#but my son has his school and friends and beater and dance and we’re close to everything and I do have family and a stable job

[rose-tinted-nostalgia]

God, I regret this already.

[thekillerssluts]

The Story Behind Every Song On Will Butler’s New Album Generations

Will Butler has a lot on his mind. It has, after all, been five years since his solo debut, Policy. A lot can happen in half a decade, and a lot has happened in this past half-decade — much of it quite dire. Butler was in his early 30s when Policy came out, and now he’s closing in on 40. He’s a husband and father. And he’s shaken by the state of the world, the idea of being an artist and a soon-to-be middle-aged man striving to guide his family through the chaos.

At least, that’s how it comes across through much of Generations, his sophomore outing that arrives today. Generations is a big, sprawling title by nature, and the album in turn grapples with all kinds of big picture anxieties. Mass shootings, the overarching darkness and anxiety of our time, trying to reckon with our surroundings but the system overload that occurs all too easily in the wake of it. Then there are more intimate songs, too, tales drawn from personal lives as people plug along just trying to navigate a tumultuous era.

Butler is, of course, no stranger to crafting music that seeks to parse the cultural moment and how it impacts in our daily lives. Ever since Arcade Fire ascended to true arena-rock status on The Suburbs 10 years ago, they have embarked on projects that explicitly try to make sense of our surroundings. (Not that their earlier work was bereft of heavy concepts — far from it — but Reflektor and Everything Now turned more of a specific eye towards contemporary ills and trials.) But as one voice amongst many in Arcade Fire, there is a cinematic scope to whatever Butler’s playing into there.

On Generations, he engages with a lot of similar concerns but all in his own voice — often yelping, desperate, frustrated then just trying to catch a breath. Butler leans on his trusty Korg MS-20 throughout Generations, often giving the album a synth-y indie backdrop that allows him to try on a few different selves. There are a handful of surging choruses, “la-la” refrains batting back against the darkness, slinking grooves maybe allowing someone the idea of brief physical release amidst ongoing strife.

Ahead of Generations’ arrival, Butler sent us some thoughts on the album, running from inspiration between the individual tracks to little details about the arrangement and composition of different songs. Now that you can hear the album for yourself, check it out and read along with Butler’s comments below.

1. “Outta Here”

I think this is the simplest song on the record. Just, like, get me out of here. Get me fucking out of here. I’m so tired of being here. No, I don’t have another answer, and I don’t expect anything to be better anywhere else. But, please, I would like to leave here.

I can play plenty of instruments, and can make interesting sounds on them, but kinda the only instrument I’m good at is a synth called the Korg MS-20. That’s the first sound on the record. It makes most of the bass you hear on the record. It’s a very aggressive, loud, versatile machine, and I wanted to start the record with it cause I’m good at playing it and it makes me happy.

2. “Bethlehem”

This song partly springs from “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats:​ “What rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” Like a lot of folks, I woke up after the election in 2016 mad and sad and scared and exhausted. This song is born of that emotion.

My bandmates Jenny Shore, Julie Shore, and Sara Dobbs sing the bridge, and it’s a corrective to my (appropriate?) freaking out — this isn’t the apocalypse. You’re misquoting Yeats. Get your fucking head on straight. History has not ruptured — this shit we’re in is contiguous with the shit we’ve been dealing with for a long, long time. But still, we sometimes do need an apocalyptic vision to make change. Even if it’s technically wrong. I dunno. It’s an ongoing conversation.

There’s a lot of interplay with backing vocals on this record — sometimes the narrator is the asshole, sometimes the backing vocals are the asshole. Sometimes they’re just trying their best to figure out the world. This song starts that conversation.

3. “Close My Eyes”

I tried to make these lyrics a straightforward and honest description of an emotion I feel often: “I’m tired of waiting for a better day. But I’m scared and I’m lazy and nothing’s gonna change.” Kind of a sad song. Trying to tap into some Smokey Robinson/Motown feeling — “I’ve got to dance to keep from crying.”

There’s a lot of Mellotron on this record, and a lot of MS-20. This song has a bunch of Mellotron strings/choirs processed through the MS-20. It’s a trick I started doing on the Arcade Fire song “Sprawl II,” and I love how it sounds and I try to do it on every song if I can.

4. “I Don’t Know What I Don’t Know”

This makes a pair with “Close My Eyes” — shit is obviously fucked, but “I don’t know what I don’t know what I don’t know what I can do.” I’m not a proponent of the attitude! Just trying to describe it, as I often feel it. In my head, I know some things that I can do — my wife Jenny, for instance, works really hard to get state legislatures out of Republican control. Cause it’s all these weirdo state legislative chambers that have enormous power over law enforcement, and civil rights, and Medicaid, and everything.

The image in the last verse was drawn from the protests in Ferguson in 2015: “Watch the bullets and the beaters as they move through the streets — grab your sister’s kids — hide next to the fire station…” It’s been horrifically disheartening to see the police riot across America as their power has been challenged. I’ve got a little seed of hope that we might change things, but, man, dark times.

More MS-20 bass on this one, chained to the drum machine. This one is supposed to be insanely bass heavy — if it comes on in a car, the windows should be rattling, and you should be asking, “What the heck is going on here?” Trying for a contemporary hip-hop bass sound but in a way less spare context. First song with woodwinds — rhythmic stuff and freaky squeals by Stuart Bogie and Matt Bauder.

5. “Surrender”

This song is masquerading as a love song, but it’s more about friendship. About the confusion that comes as people change: Didn’t you use to have a different ideal? Didn’t we have the same ideal at some point? Which of us changed? How did the world change? Relationships that we sometimes wish we could let go of, but that are stuck within us forever.

It’s also about trying to break from the first-person view of the world. “What can I do? What difference can I make?” It’s not about some singular effort — you have to give yourself over to another power. Give over to people who have gone before who’ve already built something — you don’t have to build something new! The world doesn’t always need a new idea, it doesn’t always need a new personality. What can you do with whatever power and money you’ve got? Surrender it over to something that’s already made. And then the song ends with an apology: I’m sorry I’ve been talking all night. Just talk talk talking, all night. Shut up, Will.

Going for “wall of sound” on this one — bass guitar and bass synth and double tracked piano bass plus another piano plus Mellotron piano. The “orchestra” is about a dozen different synth and Mellotron tracks individually detuned. And then run through additional processing.

6. “Hide It Away”

This song is about secrets. Both on an intimate, heartbreaking level — friends’ miscarriages, friends’ immigration status, shitty affairs coming to light — and on a grand, horrible level: New York lifting the statute of limitations on child abuse prosecutions, all the #MeToo reporting. There’s nothing you can do when your secret is revealed. Like, what can you do? You just have to let the response wash over you. If you’ve done something horrible, god-willing, you’ll have to pay for it in some way. If it’s something not horrible, but people will hate you anyway, goddammit, I wish there were some way to protect you.

This song has the least poetic line on the record, a real clunker: “It’s just money and power, money and power might set them free.” But it’s a clunky, shitty concept — the most surefire protection is being rich and knowing powerful people. But even then, shit just might come out. Even after you’re long dead.

Came from a 30-second guitar sample I recorded while messing around at the end of trying to track a different song. I liked the chords, looped them to make a demo. And the song was born from there. This is the one song I play drums on. Snare is chained to the MS-20, trying to play every frequency the ear can hear at the same time on some of those big hits.

7. “Hard Times”

[Laughs] I sat down and tried to write a Spotify charting electro-hit, and this is what came out: “Kill the rich, salt the earth.” Oh well. Written way before COVID-19, but my 8-year-old son turned to me this spring and asked, “Did you write the song ‘Hard Times’ about now, because we’re living through hard times?” No, I didn’t.

In Dostoevsky’s Notes From Underground, the narrator is a real son-of-a-bitch—contrarian, useless. Mad at the strong confident people who think they’ve got it figured out. And they don’t! And neither does the narrator — but he knows he doesn’t, and he at times yearns for some higher answer, and he’s funny, and too clever, but still knows he’s a piece of shit. I read Notes From Underground in high school and kinda forgot how it shaped my worldview until I sat down with it a couple years ago. The bridge on this song is basically smushed up quotes from Notes From Underground.

I was asking Shiftee, who mixed the record, if there are any vocal plug-ins I should be playing around with. He pointed me toward Little AlterBoy, which is basically a digital recreation of the kind of pedal the Knife use, for instance, on their vocal sound. It can shift the timbre/character of a voice without changing the pitch. Or change pitch without changing character. Very fun! Very much all over this track. Tried to make the bridge sound like a Sylvester song.

8. “Promised”

Another friend song masquerading as a love song. I’ve met a handful of extraordinary people in my life, who stopped doing extraordinary work because life is hard and it sucks. People who — I mean, it’s a lottery and random and who cares — could be great writers or artists, who kind of just disappeared. And it’s heartbreaking and frustrating. I don’t blame them. Maybe they weren’t made for this world. Maybe it’s just random. Maybe they’ll do amazing work in their 60s!

We tracked this song before it was written. Julie and Miles came over and we made up a structure and did a bunch of takes, found a groove. Which I then hacked up into what it is now! The bed tracks are lovely and loose. Maybe I’ll put out a jammier version of this song at some point. The other big synth on this record is the Oberheim OB-8, and that’s the bass on this one (triple tracked along with some MS-20).

9. “Not Gonna Die”

This song is about terrorism, and the response to terrorism. I wrote it a couple weeks after the Bataclan shooting in Paris in 2015. For some reason, a couple weeks after the shooting, I was in midtown Manhattan. I must have been Christmas shopping. I had to pop into the Sephora on 5th Avenue to pick up something specific — I think for my wife or her sister. I don’t remember. But I remember walking in, and the store was really crowded, and for just a split second I got really scared about what would happen if someone brought out a gun and started shooting up the crowd. And then I got so fucking mad at the people that made me feel that emotion. Like, I’m not gonna fucking die in the midtown Sephora, you fucking pieces of shit. Thanks for putting that thought in my head.

BUT ALSO, fuck all the fucking pieces of shit who are like, “We can’t accept refugees — what if they’re terrorists?” FUCK OFF. Some fucking terrified family driven from their home by a war isn’t going to kill me. Or anyone. Fuck off. Some woman from Central America fleeing from her husband who threatened to kill her isn’t going to fucking bomb Times Square. You fucking pieces of shit.

In November/December 2015, the Republican primary had already started — Trump had announced in June. And every single one of those pieces of shit running for president were talking about securing our borders, and keeping poor people out, and trying to justify it by security talk. FUCK OFF. You pieces of shit. Fuck right off. Anyway. Sorry for cursing.

I kind of think of the outro of this song as an angry “Everyday People.” Everyday people aren’t going to kill me. Lots of great saxes on this track from Matt Bauder and Stuart Bogie.

The intro of the song we recorded loud, full band, which I then ran through the MS-20 and filtered down till it was just a bass heart-pulse, and re-recorded solo piano and voice over that.

10. “Fine”

I kind of think that “Outta Here” to “Not Gonna Die” comprise the record, and “Fine” operates as the afterword and the prologue rolled into one. An author’s note, maybe. It was kind of inspired by high-period Kanye: I wanted to talk about something important in a profane, sometimes horribly stupid way, but have it be honest and ultimately transcendent.

In the song, I talk semi-accurately about where I come from. My mom’s dad was a guitar player who led bands throughout the ’30s and ’40s. In post-war LA, he had a band with Charles Mingus as the bass player. Charles Mingus! One of the greatest geniuses in all of American history. But this was the ’40s, and in order to travel with the band, to go in the same entrances, to eat dinner at the same table, he had to wear a Hawaiian shirt and everybody had to pretend he was Hawaiian. Because nobody was sure how racist they were supposed to be against Hawaiians.

Part of the reason I’m a musician is that my great-grandfather was a musician, and his kids were musicians, and their kids were musicians, and their kids are musicians. Part of the reason is vast generations of people working to make their kids’ lives better, down to my life. Part of the reason is that neither government nor mob has decided to destroy my family’s lives, wealth, and property for the last couple hundred years. I tried to write a song about that?

Generations is out now via Merge. Purchase it here.

https://www.stereogum.com/2098946/will-butler-generations-song-meanings/franchises/interview/footnotes-interview/

[bearsfakedthemoonlanding]

Gender Queer: There’s a Few Memories that Stick to me that I’m Sure Don’t Mean Anything to Anyone Else

[Content warning: mild transphobia, drunk driving mention, mild homophobia, mentions of abusive relationship, F-slur used for self (second to last paragraph)]

I’m sixteen years old, sitting on the kitchen table while my mom tuts around in the kitchen.  I haven’t come out yet, but I have cut my hair off.  Julie Andrews pixie that my mom tried to fix, but it was too short to turn out anything but boyish.  I think it’s starting to grow out, get a little shaggy.  I didn’t have any idea how hair gel worked at that age.  I was wearing baggy jeans and chucks and a green t-shirt that said “Meddle Not In The Affairs Of Dragons, For You Are Crunchy And Taste Good With Ketchup.”  My favorite uncle got it for me.  Mom is staring at me for a long time, and I finally turn to look at her and ask, what? what’s up?  She doesn’t want to tell me, says I don’t want to know.  I insist.  She finally sighs and says, “Well, I was just looking at you, and for a moment I felt like I was looking at the son I could have had.  That’s strange, right?  I’m sorry.”  She thought I’d be upset, like I didn’t know what I was doing, and while I felt bizarre it wasn’t because I was sad.  It was because I was happy.  She looked at me and saw a son, saw a boy, and something about that felt so right that I felt guilty.  I shouldn’t have wanted it.  I didn’t change anything, though.

Twenty-two years old.  Work got out at seven-thirty, and I drove the hour and a half to a different time zone to the only gay bar within driving distance.  Jackie’s in South bend.  Or Vickie’s maybe.  It’s dark, and I’m in a pick up truck and a black t-shirt.  The city can be dangerous in certain areas and I’m anxious about everything I’m doing.  Gay bars are different here than they are in Vegas.  Still, I bolster myself up and go inside, walk with wide shoulders and heavy boots, trying to feel brave to be taken seriously. 

It’s empty.  The bartender is a gorgeous person with long hair and lipstick and rough hands.  They laugh when I order a Seagram’s but oblige, and I torture myself trying to find a polite way to tell them how pretty they are.  My not-yet-girlfriend texts me and tells me not to be such a baby, to have fun.  I want to go home.  

Then two people walk in, a man and a woman both shorter than I am, and they pass around a plate of vegan fudge that I’m dumb enough to eat even though it could easily be laced with something.  I’m a disaster with weed, each and every time.  I got lucky.  The boy sits next to me with the girl on his other side, and she leans around him to flirt with me, hand on me knee and shoulder and neck, and he sits there and smirks at me.  It’s not predatory.  He doesn’t look at me the way I’m used to men looking at me, like I’m something pretty and easy and delicate.  We arm wrestle.  He leans his head on my shoulder. I feel like a man. 

They dance with me, two more Seagrams and I’m no longer self-conscious, though I am blushing.  She drags me around by the belt loops.  He lets me put my hands on his sides.  She pushes me against a wall, and kisses me neck, and he places a hand on my chest over my binder and seems happy to find it, which is not a response I’ve ever had before. 

They tell me I’m the best of both worlds, half-way between a man and a woman, and that they’re bisexual and best friends and looking for someone to play with.  I play for a while, safe there in the public eye and probably pissing off the regulars there for a quiet night.  I tap out after four or five drinks and drive myself home, a little drunk, very unsafe, but absolutely glowing.

I’m eighteen years old, and in less than 24 hours I’ll be admitted to the hospital and put on a ventilator for pneumonia-- so obviously this memory is hazy.  I’d gotten up at six that morning to get work done before school, I’d struggled through school, and I’d stopped at a gas station before work.  There, I bought two doses of Dayquil, a coke, and a five hour energy.  I slammed it all and clocked in to the job that I hated.  It payed $6 an hour and was hardly enough to put gas in the beater truck I drove around everywhere.

I’m going through the racks, bending down to pick clothes up off the floor and rehang them.  Goodwill was my personal nightmare.  Every time I leaned over, my head spun and vision danced with black, and my heart would pound and skip so hard I was half-convinced I was dying. 

Someone’s sweet little grandma drops something in front of me, and I stoop down to pick it up for her.  She says, “Oh what a sweet young man!” 

And the friend she’s with, another darling grandma, says, “No, no, that’s a girl.”

“It’s a boy.”

“It’s a girl.”

They argue back and forth, and I’m too dizzy and nauseous to be an active part of the conversation.  I remember standing there doing my best to keep the floor from rocking underneath me while also glowing in adoration.  I was wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt under my smock, and my baggy navy blue school trousers.  I was an enigma, and I was overjoyed.

After work I would go back to school for play rehearsal-- my part was small, unimportant, a Pick a Little Lady in the Music Man-- so I spent most of the evening on the floor between seats listening to my friends talk.  I would get so tired, head spinning and heavy and eyes burning, that I would have to lay down.  Every time I was horizontal, my chest would heavy and coughs from the bottom of my gut would overwhelm me enough to have me right back up and doubling over.  Eventually, someone dragged me up to our director, who sent me home.  I insisted I could drive.  I don’t remember anything between talking to her and being at the doctor’s office the next morning, suffocating behind a face mask and half-collapsed in the waiting room.

He was terrible.  Sneaky, passive-aggressive, physically aggressive.  He was rude to waiters and condescending.  God only knows how I was stupid enough to waste so much time on him, let alone give him any power over me.  It started with a loss of virginity, when he offered blatantly and my dumb-ass brain told me “it’s now or never.”

It was terrible.  Should have known from that first night, when I went over to watch movies wearing sweatpants (men’s section), boxer briefs, and a pull over sweatshirt (hers).  He said, “you really dress like this, huh?”  He’d only ever seen me in workout clothes at our college sport club. 

The thing about bad men is that it doesn’t matter what your gender is, if you have a vagina that’s all they see you as. 

We were out on a date a few months in, bowling at a casino after grabbing dinner.  He’d said to dress up, so I put on my nice black jeans and a button up shirt.  He was disappointed.  We argued over who got to pay the bill.  I won, and he snapped something about how he didn’t have to waste his money at least.  

We went bowling.  Every bowling date I’ve gone on with men (3) have been absolute train wrecks in totally opposite ways.  This time, we spend the night at odds with each other, as he takes it all seriously and tries to give me pointers, and I do trick shots-- sliding on my knees and bowling belly-down on the floor and spinning around with my eyes closed.  He thinks I’m ridiculous, but I’m having fun.  

We’re walking back, and he pulls his hand out of mine and sticks it in his pocket.  He says “We look like homosexuals,” and I’m baffled, because at 20 years old I might be butch but I’m still a girl.  He says, “You walk like a man, and why are you dressed like that?”  He tells me I ought to grow my hair out, or at least put some makeup on.  He asks, “Do you ever wear dresses?”  Asks me to try and put in an effort. 

I bought a dress a few months later, and I showed it to him.  He frowned. 

When I look in the mirror in a dress, I see nothing but a boy in a dress.  There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, but when you’re not thinking of yourself as a boy it feels rather disheartening.  I had some weird hope that the dress itself would transform me into a woman.  I think he did too. 

I didn’t wear that dress again until my twenty-first birthday celebration with my uncle.  He came in from out of town to waste money on a elaborate, drunken celebration.  He has money to waste like that.  I dragged one of my friends along, my roommate since sophomore year, and it was the most drunk I had ever been and she was a sweetheart about holding my hand and leading me around and adjusting my dress every time the straps slipped down or I spread my legs too far.  Nothing makes me feel like a fag quite as much as wearing a dress.  I still don’t know how to feel about that.

In a way, I’m glad that he never saw me as “pretty.”  I’m glad I managed to be such a disappointment, and to crawl my way out of it with my life in tact and his pride rather bruised.  He deserved nothing less, but his gross comment-- his confusion, disgust-- still makes me grin when I think about it.

I’ve taken so much joy throughout the years in other people’s confusion about me.  At nineteen I used to proudly say that my gender was “confusion.”  To be fair, I am rather confused by it.  So are other people.  And in its own way, isn’t that rather wonderful?

[itslight-ishred]

Valentine’s Day Dance

Okay, so I’m a couple hours late on this, but I made it through all the distractions to finally bring you my first completed fic in over a year! This is my gift to @mlm-benvolio​ for the RvB Valentine’s Day gift exchange and first time posting one of my works to Tumblr. Enjoy. (will fix formatting if needed) @rvbgiftexchange Ship(s): Grimmons w/background Docnut and Locoboose and mentioned Tuckington 1,800+ words    "Dude, if you don't ask him out, I'm not talking to you ever again."        The lanky red-head gave out a sharp, fake gasp at those words, closing his locker and holding the non-robotic hand to his chest and faking a hurt expression. "You wouldn't. Who else would I talk to?"        "Wouldn't I?" This led to a full two minute stare-down between them both before a taller boy came by and picked up his older brother, squeezing him tight.     "Tucker! I just asked Loco to the Valentine's dance!"        "Okay, if Caboose can ask Loco, you can totally ask Dex," Lavernius gasped out, struggling to get out of his adopted brother's tight grasp. "Seriously, though, what's taking you so long? We all know you like him. Well, except maybe Dex himself."    

   Slinging his bag onto his shoulder, Richard just thought this over a bit as the three headed for the student parking lot. Passing through the commons, they noticed Franklin hugging Frank tight, but not nearly as tight as Michael had done to his brother. The blond noticed them and quickly broke the hug, dragging his boyfriend over to them. Before he could even say a word, Richard stopped him.    "He just asked you out to the dance?"        "Yes!! Has Dex asked you yet? Cause then we could go suit shopping together!" As usual, his younger brother was way too excited about these things than anyone had a right to be, but Franklin had always loved dressing up and going to parties.         "Dude, you don't need to go out and buy a whole suit for this. Not like it's prom," Lavernius told the junior. "Just pick something nice you already have. And can someone please tell Rich here that there's no way Dex would turn him down?"        Franklin's head perked up at that, looking his older brother dead in the eyes. "Rich, if he doesn't say yes, he's an idiot and in denial. He's been over for dinner more this year than the last three combined."        "I rest my case. Now c'mon, I've got a baby who's probably driving my dad up the walls."        Once out in the parking lot, Richard looked around for Dexter's old beater that was in this horrible, bright orange with the doors painted an even brighter yellow. Apparently having sensed his rising anxiety, F.I.L.S.S. started playing music from his relaxation playlist through the headphones around his neck that were connected to his prosthetic arm. "Thanks," he muttered to the AI before speaking up to get his younger brother's attention, giving the keys an underhand toss. "I'm gonna go find Dex. I'll be home in time to make dinner, promise." All of the other teens smiled at him as he jogged off, going up and down the rows to hopefully beat Dexter to his own car.        Thankfully he'd made it just a couple minutes before the shorter senior came over, drinking a soda that he'd gotten from one of the vending machines. "Oh, hey, man. Not goin' home yet?"        "Told Franklin I'd be back to start dinner. Wanted to hang out with you a bit." Dex raised an eyebrow at this but just shrugged, unlocking the car and getting in. It didn't take long for Richard to realize they weren't going to the middle school to pick up Kai. "Uhh. . . ."        "Relax, she's spending the weekend with some friends at a sleepover since our parents are out of town."        "So you're staying home alone? All weekend?"        "Yep."    Somehow this felt like the perfect opportunity to finally suck it up and ask him. No Kai around to spy on them, and nothing embarrassing to try explaining to their adopted parents. So far, so good. When they got to the Grifs' house, both teens kicked off their shoes and put their backpacks by the door, Richard setting up Halo 12 while Dexter went to the kitchen to grab some drinks and some chips. He made sure the red head was getting a thing of carrot juice, while he grabbed another soda for himself. "So, what's up? Normally you give me a heads up before showing up at my car."     "Eh, just didn't wanna hear Franklin talk my ear off about matching suits with Frank or whatever. Also hoping to avoid having Tucker call me to complain how stupid it is that he can't invite Wash to the dance. Pretty likely he'd also complain about Caboose not shutting up about asking Loco out."     "Are those two actually dating or . . . . ?"     "Dunno. But they're definitely going to the dance together." They sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to play a couple practice games of capture the flag before deciding whether or not they wanted to do an online match. "So, uh, are you going with anyone? If at all?"     "Maybe? No one's asked yet, and I'm not sure anyone would really wanna go with me. You going?"     Richard just shrugged before recoiling a bit at a sudden, sharp pain in his arm. "Ow! F.I.L.S.S.!"     "My apologies. I must have hit a wrong nerve trying to move the fingers."     The taller teen glared down at his metallic arm for a second, going back to their game and attempting to continue the conversation. "Been thinking about it. Had sort of an idea who to ask. Besides, Sarge'd want me to go to keep an eye on Franklin anyway."     "Good ol' Sarge."     Feeling the AI in control of his arm in the back of his head and ready to send more shocks up his arm, Richard took a deep breath. "Do you wanna go to the dance? With . . . . me? Maybe? You don't have to, y'know, but if you want, it'd be nice. But you don't have to!"     "Dick?"     "Yeah?"     "Course, dumbass. Who else would I go with?"     About an hour later, the lanky teen found himself back home and in-between on steps in cooking dinner, Franklin bouncing in place as he sat on the counter, watching impatiently. "So?"     "So what?"     "Did you ask him?"     "Did Rich ask who what?" Sarge asked, coming into the kitchen to see what his boys were talking about.     "Richard asked Dexter to the dance this Valentine's Day," F.I.L.S.S. spoke up for the boy, knowing he was too nervous from earlier still to hold any sort of conversation.     "Bout dang time, son. You been fawnin' over him for the last four years now. How late's the dance s'posed ta go?"     "11:30 the latest," the blond teen answered back, their dad just nodding, knowing he could trust them both to not stay out too late.     Later that night, Franklin had texted Lavernius the good news, and the two proceeded to gush over this new development together, the older of the two saying he was afraid they wouldn't ask each other out until well after they graduated in a few months. The next few days were then spent with both of them trying to pick out a classy outfit to the dance, Lavernius saying he'd probably have to take Dexter shopping if the man had any hope of looking decent. So by the time the dance was there, their entire group showed up dressed in black slacks(minus Franklin who was in white with Frank), and they all had their own solid-color button-ups.     Loco and Michael tried splitting their time between the dance floor and eating snacks, while Franklin couldn't sit down from sheer excitement. Richard was too awkward to even attempt dancing, so he was glad to hang back and have some snacks with Dexter, making sure the shorter male didn't get the shirt or pants Lavernius had bought too messy. Speaking of which, he hadn't seen the darker skinned teen since getting into the main hall. This wasn't going to end well. . . .     "So, probably brought this up sooner, but why did you ask me here? I mean, we're not dating or whatever Loco and Caboose are."     "And you call me the dumbass. . . . I kinda thought it'd be obvious? I asked you out to the Valentine's Day dance. Should be pretty self-explanatory."     Dexter nodded a bit, eating a few more bites of his snacks. "True. But I wanna hear you say it."     Now Richard's face was starting to turn a similar shade of red as his hair, if just a shade darker. It wasn't a nearly full-body blush like Wash was known to get from time-to-time, but it did make his freckles blend together a bit. Just as she had last week, F.I.L.S.S. threatened to shock him again if he didn't speak up soon. Her personality had been really weird since Thanksgiving, he'd have to talk to Dr. Church about that.     "I- I like you, okay? I missed you a lot after you had to leave, and then you came back and I thought things'd be like when we were kids again, but it wasn't, and it still isn't, which I think is okay, y'know? We still bicker a lot sometimes, but it's not like when we were little. And you're always there for me when I need it, and you didn't hate me when you found out about me being a boy. Still can't believe you outed me in bio, though. I know, it was an accident. But you're my best friend, and I don't think I would've wanted to ask anyone else to come with me." Taking a deep breath, he started calming down a bit. "Honestly, it was probably a good thing you had to leave cause I think even when we were kids I had a crush on you. And I don't think I could've sorted that out on my own if you were still living with us."     "Huh. Good to know. I like you a lot, too. Thought about you the whole time I was gone. I mean, hard not to, considering you're why I was able to get my skin grafts. So even though you weren't around, you kinda were?" Side-eyeing the other, Dexter noticed the blush had gotten darker "So . . . are we dating now?"    "I think so? If you want to, anyway."     "Cool, guess I can finally do this," the heavier teen said, more of to himself, before leaning over and kissing his now-boyfriend, able to feel the heat radiate off his face from how flushed he was. It was at that moment that a bright flash got their attention, making them look up and see the overhead balcony where one Lavernius Tucker Church stood with his phone out, cheering in triumph.     "Finally! I've waited four years for this!" he cheered before running off to find his younger brother for safety.     "Wha- Tucker, no, I wanna dance with Loco more!" the younger boy tried telling him, as he tried climbing up his back and onto his shoulders. Lavernius just reassured him it'd just be for a little bit, to protect him from Dexter.     "Okay, Tucker's officially the group dumbass now."