#ransomweek

[chrisfranklinchow]

dedicated to one of my favourite samwell bros for @ransomweek!!! 💞

[nanlicia]

First, To Do No Harm

Ransom Week Day 1 - primum non nocere - “first, to do no harm”

There’s something to be said about impulse decisions. There’s a certain thrill that rises in a person’s bloodstream and makes the brain all fuzzy-happy-feely. There’s also a lack of time to be stressed, concerned, or overwhelmed.

But the best thing Justin can figure about impulse decisions is that they’re made with the gut. Not the head, which works itself into such a frenzy it can sometimes paralyze the rest of the body. And not the heart, either, which tugs itself into so many different directions it’s hard to know if the final decision is in his own best interest, or that of one of the other dozens of important people in his life.

No; impulse decisions are made with the firmness and sincerity of pure intuition. There’s second guesses which can arise, sure. But there’s nothing like the clarity that comes after recklessly proclaiming a decision, even if you’re not sure if it’s the right one.

Set the timer and give yourself the 20 seconds to think it through and then blurt out the answer before the beep comes and in that one single moment after doing so your entire body will react and you will know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, if what just came out of your mouth was the right thing or not.

And then you’ll have your correct answer.

That’s why Justin said it out loud before he’d ever really given it any thought.

“I don’t wanna go to medical school.”

The attic was quiet, Holster having been in class at the time, and the rest of the Haus mates downstairs but not being overly obnoxious. There was an open notebook in his lap and a textbook resting on his knees and a weight lifted off his shoulders.

He didn’t wanna go to medical school.

Not yet, anyway. Maybe, not ever.

He put some more thought into it, shared it with Holster, argued about it with Holster, and then set plans into motion that would keep him moving in a forward direction without having to commit to throwing the idea of medical school out the window just yet.

And then he made another impulse decision and asked Holster to borrow the Jeep so he could drive the 9 hours back to Toronto to inform his parents.

“What do you mean you haven’t told your parents?” Holster had asked.

“I mean I haven’t told them,” Justin had replied, shoving some clothes into the overnight bag he used on roadies. “And I need to.”

“Well yeah, but-”

“Now.”

“Ok but-”

“Right now, Holtzy, I need to be in a car on my way home to tell them I’m not going.”

“Ok, ok, I got you, lemme just-”

“Alone.”

Holster had been upset and had argued but Justin was adamant. Some things in life required an audience, a support system, a source of encouragement. But others could only be done if no one else was around to make Justin feel like he was doing this for any reason other than for himself.

The drive had passed in a blur of highway lanes, billboard signs, and gas stations. The radio had went fuzzy and silent for a while and left Justin in static filled quiet, but it was an absent quiet. Like the kind you don’t even notice is happening until it’s almost over and your mind comes back to your body and you realize you’re one traffic light away from your destination.

Pulling up outside his childhood home at 4 AM had felt strange, like seeing a behind the scenes picture of the set from your favorite tv show that stopped airing twelve years ago. It’s been a while since you’ve even watched any re-runs, but the faces in the picture are all just as you remember them, even if the colors on the photo are faded and you can tell it was taken on a camera with technology that’s completely obsolete by now.

A knock on a bedroom window and an awkward half-hug with his little sister in the doorway were the only thing he really took in before he was lying in his old bed, leg bouncing, body shaking, and heart racing.

His parents were creatures of habit, and his mom emerged from her room at exactly 5:56 AM.

Justin made another impulsive decision and said “hey mom” just loud enough for her to hear and be startled and have to have him come rushing out to reassure her everything was ok and the voice from the should-be-empty bedroom belonged to her son, who was about to miss his Friday morning thesis seminar.

She had hugged him tight and then smacked his shoulder for scaring her like that and then his dad had shouted out from his place still lying in bed, asking what was happening, and Justin had went over, plopped down next to him and cuddled up so they were lying face to face sharing the same pillow and smiling the same fond smile at each other.

All the morning distractions made them all running late, especially his dad who really didn’t want to be late to work, so Justin helped get his sister to school and his mom to work, then spent the rest of the day at home by himself, waiting for them all to come home.

His mind was surprisingly calm and at ease, heart centered and full after being in this warm and cozy house again.

Once everyone came home his mom got started on dinner and Justin sat at the breakfast bar trading sarcastic comments with his sister and discussing world news with his parents. They talked about the weather, the upcoming election, the stock exchange, and Dami’s calculus homework.

And then, just as the oven beeped to let everyone know the chicken was done, Justin said “so I’ve decided I’m not going to medical school”, and the entire house fell so silent even the oven stopped beeping.

Justin let the silence sit, not really knowing what else there was for him to say.

Eventually, his sister said she had a question on one of her problems, and he leaned over to help her as his mom went to get the food out of the oven. They ate dinner with almost nothing being said until finally his father set his fork down on his plate, steepled his fingers over it, looked at Justin and asked him to explain.

So he did.

Justin explained that he wasn’t sure what direction he wanted his life to take at this point. That some days the idea of one more day, one more class, one more test, was too much to handle so he didn’t. He’d spent at least two days of every week for the last five months ditching class and staying home to sleep.

His mind was exhausted, and while he knew that he’s capable of maintaining a high grade point average, even with missing so much class, he also knew that trying to do so was slowly eating away at his motivation and making him less happy to be there, and more resentful of it for the amount of mental energy it takes.

He wanted to give himself a chance to breathe. To re-adjust, re-evaluate, and re-focus.

He wanted to consider other options, because, in all honesty and all fairness and with all respect, he didn’t think he’d ever been given the room to consider other options.

“You want to be a doctor,” his dad said, voice watery. “You told us that.”

“Yeah, Pop, I know I did. And back then… maybe I did. I don’t know. But right now, I - I don’t know if that’s what I want, or if that’s what I thought you wanted me to want.”

“So, you are not happy?” he asked.

Justin bit his lip, looking over at his mom who was was sitting up straight in her seat and bringing her hand to her face in a way she probably thought was subtle, but which Justin could tell was just an excuse to wipe at her watery eyes. His heart was racing because he could see the heartbreak she was experiencing plain on her face.

He shook his head. “No. I’m not happy.”

His mom reached out and pulled him into a hug, saying “We love you, Justin, and we want you to be happy, and to do well. We support you, no matter what, and if this will make you happy, it will make us happy.”

Dinner was cold and forgotten by the time she let him go, and she told him to wash up and get some sleep; he’d have a long drive the next day.

As he stood, he placed a hand on Dami’s shoulder and she reached up and patted the back of his hand, smiling up at him.

His father came over then, and hugged him tight, rubbing across his back. He pressed a kiss to his cheek and Justin pressed one of his own into his dad’s beard, and then they pulled apart and he headed to bed.

The next morning when he woke, his dad was outside washing the Jeep.

Justin took his time getting dressed, kissed his mother good morning as she stood over the stove cooking breakfast. She told him he should go speak with his father, told him he should go hear him out.  

Justin grew concerned as he went out front and the closer he came to his father, the man who built their family into a home with his own two hands and every gene in his body, he could feel the air become thick with tension.

“Ma says you have something to say to me,” Justin said, speaking up to be heard over the spray from the hose.

His dad kept rinsing the Jeep, his face unreadable.

“The car should be clean when you return it,” he said.

Justin shook his head. “I don’t think that’s what you wanna say to me.”

“I don’t think this is what you really want to do,” his dad snapped back.

Justin tried to stay calm, but he could feel all the guilt and dread and shame rolling in the pit of his stomach all the sudden, and he didn’t know how he was going to contain it.

“Dad, please-”

“How am I supposed to support this decision when I don’t even know what the alternative is?” His dad asked, dropping the hose and moving to pick up the soapy car sponge from the small bucket at his feet. “What is it you plan to do instead?”

“I’m gonna go into consulting. At least, at first.” Justin watched as his father scrubbed at a particularly nasty spot on the hood of the car with as much passive aggression as any one person could manage. “I’ve already done several interviews, and I have some offers. I’m gonna stay in Boston, get an apartment, and in a year, if I decide I wanna go back to school, I’ll still have all my options open.”

His dad finished scrubbing and picked up the hose again, and as the breeze blew by Justin was hit with some of the backspray. He stepped out of the way and closer toward his dad.

“I want you to be happy, Justin, you know that. I just don’t understand how you don’t see how happy this could make you.”

“Dad,” Justin sighed, trailing off and glancing toward the ground.

The hose dropped down by his feet and his father leaned over and turned off the spout.

“Grab a towel,” his dad said, and together they both moved to begin drying the car on opposite sides.

They worked in silence until they met up at the back, and Justin gently reached out and took the wet towel from his dad’s hands.

“Doctors take an oath, right? To do no harm?” Justin asked. His dad was watching him intensely, eyes searching Justin’s face for some sort of answer. “When does that begin, do you think, dad? With the first patient? With the first cadaver on the first day of med school? Or does it begin with the doctor, themself? I just - shouldn’t I make sure that I’m not doing any harm to myself first, dad?”

“Are-” his dad tried to speak but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, reaching out and setting a hand on Justin’s. “Are you harming yourself?”

Justin’s eyes welled with tears and his face started to break and all he could do was nod.

Before he could have a moment more to think, his dad was holding him in his arms and they were crying together, voices wet as they apologized to each other over and over.

“I’m sorry, dad, I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, my boy, shh.” His dad rocked them back and forth, the movement soothing. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t see it before. I'm sorry you felt like you couldn't tell us what you've been going through. I don't ever want to miss something like this again.

“You, your sisters, and your mom are my world, and I don’t want to ever cause any of you pain by wishing something for you that is only hurting you.”

“I should have said something sooner.”

“You should have. But that’s past now, and you’ve told us now, so it’s going to be ok. Everything is going to be ok now.”

And as Justin stood there in the driveway, soaking wet from the mist in the air and rivers on his face, wrapped in his father’s arms, he could see how that could be true, how everything, from here on out, would be ok.

[halfabreath]

just in the nick of time for @ransomweek. A huge, ginormous thank you to @dusttandashes, who betad this right at the last minute. i’ll post a full version here when i figure out what’s causing this glitch. 

Justin Oluransi stares up at the wooden door that looms before him, heavy hockey bag resting on his shoulder. The skin aches where the weight presses down through his thin shirt, the bag stuffed full with anything and everything Justin thought he might need. He’d made a list last night after his parents moved him into his dorm room. They’d lingered longer than they needed to, his father trying to oil the squeaky window while his mother rearranged his bookshelf and organized and then reorganized the small box where he keeps his testosterone and syringes for his intramuscular injections (I just want you to be able to find everything, baby, and don’t you forget to massage your chest every day, don’t skip, oh, where’s your lotion? Do I need to run out and get more? Justin don’t you roll your eyes at me - ). He hadn’t forgotten his lotion, and he hadn’t forgotten to massage his chest. She always thinks he’ll forget, because she’s his mother and she loves him (she loved him before she knew he was, is, will continue to be, a him).

But Justin didn’t forget, because he’s ready for his new start. He’s completely recovered from his surgery, his new coaches have assured him that he’s welcome, he finally feels right, settled into his bones for the first time in his life, and best of all, nobody here knows him from before. They won’t call him the wrong name, because they don’t know it. He has a spot on the team, a major that’s been declared, and Justin is ready.

He just needs to open the locker room door, and it’s just a tiny bit more difficult than he’d anticipated, but practice doesn’t start for another thirty minutes so it’s fine if he just. Takes his time. Takes a breath.

Justin ends up taking forty two breaths before he finally manages to push open the door, but he does manage to open the door, and he thinks that’s what matters. When he steps inside his heart is hammering inside his chest. He’s never actually been in a men’s locker room before. He’s had the hockey dressing room experience - hell, he feels like he’s lived in dressing rooms throughout the years - and he may have played for the best secondary school hockey team in Toronto but he also played for the best secondary school women’s hockey team in Toronto, so yeah, this is his first men’s dressing room.

It’s pretty much the exact same as a women’s locker room. It’s nicer, yeah, because it houses a NCAA Division I team, but it’s the same cubbies, same equipment, same everything.

Justin hadn’t expected that.

Read the rest on AO3!

[ransomweek]

Countdown to Ransom Week:

3 more days til Day 1!!!

See the prompts here, follow us at @ransomweek , and send us asks for any questions you might have!

We're very excited, and can't wait to get started!!

[17piesinseptember]

Ransom Week | Day Five | Human

“--so then I was saying, like, Ransom is a maniac at flash cards. Give him ten minutes and some markers and he’ll alphabetise the syllabus for you, no sweat.”

“Holster,” Rans hedges, feeling uncomfortable at the recount of Holster’s conversation with some of the new frogs.

Holster paces the floor of their attic while he talks. Ransom has to keep watch in case Holster’s long limbs shoot his hands out too close to Ransom’s face.

“Yeah, they were all just blinking, totally awed. I think they were confronted by how you are so boss at hockey but also life. I mean, it is phenomenal. You’re an inspiration. I was telling them that--”

“Holster,” Ransom tries again.

“--when it’s exams, and you get into coral reef mode, that they are not to disturb. But--”

“Adam!” Holster shuts up abruptly, coming to a stop in front of Ransom.

“I’m just... Like, it’s cool you’re so supportive, but we don’t know these dudes yet? And I’m just human, alright?”

Holster looks dejected, shoulders curving down.

“I don’t want--You don’t have to be telling them I’m some, like, study god. It’s too much."

“Okay, Rans,” Holster says softly.

“I’m just, like, doing the work,”  Ransom tacks on, less overwhelmed now that Holster isn’t in constant movement, but still wanting to make his point; that he feels strange to be talked about like he’s some miracle.

Holster sits down beside him. “I just want them to appreciate you like I do.”

“Yeah, well,” Ransom sighs out. Holster has good intentions. It’s just a more dramatic approach than Ransom would like. “Like I said, they don’t really know us yet. Give them time. Sometimes it’s a little... a little much when you’re talking about me like that to everyone before they’ve even met me.”

Holster frowns, looking dejected. Ransom puts an arm around Holster’s wide shoulders, and pulls him in closer.

“Holtzy, I love you, and it’s cool that you’re always so supportive. Just... it’s like you’re making me the study robot to Jack’s hockey robot, yeah?”

“Oh, wow.” Holster blinks. “I’ve never thought about it like that. Jack hates that term.“

“Yeah,” Ransom agrees. “That’s my point.”

Holster is alarmingly quiet for a moment, then slaps a hand to Ransom’s chest and brings his face right up close, like he does when he’s moving into D&M mode (no matter how many times Ransom has told him physical closeness does not necessarily equal emotional closeness). “You know I don’t think you’re a robot. You’re more in touch with your emotions than I am.”

“Says the man who cries at cereal commercials,” Ransom jokes, feeling Holster’s sincerity. (Also, a little bit of spittle.) “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

Holster shoves Ransom backwards with the hand on his chest, and Ransom lets himself fall back on the bed.

“I declare hypocrisy. Who cried when Bitty’s ceramic pie-tin fractured yesterday?”

“Hey!” Ransom reaches up to yank Holster down and shove his face into the quilt beside him. “You did too, man.”

Holster shoves him off with a well placed elbow and Ransom rolls onto his back, lying beside Holster, laughing at the skewed angle of his glasses. He straightens them up for Holster, and knows that, even though the seriousness didn’t last very long, Holster heard him.

[chrisfranklinchow]

"...knew you had my back.” “bro. you totally had mine.”

happy 5th day of @ransomweek!!!!

[nanlicia]

He Found Hope Covered in Dirt Under a Blue Sky and in the Arms of a Boy

Ransom Week Day 3 - crisis - “a time of intense difficulty, trouble, or danger”

warning for description of past internalized homophobia

Samwell University Application for Fall 2012 (page 5)

Short Answer Prompt 2: Describe a time in your life when you experienced a crisis (750 word limit)

When I was twelve, my 7th grade homeroom teacher made us keep a daily journal. He promised he’d never read them, only check to make sure we had an entry for each day, so we were free to write about anything we wanted - and I did.

I wrote about homework I wasn’t looking forward to, community hockey league try-outs that I was excited about, idle middle school gossip, and on one occasion, I wrote about how scared I was that I might be gay.

I was twelve, so most of my understanding of what it meant to be gay came from what the other kids at school talked about. My parents didn’t really bring up topics like that at home, but on the rare occasion when it did come up they’d passively state that they don’t judge others for whom they choose to love, and then move the conversation along.

So most of what I heard - positive or negative - happened in hushed tones at the back of the gym, or in mocking tones in the middle of the locker room, kids throwing around slurs like they cared half as much as they should about the history of those words, kids who clearly didn’t really understand what they were saying.

And I guess I internalized a lot of that as a kid, because at twelve years old I wrote in my journal about how terrifying I found the idea of me possibly being gay to be.

The page the entry is on is worn, ripped in the corner, rough and wavy in the way paper gets after it’s been wet and then dried pressed onto other pieces of paper - I was crying when I wrote it. The tears of my internalized homophobia are forever stained in blue ink on the inside of a blue composition notebook, the page ragged and - until only two months ago - forgotten in a bin in the back of my bedroom closet.

That page is loud - there are exclamation marks all over it and run-on sentences and so many capital letters. But it’s funny, see, because the first time I actually kissed a boy, the world went quiet.

We were kneeling in the soil of his grandmother’s garden, protected from any outside influences by the high fence around their backyard. We were covered in dirt, worms, and leaves, and he was really cute, kinda shy, and incredibly sweet.

When he leaned in to kiss me, all I could see were his lips, and when he pressed them to mine, I could have sworn the earth stopped spinning so as to give us as much time as we needed to hold that single moment.

The air smelled like flowers and freshly cut grass, the breeze fluttered around us, and not a single atom in the universe made a sound that wasn’t the slide of our lips over each other.

Unless you’ve experienced it, I don’t think you can understand just how painful it can be to invalidate yourself, torment yourself with your own reality, suppress it to the point you literally forget it because your brain is trying to protect you from the things that most hurt your heart and soul.

It is absolute, utter hell.

But kissing that boy had my brain releasing every possible chemical that had been suppressed out of fear of the pain, and funnelling them through every possible positive interaction, like an apology.

Later, I’d figure out that bisexuality was a real thing, and I’d take some time to come to terms with it and feel confident applying it to myself. But two months ago, when I found that journal and flipped through it only to be slapped in the face with the discovery of a memory I hadn’t known I’d lost at any point, I didn’t think to care about whether that twelve year old boy had the label right or not, because all I wanted to do was reach back in time and hold that boy close and let him feel the freedom that came with knowing.

It saddens me that I can’t do that, that I can’t bend time to my will and give this boy the hope he so desperately needs. All I can be glad for is that someday he’ll get his apology, and on that day, he’ll finally be happy.

[ransomweek]

Countdown to Ransom Week:

1 more day!! We start tomorrow!!! :D

Remind yourself of all the prompts by checking out the prompt post, make sure you follow us at @ransomweek to see all the content that comes up, and please let us know if you have any questions!!

See ya all tomorrow!!