#me when my parents borrow my car for several days

[sirfrogsworth]

Froglock Holmes, Internet Sleuth

I don't remember dates very well, but I believe sometime in the mid 2000s I had a friend drive me from St. Louis to Detroit. It was a very difficult journey. I have never done well as a car passenger and driving for an entire day was one of the more miserable experiences in my life.

But I got through it because I was *convinced* I was about to be cured. Back then it was the only thing I wished for and I was willing to try absolutely anything.

So we were off to see the Wizard about my wish.

During that time there were no doctors in St. Louis who knew anything about Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. But I found a website for a medical company that claimed if I saw one of their approved doctors, they could guarantee a 50% improvement. And when I did my pre-interview on the phone, that lady said some patients experienced a full recovery. To which I replied, "Yes, I will take one full recovery please."

But the closest approved specialist I could find was in Detroit and she would only treat me if I did my first consultation in person. She would then continue treating me over the phone.

My friend took three days off and she borrowed her parent's SUV so I would have leg room during the 8 hour trip. We loaded up on snacks and compact discs and began our road trip to wellness. We merged onto the Yellow Brick Road (a.k.a. I-70 East) and headed toward the land of Marshall Mathers.

The more I got car sick, the more I focused on asking the Wizard to grant my wish.

A new... mitochondria?

Plus several trillion.

A new several trillion little powerhouses.

This doctor was part of a national network of facilities that claimed they could effectively treat Fibromyalgia and CFS with a groundbreaking 6 step "holistic" approach. It was super holistic. Extra super duper holistic. The website made sure you knew it was holistic.

And those 6 steps sounded very fancy.

I mean, that all seems pretty legit. They were going to enhance my cells and address coagulation deficits. That's a thing, right?

Now I know that "holistic" is a buzzword that should be met with skepticism, but back then I was really hopeful they could help me. They enthusiastically made bold promises and filled me with such assured hope that I sold my car to help pay for everything.

We arrived in Detroit the evening before the appointment. I slept maybe an hour. Morning eventually arrived and we headed to the office. They gave me a clipboard full of paperwork that took forever to fill out.

"Can I please just see the Wizard and get my wish?"

I got to the exam room and they put me in a gown with the butt showing—which I don't think my friend was prepared for. I have a condition known as Hank Hill Butt and it can take a bit of getting used to upon first glance.

My poor friend refused to make eye contact while I was wearing it.

The doctor finally arrived and this supernatural healing wizard turned out to be a very short Greek lady. She asked dozens of questions—most of which I answered on the forms already. She poked my belly, checked my reflexes, and at no point did her examination require a gown with the butt showing.

She officially diagnosed me with severe Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and told me she was going to type up a custom treatment regimen and while she was doing that, I was going to get a special IV they designed to specifically combat CFS.

They took me to a room full of comfy reclining chairs and hooked me to an IV full of orange nonsense. Once that was done I met back up with the Wizard and she had created the afore-mentioned "customized" treatment regimen full of expensive supplements and vitamins that were not covered by insurance. Many of which I had to buy directly from the facility. As I looked over the treatment worksheet, I realized they gave the same document to all of the patients.

It was at this point, 560 miles away from my home, stuck in some office in the suburbs of Detroit (which will eventually be taken over by a tooth pulp dentist), with my Hank Hill butt hanging out...

I realized this could have been an email.

I decided to put everything on three different credit cards. Combined with the money from my car, I had about $20,000 to invest in fixing my broken body. My plan was to get all better so I could get a job and pay everything back. I even told the doctor this brilliant financial stratagem and she agreed it was a good plan. No notes.

Young Froggie was being hit in the face with red flag after red flag and Old Froggie is a little embarrassed about that.

I don't remember any of the supplements, but they had names like "EnergyMax Plus" and "Ultra MitoBooster 3000." They definitely sounded like legitimate, evidenced-backed medical supplements and not knockoff energy drinks endorsed by D-list Instagram influencers.

It wasn't all overpriced vitamins though. The doctor had some silly ideas that were actually covered by insurance. She said I should thin my blood so it took less energy to circulate. And I should boost my testosterone levels above the typical range to improve energy. So I had to inject myself with blood thinners and rub testosterone cream on my legs every day for months.

The blood thinners gave me tons of painful bruises at the injection sites and made me dizzy from time to time. The shots became so painful I would have to close my eyes and have my dad inject me. Otherwise I would chicken out. We kept running out of places that didn't have bruises so he would just pick the smallest bruise and stick the needle there.

And the testosterone cream had an interesting side effect that I am debating whether to talk about as I write this sentence.

Okay, I'm just going to tell you.

We are all adults here and we can handle adult conversations while remaining dignified and mature.

The testosterone cream gave me constant, spontaneous, hours-long boners.

I hadn't experienced anything like it since I was a teenager. No erotic inspiration required other than a gentle breeze. Only this time I didn't have a math book to hide behind.

None of it helped my fatigue.

In fact, the constant bonerpalooza was exhausting to deal with.

"Oh look, that actress I enjoy has a fully exposed ankle." "I bet that attractive lady has boobs under that heavy winter coat." "Hey, is it Wednesday?"

At some point it becomes a chore, ya know?

Thank god it was well before 2014, because if I had seen Chris Evans bicep curling a helicopter I probably would have needed hospitalization.

/end dignified adult conversation

After six months I had 0% of the promised 30-50% improvement 90% of the time and she kept saying I just needed to give it more time. She said it works quicker with the IVs full of orange nonsense. But they custom made those IVs and can only administer them in Detroit. She claimed the oral supplements were filled with the same nonsense, but took much longer to kick in. She told me I could be patient or drive to Detroit once a week for an IV treatment if I wanted faster results. If that were true, I feel like that should have been disclosed at the beginning. But I was assured I could get the same results without the IV treatments.

It didn't matter at that point. My credit cards were maxed out and I was out of money. I called the doctor and asked if there was any treatment she could recommend that was covered by my insurance. She got very quiet and awkwardly said she would try to figure something out. Roughly 30 minutes later I was emailed a coupon for $20 off our next phone consultation. I responded and told her I literally had no money left.

I never heard from her again.

The Wizard had no ability to grant my wish for several trillion properly functioning mitochondrias. She had no magic treatment. I finally saw her for what she truly was.

With perfect hindsight I could now see all of the red flags.

Though if I hadn't at least tried, I probably would have wondered and regretted it.

Hard to say.

I was kind of amazed how they built a country wide collection of clinics and they were able to operate for years solely on the placebo effect.

Years later I was curious what happened to this network of quackery. I found a news article saying it was all shut down due to fraud. I don't think they had a holistic approach to paying their taxes.

The reason I am telling this tale is because I have been playing detective and gathering evidence for my disability case. I started to wonder if maybe I could find my fraudulent Wizard to see if she had any kind of records or something that might help me. I knew it was a long shot, but I didn't want to leave a stone unturned.

At first all I could remember was her last name and that she was a D.O. and not an M.D. Standard Google searches were not turning up anything. I couldn't find her current practice nor any contact information. Apparently her Greek last name is a popular Arabic first name for men... so all my searches kept resulting in doctor dudes. This was not the time for a sausage fest and I was getting frustrated.

And then I finally remembered the name of the medical company.

Fibromyalgia & Fatigue Centers, Inc.

I even remembered their URL... fibroandfatigue.com

So I went to the Wayback Machine and I was able to find their now-defunct website. I suddenly remembered its cloudy banner image and "concerned_woman.png" like it was yesterday.

Why, yes... I am tired of being tired.

I also remembered their promise that over 90% of patients had at least a 30-50% improvement. Which was the claim that sent me down this rabbit hole to begin with all those years ago.

I started searching different versions of the site to see how their claims of effectiveness changed over time. At first they basically implied they made everyone completely better.

If I saw that I would definitely think I was getting a cure. But I imagine this caused some problems so they had to dial it back a bit.

I couldn't find the 90% version, but I did find the 30-50%.

This actually sounds like you have a 100% chance of a 30 to 50% improvement.

As I skipped around to the archived captures of different years, the promised percentage kept changing. I don't think they did an actual statistical analysis of their patients. I think they just picked a percentage that sounded enticing without promising too much. Just enough to be life-changing with a built-in excuse for when it all goes tits up.

Years after my experience, the site finally settled on a 65% improvement in energy levels. It was on their new page detailing how "affordable" their treatment was.

$20,000, you say? Balderdash, no one would spend that much.

If you were curious, they claim their treatment is now affordable due to a new monthly payment plan system. It did not become any cheaper.

However, under the 65% promise, they added this disclaimer with a large bold heading...

Success depends largely on your dedication and commitment. Our most successful patients are the ones who make the commitment to follow the treatment program rigorously. Patients who are aggressive and comply with the treatment process experience significantly better long-term results than those whose dedication is half-hearted and whose compliance is minimal.

In other words, "If our bullshit supplements don't work, it is YOUR fault."

Or in my case... "If you run out of money, it is YOUR fault."

Oh and there was also this...

Looking at all of the versions of the Fibro & Fatigue, Inc website was certainly fascinating, but I had to quit dicking clicking around and find my focus.

I still had detective-ing to do.

I was on the hunt for a Detroit-area Greek doctor of osteopathy.

There were ~250 captures of the site between 2004 and 2016. She wasn't listed in the newest captures, nor the oldest captures. So I kept trying to drill down to find the exact time period she worked at the company.

And then... EUREKA!

She was hiding in 2005 on their "Meet the Doctors" page.

Her first name was *drumroll* Sultana!

I can't imagine why I didn't remember that common first name.

Finally, after weeks of trying to figure this out, I now had enough information to do a proper Google search and discover what the heck she is currently up to. Probably putting people in open-butt gowns to check their tonsils or something.

*googling noises intensify*

I'm not sure I've ever come across such a literal dead end.

Should I be making puns about this?

I mean, she did help exploit me out of my entire life savings and put me in significant credit card debt with the Sex Panther-approved promise of a guaranteed 30-50% recovery 90% of the time.

And the institution she was a part of was shut down for fraud.

Still... I never wished an early death upon her.

I would have been happy with a trip to small claims court.

[syoddeye]

the introductions

ceo!price x reader / ~2.9k words

Next installment in the 141 Group miniverse. Some more familiar faces in this one.

CW: power imbalance, alcohol (mentioned), bad apologies

You wondered if you did or said something wrong. After allowing John to politely bully you into drinks, whatever mild flirtation that sprung up over cocktails seemed to fizzle by the following day. In the two weeks since, you overturned and analyzed every detail you could remember.

Mr. Price, or John, as he insisted then, stubbornly kept the conversation one-sided. It was difficult to pinpoint where things went wrong. You did not think you were a scandalous person, far from it. You supplied answers to your CEO's questions. You divulged the 'correct' amount of information: where you grew up, your parents and family, your education, and your middling career before The 141 Group. Curiously, you don't recall him asking about your personal life.

However, somewhere between describing university life and first jobs, his hand found your knee. The memory's sharp. The candlelight reflected in his eye as his features took on a roguish quality, his confident smile unwavering, even when you stuttered mid-sentence. It simply sat there, palm calloused more than an executive's hand ought to be, a gold ring cool against warming skin, but he escalated no further.

Not for the first time, you wondered if it had been a test, one you failed.

You'd thought to tell Kyle, but as nothing happened and Mr. Price moved on, you decided against it. No need to rock the boat. And Jordan wouldn't hear a whisper of it, either. Her strength was not secret-keeping. So, you moped privately and threw yourself into work as usual. Mid-quarter reviews approached swiftly, with no time for fantasies.

Then, one Friday afternoon, you find someone sitting at your desk after picking up Kyle's lunch from the lobby. No, on your desk. Flipping through last month's Vogue with an amused look is one of Mr. Price's bodyguards. A set of dark eyes flick up when you continue past nonchalantly to drop the bag of Mediterranean on the corner of Kyle's desk. Your mind races as to what's happening, but you remain composed and address the visitor.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm here to pick you up for Mr. Price's 2:00 PM."

"Pardon me?" 

"He messaged you." 

Brows furrowing, you stoop down to pick up your phone. A notification on the lock screen alerts you to one new DM, sent while you were downstairs.

johnprice - invisible > Borrowing you for an appointment. Bring your things, we won't be returning to the office.

You bristle. It's irritating on multiple fronts. Two weeks of nothing, now Mr. Price comes out of nowhere to claim the rest of the day? Friday afternoons are for teeing up Monday, setting the foundation for the week ahead. Kyle needs you.

"Miss? If you would," The guard gestures to your personal effects.

With a huff, you power down your laptop and quickly tidy. You button your long coat with one hand and scrawl out a note to Kyle with the other.

"That won't be necessary," The guard informs you. "Mr. Garrick is apprised."

Oh goody, you crumple the note, He's going to blow up my texts about this.

You follow the guard to the elevators, ignoring the several heads that turn when you pass. You give Jordan seven minutes before she also floods your inbox.

The ride down is awkward. On multiple floors, the doors open only for the soul on the other side to clock the guard and insist on taking the next car.

"Where are my manners," You murmur after the third stop, look to your intimidating companion, and hold out a hand. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

"Farah," She answers and clasps your hand in a shake.

"Pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise."

Eventually, the elevator reaches the garage. The doors open and reveal a familiar car, and the taller guard stands at the ready. He smiles boyishly beneath a mustache as you approach.

"Miss."

"Hi…?"

"Alex, ma'am." 

Alex opens the car door, and the low intonations of Mr. Price trickle out. He does not look up from a padfolio on his lap, turning a page with one hand and holding his phone with the other.

You climb in, give Alex a tight smile when he shuts the door, and watch him confer with Farah. She motions with her chin to a sleek, black motorcycle parked in a nearby spot. Alex rubs the back of his neck, Farah pats his shoulder, and you look away as the man turns back to the car. He takes the passenger seat.

The moment the door closes, John presses a button. A glass privacy screen rolls up, gradually darkening until it's opaque, and separates the front and the back of the car. 

You act unbothered. Act.

The car departs the office's garage and joins afternoon traffic. John's volume level rises a fraction. He settles back against his seat, eyes cast out the window. Still not on you.

"If there's anythin' else, I want to know. As thorough as you can be in the next 48 hours."

You scroll socials on your phone, strain to listen, but you cannot hear whoever's on the other end of the call.

"Right, no, she's with me now."

Do not look over.

Mr. Price shifts in his seat. "Black skirt, off white blouse, green coat."

Wait. Is he–?

In your periphery, Mr. Price leans over the empty seat, and you flinch when a hand appears beside your head. It stops short, and you turn to meet eyes. His hand gestures to your hair, and you guess after a second he wants you to hold it back from your ear.

"Gold."

He is. 

As if discussing the weather, Price is describing the details of your outfit to some unknown person. Evidently finished, he leans back.

The low simmer rises to a boil.

"Anythin' that happens in the next twenty, text it. I've got to run. Mhm. Tomorrow." Finally, the call ends. 

Rationally, Mr. Price is not someone you should not get snippy with, so you try to sound more curious than angry. "Sir, may I ask what I'm doing here?"

He withdraws a pen from a pocket, and scratches something out on the top page. "Extra set of hands," The phrase seems to trigger another thought, and he looks at your hands clutching your phone. He indicates with the pen to extend one.

You do, despite your annoyance.

"When did you get those done last?"

You glance at the simple sage-colored manicure. It's accumulated only one chip. "Two weeks ago?"

"Hmm." He hums. "Try not to draw attention to your hands, and see to those this weekend."

Maybe the chip on the nail is noticeable, but Mr. Price is about to notice the chip on your shoulder. "Mr. Price. Please," You grit your teeth. "What am I doing here?"

"I require an assistant today, and Kyle graciously loaned you to me."

'Loaned', you do not like the sound of that. "Respectfully, that is how I ended up in this car, sir. If I'm to help you, I need to know what you need from me and how it's connected to my…appearance."

"Notes," He says too quickly. "Your notes from the proposal meeting were impressive. The conversation I'm about to have will require my full participation, so you are here, in this car, to accompany me and record what I might miss."

You fume silently. He could have said that from the start. Suddenly, it feels silly to be upset over two weeks of silence. Mr. Price is clearly a man whose attentions only come when he needs a person for something, like a tool. Why you fooled yourself into thinking otherwise, you don't know.

The car eventually stops in front of a building of Portland stone and judging by the foot traffic, it's drinks all over again: more rubbing elbows with people whose net worth could eat yours several times over while you're woefully underdressed.

The restaurant is one that's on every 'best in the city' list, with multiple stars and dollar signs. Tufted, emerald green banquettes, polished oak throughout, filtered natural light through ivory lace curtains. Even past the lunch hour, it's busy. The hostess, scarcely younger than you, greets Alex and then beckons down a side hall.

Dutifully, you follow behind Mr. Price, clutching your off-brand bag to your chest. Hiding it, like you could pass as a regular patron.

A small private room, furnished and staged with a table for two, awaits. 

"Bring another chair and a side table for the lady," Price instructs, pointing toward the room's corner. When the hostess sends for the furnishings, you pluck up the courage to ask.

“You want me to sit behind you, sir?”

“Can’t have you distracting me.”

It shuts you up quick. The chair and table arrive and are arranged carefully under Mr. Price's watchful eye. You sit when he glances pointedly at the Picardy. You withdraw your laptop, with which he takes issue next. You are made to exchange it for your legal pad. Something about the restaurant being too nice a place for the clicking of a keyboard. With nothing in your lap to balance the writing surface, you cross your legs at the knee and scrawl out the date, time, and location.

John orders for you - Earl Grey and a small sampling of accompanying bites. He orders for himself and his ‘guest’, who’s yet to arrive. 

You sneak a few morsels, nerves oddly creeping up on you. Between the utter lack of information and Mr. Price's exacting behavior, you humor if he’s meeting a member of the royal family or a celebrity. Busying yourself with a flowery doodle in the margins, you attempt to relax.

A booming voice tinged with an American accent from out in the hall lifts your head. Price’s too. You watch the CEO check his watch, adjust a cuff link, and stand as a handsome blond man appears in the doorway. 

You hastily pop to your feet.

“Alex, good t’see you again,” the stranger drawls. Southern definitely, Texan maybe? The gentleman shakes the bodyguard’s hand, head turning slowly into the room. He spots Price first, you second. 

His eyes are like John’s - blue, a flintier shade. Self-possessed with a horizontal scar over a cheekbone and a toothy grin. Confident. So much for having a singular type.

“John, how the hell are ya?” The man’s gaze shifts to Mr. Price. He extends a hand, flashing another thick silver watch band. 

“Graves. Trust your travels were smooth?”

“As butter. Kind of you to ask. Say, who’s this little lady you’re hiding back here?”

Mr. Price does not turn to introduce you; he merely retracts his hand from the shake. “Assistant.”

It smarts, but Graves steps closer and reaches out. Instantly, you’re soothed. You take his hand and give your name in a tone so shy you hardly recognize your own voice.

The American repeats it, tongue running over his teeth like he’s savoring the last bite of dessert. “Pleasure to meet you, darlin'. My name is Phillip Graves.”

Oh! You know this name from the big meeting notes. He’s the—

“President of Shadow Company, at your service.”

“If you’re done chattin' up my assistant, I’m hoping we can discuss the details of the contract.” 

Phillip releases your hand with a wink and joins Price at the table. The men sit, and so do you.

You are not sure when the business portion of the meeting begins, but being you, you start taking notes anyway. 

Phillip Graves. Confirmed Texan. Employs lots of sport metaphors. Sprinkles the word fuck into conversation when he gets excited. Obviously an appreciator of nice suits, like Price, but clearly of an American cut. His is a dark blue, most likely to bring out his eyes, which are on you.

Hmm. Phillip keeps looking at you. Whenever John speaks, his eyes stray. You pretend not to notice, save for one or two times you catch him, and he flashes that smirk again. 

He is a handsome distraction. Not enough to completely knock you off course, luckily. Not when the CEO expects another set of immaculate notes. You sip your tea to break the spell and refocus.

By the time the meeting winds down, you’re out of tea, and a stack of notes sits on your lap. Your hand cramps a little. However, you have a handle on things now - how important Project Intercontinental is to the 141 Group.

When the men stand to shake hands once more, you do, too. 

Phillip nods at you, eyes dropping subtly down you while Mr Price briefly looks at his phone. “Looking forward to working together, John. Glad we’ll be seein’ more of each other, workin’ close.”

You suspect you should not heat at that, so you act like your discount purse is very interesting.

“Likewise, Graves.”

When Phillip leaves, Mr Price doesn’t move, not until Farah ducks her head in and nods.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he rumbles, voice harsh through gritted teeth as he gathers paperwork Graves left for him.

He must be referring to making you sit behind him again. It was rather awkward. “It’s fine, sir. I heard everything well enough.”

“That's not what I mean. Wait a tick, need to make a call."

Things packed away, you examine the fineries of the space. It'll probably be the last time you're in a private room of a multiple-star restaurant for the foreseeable future. You half-listen to Price's phone call.

"That so?" He asks, pausing. "I see. Well, your idea worked. Man's got a weakness…Yes, behind me. Saw his eyes keep moving over my left shoulder."

You freeze, fingers pinching the pearly lace of a window dressing. 

"Mhm. Add it to the file. I want multiple methods of putting him on the back foot and keeping him there if need be," Mr. Price sounds closer, and sure enough, he stops at the edge of your vision. He rocks on his heels once, staring through the window.

Openly, you gawk at him. The nerve. Man in charge or not, the audacity is astounding. 

If he notices the building anger beside him, he does not say a word. In fact, his hand lifts and toys with the delicate trim as well. 

It's childish, but you move away and retrieve your coat. You know how to get back to the office. He can't get upset with you if you intend to return to work. However, before you finish closing the fasteners of the coat, Mr. Price ends the call. 

"I've got to run. Let's discuss this later."

You turn to grab your bag, only to see a large hand draped over it on the chair. "Don't recognize this brand."

He's not even looking at you. He examines the bag's strap, where it's worn thin from years of riding on your shoulder. The strap you snatch up and haul into place.

"Yes, well, forgot my Moynat at home," You snipe, forcing a thin smile.

Mr. Price simply stares at you, mouth a line framed by his beard. Then his nose twitches, mustache following. "You're upset."

Biting the flesh of your cheek, you shake your head. "No, sir."

His head tilts in a half-nod, a brow lifting, and he steps closer. "Mhm. A good assistant you may be, a poor liar, you are not."

The proximity does something. Without the dark of the copy room after hours or a drink in hand, you're vulnerable. But not cowed. "You used me. As bait." 

"Not bait," He corrects in a lowered tone. "I admit, your presence and placement was predetermined but not malicious. Needed to see something."

You frown. "If I was Phillip's type?"

His eyes narrow slightly. "If he's easily distracted."

It's a shock to hear this man, a man who's been featured in various business publications a dozen times over, admit to such a scheme. Even if he doesn't come right out and say it. You lick your bottom lip and huff. 

"Right. I'll have the notes typed up and delivered to your desk as soon as possible." Turning away to escape, you adjust your bag, and a hand takes your elbow.

"Let me make it up to you," He squeezes gently and steps closer again. "Kyle is not expecting you back, and the working day is almost done."

Your head turns and tilts up; he's right over your shoulder. He's got to know what he's doing, looking at you like this, gaze somehow soft yet stern. It's another invitation that leans more toward command, more instruction than a suggestion. The worst part is that you really would not mind a repeat of two weeks ago. You found the attention of a powerful man more intoxicating than any cocktail.

The hand on your elbow releases. He knows he's got you, smug man.

"Fine," You acquiesce, then push it a little. "It'll take more than a drink, though."

His eyes crinkle as he grins. "I've something better in mind."

After thanking the hostess, he leads the way back to the car. Once inside, he takes another couple of calls, and that damn hand finds your knee again. You should pull away or push it off, but you don't, not when his middle and ring fingers rub small circles on the inside of the joint. 

You retreat to the relative neutrality of your mobile's screen. 

When the car stops a short time later, you nearly drop the device in your lap. Outside, the Moynat brick and mortar sits, waiting.

His hand squeezes. "Will this do?"

[ghosttotheparty]

something like bones and glass

warnings: homophobia; religious homophobia; f slur (several times); brief mention of pedophilia; past child abuse and neglect; violence/fighting; blood; rough sex also on AO3

Steve’s parents come home. Without warning.

Usually they call a few days in advance, just to let Steve know, probably because they assume Steve has friends over, has parties that he has to clean up after, but it’s been a while since that happened. It’s still nice to know when they’ll be home, just so he can prepare himself. So he knows what day he can hole up in his room or escape to Robin’s or Nancy’s.

But he hears their car pull into the driveway as he’s kissing Eddie against the wall by his bed, as Steve is pushing his hands under Eddie’s shirt to press into his skin, as Eddie is pulling his hair, and they both pull away at the same time to blink at each other in confusion.

“Nancy?” Eddie questions, still gripping Steve’s hair, and Steve shrugs.

“She didn’t say she was coming over.” He pecks Eddie quickly before letting go and going to the window. Eddie leans against the wall, watching him smooth his shirt down before he freezes, his eyes widening. “Shit— It’s my parents.”

Eddie’s stomach drops.

“What?”

He crosses the room, joining Steve at the window to see Cathrine and Walter Harrington, pulling suitcases out their car, talking across the roof of it.

“Fuck,” Eddie says, stepping away from the window in case they look up. “Uhm. I can— I can hide up here.”

“Your van in the driveway,” Steve says. His voice is almost distant, and he’s still looking out the window, his face fallen.

“You can say you borrowed it from someone,” Eddie suggests desperately. “Or— Or I can say I’m doing maintenance work? I know about, like, electrical work, we can say your A/C wasn’t working, or—“

“Eddie.”

“Or I— I know about cars, I can say I was working on your car and you invited me in for— for water or something, and—“

“Eddie.”

“And I mentioned music so you’re showing me your tapes, or, like—“

“Eddie.”

Eddie shuts up, staring at Steve with wide eyes, his heart pounding. The front door opens. Steve takes a shaky breath, his gaze unwavering from Eddie’s as something clatters downstairs.

“It’s fine,” Steve says quietly, firmly. “It’s…”

“Steve,” Eddie says softly.

“It’s fine.” Steve shakes his head. They can hear his parents’ voices downstairs, muffled by walls and doors and distance. “We… We’re friends. Right?”

Eddie exhales and nods.

“Come meet my parents,” Steve says with a little eyebrow quirk, and Eddie scoffs. Steve’s smile is fake. Eddie can tell.

“They’re gonna hate me,” he says quietly.

“I don’t care,” Steve says, his voice sharper, and Eddie’s eyes linger on the way his jaw is set, the way it clenches as he looks at Eddie intently. “I don’t— I don’t care what they think. You’re mine.”

Eddie stares at him, his eyes flickering to Steve’s lips.

“Fuck. Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Following your lead,” he says softly, and Steve smiles weakly, tugging him in by a necklace for a lingering kiss.

“Hey,” Eddie says as Steve is moving toward the door, and Steve pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Steve says earnestly.

Eddie follows Steve out the door, hesitating to rip off his battle jacket and throw it back into Steve’s room. He smooths his shirt down and rolls his eyes when he realises what he’s wearing (Judas Priest; there’s a hand holding a giant razor blade, and he wonders why he didn’t just wear a plain black shirt). The chains hanging from his ripped jeans rattle as he walks down the hall and down the stairs, and he tucks his necklaces under his shirt anxiously before he smooths his hair back. Steve pauses at the bottom of the stairs and looks up at him.

“What are you doing?” he asks quietly, glancing at his chest, at the absence of necklaces.

“Trying to look presentable,” Eddie whispers. Steve stares at him, smiling softly.

“You’re adorable.”

“Shut up.”

Cathrine and Walter’s voices get louder as they head into the living room, where they’re both standing with their suitcases. Eddie lingers by the door, pushing his hands into his pockets in tight fists.

“Hi,” Steve says like he’s asking. Eddie watches his shoulders tighten like he’s bracing himself.

Catherine’s hair barely moves even though she whips her head around to look at Steve. It’s tall and curly and fluffy looking but stiff with hairspray, and she’s wearing a grey pantsuit, her shoulders boxy, and her heels wobble on the carpet of the living room. Walter is also in a suit, his tie loosened, his hands in his pockets.

Eddie takes a deep breath, repressing the simmering anger in his chest as he looks at them, trying hard to keep a neutral, friendly expression.

Steve’s told him about them. About how they left him at home starting when he was nine, and how he was left with nannies and teenage babysitters before that. How they’d lose their shit if he spilled juice on the kitchen floor, if he stained or tore a shirt. How he raised his voice when he was eleven and saw the back of his father’s hand and then the floor, and the gold band around his finger haunted Steve’s dreams.

How his mother constantly, shamelessly, told him it was his fault she wasn’t young and beautiful anymore. That he was the reason his father wasn’t loving and caring, as though Steve ever has any say in his own existence.

“Whose van is in the driveway?” Walter asks sharply, sans greeting even though it’s been a few months since he’s seen Steve.

“Uhm.” Steve turns slightly toward Eddie, who steps further into the room, raising a hand and suddenly wishing his nails weren’t painted.

“That— That’s mine,” Eddie says lightly, putting on a smile.

Catherine’s eyes widen, and Walter stares, facing Eddie. The room is silent except the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle.

“Steven,” Walter says in a careful, measured voice, his eyes trained on Eddie. “Why is there a killer in my living room?”

Eddie’s stomach drops further, his cheeks flaming, and he shoves his hand back in his pocket as Steve says sharply, “He’s not a killer.”

“Steven—“

“He’s not,” Steve snaps, and Eddie looks at him. “Those charges were proven wrong, and dropped, and Eddie’s one of my best friends.”

Eddie stares at Steve, at the firm set of his jaw like he’s just daring his father to argue.

The room is silent again, tense and awkward.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Walter,” Catherine says quietly, breaking the silence, placing a gentle hand on Walter’s shoulder as he and Steve stare each other down. “Let’s be polite to… Steven’s guest.”

Eddie blinks at her, trying ignore the pressure behind his eyes that always comes when he remembers that people actually believe that he’s a murderer. His hands are shaking.

“Your name is Eddie, right?” she says, sickly sweet and so kind it makes Eddie feel nauseous. It reminds him of the way kids in school used to feign interest in D&D, used to ask questions and prompt him to tell them excitedly about it just to make faces at their friends while he talked. Just to complain about how weird he is.

“Yes, ma’am,” Eddie says tightly.

“Would you like to stay for dinner, Eddie?” she says like she’s speaking to a child.

Eddie looks at Steve.

Who’s staring back, his gaze intense, his expression firm, and he nods slightly when Eddie silently asks him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says again. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

She and Walter leave to take their luggage upstairs, and Steve tugs Eddie’s shirt, pulling him into a secluded corner in the living room, and their eyes lock. Steve looks like he wants to cry, and Eddie can hear the way his breath is trembling, and Steve’s lips are pursed to keep them from quivering.

“‘S okay,” Eddie says softly.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve says weakly, still clutching at Eddie’s shirt.

“No, stop,” Eddie tells him gently, moving closer. “It’s not your fault, Stevie.”

Steve inhales sharply, pressing his lips together.

“They are assholes,” Eddie says softly, reaching up to touch Steve’s cheek. “And that’s not your fault, you got it?”

Steve nods, swallowing.

“Yes.”

“Come here.”

He pulls Steve into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs as Steve’s arms wrap around him tightly. “And after dinner we can say my van broke down and you can take me home.” He pulls away to look into Steve’s eyes. “And you can stick with Wayne and me for a while. How’s that sound?”

Steve nods, his mouth twisting, and Eddie’s heart aches because Steve is trying not to cry.

“I love you so much,” Eddie whispers. “‘S gonna be okay.”

“I hate them so much, Eddie,” Steve says. His voice wavers.

“I know, baby.” Eddie kisses him. “I know. But after this we’ll go home. And we can get high if you want.”

“Will you fuck me?” Steve asks in a small voice.

��Absolutely.”

“Cool.” He exhales and pulls Eddie into a kiss. “Love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.” Eddie kisses him again, pulling back when a door shuts upstairs, but Steve tugs him close, kissing him chastely before he carefully pulls Eddie’s necklaces out of his shirt.

“Don’t hide.”

Eddie melts a little bit.

Eddie fidgets with his necklaces while Catherine scours the fridge and freezer for a dinner to her liking, complaining about how unhealthy pizzas are and just sighing when Steve points out that he babysits children. She settles on a lasagna that she finds buried in the freezer and some lettuce. Without dressing. (Eddie thought rich people were supposed to eat better.)

Steve sits next to him at the dinner table. Eddie’s never seen plates on this table. It’s usually filled with cards or dice or maps and drawings and crayons. Steve stares sullenly at his plate, poking at his food with his fork as Eddie chats with his mom as best he can. He can still hear the ticking from the clock in the living room as they talk.

He tells her that he met Steve through Dustin, that he knew Steve at school because everyone loved him, and then he found out everyone loves him even outside of school. That the kids he babysits practically worship him. He catches Steve fighting a smile as he speaks.

The conversation dies down after a while. Under the table, Steve sets a hand on Eddie’s thigh and squeezes tightly. He’s shaking.

Eddie subtly reaches under the table and squeezes his hand, rubbing the back of it gently.

“Mr Harrington,” he says politely when they let go of each other. “Steve said you had work in, uhm, was it San Francisco?”

“That’s right,” Walter says dryly.

“I’ve never been,” Eddie says, trying desperately to keep his voice light. “How is it?”

Walter sighs, taking a bite.

“Not as nice as it used to be.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, taking the opportunity for a real conversation. “Why’s that?”

“Not as clean,” he says. Eddie hates his voice. So pompous and dry like the world bores him. “Posters and banners everywhere, all these fags walks around the streets holding hands. Disgusting.”

Eddie’s blood runs cold. In his peripheral vision he sees Steve tighten.

“Oh.” He twists his fork, seeing Steve’s hand grip the table cloth tightly. “Sounds real different from Hawkins.”

“Sure is.”

Eddie shifts so he can press his foot to Steve’s because he can’t lean over and kiss him. There’s a long stretch of silence. Eddie counts seventeen ticks of the clock before he speaks again, the silence unbearable.

“Mrs Harrington, Steve mentioned that you collect pottery.”

When he mentioned it, he said he wanted to smash all of it. Eddie doesn’t say that.

“I do,” she says brightly. “I started collecting when I was nineteen, after I married Walter—“

“Why is it disgusting?” Steve interrupts abruptly, looking across the table at his father. Catherine falls silent, staring at him. Eddie says his name softly.

“I’m sorry?” Walter says, lowering his fork.

“The fags,” Steve says coldly. “If they’re just holding hands. What’s the problem?”

Walter stares at Steve, a challenge in his eyes, but Steve keeps his ground, staring back, unblinking.

“You know why.”

“No. I don’t.” Steve lifts his chin defiantly. Eddie wants to marry him. “Tell me.”

“It’s not right.”

“Why?” Steve says, but it’s hardly a question. He almost growls. Eddie shifts in his seat.

“Men are supposed to be with women,” Walter says, his voice measured like he’s lecturing Steve. Eddie can hear the way Steve is breathing, can see his fist trembling as it grips the table cloth. Eddie kind of hopes it rips. “Homosexuals— They— They go against God’s word.”

A small part of Eddie is happy to see him get flustered.

“Right,” Steve breathes. “God’s word.” He’s nodding, his jaw tensed the way it does when he’s particularly mad. It’s hot. Eddie sets his fork down. “Because God always wants the best, right?”

Walter just stares. Catherine’s hands are in her lap.

“That’s why priests rape little boys when they go in for Sunday school, right? Because they know God’s word.” Eddie looks at him, taking a deep breath. “That’s why you married an eighteen year old when you were twenty seven.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and he looks at Catherine, who clears her throat delicately and wipes her lips with her napkin even though there’s nothing there. Walter’s face turns red.

“God also says don’t get drunk,” Steve continues, his voice strong. “And we all know you don’t have an issue with that.”

“Steven,” Catherine says firmly, but Steve doesn’t spare her a glance. The air feels like it’s tightening, like they’re all holding their breaths.

“So what’s the problem with fags?” Steve asks, his cheeks red. “Why do you hate them so much? You’re not better than them.”

“Why are you so defensive—”

“Because I am one.”

Steve is yelling.

Steve never yells, not like this. He yells to be heard over rambunctious bickering and laughter, he yells to be heard across the trailer or the house. He doesn’t yell out of anger. But he is now.

The rooms falls silent. Eddie looks from Steve to his parents, to their wide eyes, and he slowly reaches for the knife next to his plate. He grips it in his hand, his muscles tense the way they were when he was fighting the demobats with Dustin. Ready to move at any given second, like his veins are stiff with adrenaline.

“What are you saying?” Walter says coldly, quietly.

Steve scoffs, humourless.

“I think that was pretty clear.”

“Steven—“ Catherine tries to say, but Steve interrupts.

“But you want me to be clearer? I can be clearer.” He pushes his plate away, toward his dad, and leans over in emphasis. “I like men. And I’ve known for years, and I never told you because I knew you’d try to beat it out of me, but you can’t do that anymore.”

Walter throws his fork onto his plate with a clatter, his mouth twisting, and Steve just grins.

“I can be more specific,” he says in a low voice. He leans back, moving his arm to run his fingers through Eddie’s hair more gently than Eddie thought possible at a time like this. “This is my boyfriend, Eddie,” Steve says. Eddie smiles at him. “And I love him more than life itself, and I love when he holds my hand, and when he kisses me, and—”

Walter interrupts by moving out of his seat, the chair scraping loudly on the floor, his face bright red, as though anything Steve’s said is scandalous. Steve seems to have the same thought, pulling his hand away from Eddie and standing too, his eyes following Walter as he moves away from the table.

“I can tell you more,” he says loudly, defiantly. Eddie scoots his chair back, watching raptly, just in case. “I love it when he fucks me.”

Catherine gasps, and a laugh bursts out of Eddie as he watches Walter’s face redden even more.

“And he fucks me hard,” Steve continues, ignoring his mother as she says his name weakly and begins to cry. “And I fucking love it. And I bet that pisses you off even more, doesn’t it.”

He’s breathing hard, and his whole body is trembling, and Eddie feels prouder than he’s ever felt in his life.

“That I’m the one taking it,” Steve says, quieter as Walter stares at him. “You always wanted me to be a man, but I love it when my boyfriend makes me his bitch.”

Heat pools in Eddie’s stomach. He slides his tongue across his lips, wanting to pin Steve to the wall and kiss his breath away.

“And aren’t you angry,” Steve breathes. “That you don’t have another son to fix the Harrington name.” He’s moving closer to Walter, and Eddie watches carefully. Walter’s hands are shaking, his chest rising and falling with each breath that rattles around in the quiet room. “Because you’re an only child,” Steve says thoughtfully, like it’s a new discovery. “And you only had a faggot,” he adds quietly, close enough to press two fingertips into Walter’s chest as he whispers, “Harringtons end with me.”

The air snaps.

Catherine screams when Walter’s fist hits Steve’s face, and Eddie stands from his chair, his vision red, moving quickly as Catherine cries Walter’s name. Walter is trying to hit Steve again, and Eddie grabs the back of his jacket, jerking him off and holding him back as Steve takes a breath.

His eyes are shining in a way Eddie’s never seen before, with malice and rage and twenty years of anger boiling and bubbling out of him. His cheek is already blooming red, and Eddie can see the subtle mark of Walter’s wedding band. Eddie jerks his jacket again, holding him in place.

“I’m not fourteen anymore, Dad,” Steve says evenly.

The crack of his fist on Walter’s face echoes around the room, and Eddie finally drops the jacket, but not before shoving Walter against the wall hard to disorient him. He steps away as Steve punches him again, watching.

Catherine is yelling at them to stop, her voice shrill and high, but Eddie just… watches.

He’s heard Dustin and the others tease Steve for not winning fights. Losing the fight with Jonathan Byers, the fight with Billy Hargrove. But he’s also heard them all praise Steve for beating demodogs with a baseball bat. And he’s seen Steve throw a demobat into the ground by gripping its serrated tail, seen him step on its wing and rip it right in half before flinging its body away and spitting its blood on the ground. And Eddie’s known, for as long as he’s known this Steve Harrington, that he pulls his punches.

But he isn’t tonight.

Walter’s face and Steve’s hands are painted red with blood, and the sound of them both yelling and Cathrine sobbing and the sound of bone and blood are echoing around the kitchen until Walter is dropping to the floor.

Steve is gripping the front of his blood stained shirt, hitting him and hitting him and hitting him, and Eddie startles at the sound of the front door breaking in, blinking hard and realising that the room is lit up by red and blue flashing lights, that Catherine isn’t in the room.

He steps forward to pull Steve away, his vision focused on Steve as shouts fill the room, but Steve shoves him back and Eddie gets a glimpse of his face.

His top lip is split, bleeding, and his cheek is darkly bruised, and he’s crying.

Tears mix with his blood as they slide down his cheeks, and Eddie knows it must hurt as a tear hits his lip, and even though Steve must not be able to see well, he isn’t stopping. Eddie desperately shouts his name, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him away from Walter, who falls onto the floor, weakly saying something about Steve being a bastard. Catherine is sobbing in the doorway as cops pull Walter off the ground, and Eddie holds Steve back.

Steve is sobbing too, and Eddie’s whole body hurts. He’s saying Steve’s name, trying to get him to look at Eddie, wants to prompt him to breathe in all the way, but Steve won’t look at him, his arms straining against Eddie’s grip. He’s still yelling.

The cops push Walter toward the door as one of them, Powell, moves toward Eddie. Eddie recognises him. He was there when Eddie came back, when Hopper came back. He arrested Eddie once when Eddie was fifteen, but he didn’t seem to hold a grudge was Hopper and Joyce Byers filled him on the shitshow that been going on in Hawkins for the past few years.

Powell is staring, wide-eyed, at them, his mouth hanging ajar with an unspoken question.

“He threw the first punch,” Eddie says, gesturing to Walter’s wriggling body as he’s led outside, his voice shaking.

Walter is yelling at Steve, even though he can’t see him. Calling him a bastard, and a faggot. Yelling that Steve isn’t his son.

As soon as he’s out the door, Steve’s body relaxes, and Eddie pulls him close, tugging him into a hug. He’s breathing hard, and shaking so hard that Eddie can feel it even though Steve’s fists are gripping his shirt tightly. The cop looks at them, watching, but Eddie doesn’t care. Let him see.

Eddie holds his face gently when Steve’s crying slows, and he watches the flashing police lights reflect in his glistening eyes and his tears. Eddie wipes a drop of blood from his lip, nodding when Steve’s chin quivers.

“You’re okay,” Eddie murmurs. His hands are shaking too. Steve takes a deep, trembling breath, his eyes flicking back and forth between Eddie’s.

“My ear’s ringing.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, and he reaches up to Steve’s right ear, touching it gently. There’s some blood in his hair above it, and anger flashes in Eddie’s chest. He wants to go outside and beat Walter some more, regardless of the cops, regardless of his already garbage reputation. But he doesn’t. Because Steve is clutching to his shirt, and he’s crying.

“Can you hear me still?”

Steve nods, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Eddie pulls him into another hug, moving so his mouth is above his right ear, and he knows he’s getting blood on his face, but he doesn’t care.

“‘S gonna be okay,” he says softly. “I got you, sweetheart, you’re alright.”

Eddie closes his eyes, and they sway, and they can still hear the distant, unintelligible shouting of Walter outside. Powell waits next to them patiently until they part slowly. Steve is sniffling, and Eddie wipes his face, under his eyes, under his nose, wipes away the blood on his lip.

“Steve,” Powell says gently. “You gotta tell me what happened.”

Steve takes another deep breath, swallowing thickly before he looks at Powell, setting his shoulders and jaw again.

“I’m queer,” he says firmly. Powell doesn’t react, just looks at him. “I told him.”

“He hit you first?” Powell asks, reiterating what Eddie said earlier. Steve nods.

“I…” He hesitates, reaches down to take Eddie’s hand, and Eddie laces their fingers, squeezes tightly. “I provoked him. Taunted him.”

Powell pauses, looking out the window to see the cars outside, and he slides his tongue over his teeth, seething.

“Wait here a minute.”

Eddie nods, and Steve leans against him as Powell leaves. Eddie wraps his arms around Steve tightly, pulling him close.

“God, you did so good, Stevie,” he murmurs in his good ear. “‘M so proud of you, baby.”

“Eddie,” Steve says weakly. His voice is rough. Eddie kisses his forehead gently.

“I know, baby,” he says just loud enough that Steve can hear him. “But it’s done, okay?” he says. He looks into Steve’s eyes. “You’re done with him.”

Steve exhales, closing his eyes.

Eddie shifts, pulling to guide him to the table, but Steve tugs at his shirt, opening his eyes and leaving a hard, lingering kiss on Eddie’s lips. Eddie closes his eyes, holding Steve until he pulls away, and when Steve looks at him blearily, he lets out a soft laugh that seems out of place.

“I got blood on you,” he says quietly. Eddie scoffs.

“I’ve had worse bodily fluids of yours on me.”

“Gross,” Steve says, grinning, and he winces when it stretches his lip. There’s blood in his teeth.

“C’mere,” Eddie says, pulling him over and pushing him to lean against the table between Eddie’s and Catherine’s plates before he goes to get a paper towel. Steve snatches it from his hand as he stands between his legs, and Eddie lets out a small indignant noise, but Steve shushes him, reaching up to clean blood off his lip. Eddie waits, holding Steve’s hips.

“Love you so much,” Eddie murmurs.

“Love you too.”

“Is your ear still ringing?”

Steve shakes his head before he pauses, tilting his head and closing his eyes as his brows furrow. Eddie takes the paper towel.

“Little bit. Not as bad. I think it’s fine.”

Eddie gently, tenderly wiping blood off Steve’s lips before he presses it to the split, watching Steve wince slightly. He can feel Steve’s heartbeat against his fingertip. It’s still fast.

“Deep breath,” Eddie says softly. Steve closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “I got you, baby.”

Steve’s hand finds his waist, holding him tightly as he exhales.

Eddie leans in and kisses his forehead softly, feeling Steve fall forward against him. He pushes his fingers through Steve’s hair, kissing across his forehead, kissing his temple, tilting his head to kiss Steve’s ear tenderly. He whispers to him quietly.

When Powell comes back in, Eddie has to nudge Steve’s cheek gently to make him open his eyes, and Steve turns his face slightly. Eddie pulls away the paper towel. His lip doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore.

“He’s being held overnight,” Powell says, pushing a notebook into his pocket. “Paying bail, should be released around noon tomorrow.”

Steve nods.

“Your mother’s going with him,” Powell continues gently, like he can see the anguish it causes in Steve’s eyes. “She’s staying at a friend’s tonight.”

“Okay.”

Powell hesitates, looking from Steve to Eddie.

“You have a place to stay?” he asks. Eddie guesses it’s unspoken knowledge that Steve can’t stay here.

“Yes.”

Eddie knows Steve knows he can stay at the trailer for as long as he has to. And Claudia Henderson’s offered her guest room, as well as Joyce and Hopper. Robin’s offered her bedroom floor. Nancy’s offered her basement.

“And you?” Powell asks, looking at Eddie. Eddie starts for a moment, blinking at him blankly before he nods.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Okay.”

Powell hesitates for a moment longer before he looks at Steve, his eyes shining earnestly.

“He shows up again,” he says carefully. “At your work, or wherever you stay, if he threatens you… Or tries anything.” He points at Steve, so serious the air feels tense again. “You come to the station. You tell me, and if I’m not there you tell Flo, and she’ll find me, okay?”

Steve nods, staring at him, biting his lip.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay,” Steve says quietly.

“And if you need another place to stay,” Powell adds. “Let me know. My wife and I have a spare bedroom.”

Steve smiles weakly.

“Okay.”

“You too,” Powell says to Eddie. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Eddie says, smiling softly.

Powell claps Steve on his back gently.

“You’re a good kid, Steve.”

Steve pulls Eddie closer when he leaves, and Eddie moves between his legs again, touching his hair gently. The blood above his ear is dry.

They stand in silence as they listen to the cars leave the driveway. Three cars. After a moment the red and blue lights are gone, and Eddie exhales.

Eddie gazes at the bruise on his cheek. His lip is a little swollen, crusted with dry blood. After a moment, Steve leans forward, resting his head on Eddie’s sternum, and Eddie runs a hand over his hair gently.

“What do you need?” Eddie asks quietly. “You wanna shower? Go to bed?”

Steve lifts his head and looks up at him.

“I need you to fuck me.”

Eddie stares at him, looks back and forth between his eyes, watching them shine earnestly, and he stands up straight, tossing away the paper towel.

“Turn around.”

Steve grins and stands up, turning around to face the table, already tugging his shirt off and tossing it across the room. Eddie steps up behind him, tugging Steve’s hair to make him tilt his head before he presses kisses along the side of his neck.

Steve hums breathlessly when Eddie pushes him so the fronts of his legs press to the table, and Eddie reaches around him to unbutton and unzip his jeans.

“Colour?” he asks roughly, pausing as he grips the waistband of the jeans, and Steve whines, his head falling back to Eddie’s shoulder.

“Green, baby, please.”

Eddie grins, shoving Steve’s jeans and boxers down his legs and pushing at his back so he bends over the table.

“Spread ‘em,” he says, kicking at Steve’s foot, and Steve spreads his legs, groaning softly and turning his head so his cheek presses to the table. “Pretty boy.”

“Eddie,” Steve says weakly. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby,” Eddie murmurs. He leans over and kisses his back, down his spine. “So fucking much.”

He kneels on the ground behind him, running his hands over Steve’s ass and his thighs, squeezing and kneading before he leans in to bite at him for a moment before he licks across his hole, holding him tightly.

Steve whines loudly, pushing his ass back toward Eddie, who snickers quietly before eating him out in earnest, licking and sucking and nibbling as he listens to the sweet sounds Steve makes above him.

Steve is groaning and whimpering and whining, and Eddie has to pull away to laugh when a plate falls from the table and shatters on the ground.

“Fuck, sorry,” Steve says, laughing, and Eddie stands to find him gripping the table cloth tightly.

“‘S okay,” Eddie says, breathing hard, tugging Steve’s hair so he stands up again, and Steve releases the table cloth. Eddie wraps his arms around him, kissing his neck. There’s some blood on the table cloth, and Steve is drooling, and Eddie smiles. “Love it when you get all wild. My perfect boy.” He lifts a hand, presses two fingers to Steve’s lips, and Steve whimpers, opening his mouth.

Eddie bites his neck as Steve’s tongue swirls around his fingers, pressing desperate kisses around the back of his neck until he reaches his right ear.

“You have any idea how amazing I think you are?” Eddie asks softly. Steve moans, his head falling back as Eddie pushes his fingers deeper into his mouth, pressing into the pooling spit under his tongue. “Love of my fuckin’ life.”

Steve reaches up and pushes his fingers into Eddie’s hair as soft noises escape his throat.

“You feel good, sweetheart?” Eddie asks. Steve moans quietly, nodding. “You wanna feel better?”

Steve smiles around his fingers, giggling softly, and he tugs Eddie’s hair as he nods.

Eddie pulls his hand away from Steve’s mouth and takes a moment to look at Steve’s spit dripping over his fingers before he reaches down to press a finger inside him.

“Fuck,” Steve groans loudly. Eddie beams.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck, Eddie, I need— Gimme more, baby, please—”

“I’ll take care of you, Stevie,” Eddie murmurs into his ear. “I got you.”

“Feel so good, Eddie.”

Eddie smiles again, biting at his neck, fingering him open as he whispers to him. Tells him how pretty is. He gets three fingers in before Steve finally whines, tugging sharply at his hair.

“Eddie,” he gasps. “Please, please, I—”

“Bend over.”

Steve grins again, leaning to lay on the table again, resting his head so his right ear is up.

Eddie kisses his back before he steps back, unbuckling his belt as he moves to the the counter, noisily opening and shutting cabinets until he finds what he’s looking for.

Steve whines Eddie’s name, looking up at him, and Eddie pulls his belt from the loops of his jeans, shaking the bottle of olive oil at him with raised eyebrows. Steve snorts loudly and lets out a childish, juvenile laugh, grinning and hiding his face in his arms.

Eddie’s always hated this olive oil. It’s Catherine’s, expensive and fancy and ordered from Italy, always hidden away in her special occasions only cabinet. But Eddie thinks this counts as a special occasion, because the man of his dreams is bent over the dining table and Eddie doesn’t want to go all the way upstairs for lube.

Steve’s fists grip the tablecloth when Eddie pushes in, the same way he clutches at the sheets when they’re in bed. The cloth comes up, and a glass falls the floor, shattering, and Eddie laughs again, setting the olive oil down.

“You’re makin’ a mess, baby.”

Steve just lets out a long groan.

Eddie gazes down at him, at the scars that cover his back and backs of his arms, at the mess of his hair. He slides a hand over his back, smearing oil over his skin.

“How do you want it?” he asks breathlessly.

“Hard.”

“Got it. Hold on.”

Steve giggles, gripping the tablecloth, and he lets out a sharp gasp as Eddie snaps his hips into him.

Eddie loves when Steve gets like this. All loose and relaxed, going with every movement Eddie makes. Unfiltered and loud, groaning and whining and almost screaming when Eddie really gets going, his hand to the small of his back. He’s always like this, even when Eddie fucks him softly and kindly like the first time they had sex (or made love, as Eddie put it dramatically once they’d finished. Steve shoved him away and then promptly pulled him closer to tuck his face into his neck.), tangled in blankets in the back of Eddie’s van, breathing into each other’s mouths, whispering and giggling.

Another plate falls from the table.

Eddie is grinning down at him, watching, listening as he swears and moans.

“Eddie,” Steve wails. Tears are sliding down his face, staining the tablecloth.

“Yeah, baby,” Eddie says roughly, his hands gripping Steve’s hips tightly. “What do you need?”

“Fuck, spit on me,” Steve whimpers. “Make me yours, Eddie, please.”

Eddie exhales, running a hand down his spine tenderly. (That night in the van, Eddie also learned, to his delight, that Steve is even kinkier than he is. It’s fun.)

“You are mine,” he says gently. “Always.”

He fucks into him three more times as he gathers spit in his mouth, and then he pauses, letting it drip over Steve’s back. Steve lets out a soft yes, almost hissing it, and Eddie smiles down at him, rubbing the spit into his skin as he moves again.

“Eddie, right there—”

“I got you, baby, I know.”

“Eddie, please, Eddie, EddieEddieEddie—”

He presses his hand against Steve’s back hard, fucking him harder, faster, until Steve is sobbing, until the two remaining plates and the bottle of olive oil fall to the ground and shatter to pieces. Eddie laughs again.

Steve comes on the table cloth. Eddie lifts him up to wrap his arms around him when they finish, and Steve’s head falls back against Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie doesn’t pull out, just holds Steve close and pulls his necklaces around to hang backwards so they aren’t pressing into Steve’s bare skin.

“You okay?” he asks softly after pressing a soft kiss to his earlobe. Steve exhales.

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. He presses his hand over Eddie’s forearm, slides it down to lace their fingers.

“Look at that, baby,” Eddie says softly, nudging him so look at the table. Steve’s eyes flutter open, finding it. A mostly empty glass, rolling on its side in spilled water, the pale blue tablecloth uneven and folded and stained with blood and oil and come. “That’s all you.”

Steve exhales, resting his head on Eddie’s shoulder.

“I’d say you helped.”

Eddie snickers into the side of Steve’s neck, his arms tightening, and Steve moans softly.

“Smartass.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

Steve sighs. Eddie can feels his pulse on his lips. It’s slower.

“What now?” he asks quietly.

“Shower,” Steve says, squeezing his hand. “And pack.”

Eddie hums and kisses his neck tenderly.

“And then we’ll go home,” he murmurs.

Steve smiles.

“Then we’ll go home.”

They shower slowly, carefully washing each other’s hair and bodies, washing away blood and sweat and come in the hot, running water. Steve’s shampoo smells warm, like cinnamon and other spices Eddie’s never been able to afford to keep in his cabinets. (Nutmeg? Allspice? Eddie doesn’t even know what he would use them for.) After they dry off and dress, Eddie stuffs the shampoo, along with his conditioner and body soap, into a plastic bag to take with them. Steve adds two cans of Farah Fawcett hairspray.

Eddie helps him sort through his clothes, pick what to take and what to leave behind. He finds one of his own sweaters in Steve’s closet as Steve is stuffing a bag with underwear and socks, and he giggles to himself before throwing it at Steve. Steve’s cheeks flush pink, and he wordlessly stuffs it into the bag.

Steve packs most of his shirts, except a few he says his mother picked out, and most of his jeans. Eddie gets a garbage bag for the clothes Steve doesn’t want anymore, and he laughs as makes his way through the kitchen, looking at the mess he and Steve made and next behind. They aren’t going to clean it up. Just because.

Steve’s room is pathetically empty by the time they finish packing. It was already pathetically empty before, if Eddie’s honest. No framed pictures, no keepsakes. No stuffed animals or childhood toys. Steve’s bags, a duffel bag and a backpack, are both stuffed with clothes and soap, with a bottle of cologne and a copy of the Hobbit that he tried to hide from Eddie.

Eddie finds it, of course. And looks up at Steve with a beaming grin, even as Steve rubs the back of his neck, blushing bright red.

“You love it so much, I just…”

Eddie crosses the room and wraps his arms around his neck, swaying like they’re dancing.

“Do you like it?”

“I’m trying to.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Eddie says, grinning. Steve wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, pulling him close. “It’s fine if you don’t.”

“I know,” Steve says shyly, swaying with him again. “Think I’m just a slow reader.”

“‘S okay, baby,” Eddie says softly. “You don’t have a due date or anything.”

“Thank God.”

They go to bed in the Harrington house for the last time.

Eddie wakes up to Steve’s lips pressing down his neck, and he smiles at the ceiling without opening his eyes, tilting his head back to give him room. He hums softly.

“Whassa time?” Eddie mumbles weakly, reaching blindly to find Steve’s hair.

“Six twenty-seven,” Steve says before he licks a slow line up his neck. Eddie groans.

“Forgot I’m in love with a morning person.”

“‘S sweet,” Steve says lightly. “Just relax, baby.”

Eddie sighs, tugging at his hair again, but his hand falls when Steve moves, tossing the blanket up so he can duck under it. Eddie shivers at the gust of cold morning air that hits his body, and then he shivers again as Steve tugs at the waistband of his boxers.

“I’ll make you coffee,” Eddie says breathlessly when Steve comes back up from under the blanket, cracking his eyes open to find Steve grinning brightly at him. His split lip doesn’t bleed even as he smile. The bruise on his face is colourful, reddish purple and blue, and somehow achingly beautiful even as it makes Eddie’s chest hurt like he’s been shot.

“I’d like that,” Steve says softly.

They get out of bed slowly, lazily, and Eddie tugs on one of Steve’s hoodies as he yawns.

Steve always looks beautiful in the morning light. Even in gray mornings like this, he seems to glow brighter than the sun.

Steve goes to the bathroom while Eddie goes down to make the coffee. He finds Steve’s favourite mug in a cabinet, the cute blue one, and he leans against the counter as he waits on the coffee, looking at the dining table and smiling to himself.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts by a car pulling into the driveway.

He blinks, tilting his head to listen like he can’t tell where it’s coming from, and he turns around, leaning to look out the window to see Catherine.

Anger flares in his chest, and he’s swinging the front door open before she’s even out of the car, careless to the fact that he’s in his boxers.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks sharply as she approaches the door. Her eyes skim over him, her hands folded in front of her. Her hair isn’t as nice as it was yesterday, and Eddie can see traces of her makeup that ran down her cheeks last night.

“It’s my house,” she says primly.

“Well we’re not gone yet,” Eddie snaps. “Come back in a few hours.”

She takes a breath, opening her mouth to speak, but Steve’s voice interrupts her.

“Eddie?” Eddie turns sharply, looking to see Steve coming down the stairs, and Steve’s face hardens when he sees his mother on the front step. “Oh.”

“We don’t have to deal with this, baby,” Eddie says quickly. “Just get your stuff, we can go.”

Steve pauses, staring at Catherine coldly, his mouth twisting thoughtfully before he says, “No. Let’s have coffee,” in a voice that’s far too calm, too light.

He continues down the stairs and turns wordlessly into the kitchen, and Catherine steps past Eddie.

Eddie shuts the door, his stomach knotting, and he follows them to the kitchen. Steve is sipping from the mug, leaning against the counter, and Eddie joins him, watching with a suppressed smile as Catherine looks at the table.

“What do you want?” Steve asks coldly.

“What happened to the table?”

“Eddie fucked me on it. What do you want?”

Catherine’s face turns red, and she looks away from the table, clearing her throat delicately.

“I wanted to talk.”

“So talk,” Steve says dryly, sipping the coffee. He’s still staring at her, almost seething.

Catherine hesitates, taking a breath and looking at the floor, eyeing the broken bottle of olive oil, but she doesn’t say anything about it.

“I know,” she says slowly. “That what happened last night is not… reversible.”

She looks up at Steve.

“But you are still our son,” she says kindly, and Eddie scoffs. “And I want you to know that you still have a home here.”

“No.”

She blinks.

“No?”

Steve inhales deeply, biting his lip, and he carefully holds the mug out to Eddie, who takes it as Steve crosses his arms.

“I have never had a home here,” Steve says calmly, “Mom.”

“Steven,” she says softly. Like it hurts.

He shakes his head, pressing his lips together.

“I’ve never felt…” He pauses, swallowing. “I’ve never felt safe here. Or— Or loved. I’ve never felt fucking— at home here. This has always been just— just a sad empty… lonely house for the sad empty lonely little boy.”

Eddie looks at the floor, biting his lip as he focusses on the heat of the mug in his hands.

“I know you don’t mean that, darling,” Catherine says softly.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Steve says coldly.

“Steven, of course I do—”

“No, you don’t,” Steve shouts. Eddie flinches, and he turns to set the mug on the counter. “No, you don’t,” Steve repeats, breathing hard. “You don’t know shit about me. You know my name because you picked it, but you don’t know who I am.”

“Steven—“

“You left me,” Steve interrupts, his voice shaking. “You— You left me. Here. With— With teenagers, while you went off on holidays and fucking business trips, you left me here, while I was trying to grow up, and then I had to figure out to be a grown up, all by myself because you weren’t here.”

His lip is quivering, and he steadies it between his teeth.

“You don’t know me,” he says again, quietly.

“Steven, you’re my son,” she says softly.

“I’m half deaf.”

She blinks.

“What?”

“One of my ears,” Steve says slowly, “has no hearing.” He stands up straight, off the counter, and gestures to his ears with a hand. “Can you tell which ear it is?”

She stares, wide-eyed.

“Steven—“

“Can you tell me,” he says shakily, “when my hearing started going?”

Silence.

“Because I can tell you,” Steve whispers. “The fucking day.”

He moves closer, his breathing unsteady.

“July sixteenth,” he says quietly. “Nineteen eighty.”

Eddie grips the counter, biting his lip as he watches. Catherine’s are welling with tears, but Steve doesn’t seem to even notice.

“When your husband gave me a concussion,” he continues, whispering. “And I looked up to see you leave the room, and shut the door behind yourself.”

Eddie’s eyes jump to Catherine, his vision red. Her lip is quivering. Eddie doesn’t care.

“I have had four concussions in my life,” Steve says, holding up four fingers before he lowers two of them. “Two of them… were from your husband. And both times, you left.”

“Steven,” she says weakly, but Steve snaps.

“You left,” he shouts. Catherine flinches. Eddie doesn’t. “You picked him,” he says, pointing toward the door. “Twenty fucking years, and you picked him, again, and again, and again.” He chokes, and his voice breaks. “My whole life,” he says weakly. “You picked a man, who never loved you, over your son.”

Eddie’s eyes burn, and he looks at the ground, swallowing thickly.

“And last night you picked him again,” Steve says.

Catherine stares at him. A tear slides down her cheek.

“So no,” Steve says after taking a breath. “You don’t know me, and you don’t get to. This is all you get.”

He stares her down for a moment, and Eddie blinks his tears back, watching proudly.

“Fuck you,” Steve says softly. “And fuck him, and fuck this house. I’m fucking done.”

“Steven, please,” she begs quietly. “You don’t have to come here, or— or see him, but I still want to be… a part of your life, darling, I—”

“You’re not better than him,” Steve yells, crying. “You let him, you let him do everything he did to me.” He’s panting, and Eddie’s chest tightens. He stands up straight. “You made me hate myself before I was old enough to understand why you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, darling—”

“Well you don’t fucking love me either,” Steve yells. He stops short, blinking like he’s realises it just as he says it, and Eddie wants to pull him into a hug, but he also wants to find Nancy’s gun and shoot both his parents for ever making Steve feel like this. “Even if you think you do,” he says softly. “Whatever kind of love you think you have for me. I don’t want it.”

He stares for a moment longer before wiping his face hard and shaking his head.

And he leaves.

Eddie holds his breath, listening as Steve storms up the stairs, listening as Catherine cries quietly, a hand pressed over her mouth. Steve comes back down after a few moments with his bags, and he pauses in the doorway, looking at Eddie, who looks up.

“Go to the van, I’ll be there in a minute, babe.”

Steve looks at him for a moment before he steps close and tugs him by his shirt into a kiss, sliding his tongue into Eddie mouth and holding him close desperately. Eddie pushes his fingers into Steve’s hair, closing his eyes and exhaling, tasting the coffee on Steve’s breath.

They’re both breathless when they part, and Steve looks into Eddie’s eyes. Eddie nods, touching his cheek.

Steve goes outside.

The door shuts behind him, and Eddie hears the van door open and shut. And then he just hears Catherine’s soft breaths. And the ticking of the clock in the living room.

He leans against the counter, looking at the floor, hesitating before he looks up at her.

“He is… the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Eddie says slowly, softly, his voice almost echoing in the kitchen. “He is the bravest, kindest, strongest, most— most selfless person I have ever known.”

She’s still crying. But she’s looking at him, listening.

“And you…” He pauses, taking a deep breath, his hands shaking, his lip quivering. “And you fucked… every chance you got to have him in your life. Twenty years. You got twenty years of chances, and you fucked them all up.”

He stares for a moment.

“I can tell,” he says softly, “that there’s… a small part of you… that cares about him. Somewhere in there. So to that… small part.” He steps forward, his eyes burning. “I swear, I will… love him, and care for him, and look after him, and do everything I fucking can to make sure he feels as loved and protected as he is.”

He points a trembling finger at her.

“Because that is a privilege that I have.” He’s breathing hard, his eyes burning, his heart pounding in his chest. “And I will do everything in my power to not lose that privilege.”

He hesitates a moment longer, watching her cry before he turns around and picks up the mug and dumps the coffee in the sink. He rinses the mug quickly and shuts off the water harder than he needs to.

And he leaves. Without giving her a second glance.

He hands Steve the mug as he slides into the driver seat, and Steve laughs wetly, taking it.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Eddie looks over at him, biting his lip. His face is tear-streaked, his lashes clumped, his cheeks and nose rosy red.

Broken and slowly pieced back together.

His eyes are gleaming, and he looks so awfully exhausted that Eddie wants to tell him to get in the back of the van to take a nap, but he also looks so relieved that Eddie just pulls him into a kiss.

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “With all my fuckin’ heart and soul, baby.”

“I love you too,” Steve whispers back.

Eddie kisses him again, sucking on his lower lip for a moment and holding his chin gently, and he pauses when they part, taking a soft breath.

“You’re not wearing any pants,” Steve says, laughing tearfully again, and Eddie scoffs, blinking tears back as he pulls out of the driveway.

“Who gives a shit?”

Steve giggles, clutching the mug to his chest.

“Let’s go home.”

“Okay.”

[very-normal-abt-this]

Analysis of Crowley's and Aziraphale's "love languages."

A lot people are familiar with the concept of "Love Languages" these days. It originally comes from a book by Dr. Gary Chapman "The 5 Love Languages: A Secret to Love That Lasts." 

The book posits that there are several different patterns of behavior that a person can engage in, in order to express affection.  And, by the same token, there are different patterns of behavior that a person tends to interpret as being "loving" towards them.

The 5 Identified Love Languages are:

Words of Affirmation  - expressing affection verbally, such as through compliments, statements of appreciation, reassurance, or love.

Acts of Service - expressing affection by doing things FOR our loved ones, when they ask for it OR when they don't ask for it (i.e. anticipating what they might need). Things like, letting your partner borrow your special car for a road trip, and then house sitting his residence and needy puppy. Or, tidying your partner's house after a big party, whilst he is out having coffee with some douche.

Gifts - expressing affection by purchasing things for our loved ones, or giving surprise gifts. Perhaps being very thoughtful in considering what objects they might want or need. 

Quality Time - expressing affection by giving loved ones our undivided attention, and engaging in interactive activities with them. Going out to dinner, going on walks to the park, or just having quiet 1-1 time.

Physical Touch - Expressing affection by touching a loved one's body with your own body (consensually of course). There is a wide spectrum of these behaviors (platonic, parental/familial, romantic, sexual). E.g. lightly guiding someone with your hand on the small of their back as you walk together, patting their back/shoulder, dancing together, sitting in close proximity on purpose so that your bodies touch, hugging/kissing, and so on.

As you can probably deduce from the examples I've included above, in my opinion Aziraphale's preferred love languages are: Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, and Physical touch.  And Crowley's preferred love languages are: Quality Time and Acts of Service. And yet, Crowley was the one who initiated the biggest Physical Touch of their relationship. I will address that in a separate post!

Crowley and Aziraphale both share the Quality Time category, which makes sense. Time has been an unlimited resource for them, and they certainly enjoy making their time together "Quality." They give each other undivided attention; they do relaxing and interesting activities together. In addition, they have often attended significant and memorable events together (whether by coincidence or not)

It is also sweet that both of the Ineffable Husbands have picked up on each other's love languages. Aziraphale has noticed Crowley's acts of service language, which is why he says: "Rescuing me makes him so happy." 

And, Aziraphale is cautious about giving Crowley compliments - he knows it is not the way Crowley prefers to receive affection. Aziraphale also engages in acts of service for Crowley, such as by offering to do the magic show in 1941, and by bringing him holy water.

In turn, Crowley knows how important words of affirmation are to Aziraphale, which is why he says things like "Doing good again, Angel?" Or "Good Job" - when Aziraphale calls him from Edinburgh.

Crowley also knows that physical touch is important to Aziraphale, which is why he never rejects physical touch overtures initiated by the angel (And….physical touch might be Crowley's 3rd secret love language, but he has been too cautious to act upon it!)

If you think of other examples of their love languages, please write a comment!

[souryogurt64]

hi! im the anon who sent the ask about moving to chicago a few weeks ago and i have a few more questions lol

my parents really want me to have a car in case of emergencies but i don't want one, what's it like not having a car

also do you think minimum wage is enough to live off of with a roommate? ive seen a lot of varying opinions on the chicago subreddit

It is very easy not having a car. Only 1 time in 3 years have I even wanted to borrow my parents' car and it was to go to a concert. Both my previous and current roommate brought their car and then ended up returning it to their parents' house after a few months because there is nowhere to park it. If I want to visit family I take the Metra and then they pick me up. Most people I know also Amtrak.

As for money, when I first moved to Chicago I worked in restaurants which pays quite a bit higher than minimum wage. Being a hostess is very easy and usually pays at least $20 an hour. I mostly worked about 4-6ish hour shifts 4-5x a week bussing tables and probably averaged like $1800 a month from that. However, depending on unpaid time off or doing things like bartending for 10 days straight during Christmas pay could be as low as $1,200 or as high as $3,000 a month.

I also was working part-time in marketing for $10 an hour and did freelance projects. This brought in another $550ish a month on average, give or take. This was also extremely variable and could be as low as $300 or as high as $1500 a month.

My budget before I got an adult job from 2021-early2023 basically looked like this:

Rent and utilities $900

Train passes $20 (I walked to work and the animal shelter, I did not need a monthly pass)

Nonessential purchases (including dining out): $350

Savings: $350

Groceries/toiletries/cosmetics $250 (I got a lot of free food and beer from my job)

Cat supplies $50

Subscriptions (Photoshop for work, spotify, etc) $30

Random extra expenses (Ubers, household supplies): $100

Then I was on my parents' health insurance.

This came out to $2,050 a month.

I track everything in Excel so this is real, this is not an estimate.

If it ever didn't work out I would've moved back in with my parents and if I like got hit by a car or whatever they would've helped me out. So I don't want to give the impression I was ever like struggling. However, I did not want to rely on my parents financially and I was determined to make it work, so I did a lot of things like cut my own hair. To be honest, this was a really happy and carefree time in my life for the MOST part.

I also lived as below my means as I could (tbh several hundred dollars), because there were months where stuff happened like during a Covid surge in 2021 restaurants closed down and I made almost no money that month and had to start dogwalking in January.... which I was terrible at.

My strong recommendation would be to work in a restaurant (bc tips and free food) and not bring a car, and also have a parent co-sign a lease. A lot of landlords won't rent to you unless you make 3x the rent, and I didn't. I also recommend breweries-- I mostly worked at Corridor/DryHop and it was awesome.

Also I don't think this lifestyle would've been sustainable forever so make sure you're working towards something. I didn't want to get stuck in Iowa forever in a low paying miserable office job I hated so I was determined to move to the big city and wait for the perfect opportunity. I was lucky enough that it happened, but I think if I hadn't been lucky or was more complacent it would've been easy to like end up as an unhappy adult yk

[mx-piggy]

Hooray! I'm not several days late to reviewing this week's Futurama. Though, I did forget it was Hulurama day until like an hour ago. If you want the TLDR, I really enjoyed Quids Game, more than I think other people might have. As always, spoilers ahead!!

I'll be honest, I'm not 100% sure what I think about this episode. I really liked it, but it definitely had things that I know people will take issue with. At the moment, I'd confidently give the episode a 7/10, though I'm more than prepared to bump it up to 7.5 or 8 if I watch/read a review of it that reassures me that I'm not being blind to this being the secret worst episode of Hulurama.

All of us watched the episode and knew that all of the characters would be somehow revived by the end. So, of course the focus of the episode was more on the comedy. I personally think that it worked well enough, though I think that some of the comedy easily could come off as meanspirited, not unlike some of the comedy in the Comedy Central era of the show, seeing as the joke is 'oh this character's dead'. I read through some posts on here to gauge the reaction to this episode, and right away I saw a complaint about the joke where Fry decapitates Professor Farnsworth and reacts to it casually. I completely understand why you would take issue with that, and I'm a little on the fence about it myself. But, also, I think maybe (and feel free to disagree with me) it would have been even more 'upsetting' to see another moment of Fry being made to feel awful in this episode.

I do think that, if you don't like the Squid Game plot of the episode, it's going to ruin Quids Game for you. And, I can see why you wouldn't like it. It did remind me a bit of the anthology episodes, like in the Prince and the Product when the car versions of the characters all get murdered and it's given very little weight, because it's supposed to be comedic/without canonical consequence. So, I can understand that people might have found the episode not enjoyable because you're just watching your favourite tertiary characters get killed without it actually meaning anything. But, I had fun with the episode. As a Squid Game parody, it really worked for me even though I haven't seen it. Parasites Regained, the Dune parody episode, was an episode I didn't enjoy much because of its reliance on Dune. So, I think this episode did a good job at being its own interesting thing while borrowing from Squid Game's premise of 'childhood games to the death'. I thought that the games themselves were cool, and all in all, the setting and premise of the episode was cool and I thought it was executed pretty well. (I'm going to stop 'both sides-ing' this review from now on, though, so I can give my opinion of the episode and stop worrying about other people's opinions lmao.)

I'm a huge fan of Fry flashback episodes, and I think that they make for some of the show's strongest emotional moments. It's weird because I had no idea that this episode was going to be a Fry flashback episode, and, coincidentally, I rewatched Cold Warriors last week because I was sick. I'm glad I did, because this one definitely reminds me of Cold Warriors, probably because of its focus on younger Fry.

Anyway, while I don't think this is the best Fry flashback episode we've ever had, it's definitely a good one and it felt like it brought something new to the table. I like that we get to see a more humanising side to Fry's parents, and I thought that the ending really was emotionally effective. The ending montage of Fry's parents helping him win reminded me a lot of the flashback to Leela's parents helping her throughout her life without her knowing, or the flashback in Lethal Inspection. But, and I didn't think about this until reading someone's post on here, it was really refreshing to get a flashback for once where it's not necessarily a moment that's secretly sweet. It was one of those moments of Futurama that gave me chills with its weight. Fry is distraught at losing his best friend, in a moment that we know sort of sends his 20th century life into a sort of friendless trajectory, and his mom thinks she's just given her son a great birthday party by making him feel like a winner when he so rarely does. God, it's such a great moment. Perhaps I'm reading too much into it, but I could definitely see this as being a key moment that would make Fry completely give in to his sort of innate mediocrity, associating this one victory with losing his friends. That's just the angst lover in me. I would love to read some Fry character analyses after this episode.

I liked that the episode used Gedgie, seeing as we're already familiar with how is relationship with Fry turns out later on (as shown in Cold Warriors).

Anyway, this episode was pretty funny, I'd say more than The One Amigo. It was fun seeing so many of the characters there together, and I think that the writer(s) handled this episode well given the sheer amount of characters there. Of course, probably my favourite moment was Zapp sliding between Fry's legs and saying 'hello, sailor'. The Frapp nation must be elated. Honestly, I need to write something Frapp-related. If I do, I'll share the link here.

Another joke I found funny was Fry saying 'I hope my grandma's proud of me down in hell'. My favourite line in the original run of the show is Fry's 'we can't just dump him in the gutter like grandma's ashes', so I think it's a small but funny bit of continuity that grandma was probably fucking awful.

Anyway, great episode. Seeing as The One Amigo felt like it should have been more emotional, I was glad that this episode handled its emotional beats very well. I really am looking forward to the rest of the season after this banger episode. As always, I'd love to hear what you guys thought!

[leo-gold-hotchner]

Riskiest

Aaron Hotchner X G.N. Reader

When Aaron first met you, you were a new kid in his neighbourhood. Aaron was a quiet kid. He became quieter and sought solitude, especially since Sean was born. He’d leave home to leave his parents and his baby brother alone with a book in his hand.

On that day, as usual, he sat on the edge of the road where a car hardly passed through. He saw familiar faces of neighbouring kids riding bicycles far away. Then you caught his attention. You appeared out of nowhere, holding a black skateboard with a brave yet mischievous face. You put down the skateboard on the pavement and put your foot on it. Briefly, fear flashed in your eyes, but you pushed the skateboard. Your body swayed as you tried to balance, but soon, you fell on your bottom. As if laughing, the skateboard kept rolling away from you. Forgetting about reading the book he brought, Aaron watched you keep riding the skateboard despite failing miserably every time. Unable to stand watching you keep falling, Aaron finally decided to talk to you.

“You should at least wear a helmet to practice.”

You looked up at him from the pavement. “I don’t have one.” You looked younger than him. 

“You have a skateboard, but you don’t have a helmet?” 

You shrugged. “I’m F/N! Me and my family just moved here.” You pointed to a house behind him.

“I’m Aaron. C’mon. I’ll let you borrow my helmet.” Aaron helped you stand up.

“Really?” You asked brightly.

“Yeah. It’s too risky not to wear one.”

-----Hotch-----

Since the first day, you and Aaron have become friends. Not best friends, mind, but friends as Aaron thought you wouldn’t consider him as a best friend. Unlike him, you befriended everyone in the neighbourhood with your sunshine nature. He was considered ‘no fun’ and ‘brooding’ by his peers and other kids, and he was fine with that. He didn’t want to befriend kids who would make fun of him for studying or reading. You didn’t do that. You would ask what he was doing and listen to his books and hobbies, like collecting coins, with genuine interest on your face. You were a good friend with a kind heart. You were the best friend Aaron had hoped for in every quality, except one thing. You would always do something stupid once in a while. He saw several times where you would make risky decisions that might cause injury or even hospitalisation. And it fell on him to stop you from making stupid decisions to play with your life.

You and Aaron were at the small playground next to your primary school, and both of you were sitting on a swing.

“You should stop being stupid,” Aaron frowned as he watched you drinking the apple juice his mother gave you.

“It’s fun,” you replied, dangling your legs from the swing. “Let me show you something!” Then you started to swing the swing.

“No! I don’t want you to show me something!” Aaron’s face turned into horror as he had an idea what you were about to do.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been showing everyone!”

-----Hotch-----

Aaron’s body stiffened as someone hugged him from the back. But he soon relaxed as he knew who it was.

“Get off,” the teenager said gruffly.

“You are too cold!” You whined and stood before him with a bright smile. “How was your exam?”

“How did you know I had an exam?” Aaron shot his brows upward. You and Aaron didn’t go to the same high school as he went to a selective school, whereas you went to the neighbourhood public school. He was a little disappointed when you told him that.

“You know I babysit your brother, right?”

“And?”

“I talk to your parents. And Sean tells me this and that.”

“So, my family tells you my schedule,” Aaron said drily.

“They want you to talk to them, you know.”

Aaron rolled his eyes. Ever since the swing incident, his parents and your parents became good friends. Your parents thanked him for looking after their kid, who liked to do daring things. And his parents liked you for being their son’s good friend, as the adults thought Aaron was isolated among his peers.

“Hey, Aaron,” you called him cheerfully. Aaron looked at you questioningly. “John and Jane asked for a date.”

Aaron didn’t imagine his blood turning cold at the mention of John and Jane. He’d known them since he was young before you moved to the neighbourhood. And they were bad news. Whispers were going around, and among kids, it was to be believed that both of them were dealing drugs and just a step away from becoming a drug addicts. Aaron stared at you, who was obliviously humming an exciting tune.

“If I choose one of them, the other will be pretty upset, don’t you think?”

He knew your tendency to make a riskier choice. For fun, as you told him once.

“Neither of them is good for you,” Aaron snapped.

“They make me feel special.”

Aaron’s jaw twitched. “You are special.”

You stared at him with widened eyes. Soon your eyes turned soft, and you smiled lightly at him.

-----Hotch-----

Aaron grumbled inside at the knocking on his apartment, without checking who, Aaron opened the door, ready to glare at the unwanted intruder of the night. His face turned thunderstruck as you were shivering from the rain without shoes. He could clearly see the bruises on your face despite the dim light of the apartment.

“F/N!” Aaron gulped, and his head briefly turned blank. “Dammit, what happened? Come in.” 

He quickly ushered you in and pushed you into the bathroom. Without a word, you sat in the bathtub and silently watched him turn the hot water to fill the tub.

“Wait here. I’ll bring you a warm drink.”

Aaron quickly boiled milk in the microwave to make hot chocolate. Whatever happened to F/N, he’d find out, and whoever hurt F/N would pay. Ever since you told him about choosing John and Jane, the distance grew between the two of you. It wasn’t like either of you avoided each other. Aaron focused on his study, and F/N would focus on something Aaron didn’t know. Many things changed since. But what most impacted their relationship would be F/N’s parents’ divorce and Aaron going out into the world as a university student. Aaron knew F/N didn’t have a good relationship with the family. 

Aaron mused as he stirred the spoon to melt the chocolate powder. He didn’t know then, but he knew now. Both you and him felt lonely after their siblings were born. Aaron became a kid to keep himself, whereas you sought a place to belong. Your dangerous tendency was to find a place to belong because risky decisions made you popular. Aaron sighed. Perhaps he should’ve talked to you more before coming to Washington. He just told you his address in case you needed him.

“Here, your favourite,” Aaron handed you the hot chocolate. 

You whispered a thank you and sipped the sweet drink. “I thought you didn’t like hot chocolate.”

“I don’t.” Aaron sat on the toilet as he watched you drinking in the tub. He had the chocolate powder in case you’d show up. It was a little hope he always had.

“Thank you.” You chuckled softly, knowing what that meant. “They didn’t take it well when I told them to break up.”

Aaron glanced at the bruises on your face, rage building in him, roaring to show the bastard what he could do.

“Who is it,” Aaron asked lowly.

His voice was so cold. You looked at him and saw anger swirling in his usual warm eyes. He looked different.

“I’m safe with you now,” you whispered. “They’ll only hurt you.”

“I can assure you, F/N, no gang or mafia can hurt me. If I have to, I’ll use all my power to make sure all the federal agencies go after them.”

“I didn’t know a prosecutor had such a power,” you teased.

“I’m an FBI agent.”

You blinked at him. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Someone once told me choosing a riskier decision is fun.”

You laughed a little. “I was young. And look what happened to me. I’m gonna try to choose more safe decision from now on.”

Aaron looked at you with a musing look. ”Care to choose a risky decision for the last time?”

“Which is?”

“How about we explore ourselves together? You and me.”

You stared at Aaron with a hung jaw. “You mean as, as a couple?” You stuttered out.

At your shocked face, confidence quickly evaporated from Aaron. Dammit, Hotchner, he berated himself. You just ran away from a volatile relationship, and he suggested a relationship with you.

“Sorry, F/N. I shouldn’t have…”

“There’s nothing I can offer you,” you cut him off.

“I always liked you, F/N. You don’t need to offer me anything.” Aaron wanted to tell you that a relationship doesn’t make a person offer something to another, but caring for each other and understanding the partner to make a good relationship. He had to hold his tongue so he didn’t want to sound scolding F/N for the past relationship. “I’ll protect you, and I promise you I’ll do everything to make you feel safe here with me.”

You watched Aaron’s eyes shine with sincerity.

“It wouldn’t be my last riskiest decision,” you said. “It would be my first safest decision with you.”

[dollarbin]

Shakey Sundays #27:

Hawks and Doves

Where the hell is my copy of Hawks and Doves?

It was right where it belonged in the summer of 1993: in my jubilant 17 year old hand. I'd just liberated it from a Dollar Bin for the very first time, adding it to a proud pile of 15 or 16 other titles. There was a $46 summer camp paycheck to be spent.

And it was once again right where it belonged in 1994, spinning on my turntable beneath my U2 War poster when I first played it (well, the Doves side, anyway) for my fairly-soon-to-be sainted wife in the days leading up to my high school graduation.

Fast forward ten years and it was still rocking on very same turntable as I crawled around on the floor of our very first family home, goofing off with our first born. Me and my little wing...

Jump ahead another ten years and it was packed into a milk crate, headed for record collection limbo. Our three children and all their blocks, potties and dolls named Laura had overwhelmed our 900 square foot house, necessitating my entire collection's removal from our home. And so it headed to my parents' mountain cabin an hour and a half outside of town. The record and all its partners seemed superfluous at that moment; I hadn't been to a record store in years; I'd changed countless diapers instead. And music, when I got some, came through the docked iPod off the top of the frig.

And so that precious record was patiently awaiting the return of my attention in the cabin a few years later when a sudden storm of helicopters and sirens sent me away from my kids and wife, jogging up the mountain to a look out spot where I saw that the entire canyon below us was on fire. It was suddenly time to get the hell out of there.

Did I, in the terrifying, adrenaline pumping, moments that followed, righteously acknowledge that records, even Neil Young records, are mere material objects and are therefore downright unworthy of my concern during a potentially major moment in my biography? No, fair readers, I did not.

Rather, I did the unconscionable thing and considered, for a solitary second, charging back into the cabin after the kids were loaded up in the car so as to grab my entire Neil Young section. After all, there was more at stake than my beloved copy of Hawks and Doves. On The Beach was in there too!

But, thankfully, that dumb materialistic thought came and instantly passed, all while I jogged around the car to the driver's seat. Indeed, the thought quickly gave way to a less dumb, but just as materialistic, possibility as I started up the engine and peeled out of there:

"Wow, I kinda hope the cabin burns down! And all the records in it! Then everyone will pity me and encourage me to spend a tremendous amount of time and money - wow, maybe it will be insurance money! - in a bunch of sweet, child-free record stores in the near and far future so as to reestablish my entire collection one title at a time. That sounds awesome!"

Well, sadly, the cabin did not burn down. It came through the fire and was then sold off around 2019, just as my eldest was heading off to college. With one less person in the house I felt justified in bringing my entire collection home.

"Hello old friend," I said to each of my records in turn as I worked them back into alphabetical order. Maybe, thought I, it was finally time to get back into records!

But something was quickly amiss. Several somethings!

First off, there wasn't a single Tom Petty record in my bin. Some devilish mountain man had surely crept into the cabin at some point and absconded with them all. That, or my only slightly less famous other brother had borrowed them and forgot to return them.

It was the later of those scenarios, of course. But, low and behind, the mountain man had shunned my T.P records and had instead nicked my copy of Hawks and Doves! It was nowhere to be found. Curses! He's surely sitting with that record on some windswept mountainside as we speak, cackling madly.

And so, after 15 years of self-imposed record store exile, I went in search of a replacement copy of Hawks and Doves. Now it's 5 years, 112 blog posts and about 500 additionally purchased records later. Blessings upon the mountain man.

By the way, it took no time at all to find a new copy of Hawks and Doves: Neil, who was just coming off his incomparably great run of 70's records, sold a zillion copies of that visually alluring album and then no one - except me! - liked it. So Hawks and Doves wound up a Dollar Bin staple.

I was so out of record buying shape back then that I dropped $10 for it. But I forgive myself.

Here is the replacement:

Now let's talk all about the album.

Hawks and Doves is one of Neil's Jekyll and Hyde records: one side contains a unified band record, the other is a totally unrelated collection of juicy outtakes. He took this approach for the first time with American Stars 'n Bars. That record is mixed, sure, but it's also largely fantastic. Hawks and Doves fits the Jekyll and Hyde description much better in that one side is alluring and lovely; the other is horrific.

Let's talk Doves, the outtakes side, first - in true Shakey style, that's Side 1. So this record should actually be called Doves and Hawks. At least I presume we can call Side 1 Doves: its songs lilt without rancor and the vinyl sticker is a patient blue, not a vitriolic red. Ask him about the color/title plan today and Neil would probably make bold and specific claims without any real memory of what he had in mind: the poor guy was entirely wrapped up with caring for his young son born with Cerebral Palsy at this point and it's impossible to know how much thought he put into any part of this record.

Doves is just four songs long, two of which, Little Wing and Lost in Space, are among my favorite songs of all time by anyone, full stop.

These days, of course, Shakey Savants like me listen to Little Wing in the context of Homegrown, Neil's white whale of a record that hid entirely from view for a full 40 years before anyone finally heard it. Listening to the song in that context totally changes its meaning and effect for me; it becomes deeply Neil's song. I'll look forward to writing it in that manner in a future post.

(And we'll also get to talk at some point about Little Wing in the context of The Ducks, Neil's extremely average and momentary late 70's band whose best mark, by far, was an electrified version of the song.)

But growing up, and becoming a father, made Little Wing utterly my own song, not Neil's. The track opens with the earthiest, most elemental musical gesture I know: Neil's harmonica sounds like a centuries old, partially fossilized, fungus that he's upturned and is breathing through; it's the sound of the earth itself sighing and speaking.

I don't know if these opening notes are pretty on any level. But I find them deeply sublime.

For me, the song was initially about my girlfriend, soon to be my wife. She flew rings around us all. Then the patient melody morphed and came to describe the children and, later, the adults with developmental disabilities that I played with and cared for in my first career. Summer had turned to fall. Then, when my daughter was born, she claimed the song. Born in winter, she was the best of all.

I wrote months ago about Lord Franklin/Bob Dylan's Dream, calling the melody and mood of that song elemental to my own understanding of self. Well, Little Wing, when heard either in isolation or in the context of this record, is the flip side of Lord Franklin: it describes the people and things that I love. I sang it to all my children, almost daily, as they fell asleep; if I'm lucky I'll get to sing it to my grandchildren one day too.

I love Lost in Space for far more ineffable reasons. The song is just so damn weird. Neil makes every note once again here on his own: from the layered guitars to the patient vocals to the "marine munchkin" chorus. Rarely does his music sound this intentional, and rarely does it refuse so staunchly to be categorized. Like Will to Love, Lost in Space has no peer in Neil's oeuvre; it'd be out of place on any record he's ever made. And so Doves' outtakes approach is its perfect home.

And the imagery! Neil presents his own Grimm's Fairy Tale of sorts, stacking up childish images of queens and lambs within a sporadic sing-song rhyme scheme alongside unsettling mattress doors, buildings that rise from the ocean floor and paroled gardeners, all of them spinning and lost in deep outer space.

I don't know that many other people consider this one of Young's great songs. And so my deep affection for it may offer my buddy Greg some insight into his forever, Shakey-Sundays-inspiring, question: Why Neil Young? Why is he your favorite artist?

Well, Greg, I don't know. But the answer is somewhere inside the swirling fever dream of beauty, dread and obscurity that is Lost in Space.

And then, there's the rest of the record. Doves also includes the delicate and elusive story that is Captain Kennedy, which has its own proper, modern home on another of Young's long lost and then recently found records, Hitchhiker. And then there's the album's oddball prequel of sorts to Danger Bird, The Old Homestead. With its assigned parts for birds, shadows and riders, The Old Homestead could have entire college departments dedicated to its study.

But I've never loved the track and I can't work up the energy on this fine Sunday to plumb its depths. Suffice it to say that everyone should own Hawks and Doves for its A Side.

And then there's Side B. I've been asking the same question about it for 30+ years: what the hell is this crap?

I gave it a fresh listen just now, hoping that something new would emerge for me. Nope. We've still got 5 well below average Neil Young songs performed like a failed Farm Aid audition. The title track is hummable at least but it's also embarrassing; Young lost a lot of fans for a moment for sounding like a Reagan Republican here, and this song the best part of Hawks.

But the side's only really memorable moments come in Union Man, which is one of Neil's leading submission to the Most Enjoyably Stupid Songs in History competition. Young opens with generic strings and the only mildly memorable guitar work on all of Hawks. He then stumbles into an initially dull advertisement for the joys of union membership. Is he serious?

No, he is not: the union meeting in question soon devolves into someone, probably Ben Keith, shouting a blatantly stupid suggestion for union consideration into the mix. Neil, our meeting facilitator, takes him seriously and suddenly it feels like this is a scene in one of Neil's terrible movies.

If Neil's attempting a critique of the "AF of M" (the American Music Federation) here then he misses the mark. If he's mocking unions generally then the song is offensive.

But I'm going to take the high road and assume that the whole song is an incomprehensible dad joke, in which case this stuff is pure gold. Get me one of those bumper stickers Neil!

Once Archives 3 comes out Hawks and Doves will finally be irrelevant. Lost in Space will then join Little Wing, The Old Homestead and Captain Kennedy as another great song which has its true home on another record. The Hawks songs alone can then claim this album, forever identifying it as needless and dull.

I can't wait. Maybe then that conniving mountain man will decide that my stolen copy of Hawks and Doves no longer deserves to take up precious space in his mountain man lair. I therefore call upon him to quit his cackling and return my damn record.

P.S. The moment after I hit publish on this thing Joe Biden did the honorable and necessary thing - finally - and stepped aside. We live in historic and tense times! As a high school history teacher I have the increasingly vital and difficult job of presenting our country in a more honest, complex and nuanced way than Neil manages with his song Hawks and Doves. But, amidst our troubled times and our incredibly troubled history, I remain a hopeful and, in my own way, patriotic American. Thanks for stepping aside Joe: we need you now way less than we need Donald Trump ever. Like you and Neil, I'm ready to go, but I'm also willin' to stay and pay. USA? Sure: USA!

[bumblee-stumblee]

CW: SA/CSA

It's so difficult for me to trust men anymore, one brother raped me when i was 8 and it continued for about a year and a half. My other brother, M, did nothing like that and would infact sort of defend me and my sisters from that brother when he could. I thought M a good person for several years. Our home was a violent one, physical, verbal and emotional abuse were the norm and the males in the home obviously favored.

I idolized M for a long time.

I wanted to be just like him, i hated being a woman. I began to dress like a boy, borrow his clothes. He was older than me so it was baggy and i found comfort in the shapeless being it turned me into. I called myself Hector. I socially transitioned in a way, an attempt to escape being a woman while trying to imitate M because he was what i wanted to be and what i wanted men to be.

The physical and emotional abuse from my parents never let up. My older siblings left one by one which brought me joy when that monster left and great sadness when M left.

We didn't hear from him for months, we got a phone call after 2 years. He was alive and he wanted to see us, could we pick him up at the train station?

Of course.

M had changed. He'd gotten in with a gang, tattoos stretched over his skin and and his somewhat healthy frame was gaunt. He was still kind, hugged us as we loaded the car with the plastic bags that held the little that he owned.

We were excited, he asked how we were and didn't really expect us to answer in the positive. That was fine because he had so many stories to tell us. M told us about a farm he worked in, about fields he cleared and how a coworker passed by him, running and gasping for air while he screamed at M to get up and run.

A cow had chased them out about something like half a mile before they were both able to climb a tree.

For days we asked about different things and then one of us, one of the younger kids, asked finally about the tattoos. He shrugged like it was no big deal and said for the first few months he left he got into a gang. He told us they were like family. Sure you had to do some stuff but it wasn't all bad.

Questions were asked, his responses were like he was remembering a fond time.

I'll never forget the look on his face when he told us about how a rival gang members girlfriend was spotted in one of their areas. He laughed about it, like it was the funniest thing in the world.

M told us about how they chased her, trying to catch her. That she tried to climb a fence and almost fell, they almost caught her but in the end she escaped.

"Man, it was probably a good thing too because we would have raped her if we caught her. And i was tired, you know?"

This was an entirely different person. He laughed and switched to another story. Like nothing he just said was horrifying. He died some years later of an overdose but my brother M died the night he so casually expressed he would rape a woman for simply being in the wrong place.

It can be the people closest to you, the ones you lived with and grew up with.

[vthetease]

One that was a beautiful poem, and two sorry for your loss

Thank you! I'll take a moment to talk about a topic I'm super passionate about which is suicide prevention and mental health awareness so this is warning it's gonna get really sad

This song always makes me think of his as he was such a gifted piano player and so graceful like the song but the dissonance slowly breaks your heart

Luke was one of the most most gentle, considerate, and talented individuals I've ever had the pleasure of sharing space with. He was brilliantly smart and played piano, cello, keyboard, and clarinet. We talked often in our classes together and back stages making jokes when waited for shows to start, and bring raised religiously, he had lots of questions about the real world and my exposure to it.

Our sophomore year, on a vacation to Nashville, Luke was harassed by several boys our year for taking photos at the pool. While I don't condone taking photographs of unaware people, it should be known that same year our varsity quarterback was expelled for actually taking pictures up a teachers skirt, so when they took video cornering him in the hotel until he admitted he was gay...

He struggled with his sexuality and depression for so long, and I was just a teenage girl myself. It wasnt always easy being Luke's friend. I had my own shit to sort, and Luke sometimes felt like the little brother nagging you to be better. The day he asked me to smoke weed for the first time sent a chill down my spine. He was hurting so bad, he'd given up on his ethics and moral code to soothe the pain.

I've seen many reactions to getting stoned, but I was so hurt when he was angry with me.

" give me that shit. stupid ass drugs "

In my anger I hadn't realized how scared he must have been

I took him home to sleep it off

And he started to get much more distant, but still around like a shell of his old, bubbly self

His first attempt was in the garage; he left the car on with the garage door closed.

His little sister found him, pulled him out and called his parents

She just graduated holding his picture

His second attempt, he did at school; he took half a bottle of caffeine medication, and collapsed. He was ambulanced to the hospital and there for three weeks for treatment. Medications and therapy and isolation

When he came back, so behind on class, and unfamiliar with his pieces for band, he looked me in the eyes and said,

" i go to where I want to die and look sometimes. If I try again... I'm going to succeed."

I have never hated someone so much as that moment. To put that on my shoulders when I can barely spend a night sober. I don't want you around me so I can influence you, and now Im responsible for keeping you alive

I went to an adult at the school, one of the only ones who truly knew what was going on, and she told me,

" you hit rock bottom and came back up. Sometimes you just have to let them ride it out. "

This is the same the woman who I told I was being abused and replied, " no you and him don't have the healthiest relationship but it could be worse!!"

On Monday, November 17th, 2019, he sat down at his table of 4.0 math whizzes and said,

" what would happen if you jumped off a bridge?"

And unbeknownst to those poor boys, with their textbooks and brains, they would go through gravity and angle prospects with a boy who would jump from an interstate overpass less than a mile away in less than 12 hours.

Our last interaction, in 7th period, study hall, that day, he asked me to borrow my computer charger, and instead of coming to sit next to me, he took it back to his seat. He brought it back at the end and he stared blankly at the wall before final bell.

I bump his shoulder and ask if he's good

Luke's last words are ones I cant say alone to this day

"it's just one of those days, I guess."

He didn't not leave a note, or a text

He did not say goodbye to me

He is buried in a graveyard less than 1000 meters from my mother's house

This song is the only real memory of the time I have after; its the only thing that helped my out of body feeling

I have never been the same without him, and will always wonder if I could have done more.

I miss him and go sit with him and talk with him alot.

It was painful to write this. I am crying. But you should be too. Everyone should. Luke deserved better and my community failed him.

I would do anything in my power to ensure no one else has to experience this pain. Because it hurts today just as awful as it did years ago.

Please, if you are struggling. Think about your loved ones and those who love them. Your pain will not disappear. It will transfer to everyone around you.

I genuinely would rather hear you rant, cry or scream than hear your obituary

You are so loved, and thank you for your love as well 💕 treat eachother gently

[rubykgrant]

Tagged by @grand-romantic to share 4 albums that I am currently fixating on… and this is hard, because I listen to the same stuff over and OVER, plus most of my CDs are movie soundtracks and mix CDs my best friend made me that are full of all the groups/artists that only have a couple songs I like. So, I cheated a bit, one group of CD albums in which I like basically all of the songs, so I can listen to the whole thing. Also, one group of CD albums from movies or shows that I also enjoy throughout!

First group (on the left); Gorillaz the Singles Collection (2001-2011). I liked the first bit I had seen of Gorillaz, way back in the day when the Clint Eastwood animated music video randomly aired with no context. Over the years I actually kept hearing various songs on the radio, but didn’t even realize how often it was Gorillaz! It wasn’t until I was in my 20s, and got to see more of the animated music videos, that I realized “Oh, they actually have a LOT of songs, and a LOT of talented music artists!”. I found the singles collection in a store when I was about 24, which happened to be all my favorite songs, so I got it! Fun fact- my mom actually really likes Gorillaz too, and she borrows this CD from me a lot

TLC Fanmail; This was one of the first CDs my family ever owned, initially bought specifically because me and my mom loved the song No Scrubs. Once we listened to the whole thing, we loved just about every song on here! We still listen to it in the car, and I put it in my player when I ride my bike a lot. My favorite is still No Scrubs, but Unpretty is a close second. Later, we also got Crazy Sexy Cool because we loved Waterfalls, and again enjoyed the rest of the songs as well. Fun fact- other other CD my family owned was Smash Mouth Astro Lounge, before we eventually had several dozen. These were ye olden days, and also my family is about 5 years behind tech anyway haha

The Beach Boys Sounds of Summer; I grew up listening to my parents’ cassette tapes, which contained what most people would call “oldies”, but that was just what we had! I knew darn near every one of the songs from the Beach Boys by the time I was 7, and my favorites are probably Get Round/California Girls/Wouldn’t It Be Nice. The only reason I have this CD at all was because when I was 14, I was left alone one evening, saw a commercial to order this album, called it, talked to a real person about how to pay for it, sent in my own money, and got the CD in the mail! My parents were very surprised, and maybe would have been worried about how easy it was for a 14 year old to do this, but were thankfully happy to listen to a Beach Boys CD (also, it was my own money, so I didn’t get in trouble). Fun fact- me and my mom went to a Beach Boys concert in 2019! We listened to this CD in the car on the way there. Then heard all the songs again at the event. Yes, we’re crazy like that

Zach Callison a Picture Perfect Hollywood Heartbreak; one of the “newest” albums I own (still 5 years late to everything). One friend played this in the car, I liked how the songs sounded, got my own copy, let a different friend borrow it, and they liked it a lot, so I let them keep it and got myself a new copy! This is a good angst album, and I especially enjoy Interlude 4, that song will smack you right upside the head. Because I still share everything with my mom, she initially thought it was a “weird” CD, but then borrowed it for a 2 weeks, and now she likes it haha. Fun fact- when my mom was ordering her OWN copy, she kept mis-remembering the title as “Hollywood Homicide”, and got an entirely different search result. I had to help her find what she actually wanted on my computer

Next group (on the right); The Muppet Christmas Carol soundtrack. I love the Muppets, I love a lot of the songs in Muppet movies, but the Christmas Carol one is ESPECIALLY good. I mean, these songs are beautiful. I’ll listen to it while riding my bike even when it isn’t close to the holiday. One little detail I like is the song Marley and Marley, because they used lines from the original book as lyrics, and it just works so well. Other detail, I didn’t appreciate the Love is Gone as a kid, because the scene itself moves kinda slow… but as an adult, it hits me really hard seeing Michael Caine singing along to the song he ignored as a young man, his emotions that he’s buried taking over in a subtle and heart-breaking way. Fun fact- I have this CD because one of my younger cousins gave it me as birthday gift!

Pokemon the First Movie soundtrack; I mean, Pokemon itself is a whole central point to my childhood, and seeing this movie in theaters as a kid was a BIG event. I love that maybe half the songs on here only kinda-sorta relate specifically to Pokemon in some way, and the rest are just various rock/pop/hip-hop songs, but each one is awesome! If Brother My Brother doesn’t make you FEEL THINGS, than I don’t even know what to say. Some of the songs on here are just plain cute, while others are intense. I’ve shared the music here with other people by playing it in a car, or on trips, and when they ask what CD this is, I get to see the confused look on their faces when I explain it is Pokemon album. Fun fact- before I got the CD, I had the cassette tape, and when I bought it, that accidentally came with an extra Pokemon poster!

The Prince of Egypt soundtrack; another movie that was amazing to see in theaters when I was very young. Like, that was an EXPERIENCE. It still holds up beautifully, and so do the songs! Sometimes I just listen to it on my headphones to relax, sometimes I listen and let my mind wander to emotional places… I also had a cassette for this, and really had to hunt it down to find a CD. For whatever reason, when I was first looking online, all the copies I found were just WAY too expensive. Then I randomly lucked out by finding it at a thrift store, and it wasn’t even all scratched up! I still have this CD, and still listen to it often. Fun fact- once when I was visiting family in Las Vegas, I was waiting in line for a ride at the Luxor, the only kid there, I started singing the Plagues song quietly to myself, and 5 other people joined in!

Phineas and Ferb soundtrack; These songs are ICONIC. They’re fun and joyful, and catchy as heck. I don’t care who you are, there is at least ONE Phineas and Ferb song that would get stuck in your head. In general, Busted might be my favorite, but I also love all the songs from Dude We’re Getting the Band back Together! This is a very good CD to imagine Scenarios to… all kinds of daydreams with characters and stories. I was also lucky to find this one, because on the store shelf the price listen was little high for what I had, but then I saw it was on sale! Fun fact- I’ve played this CD at family functions, and by skipping some of the “specific” songs, I triecked everybody into thinking it was a normal party CD haha

[francesderwent]

Cate may I have a grown up tip about moving out of your parents' house? it's possibly becoming an option for me sometime soon and I am considering it, but I'm terrified that I'll fall out of my parents' life the way my older brother has — we live like 10 minutes from them, but we rarely ever see my bro or SIL. I don't want to lose seeing my parents often if I move out, so i keep balking at the very idea of it

One: be very clear with your parents that you’d like to be invited around! Tell them to tell you when they’re making your favorite meals. Tell them to tell you when they’re going to watch a family movie. Tell them you want to help make Christmas cookies, or jar tomato sauce, or rake leaves. Whatever it is you do with your parents now, make sure they know that you want to still be a part of that, that you won’t find all the invitations oppressive.

Two: when you need help with something, make it an excuse to come over. Car acting weird? Need to borrow a tool? Call home, go over, and stay for dinner.

Three: Have them meet you out places! If you’re going out for pizza on a Friday night, text and ask if they want to meet you there! If you’re going to the farmers market, if you want to go apple picking, if you’re thinking of going to the movies—text and ask!!

But also: if your parents are happy to have you at home and you are happy to be there, then don’t feel too much pressure to find fulfillment living by yourself. This idea that when you reach adulthood, you have to go out on your own, regardless of whether you’re ready to start a family of your own, is extremely new. Some people may be idyllically happy in a one-bedroom apartment by themselves; some people have bad family-of-origin situations, and the fact that modern society makes it possible for them to get out on their own and live independently is a very good thing. However, I think it is actually normal (and even natural!) for the vast majority of people to be happiest living in a family—whether it be the family they start with their spouse, or the family they were born into. I’ve done the roommate thing, and those were some of the best and most formative years of my life, some of the dearest friendships. But after several years, I had to part ways with those women. Realistically, that’s how it goes: people get married and get job offers and have to care for sick relatives; it’s not possible for five women to follow each other around for a lifetime. And once that perfect, shining era of my life was over, I felt too old to start over with new roommates off of Craigslist or what have you. I was twenty-seven, and I didn’t want to live with people who didn’t love me. So, I moved home, and I have felt so at peace with that decision ever since. The ideal of “living by yourself” is so unrealistic, and so unchristian, actually—you just spend all day every day trying to take care of yourself by yourself, and all your interactions with other people have to be initiated by you, as if you were an isolated, autonomous individual unrelated to the world around you, whose goals and responsibilities are self-created. When you live with your family, you remember the purpose of your life is service! You have to! This isn’t to say I don’t think you should try moving out. I’ll probably try moving out and living alone someday, if I’m in a financial position to do so. But when I do, it might not be for me. I might hate it, and I might move back home, and stay there for the rest of my life—and then I’ll be there for when my parents are aging and need more help. Which, newsflash, is a good and normal thing!

Living by yourself is not actually a requirement of adulthood.

[aroacephotographer]

The Ballad of Tuxedo Cat

Forewarning: This is about an amazing cat that passed away a few hours ago. I'm finding ways to grieve.

I live in a coop house. We call it the Dreamery. It's a pretty cool space. However, there's a few things going on between a couple of us.

But any worries I have been dealing with have all stopped entirely.

Until today, the Dreamery has been host to a little tuxedo cat named (drum roll please) Tuxedo Cat.

And he was the manager of the house. He would get access to everyone's room in order to inspect it to his liking. And you passed if there was a comfy place for him to plop down and take a nap. Could be your bed, could be a rug. But he would especially love it if your room was cool enough.

According to his owner, the Ballad of Tux goes back decades. And that's not hyperbole. He was 21 years old.

At about 4, my roommate found him next a vegan strip club in Portland, Oregon. It was next to the highway and he was clearly abandoned there. Roomie found him and swept him up and took care of him ever since.

Eventually his parent met another human with a dog and they fell in love. I like to imagine it was an interesting time between Tux and the doge. Maybe they had a lot of stimulating conversations on the finer points of dry cat food. It must have worked, because if you leave Tux's food out too long, then the Doge will eat it right up.

Fast forward to this past year, when I started moving in. Tuxedo would shamble in and look around. Naturally he had to claim every single thing in not just my room but everyone else's.

I started calling him Good Sir pretty soon after that. There were other pets in the house, and many a dog has tried to become best friends with him immediately. Tux should've worn a cowboy hat with how fast he would swipe at them. He didn't care. If you snuck up on him, or got too close, then he'd let you know.

Pretty soon I got brave and started picking him up. I always knew he was a cool cat (pun intended), but he instantly became a sweetheart when I picked him up. I learned he liked being cradled like a baby. Tux would gently grab my forearm and bring my hand closer; his way of saying, "Don't step petting me!" And I obliged.

He even had special scratchy spots that got him to swipe either of his hind paws quickly and deftly like helicopter blades. Whenever I scratched one of these spots I had to do so at very odd angles, lest the copter blade strike me and leave a pretty bad scratch. He had no control over these blades. It was pure euphoria for him when I found one of these spots. He would indicate he'd want you to scratch one of those spots when he would look directly at you and pantomime the blade.

A few weeks ago one of Tux's parents knocked on my door and asked if they could borrow my car. Tux had been losing weight and was snotty all of a sudden. He came back with a less than desirable diagnosis. He'd been well loved and taken care of, but that after 21 years it was close to that time.

He became skin and bones. Picking him up would make him irritable. I no longer felt comfortable scratching one of those special spots and try the helicopter blade. He was put into Cat Hospice. All of us have been spending even more time and petting even more.

Tux's parents have been going through a lot this year and decided to take a vacation over the July 4th week. They put Tux and his brother Doge in the hands of myself and other roommates.

Tux put up with a lot during the July 4th fireworks. It was mostly his brother not understanding what was going on. So I spent the entire evening and most of the night with both of them. Tux seemed a bit annoyed but was otherwise unbothered.

But then there was today (the 8th). I fed the boys (or the Dreamery Zoo and I've been affectionately calling it) as I had the past several days. I gave Tux some love and attention, then took the Doge out for the first potty break of the day. Then I went out for breakfast. I came back and said hello to Tux one more time and went to my room to decide on where I was going to go to write for the day. I'm a nomad and need a change sometimes.

I went to Tux's room one more time before heading out and noticed he was missing. I looked around, thinking I should ask my roommate if he'd seen Tuxedo. Their door was closed, so I decided to move on to my writing day. Less than ten minutes later I got a text from that roommate asking if I was home.

Today is quite the sad day for me. I've been writing and talking and now typing out all my feelings this afternoon. I may need to add more stories than this one in order to help me grieve.

[kimmysurveyblog]

bf survey

boyfriend survey

What’s his first name? Tyler.

Does his surname begin with the same letter as yours? No.

How old is he? 27.

How long have you been together? 6 years, 7 months.

Do you have a casual or serious relationship? Serious.

How often do you see each other? We live together and he works from home so OFTEN.

Do you live together? Yes.

Do you have keys to each other’s places? We live together. He did have a key to my place before that, though.

When was the last time you saw him? He's beside me currently.

What is the age gap between you? Is he older or younger than you? 5 years younger.

Have you met his parents? Yes! I spent time with two of them today. :)

Has he met your parents? He met my mom before she died, but not my dad.

How many siblings does he have? Two.

Have you met his siblings? Yes! Love them both.

Has he met your siblings? Several times.

What’s his name in your phone? Tyler.

Have you talked about marriage? Yes, of course! We talked about it the other day. I think he'll be proposing this year. :)

Does he have any kids? We have a kid together.

Does he want kids? We were on the fence about it and then I had an oopsie pregnancy. He's the best dad EVER and we're so happy.

Do you see a future with him? Of course.

Are you “Facebook official”? Yup!

How did you meet him? Discord.

Where did you go for your first date? Pizza!

Who was the first one to make a move? Him.

Have you spoken to him today? In person, by text, a phone call lmao. We were apart today for a few hours.

What’s his favorite pizza topping? Pepperoni, red peppers, bacon.

Does he cook? He can but I usually do the cooking!

What sort of phone does he have? He's using one of our old Pixels currently but he's actually beside me ordering a new one right now. Pixel 8.

What size is his bed? Queen.

Does he like to be big spoon or little spoon when you cuddle? Big spoon.

Is he a good kisser? Yes!

Does he make you happy? He sure does.

What’s his fashion style? Comfort!

Does he drive? If so, what sort of car? Yup! Honda sedan.

Has he ever bought you an item of clothing? For sure. Lots of different kinds over the years.

Does he have any piercings? No.

Is he more fun or serious? Ohh... like both? Maybe a bit more serious.

What does he do for a living? He works in tech.

When is the next time you’ll see him? Right now. I'm doing this to entertain myself while he does the phone thing.

What’s his favorite thing to drink? Water.

Does he live alone, with roommates or with parents? He lives with me and our child.

Does he have any pets? We have a dog and fish/shrimp/snails.

Is he your first boyfriend? No.

What was the last movie you watched with him? We don't watch movies so I have no idea.

Is he an active person? No.

What’s his favorite candy? I asked him and he says sour keys.

Have you ever met his best friend? He is my best friend. He has met my friends, though. And he's about to meet ONE OF MY CHILDHOOD BESTIES next month!

What’s your favorite physical quality of his? He has beautiful eyes.

What color is his hair? Brown.

Do you argue with him often? We bicker but rarely argue.

Where was the last place you went with him? McDonalds.

What color is his toothbrush? Purple for the manual one, white for the electric. I don't know if he ever actually uses the purple one?

What kind of movies does he like to watch? He's not a movie guy. Comedy maybe?

Have you celebrated either of your birthdays together? Every birthday for the last 7 years.

Does he play any instruments? No. He used to play bass.

Do you have any mutual friends? Yes. We met through mutual friends.

How often do you talk to him on the phone? We're pretty much always together/in the same house so rarely lol.

Does he have a beard or is he clean-shaven? Beard.

What was the last compliment he gave you? I'm a good mommy because I survived a very stressful day with our child.

Does he dance? No.

Is he taller or shorter than you? Taller.

Has he ever bought you flowers? Yup!

Do you ever borrow his clothes? I wear them pretty often. He gives me shirts he doesn't wear to use as jammies and I wear his hoodies.

Is he a clean or messy person? Clean.

What color are his eyes? Blue.

What does he wear to bed? Boxers and a tshirt.

Does he keep his fingernails clean? They don't really get dirty.

Have you ever shared a shower with him? I do sometimes.

How long after your first date did you see him again? Less than a week. We haven't gone more than a week without seeing each other since we met for the first time.

What’s his bedroom like? It's my bedroom too. Small, messy.

Has he ever had braces? Yup.

When was the last time you kissed him? An hour ago.

Do you celebrate Valentine’s Day with him? Yes.

How long were you together before you said “I love you”? It was actually like 2 weeks lol! But we had been hanging out and kinda dating for 3 months before that, and were close friends for 2 years before that. It made sense!

What sort of shoes does he usually wear? Sneakers or Vans.

Do you know any of his exes? He doesn't have any exes.

What’s his favourite cuisine? Hmmm... Italian?

Was he born in the country he now lives in? Yes.

Have you ever been long-distance with him? Kinda when we were in our "pre-relationship" stage. He'd visit on weekends.

Does he ever wear any type of jewelry? No.

What was the first present you got for him? I have noo idea.

What was the first present he got for you? A really beautiful necklace!

Does he smoke? No.

What TV shows is he watching at the moment? None.

Have you ever visited him at work? No.

Does he play video games? Yup!

What was the last thing you argued about? I'm not sure.

Is he straight? Yes.

When is his birthday? Not comfortable sharing.

Have you ever shared a bath with him? Yes!

Does he ride a motorcycle? No.

How long is his hair? Two inches maybe. He's due for a haircut.

Have you ever been overseas with him? No.

Does he have any tattoos? No.

What is his favorite alcoholic beverage? Beer.

Does he speak any languages other than English? He's fluent in French.

Is he college/university educated? Yes!

How long have you known him? 9 years, maybe?

Does he text back quickly? I usually only text him if he's working or running an errand so no.

Have you ever celebrated Christmas with him? For the last 7 years.

Has he ever been in a physical fight? No.

Did you go to the same high school as him? No.

[thepetrifiedeyeball]

People Who Definitely Won’t Ever Lend Anyone Money Again

“If you want to be a friend, never borrow, never lend.” More and more people agreeably nod their heads when they hear this phrase. And it’s not all that surprising since the number of stories about lenders’ uneasy destinies grows more and more, like a snowball.

Once I lent my friend $20 for a couple of days. After one week had passed, I realized he wasn’t going to return the debt. Moreover, the things on his end were going badly. One day, he asked if I wanted to take his place on his night and day shift at work as a guard — one shift costs $20. It means that I would earn this money myself and return my friend’s debt to myself too. © Neuzheli / Pikabu

My cousin asked me to lend him $200. He urgently needed to pay several debts before the New Year. I lent it. He promised to return the debt in a couple of months. It was only $200, not $20,000. He could call me and ask to move the date, he could simply not return it (he himself insisted on returning the debt), just call me — we’re not strangers. That was December of 2014. It’s 2020 now and I have never seen him since then. He simply got lost. Communication with my cousin costs $200. I think that’s cheap. © KycokMakca / Pikabu

My nephew called me a couple of years ago asking to lend him $3,000 for sustaining his business. He already sold his car and borrowed money from his parents, but still, the money wasn’t enough. So I thought, “I have this money. Why not help him?” I lent it but with the condition that he had to return the debt in 6 months and write me a note about it. After 6 months had passed, I called him and asked, “Where’s my money?” The response was unexpected: “What money?” Eventually, the young man started to say that a note was just a piece of paper. My calls to his parents also didn’t get any results — they were protecting their offspring. It all resulted in me suing my nephew and sending bailiffs to him. He doesn’t have any money and can’t return the debt. I also became the main foe of the family because I dared to ask for my money back. That’s how $3,000 helped me to get rid of “good” relatives. © IpockerfaceI / Pikabu

This story happened to my brother. One of his friends asked him to lend a very large amount of money to him. My brother agreed but with his apartment as collateral. So the following dialogue took place between them: — “Do you want to take my apartment?” — “Do you want to not give back your debt?” © predskazamus / Pikabu

One of my friends called me and said that he owed me $5 and was entering the New Year with debt, which isn’t a good sign. That’s why he transferred the money to my card. Another friend who owes me $2,000 is not calling me. Apparently, he doesn’t believe in superstitions. © Alax / Pikabu

I once lent my friend $100 and he vanished from my life and then moved to another city. After a couple of years, we accidentally met each other and he didn’t even want to talk to me. When I asked him about the money, he said I was too petty. Those $100 bucks were all I had left at that moment. © MayorskiePogoni / Twitter

Once, an acquaintance borrowed $200 from me. It was very a lot of money at that time. He disappeared but was living in a neighboring block of flats. I saw him from a distance several times but he was always running away, not giving me a chance to talk to him. After many years, I met him in front of a store. I had a cool car and was well-dressed. We started to talk. He said he was looking for a job and as it turned out, he was a suitable specialist for our company. I was the security service worker and could help him get the job. Do you think he got it? Nope, he should’ve thought about that before cheating me. © Overheard / Ideer

An acquaintance called me the other day asking to lend him a decent amount of money for a couple of months. I said: — “Ok, I’ll do it. Let’s catch up at the notary office.” — “Why at the notary office?” — “To register the loan.” — “Why? I’ll give it back.” —" Good, then there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll pay for the notary services myself." — “I thought you were my friend...” © Overheard / Ideer

I lent money to a man that I had been dating for just over a year. I never asked why he needed it. We broke up after 2 months and he returned the debt. Later, I accidentally learned that he used this money to rent an apartment to live with another woman. Now he’s going to marry her. © Overheard / Ideer

I kept quarreling with my neighbor about the debt she wasn’t returning to me ($20). Eventually, she got mad and brought me the debt in a sack full of dimes. But she didn’t know that I collected coins. About two-thirds of the sack got put into my collection. While I was putting them in my album, my neighbor was in the process of giving birth to something big, aggressive, and covered with poisonous spikes. © Unknown author / Bash.im

[anaisvionet-blog]

more jazz please

My roommates Leong, Sophie, (Charles) and I were coming from a Yale sporting event. The sky looked like a dirty Swiffer-mop and the wind seemed to be ignoring the posted 20mph speed limit. It was a typical spring day in New Haven, overcast, 65°, with intermittent, drizzling rain. I was thinking it was a good day to be a duck.

We were looking for something to gnaw on and a beverage - of the alcoholic variety. We picked up some Mike’s hard cider (featured in our refrigerator now), which proves college students really do plan for the future.

It was about 4pm and the streets were puddled, slick-looking and empty. The lone passing car sounded like it was riding on a sponge. I was wearing a navy blue, short sleeve Polo dress, a matching Polo bucket hat (for the rain) and a slub knit hoodie that I ‘borrowed’ from Sunny forEVER (seriously, I ordered her a replacement from Amazon) and Roxy boat shoes.

On a side street, a “party-bike” sat parked, sad and abandoned in the rain. A party-bike is a tram fitted up as a bar that slowly drives noisy drunks around. The drunks sit around a “U” shaped bar, on small, backless stools welded onto the tram. Yes, an open-air bar on wheels. I can’t help thinking that a lawyer came up with the idea, because what could go wrong?

The first time I saw a “sightseeing” party-bike was on Beale Street, in Memphis Tennessee. Memphis is the Disneyland of barbeque and the blues. Every storefront for blocks is an open air blues bar, a barbeque place or souvenir shop (or all three at once). Party-bikes make sense there, because intoxication is like oxygen in Memphis. It's a party-bikes native environment. In New Haven, they seem cheap, excessive and opportunistic.

As we were walking, in the distance, we heard the wail of a saxophone and a beat so clear, that the sound seemed to linger and shimmer in the air, like a cartoon neon ‘Jazz’ sign. We instantly turned that way and discovered it was coming from a place called “Three Sheets” which was having open-mic tryouts for the house band.

It’s a bar that serves food and there’s a ‘beer goddess’ painted on one wall. In Georgia, we’d call it a ‘fern bar.' We found a table in the darker back, out of the way, and settled in. A waitress quickly took our orders and brought us several IPA beers.

Near a platform stage, there were 6 or 8 musicians sitting around (with their instruments) waiting to take a turn forming a trio with the house drummer and bass who were laying down a constant beat. One would step in with a guitar and play for a hot minute, then a guy with the sax, another with a trumpet and yet another with a clarinet, it went on and on. They each had a solo, at some point, and it made me wonder why I don’t listen to more jazz.

Our afternoon of music was something Sophie had wished for. Earlier that morning, as we were leaving the residence, she’d said, “I wish there was a concert or something going on tonight - something musical,” and boom, we get this. Still, I don’t subscribe to the idea of holy intervention.

I hate it when I hear people say, “God never gives us more than we can handle.” I bristle, my head snaps in the direction of the speaker, I want to see who that dumb-ass is. My parents and sister are doctors, and believe me, people are dying every day in situations that are more than they can handle. Heart attacks, staph infections, gunshot wounds, covid, cancer - Uggg, sorry, I got off track and boiled-over there.

Anyway, we had some jazzy music and incredible Vietnamese pulled-pork sandwiches with fries and a smoky ketchup that I could have just drunk. . . *I put (Charles) in brackets because, as our driver and escort, he’s usually there in the background when we’re not in the residence. But his presence is circumscribed, because he’s not there socially. Is it rude not to include him in every narrative? I don’t know - it's a habit.