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shiftyskip · 5 years

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Walter Scott “Smokey” Gordon

The Real Smokey Gordon:

(His twin sister Cleta is standing next to him)

Walter Scott Gordon Jr. was born April 15, 1920 in Jackson, Mississippi to Cleta and Walter Gordon. He had a twin sister, named Cleta. His parents had married later in life, in the 30s, which was unusual for their time. His father, Walter Sr. was called either BeeBoy or Bee. Cleta Sr. had not gotten her name until she was three years old and had another sibling. BeeBoy was a spec builder and a real estate developer. His mother was a fiery teacher in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. She was once fired for getting caught not sitting side saddle “like a lady”. When news about her firing got to the students and parents, they threatened to fire the school board. Cleta was given her job back and inspired so many students that several named their kids after her. BeeBoy and Cleta were very popular in Jackson, Mississippi. This changed during the Great Depression, where they lost nearly everything.

His parents were not prepared to be parents, more or less parents of twins. After the birth of Smokey and his twin, Beeboy would sometimes drive up to his house after working, hear the twins crying from his car, reverse his car, and come back when his children had stopped and were asleep.

Smokey was bright, quick, and could remember details of almost anything he’d read. He even studied Latin. But for all his knowledge and skill, Smokey did poorly in school. He was smart, but he was witty and liked to joke around which didn’t go over very well with his teachers. They did not like his attitude in class.

Smokey’s family was not religious, but Smokey took it upon himself to become Episcopalian, a lay leader, and an altar boy. He memorized the Bible and could recite it from memory, This changed when Cleta Jr. died from breast cancer when she was in her early 30s, causing Smokey to lose all his faith. After that, Smokey would say, “Any god that could take away the most beautiful creation to walk this earth, I want nothing to do with.” But even after this, Smokey enjoyed religious discussions and could still quote the Bible down to the chapter and verse, saying that “Don’t you know the Bible is the greatest book ever written?”

Smokey graduated from Central High School and attended Millsaps College for many semesters. This didn’t work out for him in the end, since he focused on other things. Finally, he decided to enlist in the military.

The first time did not go as planned and Smokey was denied because he was colorblind and had flat feet. Dejected, he turned to BeeBoy for guidance. BeeBoy told him that the Army tried to distance you from your home, so your homesickness wouldn’t cause you to run the first chance you got. BeeBoy told him that if he enlisted up north, they’d send him down south and vice versa. With this in mind, Smokey hopped a train to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to try again.

Still colorblind, Smokey memorized the men reading the letters in front of him and passed. He heard about the paratroopers and decided to enlist, liking the idea of the extra pay. He didn’t exactly think that he was getting more pay because he was jumping out of an airplane and into enemy fire.

Smokey was not originally a Toccoa boy. He started his training at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina and got transferred to Camp Toccoa, Georgia. BeeBoy was right with that perspective at least. Smokey was in the 3rd Platoon of Easy Company.

Smokey got his nickname during the war. He had a chewing tobacco habit and it earned him the nickname, he also liked to smoke pipes and cigars. He would never drink, stating that anything he drank he would drink it with voracity so he stayed away from alcohol. He preferred water. And he drank a lot of water. I’m not kidding, he drank more than the average man. He drank so much water he would try and find ways to get other’s water during training. He started carrying candy bars around to get an extra few sips of water. He’d carry around Hershey’s Bars to exchange for water (don’t ask me why all of the Easy Company boys like Hershey’s, I really cannot explain it.) Smokey was also sort of a smart ass. One day, he gave his last cigarette to Tab, then said the payment was a dime for a match to light it.

In England, Lipton and Smokey would prefer to go tour museums and art galleries than go out drinking. They’d go together or sometimes even alone. Smokey did not give up his mischievous personality and one day, he took a trip to Bath, England with another guy. They went on a museum tour and when lunchtime came, the museum closed briefly, but Gordon and the other man hid inside until it was safe. Then they stripped and swam and played around in the Ancient Roman baths. Before the museum opened, they got dressed and rejoined the tour.

Winters, in his memoir, writes that Smokey and his friend Paul Rogers, enjoyed passing their time by picking a victim to dedicate a poem to. Their victim had received company punishment and therefore needed a poem about them told in front of the company when they were assembled. The victim would be throughly embarrassed and angry. If the victim of their teasing blew up on them, they got more joy out of their teasing. The more embarrassed their victim became, the happier Smokey and his friend were. Their easy target was Floyd Talbert. Tab, one Christmas Eve, had a bit of a temper tantrum when his silverware was removed and stormed out. Smokey met him afterwards, telling Tab he had skipped possibly his last Christmas dinner on Earth.

Smokey jumped into Normandy on D-Day. He landed on a farm, near an apple tree,with half his machine gun.The first person Smokey saw in Normandy was John Eubanks. Eubanks was supposed to be carrying the tripod for machine guns, but when he didn’t see a purpose for carrying it without a gun or a gunner around him, he got rid of it. Smokey found a way around it, and set his gun on low stone walls to fire it.

Guth joined them shortly afterwards as they wandered around Normandy. At one point, a voice called out the code word “FLASH”. Before anyone could do anything, Eubanks called out “Lightning!” WRONG CODE WORD, the right one is thunder. They ducked, knowing what happened when they said the wrong code word, and a grenade was thrown at them by the other man, who promptly ran away. The men found Talbert a short time later. Together they joined a group of 502nd men that took out a bunker, near a bar in Ravenoville, with Smokey’s orders.

Smokey was injured in Normandy in his calf, by a piece of shrapnel that went in his leg and out the other. When he was evacuated to England, he had a long cast up his leg. It ran from his hip to his toe. In this hospital period, Smokey met with groups of military upper brass as they went through. These groups spoke with the wounded men and gave them Purple Hearts if they qualified. This award was supposed to stay pinned to their pillows, but every time a group was gone, Smokey would take his off and put it under his pillow. He slowly collected a small amount of these by the end of the 8 weeks he was there.

Tab was also injured near Carentan. This was the night of Stab-A-Tab, where Talbert was stabbed by another Easy man by mistake. Smokey, with his tradition of making poems out of people’s misery, made one for Tab. The Night of The Bayonet was Smokey’s tribute to Tab when they returned to Aldbourne, England. He also gave Talbert one of his Purple Hearts as well. According to Smokey, whenever the night was brought back up, Tab claimed he could’ve shot the kid six times, but didn’t think they could spare to lose a man.

Smokey was also promoted to the NCO ranks during their time at Aldbourne. He would eventually end the war as a corporal. It’s also said that Lipton and Smokey went to tour Scotland after recovering.

Surviving all of Holland, we end his military chapter in Bastogne. I can’t tell you what he did in Holland, but I will let you know if I can find anything. (I do feel super bad about this but I can’t find anything right now.)

In Bastogne, Winters remembered walking past Gordon one day, as Gordon sat at the edge of his foxhole, staring out at the forest, without recognizing him at first, and then thinking, “Damn! Gordon’s matured! He’s a man!”

Smokey was shot on Christmas Eve morning. His partner was newer, and had no experience with foxholes. Their foxhole was not deep enough for the tall 6′1″ paratrooper, and Smokey was shot in the shoulder as he was drinking coffee. The hot drink poured into his lap as his body slid down. The bullet entered his left shoulder, traveled through him, and left through his right shoulder. It touched his spinal cord and he was paralyzed from the neck down.

He was dragged out of his foxhole by his close friend Paul Rogers and Jim Alley. They took him into the woods to see Doc Roe. There Doc attended to him with morphine and plasma. Lipton ran over to see how he could help Smokey. He was leaning over Smokey, trying to get a response out of the wounded man. Another man pointed out that Lipton was actually standing on Smokey’s hand and that Smokey could not feel it. He had lost his sensations in most of his body. This is when they realized just how serious Smokey was hurt.

Smokey was evacuated to an aid station, to England, to a hospital in Wales, He was put into a cast that left his head to his waist covered, only his face was left exposed. This caused a problem due to the fact his wounds from the bullet couldn’t be treated. They drilled holes into his head to install Crutchfield Tongs, to stop any movement. He was forced immobile, laying on his back, for six weeks.

One day, a doctor looked at Smokey and told someone to watch out for Smokey because he was goldbricking. Goldbricking is an excuse to escape a task, Smokey was so mad that he yelled at the doctor, “Damn it! If I could get out of this bed and I’d show you what goldbricking is.” The doctor left, successful with his attempt to rile up Smokey to keep his fight going. Smokey would keep in touch with this doctor, even after the war, for the remainder of his life.

Smokey gained control of his pinky finger during his time of recovery He was labeled walking wounded a short bit later. But he was still not free from the hospital. He was shipped off to Atlanta, where he’d stay in a hospital until the war was over in 1945. He was able to go home by that time, but continued to remain in the Army. In his letters home, he was never able to give an answer to that question of when he’d return.

Even though he was now well enough to go home, they were going to send him to Fort Benning for restricted or limited duty. BeeBoy, who Smokey called to tell the news, started yelling and threatening the Army that he’d take Walter to the US Senate, strip Smokey, and let them determine if he was going to be sent home or not. I’m not sure if that message to the driving force with the doctor, but Smokey was soon discharged with 90% disability.

The rest of his life, he suffered with chronic back pain and shoulder pain. His back would hurt if it was touched, even if it was a pat on the back. He took an Army aptitude test to see what his career should be, and got bulldozer operator. But Smokey didn’t like this idea and decided to put his strength more in knowledge than what the Army had expressed.

Under the GI Bill, Smokey went back to school. He attended Cumberland Law School in Tennessee. 6 months into this school, he returned to Mississippi, took the state bar exam and passed. He went back to school to officially achieve his degree, but he was already a licensed attorney. Even before graduating.

But he never practiced law. He became an oil broker instead. He had no car but was given work fairly early after the war. He wrote to Henry Ford II and the letter got him a car from the local dealership and he paid without having to wait for a new car. And instantly he got a way to work.

In 1950, while on a vacation, Smokey met his future wife. Her name was Betty Ball Ludeau from Louisiana. Smokey asked her to reintroduce herself several times, causing a bit of embarrassment on her part. But it’s Smokey, that’s almost expected. He swore it was love at first sight and he knew he was gonna marry her.

During their relationship, he worked in Hammond, Louisiana with oil and would drive to go see Betty. The pair had little in common, he didn’t like dancing or saloons like she did. He pursued her with a passion, and she refused him, She rejected several marriage proposals from Smokey, but Smokey continued to ask. She rejected him many times till one night he learned the answer. She blurted out that she couldn’t marry him because she didn’t know how to cook. Smokey told her he “wasn’t marrying her to be his cook”, he “was marrying her to be his bride”. Throughout their marriage, he would call her “his bride”. She finally said yes.

They were married June 14, 1951. Smokey said she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen to anyone who would listen when Betty entered a room. He claimed she was the most entertaining woman he’d ever met. Smokey dearly loved Betty. Everyday he’d tell her, “...have I told you how much I love you today? And tell me. what can I do to make you happy?”

Smokey didn’t have many hobbies due to how much he worked. He had no problem requiring the same amount of effort out of his kids, all five of them. There was Elizabeth “Bebe”, Linda, Eunice Gay, and Cleta, his daughters. He had one son, Walter S. Gordon III. He often ran by military tactics, and not parenting tools such as Dr. Spock. His kids chores were based on the military scale, he would inspect their completed chores and give them more if they weren’t done correctly. They didn’t want to be doing nothing around Smokey, for he’d given a good work ethnic and doing nothing around Smokey was nearly a crime. They also appeared to have hired a Nanny to help with all 5 kids, they called her MowMow. Often times, the only control the house had was when Smokey was in charge. When family arguments arose, it was all to blame the kids, even if they didn’t do anything (specifically for the cases where they escaped punishment when they thoroughly deserved the punishment).

He’d sometimes take his 5 kids out of school during the week to join him on a trip. They’d all travel on his business trip with him, missing school, and heading to New Orleans, Louisiana. Like everything else, their vacation was scheduled like military tactics. They had scheduled meeting times and places, where they’d to his hotel. He’d send them off to an arcade with 5 dollars and would continue with his business trip. At dinner, they’d go to a fancy restaurant. They were all around the age of 5-11, which to Smokey was old enough to be able to function properly, even though they weren’t adults.

Even though he loved working, Smokey was a family man as well. Whenever invited out for drinks with co-workers, he’d chose to go home to his wife and kids instead. He loved his kids and his family a lot, focusing his time on them instead of other places when he was home from travels.

Smokey loved his kids about as much as he loved money, Often times, using money to bribe his kids to come home and visit. He’d send them a check that wasn’t signed, bribing them with signing it when they next returned home to see him. Or he ripped a $100 in half, send half of it with a letter that stated they’d get the rest when they came to visit, and they’d come back, curious about his latest antic.

Smokey continued to love jokes. He loved practical jokes, sometimes planning them out for months. He once sent a letter to a reporter he saw dining at a diner he regularly was at, she left without paying for 2 cups of tea. He then adopted a pseudonym, wrote a letter where he portrayed the owner of the diner asking her to pay the diner back for the tea. One time, the lieutenant governor of Mississippi, a friend from law school, sent a joking letter to Smokey that read: “...I have been informed that you were wounded in the head in the last war. As a public official of the great state of Mississippi, I want to take this opportunity to say I am indeed sorry they didn’t kill you.”

Smokey is seen as the link between Ambrose and Easy Company. Ambrose lived about 15 minutes away from each other in Mississippi (not neighbors as the story is told). In 1988, Ambrose’s assistant heard about the group of veterans attending a reunion in New Orleans. They met with the assistant and were interviewed, and soon they connected the assistant to Smokey who lived nearby. They had set up an interview with Ambrose and Smokey, Lipton, Guth, and Winters. Smokey and Ambrose became close friends and their friendship lasted for a long time.

Smokey returned to Mississippi towards the end of his life, he was away from his bride, but they made weekly visits to each other. He spent much of his time with Tracy, his daughter and her kids. They talked daily, until one day where he didn’t call, two days after his birthday. Tracy’s nanny tried to call, and couldn’t get an answer, so she traveled with the grandkids to Smokey’s house. He was an early riser, and would have gotten his paper and started his day by then. She arrived to see he still hadn’t grabbed his paper. There, Miss Lilian, the nanny, and his 5 year old grandson found him in his bedroom and he was rushed to the hospital.

Smokey had suffered a stroke in the night. At first, it was believed he would recover, but a few hours later, while in the hospital, he had another massive stroke. He passed away 3 days later on April 19, 1997. Smokey was cremated and remained with his son, until his wife passed away in 2009, when he was buried with her.

His funeral was exactly how his life was, happy and full of jokes. Stories of his pranks and humor were shared along with a bunch of smiles. Gordon’s life should be remembered the way he was, with a few stories that make you smile and a heart full of love and humor

#smokey gordon #walter gordon #Walter Scott Gordon Jr.#band of brothers #Real Life Band of Brothers #real band of brothers #profiles

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ellipsesarefun · 7 years

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Reunions.

Series: Mundane AO3 link

Summary: In which they set up a party, eat and dance, Yuri gets drunk, and spills his love for his best friend. And forgets.

He was finally allowing himself to drink any alcoholic beverage in front of all his friends on his twenty-first birthday.

On the heavy insistence from his friends of course (mainly Mila, Sara and Leo). Yuri never did so before due to his capricious behavior of his drunk self (also noting the aforementioned memory haze that comes with the hangover). The only person he was brave enough to see him in this manner was Trista. It was not only because she was his roommate or she has a secret stash of the classiest alcohol her wealthy aunt ships from her home country, but he has infinite trust in her. Rarely does she call out on his embarrassments or tease him over nonsensical matters and has a sense of understanding that he is eternally grateful for. He will always be eternally grateful for. It somehow also helps that she herself has a number of embarrassments during her drunken state, including to twerking to Anaconda when induced from five glasses of vodka tonic (this coming from a seemingly shy and reserved individual). The party was held at the Nikiforov-Katsuki/Katsuki-Nikiforov residence. The two have been married for a few years and may soon adopt a new pup, after Makkachin's death two years prior. The old man himself also (with the indirect help of Tine and her magic wine) managed to obtain a built in mini bar that was once a portion of their kitchen. The living room furniture was spotless, dusted and wiped yesterday. The short-legged table was draped with a handmade tricolor yarned mat (crocheted by none other than Trista herself) and miniature horticulture on top (another courtesy to Trista). The lawn outside was properly mowed. The backyard already consisted of a badminton net at the center, music equipment set on one side near the house window facing the living room and a banquet of party food parallel to it. At the front stood Trista and Yuri chatting alongside Yuuri and Viktor gazing at their front lawn (must be a married thing, they all think and it's true). Trista carried a list on her clipboard. "So we got all the food and shit, plus now that the minibar is installed, I can bring in some wine." She said, scribbling whatever on the paper. "Tch," he crossed his arms, "Seriously? Wine?" "Hey, hey, you do know my rich ass aunt brings some mighty fine wine." She argued, "She may be selfish with her money but if she's somewhat considerate enough to gift me some wine every birthday then I won't complain." "Right.." "Anyways, should we invite JJ?" A low resigned grumble came.

"What do you think?" The grumbling ceased but the scrunched up face remained, "Didn't want this party in the first place." "It's your birthday, anyway. You'll like it, I swear. You're getting older. Have some fun." She assured, ignoring his rolling eyes. "You're not getting younger, either." He retorted. A slap on his head was returned. "Hey, hey, mind your manners, young man." She chided lightly in teasing undertones and he stuck out his tongue in reply. Trista lifted the clipboard to his face, "Is this alright?" He hovered over her shoulder with a frown. "Yea whatever, as long as Beka and Leo DJ and not him." He said and Trista held back a snort. "What, his music not cool for you?" "I used to hate his guts, but he's still a dick and his music's "eh"." He veered away, peering at the backyard ahead, "Leo's pretty good. Beka's the one that's got style and taste." She shifted her gaze at his contemplative face. "He must be really something, huh." There were specs of emotion on his face and she hid her smile under the guise of her faux innocence. "You keep saying that." This was a familiar conversation they've had for quite some time, probably for a few years. They come in varied sentences and responses with the gradual leak of emotions that have been brewing beneath. They always end with the same denied responses. "It's true for you, anyway." It is. She is merely a bystander witnessing the apocalypse, unwavering and ever-present. Yuri is somewhere among the catastrophe, maybe washed away by a tsunami or flown off with a hurricane or tornado. This was not her problem anyway, only to check if he was still surviving and attending to his wounds. She aids him whenever she can, but she can never stop the storm because it's his mess that conjured up from the depths of his own mind in the first place. (Sometimes, she acts like some wise Guru dropped from the heavens that it annoys him every time her face morphs into that all-knowing, perceptive gaze.) Yuri chews on his lip and veers away from the backyard, already pacing towards the car, Trista following from behind. They bade farewell to the couple before driving away to buy other things.

(509--509)

“You do know crushes fade away, right?”

(509--509)

Going to the mall for clothes, food, books and other friend shenanigans is one thing but throwing all expenses over a small party with a surplus of garbage food is another thing.

“Isn’t that a little too much?” Yuri scrutinizes the amount of garbage food on the cart. It seemed a lot for just a party, even for a day. It may span for weeks.

“Eh, it’s fine.” his roommate waved an arm in dismissal, “Everyone might be hungry.”

It was a consensus decision (albeit reluctant on a certain someone’s part) not to consume such waste, mainly due to his roommates erratic and ravenous appetite and the insistence from both Porky and his balding husband that she take a break. From chips and cola and everything that brings the wrath of her stomach and her bowel and dysmenorrhea that consistently aches.

“You mean you’ll get hungry.” he added and she scoffed at him.

“Not completely true. Yuuri-senpai will help me finish all of it.” (and it’s true; the two were known for finishing a whole gourmet of anything) Trista turned to the ginger-haired woman beside her, who was grabbing an armada of Cheetos, “Right, Mila?”

“Of course!” She agreed, wholeheartedly dumping the Cheetos into the cart, “Sala and I will be eating these too, y’know! Yurotchka shouldn’t bother into our affairs. After all, what’s a party without junk food?” They grinned simultaneously, filling the cart continuously. Yuri outwardly grimaced at the overwhelming size.

“Don’t you think that’s more than enough for a few people?” He asked again, and the women brushed his warning off like swatting a fly with a hand.

“It’s called after party, Yuri.” Trista reasoned. Weak excuse.

“Yea!” Mila chimed in again, “Junk food untouched are the best! Especially since no one but us is gonna gobble this after.”

He palmed his face and huffed out a sigh. Seriously. They’re gonna waste their stupid dollars with all that shit polluting in their cells.

“Beka,” he barked at the brunet that was wordlessly standing behind him, “Do something.”

The man merely shrugged (and it was barely even one like this was all just a mundane thing) and said, “You know she’s not gonna listen to you, Yura. leave her be.”

“That’s right!” Trista added, “Otabek, can you please accompany Yuri some place where he can’t scold me?”

A glitter of a smile shined on Otabek’s face for a brief second and vanished that followed by a, “With pleasure.” He shifted his eyes to Yuri, “Let’s go. Yura.”

“Ugh. You two will be the death of me.” After a farewell and a sassy comment, the two left the supermarket and bought drinks at the nearest cafe they (used to) frequently visit. They took seats near the entrance and talked. Just like how they did in high school.

“So, how’re classes?” Beka asks as he casually places his lips on the straw to lightly suck in the iced caffeine. Yuri snaps out of his reverie and his nails snugged into his pale skin as an urge to focus his eyes at some other point.

“You know. Science-y stuff.” That was the lamest reply he’d ever pull out after the many moments of creepily eyeing his body parts for more than the usual amount of time, but Otabek deserves to have the “bestest bestest friend in the whole wide world” badge because his silence over such matters is a virtue and he asks, “I don’t know, Yura. Philosophy, remember?”

“Yea, you and your,” he gestures wildly for effect, “Ancient wisdom.” The man across him rolls his eyes.

“Sure, Yura, sure...”

“Yes.” He agrees, “But anyways, it’s... okay, I guess? Everyday, I always have a spare lab gown (and I have around four lab gowns already) stashed in my locker when there’s a lab class. Science calculators are always needed and the stat we go for is ANOVA and shit. There’s also the basics. Like in mitosis, there’s PMAT, but then it takes around a few courses to get that there are proteins that affect other biomolecules like sugars, enzymes, or even more proteins. Like fucking Cell Biology.”

“Damn.”

“Yep. Cell Biology was awesome, because, y’know, it’s the cells and shit and you learn all those kinds of shit.” He goes on, the tense atmosphere he brews suddenly waning and disappearing, “I didn’t even know the ER and Golgi Body had anything useful until Cell Biology. But it’s just so damn complicated. So much to read and so much weird words.”

“Aren’t they usually Latin?”

“Fuck Latin, Altin.” A snort comes, “It’s fucking shit. But it’s okay sometimes. How about you? Bet you’re as hardcore as Jean Paul Satre or geeking out over Albert Camus.”

“I guess. We read. And read. And discuss. And write essays. And debate.” Yuri nods, sharing his sentiment from the number of thick books Trista has in their apartment.

The rest of their caffeine drinking flies by through exchanged tales of their college life. From frat boys, to horrible makeouts in empty halls, to terror professors who don’t curve their grades, they’ve covered the entire months that Skype doesn’t do justice. Any social media-based conversation cannot fully acquiesce the ache in his chest every time he thinks of the growing distance between him and Beka.

He’s not sure if there is but he worries.

“Some friendships from high school fade away. Some don’t. There are people who come and go in our lives once in a while and in several occasions, people can just leave without saying good bye and in the rarest ones, they still communicate with you, regardless of the distance between you. The ones who do those and make a heavy influence in your life matter than the nameless acquaintances you meet in any class.”

Trista’s words echoed in his head. It’s true. He has those friends. He gets a call or a Facebook chat from the maybe boyfriends / weird bestfriends Leo and Guang every month or so. Trista frequently shares her old notes and drawings, occasionally chiming in with some quick mnemonic devices and all the how-to-do-shit in labs, like titration shit. In every two weeks, he receives a care package from his stupid cousin and Porky. Mila and Sara share gossips with him and Trista whenever they visit. Even Georgi sends a post card from time to time (and there were some occurrences wherein he responds in kind, wishing him well).

The brunet right in front of him with his Kazakh phrases and smooth tongue has been with him through and through until the present time. Otabek sends the best care packages every week (they usually contain a couple of tiger face merch with a couple of crochet things he made once in awhile). He calls and texts as often as he could, topics range from the most random to the most serious.

Yuri saves most--if not, all-- of their online conversations, from Skype, to Facebook to Snapchat to Tumblr and down from their most recent to the oldest one. He screenshots some Tweets that were the most memorable from Beka’s account and a few stories from Snapchat. His download folder in his laptop was filled with DJ Bek’s remixes that he replays in the late night cram sessions and crippling insomnia that knaws him at the chest when the thought of losing his best friend pops up. There were traces of Otabek Altin around him, even when his physical presence remains absent.

That does not mean that there were issues. Issues as in no sign of communication that may elongate to more than three months, as in the wordless calls in three am and falling asleep at the sound of their voice when they’re too tired to pursue any conversation, as in the delayed replies from the lack of internet connection, as in misinterpreting facial expressions and/or curt replies that imply on the possible vexations that either of them harbor in some of their Skype calls.

(His thumbs pause over Beka’s name in his speed dial contacts in desperation to rant over any aspect of his day but gradually loses the courage to press the call button.)

“Are you alright?” His best friend inquired, stoic mien screwed with concern. Even with the distance and academic work pushing them apart, Beka somehow has a sixth sense to his well-being.

(He appreciates it.)

“Ah yea,” Yuri waved it off with a hand, “Just thinking about things..”

“About what?” Beka crosses his arms over the table and leans slightly.

“About us, really. How we’ve come this far ever since High School.” Yuri added with a casual shrug and a gentle smile graced the brunet’s face.

“Never thought you’d be this sentimental.” A roll of the eyes praised his comment.

“When you’ve been living with a woman filled with schmaltz, then there’ll come a time I’ll be as sentimental as she is.”

“She’s grown on you, hasn’t she?”

“She’s a little sister and a big sister at the same time, how can I not?” He rolled his eyes again in effect. She was physically hundreds of meters away but he’d tell she’s laughing her ass off somewhere.

Their rapport ensued through other topics, till there was no caffeine left in their plastic cups but ice. Yuri checked his phone as the clock on his lock screen chimed at five. Several messages from his friends were displayed, with 15 missed calls from Mila and Viktor. Something shifted at his side and he looked up at the sudden outstretched hand. A second of silence came before Yuri noiselessly grasped his callous palms and pulled himself up to a stand. Otabek released his hold and they ushered their way out of the cafe, Yuri three paces behind and a dazed look upon his face.

(509--509)

“You do know crushes fade away, right?”

“Can’t they fade away any faster?”

(509--509)

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YURI!” The group cheered, all huddled in the Katuski-Nikiforov/Nikiforov-Katsuki backyard. Kiira started blasting the whole yard from Leo’s iPod as they all dispersed to either dance on one side or grab some food from the buffet table.

The party wasn’t much of a drag, really. If he was absolutely frank to everyone, he could say he was glad to have their presence in his life. Everyone greeted with presents. Some were food, some were plushies (he got a Otabear from Beka), some were remixes, and everyone was creative.

(At the back of his mind, Yuri felt loved. He thinks to himself that Dedushka need not have to worry about him so much from beyond the grave.)

Yuri sat on one of the laid out mats, taking his time with his chicken. On either side of him were Ji, who was bubbling with laughter over internet nonsense with Trista, and Beka, who was eagerly listening to Emil’s something (he’s not sure, it’s a bit noisy here). Beka and Emil go to the same university and share a few classes together.

He surveyed the area with nostalgic amusement. Like always, Viktor owned the dance floor with his fluid movements and hip bumping as Katsuki watched from the sidelines, cheeks flushed and Yuri couldn’t quite tell if he was exasperated or aroused by his husbands’ naughtiness. Giacometti arrived the scene with a dancing pole (it’s only seven o’clock and he brought a fucking dance pole already; where the fuck he got that shit) and mass cheered and whistled as he twirled around the steel metal in his underwear. The rest were swaying and grinding on each other’s bodies (he could catch a glimpse of Sala and Mila goofing off). Phichit was mingling around, sometimes sitting with Seung-Gil in one of the mat, even with Georgi (Seung-Gil, Phichit, and Georgi? What are they talking about over there?), sometimes whooping at Giacometti’s show, and sometimes taking pictures and selfies of anyone and everyone that most of his notifications on Instagram were piled up from Phichit’s tags.

Yuri chanced a glance at his best friend beside him, still conversing something so serious with Emil. The ash blond man beside Beka chortled, pausing his drink to respond in witty remarks. Okay, so maybe not so serious, but he has to admit. Even with that wonted stoic face, age has done nothing but generous to Beka. It’s noticeable from his chiseled jaw, down to those reformed muscles (he’s had those in high school, but they seemed a little more toned, if that was possible), to the callous hands now thicker and larger (nice to hold) and that glint of a smile that reappears every now and then. Yuri looked back down at his untouched food, a curve forming on his lips.

(Oh, Dedushka, they never change. It’s been years since we’ve come together like this but they never change.)

The night grew longer and the party grew wilder when alcohol was passed around. Katsudon managed to avoid the inebriated scene altogether (which was lucky for him, because he’d given several lap dances when he met Viktor in his youth). Trista wasn’t, as she now took the stage with another free style to Era Istrefi’s Bonbon. Minutes later, he was given a glass of alcohol (vodka maybe? he wasn’t sure) and somehow, he was ushered to dance among the wild mass of people. His hips and limbs swayed and he could vaguely hear Jason Derulo’s Swalla. All his senses merged together in an ineffable blob but he couldn’t give two fucks, already hypnotized by the swinging bodies around him.

(509--509)

“Tris, that really isn’t helping.”

“It takes time, ya know. Usually they fade away when you get to know the person better. You can become friends. Best friends even.”

(509--509)

Alessia Cara was blaring up the speakers for the past hour or so. Hours. He couldn't tell, not with the vodka swimming in his cells. Yuri surveyed the backyard. The mass of dancing bodies swirled his night vision, feeding into his dizziness. He stumbled and swerved until finally he realized he was standing in the living room. Everyone was buzzing with party fever and his friends seemed busy with other things. There was Trista at the mini bar, catching up with Mila and Sara over drunken shenanigans, who were now engaged since last month (they were also probably arranging a blind date for Trista as well; he overheard that they were adamant on snagging a boyfriend for her). Leo was somewhere by the minibar as well, lounging around his still maybe boyfriend Ji (those two are idiots; but they were one of his bestfriends). The stupid couple was also there, with shmaltzy conversations and all the sappy bullshit (gods, it's been years and they're still the same annoying and disgusting couple). It was a pretty mundane scene, if you ask him. Only, it was more distorted due to his drunken state. He could recognize others, at least tried to with his lack of coordination. In the haze, he could find Otabek sitting at the edge of the couch, sipping red wine like he was some god. He knew that undercut and that leather jacket anywhere, despite sharing a similar hairstyle with stupid JJ. A smile carved on his face. He awkwardly sauntered towards the man and plopped himself on his lap, earning a startled gasp from the latter. "Beka," Yuri cooed, spilling himself all over his chest and hanging his arms around the nape of his neck. The latter choked on a reply. Yuri supposes he was too stunned to move any of his limbs. If he wasn't so inebriated, he would have caught a glimpse of a smile on Otabek's face. "Yura." With steady, hesitant movements, his arms snaked around his waist, grip as light as a feather, "You drank too much." The blond managed a chuckle and snuggled his face on his tanned shoulder. "Nope!" He replied, voice rumbling on his skin, "This is how I- y'know... usually drink!" A hiccup passed. From here, Yuri could feel light and constant touch of his phalanges splayed all over his waist that he couldn't help but purr and to continuously rub his face on that firm, defined, tanned shoulder. It was as though he were marking his territory. His Beka.

“Check it out! Our little princess is all over our DJ!” some moron hollered from some place but Yuri paid no heed. He’s not a Beka after all and this wonderful dark knight is his territory for the time being. The rest of the people might have notice for he heard shuffling and whispering and teasing. Yuri could hear Trista laughing at the background (little bitch had too many glasses of vodka). He would’ve barked a mean reply but that would mean letting go of this.. whatever this was.. this lucid daydream that he’d always have from time to time.

“You smell so nice.” He cooed again, sniffing the cologne he still uses since he met him. Otabek’s shoulders tensed and the limbs around his waist gripped tighter.

“You should go home.” But he didn’t want to go home. That meant letting go of this Beka, his Beka, and that meant never having to hold him like this ever again.

“No.” Yuri latched onto his neck in a tighter grip, “I don’t want to let you go.” There were “aww”s and “how sweet” that swept past his ears yet still, they drowned under the gasps of the man below him.

“Yuri.” his name tingled in his ear with a silent command but he shook his head again, adamant with the irrational decision to stay in the arms of his best friend. Beneath, he could feel his pectorals rise and fall as he drew a long sigh. He purred some more. His body heat is paradise.

There was squirming, a sign Yuri saw as Beka’s attempts to stand. His fantasy was not short lived, however, when his hands shifted downwards slightly to cup the cheeks of his butt, emanating a whimper from Yuri that only can hear.

Beka slowly stretched his legs up, keep his hold on Yuri as he did so and Yuri took the chance to snake his legs on Beka’s waist. The small tent on his black jeans was felt right on his own tight leggings that Yuri could feel the small tremble in his steps as he carried Yuri to another room, a guestroom at the second floor. The mindless chatter of his friends and acquaintances went back to normal, as if this little moment occurs on a regular basis.

(The idea of this intimate cuddling being a regular occurrence elated the blond, all still knowing that they never discussed the ambiguity of their relationship.)

Moments later, he found himself in his bed, the upper portion sat upright and a blanket draped over his shoulders. His Beka sat on the chair by the bed, facing with him usual stoic mien. Under his intoxication, Yuri could find traces of tenderness among that emotionless facade that Otabek shows everyday. he was only an inch away but there was still a distance lingering between them.

“Come here.” he croaked, waving an arm on the empty space beside him. When the man shook his head, he patted his arm repeatedly, “Please Beka.”

“Yuri-”

“Please Beka.” Using his nickname in that tone would rile him but he didn’t care. He wanted his Beka here above there cotton sheets of heaven. Sooner than later, he complied, laying his body on his side. Maybe it was the alcohol and maybe it was wishful thinking but there was that look again. That tender and unorthodox gaze that Yuri catches a glimpse frequently as the years pass by. They began to appear more often than not. Somewhere in his mind whispered that those were only reserved for him and that maybe...

Maybe..

“What’s on your mind Yura?” The object of his affections asked, as if sensing the invisible pandemonium screeching in his mind. Yuri parted his lips, but no syllable came, his larynx all dried up, consumed by the thoughts swimming around. He wordlessly shot out his hands to cup his cheeks, fingers praising the slight stubble by his mouth. How he’d love to do this with him every single day in a bed as soft as this. Otabek closed his eyes and his face softened, melting into the touch with minimum effort. In this little bubble of safe haven, Yuri supposes that this might be the only time he’d lay as defenseless as this, that his walls are as low as he allows it to be.

“I wanna kiss you.” He said, earning a light gasp from the man. He wandered over his surprised look with unwavering immensity, “I want to go out and take you on dates and ride on your motorcycle till we find a park to stop and admire the sunset. I want us to try out those fancy restaurants just for the heck of it. I want us to laze around in bed all day, doing nothing but watch our favorite shows on your laptop or listen to those remixes you play. I want to do all those things with you.” To this, Otabek opened his mouth to respond but Yuri stopped him with a brush of a kiss on his lips, continuing, “But I can’t. Probably am fuckin’ the relationship up already by tellin’ you things that friends--best friends-- should never hear but I don’ think I’ll remember any of this tomorrow. There’s nothin’ to regret if I don’ remember anyway.” He pushed himself to his knees, hovering above Otabek with a timid smile dawning on his lips, bittered by the words he spilled and the harsh regret that drops after with a tear stain on the bedsheet.

He could feel his vision blurring and his cheeks watered by the the tears. His smile was still there, kept frozen by the lingering euphoria from the affections he so initiated. He couldn’t decipher the mien of the man below him, face uttered in astonishment but somehow catches those eyes as crystal as his own eyes were. There were no waterworks on his face, as though trying to keep them still on his eyelids.

Once more, Yuri placed a steady palm on Otabek’s cheeks, reclining his body and tilting his head till their foreheads touched. Their breaths were in sync, and it took all of Yuri’s self restraint from feeling those lips again.

“When the morning is here, and I’ve already fallen asleep,” he begins, voice whispering against the still atmosphere around them, “Don’t mention anything about what I said and did. 'Kay, Beka?” His eyes suddenly grew wider a fraction, body solid as a rock.

“But Yura-”

“No,” He cut him off, the firm grip on his cheek gradually waning, “I love you. A lot more than am suppose’ ‘to. 'S better if you keep silent about this.” His eyelids began to droop, deep slumber gradually sinking his body, “I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

“Yura..” and the blond let his vision fade to black, mute to the senses of his surroundings.

When he wakes up, Beka will be gone. Yuri will have a hangover and maybe only little remnants of what occurred the night before will only be remembered. When he does wake up with those, he’ll only think to himself that it was just a wonderful dream.

A dream that he was in Beka’s arms.

(509--509)

“Hey Tris, you better swear to your god, because if this gets out-”

“Can it, Yuri, I know. Not telling a soul about your love for best friend. Copy that.”

(509--509)

Yuri woke up to the thrum of his head ache and the sunlight spilling over his sheets, eyes cracked of dried sand. He shifted his body to the left and found a letter, a glass of water and a pill on his side table. "Sorry I had to leave. We can Skype later. I brought a glass of water and a pill for you to drink when you wake up. Take care. -Beka." Ah.

#otayuri #otayuriwc #yuri plisetsky #original female character #otabek altin #viktuuri (a bit)#milasara

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thatonebeatlesblog · 7 years

Text

Play Your Heart Out

CHAPTER 2

RATING: T

“Lennon, late I presume?” Professor Laraby’s tenor floated from over by the chalkboard that was slowly becoming covered in formulas and theorems. John sighed and sat in his rickety desk in the back of the class, it’s metal legs screeching against the ruddy tile floor. “Now,” Laraby continued and his voice dawdled on into some explanation that John unknowingly tuned out. He was too busy focused over near the front of the class where the young man from the hallway hastily filled a notebook page with whatever was on the board. He was elegant, sophisticated. And had a trumpet case beneath his desk. John rested his head on his palm and only came to when the hard leather toe of a shoe came slamming into his right shin. “What the fuck?” He turned to the lad sitting across from him. Some boy john had forgotten the name of, but often glanced over at for answers nodded toward the board. “Thank you, Clarence.” Laraby said. “Perhaps you will be able to focus better in the headmaster’s office, Lennon?” “Perhaps you’d be able to talk without putting me to sleep.” John replied, monotone. “Office.” Laraby’s teeth gritted. “Now.” On his way out, John took one more glance back at the boy and he looked up, all pale skin and dark eyelashes protruding from wide, innocent eyes–and winked.

John preferred the seats in Mr. McCartney’s office. They were leather. And didn’t squeak when you leaned back in them. But the aftermath of sitting in them tended to be much worse. He couldn’t get the image of the young man out of his head. What was his name? Surely he had heard it before…James, or something noble-sounding like that. The click of the office door behind him signaled John that the headmaster was here. “What is it now, Lennon?” John crossed his ankle over his knee and smiled pleasantly. “Well, everything was going well, I’ve done the wash at home, weeded the garden, cleaned me glasses–” “–I meant here.” John grinned. “Laraby sent me.” “Again? For what this time?” “You don’t even know? Then how should I?” Mr. McCartney snorted a sound of soft amusement. “Touché.” “Parlez-vous Français?” “Oui, vous aussi?” “Bless you.” “I didn’t sneeze.” John shook his head. “Never mind.” Jim McCartney sat back in his chair and sighed. He didn’t dislike John. He knew he was a brilliant kid, and saw a lot of himself in him. But it’s always hard to get the kids that see through it all to cooperate. This young man who had been forced to grow old at such a young age. Mr. McCartney saw a deep sadness in his eyes behind his black framed specs. One that caused serious internal damage. He shook the depressing thoughts from his mind. “How’s your aunt, John?” John fiddled with a paper clip on Mr. McCartney’s desk. “She’s fine. Just had a birthday.” “Well, tell her I said happy birthday then.” “Can do.” Mr. McCartney squinted at John’s hairdo. “What is that stuff you’ve always got in your hair?” “Pomade.” “And it makes it stick up like that?” “Yeah.” “What an odd fad.” “All the rockers seem to be doing it now.” John unbent the paper clip. “So I guess that means you’re still playing?” “I can’t not play, or sing. It’s a part of me.” “I think you’d be able to focus more if you weren’t doing these late night gigs.” “I can’t stop playing the same as you can’t stop teaching here, or whatever it is you do.” Jim sighed. John looked up and caught a glimpse of a photograph over on Mr. McCartney’s bookshelf. There were two young boys in the picture standing in front of a woman in an apron. One of the boys has his arm around the other. The other who looked so strangely similar. The defined curve of brow and the delicate cheekbone. “Mr. McCartney, if you don’t mind me askin’, who are those people?” He gestured to the picture frame. Jim turned around and a number of emotions crossed his face all at once. “Those are my boys, James Paul and Michael, and my wife, Mary.” Holy fuck. A thousand thoughts poured into John’s mind. Paul. That was the name. Paul is the headmaster’s son. That’s why he’s such a brain–because he has to be. He always looked so inwardly tortured. But he still held himself in such pride and esteem that the average person would never even notice. John, though ignorant at times he may be, noticed. And the only part that bothered him was how much he wanted to help him. And he was musical too? A trumpet player, at that. Christ, he’s got a fine set of lips…John–for the sake of the Protestant lord–focus. “…Lovely family.” John said quietly. He tucked the now-dismantled paper clip into his jacket pocket. “Thank you,” There was a brief pause. “but I do believe you should head back now. Wouldn’t want to miss sixth period.” “Yeah, right.” John stood, still in a bit of a daze, nodded, and left. “Jesus, help that kid.” Jim muttered as the door clicked shut. He took out a silver flask from his drawer and downed the liquid it held as he gazed pensively at the photograph on the shelf.

Paul’s cheeks were red. Never had he expressed such a reaction in school. Especially not from a MALE CLASSMATE. He chewed the end of his pencil and forced himself to concentrate. French 104 was his sixth period and each day it dragged by slower than the last. Then after school he had rehearsal with the school’s choral and band programs. Which made him be home around 6:00. By that time, things at home would have already gone from bad to worse. Lamps would be broken. Couches torn. Kitchen destroyed. And even though Paul had fallen into routine with it all, he would never be used to it. Never be used to the rageful cries that pierced his ears at night, or the sound of his own brother’s sobbing. Never be used to the far too-calm mornings when they all sat at the marble table still littered from evidence of the previous night while his father had coffee and read the paper, chuckling at some irrelevant thing. ‘Is this what it’s all come to?’ He would wonder, spreading jam on toast as Michael sipped his orange juice. 'Tomorrow will be better. It has to be. Things can’t stay bad forever…’

The acoustic sound of Presley’s 'hound dog’ came wafting through the cracked window and brought Paul out of his numb state. Laughter bubbled shortly after the opening chords and someone yelled 'Johnny, play the other one!’ There was a brief silence before he heard 'Don’t Leave Me Now’ and a soft crooning voice flowing through it. Paul’s eyes grew wide. He had heard that voice. That was the lad who played for the school dances. The lad that was rumored to play adult clubs at night and sweep all the college birds off their feet. And it was his classmate. Who winked at him. Him. Not the girl behind him. But Paul. He could feel his chest tighten, the palms of his hands getting damp. “Madame?” Paul asked. “Puis-je utiliser les WC?”

#chapter 2 everybody #play your heart out #mclennon #mclennon fanfiction

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