fubarhoover-blog

[fubarhoover-blog]

Well Spain already blew it so....

[fubarhoover-blog]

Oh please do. Don't tempt me with your losing team Marco

This is my favourite twitter account atm

[fubarhoover-blog]

This is my favourite twitter account atm

[fubarhoover-blog]

Hey, we almost qualified ok? I'm sure we would have done great if we had. We were this close, don't even.

Hey Marco, did you see that Spain lost their match? I mean, I just wanted to remind you that Iran is second in F right now while Spain is forth in B.

Hey Bertholdt, remember how Israel didn’t even qualify for the World Cup?

[fubarhoover-blog]

No, never mind. I'm not going anywhere now. Sorry

I thought everything was cleared up in our other conversation. Anyway, is it ok if you’re my b-day gift for Marco? Or should I say, bertday present? 

[fubarhoover-blog]

Yes, i'm fine with it. I mean, I never said I wasn't. Are you coming too or...

Oi, marcomantic, happy birthday. My gift to you is my boyfriend, you can do whatever you want with him for the night. 

[fubarhoover-blog]

Oh my god, did you really just gift me to Marco? I mean, not that I mind or anything but you could have consulted me first 

Oi, marcomantic, happy birthday. My gift to you is my boyfriend, you can do whatever you want with him for the night. 

[fubarhoover-blog]

Are you really sure that you don't want to do anything? Because it's a really important Birthday and all...

Happy legal drinking age day to me. Not that I’m doing anything with that, but still, I’m told it’s an important milestone. 

[fubarhoover-blog]

"He's such a fucking asshole!" 

Bertholdt couldn't believe those words were slipping from his lips. They singed his tongue with a tinge of bitterness as they left, causing his brows to furrow in disgust. Deep down inside, Bertholdt felt guilty about how brash he was being. But, at the moment, his typical polite nature wasn't the focus of attention.

"My Dad called me just now, and we don't have the best relationship. He just guilt me all the time Marco. He tells me how ashamed he is that I'm an Art History major or how I need to 'grow a stronger backbone'." 

Bertholdt was teetering on the edge of rage and sorrow. Memories of the last time the two had been together filtered through his consciousness. It was a few Christmases ago, and his Father had managed to fly in from Israel which was a wasted effort, and monetary decision, in itself. It took him two hours to acknowledge Bertholdt's existence, and when he did, rapid fire questions about what he was going to do with a degree in Art History were stabbing through him like knives. 

The two pretended that they weren't butting heads, but it was obvious to anyone who understood their conversations in Arabic that it was a total attack in Bertholdt's direction. And while he kept a level head, explaining that someday he'd like to curate an established art museum, the intent obviously wasn't translating to his father. Eventually, the two dissolved in a full blown screaming match, leaving Bertholdt in tears and the family get-together in shambles. They hadn't spoken since, and no one could really blame him.

"You don't understand what he said to me...about me being gay. He uses it against me and my mom. He said it was her fault 'I turned out like this'. All she's been is supportive and accepting since I came out in High School. And he called me...I think you fucking know what he called me."

Bertholdt's knuckles were white, straining tightly against his skin. He wasn't sure if Marco would understand family troubles like this, but he seemed so positive about life that he might at least sympathize. He was so happy before, just him and his mother together. But, his father had to snake his way back into his life as a bitter reminder of what Bertholdt had come from. It would be a safe assumption that the majority of his anxieties sprung from that very source.

"I don't know why I called you. It just seems like you always have everything together in life. I guess I just need that sometimes. I just...I don't know. I thought that I would have gotten rid of him after my parents divorced. I just want my mom to be happy, and I just want him to leave us alone. But, he does shit like this to remind me he still exists, and apparently hates everything I am."

Bertholdt glanced over to his desk, looking at a picture of him and his Mother at his High School graduation. The two were brightly smiling, Bertholdt bending down to match her tiny stature. She was standing on her toes to match his height, eyes shut and slender arm wrapped around his shoulders. The two were so happy, why couldn't things just stay like that? Why couldn't he just disappear back to Israel forever where he ran away all those years ago? Letting out a deep sigh, Bertholdt drummed his fingers against his thigh. 

"I just don't know what to do Marco. He's in my head now, and I can't stand it."

Thinner Than Water→ Marco

Father’s Day wasn’t Marco’s favorite holiday. Marco’s father had left Marco and his mom when Marco was just old enough to remember him in shady half-memories, but none of his memories, nor the things his mother had told him when he was older, were good. Marco had never been one to think the actions of his father defined him, and he’d certainly stepped up at home, been as good a kid as a mother could want, and when his mother had remarried and had more kids, Marco had been the upstanding older brother, a role he still enjoyed.

It just wasn’t fun. He hadn’t heard from his real dad in years, and Marco didn’t really want to, either; he was fine with the silence, with defining his own destiny. He may have inherited his father’s looks (except the freckles; those were his mother’s), but he identified much more strongly with his mother’s Spanish heritage than his father’s Dominican roots, and with the loving acceptance his mother taught him, and gave him in return, than the cowardly absence of his father, who’d run as soon as the pressure of fatherhood became too much. 

Worse, Father’s Day usually fell right around Marco’s birthday. Last year’s Father’s Day had been his birthday exactly, and it had involved Marco lying on his bed pretending to study for exams and listening to Jean talking to his parents via a long phone call which left Jean tense and angry for the rest of the day, and Marco had moped through dinner and what meager attempts at celebration Jean, to his credit, still attempted to execute. Neither of them were in the mood, but at least they could be not in the mood together.

This year, his birthday was the day after Father’s Day, and while Marco had warned Jean not to do anything for him, he took comfort in the fact that Jean would probably ignore that, and so at least he’d be distracted tomorrow. Right now, Marco was holed up in his room doing homework, the most productive distraction he could think of, and so far, it was working pretty well.

At least, until his phone buzzed on the pile of papers he’d set it on like a paperweight, and he picked it up to find Bertholdt was calling him. Ever since he’d calmed Bertholdt down from a panic attack a few days prior, they’d been talking a lot more, which Marco was happy about; he liked Bertholdt, and was glad they were becoming friends. He couldn’t imagine what Bertholdt might be calling him about rather than just texting, but Marco wasn’t going to complain about the distraction.

He barely had time for a hello, though, before Bertholdt was talking, and it was immediately clear from his tone that he was anxious again. Or perhaps not anxious, but in need of a friendly shoulder to lean on, or an ear to vent to. Whatever it was, Marco was happy to provide; listening to Bertholdt’s problems would probably help take the edge off his worries about his own, as selfish as it was, and Marco was glad he seemed to be able to help Bertholdt out. 

"Nah, I’m not busy," he said, leaning back in his desk chair and holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he closed his laptop and rearranged the papers on his desk, closing folders and textbooks and stacking piles and such. "Go ahead and vent. What’s going on?"

[fubarhoover-blog]

Thinner Than Water→ Marco

Bertholdt was mentally exhausted. After spending the last half hour on the phone, he honestly couldn't say he was in the best of moods, especially with who he had been talking to. He had gotten caught off guard just as he was about to leave to head into town to see one of his favorite black and white movies at the local theater. And, when he saw the name illuminate on the screen of his phone, Bertholdt felt his heart drop into his feet.

It was his dad.

The two didn't have the best relationship, in fact, they didn't have a relationship at all. Tension had drawn the two apart far before his parents had divorced. And, as he reluctantly pressed accept, Bertholdt gritted his teeth in disgust. The next thirty minutes were spent completely in Arabic, mainly so no one could understand the two passively fighting, like they always did. How could he forget that it was Father's Day? Now, with his father's persistent bickering about how he could be so inconsiderate, Bertholdt was hardly in the mood to handle his own emotions, let alone his estranged father's.

He spent the few minutes following the call shaking, fists balled tightly in extreme upset. He hated hearing his voice, the tone bringing up all the disgusting things he had told him as he grew. Compelled to punch down on the pillows littering his bed, Bertholdt felt tears well up in the corners of his eyes. So, he did what had worked last time his sanity was in peril: he called Marco.

Memories of the way Marco had calmed him down a few days before began to filter in through his mind, the dial tone ringing out against his ear. If there was anyone who could soothe this mental ache, it was him. There was just something about the boy that calmed the calamity which Bertholdt called thoughts. And, as the tone stopped suddenly, Bertholdt took a sharp breath in, feeling his mind buzz underneath his skull.

"Hey, are you busy? I hate asking you this all the time, but I just need to vent to someone. Things happened and...God, I don't know."

[fubarhoover-blog]

∞

∞: What do I think about you? I think you're way nicer than you even know. You're a really good guy.

[fubarhoover-blog]

Now that you said it, I'm sure we're all going to make it a huge deal. We should have a little party or something, just a small thing. I mean, unless you don't want that. But wouldn't it be fun?

My birthday is the 16th, but please don’t make a big deal of it.

[fubarhoover-blog]

♚☮

♚: One place I'd love to go? Maybe to Isreal to meet my family, but for fun I'd like to go to Russia, France, or Tibet.

☮: I'd totally want to meet Alphonse Mucha. But, for living people maybe Banksy? Of course i'd just pick artists..

[fubarhoover-blog]

THINGS ABOUT MY MUSE, FILL UP MY INBOX

☯: Five songs from my muse’s playlist

∞: My muse’s thought’s about your muse.

★: Five of my muse’s favorite things (you can specify or not)

✘: What my muse wants to grow up to be.

✦: One thing my muse hates.

♚: One place my muse would like to travel to.

☮: One person my muse would like to meet.

[fubarhoover-blog]

marcomantic liked your post:Since I got so many of these, I guess I have to...

Marco why did you like this? You taking notes or something? Haha...

Wait, no I'm kidding. You don't have to answer that.

[fubarhoover-blog]

Oh. Well, I guess I'll remember that for later then.

Oh god, please don't publish that Marco. I'm really sorry

Oh. It’s fine! Just… Do you really want to know?

[fubarhoover-blog]

Oh!...Wait, are you serious? Haha, alright then. I guess we both are, huh?

Oh god, please don't publish that Marco. I'm really sorry

Oh. It’s fine! Just… Do you really want to know?