#oenomaled

❄  meme  •  san junipero sentence meme •  accepting  ❄

As a rule Rita isn’t one to blindly follow others. But even as she admits to herself that she is very far out of her depth, she can’t stop herself from reaching to grab the other woman’s arm - stopping her from getting too far ahead from her in an attempt to try and get some kind of explanation out of her.

@oenomaled || meme || accepting

“That’s easy,” the blonde replied with the ghost of a smile playing at her lips, “You start at the beginning. And keep going until you get all the way to the end. And then; you stop.”

        hodel is not the girl she used to be. physically ( older and thinner, the stress of her life in siberia written in every angle of her face ), emotionally ( quieter, more serious, but with no less passion in her veins ), everything has changed. she’s a woman, now, truly, and these years haven’t been kind to her. and yet there is kindness here. she looks at tzeitel’s face, a face she wasn’t sure that she’d ever get to see again, and she thanks god for this blessing. that is what it is, isn’t it? it’s a blessing to be here, to have her sister’s arms around her, and to feel like she is home again.

        everything’s changed here, too. everything has changed. but maybe that’s alright. maybe that’s how it should be. they’re still here, aren’t they? most of them. they’re still standing. they survived. 

        it’s a small world, theirs; even though he’s been retired a while, nate finds familiar faces everywhere he goes, and he always seems to end up somewhere with a connection to the corps. he doesn’t know how he feels about it, really --- the corps destroyed him, made him lose his faith and his belief and any real hope that they were doing good, but he can’t get away entirely. it’s got its claws into him, and nate can’t let go. there are good people, the best people, even if the missions are dodgy. and people are always where he’ll place his hope, every time.

( say ‘i love you’ / @oenomaled )

        he clings onto her like she is the only safety he knows; tunny is drowning, here, drowning in sand and blood, so vivid that he can taste it at the back of his throat, and if he lets go, he might be swept away entirely. it’s not real. it’s not real, it’s not real---but he can smell it, and taste it, and feel it, and what else is reality but something that tangible, huh? sometimes, tunny drifts through his life completely fucking numb, feeling absolutely nothing; it’s like he’s not there, like he’s unconnected to the world around him, and how is that any more real than this? nothing seems real, and everything seems real. all at once.

        she’s real. she’s real, and he didn’t know her in the desert, and he can cling onto that. does cling to that. ( he’s chanting it, under his breath: you’re real, you’re real. ) tunny hides his face against her chest and makes himself focus on what else he can tell is real: the sound of his harsh breathing, the warmth of tears on his cheeks, the beep of monitors, the smell of antiseptic. the smell of her shampoo, the feel of her arms around him, secure but not constricting, her hand soft on the back of his head. 

        the world has conspired against her, trying to make her anything but gentle. it didn’t succeed. and tunny, who failed at the first hurdle, who has been made bitter and angry and sharp, is grateful for it.

        there’s a brief moment where he considers letting go of her, but he doesn’t, just loosens his grip a little so that she can breathe. tunny considers apologising, considers masking his fear and shame in something crude, but he doesn’t do that either. 

      ❝  yeah? well there ain’t no other way ‘t get it through your thick skull.  ❞  perhaps on a normal day, adam would give more than two shits about his manner towards people;  but the stress this ballet is putting on him makes him a little more off-putting towards customers than usual. he plops himself down on the piano bench, a hand running over ivory keys before it moves to pick up the cigarette that still burned in the ash tray.  ❝  you can stay if y’want, but you gotta be out before midnight. else i’ll have the owners on my ass ‘bout all the noise.  ❞

         ‘ tell me — why should i abandon company so pleasant? ’

he’ll admit to being somewhat shaken by the barbed reception, but more than that, it upsets him to see a hard-working (arguably too) individual with nerves as frayed as his. he’d forked unwisely with his first attempt, all hoke; he hopes the second won’t be met with such hostility. gee, if they’re lucky, it might even do adam some good.

( the civil wars / @oenomaled )

       ❝ and then what? ❞ she wants the war to be over, of course she does. the men that they get in the hospital, here, break her heart every time that she sees them, even though this is the profession that sybil chose to do---and these are the ones with the best chance of recovery. what of those who never make it back from the front? those who die in field hospitals in france, who’ll never get to recuperate in a place like this because they weren’t born highly enough? ( she still thinks they should be doing more for enlisted men; it isn’t fair that only officers get to be here, when they haven’t always seen the worst of war. ) and those who are too injured to end up in a convalescent home?

        it scares sybil, that there is always a worse than the present.

        but when the war is over, how will they cope? these men won’t be better, but funding will disappear, and she is under no illusions; her father will not pay to have his house be a hospital when there is no war effort to contribute to. how can they go back to their lavish everyday lives, knowing all those men have died? and how can she go back, when she is doing something worthwhile for the first time in her life, something that makes sybil feel like she’s using her privilege for good?

        she doesn’t want to take ten steps backwards. she just doesn’t. she can’t go back to who she was.