#NYE queue clearing

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League – Hugh

Masterlist

Late-19th century whump. A little backstory that popped into my head. This is probably a year and a half before Hugh helps hold August down for first aid.

The first time Wyatt lays eyes on him, he almost dismisses it as a trick of the light. 

It’s pissing down. A rainfall so unrelenting, it hits the ground twice. He’s only lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the boy because Theo’s word has sent him looking down every alley and around every corner. A week and no sightings have him questioning Theo’s reason but not the continued search. 

“This one looks like he’s never known warmth.” 

Theo’s words have been running through his mind since he heard them. Some misguided hope pushing him to prove Theo was laying it on too thick. 

Between a stack of crates and sacks of rubbish, a flash of pale skin and a sharp elbow. An even sharper chin when the boy turns, sensing himself observed, and he’s gone. 

Wyatt rushes down the alley after him, cobblestones slick underfoot. He bursts onto the street, skidding to a halt to squint through the rain but there’s no sign of the boy. 

It’s another fortnight before Wyatt sees him again. 

He starts to wonder if the boy caught his death, coatless on the streets in a late-October rain that fell without pause into November. The thought doesn’t stop him checking all the nooks and crannies everywhere he goes. 

The boy has his back pressed against a shed in the alley beside a bakery. A lamp illuminates the mouth of the alley. One step closer and his shadow will be the alarm that sends the boy running. With a few yard’s head start, there’s no hope of catching him this time either. Wyatt stays where he is. A full five minutes he waits, afraid to even reach up to ash his cigarette, the boy just as still. Hiding but to what end? He’s looking away so there’s no telling where his focus is. Still wearing the same short-sleeved undershirt, no jacket or coat to speak of. He’s rail thin and visibly shivering.  

When the boy finally turns, he stiffens immediately, tension visible in the wiry muscles of his forearm. His unkempt hair is a dark curtain over his profile but as he pauses, a short huff of breath is visible in the winter air. The vapour hasn’t even dissipated before he slips down the throat of the alley and lets the city swallow him.  

Wyatt doesn’t stop the third time. 

The boy is tucked behind a stack of empty barrels behind a pub, legs folded up against his chest. In the few strides it takes Wyatt to walk by, the boy passes something between his thin fingers, carefully setting it down with a few other objects collected at his feet. He doesn’t look up and Wyatt lets himself get too optimistic. 

Needless to say, he’s gone an hour later.

Wyatt sighs, hand carrying a small jug of milk and a pasty falling to his side. Perhaps it would have been better to try to speak to him, empty words or not. 

He gives the closest barrel a half-hearted kick of frustration and something clinks against the cobblestones. Wyatt stoops, ducking into the alcove and marveling at how the boy managed to fit in such a space. He finds a pristine-white seashell and a tiny bell the size of his fingertip. It’s a cheap thing, crudely hammered into the small shape, gold paint on the tin scratched and chipped. Twisting his arm at angles he would not normally volunteer, Wyatt discovers the rest of the hidden cache. 

He leaves it undisturbed, replacing the felled treasures and his optimism with them. Wyatt tucks the bottle of milk and the wrapped pie in the niche. He hurries off, lest the boy find him lurking and stay away all the longer.   

The next day, Wyatt returns to a bottle full and the food uneaten. Untouched would be a better term, as though the boy has marked it forbidden even to the vermin. Wyatt already knows the collection will be gone but he checks anyway. He could laugh, save the fact that the task of finding the boy has been stalking him as much as the other way around. Every time he steps out, any time he can’t sleep. Just another loop around the block, a quick check down a quiet lane, a diversion down the East side of the river. 

Theo tells him to throw the towel in. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.” 

He doubles down. 

Now he’s looking for something in particular. He catches sight of him a handful of times in the coming weeks. Never in the same place twice, never longer than flash. 

It takes weeks. 

But the city isn’t as infinite as it seems. The perfect stage is inevitable. 

In the quietest hour before dawn, Wyatt does his usual rounds. He makes a habit of checking in on the boys who work the night shift before their replacements arrive. After a smoke with Tom on the bridge, Wyatt weaves his way behind a block of riverside houses, moss-covered garden walls stretching along one side. The smoke rises from the chimneys in thin whisps, hearths waiting to be reawakened after the home’s inhabitants. He passes the same hound as always, sleeping on the back step of the last house. 

He’s about to turn left at a dead end when he sees him. Sitting up on the wall, one foot swinging and the other knee pulled to his chest. The boy’s head snaps up, leg lifting in the same motion like he’s on a marionette string, moving to drop to the other side of the wall. 

“Wait,” Wyatt calls, gentling his voice. 

Even in the soft light, Wyatt can see his eyes narrow, but for some reason he pauses. 

Wyatt pulls one of Midge’s hand pies out of his pocket, wrapped in paper and tied with kitchen twine, something he’s never without these days. The boy can surely see it but Wyatt lifts it to show him anyway, then places it on the ground and takes a few steps away. 

The boy is not impressed. 

But the dog from the last house is. It rises from the ground, lifting its nose to smell the air. Not quite brave or hungry enough to skirt in front of Wyatt for the prize, but locked onto the scent. 

Wyatt takes another step away, in the direction of his turn, leaving a straight path between the dog and the pie, the boy watching scrupulously from the wall. 

The hound takes a hesitant step forward. 

Seeing Wyatt’s end, the boy curls his hands into fists. He glares daggers at Wyatt, not even bothering to watch the dog continue its advance. 

Wyatt is hard-pressed to hide his smirk, wondering if the huffed growl came from the hound or the boy. He scarcely breathes as he watches the standoff, thrilled with his gamble. No matter the end, he’ll learn something about this scrappy street shadow. Whether he likes it or not.

At the last second, the boy springs off the wall, snatching the little parcel from close enough to be bitten. But the hound only sits, hopeful for a morsel as he watches the boy bound over the wall, pausing only to throw a last bitter look at Wyatt before he disappears. 

Next

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[human-rocket]

The Holiday AU! Been listening to the soundtrack all month and got all the Obikin feels ☃️

So. Newly-single Obi-Wan leaves his home in England and travels to the US for the holidays hoping to forget about his breakup. (He was with Satine but they grew apart.)

After he arrives he does some brooding in his Airbnb, then goes out to a bar where he meets Anakin. They have what was supposed to be a one-night-stand but caaaant seem to stay away from each other. Later, Obi-Wan finds out about little Luke and Leia. (This was always one of my favorite parts of the movie 😭 The kids are so cuuute) Turns out Anakin is a widowed DILF (sorry Padme). Obi-Wan is a hit with the twins but oh nooo he must return to England and go back to his super successful job. (Doing what? Idk publishing or something) On his way to the airport he’s like, hmm oh wait, I love that DILF. Queue rom-com goodness with Obi-Wan dramatically going back and they reunite and smooch. They then spend NYE together and boom let the credits roll.

The movie’s ending isn’t actually clear on how they work out the distance thing, but in this version I think Obi-Wan eventually moves to be with Anakin and the twins ❤️

[footbaliimagines]

New Years Kiss (a Jesse Lingard imagine)

Hello!!!!!! It is me, returned from the dead (I can’t find the gif but insert the bitch thought u saw the last of me gif from American horror story gif here)

Idk what this is really these bits and bobs are NOT chronological they are just like fragments if that makes sense?? So even though the 3 words bit is when they were together its like a ***flashback*** but I wasnt sure how to make that v clear also the chapters are like numbers counting down from ten like at midnight ygm??? Okay I am rambling so will shut up hope u guys like it and hope you have a wonderful nye <3 I hope and am sure 2019 will be wonderful for all of you <3

TEN minutes after you meet him, you realise that you’re kind of fucked.

(And by kind of, you mean completely, overwhelmingly, catastrophically fucked.)

It happens quickly, in a way that you’ve never experienced before.

So quickly, as a matter of fact, that when he locks eyes with you for the first time, and when he grazes your arm when brushing past you to grab his drink, it’s like a switch has been flicked inside of you that you were never sure even really existed.

You put it down to the bubbles from your prosecco that you’d downed just before chatting to him, and that the tipsiness and the buzz of alcohol is the only reason you could be feeling the way you do right now.

Now he’s a face that you can put a name to, instead of just viewing him as Marcus’ other footballer friend, that familiar grinning face you’d spotted at gatherings who always offered you a shy, awkward smile whenever you shared eye contact but someone who you’d never actually found the balls to speak to.

(Sure, as a regular human being with functioning eyes you knew that he was attractive, but he was way out of your league.)

(The constantly grinning, elusive, life of the party Jesse Lingard, who Marcus had raved about to you pretty much since the day they’d met, with his 5 million Instagram followers, ridiculous dance moves that no self-respecting 26 year old man should let the world see, and that smile- God, that stupid, infectious shit eating grin, when his eyes crinkled and made everyone else look mediocre in comparison to him.)

(He wouldn’t look in your direction even if the world was about to end.)

It’s New Years’ Eve, and his Christmas jumper smells like Baileys and cinnamon, lasting remnants of the festive period. “Nice to meet you.�� You practically have to shout over the music. “I know Marcus.”

“You what Marcus?”

“I know Marcus.”

“You know who?”

You roll your eyes and shake your head, dismissing his question. “Doesn’t matter.”

“What?”

“I said.” You shout. “It doesn’t matter.”

He nods and smiles again, leaning in, “I don’t want to be weird or anything, considering we just met,” his gaze is hazy and clouded with the effects of the beer he’s clutching in his right hand, “but you’re really fucking pretty.”

You can feel your face flush, a blush superior to the one your red wine had already given you, and the next thing you know it’s nearly midnight, and you’re drunk and giggling and he’s flirting and tracing between the gap between your jeans and jumper with his fingers, and you’re both leaning in and your friends are counting down from ten, and he kisses you, amidst cheers and shouts and fireworks.

And you tell yourself, what’s the worst that could really happen?

“Only NINE stops.” 

You trace your finger over the plastic Metrolink sign, running it up and down the line connecting the two tram stations, marking your place and his. “Nine stops to get from me to you.”

He snakes his hands around your waist, pressing his chin into your shoulder and kissing the exposed skin of your neck. “Stop.” You laugh, voice breathy. “We’re in public.”

“We’re in Manchester city centre on a Thursday night.” He pulls away, leading you towards the platform and laughing loudly, his voice booming throughout the cold night. “There’s no one fuckin’ here!”

He’s had a few pints, and he’s tipsy, handsy, flirty, silly Jesse, one of your favourite versions of him, kissing you breathlessly and grinning, hands running up and down your tight jeans and hooking into your belt loops and murmuring in your ear about how excited he is to pull them off of you later.

“Nine stops, you know,” He hums as the tram pulls away and you lean into him, watching the city pass you by, “is pretty far.”

“You’re such a city boy now.” You roll your eyes. “It’s like, 20 minutes. If we went back to my hometown, you’d be lucky to see a bus more than once every half an hour.”

“You wouldn’t have to do the whole 9 stops if you moved in with me.”

You crinkle up your nose and quirk an eyebrow at him. “What are you suggesting?”

“What do you think I’m suggesting?”

Laughing, you prop your feet up on the empty seat opposite and lean into his side, as he flops an arm around your shoulder. There’s no one else with you two and your voices and shared laughter echo throughout the empty carriage. “I’m serious!” He holds his hands up and looks at you with wide eyes. “Do it. Move in with me. You can cook me breakfast every morning, and make me my tea for when I get back, make me a brew whenever I want one… you’ll make the perfect little housewife.”

“Now that you’ve said that, you can fuck off.”

And you both brush it off and don’t speak of the topic again, but when he leaves for training the next morning, there’s a spare key for his flat lying on a post-it, with a hastily scribbled note.

You don’t have to properly move in – no pressure or anything like that. But I had a spare key lying around and wanted you to have it. Jess x

(When the breakup comes, you don’t work up the courage to give it him back, and it’s still lying in your bedside table draw, post-it long gone, gathering dust and eventually added to the pile of his things you swear you’ll get around to giving him back one day.)

(There’s a strange feeling in your stomach every time you pass by his stop.)

It’s EIGHT in the morning.

You’re sat in the coffee shop equidistant to your flat, Marcus’s house and United’s training ground, where every Sunday without fail, the three of you would meet up for breakfast.

(Well, where you used to meet up every Sunday.)

(Minus that one time you were too hungover to leave the house without projectile vomiting on your own feet.)

For the first time since the breakup, Jesse had appeared, the sleepiness still drooping over his eyes and his hair mussed by his pillowcase. Your mind flashes to the image of him sleeping face down in his pillow, a position that made you nearly piss yourself laughing every time you saw him, but you suppress the memory quickly.

“Everyone can see it except the two of you, you know.”

Marcus tips his chin upwards and nods matter-of-factly. You roll your eyes and huff. “You’re a prick. And not just for saying that. But for inviting him out for our thing, our tradition, again, when you know it’s just going to be fucking awkward. He didn’t have to be here.”

“I’m only saying.” He raises his eyebrows and holds up two hands, as if to say, not my fault, I’m not interfering in the slightest, I’m just telling you that I know you’re still in love with your ex, and I know he still feels the same, and that even though there’s a very high chance things could still go catastrophically, terrifically, hugely wrong, I’m going to tell you and mess with your head anyway?

You reply snappily, huffing and folding your arms across your chest, “You’re messing with me, and it’s pissing me off. Fuck off. Tell him to fuck off too while you’re at it.”

He barks out a laugh and you roll your eyes. “I’m trying to reunite my two best friends, that’s all. Get the gang back together and all that!” He whines and shuffles closer to you, flinging an arm around your shoulders loosely. “Let me live. You both know you’re both being stubborn. Just talk to each other. It’ll all work out.”

“I don’t even like him anyway. Not like that. Not anymore.”

It’s a lie, a stupid, threadbare, slap you in the face lie. Marcus knows it too, and snorts. “Yeah, sure. I believe you. It’s not like you’ve been pining over each other for the past 3 months and you’re giving the girl he’s talking to at the moment daggers.”

You pull away your gaze sharply. Jesse’s in the queue- well, he was in the queue, now he’s loitering by the serviettes - and he’s been pulled to the side by a beautiful girl. They’ve been chatting amiably for the better part of the last ten minutes and you can feel your blood temperature rising steadily. “I’m staring,” You begin, and your head starts whizzing at a million miles an hour to come up with a decent excuse. “Because Jesse has our coffees and I don’t want them to get cold just because he’s in the middle of a stupid conversation.”

“’Stupid conversation’,” Marcus air quotes your words and smirks. “Jealousy isn’t a very attractive trait, you know.”

“I’m not jealous.” You scoff. “I’m just thirsty, that’s all.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“Fuck you.”

A few minutes, and plenty of glares and continuous teaching jabs from Marcus later, Jesse approaches and smiles apologetically. “Sorry about that.” he chuckles, and hands you your mug.

Your fingers bump and it’s so meaningless and tiny but you kick yourself for still flinching when your skin made contact. “Careful. It’s still hot.”

(See, he cares about you. Maybe it’s not all just in your head!)

It’s an instinct to smile back at him, a repressed reflex to not pat the empty space next to you and rest your hand on his thigh, but you gulp as he sits opposite instead, far away from the table, from you. “Make conversation.” Marcus hisses.

You can feel your face blossoming cherry red, feel the discomfort in the air rise, feel your palms grow sweaty, and you shoot him a dirty look, mouthing, “Stop making it obvious.”

“You’re the one making it obvious.” He hisses back.

“Hm?” Jesse looks up from his phone to across the table.

He’s wearing that stupidly adorable, confused look on his face again, and you want to kiss him, you want to throw your boiling hot coffee in his face, you want to slap him, do something, do anything that would be less unbearably awkward than the three of you making small talk about the new Kenyan variety of coffee beans Marcus was trying out.

“Hm what?” You gargle.

“I was just asking what you guys were mumbling about.” He leans back, hands gripping his mug.

“Nothing.” You interject, before Marcus can start up again. “Marcus’s just being a dick, that’s all.”

You kick yourself for acting like such a lovesick, pathetic idiot, because you’ve never been like this before, you’ve constantly sworn to yourself that you’d never going be like this, but now he’s in the picture and it’s like everything that you ever held dearly to you has gone straight out of the window. Marcus pipes up, “So, who was that girl?”

(Now he decides to fucking speak.)

“Which girl?”

This time, you’re not quick enough to interrupt Marcus from piping up. “The girl you were flirting with before, Jesse, who you might go out with, who seems really nice and wasn’t a baby by actually talking to you about her feelings instead of hiding behind her emotions because she’s so scared of rejection and open communication, that she’d be willing to sacrifice the possibility of something really great?”

(You’re this close to chucking your cappuccino over his head.)

Jesse side eyes Marcus, opening his mouth to reply but then shaking his head and exhaling instead. “She’s right, you are being fucking weird today.” He shakes his head, tipping his chin upwards slightly and shrugging. “Besides, she’s not really my type anyway.”

(She was beautiful.)

(She’d be anyone’s type.)

He’s looking at you dead in the eye this time, ignoring Marcus’s eyes darting back and forth between the two of you, and you venture, “What is your type, then?”

He pulls a face, like come on, are you really asking that, you know what my fucking type is and you know it’s not that girl I was talking to strategically 2 foot in front of you so you’d see and get jealous, and when he doesn’t answer, you take it as a silent victory for #TeamYouWereRight, not #TeamJesse.

“That’s for me to know, isn’t it?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

You let Marcus fill the silence of the rest of your breakfast, and when you leave you’re too much of a coward to even look Jesse in the eye.

It only takes him SEVEN days to move on

When the cover of Ok! on your best friend’s coffee table catches your eyes, you can almost feel your wine and the tequila shots you had knocked back rising back up your throat. Your vision is hazy and the bitterness, the anger, the hurt surges through your veins as you pick it up and throw it to the floor, out of sight and out of mind. You were right, the featurette screamed out at you, he wasn’t, isn’t worth it, isn’t worth you crying over. 

It only took him a week to find someone else to fuck and you’d be damned if you weren’t going to go out tonight with the same intentions.

Deep down you know you’re being childish and if you were sober you’d probably never have sunk to such a level, but the tequila is buzzing in your blood and you can’t stop thinking about that fucking photograph.

(A photograph of Jesse revelling in a post-Boxing Day victory glow, crowded with Paul and Marcus in some swanky inner city bar, with his hand on the thigh of a beautiful woman whose Instagram account you made a mental note of to stalk when you were in a soberer state.)

There’s a tranquil voice somewhere in the back of your head telling you to step back and be rational. You’d been friends with Marcus and the boys for far too long to trust the split-second capture of a loitering paparazzi over his word.

It was probably just a one-night stand, that rational voice piped up again. Plus, he’s single now. Give him a break. The boy is gonna need to get laid eventually.

(But he’d told you he didn’t want to be with anyone else, that he’d rather have quiet nights in with his teammates to celebrate, probably just PS4 and takeaway, that he wouldn’t enjoy going out if it wasn’t with you.)

(That rational voice in your head could go fuck itself.)

You shrug off the worry at the back of your mind and post the picture to your Instagram story regardless.  

Your phone buzzes 2 minutes later.

Who is he?

You hate yourself for revelling in his jealousy, but the sense of satisfaction you gain overrides any rationale that sober you would have considered.

?

Who the fuck is that guy?

Can you reply?

I can see you’ve read these messages, you know.

Are you fucking him? Is he your new boyfriend?

Fuck you.

Happy SIX months, babe. Love yaaaaaaaa!!! 

is what the balloon reads, as the delivery man comes by Jesse’s house with a bunch of flowers almost the size of him and a handful of personalised helium balloons.

“Delivery for Mr J Lingard?” The postman reads off his phone, before handing Jesse the assortment of romantic gifts and offering up a screen for Jesse to sign.

He smiles tiredly and nods.

(He swore he had remembered to cancel this order after you’d broken up.)

“Ta mate,” He replies, taking the flowers inside and dumping the balloons behind him in his hallway.

“Anniversary, eh?” The delivery man smiles. “She’ll love the presents.”

(He’s going to throw up.)

Jesse attempts to smile and brush it off with a laugh, but it’s not convincing. “Fingers crossed, yeah.”

“Best of luck.” He walks back down his drive. “Have a nice day.”

“And you.”

He’s alone again in his hallway, the gifts surrounding him, a flurry of red and pink bows and yellow roses, your favourite, your name written onto the balloons.

He imagines you in the kitchen with him, you, being your typical over-emotional, dramatic self probably welling up at the card he’d written, tactfully arranging the balloons for an Instagram photo, talking about inhaling the helium and taking a video for his Snapchat speaking in funny voices, getting stressed out about doing your eyeshadow for your dinner later that evening.

He can imagine looking at you from across his kitchen table like you just hung the moon in the sky, the thought of being with you, eating breakfast with you, talking to you all making his stomach churn. Because the breakup hadn’t been formal nor had it been official, and it was only after you blocked most (well, all) of his social media accounts, and your face no longer appeared, grinning and slightly flushed, in the stands of Old Trafford, that he had realised the severity of what had happened between the two of you.

And Jesse kicks himself over it every day, he could have done more, could have turned up to your house or your office and demanded an answer or at least a conversation, but his stubbornness and obstinacy had prevented him from doing so, and your unwillingness to communicate had landed you both at a stalemate.

(If he could go back in time, he would.)

He leaves the anniversary gifts in his spare room upstairs and doesn’t even open the door.

05:02 – Are you up?

05:14 – Lol of course you won’t be

05:14 – Soz for texting. I can’t sleep and I think I’m just getting a bit caught up in own head

05:16 – I just

05:16 – I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind

05:16 – I just don’t know why this is still so fucking difficult. It’s been like 3 months and I still can’t sleep because I’m thinking about you and how everything went wrong

05:19 – I’m sorry if I pressured you when I told you I loved you and I’m sorry for not fighting more

05:20 – Didn’t meant to rush you. Just wanted to be honest.

05:20 – And now I’ve fucked everything up. And I’ve fucked it with Marcus too, jt’s always awkward and I know he’s taken your side and everything is just shite

05:26 – Fucking hell

05:26 – I can’t do being just friends and I can’t do platonic. Maybe we just should just cut if off completely

05:27 – Please come and see me so we can talk it over

05:27 – I just can’t do this, this in between

05:28 – I love you and I know you still love me

05:28 – Is that not enough???

It’s FOUR in the morning and Jesse’s regretting even leaving the house in the first place.

His head is pounding with the deep bass coming from the speakers behind him, as he gingerly sips at his lime soda, thoughts of his alarm ringing at 7:30am tomorrow morning looming in the back of his mind, thoughts of what his Mum would say if she knew he wasn’t getting a healthy 8 hours of sleep before a game, thoughts of you in that little black dress, swaying to the beat, standing far too close to that short-back-and-sides-probably-a-fuckboy idiot whispering something that Jesse doesn’t want to imagine down your ear.

(Thoughts of what he’d like to do to you in a dress like that.)

You eventually shrug the other guy off when he gets a little too eager, a little too handsy, and pull your hair loose from its ponytail, eyes scanning around the club and pausing when the land on Jesse.

He’s stood in the corner, not speaking to anybody and hardly moving, and that’s when you know he must be in a bad mood, because the DJ’s just started playing Sicko Mode and he’s not even flinched. Then one of his mates appears by his side, hollering down his eardrum, and Jesse doesn’t even respond with a smile or a laugh, he just shrugs him off and walks towards the doors.

You’re not sure why, but you follow him as he heads towards the smoking area.  You lose him eventually in a sea of drunk people, and exhale, the wind suddenly sobering you up. 

Fucking typical, you think, lighting a fag and leaning back against the brick wall, eyes closed.

“You shouldn’t smoke.”

You open one eye and there he is, stood there in front of you, looking at you with a mixture of fondness, annoyance and disapproval. Looking at him dead in the eyes, you lift it to your lips and inhale. “I must have a tendency for going back to things that I know are bad for me.”

He looks at you, and you can tell he wants to bite, to start another fight, but then he bites his tongue and exhales. “How have you been?”

“I’m alright.”

“Good.”

“And you?”

“Good.”

“Jess?”

“Hm?”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

(The next thing you know, you’re in a taxi togetther and he’s telling the driver his address and your hands are all over him and his are all over you.)

(And you fall into bed with him again, like always, like you know deep down happens every time, as if its a habit, and when you wake up the next morning in his shirt you tell yourself that this time really will be the last time.)

You hadn’t anticipated saying those THREE words to Jesse so soon.

God, you hadn’t even considered the possibility of things lasting between the two of you for longer than a few weeks, but now here you were nearly 6 months later, lying on his sofa with his head in your lap and your fingers running through his hair. “Hey,” Jesse speaks and sits up, switching the volume of the telly down to zero.

“Hm?”

He looks away, before turning almost as red as the United shorts he was still yet to change out of, then gulping and shaking his head. “Never mind.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” He cuddles back into you and though your heart melts, you wiggle him off and jab him with your elbow.

“Talk to me.” You whine. “You’re no fun when you’re being weird like this. What’s up?”

Jesse heaves a sigh, and for the first time during your conversation, looks you in the eye before burning bright red again and glancing away. It’s like he can’t bear the sight of you, and his determined avoidance of both a proper conversation and sharing eye contact with you makes you feel slightly nauseous.

A few moments of silence pass before he looks at you again. “I, well- I feel weird right now.” He stumbles. “Because, um, I-“

“Jesse, what is it?”

Your pulse begins to race as your mind inevitably wanders, and the pessimist in you instantly leaps to the worst possible thing. Was he breaking up with you? Things had been going so well, and surely Marcus would have called to give you a heads up if he knew something weird was going on with Jesse.

(Then again, you had cancelled on date night for the past 3 weeks to binge the Great British Bake Off.)

(Still, would that really have warranted a breakup?)

(And plus, Jesse was the Bake Off’s second biggest fan, after yourself, naturally.)

It could be something smaller, something to do with his family, or his career. But he never felt uncomfortable discussing football with you, despite your feelings towards his club, and his relatives treated you like one of their own.

(Your mind does eventually wander to the possibility of him cheating, or him finding someone else, but due to your own stubbornness and for the sake of your sanity, you’re quick to expel any ideas like that straight out of your head.)

“I love you.”

His voice is soft and cracks at the end, and it’s so, so far from what you had been expecting, and so unlike the usual confident, grinning Jesse that you were used to that a lump forms in your throat. “Oh, Jess-“

“I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to scare you off.” He mumbles. “But I’m finding it way too hard to not have those stupid fucking three words replaying in my mind every time I look at you. Because that’s what’s happening, I swear. I’m trying to play it cool and casual but all I can think about every time you smile, or speak, or laugh is the fact that I’m in love with you.”

A smile pulls on your lips and you immediately scramble forward to wrap your arms around him. He laughs and you feel his chest rumble underneath you. “You don’t have to be scared.” You comfort. “Trust me, I was shitting myself way imagining the worst just now.”

Jesse laughs. “Cos like, it terrifies me, it fucking scares the living daylights out of me, because I’ve never felt like this about, well- anyone before. And I was petrified that you didn’t feel the same way.”

You grin, before leaning in and pressing your lips to his with force. It’s a hasty, reassuring kiss, and your teeth clash and you murmur in between kisses, “I love you.”

(Months had passed since that night now and those three words hadn’t lost any meaning.)

(And you just wish you could say them to him again.)

“I know we said it the last TWO times, but we really need to stop doing this.”

His voice is soft, breaking the silence you were lying in.

(You’re grateful that he was the one to speak first, but you’re not so grateful for him bringing up that wretched conversation yet again.)

He looks across at you, the dim light from your lamp illuminating the side of your face, your knotted hair and smudged lipstick, and then at your bedside clock, reading 01:23. Jesse sighs and you can feel your heart sinking into your stomach, as he reaches for his boxers and pulls them on. Your bedroom is a mess, cushions and throws tossed to the floor, and he speaks up again, “I mean it, this time.”

“Okay.”

He continues, though he really doesn’t need to. You’ve got the message loud and clear. “I think it’s just good for our, er, healing. Isn’t like, not sleeping with your ex like the number 1 thing not to do after a breakup?”

“Probably, yeah.”

You hug your duvet up around your body protectively, before reaching for your bra and t-shirt that had been tossed to floor just two hours earlier, when the expected texts had come, the are-you-awake, the got-plans-tonight?, the I’m-horny-and-I-miss-you-let’s-not-waste-any-more-time texts.

(Leading to the exact opposite of what was good for you after the breakup.)

(For fucks sake, you tell yourself.)

(Dua Lipa did not write New Rules for you to be this pathetic, this needy, this easy.)

“Fine, then.” You say, blasé, casual, giving off an air of nonchalance and indifference that couldn’t be further from the whirlwind of thoughts in your mind. “You don’t have to spend the night. Can you see yourself out or do you want me to get up?”

The way he looks back at you after you speak is enough to break your heart all over again. It’s a pleading look, and he’s willing you with his eyes to try and communicate for once, for the first time, but you refuse to meet his eyeline.

“I can see myself out.”

“Right.”

He dresses in silence, grabs his stuff and stalks out your flat, slamming your door on his way out. You scramble out of bed to watch him walk down your street, the way you used to when you started dating, when he used to blow you kisses as he ambled off your drive, or when you used to watch him run to a taxi on mornings when he was late for training.

This time, for the first time, he doesn’t look back at your window.

It’s been ONE year to the day since you met him, and you hate yourself for noticing the parallels as you walk into the living room at Marcus’s NYE party and he’s the first face you can recognise.

It’s like a scene straight out of a romantic comedy and it makes you want to die.

(Fortunately, he doesn’t quite spot you yet, and you’re free to make a beeline to the kitchen, in peace and quiet with an unopened bottle of Chardonnay as your company.)

(It lasts about 15 minutes.)

“Hey.”

You turn around and you see him, smiling at you in that same, stupid, garish, adorable Christmas jumper, holding out a Quality Street chocolate. It’s a peace offering, an olive branch, and you take it with a nod. “You alright?”

Jesse nods and takes a seat on the sofa behind you. “So, what are your New Year's resolutions, hey?”

You settle on the sofa next to him, knocking your knee against his accidentally, cursing and looking at him from over the rim of your glass of wine.

Jesse chuckles then shrugs sarcastically. “Can’t improve perfection.”

Your instinct is to let out a cackle, and you do, you burst out laughing so dramatically your drink nearly projects out of your nostrils, because he’s not even wrong and there’s not much about him that could really do with changing.

(Scrap that, he should learn to cook.)

(And definitely how to use a tumble dryer.)

(And call time of death on those dances he insisted on doing every time he scored a goal.)

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“What are your resolutions then, hey?” He knocks his knees with yours.

“Eat more fruit.” You fib.

Stop being so stubborn and accept that sometimes you’re in the wrong. Stop bottling up your emotions. Don’t be afraid to let people know how you feel. Stop being such a fucking coward all the time.

(Resolutions that Jesse of all people didn’t need to know about.)

“Boring.” He hums.

“Drink more water.” You add, nodding. “Start going to yoga again.”

“That’s so generic.”

“Fuck off. It’s called self improvement.”

“It sounds like every basic 23 year old girl I’ve ever met.”

You peek at your phone when he looks away: 23:58.

Fuck. How the fuck had it got so late already?

Your friends begin to gather in hordes in the kitchen, the TV broadcasting the fireworks in London has been switched on and drinks are poured and held aloft. Jesse jumps to his feet and offers you his hand as you do the same; his hand feels warm and familiar and when he lets go it suddenly feels like there’s acres of space between you again.

10

“I think I’m getting déjà vu.”

9

You roll your eyes, resisting the urge to smile. “Déjà vu to when?”

8

“That night. The first time we met.”

7

Jesse tips his chin backwards, and someone behind him trips, bumps him forward, and he stumbles into you, by reflex finding your waist and your free hand pressing up against his chest.

6

He’s inches in front of you, and you can feel your pulse in your eyeballs and his breath across your face.

5

You splutter out, “I’m really, really fucking sorry.”

4

Jesse laughs. “What the fuck are you on about now, mad woman?”

3

“I’m sorry. About it all. About everything.”

2

He shakes his head, as if to say it’s okay, stop apologising, we haven’t been this close without wanting to kill each other since the break up and I don’t think we should even tempt the possibility of us arguing again.

1

And he’s leaning in, and you can smell his cologne and it’s comforting and reassuring and confusing, and makes your head spin but grounds your feet, and you’re closing your eyes as your friends begin to shout.

Happy new year!

And he’s kissing you and you’re kissing him and you can feel his hand gripping your waist, holding and squeezing you and you can feel your stomach fizzing. When he pulls away he’s looking at you softly, gaze mellowed by tequila and the closeness between you two. “Happy new years, Jess.” is all you can muster, as he leans in and smiles again.

“Happy new year.”

[gw190521]

|| cleared out some ooc asks from NYE (oops) and put them in the queue. considering clearing out some of the older asks that have been sitting in my inbox for like. a month. some i still have muse for but others i just cant?? and my inbox has... many unanswered asks it makes looking at it difficult. so. i will answer what i can and delete what i cant. if i dont answer something you sent its not you!! its definitely just me and my problem brain bc rn is Hard Times.

[chronicbatfictioner]

Fast Car - Chapter 17

"You've got the meds?"

"Yeah, one patch is on. Scheduling is on." Tim replied. "Synced with your cellphone so you can nag me if I forget to replace it."

It had sounded scary at first, for both Tim and Jason. Jason suspected that it would've been scarier, still, for Tim. He was the one who'd need to wear it at all times, after all. The patch looked like a simple, clear-colored band-aid, but it was actually filled with a plethora of electronics underneath, "the nutshell version is having electroshock therapy device attached to you at all times, but it'll release hormones instead of electricity," Tim had explained. It would be placed just under his hairline, on the nape of his neck. Tim assured him many, many times that it does not deliver actual electric shocks and/or will be shorting when the wearer is showering/swimming. "That's the first thing I made sure of, duh. The second was the invisibility." Because Tim understood the stigma of a mental health diagnosis quite well, and a light-colored patch on a dark skin would look like a beacon advertising the wearer's affliction. 

The last of the cuts on his arms had faded to nearly invisible scars on Tim's pale skin, crisscrossing the old ones. Random passers-by wouldn't have noticed them. Jason could feel them, still, when he run his hand over them. And Tim's face--

There would always be a faint hint of peach on his cheeks these days, and not so much of the purple raccoon eyes that had shocked Jason four months ago. Jason had trimmed Tim's hair, there are still enough for Jason to grab and play on, but not too long to cover his eyes.

Within a mere month after Jason moved back with him, the sunken-ness of Tim's cheeks had filled up some, earning him comments of "you look younger!' from his colleagues. Jason could always tell when some of Tim's colleagues teased him about his age and looks - Tim would commandeer the electric shaver the next day and let it run across his smooth chin and jawline, hoping that he would grow beard or some sort of facial hair. So far, still no luck. But Jason still counted a win when a pout and sulk and an attempt to shave would be as far as Tim would do. And in the lab, Conner was good enough to steer Tim clear off Tim's intention of researching ways to grow facial hair.

There are no blades in the loft, Jason made sure of it. All of their kitchen appliances are locked, with only Jason allowed access to them. A little extreme, sure, but they have reached an agreement that it was better for both of them if all kinds of temptations were out of sight and access from Tim.

But then again, Tim's needs for... the 'distractions' have abated a lot, a whole lot with Jason being there. He was still busy with the lab below, but with Bruce granting Jason special access key to the lab, Tim really couldn't run away - or lock himself in, which he'd done a few times before Bruce gave Jason a key - when Jason went into the lab and demand him to go home and get some sleep. Now, Timmers, or I'll haul you up. The excited and expectant gawks from Tim's lab-mates would usually be enough for Tim to stop whatever it is he was working on and followed Jason home with a massive pout and several choice-words of curses and grumbles.

Hopefully he would still miss the low-fives or fist bumps Jason got from Bart or Conner whenever he'd make Tim leave the lab. Or the fact that Conner would promptly close the lab some five minutes after Tim left.

Conner had brought his girlfriend, Cassandra Sandsmark, and Bart brought his girlfriend, Kiran Singh; on just about every weekends to have triple dates. Or in lazy and/or blizzard times, they would stay in and stream some movies while Conner and Jason practiced their culinary skills. So far, Bart noted, he hasn't needed to call in for emergency pizza to the rescue. Or booked a trip to the ER for food poisoning.

Jason had fully moved out from the Wayne's barn, and temporarily moved in to Tim's loft as their house was being renovated to accommodate Tim's work space and his garage. Jason had also managed to argue Tim out of making him the sole owner of the house, after a whole lot of arguments and getting Barbara's help to make him a slideshow presentation.

Seriously. There was a presentation describing the benefits of co-owning the house vs having just his name there. Credit scores and all. Jason never even know what his credit score was.  Or that he even had a credit score. He'd always thought those things were just for people who has a lot of money or born with money and/or inheritance.

There will be their individual work spaces in the opposing wings of the house, and there would be no locks on the doors of the work spaces. They have both agreed to have alarms to limit their home-working hours and remind the other to take care of themselves. And this, Jason knew, this would be something Tim would adhere to. His organized mind just simply not able to not follow a schedule. That point was prominent in Jason's mind when he wrote his part of the vow.

The Vow that he and Tim would recite in a few weeks, Jason mused as he felt the cold metal around his ring finger, and caught the glint of the ruby on the ring around Tim's finger as Tim's arm hooked around Jason's. His own arms were full of tupperware boxes - Alfred was not joking when he said he'd pack leftovers after their Sunday Dinner at the Wayne Manor. They would be eating well for the next week. Maybe. Or at least the next three to four days, if neither of them would end up with overtimes and eating less than two meals per day at home.

Or two days, if Bart managed to sneak his way in to their home.

"Home," Tim suddenly said.

"Hm?"

"I was just thinking... for a pair of orphans, we've managed to have not one, but two homes for ourselves." Tim said. "Not too shabby."

"Not too shabby at all." Jason agreed, pressing his lips on Tim's temple. "Thank you."

"Jason," Tim smiled ruefully. "Thank you, for not leaving me behind. In BrisTown."

"I couldn't. You've got the fast car." Jason grinned impishly.

"Well now you've got the literal fast car." Tim grinned at him. "How does it feel?" he asked as he helped Jason putting the boxes into Jason's car, a 2013 Mustang that used to belong to Dick and Jason had acquired in exchange of making five of Dick's other cars - including, of all things, a 1974 VW Beetle ("this is the last that was built in Germany, Jason! Before they moved the factory to Mexico!") - working and running again. Damn thing was older than Bruce and by all means should have been buried with its dignity intact, long ago. But Dick refused to let her die, and Jason had wondered if he'd have to make ritual sacrifices for parts, until Tim gave him the number of his contact in Germany who provided a number of cobbled-together parts.

"It feels..." he caressed the car's roof gently. "Well, you really can't go wrong with Mustang." he grinned. "But you really can't go wrong driving it with the one you love."

Tim snorted mirthfully, taking a seat on the passenger's side. "God, you cheesy." he said, scrunching his nose.

"You've known me for a long time now, and you just found it out now?" Jason quipped as he entered the driver's side.

"No, just didn't think I'd like it so much." Tim replied, a hesitant smile on his face as his lower lip started to tremble.

Jason reached over and tugged Tim's chin gently. "Hey, come on now. What is it?"

"I'm screwed, aren't I?" Tim said, a line of tears starting down his cheek.

"Welp, technically, you're legal and consenting. So I don't see the needs for the waterworks." Jason grinned at him, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Tim laughed and swatted his hand. "You jerk. I was trying to be sappy and all." he made a face. "But we'll need some stuff. I think we're out of lube."

"Whaaat? Again??"

"Hey, I'm not the one who use that thing like you're deep-frying!"

They drove away from the Wayne Manor in relative silence, Jason's non-driving hand on the nape of Tim's neck.

"I love you." Tim suddenly said.

Jason didn't take his eyes off the road, but squeezed Tim's neck lightly and replied. "I love you, too."

Maybe, Jason silently prayed, maybe they can fix themselves well. Together. They have a good number of people who could support them, anyway. Bruce, Dick, Barbara, and Alfred to help Jason through his doubting days; Conner, Bart, Cassandra, and Kiran, to support Tim if/when Jason was being a jerk. Surprisingly, when Damian was informed of Tim's clinical condition, he was incredibly interested to help keep an eye on Tim, "to see if the device works or not, Todd!"

Jason suspected it's just another thing Damian is keeping records of, to use against Tim when he couldn't win in a normal argument. Dick assured him that Damian's scathing ways were simply his way to show he cares. The jury is still out in that, though.

"You know what else we've got?" he said as something struck him.

"What?"

"Family." Jason smiled and scratched Tim's head a little. "Lookit that, orphan boy, we've got a family."

"We do, don't we?" Tim smiled brightly. "Whaddya know..."

They were silent for a few heartbeats until Tim spoke again, "so we gonna stick our vows on my mom's grave, too?"

Jason grinned mischievously. "You betcha, Timmers. Let her know that we've made it."

Note: End of this segment! I hope y'all like, and as always, comments, likes & reblogs are very, very appreciated! This here be the first multi-chaptered fanfic I've ever posted. And it feels kind of poignant for me that the last chapter is posted on NYE. Bye, 2017! Hello, 2018! Here's to hoping that our respective lives will be better in 2018 and brighter. And our muses remain as active if not more active as ever and allow us to tell their stories - preferably not at the same time. Maybe I should devise a queue number for them muses, like at banks... Anyway! Again, thank you everybody who'd left comments, likes, and/or reblogs, the lifeblood of all artworkers. Have a happy New Year, all!

[southcoastfires]

Happy New Year!

I think the thing that surprised me most was how deluded we were. The Currowan fire was enormous, bigger than anything anyone had any experience with. The longer a fire burns, the hotter it gets, and this had been burning for weeks. I knew it was dry, you could see it on the ridges - they were browning off. Not dead, but getting there. We’d been mountain biking frequently up the back of Maulbrooks Road, to the west of Mogo. We knew it was crisp-dry. 

I had checked the fire prediction map the night before, and even though it showed ember attack on the eastern side fo the highway, I still could not believe that suburbs like Malua Bay or Catalina would be affected. They were just too….suburban. Yet, when I look at the map now it’s clear that Malua Bay, Tomakin, Broulee, Rosedale etc.,. lie at the eastern end of a huge, uninterrupted tract of bush directly to the northwest, bush that had an active fire in it, a fire that had been burning for weeks, in unprecedented dry conditions. These brick and tile suburbs, with their lawns and trampolines and boat trailers, were basically at the end of a gun barrel. 

Map showing the track of the NYE fire

It took days to get information about the local area. I could call anyone in any city on the planet on the landline, but no-one closer than Nowra.  

Eurobodalla Council had run a campaign leading up to Christmas to get Canberra holiday makers back to the coast (they’d been staying away due to the smoke and threat of road closures). Now the Kings Highway from Batemans Bay was closed, the Princes Highway was closed and the only way out was to the south. Many were now stuck in the region with kids, caravans, trailers and boats. The trouble was, there was no fuel. All the petrol stations had fuel but no power to pump it with. It took a couple of days for generators to reach Moruya, under escort through the road closures, in order to pump fuel. Canberrans had to drive up Brown mountain through Cooma, the road was later closed due to fires in that area too. 

Moruya Heads, New Year’s Day. The smoke and ash prevented communications and radio, as well as blocking out light for solar panels. 

We drove the 8kms to T’s Dad’s place. His house, like many others locally, is off-grid and relies on solar. He had about one day before his power, that also operates his water pumps, ran out, as the ash coated his panels and also prevented sunlight. T climbed up on the roof and cleaned the panels and then we went home. We had water, a flushing toilet, solar hot water but no power.  We told our daughter it was like camping but in your own bed.  

It was OK. We bought a couple of boxes of veges off our neighbours from Queen St growers, one for us, one for T’s Dad and partner. We had rice, eggs, pasta, lentils, a substantial metho stove with fuel and an Engel fridge in the van that we stopped using once we ran out of milk. 

Our diet was a little more vegan than usual - each morning I made porridge with coconut milk, chopped almonds and honey, and we ate a lot of beans and veges for the rest of the meals. We had two cars, one of which was in town with a full tank of diesel, the other at home and running on fumes. T’s work van had half a tank and sat in the driveway, slowly being filled up with tools. 

Neighbours dropped in and told us they’d ‘circled the wagons’ at the evacuation centre at the Moruya showgrounds, and camped together, but that it was noisy, unhygienic and there were dogs roaming everywhere. Our next-door neighbours returned home from the evacuation centre, offering us their generator powered fridge if we needed it. 

I went into town to Southlands (grocery store), which was letting people in on a one-in one-out basis. Outside I ran into friends and neighbours who’d left the Heads and were staying in town, all with friends. We hugged and caught up with each other. She told me that there was no fuel, batteries or hoses left at the hardware store. She'd been on an unsuccessful hunt that morning for a P2 mask.

Inside the grocery shop was dark with the power still out, but the food was fresh as they’d loaded up their old refrigerated truck as the fires came through. I didn’t buy much - we didn’t need much - just some avocados, passata and a bit of fruit. Nearby there was a long queue outside the pharmacy, people who I was told her waiting for their methadone. They waited more than three hours for the doors to open. 

While I was in town my phone got a bar of service and I checked Instagram. A good friend who lives just outside Bega posted about the Cobargo fire, and how many friends had lost their homes. It was the first sense of the magnitude of the fire that ripped eastwards through Cobargo at dawn on New Year’s Eve. 

After two and a half days we managed to get ABC Illawarra on the car radio. It was only then that we heard that about 400 houses had been lost in the 20km of suburbs directly to our north, and estimates of another 400 lost in the Bega Shire. It was unbelievable. 

I heard a couple of interviews, one who was a career firefighter who described the fire as more fierce than anything he’d ever seen, creating its own tornado winds and just levelling everything in its path. The bush was so dry that fires were able to get hot enough to become weather driven (instead of fuel driven). This meant they could burn across open paddocks, burning little more than just the air ahead of them. He was describing fireballs that travelled across open country, at the speed of the wind. 

We heard more stories from people further north, stories about people running for their lives onto the beaches at Malua Bay. People driving to a beach and then realising it didn’t have enough sand between them and the flames. People jumping into the surf at Rosedale and almost drowning in the big southerly swell running. I heard that rest home residents abandoned their  ‘emergency place’ - the dining room - and started hosing down the burning debris that landed up against the buildings.  

Many people had moved to evacuation centres, but the toilets at the Showgrounds were on an electricity operated pump system, and quickly failed. UOW’s campus at Batemans Bay was used as an evacuation centre for elderly residents from a couple of local rest homes. They sat in their wheelchairs for hours, while the temperature inside the building rose. There was no air-conditioning and no ability to open the windows, or even the main front door. Once the front door was manually opened it had to be manned by a security guard to stop people who weren’t elderly evacuees from entering. 

I heard later that the elderly sent to the UOW campus were there because the evacuation centre at Hanging Rock, opposite the UOW campus, was overflowing. There was nowhere near enough chairs, so many elderly were sitting outside on the concrete. I also heard that many of those evacuated were ‘on oxygen’ and arrived at the campus with their O2 lines connected to their noses and masks, waiting to ‘plug in’ to the O2 at UOW. However, UOW Batemans Bay does not keep oxygen readily available. So, there were elderly people sitting in wheelchairs, requiring oxygen but with none available. One witness told me that an off duty nurse said, ‘These people will start dying in a matter of hours without oxygen’.  

Ten day’s later, I was at a dinner with friends when a woman told me that Andrew Constance had visited the UOW campus and called the premier, Ms Berejiklian and told her she needed to get the people out of the campus or else it was going to be on the front pages of every newspaper in the country. Multiple ambulances collected the evacuees and took them back to their respective rest homes. This woman was proud of Mr Constance for his decisive action. 

Another person at the table said, “So the state government ignores climate change, then ignores the immediate warnings about a bushfire catastrophe, doesn’t plan anything at all and then when it all turns to shit on their watch, one of their team gets to ride in a look like a hero for saving the day?”

It was one of many, many tense conversations in the weeks that followed. 

Many stories we heard were also inaccurate. We heard that Mogo was completely gone, that Mossy Point was completely on fire, that Broulee itself had lost hundreds of houses. We heard that the Princes Highway was still burning at Bimbimbie and would take months to be repaired. I managed to text a friend and colleague who lives in Catalina. We have another colleague and friend at Jeremadra, and I was very worried about her. The text came back - she’s OK and we think her house is still there. 

This was what it was like - we’ve lived here for many years, we know thousands of people. There was also the brutal knowledge that the southerly that ‘saved us’ would most definitely have spelled disaster for others. It’s a terrible feeling of weird relief and guilt.  

And every night I’d make sure the phone volume was turned all the way up, in the hope that one of my city friends might call the landline if we didn’t receive an emergency text. Our neighbour left their south facing windows open so they’d be woken by any glow that might appear on the hill behind us. I woke many times every night and stood outside looking for glowing red or orange to the north of or south. 

At some point the state government issued a state of emergency but that meant nothing to anyone as far as I knew. There was still no power and no communication.

A neighbour came down for a coffee and said he was worried about all the junkies drying out. We laughed and talked about everyone going a bit mad and paranoid. This was not helped by the numerous stories of looting going around, as some suburbs were evacuated and people weren’t allowed back in once they’d left. 

Always, ALWAYS make sure you have the ability to make coffee

For three days after NYE the RFS was issuing extremely serious warnings about the coming Saturday (the 4th). As everyone gradually started to see and share images of the destruction on whatever limited communication they had, the panic started to set in. 

The suburb remained fairly empty. NYE was a Tuesday. We were warned by the RFS on the radio that Saturday was the real danger day. Our neighbour came by and told us the RFS wanted everyone out of the Heads for the 4th. 

This was not a mandatory evacuation, and we were told to place our recycling bin outside the house to indicate we were home. Days later I saw another neighbour on the beach. She asked if we’d gone to the community meeting in town on the Friday before the ‘Saturday fire day’. I said no, we didn’t know anything about it. She said, 

“If you’d been there there’s no way you would have stayed. They told us that the RFS would not be defending the Heads at all, and that they were only going to defend the town (Moruya)”. 

Lucky we didn’t go to the meeting then!

We kept checking the forecast leading up to Saturday - it showed an early northerly and then noreast for our place. We started to feel a little more confident - a strong NNE would likely be more onshore for us at the coast, protecting us to the north. The Fire Spread Prediction Map showed us as the only tiny little avenue of untouched area. This was comforting but we were also aware of how inaccurate the previous NYE map had been, showing Malua Bay etc.,. as untouched and yet they burned.

We decided that I would evacuate into Moruya the night before with the kid and the dog, and T would ‘stay and defend’. It was a mad few days prepping the house. T cut sheets of corrugated iron for all the doors and windows, rigged up a watering system, cut down many of trees and branches. We packed everything we felt we ‘couldn’t live without’ into the cars and the van, including two huge tubs of Lego. 

Days later, when we finally felt like we could unpack everything, I found this little message written next to the windowsill in our daughter’s room;

We moved all the cars into town, leaving T at the house with his electric mountain bike. There’s only one road into the Heads, and it’s flanked in sections by bush. T thought that if that road was cut, or the road to the beach was cut he’d have a better chance across the paddocks or through the bush on his bike. And with that, we waited for our second “fire day”. 

[newyearsevecruises-blog]

Tips To Celebrate A Fuss-Free New Year’s Eve Party When In Sydney

With over a million people making their way into the stunning harbour city for Sydney’s New Year’s Eve celebrations, a little planning is sure to ensure that you have an awesome night. With inner-city roads being blocked from early afternoon, driving may not be an option lest you choose your route wisely. Also, Ubers and taxis are also hard to come by. With public transport certainly being the best way for transport in and around the city, it’s also advised to keep an hour or two as buffer and making sure you leave ahead of time to get to your NYE destination on time.

It’s even more difficult to make your way home post the world-famous Midnight Fireworks, for which over a million and a half people gathered in the harbour to witness the epic Sydney event. With over a thousand extra trains and buses operating in and out of the city, public transport still may not be short unless you don’t mind having to wait till after 1.00am so that the crowds will clear. It’s a moot point to think about renting or hiring a car, what with taxis being extremely rare and Uber charges skyrocketing at midnight.

To secure a good seat for you and yours to enjoy the fireworks, the best option is undoubtedly a Sydney Harbour New Year’s Eve cruise or a ticketed event. Please note, these tend to get sold out really fast so it’s always best to book ahead. When you do that, you’ll still have time to plan your transport better.

When it comes to booking ticketed events, please ensure that you opt for trustworthy companies that have a history of positive reviews in the past. This is just so that you don’t have to join the party-goers who often find themselves disappointed with certain waterfront events. If you have to bear long queues and unimpressive views that don’t match the exorbitant price tags, that might be a disappointment you’ll take some time to recover from.

BEST SPOTS TO SPEND SYDNEY NEW YEAR’S EVE 2019

Sydney Harbour hosts not one but numerous Sydney New Year’s Eve parties that are sure to be memorable. With waterfront, rooftop and cruising venues available on Sydney Harbour, there are quite a few front-row seats for you to choose from. Enjoy Sydney’s spectacular fireworks show from various venues by choosing the one that matches your budget. Also, get good early bird prices when you plan on booking seats at a venue of your choice.

Forget the stress of the crowds and the hassle of squishing onto public areas with a stunning New Year’s Eve cruise on Sydney Harbour. You can relax on the decks and get great views of the world-famous Midnight Fireworks with a drink in hand. In between, you just have to pop up at the dining deck for a delicious dinner teamed up with drinks. Most Sydney NYE cruises also come with entertainment options like live DJ and dancing to make your night all the more happening.

So to conclude, there’s no better time to visit Sydney than New Year’s and there’s no better venue to see the fireworks than a Sydney New Year’s Eve Fireworks cruise! All you have to do is to plan well & plan ahead!

[againjack]

Rewind, catch up

Friday Mom and I played tourist. This resulted in a few random texts between Colby and I. Originally Colby and I were supposed to go to game night group that evening, but it got pushed back to Saturday. Saturday Colby was doing some home repair and fuxored his back. I was invited to the gaming group stuff separate from him, since he now couldn’t go anywhere - his friends were really cute in saying that I’m not just his any more and being sure to text me separate to ensure I got the message. However, due to three stressful days with my mom (which is normal) so I wasn’t much in the way of company and ended up hanging out with Colby being his nursemaid and chilling out. 

Sunday morning Colby was out cold from his pain meds, I made breakfast and ended up heading home. Colby later told me he didn’t get up until 1pm but he ate the cold eggs and coffee I left for him. We had plans to meet up with him and two of his brothers for Chinese Sunday (Christmas Eve) like the good Jews we are. It was pretty good Chinese, a place I hadn’t been to before. It was interesting seeing the dynamic. The older of the two brothers was clearly a) trying to behave in front of my mom and b) pushing the younger brother’s buttons. The younger was just himself. Colby also was trying to mediate his brothers and give a good impression. 

We had car pooled so after arriving back at Colby’s we went up so she could see his place and chat a bit. Poor Colby was embarrassed (he told me later) as he had wanted to clean it up, but throwing his back out he hadn’t had a chance to. Honestly, other than a few boxes from gifts, it wasn’t any different than I’ve seen since May. :P 

Monday morning Colby came up to my place. He was slower than normal, and predictably late. Luckily, as I said, it was predictable. I wanted to serve Christmas dinner at 1, so I told him to arrive at 11am, and he actually arrived at noon. This gave me a chance to prep and get most of dinner in the oven (spiral ham, scalloped potatoes, steamed green beans, rolls) so we could sit for a bit and visit and exchange gifts.He enjoyed the gift she got him, and she enjoyed the thoughtful gift he had gotten for her. 

Per tradition, after dinner we went to see a movie I had bought tickets to in advance - Jumanji. Mom actually picked it out, I hadn’t expected her to want to see that one. lol We enjoyed it a lot. Then we came back to my place where I did some clean up before E and his wife came over to watch Christmas Dr Who. We had some technical difficulties but Colby got it all working. Due to Colby’s still very tender back, as well as both working the next day, he didn’t stay the night. 

Wednesday night we met up again to car pool, I was taking Colby and Mom (as in I paid, but Colby predictably drove) to the Buckhead Diner. Colby had insisted we take her to one of the Buckhead Life restaurants, but mom balked at paying $95 for a steak and no sides. So we compromised on the Diner. She enjoyed the meal, and grilling Colby. She pulled no punches and was really difficult on some points with him. When she was in the bathroom he confided in me that he felt judged - and came up wanting. She confided in me when he was in the bathroom that his assessment was accurate. :P I have no idea what was said when I was in the bathroom. lol 

We didn’t go up or hang out long after dinner. I had to play referee a few times on the drive back to Colby’s - either steering him away from topics that would set her off, or telling her to back off. After getting home I texted him, “Now imagine that coming at you from EVERY member of ones family all your life. Do you better understand why I’m so tentative and need regular positive assurances?” His response was, “No mystery.” Which left me a bit worried she had scared him off. 

Mom really does not like certain things about Colby: how much he drinks, how he handles his money, how he appears to live a lifestyle much bigger than his income. She also doesn’t like that at our age he wants kids. She thinks he isn’t much of a “world traveler” and was surprised when I said he’s been to Mexico, much of Central America, and Israel. She can tell I am very much in love with him and she is doing her best to waive red flags and get me to break it off. She likes to say she did that with my exhusband, but she wasn’t so clear or emphatic. 

Thursday I reached a breaking point with Mom again, and she with me. She made the comment about how she is ready to go home. I know she was trying to guilt me, but I wasn’t having any of it. I had a right to be upset about the several things that she had me upset over. As I told her, it isn’t so much that they are little things, but that they add up and she refuses to acknowledge or respect my boundaries, then she is butt hurt that I’m pissed at her efforts which in turn cause me MORE work fixing/redoing what she did. 

Friday evening we were going to meet up at Colby’s work, grab a quick dinner, then head to the Botanical Gardens for their light show. He learned late that afternoon from his housekeeper that there was something leaking into his kitchen around the lights. We had dinner and went to the gardens without him. 

Saturday Mom and I met up with a friend of mine whom I am close to. It was long overdue considering the friendship she and I have had for years now. Colby called while we were visiting, and didn’t get the hint that I couldn’t chit chat. :P I did get him off the phone fairly quickly. He let me know he had (forgotten to bring his keys to my place) and left me a gift in my mailbox. (Queue internal panic thinking about how Jamaica left me things in my mailbox after the breakup.) 

When we got back home, I found the gift. Today (Saturday) marks an important one year anniversary for me (when I finished my conversion to Judaism.) He had gotten me a beautiful, jeweled tree of life necklace - with my birthstone in it. I was breathless. This was as big and awesome as the ruby earrings he got me for Chanukah. So I guess mom didn’t scare him off after all. He later sent me a text, he had a note to go along with it and forgot to leave it with the box. It was a very sweet note, that he signed “Love, Colby” (obviously his name, not code name. :P) His handwriting is as bad as mine, if not maybe worse. lol 

It was the first time he wrote/said Love. Like, more than heart emoji. It totally made me cry. 

I asked him to save it for me to put in my shadowbox. He said he had already crumpled it and put it in the recycle bin, but offered to rewrite it for me. I told him not to, the wrinkles would add character. :P 

Mom leaves on Tuesday. Tomorrow evening we are going to Colby’s OB&SIL house for NYE. That way she will have met all the brothers. She isn’t keen on the idea of going out or meeting more people, but she made it clear she is doing me a big favor in doing so. I think that OB and SIL will both will impress her and make her feel better about Colby’s lifestyle and choices.