mayushi

please please read if your country’s currency is dollar/euro

out of nowhere tonight my cat started breathing heavily with his mouth open and was unable to stand on his back legs. he had a bruise on his mouth and we couldn’t figure out what had happened. going to the vet wasn’t an option: it’s extremely expensive where i live, but his condition seemed so bad i had a terrible panic attack and begged my family to go. i promised i’d take a loan with my bank or something if the treatment was too expensive and well. it was.

we couldn’t pay for the exams he needs to do, all my mom could afford was a x-ray (which we’re getting the results for in the next 48h) and the emergency appointment itself. it cost us R$495,00 (we’re paying in four installments).

my mom is currently going through another treatment for rheumatoid arthritis and our free healthcare system does not provide the medication she needs, which are expensive. our house had a break-in last november and i lost both my phone and laptop, both which i needed for university and work. we managed to buy a laptop for uni since it was extremely urgent (i’m currently working on my thesis) and we’re paying it in twelve installments. i work from home but my pay can only cover the monthly installment im paying for the laptop. all of this makes our monthly budget extremely small.

the vet believes he’s gotten into a fight with another cat, although i’m extremely alert about him going outside. i didn’t see him go and i didn’t hear any kind of hissing you’d usually hear from cat fights. he’s having difficult standing because there are a lot of bruises on his stomach, and it seems that pressing his legs together or trying to stand up hurts these bruises, and they do look like they were made by another cat. his nails are chipped too, as you can see in the pictures, as if he tried to defend himself.

i live in brazil, and the reason why i mentioned dollar/euro at the beginning of this post was because when you convert these currencies to brazilian reais, it’s a lot of money in our currency. 10 USD equals to R$47,43. i’m asking for help from my brazilian friends too, but i know every working class ppl in my country are currently struggling financially, so i can’t hope for much.

so please, please: if you can donate any amount in usd/euro (or any other currency really, i can’t research right now which because i’m still extremely shaken but i’ll update this post when i can) to help my cat get the exams that he needs, help cover the four installments for the emergency appointment and the x-ray, and also the medication he currently needs (which are mostly for pain), please please do it.

my paypal is: lauravieira705@gmail.com

i attached pictures of the exams he’ll need together with their prices and also the medication, but i don’t know how much these are gonna cost yet since it’s 4am and i couldn’t find a single open pharmacy. but looking through prices online i estimate it’s going to be around R$100 (22 usd). i’ll update too when i can go out in the morning and check all the pharmacies for prices.

thank you so much for reading

riddleandpottersittinginatree

y’all want a tomarry resurrection fic?

part one - monument and third

Tom first sees Harry at the bus stop on Monument and Third Street.

Harry is not a god and has never been worshipped, and as such is not nearly so vain. Tom, however, worships himself so avidly that no outside admiration is necessary. The man on the bench is wearing a crooked tie. One shirt sleeve is cuffed higher than the other. His hair looks as if it’s never seen a comb in its life and Tom is in love with him.

The older man wrinkles his nose slightly at the stranger. It’s difficult for him to summon patience for anyone who can’t respect themselves enough to appear tidy. If this man showed up at Tom’s hotel he would have him frog-marched right back out the front entrance.

The man on the bench at the bus stop has one untied shoelace. He has glasses that sit lopsided on the bridge of his nose. His shirt should have at least one more button fastened, perhaps even two. He isn’t wearing a watch.

Tom knows he’s a bit arrogant and a bit snobbish and has never attempted to deny such things; he is arrogant and snobbish because he’s earned the right to be and intends to keep it. The man on the bench is unkempt and scattered and honestly, how hard could it possibly be for him to tie his shoelace? and Tom is in love with him.

That’s if you remember me at all, of course.

As if I could forget you. As if I wouldn’t recognize you anywhere.

There is nothing extraordinary about the man on the bench at the bus stop on the corner of Monument and Third. He is good looking but not conscious enough to utilize it as a strength. He doesn’t catch the eye or strike a particular interest in anyone who might see him, but Tom loves him. Has always loved him. Even now he recognizes it as a truth that cannot possibly be explained, and Tom has never been fond of things more abstract than what can be represented by a graph or a chart. He enjoys numbers. He enjoys projections and things that can be predicted. He enjoys data; Tom has never enjoyed emotion.

If I saw your face in death you would raise me to life.

Tom ushers himself forward, hurried to pass the man. It’s getting late. The air is starting to bite. Tom is still two blocks from his car and his waiting chauffeur. He’s unnerved by the feeling rising in his chest.

If I were to stumble across the sight of your small fingers,

so vivid would be my memory of how they felt to touch…

There is something about the man on the bench. Something about Monument and Third street that Tom feels in the pit of his stomach like a truth. He cannot help but look as the man raises his head, raises his gaze.

Tom has never seen eyes so green, except he has. He has loved these eyes before.

how vivid they felt touching me…

Tom keeps walking. Shakes off all lingering thoughts of the disheveled man. He starts calculating the company’s profits in his head, but of course he doesn’t remember the data and so all of the quantities are made up, anyway.

II.

“Excuse me,” Harry says as boldly as he dares, “excuse me, can you spare a second?”

The man he’s speaking to freezes in his place, looking like a cornered animal who hasn’t the sense to run anywhere. It isn’t every day that the man passes Harry on Monument Street, but it’s often enough that Harry has grown used to seeing his face. He’s a serious man, Harry can tell. He works for corporate, maybe, or crunches numbers for a large company. Maybe he’s the guy that talks to the guy that talks to the man in charge, a few steps down from the top of the corporate game of telephone. He is a man, Harry can tell, that considers himself very important and is probably wrong. They most often are.

“Hello,” Harry says awkwardly, uncomfortable now that the man’s attention has stopped on him. He hadn’t planned so far ahead. “I was wondering-” Harry loses nerve and aborts the sentence midway. The man looks unhappy and it tugs at something within Harry’s chest; his distaste for the expression is immediate. “I was just curious if-” Harry stutters again then makes a third attempt: “Have we met before?”

The man blinks at him slowly before his gaze drops to scan Harry more thoroughly. He expends a quite frankly ridiculous amount of energy on simply standing still. Harry knows how he must look through the eyes of a serious man and fidgeting will surely be no help to the cause. Fidgeting doesn’t compliment his poorly fit sweater or torn jeans or ink smudged fingers, and it surely doesn’t boast confidence.

“No,” the man says finally, returning his gaze to Harry’s. “I don’t believe we have.”

“Hang on,” Harry objects hastily as the man is already turning to continue his brisk pace. “I swear-” Harry stops to swallow nervously before carrying on. “I swear I know you from somewhere. It’s been driving me crazy for weeks.”

You’ve been driving me crazy for weeks, Harry means. Him, the man on Monument Street with his suits and briefcase and shiny watches. Harry laughs at men like him, important men and serious men who haven’t any time to waste on beggars or street performers or walking slowly. Harry rolls his eyes at their arrogance, their self-importance, their pride, and the man on Monument is all of these things. This man is a perfect portrait of the sort of person Harry would find dreadfully dull, and he loves him.

Here at a bus stop on Monumental and Third Street, standing there in his pressed suit with his impatient, tapping toes, Harry loves him. It is a truth that settles in his chest like it has been waiting its whole life to rest there.

And you?

Me? Why, I’ll be having a grand time beating you in every race.

And if you forget you ever loved me?

Oh, Tom. You think that so easy?

Harry is sick of men like this one–men who believe the world is a thing of numbers, men who think too much about the economy, men who don’t stop for beggars or street performers because they always have somewhere more important to be–but he stops the man on Monument Street because he knows him.

Send us anywhere–another time, another place, a parallel existence.

Put me in any man’s shoes: Make me a beggar. Make me a merchant. Make me a king.

Harry has lived a life pointedly avoiding people like this, people like the ones who raised him, people who scoff at Harry’s worn tennis shoes, but Harry loves him.

Your voice and mine will play chase without trying.

Let us sing like Orpheus, let us ring like the bells of our temple,

let us call to one another.

There is something more here, something within this man that calls and calls and calls to Harry, and no doubt a man like him can’t possibly know how to listen. Harry must be shouting for him and the man is covering his ears, the man is counting in his head to drown the sound out.

To forget you is an impossible feat. To find you in another universe

(and another,

and another,

and another)

Tom, that will be the easy part.

He knows this man, doesn’t he? Hasn’t he always known him?

Harry asks the man once more to wait for him and he does, and Harry loves him and loves him and loves him and loves…