#gaeara

Hi!!

The Cardinals’ jerseys are red, white and black – red is the main color, though. Their logo is a Cardinal in flight. (Nick wore black and gold with the Lions, Connor wore blue and yellow with the Hawks. With the Eagles, Alex would have worn red, white and blue. Nadira’s favorite team in New York, the Ravens, wear black, red and silver. The Sailors, aka the team that Alex’s dad coaches, wear light blue and white.)

The Panthers wear blue, black and white, blue being the main color, and their logo is the head of a panther that is mostly black. (Sarah’s former team, the Blades, wear purple and black. The team Nadira covered in New York, the Blaze, wear red.)

The Cedar Mills teams wear red, but it’s not as bright as Cardinals Red™. It’s more like burgundy. 

if you ever want some words phrases idioms whatever, you know, tell me :)

Arata nunca dormira bem na vida, uma noite como aquela não seria diferente.

Despertou com um meio grito nos lábios, segurando-se para não soltá-lo. Agarrou os lençóis, tentando aliviar a dor do peito comprimido. Por estar frio, a respiração dele saía em um vapor quente, a fumaça iluminada pela fraca luz que vinha da rua. Forçou-se a respirar, usando um daqueles truques ridículos que aprendera no trabalho. Por fim, seu olhar percorreu o outro lado da cama.

Gaetano não estava lá.

Mordeu os lábios, o pânico vindo em ondas crescentes. Onde estava o maldito italiano? Era o meio da noite, e apesar de ter o hábito, Arata ainda esperava que quando acordasse, o namorado estivesse lá.

Levantou-se, o sono lhe abandonando completamente.

Sabia que estava sendo bobo, e que Gaetano estaria em algum lugar da casa, apesar de ser tarde ainda. Mas mais do que tudo, sentia-se impotente. Tudo que pudera fazer fora chorar sobre o corpo dele, sorvendo do sangue e de suas próprias lágrimas enquanto esperava a ajuda chegar. Não conseguia se recordar direito de como chegara ao hospital, suas memórias apenas mostravam Ottiero chegando e cuidando de tudo. Devia muito a ele por isso. Se a situação se repetisse, Arata duvidava que poderia fazer muito além de chorar.

E se fosse apenas um sonho? E se estivesse sonhando, entrasse na sua sala de estar e visse o cadáver de Gaetano a lhe esperar em sua porta? Ou estava vivendo um sonho em que Gaetano continuava vivo…

— Arata? — ouviu ele lhe chamar para a cozinha, e seguiu até lá, passos ecoando em seu apartamento..

— Gaetano — sua voz tremia então seu pedido não passou de um sussurro. Aproximou-se dele, em silêncio. Pelo que estava vendo, Gaetano sentira fome e estava preparando algo para comer, mas isso não importava muito a Arata.

A cicatriz.

A deformação era pequena, era do tamanho exato da ponta de seus dedos. Tocou-a, já conhecendo seu formato exato. Poderia reproduzi-la em qualquer lugar. E a odiava. Era uma memória constante de sua quase perda, de que o mundo teria seguido adiante sem Gaetano. Nunca parara para pensar direito, mas não saberia qual seria sua reação caso o italiano tivesse morrido. Talvez sua alma fosse com ele para a próxima vida. Ninguém no mundo poderia substituí-lo e Arata sabia que seria inútil sequer cogitar tentar. Encostou sua testa em seu peito, apenas respirando contra ele.

Ele estava quente, vivo. E ali.

— Pesadelo?

She was not used to being idle. Her limbs were heavy, yes, and her head was pounding. She sneezed once more into her hankerchief, head falling back against the pillows with a groan. It was hardly the first time she had been ill…

But it was the first time she was allowed to feel it.

d’Artagnan had sent her to bed, and she had little strength to argue. With a sigh (that was promptly followed by a wretching cough), she succumed to the raise of his brow and his stern face and made her way to her room.

He said he would make her some soup. A lovely gesture. Constance remained unconvinced.

A rather poor decision on her part. It didn’t take long for the smell from the kitchen to waft upstairs. It was, by all accounts, delicious, and her empty stomach rumbled in anticipation. She should not have been surprised; he was a farm boy, after all. She wondered if it was his mother who taught him how to cook…

Her wandering mind betrayed her, as lathegic as she was, and she felt her eyes start to close, her head lulling to the side as she couldn’t fight the pull of sleep any longer.

The last thing she heard was the front door…

It was the scent of burning that awoke her. It snapped her to attention almost immediately. She couldn’t have slept long, but it took effort to haul herself out of the bed and race down the stairs… to find d’Artagnan dousing the small fire that had broken out on the stove.

"What have you done?" she cried, voice raw from her illness even in her surprise. fetching some water and throwing it on the flames. There was little damage; he had caught it in time…

Although his meal was ruined.

"I’m sorry, I…" Her turned to her with that wide eyed look and she already forgave him, no matter his explanation. He gestured to the window. "There was trouble in the square. I went to help and I… forgot… this…"

She raised a brow, sniffing loudly once more, and rather ruining her attempt at a disapproving face. “I see. So your being the hero means burning my house down does it?”

He said nothing, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"More than that you ruined my dinner." She pouted, eyes wide with mirth. "It smelt delicious…"

He was pleased by that, returned her smirk with a grin of his own. “Then I’ll make some more.”

She caught his wrist before he pulled away. “No, you won’t. One near-disaster is close enough for one day…” She smiled softly, leaning in to reach for his lips.

He stopped her, fingers against her mouth, eyes bright, teasing. “Exactly. So I’d rather you not give me the plague as well.”

AND HERE I WAS JUST KEYSMASHING <3

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I HONESTLY DO NOT KNOW

I'M MORE EXCITED THAN I WAS FOR FINDING OUT HOW SHERLOCK FAKED IT

HOW IN THE HELL ARE THEY GOING TO EXPLAIN THIS

RIGHT NOW I DON'T CARE

YOU ARE TOO SWEET OMG