I wonder what they put in gale that makes him our torture doll anyways I'm imagining him with a ruptured liver dying of what bucky should be dying 💖
I think there's an immediate answer (ausbut's suffers beautifully) & also something more linked with his status as a narrative foil to Bucky & in general the textual weave they're woven into. Pain & suffering are so fundamental to their characters (one could argue they're fundamental to the human experience) that taking them away is - I wouldn't say Wrong, I don't think there are rights or wrongs, but it would definitely make me miss something when exploring & playing with Concepts.
In particular with Gale & with his symbiotic relationship with John, I think (and I dare say we all agree on this, at least on a certain level) what makes them so compelling is not only their bestfriendism (which of course I enjoy immensely) but that linked with their "falling out" fight in the stalag. I don't think I would enjoy their dynamic as much if it weren't for the incompatibility, the suffering they are apparently unable to share, which in the end is also because they care too much about the other. In a way (to me at least) it felt like a real marital crisis (lol).
I'm still unsure about how to really analyse their punches; was John instigating Gale because he felt like Gale didn't care or because he was (amongst other things) scared that Gale was losing himself to hopelessness? Gale hesitated before punching John because he didn't want to hurt him (thinking he was acting Irrationally but knowing that it was how Bucky's elaborated grief) or because he didn't want /to be/ the one hurting him, mindful of their mingled pasts (in this case, him saying You remind me of my dad assumes a much deeper meaning: was he imagining punching his dad? If so, was it a release or something that he unwillingly did? I'm partial to the opinion that Gale loved his dad, actually & that John doesn't like that Gale loved him but that's another discussion). To be honest, because fanfiction exists in an alternate universe where Every action has a Deeper meaning, the truth is that if we were to strip them of their Blorbo status, they were fighting because they were angry lol, which - hey - it's still a fun thing to explore.
To me - because I see their relationship as so intrinsically romantic - their fight was both the culmination/the highest part of their love (I love you and because I do I'm willing to hurt you) & the bursting of their friendship (why are you making me do this while we're both hurting & in the same position?), so of course everything that comes after cannot exist without this kind of Pain, & obviously this rings true to most things (in order for the release to feel satisfying something needs to be held back before it happens); I make no universal claims, mind you, this is my preference! The stalag fight & the captivity is what makes me believe they were in love, but that is when they realized. Gale was obviously worried about John, he'd been worried, and I also like when John's pain blinds him & he can't see that Gale is suffering, too, (because he holds Gale to a higher standard & this at one point will upset him), but I also like when he's willingly making him upset because he knew he was going to burst. I don't think it's Just a Case that after the fight Gale asks Alex to help them formulate a plan, lol...
But, for a more direct answer: Gale is just the perfect character to 'torture' because I feel like his unwillingness to show makes him best suited to be the primary subject for the literary pursuit of explaining Pain.
Part of it is also definitely catharsis. He's an object & much like a stressball or a punching bag he can't hurt us back!
Sorry I don't think you were expecting such a long answer lol but The Clarifier etc.
CIRCLING BACK to the ruptured liver Absolutely yes, when their mutualism makes it so that everything is a Shared experience, like those twins that feel each other's touches... and it's never for Pleasure!!!
31. “Are you drunk?”
32. "I think I deserve a kiss."
Whoa anon you went a bit back to find that list! But sure, I'm always up for more nedcan :D Those prompts seem humorous, but this little fic actually turned out pretty serious? I mean, not in a dark way, just in a sort of introspective way. There's still jokes in there though, that's just how I write :)
As always, Maarten is Ned, Matthew’s Can, and Alfred's America, of course. (And both Belg and Port get one mention, they're Manon & Simão.)
.
A loud ringing startles Maarten out of his concentration.
What the hell, is that his doorbell? Putting his brush down, he walks over to his window, from where he can see down into the street, to check who’s stupid enough to be ringing his bell at nearly midnight on a Thursday.
Expecting to see some rowdy pranksters giggling among themselves, Maarten’s quite surprised to recognize the men standing outside his downstairs studio, illuminated by the streetlights. Well, one is standing—the other is mostly hanging off him. He opens the window.
“Matthew?” he calls down, and the man supporting the other startles visibly, looking up. When he spots Maarten, he sketches a sheepish little wave.
“So sorry to—Al, for god’s sake—”
Alfred, who’s draped over his brother’s shoulders, waves up at Maarten with much more enthusiasm, yelling, “Hey dude! Matt’s very happy to see ya!”
“Oh my god, shut your mouth.”
Maarten decides to just go down and open the door before the brothers wake the whole street. Sure, he lives close enough to the city center that some amount of noise is expected, but Alfred’s got quite the mouth on him.
“I’m really sorry,” Matthew repeats as soon as the door opens. He’s red-faced and stumbling under his brother’s weight. “Al’s got a little, uh…”
“Matt, are you drunk?” Maarten asks.
“I’m really not, I had like, three beers, two hours ago.”
Alfred, who’s definitely had more than three beers, giggles drunkenly, as Matthew continues, “But that’s more than I’m willing to drive on and I’m really sorry to ask but can we just sober up a bit here?”
If it’d just been Alfred, there is absolutely no way Maarten would allow this—he might not have even opened the door—but when Matthew’s asking, he always has a hard time saying no, so he steps back and gestures them in.
“You rock,” Alfred slurs at him, trying to… Pat him on the head, maybe? Maarten ducks out of his reach, but the man knocks Matthew’s glasses askew with his uncoordinated gesturing. “Matt, your friends are cool.”
“That’s the first time he’s ever said that,” Matthew tells Maarten, and that makes him laugh as he closes the door.
By the time Matthew has wrangled his brother up the narrow stairs to Maarten’s apartment, it is exactly midnight.
“Is he gonna throw up?” Maarten asks warily.
“I don’t think so.” Matthew is slightly out of breath, and Alfred is leaning against a door, seemingly fascinated by the pictures on Maarten’s wall.
“’S you, Matt!” he enthuses, jabbing a finger against one of the frames.
“Yes, yeah, don’t touch Maarten’s stuff, Al.” He does look at the picture, and smiles, before turning to Maarten again. “If we can just… Sit on your couch or something.”
Maarten nods. It takes both him and Matthew to maneuver Alfred into his living room and deposit him on the couch; the man’s limbs are heavy. He’s obviously coming down from his high mood already, and drapes across the whole couch.
“Dude,” Matthew starts, tugging at him, but Maarten grasps his shoulder to gently pull him back.
“It’s fine,” he says, while Alfred yawns widely.
With a put-upon sigh, Matthew plucks his brother’s glasses from his nose and puts them on the coffee table, pats his hair, and then he follows Maarten to the kitchen without further comment from the man.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, pushing his own glasses up and his hair away from his forehead, which is still a little flushed.
“As long as he doesn’t throw up, you’re good,” Maarten tells him. And if he does, it’ll be on Alfred’s own head to clean that, not Matthew’s. “Want something to drink?”
Amused, Matthew echoes, “To drink?”
“Well, I was thinking some water, or tea,” Maarten clarifies. “But I’m sure I have a fourth beer if you want it.”
“Tea sounds nice, Maarten, thank you.”
While he busies himself with the water, and measuring tea into a strainer, Maarten asks, “So what exactly’s goin’ on here? It’s not every day you turn up at midnight with your wasted brother in tow.”
“Yeah, I told him to slow down.” Matthew reaches over to grab mugs from the cabinet with practiced ease, setting them down on the counter. “He wanted to celebrate getting a promotion. I was basically enlisted as driver.”
“And then you drank three beers?”
“Well, I didn’t know he’d be so out of it by midnight.”
“Must be good money in that promotion, huh?”
The water is boiling, so Maarten fills the mugs while Matthew laughs. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, watching with sleepy eyes as the tea steeps. Immediately, Maarten’s fingers itch with the familiar urge to draw him, to study every angle of his face and every line around his eyes that’s appeared over the years they’ve known each other. Even that urge, he’s admitted to himself some time ago, is just a stand-in for what he actually wants, but it’s easier to admit than the deep, nearly all-encompassing things he feels.
“You wanna go outside?” he asks. “It’s a nice night.”
“I could use some air,” Matthew agrees, smiling softly. On the way, he pokes his head into the living room; apparently, Alfred has already fallen asleep on the couch.
Out on Maarten’s roof terrace, the air is quiet and cool, moonlight illuminating his lounge set and the array of flowers he keeps up here. In these early days of summer, they’re doing well. Matthew sets his mug of tea down and goes around looking at the plants as though he’s never seen them before.
Definitely a little tipsy, Maarten thinks with amusement as the man tells a sunflower it’s looking beautiful.
When he’s done praising Maarten’s plants, Matthew flops over next to him on the rattan couch. He stretches slowly, and nudges his glasses up to rub his eyes.
“What were you doing, anyway?” he asks Maarten after a moment. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“Nothing much, just some painting.” Come to think of it, he needs to remember to clean his brushes later.
“That’s something. Really, I’ll pay you back for this.”
“Matt, it’s…” Maarten takes a breath. “You’re my friend. Don’t worry about it.”
“Weren’t you telling me just last week about how Simão still owes you 50 cents?”
“Ah, see, the difference is, Simão’s annoying.”
That gets him a laugh. Maarten is mostly joking, was mostly joking last week as well—although it would be nice to get his 50 cents back.
“What’re you painting?”
“Hm, commission work.” Maarten blows over his tea, then takes a cautious sip. Too hot.
“At midnight?”
“Y’know, inspiration struck.” He glances over when Matthew fidgets. “Really, Matt, it’s fine. I owe you much more than you could ever owe me.”
Brow furrowing, Matthew looks at him and says, “I’m sure that’s not true.”
He probably thinks so, but Maarten knows that his life would have turned out much different if not for Matthew. If not for his sudden presence years ago, quiet and unassuming but steady, just when he needed it. Of course, there’s no telling what would’ve happened without him but, well… He’s never really told anyone that in so many words, let alone Matthew himself.
Now, he bites the inside of his cheek and inadvisably sips some more tea. The night is quiet, the wind carrying the sounds of nightlife away from the terrace and just rustling the leaves of the flowers instead. The two of them drink tea in easy silence, and when Maarten’s is finished, he digs a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it absently.
Equally as absently, he hands it over to Matthew when he holds a hand out. Then blinks, watching him take a slow drag.
“You know that’s just a cigarette,” he says, a little perplexed. Matthew just smiles, leaning back into the pillows.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Alright, then.”
Matthew’s smile is soft around the edges, and his hair is messier than usual, and Maarten looks at him smoking his cigarette with fondness. It’s still a bit of an odd feeling, although it’s been creeping up on him for years. In the beginning, it scared him sometimes; getting caught up, not in Matthew’s looks but the way he laughed at Maarten’s dry jokes, or how thoughtful his quiet insights could be, or the way his face lit up when he brought his dog home.
And that’s not to say Maarten isn’t attracted to him, but he knows sex, he knows what to do with that feeling. And this is… Something more than that.
“Al’s trying to get me to vape,” Matthew’s saying, unimpressed.
“I hear that’s bad for you,” Maarten replies, watching him laugh while he passes the cigarette back over, their fingers touching.
“So’s drinking too much.” He shifts towards him, pulling one leg up on the couch and resting an arm on the backrest. “Thank you, Maarten.”
He hums questioningly.
“Well, just, I know he isn’t your friend, is all.”
“Maybe I should ask Alfred for payment, then.”
“I’m the one who dumped him on you. Really, if there’s anything…”
Through the haze of smoke as he breathes out, Maarten looks over at him curiously. Something about his voice seems different than usual—maybe that’s down to those three beers, or the moonlight, or maybe it’s his own wishful thinking. He offers him the cigarette, which Matthew takes, but their fingers tangle together briefly as he does. There’s no reason for that to happen, unless they make it.
“There’s things, Matt,” Maarten says, tilting his head back to look at the night sky.
“Yeah?” he breathes, and his voice does something new again, going heavy with anticipation.
“But nothing I’d want to… Nothing you should owe me.”
“What if I just…” Matthew shifts abruptly; he pushes the cigarette out into the ashtray on the table, then leans back again. “What if I just want to do something? For you? Or—or with you?”
“With me,” Maarten echoes, swallowing.
Voice low, Matthew says, “Humor me, Maarten. What would you ask for?”
He takes a deep breath. “Well, you’re already here.”
“I am.” Fingers brush over Maarten’s shoulder. “Happy to be.”
“God, Matt, is this really—is this how…” Is this how this finally happens, is what he wants to ask. It seems so incongruous.
In a near-whisper, “Just ask me.”
“For putting up your brother, I think I’d deserve… A kiss.” He hears Matthew let out a shuddering breath. Maarten glances over at him out of the corner of his eye. “Is that… Is that something that’s on offer?”
“If it’s you asking, Maarten…” He leans close to brush his lips over Maarten’s cheek, his breath hot and the touch barely there, yet Maarten’s heart skips a beat. Even more so when Matthew’s fingertips brush over the back of his neck, almost ticklish.
“I am asking,” he mumbles.
“Then, yes.” Matthew presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth. Maarten can feel him smile when he involuntarily makes a small, somewhat embarrassing noise.
When Maarten slowly turns his head, Matthew makes a sound in turn, as their lips brush together and Maarten’s lower lip gets gently caught between his. Eyes nearly closed, he reaches up. Tucks his fingers around Matthew’s jaw, the shape of which he’s studied so often.
“Oh,” Matthew breathes. And, fingers curling around the back of Maarten’s neck, he tilts his head to properly kiss him.
Although the touch sparks through Maarten like wildfire, the actual kiss is easy and unhurried, so he lets himself melt into it, thinking only finally. He’d hardly let himself think about it, but when he did, it usually was like this; none of the frantic mess he could get from other people, just Matthew, kissing him like they’ve been doing it for ages. His lips are warm in the night air.
When Matthew pulls back a bit, just enough to look at him, he lets his fingers wander over his face, trying to memorize it in this new way. He tucks some blond curls behind his ear, ghosting the pads of his fingers along the shell. Matthew smiles, so Maarten runs his thumb over the man’s lips.
“I’m tempted to say finally,” Matthew says, which makes Maarten smile too. They both knew, then. Still, he wonders.
“Matt, why didn’t you ever…”
“Maybe it was easier not to.” He taps his fingers absently on the side of Maarten’s neck. “I guess I just needed…”
“Three beers?” Maarten supplies.
“Well, maybe.” A wry smile. “Don’t let that reflect poorly on me.”
“Never, Matt.” Maarten pulls him close to kiss him again, because he doesn’t think he’ll want to stop doing that now.
“Mh, why didn’t you?” Matthew asks him in turn, their lips still touching.
“Sometimes, I’m stupid.” He’ll try to explain, sometime, that it feels to him as though things like romance, or affection, are buried somewhere deep inside him and take massive amounts of time and effort to actually take hold, and that very few people have been worth that effort—but now’s not the time for that. “You’re—you’re important to me.”
Another soft noise, and Matthew bites his lip through one of those smiles that light up his face when Maarten looks at him. His eyes are bright even in the moonlight.
“Alright,” he whispers. Then, abruptly, he yawns, and Maarten chuckles.
“You could stay here, if you want,” he says, now absently winding those blond curls around his fingers.
Of course, he’s stayed before, but he asks, “Where? Al’s on the couch.”
“There’s space in my bed.” He wets his lips. “Not for anything—well, there’s space for that too, later, if you want.”
“Not with my brother here for sure,” Matthew says, huffing a laugh when Maarten grimaces. “But I’m sure that’ll be great later.”
Maarten nods, though he realizes at the same time that, when he imagines later, it’s not actually sex, right now. It’s breakfast the morning after, or kissing Matthew goodbye before work. Finding the most scenic spots on holiday to make him smile and talk with enthusiasm. Getting into silly arguments about plants at the nursery.
“What’re you thinking about?” Matthew asks. Maarten blinks.
“Flowers.”
A fond grin, tired eyes scrunching up behind his glasses. “Figures.”
“Really. What’s the date? I have to get you flowers in a year,” Maarten mostly-jokes, and so he’s smiling when Matthew kisses him quiet.
Against his lips, he says, “I want tulips.”
“I’ll remember.”
Pulling back, Matthew gazes at him for a while. “Can’t wait.” He yawns again, so Maarten stands, offering him a hand up.
“Let’s get you to bed, then.”
Before that, though, Matthew wraps his arms around his neck, looking up at him, and Maarten leans down a little, until their noses touch. He presses his hands down along Matthew’s spine, pulling him close. They stand silently entangled on his roof for a while, leaning into each other. It feels easy. Safe, even. Maarten’s eyes get heavy, and he yawns, which makes Matthew chuckle.
“You started it,” Maarten grumbles.
“So sorry.” A soft kiss pressed to the corner of his lips. “Come on, then. I hope Al’s still alive.”
Alfred, it turns out, has somehow eaten all of Maarten’s cornflakes—and nothing else—and then fallen back asleep on the couch. The only comment he has the following morning is, “Aw man, you guys. Now I owe Manon a twenty! You got any cornflakes?”
Maarten thinks he rather deserves another kiss for that.
Dearest pietroabelardo (I'm sorry but I DO HAVE to call you by your username 'cause COME ON! You picked Pietro Abelardo of all people!) anyway, I digress ... the newest CalTurn content is driving me mad and I need to share such madness. Have you ever considered that biblically accurate John Egan would be twink!Cal but, BUT!, older and established military guy still visiting Gale would be CURRENT CalTurn? Gale witnessing the Hottest Twink Death in the history of mankind, for your consideration <3
Hahahahahah you can call me whichever name strikes your fancy, and I did pick Pietro Abelardo, after all!! I'm sure he'd have only positive feelings for being associated with WWII yaoi!!
I hadn't considered it, but now I'm capital C Considering it, to be honest. That man is haunting him!!!! It would be funny if in hindsight clegan hadn't happened during the war because Gale thought of Bucky as not Masculine enough to harbour certain thoughts but once he puts on a few pounds he's asking to stop the world to stop the feeling etc. etc.
So many possibilities as well!! What if Gale & Marge postponed the wedding & John has enough time to Get Big → once he gets to Casper, Wyoming he's the size of a wardrobe & Gale feels for the first time something like Sexual Attraction... he's going to kill himself!!!!
Other things that could happen & that would make Gale commit an unspeakable cruelty towards the world & that would bring me personal enjoyment:
John lifting/manhandling him (they're both tall fellas but maybe something gets stuck in a tree and John grabs Gale by the waist?);
John putting all of his weight on Gale, like a big dog on a kitten... not only would it make him Start a Process of Understanding but I'd also wager it'd cure his neuroses (which are many);
John sitting down on a sofa and spreading his thighs → Gale cannot fit on the cushions anymore and has to sit on the armrest (this would make me violent in any other setting but for purposes of gay sex it's fine);
ANIME BEACH EPISODE → Gale has a conniption once he sees Bucky's knees & elbows (there's a bts picture of The Boys and the Boat in which CalTur is like. Lifting his already short shorts & you can see his tanlines I'm kind of getting furious just thinking about it I can't imagine what Gale's victorian sensibilities would make him do);
John somehow convincing Gale to go to a bar & there's dancing – OK this is just a me-fantasy because lately I've been obsessed with lindy hop & I think John would love it, but imagine!!! Big, buff John dancing with a dame prancing and jumping like a majestic horse & Gale is white-knuckling the table he's sat at for the better part of the last thirty minutes because he Refuses to have any sort of Physical Manifestation of his Feelings in a BAR!
John eating a Big Meal because he's a Big Boy (actually Feeding fetish anyone......);
This is something I personally find very attractive sorry to bring my own perversions to the table but John kind of slumping & the fat of his tummy kind of spills over the waistband of his pants & his thighs are Very wide. OK moving on;
Just John stretching his back & groaning. That would do it.
Don't beat yourself about the torture factory managing. It's though work. We are operating round the clock after all, in a mode of production Ford himself envies beyond the grave and nothing could stop us. We do these things not because they are easy, but because we are hard, and we want everyone else to be so as well <3<33<3<3<3<3<3
This is so sweet thank you So Much : ) I guess when you do what you love you'll never work a day in your life... Well in any case at this point in the production I feel like I need to put on a tophat and start smoking cigars and complain about antitrust laws but I don't want this Noble Pursuit to turn into a capitalist's venture we must remain pure. We must remember our Purpose which is to give Gale never once thought before issues.
I hope you know that I’m constantly thinking about your satc au 💙
Hello anon... Me too, me too 🚬 and because I somehow care too much about it I've started doing something I never do which is Plotting and I've just about filled four pages of blunt ideas I'm not sure where to put ! But here's a sneak peak of a sneak peak for you & you don't get any context for it, though you can imagine what's going to happen...
“Where the hell are Croz and Johnny, anyways?”
“Parking.”
“Parking? Why the fuck would they be parking? Nobody parks, this is not a city where people park.”
“Brady was in Jersey for a job. Some walk-through, floor plans, load-bearing this and that. Drove back and picked up Croz on the way, cake-tasting with Bubbles, if you can believe that.”
“Cake-tasting. With Bubbles.”
“That's what I said.”
“Jesus, is he already cake-tasting?”
“Stop repeating shit, I'm not paying you by the word. And I'm telling you Bucky, it's happening, the cake tasting, the venue visiting, the bachelor party with the strippers and Village People for you and Brady,” Bucky kicks him in the shins without soliciting much besides a small flinch, because Curt is a tough motherfucker.
“He's probably still circling, you know how he gets, and Harry’s either puking or finding him the perfect spot.”
“That poor bastard,” he says, “hey, remember when Johnny tried to teach him how to drive stick.”
“How could I fucking forget? The last time I'd scrubbed so much vomit from my hair was my granddad’s eightieth.”
Bucky laughs, and it catches on the hinges of the door as it goes, the warmth from outside seeping through. The city doesn't cool with the dark: the pavement remembers the sun's lesson, and the heat seeps through every bastard's soles. Bucky can feel it even through the floorboards, the beer he's finishing, the crackly atmosphere. It sticks to the back of his neck like an insistent hand, making everyone bend their heads with a little more honesty. It takes too much effort to perform anything nobody means in such a weather.
What comes in: two men, the crashing symphony of a too-awake city, the neverending heat, latching onto the fine hairs at the base of their skulls. Something obscures his line of sight for the smallest second, and then Brady doesn't announce himself as much as he slides next to Bucky, offering a report.
“Twenty-Second and Eighth. Legal,” he says, pointed, moving past the declaration and slinging his jacket (giving it up) on the back of their seats. He grabs two fries and chews on them like they disappointed him, “Eleven minutes of my life I'm not getting back.”
“You drove past four spots,” Crosby says, pink at the collar and smiling, which means he wasn't puking at least.
“Illegal spots. A two-hundred-dollar difference.”
“Don't get started, Johnny, please.”
“Nobody's getting started, we're here to talk about baby Croz and his cake-tasting. Was it good?”
Bucky shifts in his seat, “Yeah, Croz, we’re your bridesmaids, tell us everything.”
Curt snorts, “You couldn't ever be the bridesmaid, Bucky, you'd talk through the vows. God knows, you'd talk through your funeral.”
“I'd elevate the vows. Are you telling me you'd be a better bridesmaid?”
“Jesus,” Brady interrupts, “Flirt when I haven't spent the whole day in Jersey, please. Crosby, the cakes.”
“Seven kinds,” Harry announces, a bit shy, the way people unused to old friendships are around ancient ones, “Bubbles cried at the lemon meringue. Not exaggerating.”
“What a sensitive boy,” Curt says, “Are you sure he's the right best man for you?”
Brady rolls his eyes, beer still untouched, “Don't start, Biddick–
“Hey, I've got the right to ask!”
“You don't have shit, you just have your insane theory about best men.”
Crosby awkwardly laughs, he's flushed and red and the beer’s only one third empty, “What kind of theory?”
The race drones in the background, more people are entering and none are leaving. Bucky gives him an indulgent smile, “According to Curt, the best men get laid the most out of all the wedding guests.”
“That’s. Well–
“Not happening,” Bucky concludes, though he might be inclined to agree with Curt. They're situationally closer to the bridesmaids: everybody wants to steal someone else's thunder, and a wedding is just the perfect storm. Booze and jealousy and biological clocks ticking in several directions none of which make much sense in any other context. Only a sea so big you can't see the fish in it could make anxieties buzz like that.
Bucky lets it sit with them for a while, the ceremony of coming and going, finding the right person, the simple mathematical truth of two complementary angles fitting with each other, or at least willing to smooth down themselves in order not to poke anyone in the eyes. Crosby is smiling at his glass less in embarrassment and more like a man quietly confirming that in a terrifyingly close-and-real September he'll be married and full of lemon meringue cake. And it's going to happen, because he's participated in the wild mating ritual that is spotting the love of your life at a job conference in New England.
“Speaking of things happening,” Brady says, sensing the lull and focusing on Bucky, but trying to make it look incidental, meaning he's going to ask for a favor, “I need a plus-one Thursday. The firm's got a table at a benefit downtown. Architecture and preservation, whatever, there's a silent auction and there'll be a string quartet playing something nobody chose on purpose. I'd rather not go alone and I'd rather not bring someone from the office who'll talk about square footage all night.”
“A fundraiser,” Bucky says.
“A fundraiser,” Brady says it like it's just cost him those two hundred dollars he apparently saved in parking four blocks away, “Free bar, at least. Come with me, you'll get a column out of it if nothing else.”
He doesn't answer right away, though it's more a formality than hesitation, it's a breath taken for its own sake. He's going to say yes, of course, and the prospect of writing about the courting rituals of rich bastards is enticing enough without the promise of free booze to dilute the pain of having to talk to them.
He smiles. Outside, the avenue keeps its own rhythm, sheets of hot air rising from the curbs, visible under the streetlights, cabs honking and people screaming, the din of a city that never quiets down even if the hour is getting late, converging together in a miasma everybody hates and never wants to leave. He thinks about the kind of people eating hors d'oeuvres at a fundraiser, compulsion masked as appetite, and orders another round (the third, Curt notices with a raised eyebrow, but until the fifth he won't say anything) before answering, letting Brady’s offer broil a bit more.
“Thursday,” he says, as Crosby is weaving a tale about the fourth cake (chocolate fudge, deemed too-eighties by everyone), and Curt is arguing about his cousin's confirmation, and it matters because apparently the catering gave everyone salmonella, and the race circles on, forty engines chasing each other, the dedication of someone refusing to accept the ending and deciding to love the going instead.
The silent man with the fake Rolex has been captivated by it, too, and the booths and the counter are looser, collars opened and ties hanging, taking the shapes of men being close to one another. He understands this as a rare thing, too, and a thing that happens, is happening, is always going to happen. It’s its own kind of luck, even as he keeps an eye on the door, because he's always looking at the door, waiting for the night to hand him whatever has been building over the tar going soft outside, in no hurry to be understood.
A resounding YES for the collective galey torture hours @ your inbox!! He should be ever so dejected, hollow, uncertain, trudging along, with his clothes growing too big on him. People asking more and more often now "how are you?" and the only part he hears is the "are you?" Because he's not sure, not sure if he is. He might not be. But not being still doesn't stop him from doing, performing an act, playing the part of Gale Cleven. Being seen, being caught in the act of Gale Cleven would be immensely humiliating for him too.
<3<3<<3333<3<3
Gale torture hours are 24/7 if we all do our work ♥️
Love love love this I'm the happy smiler. Whenever I see the word Performing I sit up like a dog hearing Treats and I feel like reading Gender Troubles almost ten years ago was the starting point of the domino effect leading me to answering asks about WWII yaoi. Let's all cheer for Gale never truly knowing his Self because of his upbringing forcing him to learn & understand that he needed to Act a certain way (which didn't necessarily align with how he'd wanted to act), and later on because of the army shoehorning his personality into a rigorous shape disallowing soft corners and demanding sharp edges!! #YAY
On this note, let's all imagine when Bucky confesses his feelings Buck's dismissal is immediate: how could Bucky love Someone who isn't Any one? Gale as the mirror reflecting an act! Bucky believing he's got access to a True Gale who maybe wasn't ever there. Is Bucky in love with an ideal or a man : ( ? I don't knowwwww
dear pietroabelardo could I persuade you into writing curtbuckies no worries if not (love your fic!!)
Dear anon, love a no worries if not, but I'm sad to admit that I'm in a committed monogamous relationship with the extratemporal & pervasive love-obsession the Bucks have going on, which means that any other person involved is going to suffer because of the aforementioned extratemporal & pervasive love those two share in my beautiful mind fortress.
If you don't mind characters being put in a meat grinder for the purpose of my enjoyment, then maybe sure! But don't expect any fun to be had : (
