She's the yee to my yee

"Waiting Gradually Eats The Soul"

The US Attorney’s Office in Minneapolis has charged fifteen people with “conspiracy to impede federal officers,” accusing them of defending their neighborhoods from ICE.

Working with anarchist artist NO BONZO, we've made a support poster to inform people about the case. Please print these out and post them everywhere!

(the closest they've come to articulating an actual sin committed by Fauci of late was that he got some things wrong in the early days of a unprecedented global crisis. Which is a crime I guess)

He knows some of it is earned. That he certainly did nothing to discourage this reputation during his first few years in the States. That his posturing to the media was portrayed as disregard rather than something that covered up his initial insecurity of having to do media in his second language. He knows he leaned into it. Still does, in some ways. It's just that it feels like no one is looking very hard; certainly not looking beyond what they expect to find. And that can be frustrating.

anyway they're all sitting around a fire pit having cunty little cocktails or smth and just enough has been consumed that the convo turns scandalous. someone (we'll say his stylist) is waxing poetic about her gorgeous new fwb and their equally gorgeous friend and says "that's a sandwich i'd love to be the jelly in."

and shane - tipsy but ever present - his ears sort of perk up puppy style across the fire like, "sandwich...?"

which inspires this whole conversation about handsy threesomes. and shane's gonna be honest, in theory that sounds hot. he's had his fair share of late-night jerk offs around the idea, don't get him wrong. but he's got ilya locked down - he's not sniffing around for a third. the concept, however...the physical sensation of being caught between two hot sweaty dudes? yeah that's juuuust enough to get him zoning out into the fire, tipsy mind having a field day filled with sweaty muscles and tight, delicious pressure crowding him in on all sides.

ilya recognizes this look in an instant, of course. he's sitting right next to him after all. "making your imaginary sandwich in front of your husband..." he tsks, but it's all in good fun. he's obviously very interested, just like everyone else who has tuned into the convo because shane's kinda-

"panini..."

"what?"

"meat in a panini," he drowsily explains, in what he thinks is a perfect and impressively cohesive explanation of the image in his head right now. "absolutely fuckin' crushed..."

ilya can't even pretend to be surprised because he knows his man. and his needs. and his frequent desires to be smashed into oblivion under ilya's full weight. not even fucking him, most times. just squeezing him. pressure for pressure's sake. "ah... of course." this makes perfect sense. even if the rest of the group doesn't seem to be following. "and who is bread for your meat, my panini?"

that gets a couple giggles, but shane is fucking locked in, brother. like he's making plans already. "well you, obviously."

"obviously." okay thank god. "and who else?" he's reaching out to run his fingers through the back of his husband's hair while he speaks. "who will help me keep you still? maybe bood would if we-"

"marleau."

ilya pauses. blinks. "what?"

"cliff marleau," shane says. as if ilya is seeking clarification on which marleau is being discussed and like-...

ilya tilts his head and it's a little judgy. he knows. like the careful tone he carries with what he says next but like...hello? "sweetheart, cliff marleau fractured your collarbone and put you in hospital..."

Ilya's phone dings loudly - he accidentally bumped it off silent a few days ago and hasn't bothered to change it back thanks to the incidental boon of Shane's irritation at the sound combined with the resulting experiment of, like, what can he get Shane to do while he's pissed that Ilya isn't checking his phone, turns out: a lot - as Shane's brushing his teeth and Ilya's watching his bathroom choreography from their bed. Shane knows he's being ogled but he isn't doing anything about it, so Ilya rolls his eyes and rolls over to see who the fuck wants something -- there's a text from Sveta.

you're gonna shit is all it says. There's a video attachment. He starts playing it and pauses ten seconds in.

"Shanya," he calls out at an unnecessary volume, scrambling for an iPad, any iPad. They're going to need a bigger screen.

"What," says Shane, who's waterpiking.

"Come see this," he says, airdropping the video to himself.

Shane spits - Ilya would know that sound at a hundred decibel construction site, at a rave, at the Indy 500 - and comes to perch next to Ilya on the bed, frowning. Ilya starts the video up again.

It's terrible quality because it's from he would guess maybe twenty? years ago, and it must have been shot on the silver digital camera Sveta was toting everywhere in those days, which he hasn't thought about in decades. Everyone at boarding school had them, she had claimed. It was full of debauched flash photos that could have gotten her grounded for life, and worse. Anyway it's her high-pitched teenage voice at his old rink in Moscow, a deadpan narrator following a blurry figure on the ice who is nevertheless very clearly, even through the grain and sands of time, extremely skilled.

"There he goes," she says, all the way from 2007, "the great hope of Russia."

The figure - Ilya, obviously - executes a flashy maneuver to come to a sudden stop in front of his documentarian.