#because now I have a large work table with junk accumulated on top of and underneath it

[himblebo]

Today I’ll get my life together just you wait

[ohdaim]

prompt - neighbors

You caught a glimpse of him while checking your mail. He was a tall, dark line topped with tawny hair, and he left a citrus musk in his wake. Barely conscious, you’d only stepped out to get the mail while your coffee steeped. He’d moved in overnight just a week prior, and he hadn’t made a sound.

Scientia was written on his letterbox next to yours. It was in neat script, simple black letters on white, unlined paper. You’d done yours weeks ago when you’d first moved in and hadn’t gotten around to ever updating it with better handwriting. Next to his, your surname in sparkly gel pen looked a touch silly. Although, compared to the faded and cockled name cards on everyone else’s boxes, you both stood out spectacularly as obvious new tenants.

You shuffled through the mail on your way back in. Among the bills and junk was an unexpected weight. You’d ordered a package, but this didn’t seem to be right. It was a magazine, covered in a thin layer of navy blue plastic, and after turning it over, you were able to read the title, which was, as far as you could tell, the only part not obscured by the plastic.

PENTHOUSE

This was most definitely not yours. You unloaded everything else onto your kitchen table and turned the magazine over in your hands again. There, on a lower corner, you read Ignis Scientia.

“Ah.”

You put it aside, looking at it while you sipped on your coffee. It wasn’t as if you were actively looking for a reason to meet the guy. Considering what this was, you were even less enthralled by the idea of approaching him. I got your spank mag in my letterbox. Just watch porn online like everyone else.

Pouring yourself a second mug, you decided you’d pull the band-aid off once he got back from what you assumed was his job. It was only a dirty magazine, after all. You were both adults here.

Because he never made a sound, and you often lost yourself in your art--oil paintings for wealthy clients--you weren’t able to catch him again. Not even a glimpse in the early morning like that initial sighting.

But the magazines continued to come. You frowned at the pile that had accumulated on your kitchen table in just a week. Hustler, Playboy, something called Erotic Disrobing. You opened one--it had thrown you with its title, Beaver Hunt, which you shouldn’t, in retrospect, have trusted whatsoever--to see a large, perfectly rounded ass with the exquisite main cover line: MILFS that LOVE to be MILKED.

Judging from the Insomnian Bear and Playgirl that had come mid-week, you had to give it to your new neighbor; he had a vast range of sexual interests. He also had a huge problem. No healthy person needed this much pornography.

By the end of the week, you left a note taped to his front door, telling him to knock on yours when he had the time because you had his ‘important mail’. When another week passed with not so much as a word from him and another slew of adult magazines, you began to wonder if you were being pranked by the mail carrier. So unprofessional how they couldn’t seem to differentiate between your letterbox and Ignis’ when your name cards couldn’t have looked more different.

Deep in your focus on the current commission, you were jarred out of your thoughts by a loud noise from next door. It was followed by music, which fluctuated in volume from high to low to high again within the span of a minute. You left your painting, wiping your hands on a cloth as you made for the stack of magazines in your kitchen.

Absolute pervert Ignis Scientia was home. At fucking last.

You blew wisps of your hair out of your face while you waited for him to answer his door. Paint was still on your hands, and you were wearing the least flattering but most comfortable clothes you owned. A vague thought ran through your mind that you should’ve changed before coming over. Except no, you were holding an armload of dirty magazines. There was no saving this from being an awkward first encounter.

The door opened to a bearded man not wearing a shirt. You were sure this couldn’t have been the same person you’d caught a peek of in the morning sun weeks before.

Still, you asked, “Ignis Scientia?”

The man laughed, a gruff, deep sound that shook his broad chest. He looked over his shoulder and called out, “Iggy, you’ve got company.”

Waving you in, he backed away and waited. You were hesitant. Visiting wasn’t in the plan, but you couldn’t deny that you were curious about what was going on. The music was much louder inside the apartment. You passed the man, meeting eyes with another who looked away almost immediately, one hand coming up to card through his blonde hair while the other turned the music down a notch.

“Selling magazines or something?” The larger, shirtless man asked, going around you to drop himself onto the sofa next to a third man who seemed to have eyes only for his phone.

“No.” You looked for a place to put them down, but the coffee table was covered with snack foods and open drinks. “These were accidentally put in my mailbox. They say Ignis Scientia on them?”

It wasn’t meant to be a question, but the longer you stood in the living room with these three men, none of whom appearing to be the elusive Ignis Scientia, you were beginning to worry all of this was a wild fever dream.

“Yes, allow strangers into my flat while Noct is here.” A fourth man stepped through an archway from what you could see was his kitchen, looking from you to the man who’d let you in. “Excellent shield work, Gladio.”

The man on the sofa laughed with a shrug. “Seemed harmless. Look at ‘em. They’re cute, delivering your mail for you.”

“I’m not--” You sighed and faced Ignis to introduce yourself. It took you a moment to speak, caught off guard by the frank intensity of his gaze. “I live next door. These keep coming to my letterbox. Please take them.”

Green eyes flicking down from your face to the topmost magazine, he frowned. “Are you certain those are mine?”

You glanced down. Peeking out through a clear bit in the black plastic cover was the word Boudoir, half covered by the shiny, golden elbow of what you were certain was a naked woman.

“Look.” You lifted the stack in your arms. “Your name is right there.”

Ignis blinked, stepping closer to read the address sticker. His face began to redden. “I don’t subscribe to this sort of…”

You hefted the weight in your arms. “If you would, please.”

Finally, he took them, the red in his face deepening by the second.

“I opened one,” you said. “Just, um, out of curiosity.”

He didn’t respond, looking toward his friends. “Gladio, is this your doing?”

As if they hadn’t been listening, two of the men sitting around looked your way. The largest one came to a stand and closed the distance to swipe the uppermost magazine. Delayed surprise crossed his face, then he laughed.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Iggy.” He tore the plastic off and flipped through the pages. “So you’re into granny fetish stuff. Everybody’s got their thing.”

A scowl came to Ignis’ face. You didn’t like how good looking he actually was. You’d built up a very different image in your mind. For some reason, you’d thought he’d have a mustache. A creepy one. Instead, he looked like he’d stepped right out of a magazine himself. Albeit one where the models wore much more clothing.

“Gladio, this is worse than the last time I moved.” His grip on the bottom of the stack tightened. “Can’t you have these sent to your own place?”

The larger man closed the magazine, his amusement softening. “Iris checks my mail sometimes. I’d just rather not deal with that.”

You stepped back, inching toward the exit. You’d done your job. They seemed absorbed into their own thing. Whatever party this was, your curiosity was sated. And you really didn’t care whose magazines they were. Only that they wouldn’t be in your mailbox anymore.

Your slow steps were halted when Ignis looked at you again.

“I apologize,” he said. “You were the one who left that note, weren’t you?”

You nodded. “You didn’t come by.”

He held the magazines out, and his friend took them, carrying them over to the sofa.

“I thought you were mistaken.” His face was the picture of mortification, his inner eyebrows arched together over his glasses. He held his gloved hands in loose fists at his sides. “Had I known that was what you were receiving, I would’ve put a stop to it.”

You waved him off, thrown by the entire situation. You wanted to get back to your painting. You wanted to think about this in the relative quiet of your apartment.

“Just make sure you have them sent to your box from now on. I don’t think I can handle seeing another--” You made a vague motion with your hands. “Yeah.”

He nodded. “Let me know if you do. Again, my apologies.”

You left from there, beginning to grow embarrassed yourself. Just beyond the door, you heard him say with much less patience, “Thank you, now my neighbor thinks I’m a sexual deviant.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

The door closed, muting the conversation and following laughter. You waffled for a moment, listening as the volume of the music raised again. Well. That was… something.

Back in your own apartment, you found it difficult to return to work. Not because of the music from next door or the unburdening of the magazines.

You cleaned your paint brushes, done for the night, and felt warmth bloom on your face. Pervert or not, Ignis had the kind of face you dreamt of painting.

“Now who’s the weirdo,” you laughed to yourself.

[justtextmeoppa]

Super junior reaction to how they would cheer you up if you were having a bad day.

for anon

-kyu^^

Leeteuk

Leader Teukie would quickly take you into his arms and give you a big hug. Forgetting that he was just back from dance practice and probably drenched in sweat. But you didn’t really care. He would understand what it would feel like to have a bad day, and he always knew that you tried your hardest to cheer him up. Teukie would automatically take you by the hand and lead you to the couch and just cuddle you until your bad mood slips away and all you can do is just enjoy his company.

‘You always know how to cheer me up.’

‘Because you are my everything, Y/N.’

Heechul

The music junkie that is Kim Heechul would automatically play Cheer up baby, by Twice (Sorry I had to lol) and dance all the moves so you would forget your bad day and just smile and laugh at his goofy action. Once he found you happy again, he would grab you to dance with him before pulling you into his arms and placing a sweet kiss on the top of your head.

‘You just had to play that song, didn’t you?’

‘YAH! It made smile, didn’t it?’

(Zitao you’re always beautiful)

Yesung

When you walk into the apartment in a bad mood, it would take turtle boy just a few minutes before realizing it. He is slow, forgive him. Yesung would eventually go to the kitchen, brew you an amazing cup of tea before finding you in the bedroom on the bed. He would place the cup on the side table before pulling you in his arms and singing sweetly to you, eventually having you drift to sleep in his warm embrace.

‘Your voice is just so beautiful, Ye.’

‘Not as beautiful as you, my love.’

Kangin

Manly man Kangin would automatically pick up on your mood and would be by your side right before you even had a chance to take your shoes off. He would lace his fingers with yours and guide you to the couch, placing a blanket over you before disappearing to the kitchen and then arriving with popcorn, a whole lot of junk food and some hot chocolate. Placing it all down, he would make himself comfortable with you and put on a soppy film so you would feel better.

‘I know you like this one, babe.’

‘And I love you, Kangin…’

Shindong

Jokester Shindong would do everything in his power to make you laugh. Once you crashed on the bed in a big huff, he would figure you needed some cheering up. He would try his best joke material on you that eventually he would run out and you would finally laugh at how bad they were and how sweet he was acting, regardless of the horrific jokes. Realizing you were feeling better, he would kiss your forehead.

‘Where my jokes that bad?’

‘Horrible, but you are simply amazing. Thank you…’

Sungmin

Minnie would just be a big ball of fluff. He would be like Kangin, automatically pick up on your mood. Sungmin would take you to the couch and hold your hands, look into your eyes and tell you to tell him why you were so upset. He would want you to take out all the bad vibes so he could then cuddle you on the couch and constantly remind you how much he loved and cared for you.

‘I am always here for you, Y/N. Remember that, okay?’

‘Always.’

Eunhyuk

Funnily I would think that Eunhyuk would be like Yesung. Clueless at first, but would probably take a longer time to realize you need some cheering up. Arriving home, he would notice you just lying on the bed. He would place a kiss on you forehead, heading to shower before coming back and seeing you in the same position. Noticing the small tears, he would forget about changing fully and would pull you into his bare chest and caress your hair, wiping the tears way and pulling the most monkey face he could muster.

‘Did it work? Did I cheer you up? I know I suck at these things.’

‘You were perfect, Hyuk…thank you.’

(Ignore our Donghae lmao) Zhoumi

Soft hearted Zhoumi would see the sad look on your face, and without mention of a bad day, he would pull you into a hug. Rubbing your back softly as your face is smushed against his chest. You would slowly wrap your arms around him, and automatically feel him pull you closer and whisper soft words into your hair. He would then pull away from you softly, placing a hand on your cheek and caressing it with a gentle look in his eyes.

‘Bad day?’

‘It’s getting better now.’

Donghae

Donghae would be like Zhoumi, but he would probably run you a warm bath before helping you get rid of your clothing and taking you to the bathroom. He would then disappear and arrive back with a plate of your favorite cookies and leave them beside the bath. Stroking the top of your head, he would place a soft kiss on your forehead and try and walk away as if to give you some alone time to unwind.

‘If you need anything, just call. I will be in the bedroom.’

‘I have one thing….will you join me?’

Siwon

Gentlemen Siwon would be like Leeteuk. He would come home from a long day of shooting his drama but as soon as he saw the sadden look on your face, he would automatically be at your said. He would pull you into his lap, laying your head on his shoulder and ask you what was bothering you. Once finding out it was a bad day, he would pull the blanket over the both of you and cuddle on the couch.

‘Thank you for this, Siwon-ah.’

‘Don’t thank me, I am always here for you sweetheart.’

Ryeowook

Wookie would be in the kitchen, cooking dinner for the both of you. He would hear the front door slam and would automatically know it was a bad day situation. You would walk into the kitchen to get some water when his arms snake around your waist and pull your into a tight back hug. You would sigh he would place butterfly kisses down your neck, making your stomach bubble at his warm affection.

‘Dinner is almost ready. You go and shower and then we can relax.’

‘You always know how to make me smile, Wook.’

Kyuhyun

Okay we all know that Cho Kyuhyun is an undercover alcoholic when it comes to wine, so he would automatically grab a bottle of your favorite from the cellar and pour you a large glass. He and you would sit on the couch, playing with each others fingers and just releasing all the bad tension that accumulated today. He would then take your glass and place it next to his before taking your face into his hands and smiling at you sweetly.

‘Are you okay now?’

‘I thought wine made everything better, but I was wrong…you do.’

Henry

Mochi would be like Ryeowook. All soft and fluffy, along with acting like a bit of an idiot so you would smile. He would pull any funny face or cheesy line to make you laugh. After a while, his jokes got worse and you couldn’t help but laugh out of pity, but soon forgot about the bad day. Seeing victory, he would then tackle you to the floor and you both would be rolling around, laughing loudly and just enjoying the good company.

‘I never knew I was so comfortable, Y/N.’

‘Well I would say it was the bed, but you are just a close second.’

*BONUS*

Hangeng

Hangen would be like Kangin. As soon as you stepped foot through the door, he would sense the change in aura. You were no longer the happy chappy girl anymore, but a dull version. You would place your bag on the table and turn around to be crushed in his hold. Your arms would remain at your side while he held you close and stroked your hair. He would then pick you up and carry you to the couch to then shower you with attention and loving gestures.

‘I don’t like it when you are sad, baby.’

‘But you always make sure that never happens.’

Kibum

Kimmy Kibum would be all smiles walking into the apartment. Not finding you in the lounge, he would then venture to the bedroom to see you curled up in a ball. Pausing at the door, he would then dash across the room and retrieve you from the pile of blankets you had barricaded yourself in. Taking your face in his hands, making sure you weren’t crying before showering your face with kisses and tickling you. Your bad day slipped away and the cheerful one began.

‘I like it when you smile, it looks beautiful on you.’

‘You are to good to me…thank you.’

[scouringsaucepans-blog]

Would You Just... Help Your Mum with the Shopping?

I’m at my mum’s house trying to clean her kitchen. “Trying” being the operative word.

My mum is a hoarder. Not in the sense of stacking newspapers dating back to the seventies against the walls, or hiding mason jars filled with urine under the beds, but she does have trouble throwing things away. She wants to keep everything, finds meaning, memory, in everything.

“What about this?” I say, holding up a small and badly-painted plastic dog figurine, the kind you might get free with an RSPCA membership, perhaps.

“Oh, no,” my mum says. “He’s special.”

“These?” I point to the mountain of half-empty Tic Tac boxes I’ve found.

Long sigh. “Well, I suppose. Although if they’re different flavours…”

I usually leave my mum to her Ways. I’m not home often, and the odd evenings I do pop by we find enough about politics and religion and my future to argue about without bringing her house into it. But this is different. My girlfriend and I, after a long period pretending things were working when they evidently were not, have broken up, and lacking anywhere more sensible to go it now appears I will be staying back with my mum for a while.

There’s not much it would be fair to say about the break up. My life is material for my writing; Charlie’s is not. I hope she’s going to be happier eventually without me, that we’ll still be friends, all those cliches you cling to in a sea of terror and uncertainty.

Anyway, after two days on my friend’s sofa drinking whisky and watching, inexplicably, Mythbusters and Singin’ in the Rain, I decide I am not going to fall apart, so I cook my friend and his girlfriend a risotto, then go home to my mum’s.

This is not my house, I tell myself later, standing in the kitchen. This is my mum’s house. She has a right to keep it however she wants. If she finds calm in clutter then that’s fine.

Except, are these birch leaves here? Brought back from a walk last autumn, maybe, and now crumbling to dust beneath, what? a pile of ancient Spanish phrase books, some dog-grooming leaflets for the now dead dog, a one-legged, mud-encrusted action figure from my youth, rediscovered I presume while gardening, and a veritable smorgasbord, a cornucopia, of phone and camera chargers, some of these surely from phones and cameras that haven’t been turned on since before Live and Kicking went off the telly.

Perhaps I will do a little light clearing, actually. But I’ll be understanding. I won’t interfere; I will help.

“This?” I say ten minutes later, waving a car-parking voucher from a folk festival held in 2013 at my mum’s face in an accusatory manner. “Surely you don’t still need this?”

“That will go upstairs,” she says, “with the others.”

“Yes but are you going to put it upstairs, or are you going to drop it in the other room and then I’ll find it under a load of old crosswords in six months time?”

“Oh, Robert…”

As far as I can make sense of my mother’s system, she seems to have three baskets in this kitchen for odds and ends, either sort of inchoate, nebulous planets towards which odds and ends are being pulled from the asteroid fields of odds and ends littering the rest of the room, or else the odds and ends are the inhabitants of the basket-planets, now migrating across the room’s galaxy to find new homes among the stars (or kitchen appliances) – it’s hard to tell. There is also an odds and ends drawer, that will no longer open all the way, that probably contains clues to the birth of the universe, but I just cannot even think about that drawer right now.

I condense the baskets into one, fit all the odds and ends from the rest of the room into it. I pull out the microwave and the toaster and the bread bin, brush away all the crumbs and leaf residue and sticker-ties from loaves of bread that have accumulated behind. I wipe the counter tops, clear and wipe the table. I scrub the fronts of the cupboards and around the sink and behind the collection of Interesting Shells and Rocks (?). The grill, thankfully, is already relatively clean, but I do under the hobs and the oven front and around the dials. I sort out the Things Under the Table. I sweep the floor.

That’s okay, I think. Everything is okay. I cook tea for us, serve tea, respond to my mother’s conversational prompts – Yes, it’s tough, it hurts, but I think everything is going to be okay –, smile, take the plates out, wash up. Then I go to my room and close the door and spend the rest of the night worrying that everything is really not going to be okay.

* * *

The office chair is a problem. It’s my day off and Charlie is back home with her family and we’ve arranged that now is a sensible time for me to pick up my belongings from her flat. No longer our flat. It’s these little thoughts that are the most serrated. Other examples: We’ll never now finish watching season two of Mr Robot together. How will Charlie complete the Day of the Tentacle remaster without my Playstation? And what should I do about my office chair, the one Charlie paid for the day we went to Ikea, when I zoomed about on the trolley like a child instead of thinking about the future, before Charlie got angry and I got to pretend it wasn’t my fault? I want to offer to pay for the chair, but there’s something about this that feels horrendously pragmatic, cold, like we’re negotiating a business deal. But to just take the chair would be wrong.

I text Charlie, offering to pay.

“The chair was a present,” she replies. “I don’t want anything for it.”

I feel sick.

I put the chair in the car, along with my clothes, my PC, my books. The guitars I can barely play. The DVD collection I haven’t added to since 2010. All the stupid videogames with the stupid war-men on their covers.

I sit with the cat for a long time. She attacks my hand, bounds away. She doesn’t seem to comprehend the gravity of the situation. I say goodbye to her, close the door, leave.

Back at my mum’s there is no space on my floor left on which to stand. I look at all my junk splayed about the room. A sorry account for a life. Yet all I have left to hold onto. That night I fall asleep under floral-patterned spare covers, feeling that I am slipping through the gaps between the cardboard boxes and bin bags into a weightless void beyond. I feel like I am disappearing.

* * *

The next morning, however, I have not slipped, have not disappeared. I am still here.

My mother makes coffee, talks about the Archers – which programme apparently makes her more angry than some real-world wars, yet cannot ever be missed – then asks me if I will go to Sainsbury’s with her.

I have lived back home before, as an adult, and I was bad at it. I acted like an entitled adolescent. I would get in at 3am, drunk, maybe stoned, fix myself maybe one last gin and tonic from my mum’s spirit shelf (telling myself vaguely I’d buy replacement bottles some time, never doing it), then lock myself in my room and watch films or play games, feeling unhappy, until it was time to go back to the job I hated. I treated my mum horribly, as if it was her fault I was so miserable. I sat in silent disdain through her meandering stories at the dinner table, mocked her offers to get me out of the house on a walk to the countryside – “Thanks all the same but actually I don’t fancy spending my one day away from the purgatory of that job walking around a large body of water discussing farm-based radio soap operas with my mother,” – and, most of all, I despised being asked if I would go to Sainsbury’s with her.

I would slouch along the aisles, scowling, saying I didn’t care what we bought, I didn’t know when I’d be around for tea, I’d just eat out or something, whatever. I’d be as uncooperative as possible, hoping negative reinforcement would condition my mum into never asking me along again. I would basically be a terrible prick.

Remembering those days now I think about how much I don’t want to be that person. How terrified I am of still being that person.

“Of course I’ll come to Sainsbury’s,” I say. “Shall we go now?”

In the car down, as my mother talks about Karen, who I don’t know, who was the teaching assistant before Geraldine, or was it Katie? No, it was Geraldine, because it was Geraldine who, her husband Keith, it was very sad actually, Keith had lost his brother Gavin, and Keith hadn’t really recovered, although… no, well of course that was the year before, or… God, it wasn’t Gavin was it? It was Richard – as my mother talks, I look at her, think how lonely she must be in the house by herself sometimes, about how she texts me whenever she’s in town asking if I want to meet for a coffee and I reply, three days later, “Sorry wasn’t around”, and she texts back that she loves me, and I don’t reply.

“So yes,” I say. “Geraldine’s husband…?”

We walk around Sainsbury’s, chat. I pick up a few Belgian beers, don’t say anything about my mother’s silence, accept that she worries about my drinking, accept that she is making an effort not to comment.

Back home I bring the shopping in from the car, put it away, offer to cook.

Then I sort out my room. I empty the cupboards and drawers, the boxes and bags, of my own odds and ends, mementos left over from shared houses, old jobs, university, school. I put a few letters, notebooks, old drawings to one side, throw the rest away. I bag up for charity all the clothes I don’t want. I strip everything down, dust. Then I put out my books, and the names – Foster Wallace, Delillo, Vonnegut, Hemingway, Kerouac, Fitzgerald, Plath, Woolf – look down on me approvingly.

I don’t know. It’s all a bit fucked. But maybe it will be okay. Maybe a step backwards isn’t always a step back. When you’ve lost your footing, for example. When you’ve walked head-down into a bog. Sometimes the best way forwards is actually backwards, just a little.

***

I go downstairs. The light is fading. Mum is standing in the half-light staring out of the window, one hand lightly touching the locket she wears about her neck.

“I could get rid of a few bits myself, I suppose,” she says. “Take a few bits to the charity shop. I won’t be around forever, after all, and I hate the thought of you and Liz having to deal with everything when I’m gone. That wouldn’t be fair on you.”

I put my arms around her. She is very small next to me.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been a very good son,” I say.

“Nonsense,” she says.

We stay like that a while.