hey, what's up. i hope August has been kind to y'all. 🖤
thank you to those who've continued to tag me in their wipsday posts these last couple weeks. i'm in pretty rough shape these days, so y'all have no idea how much i look forward to sundays and wednesdays, even when i don't have the energy to engage with fandom as fully as i'd like to.
i thought i'd share a bit more of the chat-fic i affectionately refer to as "bitverse" today. 💫 i've shared two other snippets from this fic before, [here] and [here] if you're curious.
Agatha doesn’t text him until quarter-to midnight.
“Home safe,” she says.
And then, “Sorry.” And, “We went out for supper.”
Simon slouches in his chair, wedging a knee into the space between his stomach and his desk, the edge digging into his shin. It’s sharp and tight and not at all comfortable. He texts back, “it’s ok,” and, “where at?”
“That Italian place downtown.”
“ew,” he says, and she reacts to it with a thumbs-up.
“Did I wake you?” she asks.
“no,” he says. Then, “DQ tmrw?”
Agatha reads his message, but doesn’t respond right away. The three dots pulse on her side of the screen for three strange, awkwardly long minutes before she finally replies with, “Maybe,” followed quickly by, “Ask again in the morning, I can’t think about ice cream when I’m tired.”
“are you going to bed?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“it’s ok,” he says, “it’s late. night aggie”
“Night.”
“ily,” he says.
She reacts to that with a thumbs-up, too.
Simon locks his phone and drops it on his chest.
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hey, what's up! i hope today has been kind to everyone.
i haven't shared on a wipsday in a while. mostly 'cause i've been temp posting about my wips throughout the week instead, so it felt a little silly to repost all those sketches/snippets, yk? but i thought i'd come on today share a bit of the fic that currently has the most of my attention, just as a way to say hello. how's everyone been? :)
thank you kindly for tagging me today @artsyunderstudy @blackberrysummerblog @alexalexinii and @youarenevertooold, and to @stitchyqueer @larkral and @aroace-genderfluid-sheep for tagging me on sunday!
The funeral is a grim affair.
“It’s not a funeral,” Jamie said. “It’s a celebration of life.”
Simon doesn’t really understand the difference.
He shows up wearing dark grey instead of black.
It is a nice picture.
Lucy Salisbury is (was) a beautiful woman. Simon finds her lovely in the unique way of little boys and their mothers; her face has the halo of a memory surrounding it. Soft, golden. Framed in curls. She did not have those curls, in the end, but they will always be a permanent part of her. Always falling over her shoulder, always tied up with green ribbon, always clinging to the curve of her brow in the rain.
It is a nice picture.
She is (was) so young, then. Her smile curves back from her teeth in the shape of a heart, and the summer sunlight is pink on her cheeks. A spot of light flares between her knuckles where it catches on the jewel of her wedding band as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. An emerald. Lucy Salisbury hated diamonds.
“It’s a nice picture,” Agatha says.
Simon doesn’t look at her. He wonders how long she’s been standing there.
It is a nice picture.
In the bottom left corner, the top of a little head is just barely poking into frame. An unruly mop of golden-brown curls. Her short, slender fingers tangled gently through them.
“I guess so.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Was,” Simon says. “She was.”
It is a nice picture.
Simon stands beneath the awning of his grandmother’s porch, an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips.
The street is a sardine can full of cars, packed bumper-to-bumper on both sides, lining the curb in stitches of dull, inoffensive colours. Grey, black, silver, brown. Damp, yellow lamplight floods the tarmac. He pats the pockets of his jacket. Then he pats the pockets of his jeans.
The screen door creaks behind him.
“You’ll break Ruth’s heart if she sees you,” Agatha tells him.
“D’ you got a light?”
She steps beside him and turns to rest the small of her back against the metal railing. Without a word, she reaches over and pulls the zipper on Simon’s jacket. Sticks her hand in and fishes out his pack of Canadian Menthol. Flips the top open.
Simon’s lighter is wedged inside between his smokes.
“Oh,” he says. “Thanks.”
“She doesn’t like when you smoke.”
“It’s—yeah, I know. I know, it’s fine. I’m leaving anyway.”
hey, what's up! i'm not sure what the average is as far as timezones go in this fandom, but it's just after 7-PM for me so i hope sunday has been kind to everyone. thank you very kindly for all the tags today, i haven't gone through my mentions yet, but i'm for real always so delighted to be included. i can't wait to see what y'all've shared. 🥰🖤
this snippet is from the same fic i posted about on wednesday.
Illuminated by nothing but the blue glow of the television, with the pale wash of the darkness warping his cheeks, Davy Cadwallader looks nothing like Simon’s father.
When Simon thinks of his father he is only ever as tall as his knees. There are these boots he used to wear. Tall, brown leather. A black zipper. Golden buckles that Simon remembers being the same size as his sticky little juice-stained fists. In his head, his fingers are looped through those unusually large buckles, and his face is squished into his father’s sharp knees, the canvas of his trousers smells like grass and concrete, mulched soil, summer heat, and his father’s voice is somewhere above him, “Another long day at the office, my boy?”, and his mother’s laughter is tinkling in the background.
He lets the front door slam behind him.
Davy Cadwallader startles awake, his lungs stuttering like a soggy engine in his chest. He glances around the untidy lounge room, his eyes wide and unfocused, bleary, like he doesn’t quite recognise it. Maybe he doesn’t. There used to be a tapestry of flowers above the TV console, before. Peonies and daffodils and budding roses.
The wall looks foreign and bare without it.
Simon shucks out of his jacket, pulls the knot on his tie. He throws them both on the cluttered dining table.
“What time is it?” his father asks.
“Late,” Simon says. “Have you eaten?”
“How’d it go?”
“It was a funeral,” he says. “Have you eaten?”
“Celebration of life. Your uncle said—”
“Dad,” he says. “Have you eaten?”
i really have no respect for the sanctity of the word "snippet". save for a short scene between aggie and simon, and all of the simon and baz interactions i'm hoarding, y'all've read pretty much the entire first chapter of bitverse via my wipsday posts lmfao
but that's okay, i have no regrets 👍
this'll prolly read best if you've read [this snippet] first, but you don't have to bc ngl this whole altverse is completely incomprehensible as is. and also i dunno if it's just me but Tumblr is being proper shit today and won't let me indent text? so i'm doing tags up here. i hope y'all are well and that september has been kind to you so far!
His father stares at him through the flickering dark. A sluggish display of thin purple eyelids and sticky, tangled brown lashes. Simon wonders when that drawn, vacant expression stopped looking so out of place on him, when all the sharp triumph and dynamic bends of his father’s face gave way to the frowning slack of his cheeks, the flat weight of his brow.
Propping himself onto an elbow, his father scratches at the patchy stubble tapering down his neck. “Yeah,” he replies. Lying. Nobody’s been in the kitchen tonight. The stove light is off. And when Simon flicks it on, the only dishes in the sink are his own.
“Okay,” Simon says.
He opens the fridge. An obscene amount of food is crowded inside—tupperware container after tupperware container of hearty, home-cooked meals, loading up the shelves and crispers. (Like sardines in a can, he thinks. Like cars outside a funeral.) Maple-glazed carrots, shepherd’s pie, peameal bacon, tofu scramble, fried fiddleheads, chicken stew, hashed potatoes, whipped potatoes, scalloped potatoes, baked potatoes, cheesy potatoes—who even needs this many fucking potatoes?
Apparently this is what people do when someone dies.
Leave their shit leftovers at your door.
Simon grabs a half-empty tub of something cold and lumpy from the top shelf before closing the fridge with the side of his foot. He doesn’t remember what he had for breakfast, but the spoon in the sink looks clean enough. “Gran asked about you,” Simon says, cracking the lid off, taking a bite. He frowns at the eggy taste of potato salad. “Wants you to call her. Think she’s pissed.
(Pissed is an understatement. Simon never much understood the turn of phrase if looks could kill until today, when he walked into his mother’s funeral alone. His grandmother’s chin twisted right up when she saw him, the corners of her eyes pinching tight. He thought it to himself right then—if looks could kill.)
His father doesn’t reply.
Simon glances over his shoulder, but he can’t see the couch from here. Just the television, a bit of the coffee table, the shadow of the front door stretched between panes of rain-speckled yellow. Simon toes down the heels of his J&Ms, kicks them aside, one by one, and shuffles back into the lounge room, digging through his bowl for chunks of celery and green onion.
He turns below the archway expecting his father to be asleep again, because that is what Davy Cadwallader does these days. Sleeps in a shallow grave of body sweat and sunken cushions, buried in the wilting memory of where Lucy Salisbury used to curl her feet up watching sitcoms and reading love stories by lamplight.
But instead, Simon finds him with his head between his knees.
Clasping his mouth.
Heaving.
Choking.
Shaking.
Simon makes a strangled noise (that might have been “Wait!”) (or might have been “Dad!”) (or might have been “Fuck!”) as he rushes to the washroom to trade his potato salad for the empty Chapman’s tub behind the toilet tank.
“Don’t puke!” he shouts, and yanks open the linen cupboard. The door hits the wall and fifty-fucking-thousand plasters fall from the middle shelf like one of those shit spring-loaded snake-in-a-can gags as Simon reaches between bottles of Tylenol and Buckley’s to pry out a fresh roll of paper towel.
“Don’t puke, don’t puke!”
Simon was sixteen the first time he drank himself sick.
It was his birthday—their birthday. His and Syd’s. But the party was for Simon. The better half of their entire junior year showed up, and he wants to say it was fun, but he honestly doesn’t remember much of the party itself besides the glow of the bonfire and Snapple Spiked peach tea and Agatha’s soft mouth.
What he does remember is coming home.
The way the whole world was tilting and creaking around him; the front door, the old floors, the couch springs.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, his teeth wouldn’t stop shivering. He was cold and tangled on the inside, blinking full of slow, sleepy dead spots and the humid June dark, wrapped around himself on his side trying to breathe through a vicious, green nausea when his father sat down beside him in his pyjamas, still mussed with sleep.
There’s a blink in his memory—and suddenly Simon is hugging that same Chapman's tub to his stomach and curled against his father’s shoulder and Doctor Who is playing in the background and he’s drunk and embarrassed and asking, “Are you mad? Are you mad? Dad, are you mad at me?”
A hand on his head.
“Hush.” Fingers in his hair. “You'll wake your mother.”
“Are you mad?”
“I'll be mad later.”
“I’m so drunk,” Simon whined.
“I can see that. How’s it feel, hero?”
“Am I going to die?”
His father laughed. “Well, I hope not,” he said. “I’d miss you.”
Looks like everything goes fine and it really simplifies most of the issues with coding the GUI from zero and blah blah blah but... Once I needed to validate my GUI Password Field it results that instead of masking the password outside, it also masks inside.
In other words, when I needed to get the password of the passwordfield I though coding: "pwdField.text" would get the usual password but.. Oh surprise! I got it masked like: "*****" And then I spent like 3 hours of my life guessing if there was another method to find out this password beneath... And guess what... it wasn't!
So that's when I got really angry with that.. Guess at the end I'm going back to the oldschool GUI that it works! (Maybe for this window only)
So guys, If you plan to use "bitverse password field" and you need the information beneath (I mean the password) you'd better use GUI.PasswordField.
Here I leave an example of the GUI.PasswordField in C#:
using UnityEngine;
using System.Collections;
public class example : MonoBehaviour {
public string passwordToEdit = "Password";
void OnGUI() {
passwordToEdit = GUI.PasswordField(new Rect(10, 10, 200, 20), passwordToEdit, "*"[0], 25);
}
}
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Well guys, this is what I'm dealing with these days...
I have this particular project of my own about Psychotecnia and I want to improve the GUI image of it. Since Unity is not GUI oriented like other IDEs... you have to manage this GUI thing by your own programming your own controls and containers and so on...
So this is how it looks like right now:
So lately I found a new GUI framework for Unity called BitVerse GUI and It's open source code http://code.google.com/p/bitverse-unity-gui/wiki/Manual
So I'll let you know about my new GUI using this new controls and I'll show you more things for my project.
