finishing off each others sentences

Watch this BTS interview from that one time Sugita sung on stage if you want to die from cuteness (Chinese subbed)

Asakawa Yuu: Sugita, are you a shy person?

Nakamura: Eh?? It bursts out suddenly. Like, he doesn’t have a “middle” range of modesty *demonstrates with hands*. He’s either way down here or way up here.

Asakawa: Like some sort of switch goes on when he needs to sing… So you weren’t nervous when you were singing?

Sugita: Well, afterwards I’m sure I’ll start thinking about it. I’m like, “Nakamura, save me!” and he’s like, “I don’t know either.” Like, “why are you looking at me? am I your back-up?”

Fitzsimmons 3x18: The Scientific Language of Love

Science is how they change the state of their relationship.

And it so right for them. It’s the language in which they know how to communicate. It’s the language they’ve had with them the whole damn time. They tried to talk about their relationship, their feelings, with words they think they’re supposed to use. But Fitzsimmons are scientists, not poets, and they have their own vocabulary—personal to them—that they can use to express their love for one another.

Fitzsimmons finally figure out how to communicate their feelings in the language of science. Fitz has been thinking about it. Trying to find a way to tell Jemma how he feels and what he wants…and finally it clicks within him. He finds a scientific metaphor for the state of their relationship—and everything falls into place. Fitzsimmons are finishing each other’s sentences, bouncing off of the other, and syncing up together.

While they talk about science, Fitz and Jemma are sharing their deepest fears and insecurities. They’re reflecting on their long history and friendship together. For them, it is the most intimate and personal conversation they have ever had. With anybody. Ever.  Fitz and Jemma exchanged such deep feelings within that conversation; feelings the two of them can only understand through the language of science. They talk about the defining moment, before going into that said moment.

Then, Jemma scoots closer and asks for clarity. And I love her for that. She’s grown, learned enough from past regrets to break their psychic link, just for a moment, to make certain that in both languages there’s no miscommunication between them. And Fitz mets her in their other language as well. In words they’re supposed to use, Jemma describes it as lovely and terrifying. Her descriptors are nothing compared to the intimate scientific jargon that just flowed between them.

They’ve waited years to have that conversation. Their journey has showed them, yes—communication is important and key to any relationship. However, it is just as important to stay true to who you are, true to what you know about yourself and the world you inhabit. 

Only then can you feel comfortable enough to truly connect on all the levels it is possible to connect with the person you love.

best friends louis n harry finishing off each others sentences, living together, finishing each others food when the other can’t, best friends louis n harry being the only two people who can mock the other one, threatening to fight anyone who tries to do the same. best friends louis n harry being the dream team and sharing a bed and cuddling and being one entity, a package deal, not giving a shit if people interpret it as romantic bc it doesn’t matter to them and they know the truth

playing favorites

My favorite book went out of print the week after we ended things, and I’d given him my last copy. He brought it the weekend we spent at his mother’s beach house, and I turned it over in my hands one morning as he made coffee. “There’s a line,” I say, “when Gnade is talking about seeing an old man visiting a gravestone in Lone Fir cemetery and he writes, ‘they were the only ones who,’” and he finishes the sentence for me, smiling, “‘held off each other’s wolves.’ I like that line too.” We had sex on the small couch in the living room, throw pillows all thrown to the floor, while the coffee got cold. I never called it making love when we were together, but looking back, that time, that’s what it was, when it was that I fell in love with him. One of the times, at least. That weekend, we made love hiking along the coast and running into the freezing waves, diving under, drying off and shivering into each other, we made love when I met his mother and the friends he grew up with, we made love every cold morning that winter as I danced around the kitchen barefoot waiting for the coffee to brew, just as much as we did on that couch.

Another time was when he hit his head skateboarding and called me to drive him home. He told me, toward the end, that it had been one of his favorite memories of me, how I dropped what I was doing, abandoned my own friends and plans and showed up and drove him and his friends home. He never knew that it was one of my favorite memories of him as well. I tend to believe that you fall in love with a person as much in doing acts of kindness for them, as you do for being on the receiving end of that kindness. The moment I loved him most in a car: driving him home, when he was hurt and tired and pissed off.

When you share your favorite things with another person, you never think about having to ask for them back. It is very difficult to keep a thing you love from a person you love, so I give them freely, carelessly, and then I’m left without my grandfather’s wedding band because we exchanged it one night in a joking wedding ceremony, without my favorite documentary that he still hasn’t watched, without my favorite book that is now out of print. It isn’t as difficult to take back the things that still belong to you with no grey area: a toothbrush and phone charger and the clothing you kept at his house. But the gifts you gave, long before the end, are you allowed to get them back? Does he even still want them? Do you? I comfort myself in their being mostly material things, but I wish it was a different line from the book that I couldn’t get out of my head. I take the card he gave me down from my refrigerator, I take off his shirt that I’ve been sleeping in for a week and put it in the laundry. No one did anything wrong or hurtful, so the movements to remove him from my apartment feel dramatic. But Sunday night, which was once my favorite time of the week, without him, once my favorite person, I don’t know what else to do with my hands. Sunday night, there is no one to hold off the wolves of loneliness, this most unoriginal of feelings, and seeing bits of him around me accentuate his absence. Maybe I want him to keep the book, because at least it will remind him of me, and he doesn’t even seem sad. What if he threw it away? Sunday night, these thoughts, the wolves. I take out the trash, delete Facebook from my phone, throw my sheets into the hamper on top of his shirt.