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luckyspike · 5 years

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Creative Mode - A Good Omens fanfic about friends and Minecraft

HEY GUYS WHATS UP ITS YOUR GIRL

dont hold me responsible for this i was seized with the spirit of minecraft halfway through building a diorite tower and had to write (ie i was bored and wanted to do something different but minecraft-adjacent)

forever filling my need for found families, we have the good omens idiot circus. behold.

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There was a laziness about the winter holidays - no school, soft snow coating the ground outside, and nowhere, in particular, to be. It was the week between Christmas and New Years’, and Adam was enjoying himself. He had a good Christmas - a few things he’d been hoping for, as well as the ever-constant box of socks and underwear - and was planning on spending New Years’ Eve with the Them. He had, somewhere in the haze of his fourteen-year-old mind, designs of trying to kiss Pepper at the stroke of midnight, but these thoughts were fuzzy and tentative, and kept bumping up against thoughts of Pepper hitting him for telling her she looked “more like a girl than usual” on a day this past fall when she’d worn makeup to school.

He would need to consider it more.

Still, he reasoned there was plenty of time to consider. After all, he was largely on his own for the week while his parents were visiting his older sister in Spain. Certainly he was supposed to be spending the nights with Wensleydale and his family, while Anathema and Newt watched Dog*, but during the days he was free to wander around the village as he pleased, playing with Dog and just generally Hanging About. RP Tyler had already composed fifteen mental letters to the paper and Adam’s father about it.

It was sort of boring though - one could only strategize one’s New Years Eve romance so much - and by the fourth day Adam was wandering with less intent than usual, up the walk toward his house, Dog bouncing through the belly-deep (for Dog) snow alongside him. He was considering how to best while away the hours until Wensley finished with his piano practice, and was lightly entertaining the thought of finding Brian and asking if he’d like to see how far out they could get onto the ice on the pond before it broke and they fell in, when he heard a car pull up beside him.

He turned, and then he beamed. “Hey, Crowley!” Dog yapped excitedly, while the demon waved lazily.

“Hey, Adam. How’s things?”

“Boring,” Adam responded, completely honestly. “What are you doing here?”

Crowley shrugged. “I was in the area. Need a lift somewhere?”

Adam considered it. “I wasn’t really going anywhere. Home, I guess. Mum asked me to water her plants a few times while she’s away.”

“Ah.” And Crowley leaned across the seat, and popped the passenger-side door to the Bentley open. “Get in, I’ll drive you.” He managed to bite back a remark when Dog also jumped in, immediately leaving muddy pawprints on the leather seat. “What kind of plants?”

“I dunno, she’s got a lot. She left a list. Got directions on it and everything.”

“Ah.” Crowley pulled away after Adam shut the door, only sliding a little in the slush around the corner to Hogback Lane. “Having a nice holiday?”

“Yeah, not too bad. Kind of boring, though. Brian’s got his aunt over so he can’t hang out as much, and Wensley has piano practice for a few hours every day and Pep, uh …” Adam trailed off, and then swallowed. Imperceptibly, Crowley almost smirked. Teens. “I dunno, she has family or something.” A thought occurred to him. “Hey, didn’t Aziraphale say you have a bunch of plants or something?”

“I’ve got a few.”

“Only I’ve never watered my mum’s plants before, and she’s got some really weird directions for some of them.” He looked over, cautiously optimistic. “You wouldn’t have a minute to - ?”

The Bentley rolled up along the curb outside of the Young’s house, and Crowley shut the engine off. “Yeah, I have a minute.” Adam beamed.

Adam began to suspect Crowley had more than a few house plants based on the look he gave Adam’s mother’s plant care list when he picked it up. He read down the very-specific list of directions with Adam, and did a lap of the house with the kid, Adam studiously misting and watering as directed. He did notice, sort of distantly, how the demon would linger at each plant for an extra few seconds, apparently glaring at the foliage over the rims of his glasses, but he was preoccupied with the heavy responsibility of gardening, and the quiet hissing escaped his notice. As did the nearly-silent trembling of the leaves. The African violet, for the first time in four years, started to bloom.

The boy deposited the watering can and mister back on their usual shelves, and stuffed his hands back into his pockets, surveying the plants around the house and feeling the warm glow of responsibility managed. “Wasn’t so hard, really,” he reflected, as Crowley joined him back in the kitchen, setting the list back on the counter by the sink. “Hope none of them die.”

“They won’t,” Crowley replied, likewise sticking his hands in his pockets. “So … family out of town?”

“Spain.” Adam sighed. “Dunno what I’ll do for the afternoon. Guess I could grab a few magazines and read ‘em back at Wensley’s. Maybe play a few games.”

“Which games?” Crowley asked, with the sort of passing interest that adults and adult-shaped beings used when they were trying to encourage a kid to talk about their interests. “I’m assuming video games, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Adam sighed. “I dunno. I already beat the ones Mum and Dad got me for Christmas. I guess I could play Minecraft for a while, start a new world or something.” Something about that - probably the bit about the new world - seemed to catch Crowley’s interest. Adam went on, “I mean, me an’ the Them got our world, but that’s more fun when we’re all playin’ together, so I guess I could just do a single-player. You, uh, you know what that game is, right?”

Crowley shrugged. “Can’t say I’m much of one for video games**.”

“Oh. Well, it’s really cool. You like … you start with nothing in the middle of like the wilderness, and you gotta build a house and find resources or whatever, an’ there’s monsters and you can starve to death and stuff. But you can build stuff too, like cool stuff.” He trailed off briefly, unsure of how his pitch was landing. “I could show you if you want.”

The demon appeared to consider it for a minute. Then, with a shrug, “Sure, I don’t have anywhere to be. You build stuff, you said?”

Adam nodded, enthusiastic, already leading the way to his room. “Yeah, I’ll show you.”

It took twenty minutes to get the console started, and to give Crowley a crash course on how a controller worked. He picked up it a lot faster than Adam’s father had. Probably, Adam reasoned, on account of him being so old. Must have been something like a controller sometime before in history. Adam perched on the side of the bed, controller in hand, while Crowley sat cross-legged on top of the plaid comforter, Dog happily stretched out between the two, already asleep. “Right, so you’re on the bottom of the screen an’ I’m on the top.” He watched studiously for a minute. “You gotta get some resources. If you punch the tree it’ll break and you get the wood from it.”

“Oh. Naturally.” Crowley twiddled the sticks and obediently began punching the tree. There was a pop, and an 8-bit rendering of a wood block appeared on the inventory bar at the bottom of the screen. “Right. Now what?”

Adam paused in his own tree-punching endeavors. “You can make a crafting table, but you have the make the block into planks first. Once you get a crafting table you can make all kinds of stuff.”

This is a complete waste of time, Crowley thought, as Adam coached him along through the crafting table process. And then, I love humans so much, these absolutely nutty things.

It didn’t take long for Crowley to pick up on it. He may have been new to console gaming, but Adam had chosen wisely in terms of introductory games, and he did have the unique intuition and common sense granted by six millennia living among humans. And Adam was, for the less intuitive parts, a good teacher. He chatted the whole time too, about whatever happened to drift across his mind - school, his friends, the current state of international affairs as far has he understood it (and questions relating thereto), things that annoyed him, and on and on. The light outside got dimmer, and they continued to play, controllers clicking quietly in the background, while in the game a house began to take place and then, by parts, look … good.

“You’re pretty good at this for a grown-up,” Adam reflected, after a couple of hours. He had changed position at some point, laying on his belly on the bed, feet kicking idly as he played, with Dog splayed across the small of his back.

Crowley considered that. “Am I a grown-up, technically?”

“Not sure what else you’d be, 6000 years old. You can’t be a kid.”

“True.” The demon hissed a little in frustration when he punched an existing pane of glass and it shattered, and Adam pretended not to notice. “Not a bad game, this one.”

“Nah, it’s cool. An’ you got the building down really fast. Even Wensley doesn’t make houses that look this good,” he hadded, appreciative, as he ran around the perimeter and surveyed the word done. “You sure you haven’t played this before?”

“Absolutely positive.”

“You played other building games then? Oh, or did you build stuff like, in the olden days?”

Crowley paused, and his nose twitched slightly. Adam had learned, over the years, that this was a tell. He was stumbling in to something, and if he wanted Crowley to hang around for any further length of time today, he shouldn’t push. He’d find out eventually. “Long time ago, yeah,” Crowley said at length. “Not that it was similar to this.”

“But like houses and stuff? Cause like, this is a good house. Looks really cool.”

“Not quite houses.”

“Oh!” Adam exclaimed, after arrowing a creeper to death and collecting the gunpowder for later. “Is anything you made still around? Like, in real life? Could I see it?”

“Yeah.” Adam blinked, and realized that the lower half of the screen - Crowley’s half - had gone mostly still. Mostly. The view, such as it was, was just the digital night sky, spinning slowly around. “You could.”

“The stars move with the moon,” Adam said helpfully, after a few beats of silence. “In the game,” he added.

“Yeah.”

Adam swallowed. And then, cautiously, because curiosity was gnawing him away from the inside, and yet he felt like a man perched at the edge of a vast chasm with the winds whipping at him, he said, “You’re not talking about buildings on Earth, are you?”

Crowley frowned a little, and Adam paused, finger hovering over the save button. He might have gone too far. But then, quietly, Crowley said, “No. Never built any actual buildings. Just …” He shrugged. “Other stuff.”

“Stars,” Adam said quietly, and it wasn’t a question. He stopped time, once, Adam remembered, but even for him the memories seemed just a little fuzzy now, three years later, separated in time by years of mundane things like school and video games and being normal. Sometimes, every once in a great while, he almost forgot altogether. Almost. They’re not just old people. They’re not people.

“Stars,” Crowley agreed. “Not a lot. Just a few. Someone had to do it, and it wasn’t a bad job.”

“Prob’ly.” Adam paused for a second and then, because he didn’t care for the weight of the silence, he said, “I think a zombie might be eating you.”

“Oh. Huh.” And the moment passed.

The zombie was slain, and Adam returned to mining ore, while the weight of the silence lifted by inches and Adam breathed a little easier. Stars, he thought. I wonder which ones. He didn’t ask. “You know,” he said instead, “if you get a console at your place you could keep playing. Like online.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley’s eyebrows raised. “Interesting.”

Adam set his controller aside. “I can write down what to get for you,” he explained, even as he pulled a pencil and pad off the little desk. Dog grumbled in protest as he slid from his Master’s back and onto the bed. “An’ the server an’ the password an’ everything so you can find it then. An’ you can text me if you forget.” He bent his head to the notepad, and so he didn’t notice Crowley’s smile, just a quick one, when it happened. The paper tore, and he handed the demon the note, scratched in the messy handwriting of a fourteen-year-old. “You know, if you wanna keep playing after you leave.”

Crowley looked the note over. “I might.” He glanced at the clock in the room then, and asked, “Is someone going to be expecting you home at some point?”

“Yeah,” Adam said, scooping his controller back up and returning to the game. “Wensley’s parents told me to be home by five, though, so I have time. But Wensley’ll be done with piano practice around three so I figured I’d go back about then.”

Crowley glanced over with a bemused grin. “It’s half three already, Adam.”

“Well, yeah, but I’m lost down this mine and I don’t wanna lose all the gold ore I got. We have to make a Tower. I’ll come back, then I’ll go.”

“Right, yeah, the Tower.” Crowley’s grin didn’t fade, and he cycled through the inventory to the map. “Hang on, I think I know where you are.”

At length, Operation: Rescue Adam and the Gold Ore was a success. Adam shut the console off, and Crowley stuffed the note into a pocket. The house was locked up (with one last plant-check from Crowley, although Adam wasn’t sure he understood why), and the demon, the not-Antichrist, and the Dog loaded up into the Bentley, bound for Jasmine Cottage to drop Dog off. “You want me to wait?” Crowley offered, the car idling at the garden gate, while Adam and his dog jumped out.

Adam considered it. “Nah. I’ll walk. Not that cold out.”

Crowley looked vaguely concerned, insofar as much as he ever looked concerned in situations that did not involve the impending Apocalypse, his own death and/or inconvenience, or Aziraphale being cross with him. “I could wait, really. Don’t have anywhere to be.”

Adam considered it again, but from the cottage he was fairly certain he caught a whiff of Anathema’s famous Polvorones, and shook his head. “Nah. Thanks, though.” Adam pretended not to notice when Crowley sniffed the air - the cookie smell really was strong - and then waited while he swung out of the Bentley and joined Adam at the gate.

“Might as well make sure you get inside alright and say hi to Anathema while I’m here,” he said, as an excuse.

“And get some cookies?” Adam suggested, cutting to the core of the issue, the two of them crunching up the walk together, Dog trotting between them.

“Aziraphale would kill me if I didn’t.”

Adam laughed. “Right. Oh, uh.” He stopped a few feet short of the door. “Uh, Crowley, um,” he looked up to the sunglasses, the carefully-arched eyebrow, and his mind raced a mile a minute. Which stars were yours? his brain whined. Which ones up there did you actually make? What’s outer space like? Are there aliens? What’s it like to make a star? His mouth, after a minute, said “Thanks a lot for the ride.”

Crowley was watching him. Not for the first time, Adam wondered if demons could read minds. He couldn’t have, he didn’t think, when … things were happening. But he was different then. It wasn’t the same. And Crowley had never said anything, but every now and again, he had this Look he could give you, a thousand miles wide and Adam wondered …

And then Crowley grinned, and shrugged, and knocked on the door. “Not a problem. Thanks for the game.”

“You think you might get a console?” Adam asked, as footsteps approached on the opposite side of the door. Crowley rocked back onto his heels and shrugged, but the amiable grin never dropped.

“You know Adam, I think I might.”

* In spite of numerous attempts, Dog and Wensley’s cat had never been able to reconcile their differences.

** This was not altogether a lie. Crowley had never played a game on a computer or a console, although he had been instrumental in the development of the E.T. game for Atari. Phone games, on the other hand, were another story entirely, and Crowley was rather proud of his perfect score in Heart’s Medicine, although only Aziraphale knew about this accomplishment.

#good omens #crowley #adam young #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much #found families are my greatest weakness #it is my personal gay agenda #also yes that is an achievement hunter reference #adam would love achievement hunter dont even argue with me about this

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cherrystreet · 7 years

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"should we just search romantic comedies on netflix and see what we find?" so, i totally come to you with every fic idea that pops into my head. but like, i reeeally need little snippets of the times harry and louis decide to put on netflix. like, after takeout arrives or for movie night with the lads or to pick a new show to watch because they just finished the office (us version this time). or even when they're bickering and get passive aggressive over what to watch for said movie night

This is a little different than what you wanted but that’s only because I don’t know how to write domestic pieces so I hope this is okay and ily xx

It didn’t start as a routine.

The first time it happened, it was a Tuesday night filled with too much homework, the October weather already too cold for Harry’s liking. The blinking cursor on a blank Word document seemed to be mocking him, laughing at his inability to form a cohesive thought after working nonstop for the past four hours. Eventually, he abandoned his endless string of papers, walking aimlessly around his apartment for the better part of an hour in an attempt to find something better than writing 5,000 words on Game Theory. Nothing jumped out at him, so he continued to shuffle around, sighing obnoxiously, until his roommate Sam hollered from the other room, “If you don’t cut it with those pathetic noises, I’m going to punch you in the throat.”

Harry frowned. “I’m not even being loud,” he yelled back.

“Shut up and do your homework.”

“But my brain is fried–”

“Harry, enough.”

“Ugh.” He kicked off his shoes and slumped down onto the couch, staring at the clock as the minute hand steadily ticked forward. Somehow, watching time was more appealing than reopening up his laptop and forcing himself to write another word.

Sam was right. Absolutely pathetic.

“What should I do?” he asked after a few minutes, eyes nearly glazed over.

“The fuck should I know,” Sam replied, finally appearing around the corner. “Go down to the Hub.”

“It’s too cold out for that. And it’s raining.”

“Order some food.”

“I don’t have any money on me.”

“Watch a movie.”

“Nothing good is on.”

“How would you even know?! The TV is off!”

Harry shrugged. “Gimme your Netflix password. Maybe new stuff has been added.”

“Will you finally stop talking?”

“Maybe.”

Sam reached for the remote to the TV. “Thank God.”

It took about 17 minutes of “Chopped” for Harry to send out a text to everyone he could think of, a simple Come over. Everyone’s here. He didn’t want to sit alone, just wanted to unwind with the company of some friends. Sam was clearly no help, just kept yelling from his bedroom to keep the volume down, that “some people actually take their classes seriously, Harry.” And saying that everyone was already gathered together wasn’t technically a lie. Sam was there. And his fish. And the cast of “The Office,” currently streaming from the main TV in the living room.

Whatever. Semantics. People would be there shortly. People to talk to him and not tell him to shut up.

Twenty minutes later, Louis was standing in front of Harry, sweatpants too big and glasses smudged.

“Shut up,” he said, tugging on his hoodie strings. “What is this?!”

So much for that, Harry thought. “What?”

“You said people were here. It’s just you.”

“Is that so bad?”

“If I wanted to spend the night doing nothing and listening to someone drone on and on about nothing, I’d put on a Bob Ross special.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “Bob Ross is extremely talented…”

“Bob Ross is dead. And boring. And he never would have tricked me into coming here on a shitty Tuesday night under false pretenses.”

“I thought other people would show up!” He squished deeper into the couch cushions. “You gonna leave?”

Louis groaned and kicked Harry’s shoes out of the way as he climbed onto the couch beside him. “No. I came all the way here.”

“It’s, like, a nine minute walk…”

“Yeah, nine minutes in the wind and rain. You better have food as compensation. And why the fuck are you watching the British version of ‘The Office’? Why do you hate yourself? Give me the remote.”

Harry shook his head, standing up to grab snacks, wondering how constant abuse was the better alternative to staring idly at the wall.

The following Tuesday, Harry turned in his biochemistry assignment early, cracking his knuckles as soon as he his submit. It felt good to get rid of a week’s worth of studying, to not have to look at it anymore, and he slipped out of his jeans and into his most worn pair of pajama pants, the hole in the knee stretching with every wash. It didn’t take long for the couch to mold perfectly to his body, the apartment warm and quiet, Sam out for the evening. It was relaxing. It was welcoming. It was. Not what Harry wanted.

“Hey, I’ll order pizza,” he said through the phone’s receiver. “Dominos, if you want it.”

“I always want it,” Louis replied. “Cheap shot.”

“Pepperoni?”

“Ugh, Harry, can’t Steve Carell wait? We know what happens.”

“But it’s my favorite episode and I wanna watch you watch it.”

“I’ve seen it before.”

“I’ve never seen you watch it, though. Lou, they have a fucking benefit for rabies. Rabies. I need to see your face when Michael donates a giant check to a disease that’s already been cured.”

“Oh my God,” Louis snorted, but Harry could tell he was wearing him down. “Alright, whatever, fine, but make sure it’s extra cheese with the pepperoni.”

Seven days later, Harry did much less arm twisting, just casually mentioning they were up to the start of season five. Louis texted back, Don’t start without me. I’ll know if you’re lying.

Harry sucked in his cheeks, smile worming its way out, anyway. Wouldn’t dream of it.

The last Tuesday of the month, Louis was knocking on Harry’s door without bothering to ask if he was busy. Harry let him in graciously, snacks already on the coffee table and blankets on the arm of the couch.

And just like that, Tuesday became Harry’s favorite day of the week.

It’s been five months since Harry and Louis created their non-date date night, and they’ve gone through nearly everything on the Netflix list that moderately sparks their interest. Comedies, dramas, documentaries, musicals… They’ve watched them all, not too picky, hunkering down together to enjoy a casual night of TV. And neither one of them got bored of it, never asking to cut the night short or go out to do something else. Harry loves having the time to unwind, loves the fact that he has something so comfortable to count on, loves Louis’ company more than just about anything.

And that’s why he snaps when Louis doesn’t show up on Tuesday night in late March, the Netflix home screen nearly burned onto Harry’s retinas, waiting for Louis to walk through the door and pick the movie. He taps his fingers along his thighs, annoyed, wondering where the hell he could be. Nine o’clock comes and goes, as does ten o’clock, and by 11:30, “The Holiday” playing quietly in the background, Harry is less angry and more concerned that something horrible has happened. Louis doesn’t answer his phone the second time Harry calls him, or the third, but he does by the ninth, beyond irritated when he picks up.

“Harry, what the fuck,” he says, his voice tight. There’s a lot of background noise but Harry can’t figure out where he might be. “You had better be fucking dying.”

Harry skims his finger along the frayed edge of the blanket, suddenly embarrassed. “No, but, like, where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m at Ian’s. Is that why you called 100 times? Are you for real?”

“Why aren’t you here?” he says stupidly, his face hot. Who’s Ian? He hates him, regardless. “‘m watching Cameron Diaz try to seduce that hot British guy…”

“Jude Law?!”

“Yeah, him, and, like–”

“Harry, you called me nine times to talk to me about Jude Law.” It’s not a question.

“No,” he starts, “I didn’t. I called you nine times to ask why you stood me up.”

“Did we have plans?”

Harry looks down at his lap. “I mean, not verbal ones, but you always come here on Tuesdays and you’re not here now and–”

“Ian wanted to get a drink before he headed to Spain for the rest of the semester,” Louis says, cutting him off. “I didn’t think I needed to cancel a stupid friend hangout to do that. You’re kind of acting like a crazy boyfriend.”

“It’s not stupid and that’s not…” He starts to argue, but stops himself short, his heart racing in his chest. He knows he’s being irrationally angry and insane and, well, idiotically jealous, and now that Louis’ had to go ahead and say the B word, it’s ricocheting through his brain like live wire, sparking and hot. The thing is, they’re not boyfriends, because that’s not a line they’ve ever crossed, but just about everything they do - Tuesdays and otherwise - might argue that fact. They meet each other after class for coffee, they call each other on Sunday mornings, they spend school breaks at each other’s homes. Harry carries Louis’ backpack, Louis buys Harry dinner, they steal one another’s clothing… They share a fucking blanket on Harry’s Goddamn couch every single week, their knees brushing together, sending shocks up Harry’s spine, Harry unable to stop himself from stealing a series of unsubtle glances at Louis’ profile, his cheekbones, his lips. Fuck. His temple throbs and he does his best to swallow around the lump in his throat. Boyfriend. “Okay, yeah, you’re right, I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

Louis breathes through the phone for a beat too long. “I’m safe. I wasn’t kidnapped. I just… We’ll hang out later, alright?”

He doesn’t sound angry anymore, but Harry feels too antsy to keep talking. “Yeah, later. Bon voyage to Ian. I’ll see you this weekend or something.”

“Okay,” he replies. “Or something.”

Harry hangs up the phone with a thousand words on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows every single one of them and wills himself to stop thinking about the fact that he’s gone and lost his mind over his best friend spending the night out with a guy who isn’t him. He should be here on this couch, thigh pressed up against Harry’s, and this is not the way it was supposed to go. None of it was.

He must doze off at some point, because the next thing he knows, there’s a bang on the door, followed by a tinny voice mumbling, “Please let me in. I’m tired and cold.”

Harry flicks on the hallway light and pulls open the door as quickly as his body will allow himself to, finding himself face to face with a pink-cheeked Louis. “Lou, it’s…” He looks over at the clock. “Two in the morning.”

Louis shrugs, worming his way inside. “Yeah, well. I’m two hours late for our date. Sorry about that. You still watching ‘The Holiday’?”

He bites back his smile, body feeling like it’s deflating. “Finished it earlier. Should we just search romantic comedies on Netflix and see what we find?”

“That… Sounds like the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

Harry snorts, closing the door behind him and follows Louis into the living room. Louis’ already making himself comfortable on the couch, yawning. “Then what do you suggest?”

“We haven’t checked out the horror genre in a while.”

“Yeah, for a reason.” He sits beside Louis, lets Louis drape his legs across his lap. Like a magnet, his hand immediately goes to grip Louis’ ankle. “I get nightmares.”

Louis looks up at him from under his lashes, blinking slower than usual, and it makes Harry’s stomach twist. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe it’s something else. “Big baby.”

“Yeah,” he says, smirking, thumb drawing circles across Louis’ skin. “That’s me.”

Neither of them say anything else, nor do they move, and Harry’s trying to find something to say that isn’t something clicked for me tonight, but Louis speaks first, licking his lips.

“Sorry I stood you up,” he says softly, grabbing for the remote and selecting the first title on the menu, not looking at Harry. “I was a dick about it.”

Harry shrugs, inching his way closer, watching the way the screen’s colors dances across Louis’ face. “It’s alright. Just missed you.”

He can actually hear Louis swallow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Louis nods, biting at his bottom lip. He’s nervous. Harry exhales once he notices. “Can I stay over tonight?”

Harry isn’t sure what the implications are behind his question, or why Louis’ bothering to ask when he’s never asked before - usually just passes out on the couch or on Harry’s bed, curling up into a ball on the edge of the mattress - but it’s clear something has changed, based on the way Louis is looking up at him. He’s never looked at Harry like that before.

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, “Lou, whatever you want.”

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, doesn’t remember leaning in, but then there’s just breath between them, and then not even that, just skin on skin, warm and sweet and entirely too perfect. And Harry has no idea what’s playing on the screen in front of them, but it’s decidedly his new favorite film.

#drabble #my drabble #this is the first thing i've been able to write from start to finish in months so thank you for this #also i wouldn't let myself go to bed until it was done #i am tired and hungover as fuck #but i love you thank you for always thinking of me for your ideas!!!#i hope this was okay #even though it's been in my inbox for weeks #answered #Anonymous

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fangirling-throughlife · 4 years

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One thing that has repeatedly happened these past days (well, who am I kidding, this has happened my entire life, but it’s more obvious now) is how adults react when anyone from my generation complains about something they went through without saying a word (or so they think).

Let me explain. I’m a senior year student Biochemistry and Biomedical Sciences. Up until I started university I was a model student: I won prizes for academic excellence, I went to school in the morning, music school in the afternoon and studied whenever I had 10 minutes to spare. I ended high school with honours, with the second best GPA in my year (tied with 3 or my best friends). I’ve always been a pretty insecure person, I let things bottle up and then explode, and that’s one thing that hasn’t changed. But as I grew older, those monthly days of insecurity, or fury, or anxiousness turned into weekly panic attacks, up to the point when I had daily anxiety crisises.

When, at age 17, I had to choose something to do for the rest of my life, I had the big problem every “genious child” has: I enjoyed pretty much everything, excelled at pretty much anything (except for physics and philosophy, they were never my cup of tea). As your carreer options (see: Bachelor options) are limited (in Spain) by your average and the mark of a 3-day exam in everything you’re supposed to learn during the last 2 years of your education (well, really, during your entire education), most of the people have it really easy. If they really like something and their marks allow it, they start that. If their marks are too low, they find something else to be passionate about. At some point. And the people who have really good marks and are real over-achievers end up in one of those bachelors for over-achieving people (in Spain, Medical School, some forms of engineering, and what we call pure sciences). Notice that I didn’t mention the arts (music in particular) at all. Musical education has an entirely different path. Until the age of 16, high school is mandatory, and most of the people who want to have a Bachelor in music end up doing those two extra years as well. At age 8, we all start with musical education. We study history, ensemble, harmony, analysis... The lot. But we still have to study everything else, so finishing a musical education carreer is really hard, and requires a lot of effort and sacrifice.

Well, when I got to graduation day in both schools (high school and professional music school) I had to choose one of those two things (for a country with so many excellent artists, we don’t really value the arts), because I’d been told my entire life that I had to decide at one point. Well, I went for the easy option (despite what everybody thinks). I stopped my musical education just 4 years before finally finishing a 14-year long carreer and started to study Biochemistry (you know, one of the “pure sciences” that’s annoyingly elitist and full of over-achieving people).

My first year I went through hell. I’m not exaggerating. Real hell. After 2 weeks I started looking into other options, because all I wanted was to drop out. Don’t take me wrong. I loved the Biomedical Sciences, I had some very good professors (and others that I’d rather have killed, but whatever), I knew I wanted to make a change in that world. But I hated being there, on that campus. I hated that, out of 80 in my year (did I mention it’s elitist), nobody really seemed to genuinely like eachother, and that, from day 1, everybody wanted to be the best. I don’t think this is because I came from a class with people whom I’d known since kindergarten, and because we always helped each other out, that I believe that that kind of ruthlessness is uncalled for, more so during a freshman year at university. After 1 month I compromised with my mum: if I figured out what I wanted by July, I could drop out and start something else. If I didn’t, I had to go back for my second year. If by the end of that I still felt miserable, I could drop out and take some time for myself. By the end of the year, though, I had my (small) group of friends, I passed all my subjects and I didn’t hate it (or could figure out any other option), so I decided to finish. That came with a prize. My whole first year was filled with an overwhelming depression, one that has never really left me, one that I’ve had to learn to live with.

Enough about me. I’ve said that since day 1 I experienced the kind of pressure and competition that overwhelmed me. Well, since day 1, professors told me (us) that without great marks we won’t get anywhere. From the first exam, professors have been (again, not everybody, I still have a really good relationship with my professor chemistry from my first year), let’s say... assholes. Exams of 4-5 hours without a bathroom or snack break, questions we didn’t really learn in class, lazy-prepared tests, exams where 72 of 80 failed... At one point, one of my professors (one that, excuse me, was an absolute rubbish teacher and even a rubbish person) told one of my best friend (who had gotten a 5/10 on a nearly impossible exam) that he should consider dropping out, because he wasn’t and never would be a scientist.

My second year wasn’t any better. One of my professors (who, again, didn’t know the first thing about teaching) told me during revision that “he guessed I could someday pass his class” (I had a 4,9 in that subject, because there were 3 exams. I just happened to have a 3/10 on his), while he told one of my best friends (we’ve known each other practically our entire lives) that “she could get a great mark in his class” (she had a 3/10 in the subject, a 4,5 in his exam). This same professor told me that “I was a weirdo” because how could I have failed tha multiple answer questions while I got such good marks in the practical questions. Another of my professors that semester was the exact opposite: he asked if I was okay, because he had never seen such difference between two parts of the same exam, and even gave me tips to get better at test questions.

I failed 2 classes that year, and I took them along with all my third year classes (and passed them all). My life was crazy at that point. My dad plundered all our bank accounts to pay for his addiction, my parents divorced, my boyfriend went on Erasmus, my dad attempted suicide in the middle of my exams... But I managed. Out of all my years, I think this is the one I look back at with the least regret. I learned a lot. I got pretty good marks in spite of the circumstances. Most of my professors were kind and understanding. I even have the feeling that I passed one of my classes because I talked to my professor about my family situation (before you think I took advantage: my dad was in a psychiatric hospital, 30 minutes away from me, my mum was working an hour away from the hospital, and my brother is in high school, so I asked my professor if he could take my phone to tell me if they called from the hospital if something happened. He let me have my phone next to me on the table and told me he trusted me). The again, I passed a subject after the 4th attempt, because the 3 professors didn’t have it in them to set realistic goals in their subject.

And then, senior year. I cried during one of the classes. I have had multiple breakdowns during these 4 years, but NEVER during a class. I’ve learned virtually nothing, but passed everything. And now, during lockdown, they still ask a 200% from us, and we’re not willing to give in. And they complain about our complaints. It’s been 2 days of back and forth messages, us asking them to understand us, to please take into consideration that the circumstances are exceptional, and that many of us can’t take a 4-hour long exam like that. They answer treating us like 5-year olds, saying we’re being dense, stupid and ungrateful.

Well, every single adult I’ve talked about says that our professors are right and we’re “whiny, ungrateful and over-reacting”. That “they had it so much worse”. Okay. Here’s the thing. I couldn’t care less about your college time. That was fucking 20-30 years ago. Look, if your professors treated you like a big piece of shit, I’m sorry, but we’re not allowing that now. We have rights, we have tools, and we’re using them. They don’t seem to believe that we’re sick of them playing games with us. They don’t believe that they’ve considered us human scum since the day we started. They don’t take into consideration what we feel, or what we’re capable of. They’ve led so many of us into looking for other options that aren’t what we came here for. They’ve led at least 50 people who started this hellhole to become researchers into giving up, looking for something else. They can’t and don’t want to accept that they��re not the best this country can give, and they’re pissed off that we want to, at least, try to become one of them (excuse me, not one of them. Better than them. With more humanity than them). Again, there are exceptions. There are some people that I’ll always adore. My chemistry professor gives us lectures in the cafeteria telling us not to give up, to expand our horizons, telling us to use our knowledge and capacities, to stretch our wings. Every single person I’ve talked to believes that he (and some others) is what a university professor should be like.

I just hope that this generation of “whiny, ungrateful and over-reacting” researchers will bring humanity, patience and devotion into the future of science.

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finlayhutson586-blog · 6 years

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celticnoise · 7 years

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What a rush to judgement. What unseemly, scandalous, haste. Ex-Celtic players, people who allegedly retain affection for our club, running to their typewriters and word processors and microphones to repeat one word over and over again; “embarrassing.”

They have a shockingly low embarrassment threshold, these people.

Some of them were embarrassed last season when the club appealed the Scott Brown sending off. They were embarrassed when Celtic lost to Barcelona in Spain by a thumping margin although we were still in the early days of Brendan’s tenure and with no clear idea of how that would go.

And I listened to some of those same people use that word to describe how far ahead we are of everyone else in Scotland. Yes, these people are embarrassed a lot. I would be embarrassed for them, if I even remembered they existed except for days like this.

After a result like that, what’s needed in introspection and calm. This was not losing to a shock defeat in a domestic cup game, against an opponent you ought to have well beaten. This was a defeat – a sore one, a resounding one, ultimately a painful one – at the hands of a team filled with world class footballers. We don’t have world class footballers at Celtic Park, not yet, perhaps not for a long time to come.

For reasons I’ll talk about later, I am not disheartened by last night.

There was a point last season when some of these “embarrassed” media people were telling us that putting away teams didn’t matter because “we hadn’t been tested yet.” They constantly moved the goalposts on us there too; as we got better, so they demanded a greater challenge to “prove” ourselves.

Charlie Nicholas is a case in point. Normally I wouldn’t listen to a single word that came of that man’s ignorant mouth, but I thought this morning his comments were instructive. They were instructive of just how appalling his football knowledge and limited comprehension actually is. For whatever reason, Sky thinks this guy is a pundit … if Charlie Nicholas couldn’t play football he’d be really be in trouble, getting by on his looks.

His comments this morning were that Brendan “had learned nothing.”

Has he been watching the same team as me this season? In the last campaign, Astana took us to within seconds of extra time at Celtic Park. This season we dispatched them scoring eight times. The Rosenborg away performance was as disciplined and accomplished as I can ever remember us having. Nicholas bothers me not because he does remember these things and chooses to ignore them but because he’s one of the “go-to guys” for Sky Scotland whenever there’s a negative story about us, because Nicholas has the memory of a fly and the intellect of an amoeba. You will get stupidity from him on each and every occasion.

Chris Sutton is smarter than Nicholas by far, although I’m not convinced he possesses a scintilla of understanding about tactics, as his short and fateful spell as a manager surely attests. This is another thing that makes me laugh uncontrollably about the Monday morning quarterbacks who pontificate on every mistake made by bosses in football … these guys are either the sort who’ve never had the bottle to sit in the dugout or weren’t good enough to.

Sutton’s use of that word last night was a symptom of his penchant for dramatizing every incident, and it’s pretty clear he enjoys controversy for its own sake. But last night that wasn’t controversy as much as it was a classless display from a guy who, for whatever reason, simply doesn’t get it. Later on I’ll explore the point in more detail, but last night’s PSG forward line – just the strikers, those who started the game – had a combined transfer market value greater than the whole of the SPL and I don’t mean the teams; I mean the clubs, stadiums, car parks, players, fixtures, fittings and Ibrox dodgy roof thrown in just for the fun of it.

Put that defeat in its proper context, and it looks like a bad night at the office.

A bad night at the office usually results in Celtic dropping points, because a bad night at the office is usually against an SPL team. A bad night at the office against this sort of team … painful lessons are handed out, and that’s what this was. But what exactly was the lesson?

That we’re lost at this level?

Depends what you mean by “this level.” I refute that if it’s a reference to the Champions League itself, but as I’ll explore later there are now two Champions Leagues as there are effectively two EPL’s and two La Liga’s and two Ligue One’s … and that’s a reality we all have to face.

The lesson that we should have strengthened at the back?

Perhaps yes, but as I’ve come to realise since the window shut – as I knew before it did, actually – we’re in a strange position here. We should have had a greater target pool to dip into, in my view, but again that’s easy for me to say. There was not a queue all the way down London Road of top defenders willing to take huge wage cuts for the pleasure of taking on Motherwell on a wet Wednesday night after the glitz of PSG passes by.

Had there been, and had we signed them, it’s not impossible – not even unlikely – that PSG’s strike force would have danced around them anyway; what do people think over £170 for Neymar bought? A guy who’ll fold the hand because he’s playing against Martin Skrtel and not Mikael Lustig?

So what other lesson?

That we should have played better? Been better as a unit?

I’ll grant that, but I’ll say this … there was a guy on the pitch last night, Rabiot, who most people who don’t watch French football on a regular basis will barely have heard of. I’ve been a huge admirer of his for a few years, as I try to watch as much football from around the world as I can. He’s an immense talent, and still very young. He was partnered in the middle by Thiago Silva, another exceptional footballer from the very top drawer.

Rabiot could play for any club anywhere and he’s one of those guys who does a very unsexy job. But last night he gave a masterclass in how that job should be done. He harried. He harassed. Every time a Celtic midfielder had the ball, there he was. And if he wasn’t the guy doing the marking he was the guy hovering between that Celtic player and another, to intercept the pass … which he did time and time and time again. And when he wasn’t … Silva was.

And of course they had another partner in the midfield; Marco Verratti, one of the game’s genuine prodigies, signed from Pescara in Italy when he only 19 but already on the verge of the Italian national team, and being talked about as one of the finest up-coming midfielders in the world.

That was in 2012, and the years between have moulded him into one of the finest players of his generation. He cost PSG £12 million … and last year Barcelona failed in a bid to sign him for around six times that. And they won’t quit trying.

So other than “don’t get teams like PSG in the draw” I’m not sure what lesson Brendan Rodgers has failed to learn that Nicholas and others, in their wisdom, could teach.

Brendan spoke after the game, in a way that was as classy as anything PSG did on the field. He acknowledged that the team didn’t perform to the level he would have wanted, but made sure to remind the journos of exactly who it was we were up against.

He wasn’t satisfied. He wasn’t happy. He knows we could have done things better … but he’s also a grounded guy.

He praised the kid Ralston, who I thought acquitted himself as well as he could against the world’s most expensive footballer – in fact, I thought he was excellent, perhaps not in terms of his technique just yet, but in his attitude, his aggression, his fearlessness; we have a young lion here.

But more than that, he pretty much shrugged off all talk about being “embarrassed.” Brendan is not a fantasist, or “tactically naïve” as some idiots were putting it. He’s a guy who knows what we have here. He also knows what we don’t have here, and this team is still a work in progress.

The simple truth is that mistakes and errors aside, we could have gone out there last night with a full strength team and played at the very top of our game … and still wound up on the back of that result. We’re in football’s most unforgiving realm.

And the only embarrassment is that a lot of people still don’t recognise that reality.

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