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Hello guys

Small announcement I will probably be taking a hiatus for a hit, one of my longest and best friends just unexpectedly passed and I haven't been feeling very well. When I return I will try and go through all the asks and threads I owe, but I just want to take some time to myself. Thanks for understanding and I hopefully will be back soon

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circa June, 1968 Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters First published: 1977

[ID: Date — circa June 1968 Text — I too, am in love with the sun. END ID]

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June 14, 1926 Journals of Anais Nin 1923-1927 [volume 3]

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"Doubtless there aren't heartstrings left to pull." He mutters bitterly under his breath. His entire body is turned, so his eye— the partially blinded one— is aimed at him, a way of looking at the Englishman without actually looking at him. He feels so... Old. Lost below waves and it feels quite like he's losing the will to keep clawing back to the surface.

Why hadn't he collapsed like Rome had? Why must god drag him through all this muck and dirt? Even worse, to be turned on by everyone he once felt he could trust.

Icy fingers, like that of death startle him out of his thoughts, and as they're lifted to Arthur's lips they're torn away before they can connect. Without looking, even Arthur's very touch felt like Charles'.

"no... I don't have a choice." He says, his tone laced bitter like poison. "You can't hold a gun to someone's head, and tell them it's a choice." He sighs, a soul crushing one that feels like a sliver of his soul and spirit slips out from his lips with each one. His hand scrubs at his face roughly, thumb and forefingers digging into his eyes as he fights an incoming migraine.

Sometimes, he can't help but feel like he's dealing with a child. Hell, even Antonio was beginning to grow up before Arthur, a sentence he never thought would cross his mind.

"You have no idea the things you're asking, you might as well have sent Charles to this meeting, I fear I can hardly tell the difference between you two these days... But I'm sure he is too busy for me, he would prefer you do the dirty work as always. A pen is grabbed, and halfheartedly a signature scribbled. "And you'll end up alone just like him at this rate. Do you think it will feel good when it happens? When you finally rid of me like Charles did Joan?"

@sorte-de-vida: João said to Arthur, “You're not a bad person, but you ruin people."

Arthur could only stare soberly, his expression serious, arms folded across his chest as he put all his will into maintaining his practiced composure in the face of this unwelcome character analysis. It seemed João remained the only one these days who could look into Arthur's eyes and still insist upon seeing a good person, when in truth he barely passed for a person at all anymore.

“Oh, be sensible,” he said, dismissive of just how deep the words pierced him. “Do not attempt to pull on my heartstrings by affixing poignance where it does not belong. That sort of thing doesn't work on me anymore, not when it comes to the health of the Empire.”

Leaning against the mahogany desk, one hand reached down to shift a detailed map of the carved up claims of Africa closer into view. “Are you really willing to risk breaking our bond by denying me this?” Arthur repeated, his green gaze dark and penetrative as they rested upon João. “It is going to mean war if you don’t, and it is abominable to imagine that after everything, you and I could ever put one another through such a thing. I don’t want that, do you?”

He stepped forward to approach the other, his cold pale hand reaching forth to take the hand of Portugal. “Perhaps you are right, I ruin people. My desires have a tendency to devastate. However, my intention here is clearly to avoid ruining you.” Arthur uttered these words, recognising that the only way to get through to João was through appealing to their past, and the significance of their alliance. 

“I am not asking for much—really, you have to admit that by comparison I demand so much more from the rest of the world. And you know you are special to me, which is why I haven’t gone ahead with my plans without first offering you this chance to move aside.” Arthur sighed, raising João’s hand to his lips. “I am not a bad person,” he said. “I’m not... I simply have no choice, but you do, my dear friend.”

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@dutchiisms continued from Here

Ah, business. It's not only a safe topic, but an expected one— after all, even back in the day the Dutchman was always interested in João's buisness aspects.

"mmm, why am I not surprised that's what you want to talk about?" He muses, leaning back comfortably in his chair as he lights the end of his cigarette. It ignites in a lovely bloom of hot red coal, and addictive smog. "I'd almost accuse you of trying to steal my tourism, but... Well..." He trails off, and unspoken insult in the air.

"Well, I might be headed to São Miguel with Antonio, it's lovely this time of year."

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The complaints of not calling ahead, and just showing up die on his tongue as Sadiq quickly clarifies his attempts to try. João missing calls isn't the most unheard of thing, and his cellphone? Well, beyond being used to blackmail purposes might as well be alien technology in his hands.

"Ah," he murmurs at the explanation, lips pursing as a fingertip presses down his sunglasses to look up at the other man. His eyes flick down to his outfit, and back up to his face. There's little shock that he's found here by the sea, the sun beating down on the man as he tans. He rolls on the towel onto his stomach, resting his chin in an open hand.

"Aiiii, but it's so nice out, não? And you're looking a little pale. Maybe you should join me for a tan and a drink... Or two... Or five." A large grin stretches across his face, head tilting ever so slightly as he waits for a reply.

"Well, I'm here now, so are ya gonna tell me what yer usually doin' around this time or not? I'm just lookin' for some fun while there's still a lotta daylight to burn. 'Sides, I really did try to call ahead!"

Sadik's tone was more playful than meanspirited as he looked out towards the expanse of sea spread out before them because he really did try to call ahead, but it wasn't as though he know his way around. He may as well be a tourist, honestly, and what's more, it was a miracle in itself that he had such a nice view in front of him now. / @sorte-de-vida.

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Albert Camus, from a notebook entry featured in Notebooks of Albert Camus, 1935-1942

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man i love fishing

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Martha Gellhorn, from a letter to Rosamound Lehmann featured in The Selected Letters of Martha Gellhorn

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Cynthia Macdonald, from a poem titled "By The Sea," featured in A Century of Poetry in the New Yorker

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"Don't say that," he sighs out softly at the near refusal of help. There was a strict line in the sand between the ability to help, versus the ability to save. Anyone can be helped, eased of some burdens. Not everyone could be saved— but João knows that this doesn't apply to Arthur... At least, not yet

The refusal to leave doesn't shock him, unsurprised at the way he uses Charles's current state to make excuses for being unable to sneak away, but he seems… Fragile right now, and so João doesn't press the subject. He knows it's a fair reasoning, but he also is perceptive to know when Arthur is using an excuse— even if he doesn't know exactly why Arthur is coming up with excuses. His mouth sets into a line at that, brows drawing downward. The expression doesn't last long as Arthur concedes to sneak away for some time anyways, moving back to a more neutral expression, eyes softening once more.

The Englishman peels one of João's hands off, and he might have complained if not for the fact he lifts it to his lips, knuckles pressing to his mouth in a tender way. A way that causes his heart to beat harder, stumbling over its own rhythm bashfully for a few beats before evening out once more.

At the mention of the "hungry harlots", João barks a soft laugh, the sound muffled behind a hand to not draw any unwanted attention from anyone who might be lingering on the outskirts of the festivities. When he replies his voice is low and gentle, almost soothing. "Don't worry, I do not want for them." As the words leave João's smiling lips, his thumb sweeps over Arthur's before he retracts and excuses himself.

"I will see you soon."

The last thing Arthur wanted to do was admit that he did not feel in his right mind, though really, as time went on he saw little point in denying it, what with everyone uttering their tense conjecture as soon as he turned his head. He was not deaf to the gossip, nor ignorant to the unease that seemed to have settled over the kingdom like some dense mist. England had experienced a harrowing transformation over these last years. The question of what he would become understandably had people on edge, but one thing was certain: a rot had been setting in for some time, and it was too deep now to simply cut out. 

“I’m afraid I am quite beyond your help this time, my darling,” he looked at João with eyes like troubled dreams, his words thick and weighted, as though his voice was bruised. “I shan't leave the palace,” he insisted, but with a tinge of regret. He and his king were to discreetly leave for Versailles tomorrow afternoon, and it could be misconceived as him making a statement if he were to vacate the palace unannounced the night before. This was not something Arthur could allude to however, as the meeting was highly confidential. Plus, he was quite sure João would quickly change his tune if he knew Arthur was seeing Francis again.

“I can't abandon Charles in his current state, he’d never forgive me,” was his reasonable justification. “Though I doubt it would make much of a difference if we excused ourselves from the festivities for an hour or two.” Arthur already had a reputation for fucking off here and there during social occasions. Everyone generally knew not to seek him out, so long as he did not stay strange all evening and returned before his most important figures retired—and his king, being the animal that he was, usually succeeded in keeping the revelry going long into the morning. 

He took João's wandering hand in his, and pressed it to his lips. “Go to your room,” Arthur suggested. “Dismiss your attendants, and I will join you soon.” He managed to force a wry smile. “I'll have to make sure none of those shameless hungry harlots out there attempt to follow you.”

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In any other circumstances, João likely would have been humiliated at the way he screams when he's grabbed and thrown back against the bed. But today? Today was different. Antonio was different. The threat doesn't go unheard, not in the slightest. He struggled immediately in his grip, clawing and scrabbling as he tried to get away to no avail. João can't remember the last time he was so fearful, likely not since he was a little boy.

"No!! No let GO-!"

And then, comes the pain.

The first punch connects with his jaw, and he's stunned from the force. It hits like an iron hammer, and his jaw might as well have been hollow. There's a sickening crack, and when he moves his jaw to cry out there's a grinding sound, his jaw not moving quite right, the pain excruciating. A rush of adrenaline has him struggling harder, clawing desperately at Antonio: his eyes, his face, his broken nose.

The second blow meets his cheek, and he's instantly dazed. João can tell he's bruising near instantly— iron so low that he might as well be as fragile as a flower. There's a sharp taste of blood in his mouth, practically pouring down his throat as it follows gravity. His ears ring like he'd just stood next to canon fire, Antonio's spat words like foreign language entirely to his concussed state.

Antonio's fist cocks back once more, and João can do little more than brace for the hit, head turning as it comes down once more to hit temple.

And then, everything is quiet, black... Painless. He's in a state where nothing exists. Not time, not himself, not the world. It all fades into nothing. He feels like he's suspended in air with no gravity, and for the first time in a long time he feels... At peace.

But then, he's ripped back to earth with a strangled gasp, choking on the air as it's forced through stiff, blood coated lungs. He coughs, and hacks, shifting on the sheets as he tries to regain his bearings. Everything hurts, he doesn't even feel as if there's been any recovery. In fact, everything feels off. He realizes quickly he doesn't know where he is, or what's going on. Fear floods him, and his eyes are wild as they look around the room, scrambling upright.

The pain is sharp and naturally makes the Spaniard reel backward, yelling as his hands come up to clasp over the point of impact. It feels like he's been shoved underwater with how his nose stings, filling with blood that comes trickling out. What the HELL? Before he can get his bearings he hears and feels the other jerk around and pull away. He's trying to leave. "No. No! João!! You are NOT leaving me!" A blood-covered hand leaves his face to blindly snatch out at the Portuguese man, angrily trying to grab him however he could and not EVER let go. "You want to fight about it? Vaaale, I'll teach you a lesson you'll NEVER forget."

In the dark, in his frustrated rage, he roars out a rage-filled yell, finds the other's shoulders and holds them down before sending a strong punch right to his husband's face. "For my NOSE..." Then another. "For my PRIDE." CRACK... another. "For my heart... ya está." Feeling like that was sufficient to teach him not to mess around, Antonio sits back and holds his nose tightly once more, wincing and grunting from the pain. "How could you d---" Before he finishes that sentence he notices something feels very wrong. The room is eerily quiet. It's too cold. "João...?" There's no way.