levity: (true love and high adventure)
They barely speak to each other for the next few days, only the minimum of surface courtesies, requests, responses. "You don't have to come," Zaida says to her mother the day before the Real game. "It's no big deal."

"Don't be silly," her mother says. "Of course we're going." She looks at Zaida, their eyes at a level, then reaches out and touches her cheek. "I want to see you win, too."

When Zaida comes downstairs, bag in hand, boots over her shoulders, her father's in the kitchen. Her mother and Olaya are nowhere to be seen. Their eyes meet, neither of them giving so much as an inch, and Zaida wonders, with a chilly mixture of belligerence and nausea, if he'll stay silent.

But he doesn't. He says what he always says:

"Show them what you've got."


- from [livejournal.com profile] acchikocchi's Origin Stories. It's second-generation footballer RPF futurefic. Hell if that says anything about quality. It's Zaida Villa and football and that thing that would be anger if it did not also involve fighting every step of the way, not giving an inch, and would be stubbornness if it did not also involve wanting like a forest fire. And coming into your own, and family, of course family. I read this fic for the first time yesterday afternoon lying down on our apartment's sofa, and when I got to the part up there I had to turn off the Pad, put it down, and cry. I just reread it, intending to skim it for quotes to attach to my bookmark, and ended up crying again. No one tell anyone I still have a soul.

One day this fandom will no longer be able to sustain my- I don't know what to call it, really. But I'm quits with books, have been for a long time, and I don't even want to think about the one true love (the one that is a person, I mean; I have four one true loves) and the music and the poetry, well, they're there because they're snapshots, they're pieces of emotion and image, but they're not the same as story. And this fandom- when I need to laugh myself sick I can go to @elguaje and when I find myself still awake at is-it-really-four-in-the-morning and furious I can read Settling In and feel all right with the world and when I need to feel human I go to The Distance Between Two Bodies and when I need to get my feet back on the ground and my head back on track it's Hitverse, always Hitverse. I have no superlatives superlative enough. It's not all I have- hardly- but. But.

---

Lost my wallet two days ago, found a hundred pesos in my pants pocket today, went home. Thea Pascasio forced her LRT card on me and I used up the last ten pesos on it and when I found myself short one one-peso coin at the exact-change ticket machine the guy behind me gave me one and when I met up with my mother she took one look at me and bought me coffee. And I smile and say thank you and try to pass it on and I have so much and so what now, what now.

(In theory I know the answer. In practice, not so much.)

---

Happy birthday to my soul mate, one and only. Dear Guia, I'd make the world over in our image for you if I could, but I can't. Fortunately, you don't need anyone to. Here's to you and everything.
levity: (true love and high adventure)
They barely speak to each other for the next few days, only the minimum of surface courtesies, requests, responses. "You don't have to come," Zaida says to her mother the day before the Real game. "It's no big deal."

"Don't be silly," her mother says. "Of course we're going." She looks at Zaida, their eyes at a level, then reaches out and touches her cheek. "I want to see you win, too."

When Zaida comes downstairs, bag in hand, boots over her shoulders, her father's in the kitchen. Her mother and Olaya are nowhere to be seen. Their eyes meet, neither of them giving so much as an inch, and Zaida wonders, with a chilly mixture of belligerence and nausea, if he'll stay silent.

But he doesn't. He says what he always says:

"Show them what you've got."


- from [livejournal.com profile] acchikocchi's Origin Stories. It's second-generation footballer RPF futurefic. Hell if that says anything about quality. It's Zaida Villa and football and that thing that would be anger if it did not also involve fighting every step of the way, not giving an inch, and would be stubbornness if it did not also involve wanting like a forest fire. And coming into your own, and family, of course family. I read this fic for the first time yesterday afternoon lying down on our apartment's sofa, and when I got to the part up there I had to turn off the Pad, put it down, and cry. I just reread it, intending to skim it for quotes to attach to my bookmark, and ended up crying again. No one tell anyone I still have a soul.

One day this fandom will no longer be able to sustain my- I don't know what to call it, really. But I'm quits with books, have been for a long time, and I don't even want to think about the one true love (the one that is a person, I mean; I have four one true loves) and the music and the poetry, well, they're there because they're snapshots, they're pieces of emotion and image, but they're not the same as story. And this fandom- when I need to laugh myself sick I can go to @elguaje and when I find myself still awake at is-it-really-four-in-the-morning and furious I can read Settling In and feel all right with the world and when I need to feel human I go to The Distance Between Two Bodies and when I need to get my feet back on the ground and my head back on track it's Hitverse, always Hitverse. I have no superlatives superlative enough. It's not all I have- hardly- but. But.

---

Lost my wallet two days ago, found a hundred pesos in my pants pocket today, went home. Thea Pascasio forced her LRT card on me and I used up the last ten pesos on it and when I found myself short one one-peso coin at the exact-change ticket machine the guy behind me gave me one and when I met up with my mother she took one look at me and bought me coffee. And I smile and say thank you and try to pass it on and I have so much and so what now, what now.

(In theory I know the answer. In practice, not so much.)

---

Happy birthday to my soul mate, one and only. Dear Guia, I'd make the world over in our image for you if I could, but I can't. Fortunately, you don't need anyone to. Here's to you and everything.
levity: (desire lives in the heart)
Public service announcement: staying awake until 5:30 in the morning reading football fanfic and alternately sobbing hysterically three years too late over Xabi leaving Liverpool and Stevie G and laughing hysterically over Ibra in the Underworld and Impossible is nothing is, to say the least, definitely not how you do reasonable mature human being.

But perfect lines, perfect lines, and a demonstration of how fandom always knows what to say (from [livejournal.com profile] conspiire's All the Hearts in the World):

The aftermath of being in love is nothing but a mere return to normalcy. Falling out of love is considerably less painful than, say, falling out of a tree, or falling off a cliff. But normalcy is gutting at the best of times, and who wants to go back? No, falling out of love is the equivalent of the fall of the gods. The process of rebuilding and restoring them is feverish, staggering. But the alternative is living in a world with no gods, and that, well. No.
levity: (desire lives in the heart)
Public service announcement: staying awake until 5:30 in the morning reading football fanfic and alternately sobbing hysterically three years too late over Xabi leaving Liverpool and Stevie G and laughing hysterically over Ibra in the Underworld and Impossible is nothing is, to say the least, definitely not how you do reasonable mature human being.

But perfect lines, perfect lines, and a demonstration of how fandom always knows what to say (from [livejournal.com profile] conspiire's All the Hearts in the World):

The aftermath of being in love is nothing but a mere return to normalcy. Falling out of love is considerably less painful than, say, falling out of a tree, or falling off a cliff. But normalcy is gutting at the best of times, and who wants to go back? No, falling out of love is the equivalent of the fall of the gods. The process of rebuilding and restoring them is feverish, staggering. But the alternative is living in a world with no gods, and that, well. No.
levity: (desire lives in the heart)
"Alright," Pablo says, although David can tell that he's just dropping the subject. "Hey, did I tell you about how I saw my friend Asier the other day?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, he's not actually my friend," Pablo explains. "We just went to school together. But I saw him the other day—he wanted to be a therapist, but ended up taking a year off and never went back to school—and he's like, working at one of the souvenir shops now. I kind of feel bad for the guy."

"That sucks," David says. "Why doesn't he go back now?"

And Pablo answers him, rattles off some huge story that David doesn't pay attention to because he's just realized—that's going to be him. He's going to be Asier. He's going to stay in school and not go to J-Bay and for the rest of his life, he's going to regret it, and he's going to be so mad at himself because the only thing stopping him was an argument with his parents. That's it. And things could always be worse—he'll be a surgeon, he'll have money for food and a house—but he won't be happy because he could have been surfing all the time. And David realizes that Villa was right, and Mata was right, and Raul—Raul was right, and David has to go. He has to go to South Africa.


-from this fic, by [profile] luxover

All right, so the AU issue of [community profile] cornerflag has been out for ages, where "ages" means "way back when classes were still going on", and everyone involved in the making of is awesome, though sadly that everyone doesn't include, well, me. And I'm only halfway through the entire thing, but that part up there? I kind of needed it right now.
levity: (words in the heart cannot be taken)
If it matters, I don’t know why I’ve never shown a single trace of the disease that rotted out your father’s lungs. I spent enough time with him, and to be honest I think it was more about putting out a challenge to whatever made him ill than being brave or compassionate—do you understand? I loved your father, and I did everything that I could possibly do to ensure that it would never work with us, but it did. He made it do so, and then he died of a God damn cough, because Italy is full of selfish, cunning fools that are much more like me than like him. He died. I lived. The world is unfair, children. All you can do is what you can do, and then you learn to bear the rest. That’s why I’m not arrogant—I simply won’t waste time, knowing what I know. And for all our mistakes, your father was never, ever a waste of time to me.



If this is not one of the most teeth-aching sharp sprawling visceral-emotion-generating wave-crest-crashing pieces of fiction in the world- well, point me in the right direction, and till then, and probably even after, I will maintain my stance.

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