#every single landlord needs to die right now they all need to explode

[heavyedit]

landlords should have more nuance. paying rent should be more nuanced. like “i know you had an accidental injury that has left you completely out of work and bedridden but also i need that several thousand dollars from you or else you can’t be here” Are you out of your fucking mind for real

[from-a-reckless-writer]

wrote a thing.

She is sitting behind you; back propped up against the harsh cement wall the double-deck is pushed against. She isn’t wearing her shirt, merely draped it over her frame. She is like this with you. Always partially naked, almost always bare but never completely. A sleeping short but no bra, there; grinding on your thigh with only a tank top and no underwear, here; and now, chest bare with only a shirt draped over.

You hear rustling and you know she is reaching for the pack of cigarettes and lighter on the head of the bed.

You are proven right.

You hear the flicker of the flames and the string of cigarette smoke climbs into your nostrils. You lace your shoes first before even wearing a bra. The first time you did this in front of her she laughed at you.

Shoes first before a bra? If you hadn’t just fucked my brains out I’d have half a mind to call you a psychopath.

She always smokes the same brand of cigarette. The ones whose sticks are black, as if a premonition of the blackening of her lungs if she keeps at it. It is always the one with the menthol aftertaste.

“Do you always have to have cigarettes after sex?”

“They're called stimulants for good reason you know? And besides…”

She trails off and it irritates you, because her trailing off means that she knows you’re thinking the same thing; implies that with you, she doesn’t feel the need to finish her words out loud because she is all too aware that you have already finished the sentence in your head.

It is most irksome.

“Besides what?” You spit out, even though you already know the answer; even though you know that she knows you know.

“Besides,” she drawls, and even with your back to her, you know there is a puff of smoke around that one word.

“You like the taste.”

You feel liquid fire running in your veins. Of course, that’s what she would say. That’s what you were thinking of, wasn’t it?

“They’re bad for you.”

You hook the clasps of your bra together.

“Mm. Like how I’m bad for you?”

“Fuck you.”

“You just did, baby.”

******

There is no love there, you think as you wait for a cab below her apartment.

Above, you know she is listening to the trashy music you know she doesn’t really like but always listens to. You hate that you don’t know the reason why she does this. You hate that she always seems to know more about you, than you about her.

You imagine what she does when she’s alone in her apartment.

In that cramped space of a studio apartment, where the kitchen faces the door of the bathroom and the bedroom is three steps away from said kitchen. The one place you’re sure would always be burned to the back of your lids till the day you die.

It’s yellow walls eternally living in the gray matter of your brain. It has embedded itself there, along with the image of her spread open for you each time and every time.

You raise your hand to hail a cab. A car stops in front of you, you look up one last time.

There’s the silhouette of a woman behind the curtains.

You leave.

******

The city rolls past your windows. Manila in the middle of the night feels like a neon lucid dream. Well, it is, if you look past the homeless children in the streets and the rows of carton boxes inhabited by cold bodies on the sidewalk.

You think about her and how cold the metal frame of a double-deck feels at night. You never ask about the person who used to occupy the top part of the deck. You don’t ask about how there is a whole drawer of clothes that she doesn’t touch.

You don’t ask and she doesn’t answer.

It’s always been like that between you, hasn’t it? An eye for an eye. A tit for tat. What you give is what you get.

The entire taxi smells like orange Lysol and you suppress a gag reflex. It gives you a headache. But the pain of it is nothing compared to the chasm inside your chest.

It’s been getting bigger and bigger, wider and wider, you notice. The gap always increases whenever you decide to lace your shoes and hail a cab.

You ignore it.

******

She doesn’t call you, the next Friday.

It’s not the first time she failed to call. Often, it’s a work thing or a university thing...or both.

She’ll call the next evening; always eager to fuck off the stress the prior day has inevitably brought.

She wouldn’t even bother with foreplay on days like those. It’s fine by you. You’re more than happy to get down and get to work.

You’ve always been an efficient employee after all.

Because that’s it, isn’t it? This is just a contract between the two of you. If you need an itch scratched, you'll dial the familiar number and she'll show up on your doorstep and the next minute her hands would be down your pants and vice versa.

It works. It’s fine.

But then, she doesn’t call.

Not during that Friday night and not during the next evening and before you know it, a whole weekend passes by.

You find your hand on her doorknob on Monday morning.

******

She slams the door in your face the moment she realizes you’re behind it.

You pound your fist on the locked door three times, twist the knob roughly for good measure.

“Tangina, just let me in.”

You hate how fucking needy you sound.

******

You wake up falling backwards, the back of your head hitting the bone of her legs painfully.

“Aw. Pucha, what the-”

You look up and there she is, looking down on you and then she is muttering under her breath.

“Idiot. Who fucking waits outside somebody’s door?”

You scramble to your feet.

You embrace her. Tightly. It surprises you both. You hear the breath get whooshed out of her lungs.

You feel her stop fighting against the hug. She turns soft. She sobs.

You let your shirt get soaked.

******

You don’t fuck that night.

You hold her instead.

******

You feel nauseous on the ride home again but this time you know it isn’t because of some cheap air freshener.

There is something different churning in your gut. It makes you want to throw up. It’s got to do with the ever widening chasm in your chest and the woman in the studio flat, you think.

No, you don’t think. You know.

You elect to ignore it again.

******

There is a man with his arm around you when you run into each other in the LRT. In the distance you can hear the whistle of a security guard. You can feel the rumble of the oncoming train underneath your feet. Somebody says, Please observe the following for your safety and protection while inside the station...Thank you for patronizing the LRT.

You watch in real time how a nebula dies.

The light bursting, exploding and then blinking out of existence all in the same breath.

“Nice to meet you.”

She extends a hand to the man beside you.

You try not to think about the fact that that same hand had trailed up and down your body not only two nights ago, how those fingers had mapped out every single scar down the back of your thighs, how that hand had cradled your face so softly before even softer lips descended on your own.

“Well, I should probably get going. I’ll let you go now.”

The five words grate against your veins like broken glass atop cement walls grazing trespassing robbers.

You try to crane your neck to follow her disappearing figure.

His arm gets in the way.

******

She doesn’t answer your Friday night call.

And the Saturday morning call.

And the Saturday afternoon call and the evening call.

And the Sunday morning call and the afternoon call and the evening call.

Once again, you find your back against her door on a Monday.

******

She finds you there; sitting stupidly, head thumping repeatedly against the wood.

You scramble to stand up so quickly you almost trip over your own feet.

“Hi.“

—is the most stupid thing to say in the history of stupid things to say.

“You didn’t answer my calls,” you’re quick to add.

“No answer is an answer.”

She jams her keys into the door.

“Yeah, I figured.”

You twiddle your thumbs, eyes cast to the floor.

She opens the door. You follow, naturally.

She takes off her shirt.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Well, isn’t this what you came for? Let’s get it done and over with. The sooner the better, I have an essay deadline tonight.”

“No, I-”

“You what?”

You stare stupidly, mouth closing and opening like a fish, with no words coming out.

“Ano?” She demands, “Wala? Well, if you’re not gonna fuck me I suggest you get out and stop wasting my time. Like I said, I have a deadline tonight.”

You can take the dismissal for what it is.

Or...

You can fight back.

You can call her out on her bullshit.

You can apologize for your stupidity.

You can-

You rush towards her and smash your mouths together harshly.

You make her cum three times that night, her letting out your name in breathy whimpers.

It doesn’t feel satisfying. It just leaves you feeling empty.

She doesn’t smoke after, this time. She just gets out of your arms, pulls out a chair, a charger and her laptop.

She gets to work.

You dress yourself. Shoes first, then bra.

“I’m sorry.”

******

You stop hearing from her.

You know better than to call her non-stop.

No answer is an answer.

******

The apartment is empty when you get there.

The landlord says it’s been empty for two weeks now.

She didn’t leave her future destination nor her new address nor her new number.

She didn’t leave anything behind.

Well, except maybe for…you.

[rumpledgoldenweaver]

The Gold Boys

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling  November prompt “Like Father, Like Son” this is a Storybrooke based AU that has been rattling around in my head for a while. When Rumple stabs Peter Pan he doesn’t die instead he turns back into Malcolm and stays that way. Since Bae/Neal and Henry are in town too, Rumple finds himself with more family than he knows what to do with.

He wasn’t hiding. Not really. Anyone could walk through the door of the shop, the little bell jangling their arrival and find him leaning on the counter. There was a cloth spread out over the glass top, a small bottle of silver polish and a second cloth that he was using to buff up every single piece he could find. Mindless, repetitive work. His spinning wheel stood motionless, he couldn’t face that. Far too many memories of times far too long ago that he didn’t want to think about for now. No, he could retreat back into his Mr Gold persona. Pawnbroker, landlord and loan shark. Mr Gold didn’t need to concern himself with the return of errant fathers, long lost sons, new found grandsons and a girlfriend. Mr Gold didn’t need family and the complications that came with it.

And for as long as he could get away with pretending that suited Rumpelstiltskin just fine.

Neal Cassidy wasn’t hiding either. No Ma’am, he was seated at the counter of Granny’s Diner nursing a cup of coffee in full view of anyone passing by. He opened up the Angry Birds app on his phone, firing pissed off birds at smug looking pigs. You wouldn’t know to look at him that he was the son of the Dark One, father of the boy with the Heart of the Truest Believer (don’t forget the capital letters) and grandson of Peter Pan – Malcolm as he was now known. It sounded ordinary in comparison. But then so did Neal when you stood it next to Balefire.

A pixalated pig exploded when a cartoon piece of timber fell on it’s head, he smiled in satisfaction. Bae would have been fascinated by the game. But Bae wasn’t there. Neal Cassidy was and for now he too could pretend that his real personality didn’t exist.  

Malcolm had no choice but to hide. After his disastrous defeat at the hands of his son, being unceremoniously turned back into an adult and finding that blaming his alter ego for everything wasn’t going to work, he’d holed up in a room at the inn called Granny’s – what kind of name for an establishment was that anyway? - and there he had stayed. There wasn’t a cursed or invented persona to provide him with knowledge as to how this land without magic worked. He lay on the bed and sighed. Most of the basics seemed the same, a bed was a bed, a table was a table, water was water. The bathroom had been a revelation. Instead of an iron tub in front of the fire, there was some fancy looking contraption called a shower – it reminded him of a waterfall and a thing called a toilet that he really didn’t trust. What was wrong with a good old fashioned hole in the ground or a nearby tree?

He did know he couldn’t avoid his son forever. Or his grandson. Or his great grandson. People he’d traded away in exchange for eternal youth. If he was very honest he’d admit that it hadn’t all been a barrel of laughs and that he was, very deep down, relieved to be himself again. Malcolm wasn’t given to honesty though.

Henry was beside himself with excitement. He had a father, a grandpa and a great grandpa! None of their stories were fully complete in his book and now a golden opportunity had presented itself for him to find out all the facts. He reckoned his mothers would be fine with him talking to his dad and his grandpa but Peter.. Malcolm.. not so much. Frowning he began tapping his pen on the notebook that lay open on his bed. This was an operation and as such it needed a name. There were so many names involved – Gold, Cassidy, Swan, Mills and whatever Malcolm’s surname was.. Pan? Henry crossed his mothers names off. He knew about them. Staring at the list one name stood out to him above all the others. He smiled.

Operation Gold Boys.

“Henry for the tenth time I am absolutely positive your Grandpa won’t mind you asking him questions. In fact I’m sure it’ll make his day. Talk to him really nicely and he might show you some of the old Dark One razzle dazzle”

Henry snorted a laugh as his dad made a weird looking gesture with his arms

“I’m a little out of practice” Bae pushed open the door to his father’s shop and ushered his own son inside “Hi Papa”

Rumple’s smile could have illuminated the entire town “Hello Bae! Hi Henry. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure”

“Henry has questions for you. About your life” Bae winced slightly as the same smile froze but carried on anyway “I said you’d be okay with it and that he should talk to Belle too since she knew you after I….left…”

That earned him an eye roll from Henry. Seriously grown ups. Little wonder everyone still clung to their old scores and rivalries. How could anyone move on when they couldn’t even have a simple conversation.

“What Dad means is…”

“It’s okay Henry, I know what he means and no I don’t mind you asking providing that depending on the question I might choose not to answer”

“Deal” grinned Henry pulling a notebook from his coat pocket and setting it down on the counter “Now then…”

Despite his misgivings Rumple answered all of his grandson’s questions, he particularly enjoyed reminiscing about his days back in village with Bae and making his son squirm by regaling tales of his youthful misdeeds. Henry listened in wonderment, his father’s childhood different to his own although he could sympathise completely with having a vilified practitioner of dark magic for a parent.

Some of the memories perhaps should have stayed put, however Henry listened without judgement. It seemed as if it all happened to someone else, Rumple merely the narrator, like reading from a book or interpreting a dream. All a long long time ago, in a place far far away.

Bae stayed quiet for the most part both amazed and amused at how his papa opened up to the young boy. The one he’d been convinced would be his downfall. There were stories that he had never heard before, like the real reason his father had needed a walking staff. It made his heart clench  as well as his stomach to think the man had dropped an enormous mallet on his foot and then walked home, branded a coward so that he could be there for the son he’d never even met at that point. The same son he’d taken a dark curse to save from the same battlefields fighting the same enemy. The same son he’d torn realms apart to search for just so he could apologise and tell him he loved him. Me. He did all that for me. Maybe Belle was right. Maybe he wasn’t beyond hope. Bae levelled his gaze at the floor, casually wiping at his eyes.

After they’d gone Rumple retreated into the back room, he gave the spinning wheel a push, it turned a couple of circles before slowing to a stop.  He sat down, picked up a bundle of straw and began threading it through the machine, losing himself in the spin of the wheel.

“I could never get that hang of that”

Rumple turned to see his father standing just inside the curtain that divided the back room from the shop.

“You didn’t have the patience”

“Couldn’t sit still for long enough”

“Indeed”

They lapsed into heavy silence that lasted maybe a couple of minutes but seemed more like hours.

It was Malcolm who spoke first

“So laddie, do you have anything decent to drink?”

Rumple paused for a whole minute before getting up from the wheel, going over to his desk, pulling a bottle of single cask whiskey and two glasses from the bottom drawer. Pouring two measures, his own slightly smaller, being tipsy around his father would not be a good idea.

“What do you want Papa?” there was a sarcastic tinge to the last word.

“To spend some time with my son”

Thankfully Rumple’s glass remained safely on the desk because if he’d been holding it he would have either smashed it into his fathers face or dropped on the floor.

“Ha! Well it took you bloody long enough but what’s almost three hundred years between family eh? Now that I’m not such a drain on your time and money you’ve decided to be one on mine is that it?”

“There’s no need for that laddie…”

“My name” Rumple spat “is not laddie. It’s Rumple Bloody Stiltskin, the longest, most ungodly name anyone has ever been saddled with” his eyes blazed making Malcolm take a couple of steps backwards.

“I was angry” he spluttered

“I was a child and you abandoned me”

“I left you with those spinster women. They looked after you. Kept you fed. You turned out alright besides you can’t talk about being abandoned. You did the same to Bae. Like father like son eh laddie”

Suddenly Malcolm felt the air rush from his lungs, his body propelled backwards by an unseen force, slamming into the wall. He tried to protest but forming words was impossible. He clawed at his throat desperately trying to find a breath.

“Don’t you dare” snarled Rumple advancing on the prone figure “Don’t you BLOODY DARE. I am nothing like you. NOTHING. I took the dagger to save my son from a war. You took your curse to avoid your responsibilities. Because you didn’t like being a grown up. BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T WANT ME!!”

“Papa that’s enough” Bae’s voice cut through the room but Rumple didn’t seem to hear him. He laid a hand on his father’s shoulder “I said that’s enough”

Malcolm dropped unceremoniously to floor. Rumple staggered backwards, Bae guided him to a chair “I’m sorry son. I lost my temper. I…”

“Shh. Papa it’s okay. It’s okay”

Malcolm groaned, trying to push himself up “A little help here eh”

Balefire and Rumple exchanged a look. The younger man went to assist his grandfather whilst Rumple tried to get his composure back. He knew he shouldn’t have lashed out, it’s probably the reaction his father was looking for. Always pushing to see how many lines could be crossed. He wiped his hand over his face “I apologise papa. I shouldn’t have done that”

Malcolm looked flustered, that wasn’t what he’d expected, his son was the Dark One and not known for showing remorse. He nodded “No harm done lad…son”

Bae smiled his approval.

“Stay still Papa and I’ll send you home” Rumple made to wave his hand.

“Wait! Can I come and see you tomorrow? I er I have know idea how this world works and I think I need new clothes. The only other person here dressed anything like me is that bloody pirate”

“I suppose we can’t have that now can we” Rumple almost smiled “We’ll organise you something more appropriate in the morning”

Malcolm was engulfed in a cloud of red smoke and disappeared. Bae was still smiling at him “I’m proud of you Pop”

Perhaps Rumple mused in his case it wasn’t like father like son but more a father trying to be more like his son.

 Read it on my blog here https://earlyrisingwriting.home.blog/2020/12/02/the-gold-boys/

[you-youneverdo]

To build a home. #2

part one

“Leaving you hurt the most.”

-

A few weeks later, he got a message from his landlord.

“Dear Mr. Styles,

I am sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to lose your child.

I must ask you to clear out the apartment since we already got new prospective tenants. Ms. (Y/L/N) informed me that you will not need the apartment anymore.

Again, I am sorry, and I wish you the best luck during this hard time.

Yours sincerely,

Foxton, real estate agency.”

The car drive to their – his old home felt too long. His mom asked him if she could help – “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He knew that. He knew that he didn’t have to do this alone but something – a little voice in the back of his head told him that he messed this whole thing up and therefore he should be the one who dealt with the consequences.

Standing in front of the golden nameplate made him realize what he was about to do – he was clearing out his old home; his old home that was supposed to be their future.

He didn’t know how he was supposed to handle this whole situation – he just… dammnit, he couldn’t clear out his home – he couldn’t delete his future just like that. He – no matter how hard he tried – he couldn’t do it.

His eyes slowly closed, and he took one final breath before he turned the key. The door still made a sound whenever someone opened it. The sun light made the whole hallway seem friendlier. Everything was covered in dust. He took a step inside, closed the door and leaned against it. His legs became weak and suddenly he was sitting on the cold floor, hot tears streaming down his face.

He couldn’t handle this – he couldn’t handle all the memories that happened in this apartment. This was too much – he was too weak and too small and all those things that happened were too big and he – he just… He felt so small and overwhelmed and he didn’t know how he was supposed to clear out this apartment if he couldn’t even handle just being inside of it.

He was close – so close – to calling (Y/N) because she knew a solution for this problem – she knew what he should do and what not and god, he just needed her. He needed her because – because he still loved her. He loved her, and he loved their small family that never happened and he just – he wasn’t okay. For the first time in a long time, he admitted that he wasn’t okay. He needed her and realizing that made him scream out loud.

-

Half an hour later, he was still sobbing on the floor.

His head was exploding, and his heart was hurting, and he felt like he could die any second now and he wasn’t even mad about this.

He just – he wished he could just go home to her and hide under the covers, escaping this whole thing. He just wanted to wake up next to her and make breakfast and wanted to see her in his shirts and slow dance in their kitchen and he – he wanted so much and all he got was nothing. He got nothing except a beautiful apartment which was supposed to be filled with laughter and love and happiness, and – in that moment, he didn’t know which was worse.

He built a home for them and now – now he was demolishing everything and the thought of a new family moving in made him sick. He wasn’t an envious man but the thought of a new family experiencing everything he wanted to experience in these goddamn four walls made him want to throw up. Maybe he was jealous, yes, but he had all right to feel so.

“you will be fine, and you will be okay. everything will work out.”

And while he was trying to convince himself that yes, he will be okay in the future, he rose from his puddle of tears.

-

He spent too much time in the apartment – he knew that. He cried in every single room, tried to change their faith and the past and his life and just – he tried to change the whole situation while he was slowly gathering the things he wanted to keep. He went into every room, looked for things that she may want to have so he could visit her and see her face and – at this point, he was just being pathetic. He was pathetic, but he needed to see her – needed to make sure that she was okay after everything that happened. He needed to make sure that she was fine because he wasn’t and – he was just searching for reasons to talk to her.

-

The room that hurt the most was the nursery – he knew that from the beginning and, yet he went in there hoping for a small miracle.

Nothing like that happened.

The room was cold, and he felt so, so strange standing in this room that was supposed to be… that was supposed to be the nursery for his own child. For his own little baby that was now buried six feet under the ground in a small casket and – and – he fell onto his knees, once again sobbing.

It was just so unfair. This whole thing was so unfair because no parent deserved to have a dead child and god, he missed (Y/N) so much and he wished he could turn back time and just hold her close for one last time because he still loved her so much and – he didn’t know why he was doing this to himself. He was basically torturing himself at this point and he was hurting and this whole dumb room seemed so small and all the memories were eating him alive and he didn’t know how to handle this anymore.

He wanted to be strong – wanted to be strong for her and them and his mom and all he could think about now was how to escape this whole thing. He was too weak to continue living this life and he was too weak to find another way of living and he was so, so tired of everything and – he was just done. He was done with love and the apartment and he was done with living.