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um-garoto-chamado-yuri · 5 months

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Minha breve história com a automutilação

Tw: Automutilação, esse post não incentiva a prática e foi escrito para mostrar minha experiência e te encorajar a parar com o hábito (ou nunca tê-lo), lê-lo é por sua escolha.

Acho que já deixei muito claro que fui um praticante de automutilação. Bem, em vários posts comento sobre isso, não deveria ser um tabu, é preciso falar para que as pessoas saibam como é um hábito horrível. Como certamente nunca fiz um post explicando como tudo começou, contarei aqui a minha história de nove meses (!) com o meu pior vício.

Tudo começa em outubro de 2021, tinha acabado de ser zoado pelos meus "amigos" (hoje em dia nem conversamos mais, já que me abandonaram) e fui totalmente constrangido pela minha professora. Eu havia sofrido transfobia (meu "amigo" me chamava pelos pronomes errados e dizia que não tinha idade para saber que era trans), mas mesmo dizendo pra ela tudo o que aconteceu, me disse que a culpa era minha ("Quem mandou ficar dizendo uma coisa dessas para os outros, hein?"- Disse). Isso só ajudou meus "amigos" é justificarem que estavam certos e um deles até me atacou no grupo da sala (felizmente ele havia sido banido logo depois da mensagem). Minha professora jurou que eu deveria me assumir para minha mãe e, se possível, conversaria com ela na reunião de pais. (Coincidentemente, por ironia do destino, eu e meus pais viajamos no dia da reunião).

Nunca contei nada pra minha mãe, acho que ela não aceitaria. Durante algumas semanas fiquei sozinho, me sentindo culpado pelo que sofri (hoje entendo que não, ninguém é culpado pela violência que sofre). Estava horrível, lanchei sozinho, fiz trabalhos com grupos que não tinha muito contato, coisas do tipo. No final daquele mês voltei a conversar com os dois (futuramente, um deles me pediu desculpas pelo erro, e outro sequer tocou mais no assunto).

Mas eu ainda sentia um vazio. Estava no ápice da disforia de gênero, sendo perseguido pela minha professora de português (todos os dias depois de que me viu chorando, insistia em me perguntar: "Você conversou com a sua mãe sobre *aquilo*?", eu mentia e dizia que ela havia me aceitado). No começo de novembro minha colega, que sentava atrás de mim, veio puxar um papo comigo (ela costumava me pedir cola de provas, mas também sabia contar história quando a aula estava entediante). Havia dito: "Estou de castigo, minha mãe descobriu", não pude abrir a boca, já que ela logo levantou a manga do moletom e mostrou o braço dela cheio de cortes.

Foi meu primeiro contato com a automutilação.

Ela me disse para não fazer aquilo, ouvi claramente. Mas algo dentro de mim pediu por aquilo, queria saber a sensação da dor, de causá-la voluntariamente. De tarde, fui para o computador e joguei no Google: "Automutilação", vi imagens horríveis de braços com cortes, alguns até sangrando. Me perguntei se era isso que realmente precisava para descontar minha solidão, minha culpa... Resisti por alguns dias, até que no final de novembro, fiz meu primeiro corte usando um compasso (estava mais para um arranhão, na verdade).

Voltei para escola com o braço direito (sou canhoto, então tinha facilidade para cortar o braço oposto) todo arranhado por baixo da manga do moletom. Ás vezes eu o levantava e alguns colegas o viam, ficavam assustados. Tinha gente que ficava horrorizada, outros queriam contar para a coordenação (mas fiz questão de dizê-los para não fazer isso, "será a única fez que me machucarei"- menti). Você pode estar pensando que fiz aquilo para chamar atenção, mas não é assim que funciona, queria que a sala visse como eu me sentia por dentro, no fundo eu não era o garoto feliz e engraçado que todos insistiam em ver, por trás, havia alguém infeliz. Apenas uma pessoa veio me perguntar qual era a motivação, não consegui falar, apenas chorei (mas mandei um textão de desabafo para essa pessoa no WhatsApp).

As férias chegaram e não foram como eu imaginava. Eu estava triste, mas pelo menos minha professora não conversou com a minha mãe (onde já se viu os professores quererem tirar um aluno do armário?). Alguns arranhões estavam cicatrizando, mas não permiti isso. A partir daquela época, me automutilei todos os dias, das formas mais variadas que você pode imaginar: Gillete, tesoura, compasso... Os cortes eram tão visíveis que passei usar uma bandana o dia inteiro para que ficassem escondidos (minha mãe havia gostado daquela decisão, mas não sabia dos machucados), a tirava apenas para tomar banho e ir dormir.

Em janeiro, já contava com várias cicatrizes no braço direito e uma no joelho. Claro que nunca contava para ninguém, era minha forma de descontar a dor, e ela era causada de várias formas (desde disforia de gênero, perceber que havia quebrado um cabide sem querer ou simplesmente por sentir vontade). Eu me punia assim, me sentia um lixo.

Quando o oitavo ano começou, em 2022, não liguei se me cortaria na própria aula. Eu estava com muitas crises de choro naquela época, tanto que a minha antiga professora de matemática ficou preocupada, ela nunca pensou que um dos alunos mais animados da classe estaria tão cabisbaixo. Conheci uma aluna nova da minha sala que também se automutilava (OBS: ainda somos amigos!) e fizemos uma promessa: nos ajudaríamos a passar por isso. Eu desabafava tudo pra ela, e vice-versa. Em fevereiro, depois de meus pais brigarem por um longo período de tempo, minha mãe foi me dar boa noite na cama.

Eu esqueci de tirar a bandana, ela fez questão de tirar para mim. E obviamente, ela viu os cortes (um ainda jorrava sangue). Nossos olhares se cruzaram e eu gelei. "O que é isso?"- Ela me perguntou. "Eu me machuquei na escola"- Menti, e me arrependo disso, eu precisava de ajuda, mas imagina se a contasse que tudo começou com um bullying por transfobia? Isso seria pior!

Depois daquele dia, fiquei até abril sem se automutilar. Lutando contra a vontade, mas ficar um dia sem fazer um corte era dolorido pra mim. Depois do dia 20 de abril daquele ano, quando tive uma crise grave de disforia de gênero a ponto de ficar quase a aula toda fora da sala (estava tendo uma festinha de despedida da professora de matemática), senti que meus amigos passaram a ficar mais colados ao meu lado, não só por conta da automutilação, mas por que um dos meus amigos deve ter contado que tentei me suicidar em fevereiro (eu não consegui, fiquei com medo se isso desse certo, mas como recompensa fiquei com dor de barriga e de cabeça por conta dos remédios).

Continuei a me automutilar até 30/08/2022, quando pensei simplesmente que deveria parar, lutei contra a minha vontade novamente, me afastei da Gillete e do compasso. Hoje me orgulho em dizer que ano que vem farão dois anos que estou longe da automutilação. Foram nove meses obscuros e que farei questão de me lembrar, querendo ou não, mostra que lutei contra um vício. Se cortar são como drogas: fácil de entrar, difícil sair.

Se sinto falta? Não, não sinto. Aprendi com o tempo que isso não é saudável, e que qualquer amizade ou desabafo pode curar a vontade de usar uma lâmina para se machucar.

#lgbt #trans #meus pensamentos #reflexão #desabafo #transfobia #spotify #história #escola #história de escola #saúde mental #automutilação #Spotify

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noneedtoamputate · 5 months

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Chuck/Ellen, #10 😌

Sorry this took so long. I had free time this earlier this month, and then I didn't. The prompt was for the word "monument," and I know a monument should be a more permanent structure than how I used it in the story, but this idea came to me and I decided to go with it. The picture of Skip and Chuck mentioned in the story is the third one down.

November 2, 1967

The front door opened and shut as Ellen checked the cornbread in the oven.

“Please go tell your brother and sister that supper is ready,” she asked Ron, their middle child, doing homework at the kitchen table. “And don't …”

“SUPPER’S READY!” He closed his textbook and ran off toward his bedroom.

“ … yell,” Ellen said under her breath.

“Did I hear supper’s ready?” Chuck walked into the kitchen, home from work.

Ellen rolled her eyes and accepted his kiss to her cheek. “Why walk a few steps when you can just scream at the top of your lungs?”

Chuck washed his hands at the sink and Ellen arranged food on the table as the sounds of children grew closer.

“What’s for supper?” asked Ken. At fourteen, he was already taller than Ellen and towered over Ron, only a year younger but who had not yet hit his growth spurt.

“Chili,” replied Ellen, as she filled a bowl and handed it to Chuck.

“Ugh, chili? Mom, you know I don’t like it. You always make what the boys want to eat,” Mary complained. At eleven, she already displayed angst usually reserved for teenagers.

“Your mother isn’t running a restaurant,” Chuck said firmly. “Eat it or make yourself a sandwich.”

Mary decided it was easier to eat the chili. She didn’t really feel like making her own supper, and she certainly didn’t want to hear her dad go on about eating K rations in Bastogne or all the hungry kids he went to school with during the depression.

After the boys helped themselves to seconds, Ellen asked the dreaded question.

“What was one thing you learned at school today?”

Sometimes, it was like pulling teeth, getting her children to recall one fact from the day. But tonight, Mary had something to share, much to the relief of her brothers.

“Today is The Day of the Dead,” Mary stated.

“Never heard of it,” Ken said, his mouth full of cornbread.

“It’s a holiday in Mexico. In Spanish, it’s called Dia … de … los … Ma … Mo …”

“Muertos,” finished Ron.

“Show off,” Ken replied.

“You’d know it too, if you weren’t taking a useless language,” Ron argued.

“French isn’t useless,” Ellen countered. “I’m sure your father would have liked knowing more French when he landed in Normandy.”

“Did just fine with the War Department phrasebook, but thanks for your concern.”

Ken noticed his parents smile at each other and share a look, like they were saying something with their eyes.

He wondered why they were so weird.

“But we live in San Francisco,” Ron explained. “And it’s pretty dumb to take French just because of a girl in your class. Carla Marconi,” he teased his brother.

“Shut up!” Ken shouted.

“Hey!” Chuck shouted louder. “Knock it off, the both of you.”

Mary continued, completely unconcerned about the ruckus her brothers made.

“It’s a day when you remember family and friends who have died,” she explained.

“Sounds pretty depressing,” Ron said.

“No, you're supposed to remember happy memories, and the good things about them. It's not supposed to be sad.”

“What else?” Ron asked. Ellen looked up. It was unusual for one of the boys to take an interest in what their little sister had to say.

“You decorate an altar, or a table, with pictures of the dead people in your family, and flowers. Teresa Gonzalez explained how everyone in her family helps put it together.”

“That sounds like a beautiful way to remember loved ones,” Ellen commented.

“I told Teresa we had an altar like that at our house, too. Not with the flowers, but with the pictures,” Mary went on.

“We do?” Chuck asked.

“Yeah, we do,” Ken said, and Ron nodded in agreement.

The kids stood up and walked toward the family room. Ellen and Chuck looked at each other quizzically and followed.

Ken, Ron, and Mary stood in front of the built-in bookshelves Chuck and Ellen installed a few years after they bought the house. On the top row, too high to easily reach a book, were framed photos of family and friends.

“Uncle Ken,” Ron said simply, pointing to a picture of Ellen’s brother in his Marine dress blues, his arm around his proud older sister before he shipped out to Korea.

“Mom said he always told the best jokes and was really good at football. There was that time when the starting quarterback got hurt and he went in and threw a touchdown to win the game,” his namesake recalled about the uncle he never had a chance to meet.

“He would have loved to watch you play,” Ellen said to her oldest son, who played on his JV high school team this past season, and he smiled.

“And there's Skip Muck,” Mary said, his arm around Chuck after they earned their jump wings. “He got his nickname because when he was little, he skipped everywhere. He was the nicest guy in the company, right, Dad?” Chuck nodded, unable to say anything in the moment.

“Grandma Thompson,” Ron said. A picture of Ellen’s motger, with a young Ellen seated next to her while she held a baby Ken, before she had given up on life.

“I don’t really remember her, and she wasn't the nicest person, but you must have learned something from her because you’re a good mom,” Mary said to Ellen.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Ellen said, and she felt tears start in her eyes.

“And Grandpa Grant,” Ron continued. Chuck stood next to his dad, mirror images of each other. Chuck looked about sixteen, not long before his father passed away.

“He taught you how to read the box scores and play baseball and loved the Pirates,” Ken said.

“He drove you and Gran all the way from Pittsburgh when you moved here,” Mary remembered.

Chuck nodded. “I was just a bit younger than you,” he said, remembering that time when his dad had been laid off at the steel mill and they moved to California for the promise of work. He often wondered if he could have been as brave as his father, starting over like that. How many times he wished he could ask his dad for advice, on how to be a good husband or a good father.

“And there’s Eugene Jackson. He died on that patrol.” Ken pointed at his picture. It was a picture of Second Platoon on the back of a truck, taken after they captured Foy.

“He was just sixteen when he joined the army. It was the first time in a long time he had three meals a day. He would scarf down everything in front of him, even if the food was terrible,” Ron recalled.

Chuck noticed Ken’s eyes get large, realizing that Eugene was not much older than him when he joined up. He put his hand on his son’s shoulder. Ellen saw Mary’s eyes glance downwards, perhaps feeling a bit ashamed for complaining about chili when Private Jackson went hungry growing up.

“He was a good paratrooper. Did everything he was asked and looked out for his squad,” Chuck shared.

The children looked at the pictures quietly, and Chuck and Ellen looked at each other. They never sat down and shared these stories. They had all come out in bits and pieces. Stories about Skip when the Christensons came over and Chuck and Pat would talk well into the night. Ellen with a passing comment about the difficult relationship with her mother. Happy memories of Ken on Veterans Day.

The kids had been listening. And they remembered.

Eventually, the boys left to finish their homework and Mary turned on the television to watch The Flying Nun.

Ellen settled Mary into bed and told the boys it was time for lights out, though she knew the desk lamp would find its way on soon enough.

She finished up in the kitchen and saw Chuck sitting outside on the patio. If asked, most people would have described Chuck as friendly, outgoing, funny. And he was all those things. But he also had a quiet side, and sometimes he needed to be alone with his thoughts, to think things through without the distractions of a business, a wife, three kids. Ellen was more than happy to give him that space and time.

The table cleared, the dishes done, the floor swept, Ellen started the kettle and grabbed a coat and blanket from the hall closet.

She slid open the patio door.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked.

Chuck shook his head. He loved that Ellen asked, and that if he answered yes, she wouldn't have minded in the slightest. How lucky he was to have someone understand him the way she did.

She sat down next to him, handed him the mug of tea, and laid the blanket over their laps.

They sat quietly, Chuck holding the mug and a cigarette in his right hand. Ellen hadn’t smoked regularly in years, but the smell of Lucky Strikes was comforting.

It was the smell of Chuck. It was the smell of home.

“Remember when you came back from the doctor’s office after you found out you were expecting Ken?” Chuck broke the silence.

“I do,” Ellen said.

“We were so excited, but I didn't know if I would be able to hack it, and you thought you would turn into your mother.”

She nodded at the bittersweet memory.

He turned to face her.

“I think we’re doing a pretty good job, don’t you think?”

“I do,” Ellen repeated.

“They still have terrible taste in music and their rooms are a mess, but they’re doing okay in the things that really matter.”

“I read something once that you only live as long as the last person who remembers you,” Ellen said.

“That's a nice notion,” Chuck said. “It sounds like something Skip would have said.”

They went quiet again, thinking about their loved ones who would live on just a little bit longer because their children cared enough to know their stories.

#asked and answered #every beautiful thing #chuck grant #ellen thompson #band of brothers #band of brothers fan fiction #band of brothers fic #fanfic

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francesco-blog-di · 4 months

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Un altro anno sta volgendo al termine ed io non posso che trarne un bilancio positivo. Sono felice e per questo mi sento estremamente fortunato, nonostante le difficoltà che ciascuno di noi prima o poi incontra sul proprio percorso. In questo momento della mia vita non posso che sentirmi grato nei confronti di chi rende tutto questo possibile. Quando una persona ti fa sentire a casa pur essendo centinaia di chilometri lontano dal luogo in cui sei nato, ecco quella persona è quella giusta. A lei dedico ogni millimetro del mio cuore ed i miei pensieri più belli, il mio impegno ad essere una persona di cui può andare fiera. E come dimenticarci di quella creatura di quasi 7 chili che, in cambio di vitto e alloggio, mi riempie di fusa ed adorabili testatine (e, mio malgrado, anche di peli). L’anno prossimo spero di poter tornare a svolgere un lavoro che mi dia un minimo di entusiasmo (e forse ci siamo) e di continuare ad avere al mio fianco chi mi ha fatto capire davvero cosa significhi amare con ogni fibra di me stesso.

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tortadecuchufli · 10 months

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Hullo! I feel it's been a while since I asked anyone about things that don't rhyme with freedom, so if you'll humor me-

What's a common misconception about your culture that annoys you to see people claim? Could be linguistic, culinary, etc....

Uhm. It's kind of hard to come up with an answer because I like to mind my own business. I THINK the biggest one is that people tend to generalize what they know about Latin America and it ends up not holding much water in reality. If you're from the US you end up being exposed to the people from countries nearby, rather than us or other folks in South America. I'm not gonna do the obvious ones that are like "not everyone is X" because I think it should be safe to say that entire countries have diversity. Like, yeah there are many religions, yeah there are different political positions, yeah there is bigotry and progressive movements and all that.

Ok so, let me list a few:

Chileans are said to speak poorly and make up words out of nowhere. I feel like that ignores history so much, ESPECIALLY of our indigenous cultures. Just because people up north tell you that something is called a certain way it means the words we use around here are less valid. Also, idk man i just like to be unintelligible at times.

Also formal and informal language are Very Different Things and similar things happen in every place in my opinion.

We don't celebrate quinceañeras, dia de los muertos... etc. Quinceañeras are not unseen but I would argue they're definitely less common around here compared to other places. Dia de los Muertos is a Holiday but imo it depends on how religious you are. Most people I know either don't celebrate it or just use the free day to visit their buried relatives.

You know that one tumblr post about pigs made out of clay? It's spelled chanchitos not canchitos aaaaaaaa

Chili con carne is not very common here lol

We have a lot of weathers! ...but tropical rainforest is Not one of those. There are some really fucking pretty forests down south though.

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thaskyeisthelimit · 1 year

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#instagram stories #justine skye #chili dia

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modelsof-color · 1 year

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Chili Dia by Frederik Lentz Anderse for Elle Danmark Magazine October 2022

#chili dia

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lonelypond · 8 months

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Learning The Ropes

NicoMaki, Love Live, 2.2K, 1/1

As promised, the Tumblr native version.

Summary: Nico and Maki are sharing a house now, as Nico heals and gets to know Ruby and Dia. But soon, Nico will have to confront the gang that nearly killed her.

Learning The Ropes

Sleeping Maki felt the intensity. She was now used to Dia waking her up by standing in the doorway of her bedroom and staring.

“Good morning, Dia.”

“Good morning, Mama.” Dia could now come to the bed for a brief hug, according to the Dia rules. “Ruby’s cooking.”

Maki was out of the bed and racing for the kitchen. Ruby had no business being by the stove. Cereal was a fine breakfast. But as Maki was about to roar into the kitchen, she saw her patient, tiny, but not as tiny as Ruby, wrapped in Maki’s worn flannel robe and standing next to the stove, one hand on Ruby’s shoulder.

“Nico?”

“Oh, morning, Doctor Maki. I was just showing Ruby here how easy it is to make an apple pie.” Nico raised an eyebrow, “she says you don’t like sweets.”

“No. The girls aren’t allowed candy.” Maki answered automatically. “Where did you get the apples?”

“Your cousin managed to find some Rome beauties, they’re best for baking, and dropped off a half bushel. Nico’s making a pie for dinner tonight. Ruby cut the butter and rolled out the pie dough.”

As far as Maki knew, there was nothing in her pantry you could make pie dough out of. She had the ingredients for tonight’s pot roast and the makings of lunch ham sandwiches, but that was all.

“I sent Rin off with a grocery list.”

“We’re fine.”

“Nico wants to put up some preserves so the girls can have fruit with their winter breakfasts.”

Maki rolled her eyes, “I can buy that.”

“Nico’s recipe is the best.”

“Nico’s going to show me how to do it, Mama, so I can cook for you and Dia.” Ruby sounded more determined than shy.

Nico must be feeling better. But Maki was not going to turn her adopted daughters into child kitchen labor.

“That isn’t necessary, Ruby. I can cook what we need. Or buy it at the general store. Or one of the restaurants in town. Is anything on the stove?” Maki asked, her patience thinning.

“No.”

“Dia, take Ruby to wash up." Maki pushed Dia gently toward her sister, "Nico, I want to look at the wound.”

“Nico is healing fast, Doc.”

Maki pointed to the closest chair, “Sit down, Nico, and I will judge how you’re doing.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nico saluted with a spoon, eyes bright, smile brighter. Maki refused to be charmed.

Maki would certainly not be mentioning this, but the apple and cinnamon smells seasoning the kitchen air, hit delicious high notes that made Maki think apple pie would be an excellent, always breakfast.

###

Maki was nervous. Too many people would be in the house tonight. Ruby was fidgety. When Maki got restless, it seemed to impact Ruby. Maki cut another pound of potatoes into quarters, then laid them in the bottom of the roaster. Carefully settling the browned, seasoned meat on top of that, Maki put the roast in the oven. The girls would have some rewarmed chili when they were ready for their supper. It would be an early night for them. Maki didn’t want them to overhear the conversations so she was letting them tire themselves out by playing outside. Nico was napping.

Maki heard the door.

“Mama?” Dia’s voice, but with no worried notes to concern Maki.

“Be right there.” Maki closed the oven door and washed her hands.

“Ruby’s tired of playing.”

“Okay. Come inside. I'm done here."

“Can we sing?” Dia asked, green eyes wide and hopeful.

Sunday afternoon with their songbook was a family tradition. This was just a regular day for the girls, no matter what having a dinner with law enforcement to discuss the bandit who had ended up in Maki’s spare room was doing to the doctor’s nerves.

“Sure.” Maki sat, poised, at the upright, flexing her fingers, playing a few scales to warm up, while Dia decided which songbook to pick.

“Nico’s a cowboy?” Dia asked.

Any word was better than bandit. “Cowgirl. Maybe cowpoke.”

“Cowpoke.” Ruby giggled.

"This one." Dia handed Maki Jack Thorp’s Songs Of The Cowboys, open to the first song, “Ti Ri Youdy.”

That was a fun one, the girls singing the chorus after each verse.

“Let’s practice the chorus. Remember, it’s Singin' Ti Ri Youdy I ea ea ea, singing Ti Ri Youdy I ea.”

All three voices: “Singin' Ti Ri Youdy I ea ea ea, singing Ti Ri Youdy I ea.”

Then Maki started the verse, “Well boys you see I’m back, on my old red roan And I find there’s no place, like this old ranch home…”

After getting through most of the song, Maki skipped a couple of verses, finishing up with “Well I’ll bid you adios for I got to mosey long And I hope you all enjoyed an old Cowpuncher song.”

A new voice joined the family chorus, lively and bright, “Singin' Ti Ri Youdy I ea ea ea, singing Ti Ri Youdy I ea.”

Maki paused, turning to where Nico was leaning in the doorframe, watching the scene.

“You’re a CowPUNCHER.” Ruby declared, pointing at Nico.

“Nope. Nico never started a fight with anything four legged. Nico had a chuck wagon. Cowpunchers would line up for her famous Range Riders Stew.”

Dia was sitting next to Maki, “Can we have that?”

“Well, we have the apples. Just need beef and the regular stew stuff.” Nico counted ingredients off on her fingers.

“Mama?”

“Give me a list; I’ll pick it up in the morning.”

Nico came over to the piano, leaning over Maki, brushing her shoulder as she flipped through the songbook, “What else is in here? Nico knows a bunch of songs. We should make camp some night and sing them around the campfire. Nico wants to see the Falls before she leaves. We’ll have campfire chili and johnny cakes and roasted potatoes. ”

“Put it on the list.” Maki said.

“And pudding.” Dia added.

“Nico can do pudding.”

Ruby’s eyes were so big Maki feared she’d never be satisfied with Maki’s simple cooking now.

Nico bumped into Maki’s back as she turned another page, humming, smelling like peppermint somehow, a refreshing and cool calm. Maki focused on that, not overheating from everyone crowding around the piano. No one mentioned that Nico said she was leaving.

###

Sheriff Umi Sonoda pushed back from the table. “Kotori will chide me for eating so much. I didn’t know you could cook so well, Maki. Nozomi gave me the impression the girls only got hot meals when you brought them home from a restaurant.”

Maki huffed. Nico grinned. Maki cringed, waiting for some comment about how the girls were so eager for “Nico’s number one cooking” or something like that.

“Dia and Ruby love their Mama’s cooking.” Nico took another bite of roast, “And it’s healing Nico up darn fast.”

“Good to hear. You’ll need your strength.”

“Shall we move this to the parlor?” Maki asked. “I have some brandy a patient sent me.”

Nico helped Maki put the dishes in the sink, but with the housekeeper coming tomorrow, they were just left there. Maki pulled four cut crystal snifters from the hutch.

With everyone settled in chairs, Maki poured. “How is Kotori?”

“Doing well. She has a wedding dress to make for a client in San Francisco. And her mother is coming for a visit next month.”

“I am sorry she couldn’t join us.”

Umi shook her head at Maki, “It is best to just keep the discussion among those of us most involved.”

Rin nodded. “Hanayo doesn’t need to know details.”

Nico sipped at the brandy, then put the glass down.

“Nico knows too many.”

“So, Nico, how did you go from chuckwagon to robbing wagons.” Umi needed reassurance that Nico could be trusted.

Nico’s eyes darkened. “Someone heard I inherited my father’s rifle and found out about Nico being the best shot in camp.”

“Your father’s rifle?”

“His Sharp’s rifle and his sniper’s eye. Tsubasa found out and made Nico her lookout.” Nico fist was clenched, her knuckles white, remembering the threats to her family “Tsubasa makes it so no one says no.” Nico glanced at Maki, “Nico never killed anyone. Tell them, Rin.”

“No, Nico never killed anyone. Nico’s not a killer.”

“What did your father do?”

“Soldier, then miner. He died in a mine collapse.”

Awkward silence.

“So tell us about this meeting you attended.” Umi got everyone back on topic.

“Nico was the lookout. Big plans to head back to Colorado for a meetup at the end of the month, then back into the mountains to derail a train. Tsubasa had information that one of the big banks was sending gold west.”

Umi unrolled a map. “Where’s the meetup?”

Nico pointed.

Rin examined the map. “Where are they hitting the train?”

Nico moved her finger.

“It’s our best chance to catch the whole gang.”

“We need to get…” Umi stopped, awkward.

Rin sounded worried. “If she leaves before they all head out for the heist, they’ll know. And call it off."

“They plan to ride fast. There’s not much on this trail.” Nico shuffled her finger. “But there is a bridge we could block to set up an ambush.”

Rin sighed, “I don’t know if we can get any other marshals there in time.”

“Maybe someone could follow them from…”

Umi shook her head, “We can’t afford any leaks of information. Her life is at stake.”

Who was “her?” Maki wondered as she sat still, gathering as much information as she could.

“There’s the three of us.”

“You don’t have to come, Nico.” Umi said seriously, “It’s not your job.”

“She saved my life. Rin did too. I owe them.” A quick look to Maki, “And Nico wants to prove Nico’s one of the good guys.”

Why did that involve Nico putting her life in danger again, making herself the target of more bullets, Maki’s thoughts grumbled. Wasted effort saving someone who was just going to leave for more trouble.

“Oh, I brought your Dad’s rifle along.” Rin ran out of the room, Maki heard the door, then Rin was back, handing Nico a wrapped rifle. “You can get in some practice.”

“Thanks, pal.” Nico did a quick visual, handling the gun easily. “You took good care of it.”

Maki had a sudden flash of Nico lining up a shot, kneeling behind a rock, bullets chipping off small stones, getting closer and closer.

“You can’t have that in the house.” Maki snapped.

“All right. Lock it in your gun safe.”

“No.” Maki prickled, suddenly tired of everyone, now that they were all staring at her.

“Nico will keep it in the stable then, somewhere no one can find it.”

“The girls get everywhere. They’re at that age.”

“Nico knows what age they’re at. Nico has siblings…”

“And are they going to be glad when they hear you’re dead in a railway robbery shootout?” Maki spun and stomped out of the room, knowing her next sentence, whatever it was, would be shouted.

Nico winced, sitting and holding the gun across her lap.

“Perhaps it is time to say good night.” Umi said.

“Yeah, I’ll stop by and fill Nico in on the details when we figure 'em out.” Rin yawned, eager to get back to the ranch.

“When do we have to leave?” Nico asked quietly, staring after Maki with a thoughtful expression.

“With those dates and distances….a week.” Umi decided, “Will you be ready to ride?”

“Yeah, Maki really is a good doctor. And Nico heals fast.”

“All right. Stay low. Rin will be in touch.” Umi picked up her hat.

“We got this.” Rin chirped as she bounced after Umi.

“We got this…” Nico echoed, adding a pained note.

###

“Lotta stars tonight.” Nico said, as she walked to where Maki was leaning against a fence, staring up, infinite gems sparkling on sable stretching to the heavens.

“That’s why I love it here.” Maki blew out a puff of air, stretching out her arms. “Space and space.”

Nico carefully propped the Sharps within Maki’s reach, “Do whatever you want with it. I just need it a week from now.” Nico stepped up on the rails, seating herself on the top of the fence. “Nico would never endanger your daughters.”

“I know.”

“It’s why Nico has to leave.”

Maki turned to stare at Nico, not hiding her surprise.

“Everyone has seen the poster. Here. Nico’s hometown. All across the Plains. Nico Yazawa, bandit. Now if Nico…” Nico stared up, humming a tune Maki almost recognized, “comes back the hero who caught the A-Rise gang, Nico has a new story.”

“You can get a new start without getting shot at. People reinvent themselves every day out here.” Maki kicked her toe into the dirt, “It was a lousy picture anyway.”

“Thanks for that." Nico laughed. "Maybe you can take a photograph so Nico can have a better one for fans.”

“Maybe.”

Silence and wind and bats and night in all its fluttery brushes of life. Across the sky, a meteor streaked.

“Make a wish?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a stubborn one. Should Nico make a wish?”

“Stop being silly. Make a plan. And make it a damn good one.” Maki grabbed the rifle, stomping back to the house.

Nico laughed, startling an owl flying overhead. She would miss learning new things about the pretty, prickly doctor more than she wanted to admit.

A/N: A/N: Another Yeehawgust prompt as our Wild West tale continues

#NicoMaki #Nishikino Maki #Yazawa Nico #Frontier orphans Dia and Ruby #Love Live #Western AU #gun mention #cooking #umi sonoda #hoshizora rin

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