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Self-managed abortion (SMA) with pills is very medically safe and effective throughout early pregnancy, but there is a significant risk of criminalization in many U.S. states. While it is impossible to fully eliminate the risk of criminalization when having or planning to have an abortion at home, t
Leave no online footprint of searches or purchases. Digital Defense Fund’s abortion privacy guide is your go-to resource for this. Using private browsers, two-factor authentication, encrypted messaging, strong passwords, etc. is critical. Google searches have been presented as evidence in an SMA trial before. Do not leave a digital trail.
Use the medications properly to prevent interactions with healthcare providers. The pills are very effective, but they have to be used right. Carefully follow the instructions provided on the How to Use Abortion Pill website. Note that misoprostol tablets should always be taken by dissolving them under the tongue. Do NOT insert misoprostol vaginally if you are self-managing an abortion. While this is medically safe, it can leave incriminating pill remnants that can be detected in the vagina during a pelvic exam if you end up needing to seek medical care.
If it’s not an emergency but you need expert health advice, use a free calling service like Google Voice to call or text the Miscarriage + Abortion Hotline at 1-833-246-2632. Medical complications are very uncommon with abortion pills, but they’re not impossible. The M+A Hotline is safe to use and is staffed by trustworthy clinicians who volunteer their time to help those who choose SMA. Do not use your own phone number to call as this will create a record that is visible to your cell service provider.
Don’t disclose any information about SMA to emergency room staff if you do need to seek medical care. This is how most people who are arrested for SMA are reported. Healthcare providers are almost always who calls the police in cases of SMA criminalization. Contrary to popular belief, HIPAA does not protect your private health information from being shared with police if you are suspected of doing something that could be considered a crime. If you believe you need to seek urgent medical care, do not hesitate to go. Say “I think I’m having a miscarriage” and provide your symptoms. Do not mention any use of or purchase of abortion pills. There is no widely available test to detect misoprostol in your bloodstream. If you do not disclose it, there is no way for a medical provider to tell the difference between a medication abortion and a spontaneous miscarriage.
Do not talk to the cops. Period. Do. Not. Talk. To. The. Cops. If you are questioned by police you should state, “I am exercising my right to remain silent, and I wish to speak with an attorney.” Do not speak again or nod in response to a question. Contact the Repro Legal Helpline as soon as possible for expert legal advice: 1-844-868-2812. Do not agree to questioning or speak to any law enforcement official without a lawyer present.
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Okay I JUST realized I never posted these on here—- BUT BASICALLY, about a year and a half ago I started doing these experimental black hairstyle posts that were threads long on Twitter, to give artists a source of inspo for their black ocs whose hair they wanted to try something new with! There’s more to black hair than just the selected styles portrayed in media, and I thought it would be fun to show people how much texture, shape, fades, length, and style can be combined when drawing black hair—-cause it’s a kind of manipulation our hair can do irl! The OG posts were lost with the hacking of my original Twitter account (@/bagels_donuts) but I’ve since reuploaded the whole thread to my new Twitter (@/ItsDonutsFR)! I hope artists on tumblr find these useful, sorry it took me so long to post them here😭🙏🏾 I’ll upload them all in parts!
Part 1: Long masc hairstyles + playing with fades
💬 2 🔁 715 ❤️ 1008 · Part 2: shape, style, and length with femme styles!
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There’s a phenomenon I actually see extremely commonly when literature is used to teach history to middle school and high school students. Let’s call it “pajamafication.”
So a school district nixed Maus from their curriculum, to be replaced by something more “age-appropriate.” IIRC they didn’t cite a specific replacement title, but it will
probably be something like John Boyne’s “The Boy in the Striped Pajamas.”
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas is tailor-made for classroom use. It’s taught at countless schools and it’s squeaky-clean of any of the parent-objectionable material you might find in Maus, Night, or any of the other first-person accounts of the Holocaust.
It’s also a terrible way to teach the Holocaust.
I’m not going to exhaustively enumerate the book’s flaws—others have done so—but I’ll summarize the points that are common to this phenomenon in various contexts.
First, obviously, the context shift. Maus, Night, et al are narrated by actual Jews who were in concentration camps. The Boy in the Striped Pajamas is narrated by a German boy. The Jewish perspective is completely eliminated.
Second, the emphasis on historical innocence. Bruno isn’t antisemitic. He has no idea that anything bad is happening. He happily befriends a Jewish boy with absolutely no prejudice.
Thus we’re reassured that you too, gentle reader, are innocent. You too would have have a childlike lack of prejudice and you too would be such a sweet summer child that you would have no idea the place next door is a death camp.
In Maus, by contrast, the children are not innocent. They are perpetrators of injustice just like adults.
[ID: Picture of part of a page of Maus where children run away yelling “Help! Mommy! A Jew!! - the next panel says “The mothers always told so: ‘Be careful! A Jew will catch you to a bag and eat you!’ …So the taught to their children.”]
Maus also smashes the claim that people just didn’t know what was going on in the camps.
[ID: Picture of part of a page of Maus where a Nazi truck is arriving at Auschwitz guarded by men with sticks and a pointing, growling dog, the boxes say “And we came here to the concentration camp Auschwitz. And we knew that from here we will not come out anymore…” “We knew the stories that they will gas us and throw in the oves. This was 1944… we knew everything. And here we were.”]
Third, nonspecificity. The Boy in the Striped Pajamas turns a specific historical atrocity into a parable about all forms of bigotry and injustice. I’m sure Boyne thinks he’s being very profound. But the actual effect is to blunt and erase the atrocity.
There’s the too-cute-by-half way it avoids terminology: “Off-With,” “the Fury.” Harsh language becomes “He said a nasty word.”
Notice how “it’s a fable” ties in with the goal of eliminating anything parents might object to.
And that’s our fourth point. Bad things can happen, but only abstractly. Someone’s dad disappears. He’s just…gone. How? Who knows. People stand around looking hungry and unhappy and saying “It’s not very nice in here.”
The ending is sad, but it’s sad like a Lifetime movie. It’s sanitized, it’s quick, there are no details, it’s meant to poke that bit of your heart that loves crying.
Maus’s description of the gas chambers, meanwhile…
[ID: Picture of part of a page of Maus where the process of gassing and then taking out the bodies are described in detail as inmates are working. That it took 3 to 30 minutes to gas people. That the largest pile of bodies was by the door. The worker telling the story mentions “We pulled the bodies apart with hooks. Big piles, with the strongest on top, older ones and babies crushed below… often the skulls were smashed…” “Their fingers were broken from trying to climb up the walls… and sometimes their arms were wera as long as their bodies, pulled from the sockets.” Until the narrator says, “Enough!” “I didn’t want to more to hear, but anyway he told me.”]
A historical atrocity can never be a metaphor for all bigotry because the specifics are what makes it an atrocity. The Nazis didn’t just do “bad things, generally,” they did THESE things. And leaving out the details is simply historical erasure.
Finally, fifth: Fiction.
However much poor little Bruno and Schmuel might rend your heartstrings, you can ultimately retreat into the knowledge that they aren’t real and they didn’t really die.
Now, I write historical fiction, and obviously I believe it has a place, in the classroom and out. But no Holocaust education can be complete without nonfiction that teaches about real people who genuinely did experience it.
One of the striking things about Maus is how big the cast is and how few of them survived.
[ID: Picture of part of a page of Maus where one character describes to another many other people who didn’t make it. Eventually covered over in lower panels by pictures of the dead.]
Because it’s a true story, Maus can also explore neglected aspects like the intergenerational trauma, which simply vanish in a pat fictional story that is just finished when you get to the end.
[ID: Picture of part of a page of Maus where the illustrator sits at the drawing desk above the pile of bodies. The artist says: “At least fifteen foreing editions are coming out. I’ve got 4 serious offers to turn my book into a TV special or movie. (I don’t wanna.) In May 1968 my mother killd herself. (She left no note.) Late’y I’ve been feeling depressed.” Someone calls from out of panel, “Alright Mr. Spiegelman… We’re ready to shoot!…”]
Thus, books like The Boy in the Striped Pajamas are not an age-appropriate equivalent way to teach the Holocaust, but a false construction of history.
This ends the first part of the thread. But there’s more…
The Maus incident is not an isolated case. It’s part of a broad trend of replacing the literature used to teach history with more kid-friendly, “appropriate” alternatives.
And outside of the Holocaust, it usually doesn’t meet with much controversy.
It might mean replacing Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave or Solomon Northup’s Twelve Years a
Slave with modern historical fiction, for example.
Wars, the Civil Rights movement, Apartheid: any “icky” part of history can be a target.
But it plays out along the same general lines: Primary sources replaced with modern fiction, victim perspectives replaced with perpetrators, specificity replaced with Star-Bellied Sneetch-style “Why can’t we all just get along?” metaphors.
the “bad guys” in hallmark movies end up always being the most respectful men ever.
because they will find out their girlfriend of 3 years (that they were about to propose to) went off to a random farm in minnesota, hours away from were the two of them built a life together, and she decided to just… stay there without even consulting him.
and then he decides to take a trip to make sure she’s okay, because this is generally alarming behavior, and then sees that she literally fell in love with her ex within one (1) week- and he wasn’t there, but you can TELL that they’ve made out a couple times.
and then she just strings him along for a few days, until fucking christmas eve, when she just breaks up with him and is like “i know we used to have the same values, but i’ve never loved you. mark makes me happier than you ever did. and you ONLY care about work, whereas i like christmas and fun, like a Good Person.”
and then, after finding out his entire relationship was a lie and he had his life turned upside down in a week and he got dumped on christmas, this guy’s just like “ok yeah that makes sense. i only wish you the best of happiness with mark. i hope you guys build a great life together in christmastreefarmville. thank you for everything.”
An AU where two Hallmark Christmas Bad Guys are both getting flights back to New York after being dumped by their respective Smalltown Blonde Girlfriends, and they bond over their shared experiences and fall in love in the departures lounge
Probably he is still in shock. Right? He looks out of his taxi window (it's not technically a taxi, just some guy named Corey who offered him a ride to the airport, because Uber doesn't operate in fucking Tinyville, Bumfuck Middle-Of-Nowhere, Utah) and tracks water droplets racing each other down the glass, because of course it's raining, and his bad knee is killing him.
Levi sniffs and rubs at his eyes and then pulls out his phone and books a ticket back to New York, wincing as four hundred and twenty-six dollars are deducted from his bank account.
And, like, he should definitely be more upset.
He just got broken up with. He was engaged, for God's sake. A four-year relationship… over. Just like that.
Corey says, "Ten minutes to the station."
Probably he'll be more upset once he's home. When he starts packing up Anika's stuff into boxes so she can come collect them after New Year's. He'll have to do all that processing and he'll put away all the pictures that are up and probably he'll remember all the good times they had together and flashes of their relationship will play out in slow motion in his mind. Like a movie montage.
Levi catches his reflection in the passenger side window and starts, pulling his thumb out of his mouth. He hadn't even noticed he'd started biting the nail.
Corey drops him off at the train station and he books a ticket to Salt Lake City and Levi wants to tip him for the ride but when he turns back the car's gone, and it's started snowing again.
He re-wraps his scarf so it covers his ears and turns back. He has to jog—ow ow ow—to catch his train.
Once arrived at the airport, Levi's gotten over being baffled and has started being mildly pissed.
You're obsessed with work, Anika told him. You barely make time for us anymore. Yeah, he'd had to pull some long hours for the last few months, but for good reason—he'd been working towards a huge promotion and a raise and he thought she'd be happy for him.
He'd gotten the promotion, by the way. Editor in chief. He'd tried calling her first, a whole bunch of times, and then she hadn't picked up, so he'd decided Well, fuck it, and flew out to Doodootown, Utah to break the news himself.
He thought it would be nice. Spend the few remaining days before Christmas with Anika and her family in their hometown, then flying back home for Christmas and New Year's and starting 2023 off with renewed vigour and excitement.
Then, of course, Anika told him that she wouldn't be flying back with him for Christmas. Or at all.
Which, well. Okay.
She didn't even congratulate him.
He checks in, and the lady at the desk asks him whether he wants to drop off his carry-on luggage for free, since the plane is very full, and Levi shrugs and says okay and watches his suitcase disappear behind black rubber flaps.
His flight leaves in four hours.
Levi decides to pay the extra fee so he can stay in the fancy lounge, because he thinks he probably deserves that at this point. It's quiet here, though, so he orders a tea and claims a table over by the window, stretching out his right leg with a contented sigh.
There's an empty table in front of him, but at the next one sits a man who looks so miserable it's impressive.
The man is slouched in his chair, dark hair mussed and suit a little ruffled. The cuffs of his slacks are damp, and so are his knees. He's leaning his head against the window, eyes closed, holding a bloody tissue to his nose. A purple bruise is starting to form on his cheekbone.
Levi stares.
Damn. And he thought he was having a rough day.
Should he say something? Probably not, right. Like, that would be weird, right?
Then he notices the small, black velvet ring box the man is fiddling with and it's like all the air's punched right out of his lungs.
Damn.
Levi looks down and takes a sip of his tea, then hisses and curses under his breath because it's still way too hot and he's an idiot.
When he looks up again, the man is eyeing him with mild amusement.
And there are a hundred thousand ways that Levi could have handled the situation, but before he can think about ways to not embarrass himself further he hears himself say, "Ouch. Haha."
Somebody please shoot him.
The man raises an eyebrow. Levi gives an awkward cough, then takes another sip of tea and somehow feels betrayed when it burns his tongue again.
"Maybe you should give it a second," the man says.
"Maybe," Levi says, "I should." His ears are burning.
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas plays over the speakers.
Levi desperately wants to ask about the ring box. And the bloody nose. And whether there's a correlation. But then again it is so definitely not his business, so he just stares down at his tea and watches steam rise.
There's a sharp sigh from across the table. "She said no."
Levi's head snaps up, ready to defend himself, because it's not like he actually asked, but then the guy looks so tired and bitter that he immediately deflates and feels both like an asshole and an idiot.
"I'm sorry," he offers, which still feels lame but better than whatever he had going on before.
The guy gives a wry smile. "Gonna, you know. Return this. She, uh, said no to the whole relationship. So."
Ah.
"I'm sorry," he says, running a hand over his face, "I don't mean to dump all this on you."
"Oh, no, it's okay," Levi says quickly, and then before he can think about it too much, he adds, "I get it."
The other guy looks immediately doubtful.
Levi bites the inside of his cheek. "Four years," he says with a shrug. "Engaged and everything." He gives a thumbs down and blows a raspberry.
"Aw, shit, dude," he says, sitting up straight. He removes the tissue from his face, and seeing as he's no longer bleeding, stuffs it in his pocket. "That sucks."
Levi shrugs again, suddenly weirdly self-conscious. He traces the rim of his teacup with a finger. "Yeah, well. I didn't get beat up about it." There's a moment of silence, then he sneaks another glance. "Levi, by the way."
A corner of the guy's mouth twitches. "Xavier Ortega."
Levi gives a half-hearted salute. "Fuckin', enchanté. Or whatever."
Again, Xavier almost smiles. Levi thinks—Levi thinks he'd like to see Xavier smile. Properly.
And then he thinks, What.
No, he's just—Xavier just looks like he could do with a cheer-up. That's it. And, well, so could he, really. They're both in similar boats. Although it looks like Xavier got the shorter end of the straw here, Levi thinks, considering his ruined suit and, you know, face. Still a nice face, though. Symmetrical. Strong cheekbones. Dark eyebrows over dark eyes and a straight nose and—whatever.
Whatever.
He just got broken up with.
God, why's he trying to justify this to himself? Why is he feeling weird about this? He's not even gay. And even if he—even if he was, it's not gay to acknowledge that a guy is good-looking.
But, like, it's fine. He's not—whatever.
Xavier has a split lip, he notices now that the tissue's not hiding half his face. "Got you good, huh?"
Xavier rolls his eyes. He looks away for a moment, hesitating, then stands up and pulls the chair from the table between them, spinning it around and flopping back down at Levi's table.
Levi thinks he must look quite surprised, because Xavier says, "I mean, this is easier for conversation purposes. Unless you're fine with the yelling across tables situation—"
"No, no," Levi protests. "No, you're right, this is—easier." He clears his throat and says, "So, what was her name?" before mentally kicking himself, but Xavier just looks at him weird.
"Well, her name is Chloe. We just broke up, she didn't die."
Levi nods, puckering his lips. Right, yeah. Yes. "Is she… nice?"
"Well, she cheated on me."
"Ha," Levi says with no humour. "Samesies."
Xavier lets out a dry chuckle at this, then rubs at his eyes. "Wow. Happy Christmas to us, right?"
Levi raises his teacup and gives a ghost toast. "Merry Christmas to us." He downs his tea, which is at a palatable temperature now, then says, "Do you want a drink?"
-
So Chloe and Xavier had been together for almost five years. The whole story is… disturbingly similar to Levi's whole deal, actually. Chloe decides, two weeks before Christmas, to take a trip back to her hometown, gets pissed when Xavier can't just take ten days off work to come with her, goes anyway on her sister's advice, meets up with her childhood nemesis who turns out not to be so bad after all and also cleaned up unfair nice, and then when Xavier went after her because hey, she hadn't been answering his texts and he was planning to pop the question over the holidays, she decided to dump him.
"She looked me in the face," Xavier says, head in hands, "and told me she was happier there than she'd ever been with me." He looks up and runs his fingers through his hair. "And I mean, sure, we'd had our rough patches, but, you know. We were gonna work it out."
Levi hums. "Yeah, no. I get it."
"So I said, Are you fucking serious right now, and I guess I raised my voice a bit, and then Mr Goddamn Farm Guy comes storming out and squares up to me and I don't even know who this dude is, and I tell him to get out of my face, and he fucking decks me. Like, completely unprompted."
"Rough," Levi says solemnly.
"Yeah," Xavier says, exasperated. "And he didn't even apologise."
Levi whistles low. It's quiet for a moment while they both nurse their drinks, then Xavier vaguely gestures at him and says, "So what's your Christmas Tragedy?"
Levi gives a lopsided grin. "Well. Anika goes home to Middle Of Nowhere, Utah, 'cause she said she wasn't feeling great. Wants me to go with her, I can't 'cause I'm pulling long hours for an upcoming promotion, she's pissed. When she gets back there she rekindles things with her ex—"
"Augh," Xavier says. "Brutal."
"—and last I heard the plan was for them to start a combination bakery and tearoom together. So." Levi grits his teeth. "Hope that works out for them."
Xavier looks at him over his glass, then, after a moment of careful silence, says, "You're allowed to be mad at her, you know."
"Fuck her," Levi says immediately. "Like, seriously. Why even get engaged to me if she was so miserable? Just break up with me instead of, fuckin', cheating, and then acting like I'm insane for going to check on her after she just ignores all my calls and texts and goddamn emails. We were going to get married in February, for fuck's sake. Fuck her." He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes til he sees stars.
There it is. The upset. Figures that it's the saying it out loud that really drives home how betrayed Levi feels. Especially when he's talking to someone whom he doesn't have to explain it to, because Xavier gets it. Xavier gets it better than anyone ever will, probably.
It's not quite the movie montage Levi had been preparing for. Rather, what Levi remembers now are all the moments that Anika said things that cut, or did things that bruised. How she'd roll her eyes when Levi got so excited he got the wiggles. How she refused to entertain the idea of getting a dog, even after he begged. How she'd get annoyed with him when his knee acted up and told him to suck it up and stop being such a crybaby. How she'd give him the cold shoulder when she was upset with him and he couldn't read her mind about it and let it build until she exploded out of nowhere.
Little things that didn't seem like such a big deal in the time, but that added up to something like a balm for the sharp sting of betrayal.
Because that's what it is, at its core. That's why Levi is angry.
More betrayal than heartbreak.
And even though it will hurt for a while still, there's something that tastes oddly like relief at the centre of his chest, cool and welcome like a breeze on a suffocating July afternoon.
Xavier stays silent. After a moment Levi blinks hard and opens his eyes and finds Xavier looking at him strangely.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "Fuck 'em."
Levi's stomach squeezes.
He glances wildly around, trying to find anything to look at that isn't Xavier's face, and settles for the screen hanging from the ceiling that displays flight information.
"Oh, look at that," he says. "I should get to my gate."
"Right," Xavier agrees quickly. "Yeah, of course, so should I." He picks up his leather briefcase. "Where are you going, by the way?"
Levi laughs. "How wild would it be if we were on the same flight, huh?" He stands up and winces, ignoring Xavier's questioning look. "New York City. The 9:15. You?"
They make their way over to gate B9 mostly in silence, a general air of What the fuck is happening hanging between them. Not quite uncomfortable, but definitely baffled.
"So this is weird, right," Levi says, dropping into a boarding zone chair. "Like, really weird."
"Right," Xavier says softly. Then, eyes trained on the huge Christmas tree and determinedly not looking at Levi, he adds, "Cool, though."
Levi is—Levi is a little speechless. "Yeah." He feels kind of floaty. He can't stop looking at Xavier's ears, because the tips have gone red. "Yeah. Pretty cool."
God. Fuck.
-
Their seats aren't next to each other, because that would have been crossing the line from freaky coincidence into absolutely fucking insane, but Levi pulls some strings and switches seats with the nice lady who’s next to Xavier, because it’s an exit row seat with more leg room and he has a bad knee. He tries not to look too pleased with himself as he sits down.
Xavier gives him a look. “So do you actually have a bad knee, or…”
Levi slaps a scandalised hand to his chest. “I can’t believe you’d accuse me of such a thing. You think I’d lie about being disabled?”
“I don’t know you that well.”
“And here I thought we had something.” Levi sighs. “I broke my kneecap when I was a teenager. Never healed right.”
“Ah. Sports? Don’t tell me you were a football kid.”
Levi doesn’t know why he feels suddenly bashful. He always feels kind of stupid telling people how he got his injury; the reactions usually range somewhere between mild disapproval and straight up judgment. “Uh, no. Parkour. Actually.”
Xavier’s eyebrows vanish into his hairline.
After a moment of questioning silence, Levi shrugs. “I misjudged the distance between ledges. Fractured my kneecap. But I was stupid and an idiot, also, so I didn’t wait for it to fully heal before going back out, and now I am a human weather antennae.”
“Huh.” Levi would say Xavier looks almost impressed. Mostly sort of exasperated, though. “You know what, now that you say it, I feel like that checks out.”
Levi narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, maybe you look like the type who would break his kneecap doing parkour.”
“And what kind of type is that?” Levi is halfway to miffed and sort of offended, but then Xavier grins wide and he forgets to be annoyed.
“You tell me.”
It sounds too much like an invitation to be a coincidence.
Levi can’t remember the last time he spent so many hours talking uninterrupted. Or, well, talking to someone who was actually listening to him and actively engaging in conversation. Someone who was interested in him.
Levi can’t remember the last time he enjoyed talking to someone this much.
He cracks a joke that makes Xavier laugh softly, and the noise goes straight through his spinal cord like an electric shock, and then it becomes a game, a challenge, trying to make Xavier laugh like that again.
Xavier shows him pictures of his dog, a wonderfully fluffy brown-and-grey mutt named Captain, and Levi thinks he might actually pass away over how cute he is.
“I always wanted a dog,” he says after cooing over a picture of Captain showing his belly for ten minutes. “Like, really bad. I want a dog so bad. But Anika doesn’t, so it never happened.”
“Well,” Xavier says loftily, “Nothing’s stopping you now, is there?”
That is an excellent point. Levi tells him so.
Then he starts thinking about how nice it will be to have the apartment to himself for a while, and then he feels guilty for being relieved about it, about Anika not being there, and then he ponders how weird it’ll be to be alone for Christmas.
Levi's never been alone for Christmas before.
His family lives in Alberta, and he can't really afford another short notice round flight, and anyway the plan this year had been just him and Anika, and they'd had a reservation for brunch on Christmas day, and Levi thinks he should probably cancel that, and that's just a fucking bummer.
After a moment of thinky silence, Levi quietly asks, "What are you gonna do for Christmas?"
Xavier blows out a long breath. "I don't know. I think I'll try to see my sisters. They live a state over, though, and it's all very last minute, I—we—were supposed to spend it at Chloe's, and I'm not big on Christmas celebrations myself, you know, my family's culturally Jewish, so… I'm not sure."
Most of the rest of the flight is quiet, and a little sad, but also nice, and when the seatbelt light flicks on and the crew announces the imminent descent Levi can't help but feel a pang of disappointment.
The plane lands. Impatience in the cabin spikes; everyone wants to get home, it's the holidays, it's cold. Levi gets up and winces, catches Xavier's eye as he reaches for his bag and hands it to him.
Xavier is gonna call a cab. Levi is as well.
They're standing outside.
Levi shoves his hands in his pockets.
"Well," Xavier says.
"Right."
"It was nice meeting you, Levi. The circumstances were… less than ideal, maybe, but…"
Levi looks at him. A purple bruise is blossoming on his cheekbone, crawling up around his eye. The tip of his nose is red from the cold. His eyes are dark but if he pays very close attention he can tell where the iris ends and the pupil begins.
And okay. Okay.
He might be a little gay.
"But nice," he whispers.
Xavier smiles, looks down. Is it—would it be totally weird to ask for his number?
But then Xavier's cab is there, and he tips an imaginary hat at Levi before turning away. He hands the driver his luggage.
The sharp stab of panic between his ribs takes Levi totally by surprise. As does the fact that when he blinks he's closed the distance between him and the cab and is holding onto the door.
Xavier looks at him, eyebrows raised.
Levi didn't plan this far ahead, or at all. He blinks, feeling rather sheepish, then when Xavier's eyebrows start disappearing into his hairline he blusters, all at once, "So I have a brunch reservation. On Christmas Day. I was, you know, supposed to go with Anika, but, you know. And it would suck to have to cancel. And it doesn't have to be weird, or anything, we're just two guys being dudes, getting brunch." He snaps his mouth shut, absolutely horrified. What the fuck was that?
Xavier's mouth parts a little.
God. Shitballs. Fuck. Abort. "But that would be weird, right? You know what, never mind, it's fine, forget I said anything, it's—"
"Levi," Xavier says, exasperated. He covers his face with his hands. Then he says, muffled, "Yeah, okay. That sounds nice. I'd like that."
Oh.
"Are you—are you sure?"
He must sound really incredulous, because Xavier snorts. "Yeah, I'm sure."
Slowly, Levi grins. "Okay."
"Okay." They stand there for a moment, and then Xavier's eyes go wide and he says, "Wait, I should—hold on." He digs in his pocket and pulls out his wallet, hesitates, then pulls out a small rectangular object and holds it out.
Levi's grin goes lopsided. "Xavier Ortega. Are you handing me your business card right now?"
To his credit, Xavier looks away sheepishly. "My phone number's on there."
Levi accepts the card, hoping passionately that Xavier doesn't notice his hand is shaking. "Okay. I'll text you, then."
"Okay," Xavier says. Then, tentatively, "See you soon, then?"
Levi takes a deep breath and steps back, cheeks burning, and probably not just because of the bite of winter chill. Something in his stomach twinges, and he says, "Yeah. See you soon."
Parkour. Xavier huffed out a quiet laugh, staring at himself in the mirror while he brushed his teeth. The black eye has almost completely faded now, thank fuck. He was tired of looking like a raccoon. All that remained was a fading yellow-green bruise along the bottom of his eye socket, and he’d take that any day over trash panda chic. He rinsed out his mouth and tucked the toothbrush into the cabinet.
Christmas Day. A week ago, he’d sat, freshly punched and bloody, in an airport lounge swapping identically fucked breakup stories with a guy named Levi, and now in precisely 1 hour and 43 minutes he was going to be meeting up with him for brunch. He studiously ignored the mess of clothes piled on the bed as he strode through the apartment, slipping into his overcoat and patting his pockets. Keys. Phone. Wallet. Before he left, he gave Captain a couple scritches between the ears.
It was a ten minute walk to the train, and cold as balls out. Xavier hunched his shoulders against the wind and buried his hands in his pockets, belatedly wondering if he should run back in for his gloves and scarf. Technically, he probably had time. It only took 30 minutes by train - supposedly - to get to the restaurant Levi had texted him. He wavered uncertainly for a few steps, then shook his head and hurried on. If he went back, it was almost guaranteed he’d end up on a train that would get stuck in a tunnel behind a bad signal switch or something, and be horrifyingly late.
He tried not to examine why he so desperately didn’t want to be late.
At the train station, he looked around for a second for a cop, and when none appeared, hopped over the turnstile and made his way to the platform, deep in his own thoughts. It’s not like he’d never had a thing for a guy before. There were a couple drunk one night stands in college, and he'd dated Mark for two and a half years before Mark moved to London and he’d met Chloe. Unbidden, a memory from early in their relationship came to his mind as he boarded the F train and plopped into a seat.
They’d been out to dinner, and in that stage of learning about each other where past relationships came up. Chloe had just exhaustively listed all the things wrong with her ex, Noah, and asked him about his last relationship, and when he’d said Mark’s name, she’d frowned, wrinkling her nose, and changed the subject immediately. He sucked in a breath thinking about it now. How had he forgotten? Had the rose-coloured glasses been that strong?
Like a worst-of montage, he recalled time after time when Chloe had seemed embarrassed or annoyed by reminders that he was bi. Interrupting him or shushing him with their friends (her friends), looking cross if he ever mentioned Mark, mocking and disparaging the oh-so-occasional bisexual character in a movie they watched.
I guess I can at least thank Christmas-Tree-Farm-What’s-His-Fuck for saving me from marrying her, he thought wryly, and only just managed to jump off the train at the right stop. He checked his phone. He still had 45 minutes, and the restaurant was only a couple blocks from the train station.
It’s fine, he argued silently as he huddled against the wind again and hurried his pace. Levi will probably just show up on time, and he’ll never know how early you were. Levi seemed like the ‘showing up exactly on time’ type of guy.
He spotted the restaurant half a block away and picked up his pace a little more, tired of the wind. The heat of the restaurant washed over him as he entered, and he paused just inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light, unbuttoning his overcoat. The door opened again behind him, and he shifted over out of the way automatically.
“Xavier?”
Xavier turned astonished eyes to the newcomer, now revealed to be Levi, staring at him with a flush creeping up from the apples of his cheeks to his temples. Fuck, that’s cute, he thought involuntarily, and he prayed Levi would blame the cold for the sudden color he could feel in his ears. “Hi Levi.”
Genius repartee, dumbass.
At least it seemed like Levi was having a similar struggle. “You’re early…” he said faintly. “I mean, we’re both early…”
“Table for two?” Xavier silently blessed the girl sitting at the host stand and turned toward her, sliding his coat off and failing to convince himself that his rapid pulse was simply because of the quick walk from the train station.
Levi’s voice strengthened marginally. “I uh… have a reservation, actually.” He slid out of his own coat. “Under Lawrence.”
The familiar bustle of getting seated and ordering drinks seemed to settle both of them a bit. Xavier decided pretty quickly what he wanted to eat, and took the opportunity to watch as Levi pored over the menu, his lip caught absently between his teeth.
Xavier drew a slow breath, feeling a gentle desire creep into his mind. He wanted to reach across the table and cradle Levi’s chin in his hand. He wanted to draw his fingers through Levi’s sandy brown hair, brush it back from his brow.
Levi set aside the menu just as their server returned to the table, and Xavier wrestled his traitorous thoughts under control while Levi gave her his order. He’d only just met the man. They were both very recently, very traumatically single. He had no idea if Levi was even interested in men.
But he had to admit, he conceded inwardly, that he was very interested in Levi.
Just like on the plane, once they broke through the first few minutes of awkwardness, conversation flowed like water. Xavier felt again the warm glow of being with a person who was listening, who wasn’t distracted or disapproving. When he wasn’t frozen with nerves, Levi was intelligent and enthusiastic, and funny. Goddamn, he was funny. By the time they reluctantly gathered up their coats and left the table, Xavier’s cheeks ached from grinning.
They loitered on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Xavier didn’t want to leave. He was caught in Levi’s green eyes, sparkling with humor; in the bashful, lopsided smile he wore. He wanted to keep listening to the clear tenor of his voice. He wanted to gather Levi close into his arms and trace his features with the gentleness he somehow knew that Anika would never have shown him.
“Do you want to come back to my place?” The words escaped his lips before he could haul them back. He saw Levi’s eyes widen, and hurried on. “I think I’ve got some beers in the fridge, and you could meet Captain. I dunno, it just- being alone sucks hard during the holidays, and I thought-”
“Yes.” Levi seemed almost as surprised at his answer as Xavier was. Xavier watched him take a deep breath, eyes locked with Xavier’s for a long moment. “I think I’d like that.”
-
“Careful on the last couple stairs here,” he said as they approached his landing. He reached into his pocket for his keys and stuck the apartment key in the lock. “We keep asking the landlord to fix them, but-”
A sharp gasp and creak on the stairs made him spin around in time to see Levi start to fall backward from taking a rickety step with his bad knee. Before he had time to think, Xavier darted forward and snaked an arm around Levi’s waist, pulling him back up the stairs and into his chest.
Both men froze. Xavier’s heart was pounding in his ears, his arm still tightly wrapped around Levi’s waist. He should let go. He should really let go. But Levi’s hands gripped his biceps, and Levi’s chest was pressed against his, and Levi’s lips were parted ever so slightly, and for a long moment Xavier couldn’t move.
Captain whined impatiently behind the door, and Xavier pulled in a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Right,” he murmured, loosening his arm and carefully stepping back. “Come on in.”
if i met a genie and fixed the world and all its ills with my first two wishes, my third wish would be that sabrina carpenter would get gradually taller. she'd be in on it and think it was hilarious. we'd have a strong cap at 7 feet here, maybe an inch a week so people have time to theorize--let's not be ridiculous. but she'd still keep up the "ooh! im so little and small!" schtick. but shed be gradually getting taller. she'd be like 6'1" and still jumping for the microphone. and she'd never say anything about it. and if anyone asked shed act like she had no idea what they were talking about. and shed cheekily play into it a little bit but mostly still keep up the "ooh im so little and small" schtick. do you see my vision. do you get it
ok and so if i met a genie and fixed the world and all its ills in one wish i would do the sabrina carpenter thing second and third i would wish for all evidence of one random taylor swift song to disappear from the world once every month or so. taylor would have no memory of it. her fans would remember it and there would be an outcry over where it went (it's not even in concert videos anymore!) but taylor would have no memory of it
instead, all her brainspace spent on that song would be replaced with the vivid memories of roman gladiator, taylaurius velox. she's able to hide this at first, but her music begins to take on a gradually romaner and romaner tint. at first, people are like "damn, she's getting REALLY conservative, huh" and other people are like "wow, she's so deep, she knows what a rubicon is" but eventually travis kelce leaves her out of nowhere (he wasn't sure if dating someone possessed by a roman gladiator made him gay or not and anyway he was getting sick of being like "we're going to play the lions" and taylor being like "LIONS? WHERE?") and taylor publishes an entire brutus themed album about this betrayal and it's beginning to weird people out
and so eventually travis kelce is getting like, bomb threats sent to his family for leaving taylor and eventually he's like "okay, okay, i left her because she kept having all these vivid nightmares of gladatorial combat and she kept saying that football was giving her the ick because we never actually killed anybody for the glory of rome" and then he just gets more bomb threats because he left a struggling woman during a mental health crisis
and eventually taylor is writing music about her forbidden roman senator lover and her fanbase is either whittled WAY down or WAY up because people want to watch this trainwreck happen (or maybe she influences culture so hard that we're just all really into rome now) but she's being super cagey about the name of this roman senator. until. and now here's the twist:
weird al has been getting all of the same vivid memories of taylaurius velox. and he still has all his memories of her old songs. so he's writing all these detailed song parodies of taylor swift songs that don't exist anymore including specific details about their shared gladiatorial reality that taylor has never shared with anybody else. including that her lover's name was publius, and she's been calling him Poob for short
at this point a lot of original swifties are leaving. they could do the brutus stuff, but they really can't survive poob. taylor makes a clapping back at the haters song including the lyric "these bitches don't know publius" and it ends up all over all sorts of merch. there's a renewed archaeological interest in roman gladatorial combat
most importantly, the internet discourse is the best it's ever been. does this make taylor swift transmasc? is travis kelce problematic for leaving his fiancee while she gradually morphs into a roman gladiator? is this good queer representation? if taylaurius velox was a gay man, does that mean the gaylors were technically correct? is weird al morally wrong for capitalizing off of her music if she cant remember it anymore? was weird al sent by god to torment taylor swift?
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Found a long Mastodon thread that makes a lot of sense, and goes a long way to explaining how we got to this point (re: conservatives shooting up the place).
Link to the complete thread in the source thing below. Tumblr won't let me embed Mastodon links inline (probably because of the embedded @ symbol which tumblr thinks is an email address).
Before the shooter was identified, a friend who isn't from the US heard about Charlie Kirk's liberal professor watchlist and asked me if the shooter might be one of the professors that Kirk criticized. And I was like "Absolutely not, there's no chance" but in the moment I didn't know how to explain why I was so sure. I think this thread describes it, more or less.
I would sum it up as:
1. To do a shooting, you need to think that doing a shooting may possibly solve your problems
2. To do a shooting, you need to think that being A Shooter Who Maybe Solves A Problem is so important and good that it's worth spending the rest of your life in jail
And those are cultural attitudes that some people are more likely to hold than others.
do we look at the same moon? @caeseum-psyche - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
