Two Frozen Apples........David Beattie 2024.

mutuals do this!!!!

The King’s Daughter (before 1902) by Eduard Veith (Austrian, 1856-1925), oil on canvas, 74 × 49 cm, The Belvedere Museum, The Belvedere Palace, Vienna

Now this is something I’d watch on tv!

(via)

A scrungly and his gigantic beautiful wife

@cheesypawz

I'm whoring out my current favorite band with the most effective strategies I know. Go listen to Kanonenfieber.

Here's a beginner's playlist I made. Come back and talk to me if you like what you hear.

uh i have more widower!price thoughts, but also just Price gets to retire thoughts (can be read either way, just ignore Elise) and the 141 boys follow him because of course they do. (Can be read as poly 141 or nah, literally so open)

TW: Price's death... Soft, a little sappy. I cried.

Price gets his peace. His earned peace. He gets the quiet life. The cabin in [idk some small town in the UK, idc you pick]. The woods. The porch with two chairs. Maybe one stays empty for a while, and that’s okay, because it was never really empty. Elise is there in the way the sunlight hits the windows, the way the dog sighs at his feet, the way the house settles at night like it’s breathing with him.

He plants tomatoes. Keeps the floors swept. Walks slow but steady, hand always brushing against the old wood railing like it grounds him. When Nikolai arrives, it’s wordless, just a truck rolling up the gravel, an embrace that says more than words ever could.

The dog, some old, soft-eared mutt he found at the shelter, trails after him loyally. They sit on the porch together, watching the trees. He names her something simple. Something like Maggie or June. She’s not a replacement, just company. Just good.

And the child? Not planned, not exactly. Maybe it happens slow. Maybe it’s a foster situation that turns permanent. A little girl with big eyes and a crooked smile who reminds him of both everything he lost and everything he still has to give. He’s older, slower, but he’s still John Price. And he is gentle. Patient. Protective. She’s raised by all of them, but it’s him who shows her how to tie knots, how to check the sky for storms, how to speak the languages he knows, and how to listen, not just to what people say, but what they mean.

Simon moves in quietly. Never really says he’s staying but never leaves either. He takes the guest room and ends up co-parenting the dog and the kid. (He's great. And he stays, and he waits…)

Eventually, Kyle and Soap come crashing in like light and chaos, bringing laughter back to the walls. Kyle cooks. Soap paints. The porch gets repainted (terribly, but with love). Nik builds a swing out back. The girl, their daughter, plants wildflowers. Insists that they must plant a rainbow field in the backyard. Kate visits, sometimes, always bringing calm and quiet stardust.

They get years, you know? Quiet, ordinary, beautiful years. Soap and Kyle serve for a while longer, but each of their leaves are spent at the house. They get every ounce of it they can. Breakfasts and firewood, small holidays and big birthdays, lazy Sundays and unspoken I love yous. They raise that child like a village. Like a family.

And when Price dies, it’s gentle. He goes in his sleep, hair and beard nearly full grey, the dog curled up beside him, a photo of Elise on the nightstand. There’s a breeze through the window. Pine trees rustling. A cup of tea, cold but full.

A note on the table for Nik, just two words: thank you.

No monsters. No sacrifice. No battle.

Just rest.

Reading Stand, made by Martin Carlin, French, ca. 1780

From the Victoria & Albert Museum

southern china in winter snow

Soap eye study.

ノビタキ