#but man are they ALL utter dinguses

[mel-addams]

Aevum's SOLe Braincell

[Image ID: a greyscale illustrated two-panel comic, fanart for the game Redfall. In the first panel, Devinder is holding a tape recorder, making a skeptical expression as he listens to the recording, which is saying (with names redacted with static for spoilers): "I am E K and I think P A was SO SMART about covering his tracks by forgetting everything and instead keeping recordings and evidence of his misdeeds and medical malpractice so now I am also recording all my thoughts on"

In the second panel, Dev can be seen standing in a ravine, surrounded by multiple other highlighted tape recorders, all lying near corpses of cultists and Bellwether mercenaries. Dev is staring up toward the eclipse, talking to the Black Sun: D: "But I just had to stop the folks K hired to burn—" BS: "I know." D: "And you told A NOT to reco—" BS: "I KNOW." D: "But then why did you also start to—" BS: "SHUT UP"

End Image ID]

Dev, muttering as he walks away: "This is why I work digital; one press of a button and all the embarrassing bits disappear."

I was gonna try to wait until I finish the game before I doodled anything (and I'm still only halfway through), but this tape was too funny. What the hell "tracks" did you think were "covered," sir??

[polkahotness]

SHORTAKI WEEK, DAY 6

FFN // AO3

                              Harmonica

Every year during the second weekend of July, Arnold and I, plus Gerald and Phoebe go camping. It's been this way since our Junior year of college. What began as a fun way to make sure we all still saw each other has turned into a tradition that we have been doing regularly for years.

Well, right after we had Phillip, our own slice of Philly, we didn't go as we were new parents and didn't think the great outdoors was exactly the best place for a newborn. Then of course, Phoebe and Gerald had their daughter, Robin who we often referred to as 'Binny,' so we had to push back our camping trip, yet again.

Then three more years passed, and just as we had finally scheduled an official date to resume our annual tradition… I got pregnant again. Between Phillip and Eleanor, it was too hectic to try and continue the tradition, as much as we may want to.

I guess that would mean we haven't exactly been regular with our camping trip.

At least not for a while, that is.

Fast forward some more and there we were with a wickedly-smart yet somewhat shy ten-year-old boy, and a feisty seven-year-old girl who refuses to stick to the norm. As Binny was just one year behind Phillip, we thought that these ages were appropriate enough to take camping with us.

And thus, our tradition picked back up.

As the children ran around the campground laughing, shrieking, and playing whatever game it was that they'd invented, the four of us would catch up while raising our tents and unpacking other necessities. Taking turns keeping a watchful eye on our three wild spawn, day one of our first family camping trip was an utter success. Sure, the kids ended up whining about various things over the course of the weekend, and Eleanor had quite the tantrum at breakfast the second day, but overall, the trip had proven to be fun for everyone.

So, we kept doing it.

Year after year, we'd gather at our campsite and watch as our children grew before our eyes while we stayed relatively the same. Phoebe's job remained hectic, and Gerald's business was still booming, even while he played the role of stay-at-home dad. As for Arnold and I, my writing job allowed me to stay at home most of the time which was nice for the kids. The clinic kept Arnold busy—his years of hard work paying off with each new case he took on.

The way he took such great care of both our children as well as others never stopped astounding me. Between being a child-psychologist and a father, Arnold was a freakin' saint.

Needless to say, with the consistency of our collectively consistent-yet-crazy lives, all of us (including our children) looked forward to our Summer trip—nobody looking forward to it more than my loveable footballhead.

Seeing Arnold play with our kids and engage in conversations within our own little environment always brought back fond memories from our childhood of long ago. Every now and then, I'd see that familiar sparkle in his emerald eyes, telling me that he too was remembering these moments—the moments which brought back the dreamy, imaginative boy that I'd fallen in love with and actively saw in both of our children.

And nothing brought back that childlike wonder in him like when he and Gerald gave their first-night concert around the fire.

Our children would watch their dads in awe as Arnold played the harmonica and Gerald did drums. All day long the kids would look for various objects to present to him with in order to make fun and creative beats for the music they made. It seemed that even though they'd grown up into two of the best men the world could conjure, Arnoldo and Tall Hair Boy remained just as inseparable as they were when we were kids.

Together on that first night of each camping trip we held, the two played music long past bedtime and well into the morning. It was almost as though the music they made transported them back to a time before children, careers, and all the other nonsense that life throws at you. When those two played their music, they were just two teenage boys again; performing their hearts out for an audience of people that watched with adoration and amazement at their talents.

"I can't believe these dinguses think they're any good," I leaned over to tell Phoebe from where sat around the firepit atop the boarding house's roof. "Gerald isn't even playing anything!"

"Maybe not in the same sense that Arnold is playing an instrument," Phoebe soon told me while keeping her eyes locked on the object of her own affection. "However, to keep a rhythm in the style of which he is maintaining is something that is…" she swallowed what was probably a swoon similar to the ones I was prone to. "Well, it is something to be revered."

"I mean I guess," I replied while returning my eyes to Arnold as he continued without hesitation on blowing air through the harmonica; the notes emitting from it moving as though they were dancing through the mild chill of the summer-evening air.

With adulation, I watched him, my own football-headed maestro. I watched as his eyes kept tightly shut while he moved in time with the music he created. He was lost in the melody; lost in the sea of sounds that made up the song his harmonica sang to me.

To me.

For me.

His always loving, eternally worshiping soulmate.

Even if he didn't know that quite yet.

Just as he always had, Arnold swayed in time with the music he made—each change in the melody serving to take us back to the night I always recalled with these concerts. Again, his eyes stayed shut as he tuned the world out to perform for us just as he had all of those years ago form atop the Sunset Arms boarding house.

And just as I had on that night and every night since, I watched him.

Always loving.

Eternally worshiping the man who was our children's father, Gerald's best friend, and the same football-headed dweeb that had managed to love me back all of those years ago.

We were just two soulmates, swimming together in the symphony of sound he conducted with the delicate blow of air through his harmonica. It was in those moments that I truly loved Arnold the most—the moments when he was just that kid on that rooftop.

My own, and our children's own, football-headed maestro.