My hand reaches out for her, slow, like I'm waiting for her to pull away. She doesn't, instead she flips her hand palm up, sliding her hand underneath mine and slotting our fingers together. She does it naturally, knowing when I need her most.
Underneath the table no one can see it, the affection, the care. A barely contained want that is burrowed in our hearts, blooming and taking over our every being when near eachother.
I turn to look at her, make-up done to perfection, her lips painted a dark maroon, a color she let me pick out. She's beautiful as always, my eyes soften, expression shifting into something more gentle, overwhelming soft.
I want to lift my other hand to fix a curl I know she wouldn't want out of place, but I refrain, it's not safe to do that here. Even though it's clear where our affections lie. Out here we have to be careful, smart, pretend that there isn't a sea of emotions for each other that overwhelm our hearts.
I avert my gaze, not wanting to be caught staring. Behind the privacy of our home it's different, we show our softness for each other, skin to skin, mouth's hungry for the other.
My chest is warm, heart racing, hoping that soon we can go home and I can fall to my knees and show her how badly I had wanted to hold and kiss her while out.
My face pressed into her thighs, a flush up her neck as she tries to swat me away, tell me she needs to get out of her heels first. But I wouldn't be able to let her go, tell her to sit, "let me take the heels off for you." I want to see her melt at the sight of me looking up at her from my place kneeling on the floor.
"Okay, sweetheart, you can take off my heels." I can imagine her saying, backing up to sit on the couch, lifting her leg out for me to sit on my knee and begin pulling her heel off. Kissing her shin, and patting my knee for the other heel.
I would kiss her other shin, and then kiss up her leg, looking up at her through my lashes, keeping eye contact as she burns red, flustered and unable to look away.
Red is my favorite color, but it's the red of her blush, of heat blooming into a pretty pink on her chest that drives me wild. I can't help myself, making her squirm, watching her try and pretend like this, us, doesn't make her feel alive.
My heart aches, it beats so steady, but the waves of softness within myself is too great, they spill out when I speak, voice impassioned, eyes so full of an emotion I can only describe as admiration, of deep longing for something I can never have.
So we hide, and our softness hides with us, just for the two of us to witness. Even when all I want is to grab her hand and show everyone that she's mine, that she is what makes it so much easier to breathe.
When it comes to interpretation of media, I have always been of the opinion that so long as you can back up an interpretation with the original text, anything goes, regardless of author's intent.
However, once you know certain aspects of an author, you can't really stop them from impacting the way you interact with their works. I wont lie, a part of the inspiration for the queerness as a shorthand for moral failing in Death Note essay, is how Ohba seems to see queerness in his other works.
"She's got a point." Had it not been for this one line, I might have thought of this as a critique against people's attitudes towards queerness in Japan. But that line delivered by the token "smart" character in the work seems to imply that these are thoughts that Ohba actually agrees with. Which is a shame given how loved Death Note is in queer spaces.
This idea that queer people dont expirience discrimination is disgusting and untrue. Just because it might not be as open as in some other places, it does not mean it does not exist. It just means that it is implied.
So yes, for as much as I like making my textual analysis ascessible for those who only read the text, I cant deny that this doesnt play a major role on this topic in particular.
"[The American doctors did a good job, I didn't even recognize you.]"
"Didn't realize I was several doctors."
"[Thank you, I got lucky.]"
"Awwwww."
"[You have a nice home too. You've done well for yourself.]"
They're in the kitchen, sitting at the small table next to the fridge. Mo is boiling water for the nice tea he keeps in the back of the cabinet. Homemade pelmeni are cooking next to the kettle.
"[Yes, well, it was a lot of work. Didn't exactly have a lot when I got here.]"
Dmitri half smiles in an awkward way, almost cringing.
"[This is true.]"
"[Why are you here Dmitri?]"
"[I told you in the letter.]"
"[I think that letter's full of lies. You hate this country and everything it stands for.]"
"[I hated this country, this is true. Things have...changed.]"
"[What has changed?]"
"[I have changed. I cannot stay in Russia any longer.]"
"[You are criminal? You have child? You stopped wanting to be a miserable asshole? Why is Russia suddenly not the best country anymore?]"
Ever since he can remember, everyone has always said Steve looked like his Mama.
He acts like her too—that persistent kindness and protectiveness for the people they love, the ability to talk to people with relative ease, even the propensity for having a bit of an attitude. Even his soft brown eyes and the texture of his hair, all of it was Maggie Harrington.
Maggie always said that Steve was her greatest accomplishment, one of her best friends. She was so proud of her son, first for being Hawkins High's first All-State Champ in swimming and then for being a good role model in town. She'd missed the moment when he began to distance from her, from his parents, until she hardly knew anything about his life. She thinks it might've been because of Robert.
Steve Harrington could only have the best in store for him, which is why she'd allowed Robert to be tough with him. He knew what it meant to build a good future, what it would take to find happiness and stability. So she'd let Robert yell at him for throwing a party at their house and allowing a poor girl to go missing there. And she'd thought it had worked, based on the way Steve started bringing around sweet Nancy Wheeler and stopped hanging out with the Hagan boy. She thought it had worked.
When the Harringtons came home from their last business trip to Chicago, Steve was being dropped off by Police Chief Hopper. It looked like he'd been in a fight, and as much was confirmed when the Chief told him to stay out of trouble. Robert had been furious, ready to lay into Steve about the Harrington name and respectability, but then a group of kids Maggie didn't recognize tumbled out of the car, too, all hugging Steve and thanking him. He was their hero, they'd told the Harringtons, Steve was the best babysitter ever. Steve had never showed interest in babysitting before, but the way all of those kids so clearly looked up to him had Maggie in near tears.
Maggie had a feeling the mall job was a mistake. She'd felt it the moment Robert made the decision, loudly proclaiming that their son would learn what it was like to work a tough job, that he'd realize how lucky he had it that there was a family business he could be hired in. Maggie hated the humiliated look their Steven had given the first time he set out for the mall in that sailor's uniform, but her husband knew what it was like to be a teen boy, surely he had Steve's best interests at heart.
But then she'd gotten the call that there had been a fire, that Steve was involved and they needed to get down to the hospital. If she thought the fight in '84 looked bad, then nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her son in that hospital bed, vomiting profusely into a container and wincing through the obvious pain in his head. The morning after, that same group of kids fought the hospital staff to visit Steve, demanded it. The one with curly hair and the youngest girl loudly proclaimed that Steve had saved their lives, that he'd risked himself to make sure they were safe. Her baby was an actual goddamn town hero and she'd almost missed it, she almost never knew because she was too busy worrying about his future.
Maggie stopped worrying about family names and legacies, after that. She was the first to ask how his shifts at the movie store were and never minded when his talkative friend came over for dinner. Maggie kept waiting for the moment Steve would admit the two of them were dating, but he kept insisting they were friends, best friends.
She never saw Eddie Munson coming.
After the fourth tragedy to befall Steve, Maggie was convinced he needed to get out of Hawkins before it destroyed him. No one could find Steve in the immediate aftermath of the earthquake. He wasn't at the shelter, or the hospital, or with any other search parties. She'd worried briefly that the serial killer had gotten him, too, that they'd have to see what was so horrific about the method of killing that had left the town sparking a witch hunt for the guy.
He was found later at the Munson trailer, wearing military-style gear and bleeding out from his abdomen and neck. Maggie would never understand how an earthquake could cause that level of damage, nor the kind that was found on Eddie Munson just beside him. When Steve had woken up in the hospital, he'd simply told her that he couldn't talk about it, that it was better if she didn't know. She thinks that might be true.
Once Steve recovered, he stayed by the Munson boy's bedside every day. He'd bring a book, or a hacky sack, anything to keep himself busy while Eddie slept off his injuries. And when he came home, Steve was with him constantly. They were volunteering, he'd told her.
Then one day, months after the earthquake, Steve came home looking nervous.
"Mom." Maggie ached for the days when he'd come waddling into the living room screaming Mama, missed when he felt like he could tell her everything. When had that disappeared? "I need to tell you something."
"Of course, Stevie. You can tell me anything." Steve winced in the way she figured he would: they both know that hadn't been true in years.
Steve shuffled on his feet, wrung his hands together and worried them through his hair. Finally he stood ramrod straight, eyes focused directly on hers as he blurted the truth out. "Mom, I like guys. And girls. It's called being bisexual and I'm not sorry for it. I can pack a bag tonight if I have to, but I won't pretend anymore. I won't."
It was supposed to be scary. Maggie knows the version of her four years ago would have been terrified by the statement, angry or upset. Maybe she still is a little scared, only because she knows what the world is like for people who are different. She used to be upset by people who were different. In '83, she might've kicked Steve out for the fear of it all. But looking at him now, she saw the kid who drove those middle schoolers to the arcade because he could, and who saved peoples' lives in the mall at the near expense of his own, the guy who believed Eddie Munson was innocent even when the entire town had turned on him out of fear of the Other. She saw Steve Harrington, her darling son who'd grown up before she even realized it, becoming far greater a man than she could have ever hoped for.
"How long have you two been dating? You and Eddie Munson?" Maggie asked gently, a smile working its way on her face. She'd wondered why he hadn't dated anyone after Nancy, but maybe it was simply that he wasn't telling her about that part of his life anymore.
Steve's eyes widened, lips parting like he was surprised by the response. He floundered a little, looking around for an explanation. "Um. Since last summer, we met at the mall. How did you...?"
Maggie laughed then, far brighter than it ever had been in years. "I know when my son's in love. I just didn't know where to look, didn't notice the answer was right there."
"You're not...mad? Disappointed?"
"Honey," Maggie sighed, taking a few steps forward so she could grab onto his arms. "Steven Robert Harrington, you are my son. I will always love you, no matter what. I'm so sorry I ever ever made you feel otherwise. All I've ever wanted for you is happiness, and if that's with Eddie Munson then that's that."
"Mom," Steve croaked, voice cracking around the word as he pulled her in for a hug. She could feel him shake in her arms, sniffling like he was trying to hide the tears. "Do you want to meet him? Eddie, I mean, do you want to...?"
"He's outside?"
"He came over to support me, in case we needed to, well." In case his parents were kicking him out. God, where had they gone so wrong? "Do you want to?"
"Please," Maggie answered quietly, knowing this wouldn't be enough to make up for the years of wrong they'd done. She wanted to know her son, wanted to know the people who made him happiest. She wanted to hear about his day and know that if something ever went wrong that he would call his parents himself, not wait for the hospital or the police to do so. "Please."
Then Steve was bringing in Eddie Munson, who stood out in the pristine, polished Harrington home but who made Maggie's son's eyes light up in a way she'd never seen them. He was smiling, holding his hand out for a handshake.
"Mama, this is Eddie," Steve was saying, and Maggie could cry because it felt like she'd done something right, because she could see how deeply in love Steve was with Eddie because it was a mirror of her own expression when she looked at Robert. This was her son, and her future son-in-law, and Maggie couldn't be prouder.
Clavell doesn't even know why he came tonight. The music was loud. Drunk twenty-somethings all over the place, either crowding up the hallways or touching each other inappropriately in a room full of their fellow classmates or plain strangers. He even walked in on a few in the master bedroom smoking what he really hopes is a regular cigarette despite the smell. Parties just weren't his thing. He was only here because a friend dragged him here. "Live a little, man! You're only twenty-four once, dont be such a buzzkill!" Well not everyone was suited for the college party life, Willow! Some just liked to study in the peace and quiet of their dorm until their roommate returned to be as loud as possible until three in the morning.
Clavell winced as he touched the new cut on his lip. Some blood came off on his finger, but he wiped it on his jeans. He could wash it out later, he decided. He wasn't even surprised to have been cornered like that. It happens often enough that he wasnt even frustrated by it any more. After walking it off now, he doesn't feel the aches from the punches and kicks to his gut anymore. He'll feel it later, though, that's for sure. Still, he walked with a slight hunch and limp as he navigated through the crowd, heading to the outside patio.
The late night air was crisp. It bit at Clavell the moment he walked out the sliding doors. He balled his fists up into the deep pockets of his jacket, retreating for warmth. "I admire your bravery." Came a voice to his right. Clavell jumped. He thought he was the only one out here. Others stood in the yard ahead, circled around a fire pit drinking and chatting. But otherwise the back of the house was clear. "Sorry. Did I scare you?"
"No," He lied. "What do you mean by brave?"
The only light that illuminated the porch was the one mounted above the sliding glass doors. It didn't reach the far end of the porch, however, so Clavell had to squint out into the dark to make out who it was. They appeared to smile, which made Clavell comfortable enough to come closer. It appeared to be another man around his age. Dark hair fashioned into a mullet. He had a lighter jacket on than Clavell's. A simple zip up paired with dark jeans. "Being so open I mean. I don't know many other guys like you. I definitely couldn't do it." Clavell rocked on the balls of his heel, a nervous habit of his. "Uh..." He fumbled with his words.
"I'm, uh," He held his hand out, his wrist going limp. He quickly retracted his hand back into his own pocket, seemingly embarassed. Just a hint of fear if you looked close enough. "Y-yeah..."
Oh! Oh..
"Ah," Clavell anxiously turned his attention to the laughing group over on the lawn. "Its really nothing to admire, honestly. Just a cultural mistake on my part, really." Which was true. He thought if his sexual identity was well received in the majority of his home region, it would be good elsewhere. The beatings, threats, and slurs thrown at him by a select few groups of people proved otherwise. Sure, it happened back home, too. But not as much since his father was in the Elite Four. A ghostly force to be reckoned with. "Here," An unopened can of beer was thrusted towards Clavell. "This'll help." Clavell stepped back, holding his hands in front of himself. "A-ah! Thank you, but I dont drink. I mean I do! But just not beer.." Well. He does drink beer. Just not Kalosian beer. It was weak and tasted gross in his opinion. Call him boring, but he also prefers wine anyway. But he wasnt about to to say that to a Kalosian who may take great offense. That would just be rude.
He chuckled. "Not to drink. For your lip. To keep the swelling down?" Ah. Yeah, that made more sense. Clavell took the cold can and brought it up to his lip. It stung a little, but he appreciated the help too much to take it off, fearing it could hurt this kind man's feelings. "I'm Clive, by the way. Clive Desrosiers." Clive put out his hand for Clavell to shake. He took it. It was cold like everything else out here. "I think we're in a few of the same classes, actually. Kind of hard to miss a white pompadour!" He joked.
Clavell cracked a toothy smile. "Yes, I suppose it is. I'm Klint Clavell. Thanks for, uh. This." He shrugged the beer at Clive.
"Look, uh. I know we just met, so it maybe a little weird to ask," He nervously began. He lowered the volume of his voice. "But would you like to leave? I know a gay bar not far from here. There's a lot kinder folk there who could even patch you up."
Clavell looked back at the party. He couldn't leave Willow. But then again, he probably already left for the dorms with a girl or guy as his company. He knows him well enough to assume as much. And Clavell definitely did not want to stay here all night only to find out his nerd-jock hybrid of a friend had already left hours prior. Well it wouldn't hurt to have a few drinks. And to make a few new friends, he supposes. "Sure." He says. "But only for a couple hours. I have a test to study for."
"Alright. A couple hours. A couple drinks. Sounds good to me."
They sat at the bar all night. Talking. Drinking. Becoming fast friends.
