"He's so creepy."

My boyfriend taps the glass. I swat his hand away and give him a stern look.

"He is not," I chastise, reaching for the chopsticks by my bedside. "You just can't get over your Neanderthal impulses."

Phil, the tarantula, sits in his cage staring up with wide eyes.

I smile at him, and imagine him smiling back. What a curse, to have an animal so adorable and fuzzy-looking that I know I can never pet. He turns his body the slightest bit.

"We had 'em for a reason."

I roll my eyes, grabbing the crickets from the top shelf. One of their legs sticks through the hole of the strawberry container. I push it back inside.

"I just don't understand," he begins. "It's not a dog or a cat. It doesn't purr or sneeze or bark or stretch. It looks at you because it doesn't have eyelids. It doesn't even talk."

"Does it have to?" I reply, rather harshly.

My boyfriend sighs.

"I'm not trying to fight, I just—" he pinches the bridge of his nose. "How could you love something that doesn't love you back?"

I want to fight back, retort with some witty quip or long convoluted speech. I don't, though, because truthfully I can't answer it myself.

The lady at the thai place forgot my chopsticks.

I rationalize to myself.

You already have a salad that needs a fork, all it would be is a waste. I look at the bag inside the bag, and the irony makes me chuckle.

The biracial cliché is so overplayed, I think, with the fork between my fingers.

...

My flat face used to make me feel ugly, when it filled out my cheeks and softened my jaw. But now it just made me upset. How could she not know? Are hooded eyes that hard to see behind my thick rimmed glasses?

"Can I get a chicken katsu?" I asked her.

"Chicken katsu?" She corrected subtly, second hand embarrassment thick in her voice. I cringe. Keenly aware of my patrilineality.

...

"That's ones wrong," my mom tells me. "All of them are."

My toddler-esque hangul mocks me. 'Who do you think you are?' It taunts. I glare at the giyeok. It glares back. I'm mad at the letter G.

"You really ought to be more careful," I chastised, pulling the thread up.

Holding still was seemingly impossible for him. Whether tapping his fingers against his arm or stretching his neck, he was always moving in one way or another. Like he would freeze if he stayed still for too long. I couldn't fault him too much; he'd been laying there for what seemed like ages. Lacerations of various sizes littered his back, and deep bruising spanned from the small of his back to his upper left shoulder. His hair fell in lengthy reddish curls around his face.

"You should learn how to sew," he gritted through his teeth.

I rolled my eyes, even though I knew he couldn't see me. The urge to tug a bit harder on the thread came into my mind, but I quickly shook away the thought.

"You're lucky I found you out there at all," I lectured, hooking the needle under the skin of his shoulder blade. He took in a sharp breath. "You could've died, you know."

"The thought never crossed my mind."

I couldn't tell whether he was making some sort of macabre sarcasm about his near death experience, or whether he was being genuine.

"How much longer do I have to lay here?" He asked.

"I'm almost done. Be patient."

"Us higher beings aren't known for our patience."

I smiled. "At least you guys seem to have a sense of humor."

He laughed, softly. There was a sort of boyishness to him that felt endearing. I didn't know whether it was his delicate features or soft laugh, but the contrast between that and the fate he faced was tragically poetic.

"Not all of us," he said after some time. "Just me."

...

"Alright, I'm done." I sighed, trying to shake the numbness from my hand. It had taken me another half hour to finish the sutures, during which neither of us really said anything more. At a certain point I thought he'd fallen asleep, until he told me the elbow I'd been resting on him was digging into him.

"Took you long enough," he joked, sitting up and stretching his arms. I sat next to him awkwardly, fumbling with the hem of my shirt.

"Can I ask you something?" I finally said.

He didn't answer, simply looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite place. Kind, no doubt, but still perplexing.

"What... happened?"

He tensed, then met my eyes.

"I made a stupid choice. I tried to take down a kingdom all by myself. Tried to topple a deity. What a fucking joke." He laughed an exacerbated, pitiful laugh. "You should've heard it. The last thing Isaiah said to me, I—"

His voice wavered.

"What did he say...?" I asked hesitantly. He didn't answer, and I was afraid the eggshells I was walking on had finally broken. But then he spoke.

"How you have fallen from heaven, morning star," he regaled his name's meaning mockingly, "son of the dawn."

He took in a shaky breath.

"That's funny," I said under my breath, almost immediately regretting it. "S-sorry. It's not funny, just... That sounds like something someone told me once."

"Who?"

"My mother."

It was his turn to ask questions now.

"What did she say?"

"Pretty much the same thing," I took a breath in, "but without the courtesy of being called her son."

I sat there motionless, using whatever energy I had to stop myself from breaking down. Then he brought me into a tight embrace. I embraced him back, clinging to his torso. My hands traced the injures on his back, gliding across the sutures that had brought us to this moment. Then I cried. Then he cried. And we were two sinners, weeping on each others shoulders.

"Hate the sin, love the sinner."

The old woman with the curly bob gives a small smile. Her gaze doesn't meet mine, as she's sitting down, but regardless I meet it. There's warmth in her words, but all I see in her eyes is pity. She holds out a pocket bible outstretched in her hand.

The stand she's behind is typical of any small-city-festival-proselytization booth. A white fold-out table adorned with banners, booklets, and other religious literature. All of the important words— Hell, repentance, judgment, Leviticus —are bolded on the signage.

I think about what she must have thought in order to stop me specifically. How my height gives away my biology. The way my feminine shape must still peak through my boxers and cargo pants. The trans tape peaking out the side of my sleeveless tee. The boy I'm interlocking hands with.

I grab the bible with my free hand. Deep copper text on top of a dusty navy cover. I trace the words 'King James version' with my thumb. How could something I spent so many years escaping still look this beautiful? I grip the book out of frustration.

"But I am the sin," I tell her.

Her smile waivers, caught off guard, and she looks at me in confusion.

"The sin is fused into my skin, and threaded into my heart. The sin is graffiti scrawled on an overhead highway sign, with the words 'FAGGOT' and 'TRANNY.' Separating me from the sin is like splitting an atom from itself. Me and the sin are like the men i commit them with—"

She huffed, in her objection.

"—entangled despite the eyes."

One day closer to freedom, I think, wiping spaghetti stains off of a red-and-white tablecloth. The checkered print had been seared into my mind by the time 7 o'clock hits. Glasses clank and clatter as I load them onto the tray. I try (and fail) to grab a plate without getting butter on my hands.

Of all the days to be wearing rings.

I let out an annoyed sigh, and haul the tray to the back.

This isn't my job— I wipe a plate into the compost bin —I'm a host. I'm not a busser, I'm not a server. I sure as hell don't get paid like one. I pick the straws out of the cups. A plate shatters in the kitchen. I should quit.

I don't, though, instead I simply continue grabbing used napkins and utensils and keep my thoughts to myself. My coworker, one of the serving staff, passes by my left shoulder with a plate of chicken parmesan (I could smell it before I saw it). She turns to me before making it to her table, and asks me something:

"We're getting drinks after work, wanna come?"

My feet, calloused and blistered beyond belief scream to me. "Please, not a moment more of walking!" They beg; they know just as well as I do. I have to do this all over again the next day, and the next, and the next after that.

I know all of this to be true, and yet I still muster up a reply.

"Sure, when are you off?"

A screaming silence stood in the air.

The counting of an analog clock could be heard clearly throughout the small studio. The ticks were practically claps with how much silence they could move through. They imagined the inside of the clock. Gears scrapping against each other, springs and sprockets bouncing up and down. Intricate enough to fit inside a flat circle the size of a small cake.

They shifted a bit. A few joints let out a satisfying crack. Staying in the same position for so long began to show its effect, but they couldn't be bothered to do anything about it.

"You awake?" They asked the boy underneath them.

His body laid slack— one leg draped over the edge of the couch. His arm curled under their chest, holding them in place. He had to take noticeably larger breaths because of the dead weight. With every one he took his chest rose and fell, and they rose and fell with it. Their breathing was off-sync from one another; he began inhaling moments before they began exhaling.

"I am now," he replied.

"I can't exactly stay in the same position all night, you know."

"Sounds like an excuse to me."

They rolled their eyes.

"Fine, I'll get up if you want me to—" they propped themselves up to move, but he pulled them back down.

"Hey, hey, I didn't say that." He held them tighter against him.

"That's what I thought."

The same silence overtook the air again. Not awkward, just... present.

"I can hear your heartbeat," he whispered.

"Surprising, hm?"

"...What is?"

"That I have a heart."

Although her mind was not completely awake, she could still feel a presence looking over her... Authoritative and pestering.

She turned her head and saw an officer walk through the door. Everyone sat up, expressions of worry and interest sprinkled the room.

"Hello 2100 residents" he chirped, plastering a fake smile, "Just a friendly reminder that all citizens of Aeonia must take their mandated dormancy tablets, in order to assure a full healthy sleep."

His eyes glanced at the blank expressions around the room. He cleared his throat and continued. "Recently, we've noticed certain... individuals" he paused, glancing at Caesthoffe "Not working at their full potential during job time. To ensure complete productivity, an officer will now monitor residents before the nine o'clock lights out announcement, starting tonight."

Caesthoffe rolled her eyes, both at the new regulation, and his grating voice.

"So if you will please, pull out your medicine and take one now"

She swallowed. The officer seemed to notice her disdain and smirked, an incredibly punchable smirk at that.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"No officer," she replied flatly, "None at all."
She reached under her bed and opened her drawer. Everything was scattered sparsely, making it easy to find the pill bottle, especially with its blue lid and label contrasting the pure white of the walls. She looked up at the officer and noticed she was the only person he'd been eyeing the entire time. Her hands wrapped around the lid, popping it off rather easily. She shook it slightly, and two round white tablets fell into her hand (as apparently, {} was oblivious to any other color). Caesthoffe looked directly at the officer as she tilted her head back, and swallowed both of the pills, never breaking eye contact.

...

She removed the blanket off her body and sat up. A slight rush flew through her head, but she quickly shook it away. She slid off the edge of the bed and kneeled in front of her drawer. Sliding it open was almost impossible without hearing a soft whirr, creating more anxiety. She grabbed a piece of bread, or at least what she hoped was one. Trying possibly a little too hard to be silent, she less-than gracefully crept towards the white door that sat at the other end of the room. Her hands wrapped around the handle and pulled the door open.

Clink

The piece of metal she'd stuck in the lock time and time again fell sharply. She worriedly looked behind her... no one so much as stirred.

She picked it back up, and carefully set it in the lock, shutting the door as gently as possible. Her shoulders relaxed, and she leaned against it. The quick stomps of her feet echoed up the stairs, and out the large door at the top of the roof.

She looked around a bit. Most of the lights had been shut off, the only other sources came from the guard towers that sat on the corners of the large wall surrounding Aeonia, and the large building that lay in the middle known as the Centre.

Caesthoffe walked to the edge of the roof and dangled her feet over the side. The air had been a little cold, and the thin uniform they'd been issued hadn't done much in terms of keeping her warm. She supposed Aeonia tried to distract from it by making the uniforms look visually appealing. Her sleek black top would almost be perfect if the designers had simply left the sleeves on. The corner of her top held an emblem, a circle with a line cutting through the top and bottom paired with an arm on either side, one pointing up, one pointing down. Her pants were a matte grey, with a solid white stripe going down the left leg. The Centre had told the citizens of Aeonia that their uniforms were made with the finest resources available. Caesthoffe scoffed, crossing her arms tightly to her chest to preserve the little warmth she had.

Caesthoffe took a bite of her bread. Smuggling food was becoming much harder since the Centre had discarded the pockets on the new uniforms, now the only accessory held was a long zipper that drew halfway down her back. It proved irritating when she took it off and the zipper met her long brown hair.

She looked to her right and could make out one crow, sitting on top of the Eastern tower, the only thing giving it away being the slight shine that reflected off its feathers.

Caesthoffe tore off a bit of bread and threw it onto the roof of the Complex below her, almost hitting the 2 on the large white numbers that read 2400.

"Speaking of," Caesthoffe whispered.

She watched as it opened its wings and flew down to the complex below her. Cautiously, she saw it hop over to the piece of bread and peck at it. Presumably sure of its safety, it pecked a few more times. Caesthoffe's gaze lingered for a while, as she watched in amusement and chuckled. The crow froze. She silently reprimanded herself for startling it, and tried to mend its trust. The crow looked at her and tilted its head. Unsure of what to do, she carefully ripped off another piece of bread and threw it down. The crow hopped out of the way and took a bite. Caesthoffe smiled.

Her smile faded.

Quickening footsteps and loud bangs echoed from the stairwell, reaching Caesthoffes ears. The crow she had been feeding had also noticed, as it flew away from her complex, past the wall, and into the dark.

Her heart started to race, as she frantically searched for somewhere to disappear. She noticed the walls that surrounded the stairwell entrance, and sprinted to the side, pressing her body as close to the wall as she could, cloaked in shadows.

The door opened with a sharp slam and two officers struggled through the door, dragging a young boy roughly by the arms, not looking older than fifteen. She could see in the dim light, that he'd already accepted a beating. The swollen dark blue splotch that spread across his eye and the blood that covered his mouth and nose gave it away. His desperate pleas for aid were muffled by the cloth gag that had been wrapped around the corners of his mouth, behind his head.

Caesthoffes eyes looked on in horror and repulsion as the officers shoved the boy on his knees, causing him to whimper. One officer grabbed the boy's arm and pinned it behind his back, making his breathing became more erratic and sharp. His lungs coughed up blood onto the officer in front of him.

The officer stepped back in disgust, and light hit him just enough for Caesthoffe to view his face. His skin was creamy white with what looked to be a yellow tint, and his jaw looked sharp enough to slice glass. The hollows of his cheekbones cast a deep shadow on his skin, and she thought she saw a smear of blood above his eyebrow.

He reached forward and clenched the collar of the boy's tainted uniform, and he threw a quick strike to his jaw. His body immediately flew to the left, toppling onto the concrete with no resistance. Caesthoffe winced and had to cover her mouth for fear of sobbing. She couldn't have been surer of death.

The boy wasn't dead. His mind was still very disoriented and stunned, but he was nonetheless alive. Caesthoffe couldn't help but admire his strength, as he got onto one knee and muttered what would be his last words

"Go to Hell."

Caesthoffes' mind raced as she let out a loud no, desperately trying to save him. The boy looked to his side, meeting Caesthoffes eyes before his head broke open in a misty haze.

Caesthoffe looked down at her appearance, and for the first time in a while, realised how insane she looked. Her eyes narrowed on every part of her figure. Blood stained her

Caesthoffe Ardent was starving & nearly dead. Her stomach ached, and her mouth hadn't so much as touched a scrap of bread. She couldn't recall the last time she'd eaten a solid piece of fruit or a slice of meat that hadn't been dried. How she missed it. Her diet now consisted of MRE's, and dried milk, which had to be rationed carefully. She had agreed to only go out for a supply run when her last can of food was pryed open.

Looking around the small house she'd found made her anxious. Although food was scarce & she couldn't go out for too long, she always thought she was too lucky. Most couldn't find a shelter when the sirens went off... She'd been lucky to find a house with a cellar. She'd been lucky to have a weapon to protect herself. Hell, she'd been lucky to have a companion, even if he wasn't human.

As if reading her thoughts, Ares jumped onto her lap. His fur had a dim shine in the waking hours and his ears perked up.

Contrasting most cats, his tail was rather short & stubby, almost as if it had been folded over itself. Although Caesthoffe didn't know whether this was a result of breeding or some accident before the apocalypse, but she took solace in not knowing.

He licked her hand, and a slight smile came across Caesthoffes face. She knew providing for another mouth was more was more work on her part, but to take him with her, putting him in danger with her. She was on the run and would most likely be until her demise. Would he be better off without her?

She shakes her head and her mind rezones.

"Focus" she muttered, picking Ares up "I can't be worrying about dumb shit like this."

Caesthoffe glanced around @ the room, and sighed. She'd reinforced the windows, and took stock in the armoury (if you could call 25 bullets & a semi-auto pistol an armourry). It was fairly easy to run out of distractions when your shelter is a shed at best. Defeated, she grabbed a map from the wall and set it on the floor. The creases where it had been folded over itself posed annoying.As her fingers roamed thru the small streets of Albuquerque, and over the crossed out gas stations, she came to the realisation that the nearest food source was miles away.

She cursed under her breath, and started packing. Ares meowed, and narrowed his eyes, seeming to reprimand her.

"What? Do I need to put a nickel in the swear jar?" she remarked, sarcasm laced in her voice.

He hopped out of her arms, and sat on top of the map, seemingly crushing Rio Rancho.

Caesthoffe glanced around the enclosed space she was stuck in. The place was so unlike any place she had ever been. It contrasted the dirt caked mine shafts that she'd grown up in.

A sudden jolt made her stumble a bit. As she tried to regain her balance, she realised the elevator was broken.

"Great," she muttered under her breath, "Of all the placees that could've broken down, it was inside the richest place in Aeonia."

She fumbled with the elevator buttons for a while, but when she saw it was useless, she became irritated. She'd gone through so much, only for an elevator to stop her.

There was no escaping the eventual and inevitable death of the Centre Gold Mine. Her cracked walls led people to believe she had long passed her prime and was only a simple husk pleading for an end. She met her conclusion eleven years earlier.

The fin, of a murder-suicide.

Caesthoffe knew what the Centre had done to her. She was reminded every day when she drifted past her brothers mangled helmet, the only piece of him able to be excavated. The rest, left to rot.

Which is not to say she wanted him out of his urban guy, or that she would arrive if the Orocott had gathered enough funds to remove his body. Seeing him might

Asterland had tried to play-down the accident. They reused the same speech they gave for every other tragedy. The one where a high-ranking official would stand on a podium above the citizens, and give a low-effort apology that always found a way to shift the blame.

Caesthoffe would replay the scene in her head, at a punishing rate. Perhaps it was a deep, underlying thirst for pain. Masochism is an unintentional occupation that many in Orocott posess, mostly against their will. They have to learn to enjoy the pain, or they'll end up stuck in a gold mine, under a pile of rubble & coal.

Leo took a step back, and looked down. Blood seeped through his shirt, staining his chest a dark crimson.

Reality crept in, through the gaping wound... that made his body collapse onto the grass.

As Leo waited, for the inevitable & impending death, he thought of many things.

He thought of his brother.

He thought of his friends.

He thought of his wife.

The last minute of his life, he decided, wouldn't be spent hurting the people he loved. He knew he wouldn't make it... And he accepted it.

Before he died, he had to say goodbye.

He reached into his pocket, desperate... Running out of time.

The phone rang.

Hello?

"Hey, uh... hey August," Leo trembled "It's Leo"

"Oh, hi baby. You had a good day at work?" she asked.

"I, um, I've had better"

"Aww... That's okay. I'll make it up for you when you get home" August chuckled.

"Y-yeah..." Leo felt tears burn his eyes as he held back a cry. "About that, uhm,"

He took a shallow breath."I've got extra work, at the office today... I-I won't be home for a while"

"Oh" she mumbled. "Well, don't work yourself too hard"

"I-I won't, baby," Leo laughed, from both pain and guilt.

"August?" Leo asked

"Yeah?"

"I love you... So, so much"I love you t—

"Baby?" You crawled inside his tent. Aldo sat on his makeshift bed, with a handheld mirror in his hand. His chin was tilted upwards slightly, and his other hand was tracing the scar featheraround his neck. It was rather faded— Well, more faded than it had been when you two had first met.

"Hey darling," he said softly in his southern drawl.

"What're you doing?" You asked, moreso a

"Nothin'," he shut the mirror, and sighed. "Just rememberin', y'know?

"Mmm." You crawled into Aldo's lap; he wrapped his arms around your midsection, just under your chest

"What about you?" He gave you a kiss on your cheek. "How're you doing?

"Tired." You answered simply

"Yeah?

"Yeah," you looked up at him. "Killing Nazis is hard work

Aldo laughed, and gave you a kiss

"Ain't that the truth.

You nodded, cuddling into him closer

"Don't worry, honey, the Nazi killing's all done for today. Now you just gotta deal with me." He smirked

"Gladly," you gave Aldo a quick kiss, but as you pulled away he kissed you again. Deeper, as if the slight peck had activated something in him.

DISCLAIMER FROM 2025: this one is especially embarrasing because it was written in the height of my JREG centricide phase, but alas... this is the archives. i already gave the warning but again, massive warning for terrible content ahead.

THE FIRST DRAFT

tags: touch starved, friends to lovers, healing from trauma

старый друг = old friend
моя любовЬ = my love
блядЬ = fuck

---
The evening sun touched the horizon of downtown Stalingrad. Long shadows scattered the streets, covering the sidewalks in gray. It was the time of day when the colors of the sky changed minute by minute, and the only artels open were

Inside of your apartment, the sunlight did little but provide warmth for your houseplants during the cold days, and ambient light for reading. It also, however, signaled the end of the day. So, you sat at your dinner table (which was nothing more than a glorified coffee table). The newspaper still sat where you left it— under the coffee you'd made before work. You hadn't bothered reading it then, but there wasn't much else to do.

You slid the cup off and read the headline.

'Правда,'

'SUNDAY — 5 March 1950'

'STALIN TRAVELS GETTING LONGER EACH YEAR: WHAT COULD IT MEAN?

You chuckled

In all honesty you should've been upset that the leader of this country was spending more time overseas having extravagant vacations. Who knows? Maybe Stalingrad would get lucky, a day where Stalin would leave and never return

Stalingrad

No, in your heart it was still Tsaritsyn. The city was renamed far before your time. It didn't matter, though. It was the thought of it

----------

"God, it's been so long." You sighed. "You know, this place really hasn't changed at all."

Silence hung in the air. You scolded yourself internally.

"I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No, it's- it's okay дорогой, it's just... It's been a long time since I'd thought of it."

He took a drink, different than the ones he'd had all night. It was, personal. The tone shifted; it wasn't just something to do in between friendly conversation, it was a distraction. It was his turn to study the horizon, although by now the sun had finally set and all he could make out were the outlines of the trees in the distance.

"Are you okay Commie?" You asked.

"Remember when we were teenagers?" He took a sip from his drink. "Sneaking away from home in the middle of the night, just to come here?"

"Like it was yesterday," you chuckled lightly.

"Nothing in our minds but young idealism, right my friend?"

"Yep. I miss it sometimes. A lot, actually." You took a drink. "It was always my favorite, you know... Spending all those nights here with you."

“да, me too.”

Commie snaked an arm around your shoulders, and pulled you into his side. He looked at you, but you didn't look back; seemingly occupied with the dusk settling on the horizon— In reality, you were trying not to [kiss him, more detailed]

"Are you okay?" Commie asked.

"Huh?" You blinked up at him. "Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm okay."

A playful grin spread across his face.

"Really?" He asked. "You seem so tense [pet name]. Don't tell me it's been that long."

"No, I-I'm sure. It's nothing, really."

You avoided his eyes, not a particularly convincing mannerism

"It's okay, I understand."

"Understand what?"

"Nothing, nothing, don't worry about it [pet name],"

"Telling me not to worry is only going to make me worry more,"

"Just forget, [name], honest."

"I don't think I can at this point."

"Well." He took a drink. "If I recall, some of our nights here were... less than innocent."

You paused.

Commie let out a laugh

------------------

"My [name], I wish you could see your face right now."

"Ah, yeah, I didn't really get a chance to make myself presentable." You laughed.

---“What is this?”

Commie turned around, about to ask what you were talking about, when the color drained from his face; you held a piece of cardstock, no bigger than an index card (literally had to google when these were invented), that read ‘Inquiry’ in your hand. His name, date of birth, age— everything, written in his beautiful Russian cursive.

"It's not…" He trailed off.

“Not what, huh? Not a fucking conscription notice?” You slammed the card on the table.

[something descriptive about commies face; upset/shocked/guilt

“моя любовЬ, I—”

“No.” You cut him off. “Don’t, don’t touch me, don’t you dare call me that right now.”

Commie took a step back, .

“I know you are upset, and you have every right, but—”

“When?”

"What…"

"When do you leave?" You asked again.

Commie looked at the ground, avoiding your gaze.

“Tomorrow…” he muttered, almost inaudibly.

You froze; you could feel your heart start to pound. It was getting harder to breathe.

“Tomorrow?” The word tried settling on your tongue, but

.

.

.

"I don't want you to go," you choked, a final pathetic attempt at keeping him there.

"I know, [pet name], I know."

"Come here, дорогой."

He pulled you into a hug, and held you tightly. You could hear his ragged breathing-- He held in his emotions, but you could sense him starting to break.

---

"I-I'm sorry," he cried; Repeating it under his breath, not able to let it (or you) go.

"Hey, hey, hey" you held the sides of his face, gently, holding his head up to look at you. "It wasn't your fault Commie, okay? It was never your fault."

"Fuck, come here," you hugged him again.

Tension had finally snapped after all of these years; emotions poured over and you kissed Commie. It wasn't slow or gentle, but passionate and frantic-- As if you were both afraid that you'd lose each other all over again. You straddled his lap, letting his hands wander over your body with haste. They climbed under your shirt and up your sides

SUBURBIA --- 2004

"Jesus!" A series of knocks emitted from the door, before it opened.

"You know, most people would wait until they're invited in to open the door mom." Jesus said, smugly.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Listen--- Bud's gonna be over in 10 minutes, go set the table."

"Oh boy, I'm so excited." He feigned excitement.

"Jesus, please don't be like this when he comes over."

Jesus opened the door, and in front of him stood a [word for disgusting] man. He was husky, with a white wife beater that barely held together, not even bothered to be cleaned. His facial hair was patchy. He looked exactly how you'd expect someone named Bud to be.

"Hello [name], welcome. Jesus, say hello" His mother said.

"Hi," he said simply. He was trying to hold in his disgusted look.

"You didn't tell me he was queer," he said.

"Oh, uh he um he isn't" she quickly rushed, Jesus rolled his eyes.

"So, are you gonna let me in?" he scoffed.

"Oh, yes, of course! Come in." She opened the door wider.

Jesus sat at the dinner table, with the man eyeing him the entire time.

"So, what do you do for fun?" Jesus' mother asked.

"I like hunting," he said. "Really love collecting that fur and whatnot.

"Wow, what a great hobby," Jesus said sarcastically, although [name] didn't pick up on it.

"What about you? You look like you write, or something gay like that."

"I play guitar," Jesus gritted his teeth.

"Even worse," he laughed loudly in Jesus face.

"What's your name kid?"

"Jesus."

"Haha, what, did your mom think you'd be the messiah?" He laughed, far too loudy, at his own racist joke.

"You're a funny guy," Jesus said dryly.

"You got an attitude on you, boy.

"Dinners served!" Jesus' mother interrupted.

"Finally," he said. "I'm starving."

"So where do you work?" she asked him.

"My parents own a frozen food company, I'm the chief executive officer.

"Oh, how interesting. Isn't that interesting Jesus?"

"Yeah, sure."

[name] was silent, so Jesus' mom talked.

"Well, I've been working at the gas station down the road recently. Whatever job's I can find, you know how it is."

"Yeah, Clinton ruined the job market. Fucking liberals."

"Well if this all goes well then maybe your parents will hire me at their frozen food factory!" Jesus' mom laughed, but the guy was silent (likely because he didn't get it).

Jesus didn't know, but he did know that marrying this man was never going to work, even if it was just for money. Regardless, he tried maintaining his anger if only just for tonight. He started eating when politics was brought up. He only noticed because he saw [name's] face get bright red as he ranted about anyone and everyone.

"Do you really think that my mother thinks like you. She obviously is doing this to try and impress you."

"'Scuse me?"
"Do you actually think my mother would agree with anything you said?"

"Jesus, be quiet."

"No, seriously. I've kept quite the whole fucking time, but fuck you're a fucking asshole. I wouldn't want you within 100 miles of a school, much less standing by my mom at an alter. I don't care if she was doing this for money. I can't let her be treated like shit on the first fucking date she's spent with you. You definitely seem like the beating type, you're wearing a fucking wife beater for fucks sake.

"Jesus. Room. Now."

"No, mother, let me talk. You're a fucking piece of shit. I hope you know that she will never like you. So get that through your skull."

"You know what, I don't have to take this shit. Fuck you, faggot." He left for the door.

"Wait, [name] please, please we can sort his out."

It didn't matter, he shut the door on Jesus' mothers face.

"Are you fucking serious, Jesus?"

"Mom, I couldn't let you marry that guy, money or not."

===

"Jesus, you get the FUCK back here right now."

The voice shouted from behind him. That voice; his mother's voice.

"I'm not kidding, come here."

She'd shouted towards him again. It'd been happening for months now. One way or another, they'd end up in a fight. Week after week, like a broken record.

He sighed, and turned back around to face his mother.

"What, mom? What do you want me to say?" Jesus asked.

"I don't know, how about a sorry to start?!" She spat.

"A fucking SORRY?" Jesus scoffed, "You want me to say sorry to the prick who's wearing the 'White Pride' shirt?"

"I asked you, I told you before he showed up not to ruin this..." She continued on, as if what he said hadn't even registered in her mind. "And look what you fucking did."

"What I did? What, are we not gonna talk about about what he did?! The shit that he said?!"

His mother wasn't talking anymore, simply burying her face in her hands.

"No, but my bad," he feigned guilt. "I'll go suck him off, why don't I! I mean it's like he said, I'm the faggot of the house."

"You know why we needed him here, and you—"

"I could've done a lot fucking worse to that guy." Jesus interrupted. "You're lucky we can't afford a lawyer, or that hicks teeth would be all over the kitchen."

"You know," she shouted, "It's real easy to call me the bad guy when I'm the one who pays your fucking rent. Who puts clothes on your fucking back."

"Oh would you look at that! The bare fucking minimum. Do you want your 'Mother of the Year' award now or later?" He shouted, sarcasm laced in his anger.

There was silence; tense, deafening silence.

"You don't understand how hard having you as my son is, Jesus."

She stood up, quick enough to knock the dining chair backwards against the wall.

"Fuck you," His mother leaned close to Jesus' face before she stormed away to her room and slammed the door, hard enough to knock a framed photo off of the wall. Like a teenager.

Jesus wept.

Prologue: The disclaimer

I use the idea of "choosing to love" a lot in this writing. It may seem hypocritical that I, someone who touts aromanticism as a born-identity like gayness or transness, am saying something as obviously backwards as this. I don't want you to think of that phrase literally, though. Because as I've learned through the entirety of my aromantic life, "love" doesn't have a set definition. Love is discussed in alloromantic circles with non-answers. "You'll know when you feel it," was something I heard constantly, so it was no wonder I felt broken when I never did. When I use "chose to love," I'm talking about the choice to be intimate— physically, mentally, emotionally —regardless of your actual attraction levels.

Idea I: Discrimination

Aromantic people experience unique forms of discrimination that are underrepresented in queer intersectionalism, often considered unimportant or even juvenile.

Aromantics who don't participate in dating culture or amatonormative relationships become social oddities. This is especially true of aromantics who still partake in sexual acts, and doubly when those are promiscuous. Aromantics who do aren't considered at all in the public's limited consciousness of the idea of aromanticism.

Aromanticism is often a footnote to asexuality, barely ever talked about as it's own concept. The rise of "anti-SAM" or "anti-split attraction model" aromantics does further harm to this. Not in their own detachment with the term, but their consistent antagonism and dissection of what they claim as a flawed model.

A lack of romantic attraction by an individual in modern society is always taken as attraction to a different gender unless outwardly stated, with public knowledge of aromanticism being nearly none. This is both a cause and effect of a lack of aromantic representation in the media.

Unconsidering beliefs and actions towards aromantic people are often present inside our own community. Queer activism often begins and ends with the freedom to love. "Love is love," is an inherently exclusionary motto and still one of the most popular slogans used. Because "love" is pedestaled to the forefront with little regard to the queer people who don't experience it.

Idea II: The pillars of aromanticism

1. The toppling of tradition and heteronormativity, whether choosing to partake in romantic relationships or not. The lack of romance, deeply required in the populations idea of relationships, is inherently radical.
2. The acception of your aromantic identity is an (ironically) loving act of selfishness. One that puts yourself above the familial, societal, and religious expectations that "love" is required of. In this way, your choice to "love" those around you is a personal one, not an allo-biological one.

Idea III: What now?

1. Dismantle the nuclear family that exists in your mind. Practice relationship anarchy. Remember the best friend who abandoned you for their partner. Become angry.
2. The intersection of aromanticism and other forms of queerness often leads way to uniquely difficult struggles, both internal and external. You cannot let it take a backseat to your other identities.
3. Love on your own terms, if you chose to "love" at all.

A few weeks ago I was sitting at my desk, doing nothing in particular; mostly a bit of HTML coding with some music in the background. Same old, same old. After I'd heard the entirety of the 2010 Rock Am Ring performance a fair amount of times, I figured it was time for something else to listen to. And wouldn't you know it, YouTube had just reccomended me a cover of one of my favorite songs. A video titled Rise Against - Hero of War (In a bunker in Afghanistan).

Initially, I hadn't put much thought into it. It's not exactly groundbreaking; soldiers singing about how bad war is is as old as war itself.

... But that's not what this is.

The original song, if you didn't know, is an anti-war acoustic ballad written by the melodic hardcore band Rise Against. The song tells the story of an unnamed protagonist, who is persuaded by a recruiter to enlist in the military. With promises of adventure and money, he signs up— only to realize that he (literally) didn't know what he was signing up for. He throws away his principles and partakes in unnecessary violence on his tour overseas. By the end, the now-veteran is back in his home country without his flag-waiving patriotism he'd once had as he recalls the recruiters first words to him in bitter irony.

"Different events in this war... everything from Guantanamo Bay to Abu Ghraib to Haditha, where 25 innocent civilians were killed in what appeared to be a revenge killing of U.S. soldiers. Simply donning a uniform doesn't make you a perfect or noble person. There are people who did some serious wrongs in this war and they did them in uniform. You can't generalize anything with soldiers. With that said, the song isn't even a condemnation of soldiers or the Army or Armed Services — it's just a story. It's a story I'm hearing from our fans, it's a story I'm reading about from soldiers coming home. And it's a story that needs to be told."
—Tim McIlrath, via The Red Alert (2008)

Watching this video was a puzzling experience, to say the least. The grainy footage, circa 2012, is a familiar nostalgia to someone who grew up on 2010's internet (like myself). A group of U.S. servicemen in Afghanistan play the song on a shitty guitar in a dust-filled bunker, with smiles on their faces despite their situation! A staple. This video is different, though. They aren't singing Call Me Maybe, they're singing Hero of fucking War. Like blokes at an Irish pub. They belt out the lines about loving your flag and fighting terrorism alongside your buddies, about brotherhood and selflessness. It's not just that, either. When the turn of the second verse comes in, their tone noticably shifts. You can tell which lyrics they agree with, and the lyrics they sing because they're in the song. It's tone deaf, it's contradictory, and it's just straight-up odd.

I like to call this phenomenon the Bruce Springstein treatment. When Born in the U.S.A was released in 1984, people had a similar blindness to it. They reveled in the chorus and simply never learned the verses. It's the unfortunate consequences of writing sarcasm and irony; the people who don't want to hear it simply won't. I think this video speaks volumes. Not just about the people in it, but the ones who consume it. In the culture of militarism, and its effect on both the people affecting and the ones affected.

To all the people I'm afraid to talk to,

To ████, who's known me since fifth grade.

To the skater I met in creative writing.

To ██████, who I barely got to know.

I don't hate you, I just don't know how to thank you for making my life so great.

And if I wasn't such a fucking coward, I would tell you all of it

My mind is an inescapable critic who won't let me speak again.