"Picture of your face in an invisible locket... I had a bad feeling. But we were dancin'... swaying as the room burned down." (x)
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New Dog's Life chapter today! ~ 3rd Life series fan-season
Chapter 32 - “Starve (Etho, Scott)”
❤️ Read on AO3
💛 Start from Chapter 1
💚 More Pixels Imperfect fics
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I am once again bringing you scenes of Etho cuddling up to SnifferMyFeet while Sniff growls reminders that even though he has Joel's memories and misses being Boat Boys, he wants Etho to treat him as a separate person.
If I had a nickel for every chapter Etho's touched this man and thought of Joel, I would have 8 nickels. I'd have 40 cents. That's as much as 1/4 of our story. And that's terrible.
#smalletho - Etho once again working through his touch starvation and Boat Boys Issues™
Many references to Joel, but he doesn't appear. Large flashbacks of him and Etho in next week's chapter, though! <3
(First 1,000 words under the cut)
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This preview section jumps into shippy vibes- Proceed at own discretion.
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Etho - Fox
Status: Holding out a hand
Self-taught programmer, full-time hero
💙 🧡 💚
So, uh. That string tidying, huh? You're setting yourself up for disappointment if you want to do that with an endermite hybrid. They're the best in the business and they'll mock you the whole time you set up. Sniff's smug and giggly about it, too, as Etho pushes him down on the bed and hangs back to study him. He's really tattered the code on the bottoms of his bare feet. I mean, shoe code gets tattered too, but usually those soft parts of a skin design hurt more.
"You gonna use your mouth?" Sniff asks, eyeing him up.
"In a shocking turn of events, the programmer has tools for fixing loose code. They're in the other room." Etho takes Sniff's wrists and pins them above his head for a second, then takes his ankles and stretches them out. Classic textbook pose for the work, even though they'll probably move to the carpet for obvious reasons before they start; he doesn't need weak pixels dropped all over his bed. "Stay," he commands, and Sniff sticks out his tongue and double flips him off without moving his arms. So Etho can't be mad.
But he does lean over, sliding one hand beneath Sniff's cheek, easing it behind his head. He curls it back around and lifts it just enough to scrape his palm across Sniff's brow, beneath his floppy dark brown hair. It's thick and feels like swamp plants in his hands. He still smells like well-treated water. Chlorine. Like one of Gluon's hotel builds with the fancy pools. Or the waterpark server. Never did find out why. Etho breathes against him without pulling back. Despite the wet scents, Sniff's warm soul's like fresh-baked bread against his hand.
"Oh my goodness… You're so pretty. You are so pretty…"
The metaphorical light fades from Sniff's mismatched eyes. Etho pulls back, waiting for a pinch or slap. Sniff turns his face away. Only his Joel side's visible at this angle as he squirms. "Get your eyes checked, Eefo… I saw my reflection when I got my water. I'm stitched together with hand-me-down parts. You don't mean that."
"What if I do, though?" He crouches lower by the bed, bringing a hovering thumb to Sniff's scalp. Sniff glances at him, then away. So Etho breaks that barrier. Slowly, the thick part of his hand eases down to touch Sniff's head. Sniff scrunches up his eyes again, giving the faintest little nod. Etho holds very still a few seconds (Sniff's pixels are so loose on his skin, which was the whole point of this cleaning project anyway) before he speaks again. "I'm sorry you can't see that yet. Body issues are tough; I've got issues too. Sometimes my fox traits get away from me… Been thinking about modding out, but it takes centuries of paperwork." His next stroke of hand (a circle on his head) is firmer, sharper, and Sniff mutters something under his breath as his cheeks freckle up with blue again. Cute. "If it were legal, I'd probably just unthread. I'd miss the bullet paths, but you make vex life look so easy. So good." He draws his hand around in one last loop, then eases it down Sniff's cheek (on his Grian side) to his neck. "Hey, take a closer look next time you're out. There's a lot of interesting people out there. Some wear faces that aren't even humanoid. Have you met MumboDrone or iCam? … And you know, it's just a skin."
Sniff putters his lips, staring towards the ceiling. His fingers lift, dancing across the backs of Etho's knuckles. "You just want me to stay late again. Gods, you're so lonely… Listen, fella- I know my strings are a wreck. I was an endermite before a vex; be pretty messed up if I couldn't tell. I'll let you clean me up, but I'm not playing sleepover. You can't make me."
"Mmhm." Oh man, I want to press my head on yours. He really wants to, noses brushing, hair tufts scraping, but he refrains, you know. He's kneeling, balanced on his heels, and Sniff's saying 'Yes' to the hand but looking unsure. So he won't. "Stay as long as you want to. Just let me clean your code and then you can leave. I promise I won't be mad."
"You smell like bread dough…"
"Yeah? My code wouldn't taste too good right now. Squeaky clean."
"Oh, that's too bad." Absentminded. Distracted. Etho eases back his fingers.
"Are you okay?"
Sniff clicks into focus again and then swishes up, sitting on the bed instead of lying down. "Yeah, thanks. I'm good, actually. The water helped."
"All right. I'll be right back with the cleaning stuff." He leaves without another touch, pausing only to switch off the portal still glowing in the corner. He leaves the desk lantern glowing like it is. It's fun, in the dark. The light's so low, it's like a fox's den in here.
The nice thing about being a programmer? He has no end of scrapers and combs to choose from. He pays the living room a visit to get the tray from the coding desk's drawer and some rolled-up pieces of carpet (ignoring the less than subtle smirks Beef and Pause give him as he strolls by). Etho brings the whole tray to his room and sits on the bed with Sniff, just talking to him and explaining how effective these tools are for different things. Sniff seems to recognize a lot of them, which is no surprise, honestly. Since Joel doesn't do logouts, he has a whole cleaning routine. It takes him forever.
"You know," Sniff says, digging through the tray, "using combs is cheating, actually. I can do the cleaning with my teeth still attached. I bet foxes can too. I mean, it's code work; all the code-eating species can do it." He flicks his gaze to Etho, who kneels across from him, tail waving in the air. Etho doesn't answer, so Sniff goes on. "You know what's fun? 'mite bundles."
"'mite bundles,'" Etho repeats. "Like… Endermites inside a bundle? Is that fun? That's a new one to me." Where is he going with this?
"Yeah, it's when you put endermites in with some of your supplies and go out on adventures. When you want your supplies, you have to dump everything on the ground and try to use your stuff without getting bit. If you get bit, you have to send your coords to server chat. Easy way to get killed, so you'd better not. You can play it in Between, too. Pig has an endermite living in his studio. For every time it bites him, he has to keep his weapons in a chest for an hour when he gets home. It means I can do whatever I want to him, really. Usually he just runs. Sometimes we duke it out bare-fisted. Have you ever seen him with a black eye and a tooth knocked out? Just me, I guess- It probably doesn't carry when he leaves the server. He looks so goofy when he smiles; I'm chuffed to bits with that. Gods, you wouldn't believe the bruise he left on me this one time he pushed me off an end ship. He smirked about it for days, no joke. No, actually. Can't believe his head even fit outside the server."
Etho smirks back, hidden in the mask and hidden by his fingertips. His chin rests against his hand. "What'd you do to him? You didn't let him get away with that, did you?"
"Hell no! I picked up a shulker and I slammed him on the head with it. I bet you didn't even know you can peel 'em off the wall- they're so clingy. What'd he do then? I think he put down a bed and blew himself up trying to get me with it. Oh, he's so lame. I like him so much."
[Full chapter on AO3 - Link at top]
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I didn't pay attention to the Housman bit on Autobiography, so I would love to hear your thoughts on that :)
Sorry for the late reply but here it is.
The * followed by parenthesis are my thoughts, the rest is directly from Morrisseys Autobiography.
Excerpt from Autobiography:
and, wrongly, unnecessarily, this child weeps, full of the foolish
embarrassment that his father has clearly marked out. New air is discovered
in the words of A. E. Housman (1859–1936), scholar-poet, vulnerable and
complex. On the day of his twelfth birthday his mother dropped dead,
sealing a private future of suffering for Housman, who was said to be a
complete mystery even to those who knew him. *(Whom are we talking about??) With no interest in
applause or public recognition, Housman published three volumes of
poetry, each one of great successful caress, each a world in itself, forcing
Housman into the highest literary ranks. A stern custodian of art and life, he
shunned the world and he lived a solitary existence of monastic pain,
unconnected to others. *(Again, whom?) The unresolved heart worked against him in life, but
it connected him to the world of poetry, where he allowed (in)complete
strangers under his skin. *(One know others by how one knows oneself) In younger years he had suffered from the
unrequited love of Moses Jackson, the pain of which was so severe that it
doomed Housman for the rest of time. *(Swap the names and it could be Steven Patrick talking about himself) All of his work would be governed
by this loss, as if life could only ever offer one chance of happiness (and
perhaps, for every shade and persuasion, it does?):
*(So, Morrissey introduces Housman as someone who has unhappiness thrust upon him (but he could also have been a moody melancholic from birth, who knows?). Life delt him bad cards, but used the unhappiness to create art that others found comforting. He clearly identifies with him. And the last part of the paragraph….. Words fail me.
)
When the bells justle in the tower
The hollow night amid,
Then on my tongue the taste is sour
Of all I ever did
Housman suffered throughout his life, and therefore (and not surprisingly)
his life became an unyielding attempt not to cooperate. The black horizon
never shifted, and his emotional lot never mellowed.
*(Moses Jackson was very aware of Housmans feelings for him. If I remeber correctly when Moses married his wife, they didnt tell Alfred Edward until after the event (They also left the country). Jackson knew it would crush Housman.
)
He would not stay for me; and who can wonder?
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
I shook his hand and tore my heart in sunder
and went with half my life about my ways.
At his Wildean lowest, Oscar’s personal sadness had never slumped to such
leaden fatigue; Housman suffered and accepted, death always close in his
mind’s eye – but not regrettably so.
I did not lose my heart in summer’s even,
When roses to the moonrise burst apart:
When plumes were under heel and lead was flying,
In blood and smoke and flame I lost my heart.
I lost it to a soldier and a foeman,
A chap that did not kill me, but he tried;
That took the sabre straight and took it striking
And laughed and kissed his hand to me and died.
The published poetry makes the personal torture just barely acceptable. The
pain done to Housman allowed him to rise above the mediocre and to find
the words that most of us need help in order to say. The price paid by
Housman was a life alone; the righteous rhymer enduring each year unloved
and unable to love:
Shake hands, we shall never be friends, all’s over:
I only vex you the more I try.
All’s wrong that ever I’ve done and said,
And nought to help it in this dull head:
Shake hands, here’s luck, goodbye.
But if you come to a road where danger
Or guilt or shame’s to share,
Be good to the lad that loves you true
And the soul that was born to die for you
And whistle and I’ll be there.
*(The poem is so true to the Morrissey folio. A strong friendship/connection/relationship is no longer what it once was and distance is imminent between the object and the subject. But should anything happen, "danger or guilt or shame to share" you know I will be there for you. )
It’s easy for me to imagine Housman sitting in a favorite chair by a barely
flickering gas fire, the brain grinding long and hard, wanting to explain
things in his own way, monumental loneliness on top of him, but with no
one to tell. The written word is an attempt at completeness when there is no
one impatiently awaiting you in a dimly lit bedroom – awaiting your tales
of the day, as the healing hands of someone who knew turn to you and touch
you, and you lose yourself so completely in another that you are
momentarily delivered from yourself. Whispering across the pillow comes a
kind voice that might tell you how to get out of certain difficulties, from
someone who might mercifully detach you from your complications. When
there is no matching of lives, and we live on a strict diet of the self, the
most intimate bond can be with the words that we write:
*(Here author and subject almost merge into one. Drawing the line where subject and author meets is almost impossible. I become you and you become me. When there is no one to whom one can bestow all ones affection on, the page becomes the active listener. )
Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what’s to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I’ve done my best
And all’s to do again.
I ask myself if there is an irresponsible aspect in relaying thoughts of pain
as inspiration, and I wonder whether Housman actually infected the
sensitives further, and pulled them back into additional darkness. Surely it
is true that everything in the imagination seems worse than it actually is –
especially when one is alone and horizontal (in bed, as in the coffin).
Housman was always alone – thinking himself to death, with no matronly
wife to signal to the watching world that Alfred Edward was now quite
alright – for isn’t this at least partly the aim of scoring a partner: to trumpet
the mental all-clear to a world where how things seem is far more important
than how things are? Now snugly in eternity, Housman still occupies my
mind. His best moments were in Art, and not in the cut and thrust of human
relationships. Yet he said more about human relationships than those who
managed to feast on them. You see, you can’t have it both ways.
*(We have to wonder why Morrissey included this in the book at all. When most authors writes their autobiography, they chronologically write about what happened to them, who they saw, or write about details about their life in descriptive detail (which in my opinion is quite dull and very little engaging as a reader). But Morrissey deviates from this enormously. He includes pieces of what made him the way he is(!). Why would he include long pieces about Melanie Safka, Buffy Sainte-Marie or W. H. Auden? Not interesting in itself to read about someone some person read a long time ago, but all these pieces gives us hints of who Steven Patrick Morrissey is.
The interesting part about including A. E Housman is how much Morrissey writes about his life, not just the poetry. I think this is the key to understanding the excerpt above. He both admire and recognise how life and art blend together and how they affect each other.
About Housmans later life, Moses Jackson died before him. Jackson suffered from cancer I think and knew he was going to die. Housman later wrote in a letter to a friend where he said: "I could not leave him behind in a world where anything might happen to him". He was a wealthy man from his academic work and became a patron of Jacksons son. He paid for his education when he didn't have to, but probably felt an obligation.
Why do we have such a lengthy part in the book about an unhappy man who lived all his life inlove with a man he fell in love with in his youth???
¯\_(ツ)_/¯ You tell me 🤓🤓
)
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