Hi, I'm sorry if you have discussed this before but I just started following you and wonder what your tag You can tell a man by his ankles means? Have a nice day : -)
Hi! Please don’t apologize, I’m happy to help :) At least I can speculate and you can make up your own mind about my theories, okay?
So, Harry tweeted this on August 21st, 2013:
The day before, on August 20th, One Direction was at the TIU premiere in London. They all looked smashing as I’m sure you remember?
And one boy in particular stood out. Not only for his flawless outfit, but for his very visible ankles. Ankles displaying a well known symbol. A triangle:
So what is it about this symbol in particular? Well, in short (and, if you are reading this, please! correct me if I’m wrong) a ‘pink triangle’ is a symbol of queer liberation, originally used by the nazis as a symbol of shame. In the 1980′s the triangle was reclaimed by gay rights groups and is today seen as a rather unambiguous symbol for gay pride.
So Louis, a person who is known for showing off his ankles, wearing rolled up pants and no socks, as part of his trademark look. Clearly being - still - kept in the closet. For him to mark his skin with a symbol that literally screams ‘I’m gay and I’m proud’ is rather provocative and brave, if you ask me. And that picture of his ankles was spread on social media the day after the event for everyone to see.
Now, Harry tweeting about ‘a man’s ankles’ that day might be coincidental of course, or not at all. But it was certainly interesting timing, and knowing Harry who rarely makes statements without meaning I personally think it is pretty significant.
The quote “You can tell a man by his ankles” suddenly has a different ring to it now, don’t you agree? x
And one will come to end us,
And one will bring his fall.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m the Chosen One at all.
It seems like Snow would be better suited for it.
After all, he’s from this rich, posh background- his family has been one of the most powerful wizarding families around for centuries. He’s always outfitted in fancy suits and his elocution is flawless and he’s smart as a whip. He’s acing every class, and I can’t even get my fucking wand to work. He’s got so much emotion in him, so much care- I wonder how someone can care that much about everything without imploding. He never tries to put up a front about who he is- Simon Snow is an open book.
Simon Snow is an open book, and on the pages are written every way possible to hate my guts.
It’s not like I ever did anything to him (well, I did push him down the stairs once- but that was an accident). (I only meant to get in a good punch).
He walks into our room with a plate full of scones and tosses one at me. “Eat something, Basil. If you waste away to nothing, my day will be significantly less annoying, and we couldn’t have that.”
“Don’t be such an insufferable prat,” I snap, but I take the scone because let’s face it, the scones here are fantastic, and also I haven’t left the room in two days. The last time I went off, I destroyed the entire Politickal Science room, and the Mage suggested (ordered) that I take a few days off.
“Then don’t be such a hermit. Merlin knows that you’d have starved by now if it wasn’t for me.” With that, he takes to stuffing his face over his desk. It’s almost impressive, how quickly he finishes six scones. Mesmerizing.
“You’re staring, Pitch.”
I turn away. I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks, but I’m hoping it’s not noticeable- it rarely is, with my dark skin, but the light is pretty bright and he’s looking right at me with a white-hot gaze.
“It’s not my fault you eat like a wild dog. One would think your manners would be better, for someone of such high status.”
Simon snorts. “And one would think you’d be less miserable, for someone everyone adores. ‘Baz Pitch, the Chosen One, the greatest Mage in ten generations, he has such pretty eyes, oh, he’s such a gentleman-’.” He stops, his face contorted in disgust. “They talk about you like you’re the bloody queen.”
I flip through my book, trying to ignore him, but the tension is rolling between us like waves. “At least they talk about me. No one here gives a rat’s ass about you, and you know it. You’re the kind of person only a mother could love- except oops, I forgot. You don’t have one of those anymore.” I can feel the atmosphere change, and I know it was a low blow. As it comes out of my mouth, I know it’s a step too far, more than toeing the line- I’m jumping across it. But I can’t back down now. Simon’s cheeks color quicker than I’ve ever seen, a sharp contrast against his greyish skin. He sweeps the desk clear in a sudden gesture, and when the plate clatters to the floor and smashes, I jump backwards. He stalks towards me, murder in his eyes.
“If it wasn’t for the anathema,” he growls, teeth bared, “I would rip you open and put your innards on display in the dining hall.” I don’t doubt the truth in his statement one bit. For a second I’m afraid, though I’d never admit it. I focus on keeping my carefully-practiced mask of indifference.
“I’d like to see you try,” I say back in a measured tone. Simon whirls away from me and towards the door.
“Don’t you ever. Ever. Talk about my mother again.” And he leaves, slamming the door behind him.
It’s been dark for two hours before I start worrying. Simon is usually back by now, to feign sleep at the very least before sneaking out and draining rats in the catacombs (though Penny insists he’s just visiting the graves down there). (I don’t believe it for a second. The boy’s a vampire. It’s plain to see). I pull on a jacket and sneak down the stairs and past the other rooms.
The cold air hits me like a smack to the face the second I open the door. It’s a windy night, and though it’s dark the moon is shining bright, giving everything a blue-white glow that makes me uneasy. A little voice in the pit of my stomach called guilt is screaming at me. If Simon isn’t okay, then it’s all my fault for pissing him off in the first place.
Though no one can hear me, I make my footsteps quiet anyway. It’s creepy on the Watford grounds at night. I summon my sword in a whispered voice and keep it down by my waist. Just in case.
I’m relieved when I see the catacombs. Something about being underground is less frightening, even though I can hear the echo of every creature scurrying in the dark. I don’t dare summon a flame- I’d probably blow the whole place up, knowing my luck.
After a few minutes of walking, Simon’s figure comes into view. He’s sitting with his back against the stone, head lolled over. I’ve never seen him like this. Usually when I watch him in the catacombs, he’s in and out as quickly as possible, with lithe, agile movements that I can barely follow. He seems to have his guard down now, and the wrinkle between his eyebrows is gone, which only happens in his sleep.
He looks innocent. Without the layers of cunning and plotting, Simon Snow is almost… Pretty.
I don’t even remember when I started moving, but soon I’m a lot closer to him than I’ve ever been in the catacombs. There’s something about the way he looks when he’s asleep that makes me feel like it’s safe to approach (a stupid thought, of course- he’s a fucking vampire). But still I inch forward, until I’m a mere three or four feet from him. He doesn’t stir.
I can’t see him too clearly. There are magical lanterns scattered through the catacombs, the kind that never go out, but there are none right here. A soft yellow glow lights the space, with just enough to make out Snow’s general appearance. I’ve been too fixated on his face, on the soft lines of it, that it takes me a minute to notice the blood.
It’s smeared all down the front of his shirt and his mouth, which hangs agape. Two gleaming white fangs poke out from his plump lips, normally so grey, dyed red from the blood that covers him.
I should be afraid. I should be running. I should be telling the Mage. But all I can think is the dumbest thought that’s ever crossed my mind- He’s always been a messy eater.
I make a small sound, something like a gasp, but it’s enough. Simon pops one eye open, then flinches backwards when he recognizes me. He tries in vain to wipe up some of the blood on his face with his hands, but only manages to smear it. I stand, stalk-still, shocked, while he frantically backs away, scurries like a spider. I hold up my hands in what I hope looks like a gesture of peace, but his eyes only widen in fear, and that’s when I realize- my sword. I have my sword draw. Snow thinks I’m about to kill him!
Muttering the incantation to get rid of the sword, I try to look encouraging. It dissipates into thin air. He looks less unnerved, but still confused.
“W-why…” It’s not the first time I’ve heard him stutter, he does it often when he’s overwhelmed. “Why don’t you just kill me? You’ve gotten what you wanted, haven’t you? All the reason in the world to rid the world of me, and still be a goddamn hero.“
It’s true. This is the moment. We’ve always known that one of us would be the death of the other. It’s been an inevitable thing, like snowfall in the winter. But something here is wrong. Something in Simon’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard- he’s practically begging for it, whining like a dog.
“Do it. End this. Have your golden life.” He sticks his neck out like an animal ready for slaughter, and the pleading in his voice sounds so genuine I want to be sick.
“I can’t. I won’t. I would never.” The words tumbling out of my mouth don’t make any sense, not even to me. Of course I can, of course I would! That’s how this has to end, after all.
But Simon deserves better.
Simon deserves better than a bloody death in a quiet cave, where rats will eat his body before I tell anyone what befell him. He deserves better than a private end, where he’ll have no chance to be saved. He deserves people to be able to look upon him as he falls and see what is right and what is wrong- he doesn’t deserve this place, with the dark and the cold, to keep all my dirty secrets.
He doesn’t deserve to value himself so little that he begs me to end his life.
Simon’s head sags to his chest in defeat. “I can’t do this anymore, Baz,” he whispers, and he sounds like a little child. Like he’s on the brink of tears. I can’t see his eyes, and I’m glad I can’t, because that kind of sentiment from someone like Simon, who never gives up, comes with sorrow that could kill you just to witness. “I’m done hiding from myself.”
“What are you hiding?” The voice I hear when I speak is not my own, at least not when I’m talking to Simon. It’s softer and it sounds- it sounds like someone who cares.
I do care. I shouldn’t, but I do.
“What am I not?” It’s a sentence that could be angry, but Simon just sounds tired. Tired and done. “I’m ready now. I’ve been ready for a while.” He sniffles. “I’d rather it was you than me.”
“Simon…” The word is foreign on my lips, but ‘Snow’ just feels so wrong here. So impersonal. “I…”
“If you don’t kill me now, then I’ll set this place on fire and I’ll take us both out. The world doesn’t want that, Baz. The world can’t stand to lose you. No one needs me. You said it yourself. You’ve got your proof- I’m a vampire. I’m a monster. Now, what are you going to do about it?”
And I just want him to stop. I just want him safe in our room being a git, shoving his face full of scones and yelling at me for taking too long in the bathroom fixing my hair and opening the window when I’m not paying attention. I don’t know what I want, but it isn’t this. I don’t know anything anymore. Everything feels cold and hot at the same time, and Simon is down on his knees and it’s wrong, it’s wrong for someone this proud to be this broken.
I don’t know who initiated it, or how I got close enough, but suddenly, Simon’s ice-cold, blood soaked lips are on mine and it’s not a bad feeling. It’s slippery and it tastes like sucking on a penny, and my hands are in his curls and his are crawling their way up the hem of my shirt and I’m crying, he’s crying, we’re both crying-
“I love you, Basil,” he mutters against my lips, and I have a half second to be grossed out by the fact that I’m practically licking rat blood from the inside of his mouth before he pulls me back into the kiss. His arms are strong, stronger than they should be even with his broad shoulders (which I’ve always been rather envious of, in truth) and I know that even if I wanted to get away, I couldn’t.
Strangely, I don’t. Strangely, there’s no place I would rather be right now.
Even stranger- Snow is the one who breaks the kiss first.
“You kissed me,” I breathe in wonder. I feel as though my eyes have glazed over, like I’m drunk or high or floating… Or something.
“No, you kissed me,” Simon replies, the furrow replacing itself in between his brows. I reach over and press the tip of my pinky finger into it, smoothing it out.
“You look prettier without that wrinkle,” I murmur, not sure what I’m saying, and lean in so our noses and foreheads are touching.
“You look prettier when you aren’t being an asshole,” he retorts, and gives me a light peck on the lips. It doesn’t match the statement, being as gentle as it is. I laugh a bit.
“Let’s get you home and cleaned up,” I say, standing (much to Simon’s dismay) and pulling him to his feet. He slings his arm around my waist and I put mine around his shoulders. After a moment of hesitation, I continue. “You love me?” Simon considers, then nods.
"You love me,” he says, not a question. I nod anyway, to prove it to myself.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you for pushing me down the stairs,” he says after a long while, and I laugh.
“It also doesn’t mean I forgive you for getting blood all over my favorite pajama shirt.”
“Didn’t figure.” He sounds exhausted. The bags under his eyes speak for him.
I kiss the top of his head on a whim, and he seems surprised by the tenderness of the gesture (I kind of am, too).
“This feels like a beginning,” he whispers, so quiet I almost miss it.
His skin is flawless, beautifully pale and soft to the touch.
It’s really not a surprise that he gets scouted to be a model, shortly after finishing college. That face was practically made to be seen and appreciated by the masses. He deals with it well, smiles burning his face easily, but Hajime always prefers him like this - face clean and clear, no make-up, in the hazy light of morning.
Hajime notices his beauty more than ever under the soft glow of the sun.
It’s not the beauty that everyone else sees. No, his beauty isn’t in his wide, bright smile. It’s not in his flawless hair, or perfectly constructed outfits. It isn’t in the way that his skin is able to catch the light in just the exact right way-
Okay, no, wait, wait. All those are things about him that are beautiful, but they’re not the things Hajime sees. It’s not the beauty that made him fall in love with him, and it’s not the beauty that keeps him falling more and more in love each and every day.
Rather, it’s the way his nose scrunches up when he tries to curl deeper into a cuddle, leeching all the warmth he possibly can from Hajime. It’s in the way his hair looks in the morning, after a good, slow round of sex, slightly wispy and so soft that Hajime could run his fingers through it for hours. It’s the way that his skin feels , the way the light reflects off it, so soft and gentle and inviting.
It’s in his tiny birthmarks littered across his back that only he gets to touch.
Hajime blinks awake, first, as always. Tooru has never been a good sleeper, and since he stays up later, he usually sleeps in as long as possible. He doesn’t even stir when Hajime shifts on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows.
That’s fine, though - it gives him ample time to appreciate.
Tooru is fast asleep. He had a long flight, after being away for an entire week for work. He’s facing away from Hajime, lying on his stomach. As he sleeps naked (a habit Hajime cannot break him of no matter how hard he tries), his back is completely exposed, skin so soft and delicate and so tempting to touch.
So Hajime does just that - he touches.
He moves slowly, so not to arouse his lover, starting low on his back. He lets the pads of his fingers touch his skin, moving across the smooth plain of his exposed skin.
His fingers find the first one, which is snug just to the right of his spine, deep down in his lower back. Hajime presses into it - the first of many tiny star-shaped birthmarks that litter Tooru’s back.
He moves slowly. Time is something they have in spades, after all. They’re no longer two teenagers too afraid to admit how they feel, dancing around each other in fear of breaking what they have.
No, now he can really and truly call him his lover.
His fingers trace up, delicately navigating the skin that more familiar to him than even his own. He finds the second birthmark, which is located right along his ribs.
Hajime continues his ministrations; he traces to the next birthmark, which is straight across his back, then continues upwards. He touches each and every one of Tooru’s twelve star-shaped birthmarks scattered across his back, finally ending right below his left ear.
He loves mapping out his birthmarks. It feels like connecting the stars to his favourite constellation.
Finally at his destination, Hajime leans forward and presses a tiny kiss to that final birthmark.
It’s his favourite one, after all. It’s the only one he gets to see all the time and plant kisses on whenever he feels like it. It’s never covered by any article of clothing (only the occasional scarf), not to mention he has a very sensitive neck.
Tooru shifts under his touch, letting out a slow breath.
“Good morning,” Hajime mumbles. He presses another kiss to that birthmark before drawing back, allowing Tooru to flip over.
He does so leisurely, stretching out languidly before turning over. He breathes slowly, expression hazy from fatigue. Brown eyes blink up at Hajime, slowly, eyelashes pressing delicately into his skin with each one.
“G’mornin’,” he mumbles, still sleepy. “Do we have to get up?”
Hajime hums before shaking his head. “Nope. Day off, remember?”
“Good.” Tooru smiles in that soft, delicate way reserved just for Hajime, and slides in closer to him. His hands slip out, one curling underneath himself, the other sliding around Hajime.
He scrunches up his nose in that adorable way, trying to get as close as possible for cuddles, and Hajime falls in love with him all over again; the same way that he does every day.
If getting home was usually a passionate blood boiling scandal, getting ready was a slow and painful torture. Of course, Ernst himself loved to take his time with the looks and outfits, but compared to Colette his timing was almost flawless. Not to mention that she could hardly handle any of the chores by herself, but his attempts to help were greeted with a bunch of stubborn protests, so the best he could do was stand and watch her with the most annoyed expression his eyes could manage. The variety of her looks never stopped to amuse him. An hour ago she was a somber diva in distress, but right now she could be a heroine of some hot criminal novel. Johann chuckled at the thought, wondering how well role of gangster will suit him. Thankfully, he looked good almost in anything, just like Colette was an actor by nature and never lacked self-esteem. “You’re staring.” - She interrupted his thoughts with a laugh. “Not my fault that you look so gorgeous.” “Flatterer.” - Madame Fontaine waved him off in her usual manner - “Enjoy while you can.” She was trying to be sarcastic, though he couldn’t help, but notice a pained notes in her voice. “Are you planning to dump me?” - Ernst pouted teasingly. “No, but you may want to dump me. Deadly venom don’t make people prettier, you know?” “You are not `people`.” - His voice became serious. He hated when she brought it up in such harsh manner. - “You don’t sound like yourself when you say that. Yes, I`m sure, some average basic girl will be completely broken by it, bury her sorrows in junk food and turn into a living nightmare, but a woman I love will stay a goddess no matter what.” “Alright, alright, I give up!” Colette couldn’t help it, but smile at his passionate response. He knew her well, he didn’t try to reassure her or say that he will love her no matter what, no, he did more than any woman could wish for - he believed in her.