#this is also loosely a redux of an older piece

[pokeberry5]

red robin in his hot girl summer era

alts + closeup:

[notapaladin]

so say you’ll stay with me tonight (redux)

Hey, it’s ANOTHER fic I couldn’t leave alone because I wasn’t satisfied! This one fits the vibe I was going for better and is also like 2k words longer. In which Acatl has a bad day, but Teomitl walks him home and his night is so much better.

Original version here.

Also on AO3.

-

Tizoc is—regrettably—still Emperor today. Acatl’s trying very hard not to let it bother him, but it’s hard not to when the man has summoned all three High Priests and the master engineers to discuss his plans for the grand new renovation of the Great Temple currently underway. The renovation which, yes, is likely necessary, but not now. Not yet. It’s only been a year and a half since the plague. He meets Acamapichtli and Quenami’s gazes sidelong and knows they know it too.

Not that they say anything, of course. Cowards. Cowards and fools. Acatl shifts on his mat, calves aching, and grinds his teeth. (He wishes he were braver.)

They’re arrayed around a series of blueprints, some of them dating back to the very first iteration of the Great Temple. Wards and glyphs have been drawn in the corners of the later ones—the High Priests’ predecessors having planned ahead for their successors—but the oldest ones have no such guidelines. If those are damaged, they’ll have to use their best judgement. Or, more likely, the contents of the Temple archives which Quenami keeps under wards so heavy they give Acatl a nosebleed. The engineers don’t care about any of that; their job is solely to satisfy the Revered Speaker. One of them is currently leaning over a rendition of the current temple, gesturing to make his point. “Of course, my lord, if you wish the most dazzling effect for the end pieces it would be best to place the support beams for the underlying structure here and here, but...”

Tizoc’s eyes narrow. “But?”

“Ah. It may be less structurally sound. Not that it would collapse immediately, you understand, but in ten or fifteen years’ time...”

“Bah! I’ll handle it then. We can always remake it.”

Or you’ll leave it for your successor to handle? You’ll make Teomitl deal with this? His jaw tightens.

“As you wish, my lord. Now, that will require the scaffolding poles to be driven into the previous layer—yes, Acatl-tzin?”

He must have made an involuntary noise. Swallowing back the first three or four protestations that come to mind (there are so many wards written and carved into that layer which would have to be dismantled completely and the gods only know if they’re dependent on older ones, if even a single brick of Coyolxauhqui’s prison is exposed to moonlight all the hearts’ blood in the world won’t keep them safe), he says...

Nothing. He says nothing. Tizoc—he won’t distinguish the man with a -tzin, not anymore, not after what he did to Tlaloc’s clergy—is studying him like a particularly disgusting bug, and he thinks of his own priests and loses all his nerve. He shakes his head silently.

The engineers continue. Quenami, naturally, has plenty of suggestions. Yes, those dimensions for the new foundation are pleasing. Yes, of course there will be no problem procuring the limestone and basalt. Yes, it will be easy for us (this with a gloating look at Acamapichtli and Acatl that makes the High Priest of Tlaloc’s eyes go dark and furious and makes Acatl himself entertain vivid fantasies of strangulation) to weave the wards anew. There will be nothing to fear. All will know and glory to the name of Tizoc-tzin, who made the Temple great again.

And Tizoc preens. He knows nothing of wards or of magic beyond the most basic things they teach all noblemen’s children in the calmecac, and so he knows nothing of why everything he’s proposing is immensely dangerous for the safety of their world. He has never descended into the depths of the Temple to stand atop Coyolxauhqui’s prison and feel her hatred, her rage. He doesn’t care. He simply wants it expanded now, before anyone can somehow steal his glory—not that he says that, of course, but it shines greasily through in every word. Acatl tries very hard to let his voice wash over him without picking out specifics. That way lies only impotent fury, and they simply aren’t stable enough yet that he can risk drawing Tizoc’s ire. He may have Teomitl’s fondest regard, but Teomitl is still only Master of the House of Darts. Soon, he thinks. Soon.

“My lord, of course we can redo the steps down to the center as well, but...”

“Out with it.”

“Will we have enough sacrifices to remake the wards on them? They will need to be incised into the stone—”

Tizoc’s voice rises to a pitch that reminds him of a peccary with a chest cold. “You dare ask me that? Have we not won great victories? Have we not brought back dozens, hundreds of sacrifices already? Do you doubt the strength and valor of our armies?”

...Not soon enough.

He shifts again, allowing himself a brief grimace at the ache in his back and thighs. They’ve never been the same since his sojourn in the Heartlands. Every day he looks at Tizoc and thinks, I can’t believe I fought Itzpapalotl for your sake. But he did, and now they have a Revered Speaker who leads their warriors to be slaughtered and calls ir victory. He doubts whether Tizoc’s ever personally captured a prisoner in his life.

Teomitl could bring back more than enough captives, he thinks, if you only got out of his way and let him lead your army the way he’s supposed to. Between Teomitl and Neutemoc, he’s started to gain some secondhand knowledge of battle strategy, enough to understand that the relative failures of the campaigns under Tizoc’s reign are due in large part to the man’s own mix of paranoid micromanagement and reckless overconfidence. Teomitl’s not at all shy in voicing his opinions on it.

The engineer is sweating now. Rumors buzz like flies in the palace, and they say that the last person who publicly gainsaid the Revered Speaker simply disappeared. No official investigation was made, but that man’s widow had nevertheless been brave enough to contact Acatl. He didn’t find any magical residue, but of course that didn’t rule out foul play. They’d both known who the culprit was anyway. But this man is smarter or more cowardly, and so he lowers his head and says, “Never, my lord. They still sing of your latest campaign in the streets. It is merely that the reconsecration of the Great Temple is vital, and I wished to know whether you desired extra protection for the boundaries.”

If Tizoc was an intelligent man, he would say yes. The boundaries are still weak, terribly weak, due simply to his presence. Though they’ve been sewn up—thank the gods for Mihmatini—they’re far from impermeable. Acatl can feel them wiggle like a loose tooth if he presses too hard. And the Great Temple is their best and largest anchor with such a weak Revered Speaker on the throne. Until Teomitl is crowned, they need all the help they can get to keep the stars in the sky and She of the Silver Bells in chains.

Tizoc is not an intelligent man. He scoffs, shaking his head in a manner horribly reminiscent of Teomitl at his most arrogant. Except this is worse, because Teomitl has good qualities to make up for it. Tizoc has none. “That won’t be necessary. My High Priests will have it well in hand, won’t you?”

Quenami takes it upon himself to speak for them all. “Of course, my lord.”

Acatl remains silent. He can’t bear to look at Quenami just yet or he might snap, but when he turns his head he catches Acamapichtli’s eye and realizes he knows that expression. It’s the same one he almost certainly has on his own face. How dare he? After what Tizoc did to your clergy, and what he’s doing to the boundaries, he has the nerve to make our jobs even harder? And it will certainly be their jobs, because if Quenami bestirs himself for anything short of Coyolxauhqui physically manifesting on the Temple steps, Acatl will eat his own sandals. Without chili sauce.

Tizoc waves a hand. “You see? Proceed.”

The two engineers exchange looks before the man dubbed unofficial spokesman nods. “As you wish, my lord.”

&

It’s late by the time they get out of that meeting, and all he can think is that he does not want to spend one more second within the palace walls. He wants his own house, and his own mat, and his—

Well. He wants Teomitl. In general he doesn’t want to be alone, but in specific he wants Teomitl—wants to wrap his arms around him, hold him close, kiss that soft and smiling mouth. They haven’t made any promises or put words on what they are to each other. Teomitl’s optimism so far hasn’t extended itself to that, and Acatl isn’t sure he can be the first one to say it. But he knows his own heart well enough to tell how he feels. How he’s been feeling ever since that first day months ago, when Teomitl had turned back from that view of the city on his temple steps and smiled at him.

(Not, admittedly, that he’d said anything. Not then. It had taken them weeks of meeting for meals, of watching Teomitl patch up his relationship with Mihmatini, of nearly giving up—for surely he had no right to come between them. Of staring at his mouth and wondering what it might be like to kiss it. Had it not been for Teomitl showing up at his door the night before he left for his next campaign, he might still be wondering.)

His—lover? He supposes that’s the best word—is somewhere in the palace, but Acatl hasn’t seen him all day. This mess with the Great Temple has taken up all his time. He’s seriously debating the idea of going to look for him. Of finding him wherever he’s been spending his time, pulling him aside, telling him...

I want you.

I missed you.

Come home with me.

That idea makes his face heat. They’ve stolen plenty of time together, but never has Teomitl spent the night at his house. (He doesn’t count that time after Axayacatl’s death. He’d been asleep for that, and also still so deep in denial that he wouldn’t have been able to find his way out with a tall ladder and a map.) To do that now would be...well. His eyes have been opened, and he’s fairly sure they wouldn’t be spending too much time sleeping.

“Acatl!”

He jolts; he’s been so lost in thought that he didn’t even hear those impatient, beloved footfalls approaching from behind. The hallway is empty, so he doesn’t have that excuse either. Something in his heart clicks and settles into warm contentment as he turns around. “Teomitl,” he says, and adds—because it’s the truth—“I was just thinking about you.”

Teomitl doesn’t quite blush, but his smile goes measurably warmer around the edges. He looks good all in red and white, with gold earflares and a simple gold lip plug that draws Acatl’s eye to the curve of his lower lip. He’s loosened his hair and taken out the feather ornaments, so he must have finished his own work. “And I was just looking for you. Are you all done for the day?”

“...Unless some emergency beckons, yes.” He really hopes it doesn’t. Duality, just give him one night.

“I’m glad.” And Teomitl draws closer, slowing his pace to match. “Heading home?”

He nods, and then takes a breath. There’s no reason for him to be nervous, but asking for it while knowing what he wants makes his heart beat a little faster anyway. “Walk with me?”

Teomitl beams, and somehow he falls even deeper in love. “Of course.”

They’re quiet for a while. He knows he could break the silence; now that he’s fallen into the habit of speaking his feelings out loud with Teomitl, his lover always has an understanding ear to lend when he needs to unleash his frustrations. It had been a pleasant surprise to curse Quenami’s name and have Teomitl spare no vitriol in his own assessment of the man’s character. But it feels good just to walk side by side with him, and he doesn’t want to ruin the mood. Besides, walls in the palace always have ears, and he’s sure it would get back to Tizoc somehow. Instead he focuses on the warmth of Teomitl’s body next to his, almost close enough to touch. The scent of lingering copal incense and sun-warmed skin reaches him and he thinks, Oh, this is nice. (It could be nicer. They could be holding hands. But they have to be discreet, still, and so he can’t risk it.)

(Gods, he wants to see Teomitl crowned.)

It’s not until they leave the palace that Teomitl says, “So. Tizoc’s still going ahead with his...refurbishment.”

Acatl grimaces. “Indeed.”

“Didn’t listen to any of the reasons why he shouldn’t.”

He bites his lip. “I...”

Teomitl turns to look at him, frowning, but then understanding dawns. “...I see.” He looks like he wants to say something else—probably something angry—but all he does is sigh and shake his head. “I tried too, and he brushed me aside. He’s only thinking of his legacy and not what it might do to us. It’s probably for the best that you didn’t say anything; he’d think we were conspiring against him.”

Acatl considers this. Looks at him.

Teomitl looks mildly offended. “I did say I’d give him time.”

“You did.” And he slides his fingers against the back of Teomitl’s hand to show he’s not upset, nor holding a grudge. After all, he’d meant it when he’d said there was no need for apologies between them. It has the desired effect, because Teomitl’s eyes grow warm and bright.

And then he leans in and murmurs, “Unless you’d rather I not.”

“Teomitl,” he huffs, but he can’t be mad. Teomitl’s wearing the half-grin that means he’s not entirely serious—that says yes, he might still kill his own brother on Acatl’s orders, but it’s far more important to him that Acatl has asked him not to. Acatl trusts that now. “Please don’t.” After a moment’s thought he adds, “At least warn me and Mihmatini first when you do.”

Now Teomitl’s really smiling, though it’s somewhat rueful. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. You know that.”

“I do.” He angles himself as he walks so that their arms brush and lets the tenderness he feels color his voice. I know you, my heart. And he’s suddenly more than mildly annoyed that they’re still in the Sacred Precinct, because the way Teomitl is looking at him with soft, shining eyes desperately makes him wish he could kiss him right here. If he were braver, he thinks he might even risk it; he knows where the shadows of the temple gates will hide them from prying eyes, and he knows how sweetly Teomitl presses against him when he’s pleased.

Though he says nothing, it must show on his face, because Teomitl takes advantage of the camouflage provided by their billowing cloaks to firmly lace their fingers together. His voice lowers, rich with promise. “We should fetch dinner before we reach your place. Unless you want to cook? I hope you do; we’ll need our energy.”

He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s blushing. “I. Um.”

“Well?”

“...I leave a pot of stew on the hearth in the morning.” It’s a habit he’s gotten into since Tizoc’s begun these building preparations; they often go long enough that he’s ravenous by the time they’re over, and utterly unwilling to expend any more brainpower on exactly how to fill his stomach. It’s hard to overcook stew, after all. “Though I don’t know if it will be to your taste—”

Teomitl holds up a hand to stop him. “Acatl. You know my feelings on your cooking.”

He snorts, shaking his head. They’ve had this conversation before. “I still think you flatter me far too much.”

Teomitl pokes his side teasingly. “And I think you underestimate the effects of a meal made with care and devotion by a man I trust above all others in the Empire.” Acatl’s heart skips a beat, so of course the moment’s ruined when he follows it up with, “I’d eat what you made if it came out as charcoal.”

“Well, hopefully this won’t be that bad.” Honesty compels him to add, “It may be a bit spicy. I wasn’t expecting company when I put it all together.”

Teomitl huffs, “I can handle spice!”

He makes a mental note to serve plenty of flatbread on the side.

&

It’s not far to his home, and the stew—mostly beans and corn, with a long-simmering and very tough haunch of dog from an earlier sacrifice thrown in to cook until tender—is just about done when he takes it off the fire. Teomitl clearly wants to help, but after a moment’s searching forces him to realize he has no idea where Acatl keeps anything, he takes himself out to the courtyard with a terribly put-upon sigh. It’s adorable. Acatl wants to kiss his cheek.

So when he sets down their bowls, he does. Teomitl promptly blushes, which is so endearing that Acatl has to kiss him again. On the mouth this time, which turns long and lingering before Teomitl slowly pulls away. “Mmhm. Not that I’m complaining, but what prompted this?”

He really only needs one hand to eat, so he’s free to settle the other at Teomitl’s waist and revel in the way the man nestles against his side. (It’s no longer surprising that Teomitl is so tactile, but it will always—always—be delightful.) “I missed you.”

Because he had. Every time Tizoc had opened his mouth, he’d thought you are unworthy of your crown. Every time Quenami had worn that supercilious smirk of his, he’d thought Teomitl would never let you get away with that. He’d felt himself alone, and he’d wanted his lover by his side. Now that he is, there’s something going soft and warm in Acatl’s chest. They’d definitely be kissing again if it wasn’t for the stew, which he knows won’t be nearly as good cold.

Teomitl presses a kiss to his cheek, which makes him blush in turn, but then he’s applying himself to his dinner. Acatl waits as he takes the first spoonful.

To give him credit, his beloved doesn’t flinch. But he does turn red, and when Acatl hands him a piece of plain flatbread he shoves it into his mouth as though his life depends on it. When he can talk again, his voice is a little rough. “That’s—not bad.” And then, ruefully, “I should have expected that.”

“Mm.” He thinks briefly of seeing whether there’s anything else he could serve, but he knows Teomitl will turn it down. Even now, his lover thinks his own limits are mere suggestions.

It’s a quiet meal. Teomitl settles more firmly against him as they eat, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, and the promise of it makes him shiver. I won’t be suggesting he go home tonight, he thinks, and knows it for the truth. The silence between them feels good—feels comfortable—but though he doesn’t want to spoil it, there’s something he knows he has to say.

The sun is setting, bathing them in twilight. Their bowls are scraped clean, even Teomitl’s. (With the aid, Acatl can’t help but notice, of several cups of water and all of the flatbread.) Teomitl himself is resting his head on his shoulder, looking utterly content with his lot in life. Warm, callused fingers are tracing slow circles on his thigh. Even the air feels peaceful, with just enough of a breeze to keep them cool but not enough to raise the dust. Acatl takes a deep breath and realizes he’s not afraid. Maybe he should be—maybe this is too much, he’s moving too quickly—but he isn’t. Not with his man by his side. Haven’t they come this far?

“I love you,” he whispers, and it comes out so quietly that at first he doesn’t think Teomitl’s heard him. But then it must sink in, because Teomitl’s muscles tense, his eyes widen, and Acatl has a miniature eternity to think Oh, fuck. He’s wrong. This is too fast. Teomitl isn’t that serious about him. Hastily, he opens his mouth, scrambling to take it back.

Then Teomitl smiles, soft as the dawn, and breathes, “I love you, too.”

Oh. Oh, thank the Duality.

Teomitl turns towards him and they’re kissing again, and this time it’s much less sweet. There is some restraint—while Teomitl’s not precisely shy, he’s well aware of Acatl’s vows and has never pressed them—but it’s the easiest and most natural thing in the world to be tumbled backwards on the mat, to have strong hands buried in his hair, to feel the heat and the faintest suggestion of teeth in each press of Teomitl’s mouth down his throat. And yet, for all that, there’s still a gentleness to it, because he’s loved. And better than that, he’s respected. If he asked Teomitl to stop, he knows he would.

He doesn’t think he’s going to ask Teomitl to stop. He arches into another kiss, letting his head fall back, and breathes, “We should...nnh...” Words fail him, because there’s a featherlight press of lips to his collarbone and it’s a lovely little spark of pleasure.

“Mm?”

He shivers in anticipation at the warmth in his lover’s eyes. No, there’s no hesitation in his mind anymore. “Let’s go inside.” He swallows. “If you want to continue this.”

Teomitl jerks back a little to look at him. For an instant he looks surprised, but then the smile on his face turns teasing. “Oh, I do. But it’s getting late, and you should sleep.”

He’s suddenly very, very aware of his lover’s weight on him—of the way they’re touching, pressed together from very nearly the waist downwards, and how the building heat in his blood is moving with purpose. He shifts, rolling his hips a fraction, and feels Teomitl twitch in response. “I’m not that tired.”

Teomitl grins, all wicked hope. “Want me to help you with that?”

He sucks in a breath. I took vows is his first thought. But it’s followed fast by a second, stronger one—I don’t care. So instead of answering in words, he pulls Teomitl into a hungry, searing kiss.

He’s honestly not entirely clear on how they manage to get inside. While he’d be glad to kiss Teomitl forever, his lover is the sort of impatient man who comes up with plans; they’re barely on his sleeping mat before Teomitl’s scattering their cloaks and working at the knots to their loincloths, letting his hands roam shamelessly over every inch of bare skin. Acatl’s not idle; though he might kill something for a light so he could at least see the unveiled glory that is his naked lover, he’s free to map out the lay of the land with his palms.

And gods, but Teomitl melts into each touch. If he were the jaguar Acatl sometimes thinks of him as, he might even be purring. Experimentally he draws his nails down Teomitl’s back, and is rewarded when he moans into their kiss. “Mmm...”

Then there are warm, callused fingers trailing down his chest and he can’t quite muster up the ability to feel smug anymore when they find one nipple and start toying with it. “Oh, gods,” he gasps—he hadn’t thought he’d be sensitive there, but Teomitl is very effectively proving him wrong. He’s been half-hard since the moment his loincloth hit the floor, and Teomitl’s hands are getting him the rest of the way there. It’s even better when Teomitl moves to straddle him, half so they can grind against each other and half so his free hand can skate down the plane of his stomach.

Their eyes meet, and Acatl feels himself flush at the look in Teomitl’s eyes, the one that says without words that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he speaks, his voice is soft. “You feel perfect.”

“Flatterer...mmm...” That one hand is sliding lower, shameless, and he wriggles a little to press their cocks together. He wishes again for light, but smoothing his hands over the solid muscles of his lover’s back and down over his frankly glorious ass will have to do. Teomitl must enjoy it, because his whole body trembles—and then Acatl’s being kissed, long and slow, and he arches with an utterly wanton groan.

“You are incredible,” Teomitl breathes when they pull apart. “Tell me how you want me to please you.” Acatl has to blush a little at that—it’s hardly as though Teomitl ought to need instruction, when he’s so hard against him and surely that presents a few obvious ideas—but well, he is asking. He’s owed an answer.

Still, saying it out loud makes him squirm. His skin feels like it’s on fire as he mutters, “...Touch me.” He rolls his hips, and his lover’s eyes spark fire. He doesn’t need to say anything else; Teomitl takes him in hand, and the friction that had been merely good builds into something he can fall into, something that sends pleasure coiling through his veins.

“Like this?” Teomitl’s setting a steady pace, fingers rippling; he needs his other hand to brace himself on the mat, bringing him in range to punctuate his words with a hungry mouth on Acatl’s collarbone. It scatters Acatl’s thoughts to the four winds; helpless, he scratches down Teomitl’s back again, and this time the vibrations of his lover’s moan sinks into his skin.

More, he thinks, and yes. He barely recognizes his own voice when it leaves his mouth. “Nngh, yes—no, wait, wait, I want to—” It’s not a want but a physical need, bone-deep, that has him working his hand between them to wrap around both their cocks at once. Teomitl’s roughly the same size but a little thicker, all rock-hard heat under his palm, and when he squeezes it pulls the most amazingly wrecked noise out of him.

“Oh,” Teomitl gasps. In the darkness, his eyes are wide with stunned hunger; his hips shudder, rocking in unconscious little circles like he’s not sure whether he should be letting Acatl set the pace or not.

“Like this,” he pants. All that stroking had been pleasurable, yes, but he needs to feel it properly when Teomitl falls apart against him, under his hand, sliding past his own cock with each thrust. He wonders, briefly, how it would feel with Teomitl inside him—but then Teomitl’s hand leaves his shaft to slide lower, and the first purposeful caress to his balls makes him whine.

Teomitl’s smug, “Hah,” comes out as more of a gasp than anything else. Even the attempt at a self-satisfied smirk is erased in the next instant because Acatl leans in to nip at his throat and grinds his hips up, a firm stroke making their cocks pulse in his grip, and his head falls back with a shaky cry. “Gods, keep doing that—”

Acatl hums against his lover’s skin. “Is this how you like it?” he breathes. There aren’t words for the feelings coursing through him, lust and the mounting lightning of his own pleasure mingling with a fierce joy that he’s the one doing this for Teomitl, that it’s his mouth and hands that are pulling such sweet sounds from his lover. A little more, he thinks. A little more. I need to see your face.

He gets his wish a moment later; no doubt Teomitl has a warrior’s stamina, but it can’t last against the way Acatl’s handling him. He gets increasingly vocal as he nears his peak, wordless cries ringing in the night air as Acatl bites at his shoulder. When he mouths a red mark into the thin skin at his collarbone, Teomitl nearly sobs. “Yes—yes, gods, Acatl—” Then he’s coming, hard and fast and all at once, spilling himself over their hands and bodies, and his voice cracks into a desperate keen.

It’s perfect. He’s still unfulfilled, but he almost doesn’t care. Almost. After a moment where Teomitl’s catching his breath and he thinks he might have to seek his own pleasure, his lover is grinning hot and hungrily down at him and oh gods, now that he’s not distracted by what Acatl’s doing with him he proves merciless. He settles back on his haunches, freeing both hands to squeeze and stroke and pump Acatl’s throbbing flesh, and all Acatl can do is take it. “Nnnh, Teomitl, please...”

“That’s it,” Teomitl breathes, and if it wasn’t so awestruck it would be a royal order. It feels like a royal order,  like the words of the gods themselves when he growls, “Come for me, Acatl-tzin.”

He does. He can’t do anything else. It’s shattering knife-edge pleasure that pulls all his thoughts out of his head; for a small eternity, he can’t even feel his own limbs, lost in the white-hot spasms of his own release. Awareness filters back in slowly; there’s Teomitl slowly petting his thighs, there’s his hands settling at his lover’s hips. And there, shining in the darkness, is Teomitl’s tender gaze.

“...Duality,” he manages breathlessly. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but thank You. Thank You for this gift.

“We made a mess,” Teomitl murmurs. With a downright wicked smirk, he drags his fingers through it and slowly licks them clean.

Spent as he is, it still makes Acatl’s cock twitch. He has to close his eyes lest he do something that...well, something that seems like a very good idea, to be honest, but his body is letting him know he’d regret it later. He’s not that young anymore. “Teomitl.”

“You taste good.” It’s almost—almost—innocent, but then Teomitl does it again and that’s not innocent at all.

He draws in a shuddering breath. “I need to recover, damn you. Give me a moment before you do things like that!”

“I just wanted to clean us up, but you’re right.” Teomitl kisses him again, slowly, and he can taste himself on his lips. “I won’t tease, love.”

Love. He smiles at that, feeling his face warm. “You’d better not, after being so concerned about my sleep schedule.” It comes out as more of a mumble than anything else; he’s forgotten how draining orgasms can be, especially on a full stomach after a long day. Sleep really is sounding very tempting.

“Mmm.” It’s a warm, utterly contented hum. Even when Teomitl pulls away to clean them both up properly with a cotton towel, he doesn’t go far; indeed, the cleanup itself is slow and tender and interspersed with long, gentle kisses.

Acatl responds as best he can, but he really is very tired. When Teomitl slides his arms around him, it’s all he can do to nuzzle into his chest. “Mmhm.” He feels boneless. Weightless. Teomitl is stroking his hair, and he never wants it to stop. “Teomitl...”

Teomitl’s arms loosen. “I...” he begins.

He knows what Teomitl’s going to say—I should go, I shouldn’t be here in the morning. He knows it would be a good and prudent idea. He also knows he’s not going to let that happen. Not after the night they’ve shared; not after the love they’ve shared. “Stay,” he says.

Teomitl stays.

[book-o-scams]

Either 1. Do an analysis on the scene from Run for Your Ed where the Kanker's find that their ship-in-a-bottle is missing. Or if you don't want to do an analysis (please think about doing one though) you can just answer this question. Why is the Kanker's ship-in-a-bottle so important? * If you have any questions see the post on my blog. You have until Sunday to complete the analysis.

I’m excited to do this because ‘Run For Your Ed’ is a really great Kanker episode AND a really great LATER episode.  Season 4′s Kanker episodes have some of the most intentional character-exploration in the show’s entire run, and it’s really nice to see AKA so proactive about developing characters who are usually treated like extras, especially during an era  era where they were having trouble developing the central characters.  This season contains at least 3 episodes that begin from the Kankers’ perspective and humanize their motivations before setting them loose on the cul-de-sac, this being one of those episodes.  This season also contains ‘A Twist of Ed’, an interesting episode that begins from the Eds’ perspective but starts blending in the Kankers’ perspective when the Eds start to turn the tables on them.  It’s disappointing that we don’t really get any Kanker-focused episodes during the digital era of the show, but at least season 5 finally breaks status quo, first by having the Eds publicly declare the Kankers to be their girlfriends, and in the end by scaring the Kankers away for most post-s5 episodes.

Here’s a weird thing I noticed… for the last 3 episodes of season 4, the storyboard credit screen does not actually say “storyboard by.“  And although they are all episodes with the “Tout Le Monde“ credit--  a trend mostly used during seasons 2 and 4, while season 3 had more solo episodes and season 1 wasn’t credited very clearly, it’s a French phrase they use when all of the storyboard artists in the studio contributed pieces of the episode-- earlier instances of “Tout Le Monde“ as late as s4′s ‘Stuck in Ed’ included the “storyboard by“ line.  Kinda seems like an oversight as season 4′s deadlines got tight...  But obviously I know this is nitpicking, regardless it’s very interesting that Danny wanted the show to go out with so many group-effort episodes.  I wonder if perhaps it was to improve morale when everyone was feeling out of ideas?  Or if the artists actually disliked not receiving clearer credit?

Anyway the other reason I wanted to include this screenshot for Kanker appreciation month is that I noticed the Tout Le Monde episodes of seasons 2 and 4 (IIRC, it’s just Homecooked Eds, A Twist of Ed, Run For Your Ed, and technically the movie although it is not credited to Tout Le Monde) produced some of the most iconic Kanker moments and I think the Kankers’ group dynamics are influenced by the team spirit at AKA.

This is the first time we see the trailer park at night and the only time we see it at night without it being buried under snow.

Oh, I also have model sheets archived for this episode!  Here are some color tests using season 1 background lineart:

This episode is the only time we get to see the Kankers all sleeping in their bed, as well as the only time we get to see their pajamas.  I’m fascinated by which characters get pajamas and other sorts of alternate outfits.

So things begin peacefully enough, with Brahms Lullaby, lotsa night ambience, and a cute gag where the Kankers each have their own obnoxious snore that somehow doesn’t wake the others.

But soon enough, one crash downstairs wakes Lee and a second crash wakes Marie. 

The storyboarding seems to be intentionally framing this as the older sisters sharing a feeling of responsibility for their household.

Ohh, I also love whenever we get to see the Kankers scared shitless like this, it’s surprisingly not as rare as you’d think.

Have some cute sleepy Mays:

The girls have each others’ backs as they cautiously look down their staircase.

Thankfully I have the model sheet so we can fully appreciate this perspective:

In a subtle and effectively creepy little bit of animation, all the Kankers see is a tiny tin can rolling out of their kitchen.

Marie and May immediately turn to Lee for their next move.

LOVE this shot with the kitchen light.  Season 4 also has the hands-down BEST trailer backgrounds, we get to see so many interesting perspectives in these episodes.

Lee seemingly lets her sisters stay behind and charges to the kitchen with their wall-mounted swordfish (or is that a marlin…?).

However, the intruder has already left and we get a few more looks at the nighttime trailer park:

Relieved, Lee and Marie jump into the window and bark insults at the intruder.  Another good older sisters sequence, and this one I have a couple storyboard panels for:

They inspect their wrecked kitchen, and at first the background, Lee’s tone and the music sync up to make this look like a really depressing moment, this family with little to begin with having been eaten out of house and home.  And as fans, the next scene’s reveal that this is a redux of Ed’s sleepeating from season 1 is no surprise, and I think it’s being portrayed a bit less amusing now that it’s affecting families outside of Peach Creek’s ritzy suburbs.

But then we get this dramatic shot of Marie holding the table and it always throws off the mood of this scene to me…  I still love the scene as a whole but when Marie whines “why’s it always the good ones that get away!?” while looking at a bite mark out of something inedible, it kind of implies weird things about the Kankers and adult strangers and really any trailer park weirdo who might break in…  Especially after what the Kankers do without a second thought to Bro in BPS, this is more than a bit concerning.  It’s right up there with Marie saying “I LIKE cheaters“ in her second appearance, sometimes Marie’s defining trait in my mind is that she’s somehow LESS rational than the others.. Or maybe it’s just another reference to this specific interest they’ve picked up from their mom, in men who have big appetites…

I always want to believe this is actually a more absurd gag and that Marie is instead saying it to mourn the table where she eats all her meals, in more of a “why do the good die young” way… but then Lee and Marie continue the conversation, referring to this stranger as a bum they shouldn’t shed tears over and it’s cemented as a creepy moment.

Moving on, I love this unnecessarily detailed ketchup bottle Lee shakes and then tosses on the floor:

At least Marie ends up agreeing with Lee.  Then Marie makes a joke about May being the only one to clean this up and it gets a laugh out of Lee.

I love how much the later backgrounds in the show focus on how these homes look from various standpoints… Makes the world feel very lived in.

Take note of how the front door has been eaten through by Ed, exposing their yellow car out front. Ed apparently nibbled on EVERYTHING along that wall on the right…We also see a new telephone, a Chekhov’s Gun for a later gag in this scene…

Love the trumpets blaring as the camera swirls up to the missing heirloom.

“HOLY TOLEDO!” Lee and Marie exclaim in unison to underline that this is crossing a major line.

This angle is making my mouth water.  Latter-day EEnE backgrounds are to die for.

Getting back to my favorite time-wasting Kanker gag, even at their most personally attacked and mutually motivated, the siblings have to fight over who gets to hold the plaque first.

Marie strikes first.

Yay, May called first dibs before they jumped!

OH NO

Lee looks so much like Bro in this pose…

Could these just be Toomey’s drawings?  I’m not sure how often he storyboarded or how often he changed drawings during the design phase since the show’s so close to the boarders’ styles, but I feel like these square jaws are something I keep noticing when archiving Toomey’s model sheets.

Also, I love the phrase “someone shanghaied our ship inna bottle,“ very nautical.

May is moved to tears yet again this season as she fills the audience in on how this is a family heirloom that the Kankers were allowed to play with during bath nights at their old home.  Pretty cute memory, I wish the show had flashbacks at this point!

Does anyone know what it is May calls their old home here?  I’ve always heard it as “the Ol’ Hubcap“ which is convincing enough for me as a name for another local trailer park or just a nickname the Kankers would come up with for a nostalgic home, but it’s difficult to hear through her sobs.  Another popular theory, which I see is currently used on the EEnE Wikia’s transcript of the episode, is that she just says “the ol’ homestead,“ which is a pretty old-timey phrase if you ask me.. May’s certainly not made to feel “modern“ as much as Marie or Nazz are but it also seems unusual to give her such antiquated wild-west dialogue.

Marie covers May’s mouth before she exposes any more vulnerability or personal details about their backstories.

Marie is surprisingly lawful and proposes they call the cops.  I WISH WE GOT TO SEE THE COPS THEY MENTION AND THE FIRETRUCKS WE HEAR LATER IN THIS EPISODE, AAAARRRGGGHHHHH I just want to see more emergency vehicles, this season let us have an ambulance for Pete’s sake!

HEY LOOK IT’S THE PHONE I POINTED OUT.

“WHAT’S THE NUMBER YOU DIAL FOR 9-1-1?!”

Uh.. May, put the phone down, the Little Rascals Movie’s calling, they want their joke back.  Sorry, this episode came out when I was 12 and going through a terrible Little Rascals phase. 

This episode has really good camera direction…

“NO COPS!!“  Why do I get the feeling their mom would punch a phone to prevent the cops from getting involved in anything…

Such good looking backlit sparks!  Gonna miss backlighting during the digital era.

Can’t help but notice that these model sheets have been reversing the rimlighting on the Kankers…

In this very well composed and cinematic feeling shot, Lee vows to find the crook and recover their bath toy, “Kanker Style…“

Cue maniacal laughter and end scene!  It’s a pretty self-explanatory scene, but I really appreciate all the detail put into the Kankers’ poses and expressions and home life.  Season 4 doesn’t always sit right with me, but I think this episode has a pretty fun understanding of every character.  Hope you enjoyed studying this scene with me!

[garkgatiss]

Kernel of Truth: The Car and The Driver

John is driving. John is in the driver’s seat. 

John is on his heart-phone. John is driving erratically.

And then John is injured or dies.

Intro Post: Four episodes, three false narratives, two potential outcomes, no loose ends. Summary:

These three episodes are a set. They’re all retellings of the same events, pieced together from the limited information that John is willing to divulge, supplemented by imagination and colored by the author’s own feelings and motivations. Fresh paint to disguise another smell. Throughout all three episodes, we see wildly diverging narratives inspired by the same core kernels of truth. The fourth episode, the final ending of Clue, will tell us what really happened.

T6T vs. TLD: Two Potential Outcomes

So even before TFP aired, we had several car-centric events popping up in the first two false narratives:

John drives the car to the hospital

Charlie calls his dad from the driver’s seat of his car, sitting in his parents’ driveway, but dies silently of a seizure, probably

Drunk driver crashing into Charlie’s car

Mrs. Hudson’s wild ride, while on the phone

John asking to drive Mrs. Hudson’s car sometimes, which she refuses 

John later driving Mrs. Hudson’s car, while on the phone, to the hospital to save Sherlock (which all started as a Mary-inspired plan for Sherlock to save John)

Key here for me is that Mary’s trip to the hospital at the start of T6T and John’s mad dash to the hospital to save Sherlock in TLD puts John in the driver’s seat in both episodes. We could be metaphorically talking about John being in the driver’s seat of his own life for fucking finally, but we’ll explore a more literal interpretation first.

The two potential outcomes, the comparative differences between T6T and TLD come up here again. In T6T, John doesn’t make it to the hospital in time for Mary to give birth. In TLD, John arrives in the nick of time to save Sherlock, just like Mrs. Hudson did earlier that day. The repeated question here is, apparently: will John make it in time?

John the Driver

The other "wild ride” we have, to parallel Mrs. Hudson’s in TLD, is the drunk driver who crashes into Charlie’s car in T6T. Both people are sitting in the driver’s seat, both people are John mirrors: a gay boy with conservative, homophobic parents who travels halfway round the world to escape them as soon as he’s old enough, and an alcoholic. Since TLD is John writing a story while projecting himself onto every character all at once, it makes sense. One John mirror is pulled from the wreckage, one John mirror is already dead from a seizure.

John wants to name this case, “The Ghost Driver,” btw.

The message I’m getting loud and clear so far is: John is driving, John is in the driver’s seat, John is on his heart-phone, John is driving erratically. And then John is injured or dies.

I’ve talked already about how the indicators of John’s alcoholism have gone through the roof this season. I’m trying to read my way around the thought that a Garridebs moment may be the outcome of a literal drunk driving suicide accident, but it’s a serious possibility right now. It’s really messing me up now that we have a Garrideb in TFP with DTs, i.e. alcohol withdrawal, symptoms of which include: seizures.

Alternatively, it’s alcohol that lets John metaphorically take the wheel in his own life, ending in situations like the Stag Night Knee Grope. Good thing we have death compared with sex all over TLD. Good thing we have a different Garridebs suspect already in mind.

Metaphorically speaking, it looks like people don’t want John to be the driver. Throughout her birth scene, Mary screams “Please, God, just drive! God, drive!” asking subtextually of course for Sherlock to take control. Sherlock dismissively tells John to take the bus in T6T, and Mrs. Hudson won’t let John driver her car at all, until changing her mind in the final hour so that John can rush to save Sherlock. Again, TLD does that fun thing where it at first echoes an aspect of T6T and then later rectifies it. Two potential outcomes.

(Bless you, Mrs. Hudson, for finally handing John the keys, assuming the drunk driving is entirely metaphorical.)  

TFP

So! Onto TFP. Boats, planes, but no cars, really. Right?

WRONG. 

There’s this (bless you Ariane Devere and ctrl+f, for I would never have found this one on my own):

GOVERNOR (into phone): I need to speak to Mycroft. 

(In London, Sir Edwin, now sporting a full beard, is in the back seat of a car.) 

SIR EDWIN (into his phone): He’s in hospital. There was an explosion. 

GOVERNOR (into phone): Put me through to the hospital. 

SIR EDWIN: He’s not conscious. He’s severely injured. No-one is even confident he’s going to pull through. 

So in this entirely forgettable and nonsense scene in TFP that's apparently there to explain how John and Sherlock ended up exploded onto a boat in the middle of the ocean with no injuries while Mycroft took a detour through a hospital and nearly died before meeting back up with them on Terrordome Island, we have someone 

in a car, 

having a phone conversation, trying to get through to 

the hospital, where someone is 

being treated for life-threatening injuries.

Can you smell a kernel of truth through the coat of fresh paint yet? 

There’s one more thing in TFP, but it’s pretty nuts: the little girl on the plane keeps calling the pilot, “The Driver.” 

John The Driver, redux

GIRL: Even the driver’s asleep. 

John, is that you? Are you asleep at the wheel? The emphasis in T6T and TLD on how you haven’t been sleeping at all is starting to worry me.

SHERLOCK: That’s right; the front. 

GIRL: You mean where the driver is? 

SHERLOCK (continuing to walk around the room, shining the lantern on the many photos): Yes, that’s it. 

GIRL: Okay. (She starts to get up from the floor.) I’m going. (She starts to walk down the aisle, pausing and looking down at the unconscious flight attendant lying in her way. Sherlock continues looking at the photos. Some of them are of Sherlock at older ages than his young pirate self and a few pictures are of other members of the Holmes family.) 

SHERLOCK: Are you there yet? (It’s not the girl who replies but John, who jerks awake somewhere dark. The wall behind him is bare rock.) 

JOHN: Yeah, I’m here. (He stands up abruptly when he realizes that he’s sitting in water up to his waist.) 

SHERLOCK: John! 

JOHN (his voice coming from Sherlock’s earpiece): Yeah. 

SHERLOCK: Where are you? 

JOHN: I don’t know. I’ve just woken up. Where are you?

Ok, John’s the Driver. Who was just sleeping. This is... pretty obvious at this point. :(

SHERLOCK: Oh, hello. Are you at the front of the plane now? 

GIRL (in the flight deck, shaking the arm of the unconscious pilot): Yeah. I still can’t wake the driver up.

Again. :(

And then there’s Sherlock, on the phone this entire time, talking the little girl through the landing of the plane on her own:

SHERLOCK: Well, you and I are going to have to drive this plane together. Just you and me.

:’)

ETA: Actually, turns out there’s one more clue from TFP that I want to cover:

Golf Whiskey X-Ray

TECHNICIAN: Golf Whiskey X-ray, this is a restricted area, repeat, restricted area. You are off course. 

TECHNICIAN (into radio): Are you receiving? (There’s no immediate reply and he activates his radio again.) 

TECHNICIAN: Golf Whiskey X-ray, you are off course. Are you receiving? (The radio from the other end activates.) 

JOHN’s VOICE: Yeah, receiving you. This is a distress call, repeat, distress call. We’re in trouble here. 

(A radar image on the screen in front of the technician shows a bright red dot close to the centre of the screen.) 

TECHNICIAN: Golf Whiskey X-ray, what is your situation? (There’s no response.) 

TECHNICIAN: Golf Whiskey X-ray? Where are you now? 

JOHN’s VOICE (over radio): We’re headed for the rocks. We’re going to hit.

Not sure what significance G-W-X might have on its own, but if you just take the words literally, as in...

[an economy 4-door hatchback, such as Volkswagen’s] Golf,

Whiskey, and

X-Ray,

... they paint another bleak picture of how we ended up in John’s deathbed dream episode. Add in the distress call, and it’s hard not to read this very literally right alongside all the other drinking John mirrors, erratic drivers on phones, and distress calls picked up at the last second we’ve seen in S4.

ETA: After combing through and recapping the #SherlockLive twitter case, the man who kills himself to frame his wife and her lover has a prior conviction for a drunk driving accident, in which the wife was also injured.

My final prediction of the real event is some combination of:

John drinking

John driving

John on the phone

John reaching out to Sherlock, the Distress Call

The will-he/won’t-he survive business surrounding The Driver points very clearly to John’s injury in a Garridebs moment, imo. The evidence seems to point heavily toward a literal drunk driving suicide accident as I read it, but that simultaneously feels a little too dark and a little too ordinary for this show. Then again, this season is apparently much darker than any they’ve done before. 

Bonus points: Pairs well with the parallels Nattie @loudest-subtext-in-tv picked up on in her What Dreams May Come meta. I’ve never seen the movie and I don’t at all subscribe to EMP, but any tie to a movie where a depressed guy a) crashes his car after b) calling his wife on the phone to tell her he loves her one last, fateful time before c) sustaining life-threatening injuries and having a movie-length afterlife adventure seems pretty relevant here.

All transcripts from the incredible Ariane Devere.