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“A freaking spy,” Abel breathes. “Good. Lord.”
The post says:
*Ahem.* Fellow Abandon Shippers:
HELL BELLS IN ATLANTA.
SPOTTED ~AND~ DOCUMENTED IN COFFEEHOUSE!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ear-flicking. Whispering. Sharing of snickerdoodles.
FULL-ON LIP-TO-EAR CONTACT.
[clicky here for photographic evidence!!]
“I might actually die,” says Abel.
“Click it,” I tell him.
The photos under the cut aren’t the posed ones A
doomerang:
omg you guys. I CAN’T EVEN.
amity crashful:
rosey you are a heroic stalker, please have my babies
retro robot:
They are flawless. That is all.
sadparadise:
MY BRAIN JUST LEGIT EXPLODED
whispering!sage:
snickerdoodles. the official cookie of us.
thanks4caring:
lol @ brandon’s “cupping hands.” like, “abel baby, back yo ass up into these”
sadparadise:
can you blame him? DAT ASS.
lone detective:
Question: Is Brandon, in fact, wearing Abel’s shirt?
a_rose_knows:
Yes, it looks that way, but I can’t confirm 100%. all I can say is, the convo they were having? INTENSE. You could tell.
doomerang:
Rosey what were they doing when they left??
a_rose_knows:
They looked close. I mean, Abel held the door for him and kind of put his hand on his back a little. Abel totally smells like ci
sadparadise:
OMG “RIGHT NOW.”
retro robot:
right now right now right now right nowwwwww <3
thanks4caring:
mamacita? where is our fearless leader??
hey_mamacita:
JESUS HORATIO CHRIST ON A MOTORBIKE WITH A DIME-STORE UKULELE AND A RASPBERRY BERET, CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS UNBEARABLE WONDERFUL MADNESS???? ugh, rosey, you are queen of everything. miraculous pics of our boys; they look so effing precious I could eat them both like tiny perfect gingerbread men. BRB, writing fic all night! CURSE YOU.
“Click off.” My mouth is dry. “I can’t—”
“Let’s read the manifesto.”
Abel’s face is pink. I’ve never seen him blush. Through the fingers over his face, I think he might be smiling a little.
“What manifesto?”
“There was a link on the main page—here. Oh. God.”
There’s a manip. Of course there is. I’ve seen them all over the Cadsim fanjournal—horrible fakes of Cadmus and Sim kissing, holding hands, cradling adopted alien babies. This one is like, intergalactically worse. They’ve shopped my head onto Sim’s body and Abel’s head onto Cadmus’s, smushed our hands together, and stuck us on top of a wedding cake. ABANDON is scrawled on the side in blue icing.
“The hell is ‘abandon’?” I say.
Abel smirks. “Our portmanteau.”
I lay my head on the desk.
“Better than ‘Brabel,’ no?”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“It’s just getting good, though.”
THE MANIFESTO OF ABANDON
by hey_mamacita
“True Love is kinda like Xaarg’s Hell Bells—it comes when you least expect it, and it torments you until you give in!”—Abel McNaughton, from recap of Castaway Planet, Episode 4-16
once upon a time there were two boys with a vlog. the cute short one loved an android, and the cute tall one loved a space captain. the boys also loved each other in a completely repressed and thoroughly maddening kind of way, but instead of admitting it and having lots of blazing hot toe-curling bonobo monkey sex, they spent all their time bitching about Cadsim shippers and how the android and the space captain should never ever get together, like, JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH ON A UNICYCLE WITH X-RAY SPEX AND SARAN WRAP, could you boys be any more transparent??
anyway. the logical outcome of this delicious little story should be abundantly obvious to anyone with an internet co
Abel pushes his chair back. Ten seconds click by on the wall clock.
“Holy cow,” he says.
I can’t talk.
“I don’t even remember saying that Hell Bells line,” Abel says. “Did you know your sister had a blog?”
I shake my head.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Click the link.”
“Are you sure?”
My hands make a whatever gesture.
He hesitates, but he clicks the screencap link. This page pops up with a blog entry titled “Okay, so my little bro FINALLY came out…” I peek at it through my fingers. It’s Natalie, no question. Her username is Vashta and she makes halfhearted stabs at concealing identities—”B” for me, “Father X” for Father Mike—but the story’s all there. How my mom let the leftover meatloaf sit on the counter and spoil that night. How my dad kept saying but how can you be sure, as if it was a diagnosis that needed a second opinion. How I sat on Nat’s bed and cried about the sermon Father Mike had given two weeks earlier, the one where he held up a picture of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and gently explained the “true definition of family.” Poor little nerdling, Nat wrote. I nagged him into this coming-out drama and maybe he wasn’t ready. He was a Father X fanboy as a kid and now he’s so terrified of his real self I just want to smack him. I think it’s his destiny to be fucked up his whole entire life unless he gets serious help.
I go lie down on the couch. I think of Sim on the Henchmen’s operating table, his chest pried open and his cold organs clicking and whirring out of sync. Abel takes another minute with Nat’s blog entry, and then he comes over and kneels down beside me.
He’s quiet for a minute. Then he reaches out and pats my hand.
I don’t know what about that sets me off. It’s kind of a neutral gesture, something Sim would do, and maybe that’s part of it. Or maybe it’s just that it’s so unlike Abel, or maybe my nerves are rubbed raw right now and any little touch would have done this, make my sore eyes fill up and spill over.