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pkmntrainergreyze · 7 years ago

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The Emo School (Chapter 3)

Chapter 3: Modern Day Pain...

I didn't fail the test, I just found 100 ways to do it wrong. -Benjamin Franklin

09/14/01 FRIDAY

D A L L O N W E E K E S

"Cocaine is God's way of saying you're making too much money, now that's just bull-f*ckin-sh*t Robin Williams, debunked"

I don't know how I got my hands on a 1000 funny quotes book, I don't know why I'm even reading it. Life sucks, that's how it works.

I'm contradicting myself am I? No? Okay, let's keep it that way-

"Dallon have you seen my cra-" he stopped my destructive train of thoughts that will have me go psycho again.

"No Brendon, ask Pete" I replied with a blank stare

"Uhh... no thanks"

Sycophant

Now, I guess that's my hypocrite self spitting venom. To think that I actually managed to slack off this shift made me wanna throw up. Just anxious stuff, sounds like a blog name, if I had access to blogs and not MySpace would have done things like that a long time ago.

(we have Tumblr Dal— oh wait, this is the early two thousands lel)

I'm think I'll the pink slip anytime soon, I can't help it, those lingering devils are going to be the death of me. I mean, once I enter the class I feel like choking myself for a trip to the clinic.

I sound like a really problematic guy, but then again, almost everyone has bigger problems than me. I just need to thank God I'm not in Pete's shoes.

I promise I'll do much better next Monday.

Seriously.

But then again, the students here are already talented and intelligent, sure with some exceptions nevertheless I'm still frightened by them.

"Are you just going to sit around inside the faculty Dallon? I think your students are worried. You don't have to worry about Miss Flack you know she regretted being the rebellious stage"

Snapping my head to the direction of the voice with a bit of distraught, I sighted Tyler with a box of cereal.

"Hello Tyler"

"Hello to you too Dall-"

"Salutations!"

There popped Josh with his trendy hat on, newly dyed hair, no care, like he didn't interrupted a conversation earlier, but I didn't mind and Tyler didn't seem to be upset either, they're friends after all.

"Have you seen Brendon?" "Yeah, asking for the same question here as well"

After Josh spoke, Tyler indeed raised his hand like an average student. I remained in my position before answering their very opposite toned questions "Yeah, he was just here a while ago before you entered, he probably went back to find his wee- lunchbox"

Josh smiled while Tyler's eyes furrowed a bit, questioning me with a hint of concern. "Thanks Dal, see ya later!"

With that, I was left in the room with an awkward situation with Tyler.

"U-Uh, see you later as well"

Thus, they both left the scene.

Tyler seems a little less confident today, a little more perplexed. Oh well, it is Tyler Joseph.

Sighing a bit, waiting for Brendon to get in trouble later on; I opened the book once more, licking my fingers, before entering page three hundred and ninety-four.

●-----------------------●

"Guys can someone name all the borders Egypt has-"

Riiiiiiiiing

"A-alright I'll see you all next Tuesday"

I didn't even notice the clock, oh well. Maybe I'm not fit for a History Teacher. I'd sometimes wish they could just find a replacement so I could retire and not feel bad about it.

I could hear the continous rumbling noises from the students' side of the room once they dragged the chairs out to stand up and leave. It did took me a while to understand the salty aftertaste it left on my mouth. Instead of complaining I just readied myself for the next class to enter and... Probably chew gum and place another batch underneath the tables... Our poor janitor's been through a lot today.

Chewing gum isn't cool or the janitor won't have fun in school.

That... It reminds me of Dad...

●-----------------------●

"How can you say sorry to a man who's probably high on drugs?" Ryan pondered as he took a sip of milk through a white and red stripped bendy straw.

I stared at his looking-through-space form.

"You're the philosopher and a very known substitute science teacher here, I'm pretty sure both things go well if you're a pro, you tell us"

Silence.

Then it hit me

"Wait— is that why Brendon's not here?"

That childish man-child wouldn't stop doing weird things huh? Yesterday he texted me saying stranger things with the lines of "quitting pipes", making me look like a very guileless teenager who just learned what methamphetamine means.

What—of course I knew what drugs are!

What do you mean Brendon sprinkled 'magical coke' on me, coca cola isn't a very solid material—

"Yeah, I told him to fuck off yesterday, I was really pissed off when he told me to put back the white cheese in the grocery shelves"

Of course that would happen.

"I don't know Ryan, treat him like a human being-" he gave me a mini glare, oh shit I didn't mean for it to sound... Nevermind.

"s-since some people think stoners don't have a life" I added to make it sound more... decent.

How do you control men at their age of 27? Exactly, I don't get the appeal on doing it as well, let them run around, do weird crap that'll get them fired.

Actually, don't do that.

I wonder if Brendon's interested in things like the 27 club-

No Dallon, bad thoughts Dallon. Bad thoughts.

"Just say sorry or something, give him space when he avoids you a bit too much... "

That advice sucks so bad, just like the way Ryan eats his cheese whiz.

I hope Ryan doesn't blame me if everything went downhill

"I'm blaming you if everything went downhill" He laughed after saying such playful words that make me shiver "You're too easy to read Man-Tree, and yeah, I know, it's okay if you didn't have any idea what to give for an advice"

At least he took a hint on not doing what I said.

Wait did he just compare me to a tree, I feel sorta honored—

From the corner of my left eye; I saw Patrick sprinting away confused and scared of Ryan's words.

"Eh, now I understand why Patrick would start to avoid me" "You can say that again"

●-----------------------●

I'm still unsure how to feel about Miss Williams' presence in the cafeteria. I mean, sure, she's known for being a great librarian and she also teaches in the senior building but still...

I'm still not used to seeing her here rather that seeing her inside the library, reading somethings I don't understand.

"Geez Dal, is it really weird for me to buy food here?"

"Yes Hayley, it just is"

She laughs and put down the tray on top of the cliche tables. The clock strucking on twelve would make sure that break's over.

"Well, get used to it. I'm tired of waking up early to make lunch, and besides food here is amazing" Her laugh has always been familiar for everyone. The Juniors considers her a cool and casual teacher that they'll love to learn from... Wish I could be like that, not complaining though, I love Dadlon.

"Hey, I'm not saying you shouldn't eat here and all"

"I know Dal"

●-----------------------●

"I feel like the electrolyte in a battery terminal"

"Why so Frankie?"

"Please don't call me that Dallon" Frank cringed before rubbing his shoulders while it shook. Seems like only Gerard can get to call him that, what a shame.

"I just got here, what happened?" I threw the plastic from the burgers straight down the trashcan, he just watched and waited until I come back.

"Welp, two of my rad students just roasted one another and now teachers are pretty much asking me things I don't even know" He sighed, stressed.

"I mean, how am I supposed to know what's the cause of the problem?" He flipped his hands and shrugged, as of to look clueless and annoyed.

"Don't you roast people?"

Okay, why did I say that.

"..."

"...Oh yeah I get it, whatever. I'm proud of my students, if I we're the principal I'll let them graduate" His comment of self awareness isn't making things better.

●-----------------------●

"Hey Brendon you alright?"

Brendon's been pulling his hair for a straight minute, he's bent over while sitting on his chair like he's going to break any minute, of course he's not alright.

"I-I can't take it"

His eyes looked puffy from both crying and a side effect of something I wouldn't wanna know.

"Shh, it's going to be okay" I tried removing the hands he used to cup his face but he appears to be much stronger than me.

He curls up, knees now covering his eyes and his arms strengthening the force that defends his pride.

"What happened?"

"Re-relapse? I don't f*cking know. I've been trying to make myself think that I won't be smoking but it always ends up like this Dal"

"Shh, shh, I'll tell Pete you're sick, I'll substitute"

Okay, wrong move, I don't know how to deal with students. But for Brendon... I wouldn't mind helping... He's a great friend after all, even though he's kind of a dick.

"T-thanks..."

"Anytime"

●-----------------------●

"It gets tiring honestly" I sipped on a new batch of coffee I prepared just two minutes ago while Ryan speaks gibberish, well, genius gibberish... That's not a thing I know.

"Sometimes people just forget that they should know who's worth their time and happiness or not, and they'll often use destructive emotions to get into the way of their relationship until two sides wouldn't dare speak with each other while one is hurting" He continued as he licked on the spoon of Cheese Whiz, gliding the cheese up to the tip of the spoon.

"Tell me Dal, have you given up a friendship?"

"Well, I don't think I have the guts to" I spoke with honesty "—but I should do that"

"Wow, that's kind of not conforting my situation right now"

"Oh sorry"

"But in all seriousness, I just hope he makes up his damn mind and if he ever says it's over then he should just keep it like we're strangers."

"Geez, you sure are quite frank with this. Have you lived through a rough path or something?" I successfully lightened up the mood, I can see Ryan smiling fron the corner of my eye.

"Well, you can't trust people easily who knows, they might steal your cheese" I raised my eyebrow in confusion.

"Ryan, no one says that"

"I did so deal with it Dallon"

●-----------------------●

"Hey there Mister Way" Micheal looked from his behind to see me greeting him "I've heard you've been visiting the music room with Mister Toro, what instrument are you interested in again?"

"More like forced by my brother and Ray, they want me to play the bass" Sounds about right.

"I could help you, you know?"

He shrugs "Thanks"

That blank stare would be the death of me, he looks like that one hero in an action movie that does Karate and that has bad temper.

Why is the Way brother's so complicated?

●-----------------------●

"Joshuuuuaa"

"Tyleeeeeer"

I witnessed one of those amazing scenes a human eye could record.

It was the miraculous handshake that the bestest friends does whenever they had the chance. Yeah, it may not be that rare of an action but it something that keeps me going.

"Woah, that's so cool guys!"

That was a big mistake.

Tyler hissed and threw his arms around Josh's neck while he tried hard to carry his odd friend. "Woah Tyler!"

"He. Just. Witnessed. Our. Secret. Handshake!" He hissed once more, emphasizing on each word. He added more stress on it than any normal person would.

"It's not that big of a deal—" "Of course it's a big deal Josh! That was something special to me! To us!"

Can I compare Tyler to a cat by now?

Seriously, he sounds like a cat thats been impaled with a knife to the gutter.

... Don't ask me why I know this.

●-----------------------●

"Okay Brendon, truth or dare?"

"Uhh... I'd say truth"

"If Ryan, Dallon or Spencer were to be hanging at the edge of a cliff, who would you pick?"

Brendon smirked as he continued to share a gaze with Spencer, who's shaking his head with the similar curved line plastered in his face.

"We all know the answer would lead to some four-thousand long *ss fanfiction"

What does he even mean by that? What's a fan fiction? Whatever it's probably Ryan. Although he wouldn't talk about him since...

wait

"What happened with you and Ryan?"

There was this prolonged silence that shouldn't have been that long if Brendon decided to speak early but he decided to go against the idea. He just stared, a little empty, like the time he was pranked

"He's having emotional mood swings inappropriate for his age, is all"

Well, I wouldn't call it a mood swing.

I mean, Ryan just love cheese, it's not like he's actually addicted to it like people joked around, right?

"Not true babe, I remember him using Cheese instead of cucumbers for therapeutic purposes" He emphasized on Babe and Therapeutic Purposes just to lace a sarcastic vibe on the topic about Ryan...

....

Nah, not true.

"Well, suit yourself"

I don't know why I'm easy to read.

"Because you're saying things out loud Mister Weekes!" The british transferee answered in such amusement. Spencer choked on his drink as he attempts to stiffle a laugh while the others, such as Josh and Frank (Iero, getting tired of correcting what Frank am I talking about with how many Franks are there) did not show any shame.

"Am I really saying it out loud?" Murmurous was the way my voice behaved. Patrick frantically nodded "Hells yeah"

"Hells yeah? Mister Stump says Hells Yeah?" Pete chimed in, slipping a seat next to Patrick and Tyler. "For the record Patrick, I am not letting you forget that, it's just historic- oh Mister Sheeran can you please hand the books you used to Miss Williams? It's been a week. Thanks"

As soon as the last student left for such 'delivery', the sounds of students seems to be getting farther and farther; with the exception of those who stays to wait for their service/school bus of course.

"What's up?" Pete joined the party.

"Nothing much, just our traditional Truth or Dare Friday, Brendon's turn to ask" While Joe—who just finished his class at Grade Twelve—spoke, Pete sips into his starbucks coffee.

"Cool, continue Brendon"

"You in?"

"Nah"

"Pay for view."

Joe's small joke sent Pete a payful glare at the Trohman-Fro man. "Later", he answered.

"Well, Gerard" there was this sparking tension once Gerard's responce came knocking "Yes?"

Brendon's face turned rock solid, like some action movie interrogation is about to happen as he stared at what seems to be a "punk criminal" at the moment and he was Clint Eastwood. Gerard didn't even flinch or look fazed, but rather reserved. "Do you believe in aliens?"

The fuc-

The question made him flinch real bad, some shocking news right? Brendon smirks, but no laughter was heard from him, rather the other players—plus Pete—in the game.

"I-I-uh..." Gerard pushes the stray locks of hairs behind the back of his ear, odd enough, I could now feel his nervousness. What, is he an alien or something?

"I-I'd say I'm a little too hesitant to answer that"

"Boo" Pete's response made others laugh along, although Gerard did glare at him.

I never thought a mysterious—and almost nefarious—character like him woulf sound nervous and look sweaty at that moment, "it's like that moment came from somewhere else"

"Agreed" Spencer replied in approval.

I'm speaking out loud again am I? Is this because of my lack of sleep? Yeesus— I mean... Yeah.

"Imagine if Gerard's an alien" The thought was bothering me and I have to say it, sorry "I mean, he looks like he could be one— I mean, he loves the scent of drugstores"

The conversation carried on with Frank adding details and the others consistently listening to his talk about Gerard's secret origins fron Reprise, even made a narration out of it

"And he's the artist who would get out of a planet called Reprise since he's so f*cking lonesome— Oh let's give him a acquaintances" Frank glances at the others with cheeks puffing from the breath he's beginning to hold, Pete laughs "How 'bout an alien space companion?"

"Oh! How about a pink masked alien-"

"no" Gerard blocked but Spencer's muffled laughs is still heard.

"-named Lola!" Josh's voice has audible enough and Gerard-proof for everyone to hear

And thus, this ship about an imaginary alien and a grumpy teacher was born

●-----------------------●

"Are you sure he didn't say that in a more normal way? Are you sure this story is real? I mean, it's a bit too descriptive if you ask me that's kinda skeptical—"

"No, he said it in a Gerard Way, of course he's weird Dallon. All the teachers here are way too young and talented Dal, they say and do weird things" Pete said, pathetically laughing at his own joke. He didn't mind though, he's too happy to even care. "And incase you forgot students here are as talented as well, only this time they're quite well known, and you're special too Dallon, you're a well known bassist not only in town you know? So hearing a story about a drunk comic artist isn't that odd if you know where to go"

"I... I just don't believe he would go around and say Easy Peasy Pumpkin Peasy and stuff like that..."

"He also said Pumpkin pie motherfucker in case you forgot" He added in such delight, I swear if this is some japanese cartoon there would be flying sparkles everywhere.

I stayed behind because I have to prepare myself for upcoming Summative Assessments and since I already noted Pete that Brendon won't come he said I should do his work for tomorrow. Welp, this is what friends are for, some are worth doing examinations for.

"Well, you haven't heard of Brendon's campfire stories back then haven't you?" Pete asked with a small smile, I shook my head to say no.

"No, I haven't"

I just came to this school last year, in November so I missed the month.

"Eheh, he should be doing that soon, our camping is in October after all, shame you didn't git to attend last year too" He teased "—he loves to freak kids out. I remember that one time he told the story of... What was that? LA Devotee was it? Oh, he doesn't only do horror, he actually tells some funny ones... He'd act drunk and tell history stuff just to mock the old history teacher"

I bet you all twenty bucks he was drunk, and about the history thing....

Looks like I'm not looking forward to that.

"Aww, don't be Dal" He pouted as he placed the globe on the top shelf "He just love to tease the guy so much, gosh I couldn't remember his name"

"Looks like you're old enough to retire" Joe chimed in with a small joke that had Pete to glare at him.

"Not yet Joe"

"Heh, my bad"

"I haven't heard of the old history teacher"

"I think his name was Briar or something, we're not that close" Joe shrugged as I almost wanna place my grabby habds to his hair. "He never really came back since he had to take care of something"

"Oh, I see" I just hope Brendon doesn't make fun of me at camping

"Oh dear, you're about to see how things go down in history at October. Some retirees would visit the school at the month" Pete smiled once more before snapping his fingers "Oh yeah! Last time we had Mister Tre to roast the kids' marshmallows"

"Yeah and he almost burned his clothes"

"It was pretty dope to see him roll around" Joe added more to his statement before chuckling loudly.

Our twittering didn't last long, like it usually does. Pete heard a call from his phone in the office, wow, he sure has some very nice hearing.

"Woops, be right back!" He left the room after he pointed his index finger to us.

"Bet you ten bucks it's his father"

"No need Joe, I already know it's him"

"I really love the way Pete still loves his Dad even though he just let him control one school, unlike his siblings" I chortled this time "welp, I think his father's just testing him. I think he's still new for a Principal"

"Yeah that's true, seems like only yesterday we'd jam out into Green Day and Misfits" He reminisced over the past memories.

"Wait, are you guys almost at the same age?"

"Yeah, Pete isn't that old as he looks. He's so fuckin' immature back then you know? God, his hair sucks so bad back in his emo phase"

"I HEARD THAT!"

Joe frozed but then the ice melted away when I snickered at the newfound look

"BUT ITS TRUE!"

Haha, yep. I still wanna teach at this school.

I looked around the office once more and found something pretty odd. It was a picture frame with four veey familiar figures.

"Is that..." I pointed at the object as Joe tilted his head lightly before snapping.

"Oh, that picture? Yeah, that was when we were to take a picture for an album we never really released"

"Really?" "Yes really"

"Then why does Andy looked like he's been edited to the picture?"

Joe snorted

"Andy always poses in that semi-sideview way, he's really there when the picture was shot. I swear" He said in all seriousness to stress on his words. I rolled my eyes.

"I doubt that"

"Oh why wont you ask Andy" "Wont be be offended though?"

"How would Princess be?" Joe stared with sincere confusion "He'd probably laugh cause it's true"

"Would he? That's more like your thing Joe" I muttered lowly but hoped for him to hear the words at the same time.

"... Yeah you're right kiddo"

I picked it out, thumbs onto the front frame and the others to support it. It was filtered in a light blue shade. It was Pete, Andy, Patrick and Joe from left to right. The names were written in beautiful fonts and were printed nicely, although seeing "Peter" and "Joseph" still makes me uncomfortable.

Joe was right, Pete's hair does suck so bad.

"Ouch, you guys are teaming up on me now? Jesus" Pete soon entered without me noticing, eh, I don't care if he heard my thoughs anymore.

"Hey, don't say his name in vain Peter" Joseph scolded with a small smirk when he said his name.

"Don't be a hypocrite Joseph, remember Senior Prom?"

"Oh I remember your geeky dance very well Peter" Joe laughed as he got coffee from the machine. Pete laughed as it seemed like the plan of bringing back awkward memories backfired.

"Whatever Joseph Roughman"

"I'm pretty sure the announcer at that time was kinky as hell" Joe and Pete continued the conversation, forgetting my presence. I don't mind, it's funny to watch them being so comfortable.

"Ah, didn't Patrick had this tied hair to the back that time?" "I think so, although nothing can defeat Brendon's forehead"

"Ye-yeah, right" Pete slyly hid his with his hair with a crooked smile. "Right..." He reassured himself, Joe smirks larger than earlier.

"Welp, we sure had good times with the band huh?"

"Yeah... I miss screaming"

"Eh, I miss Patrick's soul voice more than yours"

Pete glared at Joe as Joe defensively raised his two hands high. "Just sayin'! Just sayin'!"

"So... What was the name of the band?"

"Not was Dallon, it's kind of an underground band but we're Fall Out Boy"

"So you guys still a thing?"

"If you meant in a four-some gay relationship hell no, but sure why not?" Joe winked as Pete shivered in disgust

"Joe you disgust me" "I could tell that myself Pete"

"Don't mind Joe, but yeah, we still are. It's just that we're on a break for a while now" Pete grabbed Joe's empty cup into the trashcan as he asked for. "—I mean, even Ryan and Spencer was in a band with that Brent guy"

"Brent? Like Brendon?"

"Nope, Brent is a different person from our beloved B-den"

"Oh, never really knew about him" I sighed then placed the picture back at the table to which I saw it first. Pete gasped once it processed.

"Wait, you haven't heard of it yet? They'd use to play as Slight Anxiety or something, but Brent left and all. They're pretty well known in Nevada, New Jersey and Chicago. You probably heard of them from Mister Gioia as well" After Joe stated it I just brushed it for now, I should ask him that tomorrow.

"Nah, not really"

"I should lend you my copy of the cds sometime. Although don't forget, the titles are really wordy" His offering made me smile. Joe did the same. Wow, they're acting like a very supportive family, I might get my Dad vibes on.

"Oh, thank you. I'd love to hear it— I mean it's not like I'm doing that cause you're my boss or something but—"

"It's okay Dal. No problem" He understands.

1 note · View note

sirfluffkins · 7 years ago

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On Litte Cat Feet (AO3)

(5671 words) boy do i hope the read more shows up on mobile

Summary: Maybe Andrew has a soft spot for cats, or maybe he just sucks as refusing Neil anything no matter what form Neil takes.

Thanks for @sapphirablue and @unabashedtrashcollector for helping me with my English! Any remaining mistakes are mine alone!

Neil was going through the garbage behind what appeared to be a nightclub, looking for food. He could have just turned back to his human form to buy an actual meal, but ever since his mother died being a cat seemed so much safer. He didn’t mind eating thrown away leftovers anymore, by now he was more than used to it.

The backdoor opened and two men came out, the smaller one wasting no time in pressing the bigger one against the door. Neil abandoned what he was doing immediately to dash under the nearest trashcan, making himself as small as possible.

He couldn’t see much from where he was crouching, but his hearing was a lot better than in his human form, so he had no trouble hearing everything that was going on. Neil hoped there would be no bloodshed, or worse, the police showing up to ruin his chances of getting a meal from here.

“Don’t touch me,” said the smaller man and it became clear to Neil that they were making out.

He was pretty annoyed about that. Someone had just thrown away a few perfectly good burgers for whatever reason and Neil was intent on being the first one to get to them. The two men being there was a hindrance but Neil could wait.

“Andrew,” the taller man said, sounding breathless.

“I said don’t touch me,” Andrew repeated and stepped away. Neil would have thanked the taller man for fucking up if he could, but as it was he just watched him sigh and disappear back into the club.

Andrew, as was apparently his name, stayed behind and lit a cigarette. Fuck.

Neil had to decide what to do. He could hear crows cawing somewhere in the distance and he had no intention of sharing his meal with them. But he also didn’t know how Andrew would react to cats.

There were three main reactions to Neil as a cat: one was absolute indifference; the second was anger, usually followed by some kind of effort to chase him away; the third, and in Neil's opinion the worst, was instant adoration. The people who seemed to think he was cute saw his disheveled fur and dirt-covered paws and decided they needed to rescue him.

A warm place to stay where his father's men would never find him sounded good in theory, but most people wanted their cats neutered, and Neil wasn't about to deal with that. It wasn't like his father or his men even knew about the Hatford family secret, so as long as he managed to survive out on the street he would be safe from them.

Since Andrew didn’t seem to have any intention of going back inside, Neil risked poking his head out from under the trashcan to survey the situation. There were other trashcans in the city he could scavenge, so it wouldn’t be a big loss if Andrew turned out to be a cat-hating asshole, but he was nothing if not persistent and those burgers would be a nice change from half-rotten meat.

Andrew saw his movement and turned his head to look at him, his gaze unmoved. Their eyes locked for a long time but Andrew made no move to do anything other than smoke his cigarette. Neil deemed such indifference safe enough and dashed out towards the bag of burgers, dragging it under the trashcan as fast as he could. There he could eat in peace unless another animal like a raccoon or the crows tried to steal his meal from him again.

He could almost feel Andrews eyes on where he had disappeared but he was too hungry to mind. He didn't bother to separate the meat from the rest of the burger. He may have taken the form of a cat, but luckily he could eat the same things he would be able to as a human.

He was about halfway through his meal when he heard the door open and close again and he was alone in the dark alleyway.

/ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

Neil didn't spend all of his time as a cat. He was trying to finish high school as fast as possible, that meant finding places to shower, and using the internet in various places that had free WiFi. He had just arrived in Columbia, and although the city was really not that big, he should be able to stay for a while at least.

He was tired of running, of never talking to anyone because he didn't want to be remembered, of constantly fearing for his life. He was playing with the idea of going to the FBI with all the information he had on his father, but his father was powerful, and Neil didn't trust the FBI to be able to protect him.

As soon as he was done with classes for the day he turned back into a cat and either went for a run or looked for a place to nap. The way his two bodies interacted was weird but it was enough for Neil that he could take a run as a cat and feel the effects of it as a human. Neil didn't know much about how the transformation worked in detail, but it was definitely magical. When he turned into a cat, he did so along with everything he was wearing or holding. It was a relief that he didn't have to hide his clothes and duffel somewhere.

He was back at the nightclub - the area obviously wasn't popular with other city scavengers, which was good for Neil, because even as a cat, he was better at starting fights than ending them.

He wasn't there for long when Andrew stepped out again, alone this time. They had seen each other more and more often during the last few weeks and Neil knew Andrew enough that he only spared him a glance before going through the trash again.

He was unlucky tonight. The trashcans were for once empty of any food and Neil felt hungry and sticky and disgusting. Neil was not happy about having to clean himself with his tongue, but he felt so dirty there was no way around it.

It tasted as bad as he imagined, if not worse, but he soldiered on. Halfway through he realized Andrew was still there and watching him, looking blank but faintly amused. Neil chose to ignore him.

That was, until Andrew took out a sandwich that smelled absolutely heavenly. It might just have been the contrast to the stench of garbage, but Neil could smell chicken, and he wanted it. Maybe he could make Andrew drop it - no sane human being would eat something that touched the floor behind a shitty nightclub. He'd just have to sneak up to him and be fast. Being fast was one of Neil's strong points. He could do this. It'd be a hit and run. Easy.

Plan made up, he crouched low and slowly sneaked up on Andrew, who wasn't even looking at Neil. Neil felt confidence rise up in him but it was crushed when Andrew spoke.

“Whatever you're planning, don't even think about it,” he said, eyes snapping to Neil.

Neil stopped in his tracks and went for plan B.

Begging.

He started meowing, trying to appear as cute and as hungry as he could while keeping a safe distance from Andrew at all times. His message was clear though - give me food.

Andrew looked like the type of person who hated cats, but then he wouldn't have stayed to watch a disgustingly dirty cat clean itself, so Neil was hopeful.

“You're a pathetic creature, begging strangers for food like this,” Andrew sneered. If Neil could talk, he would have said something about pathetic people talking to cats, but he was too busy pretending he didn't understand while appearing hopeful and cute.

Looking at Neil as if he hated nothing more in the world than this cat, Andrew sighed and took a chunk of chicken off his sandwich. He stared at Neil some more before throwing the chunk onto the ground where Neil was still pacing and meowing.

“There you go, now shut up,” he said.

Neil was busy chomping down the chicken, so he had no problems following that order. It was probably the best thing he had eaten in a long time.

Neil finished as fast as he could and then sprinted off into the darkness, not looking back at Andrew again.

/ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

“Come here, kitty! I'll give you a wonderful home!” the woman shouted somewhere behind Neil.

Even though he was fast as a cat, he had to pay attention to the people in the street who naturally didn't clear a path for a running cat. The woman didn't seem to have such problems. Her shouting alerted most people to step aside out of sheer instinct and the rest were just rudely run over. Neil hoped someone would confront her and give him a chance to finally escape, but no such luck. Despite her small and slight stature, the woman intimidated every passerby around her.

The day had started nice enough; Neil had found a sunny spot on a branch and spent most of the day napping. It was a peaceful few hours that were rudely interrupted by a delighted screech.

Neil knew screeches like that, and they always meant a cat-crazy person had found him and deemed his cat form cute. It happened more often than he liked.

So Neil took off running, only to be followed.

At this point, Neil was desperate. This woman must have been running marathons for a living. It was the only explanation why he hadn't lost her yet. He was desperate enough that when he saw a familiar face in the crowd he didn't even hesitate.

He made a beeline for Andrew and climbed up his side until he was perched on the man's shoulder. Anyone would think twice before trying to pluck a cat off someone else's shoulder. They naturally would assume the cat and the human belonged together and Neil was counting on that. Andrew, who hadn't flinched, even as Neil used his claws, shot a curious glance at Neil.

Neil was tense and ready to fight. Andrew might have given him food that one time, but he had no idea how Andrew would react to such physical closeness. This was an act of desperation, but Neil was relieved that it seemed to be working out. Andrew opened his mouth as if to say something but was cut off by the woman's voice.

“Where are you, kitty?” she shouted and Neil tensed further.

She spotted Neil on Andrew's shoulder and to Neil's dismay made her way over to them.

Neil hissed at her as she approached.

��Oh no need to be shy, my little cutie! Is that your cat, sir?” she asked, ignoring Neil's show of hostility completely.

Neil prayed to every god he didn't believe in that Andrew would say yes. That he wouldn't push him off his shoulder and abandon him to deal with this crazy cat lady. He watched as Andrew eyed the woman up and down.

“None of your business,” he said and while Neil would have wished for a more certain answer, he'd take it. He licked Andrew's ear in a moment of thoughtless gratitude. Andrew started a bit.

The woman looked put upon now.

“Well yes it is, if the cat doesn't belong to you I'll take it home with me,” she said.

“He doesn't seem to like you very much,” Andrew replied and Neil hissed at her again to prove his point.

“He'll change his mind soon enough. Tomcats always get friendlier once they're neutered,” the woman said. She was obviously insulted by the sheer thought that a cat wouldn't like her. Neil started to yowl threateningly.

Andrew didn't even grace that with a reply, instead turning around and walking away. The motion jostled Neil a bit but he held on. He carefully twisted around to see the woman's reaction and wasn't disappointed when he saw her gaping after them. This had gone better than he expected.

Andrew walked for a few blocks and Neil was sure the woman wasn't following them. He was finally rid of her. Just as he started thinking about what to do next, Andrew spoke up.

“Is the stray planning on sticking around now?” he asked. He was clearly not expecting a reply, though few would when talking to a cat.

Neil took this as his cue to leave, but just to be annoying he didn't jump off of Andrew's shoulder before bumping his head into Andrew's temple and licking a strip up his cheek.

/ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

The employees of Eden's Twilight, as Neil had found out the club was called, remained wasteful as always. This led to more and more meetings between Andrew and Neil. Andrew was obviously fond of Neil, if reluctantly so. Whenever Neil begged for food - which was often because he was an instigator, and the muted emotions on Andrew's face when he did it were funny to watch - Andrew would eventually give in. He always insulted Neil while doing so, but Neil could tell it was an act - when he realized Neil preferred chicken to any other meat, Andrew started bringing that with him more often.

Tonight Andrew was tense as he left the club. His face was blank, and he lit three cigarettes before giving up and just sinking to the floor, uncaring that it was absolutely filthy. Neil had never seen Andrew like this. Something had obviously shaken him and he was doing his best to hide it, even from himself.

Neil didn't know what to do. It had been a while since he had this much contact to another person, and despite knowing better, he found himself caring about Andrew. He also knew that Andrew didn't like to be touched, but he was unsure if that only extended to humans, or if it included animals as well. Since Neil had apparently lost his sense for self preservation, he approached anyway.

Maybe he just trusted Andrew, he thought, but buried the thought immediately. Don't trust anyone, his mother had made him promise with her last breath.

He walked slowly and meowed to announce his presence. Andrew looked up and stared with blank eyes. He made no move, just kept staring, so Neil soldiered on and gently bumped into Andrew's outstretched foot. Andrew still didn't react, so Neil grew a bit bolder and placed his front paws onto Andrew's shin. When that still didn't get a reaction, he planted himself on Andrew's lap and started purring as loud as he could.

That finally merited a reaction. Andrew scoffed, like he did every time he called Neil an idiot, but nonetheless started running his hand along Neil's soft fur. Neil forgot how good it felt to be petted, so without meaning to, he just kind of melted and purred even louder. He didn't know he could do that, but at least it seemed to distract Andrew, whose thighs lost some of their stiffness.

Neil lost track of time while Andrew kept petting him. He moved his hand in a repetitive motion, from Neil's head to the base of his tail, occasionally stopping to give a few scratches behind his ears. Neil could have stayed like that forever.

They were, however, interrupted by a loud voice ringing through the door.

“Andrew? Where are you? It's late and we want to go home!”

Andrew stiffened but before he could do anything the door opened and two men stepped out. One was tall with black hair, dark brown eyes, and dark skin, while the other looked just like Andrew. A twin then. They looked identical enough that Neil wondered if he always met with Andrew. But even twins smell differently, and he never noticed something off with Andrew's smell.

“What the fuck,” said the twin.

“Yes Andrew, what the fuck?” the taller man added,”You disappeared in the middle of the night and no one knew where you were! You'll be fired if that continues, no matter how much Roland likes you. And now we find you out here cuddling with a cat of all things. I'm surprised you haven't killed it yet.”

He turned to face Neil more fully and crouched down.

“Hey there, cutie, are you sure you want to spend time with this grump?” he said and extended a hand as if to pet Neil, who hissed and swatted at his hand.

“Okay then,” the man said and laughed,”the cutie obviously loves you, Andrew.”

“Shut up, Nicky.”

Andrew scoffed and stood up, without giving Neil the chance to get off first. Neil hissed, offended. The look Andrew threw him seemed to ask what Neil was going to do about it. By now, Neil knew enough about Andrew to be sure he wouldn't actually harm an animal, so he decided to be petty. He jumped at Andrew's leg and started climbing until he was once more perched on Andrew's shoulder. Once up there, he started purring and aggressively rubbing his head on every part of Andrew he could reach.

Nicky burst out laughing and the twin stared at them incredulously.

“What the fuck,” he said. Neil wondered briefly if he could say anything else. Andrew turned his head to face Neil. Neil had a good guess on what Andrew would do, so he licked up a strip on Andrew's nose to distract him. It worked, and in the moment Andrew's face screwed up in disgust, Neil jumped onto the floor and sauntered away.

/ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

Over the span of the next few weeks, Neil spent a lot of time with Andrew. Friday through Sunday, Andrew appeared behind the club without fail. He stayed out there for half an hour for his break and then disappeared inside again. Neil kept climbing onto Andrew's shoulder to annoy him, but he had to admit that it was a nice spot to be. Andrew's shoulders were broad for someone so small, and Andrew didn't seem to mind being Neil's new lookout spot.

Neil was pawing at a stray piece of hair when he heard it.

The voices weren't loud, but Neil could locate them roughly around the corner of the alley. They were hostile and Neil's attention was fully captured once he recognized Nicky's voice among them. Even from this distance he sounded scared.

Without thinking, Neil jumped off and started tugging insistently at Andrew's pant leg. When that didn't get a reaction beside a raised eyebrow, he started pacing in the direction of the voices, meowing all the while.

“If you think I'll follow you to some dirty place you want to show me you're mistaken,” he said and Neil hissed at him, still pacing.

Andrew sighed and pushed off from where he was leaning against the wall.

“Well?” he asked Neil, who ran towards the voices, checking if Andrew was following him.

Nicky cried out in pain and Andrew immediately took off running, Neil hot on his heels. The scene they arrived to was telling, four men in a half circle around Nicky, who was already lying on the floor and bleeding profusely from a wound on his head.

Andrew moved before Neil had taken in the scene completely. The first one hit the floor and didn't get up. From then on it was a full on brawl, three against one. The men didn't stand a chance, even though they outnumbered Andrew, and all had at least a foot on him.

Neil watched as if in a trance. Violence was nothing new for him, but he only ever saw this kind of protective fury from his mother. Until now, Neil didn't have the impression that Andrew was particularly fond of Nicky, but he clearly was wrong about that.

There was only one man left standing, though he was visibly worse for wear. Andrew had a few bruises already, but he was still standing strong, while his opponent was limping and uncoordinated. Neil got a look of Andrew's face and realized that he wouldn't stop when the last man went down. There was no triumph in his eyes, only cold fury.

Neil didn't make the decision consciously. He turned around and disappeared behind the corner, checked to see if there was anyone who could see him, and shifted back to his human form. Then he ran back towards the fight where Andrew had just defeated his last opponent. He stepped towards the prone form of the man, ready to kick him some more when Neil hauled him back from behind.

This was a mistake, Neil thought as the first punch hit him hard. He didn't even know why he was doing this, but apparently he was stupid, and had actually come to like Andrew during the past few weeks. He knew that if Andrew continued to take out his anger on the already unconscious men there would be no way for him to plead self defense in court. Inexplicably, Neil didn't want Andrew to face consequences for protecting someone.

It was easier said than done though. Neil only had to keep Andrew occupied until someone came to check out the commotion, but he didn't know how long he could hold out. After being caught off guard because Neil attacked him from behind, Andrew had taken out knives from somewhere and now Neil was bleeding from cuts at his shoulder and thigh. Neil had to fight the urge to run away and never come back. But he had started this and now he would see it through.

It had only been a minute but Neil felt like hours had passed when someone entered the alleyway and shouted. Neil turned around and ran, not wanting to be seen. There was nothing more he could do now and he had wounds to tend to. The next few weeks he wouldn't be able to move at full capacity.

This was a mistake, Neil thought again, but couldn't bring himself to regret it. He just hoped he had helped Andrew somehow.

/ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

Neil couldn't afford to be seen injured as a human, so he stayed as a cat and hoped he didn't get an infection. He didn't want to travel far with multiple cuts that could re-open at any time, and he definitely didn't want to be at the mercy of someone taking pity on the poor abused cat.

He knew he looked bad, and staying under a trashcan behind a club wouldn't make things any better, but he just needed to hold out until he could run without re-opening his wounds. Besides, food and water were relatively easy to get to from this position, so he couldn't really complain.

Almost a week later Neil started getting anxious. What if Andrew didn't return? What if he was fired? Then Neil would never know if his stupid sacrifice had been worth it. Neil was no stranger to making mistakes, but he was still nervous thinking about it. He went against all his promises to his mother just for a stranger that he wouldn't ever see again. She would have beaten him senseless if she were alive.

But then, if she were alive they would still be running from town to town without ever stopping to actually live. He felt guilty thinking that, but he enjoyed the time he spent with Andrew, the feeling of knowing someone, even if he was just a cat to them. Being recognized and maybe even missed should he disappear. But Andrew was the one that might never come back so Neil might just have to move on too.

He was still feeling sorry for himself when the door opened and Andrew stepped through. He looked around like he always did if Neil wasn't already waiting for him, but his face was even blanker than usual. Neil didn't think that was possible.

Neil felt self-conscious now. He didn't know how Andrew would react to his wounds and he didn't know if he even wanted to find out. He was still trying to decide when Andrew spoke up.

“I can see you under the trashcan, don't ignore me. I even brought you some chicken.”

Neil had survived during the last few days but chicken sounded heavenly. He decided to risk it. Maybe Andrew would feel sorry for him and bring him some more tomorrow.

He started limping towards Andrew and meowed. It sounded more pitiful than he intended. Andrew's gaze hardened and he crouched down. When Neil reached him, he bumped his head into Andrew's knee and immediately regretted it. He forgot the bruise on his face. It was better already but direct contact still hurt.

Andrew must have felt him flinch because he didn't touch Neil. Usually he would scratch behind Neil's ears for a bit, but today he was just looking. Neil felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny but he was hungrier than he thought so he meowed again. Still pitiful.

The chicken was laid carefully in front of him and Neil started wolfing it down. Andrew was still looking at him but he really didn't care right now. Out of the corner of his eye he could see one of Andrew's hands clench into a fist, shaking lightly. Maybe he should have felt threatened, considering Andrew was the one who inflicted these wounds, but in the end Neil knew what he had been getting into when he pulled Andrew back from the other men.

When he finished he looked up to Andrew's face. He looked stony but his eyes held an emotion Neil couldn't place. He wondered what would happen now. Would Andrew just leave him like this, or would he do something? Maybe he was the type of person that didn't care about animals being injured, but Neil somehow couldn't imagine that.

Stiffly, Andrew got up and walked towards the door. Neil felt disappointed even though he didn't want to.

“Stay here,” Andrew said before walking back inside. Neil was too confused to do anything but obey.

A few minutes later, Andrew came back outside carrying a carton box. He set it down and crouched beside Neil, who limped over to sniff at the box. A hand appeared in front of his face and then carefully wandered down his torso. Neil realized Andrew intended to pick him up when Andrew put two hands under Neil's rib cage. Neil didn't resist so Andrew lifted him up and set him down inside the box. It was cushioned with a sweater that smelled like Andrew. It had to be the softest thing Neil had felt in weeks and he curled up carefully inside the warmth.

He spaced out a bit, knowing that Andrew wouldn't let any more harm come to him, but snapped back to attention when he heard Andrew speak.

“Tell the boss I'm taking the rest of the night off, I'm going home,” he said into his cellphone. Neil could make out an outraged response on the other end of the line.

“I don't care, take a taxi or something,” Andrew said and ended the phone call.

The box was picked up, jostling Neil a bit. It didn't hurt thought so he kept quiet. Neil could only see the side of the buildings and the sky move above the rim of the box, but soon enough he heard a car door open, and then the box was strapped into the passenger seat of a car.

Andrew got into the drivers seat and by the time they started driving Neil was already asleep.

/ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\

Waking up was painful, but in spite of the pain, Neil felt better than he had in quite a while. The surface he was sleeping on was soft and he burrowed a little deeper into it and let out a content purr.

“Aaaaaw, Andrew your cat is so cute,” a voice above him whispered. Neil stiffened on reflex when he didn't recognize it immediately. Hearing Andrew's voice reply made him relax again and Neil could have kicked himself for this kind of instinctual trust.

“It's a pest,” Andrew said. Nicky laughed quietly.

“Sure it is, that's why you brought it home with you.”

Andrew didn't reply to that, but Neil felt the ground under him move as his box was picked up. Neil made a noise of complaint that was predictably ignored.

“You're not going to take it back to Eden's, are you?” Nicky asked, sounding uncertain.

“Don't be stupid,” Andrew replied,”I'm going to the vet.”

Nicky seemed pleased by this, if the lack of reply was any indication. Neil tensed again. He couldn't move too well, and vets made him nervous, but he really needed some kind of medical attention. He took a moment to fiercely miss his mother, who would have taken care of his injuries.

The ride to the vet was silent and Neil could practically feel Andrew's displeasure while sitting in the waiting room. Neil was on edge the whole time but he kept still and endured. He had run away with worse injuries, he could flee if he needed to.

The actual appointment was shorter than Neil expected. The vet cleaned his wounds and gave Andrew instructions on how to care for them, while an assistant asked Andrew questions about how he found Neil and if he intended to keep him.

Neil would have thought that Andrew would gladly get rid of him the moment an opportunity presented itself, but Andrew refused the vet's offer to take Neil to the animal shelter. Apparently, Neil had been adopted. He found he didn't mind, as long as Andrew didn't get the idea that Neil should be neutered.

“It's great that you want to keep him, but we still have to contact local animal shelters to ask them if a cat matching his description has been reported as missing. As far as we can tell, he's an Abyssinian cat. Cats with distinguishable breeds like that usually aren't strays. For now you can take him home and we'll let you know if someone is looking for him. You should definitely come back to get him neutered if you're keeping him though,” the assistant explained.

Andrew offered nothing in return but the assistant didn't seem to mind. She just handed him a stack of papers and told him how much he had to pay when the appointment was over.

On the way back to Andrew's house, Neil already felt better. He hadn't noticed how bad his wounds had gotten while he stayed under that trashcan. After weeks on guard, he finally felt himself relax. Andrew was safe - if he had wanted to hurt Neil he could have done so before paying a frankly ridiculous amount of money to a vet.

Nicky was waiting for them when they returned, smiling into the box when they entered the house.

“You kept it!” he said cooing at Neil next,”Hello there cutie!”

Neil had dealt with overly enthusiastic people before, but he never had to live with one. He'd hoped that he could just sleep for a bit after returning to Andrew's house again, but that hope quickly died when Andrew deposited Neil's box in Nicky's arms.

“I'm going out,” was the only comment Nicky and Neil got before he was out of the door again. Neil felt vaguely betrayed for reasons he couldn't figure out.

“I guess it's just you, Aaron and me then,” Nicky said. Aaron must have been the name of Andrew's twin. Neil yawned and pretended to fall asleep, not willing to deal with Nicky right then. Nicky cooed a bit at the sight and gently deposited Neil's box on the couch.

A few hours later, Neil heard a car park in front again. He stretched and peered over the rim of the box to see if Andrew had come back. Sure enough, Andrew was carrying a big bag full of stuff in one hand and a litter box in the other. Apparently, he was taking this cat owner thing seriously.

Andrew had bought enough stuff to make two trips to the car necessary. While he was gone Neil ungracefully climbed out of the box to inspect the bag Andrew put down in the kitchen.

Neil heard steps on the stairs announcing two people and then Nicky and Aaron came into the kitchen to see what was going on, both sporting equally surprised expressions when they spotted all the stuff Andrew had bought for Neil.

Andrew walked past the kitchen carrying a tall cat tower, presumably taking it to his room.

“Wow he really likes you, huh,” Nicky said to Neil. Aaron shot Nicky a shocked look.

“What is even going on?” Aaron asked, ”Why is the cat from Eden's here and why did Andrew buy all this stuff?”

“Apparently Andrew adopted it,” Nicky responded. “

No shit, but why? He doesn't care about things,” Aaron said. He sounded as if he really couldn't wrap his head around the concept of Andrew caring about things. Neil felt slightly offended on Andrew's behalf.

“This little guy seems to be the exception,” Nicky said.

Neil didn't know how to feel about that, so he decided to look for Andrew. The way up the stairs was slow and kind of painful but Neil could deal. He sniffed out Andrew's room and was relieved that the door was already open. Andrew was inside setting up the cat tower.

When he saw Neil, he scowled.

“You're an idiot,” he said, the gentle way he picked Neil up a direct contradiction to his sharp tone. Neil meowed in response.

He was put onto Andrew's bed in the corner of the room and fiercely told to stay there. Neil wondered if Andrew knew commands would hardly work on cats, but he was tired and Andrew's bed was soft and smelled safe, so he curled up again and took another nap.

#all for the game #the foxhole court #tfc fanfic #neil josten #andrew minyard #pre-andreil #my writing #posting this here too because sleep apparently isn't a thing tonight and I'm too tired to be anxious about this #and because i actually really like how this turned out!#i am so sorry if the read more didn't work on mobile and you had to scroll past all this

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thisdiscontentedwinter · 8 years ago

Text

hunger - chapter 1

Hunger master post here.

The wolf is too thin, his belly shrunken and concave, no fat between his thin skin and his brittle bones. He has forgotten how to hunt. He is hunted instead, by the spectre of death. He knows. He doesn’t care. Instead of sticking to the woods where instinct tells the wolf he would be safer—shelter, water, prey—the wolf winds closer and closer into the streets of the human town, and picks through dumpsters and gutters for food.

Here tires screech on asphalt. Cars backfire. The street is hard underneath the pads of the wolf’s paws. Everything is loud and harsh and too, too bright.

The wolf limps down the alleyways, death silently following.

Winter is here. The wolf knows he will not see another one.

The wolf follows his nose. He picks up heady scents above the stink of exhaust fumes and oil and rancid things. The wolf rattles around the trashcans at the back of a cheap diner, and fills his belly with the sick-slickness of greasy burgers. Warmth fills the wolf, and his old friend death steps back for just a moment.

Nose in the air, the wolf continues to explore the alleyway. His claws dig into a pile of damp cardboard as he sidesteps the icy-cold puddle of rain, oil-slicked, in the gutter.

“Hey!” someone says, and the cardboard shifts.

The wolf skitters back, and then remembers that he is a predator. He stops, and turns, and growls.

A boy’s face appears from underneath a layer of the cardboard. It is pale. His eyes are bloodshot and his lips are blue. He has a spray of moles across his face like an unfamiliar constellation. The boy freezes when he sees the wolf. “Holy shit.”

The wolf and death stare back at the boy.

The wolf has forgotten how to mark time.

He has no idea how long it is he stands there.

***

The boy’s bones are as brittle as the wolf’s, his skin as thin. When he curls his fingers through the wolf’s ruff, they are like icicles. His breath though, is hot. It tickles the wolf’s fur when he buries his face against it. His tears taste like salt.

Death circles them, in the little den the boy has made behind the cardboard in an alleyway in the cold, cold town.

The wolf tugs himself from the boy’s grip, and slinks back down the alley to the trashcans. His boy is too cold, too weak to crawl this far, so the wolf picks up a discarded burger in his jaws and carries it back to him.

The boy eats it, crying.

The wolf curls around him when they sleep.

Death steps closer, its black mouth open in hunger.

The wolf growls at it, the sound rumbling through his thin ribcage.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Maybe not this winter at all.

The wolf has a den now, and a heartbeat to share it with.

When the boy is strong again they will go into the woods and build a shelter there, and the wolf will remember his instincts, and the boy will learn his, and they will be packmates there, where the ground is soft underneath their feet and the stars are visible at night.

***

The boy is sick for days, and shivers and cries into the wolf’s fur. The wolf curls around him to keep him warm, and licks his tears away.

Death loosens its grip on them both.

Two nights pass before the boy clambers to his feet again, legs shaking like a baby deer’s. He leans against the wall of the alley for a long time, his breath puffing mist into the cold morning air.

Then, when he’s finally caught his breath, he turns his head and looks at the wolf and says, “Holy shit.”

The wolf tilts his head and stares back at the boy, ears pricking.

Perhaps that’s the only thing his boy can say?

***

The wolf’s boy is smart. His eyes are the color of tree sap that has hardened into resin. They flash almost beta gold if the lights from the passing cars hits them just right. The boy makes short trips from the alleyway to the diner. He sometimes pays a dollar for a scalding cup of cheap coffee, just to use their restroom and soak up a few minutes of warmth inside before the staff chases him out again. Then he will sit down with the wolf again, and they will both watch the trashcans to see when the kitchen hands dump the newest bag. Sometimes it is a race between the boy and the wolf and the rats. The boy grimaces when the wolf catches the rats and eats them, and he doesn’t take the rats the wolf leaves for him.

In the woods, he will have to learn to eat fresh prey. Squirrels, the wolf thinks, might be more palatable to him although they taste much the same.

The boy doesn’t like to leave the alleyway during the day. His heartbeat quickens and he tugs the strings of his threadbare red hoodie anxiously.

“Stay,” he tells the wolf. “Stay.”

The wolf watches from the cover of the alley.

The boy has a nervous smile when he asks people for money. He’s lost his wallet. He needs some bus fare to get home, or some quarters to make a call to his parents, and oh, wow, thanks, thank you, you’re a lifesaver, really.

He has an awkward, clumsy charm that vanishes the moment he turns away again.

The boy has nightmares at night. He twitches and jerks and digs his thin fingers into the wolf’s pelt. The wolf licks his tears away and whines when the boy cries out. Sometimes the boy’s heart beats so rabbit-fast the wolf thinks it might explode in his chest. Those are the nights the boy wakes gasping, eyes rolling in his skull, crying out a name.

Dad.

And, sometimes, Daddy.

In his dreams, the wolf thinks, he is a much younger boy.

And the wolf whines and lays his heavy head on the boy’s shoulder, and tries to tell him without words that they are pack now. They are pack.

They are pack, and they are a step ahead of death now.

***

The wolf’s boy does not appear to see death, but death sees the boy. Death, the wolf thinks, has already marked him. He needs to get his boy out of the town, out of the alley, and into the woods. But something is binding the boy here. There’s a look in his amber eyes, a stubborn way he sets his jaw. The boy has a butterfly knife. He keeps it in the back pocket of his thin jeans. He takes it out and flips it open sometimes, his dexterous fingers manipulating it with practiced ease. The boy carries something dark in his heart, and the wolf can see it clearly when the boy’s gaze is fixed on the blade of the knife. His gaze is a predator’s gaze in these moments, and the wolf curls his lip to show his teeth, and scrapes his claws on the concrete.

The wolf is a predator too.

He can’t be sure what prey his boy is seeking, but the wolf will help him hunt it. Then they will go into the woods, and never come back here again.

***

The diner is open all day and all night. At night, there are drunks around. They come from the club a few blocks away, to eat greasy burgers and then be sick in the street. Sometimes the boy approaches some of the patrons as they enter or leave the diner, before the staff chases him away. At night he needs no cover story.

“Homeless,” he says, and holds out his hand. “Can you help me?”

The drunks either tell him to fuck off, or they are generous with their spare change.

At night, the cops come to the diner as well. The deputies eat at odd hours, their cars parked in the lot out the front.

The boy doesn’t approach them. He stays in the shadows, and stares narrow-eyed at the entrance of the diner. One night he takes his butterfly knife and slips into the parking lot. The wolf shadows him as he scours the blade of the knife through the paint job on the side of the cruiser, through the shield and the words: BEACON COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. The scrape of the blade on metal makes the wolf flatten his ears back against his skull.

“Fuckers,” the boy says and spits on the ground. The wolf can taste his anger, his hatred. “Fuckers.”

The wolf and his boy watch from the shadows when the bewildered deputy finishes his meal and finds the damage. He is young, with a boyish face. He calls it in to dispatch, his radio crackling.

“Parrish to dispatch,” he says and then, when waiting for them to answer, shakes his head and sighs. “Goddamn.”

That night the wolf’s boy has more nightmares.

***

The wolf doesn’t like the town. He doesn’t like the way death watches them. He wants to take the boy away. He wants to make them a den in the woods. He wants to show his boy how to hunt for fresh prey, and how sweet the cold water tastes straight from the streams he knows. He wants to sleep without the wail of sirens or the screech of brakes. He wants to lift his nose and smell the spring when it comes.

But mostly he doesn’t like the town because he knows that whatever it is the boy wants from this place, it will hurt him. It will let death breathe him in.

Whatever it is, the boy is so fixated on it that he is insensible to other dangers.

“We need money,” the boy says, flipping his butterfly knife open and closed again. “I need to buy a gun.”

The wolf flickers his ears back in disapproval.

Death steps a little closer.

The wolf closes his jaws around the boy’s thin wrist, and the boy tugs it free again.

“We need money,” he says, and crawls out of their cardboard shelter and climbs to his feet.

The night is cold and dark.

There is no moon.

***

The man is narrow-eyed when the boy lures him into the alley.

“Fifty bucks, right?” he asks. “You’ll blow me for fifty bucks?”

“Yeah,” the boy says, and one hand slides around to the back pocket of his jeans where he keeps his knife.

The wolf watches from the cardboard shelter, a silent growl vibrating through him. His boy is not smart tonight. Not smart at all.

But he is desperate.

And he is weak and clumsy too. When the man tries to push the boy to his knees, the boy produces the knife. The man catches his wrists, and spins the boy face-first into the wall of the alley. The boy is winded, and the knife clatters to the street. The man holds him against the wall.

“You trying to rob me, you little prick?”

The boy shakes his head, and sobs.

The wolf steps forward then, his growl audible this time. He bares his fangs at the man.

“What the fuck is that?” the man exclaims. He releases the boy, and pushes him to the ground in front of the wolf as though he expects the wolf to tear the boy to shreds to buy himself some time.

Thrown to the wolves, death laughs.

The wolf steps over his boy.

The man runs.

The wolf chases.

Yes.

He is a predator.

Yes.

He will kill the man who tried to hurt his boy.

Yes.

He is alive.

Tires screech on asphalt and the wolf is blinded by the headlights a moment before impact. He is flung into the air, and then he is in the gutter, and the boy is crouching over him, and he is crying, and the wolf licks at his cold, thin fingers and whines.

“No,” his boy whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t die.”

There is a corona of light behind his boy’s head. A dirty halo from a street light. It throws a soft golden glow onto the face of death when she steps forward too. The wolf growls because death is standing too close to his boy. His growl fades when he realizes death is reaching for him, and not his boy.

“Oh, Derek,” death says.

The wolf closes his eyes.

It always hurt the most that death has Laura’s face.

#sterek #fan fiction #teen wolf #discontentedwinter #hunger

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fangirlfanwritings · 8 years ago

Text

Eric Northman Request

Can u do tb oneshot where for some reason eric ended up as human for a while and he nearly died but reader a new vampire save him n turn him? Now reader is his maker n they have bond. Reader is naive n has no self preservation so eric is protective.

“How long have you been a vampire, exactly,” Pam asked eyeing you up and down.

“6 months, I know that’s not very long,” you admitted. “But I really need a job. I worked as a hostess for a cafe when I was human, so I’m good with people.”

“Why do you need a job so badly? Why aren’t you still following your maker around like a lost puppy?”

“Um, I never really knew my maker. Some chick vampire that attacked me, turned me, and once I woke up she just laughed, broke her bond with me, and left me covered in dirt. I’ve been bouncing around, teaching myself to survive. I could really use this job,” you were pleading now.

The basement door open and a tall blonde man walked in. “Pamela, who is this,” he looked your over.

“Our newest bartender. You start tomorrow night at 9 pm, don’t be late. And wear something less…” she waved her hand at your outfit, “everything. Less of whatever this is, ok?”

“Thank you. You won’t be disappointed,” you smiled and walked out of the bar.

That’s how you got your job at the bar and met Pam and Eric. You had been working there for 4 months and had become semi accustomed to the craziness that revolved around the bar and on Sookie Stackhouse.

Pam and Eric had left you alone to run the bar tonight. They didn’t tell you where they were going but by Eric’s even tenser look and the deeper scowl on Pam’s face you new it was important.

It was 2 hours until sunrise when the bar doors were thrown open and Pam came dragging Eric in. “Clean the table off,” Pam yelled. You threw everything off the table just in time for her to lay him on it.

“What happened?”

“Witches,” she cursed. “They hit him with some spell and he passed out.”

Suddenly your senses took hold and you crinkled your nose. “Do you smell that? It smells like a human.”

“We were around them all night.”

You stepped closer to unconscious boss and lifted his arm, taking a sniff. “It’s Eric. He smells human,” she leaned down and smelt for herself.

“Shit.”

*4 days later*

“You need to eat,” you dropped a plate of food in front of him. “You’re human right now. You don’t eat, you die.”

“Didn’t realize you were so smart, Y/N,” he sneered and took a bite of the burger you had cooked for him. “Did you make this,” he said forcing a swallow. You nodded. “This tastes delicious for human food. It’s 8 in the morning, shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Couldn’t sleep hearing you pace around,” you admitted. “Thought that you might need someone to talk to too.”

“I may be human but I’m not as idiotic as they are, Y/N. I don’t need to talk to anyone to handle my problems.”

“Just checking,” you turned around and left him to sluk.

*1 week later*

You and Eric were left to close the bar since Pam went home with some red hair. “You hear all that talk tonight about those riots starting,” you asked cleaning the bar.

“I try not to pay attention to the degenerates that fill my bar,” he said grabbing the trash and taking it out the back. You continued to clean the bar until you hear a gunshot ring out. “What the hell?” You ran out back and saw Eric laying against the trash can and a small man pointing a gun at him.

“Stay back you Fanger,” the man cursed at you and pointed the gun towards you.

“They’re silver bullets,” Eric murmured and you took off towards the human, kicking the gun from his hand and snapping his neck. You ran over to Eric and put pressure against his wound. “It severed my artery,” he let out a small laugh and leaned his head against the trashcan.

“You’re bleeding out, why are you laughing?”

“Because, I’m dying as a human. I lived hundreds of years as a vampire and almost died a thousand times. One witch makes me human for one week and one human manages to kill me with one bullet.”

“You’re not dead yet,” an idea popped into your head. “Do you trust me?”

“I have nothing to lose at this point.” That was good enough for you. He had already lost most of his blood so you bit your wrist and shoved it in Eric’s face, letting him drink from you. “Y/N, what are you doing,” he asked pulling his mouth away for a second.

“This is the only way to save you.” He was unconscious when you were done feeding him so you dug the hole in the ground and climbed in with him.

The day had passed and the moon was back out. You dug the grave open and waited for Eric to wake up. A couple hours later Eric’s hands shot out of the grave and you pulled him to the surface. “Y/N...what happened?”

“I turned you. Congrats, you’re a vampire again.”

“How did you know what to do?”

“I used what I remembered from when I was made. Other than that I just hoped that I was doing it right. But, you’re not dead so that’s something,” you tried to joke.

“Do you know what being a maker entitles,” he asked seriously. You shook your head. “I’ll teach you then. You’re my maker now after all, I owe you.”

*3 weeks later*

You walked upstairs with the tight leather clothes you borrowed from Pam and were quickly met by Eric wrapping his jacket around you. “Y/N, what are you wearing?”

“I borrowed it from Pam. She told me I should dress a little more like her.”

“Don’t listen to Pamela. Go put your jeans back on and take off those 6 inch heels,” he commanded.

The club was packed and you were busy serving drinks. You handed one vampire their True Blood and went to give out drinks at one of the tables. You felt a hand grab your ass as you passed out drinks. Then, a split second later, Eric had the guy’s hand twisted behind he back. “I believe you owe the lady an apology,” he growled. When the vampire didn’t reply Eric pulled harder on his hand. “An apology…”

“I’m….I’m sorry.”

“Eric, can I speak with you...in the back.” Once the door was closed you sat and looked at him. “Eric, I appreciate you watching out for me out there but it’s part of the job.”

“You are my maker, they cannot treat you with such disrespect.”

“How about you watch my back but try not to break anybody’s limbs, yeah?”

“That sounds manageable.”

#eric northman imagines #eric northman imagine #eric northman request #true blood imagine #true blood imagines

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oselatra · 7 years ago

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A week at Midtown

Can a dive bar be reborn?

Midtown Billiards occupies the ground floor of a red-brick two-story at 1316 Main St., just south of Interstate 630, where downtown Little Rock splits. On the morning of Sept. 16, 2016, the building caught fire.

It started in the kitchen — located up front, behind the window that faces the sidewalk — and the flames burst through the glass. Smoke curled up the front exterior and billowed down the street. Even with the broken window there was not enough ventilation to stop the rest of the bar from filling with hot smoke. It was not the fire, per se, but this smoke and heat inside— hot enough to melt the ceiling fans — that caused most of the damage. Outside, the blaze — a flickering orange in the window of a storefront on one of Little Rock's main drags — caught eyes. Someone at the gas station across from Midtown called an employee of the bar, who called David Shipps, the general manager, and he was the one who told the owner, Maggie Hinson.

"Well, I'll tell you," Hinson said when I asked her about the burning bar, "I was busy having a heart attack." This is not a metaphor for being distraught; Hinson was recovering from an actual heart attack and was not able to go to Midtown to watch the Little Rock Fire Department do its work. "I'd just come from the hospital," she said, "and I was still really very ill." Plus, she did not have her car. A friend to whom she'd lent her Ford Mustang had called earlier that day. "She told me she hit a deer," Hinson said. Trouble come in threes.

As word spread about the fire, most people assumed the culprit was grease. A dive bar, perhaps the city's most famous, Midtown is well known for its oleaginous burgers. Esquire magazine — in anointing it among the best bars in America in 2007 — wrote, "People arrive here drunk and leave wicked. But it helps that they have those hamburgers cooked behind the bar, coated so thickly with spices and so indulgent at 3:00 a.m. that you'll see eyes rolling back in ecstasy with each bite." Maybe this association of the griddle with the bar's reputation is what propelled the narrative. Whatever the reason, it took on a tragic tone: This hallowed dive could not sustain its run-down nature and had been bound to self-destruct. Icarus flew too close to that oily sun.

But, the grease story was a myth. "There was no grease — I can't express that enough — there was no grease involved at all," Shipps said. It was actually a fridge's motor that seized up. From security camera footage, Shipps was able to watch the fire's progression, beginning just as sparks. "A few minutes later a flame was right on top of the fridge, dancing back and forth," he said. It caught onto the wall, then the drop ceiling. "And once it caught the drop ceiling — phom — it just spread," he remembered. When, the next morning, Shipps began clearing the char with a shovel, he found the fridge in a "molten heap."

Now, almost 10 months later, Hinson — who most people call Maggie and who has bright red hair that flows around her face — was standing in the front foyer, beside the kitchen, of an almost finished and refurbished Midtown. Her heart was working and out front was a red Mustang parked on the front curb. Everything was back in shape, or at least getting there, she said. It was Wednesday, July 5, and Midtown was reopening the next day.

***

Part of the reason it took Midtown so long to reopen was the reason Midtown was great: It was worn in. The saloon, for years, had opened each day at 3 p.m. and closed at 5 a.m., rarely shutting the doors even for holidays. During the afternoons it was known as a drowsy and calm place, haunted by the comfort of old regulars. Then, after happy hour, the bar would clear out. "It could be a ghost town" during that time, Hinson told me, when other bars were packed. Midtown is one of the few places in Little Rock to have a Class B private club license, allowing it to stay open until 5 a.m. It gets most of its customers from 1 a.m. to close, after other bars — each with different shades of late-night scene — shut their doors and push along their variegated patrons. These folks combine with a steady steam of workers whose shifts end around the same time and beat the crap out of the property until early morning.

There was an almost constant fog of cigarette smoke. Someone described this dank, dark bar as like the comfort of an old shoe. Midtown was not, as you can imagine, exactly up to building codes.

After the fire everything had to be repaired, and some things would need to change: New, more spacious bathrooms would be installed; the drop ceiling would be taken out; a freshly stained wood bar was needed; the walls would get new paint; and the new cement floor would be squeaky-clean, neither black nor sticking to your boot as you stepped.

This all took time. And to pay for it meant dealing with insurance claims. Shipps remembers cataloging an estimated 360 items, trying to find their exact price and date of purchase. Builders would sometimes have to suddenly stop — one time for a whole month — to wait on the paperwork.

For all that had to change, Shipps and Hinson have chiefly tried to preserve the bar as it was. It is still one room that stretches straight back, the walkway made skinny in the front by the bar on the right and by wood filing cabinets stocked with supplies on the left, before opening to pool tables and finally a dance floor with a stage. For continuity, Shipps put up a cut out rectangle of the old swamp-green wall from before the fire, covered in scribbling and beer labels. There was now a clear dividing line between the pre-fire hunk of wall and the newly painted Teenage-Mutant-Ninja-Turtle-green interior.

"I think this is almost too fancy for us; it's almost too nice," Shipps worried, surveying the walls around him. "But, it won't last," Shipps quickly added, with confidence. "It won't last at all." He was sure of the customers and, he added, "It seems like all these old buildings have ghosts to them anyways." Hinson told me they were betting on when it'd get back to the state of necessary distress. She bet Sunday.

***

I was giving it a full week, from Thursday to Thursday. My idea was to go each night to the bar, in a purely scientific documentation of Midtown's descent into its former glory. "There's a difference between a dive bar and just a shithole bar," Conan Robinson, a longtime bartender at Midtown who now runs Four Quarter Bar in North Little Rock, had told me. I thought he was right, but how do you make a dive? The word had shifted over the years. Dive, as a word for a drinking-den, came up in the late 1800s as a name for lewd establishments in basements and cellars into which one would "dive" to join the seedy underworld, hopefully unseen. The physical element (to dive) is gone for most places we call dives now — Midtown is street level beside an artisanal pizza place and a respectful business. Yet, the key was still in the name, a good dive bar needs an element of "below." You should feel as if you have cut through the cracks of everyday life. Most don't get this through being dirty, but through history. A proper dive is not really nasty as much as eroded.

History had certainly done its work on the old Midtown, but the fire now wiped out fossils of good times. The new Midtown ran the risk of looking like a ripped Urban Outfitter jean: trying hard to come off frayed but actually faking it. At the same time, as Robinson said, it couldn't just let things go to complete shit to reclaim its bruised past. There had to be a certain something behind the damage. The challenge for Midtown in its first week would be to degenerate, but in a hard-to-pin-down authenticity.

***

On Thursday, July 6, around 5 p.m., Midtown reopened not with a rush, but with a slow fill as people got off work. The public would come tomorrow, but tonight was restricted to the regulars. Most of them had been coming for years, were in their 40s and 50s, and of the happy-hour coterie. They would come in, find a friend, hug, order that friend a drink, and then begin chatting. I saw a cigarette hit the bar, maybe even leave a mark, as it hung on someone's finger deep in a conversation. That's how they happen: The infrastructure remembers even when the patrons don't. I found a few other dents: One of the Blue Moon lights over a pool table already had a large crack in it and there were some frantically drawn illustrations along the walls. A scribbled Dylan misquote stood out: "Those not busy being born are busy dying." The smoke did not hang in the room tonight, but dissipated and the lights were somewhat bright.

I found Robinson — who was easy to spot because he has a giant graying beard halfway down his chest — and asked him how it felt to be back. "A bit like a parallel universe," he admitted. Things were all the same but totally different, like a dream. The slightness of the changes were almost stranger. For example, his muscle memory of pouring a shot now did not fit the altered landscape. He'd bang his arm or elbow. He was hopeful though. "It's getting there," he said.

If anything could break this place in, it was an infamous Thursday night happy-hour game called bottle-toss. Here's the gist: You throw a bottle across the bar into a trashcan, and whoever is the last person to get the bottle into the can has to buy a round for the whole bar. The game can have up to 60 people. I did the math and the risk was close to half my rent. That's why many stand on the wings and watch as bottles fly into the can or smash onto the ground.

I found its originator, Stephen Steed and asked if it was on for tonight. He pointed up to the new fans whisking away the smoke. "They're too low," he said. "Some people have a high arch." He was holding off until the following Thursday. But, he handed me a packet of all the old statistics on bottle-toss in a folder. Steed has kept an exhaustive "Leaderboard" for each year of the game: names of the players, a cheeky sentence bio, their "season" record, a special smiley face if they got the bottle in on the first throw. From these statistics he makes Harper's- style indexes. Here are a few lines from the 2014 season:

BOTTLE-TOSS INDEX

Number of years of bottle-tossing at Midtown in some form or fashion: 14

Age of the oldest bottle-tosser: 84

Number of the Little Rock Nine to toss bottles: 1

Number of tossers this season: 1,119

I'd have to wait, but it'd be a good way to end my week here, even a test: Could the game transfer to the new Midtown?

***

Around 9:30 p.m., a group circled around Hinson and began chanting her name with their hands in the air. "Maggie! Maggie! Maggie!" No one is more responsible for Midtown's reputation than Hinson. She long has not just been an owner, but a kind of matron.

When she first got ownership of the bar, this meant caring for old men — a good bit of them holdovers from the previous owner. Midtown had originally opened in 1940 as Jimmy's Midtown Billiards. Back then, the name made more sense: There was an eponymous Jimmy, it was his bar and it was located on Seventh Street, which was midtown at the time. Not until the 1970s did it move to South Main Street. Under Jimmy's reign, the bar would open at 6 a.m. and close at 6 p.m. It was a pool hall and a gambling spot. Older men would mix in the mornings with prostitutes who came from a safe house down the street to get coffee.

Near the end of the 1980s it was sold to Maggie and Jim Hinson. (She thinks; it was hard to pin down a date on the transaction, she said.)

Hinson had learned how to bartender when she was 18. On her way out to California, from her home in Stuttgart, she stopped in Oklahoma City and worked at a bar for two years called the Horseshoe Lounge. "It was shaped like a horseshoe," she said, and she worked the entire bar and all the tables. Then, she finally caught that ride to California and, in her words, "hung out."

"Where?" I asked

"San Francisco," she said.

I asked if she liked it and her reply was: "If you remember if you liked it there — during my time — you were not there." It was the 1960s.

In San Francisco she got married. She and this husband traveled the world, but eventually things fizzled. In Hot Springs she met another man, Jim Hinson. "Oh, what year was that? Good God," she wondered. "Maybe, 37, 38 years ago?" They lived a good life together: She ran an accounting firm in North Little Rock and he was the deputy director of finance for the Department for Human Services. They had hobbies, too. "He was a gambler and he liked to gamble and that's what he did. And we got along great," she remembers. When Jim retired he bought Jimmy's. "When we bought this, my husband wouldn't let me come in here because he said it was too rough," she said. "But, then he changed his mind after he found out there was some domino players back there and he could play. Somebody needed to work."

Maggie Hinson ended up running the place. "I've worked the door, I've been a bartender, I've been a cook, I've been a plumber. Whatever it takes," she said. "I breathed life into the place." She would come and make a meal for everybody — whole hams, cornbread — no set menu. "It was kind of a nursery for old men. They'd come in and I'd feed and water them," she said of the first years. "They were my kids, all those old guys. I just loved them to death." She stopped for a moment. "And they're all gone now," she finished. Her husband, too; he died three years ago.

There were new regulars now — chanting around her as the bar reopened — and an employee walked past me and whispered in my ear, "See: Everybody loves Maggie." The place closed up at 10 p.m., still pretty clean.

***

Friday was the official kickoff and the live band did not start until well past midnight. Before then, it was mostly pool players in Midtown. A man with a loose fitting shirt, smoking a Cigarillo, played a guy in board shorts and a tank top; next to them, a mustachioed older guy wearing a tucked-in black polo, dangled a cigarette from his mouth as he beat back competitor after competitor. Circling around was a fella that looked like Tom Cotton on a bender, eyes hazed. As the evening stretched into the early morning, the walls started filling up, too. Customers had been given specialized Sharpies for Midtown's opening imprinted "Fire Bad! Whiskey Good!" They put them to use. Some patrons wore red shirts with a drawing of Midtown on fire and the phrase "Smoking Establishment." I saw someone ash on the floor, pause to wonder if it was wrong, and then do it again. A woman walked past with a walker.

By 2 a.m., the band was playing and the place was almost full. It was a motley crew. Preppy kids mixed with goth-types who were close to some hipsters who bumped shoulders with some older men. I saw a white man with dreadlocks and, to his right, a black man with dreadlocks. Peeking out the window, I saw a guy leaned up against a tree, near the curb, being helped by friends. A few pool sharks were still around, too; they'd stayed through the rush. One guy would put his tall boy Miller Lite can into a corner pocket and then strike with power, offering an "excuse me" to people in his way. "There are some bars that cater to certain kinds of people," Shipps said of Midtown. "We don't do that — at 2 a.m., everyone's the same kind."

I headed for the bathroom. A woman near the door told me to "not freak out" because the men's room "is not completely trash like it used to be." She'd just come out of it. Hinson had said she was not worried about the walls becoming filled with words, letters and drawings again: "We have a lot of self-made artists and poets." But, to have the bathroom already covered surprised me. One person's mark stood out. Loopy penises — looking like comical French-style twirly mustaches that had been scrunched in the middle, drawn in a single stroke — were everywhere. It was clear that a single artist had drawn all of them. It was unique. Someone had probably come to Midtown and spent their entire first night holed up in this bathroom drawing dicks in a determined respect. I thought that was nice.

***

If Thursday was about the longtime regulars, this weekend was about what Midtown had become.

Saturday night offered a similarly eclectic crew, but with a larger anchor of service industry workers. Bars open until 5 a.m. in Little Rock all cater to those who get off shifts late in the night (or morning), but Midtown, more than others, has become known for these clients. The word "home" came up more often than any other when I asked a random person about Midtown, but the second most common phrase was "service industry." One person told me that during his shift at another restaurant the idea of getting off work mixes with going to Midtown. "I can't wait to go to Midtown," they say to mean, "I can't wait for the end of this shift."

Not that this was always the plan. When the Hinsons first bought the bar, they actually tried to fancy it up a bit, turning Jimmy's into a martini and cigar bar. Maggie would come in with scrapers to try to get beer labels off the wall and just find more and more each day. After she inherited a 5 a.m. license, Midtown changed focus. "We're going to be a 5 a.m. bar, it's going to be a dive bar, we're going to cater to people in the industry," Shipps said of that transition.

This shift really took hold in the late 1990s and early 2000s, around when Robinson started working there. "Back then, Midtown was just sort of, I almost want to say, word-of-mouth; you didn't really know about it," he told me. "It was like this hidden oasis of like, 'Hey I work here, I work there, and I got off work at 1 in the morning,' or 1:30 in the morning and they'd all head over to Midtown. Have some drinks, eat a burger, play some pool." Back then, "we had one of those Walmart electric griddles, you know, that you would plug into the wall," Robinson said. "You could only cook about six burgers at a time and it would take sometimes up to 45 minutes to cook, because they are just sitting there slow-cooking in their own grease."

Then Little Rock's downtown started changing. "There weren't as many bars back 15 years ago," Nola Nysten, a longtime employee and bartender at Midtown, explained. "The River Market had two or three. So, when the bar industry started picking up here in Little Rock is when we got hit with late-night." As the service industry grew downtown, so did Midtown's late-night scene.

The major demarcation, the real turning point, was doing away with the 8 a.m. shift. For about the first decade under Hinson, Midtown had only closed for a few hours, between 5 a.m. and 8 a.m. But, the old men of morning gambling and coffee were not the main customer-base anymore. They adjusted, and started coming in the evening. "They'd be back there playing dominoes and the band just a-blaring," Hinson said.

On that first Saturday, most people I met were service-industry. And it showed. There was a healthy amount of respect and appreciation for the bartenders. There were out and out drunken folks, too, sure. But they were watched after.

When I was looking at the clock behind the bar, realizing it was 15 minutes ahead, and not 3:25, or so, but actually 3:10, a burly larger guy slid up to me.

"I fucked up," he said, kind of giggling.

"What did you do?" I asked

"I don't know!" he yelped, and burst into a laugh, grabbing my arm and bent forward so low his head almost touched the bar. Then he rose and tried to order another drink. The bartender, kindly, told him he was probably OK for the night. I watched him walk away perfectly fine with the decision, dancing a bit. Remember: A dive is not complete shit. That probably stopped the guy from puking.

***

Sunday was proving comparatively calm, I was thinking, while a man in a black cowboy hat did karaoke. Behind him, the stage was now covered with graffiti. In an interlude, he asked the crowd, "Can I get a hell yeah?" and I expected the tepid response of most karaoke events.

"HELL YEAH!" the whole bar screamed. "Can I get a yee haw?" "YEE HAW!" they bellowed. Such a full-throated response to karaoke I have never heard. The next person stepped up and a fellow bar mate told me this guy — now swaying and sort of singing in a mumble — had been one of the first to the mic almost four hours earlier.

Bubbling under the surface, even on Sunday, is the Midtown party.

***

After the late nights on the weekend — almost until the crack of dawn — I took the early week to learn about evenings at Midtown. I drank beers in the afternoon. I chatted. I met people getting off work or about to go in and I learned how to sit on a barstool and think about nothing. I tried to channel one of the newer employees, Brendon Holmes.

He is 23 and recently came back to Arkansas from California, where he served in the Marines. He is a bar back, which means he cooks the famous burgers and helps refill the stocks if they run out. At night, this can be an exhausting job as the drunken clamor for food and bartenders take order after order; persons gaming for attention as if they are the only one in the bar. But, Holmes is serene about the whole thing.

When I asked him about Midtown, he spoke of the joy of its solitude on evenings. "I usually go a lot of places by myself," he said. "Part of the reason I come up here is I'm always cool to bring my sketch pad and just chill by myself and draw." He wants to be a tattoo artist — he showed me an intricate series of sea creatures on his right arm painted from the elbow to the wrist, part of a larger piece. He also likes piercings: He has a nose ring and a stud on his cheek. It's not like Holmes does not enjoy fun. I've seen him working late-night shifts and stop on the way back to dance after he delivered food. Late nights require a still morning.

***

On Wednesday, I overheard and wrote down:

"Almost looks the same," a man says to a woman as a half-way introduction.

"Pretty much," she says back, and then orders a beer.

***

Around 7:11 p.m. on Thursday, we were still waiting for bottle-toss to start up when the fire alarm went off. No fire-breaking glass, no burnt-down building, no molten fridge; just a new system sensitive to smoke. Bottle-toss is supposed to start at 7 p.m., but it actually gets going whenever Hinson finishes playing dominoes in the back, so in the meantime, people prepared the field as the alarm went off. A white chalk line was drawn near the end of the bar, about 30 feet away from a trashcan that was placed against the wall. Right above the trashcan, someone drew a small arrow with the word "BOTTLE" in all caps. A fire truck rolled up outside and then drove away.

The game was not always so intricately planned.

It started in 2000, when a group of Thursday regulars were trying to figure out who would pay the tab. Hinson had vetoed buying a dartboard and tried a few others games of chance to no success. "I had paper targets made and we had a drop ceiling, so I put those on the ceiling and they would shoot those long toothpicks out of a straw to see if they could hit the bullseyes. Well, that lost its glory real quick," she said. Then, someone put a bottle on top of his head and challenged one of the others to knock it off with a tossed bottle. In a heroic feat, the tosser hit the bottle off the challenger's head and it landed in a trashcan. And — as it is written in the official history I was given — " 'There's game in there somewhere,' Steed said. 'We need a different target.'"

They started by throwing from the bar to a can by the front door, but this had the danger of whacking a customer walking in, so they flipped the directions. The shot was taken at a slight right bend from the bar to a corner. Meaning, if you throw right-ish it'll hit that wall and sometimes bank in. The old Midtown had a gold star in that spot where right-handers would often hit for the bank shot. It also had tarps up, which a crazy throw would sometimes land on, causing the bottle to roll down the wall and into the can.

As Midtown grew over the past 20 or so years, so has bottle-toss. Just to give an idea of the size: since 2015, on top of the bottle-tossing, a group plays its own game of betting who will lose. It's the Midtown Pony Express, and they have 25 members.

***

Hinson stepped out from the dominoes and up to the mic around 7:30. "ARE WE READY FOR BOTTLE-TOSS?" she screamed. The toss lane was cleared and people got onto the stage or stood on benches to look down on the "field." Empty bottles lined the end of the bar, ready to be thrown.

During the game, Hinson emcees beside the throwing player, often chastising him or her for their attempts to get a free beer. Tonight, she was also the first to throw. She brought the bottle down to near her knees, rocking with it as if to flip it into the air underhanded, then, with sudden force, she cocked it behind her ear and tomahawked it. The bottle was sent in a looping dive toward the cement floor and crashed. "AHH!" a cheer rose up. The first bottle-toss. Two men with brooms began the process of pushing the debris to the side. Hinson grabbed the microphone and invited people to line up.

Misses were aplenty as the game began. Hinson used various phrases to describe these catastrophic throws, but there were a few common ones: "crashed and burned" for the bad ones and "Oh baby! So close!" for the OK ones. The most regularly used just a buzzer-like "EHH!" Brad Kimbrell, a former two-time champion of bottle-toss, was the first to sink his bottle, and a loud roar rose up.

Then, at 7:31 p.m., the fire alarm went off again. "Hold on; there is no fire," Hinson said. Another fire truck came — some firefighters came in, talked to Hinson and then left. The game started back up. Someone's shot ricocheted every which way and Hinson told them to not mess up her bar. "All right? Everything is new and improved."

By the time I made it up to the line, I cannot lie, I was nervous. There were 64 people playing bottle-toss this evening and the tab would be high. I took the neck of the bottle and sent it spinning in the air until it — bang — hit the fan and crashed on the floor. Steed was right when he said some players had high arcs and that it would be a problem.

In between turns, I went back to the few people I knew for advice and learned that there had always been obstacles: I could not blame the fan, only myself. An old gas line was up there before. Other throwers included a man with walker and a person with a cast on his arm; I hoped I could at least beat them.

Near the end of the first round, one of the sweepers of the broken glass, Duncan, stepped to the line and people shouted, "ONE SHOT DUNC!" He proceeded to live up to his name. Many regulars were getting it one-shot, including "Mr. Bottle Toss himself," as Hinson called Steed. It was intimidating.

A little after 9 p.m., when there were only 23 of 64 tossers left and I was among them, came the real nerves. I could understand the people who ducked out early — they were shamed and booed when called to the line only to be found absent, but they had ensured not having to pay the tab. I'd missed probably four times at this point and none of them were close. Then, I missed again — maybe the worst of the night — and it was down to 14. I learned later I was so bad that one of the Midtown Pony Express folks placed their gamble on me. Looking back, I can't blame him.

At 9:14 p.m. I flipped an erratic one that banked and pinballed off too many surfaces to be anything but pure ugly before sliding into the can. Per custom, I went over and hugged Hinson. She nicely yelled at me: "Go get your free beer!"

The game went on, but not much longer; it ended around 9:34 p.m. Hinson and one other tosser had gone one-on-one a few times and neither had made it in. After a quick discussion, they agreed to split the tab. She then called for silence and let the place settle. Hinson said, "We've been closed for a long time and I feel like I got my family back with me." Another cheer.

A good amount of people shuffled out at that point, but even more stayed. They did what people have always done in the rooms we call dive bars: smoke, drank, chatted, ate. It reminded me of earlier in the week, when I was trying to squeeze out of Hinson some reason her bar was so special and she was trying to help, but, eventually, she grew a little tired of it and stopped.

"We're just plain," she said.

***

I did not have to — even planned not to — but Friday I went back to Midtown.

A week at Midtown

#A week at Midtown

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