#also i asked garrett to try the stretch i was assigned because i wanted to see how it looked on a normal person

[ninethecat]

After about 8 months of trying to figure out what is going on with my legs, I finally had my first physical therapy appointment today. I'm so thankful I managed to get a therapist that clearly listens to me about the things I've been dealing with and actually takes it seriously.

Also this was the most thorough exam I've had this entire time. He pointed out things I've never noticed that really put this into perspective for me.

On one hand, I don't think it's ever a great thing for a physical therapist to tell you that you have the tightest hamstrings they've seen in years..

But on the bright side I definitely feel like we have a much better understanding of what's actually going on, and a plan to help things going forward.

[miamistax]

Read this. Someone you know has lived these same experiences. This must end now.

David Gamble, Jr.

I grew up in Reno, Nevada.

In third grade a boy confidently tells me and my brother that his mom said black people cannot swim because our muscles are different than those of white people.

In middle school, standing among a group of white classmates talking video games, I am the only black child. One classmate expresses surprise that my family has enough money to afford a PlayStation.

In high school, I am the only black kid among a group of friends. When sharing drinks in my presence they frequently tell each other not to “niggerlip” the bottles. Even though I object, they continue to use the phrase.

In high school, my brother is at a teen house party that gets broken up by police, a common occurrence. The kids at the party scatter, also a common occurrence. My brother, the only black child in attendance, is the only one on whom a police officer draws a firearm to get him to stop running away. He is 14.

In high school, a group of my white friends frequently sneak on to the outdoor basketball courts at an athletic club to play. They can usually play for hours, including with club members. On the two occasions I attend, club members complain and we are ejected from the club within minutes.

In high school, I am excited about black history month and am talking to a friend about black inventors. My friend snorts and says, “Black people have never invented anything.”

In high school, as graduation approaches, many of my white friends tell me that I am lucky. They tell me that due to my skin color, I will get into any college I want.

I remain in Reno for college.

During college an employer keeps food for employees in the break room refrigerator. One morning I decided to have microwaveable chicken wings for breakfast. The employer tells me I might not want to eat that for breakfast with my skin color. The employer immediately apologizes.

In college I am standing in a group of white friends on campus. A white acquaintance of one of my friends approaches to chat. The acquaintance tells a story about something that frustrated him and then reels off a series of expletives ending with the word, “nigger.” None of my friends corrects him.

In college I visit an antique shop in Auburn, California with my girlfriend, who is white, and her parents. The shopkeeper follows me around the store whistling loudly as I browse, until we leave.

I move to San Diego, California for law school.

In law school, during a discussion in my criminal law class, a white classmate suggests that police officers should take a suspect’s race into account when determining whether there is reasonable suspicion to believe that an individual is committing a crime.

The weekend of my law school graduation my family comes to San Diego. I go to the mall with my brother and sister and visit the Burberry store. Two different employees follow us around the store – never speaking to us – until we leave.

After law school, I return to Reno.

A co-worker jokingly calls me “King David” upon seeing me each day. I joke that I’m not treated like a king. The co-worker then begins to call me “Slave David” each time we encounter one another. When I ask the co-worker to stop because it is hurtful, I am told by my co-worker that this is a problem that I have in my head.

I attend a pub crawl with friends. We end up at a party in a hotel suite in downtown Reno. I am greeted by a white man at the door who loudly expresses surprise that I am an “educated negro” upon hearing me speak.

I walk a friend who is a white woman from a restaurant to her car because it is night time. As we stand by the car chatting, a police officer pulls up and shines a light on us, asking if everything is okay. Once my friend confirms, the officer drives away. I tell her that he was worried about her, she teasingly says, “Oh yeah, because you’re so scary.” Later, I tell another white friend I felt racially profiled by the officer. My friend shrugs and says, “I don’t know man, that’s a stretch.”

A white friend tells me that white voters have become upset at black people because of black people’s liberal use of food welfare benefits. When I point out that more whites than blacks receive welfare benefits in the U.S., my friend expresses confusion at how that could be the case.

I leave a downtown restaurant with my wife. As we walk along the river a homeless man appears to be having a schizophrenic episode, engaging auditory hallucinations. Upon seeing me, he becomes lucid and begins to shout the word “nigger” over and over.

I discover that one of my clients does not want me to represent him as his Public Defender because he does not want a black attorney. I am given the option to withdraw as counsel. I do not.

Last year, I am at a barbecue chatting with a white acquaintance who asks if I have ever experienced racism. When I say it is a nearly daily occurrence, the acquaintance retorts, without missing a beat, “Bullshit.”

Two months ago. I am driving to lunch with the black teen I mentor. At a red light a white woman crosses the street. As I begin to drive, she turns around and screams at us, “F**k you f****ing nigger!”

Before any of these instances, my family of origin moved to Reno, Nevada from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in 1984.

My mother recently told me that when I was a very young child my parents hired a company to remove a tree from our front lawn. Two white men showed up and removed the tree. One of them carved a swastika into the stump. My father had to confront him and ask him to remove it.

Before that, my now 93 -year-old grandfather served in the Army National Guard and was stationed in the U.S. south. Despite being active duty, he was not allowed to eat in restaurants due to “whites only” signage. He had to wait for fellow Guardsmen to bring him food outside.

Not long before that, my family were slaves, owned by Americans of English and Irish descent, which is why – despite being primarily of African descent – I have an English last name.

This is my experience of being black in America. To be black in America is to be told over and over that you are not good enough, that you do not belong, that you are genetically unfit, that your physical presence is undesirable, and that everything about you – right down to your lips – is wrong. It is absolutely true that everyone experiences hardships in life, but the psychological weight of being told both explicitly and implicitly, on a daily basis, that your very existence is objectionable can at times feel unbearable.

And despite this experience, I still love my country, my state, and my city. Despite my experience, I would not choose to be anything other than a black American. The history of black people in this country is one of struggle and triumph. Our people were brought to this country as slaves and against all odds, in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles, have made our mark. Through slavery, poll taxes, literacy tests, redlining, and black codes we have persevered. Through the unspeakable horrors of mass lynchings; the Tuskegee syphilis experiments; and the massacres at Tulsa and Rosewood, we have persevered.

Bass Reeves, Dovey Johnson Roundtree, Sarah Boone, Oscar Micheaux, Shirley Chisholm, Dorie Miller, Susie King Taylor, Georgia Gilmore, Octavius Catto, Jack Johnson, Garrett Morgan, James W.C. Pennington. These are just a handful of extraordinary and oft forgotten black Americans who helped to mold and preserve the American Dream. These individuals and their accomplishments should not be regarded as “black history,” but rather as American history.

I am an American of privilege, which makes me an African American of great privilege. I am an attorney. I live in a safe neighborhood. My children do not worry about their next meal. I can afford child care. My family can afford personal vehicles. If my children become sick, I can take them to the doctor. If I am this privileged, and these have been my experiences, primarily in my own hometown, often with friends and acquaintances who are fond of me, and of whom I remain fond even now; just imagine what daily life must be like for a black person in this country who does not enjoy my level of privilege.

The protests in the streets of America are certainly about the killing of George Floyd, but not just about George Floyd. They are about countless black men, women, and children for whom the punishment did not fit the crime – if indeed there was a crime at all. We live in a country where, in order to recall what life under Jim Crow felt like, many white Americans must pick up a history book. Meanwhile, many black Americans need only pick up a telephone, and call their parents.

When we as people of color share our experiences, we are not doing so to score political points, “play the race card,” get sympathy, assign blame, or to make you feel bad about yourself. We are asking you for help. We are asking you to join us in the ongoing fight against racism in our country, because we cannot do it alone. It will take Americans of every stripe to eradicate racism from American society.

I am now asking for your help. Please seek truth and knowledge. When sharing information, please check your sources and make sure that they are reliable. Try to place what is happening today into a historical context. Read about systemic racism and anti-racism. When your friends of color tell you that racism is real and affecting their lives, believe them and then, if you can, do something about it.

My children are likely to attend the same middle school and high school that I did. It is my great hope for them that those around them have the knowledge, compassion, and guidance to know better than to daily deluge them with words that make them doubt their intelligence, their beauty, and their worth as human beings based only on the color of their skin; and instead judge them by the content of their character.

It is for all of the above reasons, and so many more that we proudly say #blacklivesmatter

[elfnerdherder]

Ill Intentions: Chapter 2

You can read Chapter 2 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 2: A Sordid Sort of Muse

           He really, really shouldn’t have picked it.

           In between the concern about the prostitutes being targeted and the police refusing to see it as more than normal criminal-on-criminal violence and the wonder at how a killer walked free due to the abuse of evidence, he put the enticing blurb in, although he refused to put the name on the end.

I adored your analysis of the Minnesota Shrike. How quickly you boxed him into a corner and revealed his hand! Surely the ladies on campus will sleep better knowing to avoid anyone that looks remotely like them with a father in tow. That, or perhaps you’ve inspired them all to dye their hair a poignant shade of blonde until the next killer comes along.

I wonder if your clever little mind would be able to catch someone like me, however; would you be interested in playing a game, Mr. Graham? I’ve grown bored as of late, and the city is not much to entertain these days.

           He thought it’d give a bit of a teaser to the readers, something that would give them enough to ask for clarification. He wanted interest, not panic. He also liked the exciting way that it made a small zing of pleasure curl down his spine. He hadn’t been excited about many things for a long, long time. His world since graduating from GWU left much to be desired, no matter how much he enjoyed writing. When he presented it to Charlie, the man grinned around his cigarette and nodded.

           “I like it.”

           He liked it, Beverly liked it, and when Will saw the ratings for his newly released column, ‘Will Intentions’, his eyebrows almost hit his hairline. Other people liked it, too.

           He grabbed one off of a newspaper stand, just because. A stupidly sentimental souvenir to celebrate his moving from wedding announcements, baby’s breath, and a back page with a 5.5 font.

Thank you for the congratulations, anon, although I’m not so much in the way of catching rather than analyzing. In reality, from the safety of a swivel chair I think anyone could try their hand at playing the sleuth, at observing unbiased evidence and coming to some sort of conclusion.

As to the mention of your game, I’m very poor at playing games; you can ask several of my associates who find me a bore at work functions, even the celebratory kind. If you give me something to analyze, though, I think I could be of service.

           He cut the column because of sentimental reasons that made him itch, and he pinned it to the corkboard alongside the letter with the gold star. Staring at it, a cup of water in hand, he supposed that he should be terrified at the prospect of the how of the star –he wasn’t. In truth, he hadn’t been afraid of much for a long, long time.

            His watch beeped much later in the day; time to eat lunch. He wondered, as he ate a hotdog of questionable origin, if he could find a program for the smart watch to remind him to feel things like fear in the face of a potential serial killer at large, egged on by his ability to accidentally lead the FBI to a cannibalistic father of one.

           There wasn’t any such program to remind him to feel things like that, but as it chimed to show him e-mails coming in with more letters from eager readers, he stupidly hoped the ‘Chesapeake Ripper’ would be one of them.

-

           “Will Intentions is a hit,” Freddie informed him at the water cooler.

           It wasn’t so much of a compliment as it was an observation. Will hit the small notification on the smart watch to assure it that he was drinking water. “I’m relieved.”

           “Did you think it wouldn’t be?” She flipped hair over her shoulder, a wild array of curls in so many hues he wondered just how an artist would describe it. How would a writer describe it? Scarlet, auburn, sunset russet? Ringlets, curls, waves, oceans of red surrounding a pinched, surly expression?

           “Sometimes the hype dies down after one intriguing iota of information.”

           “It helps that the next front page was me covering the Hobbs story,” she assured him.

           “A good read,” he admitted. It hurt in a pinching sort of way to say that, seeing as how Freddie Lounds was shit. He had to play nice, though. He was page three, and she was top-half news. Beverly called it office politics. He called it asinine.

           “I thought it’d be good, since they take their questions to you after they eat out of my palm,” she said, and she tossed her cup in the trash as they walked away. Will stopped at his desk, and she found her way to a cubicle right beside Charlie’s office. It was bigger, more spacious. If Will Intentions continued to impress, would he one day have a space like that? Maybe his watch could also remind him to care about that, too.

-

Dear Will,

            Loved the analysis on the Minnesota Shrike. My boyfriend’s been acting weird –is he a killer? He lies a lot, he’s gone for hours, won’t clean the house…

           Oh, god.

Dear Will,

            Why do you think a person with intrusive thoughts would kill? Is it a temporary delusion, or are some people just born wanting to kill people?

           Maybe.

Dear Will,

           Do you not wish for people to know who I am, therefore you refer to me as anon? Quaint.

           Bingo.

           I don’t mind as much as I should; in reality all of my work is only noticed by the name assigned to me by the press rather than my real name. Chesapeake Ripper. After the cleverness of the Minnesota Shrike’s name, I find myself mildly offended that I wasn’t given the same twist of words. What would you call me, I wonder?

           As for analysis, is that not the best sort of game? I give you clues, you try to find where the bodies are. Easy as pie, I’m told. If you’re quick enough, maybe you could save a few in the process.

           I read your wedding announcements and compared them to your analysis of Garrett Jacob Hobbs; truly you were put into a bad place, writing things about the way the vines curled over the trellis or the flowers braided into the hair of a blushing bride. It was lackluster, and you weren’t quite fulfilled in your work. No wonder you were almost fired.

           Your analysis though, that is where you truly shined. I could feel your intimate thoughts through the paper, the concern for those girls, the knowing that made you caution them. Something cryptic, something that made readers want more. You’d been drowning in chiffon and petticoats for so long, but you thrived on the idea of death. Are serial killers your muse, Will Graham? If so, I think you’re going to enjoy what’s next. I’ll give you a little warm-up.

           This thing all things devour:

           Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;

           Gnaws iron, bites steel;

           Grinds hard stones to meal;

           Slays kings, ruins town,

           And beats high mountains down.

                                                                                                           You have 3 days

                                                                                                           -Avid Fan

             “Fuck,” Will muttered, reading it. He was quite good at riddles, if he did say so himself. This though, with the threat of a life, he grabbed the letter –plain white copier paper with a fountain pen, if he wasn’t mistaken –and he marched to Charlie’s office, knocking with his fist rather than his knuckles. It smarted, made a rough, heavy thudding noise against the particle board.

           “I’m up to my ass in phone calls; what,” he demanded irritably. Will hesitated by the door, glanced to Freddie sitting in a chair with legs daintily crossed, then back to his boss.

           “You liked the anon wanting to play games, right?” he asked.

           “Yeah?” Charlie gave him a look that said quite clearly, you’d better not have fucking knocked on my door for that sort of validation.

           “He replied.”

           Will passed him the letter, and after Charlie read it, he passed it to Freddie. There was a curt exchanging of looks with varied expressions, from grim to confused, followed by a silence that felt oddly stretched.

           “I think we need to go to the police about this,” he said slowly.

           “It’s just a crazy,” Freddie said. She didn’t sound so convinced.

           “If so, it’s a good rendition of crazy. What kind of riddle is that?” Charlie leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette. Will’s fingers twitched with the urge to pat down his jacket for his own.

           “It’s from The Hobbit,” he said. After glances of mild amusement, he added, “We read it in high school.”

           “So what’s the answer?” Freddie asked, lips curling into a Cheshire grin.

           “Time.” A beat. “I think he’s saying where I’ll find the body…if I’m fast, maybe they’ll be alive.”

           “You think this is a real killer, kid?” Charlie asked skeptically.

           “I think it sounds serious enough to give it some attention. We should…maybe call the police.”

           “The police will take it and get in our hair,” Freddie protested. “If it’s true, we won’t get the first scoop since they’ll take it out from under us!”

           “Someone could be in danger,” said Will.

           “You don’t sound so scared, though,” Charlie replied.

           “No police,” Freddie urged. She sat forward, pinning Charlie with a look that said she had a marvelous idea. “Charlie, we’ve got this. Hobbs is dead, we need a good top half for next week, right? We send Will out, he maybe saves the day, we get front page news: Will Intentions saves the life of X by figuring out the riddle of a killer.”

           “Then the police come in and ask how we knew about a potential murder and said nothing,” Will pointed out.

           “We don’t know if it’s real until we look into it,” Freddie retorted. “That’s called investigative journalism, Willy.”

           Will hated being called Willy. His watch beeped to tell him he hadn’t taken many steps that day.

           Charlie considered the two of them, cigarette spewing smoke that floated just over his head like a dank, murderous fog. He rolled it around his lips, thought, then nodded, leaning forward. “Here’s what we’ll do: Will, look into it. You’ve got three days, then we see what happens. If you save the day, we have front page news, too. You don’t, we go to the cops, still get front page news since we found the body first.”

           Will wasn’t so sure that was an ethically sound idea, but work was work. He thought of the taunt, the question about murder being his muse.

           “If you can’t, I’ll do it for you?” Freddie offered.

           “I’ll do it,” he replied, nearly bowling over her question. Fuck if he’d let Freddie Lounds steal from him.

           He looked up popular clocks in DC, focusing on the answer being time. The first was a clock at the naval base, but that was a no-go. Even if the person was there, he’d never be allowed in to look at it. The next was a new clock being built just across town, but with the construction Will wasn’t convinced that a serial killer would be able to get a body in there without being seen.

            By day three, he was just nervous enough to ask Beverly to hunt with him, google maps for places of interest his tool as they hiked all over DC. His watch beeped to congratulate him on the amount of steps he’d taken. A record-breaking step count, it said.

           “Did you check Georgetown?” Beverly asked.

           “What?” Will looked up from his phone. “Georgetown?”

           “They have that huge clock tower on campus,” she said. “The Healy Hall Clock Tower whose hands keep getting stolen; I did an article on it once.”

           He took an Uber since he didn’t feel like going back across town on foot, no matter what his watch said about steps.

           “What do you think you’re going to find?” she asked, following him on campus. Early fall played with the leaves overhead, threatening to dump them every which way. Between classes, gaits varying from harried to lax and meandering, students roamed the sidewalks and streets, their voices loud and coalescing. It reminded Will of his days at GWU, when everything seemed to feel so exciting, like he was on the edge of something great.

           Then he graduated and got to see just how monotonously boring life could really be.

           “I don’t know,” he admitted. “A prank, probably? It’s gotta be a prank.”

           He didn’t think it was, though. There was something about the detached, mocking tone that made him just nervous enough to care.

           “I could see Freddie doing it as some roundabout way of welcoming you off of back page,” Beverly said with a laugh. She skirted a biker whose speed was just fast enough to be dangerous and caught up with him. “I mean, they mentioned you almost getting fired. That’s some personal stuff.”

           “…Yeah,” Will grunted. When they reached the tower, he looked up at the clock face with its dark stone and golden bronze etching, his stance shifting from foot to foot as he considered it. “I think it’d be inside.”

           “How are you getting in there?” she asked. “They’re pretty strict since the hands keep getting stolen.”

           “Investigative journalism,” he muttered savagely.

           It wasn’t too difficult to get in there. When they climbed enough stairs and went through enough maintenance rooms, the door to the actual back of the clock face was unlocked. That in itself, for a clock face whose hands kept getting stolen, was enough to make Will a little nervous. His hands tingled as he opened the door and walked in, the room cool and dark. He blinked the shadows from his eyes, Beverly close behind him, and he used his phone to make a flashlight, looking around for some kind of switch.

           “Got it,” Beverly said, turning a light on.

           As his eyes adjusted, he stared up at the manmade chrysalis hanging overhead with a body inside, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he most certainly dropped his phone in shock.

           “Got it,” he repeated weakly.

           Thankfully, Beverly managed to snap a photo.

-

           The victim was Hannah Oberly, who’d been put into a diabetic coma and was on a rather fast track to death if Will hadn’t found her in time. As she lay dazed in her hospital bed, she admitted to Will, then to police officers that she honestly couldn’t remember what happened to her. One moment she was watching TV, the next she was waking up as Will administered the insulin that sat just at the bottom of her chrysalis, teasing in its closeness but inability to save her without the aid of another. She’d faded in and out of consciousness after, while he held her and waited for paramedics to rush her to the hospital. Her skin felt clammy, like the flesh of uncooked chicken left out on the counter for too long. He’d held it tight, marveling at the feel against his fingertips.

           How had he known the insulin would save her rather than kill her, police asked? Fuck if Will knew. He had a hunch.

           They took his prints in case his hunch was something more than just a hunch. His fingers still tingled from the feeling of her skin as she hovered between life and death.

           In the hospital hallway he paced, but it was with guilt that he realized it wasn’t fear for her life. Hannah Oberly was safe, and police were investigating. No, no, he was almost –almost –ashamed to admit that his pacing was from adrenaline, from a short burst of excitement that lingered long after paramedics whisked her away to administer intravenous fluids and balance the glucose in her system.

           He’d saved someone. The Chesapeake Ripper gave him a riddle, a timeline, and he’d saved someone.

           He supposed that said a lot about him, that he felt such eagerness in the face of someone else’s potential demise. Psychopathic tendencies? No, no, he very much felt her fear, palpable and thick on his tongue like he’d dragged it through butter. He felt bad for her. He couldn’t imagine himself doing that to someone, drugging them and wrapping them up in a grotesque display of paper mache in order to lead someone through DC on a manhunt to save their life.

           And yet, he could. He could very much imagine it.

           He comforted himself with the reality that that said far more about his mind than it did him. Will Graham was unique in a way that he didn’t much like sharing with anyone –their frailties, failings, and realities falling into the cracks of his mind and nestling in, making his thoughts worse off in the aftermath. He could imagine wrapping her tenderly into a pupa of his own making, much the same way he could imagine the tentative grasp on reality he’d have if he came to under the administration of a stranger dosing him with life-saving medicine.

           He called Freddie because he promised to keep her updated. Due to his position as her savior, Hannah was persuaded to share a few words with an eager Freddie Lounds before police came back into the room and kicked the two of them out.

-

           Charlie didn’t let him post the entire letter due to the nature of far too much information about his personal life and his work, but they did post the bits that would entice readers:

Analysis; is that not the best sort of game? I give you clues, you try to find where the bodies are. Easy as pie, I’m told. If you’re quick enough, maybe you could save a few lives in the process. I think you’re going to enjoy what’s next. I’ll give you a little warm-up.

This thing all things devour:

Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;

Gnaws iron, bites steel;

Grinds hard stones to meal;

Slays kings, ruins town,

And beats high mountains down.

You have 3 days -Avid Fan

           With Hannah Oberly safe and relatively sound in a hospital, Will was more than happy to post a reply.

Avid Fan,

The Hobbit? Hannah Oberly was found in the Healy Hall Clock Tower, time both her keeper and her enemy. I found the diabetic coma to be somewhat tasteless, but readers will be happy to know that she’s alive, well, and safe.

The police are investigating you, but I’m sure that’s exactly what you wanted. There’s something about the way you signed avid that tells me you’re aspiring for the sort of attention that will bring infamy, at the very least. The questions other readers send will be on how best to protect themselves against someone like you, and I look forward to giving my insight to keep the public safe.

           A little ham-handed and snarky, but Will thought utmost honest was best.

           The Chesapeake Ripper didn’t like him for his flowery descriptions of trellises, after all.

Dear Will, Why do you think a person with intrusive thoughts would kill? Is it a temporary delusion, or are some people just born wanting to kill people? -Cindy

           He thought that question was fitting to follow-up the Chesapeake Ripper’s.

Cindy,

To say that someone is born wanting to kill people would be to say that an infant with no life experience is born unlike anyone else. To be sure, children are victims of their upbringing, just as infants can be born addicted to meth, caffeine, or nicotine due to the foolishness of the one carrying them to term. What you refer to is something different, though, something that represents the way a person looks at the world.

Some people are born without empathy, without the ability to care for another person on a level that creates connections and healthy relationships. Does that make them criminal? No. It is not how they see the world that makes them criminal, but what they do in the face of such thoughts. That’s different from delusion –anyone can suffer delusions. Anyone can suffer from intrusive thoughts.

Most people suffering delusions on a psychotic scale generally only commit violence in moments of extreme duress, when they think it is the only option. On a psychopathic scale, it is a methodical act, a necessity to complete a fantasy that they have lived in their heads. That tends to stem not from some singular, one moment, but from repeated moments of abuse, neglect, or trauma. It grows, escalates. Serial killers are not called such because they only kill once and create their fantasy. They are called that because they have the impulse to recreate the fantasy over, and over, and over again, escalating it to relive the rush of emotion from that first intimate act.

Do I think some people are born ‘just wanting to kill people’? Not in the least. It is a learned thing, an environmental thing. I was born with an aversion to carrots, but I don’t kill carrot farmers.

           They made the font .3 smaller so that they could keep the carrot farmer crack. Will wondered what the Chesapeake Ripper would think about that.

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [573]

“Why are you eating?” Mahanon asks, frowning as he follows his sister to their shared literature class. “Mom didn’t pack either of us extra, so don’t come crying to me when you get hungry during lunch.”

“Stress,” Ellana says, jamming a carrot stick into her mouth. “And don’t worry. Mom didn’t pack you extra, but she knows I do physical stuff with my body so she packs me extra snacks.”

Mahanon scowls. “I do things too. I’m club president.”

“You don’t meet every day,” Ellana says, “And that’s you using your brain. Mom gives you raw glucose which is crazy.”

“It gets to the brain faster.”

“Says what science? It tastes terrible.”

“It doesn’t taste like anything in particular,” Mahanon replies. “Besides, I’ve seen you drink those weird protein pouches.”

“That’s during competitions,” Ellana says, “It’s different.”

“Why are you stress eating?” Mahanon asks, deciding to take the high road and not argue with her about their dietary habits. “You finished the assigned reading ages ago. You’ve already read this book three times, because you’re boring.”

“Those are hurtful words.”

“What are you going to do about it? Become interesting?” Mahanon challenges his sister with a raised eyebrow. “Why are you stress eating?”

Ellana’s eyes dart from side to side before she pulls Mahanon into one of the quieter sections of the school’s quad. They have about five minutes until they have to be at their next class, anyway.

“I think,” Ellana whispers, “The Iron Bull is trying to get me.”

“Get you?”

“Get me,” Ellana nods. “I think he’s finally noticed me staring at him. And he’s going to tell me off about it. I’ve have to bolt like I did join the track team for real in freshman year at least three times this week. That one time during lunch on Monday when we were talking bout homecoming was the first time. Then the next day after practice was over I saw him headed towards me when I got out of the changing rooms so I ran for the parking lot. And today before class I saw him coming and barely managed to hide in the changing rooms again and waited him out until the morning bell rang for first period. He must be really mad.”

“Are you sure he’s mad?” Mahanon asks. He can’t believe that his sister is this dumb. She’s ranked top ten in their year and everything. Sure, he’s ranked in the top five, but that’s different. “Maybe he just wants to talk to you.”

“Why would the Iron Bull want to talk to me?” Ellana rolls her eyes. “He doesn’t even know my name.”

Mahanon jabs a finger into her shoulder. “You are the captain of the cheer team. You are the head cheerleader. You are literally at every single game he’s ever played at since we were freshmen because even when you weren’t the head cheerleader you were a cheerleader and you got onto the starting line pretty fucking fast. You are on the same debate team as he is. He knows your name.”

Ellana opens her mouth to protest but Mahanon smacks it close with a quick jerk of his wrist.

“And even if he didn’t because of those glaringly obvious reasons — Kaaras is his friend’s brother. Evelyn is dating his teammate. The vice president of my club is friends with the football captain. You and Cremisius Aclassi hang out all the time. You both are ghost members of the LGBTQIA alliance. You two have so many things happening at once that are in such close proximity to each other it’s like some kind of higher omniscient power was the only thing separating you until now.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Ellana says when Mahanon’s done. “Come on, let’s get to class.”

Mahanon rolls his eyes, shouldering past his sister as they head towards their lit classroom. Ellana grunts, taking a swipe at the back of his leg with her foot.

“Jerk,” Ellana mutters, hitting her side against his and leaning on him. Mahanon leans back, pushing so that together they’re one upright person.

“Dork,” Mahanon replies, shifting the weight of his heavy textbook onto his other arm. “Stop stress eating. You’ll regret it later.”

“Stop the Iron Bull from making me stressed.”

“Only you can do that. Just let him talk to you.”

“And get yelled at in front of the entire school? No thanks.”

“He’s not going to yell at you. I will clean your room, do the dishes, and take out the garbage for the next month if he ends up yelling at you.”

“Big words for someone who’s never talked to the Iron Bull and therefore cannot predict his next moves.”

“You’ve also never talked to the Iron Bull so how can you be so confident in his next moves? Faulty logic there, former debate team member.”

“So why are you so sure?” Ellana asks as they shuffle into class, taking their seats next to each other.

“Because I’m your big brother,” Mahanon says rather than tell her the obvious that it’s common sense, because class is literally about to start and he’d rather not have this conversation stretch out into a class-wide debate, “I know these things.”

-

“Do we know anyone who’s going to homecoming and isn’t spoken for?” Bull asks. “By we, I mean you, obviously. Since you know everything about everyone.”

Leliana raises an eyebrow, turning to examine the football player. “I thought you were asking the cheer captain.”

Bull frowns. “Skinner and Josephine’s advice was bust. Pretty sure she hates me. Or at least, doesn’t like me very much.”

“That’s weird,” Garrett says, knocking his half empty water bottle against Bull’s back before slinging an arm around each of their shoulders. “I mean. If she doesn’t like you she’s very good at hiding it. She is the most enthusiastic cheerleader I’ve ever seen. On and off the field. You don’t cheer that well for someone you don’t like.”

“She’s cheering for the team,” Bull says, “Not just me.”

“You know how I was benched for a while towards the end of last year because of the ankle?” Garrett asks. “Well. I got to watch her cheer without being distracted by being on the field. And I can tell you that when she does the cheer for some stunt you’ve pulled? Definitely has a stars in her eyes kind of vibe.”

“Because I’m the best player after you,” Bull says. “Of course she’d cheer differently for me. But that’s, again, got to do with the school as a whole. Not exactly about me specifically, but more the part I play.”

“That’s so deep and stupid,” Garrett mourns. “I need to get Anders in on this. Anders sees her almost as much as we do, and has the added benefit of talking to her about important matters for extended periods of time. The perks of being the captain of Speech and Debate.”

“Why do you think she doesn’t like you?” Leliana asks. “I thought there wasn’t a soul immune to your charms.”

“She runs away every time I try to go talk to her,” Bull grumbles, resting his chin in his palm. “I’ve been trying to talk to her for almost two weeks. She keeps running. Literally running. If she joined the track team she’d have probably knocked Herah down from holding the school records.”