Here’s a sneak peak of a tutorial I did for patreon.com/tycarter

@thundcrbird | cont.

   “Uh-huh.”

   Spencer sighs and shakes his head, taking another sip on the bottle in front of him. Can’t help somebody who doesn’t want to be helped, but that doesn’t dilute the mild irritation he feels overall. He’s beginning to wish he acquired something a little stronger than beer.

   “---Don’t s’pose you’re gonna tell me what’s eatin’ ya’, then?”

Overwhelmed and overcome, his words only further the blurring of Chef’s vision. They don’t want to cry, God, they hate crying in front of him, but there’s so much inside - too much. When they’re isolated, Chef spends every second convincing themself that they aren’t missed, they aren’t on his mind or in his thoughts. And in some ways, they believe it - but in their core, they know they’re dead wrong.

Leaving his bed before he wakes up, running away, keeping their secrets from him - how much energy has Chef thrown into waiting for it to end? Waiting for Spencer to finally come to his senses and admit he doesn’t want them? And not just waiting, expecting; wanting. At least then, Chef could finally sleep at night knowing that Spencer can move on from this horrible place, this horrible person he’s tethered himself to -

Chef can’t stop the trembling of their hands as they move to touch his face and bring their lips together again; a move that’s as equally desperate as it is passionate. Holding onto the moment for as long as they can, Chef eventually pulls back, before burying their face in the crook of his neck and shoulder. They want to throw their arms around him, but Chef settles for holding onto fistfuls of his shirt.

- you’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong - he isn’t lying, he loves you - you’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong  this is your home, this is your home, this is your home -

“—-s’my home, s’my home—” Chef can’t hope to keep their voice steady and they repeat those words over and over until they’re grounded enough to look at him again. Though their eyes are still wet and heavy with emotion, at least Chef is confident they won’t break down sobbing.

“—–spencer, i—-i wanna be here,” They falter momentarily, the feeling of pure honesty foreign. One hand relaxes, trailing up to touch the side of his face, like he did before. “—-but i can’t, i-i don’t know how. this thing in me, it don’t let me, spencer.”

    This is something so unlike their previous outbursts; rather than growing closer to a boiling point, they’re at the fringe of completely breaking down -- but he’s here. He’s here. And they’re allowed to cling to him as tightly as they need to. They can cry and sob, if that’s what it takes. Spencer just wishes he could end Chef’s loneliness the way they ended his. Just knowing they’re there, that they share part of his struggle, is enough. For whatever reason, though, it doesn’t seem to have worked both ways. Maybe they need more time.

   “---Ain’t any ‘how’ to it. No ‘why’, either. Y’just... do. You’re just here, that’s all there is. Don’t gotta be any harder ‘n that.”

   He holds their face between his hands, his own eyes glossy with tears. With his thumb, he traces the gentle creases beneath their tired eyes. They deserve to be loved, as much as anyone in this world does, especially after braving isolation for so long.

   “You’re family. Y’ belong with us. And I ain’t leavin’ you behind for nothin’. Ain’t goin’ nowhere if you ain’t there with me.”

   Without breaking eye contact, Spencer pries one of their hands from the fabric of his shirt, flattening it against the center of his chest.

   “---This is where you’re s’posed to be.”

Hamilton Hill, August 2016

                            WE’LL EAT YOU ALIVE–                                 DO YOU EXPECT TO SURVIVE?                                     independent urban fantasy blog.

Alberta, June 2016