#exploring with josh

[twinparanormalfrien]

Masterlist

Ryan Rees:

..nothing yet...

River Rees:

..nothing yet...

Wyatt Hausman:

..nothing yet...

Seth Borden:

...nothing yet...

Exploring with Josh:

...nothing yet...

[xthewhiteravenx]

A demon, a kiss, and a long stretch of Kansas highway was all it took for Seth Borden to fall for Nate Hardy.

The Implications of Falling In Love by goddess-of-time-and-magic

[insomnianoctem]

Oh wow it got worse as I scrolled down Does anyone have any urbex channels on youtube that they can recommend that go to really cool places that aren't Exploring with Josh? Only Youtube urbexer I follow right now is Abandoned Urbex Canada and I like his videos but I'd love to see places outside of Canada too

[makymakvrchat]

Beyond the dark - Japan

[bizedutrend]

Exploring Mytyles – Wall and f: Wall and Floor Tiles Innovations

Tiles are more than just functional materials—they’re design elements that transform spaces, blending beauty with durability. At Mytyles – Wall and f, we specialize in providing top-quality wall and floor tiles Read More

[diyasgarden]

merry christmas, please don’t come

“Oh, golden boy, you shined a light on our home and at your best you were magic we were sold. But don't tell 'em what you told me. Don't even tell 'em that you know me.I would rather burn forever”

from “Merry Christmas, Please Don’t Call” by the Bleachers

“What do you mean Patrick isn’t coming?”

Art doesn’t know how many times they’ve had this conversation. (He stopped keeping track after the fifth time)

Memory loss, a dwindling attention span, and blanking. All problems the doctors said his grandmother would struggle with after her stroke. He’d expected difficulties with remembering her routine or where she was. Even the people around her. General things, he could walk her through. Not something so specific. And frankly, considering all the things she could forget, this feels like a cruel joke.

He lets out a steady exhale, stepping closer to where his grandmother stands by the small fir covered in lights, tinsel, and other markers of the Christmas season. Sebastian, the old tabby, is nuzzled right by where his grandmother placed the small, wrapped box under the tree, looking up at him with a cautious gaze.

“He isn’t able to come this year,” Art repeats, reaching to the home-made popsicle candy cane ornament hanging at arm’s length on the tree. It was the decoration he made with Patrick when he came to visit Christmas in 2000 — the first of a long line of ornaments they’d make together for the holiday. 

His grandmother lets out a gentle, albeit unbelieving scoff as she shakes her head. “He always comes,” she remarks, a blatant dismissal of Art’s words. 

His thumb rubs aimlessly over the painted birchwood decoration, as he looks back at her with a tentative gaze. She wasn’t wrong, Patrick would always come for the holiday. After spending Hanukkah with his folks, he’d fly out to the midwest by the twenty-fourth and spend the rest of winter break with him. “For a proper Christmas experience” he’d tease, although Art knew that he just didn’t want to be at home.

Now it’s the twenty-third and he was nowhere in sight. 

“Well he isn’t this year, grandma,” Art sighs, eyes quickly darting back to the tree. The ornaments he made with Patrick are there on nearly every other branch. His thumb presses down harder on the candy-cane popsicle, continuing it's steady back and forth motion, as his eyes jump from one decoration to the next.

Her eyebrows knit and she looks down to the present she placed for Patrick, Art’s gaze trailing behind her’s. In smooth, cursive black sharpie, the word “Pat” is written on top of the metallic red wrapping paper. It's small enough that Art can’t figure out what it is, but its presence may as well take up the whole room. 

“Did he say why?” she suddenly asks, instantly looking back up to him. 

The question is ironic. As if Patrick had any say in the decision. As if he chose not to come. Really Art should just say "he isn't welcome here" and move on. But that's an over simplification in itself.

Art turns his head up to her and settles with: “He’s busy.” 

t wasn’t a lie. The last time he checked, Patrick was somewhere in the Mediterranean, probably trying his luck with the European tour. Or at least that’s what Art gathered from Patrick’s recent facebook posts. (He allowed himself a peek every once in a while to keep his curiosity at bay)

His grandma takes in a soft inhale, looking back down at the present. Sebastian moves away from the box to rub against her leg with a purr, and she looks down at the cat, before shrugging. “We’ll keep it in case he comes.” 

He supposed the danger of going no-contact with Patrick meant that his old friend really had no way of knowing what Art expected.

And Patrick always had a tendency to see what he wanted.

we'll keep it in case he comes

Suddenly, Art feels a sharp poke in his hand, and he turns back to where his finger holds the popsicle stick decoration to see a splinter in his thumb.

He stares at it for a moment and then yanks the decoration off the tree.

It’s around midnight when he goes to properly handle the decorations.

He tip-toes down the stairs, cautious to avoid Sebastian on the railing who is already looking at him with an accusatory gaze. If it wasn't for the cat's general hatred of him, he'd assume it knew exactly what he is about to do. When he walks to the kitchen to grab a trash bag, he can hear the cat hiss. Drawing out an eye roll as he creeps towards the tree in the living room.

The place is only illuminated by the yellow-toned string of lights on the tree, and he just stands there, taking in all the ornaments he is about to take down. 

Some wash pin-figures

Couple of snow globe bulbs

Many paper snowflakes. 

And the candy cane popsicles.  

He lets out a deep exhale before quietly pulling each decoration from the tree and placing it gently into the trash bag. He moves quietly and focuses his eyes on the motions of his hands, not allowing himself to look at any ornament longer than he has to. Only Sebastian’s displeased purrs filling the room.

By the time he’s done, his stomach churns at the sight of the tree now mostly decorated by store bought figures, tinsel, and lights. It’s a foreign sight he keeps looking at, up and down, until eventually the little present with the cursive “Pat” written on-top catches his attention. 

The metallic red wrapping of the little box reflects the Christmas tree lights back like a kaleidoscope. Art just stares down at the sight, still unsure of what the present is. 

Hesitantly, he bends to the floor and gingerly reaches for the box, picking it up in a sluggish motion. It fits into the palm of his hand, and makes no noise. There's a certain weight to it that he can’t place. and his thumb deliberately runs against the tape of wrapping paper.

Then with the same sluggish movement from before, he puts it back down underneath the tree. His hands flex against where he holds the trash bag, and he remains on the ground. Eyes tracing the loops of his grandmother's handwriting and the fractured reflections of colored light.

When he eventually pushes himself to go back upstairs, he puts the bag in the back corner of his closet. Tucking it away behind some old duffle bags from his time at the academy before dragging himself to bed.

Patrick posts a photo of a Turkish marketplace on the twenty-fourth. Somewhere in Istanbul. Or Izmir.

Art doesn't really care where.

At least he was right about it being the Mediterranean. 

authors note: this is me fighting the art donaldson hater allegations!! not really sure how i feel about this, but i think of art and patrick everytime i hear this song and knew i had to write a fic based on it for them. although i did change the line for the title, just so it would fit better with the final product. many mixed feelings on this, but i hope you enjoyed it!! tell me what you think!!! and if you want an edit of artrick to this song...check this out!

art credit: from the December 1960 issue of the new yorker

[joshuamj]

In Time and Stars

[twinparanormalfrien]

so i um forget how much i suck at coming up with ideas, so please send in some ideasss

[cantcatchmeee]

Behind The Scenes of Uncut Gems

[whitepolaris]

Josh made it to DailyMail!

[amygdalae]

i dont really talk abt it on here but i quite enjoy stand up comedy

[strigimorphaes]

A quick ficlet for the 6th stage of Paris-Nice - mads/mattias & josh. @mundanememory mads and mattias kissing lets talk about it

Josh has started shaking, and maybe the cold's doing something to his head and better judgement since he's not headed back to his own team bus. He's drifting towards the blue-yellow-red blotch at the other end of the street, barely able to make it out through the rain on his glasses. He takes them off along with his helmet to greet the Lidl-Trek guys hanging out in front of it. Maybe their better judgement's off too, if they're choosing to stand outside under this little canopy-thing instead of being inside with the heating on.

"Hey," one of them says. "Congratulations on second."

"Thanks," Josh answers, teeth clattering a little. How annoying, when he's trying to look cool. "Is Mads around?"

"Why?"

"I wanted to ask him something about the sprint, like, and say congratulations, too."

He wants to know how close he came to beating Mads, and to use this chance, this sudden importance at the finish, to maybe get to know some of his competitors and, hopefully, feel like a real part of this part of the peloton, the big boys who are in contention for monuments. A little bit of fake it 'till you make it, a little but of curiosity about what kind of conversation he might have with a guy like Mads after a stage like this. Maybe Mads will tell him what he did bad or good in a way that's different than his own DS. He wants something more than a handshake in any case, something that makes the day feel finished.

The Lidl-Trek guy - hard to tell them apart when they're all so bundled up and weathered - says, "He's in the bus, but now's not a good time. Him and Skjelmose are getting changed."

"Did he kick you all out for that?" Josh asks. He can't imagine willingly standing around in this cold.

"Nah," says another one - Kirsch? Either way he crosses his arms and adds, "Asked nicely, more like. And when you win the stage, you earn ten minutes of peace. It's okay, he buys the round when we celebrate after."

Josh looks past them to the curtains at the entrance to the bus. The windows are dark so he can't see anything inside. It's his luck that a Eurosport guy with a microphone suddenly approaches, eager to hear about the team's thoughts on the day. With the same feeling in his body as when he jumps the gap between two groups on the road, Josh steps behind their backs, using the distraction to duck inside.

He pauses on the stairs as the curtain falls behind him.

He can't hear talking or laughter. Not the click-clack of shoes or any zippers.

It's just whispering and then - a little soft, wet sound.

Josh takes two more steps up the little set of stairs to poke his head out, but of course he's too big to hide. He gets a fine view of the aisle with the seats on either side all the way down to the back where there's a little changing area, padded benches and storage for the clothes, and Mads and Mattias have been changing, sure, but they've not changed into anything new yet. Mads is sitting with his back to the wall, jersey off and bib straps hanging at his waist, and Mattias is on his lap, naked from the waist up, too, his back curved as he bends forwards to kiss Mads' cheek before nestling his face into the crook of Mads' neck. Mads' hands are on Mattias' back, petting him, holding him, warming him up. Josh can see every knob of Mattias' spine, every rib.

"One more minute," Mads says, his eyes closed as he captures Mattias' lips again. "Or are the boys getting impatient?"

Josh makes a noise that's a result of not knowing whether to say sorry or I'm not one of your boys or what or hey or fuck.

Then Mads looks at him past Mattias' shoulder, realizing it wasn't a Lidl-guy coming in, and Mattias twists to look, too. Mattias looks afraid for a second, and then Mads strokes his back again and he calms down. Mads looks like he might tell his boys to make sure Josh never sees daylight again if he talks. Josh is kind of impressed with how good at communicating Mads is, saying all that with just a glance.

"Sorry, I'll see myself out," Josh says. He steps backwards, almost stumbling. "I, uh - "

"Stop," Mads tells him. "You can't leave looking like that, man."

"Like what?"

"Like I threw a shoe at you or insulted your mother the moment you came in the door. Stay here until you've calmed down and look normal, like we've just had a chat. I don't want the whole fucking world to think I did something to fuck you up."

Josh nods. he tries to breathe calmly while Mattias slides off Mads' lap, sitting down on the bench next to him and pulling on a fresh shirt and a hoodie.

"We just have our own way of celebrating," Mattias says.

Mads gets up, grabbing a fresh shirt as well. He pats Mattias on the shoulder - not like he does it to others, Josh notices, not friendly and hard, but slowly to let Mattias feel the heat of his palm and the gentleness in it. Then Mads comes down the aisle, and even though he's that much shorter and narrower than Josh he doesn't feel that way. He gestures for Josh to sit, bringing them at eye level or with Josh a little lower.

"You stay quiet, right?" Mads says.

Josh nods. Then he can't help himself but ask, keeping his voice low enough that Mattias won't hear, - "Is it like, you're together? Or is it more like - I don't know, but I heard on my team, sometimes, there's kind of a - not really hazing, but mean things, you know, between the big guys and the ones that are... lower in the hierarchy."

He just wants to make sense of what he saw.

Mads smiles. "Nah, it's love, Josh."

Which - Josh wouldn't have considered that an hour ago when they were pushing like mad, and he was watching Mads and Mattias take their turns, surrounded by other madmen in rain jackets with trembling hands. He hadn't thought that people could be close in that way, too, in the peloton. He thought you got a model girlfriend or a long-suffering wife or dedicated yourself entirely to the sport. That those were the options. He must be staring into space while he's realizing that there's this , too, because Mads makes an expression like Josh looks funny.

"Now get out of the bus," Mads tells him. "We can talk some other time."

"Yeah," Josh says. He's glad the seats have handles so he can hold onto something and pulls himself up. It's going to be a whole thing to sit back at his own bus holding this knowledge inside him, and he pauses for a moment to find his footing -

"Atta boy," Mads says, and puts a hand on Josh's shoulder, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek that's definetely a mocking joke played on Josh, something to fluster him and make him leave very very quickly and confused and blushing.

Outside, the Lidl-Trek riders see Josh's red face and laugh loud enough that Mads has to hear it inside the bus.

Josh hurries to his own mates, far warmer than before.