#im pinning this like it's my report card on the fridge

[vulpixhoney]

I'm definitely just yelling into the void but I'm sharing my Luke Castellan playlist (again) and analyzing some of my songs choices because I have. brain worms. about these books. so character study with music

I have like 8+ hours of song in this playlist bc I've been adding to it for years so here are some highlights I'm thinking about rn

1. would've could've should've - Taylor Swift

but like. it's for him and Kronos you know. "And I damn sure never would've danced with the devil. At nineteen" literally dancing with the devil at 19. Kronos has been manipulating Luke since he was 17, taking his anger at the gods and twisting it into something that Kronos could use and abuse. And I think (imo) that even before TLO when Luke sacrifices himself he starts to regret joining Kronos but is so far in it now he can't turn back. Like he was a kid, he was seventeen. And even after that he's still young. He dies at 23/24, I'm 23 right now and I can't imagine getting literally possessed and having to kill yourself bc you got manipulated at a young age and made terrible choices. also "If you never touched me, I would’ve. Gone along with the righteous" if Kronos didn't reach out to him and one of his worst moments this wouldn't have happened. Yes Luke was angry and vengeful and burning with rage for the gods but he wouldn't have gotten that far without Kronos

2. sanity - paramore

him and his descent/fall from grace, but also his relationship with Hermes and the rest of the gods. "If I fall on my knees, I hear you laughing. If I call out your name, you don't come" taking this for his relationship with the gods/Hermes: the first line is like, when he fails his quest and has to go confront them and feels like they're looking at him with pity. And they gave him a nothing quest too, it was something that had already been done by Heracles, he's being given this quest just for the sake of quest-giving, it's nothing. And then he fails, and feels like he's being mocked, mocked by the people he just wants to notice him. And then the second line shows how absent the gods are in their children's lives. When Luke confronts Hermes at 14/15 when on the run he gets mad because he would pray and call for Hermes to help him during his mom's episodes. He was a little boy calling out for help, for the something the gods caused. And it was crickets. Hermes never came, never showed, never helped him. He was just left there alone. And then also at camp, Luke was counselor of the Hermes cabin, where all the unclaimed children are shoved, to be forgotten about by the gods. "No one home, but the void is loud.Echoes around my empty house... This must be the void they always talk about" honestly I see this when he's possessed by Kronos. Like he has another being inside him, taking over, piloting his body over him. His consciousness was obviously still there bc Annabeth and Percy were able to help him break free and stop Kronos. So what was he doing, could he feel anything? Could he feel everything and not be able to do anything? It must have been terrifying, and again he would've only been like maybe 22? when Kronos possessed him

3. sidewalk chalk - Annalise Emerick

this one for me is like quintessential my feeling about Luke, Thalia, and Annabeth. In the song she sings about a childhood friend she no longer talks too but thinks about often thinks about and wishes well. I see this mostly with like Annabeth. "I'm living my dreams right now The ones we used to talk about" She grew up with him, and is now going to continue growing up without him. She probably blabbed about her dreams of being an architect the way that kids always do, and now she's the architect of Olympus and is doing really well for herself. And probably thinks back to when she was a kid with Luke and Thalia.

4. I don't like my mind - mitski

I think that his anger at the gods was driving him mad, but Kronos' influence really pushed over the edge. Also going back to before, his living in his body that another being has control over, "Inside the walls of my skull waiting for its turn to talk". Ethan tells Percy that he thinks Luke is still in there, fighting back, trying to regain control over his body and his mind. And since he definitely was, he was probably in there spiraling about how he got to that point and all that he'd done and who'd hr become. Because once Annabeth helps him break through he is obviously regretful and wants to atone. "so please don’t take, Take this job from me" job/life. but also, him working for Kronos at that point was all he had. Literally. His job for Kronos was his lite He had given everything up at that point, and Kronos would routinely threaten Luke if/when he fails. Punishing Luke with nightmares and then forcing Luke to take him as a host bc he failed during the Atlas plan.

rapid fire songs I put in the playlist that I think about a lot:

eat your young - Hozier (obviously. I mean the gods ya know)

day after tomorrow - Phoebe bridgers (he's a soldier)

save me - Noah kahan (even after everything he's done Annabeth still tries to save him)

used to be young - Miley Cyrus (he was seventeen)

bad believer - st. Vincent (he's blasphemous what can I say)

#percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #luke castellan #spotify playlist #Spotify #im pinning this like it's my report card on the fridge

[herequeerexitentialfear]

7 Snippets

Tyy for the tag @dujour13 ! im very bad at selecting small snippets, so under the cut they go!

one wotr Cecio, mostly jojos Celia n co, bc i have been rotating how they interact all week, with a peek at the two CeliaXElena ockiss pieces [born to run&everlasting kiss]

im about to log off but if anyone hasn't been tagged please take this as your tag!

snippet one: Dear Sister

Red, red, everywhere. I never understood ‘seeing red’ as a phrase for when fury takes over, but it seems I am now drowning in it, staining my hands, my clothes, my soul. It was as easy as drowning. I finally saw the rising tide for what it was, and made one last struggle against the waters with the angel's light, but I felt the red flood down my throat all the same, and I succumbed. Yet I find I breathe easier now, even as my corpse lies at my feet, even as the water takes me. My mind is quiet and my body is mine. That is to say, the good man is dead. I am what's left. But you know all about that don’t you, my dear sister?

snippet two: all i got's a photograph

Black hair and a sharp face, almost in profile, pressed against her own golden curls, as he wrapped around her, one pale arm slung over her shoulder and the other coming out from under her own, to hide underneath her jacket, wrapping around her torso. Conficcare. Her second oldest friend, and one of the only people who could aggressively cling to her like that and get away with it in public. She has to fight the smile, just like the Celia in the photograph, exasperated fondness is the strongest emotion in her heart when she thinks of him. Conficcare. The next strongest emotions he evokes are regret, are sorrow, for the child he was, the man he became, and her part in both of those. Much can be said of how long they have known each other, have fought for each other, have loved each other, all of them.  Little is said on how it took time to get past that first stage. It's easy to look back at the history, and say it was rosy, but for every fight back to back, there is one face to face, for every kind word- for every mean word said in jest, is one in truth.

snippet three: There was no way this house could hold the two of us, i guess that we were too much of the same kind

Finally, something snaps inside Rametto, and he turns to Celia, making painfully direct eye contact, lips twisted into a sneer as he bares his teeth, “You’re not my damn father, what do you care?” He sees golden eyes go wide, and he regrets it immediately. Hes- hes not like his brother. He's careful. He opens his mouth again, wishing he could brush it all under a rug- “I know- I know I have no right-”  her voice shakes and he wishes he could say it's the last night, the exhaustion, but it feels like he can see her properly, and that exhaustion is not just from one night spent worrying over numbers, its a lifetime of exhaustion, and Celia is only nine years older than him, only six years older than Cecio, and suddenly he realises she's so damn young.  Something in the back of his mind is screaming, terrified.  She breaks eye contact first, ducking her head, and suddenly it feels terribly dark in the kitchen.

snippet four: for what its worth, i never meant you any pain

Golden eyes flick to the report cards pinned with touristy magnets on the fridge, and the part of Celia that raised Cecio wonders if she needs to stop him staying out so late, but the part of her that sees who Cecio is now, knows there isn't much hope. Not for Rametto, not for the little brother of Conficcare, the protege of Muro, for the boy who will become a man, and step into a whole new world of violence. At her orders.  Her head shakes, trying to banish the thoughts from her face as the outer door clicks, and she settles back into stillness, waiting to see what Rametto does. Pause, unlace his shoes, then try and place them on the floor quietly is the first part of that answer. He opens the inner door and treads carefully, avoiding floorboards like he's seven and superstitious again, making his way towards the cupboards, putting his bag on the floor and letting it lean against the side of the counter, leaning down himself to unzip it -and taking out the battered metal box Celia remembers Stecco taking to school, still with the dent from where she threw it at his head but changed trajectory at the last second, hitting the metal pole he was leaning on instead.

snippet five: born to run

In hindsight Celia is sure she screamed, teeth flashing, and she gripped the steering wheel and slammed her foot on the pedal, her instinct taking over, calculating angles and skid and acceleration, a too fast stream of information, as her brain shut out anything beyond what was strictly necessary, trusting in Elena to solve any attempted sabotage.

snippet six: i wanna die with you wendy on the streets tonight in an everlasting kiss

She doesn't mind letting the cold seep into her through her coat, Elena right next to her and gazing out at the city skyline, doesn't mind it at all. If her eyes linger on the person beside her, on the folds of leather, on the still paint splattered hands, on her eyes and face and lips, then that's her secret. Elena is too distracted to notice her lingering gaze, hands twitching like she wants to reach for a paint brush, as her eyes stare into the distance, mind whirring with composition and colour.  She's an artist to the bone, got creation on her soul, and one day, Celia prays, Elena will have the time and money to put to canvas every painting she ever dreamed of making, even the ones she's daydreaming of now, when it's just half formed thoughts to distract herself while waiting.

snippet seven: everlasting [kiss again]

A voice next to her bites out, “Idiota” any malice blunted by the fondness that underlies every syllable. And Celia turn her head towards her sun and grins too, wide and full of love, giggles turning to cackles, Tesoros shoulders shaking alongside his head, as he lowers his arms and reveals his own grin, and finally Elena cracks to, rolling her eyes as the twitch at the corner of her mouth turns into a smile, lovingly frustrated, but then her eyes glint maliciously and she opens her mouth again-

#look out of 6 works only four titles are from bruce springsteen songs #and i consider that an act of great restraint!! #thebirdwrites #gold & silver #ive actually been doing a lot of writing recently! #they are getting longg and are know where near finished #but im chipping away at them!!

[hiverforesteevee]

:D Surprise :D

General Audiences

TW: Len being a jerk until Mick sets him straight

AO3 link

❄️🔥

Lisa brings home a boy.  Len and Mick ain’t happy, but Lisa gets whatever she wants, and what she wants is a nephew.

❄️🔥

Super awesome grateful thanks to LadyErin for correcting my ignorance regarding human temperatures.

❄️🔥

Len understood that Lisa might arrive a couple minutes late at safe house #2—a two-bedroom apartment with barely enough room for a coffee table, couch, and plasma screen in their dual kitchen/living area—yet at the ten-minute marker, he shoved his feet into his boots.  He was halfway into his parka when his sister finally deigned to appear… with a kid next to her.  Len stared at the stranger: a runt with hair and eyes darker than dirt that had never seen sunlight, over half Lisa’s size, and wearing a hoodie that might as well be a trench coat with how large it was on him.  He ducked away from Len’s slate lasers.

Lisa flung her brunette bangs out of her face before she grinned up at her brother and flared her hands at the runt as if he was a game show prize, “This is Lowell!  Grownups claim he’s unadoptable—but there’s nothing wrong with him, he’s just quieter than most kids his age, which is perfect for our family cuz you gotta be quiet on heists.” She then faced Lowell, who looked up at her olive-gingerbread eyes, “This is your daddy.  Your papa’s not here yet; he’s coming on Friday.” She took his sleeve-hidden hand, “C’mere, I gotta game you’ll love.  It’s old, but it’s cute and artsy like you!”

Len didn’t get a word in before Lisa spirited Lowell into her room.  It hosted Tangled-themed bedding, Rachel Platten posters, and a violin.  Lisa filched her 3DS from her desk and swapped cartridges.  She sunk into her duvet when she plopped onto her bed.  She patted a spot next to her and helped Lowell skitter onto it.  She gave him custody of an extra save file before handing her sticker-plastered device over to him.

“It says you need a ‘basic reading ability to fully enjoy this game’, but you got way better than that, so you’re all set!” Lisa ruffled his hair as she peeked over his shoulder at his sketch of a Raposa.  Within minutes, chirps of “Rapo” and rings of collected Rapo-Coins fluttered throughout the room.  Lisa hung their snow-smeared outerwear in her closet and strolled into the kitchen.

Len groaned and tried to write his sister a reality check, “Social workers call some kids unadoptable because they pick fights and cause trouble.”

“He doesn’t go causing trouble, trouble goes causing him; and he doesn’t pick fights, fights pick him,” Lisa refused to cash it. “Lowell’s just like you in juvie, except he didn’t have a Mick to keep him safe until I came along.  He needs a home and a family, so I gave him mine.  He’s got the same name as Dedushka, Lenny; he’s like, reincarnated and stuff!”

“Take him back, Lise,” Len twitched at her. “Mick and I’ll get charged with abduction at the drop of a hat!”

Lisa folded her arms and hmphed at him, “Not if nobody reports ‘im missing.”

“Somebody’s bound to,” he shot back.

“No, they won’t.”

“Will.”

“Won’t!” Lisa hmphed at him again. “If you and Mick don’t love him if and when CCPD puts out an AMBER Alert for him, you two can take him back, because I won’t.  He’s my nephew, and I love him.”

Len took that bet and awaited his inevitable victory.  What 22-year-old loses to a 10-year-old in an argument?  In the meantime, Len begrudgingly fed this intruder leftovers and leased out the couch.

Mick shouldered the door open one-tripping groceries on Friday, as promised.  A slug wriggled out from under a towel upon sight of the clock on the DVR.  It read 9:13, thirteen minutes after he should’ve vacated.  Mick didn’t sense Lowell’s presence until the latter refolded the towel and snuck it back into the closet.

Sage met dirt.  Lowell gasped out a hiss at Mick like an asthmatic kitten in a chokehold and twitched at the titanic 25-year-old.  Mick blinked at him.  Lowell shivered with his arms tucked at his sides.  Lowell’s head snapped from side to side, ready to flee, when Mick plodded over and pinned a thermometer in the former’s mouth.

Lowell flopped onto the carpeted floor stomach-first and scrunched up when Len entered, freshly showered and shaved and dressed in a gray-black, ribbed turtleneck along with nondescript socks and slacks.  He greeted Mick with a peck before huffing at Lowell.

“Lenny, who is this?” Mick flicked his head at the boy.

“According to your sister-in-law,” Len sneered at the trespasser, “he’s our son.”

Mick figured she’d make a friend while she was in transit from Lewis’s custody to theirs.  Mick retrieved the thermometer when it beeped and gathered Lowell into his woolly arms, “Now I know Lewis gave you some strange ideas of how to parent, but when your kid’s temp” Mick did a double-take at its report “oughtta be a radio station, you cuddle ‘im.  The only reason I ain’t is cuz I’m gonna fix up somethin’ that’ll warm his tummy.”

Lisa interrupted them by kicking down the door, “Mick! Hooray! I see you’ve met—what’s wrong with Lowell!?”

“He can’t do anything on time and now he’s infected,” Len didn’t hesitate to mumble.

“Lowell’s low,” Mick corrected.  His gaze landed on her bundle, “Whatchoo got there, Lise?”

Lisa groaned as she set it on the couch and Len’s credit card on the coffee table, “I’ve been telling Lenny to go out and grab Dedushka Junior at least a blanket, yet all he’s done all week is sit on his butt, so I went out and grabbed one—and a pillow!  Now he doesn’t have to sleep with a towel anymore!”

Mick never understood the phenomenon of falling in love with babies because newborn humans look like naked mole rats: flabbier than seniors in a hot tub with twice as many wrinkles.  However, at 4 years old, Lowell was far beyond infancy, meaning Mick had half a mind to make Len sleep on the couch with a towel tonight.

Mick nudged Lowell into Len’s arms and rifled through the fridge.  Mick growled at Len when the latter merely stood there contemptuously.  Len muttered like a dragon and lugged Lowell onto Mick’s side of the bed.  A pillow could’ve fit between them.  Len returned to reading, not even bothering to tuck Lowell in under the covers.

Lowell cringed at Len with sclera blued like an unpeeled Easter egg.  Len snapped a scowl at him when his teeth clattered loud enough to disturb his novel.  Lowell bolted under the bed.  Len rolled his eyes and left him there.

Earthen chowder and herbal chicken perfumed the room from a bowl of Mama Rory’s Cure for Everything by Dinnertime.  Mick set it on the nightstand and scanned for Lowell.

“All he does is run and hide,” Len scoffed after pointing his pupils downward.

“I’d run and hide too if I was living witchoo,” Mick retorted as he snatched Len’s book out of his grasp and chucked it backwards.  It smacked against the wall and bent some pages when it landed. “I know we didn’t plan on him, but you know what else we didn’t plan on? Meeting our soulmate in juvie.  If you dare call either of those invalid, I got a knuckle sandwich with your name on it.  Lowell ain’t a second-class citizen, he’s our son; and so far, Lisa’s been a better parent to him than you, and she ain’t old enough to be anybody’s parent.” Len slumped against the headboard, stunned, while Mick crouched onto his belly and reached out palm-up to Lowell, who twitched and inched away.  Mick lulled him with assurances, “Hi, Lowell, I’m your papa; I ain’t gonna hurtcha, and if your daddy has a licka sense in him, he won’t either.”

Lowell crept over to Mick, curled into his grasp, and buried his face in the crook of Mick’s neck when Mick shifted them under a quilt and a comforter.  Len pushed up on his forearms and exhaled remorse.  Lowell squeaked when Len reached out to him.

“Now I know you’re not stupid enough to raise a hand to ‘im,” Mick rumbled at Len, “yet just cuz you ain’t treating him bad doesn’t mean you’re treating him well.  You better watch and learn how to treat ‘im well, cuz he stays.”

Mick spoon-fed Lowell once the latter trusted Mick enough to protect him from Len—who didn’t plan on attacking him, but it was a matter of too little, too late to convince him otherwise.  Lowell finished his chowder, taking special care not to make a mess.

“Lenny hates messes,” Lisa rolled her eyes while twirling a lock of her shoulder-grazing hair one afternoon.  They were sitting under a tree and reading one of the few books in the building: an anthology of dead old white dudes’ literature. “I swear, if a drop of milk spills onto the floor, he becomes a volcano; and heaven help anybody who’s dumb enough to stain his room, cuz he will send you to hell.”

She meant it as a joke, yet the damage was done.  And honestly, how was a four-year-old supposed to figure that out anyway???  What Lowell had figured out by now was that some foster families sent kids back for both minor and major infractions, and so far, Len provided no evidence of planning to act otherwise.  Yes, Lowell was still the smallest and the youngest, but Lisa kept him from becoming prey, and this was Lisa’s territory; therefore, this was the safest place on Earth.

Speaking of Lisa, she let herself in and presented Lowell four flossy, lap-sized plushies, “I saw these and thought of you!”

Three of them were wolves and one was a fox.  One wolf was wintery, one was sunny, and one was glittery; the fox was dark.  Lowell took the wintery wolf and manipulated it so it head-butted the fox onto the floor.  Len frowned, sensing impending doom.  Lisa and Mick frowned curiously.  Lisa asked Lowell about it.

Lowell gulped, “Zvezdo wants Zvezdochko to leave cuz foxes are too small and weird to love.”

Mick and Lisa snapped lasers at Len.  Lisa picked up Zvezdochko and assured Lowell, “Nobody’s too weird to love, especially not Zvezdochko.”

“And I like small,” Mick snorted with his arm around his son, who clutched Zvezdochko close to his chest and watched Zvezdo as if Zvezdo would crunch Zvezdochko’s neck. “Smaller makes Zvezdochko easier to hug.”

Len surrendered, his guilt tripling the weight of his words, “....Zvezdo doesn’t hate Zvezdochko; Zvezdo hates surprises.  Zvezdo’s just getting used to Zvezdochko, that’s all.”

Lowell wiggled closer to Mick and flinched when Len thumbed Lowell’s cheek.  Lowell didn’t relax into the gesture today, tomorrow, or even next week, yet he did by Christmas.  It was the best surprise Len had ever received.

#leonard snart x mick rory #leonard snart #lisa snart #mick rory #adoption #coldwave #fanfic #original child character

[herequeerexitentialfear]

i forgor wip Wednesday, but im making a timeline change to Celia& co and one of my wips i was struggling with is now out of 'canon', but was very whole apart from it didnt continue, so as a belated wip Wednesday, have over 1000 words of Celia describing like 5 minutes of actual time. its plot-less domesticity with a worried Celia. 100% a look inside charecters head piece

Celia is doing paperwork in the flat alone late into the evening, when Rametto arrives home, clearly upset about something. Celia tries to set him at ease by cooking a fry up dinner for them both, all while thinking about the child before her and how to not scare him off. [it ends before the conversation starts] [warning for mention and internal discussion of disordered eating due to lack of food]

-

It's dark in the flat, Celia hunched over the kitchen table. A lone table lamp illuminates the paper she's been scribbling maths equations on all evening, the scratchings of pencil on paper occasionally broken up by the sound of her punching numbers into a calculator beside her.

She had been sitting like that for a few hours now, doggedly chipping away at the paperwork, when the sound of soft footsteps ascending the stairs reached her ears.

From the gait, she knows its Rametto, shuffling up the stairs after a long day of school, and longer doing after school ‘activities’. 

Golden eyes flick to the report cards pinned with touristy magnets on the fridge- and the part of Celia that raised Cecio wonders if she needs to stop him staying out so late, but the part of her that sees who Cecio is now knows there isn't much hope. Not for Rametto, not for the little brother of Conficcare, the protege of Muro, for the boy who will become a man and step into a whole new world of violence. At her orders. 

Her head shakes- trying to banish the thoughts from her face- as the outer door clicks, and she settles back into stillness, waiting to see what Rametto does.

Pause, unlace his shoes, then try and place them on the floor quietly is the first part of that answer. He opens the inner door and treads carefully- avoiding floorboards like he's seven and superstitious again- making his way towards the cupboards. He puts his bag on the floor, letting it lean against the side of the counter- leaning down himself to unzip it and taking out the battered metal box Celia remembers Stecco taking to school, still with the dent from where she threw it at his head but changed trajectory at the last second, hitting the metal pole he was leaning on instead.

A squeal of rusted hinges follows the boxes muffled landing on the counter, as he dutifully sorts the food waste from the wrappers, before striding over to the messily labelled bins, clicks and thuds as he deposits the trash.

He turns back around, pivoting on one foot, like Cecio does sometimes, walking with a sway and rhythm that seems almost like a dancer. Walks like Celia used to, like her mother used to, a chain of habits passed down and picked up through proximity.

He stops, eyes wide, the faint ring of blue widening as his pupils adjust to the light of the lamp.

She lowers her head and eyes in acknowledgement, as well as giving him a lazy wave of her fingers.

She's prepared for him to wander upstairs, to be loud with his silent lack of excuses, to turn around and ignore her, or even just crack a small hypocritical joke at her expense for staying up so late.

Then she rights her head, lets her eyes blink back open, and sees the glint of light on his cheeks, sees the stain of run eyeliner, and she can't help but frown in concern. Her heart aches, her mind trying to guess the right choice, how best to deal with this.

He's still standing there, like a deer in headlights, and the stone in her chest cracks a little.

She gestures to one of the other seats at the table, carefully weighing her words before she finally speaks.

Her voice feels heavy, disused, clumsy, as she speaks “Gonna fry up whatevers leftover, pulled a long day and didn't have time for a hot dinner. You're welcome to a plate-, you know I can't do portion sizes propa,” it all comes blurting out, words rushing out after each other, tumbling into the still air of the kitchen, she can only hope they won't disturb the late night calm or shake him more than they reassure.

She wasn't lying, the pan was still out, and the leftover tomatoes, chorizo and mushrooms sliced messily from when sitting still got too much and she had to do something.

It felt strange, using the same excuse she used on Conficcare. Both of them favour too small portions, and she knows she could break the elder brother's heart by telling him that their precious copied that from him, just like he copied the burden of being a breadwinner.

She knows it's in their genes, has had enough biology rants from Conficcare, but she worries. She's still growing, years after she should have stopped, and not just up, but out, growing into broad shoulders and long legs, when she was just as worryingly thin as them when she was younger. It's something about her body making up for childhood malnutrition, now she has the food, but she doesn't see why it might not be true for those two, why they still stick to small portions and hungry stomachs. 

Habits are nasty things, is the answer- mother above she knows- but she still doesnt let them skip meals, serving them herself, so she can make sure they have enough on their plates, because they may favour small portions, but they would never waste food.

He's still standing there, shock turned to confusion, and Celia collects herself, neatening her askew stacks of paper, placing her pen and calculator parallel to the pile, before slowly standing up, walking past Rametto and sliding sideways into the kitchen proper. 

She leans over as she opens the fridge door, squinting at the bright light, and reaches for the butter. It's cool to the touch, with just a little bit of condensation, and she can't help but smile at the thought of butter fried mushrooms, just like Mama used to make. 

Butter in hand, she turns, closing the door with her shoulder, and makes her way to the counter where the shopping list is, sliding the butter past the still open lunchbox, to the counter opposite the stovetop. Pencil in hand, she thumbs through the pages, until a barely legible ‘domenica’ is scrawled atop one of them, and at the bottom of a long and messy list she scrawls ‘plantain’, suddenly craving it.

Pencil placed back down carefully- as to not roll down the counter- she parallels the butters path down the counter, until she reaches the chopping board covered with cut up chorizo, mushrooms and tomatoes. 

The knife is dirty, the blade covered in juices, with flakes of mushroom and the occasional scrap of chorizo fat still clinging on. Still, it’s good enough to cut the butter. The slices are haphazard, thinning the chunk of butter she sliced off in one motion so it would melt quicker, in pieces.

Rametto clears his throat, before cutting off the sound halfway, self conscious at how it echoed in the late night quiet. 

Celia finished up the slice she was doing, gently bringing the knife down to the cutting board, through the butter, before placing it down on the side, careful to let the blade not touch the counter, or the handle make a loud thud on contact.

She's careful, not reacting too fast, lest she scares him, and thus her head moves so slowly it has to be clearly telegraphed to him, even in the dim light. 

He's still standing, breathing shallow and quick like they are playing hide and seek, or just hide. 

It gets her, every time, just how much he looks like his brother. 

Fear warps their faces the same way, and if she lets her eyes unfocus, she can pretend the darkness above his eyes is just shadows, not smudged eyeshadow, that his nose is broken, that his hair is shorter- 

- and in his place stands his brother, a memory from years ago, from months ago, from a week ago, standing in the kitchen looking shocked, mind overcome with fear, thoughts too much, yet not enough to extort by voicing them, yet.

She could, if she felt like making her heart ache more than it already was, conjure images of him afraid, not in the safety of their home, not just needing time and comfort until he confesses everything to her, but scared, in a way he rarely lets himself be, frozen, not fighting, silent, not hurling insults like blades.

A blink and the image shatters, swept away behind her own lashes, her heart unable to take it anymore. It was unfair to both of them, comparisons, but- well. It was too easy.

She needed to help Rametto find his voice, feel comfortable enough to bare whatever thoughts had him shaking like a leaf, and getting him to sit down would be a good step towards her goal.

#thebirdwrites #gold & silver #celia #rametto #he/him pronouns used because the conversation i was struggling with was him coming out #or well realizing they are genderqueer then shortly after coming out #it was going to go a bit like this #'hey Celia i was told im not a real man and i feel bad' #'just because you are feminine and gay doesnt make you less of a man' #'well what if i feel they were right' #celia gets flashbacks to the trans conversation with cecio #'well maybe you aren't 100% a man!' #anyway i didnt finish this and it was kicking my ass but as is its a character piece im very proud of #:points at veiwer: look inside celias head!!!