he has tuna head like his father but the legs from you

1
There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond
the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which twin you are in
love with at the time. Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advan-
tage to remain impartial. Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys
have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands. The one in front will want to
take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every
shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your
heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together. The
sun shines down. It’s a beautiful day. Consider the hairpin turn. Do not
choose sides yet.

2
There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road. Let’s
call them Jeff. And because the first Jeff is in front we’ll consider him
the older, and therefore responsible for lending money and the occa-
sional punch in the shoulder. World-wise, world-weary, and not his
mother’s favorite, this Jeff will always win when it all comes down to
fisticuffs. Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t always all come down to
fisticuffs. Jeff is thinking about his brother down the winding road be-
hind him. He is thinking that if only he could cut him open and peel him
back and crawl inside this second skin, then he could relive that last mile
again: reborn, wild-eyed, free.

3
There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond
the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which Jeff you are. It
could have been so beautiful—you scout out the road ahead and I will
watch your back, how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy—
but each Jeff wants to be the other one. My name is Jeff and I’m tired
of looking at the back of your head. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of
seeing my hand me down clothes. Look, Jeff, I’m telling you, for the
last time, I mean it, etcetera. They are the same and they are not the
same. They are the same and they hate each other for it.

4
Your name is Jeff and somewhere up ahead of you your brother has
pulled to the side of the road and he is waiting for you with a lug wrench
clutched in his greasy fist. 0 how he loves you, darling boy. 0 how, like
always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep
next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around
you in an act of faith against the night. When he throws the wrench into
the air it will catch the light as it spins toward you. Look—it looks like
a star. You had expected something else, anything else, but the wrench
never reaches you. It hangs in the air like that, spinning in the air like
that. It’s beautiful.

5
Let’s say God in his High Heaven is hungry and has decided to make
himself some tuna fish sandwiches. He’s already finished making two
of them, on sourdough, before he realizes that the fish is bad. What is
he going to do with these sandwiches? They’re already made, but he
doesn’t want to eat them.

Let’s say the Devil is played by two men. We’ll call them Jeff. Dark
hair, green eyes, white teeth, pink tongues—they’re twins. The one on
the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about
to. As they wrestle, you can tell that they have forgotten about God, and
they are very hungry.

6
You are playing cards with three men named Jeff. Two of the Jeffs seem
somewhat familiar, but the Jeff across from you keeps staring at your
hands, your mouth, and you’re certain that you’ve never seen this Jeff
before. But he’s on your team, and you’re ahead, you’re winning big,
and yet the other Jeffs keep smiling at you like there’s no tomorrow.
They all have perfect teeth: white, square, clean, even. And, for some
reason, the lighting in the room makes their teeth seem closer than they
should be, as if each mouth was a place, a living room with pink carpet
and the window’s open. Come back from the window, Jefferson. Take off
those wet clothes and come over here, by the fire.

7
You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your
brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen
you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets
up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room.
Phone’s for you, Jeff says. Hey! It’s Uncle Jeff, who isn’t really your
uncle, but you can’t talk right now, one of the Jeffs has put his tongue
in your mouth. Please let it be the right one.

8
Two brothers are fighting by the side of the road. Two motorbikes have
fallen over on the shoulder, leaking oil into the dirt, while the interlocking
brothers grapple and swing. You see them through the backseat
window as you and your parents drive past. You are twelve years old.
You do not have a brother. You have never experienced anything this
ferocious or intentional with another person. Your mother is pretending
that she hasn’t seen anything. Your father is fiddling with the knobs
of the radio. There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the
station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say
hello.

9
You are in an ordinary suburban bedroom with bunk beds, a bookshelf,
two wooden desks and chairs. You are lying on your back, on the top
bunk, very close to the textured ceiling, staring straight at it in fact, and
the room is still dark except for a wedge of powdery light that spills in
from the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom is covered in mint green
tile and someone is in there, singing very softly. Is he singing to you?
For you? Black cherries in chocolate, the ring around the moon, a bee-
tle underneath a glass—you cannot make out all the words, but you’re
sure he knows you’re in there, and he’s singing to you, even though you
don’t know who he is.

10
You see it as a room, a tabernacle, the dark hotel. You’re in the hallway
again, and you open the door, and if you’re ready you’ll see it, but
maybe one part of your mind decides that the other parts aren’t ready,
and then you don’t remember where you’ve been, and you find yourself
down the hall again, the lights gone dim as the left hand sings the right
hand back to sleep. It’s a puzzle: each piece, each room, each time you
put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, your ear to the
wound that whispers.

You’re in the hallway again. The radio is playing your favorite song.
You’re in the hallway. Open the door again. Open the door.

11
Suppose for a moment that the heart has two heads, that the heart has
been chained and dunked in a glass booth filled with river water. The
heart is monologing about hesitation and fulfillment while behind the
red brocade the heart is drowning. Can the heart escape? Does love
even care? Snow falls as we dump the booth in the bay.

Suppose for a moment we are crowded around a pier, waiting for something
to ripple the water. We believe in you. There is no danger. It is not
getting dark, we want to say.

12
Consider the hairpin turn. It is waiting for you like a red door or the
broken leg of a dog. The sun is shining, O how the sun shines down!
Your speedometer and your handgrips and the feel of the road below
you, how it knows you, the black ribbon spread out on the greens be-
tween these lines that suddenly don’t reach to the horizon. It is waiting,
like a broken door, like the red dog that chases its tail and eats your rose-
bushes and then must be forgiven. Who do you love, Jeff? Who do you
love? You were driving toward something and then, well, then you
found yourself driving the other way. The dog is asleep. The road is be-
hind you. O how the sun shines down.

13
This time everyone has the best intentions. You have cancer. Let’s say
you have cancer. Let’s say you’ve swallowed a bad thing and now it’s
got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see
what I mean but you’re happy anyway, and that’s okay, it’s a love story
after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action,
where the mirror says mirror and the hand says hand and the front
door never says Sorry Charlie. So the doctor says you need more
stitches and the bruise cream isn’t working. So much for the facts. Let’s
say you’re still completely in the dark but we love you anyway. We
love you. We really do.

14
After work you go to the grocery store to get some milk and a carton of
cigarettes. Where did you get those bruises? You don’t remember.
Work was boring. You find a jar of bruise cream and a can of stewed
tomatoes. Maybe a salad? Spinach, walnuts, blue cheese, apples, and
you can’t decide between the Extra Large or Jumbo black olives. Which
is bigger anyway? Extra Large has a blue label, Jumbo has a purple
label. Both cans cost $1.29. While you’re deciding, the afternoon light
is streaming through the windows behind the bank of checkout coun-
ters. Take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest,
holding onto it and not letting it go. Now let it go.

15
Like sandpaper, the light, or a blessing, or a bruise. Blood everywhere,
he said, the red light hemorrhaging from everywhere at once. The train
station blue, your lips blue, hands cold and the blue wind. Or a horse,
your favorite horse now raised up again out of the mud and galloping
galloping always toward you. In your ruined shirt, on the last day, while
the bruise won’t heal, and the stain stays put, the red light streaming in
from everywhere at once. Your broken ribs, the back of your head, your
hand to mouth or hand to now, right now, like you mean it, like it’s split-
ting you in two. Now look at the lights, the lights.

16
You and your lover are making out in the corner booth of a seedy bar.
The booths are plush and the drinks are cheap and in this dim and
smoky light you can barely tell whose hands are whose. Someone raises
their glass for a toast. Is that the Hand of Judgment or the Hand of
Mercy? The bartender smiles, running a rag across the burnished wood
of the bar. The drink in front of you has already been paid for. Drink it,
the bartender says. It’s yours, you deserve it. It’s already been paid for.
Somebody’s paid for it already. There’s no mistake, he says. It’s your drink,
the one you asked for, just the way you like it. How can you refuse Hands
of fire, hands of air, hands of water, hands of dirt. Someone’s doing all
the talking but no one’s lips move. Consider the hairpin turn.

17
The motorbikes are neck and neck but where’s the checkered flag we
all expected, waving in the distance, telling you you’re home again,
home? He’s next to you, right next to you in fact, so close, or… he isn’t.
Imagine a room. Yes, imagine a room: two chairs facing the window but
nobody moves. Don’t move. Keep staring straight into my eyes. It feels
like you’re not moving, the way when, dancing, the room will suddenly
fall away. You’re dancing: you’re neck and neck or cheek to cheek, he’s
there or he isn’t, the open road. Imagine a room. Imagine you’re danc-
ing. Imagine the room now falling away. Don’t move.

18
Two brothers: one of them wants to take you apart. Two brothers: one
of them wants to put you back together. It’s time to choose sides now.
The stitches or the devouring mouth? You want an alibi? You don’t get
an alibi, you get two brothers. Here are two Jeffs. Pick one. This is how
you make the meaning, you take two things and try to define the space
between them. Jeff or Jeff? Who do you want to be? You just wanted
to play in your own backyard, but you don’t know where your own yard
is, exactly. You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one
safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet.
You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here. You’re
still right here.

19
Here are your names and here is the list and here are the things you left
behind: The mark on the floor from pushing your chair back, your un-
derwear, one half brick of cheese, the kind I don’t like, wrapped up, and
poorly, and abandoned on the second shelf next to the poppyseed dress-
ing, which is also yours. Here’s the champagne on the floor, and here
are your house keys, and here are the curtains that your cat peed on.
And here is your cat, who keeps eating grass and vomiting in the hall-
way. Here is the list with all of your names, Jeff. They’re not the same
name, Jeff. They’re not the same at all.

20
There are two twins on motorbikes but they are not on motorbikes,
they’re in a garden where the flowers are as big as thumbs. Imagine you
are in a field of daisies. What are you doing in a field of daisies? Get up!
Let’s say you’re not in the field anymore. Let’s say they’re not brothers
anymore. That’s right, they’re not brothers, they’re just one guy, and
he knows you, and he’s talking to you, but you’re in pain and you can-
not understand him. What are you still doing in this field? Get out of
the field! You should be in the hotel room! You should, at least, be try-
ing to get back into the hotel room. Ah! Now the field is empty.

21
Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don’t make a noise,
don’t leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will
come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a
graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights
on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to
dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of
things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the
bread and devour it. I’m in the hallway again, I’m in the hallway. The
radio’s playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I’ll
keep walking toward the sound of your voice.

22
Someone had a party while you were sleeping but you weren’t really
sleeping, you were sick, and parts of you were burning, and you
couldn’t move. Perhaps the party was in your honor. You can’t remem-
ber. It seems the phone was ringing in the dream you were having but
there’s no proof. A dish in the sink that might be yours, some clothes on
the floor that might belong to someone else. When was the last time you
found yourself looking out of this window. Hey! This is a beautiful
window! This is a beautiful view! 1 hose trees lined up like that, and the
way the stars are spinning over them like that, spinning in the air like
that, like wrenches.

23
Let’s say that God is the space between two men and the Devil is the
space between two men. Here: I’ll be all of them-Jeff and Jeff and Jeff
and Jeff are standing on the shoulder of the highway, four motorbikes
knocked over, two wrenches spinning in the ordinary air. Two of these
Jeffs are windows, and two of these Jeffs are doors, and all of these Jeffs
are trying to tell you something. Come closer. We’ll whisper it in your
ear. It’s like seeing your face in a bowl of soup, cream of potato, and the
eyes shining back like spoons. If we wanted to tell you everything, we
would leave more footprints in the snow or kiss you harder. One thing.
Come closer. Listen …

24
You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves
you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terr-
ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself
a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy,
and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to
choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and
he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your
heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you
don’t even have a name for.

—  Richard Siken, You Are Jeff
Seashells

There are so many possible AUs to pick from but I finally settled on Pirate!Genji and Mermaid!Mercy. Mercy’s tail is modeled after a lionfish, the colors and patterns I felt went better with her. I know, I know. Angelfish was staring me down, but lionfish is just as beautiful for Mercy. Trust me.


Gency Week Day 2 — AU

Keep reading

Fistbump - Peter Parker x Reader (Dad!Tony)

Originally posted by marveldcuniv3rse

A/N: im tired. i wanted to watch aou today but that has not happened.

Warnings: A heavy make out session *no smut, this is only somewhat sin*

Request: “a steamy (not smut) Peter Parker x Reader imagine.“ (by @prancing-through-the-rain (ps. sorry this took almost a month)) (pssst…my prompt lists are 1 , 2 please specify which list you are requesting from)

Words: 1190

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I wanted to contribute to this blog, so here is my humble offering!

In the sleepy lull between their last mission and their arrival to the Blade of Marmora base, Keith and Kolivan find themselves tucked tightly together between a group of slumbering Galra, waiting out the remainder of their ship’s journey through space.

Keith watches as the stars move slowly through the windows, as Regris snores lightly against his shoulder, rustling his hair with each strong puff of breath. He crosses his arms over his chest, tipping back his head and drawing in a deep sigh. Exhaustion is already beginning to weigh heavily on his eyes, as his muscles ache and his temples pulsate, and the last of his adrenaline fades away. He’s never liked these quiet moments—when it’s just him alone with no one but Kolivan and his racing thoughts.

When all he can think about is how much louder and closer his team back on the Castle of Lions used to be after finishing another big mission.

Kolivan clears his throat, lifting his arm and deactivating his mask. He sits there like that for a long moment, staring with unreadable eyes through the same windows as Keith—stock still and silent, as though he’s more of a statue than a man.

“There is no home for members of the Blade,” he says suddenly, the warble of his voice unexpected enough that Keith flinches, “But for you, there is a home out there somewhere, isn’t there?”

At first, Keith isn’t entirely sure what he means. If he’s alluding to The Castle of Lions or the Paladins, if he’s talking about Keith’s dusty little shack back on Earth.

The Galaxy Garrison, maybe, or a long series of temporary foster homes, a small cabin and the shadow of a father that Keith can barely piece together in fuzzy, far-away memories.

“I… I guess so.” he says softly, pulling his knees to his chest, scowling as Regris falls more heavily against him. “But it’s not anywhere that I want to go back to.”

Kolivan is quiet again, for a long time. Keith’s eyes slip closed, but he doesn’t allow himself to sleep. He listens to the beeping of the controls up front, to Regris’s loud breathing, to the collective snoring of everyone around them all melding together into one deafening, low rumble.

“Tell me about them.” Kolivan turns to look down at him, those wide, yellow eyes burning small holes straight through him. “About the people on your planet. Why don’t you wish to return to them?”

Heat pools Keith’s cheeks, as he bites down on the inside of his cheek. He wonders, fleetingly, if he might have died during their last mission. If this is the materialization of his own, personal Hell.

Sitting here, jammed between his fellow Blades like the biggest tuna imaginable, talking to Kolivan—of all people—about all of the reasons why he never fit in with anyone back on Earth might truly be the last thing that he’s never wanted to do.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Kolivan. On the contrary, he’s a highly skilled soldier. He’s a brave leader. He’s everything that Keith someday hopes to be: pragmatic, untethered by all of the useless emotions that hold Keith, himself, back so often. Selfless and powerful, the sort of man who might be able to protect everything that he loves without question.

It’s just… Kolivan isn’t exactly the most talkative guy around. And he definitely isn’t the kind of guy who could possibly understand why humans care about all of the things that they do. He isn’t like Shiro. He doesn’t accept everything that he hears without question or judgement. He’s hard and reliable where Shiro is soft and nowadays, so distant.

“It’s—they’re—” Keith bites off the end of that sentence, knocking his head back against the wall and hissing out a curse. He’s helpless now, under Kolivan’s unyielding gaze. He has no idea what he needs to say to end all of this. “They’re… they’re fine, really. They just… they’re too—too “touchy”, I guess? Everyone always wants to say how they feel about everything. There always has to be… some kind of… touching.

Kolivan doesn’t give any indication that he’s heard him at all. He doesn’t blink or tilt his head. He doesn’t hum any sort of approval. He simply watches, blankly and silently. As though he expects for Keith to continue.

“I—I just, uh… I’m not like that. I can’t touch people like that. And I guess that’s weird, I don’t know.”

“How so?” Kolivan perks up then—as though he’s a gargoyle transforming into living form. As though he’s been asleep this whole time, but Keith’s words have suddenly awoken him. “What sort of touching do humans expect of one another?”

Keith drags in another deep breath, threading a hand through his hair. His heart is thundering in his chest at the mere thought of touching anyone—let alone someone as big and intimidating and terrifying as his leader. He doesn’t want to even think about it, but Kolivan continues to watch him. He continues to sit here, stone faced, waiting.

As though, somehow, hearing Keith talk about his own disconnection from his humanity is helping quell the homesickness that Kolivan doesn’t even have the home to feel.

“They, um… Well, when you meet someone, you’re… supposed to shake their hand.”

He reaches forward, fingers trembling, and takes Kolivan’s bigger hand in his. He shakes it up and down, feeling as though he’s wagging around a heavy, dead fish. Kolivan stares at him curiously, raising the tuft of fur where a brow would be, as he begins to move his arm up and down mechanically, doing his best to mirror Keith’s movements.

Keith tries to tell himself that it isn’t kind of cute, watching him flounder with these silly greetings just as he used to in the past. He tells himself that he definitely doesn’t feel less weird here, more at home, for the first time in his life.

After a moment of shaking hands, Keith pulls his hand away—only to lift of Kolivan’s big arm and instruct for him to keep it there.

“There’s another one, and it’s really dumb. When you want to tell someone that they did a good job, you sort of… smack your hands together.”

He slaps his hand against Kolivan’s, stretching up onto his knees in order to reach. It’s a pitiful, bizarre high-five, with Kolivan looking like the most unenthusiastic recipient that he’s ever seen. This time, he allows himself to laugh—just a little.

“There’s also, uh… hugging.” He settles back down on his backside, crossing his legs and flicking his gaze back to the window. His cheeks feel hot again. “You just… wrap your arms around someone. It’s how you show someone that you care about them.”

He doesn’t illustrate this, and Kolivan doesn’t ask him to. They sit for a moment in the same awkward, familiar silence.

“Then…” he hates himself for even feeling the need to add this part. Kolivan wouldn’t know if he omitted it. He’d have no way of ever figuring it out. “Sometimes… they also push their faces together.”

“Their faces?” Kolivan sounds disgusted. “Why would they do such a thing?”

Hot embarrassment skitters over Keith’s skin. He scrubs a hand over his face, frustrated and stressed and already so far beyond wanting all of this to be over.

“I-it’s not just the faces! You-you have to… You just—you put your—”

Kolivan continues to stare at him as though he’s grown a second head. Keith can already imagine all of the strange ideas that he’s getting about the human race.

He sputters incoherently for a moment, struggling to describe kissing in a way that Kolivan might understand. He’s waving his hands about like a lunatic, cursing wildly and rearing for a fight.

Finally, after so much time as passed, he throws himself to his feet. 

“I-it’s not the faces!” he bellows, “i-it’s the lips!”

And he grasps Kolivan by each side of his face, jerking him forward and smashing their mouths together.

It lasts only a second before he realizes what he’s done—before the horror sets in.

And when he pulls himself away, apologizing profusely and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, for the first time since he met him, he hears Kolivan laugh.

“Yes,” Kolivan tells him, a small, sardonic smile tugging at his lips, “We also have kissing in Galra culture. But thank you.”

It’s not often that Keith regrets leaving Voltron for the Blade of Marmora.

It’s not often that he regrets leaving the Galaxy Garrison behind.

But today, as he stands alone in a small ship with Kolivan and so many sleeping Galra, as Kolivan laughs and settles back against the wall, he wonders if Voltron would be willing to welcome him back again.

He can pilot the castle. He can feed the mice. He can mop the floors and clean the bathrooms.

It doesn’t matter.

He just can’t ever show his face to Kolivan or the Blade ever, ever again.

[Mark] Racing Hearts (Chapter 12)

All Chapters

I’m awakened by a loud thud. It rings in my head like a gun shot. I jump, lifting my head off of my crossed arms. I’m disoriented, confused, and still asleep.

“Hey.” A loud voice says. I’m at the hospital. I’m with Kam. I fell asleep on the sofa. Who is here?

“Why don’t you sleep on the sofa?” The familiar voice asks. When I recognize it as Tuna’s, I sigh, rubbing my eyes. I hear footsteps and sounds of ruffling plastic bangs and different fabrics.

“Did you eat?” He asks, his voice closer, right next to me. Letting my hands down, I blink up at him with small, swollen, and sleepy eyes. He stares at me, his eyebrows meeting his hairline.

“Woah.” He breathes before muttering: “I don’t know which one of you looks the worst.”

I smack my tongue in annoyance, but don’t even pay him attention. I smooth my hair back to tame it.

“Burrito?”

When I look back up at him, he’s handing me a stick wrapped in foil. That when I realise I haven’t eating since this morning. I was starving before I fell asleep next to Kam.

“Thank you.” I whisper, taking it from his hands. I lean back against my seat and unwrap the burrito all while keeping my eyes on Kam’s sleeping form.

“Did they say when he’d wake up?” Tuna asks, taking place in front of me, on the other side of the bed.

I shrug.

“Is he going to wake up?” He asks. As if I had the answer to that. I shrug again, and he stands, taking his jacket off. He sits back down, and I feel his eyes on me.

“How do you feel?” He asks me. I shrug again. I really don’t feel like talking to him. To anyone. I just want Kameron to wake up. I just want not to grieve agin. I can’t talk because I’m holding my breath, the kind of breath I hold before knowing my time after a race. The kind of breath you hold right before you know weather you’ve lost your uncle or not.

“Where are the others?” Tuna asks, not getting tired of me not answering. Both Nathan and Xav came in the morning, but had to leave because, unlike me, they have jobs and lives to live.

“You’ve been here all day?”  He remarks. I nod, eyeing my burrito. I’m not sure I’m that hungry anymore.

“You’re not very talkative today.” I hear him mumble.

“You usually have a ton of reproach to say to me.” He teases. At the moment, I don’t have any. Not for him anyway. I’m full of reproach for myself.

“What if I had been on the plane already?” I ask, looking up at him while re-wrapping my warm burrito. Tuna frowns at me.

“You would have come back.” He shrugs, his answer seeming self obvious to him. He has no idea how false it is.

“No?” He says, his frown deepening when he sees I’m unsure.

“When I went to Tel Aviv for the first time, I was pretty much dead to everyone else.” I explain. I was not going to come back. I’m chickening out. I’ve tried and I failed, I wanted to go back and never come back here again.

“I warned no one. I threw my phone away. If I could have changed my name I would have.” I explain. “A few of my friends died without even me knowing.”

“And you were going to go MIA again? Like before?” He asks. My eyes bounce from him, to Kameron, to the ground. I’m shameful. I don’t know why I am. It’s my life, right? I mean, it’s my right?

“You can’t do that, Sivan.” He sighs, reproachful. “No one would forgive you if you left again.” He declares, quite boldly.

Not only do I think it’s an overstatement, but it’s also fucking sassy coming from someone so nonexistent in my entourage. But I shouldn’t expect less from him. He thinks he knows everything.

“How do you know?” I challenge. He brings a hand to his cheek, resting his face on it.

“I’m very observant. And Kameron talks a lot about you when you’re not there.” He explains. Does he? Kameron barely talks.

“You can’t go back. It would kill him.” He shakes his head slowly. “He wants you to stay and find your place again.”

I’m about to remind him how it’s impossible for him to pretend he’s in the right position to say this when he speaks again.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’ve been repeating me that I don’t know anything about you.” He warns, raising a hand to halt me.

“But I’ve worked with Kameron for a year now.” He argues.

“You didn’t even know about me until last month. You don’t know how he feels about me.” I retort.

“I knew about a little girl he embraced as his daughter.” He counters, effectively shutting me up.

“A girl he watched grow, took care of, and loved very much. A little girl who kept asking for a race car for her birthday ever since she was four.” He explains. So, Kameron did talk about me with him. I can believe that he told Tuna he loved me like his own daughter. I love him like my own father. He basically raised me. I mean, I’ve received meaningless racist and pseudo religious propaganda from my real father, but his advice and education is the one I incorporated.

“I knew he had someone who left to heal for a while. Someone he missed very much. I just didn’t have a name to put on that little girl.” He says quietly. I look at him, my dear uncle-dad, asleep, absent. I have been back for what? A month now? What have we done together since I came back?

This month we should have spent together was maybe the last time we’d be together, and we did nothing. And it was my fault.

“He might not wake up, Sivan.” He murmurs.

How could I do this to him? Leave for ten years without a call, come back, fuck up and almost fleeing back again without a goodbye. What is wrong with me?

“And you have to believe me. I’d never lie about that. It destroyed him when you left, but he understood.” Tuna murmurs. I want to believe him, but I can’t quite think he wouldn’t be mad at me fore leaving for that much time. I would be mad at anyone who would to that to me, even if they had a good reason.

“He’s not mad at you for leaving, but a second time would kill him.” He says. I look down at Kam, and I don’t understand why he knows so much about him. Kam doesn’t open up that easily, and certainly not to people who haven’t been in his life for long.

“What are you doing?” I frown up at Tuna, suspicious. “Why are you telling me this?”

He shifts.

“Because I think you should know.” He answers simply. I sigh, feeling lost. I just want him to wake up so I can apologize to him. I haven’t apologized to anybody.

“You look like a corpse. You should go and get some rest at home.” Tuna proposes, and a few minutes earlier this idea wouldn’t have sounded so appealing to me.

“If you still have a bed.” He adds quickly. Thank god I didn’t sell my furniture.

But the doctors said after a stroke most comatose patients would wake up within a few days.

“I’ll watch him for you.” Tuna says, as if he had heard my thoughts. I nod and get up, feeling stiff. I’ve been sitting down for hours, I can’t feel my legs. I stretch and collect my bag and jacket.

“Call me if anything happens.” I tell him, watching him get comfortable as he replaced me as Kam’s sleep guardian.

“Don’t worry.” He says confidently. I have a last glance for my uncle, before turning on my heels.

“Sivan, wait.”

When I turn around, Tuna has gotten up and he’s walking towards me, all while fishing in his pocket. He pulls his phone out and walks up to me. He unlocks it and swipes through it for a moment, before showing it to me. Curious, I look down at the screen.

“Look what I did with Rose’s hair.” He says smugly, showing me a picture of the little girl in a pink dress and pink little baby sneakers, half of her hair up in two cute pigtails that fall around her chubby face.

I chuckle. This wasn’t what I had expected at all. But she looks adorable.

“It’s nice. She looks pretty.” I tell him, because she does but he just did two pigtails.

“I know it’s nothing too crazy. Still don’t know how to do braids.” He says, feigning humbleness, as he puts his phone back in his pocket.

“I just wanted to make you smile.” He says quietly, eyes soft. That’s when I realize I have been smiling non stop since he showed me the picture.

My smile fades away instantly. Why is he trying so hard?

“Go, now. Shoo.” He presses, when the silence between us gets uncomfortable.

“I’ll be back soon.” I tell him, before exiting the room. Once in the hallway, my phone starts to ring in my bag. When I take it out, I see Nate is calling me.

“Nathan?” I say as I take his call.

“Hi, Siv.” He replies. “Are you at the hospital?”

“No, I’m going home. Need to shower.” I tell him, calling the elevator.

“Can I meet you at your house?” He asks, and speaks again before I can ask why. “I want to talk about what happened the other night at the restaurant.”

Oh, right. I haven’t been able to apologize for that either.

“Okay.” I reply. “Come whenever you want.”

-

I have enough time to shower, remove a few of the white cloths a placed on my furniture and eat my cold burrito before Nathan rings my doorbell.

“Hi.“ I say when I open the door. He looks shorter than usual, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders creeping up to his ear, like when he had done something wrong and he’d ask me or Zane to cover him up.

“Hey.” He says, the corner of his mouth curling up a little bit. I step forward and pull him into a hug. He seems to relax then, sighing deeply and hugging me back.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, when we pull away. He runs a caring hand through my hair, in a way only an older brother would. I shrug, sighing. I invite him inside and close the door behind him.

"Did he wake up?” He asks me as I come up in front of him. I shake my head in silence, and he gives me an apologetic look. ”I’m so sorry.”

“He will wake up. The doctors are optimistic.” I argue, giving him my back as I lead him through the foyer, towards the living room.

“I hope so.” He murmurs.

“Do you want to drink something?” I propose to him, turning around, putting my hands in my pockets.

“No, thanks.” He says sitting down on the sofa. I join him and get down next to him. He twists and puts his knee on the sofa so he’s facing me completely.

“I just wanted to apologize for the other night.” He declares, bringing a finger to his lips like every time he’s embarrassed.

“You’ve always had a different way to cope with things, but I know you loved Zane.” He says. When I think of it, it was stupid of me to think he wouldn’t I love his brother with all of my heart. I should have seen he was perturbed, and would get angry easily.

“I still love him.” I nuance. It makes him smile for a fraction of a second.

“But I would really appreciate it if you came to the cemetery with me one day.” He hides more quietly, more hesitantly. He’s asking too much, and I know how I feel about that, but he’s trying and I don’t want to disappoint him again.

“Mom is wondering why you don’t want to see her.” He adds.

“I’ll think about it.” Is the only thing that’s not a blunt “no” that I can think of. He sees right through me.

“Sivan.” He says reproachfully.

“What else do you want me to say? If I say no, you’re going to hate me.” I argue, defensively.

“No, I won’t.” He says softly. “But how can you think you’ve moved on when you can’t even see mom?”

Oh here we go. I thought he wanted to put this behind us, not give me another round of it.

“You not being able to face the past is the reason why you end up drunk in a race car.” He says. “You’ll never be able to pick up things where you left them unless you accept it.”

I have accepted it, so I came back and tried to pick up things where I left then but it did not work out, not because I can’t accept Zane’s death, but because a pretentious moron managed to get me kicked out.

“I don’t want to pick up things where I left them.” I counter. “I can’t do it. It’s not working out.”
I freaking died my hair blond for this. It just won’t work out for me here. Proof: I come back and my uncle has a stroke.

“Because you still think moving on is completely ignoring anything that could remind you of him.” He accuses. What?

“I’m not doing that. I’m still wearing my engagement ring.” I remind him, realising I have been fidgeting with it for a moment now.

“And what are you doing with your life now?” He challenges. Well…
I look down at my intertwined fingers.

“What do you want to do?” He asks, when I don’t answer. I don’t know, I want to race, that’ all.

“If you were to return to the track, would you feel like entering a Grand Prix?” He asks me. The idea has been bugging me ever since I came back. I want to race, I do, but I don’t want to race for competition. And I don’t want to be a celebrity again. I don’t want to spend my time doing interviews every where and having people invading my privacy.

“You wouldn’t.” He concludes. “Because it wouldn’t be the same.” He’s right.
I stay silent, thinking, wondering if I even have another option now.

“Why don’t you just try to…settle?” Nate proposes.

“I took time. In Israel.”  I counter.

“To do what? Volunteering to help Palestinian kids? You call that moving on?” He says accusingly. I want to retort that it had nothing to do with One, but it did. It was an association we’d give thousands of dollars to.

“You hibernated over there, you didn’t move on.” Nate says. I don’t want to believe that. That would make me a woman who lost ten years of her youth for absolutely nothing.

“You could make some friends here, or reconnect with old friends. You could find a job. Anything you like.” Nate encourages after a moment.

“And if you realize you want to race- really race again, then you will. And you will enter and win every Grand Prix.” He concludes, sounding exited in a brighter mood than when he arrived.

“What do you think?” He asks me.

“I have to go see Kameron.” I say, looking up at him. I see his face visually fall and dissolve in disappointment, and it’s hard to look at, and I’m sorry, but I can’t have this discussion today. What breaks my heart is watching him forcing himself not to look so disappointed.

“Of course.” He says, giving me half of a smile.
-

“No, dad. Don’t tell anyone what happened, I do not want photographers to come here.” He grinds down the phone, a threatening edge in his voice. Making myself smaller, I close the door behind me quietly.

“Tell them I’m sick, I don’t know.” He says to his dad.  “Okay.”

He hangs up and sighs, before sitting down and looking up at me.

“Hi.” I say.

“Hi.”

“You can go. I’m sure you’re busy.” I encourage, dropping my bag on my chair and starting to take my jacket off.

“Nah.” He says dismissively, sitting down across the bed. When I was a race top star, I didn’t have time to wait for people to wake up from their coma. I know what it is, and he’s not going to be able to stay here indefinitely.

“You can’t pause your career until he wakes up. Even if you want to.” I murmur, dropping my jacket on he back of my chair and removing my bag so I can sit down.

“If I don’t have a choice, I’ll leave.” He replies, absentmindedly. He looks worried. I mean, who wouldn’t be on this situation.

Kam is still fast asleep. It’s going to be a long day. It gives me time to ponder on everything Nate said to me earlier.

I don’t understand his point of view. To me, the fact that I’m not crying 24/7 thinking about Zane is moving on. I’ve accepted his death, and I learned t live without him, I feel like I’m over his death. I still love him, and I miss him, but he’s never coming back, and I get that.

I don’t understand what racing, Grand Prixs and finding another job has to do with that. But on the other side, I think Kam would have liked it if I had found a job.

Now I get that living off of my wealth isn’t living, because my days have been empty ever since I was kicked out of the school.

But I just don’t get why finding a job is any better, because at the end of the day, I’m not allowed to race.

And it makes me mad, it makes me angry, but for the sake of the few people I have left in my life, maybe I should give it a try.

It’s not what I want, because I just want to race, but I’ve been selfish. I took ten years of everyone’s life, making them worry about me, so maybe acting the way they wish I had will help everyone feel better.

“I’m not going back to Israel.” I declare out of the blue, mindlessly staring at the monitor showing all of Kam’s vitals.

“Well.” I here Tuna say from next to me.

“You missed your flight.” He deadpans. Look up at him, ready to comment about how stupid he is, but when I do, I suddenly remember something.

“What was it?” I ask him, frowning. Maybe he can help me after all. “Your proposition. What was it?”

Suddenly, he’s amnesiac, because he frowns at me as if I had grown two heads.

“You said I could come back to the track.” I remind him, and then I see his face light up like Christmas. He leans forward in his chair, hopeful eyebrows raised to his hairline.

“You’re interested?” He almost gushes. I have to fight to not roll my eyes.

“I’m just curious.” He say to tone it down, because I want to know what it is about first. It doesn’t tone him down though. He gets up and grabs his chair, dragging it around the bed to get closer to be. He twists it and its down, his fingers colder around the backrest.

“Be my coach.” He declares, smiling brightly at me. I feel like I’m stepping out of a plane in a summer dress and flip flop, only to find out I’m in Antarctica. What is this nonsense.

“What?” I frown, confused.

“Have you ever coached before?” He asks me. I’m cold. I hate Antarctica.

“No.” I shake my head.

“I think it would be a great idea. It would make you discover another aspect of racing.” He explains. What? Why? He knows how toxic our relationship is. We’d never agree on anything. How is coaching him supposed to help me move on and have a normal life?

If anything, he’s making me crazy after all.

“And I have so much to learn from you. You’re a world champion, and I want to win the worlds this season.” He adds, and thats when it clicks into place. I know why he would propose me to coach him, and not just be a teacher at the school. “I talked to Kameron about it, he said it wouldn’t kill us to try.”

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” I hiss, glaring at him. The change in my tone makes him screw his eyebrows together in confusion.

“You want to use Kameron, my comatose uncle who just had a stroke, just to have me as your coach and win the worlds.” I spot at him, my blood starting to boil. A part of me is sad, a little bit sad he had to fuck things up at some point.

I don’t need that now, his blatant insensitivity and disrespect. My uncle might die on me at any second, and he’s trying to manipulate me.

“No.” He denies, shaking his head. Of course he’s going to deny it, because what’s the point of incriminating himself, but he’s fooling no one. “No, I’m not-“

“You’re the greediest, most arrogant, full of crap and ungrateful asshole I know of. You really think I’m going to believe you when you say you want me to coach you because you want to help me?” I articulate, trying to making understand that his little strategy not only is disrespectful and pathetic, it’s useless and won’t work on me.

“Who else could you coach?” He shrugs casually.

“Anyone at the school. Why didn’t you think of that?” I narrow my eyes at him.

“They’re sixteen year olds! None of them has any potential.” He utters, holding his palms up towards the ceiling in emphasis.

This is beside the point. Plus, a coach doesn’t have to only coach people who have world champion potential.

“So, I should feel honoured to coach you?” I scoff. He makes annoyed sound with his tongue.

“I’m not saying that.” He whines.

“You’re going to tell me that’s what Kameron wants? That he specifically asked you to tell me that?”

“I have no idea what he wants exactly! I want to help you, why can’t you believe that?” He raises his voice, visibly losing his patience.

“Because you don’t help people! You use them!” I raise my voice as well, because until I’m proved the contrary, he’s the one who’s wrong.

“You don’t even know me!” He almost shouts. What a sassy little crap.

“Oh, you’re going to fucking play that card now.” I roll my eyes. He gets up, glaring at me, his chair almost falling over.

“Why are you so fucking stubborn?! You’re just saying no because it’s me, because we hate each other.” He yells down at me. If he thinks I’m going to let him have the upper hand like that.

“Had it been someone else, you wouldn’t have doubted their intentions, not one second.” He accuses. I get up as well.

“Exactly!” I shout, and he’s still taller than me but it doesn’t matter. He lets out a long, frustrated groan, furiously running his hands in through his hair.

“Can’t you just forget about how we met? Can we move on already?” He grinds out.

“I don’t know, can you?” I snap right back at him. That shuts him up for a while. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but he still sounds like a pissy teenager.

“You’re the older one, you’re supposed to be more mature.” He mutters. OH SUUURE!

“And I’m supposed to kiss your ass well?” I scoff.

“For the love of god, Sivan!” He yells so loudly I think the whole hospital heard us, but it’s not enough to wake Kameron up. “You could at least try! For Kameron, for yourself, for your fans, for your town, I don’t know!”

“Oh, how sentimental of you! I didn’t know you had that in you when you drove my car.” I retort. This man is a walking joke!

“Let’s forget about the beginning, alright? I’m sorry.” He says, exasperatedly.

“I’m sorry I almost killed you the day we met. I’m sorry about driving you car. I’m sorry about telling on you to Kameron, okay?” He says, and he sounds sincere. I mean, he would have looked sincere if I hadn’t interacted with him so much in the past month.

“You’re not.” I snap. He flinches, crossing his arms over his chest. He frowns, his mouth opening, but no sounds coming out. He huffs, stuttering, and gives up eventually.

“No, I’m not, but maybe if you were nicer, I’d actually be.” He snipes back, annoyed.

“Ni- what a fucking joke!” I utter. He glares at me, and I glare back at him, when a groan comes between us, without any of us opening our mouth. There’s faint movement in the room, and we both look towards the bed.

“Will you guys just the hell up?” Kameron grumbles, actually grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut.

sometimesangryblackwoman  asked:

Prompt: Regina thinks Roland has an imaginary friend.

If Regina thought being a single parent was hard, it was nothing compared to being a quasi-stepparent.

When Henry had imaginary friends from his not-so-imaginary storybook, Regina put him in therapy. Now that Roland had imaginary friends – talking mice and transforming robots and friendly ghosts, Regina was seriously considering cancelling her Netflix subscription.

She couldn’t decide what was worse, Henry (rightfully) thinking that she was the Evil Queen, or Roland demanding that he let his rat friend help her cook dinner, because, as he said, “You don’t use enough salt.”’

Oh, she could show him salt.

It wasn’t a coincidence that his imaginary rat friend showed up the first night that Robin and Roland had spent the night at her house. She wasn’t a bad cook, exactly; she had a few things she did well – lasagna and apple turnovers, with or without poison – but Roland hated tomatoes and his father was more than a little turned off by apples, so she improvised.

Improvised, and nearly set fire to her kitchen. Thank God for fire extinguishers and peanut butter sandwiches.

Thank God Robin didn’t like her for her kitchen skills. Well, how the hell was she supposed to be a good cook? Her mother raised her to marry well and rule kingdoms, not to make tuna casserole.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Thot7

I really really love this ask cause there’s literally nothing else here. Just Thot7. Cause that’s all that matters. Just cause of this I’m gonna do a Got7 appreciation post cause I really love my boys (sorry in advance, this is gonna be LONG)

Jae-freaking-BUM: beautiful, short-tempered, beaver baby boy who is totally husband material and hard working. Waking up next to this? 

I’d say minus the makeup but he took it off once and STILL LOOKED THE SAME im mad (his face after he removed his makeup)

So romantic (he’s left-handed, as am I. Coincidence? I think not). He’s a savage and sarcastic bastard <3

He also has a thing for art. Film, photography and such. He really loves the sky (just read it here) and like, that’s literally my line of work so he’s like extra bae im emotional right now. He has a beautiful mind. And gorgeous smile.

Originally posted by defsouljb

I also find his eyes incredibly beautiful. See those two beauty marks above his eye? God’s art. 

Also him with long hair is my weakness. Not exaggerating. 

bLESS. 

Originally posted by dsouls

I was so upset when he cut it. 

Originally posted by jaebeom-s

But then I forgave him when he did this

I feel physically attacked by him. Like he’s not even a bias wrecker. Boy got his own section reserved just for him. Boyyy what that tongue do??? Exit. 

I’m not one for calling men ‘daddy’ cause wtf but w/e do you, but JB…Ima stop. Let’s just say he can get it. 

Any time. 

Any day.


Mark TUNA aka Tuan Shark Man: When I first saw Mark he reminded me of a shark (hence the nickname) till he did this cute face and i nearly died

Originally posted by igotsxven

Had no clue he was the eldest but like, he’s so quiet yet he’s there, you can’t miss him. He’s cute, he’s so freaking cute. He’s also got the most precious laugh in existence. Like…listen for yourself 

Same Jr same.

Originally posted by jackseons

Literally did not ask

He looks so fine here but he always looks so confused. Poor kid, someone take him home (he really looks like their puppy Coco)

I also think he’s the type to throw mad shade at people, of course without having to say a word. Looking like he ready to roast somebody as he chews that gum


Park Squishy Jinyoung: my second-third bae and mama of this mad group (so in your face)

Originally posted by gotsolucky

When I first got into them (through Real Got7) I thought he was such a jerk, I kid you not (especially to Yugyeom) BUT I realized that’s just how he was and he didn’t mean it that way at all. He’s also hella sarcastic (as am I). Prob why I didn’t fancy him then. Times have changed!! (sorry babe)

Originally posted by gotlov3ly7

This blasted scene had me nearly crying at school

Like he was so good at this he actually couldn’t stop crying. 

His face!! So much squish

But I also have a thing for his legs and butt. Apparently so does he. 

So round

Like???? (I see you in the back Daeil)

Love when a guy has meat on their legs. Look at that smile and jawline that could cut my tuition in half

Basically Jr is fine from head to toe

And he knows it too


Jackson Extra Wang: I don’t even know where to start, but we have this (how his hair remained in place is beyond me) Eye contact is important kids.

As stated before with Jr, I love reasonably muscular legs on guys. So I was hella happy to see this. THE THICKNESS, even tho he doesn’t really like it and a rant was made on why he’s perfect 

White Chicks 2??

So you pulling a Xiumin now?? Okay

This fancam made me back away from my screen, why he gotta be like this??

He’s a freaking sweetheart who deserves as much happiness as he gives, and that’s a lot of happiness.


Choi Random-English Youngjae: he is my marshmallow son, lately been acting up tho. But his laugh literally makes everything better

Originally posted by jackandjael

Like…he’s so loud and I can’t stand noise but I love to hear him

He’s so cute and full of life, I just wanna squeeze him!! 

He has the most beautiful smile!!!! (him and that freaking hat)

Originally posted by jackandjael

I relate to him and these face expressions on a serious level

Watch this and you’re kinda guaranteed to fall in love with him cause that’s how it happened for me


BamBam: the one I want to take shopping with me cause boy can dress to depress. His shoes are forever on point 

The world is his runway and he is here to slay

Boy wyd???? Spider fingers

Where did his baby cheeks go??

He’s so freaking cute

100-0 real quick

I love this kid, I want his closet.


Kim Tater Thot Yugyeom: my UB. 

Now, I know he’s underage for another month, but when I saw him it was the first time I even looked in Got7′s direction and I didn’t even know his age. 

But it was too late, just like it was too late for JB to stop his son from being such a hoe. I never go younger but Yugyeom was a splendid exception (also cause he doesn’t look his age!!)

This moment sealed the deal. This is why 

He’s always messing with Jr (and always grabbing his junk, like chill bruh damn)

Sometimes he does crap like this and I forget his age

!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then he does something stupid and I remember that he’s a toddler in a giant body

Why

He’s 5

*says a prayer*

I often go back to this video cause he was literally so fine here

He was ready. I was not. Amber did not care lol

My precious baby. He’s really the sweetest thing. When he mentioned that his father taught him positivity and humility, I knew he was the one. 

Love him to bits

Thank you for sending this, I needed to get this out of my system. I always feel as if I’m missing one member…

But if you meant to type something else but sent it by accident unfinished, send it again ^-^

(gifs and pics aren’t mine, if they’re yours, message me and I’ll give you credit for your awesome work)

fold this part, unfold this part (hold this heart)

title: fold this part, unfold this part (hold this heart)

pairing: maya hart/lucas friar

word count: 13407

summary: Maya and Lucas are friends, and then they’re something more. But when that something more isn’t enough?

ao3, ff.net


They’re thirteen and fourteen and alone for the first time, away from the other two of their group—away from the little genius and the literal ball of sunshine. A project that Mr. Matthews has assigned them that truly has nothing to do with the past: starting a muffin business. (However, if Lucas has picked up on anything this year, it is that everything their history teacher assigns them has a reason, and since he does well on the tests he figures he should go with it.)

She groans and complains, but Maya finds her way to his apartment afterschool just as she had promised. Dressed in a torn leather jacket and combat boots, she definitely isn’t what his mother had pictured when he had texted her to let her know a friend from school was coming over to work on an assignment (mom: I’m so glad you’re making friends here!!!!!! just let me know if you need anything???), if her wide eyes and forced, polite smile is any indication.

Nonetheless, she ushers the girl in, lets him know that there are snacks in the pantry and that she is welcome to anything she’d like. This garners a small—mischievous?—grin as his mother goes back into her bedroom to do whatever mothers do on Wednesdays.

Keep reading

1
There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond
the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which twin you are in
love with at the time. Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advan-
tage to remain impartial. Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys
have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands. The one in front will want to
take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every
shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your
heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together. The
sun shines down. It’s a beautiful day. Consider the hairpin turn. Do not
choose sides yet.


2
There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road. Let’s
call them Jeff. And because the first Jeff is in front we’ll consider him
the older, and therefore responsible for lending money and the occa-
sional punch in the shoulder. World-wise, world-weary, and not his
mother’s favorite, this Jeff will always win when it all comes down to
fisticuffs. Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t always all come down to
fisticuffs. Jeff is thinking about his brother down the winding road be-
hind him. He is thinking that if only he could cut him open and peel him
back and crawl inside this second skin, then he could relive that last mile
again: reborn, wild-eyed, free.


3
There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond
the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which Jeff you are. It
could have been so beautiful—you scout out the road ahead and I will
watch your back, how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy—
but each Jeff wants to be the other one. My name is Jeff and I’m tired
of looking at the back of your head. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of
seeing my hand me down clothes. Look, Jeff, I’m telling you, for the
last time, I mean it, etcetera. They are the same and they are not the
same. They are the same and they hate each other for it.


4
Your name is Jeff and somewhere up ahead of you your brother has
pulled to the side of the road and he is waiting for you with a lug wrench
clutched in his greasy fist. 0 how he loves you, darling boy. 0 how, like
always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep
next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around
you in an act of faith against the night. When he throws the wrench into
the air it will catch the light as it spins toward you. Look—it looks like
a star. You had expected something else, anything else, but the wrench
never reaches you. It hangs in the air like that, spinning in the air like
that. It’s beautiful.


5
Let’s say God in his High Heaven is hungry and has decided to make
himself some tuna fish sandwiches. He’s already finished making two
of them, on sourdough, before he realizes that the fish is bad. What is
he going to do with these sandwiches? They’re already made, but he
doesn’t want to eat them.

Let’s say the Devil is played by two men. We’ll call them Jeff. Dark
hair, green eyes, white teeth, pink tongues—they’re twins. The one on
the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about
to. As they wrestle, you can tell that they have forgotten about God, and
they are very hungry.


6
You are playing cards with three men named Jeff. Two of the Jeffs seem
somewhat familiar, but the Jeff across from you keeps staring at your
hands, your mouth, and you’re certain that you’ve never seen this Jeff
before. But he’s on your team, and you’re ahead, you’re winning big,
and yet the other Jeffs keep smiling at you like there’s no tomorrow.
They all have perfect teeth: white, square, clean, even. And, for some
reason, the lighting in the room makes their teeth seem closer than they
should be, as if each mouth was a place, a living room with pink carpet
and the window’s open. Come back from the window, Jefferson. Take off
those wet clothes and come over here, by the fire.


7
You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your
brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen
you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets
up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room.
Phone’s for you, Jeff says. Hey! It’s Uncle Jeff, who isn’t really your
uncle, but you can’t talk right now, one of the Jeffs has put his tongue
in your mouth. Please let it be the right one.


8
Two brothers are fighting by the side of the road. Two motorbikes have
fallen over on the shoulder, leaking oil into the dirt, while the interlocking
brothers grapple and swing. You see them through the backseat
window as you and your parents drive past. You are twelve years old.
You do not have a brother. You have never experienced anything this
ferocious or intentional with another person. Your mother is pretending
that she hasn’t seen anything. Your father is fiddling with the knobs
of the radio. There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the
station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say
hello.


9
You are in an ordinary suburban bedroom with bunk beds, a bookshelf,
two wooden desks and chairs. You are lying on your back, on the top
bunk, very close to the textured ceiling, staring straight at it in fact, and
the room is still dark except for a wedge of powdery light that spills in
from the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom is covered in mint green
tile and someone is in there, singing very softly. Is he singing to you?
For you? Black cherries in chocolate, the ring around the moon, a bee-
tle underneath a glass—you cannot make out all the words, but you’re
sure he knows you’re in there, and he’s singing to you, even though you
don’t know who he is.


10
You see it as a room, a tabernacle, the dark hotel. You’re in the hallway
again, and you open the door, and if you’re ready you’ll see it, but
maybe one part of your mind decides that the other parts aren’t ready,
and then you don’t remember where you’ve been, and you find yourself
down the hall again, the lights gone dim as the left hand sings the right
hand back to sleep. It’s a puzzle: each piece, each room, each time you
put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, your ear to the
wound that whispers.

You’re in the hallway again. The radio is playing your favorite song.
You’re in the hallway. Open the door again. Open the door.


11
Suppose for a moment that the heart has two heads, that the heart has
been chained and dunked in a glass booth filled with river water. The
heart is monologing about hesitation and fulfillment while behind the
red brocade the heart is drowning. Can the heart escape? Does love
even care? Snow falls as we dump the booth in the bay.

Suppose for a moment we are crowded around a pier, waiting for something
to ripple the water. We believe in you. There is no danger. It is not
getting dark, we want to say.


12
Consider the hairpin turn. It is waiting for you like a red door or the
broken leg of a dog. The sun is shining, O how the sun shines down!
Your speedometer and your handgrips and the feel of the road below
you, how it knows you, the black ribbon spread out on the greens be-
tween these lines that suddenly don’t reach to the horizon. It is waiting,
like a broken door, like the red dog that chases its tail and eats your rose-
bushes and then must be forgiven. Who do you love, Jeff? Who do you
love? You were driving toward something and then, well, then you
found yourself driving the other way. The dog is asleep. The road is be-
hind you. O how the sun shines down.


13
This time everyone has the best intentions. You have cancer. Let’s say
you have cancer. Let’s say you’ve swallowed a bad thing and now it’s
got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see
what I mean but you’re happy anyway, and that’s okay, it’s a love story
after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action,
where the mirror says mirror and the hand says hand and the front
door never says Sorry Charlie. So the doctor says you need more
stitches and the bruise cream isn’t working. So much for the facts. Let’s
say you’re still completely in the dark but we love you anyway. We
love you. We really do.


14
After work you go to the grocery store to get some milk and a carton of
cigarettes. Where did you get those bruises? You don’t remember.
Work was boring. You find a jar of bruise cream and a can of stewed
tomatoes. Maybe a salad? Spinach, walnuts, blue cheese, apples, and
you can’t decide between the Extra Large or Jumbo black olives. Which
is bigger anyway? Extra Large has a blue label, Jumbo has a purple
label. Both cans cost $1.29. While you’re deciding, the afternoon light
is streaming through the windows behind the bank of checkout coun-
ters. Take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest,
holding onto it and not letting it go. Now let it go.


15
Like sandpaper, the light, or a blessing, or a bruise. Blood everywhere,
he said, the red light hemorrhaging from everywhere at once. The train
station blue, your lips blue, hands cold and the blue wind. Or a horse,
your favorite horse now raised up again out of the mud and galloping
galloping always toward you. In your ruined shirt, on the last day, while
the bruise won’t heal, and the stain stays put, the red light streaming in
from everywhere at once. Your broken ribs, the back of your head, your
hand to mouth or hand to now, right now, like you mean it, like it’s split-
ting you in two. Now look at the lights, the lights.


16
You and your lover are making out in the corner booth of a seedy bar.
The booths are plush and the drinks are cheap and in this dim and
smoky light you can barely tell whose hands are whose. Someone raises
their glass for a toast. Is that the Hand of Judgment or the Hand of
Mercy? The bartender smiles, running a rag across the burnished wood
of the bar. The drink in front of you has already been paid for. Drink it,
the bartender says. It’s yours, you deserve it. It’s already been paid for.
Somebody’s paid for it already. There’s no mistake, he says. It’s your drink,
the one you asked for, just the way you like it. How can you refuse Hands
of fire, hands of air, hands of water, hands of dirt. Someone’s doing all
the talking but no one’s lips move. Consider the hairpin turn.


17
The motorbikes are neck and neck but where’s the checkered flag we
all expected, waving in the distance, telling you you’re home again,
home? He’s next to you, right next to you in fact, so close, or… he isn’t.
Imagine a room. Yes, imagine a room: two chairs facing the window but
nobody moves. Don’t move. Keep staring straight into my eyes. It feels
like you’re not moving, the way when, dancing, the room will suddenly
fall away. You’re dancing: you’re neck and neck or cheek to cheek, he’s
there or he isn’t, the open road. Imagine a room. Imagine you’re danc-
ing. Imagine the room now falling away. Don’t move.


18
Two brothers: one of them wants to take you apart. Two brothers: one
of them wants to put you back together. It’s time to choose sides now.
The stitches or the devouring mouth? You want an alibi? You don’t get
an alibi, you get two brothers. Here are two Jeffs. Pick one. This is how
you make the meaning, you take two things and try to define the space
between them. Jeff or Jeff? Who do you want to be? You just wanted
to play in your own backyard, but you don’t know where your own yard
is, exactly. You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one
safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet.
You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here. You’re
still right here.


19
Here are your names and here is the list and here are the things you left
behind: The mark on the floor from pushing your chair back, your un-
derwear, one half brick of cheese, the kind I don’t like, wrapped up, and
poorly, and abandoned on the second shelf next to the poppyseed dress-
ing, which is also yours. Here’s the champagne on the floor, and here
are your house keys, and here are the curtains that your cat peed on.
And here is your cat, who keeps eating grass and vomiting in the hall-
way. Here is the list with all of your names, Jeff. They’re not the same
name, Jeff. They’re not the same at all.


20
There are two twins on motorbikes but they are not on motorbikes,
they’re in a garden where the flowers are as big as thumbs. Imagine you
are in a field of daisies. What are you doing in a field of daisies? Get up!
Let’s say you’re not in the field anymore. Let’s say they’re not brothers
anymore. That’s right, they’re not brothers, they’re just one guy, and
he knows you, and he’s talking to you, but you’re in pain and you can-
not understand him. What are you still doing in this field? Get out of
the field! You should be in the hotel room! You should, at least, be try-
ing to get back into the hotel room. Ah! Now the field is empty.


21
Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don’t make a noise,
don’t leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will
come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a
graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights
on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to
dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of
things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the
bread and devour it. I’m in the hallway again, I’m in the hallway. The
radio’s playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I’ll
keep walking toward the sound of your voice.


22
Someone had a party while you were sleeping but you weren’t really
sleeping, you were sick, and parts of you were burning, and you
couldn’t move. Perhaps the party was in your honor. You can’t remem-
ber. It seems the phone was ringing in the dream you were having but
there’s no proof. A dish in the sink that might be yours, some clothes on
the floor that might belong to someone else. When was the last time you
found yourself looking out of this window. Hey! This is a beautiful
window! This is a beautiful view! 1 hose trees lined up like that, and the
way the stars are spinning over them like that, spinning in the air like
that, like wrenches.


23
Let’s say that God is the space between two men and the Devil is the
space between two men. Here: I’ll be all of them-Jeff and Jeff and Jeff
and Jeff are standing on the shoulder of the highway, four motorbikes
knocked over, two wrenches spinning in the ordinary air. Two of these
Jeffs are windows, and two of these Jeffs are doors, and all of these Jeffs
are trying to tell you something. Come closer. We’ll whisper it in your
ear. It’s like seeing your face in a bowl of soup, cream of potato, and the
eyes shining back like spoons. If we wanted to tell you everything, we
would leave more footprints in the snow or kiss you harder. One thing.
Come closer. Listen …

24
You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves
you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terr-
ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself
a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy,
and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to
choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and
he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your
heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you
don’t even have a name for.

—  Richard Siken, You Are Jeff.
telegraph.co.uk
Gillian Anderson: The Fall and the rise...
On the surface, Gillian Anderson appears icily controlled, but under the cool facade, there's a wild side.

By Jessamy Calkin

16 SEPTEMBER 2016 • 6:00AM

On the surface, Gillian Anderson appears icily controlled, but under the cool facade, there’s a wild side. On the eve of The Fall’s third season she speaks to Jessamy Calkin.

One night in the summer of 2014, during the Young Vic’s sell-out run of A Streetcar Named Desire, Gillian Anderson, playing Blanche DuBois with a rapture that seemed to almost deify the role, took to the stage for the customary standing  ovation with blood coursing down one leg.

Her knee had been hit by a splinter of china from a plate hurled by a furious Stanley Kowalski (Ben Foster), and the wound had split open when she dropped to the floor. ‘Never have I seen a production of the play that was so raw in its emotion, so violent and so deeply upsetting,’ said the Telegraph critic Charles Spencer.

I was in the audience that night, on my feet and cheering what was an incandescent performance. Now, two years later, Anderson shows me the scar on her leg. It had been bandaged up backstage and she thought it would be fine. The next morning, she lifted the bandage to take a look, and ‘I lost consciousness.

I went so far away. And when  I woke up there were four people standing over me. I’m  a bit phobic about blood. There’s been quite a bit of blood  in my life with my kids over the years, and I would rather be the one who’s strong rather than the mother who turns away or passes out…’  She passed out several times.

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