#i always forget i queue these posts up in a haze of exhaustion and then they post and i have to deal with the consequences

[kinard-buckley]

another hot take but i really don't think tommy's "my attention?" was him thinking buck has feelings for eddie. tommy thinks buck was jealous that he was getting excluded from the friend group, because he comes to clear the air about causing bad blood and even says "[eddie] can have more than one friend." tommy doesn't fully realize what's really going on until buck says "... 'cause trying to get your attention has been exhausting," and it dawns on him that buck's jealousy wasn't about getting excluded from eddie and tommy's friendship but about eddie jeopardizing tommy's time (additionally, buck's "i guess" isn't meant to be noncommittal; he's realizing in the moment that it's true, that it really was about tommy. the way he says it feels like it's a revelation to even him). remember, buck reached out to tommy at some point prior to the events of 7x04 for the tour, but was never actually interested in leaving the 118. it was absolutely a ploy to get closer to tommy. but eddie interrupts them and pulls tommy away from buck, and buck spirals. the main issue is that buck has no idea what his feelings are doing, so he latches on to the most likely explanation to him (with further context clues that indicate that's not what it's really about) until that moment between buck and tommy in the loft. basically buck's got a crush he doesn't know how to deal with so he makes it everybody's problem.

#911 on abc #911 abc #911 #buck x tommy #bucktommy #kinkley #tuck #i'm not tagging buddie but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ #it's about them too kinda #don't @ me #if ppl come to my inbox to wank i'm going to k**l myself in front of them to change the trajectory of their lives #i always forget i queue these posts up in a haze of exhaustion and then they post and i have to deal with the consequences #911 spoilers #text #exQUEUEse me

[itsnotnicetosnooponpeople]

for my mother

1. Spontaneous hugs and kisses after she comes back late from work. I relish this time, once more. She enters into the space of our house like a boat up to shore, brimming over with relief and comfort at every piece of home that she can scramble onto, as quickly as she can. But not always, sometimes she is exhausted and frustrated and suddenly there is nothing it (we) can offer her. That is okay, for the most part. It’s more than that. It’s how we are allowed to come home to each other. 

Last summer, post pd18 training, I went out to a crummy club with my group members. It was an adequate amount of fun, I did it mostly for the sake of doing it. That was the night m and i kissed, after one or two propositions that I had brushed off, something in my vodka-hazed mind thought, fuck it. The whole volunteering for pd thing was fraught enough, culminating in a rather cautious tiptoey question of, “Why do you want to volunteer?” that sounded a lot like “So are you fucking gay?” at the dinner table. It made me tense up in a way that made me sure I wasn’t quite ready to say the words yet. 

That aside, I told them “back late, back late. I can take care of myself.” Yet another series of cooing to assuage them, which happened every time I stayed out late. I could tell over whatsapp that dad was upset, but mostly resigned. I stumbled back home round about 2am and saw that the suspending lamp over the dinner table was still on- and she was sitting there with a cup of tea in hand, armed with a blank expression- tiredness? anger? It was hard to tell, so I tried a feeble, “Hello.” She swept past the context and muttered something about not being able to fall asleep. I smiled softly. We headed to my room and she brought out some of her old cheongsams for me to try on. I told her I wanted one that made me look like I’d just stepped out of a Wong Kar-wai film. She laughed a full, honest, barmy laugh. Solace and forgiveness. 

2. It’s hard to forget her clear absence during my childhood. Or rather, hard to forget the presence of such a palpable absence. For the longest time, something prompted me to believe it was just a figment of my melodramatic adolescent mind. It felt real, though. It felt real up till the point that it became real in the Raffles Hospital Psychiatric clinic. She teared up a little as she said, in confessional tones and fragmented phrases, that she was not very present during my formative years. It felt as validating as it did hurtful. 

First of all, it hurt because it was now real and could no longer be dismissed as a perceptual inaccuracy on my part. As much as it was ineffectual, it was something.

Second of all; or most of all, it hurt because she knew it would probably hurt, but did it anyway. 

3. But all this was not without reason on her part. The reasons were myriad and for the most part, extremely sound: For our/my future, for financial stability. Never did I ever doubt it. My parents were never selfish, no matter what I thought in my moments of blazing anger. Never overtly cruel. Antagonism was never a feature of my growing years. Instead, my childhood was a series of corporeal things that I didn’t want, being insistently pressed into my clammy little palms by my over-enthusiastic parents. I know, there are worse things, there always are. And I knew I should be thankful, I did. But all I wanted was some warmth and kindness. I wanted preteen years that didn’t feel haunted by an invasive presence, something that was both there and not. Ghostly in its dualism. I wanted someone who would tell me that my shyness was not a personality fault that would plague me forever. I wanted anyone to tell me that when I had felt silenced, I could have screamed at the boy in kindergarten who clutched by hand and leered at me, telling me he would not let go.

4. But I was never neglected. I had my grandparents, always. Bickering, yes. Probably where I learnt that no marriage is heaps better than an anguished one. (Even though I’m swaying now, seeing how the tenderness simmered to the surface when age tugged their pride away.) But it was the expectation. Mothers and children, always. Anything less would mean something very wrong. Something like maybe your mother not caring. Which is the most terrifying thing in the world, maybe. I don’t think I would have believed her, even if she’d said she loved me. Vocalised it. Declared it in front of other people, even. How can you love someone when you haven’t spent enough time with them to be sure? None of it made any sense to me- young, precocious and already somewhat cynical. Part of me thought that all parents were just lying to themselves about the whole thing, that child-rearing was all out of obligation. Did any parents really love their children? Or did some parents just pretend better than others? My parents were bad actors, I told myself. It’s not their fault at all.

Perhaps if I had looked a little closer, I’d have noticed the nuances. But at that age, from that distance, it was stinging enough. I didn’t want a closer look. I just took up on that instinct and ran. And I did. I ran madly, compulsively. I never turned back to look. It was only when I was choking from lack of air in my lungs that I stole a glance-

5. I see myself in her, when her raw emotion sputters out in choked sobs. A sauna of bubbling emotion just below the surface, constantly threatening to spill forth. I see her in myself, when I find it hard to articulate the sheer volume of how much I care for the people in my life, but want very much to do so. I see this reflection stretching into forever- a mirror in front of a mirror- when I look directly at her. I see it when I look at her gleaming at me from over a plate of japanese curry, as I prod my ice lemon tea with a plastic straw, as we edge forward in the queue at the dimsum stall on saturday mornings, as we stride down a tree-lined street, the sweltering heat making the edges of our vision blurry like ochre-coloured ink bleeding into paper. It’s good it’s good it’s good it’s all good. We’re here. She’s in front of me and I see her and my legs are planted where I stand. We clawed, nail and tooth, to where we are right now and though things of the past pull me back, it is a reclamation of familial comfort forged in incredible fortitude. The fight I will never stop fighting. Look, we found each other in the end. I’ll hold on if you hold on. I’ll hold on when you stop holding on. Hold on when I forget to hold on. I’ll take a walk around the block and you’ll be miles away and I’ll still be holding on.

I love you, mom.