thegreatmanda's Reviews (459)

“You’re a terrible liar, Will, so don’t even try. I remember you calling me sweetheart, and love, and all manner of soft things.”

He let out a sigh, something between relief and anticipation, because he had wanted this for so long, just a sign that he wasn’t the only one who wanted.

Martin had set their little table with the plain earthenware dishes and tin spoons Will had unearthed in the loft, and when Will walked in he was fidgeting with one of the plates, turning it around so a chip wouldn’t be visible from Will’s seat. It was such a small and homely gesture, so totally pointless—Will didn’t care about chipped crockery, but obviously Martin did, which was what made it sweet. And it was even sweeter because this was one of the days Mrs. Tanner didn’t make their supper: all this effort was for bread and cheese.

He had always thought that doing the right thing would offer some sort of moral reward but it turned out it felt like complete shit. No wonder people resorted to villainy.

“Oh, thank God.” Martin felt wildly grateful. “Obviously, if he wanted to just put his heart out there for all the world to see, that would be his choice. And I suppose it’s worth something that even after everything, his heart is so—“ He swallowed. “There’s no ugliness in there.”

“You’re allowed to be greedy and grasping. You’re allowed to be cross with him. That’s sometimes what love is. It’s not all sweetness and light.”

Sam wasn't in the habit of turning away people who needed warmth and rest, certainly not people he was growing rather troublingly fond of. But Hartley seemed to accept as his due that he would be cast out, alone, into the cold.

Sam had never been with anyone with this amount of haggling beforehand, but it turned out he liked it. He liked knowing that they were both doing what pleased the other. He also liked knowing that he was keeping Hartley safe, and that Hartley trusted him with his safety.

"Can you trust me to keep loving you? No matter what?"

He holds the book carefully, because it's something special, and it doesn't belong to him.

He probably ought to be more shocked by this than he actually is. But when he looks at Mark, he just thinks: Of course I'd take that risk.

"I thought you were beautiful! I couldn't believe how beautiful you were." Beautiful and smart and a little mean, like he was made in a lab to lure Eddie to his doom. But instead of doom, it's this: coffee and breakfast, a dog snoring on the carpet, the near certainty they'll do this again.

He feels like every part of him is wrapped around Eddie, like they're tangled up in something dangerous and lovely and terribly, terribly precious.

He thinks of Mark having to keep his own private life a secret for years. It's the kind of secret that seals a person off from everyone around them. Eddie's heart breaks a little for him.

"You can cook." Eddie feels like he's uncovered a deep, dark secret.
"I can't be bothered to cook for one."
With that one sentence, Eddie can see years of dinners cooked and shared, and then all of it taken away. He already knows that Mark must have grieved—must have been grieving, the whole time they've known each other—but this might be the first time Mark's let him know it. He's pretty sure Mark will crumble into dust if Eddie tries to say something kind, so Eddie just brushes Mark's shoulder with his own. "Do you have an apron?" he asks.

"You missed me," Eddie says, because it's not like he was going to be able to hold that back for more than two seconds anyway.
Mark glares at him.
"I missed you, too," Eddie says.
Mark glares harder, but is distracted long enough for Eddie to get rid of both their shirts.

"I love you." He kisses Eddie then, because otherwise that phrase is going to linger in the air, true but somehow inadequate. He has a professional aversion to phrases that refuse to get the job done. "I'm going to keep loving you," Mark says, and that's much better.

If there was a way to resist this man, he hadn’t found it.

He hadn't meant to admit that, but this was Sedgwick, this was Benedict, this was a man who played with ducklings and sang lewd songs to the elderly, and Phillip didn't need to worry about dignity, or whatever it was that usually hampered his desire. He knew in his heart he could tell him everything, anything, and it would be fine. He was safe. His heart was safe, or as safe as it ever would be.

It felt somehow easier to touch and hold Ben than it was not to touch him, which made no sense, because Phillip had never in his life touched anyone like this. He had never run his hands soothingly down anyone's back; he had never kissed anyone's temple; he had never whispered nonsense into anyone's ear as he was doing now. But it all felt right, like he was finally in his native habitat.

Their shoulders touched, and the familiarity of the contact warmed Phillip in a way he hadn't thought possible. Touching Ben, even being near him, felt like being joined with a half he hadn't known was missing.

"If we can all quietly agree that eating pork and shaving aren’t sinful, I don’t see why we can’t extend that same grace to men like us."

"This is all new to me. I’m in a new world without a map or a chart, but you’re my compass, Ben, and I know we’ll find a way."

Something about Vincent Manda makes me want to tuck him into my pocket and  care for him like a treasure.

They say money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy LEGO, and that’s kind of the same thing.

There’s a closeness—a sweetness. More than simply physical, somehow, we’re becoming an us.

Andy flashes Nick a smile, a thousand watts of professionally straightened teeth, and it's like a two-by-four to the head. It takes Nick a minute to arrange his face.

He braces his hands on the edges of the sink and looks at his reflection, surprised to see that he looks normal, almost calm. He feels as if he's been turned inside out, as if he just learned that a part of his heart is on the outside of his body, in the possession of somebody else entirely.

Being a part of that large, loud, fractious Russo family is as much a part of his identity as being a reporter or a baseball fan—or queer. But the knowledge that his belonging to that family is contingent on keeping a secret—on implicitly agreeing that a part of him needs to be hidden away—makes him feel fragile in a way he hates, and so he keeps his distance.

He thinks of Sunday lunches at his brother's house, of weddings and Christmases where he holds himself carefully aside, not even thinking about the truth.

And if Andy hadn't already known he loves Nick—if Andy had managed to tuck that truth away where he keeps everything else he doesn't want to deal with—he would have known it then, watching Nick laugh with the butcher on a sunny May morning.

"I got these for you." Andy makes himself tag on those last two words so Nick will know this wasn't an errand; it's a gesture. It's someone bringing flowers to the person he loves. Simple as that.

Sticking out from between the couch cushions, he sees a corner of white linen. It's one of Andy's handkerchiefs. He wonders how many others are in there. Is that where they all go? If Nick took the cushions off, would he find two hundred linen handkerchiefs? Suddenly, he knows exactly what he'd tell his fourteen-year-old self:  You'll be loved by the best person you know. And that's—Christ, it's not enough, but it's enough to start with.

“Roger,” Wyn said.
“Hm?” Roger asked.
Wyn felt his honest words come out faster than he could stop them.
“I’m glad it’s you.”