#just paused in delight because I heard Ice Cube’s ‘It Was A Good Day’ start to come in

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

The music budget for season three of Narcos and the entirety of Narcos: Mexico is something that is so special to me.

[astxlphe-fics]

The world as Dazai knows it ends when he is 26 years old, taking everyone else's memories with it. Even Akutagawa's. 

However, Dazai isn't the kind of man who lets go.

For Dazaku Weekend on twitter. It’s kinda soft, actually

Word count: 2238

Content Warnings : none

There are only a handful of customers in the pub when he arrives. It’s well past one in the morning, but a group of three is laughing loudly at a table. The door doesn’t make a sound as it closes behind him, and Dazai stands in the entryway, rain dripping down the bottom of his coat, and he stares at the bartender filling up yet another round of beers. 

One of them picks up the drinks and the bartender looks away from them, scanning the room, until he spots Dazai. 

Immediately, Dazai grins, pretending he hadn’t been staring, and walks to the bar counter. 

When Dazai is 26 years old, the world dies. 

The memories of it are clear. Carefully combing through the floor plans of the facility Atsushi and Ryuunosuke needed to infiltrate. It took less than a second; enough time for him to look down, pointing at an entrance through the vent system, look up again, and finding himself alone. 

The office empty. The plate at the door now proclaiming it to belong to an accounting company. Phone numbers nonexistent, or belonging to people he doesn’t know. No Agency, no Port Mafia — at least not the way he knew it — no abilities, and yet this world still seemed the same and went on unbothered. 

It doesn’t go out with a bang. It comes with no burning pain and no infernal flames. There isn’t even a gust of wind. No, the world dies because of a handful of words written on the pages of a book. 

Dazai settles on a stool, leaning his elbows on the bar counter — it’s been almost two full years now, and he’s become something of a regular here. Now he knows exactly when to come to get the bartender alone, but took him months to even gather the will to walk in. “The usual!” he calls out, just as the group of friends starts moving, chair scraping on the floor. 

Soon enough they’re gone. Dazai always has perfect timing. 

The man — what a terribly familiar face this man has — considers him for a second and, without even pretending to be happy to see him, sets an empty glass in front of him and drops a large ice cube inside. “What kind?” 

“Whichever you feel like giving me.” 

The bartender’s lips pull down into a slight scowl and grabs a bottle from the shelf, seemingly at random. Dazai rests his chin on the palm of his hand, watching the man as he fills up the glass. “Here.” 

Taking a sip, Dazai’s empty grin fades into a sigh. “It’s a good one,” he says. “I’m growing on you, aren’t I? I knew you liked me, Akutagawa.” 

For weeks, he would slip up and call him “Ryuunosuke” by accident. 

He remembers, still, the embarrassed blush the first time it happened, the way they both looked away, avoiding his eyes, for days after — and, years ago, the way his Ryuunosuke’s fingers squeezed at his own as the habit settled in. 

Akutagawa pauses, momentarily forgetting about the cork he’s supposed to put back on the bottle, before he shakes his head. "I do not.”  

“You do~”  

“And you are delusional.”  As Akutagawa rolls his eyes, Dazai finishes the drink, and pushes the empty glass towards him.  

“Another!” 

The whiskey pours out of the bottle and Dazai’s eyes slide from Akutagawa’s hands, steady and unmarked save from the tattoo peeking from his sleeve, to his face, softer, much less guarded than his Ryuunosuke’s. His eyes catching the light, his scowl eases on its own as he can’t bring himself to pretend to be mad at Dazai for too long. 

But then again, without abilities, there is no Mafia, maybe less slums — or even no slums at all — and that must help.

On a whim, just as Akutagawa puts the bottle back down, Dazai reaches out and takes a hold of the other man’s wrist. He doesn’t flinch at his touch, only yanking his hand away when Dazai undoes the sleeve’s buttons. “What are you doing?” he hisses. 

“I’ve always been curious about your tattoo.” He goes to grab his wrist again, but Akutagawa avoids his hand, lips pinched, annoyance written all over his face. 

“Is that it? You know it’s considered polite to ask,” he scoffs, rolling back the sleeve himself, carefully folding it back over his elbow. “There.” 

Dazai whistles appreciatively, not expecting it to spread across his whole forearm. “Nice. And they let you be a bartender with those?” Bosses don’t really like tattooed employees, or so he’s heard. Especially big tattoos. 

“I have long sleeves.” Akutagawa shrugs. “And I take the night shifts.” He looks at his own arm, extending it so Dazai can see the tattoo better. “I had it inked two years ago.” He shifts on his feet awkwardly as Dazai traces a black line until it reaches a red spot with the tip of his finger. “Satisfied?” 

His forearm is decorated with black ink, from the inside of his elbow to his wrist, forming familiar patterns within them — harsh line and a dragon, or maybe a hound, with patches of red ink instead of eyes. Rashomon, or what is left of it. 

Two years ago . When the old world died and this one began. It’s hard imagining his Ryuunosuke with these, he’s never been one for frivolities like tattoos or jewelry, even if Dazai always thought it would suit him. He resists the urge of a “I told you so” that would only leave Akutagawa confused. 

He lets go, and grabs his full drink. “Very satisfied.” 

“Wonderful, I’m delighted.” Akutagawa answers dryly, and starts pulling his sleeve back down, not looking particularly delighted. 

“Come on, don’t hide it!”  

“I’m not supposed to show it. It’s unprofessional.” 

“It’s just the two of us here. Besides, what’s life without a bit of unprofessionalism?” 

“I’ve been unprofessional since I met you,” Akutagawa grumbles, but doesn’t try to hide his tattoo again. “I’m not supposed to speak this much with customers either. I have work, you know.” 

“Glad to know I’m a corrupting influence in your life. It’s not like your boss is ever going to know about that, anyway.” 

“Right.” 

“Any other tattoos I should know about?” 

“None.” Shaking his head in exasperation, Akutagawa turns away to wipe the counter. “Any reason why you are so nosy?” 

“I’m just curious about you.”  He turns his drink a little until the ice cube makes a tingling sound as it hits the glass. “I mean, we have known each other for what, two years? I’m allowed a little bit of curiosity.” 

“You already know more than all the other regulars put together.” 

Which amounts to almost nothing — his name and his sister‘s, both Dazai already knew, job, which is not exactly hidden, doctorate subject, and now his tattoo — but this is not what Dazai hears. “So, what you are saying is—” Dazai pauses, grin back in full force. “— that I’m a special customer ."  

There is a faint flush on Akutagawa’s cheeks, and Dazai is well aware of what that means. 

On the day he walked into this pub, he wasn’t too sure what he was hoping for . Maybe for him to be Ryuunosuke, to ask him what the hell is going on, what kind of world is that, why aren’t abilities working? Or any other question that Dazai could’ve answered, anything that would’ve made him feel like he knew what he was doing, that the situation was manageable, that he wasn’t alone .  

But it didn’t happen this way. 

That first day, Dazai sat at the bar counter, asked for a whiskey, and Akutagawa gave him his drink, not a hint of recognition in his eyes. 

This, maybe, hurts more than the loneliness. 

The whiskey burns his throat. He smiles all the way through it. 

A lifetime ago, Dazai fell in love with Ryuunosuke. He’d waited for years, unsure of what his feelings meant, or if they were even worth exploring.  After everything that happened between them, did he have the right to want this from him? Did he deserve it? Was it a good idea? 

The answers were, of course, no, no and no. He made his move anyway. 

On the other hand, today all they have is a blank slate, beyond Dazai’s late night drinking. Akutagawa is the same person, with a different set of memories, and he makes Dazai’s heart do summersaults in the same way as Ryunosuke did. So, what is the point of worrying over it now? And what does he have left to lose? His dignity? 

Akutagawa?  

No. That’s safe enough. He can read Akutagawa enough to know the risks are low and it doesn’t hurt to try. And if he’s wrong, which he highly doubts, he can back down anytime he wants. He is, after, a silly man, who wouldn’t be above making such a joke, right? 

He sets the glass, half finished, back on the counter and it makes a decisive thump as it hits the wood. "Kiss me.” 

+

Just a little over three years ago, in a universe that no longer exists, it goes like this: 

“Kiss me,” Dazai demands. 

In front of him Ryuunosuke stiffens, gaze briefly focusing on his lips, and Dazai can see all the fantasies playing in his mind. “Excuse me?” 

“Come on.” He knows he has feelings for Ryuunosuke, and knows that Ryuunosuke returns them. The only thing he doesn’t know is how to address them in any other way. “I know you want to.” 

“I—” His eyes go wide, and his voice catches in his throat. “Why?” 

Dazai shrugs, smiling, unperturbed. “I thought I made myself clear. I want you to kiss me.” 

“I—” he tries again. It’s not every day that Ryuunosuke is at loss of words. Despite his hesitation, Dazai already knows he won’t say no. There are things Ryuunosuke is ready to refuse him, especially since the vampire debacle and the cementing of his partnership with Atsushi, but not this. He won’t need to insist, because Ryuunosuke wants it as much as Dazai does. 

When you know someone as long as Dazai and Ryuunosuke have known each other, that kind of things becomes easy to tell. 

“Very well,” Ryuunosuke ends up saying, nodding to himself. “I’ll do it.” 

It’s cute how he steels himself, how his expression turns determined, like he has just been given an important mission. He brings himself on his tiptoe to, clumsily, press a kiss on the corner of his lips. 

He pulls back, the red of his face steadily spreading to the tip of his ears. “Was it what you wanted?” 

Was it? “No.” Dazai shakes his head, and Ryuunosuke’s nose wrinkles in disappointment. “I meant a real one. Like this.” And he pulls him forward, one arm snaking around his waist to hold him tighter, into a full, proper kiss. 

Ryuunosuke welcomes it, fingers grabbing onto his arms, he presses himself closer, until Dazai lets go of him and he takes a step back, breathing hard, starring at him, eyes like focused on Dazai and Dazai only . His phone vibrates in his pocket, but Ryuunosuke pays it no mind, having even forgotten why they were meeting in the first place, that they have work waiting for them, because all he can see and think about right now is Dazai . 

Dazai always loved having Ryuunosuke’s undivided attention. 

“So? Wasn’t it much better?” 

“Let me try again,” Ryuunosuke demands, ignoring his question, and Dazai grins, “so I can give you a proper one.” 

+

The world he knew is gone, no matter how Dazai will miss it and the people he used to know. Even finding the Book and writing in it won’t bring it back the way it was. 

But Akutagawa abandons his cleaning to stand in front of Dazai, answering questions about his week as prompted, with a hint of a smile, and right now Dazai can’t quite bring himself to feel lonely.  

So, today, in a universe which did not exist two years ago, it goes a little different: 

The bar is still empty. It’s why he comes so late, after all — Akutagawa takes all the night shift, at this hour they have the pub to themselves, and even in this world Dazai still has Akutagawa’s complete attention. 

“Kiss me,” he demands. 

Akutagawa pauses for a short second, eyes straying first to the unfinished drink, the ice cube slowly melting into what is left of it — wondering if Dazai is drunk, maybe, but he has seen Dazai finish at least one more glass of that whiskey before being buzzed — before settling on his lips and lingering there a little too long. 

Then, he slides the drink away, and before Dazai can protest he tucks one strand of hair behind his ear, leans over the bar counter, and kisses him. 

The kiss is short, but firm, Akutagawa’s lips on Dazai’s without a moment of hesitation. No overthinking, no second guessing his action — a little like Ryuunosuke’s once he got used to kissing, but this is their first time and there is confidence in it that Ryuunosuke did not always have. 

Not exactly like Ryuunosuke, but exactly like Akutagawa. 

It lasts both forever and no time at all. Akutagawa pulls back, leaving Dazai missing the sensation and struggling to remember how to breathe. 

“Bartender,” he manages to say, voice low, throat dry. “I would like another.” 

[angrylizardjacket]

dirtbags // 2: Lola

Summary: High school AU, 1984, Winter. It’s hard to make friends when you’re the new kid starting halfway through Junior year, but slowly Lola seems to be making a few. It’s much easier to have a rumour started about you, especially when you tend to make questionable choices at parties, but that’s much less fun.

A/N: 8173 words. Lola’s dad is the MVP, trust me. i meant to put this out a week ago whoops!! also im allowed to reference my own Queen oc as a treat. @bluehourmotel, @misscharlottelee and again, interludes are A Softer World quotes.

[ m a s t e r p o s t ]

the best revenge is living well. the second best revenge is fire ants.

The fact that after being in town for a total of two weeks, Lola’s closest friend is the gas station attendant a full fifteen minute drive away from her house is kind of sad. Not that she’s disappointed to be Mick’s friend, he’s got a dry sense of humor but a good heart and he’s refreshing honesty, but she’s been at this new school for about a week and a half, has already made out with at least one person, has possibly convinced said-person’s cousin that she’s trying to corrupt him, and started to make a name for herself - whether it’s good or bad is yet to be seen -, and yet Mick Mars, nineteen-year-old gas station attendant, apprentice electrician, and aspiring guitar player is her closest friend. 

But she’s always been kind of terrible at making friends her own age.

“You have lost all respect from me,” Mick told her on Monday morning after the party, over the counter of the gas station as he’s ringing her up for her smokes and iced coffee before she went to school, “you could have picked anyone to mack on at that party, and you chose Tommy fuckin’ Lee?”

“He was nice to me, what was I meant to do?” Lola declared, realizing too late that that statement revealed absolutely too much about herself to a near stranger. Mick, however, just gives her a flat look.

“You need higher standards.” He doesn’t seem too phased by her. Lola takes this in stride, and nods, agreeing with a sigh. 

“What time do you finish work?” She asks, changing the subjects quickly as she’s pulling out a bill from her back pocket, “dad said he’s happy to let you have a look at that weird light switch that doesn’t do anything that I was telling you about.” 

“I finish at ten tonight, I’m working a double,” he groans at the very thought of it. Lola gives him a sympathetic look, and tells him to only come around if he’s up to it, otherwise leaving it for another day.

That’s the day that Lola realises the whole school knows about her and Tommy at the party, that she has Art with Charlotte before lunch, and also that Charlotte can’t look her in the eye.

Tuesday the school realises that she’s not just Lola Who Gives It Up For Free At Parties, but that she’s Lola The New Girl and that they don’t know anything about her beyond that. There’s a guy in her wood working class with long black hair and a dangerous smile that winks at her; she flips him off, knowing all he cared about was knowing if the rumours were true. She’s got AP French last period with that ginger from the party who wouldn’t stop laughing, Eileen; she’s a lot more serious, sober. The cheerleader, Heather, won’t stop giving her these weird, calculating looks.

Wednesday there’s a new rumour, that she was expelled from her last school. The population of the school hasn’t decided what exactly they think she was expelled for yet. Turns out she has English with that guy from her woodworking class, he just hadn’t turned up for their lesson on Monday; he sits at the back like Lola, in the other corner, and the teacher calls him Nikki in a tone like she’s already disappointed. Lola can see why, he fell asleep at his desk. Art last period with Charlotte; she still barely looks at Lola. 

Thursday. Heather asks in AP French if Lola’s heard what everyone’s saying about her; her tone is sweet and dangerous in equal measure and Lola doesn’t trust what’s about to come out of her mouth. The new rumour is that Lola was expelled for sleeping with a teacher; something about the glint in Heather’s eye is cruel, and Lola asks her sweetly if she’s more jealous of Lola or the teacher. That shuts Heather up fast, and Eileen’s cough behind them sounds more like she’s trying to hide a laugh. But it still gets to her; Lola focuses so hard on ignoring the girls gossiping loudly about her at their station behind her in Home Economics that she burns the apple danishes she was attempting, and she throws the burnt pastries, and the tray they’d been cooking on, into the bin until she realises her mistake and sulkily fishes the tray out again. Thankfully, the teacher didn’t notice.

Friday, and Lola hasn’t paid much attention to Vince, whose house she’s been to but who she hadn’t properly met until their classes had P.E at the same time; he’s in the year below her, but still manages to sidle up to her while they’re both waiting for their teachers to prepare the field for whatever torture they’re masquerading as physical exercise today. She tells him to fuck off; there’s something about the way he conducts himself that she doesn’t like, like he’s putting on a show of being shallow and vain and the life of the party. Instead, Vince’s voice goes quiet and he tells her that Tommy’s a good kid with a good heart -

“You give this speech to everyone you caught making out at your parties, or just me, ‘cos you think I’m a bitch and I’m gonna hurt one of ‘your bros’?” She snapped, lip curling, and Vince’s brow creases into a frown, “I’m not his fucking girlfriend, we made out a little, you don’t have to act like I’m going to break his heart, so piss off.”

A moment passes, and he appears to don his shallow, playboy mask when he asks her slyly if the rumours are true. She shoves him hard enough that he skitters back a few feet, and Lola earns her first after school detention.

The thing is, she and Tommy are already on the same page about this, it was a what happens while drunk at a party stays at that party. Or at least, it’s meant to. Either way, Charlotte’s protectiveness, and Vince’s... attempt at protectiveness was unwarranted. Maybe it’s because Tommy, for whatever reason, has started hanging around Lola at lunch.

She doesn’t sit in the cafeteria like the rest of them, or even on that little section of the roof the intimidating pack of punks, rockers, and smokers have found a way to get to. Lola sits against the fence near the science building, close to the carpark that’s always open for some stupid reason, as though she’s contemplating bolting.

“Don’t you have friends?” Lola’s tone is kind of hard, and perhaps her words are on the nose, and a little cruel, but it’s Wednesday, and this is the third day in a row he’s found her and spent the entirety of lunch with her. They don’t speak much, Lola smokes and picks apart whatever her dad’s latest cooking experiment is before she eats it, and Tommy practices twirling his drumsticks. 

“I have friends, do you?” Tommy responds, more than a little defensive, rubbing at his brow where he’d just managed to hit himself mid-drumstick-twirl, taken aback by her question. Lola gives him a flat look. “Someone told me you were expelled from your last school,” Tommy’s gaze shifts to the carpark, to the last car and it’s telltale rocking and fogged up windows.

“They say why?”

“Nah,” Tommy shakes his head, scowl softening as he gets back to practicing, “it true?” Lola’s picking out and eating the apple chunks from the slice of pie her father had packed for the day, still watching the car with the mildest of interest. She shakes her head. Tommy hums noncommittally. They spend the rest of lunch in silence.

“He keeps hanging out with me!” The following afternoon, Lola gripes to Mick on his smoke break after she gets out of school for the afternoon.

“You keep hanging out with me,” Mick points out, peeling the label off of a bottle of soda.

“And?”

“I don’t tell you to fuck off.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Because,” and Mick heaves a heavy sigh, like it pains him to admit, “we’re friends, Lola,” but he pauses and amends, “God knows why.”

“Fuck you, I’m a delight,” Lola huffs, and pulls her oversized denim jacket tighter around herself to ward off the chill of the afternoon breeze. If this were pretty much any other state, they’d be knee-deep in snow; thank God for LA, snow’s pretty for five minutes before it’s a pain.

“Do you tell him to fuck off?” Mick asks pointedly, as if exhausted that he has to spell it out for her. Lola’s quiet, but her answer’s clear. Mick clears his throat with a cough. Lola’s scowl deepens. 

She brings it up to her father that night. 

“Do you reckon Tommy’s trying to be my friend?” She asked, gaze intense as she focuses on slicing apples into little cubes. Leo, her father, who was kneeding a blend of spices into a ball of dough that would end up being a pie crust, paused.

“The kid who has been hanging out with you at lunch?” He thought for a moment, “the one from the party?”

“I told him it was nothing serious-” Lola tried, exasperatedly cutting the apples a little rougher, but her father’s warm, gentle laugh cut her off.

“Yes, I think he’s trying to be your friend,” he told her, which Lola hadn’t exactly wanted to hear, but the information was easier to digest coming from him than it was coming from Mick, “he obviously likes you -”

“But I told him -”

“I know, you told him it wasn’t serious, but dear, that doesn’t mean he likes you less as a person - you’re a very cool cat, I can see why he’d want to be your friend,” he gives her finger guns, and Lola can’t help but laugh softly at his attempt to be hip. 

“Christ, dad,” Lola huffs, smiling fondly, but he’d managed to cheer her spirits considerably. 

“I burnt my danishes today,” Lola’s voice goes quiet as she goes back to focusing on her task, and her dad makes a noise of intrigue, “got distracted and crisped the whole tray.”

“You’ll get ‘em next time; just fifteen minutes, remember?”

“Fifteen minutes, no distractions,” Lola agreed, almost by rote, thankful that he doesn’t ask about what had distracted her. She can still hear the whispered gossip and giggles that had come from the cooking station behind her in Home Economics.

Her dad knows that her peers think she was expelled from her last school, but she keeps her mouth shut about the fact that today they’d decided it was because she had relations with a teacher; he knows almost everything about her, but he didn’t need to know about a whole school calling her a slut. He’d blow it out of proportion, and it isn’t getting to her since she knew for a fact it wasn’t true. 

They finish the apple pie with it’s rosemary and lemongrass crust in good spirits. The flavours don’t go together as well as Leo had hoped, but it’s another step closer to the perfect apple pie he’d been trying for. Leo packs her two of the leftover slices for lunch, as a not-so-subtle hint. 

On Friday, Lola hands Tommy a plastic container with a piece of apple pie, with a rosemary and lemongrass crust in it.

“Is it poison?” He asks. Lola doesn’t look at him, picking the individual apple pieces out and eating them one at a time.

“The crust tastes weird if you eat it with the filling,” Lola’s voice is flat as she explains instead of answering, “but the apples are sweet.” She eats another cube of apple, then breaks off a corner of the golden, perfectly cooked crust, now cold and stiff from spending the night in the refrigerator. 

“Why are you giving me this?” 

“Eat it or don’t, I don’t care,” Lola tells him, hunching further in on herself; like this, she can’t see the way Tommy’s expression has broken out into a smile.

“Thanks Lola,” but the smile is evident in his voice, confirming all of her suspicions at once. Tommy took her at her word when she said the rumours weren’t true, even if the rest of the school believed them, so Lola supposes she’s actually okay with the fact that her second ever friend in the entirety of California is the marching band geek in the year below her who she made out with at a party once. 

Also maybe she’s just kind of terrible at making friends.

you and me baby! we are the future! and the future is bleak.

“Wait, you’ve never met Nikki Sixx?” Tommy asked, sitting patiently with his back against the fence, his hand resting on her knee as she fills in the the nails of his left hand with black sharpie, “didn’t you go to his gig the other week?”

“I didn’t know anyone,” Lola pointed out, and Tommy makes a thoughtful noise.

“You’d love him, he’s so fucking cool,” he assured her, which made Lola give pause; Tommy also thinks Vince is fucking cool, and she wants to throw Vince out a window, “he was the one on bass.” 

“The one in the leather pants?” Lola couldn’t help but smile at the memory; she’d appreciated it at the time, and could appreciate it now. Tommy, however, rolled his eyes.

“The girls love the leather pants,” he gave a quiet sigh, before adding, almost to himself, “wish I had leather pants.” 

“Leather pants would look good on you,” Lola pinches at his thigh for a moment, and goes back to filling in his nails. missing Tommy’s pleased, flustered little smile. 

“You know Freddie paints his nails like this,” Tommy says instead, changing the topic of conversation.

“Freddie?”

“Mercury. From Queen; you know Queen, right?” And he sounds kind of skeptical, like if she doesn’t know them, they can’t be friends anymore. Lola pauses again, her hand soft on Tommy’s where she’s filling in around his ring finger’s cuticle.

“I wanna climb John Deacon like a fucking tree,” she mutters, which startles a laugh out of Tommy, his hand jerking up to cover his mouth, making Lola leave a black line against his knee, through the rip in his jeans. When she looks up at him, however, her eyes are shining with mirth, “come on, man, you must have seen the video of them performing in Montreal last year!” And she licks her lips, watching Tommy’s blush grow steadily darker. After a beat, Lola bursts out laughing, shattering the tension and shifting to sit beside him, idly doodling on her own hand with the marker as Tommy shakes his head with amusement.

Lola starts humming Back Chat to herself, and Tommy leans his head back against the wire of the fence, listening for a moment.

“You and Charlie would get along great too,” he considers, and Lola doesn’t stop humming, nor does she look to him, “she likes Roger, but probably just because she thinks he’s pretty.” Lola can hear his eyeroll without even seeing it, and she’s not sure why, but she files that information away in the back of her mind; she’d never gotten an especially shallow vibe from Charlotte, but there was a uncertain undeniable appeal to Roger Taylor’s pretty-boy charm.

“Didn’t his girlfriend leave him for Bowie?” Lola asks mildly, barely pausing to speak between humming notes.

“Rocket Mercury?”

“Her name’s Rocket?” Lola snorts, finally looking at him, and Tommy’s lips twisted into an amused grin. 

“Her name’s Ash, but everyone calls her Rocket,” he says, like he’s in the know, and Lola stays quiet, nodding and trying not to laugh, “and yeah, I think so, she’s been with a few people since him I think; Bowie, this girl from this English band Hawkwind, Elton John maybe? Or someone around him I think.” Tommy nods, and Lola’s kind of intrigued as to why he knows so much about Queen’s drummer’s partner, but something else has caught her attention.

“A girl from Hawkwind?” Tommy doesn’t seem to notice the way Lola’s voice has softened, or how her expression has dropped to something carefully neutral. She’s drawing a little flower on the knuckle of her thumb.

“One of their dancers, Stacy, maybe?” Tommy’s own tone is light, like he doesn’t even realise Lola’s hanging onto his every word regarding this one little detail about a woman she doesn’t even know, “was kind of a scandal, but it was years ago; she’s Freddie’s sister after all, maybe it’s genetic.”

“Genetic?”

“Liking girls and guys, you know?” And he pauses. Lola’s frozen beside him, the marker pressed hard against her skin, breath caught in her throat. He throws it out so casually, so easily. Her hands are shaking. The words so kind when he says them, so unlike what she’s used to hearing. Tommy’s already moved on to the next thought. “actually, I’m not sure if Freddie’s like, legit her brother, but anyways, she and Roger are back together; I’m glad.” As if a sixteen-year-old’s opinion on a rock legend’s love life mattered, “he seems happier with her, all his best live shows were when they were together.”

“I’d kill to play half as well as him,” it’s almost wistful when Tommy says it, interrupting Lola’s thoughts, his gaze trained on the sky, as if imagining he’s on stage himself. Lola lets out a long, quiet breath, recentering herself as she looks to him.

“You wanna play drums?” 

“I can play drums,” Tommy tells her like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “but not nearly as good as Roger Fucking Taylor, can you imagine?” But Lola’s more focused on the -

“I thought you just played in the marching band, can you play, like, full -” and she sits forward, gesturing like she’s tapping on a full drumkit, eyes shinning. Suddenly, in the face of her rare, unrestrained smile, Tommy feels himself growing nervous, like he’ll let her down if he’s not actually as good as he thinks he is.

“I’ve got a kit in my garage,” he admits, and Lola pauses, letting her excitement simmer, as though realising it had gotten the best of her, breaking her cool and aloof facade.

“That’s cool as hell,” she does add, however, and Tommy beams.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, all flustered at even the slightest praise, “man, you’d really like Charlie, I know she looks all fancy and intimidating, but she’s a real softie inside.”

“You are really pushing hard for me to be friends with your cousin,” Lola notes, giving him a sidelong glance, and Tommy’s nose scrunches up, caught out.

“She thinks you’re trying to corrupt me,” he grumbles, “but if you guys met she’d know you’re not.”

“I am corrupting you,” Lola smirks, “next week I plan on peer pressuring you into smoking.”

“I’ve smoked before!” Tommy’s up in arms, like the implication that he hasn’t done something as low-level cool as smoking offends him.

“Dude I was kidding, I gave you half my cigarette yesterday,” Lola reminds him, and the bell rings.

While Lola was more than happy to let sleeping dogs lie, it appeared that Charlotte was not, and less than two days after her conversation with Tommy, Lola finds herself sitting by Charlotte’s side in their shared art class.

It’s the last class of the day, and Charlotte’s the one who sits by Lola. There’s no preamble, barely acknowledging the decision, just opening her notebook and focusing on the theory the teacher had already started to jot down on the whiteboard.

When they’re given free time, however, to work on personal projects, Charlotte opens her sketchbook and sharpens her pencil, and without looking at Lola, begins speaking quietly.

“Tommy thinks we’d get along,” Charlotte sounds completely innocent and perfectly harmless, but Lola remember how Charlotte had looked at her, part deer-in-the-headlights startled at the realisation, and knee-jerk protective fury, at Vince’s party when she realised who Lola had been kissing. 

“So I’ve heard,” Lola doesn’t look up, but Charlotte’s pencil stills on her paper. After a beat, Lola turns to see Charlotte giving her a curious look. Propping her head up on her hand, Lola gives a thin, amused smile, “he also thinks I’d be good friends with Nikki Sixx; was he the one you yelled at, at the gig?”

Instead of being flustered or going red at the mention of the moment, Charlotte’s expression lights up, as if the idea somehow delights her, and slowly she’s nodding. All her earlier reservations and hostility was quickly leaving her.

“Yeah, actually I told Nikki you reminded me of him, actually -”

“I remind you of Nikki?” Lola’s grin widened, and she shifted to face Charlotte further. 

“He’s kind of a tool -” Charlotte blurted after a moment of contemplation, and Lola’s eyebrows raised in amused surprise. Charlotte’s quick to backtrack, “I mean, I’m not saying you are- well, I don’t know you, but I mean, Tommy -” Charlotte frowns at that, expression falling as she considered quietly, “actually, I mean, I love him, but he’s not the greatest judge of character; he thinks Nikki hangs the stars, despite never really speaking to him,” she pauses and heaves a sigh of realisation, “that probably why he thinks so highly of him -”

“I thought they were friends,” Lola’s genuinely surprised, given how kindly Tommy had spoken of him.

“Half the school is terrified of Nikki, half seems to be in love with him; Tommy’s in the second half.”

“And which half are you?”

“I’m the only person who seems to think he’s just kind of a pest,” Charlotte’s response is surprisingly mild, as if she doesn’t quite believe what she’s saying.

“He’s talented, though,” Lola offers, and Charlotte looks back to her, as if brought from her own thoughts. There’s a pause, a lull. Lola puts down her pen, and turns more fully to Charlotte, stretching her arm out over the desk, and resting her head fully on it, like a particularly smug cat stretching out in the sun. Charlotte is slower to put down her pencil, but does so after another moment, pristine fingernails drumming against her sketchbook for a moment. 

“He was talented,” Charlotte agreed, thought it sounds like she doesn’t quite want to, “my ex actually got me into his kind of music, he was a fan of Nikki’s too; I’d tell Nikki I enjoy his music but it’d go straight to his ego,” and she casts Lola a sidelong look, lips stretched into a smirk, which Lola returns. 

“I am a little bit of a tool,” Lola finally admits with a self deprecating grin, and Charlotte shakes her head.

“You’d fucking love him,” Charlotte tells her, with a strained, sort of resigned huff of laughter, like the concept of them meeting was a little bit horrifying, and already exhausting.

“You like his kind of music,” Lola circled back around to quickly, “never pictured you as a hard rocker, you’re very...” and she trails down, looking at Charlotte’s pristine cheerleading uniform, and thick, black tights, the only thing protecting her legs from the Winter air. The blonde shifts a little uncomfortably under the scrutiny, brow furrowing.

“I know,” Charlotte says flatly, crossing her ankles, far too self aware in the moment, “you expect me to just be listening to nothing but Abba and Madonna all day?” She sneers, suddenly haughty again, and Lola licks her lips, intrigued; she can tell she’s pushed a button, and debates for a moment if she wants to press it further. 

“Not all the time,” Lola said, sitting back up slowly, “but I mean, I’m kind of partial to Does Your Mother Know, there’s no shame in loving Abba,” she shrugs, and Charlotte lets herself visibly relax. 

“Never pictured you as an Abba fan,” Charlotte actually grins.

There’s a distinct lack of hostility in the air between the two girls by the time the class ends, after spending the entire class gushing over various bands across a surprising range of genres, and Lola quickly finds she appreciates how wrong her initial impression of Charlotte had been.

As they’re leaving for the day, or well, Lola’s leaving, and Charlotte’s heading to cheer practice, the conversation lulls as Charlotte grows thoughtful.

“Hey, just... Tommy’s kind of a hopeless romantic,” and even as she speaks, she knows Lola’s growing irate at Charlotte’s hesitant tone, “and honestly, the girls he goes for usually don’t... they don’t usually give him the time of day, and he obviously thinks the world of you, I just don’t want you to -”

“I’ve told him that I don’t want to date him; he’s the one who keeps hanging around me,” Lola’s own tone appears to surprise Charlotte, now that she understands the root of the other girl’s protectiveness, “we’re...” and the word catches in Lola’s throat for a moment, knowing that speaking it makes it true, “friends.” 

Lola glances at Charlotte out the corner of her eye, and sees the way Charlotte’s lips twist into a pleased little smirk.

“I was just making sure.”

love is stupid. happiness is admitting we aren’t better than stupid.

Leo Fields, thirty-nine years old, owner of soon-to-be-named Leo Diner’s in suburban LA, a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America, who worked in the luxurious Parker House restaurant in Boston and quit after ten years there, including three years as Sous Chef and one year as Head Chef, only to open his own 50s style diner a mere ten minutes away in Salem, has and will always claim his favourite food is Easy Cheese.

Once, a long time ago, Lola had asked him why.

She’s asked him a lot of things, why he’d left his high-end restaurant to essentially flip burgers, why he kept his hair long, what his tattoos meant -

Lola’s eight, sitting on the counter and swinging her legs while Leo was crushing garlic to add to their dinner, his hair tied back into a large bun atop his head.

“People will try and tell you that just because something is expensive, fancy, or higher class,” Leo had rolled his eyes exaggeratedly at that, putting on a voice to make his daughter laugh, “that it’s better; they are wrong. If something brings you joy, it is better than all things that do not bring you joy, no matter how fancy the things you don’t like are,” he’d told her very seriously, “better is not real, better is what you believe; better for you means healthier, and that’s real, but when people use better to mean good, they mean that it’s good in their mind, and maybe you agree, but maybe you won’t.” And he scrapes the garlic into the pan and oil cooking on low as he then began dicing onions.

“I use all my fancy training and knowledge to make foods I think are better, but now I get to also serve them with a smile, and I get to talk to the people I’m giving the food to, get to know them, let them know they’re welcome here,” he tries to smile while his eyes are watering from the onions, almost finished cutting them. “People in my old fancy restaurant didn’t want that, they wanted you to think they were better than you, and if you thought their food wasn’t good, that’s because you’re not fancy enough, and you’re not welcome here.” 

“But that’s wrong,” Lola said with a slight frown, looking to her father for confirmation, and after he wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, he beamed.

“Exactly,” he nodded and scraped the diced onions into the pan too, moving easily about the kitchen to pull mince from the refrigerator, “people liking something different to you is actually great; if everyone in the world liked Easy Cheese, we’d never be able to buy it!” And Lola laughed at that, the example making it easy for her to understand his point, “but making them feel bad for liking those things, that’s bad; that’s why I have my hair long, why I have my tattoos, they’re part of who I am, they’re part of my family’s history and where I come from, and I like them. If someone else is rude to me because of them, then I know right away that’s not someone I want in my life. People like to think they’re better than other people for stupid reasons sometimes.”

“Like if they’re fancy or not?” Lola asks, and Leo gives her a fond smile and nod.

“Like if they’re fancy or not.”

Leo’s not sure if Lola even remembers this, but he does. So when Lola, seventeen years old, standing in the kitchen, eating a ham and Easy Cheese sandwich after school, tells him that Charlotte, the girl in her art class, Tommy-from-the-party’s cousin, complimented her jacket, the pin-and-patch-covered, black, denim, proto-crust-punk, heirloom he’d loaned to her since she’d asked to wear it when starting a new school, and had barely gone a day without it, he can read into her smile even when it’s hidden behind her sandwich.

“Sounds like she has good taste,” Leo leans his hip against the counter top, legs feeling the warmth of the oven where he’s got a loaf of herb and garlic bread baking away. 

Lola spends a full twenty minutes enthusing about Charlotte’s taste in music, eyes bright and tone animated. He only interrupts her to hand her a packet of prosciutto and a bundle of asparagus, so she could help him prepare for dinner, but it doesn’t slow her down, hands working quickly, while Leo boiled potatoes and simmered some garlic in butter on a low heat. 

Both Lola and Leo know why Lola’s been so hesitant to make friends since moving, and she knows he’d never push her into friendship, but Lola also knows it hurts him to see her lonely.

“Hey dad, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Lola says after a long pause, finally taking a breath after she’s finished recounting her day to him, “you know Queen, right?”

“Do I know Queen?” Leo jokingly scoffed, “Lola, I’m the one who introduced you to Queen.” He reminded, and Lola gave a small smile, but her heart wasn’t in it; she wasn’t usually nervous, but talking about this sort of thing still made her heart race a little. Seeing her hesitant expression, Leo’s own softens, and he turns down the potatoes to turn his full attention to her, “what about Queen?”

“I didn’t know Freddie’s sister was with the drummer,” Lola starts, fiddling with the final piece of asparagus. She’s quick to follow it up before she can chicken out, “and I didn’t know... she’s like Bowie, and Fred, and... and me, you know?” Lola finally wraps up the final vegetable and places it on the glass baking tray with the rest, before she looks to her father who was watching her pensively, hoping he understands what she’s trying to say.

“That’s little Rocket Mercury you’re talking about, isn’t it?” He asked as a smile stretched across his lips, “I heard that about her, I always thought she was so cool, she worked on Spinal Tap, you remember I took you to see Spinal Tap a few months ago?” 

Lola’s heart eases in her chest at his words, his warmth, the way he seems to reflect positively on the news. While Lola knew she didn’t have anything to worry about, since the whole reason Leo had taken her and moved across the country was her mother’s less-than-kind reaction to the news of Lola dating a girl, the memory of it all still made her nervous.

Leo’s entire face lights up, and he makes a loud exclamation, like suddenly remembering some vital information, snapping Lola out of her dwelling.

“How have I never played you any Dusty Springfield?” He announces, picking up the glass tray from the table and placing it to the side, “I’ve got some of her records in my collection,” the oven timer goes off and he asks Lola to watch the potatoes so they don’t overboil while he takes out the bread and puts the asparagus in, “Dusty’s like you too; she’s a pop-star from the sixties, lovely voice, told the Evening Standard she liked girls and boys all the way back in nineteen-seventy.” He says as he sets the timer for the asparagus, and Lola wraps her arms around him from behind, if only to hide how wide she’s smiling.

“She pretty?” Lola asked, grinning against his soft, woolen sweater. Leo gently pet her hands where they were wrapped around his middle, giving a warm laugh.

“Very; it’s no wonder girls and boys liked her too.”

Lola had never seen her father flinch in the face of change, and for that she would always be grateful for him. The only time she’d ever seen him lose his cool was when he’d come to her defense against her mother’s bigotted views; apart from that, she’d never known anyone more willing to go with the flow.

Take last week, for instance, Mick had taken Saturday off from the gas station to go look at the fixture Lola had mentioned not seemingly connected to anything. Leo had finally had the red and white, checkered floor installed earlier that week, and the booths had been reupholstered over Thursday and Friday in a shiny, inviting, deep peach, to compliment the warm aesthetic completed by the pleasantly sunny walls. 

One of the many things about Lola is that she know when people look at her father, they never expect him to be the embodiment of sunshine; six-foot-something, built like a tank from doing a majority of the manual labor around his diners on his own. His traditional, Hawaiian tattoos were on full display today, across his chest, arms, and legs, wearing a singlet and shorts despite it being the middle of winter, after spending all morning hauling an industrial freezer into the kitchen, with what little help Lola could offer. He wears his long, wavy black hair in a ponytail down his back; the only thing that ever betrayed the warmth of his personality was the crows feet by his eyes, the laugh lines around his mouth, and the kindness in his eyes themselves.

Leo Fields, teddy-bear in the body of a GI Joe, took one look at Mick Mars, the weary, rather scrawny teenager with barely any face visible for his long, shaggy, dyed black hair, and gave him a bright smile, ushering him inside. He introduces himself, and immediate asks what kind of music Mick listened to.

“I fucking hate Kiss,” Mick had said immediately, knee-jerk hostility, the way he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other being the only giveaway to how intimidated he felt.

“They can be a lot some times,” Leo had shrugged, gesturing to the jukebox, “I’ve already put a few of my favourites in, you wanna see if anything catches your eye?” Mick moves quietly, as if afraid to make a noise, even stepping in combat boots he barely makes a sound, and Leo makes mention that he’s going to freshen up, and that Lola knows what switch needs to be looked at. 

“Hendrix?” Mick says with a hint of pleased surprise, right before Leo leaves, and Lola’s father gives a nod.

“Put it on, man, turn it up loud; it’s Electric Ladyland in there, right?” And at Leo’s question, Mick nods. Leo gives a delighted thumbs up, and heads upstairs to the flat above the diner.

“That’s your dad?” Mick asks, voice low after Leo’s disappeared, hitting play on the Jimi Hendrix record. Lola’s sitting on the counter, swinging her legs; she knows looks like him, same face, same long, dark hair, same copper complexion, it’s usually the staggering difference in their respective physicalities that seemed to trip people up, so his confusion wasn’t a surprise.

“That’s my dad,” Lola agrees, with a slight nod, looking around the warm and inviting diner that still smelled like new vinyl from the seats. She’d light a candle or two later. 

Lola knows the rumours going around town about the diner, about how it’s owner was a chef, about how it’s hopefully going to serve better food than the last owners, but also how everyone knew very little about the new owner beyond that. It made her giddy, like she had a secret, to know that her father was capable of blowing their expectations out of the water with his food alone. Back in Salem, Leo’s was known for restaurant-quality food at, well, diner prices. All the fries were hand cut, there was always home made pie or slice or cookies on sale, the beef patties were made with real mince and mixed with Leo’s special blend of herbs and spices, and fish was delivered fresh, daily. 

Lola knew her father knew what it was like to be discriminated against based on his looks, and how hard he’d fought to prove his skills as a chef, so in turn, he hired based on attitude and experience, and trying to give those who may not have had a fair shot an opportunity. Leo had always paid well, treated his workers with kindness, and tried to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. The diner had only ever made a modest profit, despite it’s popularity, but it had never been about the money for her father.

Back at Lola’s old high school, if you were popular, you looked for a job at the mall, but if you were an outcast, a loner, or a stoner, you applied for Leo’s; her dad had the ability to bring out the best in people, no-one wanted to disappoint Leo.

Her dad would never go anything as gauche as brag, but he has always prided himself on the quality of his diner and his food, glad to be putting his years of training and experience to use for people who’s appreciate it. 

Mick clears his throat, snapping Lola out of her thoughts.

“Light switch?”

Mick thinks the switch probably connected to an exhaust fan the previous owner had removed, which baffled both Lola and Leo, seeing as how they’d had several exhaust fans installed, and the idea that this place had it’s one removed is unthinkable; how had they ever gotten the smell out?

After, Leo invites Mick up to have a look through his record collection, to recommend some for the jukebox, while he attempted a maple and walnut soufflé. 

The moment Mick mentions he wants to join a band, Leo lights up, peppers him with questions, what type of music he likes to play, his influences, what type of band he’d like to form. Seemingly unused to the overwhelming interest and positivity regarding his aspirations, Mick is almost startled into being forthcoming, and quickly warms to Lola’s dad.

While the soufflé’s in the oven, the three of them sit on the roof and smoke, while Leo reminisces about seeing Cream live, a few months after Lola was born, and how he’d swaddled her in his concert shirt, only for her to take a liking to it, and had used it as a blanket up until she started daycare. At hearing this, Lola ducks her head to hide her smile, knowing she still had that shirt, though it was more hole than shirt at this point, hanging in her cupboard. 

Occasionally, when she looks to him, Lola sees Mick regarding her with confusion, and okay, maybe she can understand why; he knows her to be reserved and dry, but with Leo, she’s outgoing and talkative and smiles so wide he can see her teeth. There’s barely a hint of her aloof façade around her father, and as Mick spends more time with him, it’s clear he can see why.

“Mick’s cool,” Leo announces with a grin when Mick himself has left, putting foil over the leftover soufflé for later, while Lola washes the few dishes and is more than happy to agree with him.

They spend Sunday decorating the diner, making it look less sparse with photos and hanging and various bits of music and pop culture memorabilia, while the jukebox blared rock and roll. A few people pass by in time to see Lola and Leo in an air guitar competition, but neither of them really care. Leo’s looks more like home by the time the sun goes down. 

there will always be someone better than you. but on the bright side, who cares?

Eileen sits next to her in AP French during the entire last week of school for the semester. Everything she does seems so perfectly calculated, this change in seating included, but she refuses to acknowledge it. Heather clicks her tongue, clearly annoyed that Eileen had taken the seat she had previously vacated the day Lola staked her own next to it, and judging by Eileen’s innocent little smile, that alone made it worth it.

Lola tries not to pay too much attention to Heather, pretty, mean, and popular, almost the exact stereotype Lola had assumed Charlotte to be before she’d actually befriended her. They only have French together, but Heather keeps watching her, Lola sees it out of the corner of her eye, but her glare has become more speculative, more thoughtful as the weeks have passed, and Lola’s not quite sure what to make of it. Whatever scathing personal attack Heather’s probably working on is her business, she doesn’t know shit about Lola, so Lola tries not to care.

Once Eileen sits next to Lola, the glare comes back in full force anyhow.

On Thursday, the last AP French lesson for the semester, Eileen offers Lola a stick of spearmint gum, and it feels kind of like a test. Lola takes the gum anyways, and Eileen smiles at her, surprisingly genuine. 

“You’re Charlotte’s friend,” Lola says, and Eileen’s smile widens.

“You’re the girl who kissed her cousin,” she says. Lola’s whole expression falls, mouth flattening into a thin, unamused line, ready to go on the defensive. 

“And?”

Eileen shrugs, says nothing more on the subject, instead, glancing at Lola’s hands.

“My mom would kill me for wearing black nail polish, but it looks so cool on you,” She says, and Lola bites back a jaded response about her own mother, looking to her own hands, and the fresh and shiny coat of polished she’d applied the night before. 

“Your mom kind of sounds like an asshole, if black nail polish is enough to get her riled up,” Lola says, without even thinking about how harsh the words sounded, but once the words are out, she adds, “and I know from asshole moms,” for good measure. Internally, she’s berating herself; if she talks about her mom, she’s terrified that she’s eventually going to answer questions about her mom, like where she was, and why Lola hates her.

“She’s just a perfectionist, and I don’t think black would suit me anyhow, so it’s not really an issue,” Eileen responds, as if she barely cares that Lola implied her mother was an asshole, and Lola lets herself relax a little, “I’m partial to a french tip,” Eileen holds out her hands to show her own manicure, the pale pink and white practically gleaming, obviously salon done. 

“I coloured Tommy’s nails with sharpie,” Lola says while looking at Eileen’s elegant fingers, and Eileen actually huffs a laugh at that.

“I saw; he’s very proud of them.” 

Something in Lola’s chest tightens at that; Charlotte seemed to be a good enough judge of character, and she liked Eileen well enough, so that, for now, was good enough for Lola.

Perhaps that’s why Lola had taken so long to actually speak to Nikki Sixx, despite both Charlotte and Tommy being adamant they’d get along, Charlotte’s proclamation that Nikki was kind of a tool held her back.

It’s not that she doesn’t know who he is; she’s figured out the guy who sleeps through her English classes, is trying to make an acoustic guitar in shop, and who is part of her music classes - once she’d decided to show up to those - is the same person she’d seen on stage in leather pants back at the pub. The guy who Charlotte had yelled at. A tool. Apart from the week the rumours had started circulating about her, he never paid her much attention, so she never felt the need to introduce herself. If he was a tool, she could leave him well enough alone.

Until the first day of the Winter break, apparently. Though for the record, he was the one who spoke to her.

There were technically two music shops in the local mall, a ten minute walk from Lola’s flat above the diner; she’s glad to be close to the CBD, but it also means she can’t justify asking her dad for a ride when it would take her less time to walk than it would for him to find parking. 

But Monday, December 27th, was absolutely fucking freezing. 

The mall itself is teeming with people looking to spend the money they’d gotten over the holiday period, and the workers had already taken down the gaudy Christmas Tree that had sat in the middle of the food court. 

Lola was there at her father’s behest, sticking up and handing out flyers announcing New Year’s Day as Leo’s grand opening, and that they were hiring. She gives everyone at the food court a flyer, sticks up several in various locations, and thinks about heading back to the food court for a second round, to catch any newcomers, or anyone she may have missed, when she spots the music shops.

Bass and Treble were owned by the same people, however Treble seemed to be geared towards more classical music, with pianos and violins and flutes and all manor of orchestra-esque instruments available, while Bass seemed to be committed to rock and roll. 

Nikki Sixx finds Lola crouched in front of the display of sheet music on sale in Bass. 

“Lola, right?”

Lola stands so fast at his voice that her head spins, but she tries not to let it show. She’s on alert when she looks at him, tense, already scowling, which only deepens when she sees who it is.

“Nikki Sixx,” his name is not a question when it leaves her lips, but he seems pleased rather than concerned, that his reputation apparently preceded him. He nods, and looks over at what she’d been examining. 

“Anything good?” He asked, and Lola looks over her shoulder at the display. She’d been seriously considering a book of Elton John’s hits for piano before he’d come along. 

“Still deciding; why?”

“No reason,” he shrugged, taking his time to look nonchalantly at the various amps nearby, “you look like you’d be into this sort of thing,” he notes, acting all smug and coy and weird; Lola rolled her eyes, but didn’t answer.

“You were at my gig, we’re you? Hanging out with that guy from the gas station, right? Mick?” Something about his tone had Lola on edge and defensive.

“You guys were okay,” she says flatly, making it clear as she can that that’s barely a compliment; Nikki, however, smile widely.

“Glowing review, I’ll add it to our poster,” he smirks, before he finally looks her over, gaze zeroing in on the flyers in her hands, “speaking of -” and he snatches one, not that she’s protesting, that’s another one she doesn’t have to get rid of. Nikki’s reading the flyer and frowning, while Lola lets her attention wander to the various keyboards they have on display.

“Where’s this?” Nikki pipes up, sounding genuinely interested, while Lola’s idly playing scales with one hand on the closest, off keyboard.

“A few blocks away,” Lola still hasn’t quite gotten the hang of the town’s geography, “across the road from The Kings Hotel, where I saw you play -”

“The old MacCready place?”

“It’s Leo’s now,” Lola says, arms crossed, sitting low in her hips as she regards Nikki, and the way he’s going over every little detail of the poster, “Charlotte says you’re a tool.”

“Charlotte just hates that she likes me so much,” Nikki doesn’t even miss a beat before answering, and when he looks up to catch Lola’s reaction, his grin is all teeth. Lola can’t help the slight smile she wears as she takes in his response.

“I can see why,” Lola’s not quite sure what she’s going for with her own response, but it comes out more teasing than cutting, and there’s something in Nikki’s eye, or in his smile, or maybe it’s in his easy laughter, that has her heart beating weird in her chest.

A moment passes between them, a shift in the tone, the energy of the interaction as Lola drops her immediate hostility; she’s been doing that a lot lately, but she tries not to dwell on it. It’s now she gets a proper look at him, at his ripped jeans and all black, leather jacket, hair sprayed to high heavens like he’s about to join Poison; he looks unkempt and mean, and Lola’s kind of really into it.

They’re checking each other out, sizing each other up, and they both seem to find something in the other they like, because Nikki’s grinning at Lola when gaze meets hers again, and she’s smirking right back.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she tells him, hip cocked for a moment before she saunters past him, knocking into him with her shoulder purposefully. When Nikki stumbles back, he huffs a laugh, and Lola calls over her shoulder, “Leo’s is hiring by the way, Leo himself would probably love a fucker like you.”

[fuckyeahscienceparty]

Recovery

Medic's not exactly having a great day. Engie tries to negate that.

-

platonic followup to smth i wrote a lil bit ago B') but i don't have to read the other thing to get the jist.

[also on ao3!]

-

Medic bumbled into the kitchen that afternoon, still upset at himself over BLU's narrow loss earlier that day that had almost definitely been exacerbated by his absence in the time it took the cart to go from the second to fourth checkpoint.

While the rest of his team were only mildly troubled by their failings, insisting that without a doubt they'd get RED good next time, he was honestly more than prepared to throw himself a pity party for 1, having already abandoned his uniform for an old tshirt and pajama shorts even though it was currently only about 5 pm.

As Medic rummaged through the cupboard to find their rather banged up kettle, BLU's Engineer whistled his way in, opening the fridge to grab the half empty pitchers of sweet tea and lemonade he'd prepared earlier that week.

"Callin' it in early tonight?" Engie chuckled as Medic shuffled past him to open the breadbox and see what teas (rather than baked goods) they still had, Engie himself reaching for one of the recently dried cups lingering on the counter from breakfast that morning.

"Mm," was all that came from Medic in reply, Engie giving him a slightly concerned glance as he flipped through the different tea bags they had available.

When he'd decided that lavender flavored earl grey would do, he went over to the sink to fill the kettle with enough water for a decently sized cup, neither of them speaking as Medic put it on to boil and Engie poured equal parts lemonade and tea into his glass.

After adding a few ice cubes and a straw to fill it to the top, Engie cleared his throat to get Medic's attention, the good doctor himself seemingly displeased by the fact that his staring contest with the stove had been interrupted.

"You doin' alright, Doc?" He hedged, Medic merely letting out a curt "fine" before going back to staring at his barely warmed up water. Engie pouted slightly before taking a sip of his Arnold Palmer.

"You sure? I didn't see you for a while during battle earlier, what happened?" He asked, leaning against the table behind him. Medic blinked.

"You... you noticed?"

"Shuck, course I did. Hard not to notice that your buddy's gone missing when he's normally playing lord and savior for your gaggle of teammates who have a tendency to face death with a devil may care attitude," He chuckled, Medic's cold expression thawed slightly by the fact that Engie had called him his... buddy.

"It's fine, don't worry about it," He sighed, going into another cupboard to look for a mug once he'd heard a faint bubbling sound.

"No, really, what happened? I got a little worried for you," Engie insisted gingerly. Medic paused, almost taken aback by his sincerity.

"Well if you must know, it was purely out of my own idiocy," He said as he pulled out a mug with a rather cute image of a dove on it.

"Uhuh?..."

"...I was trying to get a health kit for myself. I insisted that Soldier go on without me because I'm more than capable of catching up and I rather moronically assumed all the REDs were already ahead of us and that if there was anyone there, I could handle myself just fine. To what should not have been my surprise, their Heavy had been lagging behind and shot me a few times before leaving me to bleed out and wait for respawn."

"Jeez Doc, I'm sorry," Engie winced, Medic scoffing in response.

"Don't be. It was completely my fault. If I hadn't been such a dumbass and either sucked up my injuries or asked Soldier to come with me, I wouldn't have gotten myself killed. I still can't believe I'd been so stupid."

"Hey now, don't talk about yourself like that," Engie frowned as Medic began to avoid his gaze. "You got caught off guard. It happens to the best of us."

"But that's the thing- I'm supposed to be the best of us. I'm not supposed to get caught off guard. Like you said, I'm the 'lord and savior' of this team, if I can't even keep myself alive then what kind of useless Medic am I?" Medic carped bitterly, internally grimacing when he realized he was really leaning into the whole pity party ordeal now.

He frankly expected Engie to get annoyed with him, to leave him to wallow in his own bitchiness and self pity as he took the kettle off of the stove when it began to whistle and poured all the water into his cup. He wouldn't have blamed him if he was honest, he was getting pretty annoyed with himself right now.

...But he didn't. He stayed put, his voice going into that gentle tone that made Medic feel guilty he would even think such a thing of his best friend.

"You're not useless. You're human. And humans make mistakes, Feathers, whether we like it or not. Best thing you can do is try and learn from 'em and move on. Best any of us can do, really."

Engie paused to give Medic time to absorb what he'd said, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I'm gonna head to the workshop, I gotta get my sentry repaired and prepped for tomorrow. If you wanna drop by and chat or just sit with me while I work, my doors are always open. But if not, that's fine too. Whatever makes you feel better. And you're always welcome to come 'round my dispenser if you ever need a pick me up during battle, ok?" Engie said as he gently pulled Medic in for a hug.

Medic felt his chest tighten in a way he wasn't exactly used to. Kind as his teammates were once you got to know them, it wasn't often he'd been offered palpable generosity like this. He hugged back, silently relishing the feeling of Engie's arms being wrapped around him.

When he eventually (and reluctantly) pulled away, he took a breath, his next words coming out in more of a whisper than he intended them to.

"...Ok. Thank you, Herr Engineer. I will most likely come by."

"Any time, hun. I'll put up a chair for you, you come by whenever you want," Engie said, giving his shoulder a final pat before grabbing his drink and heading out of the kitchen to leave Medic alone with his tea and his thoughts.

After washing the kettle and mixing in a bit of milk and sugar into his cup, he found himself standing in front of the workshop door, peering in to see its usual inhabitant singing softly under his breath as he opened one of the compartments and poured out all the collected empty bullet casings into a larger bucket of various brass scraps so he could use them for something else later.

As promised, there was an empty chair next to him, that tightening feeling coming back to Medic's chest as he made his way in.

Engie looked up at him as he did so, giving him a warm smile as he reached for his screwdriver so he could pop open the top and put in new rounds.

Medic, meanwhile sat down in his spot, leaning over momentarily to bonk his head against Engie's before taking a sip out of his still scalding cup.

Engie chuckled, moving his own chair a little closer to Medic's so that he could bump his shoulder before continuing his handiwork, the two of them enjoying each others' company in relative silence in a way that best friends often did.

After a while, Engie started singing to himself again, tapping his tools and fingers against his sentry in place of beats or actual instruments. Watching him be so content and enthusiastic about his work, Medic couldn't help but relax, continuing to sip at his tea and occasionally humming back at him, much to Engie's delight.

Eventually, when Engie had moved on to other weapon maintenance, they started talking and joking around with each other instead, Engie smiling whenever he managed to make Medic laugh and Medic resting his chin on Engie's shoulder every time he leaned over to get a better look at his progress.

And sure, the two of them would have to part eventually and Medic would inevitably have another bad day (or several) on the battlefield, but in that moment where it was just they two of them and Medic's self doubts temporarily healed, they were all that mattered to each other.

And what a wonderful thing that was.

[darker-soft-starker]

Can I request a starker no-powers au where Peter watches construction worker Tony from his bedroom window as the older man works across the street ?

His name is Tony.

Peter knows this tidbit because he heard it yelled once or twice as he’d walked by the construction lot, the same dark haired man perking up at the name. 

Work had begun on the old house across from Peter a few weeks ago. The weathered colonial used to belong to old Christiansen, a bitter and lonely man who used to yell at Peter as a kid for the frisbees that used to land on his lawn.  

When the elderly man had passed no immediate family had come to claim the property, and for three months while his estate was settled it stood empty. 

One day, a brother and sister duo, estranged cousins of the late William Christiansen arrived to declare the property as theirs, as so declared in his Will.

A month later the old property was being gutted by heavy machinery. Bricks tumbled into a splintered, woodwork carcass, noisy bobcats scraped and upended the earth until a new landscape was formed. 

Once the last of old Christiansen house had been razed, there stood the skeletons of three, tiny townhouses, cluttered close on the same lot.

In the beginning, Peter had only watched the proceedings with a vague sense of interest. He’d mourned the disappearance of the old house and quietly seethed at the likely uptick in traffic three new houses would bring.

It wasn’t until one afternoon, walking home early from his last class of the semester, that he notices the crew of workers wrapping up for the afternoon. The weight of academia off his shoulders and in no hurry, Peter had peered curiously at the workmen and their seamless teamwork. 

Just as his fill is fulled Peter’s attention is hooked by a man emerging from the bare bones of one of houses. A sagging bag of concrete is slung over broad shoulders, biceps exposed from the cut of his shirt. Peter doesn’t mean to stare at the sway of the mans hips as he moves, lugging the bag around like it doesn’t weigh a thing. 

He must be staring longer than he thinks - the man abbreviates his path, sunglasses sliding down his nose to wink at Peter lasciviously before continuing on his way.

Struck, Peter’s heart had skipped a beat at the attention, mind replaying the way the mans eyes crinkled in the corners, the easy confidence of his smile.

That had started it all, really. 

Sat by the bedroom window that overlooks the street, Peter props his hand on his chin and looks out upon the building site in the waning sunlight. 

It’s been six days since the guy, now known as Tony, winked at him. It’s been six days, each one spent with his free time by his bedroom window, watching as the man lumbers logs of timber around over his shoulders like they were matchsticks, watching the smooth swivel of his torso as he strikes old drywall with a sledgehammer. 

Window cracked upon ever so slightly, the good-natured banter amongst the crew can be heard between the music and the mayhem. Tony quips and cracks witty one-liners and in his colleagues respond in kind.

And so summer begins.

—-

Having an active construction crew in close proximity to your sleeping quarters eliminates the ability to lie in, Peter quickly discovers. He’s heard more AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Cold Chisel and Dr. Hook in the last few weeks than he’s heard in his entire twenty-one years. 

Once, Mrs Cunningham from three doors down tried to scold them for the bass laden 9:00am wake-up-call, but Tony’s scathing, insouciant response was to tell her to contact her local council. 

She didn’t come back.

May also grumbles at the noise and disruption, but Peter still catches her swaying her hips and mumbling to lyrics on the odd occasion, so he thinks she doesn’t really mind all that much. 

Nonetheless, it provides adequate gossip fodder for the old neighbourhood. It hadn’t really changed in the last fifty years, the same families growing up and out and back in again. So, whether it be bemoaning the line of trucks that clutter the street, querying the one woman who works among the crew or her pegasus emblazoned truck - or the inevitable unsightliness of the yet-to-be finished project - it gave everyone something to talk about.

Personally, Peter has never had such incentive so to study until now. 

Oh yes, his window allows the perfect sum of sun into his bedroom for poring over textbooks. If anyone asks, he’s being proactive. Just trying to get a head start on next semesters readings.

And maybe when he looks up from his books he has the perfect view of the worksite across his house. There’s nothing shifty about it, just people watching during a study break.

Maybe he procrastinates and watches too long, long enough to hear the entire EP of an obscure band Peter has never heard before. It’s not his fault the crew sometimes use their hammers to amusedly imitate drumsticks or sing vulgar renditions of the tunes on their playlist.

Mostly, Peter finds it endearing how Tony appears to oscillate between the most theatrical or the most withdrawn, depending on the day. 

Peter tries not to feel all Rear Window about it. There’s just something weirdly magnetic about the way the man moves so animatedly and is almost never still. Even sat upon the curb for a break, cigarette dangling between his lips, he’s captivating.

There are worse ways to pass the summer, right?

It’s not weird, no matter what Ned says.

“It’s kinda weird,” Ned says, sat beside Peter on one of the wooden chairs on the front porch.

“It is not,” Peter insists, bringing a pretzel to his mouth, snapping it in half with his teeth. He chews thoughtfully, gaze once again drawn across the street to the site. “I’m just making sure that they’re, y’know, doing it properly.”

“What, their jobs?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, licking the salt off around his lips. “That.”

“With all your experience and expertise in construction?”

Peter grins, offering the bag out to Ned who takes a handful. “Hey, I built some mean Lego back in the day, didn’t I?”

“My mistake,” Ned rolls his eyes, directing his attention back to the noisy site. “So, which one are you hot for?”

“What?”

“Which one has you hot and bothered.”

Peter rolls his eyes, “I’m not hot for any of them.”

Neds eyes slide over to him in a glare laden with such scathing judgement it makes Peter feel like he’d just sinned in church. He shrinks back in his chair.

“….The one with the black hair,” Peter replies meekly.

With renewed interest Ned peers back over, rising up on his seat a little. The grimace on his face once he settles back down is telling, however unappreciated. Ned’s never shared Peter’s predilection towards older men.

“Gross, but okay. Are you going to ask him out?”

Peter snorts incredulously, shoving a handful of pretzels into his mouth to avoid answering the question. 

“Dude,” his friend prods. “Have you even spoken to him?”

“Yes,” Peter answers defensively. “Last week he said ‘hey, watch out’ so I wouldn’t walk into my letterbox, and I said ‘thanks’.”

The stink eye returns. After years of friendship that’s all that is needed for Peter receive the condemning message, properly cowed. They fall back into staring out at the lot, transfixed by the shrill screech of the buzzsaws.

It’s not that Peter is never going to say anything, he just hasn’t figured out how to do it yet. How precisely does one approach an older man to tell him you’d like to bang his fine ass, but would also like to pet his hair and take care of him long-term? 

Something about the guy makes a giddiness swell in his chest, reminiscent of his boyhood crushes where he would doodle hearts in his notebooks and find reasons to be in the same room as his infatuation.

“Gotta suck working in this heat though,” Ned says, interrupting his thoughts. 

“You’re right,” Peter nods, an idea forming in his brain. “It would.”

Standing up suddenly and startling Ned, Peter rushes back inside the house, into the blissful airconditioning and aims for the kitchen. 

Ned finds him there after following his bee-line, torso half emerged in one of the lower cupboards as he rummages through it.

“Peter?”

He studiously ignores his friend in favour of hyperextending his arm into the bowels of the dusty cupboard, crowing with delight when he finally grasps the still-sealed stack of plastic cups.

Quick as a fox, he fills each with water from the sink, placing cubes of ice from the freezer in each. Hands trembling with excitement he places them all on a tray and nods at his friend who only extends him a look of fond exasperation.

Anticipation sets his nerves aflutter, his feet flighty as he carefully balances the tray out the front door, Ned trailing behind him. 

His face flushes as he crosses the lawn, hands tightly clutched around the handles as he mentally rehearses an introduction.

I’m Peter Parker, I bring some water - no, wait - I’m Peter, you’re really hot and I’d like you to drink my fluids - definitely not - I am Peter and I have water, you must be thirsty - better. 

All his efforts are for naught in the end. 

Upon pausing to check the road is clear he catches sight of old Mrs Carrington and her young, pouting grandson carrying perspiring pitchers of lemonade and a tray of sandwiches into the lot. The workers suspend their work to greet them with surprised glee, and Peter feels his own smile dropping off his face. 

He looks down at his own pitiful offerings, the ice having all but melted in the cheap, plastic cups, bobbing sadly as they lose form. 

“Better luck next time,” Ned says from behind him, patting his back in consolation.

Peter nods. Yeah, next time.

—

Unwilling to be disheartened, Peter tries his hand the following day. A renewed vigour jumpstarts his efforts early, already in the kitchen before the guttural vocals of Thunderstruck start playing. 

Ned’s right. He’s an adult now - there are no lockers to leave love notes, no one is going to ask him to the prom. This is what real adults do - they see who they like, they ask them out. Simple.

But Peter has never been a locker love-note kinda guy. He wouldn’t know how to craft a slick pick-up line, doesn’t have the arresting good looks that do the talking for him.

Eager not to be bested by an ailing octogenarian again, Peter uses an entire loaf of bread and a full pound of half-price bacon to create a veritable tower of BLT’s. With their one sharp knife he cuts them into perfect angles, remembering the amputee he’s seen on site he ensures they can be gripped easily with a single hand. 

The only two pitchers they own are poured full with freshly-squeezed orange juice, Peter’s wrists working themselves into a strain to drain the fruits dry. 

May stumbles in sometime around nine in her sleep clothes, hair wild like a lion’s mane. She fixes him an odd stare as she fumbles for a cup of coffee. 

“A bit hungry, Pete?”

“Oh, it’s not for me,” is all he says, shaking his head and adding a plate of apple slices to a tray for good measure. “By the way, we’re out of bacon.”

It must require a lot of energy doing all that work, Peter thinks. It gives him a warm feeling, providing, thinking his efforts might go some way into nourishing someone else. He’s a Parker through-and-through after all.

Even if the guy doesn’t like him that way - it’s fresh, good food. Far better than that delivery truck thing he sometimes sees stationed out the front of the site that sells greasy, microwaved meals. At least the whole crew will have something wholesome and heartfelt, if nothing else.

Stomach squirming pleasantly Peter lifts the two trays, balancing the items precariously as waddles on, opening the front door with a kick his foot.

This is it. He’s finally going to have a reason to say hello, to introduce himself, maybe ask Tony out on a date, if he’s single and willing. Peter smiles to himself as he imagines having the guts to do it in front of the entire crew.

It takes a bit of coordination to get down the porch steps without spilling anything, eyes trained on the ground for any impediments, but he makes it - this is it.

Except, when he looks up from his feet to glance across the street his heart sinks.

Mrs Dawes from four doors down is already there. She’s set up a fucking portable table and brought a feast; sautéed vegetables, breakfast potatoes, scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. All accompanied by fruit salad and a variety of brightly colored smoothies. As appetizers. 

Appetizers.

From where he is rooted in spot Peter can hear her say with all honey sweet modesty: Oh, it’s no problem! You are doing such a good job, it’s my absolute pleasure.

Looking at his own offerings Peter can’t help but pout, a feeling of inadequacy sinking down his spine. Briefly, he entertains the idea of coming back for the lunch period instead, but knows by then the apples and lettuce will be an unpleasant brown, the bread soggy. 

Shoulders slumping, he sighs and turns on his heel, looking up at his house with weary consideration. His arms are beginning to hurt with the weight of his aborted efforts. 

A dark, doleful strain of self-pity wells up inside him before his gaze slides to the house next door. Mrs Martinez has four kids home for the summer and her husband is still on tour - suddenly his heart is twinging for a whole other reason.

Diverting his course, Peter rings their doorbell instead.

He can’t be too disheartened he decides later that afternoon, taking a break from his laptop to stare outside the bedroom window again. 

He’ll try again tomorrow.

—

It doesn’t occur to Peter the next day, halfway through icing a luscious three-tiered chocolate cake, that it is Saturday. 

Mournfully, he eats the cake himself.

—-

The next attempt at wooing - at providing - comes Monday morning.

This time Peter is prepared. He’d already gone to the store the night before,  had bought everything he required with a too-eager swipe of his credit card - and okay, sure, he’s going to have to cover a few extra shifts at the bookstore, but it’s worth it, right? 

If all else fails, at least someone will appreciate the food - if not his neighbours then at least he and his aunt will have food for the week.

The Parkers are not particularly renowned for their prowess in the kitchen, if he’s honest. Their friends and family are treated to many an over-seasoned dish or charcoaled toast to have any sort of claim over that domain. 

But the one thing they can master is the work of Peters great grandmother, a recipe handed down from generation to generation, perfected over decades - a bastardized version of goulash, brimming with hearty beef chunks bought especially from the butcher, copious potatoes and carrots, noodles, some secret spices. It’s a home-run every time.  

The key is to pour your heart and soul into it, his family would always say, that was the most special ingredient. Sure, stock and a generous helping of paprika were crucial, but it was the love you put into it that made the meal a veritable gustatory delight.

Maybe it’s the fond memories that make it anything but a chore, a highlight reel of his childhood playing as he cooks. When the stew is finally done simmering Peter prepares a loaf of fresh bread from the bakery, cutting it into satisfyingly thick slices, adding a side of oil. He has homemade iced tea ready in the fridge, and a bowl of diced watermelon as a palette cleanser.

To round it all off he has chocolate chip cookies made from scratch, still gooey and soft in the centre. 

By lunch time he was done. Sweating a little from the steam, Peter transfers the goulash into a big, portable container and beams proudly down at his work. 

Everything has his soul infused into it, like he was taught. He has a really good feeling about it this time.

Eager anticipation makes his stomach swoop. He double checks his reflection in the glass cabinets, attempting to tame his wayward curls into something a little less wayward, baring his teeth to make sure nothing is stuck in between them. 

Finally, he smooths down the cotton of his tee he gives himself a shake. He’s going to do it this time. Mrs Dawes is at work and Mrs Carrington is at her crochet group. He’s checked, all the schedules line up - it’s his time.

So he grabs the two trays, food precariously towering upon each other in a quivering porcelain pyramid and takes slow, cautious steps towards the front door. 

To save the trays from hitting the unlatched door he turns backwards to use the breadth of his back to push the door open, carefully reversing onto the porch.  

“I have a delivery for –”

Peter whirls around quickly.

It’s a mistake because the next thing he does is roughly collide with a solid body, the trays under his arms slipping from his grasp. Everything goes crashing to the ground with a shriek of shattering porcelain and the sad gurgling of all the upended liquid. 

“Shit, kid, I’m sorry,” the mailman says, but Peter doesn’t hear him, staring in abject horror at the food splattered all over the porch.

None of it salvageable. 

He spent eighty dollars and four hours on this. He poured his heart into this. He was going to share this, he was gonna -  

“It’s not meant to be,” he whispers to himself, slowly lowering himself into a squat, holding his hands out uselessly.

“Kid?”

Peter looks up in sorrow at the greying FedEx worker. “It’s not meant to be,” he repeats.

“Um… I just need you to sign for this.”

Peter wordlessly takes the small parcel and signs the E-POD, still staring at the  perverse Jackson Pollock impression all over the woodwork. The parcel isn’t even for him.

Once the mailman has left and the fast-food truck has pulled up to the construction site with a giddy toot of it’s horn, Peter has accepted it.

It’s just not meant to be.

—

“You taking up bird watching or something?” May asks from where she is leant against his doorway three days later.

Peter shakes his head, abandoning his forlorn gaze to give his attention to her. 

“Or something. What’s up?”

May holds up a stack of envelopes and smiles wryly. “We keep getting Mrs Carringtons mail.” 

“Still?”

“Yeah. I can’t tell if it’s her mistake or the mailman though.”

“Probably the mailman,” Peter mutters.

She shrugs. “In any case, I gotta get ready for work. Would you be able to take these over to her?”

“Sure,” Peter says, stretching as he stands, taking the stack from her hands.

She sniffs him subtly. “It will do you good to get out of this room. It smells in here.”

Taking his aunt’s comments to heart he freshens up in the bathroom first, brushing the grime off his teeth and fixing his appearance, making himself feel somewhat presentable.

Cooped up indoors all day didn’t prepare him for how exceptionally balmy the weather was outside, sweat already forming at his hairline by the time he crosses the road. He studiously ignores the urge to look over at the construction site as he makes his way to his neighbor, however conditioned he is to do so at the Black Sabbath riffs playing through the air.

Mrs Carrington greets him with a smile when he knocks and invites him inside. She has her frail fingers circled around his wrist before he can begin to decline the offer, pulling him in, already talking a mile a minute. 

Inside, it smells overwhelmingly like potpourri and her floral perfume.

“Thank you for bringing these over,” she says, leading him to the kitchen. “I don’t know why it keeps happening. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s no problem, Mrs C,” Peter assures, setting the mail on the counter.

She dodders past him to grab a cling-wrapped plate, holding it out to him with trembling hands, her gait noticeably uneven.

“Would you do me another favor?” She implores earnestly, pressing the plate into his hands. “Would you take these to those hard working folks next door, please? I’d go myself, but my hip…”

Clutching the plate, he looks through the layers of transparent cling-wrap to spot a dozen or so home-baked lemon slices. 

His heartbeat accelerates, thinking that he’s finally going to talk to get a chance. But of all the moments he’d imagined, it wasn’t here and now, clutching an elderly lady’s sickly sweet lemon treats arranged on a floral plate. 

When he looks back up to see her eager expression he knows he can’t turn her down.

“Yeah, sure thing, Mrs C - can I help with anything else?”

She squeezes the outside of his hands gratefully. “You’re a good boy, just this is fine. You help yourself to one too, okay?”

“Sure.”

Despite Peter’s protests, she walks him to her door, patting his back gratefully as he departs. He waves her off with his free hand, pretending like his nerves doesn’t have his stomach doing somersaults.

Pulse pounding, he enters through a gap in the construction site fencing, immediately drawn to the dark haired man that caught his attention all those weeks ago. 

A few of the others notice his approach and tell him to watch his step, but Peter can’t hear them over the booming echo of his heart in his ears.

Tony straightens from where he’d been penciling in marks on a long slat of timber, crossing his arms over his chest as Peter nears. The movement shows off the impressive swell of his biceps and for a moment makes him forget why he’s there.

“Umm, hi,” Peter says. 

Tony slides his sunglasses upon his crown to look at Peter, the full attention of his big, brown eyes making Peter’s mouth go dry and his palms sweat. 

The man smiles, slow and appreciatively, stance loosening when Peter smiles back.

“Hi yourself,” Tony responds, placing his hands on his hips. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“P-Peter. Parker. I’m… Peter Parker.”

The mans grin at his inelegant introduction has Peter’s face flaming, his hands shaking.

“Nice to finally meet you, Peter Parker. I’ve seen you around, but you never come and say hello like the rest of your neighbors.” 

“You have?”

Tony nods, ambling closer. “I didn’t know if I should be offended or not.” 

“Oh, I –”

“I forgive you, in case that was an apology,” Tony interrupts. “So, what do we owe this pleasure?”

Heartfelt explanations rise and are arrested in his throat, recalling the humiliating discomfort of all his failed attempts at courting. Instead, he extends the plate to Tony, holding it out like a sacrificial offering.

Tony accepts it, looking dubiously down at the garrish floral design before looking back at Peter.

“You make these yourself, doll?”

Stomach squirming at the attention, Peter shakes his head. “No, uh… my neighbour –”

“Oh thank god,” Tony says, indelicately dropping the plate on the nearby worktable. “Everyone in this neighbourhood is crazy nice or whatever - I have never been more well fed in my life –“

“Don’t lie,” one of the workers yells from behind them. “I’ve seen your high school photos.”

“Hey fuck you, Barnes,” Tony calls back, shaking his head. “Anyway, baby fat aside, I didn’t want to break your heart when I say I’m definitely more of a beef and potatoes kind of guy.”

“You are?” Peter perks up. “Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I make a mean goulash. It’s really good.”

“That so?” Tony scratches his beard, stepping closer. “I do like goulash.”

Steeling his nerves Peter inches forward, he can smell the sweat and musk from the man and the pursuing undertones of nicotine and cologne.

“Maybe I could make it for you sometime.”

“Like on a date?” Tony asks, dipping his chin to catch Peters eyes. 

Heat floods his insides when he nods. “Yeah…you could come over? I’ll cook for you.”

Tony’s fingers comes up to toy with the cigarette tucked behind his ear, nestled amongst the black hair. He twirls it deftly between two calloused fingers, a crooked smile illuminating his features as he drinks Peter in.

“I’d like that a lot, Peter Parker.”

“That’s good. I mean - y’now, me too.”

The smirk Tony sends him is utterly devilish, corrupting Peter in the best of ways.

“Wish you’d come by and asked sooner, darling. Woulda given me more time to appreciate your pretty face.”

Cocking his head, Peters mouth stretches into a grin. 

“Guess it was never the right time.”

—-

Two days later Tony knocks on his door donned in form-fitting dark denim and a button-down shirt. His usually wild hair is neatly combed back and arranged into a quaint quiff. 

A smile breaks out on Peters face when notices the bouquet of red roses held in one of Tony’s hands, a box of expensive chocolates occupying in the other. 

“Not the most original,” Tony concedes, kissing Peter on the cheek when he lets him in, passing the gifts over. “But it’s still heartfelt, I assure you.”

Tony looks at him with genuine fondness that Peter doesn’t have to taste to know it’s true. Peter leans in to place a chaste, tentative kiss on the corner of the mans mouth.

“It’s perfect.” 

[drawandbewell]

Draw Well, Be Well

My Daughter’s Reminders 

My daughter grew up falling down, with a black eye here and a broken leg there. She doesn’t have enough balance to stand or walk, not without falling that is.  

She’s crashed face down on floors, and scraped herself roughly against sidewalks, all while trying to take just a few more unsteady steps. She’s fallen off chairs and sofas, and struck hard, sharp things, like table corners, one of which left a crooked hairline scar on her lily white chin. 

But as these wobbly pictures of Jenny’s remind me, she’s often been able to draw herself back to a steadier state of mind – faster than she might otherwise have – by reaching for her pencils and pens. I call these pictures of her’s my daughter’s reminders. They remind me of things, bitter and sweet, about her struggling childhood and adolescent journey towards a challenged adulthood.

They poignantly recollect the people, places, and things she’s been drawn to while moving over the thin ice of her tippy 29-year life. They remind me, too, of some of her most black and blue times; times so fracturing that simply picking up a marker was a Herculean task. A picture drawn with a swollen hand and a black eye is to her just another picture. For me it is a badge of courage.

Made during a painful, difficult time 13 years ago, these particular pictures remind me that with a well-inked marker in her wobbly left hand, Jenny can find the inner strength to draw herself towards a kind of greater equilbrium. Again and again she’s leaned on drawing to reach towards a greater awareness of herself and others.  

She draws rapidly, rarely pausing, and never erasing. Her pictures, which she mostly tosses away, have served her about as well as any images can. Perhaps because they help remind her that while she can’t skate, swim or run, she can handily picture a world of real and imagined things. Transforming her idea of a bird’s feathers into bright pink and purple plumes, for instance, isn’t a matter of image-making. It’s a rhytmic, physically rewarding act that is brimming with muscular release. She can draw for hours, and generate fresh energy as she goes. 

“I have zero paper fright,” she says in her halting speech, adding, “When I make pictures they can go out to anywhere.” This oft-repeated phrase “go out to anywhere” speaks to Jenny’s wish to be unbounded, free, and able to do anything. And, so she says, “It is great to be drawing-able.” 

Looking at these pictures, my memory swings back to her third birthday when she was coming out from under the fierce weight of a painfully drawn-out illness.  She was struggling to hold onto a red crayon which kept falling from her tiny hand. When she finally produced the first bold marks that she had in a very long time, her pale face rouged up, and she declared in utter delight, “Look, momma, look! I make go!” The action of making things go -- partly serves as an antidote to her movement disorder -- and is yet another reminder of why she clings so tenaciously to her picture-making habit. 

I hope never to forget the night when she drew her fast-falling peanut shell and broken, ice-cubed clock in a furious sprint in our New York City apartment. They flew from Jenny’s hand on a dark, blue December night as she labored to speed her recovery from one of her longest falls ever: her shattering fall through her REM cycle. It happened in late August, four months before, when she crashed in that hard to find place in the human mind where unrecoverable sleep falls. 

She was 16 and had been a frightened, unhappy camper at a special sleep-away camp for youngsters with disabilities. While she went sleepless over several nights, the young counselors and nursing staff completely misread the alarming signs of her incoherance, incontinence, and loss of appetite. My wife and I were in the dark until we received a call from the mother of one of Jenny’s camp-mates. “Katie’s afraid that Jenny’s cracked up,” she told us. Katie, had it right.

In the wake of that fall, Jenny was so lost and disconnected that she couldn’t draw a simple picture or sing a solitary song from late August until the last week of December 2004. Sleep deprivation becomes a torturous thing when it crumbles the mind of a person with a fragile, cognitively impaired brain like my daughter’s. Like Jack following Jill, I myself became exhausted and sleep-deprived trying to keep vigil over her. There was little comforting her as she reeled backwards into reawakened memories of her scariest fears. I remember her swatting the air around her head of brown curls as if she were shooing away August’s mosquitoes. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked her.

“Seizure monsters want me,” she said warily. “They’re going back to my brain.” 

She wasn’t suffering from seizures or skin rashes. Those maladies had stopped buzzing her several years before. But as these drawings remind me there’s no erasing the difficulties drawn in permanent ink by her hard to pronounce genetic disorder. It’s name – Incontinentia Pigmenti – still freezes on her tongue. 

It is owing to this rare, X-linked chromosomal disorder that Jenny’s vision is impaired, that she sits forever on the edge of her next fall, and struggles to retrieve her spoken language. And it’s why she lacks the precise kind of graph-o-motor control that her artist mother and artist brother have. It is this fine motor shorfall that may help explain why at the age of 29 her pictures resemble those of a much younger person’s. Some might say a child’s. 

Clearly, Jenny looks half her age, if not younger. She’s small in stature, has a high-pitched voice, and gaps in her warm smile where a handful of teeth refused to grow. And yet, as these pictures also remarkably remind me, she has grown up to be 29, a nice warm age I once really feared she might never reach. As her black and red seizure monster recalls to me, her childhood resembled one long convulsive time, an eleven year stretch in which she regularly fell through her own conscousness. Those long, seizurous falls ripped entire weeks out of her school calendar. They left her as floppy as a Valium-soaked rag doll.  Yet just as soon as she could manage to hold a marker again, she wielded it tenaciously. The results, even the scratchiest, most indecipherable, became energizing spring-boards. 

She doesn’t draw for my sake nor for art’s sake, but for her own sweet sake. I can see now, in my sixty-fifth year, that her picture-making has rarely forsaken her. By reaching for her place on the ancient red line of drawing, Jenny has repeatedly found a pathway on which to keep herself living as well as she possibly can.  

Is it any wonder why these pictures are worth a thousand pictures each to me? A thousand, if not more. Their value reaches beyond their immense worth to her. For me, there is something gorgeous and uplifting in her left-leaning shapes, shaky lines and triumphant colors flying incontinently over thousands of freshly started pieces of paper. 

Jenny doesn’t recall drawing her backwards facing rooster or purple head rolling down August. It took a year from the time of her depriving fall at that sleep-away camp before she fully recovered. And it wasn’t until several years later that I was able to take them out of the desk drawer where I had hid them from myself. They were too potent like a once familiar song heard on the radio from long ago that absorbs one in a by-gone gloom. They had a wicked bite to them, but when seen a few years later in light of her enormous progress and a growing foreground of her newest joys, next greatest loves, and generally happier self-portrait, they looked altogether positive, hopeful, and important. They looked like a parade of curious icons and images, marching boldly, if unsteadily across the pinstriped lines of difficult times passing by. 

They are nothing more than the handi-work of a pencil-thin,16-year-old daughter strenuously drawing herself through a dark winter’s night to recover her healthier rhythms. In this rediscovered cadence are the notes of the first song she sang as she began reconnecting her severed memory to the rest of her lonely self.  The glue she needed to hold her delicate sleep genie in its fragile bottle didn’t come from a new medicine or her hospital stay. It was squeezed from her pens and pencils. 

We have since given names to a few of these images. Some she has offered captions for. Others appear to be of no interest to her whatsoever. But taken together they evoke that time of sleep-disordered days and nights, crying-jags, sweat-soaked pillow cases, and embarrasing public explosions of inappropriate laughter. But they also underscore her return to hope, and the wellness which followed right behind it, because just when I feared that she might have landed permanently down Humpty Dumpty’s wall, she spotted the red placemark that dangled from my outdated appointment book, and with it she found her spark again.

I was about to trash my 2003 appointment book in a pique of anger. My frustration had turned to rage as we hung in the limbo of her un-wellness. With the New Year just a few days away, I watched her push away another bowl of pasta. How could she still have no appetite? As she sat staring blankly out the kitchen window I wanted to shake her. That’s when I swept up an armful of my old hard-covered journals, diaries, and calendars from a nearby bookshelf and hurled them into a plastic trash can. The crash startled her. She could see that I had lost it. I was bent on getting rid of every single datebook I had ever bought. There were mover a dozen, and each reminded me of my worst frustrations. They marked years of my fruitless work, wishful thinking, and her countless medical appointments. They were mocking me with their dust, and rubbing it in about my obsessive habit of writing things down in little printed boxes, in hopes of bringing some order to my disordered daughter’s life. What good had they done? Here we were, drawing a complete blank in our boxey, low-ceilinged Bronx apartment. Home had never felt so bleak, so stale, so drab. 

It was a good thing that the bright red cotton ribbon placemark leapt from the binding of my 2003 Lettes of London diary as I aimed it at the trash. Serendipitously it landed in her sight.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a book mark, it remembers your place.” 

“Really?” she said. “I want to draw in it, where are my markers?”

They were piled high in a long, wide tray exactly where they had been resting since August.

She hungrily opened the dairy. And as she began drawing, her eyes brightened and her skin pinked up.  After three hours of continuous picture-making she could barely hold up her head. I mader her stop and carried her to bed. She rested with the book alongside her pillow and awoke a little bit after five a.m. "Can we get up yet?” she asked, “I want to draw some more." I told her to wait a while, at least until the morning sun rose. When we returned to the kitchen table at a nine she looked much better. She drank some light, sweet coffee and had a few bites of buttered toast. For the next three hours later her images continued moving along the meridians of weekly reminders. Every time she turned the pages to draw across a new area she moved the crimson ribbon along with her. “It’s a bookmark, it reminds you,” she said.

 "Look at all these amazing pictures you made," I told her. 

 "Thanks," she said, “can I please draw some more?"

 “Sure, you can. You draw so well.”

She set down her pencil, quickly picked up another, and with the hint of a lilt in her voice reminded me, "Well dad, you know, draw well, be well."