#I’m assuming that they’ll have a lot of fanfare around it

[rickybaby]

The FIA F1 entry list for the 2024 championship still shows the team’s name as Scuderia Alpha Tauri while the Alfa Romeo team has been rebranded to Stake F1 Team Kick Sauber.

It is very likely at this point for the new name reveal to happen in February at the livery reveal. The question remains if the team is allowed to change the name after the official entry list has been published.

[98prilla]

Medicate

Thomas decides to try anxiety medication, working together with Virgil to find the one that works

AO3

….

I myself am on anxiety medication, and it is so helpful. I kinda hate the "Thomas takes medication and it hurts Virgil" trope, because that's not what the medication is meant to do, and if it does hurt you, then it's either the wrong dose or the wrong medication. This is mostly based off my own experiences trying to find the one that works.

….

“Hey.” He says, popping onto his place on the stairs, eyebrow raised as he looks around and sees no one else, just Thomas. “Sup?” He asks, nervousness creeping into him at Thomas's silence.

 “I… wanted to talk to you about something. But I don’t want you to freak out and run away. I won’t do this if you don’t want me to.” Thomas says seriously, and his heart is racing now as he forces a deep breath in.

 “Ok. Ok. Whatever it is, I won’t run, ok? Just… tell me now and explain after, otherwise, well, anxiety.” Thomas takes a deep breath, nodding once to steel himself.

 “I want to start anxiety medication.” Static roars in his ears. He’s been too much, of course he has, and now Thomas is going to get rid of him just like he always should have.

 “il. Virgil. Breathe. In for four… hold for seven… out for eight.” He slowly gets ahold of himself, following Thomas's voice out and back to reality until he blinks and his vision clears.

 “sorry. I… whatever it was, I’m sorry." His voice is a whisper, but Thomas hears, coming closer and kneeling at the base of the stairs.

 “no. It’s not like that, Virgil. I’ve been researching a lot. This isn’t to get rid of you. It won’t get rid of you. I want it to help. The both of us." He uncurls slightly, reassured at Thomas’s vehemence, curiosity peeking through. Thomas sees this and continues at his small nod.

“You work so hard, Virgil. And I appreciate it, I do. But we both know you go overboard sometimes. I’m not blaming you, I know you can’t help it, that we, can’t help it. But that isn’t healthy. Not being able to sleep, not being able to eat, heart racing and stomach churning constantly, isn’t healthy.” He nods again. He knows this. He can’t stop how he is, but he knows his habits are unhealthy. “That's what the meds are for. Not to get rid of you, not to impair your purpose, just… just to take the edge off. To give you space to breathe. To just… be. Help us relax, help us not overblow things, and if it is doing more than that, if it is hurting you, then it isn’t doing its job right, ok? If we do this, I need you on board. If you feel wrong or bad or sick, then either the dose or the med isn’t right for us, and we’ll try something else. The goal is not to get rid of you, Virg. It’s to help you.”

 He’s silent for a moment, taking it all in, processing the information, before taking a deep breath, pushing back his hair.

 “ok.”

 “Ok?”

 “Yeah. Ok. A few years ago I woulda laughed in your face, but I… I trust you, Thomas. Yeah, I’m freaked out and scared half to death but that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? I’m scared and guarded and overwhelmed all the time. I’m so… tired.” He bites his lip, looking down, feeling the tension thrumming in his shoulders, the slightly too fast beat of his heart, how even now his mind is screaming danger, and feels the weight of the world atop him. “I’m tired Thomas. So if you think this will help, ok. Let’s try it.”

 “Thank you, virg. For hearing me out. I’m proud of you.” He hides his smile by rolling his eyes, looking up at Thomas.

 “yeah, well, don’t go soft on me now, Thomas.” A small salute, and he's gone, leaving Thomas chuckling to himself on the staircase.

…

He pops into the living room with little fanfare, flopping onto the couch with a low sigh, faceplanting into the cushions. He can hear the scratch of Princey’s pencil against paper, Logan turning pages in a book, Patton humming softly to himself, but his hair prickles.

 “It’s rude to stare, y’know.” He says, voice muffled by the cushion, but still loud enough they all hear.

 “You’re not even looking at us! How do you know we’re staring?” Roman asks, and he rolls his eyes, flipping over so his head is against the arm rest, hugging a pillow to his stomach.

 “Logan reads faster than that, he was barely turning pages. Patton only hums like that when he’s nervous and trying to pretend he’s not focused on the thing that he is focused on, and you kept stopping writing every few seconds before picking up again, erasing whatever you just wrote.” Roman gapes at him, Logan adjusts his glasses and Patton whispers ‘wow’.

 “You got all that from listening?” Princey squeaks and he smirks.

 “Amazing what you notice when you shut your mouth, Princey.” Roman splutters, making him laugh, Logan shaking his head fondly.

 “so kiddo… how’d it go?” Patton asks softly, slipping onto the end of the couch, and Virgil looks up at him in surprise.

 “You knew?”

 “We did. Thomas approached all of us first, so we would be prepared to help, whatever the outcome of the conversation was. Based on your demeanor, I would assume it went well?” Logan asks, and he sighs, sitting up, hugging the pillow closer.

 “Y’know, usually I’m not a fan of people talking behind my back, but I’ll let it slide this time.” He comments, smiling slightly as Patton slides across the couch, sitting so their sides are touching.

 “We get it, doom and gloom, how did it go?” Roman asks, throwing up his hands in faux exasperation.

 “good, I guess. We talked, and I’m still… anxious, obviously, about it, about what could go wrong, but Thomas said that if it affects me… badly… he’ll stop. That it isn’t supposed to get rid of me, so we’re gonna try.”

 “Thomas is correct. The medication is not supposed to impair you, rather it is supposed to help you better distinguish what is urgent and what is not. If it is doing anything other than that, it is not only harming you, but harming Thomas as well. I will be making daily observations, about your mood, physical state, mental state, sleep and food intake, to help monitor the effects of the medication and make sure that it is not causing you harm.”

 “Oh Logan. You do care.” He snarks playfully, catching Logan’s stifled smile.

 “Of course he does. We all do, Virg. We’ll all be keeping an eye out, ok?” Roman, soft and serious as he catches his eye.

 “thanks, princey.” Patton simply shifts closer, waiting for his nodded permission before resting his head on his shoulder in silent support.

…

The first medication goes poorly.

 Things are fine, at first. It takes two to three weeks to kick in, after all, though Virgil starts noticing changes by the end of week one.

 He feels strange. Odd. Off. Sometimes, the world seems to tilt under his feet, and he finds himself losing his balance, stumbling over his own feet, running into doors and walls, misjudging their distance. He writes it off as a result of not getting enough sleep, which is true. He’s sleeping less than normal, almost not at all, going through episodes of heightened energy before crashing.

 The crux of it all is when he’s been awake for five days straight, unable to turn off his mind, twitchy and sure that Thomas is being watched, being followed. He jumps at a hand on his shoulder, heart speeding, already on the edge of panic, eyeshadow dark and breathing rapid.

 “Virgil. We need to speak to Thomas.” His heart rate spikes further, and he pushes Logan away, shaking his head, hands shaking.

 “No. no, no, no. I can’t, I’m busy, they’re watching, I can’t go out there or they’ll see. They can’t see.”

 “I promise nothing will happen to you. They can’t get you if I’m there. I will keep you safe.” Hesitantly, he nods. Logan is smart, Logan can outsmart them, trick them, maybe he can get them to go away.

 “Thomas. This one isn’t working.” Logan states as they rise up. He is pressed against the wall, eyes darting wildly, breathing erratic and wrong, pressure building in his chest. Thomas looks up at him, eyes wide, and he stumbles back further.

 “Virgil?” He shakes his head, panic taking over him. Because that isn’t Thomas. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows, that isn’t Thomas, someone has taken Thomas and replaced him, this isn’t his host, his friend, and Thomas is in danger, and he didn’t notice and how could he fail like this, fail Thomas, like this?

 Then the world goes black.

…

They take a month. The medication needs to get out of Thomas’s system, and he needs to wean himself off it. He is paranoid and stressed and when it finally stops, he sleeps for nearly three days straight. During it all, the others take turns staying with him, never leaving him alone, constantly talking him down from his ever present fear and panic, wiping himself out with panic attacks day after day. It’s the worst experience of his entire life.

…

“Hey.” He appears of his own accord on the stairs, Thomas looking up from the couch, concern in his eyes. He hadn’t appeared since he’d passed out, though the others had, to give Thomas updates. He’d admitted he hadn’t been feeling quite right either, but hadn’t really noticed how bad he himself was getting until Virgil.

 “Virgil, are you ok? I’m so sorry, I-“ He holds up a hand, gathering his thoughts and stopping Thomas’s rambling.

 “I’m fine. You don’t need to apologize. It wasn’t your fault. We knew there was a chance it wasn’t gonna go well. Stuff like this, doesn’t usually work on the first try. But I think… I think we should try again.” Thomas blinks in surprise, looking at him carefully, trying to asses his words.

 “You do? I thought you’d be entirely against it now.” He shrugs, looking away.

 “Sure, that one didn’t go well, to say the least, but… I don’t want that to stop you. Stop us. It’ll still help, once we find the right one.” Thomas smiles softly, nodding.

 “ok. Ok, let’s do it. I’ll set up another appointment.”

…

He doesn’t notice the changes, this time.

 They are gradual. Slow.

 He finds the ever present tension leaking out of his shoulders.

 He finds it easier to breath. His chest feels lighter, open, not tight and taut and suffocating.

 He doesn’t panic, when the waiter asks Thomas to order. When a stranger bumps into Thomas on the street. When he fumbles over his words on a phone call.

 He’s sleeping. He finds himself drifting farther and farther from his usual 3am bedtime and noon wake up, until he’s forgoing his usual tumblr scrolling, phone set aside by ten. The first time he wakes up at nine, well rested and light, is when he realizes that this… this is working.

 He cries that day. He sits on the couch and cries, letting Patton pull him close and hold him, letting himself lean into the touch, and for once it doesn’t feel too much, it feels nice and good, and he cries harder as Patton shushes him, rubbing his back.

 “you ok, kiddo?” Patton asks, when his cries die down into sniffles, slipping off Patton’s lap, but not going far, letting the fatherly side keep an arm around his shoulders, gently rubbing circles with his thumb.

 “I didn’t realize… I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to feel like that, all the time. I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to be afraid all the time. I… I just…” He swipes at his eyes, letting out a shuddering sigh.

 “it’s ok, Virg. I’m just glad it helps. I’m so glad you’re doing better, I’m so glad this is working. You’re sleeping more. You’re smiling more. You’re laughing, Virgil, and it just makes me so, so, so, happy. You don’t look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders anymore. You don’t slouch as much, you’re more confident, you’re more open to touch, you come to us when you’re worked up, you’re not constantly second guessing yourself, and it’s beautiful, Virgil. It’s beautiful, to watch you grow like this. To watch you be able to let go of some of that.” He stares at Patton, mind spinning out, because he’d noticed some of that, but not all of it.

 “I hadn’t noticed.”

 “You aren’t supposed to. It’s not changing who you are, Virg. It’s just… letting you be who you are without all of the fear. It’s slow and steady progress. And I’m so proud of you, kiddo.”

 He buries his face against Patton’s side, laughing and crying all at once, because he loves this feeling, loves feeling like this, loves… loves himself.

 For the first time ever, he isn’t afraid.

 And  Patton is right.

 It’s beautiful.

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

hello~ i saw you’re taking fluff ABC requests! can i get comte with C H J L S Y please? i hope thats not too much (if it is then just the first 3 will be fine), thank you!!! :)

Hiya friend! You absolutely may, not to worry, I love writing about Comte!! You’re very welcome, and I hope you enjoy my rambles :D 💖💖💖 Below a cut for length!

Fluffy ABC headcanons listed here for requests!

C = Cuddling (how does he like to cuddle?)

His favorite way to cuddle tends to be with her in his lap in any permutation of that position. Usually she’s sitting on his thighs with her legs over the arm of a chair/on the other side of the couch, or she’s all curled up between his legs (she feels guilty about being too heavy and making his legs fall asleep, no matter how much Comte protests). She’ll lean against his chest and close her eyes, or hug him around his shoulders and snuggle close to his neck while he wraps his arms around her waist. From time to time his hand might fall to her thigh, stroking gently, or he might drop a kiss to her forehead/shoulder--anywhere he can reach, really. Either way, it’s a very comfortable position for both of them; he’ll always have a blanket ready to drape over her in the winter time since she often falls asleep that way. He loves it because he can watch over her and soak in some quality time at his leisure, no demands being made of him and no chaos to resolve. Just the quiet, the crackle of a hearth/fire perhaps, and the rhythmic sound of her breathing--beating heart steady. She’s safe, she’s warm, she’s cherished, and she’s content; what more could he ask for? (She loves it too because she just loves being wrapped up in the scent of him and in his arms, falls asleep so readily because of how comforted she feels ;-;).

He also loves having her legs around his hips when she’s in his lap--but that usually leads to sexy times, and this is fluff hour, my darlings ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°).

H = Holding Hands (when/how does he like to hold hands?)

Literally the only time this man would ever say no to hand-holding is when he has to actively use his hands for something else. (Basically sees her empty hand and sees his own empty hand and is just the “Is for me? 👉👈” meme). Otherwise he would die before saying no. That being said, he tends to be pretty practical and chill about it. Out on the town? Likes to hold her hand to keep her close, likes showing off his favorite person in the world, loves the feel of her hand against his own--warm. (From time to time his thumb will drift to her fluttering pulse along her wrist and he’ll sigh blissfully; it reduces his terrifying intrusive worries about losing her suddenly to mere background noise.) 

Usually it’ll just be her hand in his, but when it comes to sexy times he’s more partial to their fingers being intertwined ;)

J = Jokes (does he like to joke around with or prank her? how?)

Okay but this one made me laugh, only because my first thought was “he’s a clown s2g”. What I mean to say is that he’s a huge tease; really enjoys gently flustering his love. He’d never cross boundaries or do anything appalling, but he will ask her to do things that make her bashful because he thinks it’s absolutely adorable/endearing to see her out of sorts. Seduction is the name of his game, and he intends to see both of them have fun along the way (he’s a lovable rascal). Will ask her to undress him after a long day to enjoy the blush on her cheeks in the privacy of their room, or ask her to kiss him goodbye at the door if he has to go into town to run an errand. They will be simple little requests, or even observations sometimes~

One surefire way to surprise him/get him back though is to respond to his teasing with utterly serious love--it makes him freeze in his tracks every single time. If she anticipate his moves, he will be completely baffled for a moment. For example, say it’s his usual tea time and he’s really absorbed in his work (or he’s pretending to be). “MC would you mind--” Be one step ahead of him, hold that macaroon up to his lips like “Don’t worry, sweetheart, leave it to me--say ah~” And he will literally scream internally and die; he won’t ever see it coming. 

Note: this will lead to rigorous love-making in one way or another (either that moment or later that night) so be forewarned if she seeks to thwart him HAHA 

Beyond that, though, I think he and his MC are also a naturally light-hearted couple; they find fun wherever they are and joke around easily. Whether that means teasing each other, or just snickering over puns/nonsense.

L = Love (how does he show her he loves her?) Take two! I did another one with a different spin on it without realizing because I’m literally too in love with him to stop

If I’m honest? I think Comte’s biggest indicator of genuine, abiding love is vulnerability. He is always overcompensating, always acting to make other people comfortable; always a little too giving. If MC can encourage him to be greedy, to let down his guard with her--to be less than polished and perfect and magnanimous to the point of self-silencing--that is the greatest way he can show love. It means he trusts her to see him for all that he is, hiding nothing, and isn’t afraid that doing so will mean losing her forever. People can rely on him too much, ask for too much, and while he does love answering people’s needs and seeing them happy, at the end of the day he can neglect himself sometimes. She coaxes him out of his protective isolation slowly by showing him that he’s safe and loved even when he gets a little needy for affection, a little needy for reassurance. When she shows him that he’s still adorable and sweet and precious when he asks for help, he is like putty in her hands. Fair warning to MC though--if she does this she better be prepared to be spoiled tenfold in return; he can’t help himself!

S = Secrets (how open is he with her?)

Comte is a slow burn through and through my friends; he needs time to really open up. It’s not that he thinks MC will betray his trust or regard him with indifference; rather, he doesn’t have much confidence others will like him in his more vulnerable state. (And honestly, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if people have toyed with his weaknesses in the past. Yes, Vlad, I’m looking at you.) He just assumes he’s a lot of baggage, that the truth of who he is and how he thinks is just too depressing. He tends to hide his more overwhelming feelings and loneliness, tends to hide what he wants; he doesn’t want to impose on others or burden them. That being said, if one pays attention to his tells, if she shatters the illusion of his composure with confident concern, he will begin to share what he’s thinking more and more. He will give up the facade slowly, reach out to her more consistently as she offers him a safe, sensitive place to rest. (I feel like his biggest indicator is sudden silence: if he doesn’t know what to say it’s usually because he’s either caught off guard or overwhelmed by emotion, and he needs a second to conceal it). 

I don’t think he’ll ever be completely open with his feelings like that in any kind of public setting. He needs the comfort of privacy, the truth of who he is hers and hers alone; it is a privilege that belongs to his beloved. He will share bits and pieces of himself outside, snapshots of what he’s truly like, but the entirety of his selfhood will be concealed only between them two. 

Y = Yes (how would he propose to her?)

Haha, this will actually come up in his MS and a future event, so look forward to it! But there are some big points to hit home when it comes to his proposal process. 

First and foremost, he doesn’t give a single fuck what others think. He considers marriage and everything that comes with it secondary to the truth that lies between him and his cherished one. Does she want to stay by his side, and is she ready for that level of commitment? Before he ever goes public with the depth of their ties, he needs to know that they are on the same page without equivocation in private. And more importantly, what her comfort zones are. Does she even want marriage? Does she want it to be a public affair, or would she prefer less fanfare? How does she want to go about this?

He thinks marriage in and of itself is a cheap promise for eternal creatures; it’s too lodged in social convention and cultish religious tradition to mean squat to him. He will take their bond seriously, and he will absolutely respect her feelings about marriage, but he wants something more timeless and equal between them--something not easily severed. He will wait as long as he needs to for her to be ready for that. Marriage to him is more of a universally acknowledged symbol of their union; a way for other people to recognize that they’re devoted to someone else, and a way for him to express deep romantic feeling openly. As long as he knows at the end of the day that they’ll always be together on their own terms, side by side, that’s really all that matters to him.

His proposal will begin in private; it will be an intimate, fairly solemn moment between them. Is she ready to become a vampire’s bride? Can she accept that kind of future, and everything that comes with it? He doesn’t want her to be socially pressured by a crowd or even himself and the other residents of the mansion--he wants this to be her choice and vow, through and through. This isn’t about getting her to agree, this is about gauging where she is emotionally. If she needs more time to be sure, he’s happy to give it (but when he proposes he will have paid very careful attention to her potential receptivity; it is unlikely he would jump the gun and risk frightening her).

He will take her to a little church at midnight, well into the darkest hours of the night. Each breath will hang like a whisper in the air, swallowed by the cool and amplified by the quiet. He will try to provide a dress for her, but if she’s partial to one she already has, he won’t protest (he will just pout because he LIVES to buy her dresses and this is a special occasion, one he intends to remember forever ;-;). He’ll take a moment at the altar where a ceremonial binding would usually happen, and pause. 

He looks more serious than usual, his expression penetrating. He’ll take her hands in his own, squeeze them gently as her gaze finds his. The silence is gentle, but anticipatory--charged with what’s to come. He speaks slowly and softly.

“I’ve asked you before, but I’m going to ask one more time, here and now; a vow between us. Will you stay by my side, a vampire’s bride, for as long as this life gives us? Will you marry me someday?”

They’ve talked about the prospect before, and she’s already proved her mettle--she has expressed no intention of letting him go. Even if that means becoming like him in the future to stay together, even if that means facing the grief of losing human friends and family. She knows what it means to agree to this bond, and she’s thought it through; she knows this is what she wants. She dreads a future devoid of his presence so much more than any necessity to forfeit her mortality.

“Of course I will,” her answer is equally soft but firm, every bit the woman he fell in love with; sensitivity lined with steel. 

The next second she’s leaping into his arms and he laughs, melting into the delight of her certainty, relieved to know he isn’t alone (and won’t be alone ever again), more in love than he ever thought he could be. He holds her tight for a moment before letting go, pressing a kiss to her left ring finger--one he fully intends to adorn with a proper ring of his choosing (he was having it made to suit her so it would take a little longer to be ready, one of a kind).

That being said whenever she’s ready (or wants) to have a public ceremony, he’s ready with bells on! He will listen very, very carefully to the customs she recognizes as binding and the kind of wedding she wishes for, and will essentially ensure that the process reflects a balance of their mutual desires (as always, leaning into what she wants a little more). He’s also a hopeless romantic, so despite his private feelings about marriage, he will enact all the cute little traditions he’s picked up along his long, long life that express earnest wishes/prayers for a bride's happiness. If it makes her smile--and sometimes cry happy tears--then he thinks it simply makes all those years he waited for her to enter his life worth it.

[mon-blanchetts]

Two years after The Long Night, Sansa is held prisoner at Dragonstone on charges of murder and treason. And yet, nothing is as it seems.

Had the decision been his, Jon would've insisted they leave half-way through the second course. But, as it wasn't, he was forced to see the evening to the end, making his way through four elaborate courses, each consisting of a dozen dishes. And even after all that, Jon still wasn't free. For a city merchant like Francys Drury, who was as wealthy as he was ambitious, a dinner with four courses just wasn't enough—a fucking banquet1 had to follow as well, held in the marble house erected in his garden just for the occasion.

No, he realized, downing the last of his wine. A servant quickly re-filled his goblet without prompt. Had the decision been his, Jon wouldn't be here at all. Only the damn thing was supposed to be in his honour, a celebratory dinner to prelude his departure, and Dany had ordered that he be in attendance with her. Jon didn't feel to argue when the time for him to take his leave was so near. She was already furious with him to begin with.

At least for the moment, Jon was free from his wife's wrath. Dany was informally holding court on the other side of the garden, surrounded by her courtiers. Jon could make out Francys Drury from his clothes only. Their host wore a rich doublet spun with gold, so that the fabric glittered beneath the flames from the torches surrounding them. Dickon Tarly was also among those orbiting his wife. Jon packed that away for later. For now he had Ser Wylis Manderly to contend with; the knight had latched himself onto his person just as soon as he'd lost Drury's wife and her brood.

"Seven Hells, it's been an evening," he praised, not for the first time. "I haven't been witness to this level of hospitality since well before The Long Night. Though, speaking of The Long Night, I found the pageant lacking in accuracy. Too flowery and all over the place for my liking. What say you, Your Grace?”

Jon noted the stains on the man's clothes with his good eye, the comfit in one of his hands. "Many prefer a rose-tinted variation of the truth."

"Too right, that," Ser Wylis said, his eyes twinkling. "Not so many can handle the truth, eh? Not like us northmen. Looks like most of this lot here decided to sit The Long Night out, too.” The comment was not made quietly.

He knew he was being watched; the feeling was too familiar as it crept slowly upon him. Jon began to regret heeding Sam's advice. It had been on his friend’s recommendation that he bring Ser Wylis tonight, thus saving him from the ordeal of offering a seat at his own dining table.  

"The decision was their own, Ser. Whatever my opinion, it matters not now that those tribulations have passed."

Ser Wylis nodded as he finished the last of his comfit. "Well, let us hope the bad times are behind us. I'd like to think that after so much tumult and violence, it's only fitting that the gods bless us with a little prosperity, if they're generous enough. Though I must say, the gods have been well generous to you, no?"

"Generous indeed," he said. It was just short of a spat. Jon was ready to excuse himself, but Wylis Manderly had other plans.

"I assume you'll see Lady Sansa while at Dragonstone, Your Grace?"

Even more eyes felt like they were closing in on him. Jon watched the knight with an air of boredom on his face.

"If time permits, I suppose I will."

Ser Wylis wiped his fingers on his clothes as he spoke. "I do hope her health has improved from the fresh sea air. If she hasn't I already, it won't be long until she realizes how hard it will be not to live by the sea. Anyway, I hope you don't mind, but my father’s commissioned something for the Lady that I hope you'll take to her in honour of her name day. I've had it sent to your household just this morning."

It would please me more to throw it over the side of my ship, he longed to say; instead, he offered a nod. "So long as it's within reason, I don't see why she can’t have it. My half-sister always did enjoy a pretty bauble when presented with one."

"As do all women, believe me," said Ser Wylis, chuckling heartily. “Well, I do think she’ll like Lord Wyman’s gift well enough. Of course, I’m sure there’s much that the Lady Sansa would desire, but that’s not really up to her at the moment, now is it?”

Jon stared at him, his face closed. “When the time is right, Ser Wylis, Lady Sansa will be fairly tried, as promised to her by my wife. We’ll have real truths then—and I doubt it will be of the rose-tinted kind.” He'd spoken with an air of finality, drawing a curtain over the subject. A flash of hesitation passed over the knight’s face, but he recovered quickly.

“Yes, yes, of course. It will be good to have closure finally, no doubt.”

Ser Wylis was smart to segue into lighter matters, but in truth he had lost Jon’s attention nearly as soon as he had caught it. Jon dismissed the northman before making straight for his wife. He’d had enough.

Dany had an arm draped carelessly over her stomach when he approached; the crowd around her fell open upon his arrival. He caught sight of Dickon Tarly for a moment before looking away, but not before Jon noted the nervous expression on his face.

Even when he drew his wife close to him and away from their courtiers, her arm remained where it was. She’d been playing with her midsection throughout the whole evening and had refused the fine wine offered to her. Jon knew exactly what she was up to.

“I’m leaving,” he declared.

Her expression remained unchanged. "I'm not finished here yet," she said.

"Stay if you want, but I’m done here."

"Jon," she said gently, but he wasn't deceived. Her face was still light and calm, but he caught the anger brewing in her violet eyes, the tautness of the skin around them. He could hear her voice in his head, fury laced in her voice. We leave when it suits me.

“You’re welcome to stop me, but your courtiers will have plenty to talk about if you do, I promise you that.” Public or no, he was itching for a good fight. Strange, because he was so tired of fighting, with Dany and everyone else, be it literally or figuratively, but it seemed that it was the only thing he kept doing.

She didn't respond to his threat, only kept playing with the fabric of her gown around her stomach. Jon knew she was taking stock of her options, turning over one possibility before moving forward to the next. There'd be plenty for their courtiers to whisper about if they were to leave separately, but it would be nothing compared to the public row she was asking for.

"You can do the talking then," she ordered, beckoning for her one of her handmaidens before turning her back to him. If she couldn’t have her way, Dany found other means to punish him, however trivial they may be.

He made quick work of it. A word of thanks to Francys Drury, who accepted the toast that Jon made with a look of pure smugness on his face. He even managed a laugh out of their audience when he mentioned that his ship would set sail to Dragonstone without him were he to stay any longer. Of all the eyes staring at him while he spoke, his wife’s were the most menacing.  

-----------------------------

"Did you enjoy yourself at least a little last night?" Sam inquired, pulling his dining cloth off his left shoulder.

Jon watched through the open window as the men below packed away the very last of his possessions onto wooden carts. He intended to make an early start for the harbour, eager to avoid as much fanfare as possible.

"Only as much as her dothraki, I think," he said, turning to face his steward.

Sam cracked a lopsided smile. "So they behaved themselves this time around. I half anticipated news this morning that they'd gone and set fire to Francys Drury's manse with his own cellar of vintages. That would've certainly put an end to your invites from the city’s merchants.”

Unlike yesternight, where countless eyes had watched Jon while he dined, today there was only Sam present in his private chambers. This morning's fare was just as much of a contrast, a world away from the elaborate and daunting menu that Francys Drury's cooks had planned out: fresh bread with salted meat and cheese, all to be washed down with light ale. The only cause for envy was Drury’s collection of wine, far superior in quality than anything served at Dany’s court. Jon knew that to be a connoisseur in such matters only meant he’d been imbibing more than his fair share; even the Hand had taking mild interest.

Well, at least she didn't know. Suspected it, perhaps, though there was never long enough occasion for her to draw any firm conclusions. But then, Jon never felt the need to drink so much in her presence, either.

"Were there any Tyrells present last night?"

Sam’s question shook him from his thoughts. "None. Tyrion missed a perfectly good night for nothing. Dickon Tarly attended, though." Jon remembered the tall man hovering near Dany, the strange look on his face.  

“Yes, so I’ve been told. And Her Grace? Was she in a fine mood last night?"

He told Sam of his observations, the hints she had thrown about to all and sundry. His steward nodded.

"My guess is if you’re not back in a moon’s time, she'll make a formal announcement. You do plan on returning before then, right? That's what we agreed upon."

Jon followed the elaborate design etched on the table with his good eye rather than look up. "Some things may keep me there longer."

"Some things or someone? Sam pressed, his thick brows furrowing. Jon said nothing.

His friend sighed. "Jon, if you stay any longer than was planned, your courtiers will surely talk."

"They'll talk regardless. Once Dany decides to announce her pregnancy again, they'll have something new to fix their attentions on."

"Will it be true, this time around?"

Jon scoffed. "No, but if by some dint of miracle it is, the babe wouldn't be mine." Jon glanced at the man sitting across from him. They remained silent for a moment, but it was pregnant with meaning.

"Well, if you're going to stay at Dragonstone that long and tell people you're going partly to take the fresh air, then at least this time try coming back like it actually worked," Sam pressed. "More than once you just come back looking even worse for wear than when you left. Someone's going to speculate one day that you're being slowly poisoned, mark my words."

Sam wasn't wrong. His excuses weren't holding up the way they used to, and really, that was more his fault than anyone else's. That Dany might have to use another goddamned pregnancy as a means to force him back to the capital was equally bemusing.

But it was just so hard to leave after he got there, was getting harder and harder to do so with each visit

Seven Hells, it was agony.

"It would be more than Dany could ever hope for, that," he remarked. There was a knock on the door before Sam could reprimand him.

Stannis Seaworth entered at Jon's beckoning. "Everything's packed and ready, Your Grace," his squire announced after a quick bow of his head. "The captain wants to be knowing whether you'll be leaving immediately or whether you want to delay a bit more."

"No, we make for the harbour now," Jon ordered, soaking his hands in the silver bowl of rosewater that one of his pages brought before him. The boy—of a minor house from the westerlands—had slipped in after he’d given Stannis permission to enter, together with a small retinue of other servants designated to wait on him this morn. He could feel the boy's wide eyes on his back as he left his private chambers for what would, for now, be the last time.

Out in the busy courtyard, dozens upon dozens of bodies milled about; even this early in the morning, it bustled with as much energy as the city's marketplaces that existed beyond the castle gate. Those who recognized his person stopped to offer a quick bow, but he could never take leave of that feeling that itched at the back of his head, or the side of his face. He was being watched. Always being watched.

"Did you happen to receive anything from Ser Wylis Manderly?" he asked, mounting his black palfrey.

Sam looked up at him, squinting from the sun’s glare. "I did, actually, now that you've mentioned it. A set of combs made of ivory and horn. It was one of the last things packed off this morn.”

It was on the tip of Jon’s tongue have it removed from his inventory, but he thought against it. The choice wasn't his to make, it was hers.

He remembered his conversation with Wylis Manderly last night. Lady Sansa. No longer Lady Stark. A small slight with the greatest of meaning. Dany's work, he thought bitterly, no doubt aided by Tyrion Lannister or one of her other favourites.

Sam wished him safe travels. "You'll send her my greetings, won't you?" his steward asked.

"Of course." There was more to his words—always more—but the courtyard was no place for them.

There was no looking back over his shoulder as he left the Red Keep behind with his traveling party. The things that he still cherished were few and far there. Neither was there a final farewell between husband and wife, but that was the way it was for them; Jon had more or less bid her goodbye as soon as he told her he was leaving court for Dragonstone. If her dragons were still alive, he suspected that Dany would've happily razed the island to the ground with him and the other inhabitants on it. A small price to pay, the burning of a Targaryen stronghold, if it meant wiping out one of the strongest claimants to her throne. That she would also be removing the heir to the North was only a happy afterthought.

But her dragons were gone, just like the Others, and all the magic they had brought with them when they first hatched from their eggs. Now it was only mortals playing at the games the gods had fashioned them with, dealing with a hand of cards that weren't as strong as they might’ve hoped. But the gods had fashioned them for love as well—their greatest glory and their greatest tragedy. Jon had learned this all to well.

-----------------------------

The skies were clear when he landed on Dragonstone, greeted by less than a handful of the island’s nobles and the castle’s maester. Out of everyone, it was Ser Davos Seaworth whom he was grateful to see most. Jon recalled Dany's fondness for her merchants, which wasn’t so different from his own affinity for the former smuggler whom he now regarded as one of his closest confidantes. There was a time when he had more in common with his wife than that.

Jon threw a quick glance over his shoulder as the party made their trek up to the castle.  With the winds blowing so loud around them, it would be impossible for the lords and knights walking not so close behind him to eavesdrop.

"How is she?"

His voice was low, audible for Davos’ ears alone. He didn't need to clarify; they both knew exactly who he meant.

The knight’s gaze was on the steps before him. “As well as I've described her in my letters,” he responded, not unkindly.

His heart sank. "She's still not eating?"

Davos shook his head. "Not as much as Marya think she ought. Apparently it's beginning to show, she says."

"I've brought some of her favourites,” Jon said. “I think Marya can use that to coax her to eat more."

"It may help." There was a note of hesitation in his friend’s voice that Jon didn't miss.

"You have doubts?”

Davos sighed. “I'd like to think her loss of appetite lies in a lack of variety, but...I fear the cause may be something else. A deeper melancholy, if you will.” He glanced at Jon with a crooked smile on his weather-beaten face. “Maybe things will get better, now that you’re here. A familiar face never did hurt.”

Would things get better? He had about a moon's time to make sure that they did, that she wasn't on her way to another illness as he had feared while reading Davos’ letters. But what if more time were needed? How much longer could he stretch his absence until court gossip reached a fever pitch?

Without thinking, Jon looked up. The imposing castle, with its sharp edges and perfectly-erected walls, stared down at him. Thousands upon thousands of years’ worth of Targaryen history were buried within this castle. It was no place for a lone Stark, one surrounded by nothing but dragon motifs sneering at her in just about every direction, but it was the safest place for her at the moment.

If he squinted hard enough, Jon thought he could make out wisps of red hair dancing the wind from one of the keeps.

-----------------------------

He played the role of Prince Consort adequately enough, even without Dany present. He invited Ser Davos and his other nobles to sup with him in the Great Hall that evening, going so far as to extend his offer to Lady Brienne of Tarth. In the end, she declined; whether of her own volition or whether she'd been pressured not to by whom she'd sworn to protect, Jon couldn’t tell. A little bit of both, perhaps.

Supper was a boisterous affair of the most subdued kind. He knew when he invited them to dine at his table that his nobles were expecting some flavour of hospitality famous in the capital, even if that hospitality didn't run the full gamut of what they knew either from experience or hearsay. But Jon had Ser Davos ensure that the wine he'd brought with him be served generously that evening, and the conversation flowed freely enough.

The subject of Sansa Stark was noticeably suppressed.

Knowing that she was somewhere within these castle walls—somewhere within reach— was all Jon could think about. He was styled a prince, a high-ranking one at that, and yet the one person he wanted to see above all was to come last, not until he dealt with something as trivial as entertaining his vassals, many of whose loyalty seemed to swerve from dragon to stag and back again. With a title like his, Jon thought that he should have whatever he desired, and yet the chasm felt as if it stretched forever.

It was ironic that the trappings of freedom were, in fact, the most constricting.

And so there was no choice for him, not now at least, but to keep his face closed off and his fury shackled as evening morphed into night. News of his arrival and subsequent movements would be reported back to King’s Landing; Dany would no doubt receive a minute report of his performance within a few days. Pages danced in and out of his sight; those seated at his table were equally fixed on him, even when their gazes appeared to be elsewhere. Everyone was gathering all the things they could to pick apart—all the things they could use to pick him apart. In the shadows of the room, he thought the eyes of the carved dragons coiling around the stone columns stalked him just as mercilessly, if not more so.

Don't give them reason to talk. Don't let them see what they want to see.

Paranoia clung to him long after he’d retired from the Great Hall, licking at his heels as he barred the door of his private chambers. Jon knew from experience that he could never fully shake off that wretched feeling, that it was never to be entirely ridden of it. Not so unlike this ache, he thought bitterly, stripping down to his small clothes.

For the space of a moment, he considered doing the opposite of his desires. Let his pride win for once, and forsake her for at least a night, perhaps even two. It might even be better for them in the long run; his head would be clearer from the fresh sea air.

Only he wanted her too badly. At least if he went to her now, Jon could blame his madness on the vices of the capital. He could blame it on the smog of King’s Landing that clouded his faculties and blinded him of his wits. If he went now, rather than later, he could still cling to some of dignity.

What value was there in his dignity, compared to her? What good was anything if he couldn’t have her?

Absolutely nothing, he told himself as he pulled aside the worn tapestry. The false stone panelling hidden behind it gave way to his hand with a sturdy push. Jon would never have known about the secret passages if it weren’t for the castle’s long-standing maester—the same one he’d pensioned off to the southern outskirts of the Stormlands, all before bringing in his replacement, a novice with little knowledge of the castle he was meant to serve.

Jon reached her chamber within minutes, could hear his familiar growling on the other side of the wall as he pushed it open. Ghost quieted down as soon as he recognized him, the direwolf’s red eyes glowing brightly beneath the flames of his torch. Sansa was abed, the curtains of her bed drawn shut. The last vestiges of the fire in the hearth sang weakly.

He set aside his torch and removed his boots, snuffing out the light before approaching her bed. The velvet curtains were soft beneath his fingers as he slowly drew them back.

Sansa laid on the opposite side to his, her back facing him. As his good eye adjusted to the darkness, he made out long strands of red hair that spilled across her pillow and the one beside it. Jon suspected that she was still awake, despite her even breathing.

His heart swelled painfully at the sight of her. It felt like ages since they had last been together, each short reunion feeling more poignant than the last that came before it. Jon wasn’t made to be far from her, but the realization had come too late; he damned himself over and over again for the fool he’d once been, leaving her when, even all those years ago, something within him had held him back. A flood of anger washed over him, like it always did whenever his mind drifted back just a little to that period in their lives. He had every single right to be furious with her—he still was. That didn’t change the fact that he loved her. More than anything.

He climbed into bed before pushing the curtains closed. Ghost, loyal until his last breath, would alert them to any unwanted approaches at her unbarred door. As soon as he burrowed beneath the covers, Jon didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around her waist as he pressed the length of his body against her, breathing her in. It was trivial, but one of the ways he marked their evolution together was the scent she carried. A long time ago Sansa once smelled of pine and rosewater. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Jon recalled how every inch of her skin, even the parts he was never meant to lay eyes on, had clung tightly with the potent musk of his leathers. It had baffled him, more than once, but he could never fit the pieces together. Not until it was too late.  

Sansa neither smelled of pine or his leathers now. Instead, it was the sharp saltiness of the island’s waters that clung to her, assaulted his senses. Could he drown in it the same way he might drown beyond the shores of the Narrow Sea?

How could you have done this to me? How could you have done this to us?

Jon pressed his lips desperately against the back of her neck before lifting his head to kiss the skin of her exposed shoulder, his anger mingled dangerously with desire. Sansa was awake, he was certain of it, but he wanted to revel in her without her protests. They may come later, he didn’t know, but for now she was willing to lie pliant in his arms, and for that alone Jon was eternally grateful to her. He found her hand resting close to her chest, like she was protecting her heart while she slept. From her enemies? Or from him?

Was there ever chance for that? he wondered, his fingers gravitated towards her own. Jon took small comfort in the cold metal he came into contact with, pleased that she still wore the ring he'd given her not so long ago—but then, Sansa also knew better than to take it off, unless she was intentionally courting his anger. Not so heavy as a yoke, but it wasn't meant to be such. It was a reminder, at best, a token in return for one she'd gifted him at Winterfell, bestowed with the same twisted malevolence. Had it been then that all their troubles and sorrows started, or were they conceived long before?

Jon knew he could dwell on it forever, but in truth it no longer mattered where their troubles began. What mattered, he realized, was that they had tonight. And tomorrow. And all the rest of his days where he remained on the island. He would take what he could.

"I've missed you," he whispered into her ear, tenderly rubbing the ring with his thumb. "You’ll never know much I’ve missed you."

He ached for her with the same force as a thousand suns, yet what little he could have of her for snatches at a time could never satiate the want that haunted him every day and night. Would it have been different, once? Would their lives have shaped out for the better if Sansa had only let things be, rather than play with them the way she had?

These were questions that Jon asked himself over and over again. Questions he knew would remain impossible to answer.

-----------------------------

Notes:

1 There are two meanings to the word banquet: one refers to an elaborate feast or celebration, while the second is akin to an after party of sorts held after the feast, and tends to take place in specially-made houses in gardens. Guests are served desserts and wine, buffet-style. I’m using the word here as it relates to the second definition.

-----------------------------

Please note that this story borrows heavily from The Persistence of Desire by Margot_le_Faye; while I highly recommend it if you're a Dramione fan, you will very likely spoil yourself silly for this story. Considering my horrible track record for updates, I wouldn't blame you, though. Lots of elements in this story may also echo when the walls come tumbling down by phantomphaeton as well as From Instep to Heel by orangeflavor, so giving credit where credit's due. Inspiration also comes from John Guy's Mary Queen of Scots, which I highly recommend reading if you're able to get your hands on it.

Also, if you happen to make it this far, I need you thank you guys so, so much for reading! I've had this premise in my head for so long and tried to put it down paper, but it just never felt right until now. This story will likely be the longest and most ambitious thing I've ever written, not to mention the angstiest. Like, not a joke you guys; when I looked at the entire outline I made for this fic, I just shook head. Please let me know what you think of this story-all comments and encouragement keep me going! Stay safe, folks.

[if-music-be-the-food-of-love]

Getting Friendly

My sole submission for Elippo Week 2020, Day 5 "Friends."

Summary: Being roommates was easy; becoming real friends took a lot more time; but becoming lovers was as natural as breathing. Elia and Filippo have no trouble getting along, but they struggle to really get to know one another. An emergency brings them together, and once they become friends, they easily slip into becoming lovers.

Notes: I really wanted to participate in Elippo Week this year, so here is my attempt. I apologize for the running joke if it grosses you out at all. It's actually a real joke between my college roommate and I. It made me laugh and reminisce while writing, and enjoying the writing is what matters, right?

--> Ao3

Getting Friendly

Elia’s favorite part of living in Filippo’s flat is the peace. It’s not exactly quiet, as Filippo will occasionally play loud music or bring someone home late, but the flat is peaceful, welcoming, judgement-free.  Maybe it’s all the plants. Elia loves being able to just exist and not worry or have to explain himself.  

It took them a few weeks to get comfortable with one another, learning patterns of behavior and quirks, but they quickly developed a rhythm and routine they both liked. Now, Elia just feels like he’s home.

And if he were truthful with himself, he’d admit he never really felt that before with his parents.  There were always expectations, rules, commitments, judgement, condemnation, disappointment, the list goes on.  

Filippo is just so calm and undemanding; Elia feels like he’s on holiday, like he can breathe for the first time in living memory.

At first, Filippo just gives Elia space. He can tell that Elia is happy, and though he’d never really considered it before, he’s glad to have a roommate to fill the void left by Ele. He can’t help wondering why Elia wanted to leave home. He never asks, but he wonders.

More than anything, he is just relieved to have someone to talk to at odd hours. It relieves the monotony, the quiet, and calms the panic that occasionally creeps up when he starts to miss Ele. He likes having Elia around, and life seems a little brighter.

Their transition from acquaintances into roommates is smooth and easy.  

***

Their transition from roommates into close friends takes much longer. 

Elia and Filippo have different friend styles.  Elia has three best friends, maybe 4 now with Nico, and everyone else is pretty much just an acquaintance.  Fillipo, however, has many, many friends but no close friends. Eleonora is his best friend. He has his sister.  

They both like it this way, and neither of them is particularly interested in letting another person in.

Filippo really likes light chatter, talking in the kitchen, sitting on the couch, being friendly.  Elia seems more interested in being alone in his room or playing Fifa with his friends.  By no means is he rude to Filippo, but he’s enjoying his new found freedom and alone time.  

In this way, they don’t have a real conversation for months.  They get along famously and enjoy living together, but they don’t really get to know one another.  This all ends when Martino has an emergency.

***

Filippo and Elia were sitting on the couch, casually watching a movie together, when Elia’s phone rang. Looking at the screen, he saw Nico’s name.

“Ciao, Nico.”

Speaking rapidly, Nico responded, “Elia, Elia! I think you need to go check on Martino. He’s been sick all day, and his texts have been getting more and more strange. From what I can tell, he’s puked all over the house, but I’m not sure because he stopped making sense. He must be getting delirious.” 

The first thought out of his mouth was, “Where are you?”

“Napoli for a wedding with my parents.  Is Flilppo there? Do you think he could drive Marti to the hospital? It’s bad. I think he might have food poisoning.”

“I’m sure he can. Let me ask.” Quickly, he updated Filippo on Marti’s situation, and Filippo immediately agreed.

“Yeah, Nico,” he said back into the phone. “We’ll get there as soon as we can. Ciao, Ciao.”

Hitting the red button, he and Filippo jumped off the couch, grabbed their jackets and their shoes, and rushed out the door.  Once inside the car and on their way, Elia asked, “Why did he call me?  I mean, he has your number, right?”

“I think so. Maybe he just assumed we’d be together, or maybe he’s so worried, he wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Yeah, that’s possible.

Pulling up to a light, Filippo glanced at Elia, “You know, Elia, I could let you out here. I can handle this. It’s late, and I could easily drop him off or wait up if they think they’ll send him home. You should get some sleep. You have class a lot earlier than I do tomorrow.”

“I know, but I want to be there for him. And I was thinking. If the flat is really covered in vomit, someone’s going to have to go clean it up. He won’t be in any shape to handle it, and Nico isn’t around. We can’t just leave it like that.”

“My God, Elia, you’re a saint.”

“Nah, Marti’s taken care of me in the past. What else are friends for?  Let’s get there, check out the situation, and I’ll stay behind if needed while you get him to the hospital.”

“Ok. I’m pretty sure Marti’s going to owe you big time for this though. Bodily fluids are a no-go for me.”

“All bodily fluids?” Elia asked with a sly grin. “Because, you do realize that sex and kissing are essentially just an exchange of bodily fluids.”

“Uuuughhh. Why?” Filippo cringed.  “Seriously, why?  I mean, you’re right. But why mention it?  Gross. I’m going to be thinking about puke and bodily fluids next time I hook up with someone.  Thanks, Santini!  Ugghhh!” he groaned.  

“So, you’ll be thinking about me next time you have sex.  Interesting. Very interesting.”

“Are you puke or bodily fluids?” Filippo asked with a lifted eyebrow.

“Well, no, but I planted the idea in your head. After you think about them, your mind will naturally drift to me, which will make your hook up that much better.”

“You think so? Hmmm. I think you’re full of shit.”

“Yeah, probably, but now that I’ve mentioned it, you know you will think about me,” he said with a slightly evil gleam in his eye.  “And, I’d like to point out that I’ve gone from saint to shit in less than a minute. You’re giving me whiplash.”

“Well, maybe you’re a saintly shit.”

“Or a shitty saint?” Elia suggested.

Looking at each other as they pulled up in front of Martino’s building, they both burst out laughing. As they ran up the stairs, they jabbed each other, clapped one another on the back, and basically giggled the whole way up.

Trying to sober up a bit, Elia took a big breath and knocked on the door loudly. “Marti,” he called. “Marti, open the door!” No one answered. They tried again.  Nothing.

“Let’s see if it’s unlocked,” suggested Filippo. It wasn’t.

“I’ll try calling his phone,” said Elia, pulling it out.  

It rang four times before Marti answered, groaning, “Hold on, asshole.  I can’t open the door if my head is shoved in a toilet. Give me a minute.” And he hung up.  

When Martino finally opened the door, what Elia and Filippo saw truly grossed them out.  Martino had made a mess, and he was really sick.  One look at him, and Elia was putting on his shoes while Filippo was putting on his coat.  Between the two of them, they carried him down the stairs and buckled him into the car, all while Martino repeatedly whimpered, “Mi dispiace. Mi dispiace. Sorry. Sorry,” while trying to stay upright.  

“Wait,” called Elia, and he ran back up the stairs.  Thirty seconds later he came down with a trash can. “To protect your car,” he said with a wink, and then seriously, “Keep me posted.”

“I will,” Filippo responded and drove off.

Walking back up the stairs, Elia closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Resolutely, he walked back into Martino’s flat, shuddered, and began looking for the cleaning supplies.

About an hour later, Elia heard a knock at the door.  Opening the door, he saw Filippo. “What, you’re back? I thought bodily fluids were a ‘no-go’?”

“Don’t start that again.  And yes, I’m back. Marti’s been admitted for food poisoning, and there’s no reason for me to stay at the hospital.  You’re saintliness has rubbed off on me.  I’m here to help,” Filippo said, holding up his hands. 

“Well, my fellow saint, welcome to the shitshow!” he laughed.

Together, Elia and Filippo scrubbed Marti and Nico’s apartment. Elia found the bluetooth speakers, and they blasted music, dancing around as they cleaned. Despite the circumstances, they had a blast, joking together, laughing, fooling around. Elia even showed off his mop dancing skills. 

It took several hours, but they eventually finished. As they drove home, Elia looked at Filo and said, “You know. That was fun. Let’s not do it again some time.”

“Yeah, let’s not. Maybe we can just dance around our apartment instead.”

“Yeah, but now, let’s sleep.”

“Sleep.  Yes, sleep.”

So sleep they did, and good friends they became. Some shared experiences can’t help but bring people closer together. 

***

Becoming close friends took some time, but becoming lovers happened with little fanfare or fuss. It was almost as natural and effortless as becoming roommates.  Once they let each other into their lives, it was natural that they’d let one another into their hearts. 

Over the course of several months, Elia and Filippo started sitting closer to one another on the couch, sitting next to each other at the table instead of across from each other, lounging in one another’s bed. Being near each other became routine. 

They stopped dating others. Elia stopped talking about girls, and Filippo didn’t bring anyone home. They spent their evenings together or with mutual friends and always found ways to make sure the other was invited. 

Then the touching started. Elia would put his hand on Filippo’s shoulder and squeeze. Filippo would gently touch Elia’s lower back when together in public. Elia would pull Filippo’s head over and whisper in his ear when the boys were playing Fifa. Filippo would put his arm around Elia on the couch. Elia would rest his head on Filippo’s shoulder. Filippo would play with Elia’s hair. They’d fall asleep together on the couch or in one of their beds. 

This casual intimacy continued until one day, maybe 6 months after Martino’s food poisoning, when Elia and Filippo were sitting on the couch watching a movie together. Filippo’s arm was across Elia’s shoulders, and Elia’s chin lay on Filippo’s chest while his forehead nestled up into his neck. 

Filippo looked down at Elia, pulled him in tighter, and kissed the top of his head. Elia looked up surprised.

“Was that ok?” asked Filippo.

“I think so,” Elia said thoughtfully. He paused, and then, “Yeah, I liked it.”

“Ok,” continued Filippo. “How ‘bout this?” And he kissed Elia’s cheek. 

‘Definitely,” smiled Elia, staring into Filippo’s eyes. 

“Ok, and this?” Slowly, he leaned down to kiss Elia’s lips, and then Elia got a wicked look in his eyes, and quickly put his finger over Filippo’s lips.

“Do you really want to do that, Filo? I mean. We’d be exchanging bodily fluids, and I know how you feel about that.”

“You ass. I’m trying to be all romantic, and you’re making fun of me.”

“Well, isn’t that what boyfriends are supposed to do? Love you and give you a hard time?” Elia questioned with a gleam in his eye.

“Maybe,” Filippo said, ruffling his hair. “Or, they could just be loving and support one another. You know, that also works.”

“Meh, I’m not sure I’m that kind of boyfriend. You’re screwed.”

“Yes, you are, and why do I know that?” Filippo asked, gazing down at Elia. “Because you’re that kind of friend.” Filippo paused for a second while Elia looked at him adoringly, and then added, “and you’re also an ass.”

“Now who’s ruining the romance?”

“I can fix that,” replied Filippo, and he leaned down again, this time capturing Elia’s lips in a kiss. They kissed slowly, taking their time, exploring each other. Hands roamed and found their way into each other’s hair and reaching under shirts. Their lips moved to cheekbones and jawlines, leading to open mouthed kisses on their necks. 

This first kiss was not a flash of lightning; it was more like a crackling fireplace. Warm, comforting, and sensuous. It felt new and familiar all at once.

With slightly glazed eyes, Elia pulled back from the kiss. Smiling, he said, “You know, Filo, I can say with almost 100% surety that you will be thinking of me next time you have sex.”

“True,” he responded, giving Elia a few quick pecks.  “And I will gladly admit that I am looking forward to continuing our exchange of bodily fluids.”

“Oh gross, Filo,” Elia exclaimed, pulling away and laying back against the couch. “The romance is dead. Gone. Over. Ruined. It lasted a grand total of maybe 2 minutes.”

“Are we capable of being serious for more than 2 minutes?

“Probably not.”

“Would you have it any other way?”

Grinning, Elia responded, “No. Let’s go to bed, boyfriend.” Elia grabbed Filippo’s hand and pulled him towards the bedroom. 

Looking back on the momentous occasion of their first kiss, neither of them can remember the movie they were watching. They just remember feeling relieved that it finally happened, and they could get started with the next chapter of their lives. 

Acquaintances to roommates to close friends to lovers, a journey.

[chiauve]

Day 5: Change

So I wanted to do Willsker Week but I got busy, so I’ll try to backtrack the other days but I’m probably going to fail. There’s gonna be a lot of teen Birkin and Wesker if I do. So jumping right to today’s theme and it’s rushed so very...rough.

--

Birkin knew something was wrong as soon as he walked into the lab. Wesker was already there, alone, which by itself wasn’t rare, sitting with his head in his hands in a state of tragedy. But that wasn’t what set off Birkin’s internal warning klaxons.

Wesker looked wrong.

Glancing up at the sound of Birkin’s entrance, he actually whined, “Birkin...”

And the true horror of what had happened stared Birkin in the face. The proof of it lay in chunks and swaths on the floor, golden and dead.

“You,” Birkin choked out, unable to stop staring, “you cut your hair.”

Understatement. Wesker's hair, always at least down to his shoulders since the day Birkin met him, had been horribly hacked, haphazardly cut with lab scissors by what could have only been a desperate, amateur hand. Worse still, Wesker’s wild hair had been kept in some form of control by the weight of its own length, but now, freed, it stuck up and out in all directions. He looked like he’d skinned a yellow, long-haired kitten and glued its coat on his head.

Birkin held the laughter in as best he could, well aware Wesker would murder him and experiment on the body if he let it go. But god he wanted to, he wanted to so bad it physically hurt.

He coughed into the back of his hand instead.  “Why did you...?”

“I was told to...” Wesker sounded so pathetic and lost, like he didn’t know. Birkin rankled at that sound.

“So? That never bothered you before!” The director had in fact outright ordered Wesker to cut his hair several times, and yet Wesker either ignored him or pointed out that as long as they tied their hair back in the lab, their female co-workers were permitted long hair, ergo he was as well.

“A bit different when it’s the damn CEO, isn’t it?” Wesker snapped.

“Is that what he said to you?”

There had been no warning, no fanfare, but suddenly Spencer himself was at the training facility, taking a look around. The director went into Igor mode, practically hopping about in trying to please his master as he guided Spencer around the mansion. His stop through the labs was brief, and the memory of it still made Birkin burn with fury.

He was the best here, the youngest, the smartest, even Wesker agreed on that! But no, Spencer barely gave Birkin a glance as he passed through, going straight to Wesker when the director pointed him out.

The CEO hadn’t looked pleased about something, and spoke shortly to Wesker but Birkin couldn’t make it out, taking minor relief in Wesker’s berating.

Wesker sighed, his hand flicking back, expecting to toss his hair over his shoulder, but redirected to run his hand over the shortened strands instead. “He told me to start ‘looking like a damned professional’.”

Well, Birkin couldn’t ague with that, Wesker still looked like he’d been buying drugs from behind a 7-11 some days.

“So...?”

“So I was going to ignore him, like he’d ever know! But I came to finish up and start shutting down the lab for the night when next thing I knew...” He picked up the scissors and gestured to the blond hair scattered across the floor.

“You just...cut your hair.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember doing it?”

“I remember it happened but...” he trailed off, his brows furrowed in blatant worry. He wasn’t going to finish, he’d never admit to it, but Birkin knew the rest: it wasn’t me doing it.

That happened a lot back in school. And like those days, Wesker would forget about it by tomorrow. He remembered doing it and therefore he meant to do it.

Birkin shrugged. Wesker’s stupid amnesia problems or whatever they were were his problems; Birkin wasn’t going to be slowed down or drawn away from his work, not even by Wesker.

“You did a bad job.”

Wesker glared.

“Give them here,” Birkin walked over to Wesker, hand out for the scissors.

Reluctantly, Wesker gave them up. Birkin directed him to turn the chair and stood behind him, sifting through the blond hair and snipping at the worst of the uneven tufts. Wesker’s hair was unfairly soft, and Birkin gently kneaded fingers over his scalp, for his own enjoyment as well as an attempt to calm Wesker, vibrating and tense in his seat.

He knew he was the only person Wesker ever let touch him like this.

“Since when did you become a barber?” Wesker said, voice still sharp but he sounded less distressed.

“You doubt my ability to do whatever I set my mind to?”

“I doubt your ability to care about anything outside your goals, and my appearance is nowhere near there.”

           “Like you’re any different,” Birkin muttered, running the pad of his thumb behind Wesker’s ear. The teen before him shuddered a little, then eased.

While Birkin would never consider himself a professional, or even particularly good at it, he’d been trimming his own hair for years. It started when he was young and whenever his hair had grown to “unseemly” lengths, his mother would give him a genuine bowl cut, with a bowl and everything. He loathed it. The look, his mother’s clumsy work, the heavy bowl on his head, all of it. So in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable, young William used everyday scissors from the drawer to snip at his own hair, keeping it from getting too long. Over the years he got better at it and could manage a decent enough trim that we went bowl free for months.

But a trim couldn’t save Wesker’s mess. Birkin evened it out best he could but the hair was so wild and unmanageable that no matter how he combed his fingers through it or where he tried to part it it just fluffed up like a pissed-off cat again.

The worst part was while the hair was still long enough to grip, he wouldn’t be able to get a good handful and yank anymore, and there was no faster way to make Wesker a writhing, panting…

“What’s the verdict, Doctor Birkin?”

“You messed up.” He passed Wesker one of the concave mirrors they used when dealing with Lisa Trevor so she couldn’t sneak up on them while their backs were turned. An addition after the second researcher got her face ripped off.

Wesker slumped, staring forlornly at his reflection. He would always state otherwise, claim he was above such things, but his appearance was very important to him. Sometimes he would even be beholden to the current fashion, as Birkin learned the day he walked in on Wesker altering a pair of jeans into bell-bottoms. He claimed it was for when he was out on the road; people were more willing to pick up a generic hitchhiking youth out finding himself, supposedly. Birkin didn’t know enough about the subject or care to argue the matter and let Wesker distract himself with stupid, mundane things.

Whatever gave Birkin the edge.

Not to say he never paid attention to Wesker’s looks, obviously, but his colleague’s penchant to look like a bargain-bin rocker had never been part of the appeal. The first time he’d actually looked at Wesker had been in school when he’d invited his roommate back home with him during Christmas, because he couldn’t let Wesker spend his break studying in peace and getting ahead.

Birkin’s father was a traditionalist who viewed family dinners as events that required everyone to be in their Sunday best, and Wesker, even in the black turtleneck that was the nicest thing he owned, wasn't going to cut it. If he wanted to eat, he needed to look a proper man, which also meant the shaggy hair was out. Fortunately, Birkin’s older brother, Caleb, was amused by the whole thing and loaned Wesker some clothes and showed him how to gel his hair back into a ponytail they hid under the collar of his shirt.

Without his stupid aviator sunglasses and the hair out of his face, Birkin got a good look at Wesker and for the first time noticed…

Wait. Wait wait wait. Of course!

“Come on, finish up and we’ll go back to the dormitory.”

Wesker glared at him through the mirror. “I’m not letting everyone see me like this.”

“Nobody likes you anyway,” Birkin said, shoving him out of the chair, “and you can just say it’s the new efficient look and they’ll be all ‘ah, right, Practical Al at it again!’”

“I hate that name.”

“At least yours is vaguely you. The fact that I’m the ‘scholarly’ one among researchers says what kind of people we work with.”

They went out the back to the residence just so Birkin didn’t have to listen to Wesker bitch all night and returned to their room. Once there he kicked out the chair to the desk and motioned Wesker to it while he rooted through his things. He knew he had some somewhere…

“What are you doing?” Wesker sighed, but he sat anyway.

With a victorious “ah-ha!” Birkin found his tin of never-used pomade. He was supposed to use it for when he went to church because his mother assumed he was still doing that, for some reason. He tossed the tin to Wesker.

“Oh,” was all Wesker said, turning it in his hands. He then stood up and headed for the door.

“Where’re you going?”

“Bathroom.”

“You’re putting it in now?”

“This,” he hissed, referencing his hair, “is unacceptable,” and then left.

Birkin shrugged, grabbed his most recent notes and necessary reference books, and flopped onto his bed. He didn’t notice Wesker come back until the older boy was standing in front of his bed, the band shirt changed out for the turtleneck.

“Well?”

Birkin sat up to get a good look at him. Wesker’s hair was completely slicked back, looking almost too stiff for all the fluff the gel had to pin down. It wasn’t a good job, too many lumps and gaps, and the back stuck out a bit. Wesker needed to get to town to get a proper cut. And yet…

“That…looks good,” Birkin said, and meant it, “You look older.”

Wesker only nodded and disappeared again, and Birkin went back to his studies, problem solved.

He expected Wesker to grow his hair out again, especially after they left the training facility and were given free rein under Marcus, but it never happened. Wesker continued to flaunt the dress codes where he could but for the most part one could never argue that he wasn’t professional.

Birkin liked the look, at first, but the constant use of hair gel meant that Wesker wouldn’t let anyone, even Birkin, touch his hair anymore.

[jackkellystories]

I've heard you're good at improving the truth, but what about Crutchy? Or Spot? And in a battle of wits and creativity just between those two, who do you think would win?

Spot: Okay so first of all, the truth has already been improved by the time it hits the papes. It ain’t like a reporter puts their hand on a Bible and swears an oath of honesty before writing up an article for publication. They write what their editors want them to write about, which is what the newspaper publishers want to sell. Publishers want to sell advertising - the higher your circulation, the more people will see the ads for underpants or umbrellas or carpet sweepers. The bigger your audience, the more likely it is that some of your readers will go out and buy the stuff they saw in ads. Crunchy, take it from here.

Crutchy: It’s Crutchy. And thanks.

Spot: I still can’t believe they call you that. Pure cruelty, if you ask me.

Crutchy: I came up with the name myself.

Spot: Take your turn while I think about that. 

Crutchy: By popular demand, here’s my list of the Top Health Products Doctors Don’t Want You to Know About, found only in the New York World. 

David: Why won’t doctors tell you about these products? Do they work?

Spot: Why are you popping up during Crutchy’s turn? Did I miss where you were invited?

David: I’m sure Crutchy doesn’t want to spread misinformation. Were these products tested on anyone?

Crutchy: Doctors don’t want you to know about them, Dave. It’s an honest guarantee.

David: That’s a flimsy guarantee.

Crutchy: A guarantee is a guarantee, Dave. A flimsy one is as good as a strong one. And without further fanfare, here is the list. 

This one is for flavored soap. It cleans you outside and in. If your storekeep don’t have it, you send his name to the monks and they’ll mail you back a free sample for four cents. 

David: They expect you to eat soap?

Spot: It’s flavored, Dave, what do you think?

Crutchy: I think it’s a miracle when soap tastes as good as it smells. I hope they have soap that tastes like peppermint candy. Add it to your shopping list.

For my next product, something for breakfast. 

David: Wait, don’t tell me. It’s soap, right?

Crutchy: Even better. It’s Wheatlet! If your grocer don’t carry it, send his name to the company to be sure you are supplied. 

David: Is there a reason we should trust the head of the food manufacturers association to give an unbiased recommendation?

Spot: He feeds it to his own children. You think he’d try to poison them?

David: His last name is Hazard. I assume he’s no stranger to risk.

Crutchy: Wheatlet. It’s what’s for breakfast. Next up, a way to free yourself of the hideous spectacle of spectacles. I know a guy named Specs who could use this.

David: Is the lass on the left truly disfigured by hideous glasses? How inconvenient to carry little binoculars around. Her hand will get tired, and her eyes will get strained, and she’ll be worse off than she was in the first place.

Crutchy: The illustrated treatise explains the process. Order it for free, Dave. Next up is a painter who can cure your deafness by electrocuting your head.

David: The inventor of this miracle cure could afford only eight typeset letters, and had to handwrite the rest himself.

Spot: Yeah, well, he didn’t have a lot of time. He says so in the ad.

Crutchy: Here’s another guaranteed product. Beef tea from the Liebig company.

David: Lie Big?

Crutchy: Guaranteed to help the weak and ailing, Dave. That’s no lie. That’s a big truth. Just like this footwear company! If you want your toes to be just as happy as these ones, you’ll cover your feet with their products.

David: That’s not terrifying at all.

Spot: Would you rather they were crying?

Crutchy: That’s the way to look at it Spot. And looking at things in the dark is easier with this handheld torch. It’s called an electric flashlight.

Spot: That’s a thing of beauty. I’m adding it to my shopping list right now.

David: How is that a medical product doctors don’t want you to know about?

Crutchy: I get commission for every flashlight sold. It’s good for my health. 

[peachymess]

Hey, I was sort of getting really worried about Eren and Armin's bond. The fact that Isa had planned on ruining their bond, it makes me feel uncomfortable. Because, their bond it's just so strong. And I know they would obviously resolve this issue. However, it's just making me worried knowing will EMA be in such a mess. I mean, Armin realized he wasn't talking to the real Eren after Eren was trying to comfort him from the serum bowl situation. It makes me anxious, and I need the bright side here

Hey, anon. 

I’m really sorry this ask has gone unanswered for as long as it has. Truth be told, I didn’t know how to answer you. I struggle with the same worries as you, and I’m looking for a bright side too. 

What I can tell you is that I believe it’ll be resolved in the end. That’s what I use for comfort; knowing they’ll most likely make up in the end, no matter what we’ll see in the upcoming chapters. But you know that - and worry anyway. I do too, but I try not to. Because at the end of the day, every friendship experiences turbulence - maybe hiatuses at times - and in EMA’s case, it could be good for them. Isa said this would mark them growing up and being more independent, which is a good thing; you need to be your own person to fare well in life (but it doesn’t mean you can’t also surround yourself with close friends and grow stronger with them). 

I honestly doubt that Isa is going to permanently sever or even just lessen the strength and sincerity of Eren and Armin’s bond, because it’s been a vital driving force of the story and makes up essential pillars to the core of not only several elements, but also characters. I feel like you could say that Eren and Armin’s bond is the tree that branches out into this big story in the first place. And where it’s not the core, it’s what leads things to unfold the way they are. This is why - while friendships not uncommonly wither away without fanfare in real life - breaking apart this binding element in favor of just depicting realistic drifting, would be a lot of loss for little gain. It’s like if Frodo were to lose the ring on the way to Mordor and never retrieve it, simply because “people lose shit all the time, whoopsie”; sure, it’s realistic with how much he runs and gets thrown around etc., but… you know, the story would suffer. And I feel like the same goes for Eren and Armin’s bond and SNK. This is why their bond just quietly withering with no attention called to it, will never happen. What ever happens, it has to be bold and prominent - with a decisive exclamation point stamped next to the conclusion. This is also why it could be turned on its head to pit them against each other as enemies but as of right now I don’t see that happening. I know I talked about these things a lot back when I wrote more metas. I should really make that master post I promised once, welp. 

Moving on, when you say Armin realized he wasn’t talking to the “real” Eren, I’m not sure what you mean. If you’re referring to the Grisha’s will-theory, I don’t know if I want to take it as fact just yet. It would make a lot of sense, but I’m done with placing bets and want to just see what the story shows us as it unfolds. That’s why I’ll assume right now that what you meant was that Eren was simply a changed man in 90, not literally controlled by someone else. Because if so, I wouldn’t worry too much about how Armin and Eren’s views have changed regarding their dream and all that; the dream aspect of their friendship has been extremely hyped - by all of us - but it’s not the only (nor even the first) aspect of their friendship. From the year Maria fell, till graduation five years later, Eren and Armin didn’t talk about the dream at all (Armin said so himself), yet they were so close that people were even canonically making up rumors that they were “too close”! That’s a strong testament to how close these two are even aside from “the dream”™. The fact that Armin is realizing that Eren doesn’t see the dream the same way as him, doesn’t mean he’ll be turned off to their friendship. After Eren tried to hype him up for the ocean (and Armin “realizing he’s different”, as you say) Armin still paid attention to him like he always does, and he still wanted to share the ocean moment with Eren, so this is telling us that Armin still feels a connection to his friend. And from Eren’s POV, he tried to hype Armin up for the ocean despite how depressed and uninterested he was himself, which tells us he in turn cares about Armin, even when the “dream” is gone. 

There is so much more to the the two of them than the loose dream they shared of “far away wonders". Sure, it’s a wonderful dream and it’s been a powerful incentive to keep them going even through the hardest of times. But it’s not end-all-be-all. And maybe realizing that such a dream is less defining than perhaps they themselves have thought, is healthy for them. I believe so; I believe that once they learn that they have different drives and different souls, they can stop projecting an image of themselves onto one another and instead see each other for who they are (because at some point, they were bound to be confronted with their differences, and the longer they waited, the stronger the dissonance would be, and perhaps then we really would have a friendship breakup). I think they’re growing up, finding themselves as well as each other, and once they reunite, they will be stronger for it. I’m looking forward to that. I hope you can too. 

[waynebomberger]

Rigid In My Thinking

Further to my recent Outside column about the joys of voluminous tires, I see that a new suspension fork has hit the market with great fanfare:

Now I should begin by saying there's certainly lots of room for improvement as far as suspension forks.  I should also say James Huang knows his stuff, so if he says this fork addresses many of those shortcomings I'm inclined to believe him.  Nevertheless, as a cloyingly smug rigid bike enthusiast it's hard not to read stuff like this and wonder, "Why?" “On every telescopic fork, when you come into a corner, you want stability. But what happens is that you weight the front of the bike, the fork dives, you get less mechanical trail, and the bike gets less stable. We humans have learned, over 120 years of riding telescopic forks, to just deal with it. The brain is good at just making it work. “But I wanted to know what happens if you make it more stable? Is it worse? Does it not make any difference at all? Or is it super better? So I designed a device to answer that question. It was this crazy-ass test mule, a big Terminator-looking thing that weighed 7 1/2 pounds (3.4kg). I built it up, bolted it up, and went for a ride in the middle of January 2014. I got two corners into it and was like, this is way better.” Sounds like he's managed to invent something that handles nearly as well as a rigid fork with high-volume tires. Then there's the price: As groundbreaking as the Message clearly is, my guess is that Trust may still have a tough time getting people to buy into the idea. For one, it may offer some genuinely tangible performance benefits but it also comes with an outrageous price tag of US$2,700. That obviously leaves an awful lot of room to expand downmarket with a less-expensive version, but for now, it’s only deep-pocketed buyers who will even consider this. I strongly disagree, and in all sincerity I think $2,700 is way too cheap.  Two grand is the going rate for a wheelset these days, and the most expensive telescoping forks are already well over $1,000.  Why not just price the thing at $5,000?  Not only will the Mountain Freds gladly pay it, but they'll be more likely to pay it because with a price like that it's gotta mean business. Anyway, hopefully this fork takes off and they have to start designing bikes around it, which will make pretty much every mountain bike currently out there obsolete. As for me, I've been reveling in smugness recently by riding a bike that lacks not only suspension but also derailleurs:

I know I said I love the plus-sized tires--and believe me I do--but I also love flicking around a light, singlespeed bicycle with "skinny" tires:

Actually, it's not even that light, but after riding the Jones it feels like it weighs like fifteen pounds. It's been just over seven years since I first took delivery of my artisanal handmade Engin, and while commissioning an expensive bicycle that can't be shifted may seem no different than paying $2,700 for a suspension fork that works almost as well as a rigid one, I congratulate myself for doing so every time I ride it.  I'd been a fan of Drew's bikes (check out his Instagram by the way) since I went down to Philly with some friends years ago to check out his workshop, I'd never had a custom bike, I wanted one because I was a newly-minted author and celebrity bike blogger, and here's why a singlespeed made the most sense for me.  For one thing, I have the most fun on them because they bring me back to my BMX-and-tube-sock days:

(© Danny Weiss)

For another, while you can put together a pretty sweet singlespeed mountain bike for cheap, most of the frames are suspension-corrected and/or designed to be run with or without gears or just generally funky because they're for people putting together their sixth or seventh bike out of stuff from their parts bin.  I, however, wanted a nice, clean, rigid, purpose-built singlespeed, and the way to get that was to go custom.  Sure, you can't tell from my shitty zoomed-in photo, but you don't get awesome rocker dropouts like that on a Surly:

Instead you get something like this:

And that's in no way meant as an insult to Surly, who I applaud for their versatility.  But I wanted a really nice singlespeed, not a giant adapter, and so Engin it was. Then there was obsolescence.  No velocipede is more obsolescence-prone than the mountain bike.  Suspension; frame spacing; drivetrains...all of these things are way different now than they were just seven years ago.  However, it's hard to imagine a time when I won't be able to find the necessary parts for this thing, and geometry fads aside, an awesome-handling bike is an awesome-handling bike.  Best of all, since it's designed not to use gears or suspension it was already "obsolete" the moment Drew finished welding it, so what do I have to worry about anyway? In any case, the joy one gets from material things is always fleeting.  Nevertheless, thus far my rationale for commissioning this bike has been borne out, and I'm also glad I got in the queue when I did because now he only builds in titanium and on a limited basis and probably wouldn't even give me the time of day.  Really, if you think about it, my ordering this bike was like getting in on the Google IPO.  (Assuming someone would give me like $25K for it right now, that is.) Wonder how it would ride with one of those Trust forks... from Bike Snob NYC https://ift.tt/2PVUM7g

[bixeapage]

A Collection Of New Vinyl For The Audiophile – March, 2018

I’d had Steve Earle’s latest, So You Wannabe An Outlaw, sitting around the apartment for some weeks without so much as removing the cellophane wrapper.

Steve Earle and the Dukes

So You Wannabe An Outlaw

Warner Bros.

Performance:

Sound:

I’m not sure why I was so lackadaisical about the whole enterprise. I’d seen Earle perform an acoustic in-store show in support of the work a few months back, and I loved it. Ironically, and despite the crappy current climate, Earle keeps his political opinions off the Outlaw record. This is strictly a fun one. Maybe the most fun I’ve had listening to Steve Earle since El Corazón. Let that one sink in for a second…

Secrets Sponsor

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And the fun starts before the record even plays. The gatefold cover has a nice matte finish with some cool illustrations and printed lyrics. Even better, the center stickers on the records themselves reproduce the old Warner Bros. green(-ish) labels from the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. Not sure if they’re bringing those back in general or if Earle used them to represent the retro nature of the album itself. This is Earle’s ode to Outlaw Country (and Waylon, specifically), in case the title didn’t tip you off. To that end, he starts the party with a duet featuring himself and Willie on vocals. And Willie actually shows up. He sings in a lower register than I’m accustomed to hearing from him, and you almost wouldn’t recognize him at first. But you can’t keep Ol’ Willie hid for long. “News From Colorado” is a heartstring player in the tradition of so many badass Steve Earle ballads before. “Fixin’ To Die” is not the old Bukka White song made “popular” by Dylan and Col. Bruce Hampton; it’s a snarling rocker with thunderous drumming and dangerous fiddling. Makes “Taneytown” seem like “Fort Worth Blues.” There are traditional Country cry-in-your-beer numbers like “You Broke My Heart,” and four of the five numbers on the fourth side are Outlaw Country covers by the likes of Billy Joe Shaver, Willie (twice), and a take on Waylon’s classic “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way.” If you can’t have a good time in this saloon, I reckon you should hitch up your pony to a post on the right, and head off to bed. You can cook a campfire breakfast for the rest of us that didn’t.

Perhaps I was reticent to unwrap these records because I assumed they were pressed in Nashville like many of Earle’s previous titles. But they weren’t. They were pressed at Record Industry in the Netherlands, and they’re pretty great for a pedestrian release. I noticed that Earle’s old label, New West Records, has moved on from Nashville, and begun pressing records at MTO in France. I’ve had good luck with Jack White’s Detroit pressing plant too, so maybe things are looking up for the general quality of vinyl releases. Thank Goodness. These Outlaw records sound great with plenty of detail in the pretty numbers and loads of grit in the rockers. If you’re an Earle/Outlaw fan, your ship has come in. Or your pony. Just get it.

The Beastie Boys

The In Sound From Way Out!

Grand Royal/Capitol Records

Performance:

Sound:

I’m so thrilled that I didn’t plunk down the exorbitant amount of money that people are asking for an original copy of the Beastie Boys’ The In Sound From Way Out! (The exclamation point is part of the title, and was not used by the author for emphasis.) I didn’t realize that the tunes were compiled mostly from Check Your Head and Ill Communication when I was shopping for it. I’d had those records all along and would have been really angry with myself if I’d paid $100 plus for tunes that were simply re-presented in a different format. The Beasties did some cool stuff with their first-run vinyl releases to differentiate them from later pressings. This one had a slightly altered color scheme, for instance. And it may have had an alternate song running order too. Anyway, Capitol Records reissued In Sound late last year and charged a reasonable price for it, so those concerns have gone the way of coal. (Maybe not the best example given who’s running the show in the USA right now, but you get the idea.) This one’s a (natural) gas, gang. Now’s the time.

There are actually some minor differences between a couple of the songs on In Sound and their counterparts on the earlier releases. Shortened intros and alternate mixes, that kind of thing. “Namasté” and “Lighten Up” had the original vocals removed to accommodate the instrumental format. Still not worth paying ludicrous prices for an original unless you have money falling out of your ears or are truly the world’s biggest Beastie Fan. I mean, people are still asking as much as $550 for the first edition yellow vinyl version. Doesn’t mean they’re going to get it, but still. Let’s get to the meat of the matter though, shall we: this compilation is twenty tons of fun. Much of that is due to Money Mark’s keyboard wizardry. “Wizardry” might paint an inaccurate picture. There are no virtuoso performances on this record. The virtuosity is involved with the players’ impeccable taste. All groove, no solos. Lots of textures and interesting sounds. These tunes were almost certainly mastered from digital sources. In fact, I can’t imagine that there was a ton of analog processing outside of the band’s equipment when they were recording the songs in the first place. But the sonics are really good. The overall sound is well balanced with punchy bass and smooth highs. Maybe not the three-dimensional sound you’ll find, but certainly, an overall passing grade for a reissue that was not as well loved as an audiophile might like. I have all eight official Beastie studio releases on vinyl, and most, if not all, are reissues. I’m mostly fine with it, although I’d enjoy having an original License To Ill for sentimental reasons. This compilation is not included in that list because it’s… a compilation. But it plays really nicely with The Mix-Up, which is a record of original instrumentals that the band released in 2007. I caught that tour, and it was the only time I’d ever see the Beasties play live. They were phenomenal because that’s what they were. Creativity and cool for days upon days. If you’ve never given their grooves a chance, these instrumentals might surprise you. For fans of Jackie Mitoo more so than James Brown. Highly recommended.

Beck

Colors

Capitol Records

Performance:

Sound:

Beck released a new one late last year, but it doesn’t seem like there was much fanfare, really. And that may be by design. His fans are a ravenous lot, and they likely aren’t swayed by his albums’ ad campaigns. They’ll probably come along for the ride no matter what so why waste money on promotion. I count myself among their ranks, but I’m not completely onboard with this one. I’m not even sure that I’m standing on the right dock. This boat seems to have floated right on by me. Sometimes they do.

Colors is Beck’s 13th studio album. He had been playing a couple of these songs live (“Dreams” and “Wow”) for a good long while before the record was released. He worked on the album over the course of about four years in between tours and whatever else he does to stay alive. And I just can’t help but wonder where all the effort was focused. Colors is a record by Fun Beck. Maudlin Beck presumably enjoyed the massive success of his most recent downer album (Morning Phase), but Fun Beck will always sell out tours, and I am of the personal opinion that most of us would prefer to hang with this version of the man. But he ain’t fun enough on Colors. “I’m So Free” involves Beck’s usual incongruous raps over heavy, fuzzed-out guitar chords, but with a new wrinkle. He’s not quite on the speedy level of Big Boi, but I’ve never heard Beck rap faster. And he does so with zero affectations. He sounds bored, while essentially talking quickly in words that rhyme. “Dear Life” uses a cool Beatles-esque piano, and some Nels Cline inspired guitar work, and is one of the more engaging listens on Colors. There’s some immediacy that’s absent in this recording though, and that’s shown up quite plainly during the a-cappella vocals that close this tune out. Sounds like something that could be mind expanding given the MoFi treatment, for example, but there’s just not much “punch” in these grooves to speak of. “No Distraction” employs some cheap ‘80s tricks and plastic melodies, and it may be the most pedestrian song I’ve ever heard from Beck.

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Basically, it just seems like Colors never quite takes off. It’s hard to imagine Fun Beck fans reaching for Colors instead of Odelay, or Guero, or even Modern Times, which is kind of a hybrid between Fun Beck and Maudlin Beck’s best work. I was prepared to rant about the high quality of the pressing, at least, but mine gets a little noisy as side two advances. Nothing crazy. There are more deluxe versions of Colors, but I don’t think the content warrants the extra expenditure. Beck didn’t embarrass himself here, but I’d have envisioned something way more layered and rich after dude spent nearly half a decade in the studio working on Colors. Diehard fans may disagree, but I likely won’t keep this one. Until next time…

Drivin’ n’ Cryin’

Mystery Road

Island Records

Performance:

Sound:

Kevn Kinney anticipated the “Ameriacana” movement by years. When I think of Americana, I think of music played on real instruments, by real people, and produced in a less shiny, less sterile way than what Hot New Country fans may prefer, for instance. Drivin’ n’ Cryin’ married Punk and Country aesthetics early in the game before focusing more intently on the Rock side of things for their scant radio tunes. Mystery Road, the band’s third studio release, rocks plenty with some tasty fiddles and pedal steel work to carry the work home. The original was released in 1989. A recent double-album set reissues the album alongside a set of demos recorded by Peter Buck in 1988. It all takes me back…

…to an era when the older kids (or kids with older siblings) were listening to some whiny guy sing that I couldn’t quite understand. It didn’t take me long though. Luckily, I was in the process of discovering Bob Dylan around this time, so nasal was soon to be cool. Drivin’ n’ Cryin’ were making their way in Atlanta without the benefit of much radio play. At the time, I had them lumped in with all the other Athens bands that I was trying to get a handle on while still under the radio’s formulaic influence. “Honeysuckle Blue” cleared things up for me bigly. I’d have no way of knowing how popular that song was outside of the area that I lived in (unless I asked the internet, maybe), but it was a full-on anthem in my neck of the woods. Still is. I get juiced every time I hear it. Every time. The crunchy tones and the iconic guitar lick make sure of it. “Straight to Hell” is on here too, but I never got as much out of that one. You can still walk into a bar in Georgia, and if the band is playing covers, they’re apt to play either or both songs, perhaps more than once in the same evening. The rest of the album is fleshed out by a group of songs that would anticipate the heavier leanings on later records like Fly Me Courageous. By the time I saw Widespread Panic open for Drivin’ n’ Cryin’ in Atlanta, you’d have thought that Led Zeppelin was headlining. The drums were loud, the hair was big. I left early, but caught the band a few more times after their heyday, and I was much better off for having done so. The demos in this set are fun to have. They’re about what you’d expect: slightly less shiny versions of the tunes that would make it onto the final version (except for the album’s title track, which is on the demos set but not the final album), and a couple that would make it into Kinney’s later oeuvre. They’re gloriously rough. The tempos increase when things get hot, which would have to be smoothed out for the Big Release. Things never got as big as they should have for D n’ C, but that just serves to make them feel like even more of a hidden keepsake.

These records are both well pressed. There are some fun essays in the gatefold, and Kevn Kinney’s grandma’s painting was restored to its original sheen for this cover (after having been bastardized by the record label in ’89). This one’s for rockers more so than audiophiles. There is mud. And blood. I love it.

Sister Rosetta Tharpe

Live In 1960

Org Music

Performance:

Sound:

Sister Rosetta Tharpe. My goodness, there’s no way to overstate the awesomeness of this lady’s work. I mean, damn. She was one of the first artists to employ distortion of her electric guitar. She influenced Little Richard, and Little Richard influenced everyone. She was a rocker who would not play secular music, but she’d play Gospel in a barroom or a club. She was recently tagged for admittance into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, for people who care about that kind of thing. I have an original copy of her Gospel Train album, which is one of the jewels in my collection (although I wish it were in mono). Fantastic. Org Music recently released their take on Rosetta’s Live In 1960. I was stoked. Then, I was not.

First off, these recordings give the listener a very real feel for how emotional and intense Tharpe’s singing could be. She held nothing back. She wasn’t a wailer on par with the more full-throated Gospel singers of yore, but her voice had power and she was totally fearless. Not self-conscious in the least. You can hear her get the Spirit when she extends syllables past the point of breaking (“train” equals “tray-yea-yea-yea-yea-yain”). Sometimes, she cracks herself up. Sometimes, she’s gotta stop and preach. There’s enough personality and life in her vocals for an entire Gospel choir. And her guitar work was percussive and heavy-hitting, an obvious pre-cursor to some of the more refined electric guitar work that the Chicago Blues players would unveil later. Here’s the problem: very little of that guitar work can be discerned on Live In 1960. This is an issue with the original recording, not with anything that the folks at Org Music did. But why in the hell would they choose to release this title in lieu of a “better” one. She takes a quick solo during “Didn’t It Rain” that you can hear most of. Or some of. Because she’s not singing over it. If she’s singing, you can’t hear the guitar. That’s the deal. And it’s just her! There may be a drummer playing quietly on some songs, but the quality of the recording is so bunk that I’m not sure. It could be her foot stomping on the stage.

And that’s about all there is to say about Live In 1960. The pressing is fine, but who cares? There are no download codes or liners. Just a poorly recorded live performance by one of the greatest talents in the history of recorded American music. The cover has a cool photo of Sister Rosetta and her Les Paul. That’s the best part about it. To say that this is not audiophile material would be a grotesque understatement. I don’t know why this record was made unless it was to capitalize on Tharpe’s Hall of Fame induction. I wish they’d chosen a different title. The end.

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