, it’s not as wonderful as it may seem, at least to people like me and at least the majority of works that show case it.

I hope this rant though long, is at least informative and shares light on personal feelings that I certainly have and some who hate this shipping as much as I do also have. As stated, ship who you want. I mean, I obviously can’t tell you what to ship and to not ship. If it makes you happy, go for it. As said, just wanted to share my thoughts and my reasons. Obviously there’s worst things out there but everyone has a pet peeve or something that maybe mundane but is annoying or even infuriating to them.

So, creative question to anyone who reads this, what is a shipping you really can’t stand and why? Is there a shipping you hate? Also, what’s a shipping you like? My personal favorites are SpiderMoth (Angel Dust and Vaggie from Hazbin Hotel), Peachshipping (though I see it as canon), TomaXChiffon from Futago Hime and CloseXHaruka/Cure Flora and ShutXTowa/Cure Scarlet from Go Princess Precure.

[ask-an-aro]

Recently, I queued a post on my blog reading: “Normalize aro people who don’t use the split attraction model.”

Yeah, I thought. Good idea. It’s important to remember that not everyone uses it.

After that, however, I started noticing how difficult it is to word aspec discussions in an inclusive way with that in mind. So, I decided to write an article about it. But, since I do use the SAM, it started to seem disingenuous to do so without asking for the perspectives of those who don’t. So I made a google docs survey.  I’m glad I did, because I got a lot of perspectives I wasn’t expecting.

Wait – back up – what even is the split attraction model?

The split attraction model (SAM) is a way of conceptualising attraction based on splitting it up into different types of attraction people can experience.

This is generally talked about as the split between sexual and romantic attraction, but many people also split the attraction they experience into other categories such as platonic, sensual, and aesthetic.

It was created by and for the aspec community, but people who are not aspec use it as well.

For example someone might be bisexual homoromantic i.e. They might experience sexual attraction to two or more genders and romantic attraction to the same gender.

People who have the same romantic and sexual attraction sometimes use it too – because they experience or conceptualise these attractions as separate. For example, it is very common for people to identify as asexual and aromantic separately rather than asexual, aromantic, or aroace as one identity.

However, the SAM is just a model and it doesn’t make sense for everyone to use it. This is not the way attraction inherently is – it is the way it is helpful for many people to interpret, understand, and explain their attraction(s).

So why use it in the first place if it doesn’t apply to everyone?

The SAM is a really helpful for interpreting and explaining attraction. It gives people the language to say: I am attracted to this person in this way, but not in this one.

I actually think it would be useful for understanding and working through feelings for people who aren’t aspec. Sometimes I explain this model to my allo friends when they talk about finding somebody attractive but not wanting a relationship with them, or vice versa.

But for many aspec people, it’s not just useful, but necessary. There is no real alternative for people who experience different attractions to different groups of people. I couldn’t even begin to explain how I experience attraction, being aromantic bisexual, without using the split attraction model.

It’s also a really easy way to explain what asexuality and aromanticism are. While we may not use the term “split attraction model,” it’s become the default way to explain what aromanticism even is to beginners. How else do you explain the concept of a romantic orientation than by opposing it from a sexual one?

If you do experience your attractions as split, the SAM can be a lifeline. Suddenly, what you’re feeling makes sense! You finally have the language to talk about it, and that’s vital for a large part of the community. But if it doesn’t make sense for you, or you just don’t want to use it for any other reason… that’s where we start to encounter problems.

Okay so why don’t people use it?

There are all sorts of reasons why someone may not want to use the SAM.

One reason that I have already alluded to, is that not everyone experiences “sexual and romantic attraction,” but “attraction,” which they may label using one of these terms, other terms, or not at all.

If we forget for the moment that the SAM exists, we might think that the corresponding identity for homosexual, bisexual, heterosexual, etc, is asexual. This is how the term came to exist in the first place. It follows, then, that asexual people who don’t use the SAM may view their orientation in this way. The split attraction model then turns this into: “bisexual = bisexual and biromantic; asexual = asexual and aromantic.”

But, the fact that the SAM does exist complicates things. Other asexuals who don’t use the SAM don’t understand asexuality as “asexual and aromantic,” but chose not to adopt a romantic orientation at all, or do not identify with the concept of romantic attraction in the first place.

By the same token, we get people who identify solely as aromantic. This could be for any number of reasons: perhaps because they identify more with that label, they relate more to the experiences of the aromantic community, or they find that the concept aromanticism describes their experiences better.

There’s an assumption that people who identify as solely “asexual,” or “aromantic,” are basically “asexual and aromantic,” but this is not accurate for everyone and that assumption can be forced onto people, which is damaging.

There are also people who use some variation of “aroace” or “asexual aromantic,” as one identity, in the same vein as the way ”gay” and “bi” mean one orientation and not a combination of two. This is likely due to the fact that “asexual” and “aromantic” also exist as separate identities, it makes sense to acknowledge that for these people they mean both.

There are also people who don’t use it simply as a matter of preference, or have specific problems with the SAM, and don’t use it for those reasons. Some of these are:

Don’t relate to/ feel a connection with the language of the SAM

Do experience split attractions but don’t find the way the SAM splits attraction to be helpful

Find the SAM too confusing/ inaccessible

Identify with the aspec community for reasons that the SAM doesn’t help explain, e.g inability to determine between attractions

Okay so some people use it and some people don’t. What’s the problem?

Since the first instances of it’s use, the SAM was never meant to apply to everyone, just to those who find it useful. And yet, because so many people in the aspec community need to use it by virtue of the fact that there is no other option, in much of the community it is treated as a default. Our discussions and positivity posts tend to be based on this model of attraction as a given premise. For example, I recently looked at and reblogged this introductory brochure. I didn’t see a problem with it at the time, and I still think it’s a great attempt at aspec 101. But it largely ignores the existence of aspecs who don’t use the SAM.

I see this as a problem for a couple of reasons:

It is alienating to people who don’t use the SAM. I asked in my survey if aspecs who don’t use the SAM felt excluded in aspec discussions and the vast majority responded “yes” or “sometimes.” As one respondent to my survey put it: this community is “not a monolith.” It is not accurate to treat it as one.

We’re potentially alienating or confusing baby aspecs. If your first introduction to asexuality and/or aromanticism is using a model that doesn’t make sense to you – it might make the community less accessible.

This convention of explaining the ace and/or aro spectrums in terms of the SAM creates pressure for aspecs who don’t use the SAM to explain their identities to outsiders, newbies, and intra community discussions in terms of the SAM when they may not want to.

I don’t think this is an intentional effort to erase anyone. Partly, it’s because when you do conceptualise attraction as split, it becomes really difficult to understand it in any other way.

As well as this, as one respondent to my survey pointed out: it’s a reaction to exclusionists – the discourse around the SAM is exhausting and we’re left having to defend it’s existence. This can make us forget that it’s just an option, and not the only one at that.

Well what do you want me to do about it?

One respondent to the survey suggested we treat the SAM like “queer” in that it’s fine as a personal identity choice and to use about community discussions to a certain extent but to be mindful that it’s not okay to just assume everyone identifies with it. I thought that was a really good suggestion.

I also think it might be a good idea, when introducing people to the concept of asexuality and/or aromanticism, to present the SAM as just one option and not the default.  Unfortunately, this has the potential drawback of making introductions even more confusing. We already bombard newbies with a lot of information at once, and saying:

“Well there’s a model of attraction which splits sexual and romantic attraction so if you think you experience one but not the other or both but differently, or neither but differently you can use that OR you might not find it helpful to think of attraction in that way at all in which case maybe just look at a list of labels and check which your experience seems to relate to most?”

Well, it might just end up being more confusing. Personally, I think it’s worth it.

At the very least, I want to encourage people to stop making blanket statements like: “sexual orientations are different from romantic orientations.” Because, yes, they can be. Or they can not be.

Terminology:

Allo: used here to indicate both allosexual and alloromantic OR allosexual as a non SAM descriptor.

Allosexual: the opposite of asexual; not on the asexual spectrum.

Aspec: an umbrella term for anyone on the asexual spectrum and/or aromantic spectrum

Notes:

At the time of writing this, I have only received 22 useable responses to the survey of non SAM using aspecs. This sample is not large enough to represent every aspec who doesn’t use the SAM, and is likely skewed towards people who interact with the aspec community on tumblr, since that’s where I posted it.

One respondent to the survey had issues with my use of the word aspec (on the asexual and/or aromantic spectrum) as it implies there is one aspec community rather than an asexual spectrum community and an aromantic spectrum community.

I used aspec because there is no other word that includes arospecs, acespecs, and aroacespecs who don’t use the SAM and the survey could apply to all of them. I continue to use it here, because there is no other word that includes the arospec, acespec, and aroacespec communities. The fact is that for some people aromanticism and asexuality are split and for some they are not. Some people are in both communities, some are in just one and for some being ace and aro is one single identity that they don’t think of as separate.

Another respondent mentioned concerns about the SAM sexualising queer identities. I have not addressed that here because I don’t feel comfortable mentioning it without clarifying that I don’t agree that this is the case, but I have addressed it on this blog.

I should also clarify that since I do use the split attraction model, while I’ve made an effort to hear from and include people who don’t, it should be noted that my perspective may be biased and I cannot speak for those who don’t use the SAM.