IT'S ALIIIIVE

Hi: 2010s vibes. Me too, boo. The filter is !!!

Car crash baby derails mid-roll into nostalgia for when he was younger? Like pop culture days. Like save me, take me back to when this was fun

Super platinum is industrial in a very artificial way. Like pop music isn’t created it’s manufactured? Like he’s layering loads of filters to say that. Then the “true” parts are less filtered “there’s no crowd. There’s just the silence and yourself. Forever.” Delicious.

The filters in dancing on your grave are AGGRESSIVE. Like hiding? Messy record player? This is me plastering textures over a drawing i worked forever on and now hate (“i dont want it” unfiltered at the end? Lol) I don’t like the levels on this one, I feel like it has a ton of potential but was maybe overworked??

Somebody Else is a lot less filtered, or at least more intelligible, until ‘don’t call me’ and it gets like traumacore escapist

Fire away: like maybe the filter is putting on a pop persona. Like here’s what I should be doing. I should be a personality, I need to be less afraid to sing my own stuff (ooougb baby back in the day was so shy about his own voice). Nothing’s gonna be good enough or right but maybe it’ll be catchy. Maybe it’ll strike a cord at the club

Chaos magic is catchy. I’m not internalizing any lyrics but it sounds like a bathroom floor breakdown. It should go on my running playlist (on relisten, holy shit yeah lol. This kid hit his thirties and is Panicking)

Enjoy is more nostalgia, farther back, from the songs he was sampling from. Simpler times. But still a filter putting it at a remove. V “steal my sunshine.”

Red Jacket feels probably the most like, legitimate? Like something marketable that he actually liked making? It also doesn’t have the ultra-grit overlay for the whole thing which is a nice break on the ears

Lonely space age mostly feels like a journal entry, like yeah all that you listened to? I’m trying. Some adventure nostalgia, too. Really pretty. Love that it nightmare chords into a french police siren :)

Lorrrd youtube music just rolled right into pay no mind with passion pit. Really smacks you in the face with “remember when madeon was happy” my son!!! I’m sorry!!! I think the album is reckoning with the feeling of having already peaked. That nothing will be as easy and fun anymore, but he still wants to try and he’s fighting for it (feels beat down) and sometimes there’s something that makes it worth it. Some of it is like music industry frustration, and some is personal? It feels a lot more productive than the last album but maybe that’s projecting. Like he’s worked something out here and can get back to what he likes doing? Idk.

They’ve been hanging out fairly regularly, usually one of them stays over at least one night a week, they often end up at Tiner’s place. More towards the end of school—Tiner says it helps him sleep, and Gunny’s feeling selfish, trying to get all he can get. Gunny drills him with flashcards even, keeps his coffee topped up at work, makes him get up and get moving, to keep from falling asleep at his desk. He knows Tiner’s last final is tonight. He also knows that the papers won’t be graded for another week, and final grades won’t come out til at least a week after that, but tonight’s what counts. He’s feeling pretty mopey, so he turns down drinks with the guys and is at home. Telling himself he’s not waiting for a call. He gets one though.

“Gunny it was so good,” Tiner is breathless and hard to hear through an obvious gabble of a lecture hall emptying into corridors, Tiner completely ignoring propriety and howling into his cell phone at full volume to be heard, “There’s no way I didn’t get at least 75% which means–“

“Of course you passed.” Gunny can’t help but chuckle, “I never doubted it.”

“I sure did. You were right about the first midterm, I’m so glad I reviewed–“ then his voice was more distant, talking to someone else, “Yeah I know, Clancy’s I’m–“ back at full volume, “We’re meeting at Clancy’s, the one I told you about on Buchanan?”

The background noise faded, either Tiner headed outside, or else Gunny’s ears roaring. He’d known the end of the road was coming, had seen it miles off, watched it march inexorably onward. The close of…this. It felt metallic, a sharp click, like a guillotine in his chest.

His voice sounded distant in his ears when he said, “Yeah, have fun.”

And he’d opened his mouth again to say goodbye, but it felt so big, that it stuck, and Tiner was talking again,

“Can you get here by 2200 do you think? I’m starved, I might have to eat first.”

And Gunny repeated, because sometimes Tiner could get distracted, “You have fun with your pals, I’ll see you Monday.”

Tiner laughed, but that was all for a moment, then again, as the goodbye ballooned in Gunny’s throat,  Tiner spoke.

“Wait are you–Gunny, you’re coming.” he said, smile fading from his voice—like his grin was a frequency Gunny could hear.

That goodbye was still stuck there. Gunny knew it had to out eventually. Tiner couldn’t keep doing this and expect to get a commission. They’d gotten away with it as NCOs because, well, for the same reasons DADT had come around. They were needed. They didn’t have the scrutiny, the political maneuvering the officers had to deal with. Now that the last obstacle between Tiner and OCS was conquered, he wasn’t gonna throw it away by hanging around Gunny anymore. And, obviously, Gunny wasn’t gonna let him.

There were a couple false starts, and Gunny thought Tiner had finally gotten it, was trying to say his own goodbye. But ‘goodbye’ wasn’t what came out.

“Gunny. I need you.”

“Tiner.” It came out sharp, instinctive, a DI’s rebuke for breaking the rules.

Tiner pushed back, just as sharp, “I need my friend to keep an eye on me so I can get hammered, because I just aced law school, alright? Don’t be–” here he ran out of steam, couldn’t bring himself to say the last(what, a coward? selfish? rude?), said instead, “Please.”

And Gunny’s head tried to run the numbers, his application was already in, was only wanting the official confirmation of his graduation. He’d be accepted of course, and then he’d be off to OCS in no more than a couple weeks time. And, realistically the selection board wouldn’t really start sniffing around immediately (Gunny didn’t allow himself to believe they wouldn’t look into Tiner, yeah the guy had decades of service under his belt, but he hadn’t managed to serve them completely clean—thanks to Gunny himself (how’s that for a twist of the knife)). But this was where it had to stop, where it could be a clean break and not a painful, slow parting.

Unfortunately his heart was saying, “Buchanan, you said?”

And it wasn’t possible to hear the smile, not before he spoke, it didn’t make any sense, the reception wouldn’t pick out the way his mouth stretched. So why did Gunny hear it anyway? Even before the little pleased-sounding him, long before the, “Yeah, thanks, Vic.”

So it’s the slow and painful route. And Gunny’s so good at borrowing grief he’s basically convinced himself he doesn’t feel it anymore. Has been working towards thinking of Tiner as a friend, like maybe they can hold onto that. So he stops staying over, and keeps making excuses, and won’t let himself touch him like he wants to. He decides that it can’t go any further than week three, the first two weeks hardly count, so its fine that things slip a bit and they’re still… involved. But week three is when it’d get real, so they have to stop then.

It’s week five and Gunny’s at Tiner’s place again, but it doesn’t count, because they’re just watching a movie and Gunny’s at the far end of the couch, and yeah it’s small, but he’s also got his arms crossed to remind him to keep it locked down, so it’s mostly okay. Except that Tiner keeps poking him in the side of his ass with his foot.

Gunny cuts him a glare and literally shushes him. 

Tiner kicks his hip. Almost hard.

“Why are you breaking up with me.”

“Can we watch the goddamn movie.”

“You’re breaking up with me and you won’t just come out and say it. Is this the standard procedure? Does it make you feel better if your date gets to do the dumping? How generous of you.”

Gunny’s brain has stalled out and he’s sputtering about twelve different threads of, “I wasn’t–We weren’t—this isn’t—“

He stops because he’s horrified to find Tiner’s eyes are glassy and red. His own throat goes tight and his words cut off in a sort of squeak.

“It’s because I’m gonna be an officer? That’s gonna make me different? No good?”

A scoff punches through the tightness and Gunny spits, “Yeah it’s ‘cause you’re gonna be an officer! You can’t be screwing around with me with a goddamn commission.”

Tiner startled, like he didn’t expect a direct answer, or at least, not that one, he says with a frown, “Wh—Like, you think I’d abuse—or like, the rank would be–?”

“Tiner,” Gunny had leaned in, had the sailors hands in his own somehow, by habit (it’s always been easier to get him to focus, to get grounded–), he dropped them and pressed his own to his knees, “Being an officer is real shit. You worked for it, you can’t let them take it away now.”

“I’m not, I won’t,” Tiner shook his head, clearly baffled.

Like it was up to Tiner whether or not the selection board took issue with him spending all his free time with an enlisted man. Up to him whether the neighbors talked about the nice boys who lived down the hall and did all their shopping together. Like his being simply good was enough in this stupid goddamn–

He took a deep breath. The first obstacle was the selection board. Tiner’d understand that, was already worried about his PRT score (which gave Gunny a good idea just how panicked the guy was, Tiner’d be hard pressed to get lower than 250 with both arms tied behind his back), maybe that’d be the way through his thick skull.

“Look, until the selection board is done with you, we oughta cool it.”

“I’ve got two more months til I go before the board.” 

“You’ve got 7 weeks.”

“What are they gonna do, tap my phone?” Tiner sneered, but seemed like he was finally taking things more seriously.

“Phone fucked you over last time.” Gunny felt a little sick, a little like he was throwing rocks at Old Yeller. A little like he was being pelted himself.

“Yeah, but that was…” Tiner said uncertainly, “You think people–?”

It was stupid to want to pull him in, crazy, dangerous—and more than anything, selfish. The way Tiner’s worry made Gunny’s heart punch painfully in his chest, like a physical wound. One that he could soothe so easily, that he had soothed so many times. After midterms or an unwarranted dressing-down from the now-moody admiral. That Gunny himself had indulged in, after a bad case, after rotating home, losing– But he won’t. Won’t give them the satisfaction. That fleeting moment of comfort that’d just damn them that much more. Like feeding a stray. Making them dependent on something that hurt, that ruined.

Gunny’s hands were up again, not to reach out, not this time. In defense maybe, a barrier, or else to push everything, push Tiner, away.

It didn’t work. Tiner’s distant worry pinched into focus, narrowing into a frown. And Gunny didn’t see the wet lashes as he leaned in, pushing against Gunny’s hands. As he slid a hand behind Gunny’s head and drew him in. Couldn’t see anything, pulled against his chest like this.

Just felt the rumble in it as he said, “I’ll be careful, more careful. You don’t gotta worry.”

They saved the tense litigating for the morning. Negotiated down to two weeks before the Hi Mom dinner, whereupon they’d keep to themselves til after graduation, til Tiner’s transfer was settled (Tiner wouldn’t let them assume it’d be JAG, certainly not HQ, just called it ‘the transfer’). Tiner had already set up a burner email in anticipation of this embargo, and was using it to pelt Gunny’s inbox with stupid videos.

And somehow Gunny was able to forget. Didn’t get caught up in the grief, didn’t do the work of pulling away. Didn’t even notice that he was spiraling in deeper. Privately proud of himself for not bringing clothes over, even though they’d been spending every weekend together—had simply been wearing Tiner’s clothes. Congratulated himself on not ordering the pizza, made Tiner (who really was in no fit state) do it himself—then picked up the phone when it rang and Tiner was in the shower. It was Mickey so it wasn’t like it was a problem, just went completely unremarked.

So when Tiner sighed heavily against him one Sunday night (yeah Sundays too god help them), he was completely blindsided by the topic.

“Does the embargo cover lunch, too?”

Gunny rolled to face him, but Tiner wouldn’t, tucked his face in against Gunny’s shoulder to mumble, “‘Cause Fridays are half days. I could meet you partway. Or do beers after work?”

“Two weeks.” Gunny said dumbly, meaning the precipice they found themselves on. The two week deadline. What Tiner thought of as a break, and what Gunny saw as the terminus.

“Plus however long the transfer takes.” Tiner groaned, meaning the time they’d spend apart. He sounded miserable. As if a few weeks was as painful as the eternity Gunny knew it to be.

Gunny can’t sleep. Wakes up and can’t eat.

Spends the whole week tight and achey and miserable and still somehow looking forward to the weekend. To Friday night. Not really realizing the depths of the anticipation until Tiner’s, that is “Tony’s” email hit his inbox just after 1200 on Friday. 

“Got any weekend plans?”

He’d only managed a few bites of roast beef sandwich, and it sat like lead in his stomach. By turns a sharp molten ache, like it might punch out of him, and a cold heavy lump, dragging him down.

He hammered out a response.

“Busy. Boxing tourney in Philly.”

The depth of the lie was profound. As much a betrayal as leaving the Corps had been. That there was now tournament, no plans—other than the assumed notion of another comfortable weekend with—but that he would have plans without—that he would want to. That he wanted Tiner to think he had. That he was fine.

He did. Want Tiner to think he was fine. Squeezed it into the shape of making him worry less. (No matter that the tone didn’t match that idea, that the email proxy enabled the freedom to tell him more, tell him not to worry. That the intent was dismissal, assurance that Tiner wasn’t needed, wasn’t wanted.)

The roast beef ended up in the head sooner than scheduled.

The flu was going around, because when wasn’t it in November, but Gunny didn’t particularly notice. It just melded into the background amongst the other miserable shit. The cold, the damp, the freezing rain, the dark days and darker mornings. His head had been pounding for weeks now—well ten days but who was counting (besides Gunny, and maybe–), the railroad spike through his sinuses, however, was newer. So too the lack of saturation at the edges of his vision. If he blinked hard enough and kept the coffee coming, though, it was better. The heat as he drank helped relieve the pressure, sure it played hell on other systems, but it was worth it. Everything was going just swell until—

“Alright, report to sickbay, son.”

Gunny’s shoulder jumped under the admiral’s hand, “Sir?”

“Gunny,” AJ said gently, “I dismissed you three times and didn’t get so much as a blink outta you.”

“Sorry, sir,” and as Gunny tried to turn and go, the world tipped on its axis but he blustered, “I’ll just grab an aspirin.”

AJ snorted, “You’ll grab a seat while Coates calls you a cab, where’re your keys.”

Gunny pulled them dutifully from his pocket and sat resignedly across from Tiner’s desk in the vestibule, time passing in fits and starts around him. Coates loaded him gently into the taxi and demanded a call from him and the cab driver once Gunny’d made it home. He hadn’t remembered the promise, but managed to pick up the phone when it rang. It was Coates, he assured her he was fine and tucked up snug in bed. It was more truth than not. He was sprawled over the bedspread, hadn’t even taken off his coat, hoped he’d taken off his shoes but wasn’t sure. As he dozed, he thought of Tiner.

He thought it’d be convenient if he could get through the last of the embargo like this, time skipping like a stone across still waters.

He thought it’d be convenient if the stone sank, and he could be done, and not have to feel any of this anymore.

He thought maybe this flu, these aches, were punishment.

For wanting.

Or maybe punishment for leaving again, leaving what he cared most about. Leaving him.

So he said sorry. Sorry for leaving, for trying to leave and not being strong enough. Sorry for wanting.

And Tiner told him hush, and that he was okay, and that wanting was all there was. 

There was heat. Good heat this time. Not the dangerous burning ache. And a good damp, what was good damp… Steam? Like a bath house, or a good cup of coffee, not the misery of November. And weight. A gentle pressure, an anchor, to keep him from blowing away, drifting. 

The railroad spike was still there, but in the scheme of things it was almost bearable, everything else felt right. The spike could stay, he could survive it.

An alarm chirped softly in the dark, Gunny was dreaming maybe, because that was the sound of Tiner’s watch. He dreamt he was on a boat, rocking gently. Then the bedside lamp went on, and Tiner was setting a glass of water onto the bedside table, dropping two pills into a little dish. Gunny blinked in the light and Tiner tugged a t-shirt lower over the lampshade. Helped Gunny to sit up, handed him first the water, then the pills.

Gunny accepted them, but couldn’t make his brain believe it was real. Stared at Tiner sitting on his bed, sleep-mussed, wearing a USMC tee and pajama pants, and couldn’t accept it.

Tiner set his hand, cool and dry across his forehead, hummed in a sympathetic sort of way.

“Better, but not great. Doc said the antibiotics’ll kick in by the end of tomorrow. You gonna make it?”

Gunny nodded, dry swallowed the pills by habit, caught off guard by their exceeding bitterness, downed the water.

“You keep doin’ that.” Tiner chuckled as he took the empty glass back, “You got the good tylenol as a kid, huh?”

“Yeah.” Gunny rasped, and coughed a moment, “Only if we broke something, though.”

Tiner smiled and climbed over Gunny into the bed, hauling the comforter back over them. He looked Gunny over, not assessing like an officer. Like reading a book, a familiar one, a favorite passage again and again. It almost felt like a physical touch. Gunny wasn’t quite sure if his eyes had been leaking before, given the pressure in his sinuses it didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility.

“Can’t believe I almost fell for your ‘go on, get’ crap.” Tiner said, low.

“You been working for this commission for years, Jase.”

“They can take it back if they want it so much.” Tiner snorted, then, more gravely, “Can’t take my law degree, though.”

And Gunny’s incensed fury at the thought of anyone taking anything from Tiner was utterly, catastrophically, derailed, as the sailor finished,

“And they can’t take you.”

If he’d been in his right mind Gunny would have been able to come up with something to say. Some defense. Something to keep Tiner from believing it could be that simple. That Gunny could have—

But what he said was, “Couldn’t make it two weeks without you.”

And Tiner said, “Ten days.”

Tiner’d bullied Gunny into coming to graduation, but then it would have almost been strange if he didn’t show, what with half of JAG HQ in attendance.