( marco pigossi, homosexual, cis male + he/him, mage ) «—◦—→ well met, EZEQUIEL FONTES! the divine born child of ATHENA. your name sings in our ears! it’s been 35 years and now they have answered the song in their veins. before they answered the song, they were a PROFESSOR (PALEONTOLOGY) and were living in SÃO PAULO. history and myth will remember them for their CURIOUSITY + DECISIVENESS + EMPATHY but will also magnify their ARROGANCE - SELF-CENTEREDNESS - WITHDRAWNNESS if it causes them to falter. now it is time for the world to sing their name with them.
Fontes, Ezequiel (1989)
35
07.16.1989, são paulo
son of marcelo fontes; athena
cis male
homosexual
brown grey eyes
married (civil union)
partner(s) rodrigo montes; rafael carvalho
father of alice carvalho, afonso montes
paleontology professor at university of são paulo
phd in paleontology, phd in social sciences
proficient in capoeira, martial arts, strategical combat
history is written in blood, but with enough time all that's left are bones.
it was his father who taught him that. it was a lesson he learned, probably in december 1969. a young professor then, with dreams of liberty, of justice.
how easily was he ripped away from his classes, how easily was his blood shed across paved floors where many like him were dragged into, never to come back?
ezequiel often wondered who his father would be, if history had different pages. it was not a question he could voice, but he knew his father mourned who he could've been in the long silences in nights where no books and no tv could keep the memories at bay.
this was well before his time, before his father fled to chile, then cuba, before he became the man who raised him; ezequiel was born into a new democracy, an omen of good things to come, or so his father believed. ezequiel wasn't so certain, he was always too good at unearthing the skeletons hidden underneath their ground.
there was a melancholy to him, cold hues on the hopeful picture his father painted. he walked the streets and saw the history come to life, he read books and conjured up scenes in his mind-- if, if, if. he rehashed battles, he searched for mistakes, he made up a chess board and set the pieces and perhaps if he learned to arrange them the right way, maybe... except the blood was dry, the dead were buried and history was neatly stored in books. but maybe, maybe he could avoid it, maybe he could put up a fight when it was his turn, when he was called for. when if it happened again.
he was a lean thing growing up, more brains than body. deep eyes that watched and saw and wondered, they never expected him to know to fight. they never saw how quick he moved, how nimble limbs found weak spots and pushed against them with everything he had. they never realized the medals hanging in his room, buried under piles of books.
he followed dad's footsteps, of course he did. he collected degrees, he studied history, sociology, politics, law, he wrote papers, he gave lectures, he watched as hope gave way to complacency, he watched as monsters were lauded as heroes, he watched history hanging on the edge of repeating itself. he said fuck it and found himself in places near untouched by man, deep in caves, digging holes deep enough to bury dozens of him. he built up skeletons of majestic beasts that dwarfed him.
ezequiel stood under the weight of history itself and away from the mundane, away from near everyone.
he was happy. he was. but he was also really fucking lonely, and staying in the middle of nowhere made it a fucking pain in the ass to get someone to fuck his ass.
he went back home, he got a teaching position. he nurtured students, he watched time pass. he met a beautiful man, with bright eyes and optimism and dreams, and he met an old mentor who was as impressed by his mind as he was by his body. they were three, and they made a family.
he never wanted kids, but they came with the package, and he learned to live with that too. to wake up early on sundays and lay in a hammock with a baby on his chest and a book in his hands. he learned to look at the city, barefoot on a parquetted floor and feel something other than the weight of everything.
he learned to be a father and a mentor, he learned to protect and guide, he learned to feed the right strategies to defy authorities he was sometimes supposed to represent. he learned to use his brain to fight and not just imagine.
he learned to rest, and he learned to wait. he learned to love, and he learned to appreciate his father's hope.
it was not enough to keep the dreams at bay, to settle the restlessness, the tightness around his chest that told him he was lying in wait--and when the day came, when he learned he was right. it was easier than it should've been to accept the call; to leave everything behind for a fight he'd been waiting for but that he might not win.
but then, if he couldn't win it, who could?




















