penpal au, Sid keeps writing but doesn't send them. He keeps them ina box in his closet. Geno is helping him move (again) and comes upon the box in Sid's guest room closet full of letters. He sit down and reads them, entranced.
Okay i want every one of you to imagine this as a movie scene and Ed Sheeran’s Give Me Love is playing in the background:
“There’s a few more boxes in the last room,” Sidney says. “Down the hallway, to your right. I’m gonna move these to the truck.”
“Why you need so many guest bedrooms?” Geno grumbles. Sid can never seem to stay in one house long enough before he starts to think that something doesn’t feel right.
There’s a couple boxes on the high shelf in the walk-in closet. “Shit,” Geno hisses, as the knocks one over, and letters–tons of letters–spill out. Fuck. He hates moving.
He bends over to pick them up, stuffing them back into the container and hopin Sidney won’t notice they’re out of order–but it’s Sidney, he notices everything. Geno’s gonna get chewed out one way or another, even if he was the one who volunteered his help. Sidney’s just going to nag, and Geno will have to take him out for mozzarella sticks or something–
His heart stops momentarily. The letters are all addressed to him. Well, to ‘Zhenya,’ no last name, to his old childhood address in Magnitogorsk. He opens one with trembling fingers, notices that they’re all signed with Sidney’s handwriting, and reads:
My head hurts less today. The doctors say I should be able to play in a few weeks–’
I found this bakery the other day, I think you would love it if you ever visit Nova Scotia–’
I know this letter will never get to you. I wish I knew your new address. I miss you. I’m so unhappy today. It’s too much. I wish you were here with me–’
We have an Evgeni on our team, I don’t think I mentioned this before. I had hoped it was you. It wasn’t. He didn’t seem to recognize me. I couldn’t bring myself to ask–’
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you–’
We won the Cup today. I won it for you. Just thought you should know.’
The most recent one was dated just two days ago, and it read:
I’m moving in a few days. I think I told you once, before, that I think anywhere would feel like home if I was with you. I don’t think I ever sent that letter, though–’
“Geno, did you get the–Geno, what are you doing?”
Geno turns around and stares at a petrified Sidney, scanning the letters, opened and unopened, both strewn across the floor.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sidney yelps, bending down to gather them. He’s furious, his ears reddening. “Geno, these are fucking personal, what the fuck?”
“You…” Geno holds a letter to his chest, the one that reads ‘I love you’ repeatedly, for a whole page. “You write to me, even now.”
“What?” Sidney says shrilly. He looks like he’s about to lose it, his eyes welling with embarrassment and shame. “How many did you read?”
“Sidney,” Geno says. “You love me.”
“I think I fucking hate you right now,” Sidney says, still angrily shuffling the letters. “Fuck, they’re all–I’ll organize them later–” He look up and holds a hand out. “Give me that. Now.”
“Sidney, you not listening,” Geno says, grinning now. “Sidney, you write to me, you still write. Sidney, I’m Zhenya. From Magnitogorsk. Sidney, we pen pals before. Sid.”
“What?” Sidney asks, suddenly quiet. He looks afraid. “Geno, what–”
“Zhenya short for Evgeni,” Geno says happily. “This my address, childhood home. We moved–”
“Why didn’t you write to me again?” Sidney says softly. “Why–?”
“Too much coward,” Geno says. “Last letter just say I love you, think I make huge mistake and you hate me. Sidney, I’m sorry–”
“You left me,” Sidney accuses, his voice getting reedy again. “You left me alone–you didn’t tell me–fuck you–”
“I didn’t know,” Geno says, pulling Sidney down when Sidney looks like he’s about to run. “Please stay, Sidney, I’m so sorry–”
“You could’ve said something,” Sidney chokes out, shaking in Geno’s embrace. “I kept all your letters, I kept writing–”
“I’m sorry,” Geno says into Sidney’s hair until Sidney’s shuddering dies down, and he feels Sidney’s arms trail up slowly and grab onto the back of his t-shirt desperately. “I’m here. I’m here now.”
Anywhere with you is home, Sidney had written. This house feels right, finally, with Sidney in his arms in this mostly empty room. They sit there for a long time, because Geno knows Sidney is thinking the same thing.
Talk about queer coding :D And about how a few dribbles of milk have gathered in the corner of his mouth :)
Hi! So this has the potential to be a very wordy post but I’m gonna keep is brief because I’m already seeing bits and pieces of it in other, existing posts.
First off! To say milk itself, as a substance, is intrinsically queer coded is actually too presumptuous. It’s more like milk is often used as suggestive/sexual substance, mostly because is visually connotes semen (sorry it’s just true). Go watch Fergie’s M.I.L.F or Miley’s Dooo It! videos or check out this Nicki Minaj shoot for reference. And there are plenty more where those come from.
Anyway, because milk ALREADY carries that symbolic weight, it’s common to signal or indicate a male character’s potential queerness using milk. Like a dude chugging a bottle of milk, especially with the little dribble you mentioned…it’s suggestive. Look at the trailer for SKAM’s season three to see exactly what I mean. They straight up introduced the theme of Isak’s sexuality with an carton of milk exploding in slow-mo all over his face while he watches a bunch of sweaty boys whip each other with towels in a locker room.
Possibly the most famous and relevant example of milk queering a character is in Rebel Without a Cause, which is in many ways still famous because it has one of the most obvious portrayals of queer youth in Hay’s code era cinema. (Not to mention it’s queer director and queer actors!) In Rebel, there’s this super memorable scene where Jim, Jame’s Dean’s character, takes a long swig from a glass milk bottle before sensually pressing it to his cheek, as if to cool himself down. It’s very sexy and very suggestive and that character is definitely struggling with his sexuality for the duration of the film. Plus, James Dean is bisexual and was well aware of the intention/signaling behind that role/gesture.
In conclusion! I don’t think the photographer or anyone involved in that shoot necessarily meant for it to seem queer or sexy or sexy in a specifically queer way. I don’t know if it’s a Rebel Without a Cause reference or not. I just know when I saw that pictures my eyes got really big and I started sweating and blushing, and here’s why!!!
A deep ache throbbed in the pit of Sakura’s stomach, causing her grip on the edge of the sink to tighten and her knuckles to bleed white. She slipped her eyes closed against the pain and focused solely on inhaling and exhaling until it slowly dwindled and dulled into a more manageable pang. It wasn’t the first time she had experienced light cramping since she had discovered her pregnancy and just like before, she pressed a chakra-laced hand to her abdomen to ease the muscle pain until she was left with just her usual, hindering morning sickness.
Days like these made Sakura take a second look at her life and question just what the hell she had been thinking when she slipped into bed - or rather onto the counter - with Madara. However, she didn’t allow herself to dwell on the matter this time. She had agreed to meet him this morning for tea before she headed to the hospital for her shift, and she needed to leave shortly to make it on time.
Swallowing back the bile rising in her throat, Sakura raised a hand from where they had been braced against the counter to turn the faucet on. She splashed some cool water on her overheated skin and took a moment to collect herself before she exited the tiny bathroom connected to her bedroom to gathered her paperwork for the hospital. Once she was certain she had everything she needed for the day, she swiped her keys from the counter and headed out into the awakening village.
With the early hour, there were few venders and even fewer citizens out and about, leaving a hushed sense of tranquility over the village. A cool, dawn breeze was blowing through the streets and stirring the dust upon the sun-dried road. It powdered the toes of her boots and swirled around her ankles, but Sakura didn’t pay it any mind as she read through the patient file in her hand, her gaze only drawing up to smile in greeting at the occasional shinobi as they passed.
Her journey to the teahouse was otherwise uninterrupted. Sakura had frequented it with the Uchiha Head on a number of previous occasions and her feet followed the familiar path without her having to stop and recall the way.
Sakura was less than a block away when nausea threatened to overcome her again and she paused under the shade of a shop’s awning to press a hand to her mouth as she tucked the chart safely under her other arm. The bile was thick and hot in her throat but she pursed her lips together, refusing to give into her body’s demands.
‘Mind over body, mind over body,’ she repeated mentally. The last thing she wanted was for Madara to learn of her pregnancy by puking all over him. 'Although it would be fitting,’ she realized with a soft snort.
Her sudden amusement chased the worst of her sickness away and she swallowed thickly as she distracted herself by entertaining the comical image. It would certainly be a story worth-telling, that much was certain.
Sakura was still smiling softly when she finally arrived at the small teahouse. The doors were wide open in hospitality and she stepped inside before she scanned the dining room in search of Madara. She quickly realized he wasn’t present in the empty room, and she turned expectantly when an employee approached her.
“Welcome, Haruno-san,” the young woman greeted respectfully. “Uchiha-sama has reserved the private room for you this morning.”
Sakura bit back a snort. Of course he did.
The hostess silently gestured for Sakura to follow her before she led them down a small hallway and away from the rest of the mainroom. They stopped before a traditional shoji and the young woman made their presence known before she slid the door opened and entered. “Uchiha-sama, Haruno-san has arrived,” she bowed.
Sakura followed after the other woman but paused just inside the room as her gaze finally settled upon Madara. He had dressed up for the occasion in a dark grey robe made of the richest silks with the Uchiha fan stitched into each side over his breast bone. The color matched the smokiness of his eyes and complimented his handsome face. He was kneeling before a low-sitting table with his arms folded eloquently across his chest, his normally wild mane of hair pulled back into a simple ponytail that emphasized his strong jawline and broad shoulders.
Sakura swallowed hard as her mouth went dry. Next to him, she likely resembled someone who had just crawled out of bed, and she suddenly regretted her decision not to wipe the dust from her boots before entering the establishment. It felt as if she were in the presence of royalty.
Oh yes, she decided. It would be a very bad idea for her to puke on him.