A new blog, a new format, I’ve been desperate for some changes.
I covered in the intro post that this blog itself will be a work in progress, and that is true, however you should come to expect a complete overhaul in my online presence by the time the new year rolls around.
I have issues, obsessions with systems and procedures and failing them. This impacts me in a lot of areas, but when it’s applied to my own created systems, I get a sort of misalignment in my brain that causes the kind of thoughts I don’t think I should post online.
That being said, this system is intended to get me to write. That’s the goal here. While I am porting some issues of the old Neocities blog to here, Obsidian Publish opens up the vault of sorts to allow me to publish much more of my writing and thoughts. As I organize this, and allow more to flow into the public, I hope to let this stand as a monument to the more interpersonal writing I enjoy.
Life right now, compared to my last entry for this blog, is a lot better. I got settled in an apartment, I’m back on the benefits I needed to survive, I’m back on testosterone.
Needless to say, there’s a lot more going on in the world.
I’m tired. I’m very tired.
Earlier today, I spoke loudly in the face of the man who can technically get me fired, and pushed him to answer for the ongoing issues in our department related to Gaza.
It’s hard to feel anger even, all things considered.
I want to fight for something better, a place that’s good. For the people I love and the people I can’t begin to know.
I went to this show on a pretty somber day for me, so in all honesty, I was looking for a pick me up, and this absolutely delivered.
Before this, my experience with live wrestling was high school photography for the year book, our annual collegiate tournament that brought in hundreds of people. An exciting event, but not my style.
This event, however, was.
One thing that caught my attention right off the bat was the sheer variety of people, I got to compliment two older women on their WrestleMania shirts and El Santo earrings. An older woman using a rollater behind me was decked out in merch for one of the people on the card, and I’d later learn that she was his mom.
While I got their early in order to find a comfortable seat close to the rails, I was joined by a father and young son who were excited to hear it was my first show, they looked out for my stuff when I got up to visit the merch table, or when I wanted to get closer to the action.
Where Dia de las Lucha was a different kind of show was between each match, we would get some music provided by Chalako – The Band! They were fantastic! A mix of Mexicana, blues, and rockabilly honestly felt really homey, it’s stuff I’m quite used to.
Before the show, I took a lot of joy seeing the younger members of the crowd, dancing it out, practicing moves on the floor, I’m sure some of those kids are going to wrestle one day.
You could absolutely feel the energy the second it was time to start.
A photo of Calli Hiss the ring announcer, introducing us to the show.
Midas and El Dragon vs Phat and The Furious (Chubby Depp and Ricky Rayez) demonstrated the absolute joy of a hot crowd and managers who know how to work them.
I recognized El Dragon with his work on ROH and AEW, but the man was holding the AWF Arizona State Title for this bout, but both members of Phat and the Furious had history with the belt themselves.
Kick ass, fast as hell, and with a little bit of skillful trickery, El Dragon took it home, absolutely pulling me in.
An image of El Dragon kneeling in the ring in a stretch, with the referee calming his manager outside the ring
Now, I want to talk about the band a bit more, because really they were spectacular, not a hitch on their end all night, and even with my limited mobility I felt like dancing quite a lot. It was groovy and fun, and the absolutely packed crowd as into it.
What I was not into was the commentary team, where the ongoing bit between matches and songs was to either mispronounce or joke about botching their name. Throughout the entire show I stayed for, the commentary duo (both white men) would make these jokes, so that was a big downside for me.
That said, go check out Chalako the Band! and listen to some of their work.
The next two matches were of note were “King” Chris Evans vs El Cobarde, and Johnny Savoi vs Tecolote, two matches where the crowd division became just as much a feature as the wrestling.
Savoi was otherwise quite cool, but a Mexican crowd cheers for their luchador. Evans saw harsher crowd reactions, some cheering on the proud military vet bragging about being the king of Arizona, but I enjoyed the ass kicking Cobarde provided.
While I was enjoying the show, I have to be honest. I personally tapped after four matches, and five songs. The energy was great, but my body couldn’t sustain for the whole show, next time, I will call ahead and inquire about disability seating, since they offered seating for several disabled audience members and their families.
So, I decided to stay for one more match.
And god, it was worth it.
If I had to highlight my favorite male wrestler on the independent scene right now, it would be EJ Sparks. It is no hyperbole to say he fills the room with a bright, buzzing charge that no one can deny.
EJ Sparks standing on the middle rope calling out to the crowd
In the ring, his opponent Rompe Cabezas, large, undeniable, he hits fucking hard.
Rompe Cabezas chops EJ Sparks hard on the chest.
EJ Sparks flies into the corner with a hard hitting punch for Rompe Cabezas
EJ has this look of desperation, when a hit lands, the spreading pain all over his body, you see it in his grimace, and he lays it out for all of us. And god, the crowd screams for him, his family is there sure, but all everyone in that crowd of several hundred wants is for him to come out on top.
You can feel the charge, the tingle in your bones, when he gets the pin.
After this, I’m out of my seat and in the lobby, like every indie show, you got guys selling 8x10s, masks, shirts and other gear.
I chat up the guys out there working and compliment their matches, none of the guys have changed, and their instant transfer services are so busted, that I sadly can’t get much.
EJ though, he joins the table, still sweat covered from his match. It thrills me watching boys and girls run up to him and compliment him, and I too, a little eager, wait my turn.
He’s very nice, I get a trading card and a signed book, and he tells me a secret I appreciate, that women’s matches only happen every other show at this theater.
It’s weird singing a wrestler their praises as if they didn’t just put their body through hell, but I hope he felt my sincerity when I said I hoped he got signed.
All in all, my first live wrestling show was a rush of pure energy and community on a day that I really needed it. I feel myself aching for another show, which is coming soon.
In writing this, I hope you check these guys out! Some of them were hard to find, and I hope you can enjoy their work as much as I did, that somber Saturday in July.
I listened to this album on the shuttle heading home.
Home, funny enough, is something I associate distinctly with Left at London’s work. I was a 2 time closeted queer and trans kid when I listened to I Don’t Trust You Anymore.
Much like the sound of Transgender Street Legends Volume 3, both Nat and I have grown from that acoustic track.
Straight away. I was blown away by the audio mixing and the production. Puff is no slouch when it comes to production value within her music, but this release was truly a step above.
The start of the album, you can expect the absolute bright & engaging instrumentals despite the tonal difference SHH! Both SHH! & I’m Not Laughing Anymore we’re frankly some of the most stunning tracks on the album from a technical perspective to me, because Nat utilized a fantastic sense of theory to tell this story, without the instrumentals of these tracks, these stories could have absolutely still been told, but the shared unification of Puff’s stunning vocals & this musical storytelling instantly grabbed my attention unlike anything else I’ve listened to.
My Old Ways feels dreamlike, I’ve known myself to not be a fan of a lot of noise music but again, Puff is an expert of using every semblance of instrumentation to their advantage. Falling through remembering who you are, this song hit home on the drive home because it felt almost right to look back on ourselves, myself in this listen, without shame
Make You Proud and Will My Alters Go To Heaven crushed me in totally different ways.
I don’t believe it is my job to talk about Nat’s or my personal situations with family, especially loss. She’s shared what she is comfortable with in regards to the inspiration of Make You Proud. What was stunning to me, was the lack of grief within it.
Growing up celebrating Dia De Los Muertos, and living with the elderly myself, the resounding feeling of this song was a life celebration. Something utterly beautiful, and something that I feel is rarely recognized in music.
Will My Alters Go To Heaven made me cry. This was the one that wrenched my heart, this is the one that hit me with a wave of cathartic grief.
To look at the music itself. Getting a stunning piano track out of this album was not what I was expecting. This was one of the songs I had no clue about, and frankly, I think this is one of the most stunning features of Nat’s vocals in her entire library. This is raw & beautiful.
As someone who has also been left to ask the question, as someone who has come to understand my headmates, feeling that connection & knowing I wasn’t alone in that fear, was something I’ve never felt through music before…since I Don’t Trust You Anymore.
I know that this is the last volume of Transgender Street Lengends.
In a way, it feels like growing up.
This album is a principal feature of everything that is Left at London, & the sheer volume of talent she has. Knowing how long this album was in the making & the sheer passion that went into it. I will be kept aching for more & more of her work.
The stories being told in TSLV3 are seldom mainstream, but are absolutely vital stories, crafted by someone incredibly passionate & skilled to tell them.
Go listen to Transgender Street Lengends Volume 3, then do yourselves a favor, take in the rest of her discography too.
I was not familiar with Gaming Historian’s work before this, but I quite enjoyed this video. Where I went in expecting what’s familiar to me in the realm of vintage video game history, I wasn’t expecting such a constructive look at the political, legal, and tactical side of what brought the game to international stardom.
Obviously, capitalism and communism played big parts in the ideological and market framework all the rights parties were butting up against. I did find, however, where the stage was set for capitalism to benefit all those rights holders there were underpinnings of anti-capitalism throughout Tetris’s history. The years when the rights essentially did not matter were arguably where the most widespread development and passion for the game grew, in the form of developing versions for different computer hardware at the time.
Tetris was Shareware!
Of course, as we saw outlined here, it couldn’t stay that way forever.
There is something to said, as well, for the Gaming Historian’s team to highlight the creator, the singular person to make this happen. Alexey Pajitnov did not receive royalties, rights, even money! for his game until far later in life.
I am well aware I cannot speak for the economy then, given the complexities of the USSR’s economy at the time and his employment, but what I can say is this; Alexey’s story, at least in the beginning, feels sort of common now doesn’t it?
The games industry is complex. It always has been. I don’t have any claim to the AAA industry, and its inner workings, and I trust other journalists and writers to deliver informative and critical analysis of it.
I do know several indie developers.
I can’t help but ask myself after going through the history of a game with such staying power if we are losing so much within the world within this art form because of the stranglehold the current state of industry and economy have on the PEOPLE who make the games we love.
Tetris is a success story in this lens of history, this is a feel good story when the money and the contracts shake out.
I’d argue the art also benefited, given the variation in the way the game was programmed, with all of the weird rabbit holes each contain, and how Pajitnov initially distributed the game was the catalyst for the history we’re reliving.
I think if I got anything from this, other than the fantastic history lesson, is the hope for stability for developers in the future. Not only that, but I think artists deserve to live alongside and have a say in the things they love, especially for an industry as vast and multidisciplined as video games.
I hope you enjoyed this recommendation and my thoughts, if you have any thoughts or anything leave em in the comments.
Author’s Note: Hey! This piece of fic was written for the Blaseball Zine Jam 2022, and was for the collab zine Foreward [To Finish Later]. Please consider checking out the zine and the whole collection! This piece was inspired by a personal experience! I have always lived close to trains, and the Amtrak Southwest Chief route from Los Angeles to Chicago has always deeply fascinated me. I think the use of slower travel across the U.S. as symbolism for both Baby severing ties from xer life in San Francisco, and as a metaphor pulling them towards the call and the life that being a firefighter demands is so interesting to me. This piece was originally gonna be a solo zine, however my friends talked some sense into me! I hope to return to this eventually.
‘Train Tickets?’
That’s one voice xe will miss.
Sigmund’s voice in hir ear is soft, all things considered. They knew xe was going to do this for some time. The ache in hir bones, the burn of the sun, staring at the band of lovers that have come to center around hir siblings, the overwhelming rise of the LARP, the fight xe had with–
Knight.
It boils down to Knight.
Their fighting has only gotten worse with the talk of the game they fell in love with on a bout of some quest. Neither of them dared to comment on their relation to time, and how they were brought here; but where Baby wanted to settle, Knight created ripples and waves in their wake, between falling within the mess Theo began, or upsetting time to kill a god, or the cult of personality they formed around their love and their honor.
It felt suffocating.
The more xe stayed, the more hir beliefs took to Knight’s like oil to water. Xe couldn’t be like them. Xe couldn’t be in their shadow anymore.
Xe couldn’t keep living with clipped wings.
It’s why she’s here. It’s why xe is trying to get through Sigmund’s halls as quiet as xe can.
From Parker, xe heard that the Amtrak was just a few hours away in L.A., and if xe really wanted, xe could ride it to the end of the line.
‘You know I hate driving.’
Xe can feel Sigmund’s sigh of resign. In all reality, she knew that Sigmund would support xim. They talked about hir room, about how it would stay, if xe needed it.
She was hoping ey wouldn’t need it.
The train ticket purchase wasn’t difficult.
The line read LAX to CHI.
Chicago Union Station.
Something tugs at hir chest.
Of course, Sigmund told them.
Their conversation wasn’t long.
They straightened xer coat before she left.
Even in California, the early morning November air stings against the tear stains.
At least if they know, it will maybe make the split easier.
Somewhere, the threads that hold them together are stretched thin.
They do not break.
She’s glad ey called in this favor.
Don’s sitting in his black low rider, the tail pipe sputtering gray among the darkness. Don was usually up this hour, up to something, and had a double excuse as his ‘legal advisor’ was at a conference in L.A.
By the time hir bags are in the trunk, Don is tapping out the last of his cigarette. He tosses the spent butt in the dashboard ashtray, and he turns to xim.
“You ready to go?”
Xe nods, “Let’s go.
It’s around 2:55 when xem and Don finally stop talking, and the car is quiet.
The drive to LA isn’t a bad one, the late night air flowing through the open windows against their skin calms the flush on xer face.
She knows he won’t miss the empty sky, or the constant artificial lights. Xe’s never seen…most of the country before, frankly. Xe has read the stops and the breaks. Hopefully wherever she stops will be fresher than this.
Only after xe swallows the anxiety in their throat, does Ruthless realize how thirsty they are.
“Hey, Don?” their voice cracks, but Don hums in acknowledgement.
“Do you mind if we stop somewhere quick, I need to get something to drink.”
Don nods, “Sure thing kid, I could use something myself.”
The nearest exit is about a mile drive, and sooner than Ruthless can really process it, Don is parking in front of a 7/11.
Wandering the isles gives hir a headache. Between the florescent and the bright packaging of everything in sight, he goes for the largest bottle of water and the least disgusting energy drink she can find.
Don is still meandering around, which gives her more time to look.
A lot of the conveniences are things xe already packed, or snacks that would make hir sick, but one section does catch hir eye.
Usually, she would ignore the section of what Helga explained was ‘school supplies and stationary,’ but a particular object stood out.
It was plain and brown, no bigger than the palm of xer hand. Embossed in leather, the book read ‘Travel Diary.’
Xe remembers, a long time before San Francisco, Knight would write about their travels, sit their with parchment bound by leather, reading off stories and quests when xe was young. Xe would sometimes sit, when Knight was gone, reading off old books and notes that they took, tracing the letters with their fingers, wondering what traveling like his sibling would be like.
A voice breaks them from the thought.
“You ready to go bud?” Don’s head peeks from the opposite isle, and Ruthless nods.
“Yeah one sec.”
Without a second thought, Ruthless grabs the diary, along with a pack of pens, before joining Don at the register.
They stare down the television. The tiny CRT sits on top of boxes and milk crates in the equipment shed. Usually, things wouldn’t be…this tense. The fear of the idol board isn’t unknown amongst the players in Hawai’i, but they’ve felt nothing like Don’s instant rise to stardom.
The boss’ announcement comes, MVPs are awarded, and the man in question groans in ache.
Ego sits well on his skin when the modification takes. It’s Yosh’s eyes who meets Don’s now amber tinged first. This wasn’t new to the Fridays, but back in San Francisco, ego was the far from their concerns. Don was talented, Don was good. A part of him wished that Don Mitchell would put his energy into anything other than a love for the things and people he cared about.
This, Yosh knew, was out of the question.
He gets it.
Yosh gets it.
He’d be hypocritical. All things considered, the ache in his bones from several seasons back makes that no clearer. They both did what they did for love, it’s how they both got here in the first place.
The discussion from the team and the word from management is “wait it out, see where the vibes take us, we can try to prevent you from getting vaulted if we can.”
Being an optimist has never been Yosh’s forte.
Yosh comes to him with the idea.
“I’ll learn to bat, it will be fine, if you’re not on base, that will get the statisticians off of your back.”
Out of his entire blaseball career, Don has pitched a ball a total of maybe twenty times. Most of which, were homoerotic flirting attempts with his husband, or inebriated bets that varied wildly in result. He’s used to the run, he’s used to the fast-paced nature of the lineup.
He knows the sting of Ego. He knows his husband’s fear embedded in FaceTime calls and texts between timezones and air travel.
He says yes.
Yosh is a smart, smart man. It’s something Don has always admired, but even then, calling up his husband for the weekend so both of them could teach him to pitch as a bit…much.
He tugs at his collar, the height of the mound has him looking bouncing between the Sandford’s eyes as his catcher and Yosh’s eyes as the batter. Percival is serving as their ump, Roland is in the outfield, this is for him. He knows this whether feedback demanded it or not they are here for him.
Don can’t tell if that makes the shining weight in his stomach and lungs feel lighter or heavier,
He pitches the ball.
“Strike Three!”
Percy is grinning under her mask. He watches Sandy squeeze the ball in his mitt. Yosh’s grip on the bat loosens, and he signs.
“You’re a natural.”
Don steps off the mound, and runs his free hand through his hair, cringing at the stick the pine tar has against it.
“Well I had good people to learn from.”
Sandy takes off his mask, rolling his eyes, “You sap.”
Percy hollers for Roland to come in from the outfield, and goes off to the dugout to clean up, “You three got it here?”
Yosh nods, “Yeah, yeah, we got it.”
Laying in bed now, Don feels an ache in his shoulder, and he groans, “How the hell do you two do it.”
Sandy laughs, “Honest answer? It’s all in the elbows.”
Yosh chuckles into the pillow, and Don lightly hits him on the chest.
“Okay haha you shitheads.” Don is grinning too, despite everything, and he lets out a sigh.
“Are you two gonna be okay?” Don doesn’t finish his question right away, and the air hangs still.
“Like, if I really still get vaulted, are you two going to be alright?”
It’s more than the ego that makes his chest feel tight.
“Don-” Yosh starts. “This isn’t the first time the thought of losing someone has been at the forefront of my mind.”
Right. Fuck. Right.
“And because of that, I know that, whether you are vaulted, I will still have my love for you.”
Both him and Sandy are staring at Yosh now.
“I know I can’t speak for you Sandford, but, when Sebastian and I-” Yosh chokes on his words, and he takes a breath, “When we got married, we knew that with everything we had going on in our lives, that letting ourselves fall into grief would only hurt us. I miss him, I miss him every day.”
He pauses.
Yosh lets himself set his hand against Don’s bare chest, and Sandford joins him.
“He told me while we were living back in Trinidad, that if something were to happen, he wanted me to keep going, to keep trying, to keep loving, to not let myself break the cycle of filling the world with some tangible part of me, and of him.”
“Don, whatever we can do to keep you out of that vault we will do. But even if the worse comes to worst, we will keep going, for me, for you-” Yosh squeezes Sandford’s hand, “For us.”
Sandy rests his head on his shoulder, “You’ve always had a way with words, Carpenter.”
Yosh chuckles, “I try.”
They don’t talk about it anymore, at least for now. Sandford is quiet drawing his finger up and down Don’s chest hair, focusing on the slow pulse of the ceiling fan.
Don moves his arms, ignoring the strain in his shoulder. He wraps his arms around the pair, and pulls them close.
“Hey, we have the night to ourselves, why don’t we just enjoy it instead?”
“If by ‘enjoy it’ do you mean fall asleep in ten minutes?” Sandford smiles against his neck,
“Shut the hell up you old man.” Don kisses the top of his head, then turns to offer Yosh the same
The first time he busted his knuckles, getting in a fight with some snot nosed kid who called him a slur on the playground, he held his fist and sobbed. Roland would patch him up back then.
He’s bled a lot more since then. Bloody noses, cuts and scrapes, the graze of a sword getting a little too close to his side. Every time, it turns his stomach, it makes him sick.
He hates blood.
When the decree hits, when the metallic smell hits his nose, he vomits.
Theo has always appreciated his spot in the outfield. Right side, quiet and unbothered, he could dissociate among the sheets of red as the game goes on.
It is day 31.
The game is going, frankly, a grind. Tied for innings and innings, just waiting for someone to hit a homer and end the whole affair.
It’s the bottom of the 8th.
Knight has always stood center field, it’s a point of command and leadership, Theo relied on that often.
Combs, he thinks? That’s who’s up to bat.
The Ump calls a strike.
Theo glances away.
The gurgling starts.
The smell of blood is suddenly stronger, overwhelming, drowning. The droplets fall away from him and the rest of the team, the form around Combs at the plate and stream out away from him. The deep read clouds from around his lover, his captain, Knight. Blood flows around and into their suit, destined to go there by the gods and their assignment as a siphon.
The rain turns back to normal. Yosh is standing on the mound in horror.
Combs hits a double.
They win, in the end, but Theo barely recalls it.
They played into the 12th.
They were drenched.
Yosh is the one to storm off the mound first, going straight for Knight.
“What was that.”
Knight’s echoing voice explains it away “I couldn’t control it.”
Yosh stares at his own reflection in the shining, ruby tinged steel. “Okay.” They go to clean up, Theo pulls away to breathe.
He believes Knight.
Nine days.
It takes nine days.
They’re in the infinite LA and blood is drip drip dripping from his metal glakneesframes. His dreads are already tinted a deep maroon.
Fig crumbles at the plate. Out.
Val Games, that Val Games, gasps violently. Out
Then Fig screams. OUT
Percy is screaming too. The outs don’t feel good. The inning shifts are tense. Three times, three times he watched Knight fill with blood and stand firm in the wake of the pain of their opponents.
They win.
Theo helps Percy off the mound.
They do not speak to Knight.
It happens again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
The Shelled One is angry. The world is rumbling. The blood keeps pumping and draining and looking Knight in the helm is becoming harder and harder and harder.
It’s nearly the end of the season now.
Day 97.
Bloodrain.
Even his disgust is getting tired, his original horror feels dulled in the wake of everything.
Pedro goes down in a gurgling gasp, and Sandy walks him in an instant.
Knight stands firm.
Kennedy, poor fucking Kennedy, he gets drained and falls to his knees, with Luis and Parker having to help him to his feet.
Knight is shining under the blood.
Sutton glows when it hits her, she laughs with blood dripping from her lip as she slams a ball right past him.
Knight radiates.
They win. It’s a shutout.
It’s between himself and Sandford who get to Knight first. But Theo moves quicker than he has in ten fucking seasons and makes it first.
“What the fuck is wrong with you Triumphant!”
He bangs on Knight’s chest plate and blood splatters across his face and glasses.
Knight doesn’t even try to defend themselves.
Knight’s face is shifting, they certainly aren’t upset, in fact, they look proud.
“This is helping us, isn’t it? We won. We’re in the playoffs.”
Theo stares at them.
They keep staring.
Theo hits them again, right against the helm, suddenly he feels his knuckles sting in a familiar ache. Knight does not flinch. Theo is certain his blood is mixing with Knight’s and everyone else’s
There’s something unspoken here.
The fact that it’s not about winning, the fact that Knight didn’t care what they did to other people, the fact that Knight didn’t care about what they were doing to them, all of them.
Those issues went unsaid.
They lose in the semifinals against the same team Knight sucked the life out of.
Theo catches himself whispering to Percy in bed, asking if maybe they did that in spite of them, in spite of Knight.
The smell of spices hits Adalberto’s nose when they get to the door.
The apartment lights, sans the kitchen, are turned down low. Some sort of music fills the air between the smell of garlic.
She said he was just going to pick up wine, cheese and bread, just like his husband asked, but got sidetracked by a few extra treats along the way. The corner market by their apartment was always too tempting, and Brock would definitely tease him for it later.
He watches Brock sway to the quiet music, he looks focused, relaxed, and the sight makes Bertie feel warm.
He sets the grocery bag on the counter, which gets Brock’s attention enough to smile at him, before going back to swaying.
Bertie lets himself slink behind him, pressing himself against Brock’s back, moving with his sway. Bertie’s long arms wrap around Brock’s waist, Brock leans his head back slightly, enough to press against Bertie’s chest.
This is how they stay, the lingering jazz, the warm smell of tomato & rosemary.
Then Bertie leans in, bending down, they kiss the man, letting their lips linger on the top of his head, then he hears Brock chuckle.
“Isn’t bending down like that gonna hurt your back?”
Bertie rests their chin on his head, “That ship sailed a long time ago dear.”
Brock sighs, “It’s only a little unfair that you’re so much taller than me”
Bertie grins, “It’s either this or we get you a step stool.”
With his unoccupied hand, Brock lightly hits him. He sets the spoon down, then turns to face Bertie.
“I can reach you just fine thank you.” Suddenly Brock raises up, balancing on his tiptoes, to place a kiss on the bottom of Bertie’s lips.
Bertie meets him, of course he does, he holds his husband close. He takes in his cold skin, running his hand against the rough texture of his face. He keeps an arm around him, just to make sure the steady balance doesn’t shift.
Then he feels Brock jump, he falls off his tiptoes.
“The sauce!”
Brock turns around to what is clearly a now steaming and bubbling concoction. Bertie chuckles and presses another kiss to his head.
“Keep your eyes on the prize love.”
Brock grumbles with no malice behind it, “Well someone decided to distract me!”
“Do you want cheese bread or not?” Bertie retorts.
Brock grins at him, “the oven is already preheating, I didn’t forget.”
Bertie smiles back, then goes to get the groceries they brought home.
The warm silence fills the room again, with the promise of dinner getting closer.
Without warning, Brock asks, “What snacks did you buy?”
