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6peaches · 3 years ago

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Richard Siken - You Are Jeff

2 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road. Let’s call them Jeff. And because the first Jeff is in front we’ll consider him the older, and therefore responsible for lending money and the occa- sional punch in the shoulder. World-wise, world-weary, and not his mother’s favorite, this Jeff will always win when it all comes down to fisticuffs. Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t always all come down to fisticuffs. Jeff is thinking about his brother down the winding road be- hind him. He is thinking that if only he could cut him open and peel him back and crawl inside this second skin, then he could relive that last mile again: reborn, wild-eyed, free.

3 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which Jeff you are. It could have been so beautiful—you scout out the road ahead and I will watch your back, how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy— but each Jeff wants to be the other one. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of looking at the back of your head. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of seeing my hand me down clothes. Look, Jeff, I’m telling you, for the last time, I mean it, etcetera. They are the same and they are not the same. They are the same and they hate each other for it.

4 Your name is Jeff and somewhere up ahead of you your brother has pulled to the side of the road and he is waiting for you with a lug wrench clutched in his greasy fist. O how he loves you, darling boy. O how, like always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night. When he throws the wrench into the air it will catch the light as it spins toward you. Look—it looks like a star. You had expected something else, anything else, but the wrench never reaches you. It hangs in the air like that, spinning in the air like that. It’s beautiful.

5 Let’s say God in his High Heaven is hungry and has decided to make himself some tuna fish sandwiches. He’s already finished making two of them, on sourdough, before he realizes that the fish is bad. What is he going to do with these sandwiches? They’re already made, but he doesn’t want to eat them.

Let’s say the Devil is played by two men. We’ll call them Jeff. Dark hair, green eyes, white teeth, pink tongues—they’re twins. The one on the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about to. As they wrestle, you can tell that they have forgotten about God, and they are very hungry.

6 You are playing cards with three men named Jeff. Two of the Jeffs seem somewhat familiar, but the Jeff across from you keeps staring at your hands, your mouth, and you’re certain that you’ve never seen this Jeff before. But he’s on your team, and you’re ahead, you’re winning big, and yet the other Jeffs keep smiling at you like there’s no tomorrow. They all have perfect teeth: white, square, clean, even. And, for some reason, the lighting in the room makes their teeth seem closer than they should be, as if each mouth was a place, a living room with pink carpet and the window’s open. Come back from the window, Jefferson. Take off those wet clothes and come over here, by the fire.

7 You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room. Phone’s for you, Jeff says. Hey! It’s Uncle Jeff, who isn’t really your uncle, but you can’t talk right now, one of the Jeffs has put his tongue in your mouth. Please let it be the right one.

8 Two brothers are fighting by the side of the road. Two motorbikes have fallen over on the shoulder, leaking oil into the dirt, while the interlocking brothers grapple and swing. You see them through the backseat window as you and your parents drive past. You are twelve years old. You do not have a brother. You have never experienced anything this ferocious or intentional with another person. Your mother is pretending that she hasn’t seen anything. Your father is fiddling with the knobs of the radio. There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say hello.

9 You are in an ordinary suburban bedroom with bunk beds, a bookshelf, two wooden desks and chairs. You are lying on your back, on the top bunk, very close to the textured ceiling, staring straight at it in fact, and the room is still dark except for a wedge of powdery light that spills in from the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom is covered in mint green tile and someone is in there, singing very softly. Is he singing to you? For you? Black cherries in chocolate, the ring around the moon, a bee- tle underneath a glass—you cannot make out all the words, but you’re sure he knows you’re in there, and he’s singing to you, even though you don’t know who he is.

10 You see it as a room, a tabernacle, the dark hotel. You’re in the hallway again, and you open the door, and if you’re ready you’ll see it, but maybe one part of your mind decides that the other parts aren’t ready, and then you don’t remember where you’ve been, and you find yourself down the hall again, the lights gone dim as the left hand sings the right hand back to sleep. It’s a puzzle: each piece, each room, each time you put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, your ear to the wound that whispers.

You’re in the hallway again. The radio is playing your favorite song. You’re in the hallway. Open the door again. Open the door.

11 Suppose for a moment that the heart has two heads, that the heart has been chained and dunked in a glass booth filled with river water. The heart is monologing about hesitation and fulfillment while behind the red brocade the heart is drowning. Can the heart escape? Does love even care? Snow falls as we dump the booth in the bay.

Suppose for a moment we are crowded around a pier, waiting for something to ripple the water. We believe in you. There is no danger. It is not getting dark, we want to say.

12 Consider the hairpin turn. It is waiting for you like a red door or the broken leg of a dog. The sun is shining, O how the sun shines down! Your speedometer and your handgrips and the feel of the road below you, how it knows you, the black ribbon spread out on the greens be- tween these lines that suddenly don’t reach to the horizon. It is waiting, like a broken door, like the red dog that chases its tail and eats your rose- bushes and then must be forgiven. Who do you love, Jeff? Who do you love? You were driving toward something and then, well, then you found yourself driving the other way. The dog is asleep. The road is be- hind you. O how the sun shines down.

13 This time everyone has the best intentions. You have cancer. Let’s say you have cancer. Let’s say you’ve swallowed a bad thing and now it’s got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see what I mean but you’re happy anyway, and that’s okay, it’s a love story after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action, where the mirror says mirror and the hand says hand and the front door never says Sorry Charlie. So the doctor says you need more stitches and the bruise cream isn’t working. So much for the facts. Let’s say you’re still completely in the dark but we love you anyway. We love you. We really do.

14 After work you go to the grocery store to get some milk and a carton of cigarettes. Where did you get those bruises? You don’t remember. Work was boring. You find a jar of bruise cream and a can of stewed tomatoes. Maybe a salad? Spinach, walnuts, blue cheese, apples, and you can’t decide between the Extra Large or Jumbo black olives. Which is bigger anyway? Extra Large has a blue label, Jumbo has a purple label. Both cans cost $1.29. While you’re deciding, the afternoon light is streaming through the windows behind the bank of checkout coun- ters. Take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest, holding onto it and not letting it go. Now let it go.

15 Like sandpaper, the light, or a blessing, or a bruise. Blood everywhere, he said, the red light hemorrhaging from everywhere at once. The train station blue, your lips blue, hands cold and the blue wind. Or a horse, your favorite horse now raised up again out of the mud and galloping galloping always toward you. In your ruined shirt, on the last day, while the bruise won’t heal, and the stain stays put, the red light streaming in from everywhere at once. Your broken ribs, the back of your head, your hand to mouth or hand to now, right now, like you mean it, like it’s split- ting you in two. Now look at the lights, the lights.

16 You and your lover are making out in the corner booth of a seedy bar. The booths are plush and the drinks are cheap and in this dim and smoky light you can barely tell whose hands are whose. Someone raises their glass for a toast. Is that the Hand of Judgment or the Hand of Mercy? The bartender smiles, running a rag across the burnished wood of the bar. The drink in front of you has already been paid for. Drink it, the bartender says. It’s yours, you deserve it. It’s already been paid for. Somebody’s paid for it already. There’s no mistake, he says. It’s your drink, the one you asked for, just the way you like it. How can you refuse Hands of fire, hands of air, hands of water, hands of dirt. Someone’s doing all the talking but no one’s lips move. Consider the hairpin turn.

17 The motorbikes are neck and neck but where’s the checkered flag we all expected, waving in the distance, telling you you’re home again, home? He’s next to you, right next to you in fact, so close, or. . . he isn’t. Imagine a room. Yes, imagine a room: two chairs facing the window but nobody moves. Don’t move. Keep staring straight into my eyes. It feels like you’re not moving, the way when, dancing, the room will suddenly fall away. You’re dancing: you’re neck and neck or cheek to cheek, he’s there or he isn’t, the open road. Imagine a room. Imagine you’re danc- ing. Imagine the room now falling away. Don’t move.

18 Two brothers: one of them wants to take you apart. Two brothers: one of them wants to put you back together. It’s time to choose sides now. The stitches or the devouring mouth? You want an alibi? You don’t get an alibi, you get two brothers. Here are two Jeffs. Pick one. This is how you make the meaning, you take two things and try to define the space between them. Jeff or Jeff? Who do you want to be? You just wanted to play in your own backyard, but you don’t know where your own yard is, exactly. You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet. You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here. You’re still right here.

19 Here are your names and here is the list and here are the things you left behind: The mark on the floor from pushing your chair back, your un- derwear, one half brick of cheese, the kind I don’t like, wrapped up, and poorly, and abandoned on the second shelf next to the poppyseed dress- ing, which is also yours. Here’s the champagne on the floor, and here are your house keys, and here are the curtains that your cat peed on. And here is your cat, who keeps eating grass and vomiting in the hall- way. Here is the list with all of your names, Jeff. They’re not the same name, Jeff. They’re not the same at all.

20 There are two twins on motorbikes but they are not on motorbikes, they’re in a garden where the flowers are as big as thumbs. Imagine you are in a field of daisies. What are you doing in a field of daisies? Get up! Let’s say you’re not in the field anymore. Let’s say they’re not brothers anymore. That’s right, they’re not brothers, they’re just one guy, and he knows you, and he’s talking to you, but you’re in pain and you can- not understand him. What are you still doing in this field? Get out of the field! You should be in the hotel room! You should, at least, be try- ing to get back into the hotel room. Ah! Now the field is empty.

21 Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don’t make a noise, don’t leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the bread and devour it. I’m in the hallway again, I’m in the hallway. The radio’s playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I’ll keep walking toward the sound of your voice.

22 Someone had a party while you were sleeping but you weren’t really sleeping, you were sick, and parts of you were burning, and you couldn’t move. Perhaps the party was in your honor. You can’t remem- ber. It seems the phone was ringing in the dream you were having but there’s no proof. A dish in the sink that might be yours, some clothes on the floor that might belong to someone else. When was the last time you found yourself looking out of this window. Hey! This is a beautiful window! This is a beautiful view! Those trees lined up like that, and the way the stars are spinning over them like that, spinning in the air like that, like wrenches.

23 Let’s say that God is the space between two men and the Devil is the space between two men. Here: I’ll be all of them-Jeff and Jeff and Jeff and Jeff are standing on the shoulder of the highway, four motorbikes knocked over, two wrenches spinning in the ordinary air. Two of these Jeffs are windows, and two of these Jeffs are doors, and all of these Jeffs are trying to tell you something. Come closer. We’ll whisper it in your ear. It’s like seeing your face in a bowl of soup, cream of potato, and the eyes shining back like spoons. If we wanted to tell you everything, we would leave more footprints in the snow or kiss you harder. One thing. Come closer. Listen . . .

24 You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terr- ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.

- You Are Jeff by Richard Siken

#poem #poet #Richard Siken #You Are Jeff

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theangrycomet-art · 3 years ago

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Early Mornings at the Atoms

Kaiden stirred, a drowsy fog over his mind as a familiar- but nevertheless strange- sensation drug him from his sleepy mindscape. Moist but not wet sandpaper rasped along the bottoms of his feet, wiggling in between his toes.

Blinking, his brain slowly registered that is was coming from not one, but three separate areas.

“ARrgh- BLT!” He griped, exasperated as he pushed her fuzzy heads away with a slobbery foot. “GROSS.”

BLT jumped back a step, unperturbed. Bacon yipped, Lettuce nipped, and Tomato yawned at him as she stretched, tail rattling with excitement. Lettuce grabbed at his pajama pants, tugging them.

She snorted as he pushed her away again.

“Knock it off,” he groaned tiredly, burying his face in the pillow. Too soft, as usual, he felt as though he were drowning in the bed. Thinking of his quilt at home, he glared at the comforter covering most of him, slinking his foot back underneath.

Maybe he could just stay in bed until the Weekend had come and gone.

Patting the space beside him, BLT hopped beside him and launched off the bed. Running circles, her claws clacked loudly against the floor. Her barks echoing a bit against the bare walls, she slid to a stop beside his door.

Nosing at the desk chair situated beneath the door handle, she whined, licking at the brass door knob.

So much for that.

“I’m coming.” Sitting up, he palmed at the night stand, waiting until his glasses clicked in his hand. With a yawn he shoved them on his shirt, not bothering with putting them on.

Wasn’t like there was anything he wanted to see in this house beside BLT.

Kaiden tried to ignore the tightening in his chest as the sounds of the house made it to his ears.

With a low whine, BLT exchanged a look between her heads before meandering over, nosing his leg. Smiling weakly, he scratched at the base of her neck.

His body at this point decided that it was in fact awake and that it needed to be tended to. He groaned again, cursing the near empty water bottle on his nightstand as he shuffled his way across the floor.

BLT’s saliva made his feet sticky against the flooring, but he didn’t particularly mind. It was just some sealed stone, just like the rest of the house. It’s not like it would stain or anything.

Moving aside the simple wooden chair, BLT wriggled in excitement, tail rattling as he unlocked the door. Once it was open, she still. Poking her heads out, Bacon looked left, Tomato looked right, and Lettuce checked the ceiling. When she’d decided the hallway was safe, she trotted happily to kitchen.

“Good girl.” He said, trying to ignore the conversation from the opposite end of the hall as he closed his door, locking it behind him.

Feet padding silently, he forcibly steadied his breath as BLT waited for him at the kitchen entrance. The scent of caramel coffee drifted along the air, almost too sweet on his nose. She waited until he was nearly at the entrance before checking the room, same as she did the hallway.

He managed a smile- 2 in one morning, that had to be a new record- and followed after her as she signaled the clear.

“Morning, Mr. Grim.” Relaxing, Kaiden waved at the skeleton reading the news as he sipped his coffee. How he did so without lips, much less a digestive system alluded him. However, he did not have to figure out the visual conundrum, seeing as the great Grim Reaper had his human disguise on. “Hair cut?”

“Very funny.” He said dryly, though his teeth flashed him a wry grin as Kaiden rummaged through the cabinets for some plain coffee. Flicking, the tied back dreads, he mused. “But I do think I like the new look.”

BLT sat next to him hopefully, eyes large and pleading as she begged for some eggs.

“I like it- it suits you better than the last one.” Poking his head from behind the wooden door, Kaiden held his chin theatrically, amused. “It’ll be a real hit with the ladies.”

“Oh hush and enjoy your nasty black coffee.” He chastised, smiling as he flipped out his newspaper. Watching him out of the corner of his eyes socket, his smile faltered, staring at the inky marks splattering up the young mans neck.

Frowning, he opened his mouth, before shutting it with a clack of teeth.

No, better wait him out. Neither Kaiden or KD liked being interrogated. They’d come to him eventually. Still, if he was right, he should say something.

“Any plans?” He asked instead, assessing the boy as he punched the little plastic cup of grinds into the machine.

Tomato licked Grim’s knee as Lettuce and Bacon had yet to take their eyes off the plate.

“Just practicing evasive maneuvers, as usual.” Kaiden answered with a strained cheerfulness. The coffee dribbled out just as he slid his mug beneath. Glancing at the silver machine, he frowned at his reflection before adjusting his shirt higher up his neck. “You?”

“Dunno- it’s my day off. I might have me some fun.”

“Good luck. Bon Bon has plans and I’m pretty sure your gonna be dragged into them if you aren’t fast enough.” His voice echoed as he brought the mug to his lips. “BLT, no begging. What do good doggies do?”

BLT whined and begrudgingly spun in a circle until she was facing Kaiden. Sitting with poise, she lifted her paw and tilted her heads cutely.

“Good girls.” Smiling, he reached into his pocket and pulled out three bone-shaped biscuits, tossing one to each head.

“Blegh.” Glancing at the hell hound, Grim sighed and split his remaining eggs into three. “Here, you mutt. I don’t have time for them if I’m gonna avoid that brat’s chores.”

Rattles filled the air as BLT’s tail helicoptered, taking the eggs with abandoned glee. Kaiden chuckled as he made his way out of the kitchen.

“If you rinse that off I’ll wash it later,” he said as Grim straightened, popping his back. “You get out of here while you still can- I’ll stall Pinky and the Brain for as long as I can.”

“You’re such a good kid,” Grim watched Kaiden wave his hand in acknowledgement as he made his way down the hall. Once out of sight, the bringer of death kneeled down to the hell hound.

“Keep an eye on him,” he ordered, scratching each set of ears before he took the plate back, rinsed it off, and made his escape.

Kaiden, for his part, surpressed a groan as he made his way down the narrowish pathway, all too familiar voices teetering down the hall. He ignored the pictures along as the bored holes into his back, gripping his mug tightly. Taking a sip, he let the drink burn his tongue as he made his way to the bathroom.

Kaiden’s nose pinched at the scent of espresso and the ever current smell of ancient algae that came with Drake’s presence. It wasn’t his fault, and Kaiden knew he did his best to cover it and that most people couldn’t even detect it. But with his sense of smell, it was all Kaiden could do some days to stand near him.

Making his way to the doorway, he raised an unimpressed brow at the spectacle.

“For the last time if you don’t put your nasty tentacles away I’ll make you.” Bonnie snarled.

She had been up for at least an hour, seeing as her hair was in a presentable state as opposed to a frizzy rats nest. Headband keeping the orange strands in place, he glanced at the mirror to find her- surprise surprise- glaring at Drake.

For his part, the Nergling remained understandably unimpressed by such sentiments as he sipped his coffee. Politely ignoring her, he continued getting ready, his tentacles handling trivial things such as brushing his hair and pulling up his pants as he reserved his hands for more important things, such as his caffeine intake.

“Mornin’, Drake.”

The one holding up his hoodie perked up at seeing Kaiden. Drake whipped his head around to see his brother yawn, fangs flashing.

“Kay! Well this is a surprise!” He said in delight, handing over his cup to a tentacles, empty-handed now that his pants had been taken care of. “Normally you try and sleep the day away.”

“You mean hide away in his room.” Bonnie frowned suspiciously at her eldest brother.

“Good morning to you too Bonnie, see you’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed per norm.” He resisted the urge to slip into his customer service mode as he remembered something helpful. Sipping his coffee, he leaned in the door way, nodding to Drake. “Hey, do you still have that theater brunch thing at the Diner this weekend?”

“Uh- yeah.” Eyebrows flying up, Drake tilted his head in confusion, expression as exaggerated as ever. His tentacles paused, turning towards Kaiden. “It’s in an hour, why?”

Yeah Kay, why? He wasn’t really sure if it was KD or Kaiden chastising him. Swirling the dregs of his coffee, he scrambled for an answer that would keep him busy.

“If you want I can drop you off-” Kaiden internally cringed as Drake lit up.

“REALLY?!” Kicking himself, he watched him buzz with happiness. Fluttering around the bathroom, retreating tentacles knocked Bonnie into the counter.

He was worse than a puppy with the zoomies.

Why on earth is he so excited for a ride on his bike? Marveling, Kaiden blinked wide eyed as Drake made incomprehensible noises. It was too early for this- and yet he had signed himself right on for it.

Bonnie, for her part seethed. Smacking the tentacles out of her face, she crossed her arms, scarlet irises glaring up at him in spite of the step stool.

“Since when do you offer rides on your stupid bike?” She asked bluntly, crinkling her nose.

God why can’t she be stupid? KD griped as Kaiden scrambled for an excuse. Luckily, he didn’t have too.

“Shut up!” Drake hissed at her. With an irritated huff, he continued, poking her in the chest. “It’ not stupid it’s dashing!”

Kaiden raised an eyebrow as Drake turned back towards him, continuing as though the exchange didn’t happen.

“I would LOVE a ride.” Flashing a sharp smile, he glanced at his hoodie. “I just need to find the proper jacket!”

With a giggle, he... there wasn’t another word for it, scampered off to exchange his clothes, nearly tripping on BLT in his rush.

“HISS!”

“Sorry baby girl!”

Scratching his head, Kaiden watched Drake disappear into his room, clothes being flung out into the hall way.

“He is way to excited for 5 minute drive.” he deadpanned, before glancing at Bonnie, who continued her death glare.

In spite of the concrete slab of dread settling in the pits of his stomach at the oncoming drive, he smiled at her around his mug.

“Now, now, Bon Bon, don’t be jealous.” Her glare intensified as she began to sputter in outrage. Waving to her dismissively as he walked down the hall, he smirked. “Green isn’t a flattering color on you after all.”

“I am NOT jealous.” Stomping her foot, her stool toppled out from under her with a clatter. Yelping as she hit the ground, she scowled at the doorway as both her brothers chorused.

“This is why you don’t stomp on your step stool.”

“Oh when I get my growth spurt.” she muttered, pushing herself back up.

#CN Gen 2 #Kaiden Kincaid #BLT the Hellhound #Grim the Reaper #Bonnie Atoms #Drake Atoms #Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy #Ok KO Let's be Heroes #RRB #TheAngryComet WRITES #TheAngryComet ART

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withoneheadlight · 4 years ago

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The kitchen’s Steve’s favorite part of the house.

It has this odd shape. Trapezoid. “Fuck, Stevie, so goddamn weird”. Doesn’t make sense in a, on the other hand, perfectly rectangular house (or, well, it does but, they’ll only find out about that later). The cabinets are ceiling-high. The tiles of the wall white and cracked under the repeating pattern of light mint-green-stemmed, yellow-petaled lilies. The whole backdoor is painted on that same shade Billy calls Ripe banana dreams, both so terribly old-fashioned and fiercely cute none of them says a word about repainting it. There’s a wooden piece, built into the farthest end of the counter. It looks disgustingly juicy and mercilessly stabbed when they move in, but Billy insists on keeping it, and sanding, and treating, and varnishing it. Manages to get it back up on shape because “Better than anyone, darling you should know what a little touch of class can make”. And for more than two weeks straight the only goal of his life is to learn to cut vegetables at high speed because “I have to live up to this level of professionalism. Impress our most un-impressionable guests”

(And, to Steve’s surprise –and probably hers– when she finally deigns to pay them a visit, his mom is, in fact, pretty much impressed.)

He learns how to make good casserole. Tries his luck with Mexican and Italian. Fails miserably with Japanese. Will never-ever admit it but, he loves it when flour ends up staining every single surface, making the biggest mess around himself when he bakes. Steve knows why it is. It’s a shared feeling. Floats up till it reaches the ceiling and bounces back down to them, heavy with the warm smell of cooking pie and cinnamon. Tastes docile and tamed like “Maybe not so much vanilla next time. Whaddaya think, babe?.” Tastes savage and daring, like the overwhelming tang of freshly squeezed lemon lingering on Billy’s tongue, when he crowds Steve against the fridge and kisses him, nibbles a shuddering laugh out of him “How the fuck are you able to even think about putting your mouth near that thing, Hargrove?. That was––ugh. That was disgusting”, “Well you know me, whatever it takes to make you squirm” leaving Steve with absolutely no option but lick the sugary dough stain over his cheek to “Cover up that foul flavor” and maybe because he wants to make Billy squirm a little too.

It’s a heart-warming, welcoming feeling. Like the vivid smells of green tomatoes and parsley and mustard sauce. Like the taste of love on Billy’s lips. The way he loses his breath when Steve kisses the sugary flavor into Billy’s mouth with his:

This place smells like home, tastes like home. Like finally, finally. Home.

It’s Billy’s favorite place, too. But Steve doesn’t think it’s just because of that. But also because maybe,

maybe.

He has also noticed that–

There’s this particular, particular moment. It happens around seven on autumns, right when the day starts to fade. It happens between six and six past twenty-eight on winters, and holds the sleepy cheeks of the newborn tulips on Steve’s garden till they fall asleep on springs, sun already sinking behind the horizon by the time both hands of the clock meet over the spiral of the eight, pointing towards infinity. And then grows bigger and bigger and bigger from there, flooding into summer: the golden sunlight seeping through the wide, double-paned window facing the backyard in an oblique angle, making the yellow flowers of the tiles look like they’re re-blooming in gold.

It’s the moment the day turns into a fire.

It’s their favorite moment in time. And in this particular, particular day of July, it happens at ten past nine.

Billy is making Spaghetti Carbonara. The kitchen is damp with the rich smells coming out of the boiling water. Mushrooms and oregano, black pepper and lime. A song is cooing at them from the radio, the beat of the drums a boneless memory of that one echoing around the quarry on faraway almost-night on a faraway July. Water rippling under the quiet sigh of the breeze. Trees cutting the liquid rays in asymmetric halves.

Billy takes off the apron. Turns the stove down.

Reaches out to Steve, fingers wavering come, come, come.

To me. Come to me. “C’mon, Harrington. Do I scare you or what?“

He has this way of looking at Steve that makes the space between them narrow, narrow: the whole unknown world. And aseptic, non-lived-in flat in downtown Florida. This tiny, tiny town. A mysteriously-shaped kitchen––

“¿Can I have this dance?”

Steve walks to him, takes his hand.

––Their bodies, pressed flush.

Inside his chest, Steve’s heart is running.

(“Can I at least have this dance, before we say goodbye?”

“Billy, I don’t have to––”

“Don’t, pretty boy. Don’t say it. I’ll make you stay if you do. And I can’t do that”)

They made lovelovelove on the back of Billy’s car.)

In this light, they fell in love, they fell apart. Ran away. Ran back.

Steve nudges at Billy’s chest, makes him move backward till he’s far enough to tug, draw him in between their tangled arms, hands intertwined. Steve curls himself around Billy’s back, noses at the warmth trapped between his curls. He smells like BillyandSteve, like this home, like past, like future. Like us.

Steve whispers in his ear. Three words. Billy’s neck curves towards him. An instinct. Tickled by their warmth. Steve kisses the curve of his ear. Tugs the collar of his shirt aside, bites where shoulder meets neck and up, up.

“Easy, Prom King” Billy teases, grins at him tender and wild. Knows when to use the one that gets Steve every time “Or you’re gonna make me think we’ll become picture-perfect from this magical moment onwards. A bunch of kids. White fences. You know, the whole shebang”

(Billy crashed the Camaro into a tree in the winter of two thousand and fourteen. Had left the house in a frenzy. Something happened Max wouldn’t talk about. But she was scared, so she had called,

“Find him. Please.. Make sure he’s alright”

When Steve found him, Billy was in the middle of the Brookville road, feet stumbling on the twin yellow lines, following them nowhere. So weary, so impossibly small like this: head hanging, arms wrapped around himself. A crooked shape, carrying the weight of the shadows the tall pine trees cast on his back.

So unlike him.

Steve stopped the car at his side, engine oozing steam, shaking in the icy mid-May air “Billy” he said. Low. Careful. Careful. Billy’s eyes looked wet in the moon-silver night, pupils blown, deceivingly calm, “What are you doing? This is dangerous” And Billy’s spine had bent even lower, forearms finding rest on the window frame. Leveling with Steve. Looking wasted, looking tired, but still, he flashed a grin at him, teeth-shark white, never going down if he wasn’t going down swinging. And Steve–– hadn’t known at the moment, but the blood staining his cheek, the screaming-purple mark around his eye.

Those weren’t from the crash.

“I was sleepwalking, Harrington” he said, voice dry, laugh harsh. Shrugged “Waiting for a lucky strike”)

“What does it make you think that’s not what I’m aiming for?”

(When he took Billy to his house Max was already there. Had sneaked out. “Neil will kill you if he finds out,” Billy said and she nodded, white knuckles peaking red with how hard she was gripping the handler of her bike, and Steve hadn’t seen her cry before, not ever, but her eyes were swollen and wet and,

“Are you––”

“I’m alright, kiddo. You know me. I’m always alright”

And the lie sat heavy, between them. Two lies, covering the truth. Poorly stitched. But Max had called Steve for help, so that’s what he did. Help. Sent her back home. Took care of Billy’s face. Billy’s hands. Nodded at those same lies, let them do their work while taking care of wounds he didn’t know, back then, couldn't have been for a crash. Made him spend the night.

Billy still hadn't woken up when Steve left the next day, leaving food and a note on the nightstand ‘I’ll be back soon. Stay’.

Retraced Billy’s steps down the yellow lines splitting the forest in half. To find it.

The Camaro wasn’t done yet. Howled like a wounded beast under Steve’s touch, but stayed together all the way to Donny’s garage. And Steve paid for the repairs. Covered it all up. Max has said “His dad can’t know, Steve. Can’t know. If he finds out he will--” and steve was starting to put two and two together. To realize some billy was, maybe, running away from something. Someone. When he crashed his car.

Woke Billy up when the hands of the clock met over the spiraling infinity of the eight. Seventeen hours straight of sleep and still looking like he could use a lifetime. Told him “The car will be ready in two or three days. ‘Til then, you stay'' covered his mouth with his hand. Didn't let him complain “And If whatever happened last night happens again, you take it and you run. Back here. And you stay again, ok?”

Two weeks later, Billy showed up at his door. Lit him a cigarette. Offered to teach him how to fight.

“I cannot give you back your money, but I know you don’t need that”

Made him laugh.

They spent almost the whole summer together, after that. Some days. Most nights.

Wasting time. Fighting. Joking. Driving.

Falling.

No ‘what ifs’. No promises. Just,

“Leave the light on if you can’t sleep, pretty boy. If I manage to sneak out of the Old fuck, I’ll pick you up. Promise I won’t stop kissing you until dawn. Gotta make up for what you paid for that ca, uh?”

Because Steve was gonna leave. Wasn’t gonna throw a single glance behind his back.

That was the plan.

And he did. He did. But––)

He spins Billy out. Tugs him back. When their chests bump, his laugh bursts, bubbles up. Weightless. Happy. Because all that matters to him, to them, it’s between these four irregular walls now.

And God this, this, is Steve’s favorite part.

(–ended up coming back running, hoping the love would re-stitch itself as he followed the road’s yellow lines.

Hoping Billy was the one letting his light on this time.)

Because the sun’s gonna keep on shining. They can keep on dancing in here, in their weird trapezoidal kitchen (in their house, in their home), for as long as they want. Hearts touching. Lips brushing. Bodies swaying, spinning, cutting through the golden light.

#harringrove #and #this is the end #!!#i know is not too goo but i'm happy i finished #it #and also #i wanted to have something for this #1 year anniversary so :D #thank you again fandom #i wouldn't have make it this far without you #also! ns*w anon. i don't know if your're still around but #i published this part for you long ago #and it my head its now for you so <3 #xharringrove #xfluffy

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siken-archive · 4 years ago

Text

You Are Jeff

1 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which twin you are in love with at the time. Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advan- tage to remain impartial. Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands. The one in front will want to take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together. The sun shines down. It's a beautiful day. Consider the hairpin turn. Do not choose sides yet. 2 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road. Let's call them Jeff. And because the first Jeff is in front we'll consider him the older, and therefore responsible for lending money and the occa- sional punch in the shoulder. World-wise, world-weary, and not his mother's favorite, this Jeff will always win when it all comes down to fisticuffs. Unfortunately for him, it doesn't always all come down to fisticuffs. Jeff is thinking about his brother down the winding road be- hind him. He is thinking that if only he could cut him open and peel him back and crawl inside this second skin, then he could relive that last mile again: reborn, wild-eyed, free. 3 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which Jeff you are. It could have been so beautiful—you scout out the road ahead and I will watch your back, how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy— but each Jeff wants to be the other one. My name is Jeff and I'm tired of looking at the back of your head. My name is Jeff and I'm tired of seeing my hand me down clothes. Look, Jeff, I'm telling you, for the last time, I mean it, etcetera. They are the same and they are not the same. They are the same and they hate each other for it. 4 Your name is Jeff and somewhere up ahead of you your brother has pulled to the side of the road and he is waiting for you with a lug wrench clutched in his greasy fist. 0 how he loves you, darling boy. 0 how, like always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night. When he throws the wrench into the air it will catch the light as it spins toward you. Look—it looks like a star. You had expected something else, anything else, but the wrench never reaches you. It hangs in the air like that, spinning in the air like that. It's beautiful. 5 Let's say God in his High Heaven is hungry and has decided to make himself some tuna fish sandwiches. He's already finished making two of them, on sourdough, before he realizes that the fish is bad. What is he going to do with these sandwiches? They're already made, but he doesn't want to eat them. Let's say the Devil is played by two men. We'll call them Jeff. Dark hair, green eyes, white teeth, pink tongues—they're twins. The one on the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about to. As they wrestle, you can tell that they have forgotten about God, and they are very hungry. 6 You are playing cards with three men named Jeff. Two of the Jeffs seem somewhat familiar, but the Jeff across from you keeps staring at your hands, your mouth, and you're certain that you've never seen this Jeff before. But he's on your team, and you're ahead, you're winning big, and yet the other Jeffs keep smiling at you like there's no tomorrow. They all have perfect teeth: white, square, clean, even. And, for some reason, the lighting in the room makes their teeth seem closer than they should be, as if each mouth was a place, a living room with pink carpet and the window's open. Come back from the window, Jefferson. Take off those wet clothes and come over here, by the fire. 7 You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room. Phone's for you, Jeff says. Hey! It's Uncle Jeff, who isn't really your uncle, but you can't talk right now, one of the Jeffs has put his tongue in your mouth. Please let it be the right one. 8 Two brothers are fighting by the side of the road. Two motorbikes have fallen over on the shoulder, leaking oil into the dirt, while the interlocking brothers grapple and swing. You see them through the backseat window as you and your parents drive past. You are twelve years old. You do not have a brother. You have never experienced anything this ferocious or intentional with another person. Your mother is pretending that she hasn't seen anything. Your father is fiddling with the knobs of the radio. There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say hello. 9 You are in an ordinary suburban bedroom with bunk beds, a bookshelf, two wooden desks and chairs. You are lying on your back, on the top bunk, very close to the textured ceiling, staring straight at it in fact, and the room is still dark except for a wedge of powdery light that spills in from the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom is covered in mint green tile and someone is in there, singing very softly. Is he singing to you? For you? Black cherries in chocolate, the ring around the moon, a bee- tle underneath a glass—you cannot make out all the words, but you're sure he knows you're in there, and he's singing to you, even though you don't know who he is. 10 You see it as a room, a tabernacle, the dark hotel. You're in the hallway again, and you open the door, and if you're ready you'll see it, but maybe one part of your mind decides that the other parts aren't ready, and then you don't remember where you've been, and you find yourself down the hall again, the lights gone dim as the left hand sings the right hand back to sleep. It's a puzzle: each piece, each room, each time you put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, your ear to the wound that whispers. You're in the hallway again. The radio is playing your favorite song. You're in the hallway. Open the door again. Open the door. 11 Suppose for a moment that the heart has two heads, that the heart has been chained and dunked in a glass booth filled with river water. The heart is monologing about hesitation and fulfillment while behind the red brocade the heart is drowning. Can the heart escape? Does love even care? Snow falls as we dump the booth in the bay. Suppose for a moment we are crowded around a pier, waiting for something to ripple the water. We believe in you. There is no danger. It is not getting dark, we want to say. 12 Consider the hairpin turn. It is waiting for you like a red door or the broken leg of a dog. The sun is shining, O how the sun shines down! Your speedometer and your handgrips and the feel of the road below you, how it knows you, the black ribbon spread out on the greens be- tween these lines that suddenly don't reach to the horizon. It is waiting, like a broken door, like the red dog that chases its tail and eats your rose- bushes and then must be forgiven. Who do you love, Jeff? Who do you love? You were driving toward something and then, well, then you found yourself driving the other way. The dog is asleep. The road is be- hind you. O how the sun shines down. 13 This time everyone has the best intentions. You have cancer. Let's say you have cancer. Let's say you've swallowed a bad thing and now it's got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see what I mean but you're happy anyway, and that's okay, it's a love story after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action, where the mirror says mirror and the hand says hand and the front door never says Sorry Charlie. So the doctor says you need more stitches and the bruise cream isn't working. So much for the facts. Let's say you're still completely in the dark but we love you anyway. We love you. We really do. 14 After work you go to the grocery store to get some milk and a carton of cigarettes. Where did you get those bruises? You don't remember. Work was boring. You find a jar of bruise cream and a can of stewed tomatoes. Maybe a salad? Spinach, walnuts, blue cheese, apples, and you can't decide between the Extra Large or Jumbo black olives. Which is bigger anyway? Extra Large has a blue label, Jumbo has a purple label. Both cans cost $1.29. While you're deciding, the afternoon light is streaming through the windows behind the bank of checkout coun- ters. Take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest, holding onto it and not letting it go. Now let it go. 15 Like sandpaper, the light, or a blessing, or a bruise. Blood everywhere, he said, the red light hemorrhaging from everywhere at once. The train station blue, your lips blue, hands cold and the blue wind. Or a horse, your favorite horse now raised up again out of the mud and galloping galloping always toward you. In your ruined shirt, on the last day, while the bruise won't heal, and the stain stays put, the red light streaming in from everywhere at once. Your broken ribs, the back of your head, your hand to mouth or hand to now, right now, like you mean it, like it's split- ting you in two. Now look at the lights, the lights. 16 You and your lover are making out in the corner booth of a seedy bar. The booths are plush and the drinks are cheap and in this dim and smoky light you can barely tell whose hands are whose. Someone raises their glass for a toast. Is that the Hand of Judgment or the Hand of Mercy? The bartender smiles, running a rag across the burnished wood of the bar. The drink in front of you has already been paid for. Drink it, the bartender says. It's yours, you deserve it. It's already been paid for. Somebody's paid for it already. There's no mistake, he says. It's your drink, the one you asked for, just the way you like it. How can you refuse Hands of fire, hands of air, hands of water, hands of dirt. Someone's doing all the talking but no one's lips move. Consider the hairpin turn. 17 The motorbikes are neck and neck but where's the checkered flag we all expected, waving in the distance, telling you you're home again, home? He's next to you, right next to you in fact, so close, or. . . he isn't. Imagine a room. Yes, imagine a room: two chairs facing the window but nobody moves. Don't move. Keep staring straight into my eyes. It feels like you're not moving, the way when, dancing, the room will suddenly fall away. You're dancing: you're neck and neck or cheek to cheek, he's there or he isn't, the open road. Imagine a room. Imagine you're danc- ing. Imagine the room now falling away. Don't move. 18 Two brothers: one of them wants to take you apart. Two brothers: one of them wants to put you back together. It's time to choose sides now. The stitches or the devouring mouth? You want an alibi? You don't get an alibi, you get two brothers. Here are two Jeffs. Pick one. This is how you make the meaning, you take two things and try to define the space between them. Jeff or Jeff? Who do you want to be? You just wanted to play in your own backyard, but you don't know where your own yard is, exactly. You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet. You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here. You're still right here. 19 Here are your names and here is the list and here are the things you left behind: The mark on the floor from pushing your chair back, your un- derwear, one half brick of cheese, the kind I don't like, wrapped up, and poorly, and abandoned on the second shelf next to the poppyseed dress- ing, which is also yours. Here's the champagne on the floor, and here are your house keys, and here are the curtains that your cat peed on. And here is your cat, who keeps eating grass and vomiting in the hall- way. Here is the list with all of your names, Jeff. They're not the same name, Jeff. They're not the same at all. 20 There are two twins on motorbikes but they are not on motorbikes, they're in a garden where the flowers are as big as thumbs. Imagine you are in a field of daisies. What are you doing in a field of daisies? Get up! Let's say you're not in the field anymore. Let's say they're not brothers anymore. That's right, they're not brothers, they're just one guy, and he knows you, and he's talking to you, but you're in pain and you can- not understand him. What are you still doing in this field? Get out of the field! You should be in the hotel room! You should, at least, be try- ing to get back into the hotel room. Ah! Now the field is empty. 21 Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don't make a noise, don't leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the bread and devour it. I'm in the hallway again, I'm in the hallway. The radio's playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I'll keep walking toward the sound of your voice. 22 Someone had a party while you were sleeping but you weren't really sleeping, you were sick, and parts of you were burning, and you couldn't move. Perhaps the party was in your honor. You can't remem- ber. It seems the phone was ringing in the dream you were having but there's no proof. A dish in the sink that might be yours, some clothes on the floor that might belong to someone else. When was the last time you found yourself looking out of this window. Hey! This is a beautiful window! This is a beautiful view! 1 hose trees lined up like that, and the way the stars are spinning over them like that, spinning in the air like that, like wrenches. 23 Let's say that God is the space between two men and the Devil is the space between two men. Here: I'll be all of them-Jeff and Jeff and Jeff and Jeff are standing on the shoulder of the highway, four motorbikes knocked over, two wrenches spinning in the ordinary air. Two of these Jeffs are windows, and two of these Jeffs are doors, and all of these Jeffs are trying to tell you something. Come closer. We'll whisper it in your ear. It's like seeing your face in a bowl of soup, cream of potato, and the eyes shining back like spoons. If we wanted to tell you everything, we would leave more footprints in the snow or kiss you harder. One thing. Come closer. Listen . . . 24 You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terr- ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.

#richard siken #you are jeff #crush

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syrenki · 4 years ago

Text

current mood is There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond

the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which twin you are in

love with at the time. Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advan-

tage to remain impartial. Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys

have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands. The one in front will want to

take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every

shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your

heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together. The

sun shines down. It’s a beautiful day. Consider the hairpin turn. Do not

choose sides yet.

There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road. Let’s

call them Jeff. And because the first Jeff is in front we’ll consider him

the older, and therefore responsible for lending money and the occa-

sional punch in the shoulder. World-wise, world-weary, and not his

mother’s favorite, this Jeff will always win when it all comes down to

fisticuffs. Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t always all come down to

fisticuffs. Jeff is thinking about his brother down the winding road be-

hind him. He is thinking that if only he could cut him open and peel him

back and crawl inside this second skin, then he could relive that last mile

again: reborn, wild-eyed, free.

There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond

the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which Jeff you are. It

could have been so beautiful—you scout out the road ahead and I will

watch your back, how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy—

but each Jeff wants to be the other one. My name is Jeff and I’m tired

of looking at the back of your head. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of

seeing my hand me down clothes. Look, Jeff, I’m telling you, for the

last time, I mean it, etcetera. They are the same and they are not the

same. They are the same and they hate each other for it.

Your name is Jeff and somewhere up ahead of you your brother has

pulled to the side of the road and he is waiting for you with a lug wrench

clutched in his greasy fist. 0 how he loves you, darling boy. 0 how, like

always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep

next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around

you in an act of faith against the night. When he throws the wrench into

the air it will catch the light as it spins toward you. Look—it looks like

a star. You had expected something else, anything else, but the wrench

never reaches you. It hangs in the air like that, spinning in the air like

that. It’s beautiful.

Let’s say God in his High Heaven is hungry and has decided to make

himself some tuna fish sandwiches. He’s already finished making two

of them, on sourdough, before he realizes that the fish is bad. What is

he going to do with these sandwiches? They’re already made, but he

doesn’t want to eat them.

Let’s say the Devil is played by two men. We’ll call them Jeff. Dark

hair, green eyes, white teeth, pink tongues—they’re twins. The one on

the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about

to. As they wrestle, you can tell that they have forgotten about God, and

they are very hungry.

You are playing cards with three men named Jeff. Two of the Jeffs seem

somewhat familiar, but the Jeff across from you keeps staring at your

hands, your mouth, and you’re certain that you’ve never seen this Jeff

before. But he’s on your team, and you’re ahead, you’re winning big,

and yet the other Jeffs keep smiling at you like there’s no tomorrow.

They all have perfect teeth: white, square, clean, even. And, for some

reason, the lighting in the room makes their teeth seem closer than they

should be, as if each mouth was a place, a living room with pink carpet

and the window’s open. Come back from the window, Jefferson. Take off

those wet clothes and come over here, by the fire.

You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your

brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen

you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets

up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room.

Phone’s for you, Jeff says. Hey! It’s Uncle Jeff, who isn’t really your

uncle, but you can’t talk right now, one of the Jeffs has put his tongue

in your mouth. Please let it be the right one.

Two brothers are fighting by the side of the road. Two motorbikes have

fallen over on the shoulder, leaking oil into the dirt, while the interlocking

brothers grapple and swing. You see them through the backseat

window as you and your parents drive past. You are twelve years old.

You do not have a brother. You have never experienced anything this

ferocious or intentional with another person. Your mother is pretending

that she hasn’t seen anything. Your father is fiddling with the knobs

of the radio. There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the

station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say

hello.

You are in an ordinary suburban bedroom with bunk beds, a bookshelf,

two wooden desks and chairs. You are lying on your back, on the top

bunk, very close to the textured ceiling, staring straight at it in fact, and

the room is still dark except for a wedge of powdery light that spills in

from the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom is covered in mint green

tile and someone is in there, singing very softly. Is he singing to you?

For you? Black cherries in chocolate, the ring around the moon, a bee-

tle underneath a glass—you cannot make out all the words, but you’re

sure he knows you’re in there, and he’s singing to you, even though you

don’t know who he is.

You see it as a room, a tabernacle, the dark hotel. You’re in the hallway

again, and you open the door, and if you’re ready you’ll see it, but

maybe one part of your mind decides that the other parts aren’t ready,

and then you don’t remember where you’ve been, and you find yourself

down the hall again, the lights gone dim as the left hand sings the right

hand back to sleep. It’s a puzzle: each piece, each room, each time you

put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, your ear to the

wound that whispers.

You’re in the hallway again. The radio is playing your favorite song.

You’re in the hallway. Open the door again. Open the door.

Suppose for a moment that the heart has two heads, that the heart has

been chained and dunked in a glass booth filled with river water. The

heart is monologing about hesitation and fulfillment while behind the

red brocade the heart is drowning. Can the heart escape? Does love

even care? Snow falls as we dump the booth in the bay.

Suppose for a moment we are crowded around a pier, waiting for something

to ripple the water. We believe in you. There is no danger. It is not

getting dark, we want to say.

Consider the hairpin turn. It is waiting for you like a red door or the

broken leg of a dog. The sun is shining, O how the sun shines down!

Your speedometer and your handgrips and the feel of the road below

you, how it knows you, the black ribbon spread out on the greens be-

tween these lines that suddenly don’t reach to the horizon. It is waiting,

like a broken door, like the red dog that chases its tail and eats your rose-

bushes and then must be forgiven. Who do you love, Jeff? Who do you

love? You were driving toward something and then, well, then you

found yourself driving the other way. The dog is asleep. The road is be-

hind you. O how the sun shines down.

This time everyone has the best intentions. You have cancer. Let’s say

you have cancer. Let’s say you’ve swallowed a bad thing and now it’s

got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see

what I mean but you’re happy anyway, and that’s okay, it’s a love story

after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action,

where the mirror says mirror and the hand says hand and the front

door never says Sorry Charlie. So the doctor says you need more

stitches and the bruise cream isn’t working. So much for the facts. Let’s

say you’re still completely in the dark but we love you anyway. We

love you. We really do.

After work you go to the grocery store to get some milk and a carton of

cigarettes. Where did you get those bruises? You don’t remember.

Work was boring. You find a jar of bruise cream and a can of stewed

tomatoes. Maybe a salad? Spinach, walnuts, blue cheese, apples, and

you can’t decide between the Extra Large or Jumbo black olives. Which

is bigger anyway? Extra Large has a blue label, Jumbo has a purple

label. Both cans cost $1.29. While you’re deciding, the afternoon light

is streaming through the windows behind the bank of checkout coun-

ters. Take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest,

holding onto it and not letting it go. Now let it go.

Like sandpaper, the light, or a blessing, or a bruise. Blood everywhere,

he said, the red light hemorrhaging from everywhere at once. The train

station blue, your lips blue, hands cold and the blue wind. Or a horse,

your favorite horse now raised up again out of the mud and galloping

galloping always toward you. In your ruined shirt, on the last day, while

the bruise won’t heal, and the stain stays put, the red light streaming in

from everywhere at once. Your broken ribs, the back of your head, your

hand to mouth or hand to now, right now, like you mean it, like it’s split-

ting you in two. Now look at the lights, the lights.

You and your lover are making out in the corner booth of a seedy bar.

The booths are plush and the drinks are cheap and in this dim and

smoky light you can barely tell whose hands are whose. Someone raises

their glass for a toast. Is that the Hand of Judgment or the Hand of

Mercy? The bartender smiles, running a rag across the burnished wood

of the bar. The drink in front of you has already been paid for. Drink it,

the bartender says. It’s yours, you deserve it. It’s already been paid for.

Somebody’s paid for it already. There’s no mistake, he says. It’s your drink,

the one you asked for, just the way you like it. How can you refuse Hands

of fire, hands of air, hands of water, hands of dirt. Someone’s doing all

the talking but no one’s lips move. Consider the hairpin turn.

The motorbikes are neck and neck but where’s the checkered flag we

all expected, waving in the distance, telling you you’re home again,

home? He’s next to you, right next to you in fact, so close, or. . . he isn’t.

Imagine a room. Yes, imagine a room: two chairs facing the window but

nobody moves. Don’t move. Keep staring straight into my eyes. It feels

like you’re not moving, the way when, dancing, the room will suddenly

fall away. You’re dancing: you’re neck and neck or cheek to cheek, he’s

there or he isn’t, the open road. Imagine a room. Imagine you’re danc-

ing. Imagine the room now falling away. Don’t move.

Two brothers: one of them wants to take you apart. Two brothers: one

of them wants to put you back together. It’s time to choose sides now.

The stitches or the devouring mouth? You want an alibi? You don’t get

an alibi, you get two brothers. Here are two Jeffs. Pick one. This is how

you make the meaning, you take two things and try to define the space

between them. Jeff or Jeff? Who do you want to be? You just wanted

to play in your own backyard, but you don’t know where your own yard

is, exactly. You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one

safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet.

You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here. You’re

still right here.

Here are your names and here is the list and here are the things you left

behind: The mark on the floor from pushing your chair back, your un-

derwear, one half brick of cheese, the kind I don’t like, wrapped up, and

poorly, and abandoned on the second shelf next to the poppyseed dress-

ing, which is also yours. Here’s the champagne on the floor, and here

are your house keys, and here are the curtains that your cat peed on.

And here is your cat, who keeps eating grass and vomiting in the hall-

way. Here is the list with all of your names, Jeff. They’re not the same

name, Jeff. They’re not the same at all.

There are two twins on motorbikes but they are not on motorbikes,

they’re in a garden where the flowers are as big as thumbs. Imagine you

are in a field of daisies. What are you doing in a field of daisies? Get up!

Let’s say you’re not in the field anymore. Let’s say they’re not brothers

anymore. That’s right, they’re not brothers, they’re just one guy, and

he knows you, and he’s talking to you, but you’re in pain and you can-

not understand him. What are you still doing in this field? Get out of

the field! You should be in the hotel room! You should, at least, be try-

ing to get back into the hotel room. Ah! Now the field is empty.

Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don’t make a noise,

don’t leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will

come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a

graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights

on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to

dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of

things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the

bread and devour it. I’m in the hallway again, I’m in the hallway. The

radio’s playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I’ll

keep walking toward the sound of your voice.

Someone had a party while you were sleeping but you weren’t really

sleeping, you were sick, and parts of you were burning, and you

#literally ran out of characters allowed for a tumblr post #</3 #but yeah.#mine

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identityexcavationstation · 5 years ago

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The High Fidelity Remake is Good and my Identity is Irreversibly Linked to Music Consumption

Hi! So, I’m kinda insane about playlists.

This year I’ve made a lot of them. They’ve been short and snappy on index cards, scanned and pasted in a book and uploaded to the internet. (I’ve really fallen in love with index card playlists and they’re my thing now and I think everyone should do them always and forever.) They were easy to churn out as a retrospective exercise because the music I listened to as a teenager really defined my high school experience. Also, I have most of my favorite songs from that period in a very dramatic playlist I started in 2014 so it was really a game of copy-and-paste.

Making these smol boys in batches has been a really peculiar experience because for years now, I’ve only made one playlist at a time. In my second semester of college, I’d officially burned myself out listening to only CHVRCHES for three months and began venturing elsewhere. (Don’t get me wrong, CHVRCHES absolutely bangs, but you can only listen to “Never Ending Circles” so many times before getting seasick.) All of the random songs I was listening to made me feel kinda hazy and purple, like I’d done all of this before. So I made a playlist full of them and called it “Deja Vu.”

I added to it all semester, and then suddenly it was summer and I didn’t feel purple and hazy anymore⁠—everything was blue and crisp on the way to South Haven as my friend blasted “Settle Down” by Kimbra in her beat-up Honda. So I started a new playlist and named it the first word that popped into my head: “Roots.”

Using Deja Vu as a rubric, I developed some ground rules for the playlists I would go on to create. They are pretty nonsensical but also exceedingly firm because if I don’t make rules for every area of my life I feel like I’m falling into a deep and limitless void. Health! Anyway, the rules are:

The playlist’s title has to be a short noun (seven letters maximum).

This has since transformed into a noun that is also a verb.

To generate a title, I ask myself what short word I would use to describe the phase of life I’m currently in. The answer comes quickly and reflexively, and I choose the very first word I think of.

One song per artist, no repeats!

Exceptions are made for artists who are featured on a track.

There have been times when I’ve obsessively listened to a whole album or an artist’s entire discography, so I have to choose just one song that represents the very best of that album or artist.

Tracks are added chronologically, based on when I first hear them and/or start listening to them compulsively.

The playlist has to contain an amount of tracks that is divisible by five.

If a song in a playlist is deleted from Spotify, I have to find a replacement asap that is accurate to what I was listening to when that playlist was being created.

and, most importantly,

I can’t make a new playlist until I feel I’m finished with the current one.

These playlists represent seasons of my life, cycles in which I change and evolve and stagnate and fuck up and try again. The only rule I have for beginning a new playlist is that I feel done with the current one—those songs are a little stale and don’t represent me anymore. These “seasons” don’t have any set length, and I can never predict when I’ll feel like a new being who needs new songs to define her. So far, my life has looked like this:

Deja Vu - 176 days (12.03.16 - 05.28.17) Most common lyrics: now, love, time, need, take

snow that covers ivy that covers bricks, towers made from dining hall dishes, smiling at the bus stop without knowing, sheet masks in the dorm bathroom at 2am, pink string lights and pink crocheted blankets and pink shag carpeting, cheap beer behind tarps and walking everyone home

Roots - 111 days (05.28.17 - 09.16.17) Most common lyrics: love, one, give, wanna, know

t-shirt tan lines, mozzarella and tomato and basil and singed spaghetti, sunset walks around abandoned high schools, green leaves outlined in watercolor, the smell of mildew and old paper in banker’s boxes, sweat-soaked french braids, the knife twist of eye contact, tarot readings under lamplight

Walls - 110 days (09.16.17 - 01.04.18) Most common lyrics: wanna, know, baby, take, feel

crying in the gender-neutral restroom, pretty boys holding guitars or rolling rock, photos in the forest, blue carpeting and lofted bedframes, pitch-black bonfires, sitting in the dining hall to just watch the people pass, snow on eyelashes in large wet clumps, laughing at lies

Bite - 78 days (01.04.18 - 03.23.18) Most common lyrics: know, love, stay, come, need

impatience at the airport, texting on the laundry room floor, nervous night drives, five grilled cheese sandwiches, acne like freckles, ceiling photos taken in secret, watercolor lines and paper houses, broken glass on the sidewalk, ink-stained forearms, notebook paper comics, writing small on basement walls

Windows - 131 days (03.23.18 - 08.01.18) Most common lyrics: love, now, know, baby, fall

books piled up by the bed, rum and coke and orange juice and vodka and cheap white wine, rainy day night walks, streetlights turning the leaves orange, echoes from the party upstairs, solo trips to the grocery store, always leaving the blinds open, aperol and chai lattes and smørrebrød, never coming home

Grip - 136 days (08.01.18 - 12.15.18) Most common lyrics: know, boy, lost, girl, night

read receipts, the creaking of an empty house, sand and bricks and traffic cones, sitting on the curb and shaking, applause at dinner, bubble tea, bike rides in torn jeans, mr brightside blasting at 10am, doodles during lectures, embroidery at the kitchen table, blue bus panic attacks, half an apple for lunch

Wait - 117 days (12.15.18 - 04.11.19) Most common lyrics: heart, want, one, back, know

crying in the lobby, measuring oats by the quarter cup, drunken voice memos, shoes on power lines, another bowl of granola, reading all the lyrics, photos taken with the flash on, sleeping on strange couches, shoeboxes full of photographs, wire catching the sunlight, fifteen minutes of windchill

Wave - 108 days (04.11.19 - 07.28.19) Most common lyrics: wanna, know, now, love, come

dancing on the porch, reading on the roof, tipsy trips to the corner store, silent heavy parlor air, chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting, barred windows and string lights and exit signs, highlighting the important parts, nails tapping on wooden tables, wet wind before the storm, biking straight into the smoke

Home - 178 days (07.28.19 - 01.22.20) Most common lyrics: down, know, now, wanna, think

steep downhill walks, fingertips covered in graphite and lead, blank faces on green walls, forest walkways, hands gripping thighs too tightly, light leaks in darkrooms, the handwriting of strangers, chains trapped between teeth, white words left unread, twirling at the tennis court, yellow becoming blue

Hand - 63 days (01.22.20 - 03.25.20) Most common lyrics: know, time, love, die, back

masking tape messages, laughing four shots in, BiC .07mm HB mechanical pencils slipped into coat cuffs, cheeks blushed with red ink, green floodlights and kissed knuckles, windows fogged from the inside, falling asleep with earbuds in, finger guns and everything in boxes, wedging open locked doors

_______________________________________________________________________

It’s interesting to look back at these playlists altogether, see them as self-contained units, little stories I tell about myself, about the people I used to be. Adding a song to one of these playlists was like making a vow, entering a relationship with a collection of sounds. It’s like I was saying “this song is now a part of me.” I constructed this little world for myself in the space between my ears, and it, in turn, created me.

I really mean it when I say that the first word that floats to the front of my mind becomes the title of whatever playlist I’m making. I never question what the word means, and its meaning always ends up describing that season of my life.

“Roots” became a period of reconnecting with essential pieces of myself I thought I had abandoned.

During “Grip,” I was holding on so tightly to things that had left me ages ago, and I think I knew that, even if I was unable to admit it to myself.

“Wait” revealed itself in two ways: it was a time in which 1.) I felt stagnant and restless, unable to be patient, and 2.) I was forced to grasp with a physical and emotional weight that had been bearing down on me.

The mind is a magical thing—it processes what we refuse to recognize.

Speaking of which, these playlist covers have been driving me up the wall for ages. They’re like nails on a freaking chalkboard for my synesthesia. Is “Bite” a heavily blue playlist? Sure. But is “Home” purple? Is “Grip” pink??? I think the fuck not!

(I could do a whole goddamn blog post on synesthesia, and I might.)

Now that I know how to switch out playlist cover art (can you believe it’s taken me this long to figure out how to do that?), I have decided to issue myself a challenge/project/way to procrastinate actual work I have to do.

I’d like to make a piece of cover art for all of the above playlists. And because I am, to reiterate, insane, I’m setting up some Rules For Creation:

All works must be the same size, on the same type of paper using similar materials (tbd but probably graphite, colored pencil, watercolor, fineliners, and/or collage).

The preliminary sketch for each cover must be created while listening to the playlist.

Each piece can (must?) incorporate the five most common lyrics as listed above because goddammit I did not spend four hours compiling lyrics in a web-based word cloud generator for nothing.

If I’m not having fun, I won’t make myself do it because this is literally just for laffs.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to creating some fun weird art! I know nobody is gonna read this and nobody is gonna comment but if, by some miracle, you feel like it, comment a playlist you’ve made that you’re really proud of! Or comment if you have some weird playlist rules! Or cyberbully me! Anything’s fair game.

TL;DR playlists are fun and I’m a maniac :)

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behindheremeraldeyes · 5 years ago

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SasuSaku month 2019 days 8 and 27 - Oasis & They Never Know

title: Grieving Home

summary: It’s been a month since the Uchiha Massacre, and slowly, Sasuke realizes life will never be the same anymore. He’s all alone now, and even if it would be better for him to continue that way, he’s still not ready to move on by himself.

Sasuke doesn’t know where he's going. He doesn't know which path he’s following or which trees he’s passing, and right now, he doesn't really care. He has no idea of where he is, but it's already better than the academy building. He just wanted to get away from that place— from those people, those eyes, those whispers, those walls and those pitiful and sorry faces—, and that’s what he's doing. His muscles are working incredibly fast, the cold air is hitting his blazing lungs, and his heart is almost breaking out of his rib cage as he runs aimlessly around the woods.

He doesn't remember much before he started running, but he knows he can't stop. No, not yet. He is still too close and the voices are still too loud. He has to keep going. He is scared and he has to run away. He has to escape those red eyes that have been haunting him ever since that night.

“Stay away from me!”

His scream echoes around the woods, and soon— what might have been seconds, minutes or hours for all he knows— his thin legs stop moving when he reaches a clearing filled with very tall trees. He’s panting, sweat rolls down his forehead, and his dark eyes are viciously examining the place around him, looking for someone— looking for him. He really doesn’t know where he is, but somehow, he knows he’s managed to escape. Silence envelops the atmosphere around him, his ears only capturing the loud sound of his beating heart, and slowly, he manages to control his own, breathing pattern. Sasuke feels safe now. At least, safer than before. He looks down at his hands, both of them still shaking, and he knows he has to calm down.

Get it together, he screams inside his head. Tears are threatening to escape his eyes, but he doesn’t want to cry anymore. He has been crying himself to sleep every night for the past 4 weeks, and he’s tired of it. Tired of the stinging sensation that takes over his eyes, tired of the headaches, the puffy nose and of looking like crap every day. Even if the Sandaime told him it’s okay to cry at moments like this, he knows his tears won’t bring his family back. Crying won’t make the pain go away.

Slowly, then, Sasuke finally feels his heart settling. He can think straight now, trying to pinpoint his location so he can figure out a way to go back to that new apartment the Hokage gave him. He’s still not used to that place yet, and he knows it’s still going to take a long time before he does. He has never lived in an apartment before— especially not under such circumstances— though he’s not sure if he likes it. It’s a lot smaller than his house, having no more than 3 rooms, and yet, it feels a lot emptier due to the silence that spreads within its walls. It’s colder, cleaner and lonelier than the house where he grew up in, and it’s weird waking up every day just to see his things still resting where he had last left them.

But he doesn’t even try to compare them, no. This new place will never be his home, and that’s something he has made amends with for the past couple of days. Sasuke doesn’t have a home anymore, he knows. All he has is the vivid memory of a blood-stained district.

The urge of crying starts to build up in his throat once more, but he shoves it off as the grown-up man he thinks he’s supposed to be. His eyes, then, catch the sight of what seems to be a small tent made of leaves, and once more, he looks around to see if he’s really the only one around that clearing. There are some flowers growing around it, and what he supposes to be the entrance hole is more than enough for a person of his size to cross. It seems to be a secret hideout, he thinks. It’s small, hidden, and judging by the small things decorating it, he supposes it already belongs to someone. A girl, probably.

His eyes are wide now as he continues to observe the place, and he can feel an atypical curiosity getting the best of him. He has always known better than to just invade someone else’s space without a proper invitation, but curiosity proves itself to be stronger than him. It’s running through his veins and moving his feet on their own, and before he knows it, he’s slowly entering the hideout, dunking his head a little so he doesn’t destroy the paper flowers hanging from the ceiling.

There’s a small hallway that leads to an open space, and his small lips part in awe as his eyes wander around. There are many flowers growing around in small pots and a lot of small, girly things are spread around the ground. He finds a stuffed-bunny sitting in a small chair next to a couple of ninja books from the academy, and slowly, he realizes that this hideout probably belongs to a girl around his age. She seems to be very organized, he notes, for everything has its own place, and even if the things she has in there are not really his style, he appreciates the effort she puts into it to make the place look cute.

It is cute, he guesses, with his 7-year-old mind. Most girls would probably enjoy having a place like that to play in the woods. He certainly would, if the decoration was a bit more masculine. He would love having a place just for himself. A place he built and decorated all by himself, with all of his things and away from everything and everyone.

Yes. He would love a place like that. It would be his own, little corner in the world, and nothing would ever be able to ruin it. It would be big enough just for him, so he could see everything all the time, and he would be able to do all of his favorite things alone. He could stay there for as long as he wanted, away from people who come by to check on him and give him food, but never really stay for dinner; and without all that pity in their eyes, saying stupid things such as "I’m sorry for what’s happened” or “I know how you’re feeling”.

They don’t know anything. They never do.

Being completely on his own would really be perfect, he thinks, sitting down so he can take a better look around. He closes his dark eyes, then, enjoying the silence and the chirping of the birds, and suddenly, he feels his heart being filled with an overwhelming melancholy. He’s all alone in the world now, and knowing he’s actually searching for comfort in that loneliness makes him feel a little hopeless regarding his future.

Will he always be alone? Will he always miss his family? And will he eventually be okay with all of that?

Sasuke really hopes not, but for now, at least, he believes that accepting that will be for the best.

One day, he will have his own, private oasis, but until that day comes, he can’t be alone.

Not even today. Not when he’s around all of these flowers.

The sound of rushed steps and a soft humming suddenly startles his ears, and before he can even move, he watches as the flowers of the entrance sway as a familiar girl passes beneath them. Her hair is pink like the cherry blossoms, her ribbon is red like a tomato and her eyes— her emerald, green eyes— widen as soon as she enters the hideout and sees him sitting there. He watches as a silly smile drops from her parted lips, and he holds her gaze locked with his for a little too long while a weird silence settles upon them.

So, the hideout belongs to Haruno Sakura, he thinks. It belongs to the shy and smart girl who got transferred not too long ago, and who still doesn’t have many friends. He never sees her hanging around the other girls from their class, and if anything, he thinks that’s something positive about her.

They’re looking at each other, silent questions being exchanged by their eyes. He can see as she’s progressively changing her expression, as her cheeks start to get redder in embarrassment and she brings her small hands close to her heart. Her small lips are slowly parting in awe, as her mind puts the pieces together, and even if he knows he’s the one trespassing, he can’t help but find her surprised expression amusing.

What a weird girl, he thinks.

“Sa-Sasuke-kun?” She starts, then, after a couple of minutes of pure silence. Her voice is pitched and surprised, but oddly, he doesn’t find it annoying at all. “I-I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were here! I didn’t mean to bother you! I will leave and—”

“Tch.” He clears his throat, a pout forming on his lips. For someone so smart, she seems to let her awkwardness get the best of her. “Why are you apologizing? This place is yours, right?”

She nods, slowly, but she doesn’t really seem to be affected by his words. “But you were here before, right? I don’t want to bother you, whatever it is that you’re doing.”

“Hn.” He scoffs, his voice a bit softer now. Finally, he stands up, adjusting his black shirt and hiding his hands inside his pockets. "I’m not doing anything. I was just passing by and got curious, that’s all.”

“I see…” She pouts, her brows arching as he can almost see the wheels turning inside her head. “Ah! Now I remember! Iruka-sensei was looking for you! I should let him know you’re here! Wait here, Sasuke-kun! I’ll go get h—“

“No!” He stops her on her tracks, his voice coming out harsher than he originally planned, as his eyes unexpectedly start to glare at her. Without thinking, he grabs her small hand, pulling her back before she can take another step towards the exit— towards that building, those people, those eyes. His heart starts racing again, and Sasuke knows she can read right through his reaction.

In her eyes, he sees a mix of fear and concern, but if anything, there are no traces of that fake pity everyone seems to be offering him for the past month. Sakura is actually worried about him. Not because of what’s happened to his family or because Iruka-sensei was looking for him; but because of what he’s feeling right now. That sudden harshness, impulsiveness and irritation...that’s not like him at all. Even if she knows about his family— because she does, he’s sure of that— she’s offering him the trivial emotion he’s been missing so much for the past month.

Someone is worried about him. Someone cares. And that— well…That means a lot.

His eyes soften when he looks at her, as he realizes how rude that scream must have sounded. There is still a hint of fear in her emerald eyes, and he can see that they’re a bit watery, too. He certainly scared her back there. Not enough to make her run away from him, but he knows he needs to apologize.

"I-I…I’m sorry.” He says, embarrassment taking over his face as his eyes are set on the ground.

“Eh?”

"I didn’t mean to scream or anything like that…It was rude of me.”

“Aah…I-It’s really okay, Sasuke-kun…” She smiles, weakly at first, but slowly growing more confident. She shakes her hands in front of her face as to ease the atmosphere, and a soft chuckle escapes her lips. “I also get scared quite easily. It’s fine.”

“Still, it doesn’t excuse what I did!” He says, his heart beating a bit faster inside his chest as he started to mentally plan his next words. He can feel himself growing anxious as he tries to find the right words to apologize to her, for he doesn't know if he is ready to talk about what's happened just yet. It’s still too soon for his heart to bare, but he doesn't think he has a choice. Sasuke wants her to understand his reasons, hence, he doesn’t see another option that won’t end up with him telling her about his family. Not when he wants her to understand. “I was just…I was just so...You see, lately I—“

But she already does.

Before the Uchiha can say another word, Sakura uses her free hand to cover his lips. His eyes widen at the sudden and bold touch, and it’s as if all the words disappear from his head. Her eyes are drawing him in, offering his heart the comfort he’s been lacking for the past weeks, and subtly telling him he doesn’t need to explain himself.

I know, her eyes say, silently, and he feels her other hand giving him a squeeze. There’s a soft blush tinging her cheeks now, and even if the shy girl doesn’t hold eye contact for too long, it’s enough for him to understand her.

She understands him. A girl with no friends, no outstanding skills and with a normal family. She understands him, and more than that, she’s offering the silent support he didn’t know he needed. She’s the one person he didn’t know he needed by his side. Oh...What an odd and cruel way for fate to bring them together.

He finally nods in agreement, then, after she releases his mouth, Sasuke manages to offer her a soft smile. It’s enough to make her lips curl up beamingly, and before an awkward silence can envelope the place, the shy pinkette takes the lead.

With a strong and warm grip, she starts pulling him towards the flowers he saw before. “Well, if you’re not going after Iruka-sensei, you might as well give me a hand with these flowers. They need to be watered and we need to remove the dry leaves. Can you help me, Sasuke-kun?”

“...Of course.” He affirms, softly, letting her guide him to the flowers and pull him to the ground so they can sit side by side. She lets go of his hand, and for a moment, he misses the warmth of it.

“Yay! It’s going to be so much faster like this!”

“I guess…” He starts, his hands already touching the petals in front of him. “Also…Do you—uhm— Do you know what Iruka-sensei wanted from me?”

“Eh?” Her eyes widen for a bit, and soon there is an inquisitive pout taking over her lips. “I'm not really sure…But it’s probably to talk to you about the classes you’ve missed. He wouldn’t want his best student to stay behind, ne?”

“Oh…I see. It makes sense, I guess.”

“Yeah…” She grows silent for a moment, and his eyes catch the way her hands start fiddling nervously. He arches an eyebrow at that, and when he’s about to question her, Sakura spits out. “I-If you want, I can help you with that.”

“What?”

“I-I can give you my notes and I can help you study. There’s nothing that complicated, but there are some tricky parts every now and then.”

His eyes widen at her kindness, and once more, he’s impressed with that girl who has never talked to him before. They aren’t friends or anything like that, and yet, she is doing everything she can to help him with the simplest things. Sakura is slowly bringing him back to reality, and he’s extremely grateful for that.

“I would like that.” He says, sincerely. “You're the smartest girl in our class, so I bet your notes will help a lot.”

“Smartest?!” She chuckles, blushing a bit. “No way! I’m a disaster as a ninja.”

“Hn. Maybe you lack some training, but your test-grades are higher than mines.”

“Maybe it’s just luck…”

“Yeah, sure it is.” He teases, knowing very well luck has nothing to do with it. She’s a smart girl, and one day, if she can develop some good skills, he knows she will become a kind kunoichi. He really hopes she does.

“Well, then, maybe we can meet here after classes, what do you think? I can always use hand with the flowers. I-If you want, of course.”

“Yeah...It's a deal, then.” He nods at her, his voice now calmer than before. His heart is beating at normal speed, his breathing is even and even if he’s sad— even if he will be sad for years to come— right now, at least, he has found himself some peace. And it’s all thanks to her. “…Arigato, Sakura.”

His eyes capture the way her expression softens at his words, and she takes a deep breath in acceptance. Suddenly, though, much like when she first walked in on him, her eyes widen, her lips part in awe and her cheeks are blushing hard. “Eh?! D-Do you know my name?”

“What?! Of course, I do! We’ve been studying together for almost a year!”

“Well…But maybe you didn’t know? I mean, you’re always so serious and always so focused...”

“Tch, of course I know, Sakura. I…I do know. You’re a very weird person.”

“Hey! I’m not the one who invaded a weird hideout!”

They look at each other for a moment longer before sharing a comfortable laughter. Right now, even with everything that has happened, they’re able to have some fun. Slowly, they’re becoming friends, and for the moment, he knows, that’s all they need.

Someone by their side. Someone who accepts their scars and who understands how it feels to live a life so differently from the rest of the kids.

And oddly, they do.

fin.

a/n: So... I don't really write much about SasuSaku as babies (they're 7 but they are babies, ok?!) and I felt so weird! Like, I don't know if I went too far or if I didn't go far enough, I don't know if they really look like children, I don't know anything anymore XD I really loved the idea of this story and I hope you guys enjoy it! Thanks for reading, and please, let me know what you think!

#sasusaku #sasusaku month #sasusaku month 2019 #ssmonth19 #ssm19d8 #ssm19d27 #myssfics

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enjolrasrising · 5 years ago

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Splinters

Enjolras.

Grantaire jolted awake to the sound of him sobbing. He rolled off Bahorel’s couch, scrambling to his feet, still dizzy from sleep. Hurrying to the bedroom, he blinked stars of malnutrition and exhaustion out of his eyes.

The bedroom felt like a cave. It dripped with darkness and unknowability. The electric fans they’d brought in to cool the space down droned on like a monster just waiting to step out of the shadows. Enjolras laid, crumpled, on the bed. The sheets around him were bloody and wet with sweat.

Éponine, the woman he knew nothing about but somehow already completely trusted, was standing next to the bed, holding a bucket they’d found under Bahorel’s kitchen sink. Enjolras was getting sick into it, heaving and sobbing at the same time. Grantaire stood in the bedroom door, horrified at the sight. Death loomed over his injured friend, the monster in the shadows.

“Breathe,” Éponine said, softly.

---

I’m running out of energy.

Grantaire stared into the sink, watching the water wash away the contents of the bucket. It had been five days since June 6th. Five days of keeping Enjolras alive, five days of little to no sleep, five days of closing his eyes and seeing Enjolras fall, five days of cleaning the damn bucket.

“I gave him soup.”

Éponine’s voice shook Grantaire out of his daze. He turned off the faucet and looked over at her.

“Soup?”

She leaned against the counter. “He needs to eat. So I gave him tomato soup. It didn’t take.”

The room was silent. Grantaire tried to dig up some emotion other than despair, but he came up empty.

��Fuck.” It was all he could think to say.

---

He’s running out of breath.

Enjolras’ chest rose and fell unevenly. Grantaire could remember the struggle of breathing with a bullet wound. It was like a chore, a puzzle. What was the best way to breathe without moving your body at all? It was a trick question, obviously. You’re not supposed to be able to breathe with a bullet in your stomach. You’re supposed to be dead.

Éponine walked into the bedroom, carrying Enjolras’ deep red jacket in her hand. “Does he wear anything on his upper body?”

Grantaire looked up from staring at Enjolras, who was deep in a restless slumber. “What do you mean?”

Éponine held up the jacket. “He’s got three different trans pride pins on his jacket, and like, I know I shouldn’t assume, but I think it might be important to ask--”

“Yeah, he wears a--” Grantaire sat up in his chair, his eyes wide. “Oh. Shit, you’re supposed to take those things off, right?”

Éponine whipped out a knife from her combat boot and made her way over to the bed.

“Whoa hey, what the fuck?” Grantaire stood. “What the hell are you gonna do?”

The knife glinted in the dim lamplight. “Do you think he can manage to sit up while we get it off of him?”

“He…” Grantaire rubbed his temples. “No.”

Éponine knelt by the bed. She quickly reached up Enjolras’ bloody shirt and sliced open his binder with her knife.

Enjolras jerked awake. Éponine was only just able to pull her knife away before it cut into his skin. The wounded boy scooted away from her the best he could, wincing, gasping, “Wh...what…”

Grantaire touched Enjolras’ arm. “Hey, it’s ok--” Enjolras flinched away from him. “Oh shit, sorry, sorry…”

Éponine put her knife back into her boot. “It should be easier now.” She leveled her gaze at Enjolras. “Breathe.”

---

We’re running out of food.

Éponine laid out on the couch, her arm covering her eyes. Grantaire walked into the living room and slowly sat down in the chair opposite her.

“Is he sleeping?” she asked.

“I guess?” Grantaire sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. “It looks more like he’s just unconscious.”

“Same thing.”

“Sleeping means he voluntarily went unconscious. And that’s definitely not what happened.”

“Are your friends coming soon?”

“No… I don’t know. The police keep closing off roads and setting up checkpoints and it’s making everything more difficult.”

Éponine pulled her arm off her eyes and stared up at the ceiling. “We’re already rationing food.”

Grantaire let out a long breath through his nose, and remained silent.

“So what was your plan for this?”

Grantaire gritted his teeth. “There was no plan for this.”

Éponine looked over at him. “Isn’t that always how it is? You plan to overthrow the government, it fails, and then you starve to death before your gut-shot friend bleeds out.”

“Alright, if you’re so fucking smart, what would you do?” Grantaire snapped.

“Not try and overthrow the government.”

Grantaire sat up in the chair. “Why the fuck are you helping us? You were able to help get here, rob a hospital, and get more rations, so I’m sure you’d be able to leave just as fucking easy.”

“You’re Marius’ friends, right?”

Grantaire blinked. “Marius? Pontmercy? Yeah, I mean I guess. You know him?”

“Yeah.”

“So...that’s it? It’s just cause you know Marius?”

Éponine shrugged. “That and once my friend got shot in the abdomen by the cops.”

Grantaire’s whole body stiffened. His own side twinged, the months old wound making itself known again. “Really? What...What happened to them?”

“We took the bullet out ourselves and then burned the wound closed.” She didn’t break their eye contact. “They nearly died three times, but we kept them alive. Because fuck cops, man. Fuck the government. They can’t get rid of us just because we’re thorns in their sides. And you know what my friend did to that cop when they got better?”

Grantaire grasped at the fabric of his shirt near his side. “What?”

“They killed him.” Éponine’s expression was sharp. “You and your friends have crossed a line. You are no longer citizens, you are wanted criminals. Just like my friend.” Grantaire looked down at the floor. Éponine didn’t. “Just like me.”

---

Enjolras.

Grantaire was stuck in his dream. It was the worst kind of dream, too, the kind that mirrored reality perfectly. It was a memory, and it was playing on repeat.

His hands covered his ears, trying to shut out the sounds of war. He was hiding in the restaurant behind the barricades. He was next to the dead bodies. He would join them soon.

Then Bahorel was there, pulling him up to his feet. “We have to run,” he said.

Outside, the air was hazy and difficult to breathe. The streets were slick with blood. The barricade was a withered mass of destroyed furniture and cars. People were running. People were getting shot. People were dying.

Through the haze, Grantaire could see him. Enjolras was helping people up and getting them to run for cover, getting them to run for their lives. Once everyone was cleared, he stopped to look at his phone, ducking behind a bullet-ridden Volkswagen.

“We need to take Enjolras with us,” Grantaire said.

Then Enjolras stood up, and so did a cop down the street. A shot rang out, striking a piece of metal near Enjolras’ head. That made him turn, and hold up his gun, and fire, and…

Two shots. The cop went down and Enjolras stayed standing.

Damn, what a shot, Grantaire thought. How the fuck did he get that lucky?

Enjolras’ cries woke him up, and Grantaire was somehow thankful. Reliving that memory was nearly worse than reality.

--- We’re running out of time.

“You have to stop moving! You’re hurting yourself more!” Grantaire held down Enjolras’ arms. “Enj--”

“Don’t touch me!” Enjolras gasped out. He tried to squirm out of Grantaire’s grip.

Grantaire felt tears pulling at the back of his throat. If he let go, Enjolras would try and curl in on himself again. It was just an instinctive reaction to the pain in his gut, and that instinct was making everything worse. “You’re hurting yourself.”

“Stop…” Enjolras looked up, his eyes glazed over. “Hit me...all you want! I’m not...not sorry.”

Grantaire’s fists tightened around Enjolras’ shirt. He leaned in closer. “Enjolras. It’s Grantaire. I’m not your father--” He pulled his face back in time for Enjolras’ weak punch to sail by his face.

“Let me GO!” Enjolras brought up his legs and tried to kick at Grantaire’s stomach. He let out a high-pitched noise of distress as his wound started bleeding again.

“Éponine!” Grantaire yelled towards the door. “Help! He’s--God, for fuck’s sake, Enjolras.” He climbed up on the bed and brought both of his legs down on top of Enjolras’, pinning them to the bloody sheets. He was straddling Enjolras’ torso, being careful not to put any weight on his wound.

Enjolras fought back weakly, but blood was slowly trickling out of his mouth, staining his teeth red. “Feuilly…”

Grantaire crossed Enjolras’ arms over his chest and pinned them there with his hands. He blinked the tears out of his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Éponine ran into the room and skidded to a stop in the doorway. “Holy shit…” She quickly approached the bed. “Tristan, the fentanyl--”

“Get it.”

Éponine pulled open the bedside table and removed a small bottle of clear liquid and a syringe. She stuck the syringe into the top of the bottle and drew out a small quantity of the drug. Grantaire pulled one of Enjolras’ arms away from his chest and extended it towards her. The syringe touched Enjolras’ skin and he tried desperately to yank it away, but Éponine’s grasp was like iron. The syringe plunged into his arm.

There was a moment, a split second before Éponine pushed down the top of the syringe. Enjolras’ red, exhausted eyes met Grantaire’s. And something old and familiar surfaced. A tear from Grantaire’s eyes fell and landed on Enjolras’ cheek.

“Not like this,” Grantaire whispered.

Éponine administered the drug and Enjolras went limp, his eyes already threatening to close. Grantaire lessened the weight on Enjolras’ body and let out a small sob. He leaned forward, towards the person he cared for infinitely more than anyone else in the world, and pressed their foreheads together. “Sleep,” he said softly. “But please, wake up again.” --- Punishment…

In his dream, Enjolras stood alone in the empty street. The world spun around him, like he was standing in the center of the universe, and all of the cosmic stardust was gathering like an oncoming storm, building up energy, threatening to explode.

He’d just killed a police officer, not thirty feet away from him. Their simultaneous shots had echoed between the buildings, then disappeared in the swirling vortex around Enjolras. He was trying to stay standing, trying not to move, trying not to breathe. He was about to shatter. He felt the blood quickly spreading across his shirt, dripping down his body, splattering against the cobblestone street. They’d both hit their marks, he and the police officer. Enjolras had just been the more efficient killer.

The blood burned his throat as it bubbled up past his lips. He coughed, and it ran down his chin. He couldn’t stand anymore, he couldn’t push down the impending collapse of his entire state of mind.

The universe was just this street, the stardust just the smoke of carnage. Enjolras fell on his knees and the world stopped spinning, instead splintering into anguish.

--- Please, wake up again.

Enjolras’ limbs felt like jelly, his brain like mush. Something was coursing through his veins, something artificial. It made him forget the excruciating pain in his gut, made him want to fall, fall, fall asleep. Forever.

He turned his head, slowly. He could see Grantaire in the corner of the room, and … who was that? The girl who helped him to the bed, the one that held the bucket, the one that told him to…

“Breathe,” she said. She was rubbing Grantaire’s back. He was crying, hyperventilating, scared.

That made two of them.

“Breathe,” the girl said.

Enjolras did. He closed his eyes.

“He’s gonna die.” Grantaire’s voice was small, crushed.

“Breathe.”

Enjolras did.

Breathe. And please, wake up again.

#enjolras #Grantaire #Eponine #Les miserables #les amis de l'abc #TW blood #TW drugs #TW wounds #tw violence #ER #ER plot point #les mis fic #tw vomit

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taeyongtime · 6 years ago

Text

for the one i’ve always loved

genre: childhood friends to lovers!au ⎮ fluff

group & member: NCT’s Jaehyun

word count: 5.5k

a/n: inspired after watching the movie for ‘To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before’ + please read the book series too and stamp “jaehyun channels big kavinsky energy” on your forehead

“I have never seen a dirtier pigsty than your room, Jung Jaehyun.”

The familiar soft chuckle you grew up listening to since age five echoes across the four walls and you roll your eyes at his nonchalance.

“Are you going to clear some space up for me to sit or what?”

“You can just move my clothes aside,” Jaehyun laughs as he turns back to his computer. “It’s not like you haven’t done it before whenever you come over.”

“Then I’m not coming in,” you huff, lean against the doorway with your arms crossed. “Not until you clean your room and there’s visible space for me to sit.”

“You’re quite a lot of work as usual,” he sighs, getting up from his chair and clearing the pile of dirty clothes on his bed into the hamper while reorganizing the clutter on his desk. “Happy?”

“If you had developed a readily aware sense of when to clean then we wouldn’t be having this type of conversation.”

“Hold it, I just happened to be lazy on this day of all days.”

You take a seat on his cleared bed and glance at the dimmed laptop on his desk.

“What are you doing?”

“I was watching a 19+ film before you interrupted me saying I needed to clean my room.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m kidding. I was checking my email because I haven’t checked it in a while.”

He turns around in his swivel chair. “What’s up?”

“My parents are currently traveling on a cruise ship for 2 months and didn’t think to tell me until this morning via a handwritten note taped onto the fridge.”

“Don’t laugh!” you whine at hearing his warm laughter. “It’s nothing to laugh about!”

“Let me guess, next you’re going to say something about crashing here for the next 2 months because you don’t want to be alone in that big house of yours.”

“…I hate you.”

One last chuckle and Jaehyun gets up to retrieve the sleeping bag he keeps in his closet for just an occasion, tossing the bundle at you as he teases about the injustice of sharing his space with a person he has known since youth when there was already not much room for two people when it could barely hold the things of one.

—

You and Jaehyun used to be next door neighbors before he moved out to an apartment closer downtown.

The Jungs had moved in next door three days after your eighth birthday, the dimpled boy waving at you while sitting on a cardboard box with ‘TOYS’ written in black marker on its side instantly becoming your closest friend before you could even wave your hand back. Seat partners throughout elementary school and the number one go-to whenever you wanted to hangout or simply as company, Jaehyun was always there for you when you needed him and it couldn’t come as a bigger surprise when he told you of his move out the day he turned eighteen. Used to being able to hop over in a matter of five minutes tops for ten straight years, you had sulked for a good week before talking to him again, getting hold of his new address once he settled in and immediately working out the fastest navigational route to his new place from yours for an impromptu housewarming party.

“Where are your parents headed this time?”

“Australia and New Zealand,” you answer, wiggling into the sleeping bag and turning to face his bed rather than the bookshelf on the wall. “They said it’s quite nice there and they have friends to catch up with anyway. Then they’re going a bit further up to spend a week in Indonesia and two days in Thailand before coming back here.”

Jaehyun’s nose scrunches while he pauses to take in the information and a sneeze follows.

“So… So tell me what made them think it was okay to leave you behind all by yourself?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. They think it’s fine since I’m an adult now but I can barely do anything when everything’s been done for me. Chores? Cooking my own meals? I already have a hard time deciding what to wear some days, how am I supposed to cook, clean, and manage my life when I’m practically no different from that of a baby?”

“Then it’s time to learn.” The bed creaks from the weight lifted off its frame and the light goes out, leaving you wide-eyed in the pitch black that was Jaehyun’s bedroom as he shuffles back to the warmth that was his covers.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Really? What if I end up burning the house down trying to microwave popcorn at 2am?”

“You’ll be fine,” he insists. “I’ll be your chaperone in the kitchen to make sure you don’t set off the fire alarm and wake my parents next door.”

“You’ll come over, then?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Smiling into the covers of the sleeping bag, you mumble “good night” and he does the same, silence drawing the curtains to a close as sleep overtakes your remaining perception of consciousness.

—

You return home early next morning, but not before Jaehyun made breakfast when he woke at 9:30 and you 10am. Stomach content and brain alert after eight hours of deep sleep, you unlock the door with a cheery hum and take in the large empty space that was the living room and the open kitchen, the set of stairs leading up to the second floor only increasing the dread of being by yourself with so much emptiness around. Not only were your parents away on their trip, but it didn’t even seem like the housekeeper was here—that much your parents still allowed you on what they called “the journey towards independence” by allowing the housekeeper to still come in to clean. You didn’t hear the sweeping of the broom in the dining area or even the harsh vacuum for the carpet upstairs, and while she mostly kept to herself while she worked, there was still an occasional check-in whenever she came in during the afternoon to tidy up. A part of your daily routine was clearly missing today as you close the door and head upstairs to change into a set of comfortable clothes rather than the top and bottom you had gone out in.

“Where’s my pen?”

You dig around the container of pens on your desk and find the one you’re looking for, the tip still smeared in ink from yesterday’s leakage. Pen ready, you open the first drawer and reach all the way towards the back, taking out the round pink box nestled behind volumes of old schoolbooks and popping off the lid to reveal four envelopes within—three sky blue and one a dusty rose color. Lifting the flap to reach at the letter inside each one, you unfold the creased papers and scan over each one, deeming them fine as they are until you reach the letter from the pink envelope. Bringing the pen close to the next space on the line, you start writing as you see fit, ink slightly smudging the edge of your pinky as your hand travels down the page.

“And… done.”

Clicking the pen to retract the tip, you note your spot in the letter and refold the worn crease marks from constant instances of unfolding and refolding. It would probably be best if you transferred everything to a fresh sheet for easier reading, but there was always more to add for this specific letter. There was a reason why this letter was in a separate color than the three sky blue envelopes, its recipient and intention on a whole different level than the other three.

Back in the box your letters go and you return them to their usual hiding place, closing the drawer shut and making your way to bed, wrapping your body up in the warm covers as you close your eyes into a light sleep. Writing a letter is truly something special to retain in this era of technology and everything fast-paced, the notion of snail mail holding a quaint inkling of fondness in your heart. Fondness of the writer at the thought of the sealed envelope making its way towards the intended recipient in due time and the surprise of the recipient at receiving a heartfelt message in the mailbox without prior notice.

But it’s not like you will ever send all the letters you’ve written. Especially not when the pink envelope contained a love letter of all things.

—

Jaehyun, as previously promised, comes over at six in the evening after dinner with his parents to oversee your first attempt at cooking a meal for yourself and nearly falls to the floor at the scope of the mess that was your cooking skills.

“What the hell happened here?”

“I told you, I can’t cook!” you yell, jumping back at the drops of oil bouncing out of the pan. “Can you taste the spaghetti and see if it’s cooked? I don’t know what’s the right texture to be labeled as ‘chewy but not too firm’.”

“… Stand aside.”

“I have to do this myself, Jaehyun. Just… I don’t know, walk me through it.”

Fifteen minutes later you manage to produce a plate of spaghetti that didn’t look like pig slop and didn’t taste that bad either, but definitely not as good as it could’ve been as you bite down on a strand of what seemed to be still slightly undercooked noodle.

“Passing for a first timer,” your best friend comments. “But spaghetti is one of the easiest dishes to make, so…”

“Okay, we get it, Master Chef, sit your ass down already.”

“I deserve an ice cream right?” he begins, already opening the freezer while you continue eating your dinner. “After saving your kitchen from being burnt down?”

You place the tomato-stained plate and fork into the sink after you finished eating.

“Only if you wash the dishes first.”

“Deal.”

He ends up taking two ice cream bars rather than just the one he was promised, irking you to no end as you slap his hand off the refrigerator the moment it touches the space on the bottom to pull it open.

“You’re about to clear out my entire fridge, you pig.”

“Ouch. So mean.”

Edging him out of the kitchen to wash the dishes yourself, you jump onto the couch after putting them in the dish rack to dry and stare up at the ceiling, not knowing how you were going to survive on your own for the next two months.

“The semester starts tomorrow,” Jaehyun begins. “Nervous?”

“Actually, no,” you tell him truthfully. “Surprising, I know.”

“It’s good that you aren’t nervous. New year, new you.”

A playful flick at his shoulder for the attempt to lighten the mood and he gets up, brushing at his jeans.

“I’d better go. It’s late and I have an early start tomorrow.”

“You can always stay over at your parents’ place, you know. That’s your home too.”

Jaehyun shrugs. “Yeah, but my backpack and stuff is back at my apartment.

“Can I use your bathroom before I go, though?”

“Use the one upstairs,” you tell him as he makes his way towards the bathroom by the kitchen. “The sink in that one’s kinda weird.”

“Will do.”

—

“Hey, you’re Y/N right?”

You lift your head up, having just barely set foot out of the lecture hall for 10am biology at the sight of the boy standing before you, lips pursed and arms crossed. He didn’t look too happy, and you sure hope you hadn’t done anything wrong when you nod and ask what business he had with you so early in the day.

“I’m Doyoung. We had an Intro to Statistics class together last semester.”

“Yeah, I remember,” you nod again. “You’d always sit in the same row as me.”

“Can you explain what you mean by ‘bigheaded prick’ in this letter?”

He holds up a blue envelope and your blood practically runs cold at the sight of the yellow happy face sticker on the seal, edge curled upwards from the envelope being opened to access the letter inside.

“How… How did you get that?”

“Found it in between my calculus homework,” Doyoung says in a clipped tone. “Didn’t know I had my very own anti-fan until now.”

You swallow at the memory of angry scribbles from last semester’s statistics class, complaining on paper about how Doyoung always asked so many questions during discussion and extending class time past the designated time slot because he always had something else needing an answer right after the first question was answered by the TA. How he was smart but needed an ego check, a know-it-all who couldn’t see past the raised nose bridge that was always cast down upon others… not good. Not good at all.

“I’m really sorry I said those things about you,” you apologize with a low bow. “I really… didn’t mean it.”

“I’m not sure you’re sincere about the apology at all.”

Your head dips even lower until you can feel the hunch in your back.

“I’m sorry, I really am.”

Murmurs of curiosity begin to buzz around your hunched figure, Doyoung luckily having the decency to forgive you quickly before a crowd began to gather.

“Yeah, fine, you’re forgiven.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to keep this, by the way.”

You recoil in surprise and he nods in the affirmative. “So I’ll know what people are talking about when they start talking behind my back.”

“Doyoung, can I please get my letter back?” you ask desperately. “It’s… private.”

“Not anymore.” He tucks the blue envelope into his backpack and shoots you a gummy smile.

“See ya.”

You wave your hand weakly and sigh, fear slowly rolling in when you realize that if one of your letters had already gotten to its recipient, the other blue envelopes probably would be in the hands of their readers also.

“Oh no,” you gasp, pulling at your hair. “Not… Not the pink one too?”

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Spooked at the sudden question, you whip your head around and nearly collide into Jaehyun; he extends a hand for you to help steady yourself from falling.

“Something wrong?”

“I…” You open and close your mouth, not knowing how to best phrase the situation. “Uh… did you…. You remember that one time you came over to my house?”

“I’ve been over to your house so many times,” he laughs. “Which time?”

“Be…Before the semester started,” you blurt out. “Do… Do you remember seeing a, uh, pink box? When you were over?”

“Nope.”

His answer only further sinks the stone in your churning stomach and you shake your head, hands pressed against your temples.

“This is bad.”

Jaehyun frowns. “What’s up?”

“N-Nothing. I… I gotta go.” You hurriedly wave and leave without another word, feet frantically taking you away as your brain races to backtrack when you’d last seen the box of letters. One blue envelope was already out, and there was no call for where the other letters would be.

Hell, there was even a chance that he could’ve seen the pink one but was just keeping quiet for your sake.

—

News of the second letter came in the worst way possible, the jolly recipient of the second blue envelope broadcasting his encounter with the letter over the university’s radio station for all to hear late in the night. While gratefully given anonymity on the DJ’s behalf, his consistent rambling on your notation of his friendliness and bright personality on paper was enough to keep you from storming out to the radio station yourself to tell him to shut the hell up, not daring to leave the library when you still had to finish the second half of a 5-page essay due by 9am tomorrow. Plugging in your earbuds, you shift your focus back to your laptop and tune out the radio, which luckily switches to a new ballad song of one of the currently popular artists and not more talk about any handwritten letters.

It is nearly 2am before you finally submit the assignment, and on your way out of the library you bump into none other than Johnny Seo himself, the man in question who ran the radio station with an entire five minutes today on receiving a lovely handwritten letter. Unsure if he knew who you were, you quickly turn tail to avoid making conversation, but the exclamation for you to wait stopped you dead in your tracks.

“Sorry,” he apologizes when you turn around to face him. “I got the wrong person.”

“N-No problem.”

Silently whispering thanks to the heavens for letting you slide by, your triumph is short-lived at the sound of footsteps from behind, the frown on Johnny’s face easing into a slow smile as he shakes his head knowingly at having missed the obvious.

“You’re Jaehyun’s friend. We met a while ago, yeah?”

“Well, Jaehyun’s very popular across campus, so I’m not surprised if you don’t remem—”

“And you wrote this.” He holds up the blue envelope. “It’s addressed to me.”

You debate denying but find no point in doing so when he had already indirectly exposed your letter fiasco to the entire student body.

“Yeah, I wrote it.”

“It’s a very nice letter.” He takes out the slip of paper tucked inside and scans the contents. “I didn’t know I had such a positive presence in your life.”

A flush of red creeps onto your cheeks and you duck your head down, not knowing how to respond.

“Well… you’re always so encouraging to your radio listeners and just… an overall cool person.”

“May I keep this? This is the first fan letter I’ve ever received.”

“I… I’d rather…”

The eager look on his face too much to disagree upon, you find yourself nodding ever so slowly while sighing internally at having already agreed to give away two of your prized letters.

“Okay. You can keep it.”

“Great! I’ll walk you home, if it’s fine with you?”

“Y-You don’t have to.”

“Please.” He offers an arm. “I insist.”

Once at your front door, you receive quite the pleasant surprise when Jaehyun’s mouth drops at seeing you and Johnny together.

“Hello.”

“Your best friend is cute,” Johnny smiles, wiggling his fingers to a wave before pushing you towards Jaehyun. “Take good care of her.”

“Will do,” Jaehyun laughs, beckoning for your house keys and opening the door to let you in first. “Later, Johnny.”

“Why are you here?” you ask your best friend curiously.

“Thought to ask you to go get food with me but then you didn’t show up until now.”

“How long were you waiting?”

“Uh…. Maybe four hours?”

Your eyes widen at the thought of Jaehyun waiting four hours outside your doorstep and punch him on the shoulder.

“Why didn’t you message me earlier?”

“I did,” he points out. “But you probably were too busy to reply.”

“God, I’m… I’m so sorry.” You usher him inside and drop your things down. “I was… preoccupied.”

He nods in understanding and sits down on the couch.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Um… not really.” Even though he was your best friend, it wasn’t in your best interest to inform him about your missing letters. The slips of papers were your most prized possessions, hidden feelings recorded down in ink that you didn’t have the courage to reveal in person. Not that they were all love-related, with Doyoung’s being a vent about the difficulties of his character and Johnny’s an admiration of his bright personality and wanting to become his friend, but there did remain two letters harboring romantic interest—one blue one for a tiny crush and the pink one that could change everything if not handled the way you had intended for things to go.

“I just want you to know that I’m here for you,” he says with a smile. “You can tell me anything, you know.”

“I…” A heavy sigh falls through your lips. “Okay. Here’s what happened.”

❀

“Hey, hey, hey.”

“Oh, hi Johnny.”

An enthusiastic hand claps your back. “So I heard there’s still one more blue letter circulating around.”

You roll your eyes. “Did Jaehyun tell you?”

“A little bird tweeted it out,” he grins. “His name could be Jung Jaehyun, I’m not sure.

“Need help finding the third one? I can send out word through the radio.”

“That is the last thing I need right now, Johnny.”

He shrugs. “Just a thought.”

“I don’t even know how they got out in the first place,” you fret. “I keep them closely hidden at home, there’s simply no way—”

“Well, I got mine in Physics. Jaehyun was looking through my notes and noticed there was a blue envelope slipped inside between the pages.”

“Jaehyun found it?”

“Yeah.” He suddenly reaches into his back pocket and stares at his buzzing phone.

“Sorry, I have to go. See you around?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good luck with the last one.”

“There’s actually one more, but…”

Your words trail off as Johnny takes his leave, the gears in your brain slowly trying to piece together Jaehyun’s role in the situation of your missing letters.

“Did Doyoung find his through Jae, too?”

Before you can look through your phone for Doyoung’s number, a quiet cough sounds from behind and you turn around to face the recipient of your final blue enveloped letter.

“Are you the one who wrote this letter?”

—

The third letter was one that you put quite an amount of time into, but you didn’t know why you were so nervous as your fingers tightened along the edges of the books you were carrying in your arms. Not that your feelings were anything more than a tiny crush upon a guy who had been kind enough to direct you to an 8am class last semester when you didn’t know where to find the building it was located in.

Taeyong was only being nice then, but it didn't stop you from casting side glances at him when you found out he was in the same major and shared most of your classes with you.

“I…” You blubber. “I, uh… well…”

“Oh, hey, Taeyong.”

An arm slinks around your shoulder and you gulp as you greet your best friend, nudging at his side and casting glares at the blue envelope in Taeyong’s hand. Hopefully he got the hint that you needed to get away from Taeyong so you didn’t need to address the topic of the letter.

“Jaehyun, I need to go study,” you blurt out, your brain working overdrive to churn out a reasonable excuse of leave. “We made plans to go to the library together, remember?”

“Right,” he chimes after, glancing at the blue letter in Taeyong’s hand. “Catch you later, Taeyong?”

“Um, I was hoping to ask Y/N about—”

“Gotta go, bye Taeyong!”

You pull Jaehyun after you and make it to the library entrance before stopping and turning around to face him.

“Thank goodness you showed up in time,” you wheeze, adjusting your grip on your books as you take much-needed breaths of air. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have known what to say about the letter.”

“Actually, I was specifically looking for you,” Jaehyun says with a shrug. “It wasn’t a coincidence.”

“Oh, okay. What did you want to talk about?”

“Well, about the letters…”

You hear an exclamation of your name just as Jaehyun opens his mouth to speak and drop your books onto the ground at the sight of Doyoung hurrying over towards you and Jaehyun.

“Are you busy?” he demands.

“No…”

“Then follow me, this is important.”

You glance at Jaehyun and he gestures for you to go.

“I’ll wait for you at the biology hall.”

“Yeah, sure.”

It turns out that the important thing Doyoung had dragged you aside for was a review session for his current Statistics class, one that you had a different professor for. Apparently the review slides weren’t going to be posted online and he had entered the classroom fifteen minutes late, thus the proposal for you to transcribe the first half of the slides onto paper while he paid attention to the TA reviewing the second half of the powerpoint for the sake of the fifteen minutes he’d lost getting there after the start time and the five minutes it had taken to pick you up. Maximizing efficiency by utilizing all available resources, he had said.

“I’m missing a few points,” you tell him as students begin to file out of the classroom after the two-hour session comes to an end. “This is how much I managed to get down though.”

He skims over your notes and nods.

“It’s good enough. The TA said this upcoming exam is focusing more on the newer material anyway.”

“Then why did you drag me here when I was in the middle of something with Jaehyun?”

“You owe me from the letter.”

“I remember receiving forgiveness for calling you a prick,” you scowl. “What the hell?”

“Now you’re forgiven,” he corrects you. “Thanks for coming here on such short notice.”

“… I don’t regret what I wrote in your letter.”

It was already dark out by the time you leave, hurrying over to where Jaehyun had said he’d be waiting. You didn't think it would take this long and had forgotten to text him to not wait for you during the whirlwind that was statistical facts and definitions demanding for your attention.

“You made it.” The figure sitting on the bench outside the biology lecture hall stands up and smiles in relief. “I was afraid you’d forgotten.”

“No, it…. it ran longer than I expected. Sorry for not letting you know ahead of time.”

Jaehyun shakes his head. “I would’ve waited for you to show up regardless.”

“Dinner’s on me for having you wait,” you offer. “Cool?”

“Oh, definitely.”

—

Jaehyun never brought up the topic of the letters after you’d grabbed dinner that night, and you receive the surprise of your life when Taeyong approaches your table in the library one Friday afternoon before your 3pm chemistry lecture.

“May I sit?”

“Y-Y-Yes.” You hurriedly move your things to make space and he smiles as he sits down.

“Sorry it’s so… messy.”

“About the letter addressed to me…” he begins without missing a beat.

You brace yourself for his reply, closing your eyes shut so you didn’t have to look at him. The imagery of him rejecting you in the library and calling you a creep for staring at him in class was so embarrassing to even think about that—

“I think you’re a very nice person, Y/N.”

One eye slightly opens and the other gradually follows.

“Me? Nice?”

Taeyong nods and smiles. “I didn’t know we had so many classes together either. If I had known, we could’ve been study buddies so I wouldn’t need to study all by myself last year.”

A nervous laugh escapes from your lips and you clap your hands around your mouth, ducking to avoid the stares and curious turns of heads from other tables.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I don’t know if I share the same feelings, but your letter still means a lot to me.”

“I understand,” you whisper back, genuinely grateful that this hadn’t gone as badly as predicted. “Um, so this means you don’t mind exchanging numbers so we can study together right? You’re in like, three of my classes this semester.”

Warm chuckles bubble up in your corner and he inputs his contact information into your phone, dialing his own number from your device so he had a record of your phone number as well.

“It’s no problem at all.”

You grab your phone back after he’s finished and nod in thanks.

“Actually,” he breaks in. “I do have one more thing to give you.”

“Oh?”

A pink envelope is placed on the middle of your notes and your eyes widen.

“I won’t say who I got it from,” Taeyong says slowly. “I was only told to deliver this.”

“But.. you didn’t…”

He leaves without another word and you hesitantly peel the flap of the envelope open, heart caught in your throat as you take out the letter inside and read the only line written on the center of the paper.

❀

Maybe deep down you’d already known it would be him.

The minutes tick by as you sit outside of the library, waiting for him to show up while the campus slowly empties out with the completion of classes and anticipation for the weekend. The numbers of people walking by dwindle down and you sit up when you spot the lone figure heading your way when most passerby walked the opposite direction.

“Sorry,” Jaehyun apologizes, sweat glistening at his forehead as he offers a sheepish smile. “I didn’t know my meeting would run this late.”

“It’s fine.” You get up from the bench and smile. “I know you would’ve done the same for me.”

His signature dimple makes its way onto his face and you take out the pink envelope Taeyong had given to you earlier.

“So.”

“So,” he echoes. “What’s with the letter?”

“Where’s the original one? The one I had in here written about you?”

Feigned innocence twinkles in his eyes as he shuffles his feet, avoiding eye contact.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, I can recognize your handwriting like my own. I know you have it with you somewhere.”

He reaches into his backpack, pulling out a sheet of folded paper that was creased all around the edges.

“I was debating framing this up so I can stare at it first thing when I wake up in the morning.”

“Gross.”

“Can’t be more gross than the fact that you never told me in all the years we’ve known each other that you love me.”

Embarrassment rolling off your shoulders in waves, you start to walk and a second set of footsteps follow suit.

“Hey, it’s true that you love me, right?”

“I don’t know,” you dismiss. “It’s cold out and I’d like to get home before it gets dark out and the wind picks up.”

The lax pace from behind breaks into a run and you stop in your tracks when a pair of hands grab your wrists together, sneaking around your waist to pull you into a hug.

“Let me go, Jaehyun.”

“Did you think I’ll say no when I’ve pretty much felt the same about you all this time?”

The gentle look in his eyes softens even more and he takes off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders.

“Here, it’s getting a bit cold.”

“Well,” you huff indignantly, pressing down the feeling of bliss fluttering in your stomach. “If you love me too, then why did you send out my other letters? Those were private, you know.”

“I thought… they looked ready to be sent, so I just dropped them off anyway. They were all signed off and everything.”

He winces at the impending groan from your end and moves his arm up, resting his hand on your shoulder in apology.

“Are you… mad at me for doing it?”

“It’s already been done, so there’s nothing more I can do about it,” you sigh. “But at least they all know how I feel and I can get some form of closure with my feelings.”

“Then…” His eyes scan your face, nervous as he bites his lips. “Then this also means you accept my apology… right?”

You eye him with a knowing glance and slowly break out the smile you’d been suppressing, bubbles of laughter echoing in the darkened night sky.

“What’s so funny?” he frowns.

“The look of fear on your face,” you giggle, “Priceless!”

Realizing you’d pulled a fast one on him, he pulls the jacket off your shoulders and you gasp in the cold of the night, the thin green hoodie on your back not nearly providing enough warmth as Jaehyun’s puffed one.

“Give it back, I’m cold!”

“Nope.”

“I’m cold!” you shriek, shoulders hunched at the wind nipping behind your exposed neck. “Give it back or I’m breaking up with you!”

“You’re breaking up with me already?” He offers his jacket just out of reach for your arm span. “Right when I was going to re-offer my jacket?”

“You never even answered me,” you refute as you cross your arms to retain whatever body heat that hasn’t escaped yet. “So I don’t know, maybe you’re breaking up with me, not the other way around.”

The padded layer re-drapes itself onto your shoulders and you hurriedly fit your arms inside the sleeves.

“What’s your final answer, Jung Jaehyun?”

“I’ve already read your letter and told you I’m not going to say no, what more do you want?”

Displeased at the lack of clarity, you stuff your hands into the jacket pockets and start to walk, humming a quiet tune that only increases in volume as another hand slips into the right pocket to intertwine its fingers with your own.

“Your hand is warm,” you mumble without looking at him. “Aren’t you cold without your jacket?”

“No,” he answers, tightening his hold on your hand while matching his pace with yours. “I’m warm just by being with you.”

#nct #jaehyun #nct scenarios #jaehyun scenarios #nct fanfic #nct fluff #tatbilb!au #its been too long since i last wrote my mojo is kinda off i feel :/

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taesbetch · 7 years ago

Text

Shy Bunny

Pairings: Jimin x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Hybrid!AU Bunny!AU

Word Count: 2k +

A/N: Sorry this is really short I'm thinking of making a part two and make that one longer and add more to the storyline but like literally all my other ‘im making a p2′ I'm not really sure. THANK YOU!

“just for a little bit y/n! please!” you best friend begged as she squeezed your arm tightly.

Her legs had wrapped around your waist and her head was heavily weighed on your shoulder, trapping you on your own couch.

“I can’t afford a hybrid right now!” you argued as you struggled against her grip.

“you and both know that’s complete bullshit! You’re just being a bitch!” she yelled back at you.

Your best friend for 3 years has also been an active hybrid protector. Adoption centres weren’t rare. No at all, there were three just a block away.

However, some of these adoption centres weren’t exactly treating their hybrids…nicely.

People like your best friend adopt as many hybrids as possible in order to protect them from the horrors that occur in the centres. Whilst they hold the hybrids other people are currently trying to figure out how to shut them down.

This time however, your friend had taken in too many.

“y/n…I swear to god. Why don’t you want to help?” she asked in confusion.

You instantly felt like an asshole but you had reasons.

“I’m a loner amber, I don’t know how to deal with people let alone take care of them” you whined as she sighed deeply.

“y/n. can you please trust me this one time? I swear you won’t regret this decision” she stated as she stared into your soul.

Something in your head was telling you this was a bad idea but something else was telling you to do it.

Fuck it.

“fine”

---

Twiddling your thumbs nervously you heard soft murmurs outside of your front door.

you had been told the basics but there was still a lot you were unsure about.

“okay Jimin! Welcome to your new home!” she yelled excitedly as she kicked your door harshly causing you to jump away from it in shock.

You were about to scowled her for damaging your property when your eyes lay on the shrunken figure behind her.

While you were busy trying to get a better look at your new roommate you friend slammed a duffle bag into your stomach.

With a pained ‘oof’ you fell backward and landed on your ass. A whine escaped your lips leading your friend to laugh loudly at you.

Your hand instantly flew behind you to cradle your now bruised ass cheek. You watched as slowly two bunny ears popped up and the stranger was stretching himself up to his usual height to see all the commotion.

The boys’ hair was swept over his eyes and his blonde ears matching with his hair stood tall and curious. As soon as his eyes connected with yours he nervously ducked down again, his ears flopping to follow his body.

“Jim-“you friend started to say before noticing he was fully crouched behind her.

Quickly, you rose to your feet as amber pushed Jimin forward happily.

“Jimin, meet Y/n!” she chirped. Jimin’s face was as red as a tomato and the poor things hands were shaking.

You smiled as welcomingly as you could and watched as his eyes darted to the floor.

“it’s nice to meet you Jimin! Welcome to your new home” you stated as you held his bag of belongings.

“Alright guys have fun” she said sending you a thankful smile before exiting the house.

Giving your friend a wave goodbye you watched as the bunny hybrid shifted his weight nervously.

“okay Jimin! Welcome to my home” you chirped excitedly, causing his ears to perk up in excitement and curiosity.

As you moved forward, jimin slowly followed you; he was hesitant in his movements but still managed to shuffle his way after you.

“this is the kitchen, this is the lounge…mmmm the bathroom is that way and your room” you said quickly pointing out areas of your decent sized apartment.

“is just over here” you said as you opened his door revealing a double bed and a side table.

“I hope this is okay” you mumbled as you placed his bag next to his walk-in closet.

You looked up to see Jimin gaping in awe.

“t-this…this is f-f-for me?” he stuttered quietly as his cheeks returned to the pink colour that stained his cheeks previously.

“yep! Is this okay? If you need anything else just ask, okay?” you asked him as he continued to ogle at his new space.

“a-and…t-the b-bed? Just for m-me?” he stuttered again as he pulled his sleeves over his hands, clutching them tightly.

“well of course!” you chirped as he slowly approached it.

“so, I didn’t know what kind of food you liked so I figured I’d let you relax for a little bit before we go shopping for some, is that okay?” you asked as you scratched the back of your head.

He looked at you in shock as he nodded his head shyly, his ears changing from upright to floppy in an instant.

“i…I can’t leave w-without a collar” he stated as his eyes traveled to the ground.

“oh, yer! How could I forget! I got one for you before you arrived actually!” you said as you dug your hand around in your back pocket, trying to dig out the silky black collar you had picked out.

“here! Im sorry for not getting you one of those hard collars, they…were just so ugly” you said shivering at the thought of the rough material.

“its…soft” he whispered as he ran the material through his fingers.

“alright jimin! Get comfy, unpack and I’ll see you in a little bit okay!?” you asked before you walked out of his room, leaving him to get used to his new room.

Amber didn’t tell you much about him other than he was extremely shy and extremely cute…she wasn’t wrong with either of those.

If he was going to be living with you, you wanted to get to know him and make sure he was comfortable around you. But how did you do this without overstepping or scaring him?

After an hour or two, you decided now would be a prime time to go food shopping.

“hey jim-“you said as you walked into his room, the door still wide open.

Your heart melted at the sight bestowed before you.

He had snuggled his way underneath the blanket, his body wiggling in joy at the softness as his two bunny ears were shot straight to the ceiling.

You let out a giggle of delight as he fought with the blanket to try and escape.

“i-i-im sorry!” he squeaked as his ears flopped down and his cheeks burned a bright pink, even brighter than before.

“sorry? For what? It’s your room Jimin you can do whatever you want” you smiled happily at him. You didn’t think stomach butterflies were real until you felt them float around your stomach.

He looked at you astonished before nodding his head shyly.

“so, do you want to go get some food now?” you asked sweetly as he shifted his weight off his left foot to his right.

“o-okay” he spoke, trying to speak louder than usual but it came out as more of a struggled shout than normal projection.

You smiled endearingly before clapping your hands together.

“alright! Lets go!”

-------------------

“Do you like lasagne? Ooo what about some pizza? What kind of snacks do you eat?” you asked as you pushed the trolley through the aisle.

Jimin looked as if he had just entered heaven. His mouth hung open in shock as he scanned the shelves.

“i…I’m not picky” he confirmed as you started shoving things into your cart.

“why don’t you go to the confectionary section and pick out what you like, sometimes I might be gone a while so we can’t have you bored and snackish you said as you examined expiration dates.

“o-okay!” he said strongly before rushing off.

You chuckled a little before texting amber to tell her you were already very fond of Jimin.

He seemed to be trying to get more comfortable and confident around you. You really apricated it but you could see he was struggling with it and causing him stress was the last thing you wanted to do.

“Is t-this okay?”

You turned around to see Jimin hugging a bunch of packets to his body. You almost cried out in cuteness overload as he stared at you with wondrous eyes.

“I see you really like Oreos” you laughed as you spotted the five packets of Oreos tucked into his arm.

“i-m-m s-sorry! I g-g-got too much didn’t I?!” he whined as his ears slowly flopped down.

“Not at all! Here, chuck it in the cart and we’ll continue” you smiled at him.

He stood frozen for a little bit before nodding and placing the items in the cart carefully.

The rest of the trip he stayed close behind you, Giving small comments here and there. As you paid and left the centre you noticed he was getting less energetic.

“are you okay Jimin?” you asked worriedly as the two of you got in the car.

“oh..i…I’m just a little hungry” he said as his hands slowly placed themselves on his stomach.

“when’s the last time you ate?” you asked as you started reversing out of the parking space.

“…two days ago?”

You gasped. Two days?!?!

“sorry did…did you say two days?! As in not yesterday but the day before?” you questioned in utter shock as you tried hard to focus on the road ahead.

You heard him hum in embarrassment and confirmation making your heart melt.

“as soon as we get home I will make you some food! What would you like?! name anything!” you demanded worriedly.

How come he hasn’t eaten in two days? Did amber not feed him?

As soon as you busted through your front door with the multiple bags in your hands you ran towards the kitchen ready to cook up a feast.

“okay Jimin, were going to have to work together so we can get you some food as quickly as possible” you said with determination as you placed your hands on your hips.

He nodded along with you, his eyes hardening to match yours.

As you directed him to draws and shoved food in the fridge the both of you were running around the kitchen to try and get everything done efficiently.

As Jimin finished up the unpacking you boiled some pasta, started on some pancakes and started frying some chicken. You wanted to give the deprived boy a range of different food groups to fill him up properly.

“I finished” he chirped excitedly.

“great, take a seat the food will be done soon” you smiled.

You heard a bunch of shuffling behind you before he sighed in content at finally being able to relax.

“so jimin, how did you end up with Amber?” you asked as you continued your cooking.

“i..i er w-was given b-b-back” he stuttered nervously. You could literally hear him play with his sleeves.

“given back?” you asked hesitantly as you continued what you were doing.

“y-yer…my o-owner didn’t want me anymore…so she gave me back to the adoption centre, that’s where a-amber found me” he explained, breathing out shakily.

As you plated his food for him you felt a pang in your chest. Who the hell would give up this cute little bunny?

“I'm so sorry Jimin” you said turning around with the plates in your hand.

His eyes were glassy and his cheeks were red and puffed out.

You let out a sympathetic whine before setting the plates down and walking around the counter towards him.

Before you effulged him in a hug you placed your hand over his.

“well, you here now! And I know we just met but I'm very fond of you Jimin, were friends now which means no give backies okay!” you chirped causing him to look at you in shock.

A tear fell from his eyes before he nodded his head frantically.

You pulled him into you, enjoying how his soft ears tickled your face. Even though his face was in your boobs and you could feel the bunny panicking a big smile found its way onto your face.

In this moment, you knew your doubt was unneeded and the growing love you had for your bunny was exciting.

you were unsure of where this would go but instead of traveling the long road of life alone; you now had your shy bunny to accompany you.

#jimin bts #bts #bangtan sonyeondan #hybrid au #bts hybrid au #jimin hybrid au #jimin scenario #jimin fluff #jimin angst #park jimin #park jimin one shot #jimin bunny #kim namjoon #min yoongi #jeon jungkook #hoseok #seokjin #bantang boys

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withoneheadlight · 4 years ago

Note

NSFW Anon here and I’ve come back w the most NSFW thing ever right, so like imagine this,,,, Steve and Billy being happy and content,,,, wow

Hey nsfw! anon💗💗💗. here I finally am!

First of all: this is the most amazing, most beautiful of asks🌟. Thinking about then happy and content, thinking about them having a FUTURE together is, the most non-safe thing ever, definitely not safe for the heart, in that way love is always a risk, a leap of faith, it's not safe at all. But I honestly think these two can fall on their feet at the end of the jump. I don’t think is gonna be easy, ofc. It’s not easy people we’re talking about. The jump is gonna last long. Sometimes is gonna feel like a freefall. That rage Billy has inside is going to be hard to deal with. For Steve, for himself. Things like that leave a mark, and being raised like that, learn that you have to bite to survive, that becomes an instinct, so it’s going to hurt, learn to live with that inside. And Steve-- having so ingrained that love is something you have to buy, a rent you have to pay without fail so people stay by your side, well, that ain’t easy either. And there are so, so many other things they’ll have to deal with. To learn. To understand (about themselves. about the other. about all the other people in their lives) so they can keep moving forward.

But if I’m not gonna be a romantic in here where else could I be? xD So I believe love wins, haha, at the end. Lame as it might sound. I believe that because the more I think about these two the more alike I found them. The more I think they’re like two sides of the same coin, spinning, spinning, and sometimes, unexpectedly, the coin stops on its rim, it doesn’t fall: they realize the other gets them. They realize they’re looking in the eyes of that somebody that is gonna know. when they need it. Its gonna look at their eyes and just know. And that’s not gonna make it easier but-- its the thing that changes it all.

It’s the thing that rescues them both.

And that’s the idea that fuels all my stories because my stories are, like, always the same? xD, something draws them apart. Something draws them back. And the thing is, I had always imagined them, like, moving together to a tiny, shitty apartment after that, after everything happens, after they’re finally together, and for good, that last time. But then, after the two month+ quarantine I spent at my own tiny apartment, I was lucky enough to move to my parent’s house in the country, and I had spent almost all that time writing them in a frenzy, so the moment I got there, with all that green and the trees and the fresh air I thought okok, the apartment is good but they’re gonna buy a house, at some point, they have to buy a house. So I started to write this messy hc that is like, mmm, an epilogue, for a lot of those stories, like a mash-up? future fic-ish-y thing, mixing parts of them all. Like: no matter what happens. Or how it happens. All roads lead to this future. To them coming back to the other like gravity. To them buying an old house with a backyard, and an ugly couch, and a strange-shaped kitchen, with them finding their place inside themselves and together and in the world. And if not their place at least some kind of peace (because, well, it's never that easy either, as we are as ever-changing as life itself is)

But, you know, a good future. Together.

So, here is a small piece of that, a bit messy and a bit tooth-rotting but, I’m writing this is basically to make myself happy so, no regrets xD. Also i hope it makes you a bit happy too, anon, as you have made me with this lovely lovely ask.

…...

The kitchen is Steve's favorite part of the house.

It has this odd shape. Trapezoid. “Fuck, Stevie, so goddamn weird”. Doesn’t make sense in a, on the other hand, perfectly rectangular house (or, well, it does, but they’ll only find out about that later). The cabinets are ceiling-high. The tiles of the wall white and cracked under the repeating pattern of light mint-green-stemmed, yellow-petaled lilies. The whole backdoor is painted on that same shade Billy calls Ripe banana dreams, both so terribly old fashioned and fiercely cute none of them say a word about repainting it. There’s a wooden piece, built into the farthest end of the counter. It looks disgustingly juicy and mercilessly stabbed when they move in, but Billy insists on keeping it, and sanding, and treating, and varnishing it. Manages to get it back up on shape because “Better than anyone, darling you should know what a little touch of class can make”. And for more than two weeks straight the only goal of his life is to learn to cut vegetables at high speed because "I have to live up to this level of professionalism. Impress our most un-impressionable guests"

(And, to Steve’s surprise –and probably hers– when she finally dings to pay them a visit his mom is, in fact, pretty much impressed)

He learns how to make good casserole. Tries his luck with Mexican and Italian. Fails miserably with Japanese. Will never-ever admit it, but he loves it when flour ends up staining every single surface, making the biggest mess around himself when he bakes. Steve knows why it is. It's a shared feeling. Floats up till it reaches the ceiling and bounces back down to them, heavy with the warm smell of cooking pie and cinnamon. Tastes docile and tamed like “Maybe not so much vanilla next time. Whaddaya think, babe?.” Tastes savage and daring, like the overwhelming tang of freshly squeezed lemon lingering on Billy’s tongue when he crowds Steve against the fridge and kisses him, bites a shuddering laugh out of him “How the fuck are you able to even think about putting your mouth near that thing, Hargrove?. That was––ugh. That was disgusting” “Well you know me, whatever it takes to make you squirm” leaving Steve with absolutely no option but lick the sugary dough stain over his cheek to “Cover up that foul flavor” and maybe because he likes to make Billy shudder too. It’s an ever-present feeling. Like the vivid smells of green tomatoes and parsley and mustard sauce. Like the sensation of Billy’s lips against his. The way he loses his breath when Steve kisses the sugary flavour into his mouth.

This place smells like home, tastes like home. Like finally, finally. Home.

It’s Billy’s favorite place, too. But Steve doesn’t think it's just because of that. But also because maybe,

maybe.

He has also noticed that--

There’s this particular, particular moment. It happens around seven on autumns, right when the day starts to fade. It happens between six and six past twenty-eight on winters, and holds the sleepy cheeks of the newborn tulips on Steve’s garden till they fall asleep on springs, sun already sinking behind the horizon by the time both hands of the clock meet over the spiraling infinity of the eight. And it grows bigger and bigger and bigger from there: the golden sunlight seeping through the wide, double-paned window facing the backyard at an oblique angle, making the yellow flowers of the tiles look like they’re re-blooming in gold.

It's the moment the day turns into a fire.

It’s their favorite moment in time. And in this particular, particular day of summer, it happens at ten past nine.

Billy is making Spaghetti carbonara. The kitchen is damp with the rich smells coming out of the boiling water. Mushrooms and oregano, black pepper and lime. A song is cooing at them from the radio, the beat of the drums a boneless memory of that one echoing around the quarry that last night at the end of July. Water rippling under the quiet sigh of the breeze. Trees cutting the liquid rays of light in asymmetric halves.

Billy takes off the apron, lowers down the fire.

Reaches out to Steve, fingers wavering come, come, come.

To me. Come to me. “C’mon, Harrington. Are you afraid of me or what?"

“¿Can I have this dance?”

Steve walks to him, takes his hand.

––Their bodies, pressed flush.

Inside his chest, Steve’s heart is running.

“Can I at least have this dance, before we say goodbye?”

Mazzy Star was playing. The corner of Billy’s eye felt wet where his skin brushed against the corner of Steve’s mouth. They danced till the daylight faded, till there were teardrops falling from the night sky (“Billy, I don’t have to–-” “Don’t. Don’t, pretty boy. Don’t say it. I’ll make you stay if you do. And I can’t do that”), they made lovelovelove on the back of Billy’s car.

In this light they fell in love, they fell apart. Ran away. Ran back.

Steve nudges at Billy’s chest, makes him move backwards till he’s far enough to tug, draw him in between their arms, hands intertwined. Steve curls himself around Billy’s back, nudges at the warm trapped between his curls. He smells like BillyandSteve, like this home, like past, like future. Like us.

“Easy, Prom King” Billy teases, grins at him tender and wild. Knows when to use the one that gets Steve every time “Or you’re gonna make me think we’ll become picture perfect from this magical night onwards. A bunch of kids. White fences. You know, the whole shebang”

Billy crashed the Camaro into a tree in the winter of two thousand and fourteen. Had left the house in a frenzy. Something had happened Max wouldn’t talk about. But she was scared, so she had called. When Steve found him, he was in the middle of the Brookville road, feet following the twin yellow lines, so weary, so impossibly small like this, head hanging, feet stumbling, surrounded by the tall shadows of the pines. Steve stopped the car at his side, engine oozing steam, shaking in the cold mid-May air “Billy” he said. Low. Careful. Careful. Billy’s eyes looked wet in the moon-silver night, pupils blown, deceivingly calm, “What are you doing? You know this is dangerous” And Billy had leaned in, forearms over the rim, had leveled with Steve. Looking wasted, looking tired, but still, he flashed a grin at him, teeth-shark white, not going down if he wasn’t going down swinging. And Steve hadn’t known at the moment, but the blood staining his cheek, the screaming-purple mark around his eye, those weren’t from the crush. “I was sleepwalking, Harrington" he said, voice dry, laugh harsh "Waiting for a stroke of luck"

“What does it make you think that’s not what I’m aiming for?”

When he took Billy to his house Max was already there, had sneaked out, white knuckles peaked with red around the handler of her bike “Neil will kill you if he finds out” Billy didn’t say it, but she read it on his eyes. And Max had called Steve. Called for help. So Steve took care of Billy’s face. Made him stay. Spend the night. Almost the whole next day, didn’t wake up till the hands meet over the spiraling infinity of the eight. Steve left him there. Retraced Billy’s steps down the Brookville road, following the yellow lines. The Camaro wasn’t done yet. Howled like a wounded beast under Steve's hands, but stayed together all the way to Donny’s garage. Steve paid for the repairs. Covered it all up. Two weeks later, Billy showed up at his door. Offered to teach him how to fight “I cannot give you back your money, but I know you don’t need that”

They spent almost the whole summer together. Some days. Most nights.

Wasting time. Fighting. Joking. Driving. Fooling around.

No ‘what ifs’. No promises. Just,

“Leave the light on if you can’t sleep. If I manage to sneak out of the Old fuck, I’ll pick you up. I won’t stop kissing you until dawn”

Because Steve was gonna leave. Wasn’t going to throw a single glance behind his back. That was the plan.

And he did. He did. But––

He spins Billy out. Tugs him back. When their chests bump, his laugh explodes, bubbles up. Weightless. Happy. Because all that matters to him, to them, it’s between these four irregular walls now.

And God this, this, is Steve’s favorite part.

–ended up coming back running, following the yellow lines. Hoping Billy was the one letting his light on this time.

Because the sun is gonna keep on shining. They can keep on dancing in here, in their weird, yellow, trapezoidal kitchen, for as long as they want. Hearts touching. Lips brushing. Bodies swaying, spinning, cutting through the golden light.

#harringrove #golden hours at the harrington-hargrove household #billy x steve #steve x billy #xharringrove #xask #askfic #ns*w!anon💕

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liquidlightandrunningtrees · 7 years ago

Quote

1 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which twin you are in love with at the time. Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advan- tage to remain impartial. Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands. The one in front will want to take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together. The sun shines down. It’s a beautiful day. Consider the hairpin turn. Do not choose sides yet. 2 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road. Let’s call them Jeff. And because the first Jeff is in front we’ll consider him the older, and therefore responsible for lending money and the occa- sional punch in the shoulder. World-wise, world-weary, and not his mother’s favorite, this Jeff will always win when it all comes down to fisticuffs. Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t always all come down to fisticuffs. Jeff is thinking about his brother down the winding road be- hind him. He is thinking that if only he could cut him open and peel him back and crawl inside this second skin, then he could relive that last mile again: reborn, wild-eyed, free. 3 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which Jeff you are. It could have been so beautiful—you scout out the road ahead and I will watch your back, how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy— but each Jeff wants to be the other one. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of looking at the back of your head. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of seeing my hand me down clothes. Look, Jeff, I’m telling you, for the last time, I mean it, etcetera. They are the same and they are not the same. They are the same and they hate each other for it. 4 Your name is Jeff and somewhere up ahead of you your brother has pulled to the side of the road and he is waiting for you with a lug wrench clutched in his greasy fist. 0 how he loves you, darling boy. 0 how, like always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night. When he throws the wrench into the air it will catch the light as it spins toward you. Look—it looks like a star. You had expected something else, anything else, but the wrench never reaches you. It hangs in the air like that, spinning in the air like that. It’s beautiful. 5 Let’s say God in his High Heaven is hungry and has decided to make himself some tuna fish sandwiches. He’s already finished making two of them, on sourdough, before he realizes that the fish is bad. What is he going to do with these sandwiches? They’re already made, but he doesn’t want to eat them. Let’s say the Devil is played by two men. We’ll call them Jeff. Dark hair, green eyes, white teeth, pink tongues—they’re twins. The one on the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about to. As they wrestle, you can tell that they have forgotten about God, and they are very hungry. 6 You are playing cards with three men named Jeff. Two of the Jeffs seem somewhat familiar, but the Jeff across from you keeps staring at your hands, your mouth, and you’re certain that you’ve never seen this Jeff before. But he’s on your team, and you’re ahead, you’re winning big, and yet the other Jeffs keep smiling at you like there’s no tomorrow. They all have perfect teeth: white, square, clean, even. And, for some reason, the lighting in the room makes their teeth seem closer than they should be, as if each mouth was a place, a living room with pink carpet and the window’s open. Come back from the window, Jefferson. Take off those wet clothes and come over here, by the fire. 7 You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room. Phone’s for you, Jeff says. Hey! It’s Uncle Jeff, who isn’t really your uncle, but you can’t talk right now, one of the Jeffs has put his tongue in your mouth. Please let it be the right one. 8 Two brothers are fighting by the side of the road. Two motorbikes have fallen over on the shoulder, leaking oil into the dirt, while the interlocking brothers grapple and swing. You see them through the backseat window as you and your parents drive past. You are twelve years old. You do not have a brother. You have never experienced anything this ferocious or intentional with another person. Your mother is pretending that she hasn’t seen anything. Your father is fiddling with the knobs of the radio. There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say hello. 9 You are in an ordinary suburban bedroom with bunk beds, a bookshelf, two wooden desks and chairs. You are lying on your back, on the top bunk, very close to the textured ceiling, staring straight at it in fact, and the room is still dark except for a wedge of powdery light that spills in from the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom is covered in mint green tile and someone is in there, singing very softly. Is he singing to you? For you? Black cherries in chocolate, the ring around the moon, a bee- tle underneath a glass—you cannot make out all the words, but you’re sure he knows you’re in there, and he’s singing to you, even though you don’t know who he is. 10 You see it as a room, a tabernacle, the dark hotel. You’re in the hallway again, and you open the door, and if you’re ready you’ll see it, but maybe one part of your mind decides that the other parts aren’t ready, and then you don’t remember where you’ve been, and you find yourself down the hall again, the lights gone dim as the left hand sings the right hand back to sleep. It’s a puzzle: each piece, each room, each time you put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, your ear to the wound that whispers. You’re in the hallway again. The radio is playing your favorite song. You’re in the hallway. Open the door again. Open the door. 11 Suppose for a moment that the heart has two heads, that the heart has been chained and dunked in a glass booth filled with river water. The heart is monologing about hesitation and fulfillment while behind the red brocade the heart is drowning. Can the heart escape? Does love even care? Snow falls as we dump the booth in the bay. Suppose for a moment we are crowded around a pier, waiting for something to ripple the water. We believe in you. There is no danger. It is not getting dark, we want to say. 12 Consider the hairpin turn. It is waiting for you like a red door or the broken leg of a dog. The sun is shining, O how the sun shines down! Your speedometer and your handgrips and the feel of the road below you, how it knows you, the black ribbon spread out on the greens be- tween these lines that suddenly don’t reach to the horizon. It is waiting, like a broken door, like the red dog that chases its tail and eats your rose- bushes and then must be forgiven. Who do you love, Jeff? Who do you love? You were driving toward something and then, well, then you found yourself driving the other way. The dog is asleep. The road is be- hind you. O how the sun shines down. 13 This time everyone has the best intentions. You have cancer. Let’s say you have cancer. Let’s say you’ve swallowed a bad thing and now it’s got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see what I mean but you’re happy anyway, and that’s okay, it’s a love story after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action, where the mirror says mirror and the hand says hand and the front door never says Sorry Charlie. So the doctor says you need more stitches and the bruise cream isn’t working. So much for the facts. Let’s say you’re still completely in the dark but we love you anyway. We love you. We really do. 14 After work you go to the grocery store to get some milk and a carton of cigarettes. Where did you get those bruises? You don’t remember. Work was boring. You find a jar of bruise cream and a can of stewed tomatoes. Maybe a salad? Spinach, walnuts, blue cheese, apples, and you can’t decide between the Extra Large or Jumbo black olives. Which is bigger anyway? Extra Large has a blue label, Jumbo has a purple label. Both cans cost $1.29. While you’re deciding, the afternoon light is streaming through the windows behind the bank of checkout coun- ters. Take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest, holding onto it and not letting it go. Now let it go. 15 Like sandpaper, the light, or a blessing, or a bruise. Blood everywhere, he said, the red light hemorrhaging from everywhere at once. The train station blue, your lips blue, hands cold and the blue wind. Or a horse, your favorite horse now raised up again out of the mud and galloping galloping always toward you. In your ruined shirt, on the last day, while the bruise won’t heal, and the stain stays put, the red light streaming in from everywhere at once. Your broken ribs, the back of your head, your hand to mouth or hand to now, right now, like you mean it, like it’s split- ting you in two. Now look at the lights, the lights. 16 You and your lover are making out in the corner booth of a seedy bar. The booths are plush and the drinks are cheap and in this dim and smoky light you can barely tell whose hands are whose. Someone raises their glass for a toast. Is that the Hand of Judgment or the Hand of Mercy? The bartender smiles, running a rag across the burnished wood of the bar. The drink in front of you has already been paid for. Drink it, the bartender says. It’s yours, you deserve it. It’s already been paid for. Somebody’s paid for it already. There’s no mistake, he says. It’s your drink, the one you asked for, just the way you like it. How can you refuse Hands of fire, hands of air, hands of water, hands of dirt. Someone’s doing all the talking but no one’s lips move. Consider the hairpin turn. 17 The motorbikes are neck and neck but where’s the checkered flag we all expected, waving in the distance, telling you you’re home again, home? He’s next to you, right next to you in fact, so close, or. . . he isn’t. Imagine a room. Yes, imagine a room: two chairs facing the window but nobody moves. Don’t move. Keep staring straight into my eyes. It feels like you’re not moving, the way when, dancing, the room will suddenly fall away. You’re dancing: you’re neck and neck or cheek to cheek, he’s there or he isn’t, the open road. Imagine a room. Imagine you’re danc- ing. Imagine the room now falling away. Don’t move. 18 Two brothers: one of them wants to take you apart. Two brothers: one of them wants to put you back together. It’s time to choose sides now. The stitches or the devouring mouth? You want an alibi? You don’t get an alibi, you get two brothers. Here are two Jeffs. Pick one. This is how you make the meaning, you take two things and try to define the space between them. Jeff or Jeff? Who do you want to be? You just wanted to play in your own backyard, but you don’t know where your own yard is, exactly. You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet. You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here. You’re still right here. 19 Here are your names and here is the list and here are the things you left behind: The mark on the floor from pushing your chair back, your un- derwear, one half brick of cheese, the kind I don’t like, wrapped up, and poorly, and abandoned on the second shelf next to the poppyseed dress- ing, which is also yours. Here’s the champagne on the floor, and here are your house keys, and here are the curtains that your cat peed on. And here is your cat, who keeps eating grass and vomiting in the hall- way. Here is the list with all of your names, Jeff. They’re not the same name, Jeff. They’re not the same at all. 20 There are two twins on motorbikes but they are not on motorbikes, they’re in a garden where the flowers are as big as thumbs. Imagine you are in a field of daisies. What are you doing in a field of daisies? Get up! Let’s say you’re not in the field anymore. Let’s say they’re not brothers anymore. That’s right, they’re not brothers, they’re just one guy, and he knows you, and he’s talking to you, but you’re in pain and you can- not understand him. What are you still doing in this field? Get out of the field! You should be in the hotel room! You should, at least, be try- ing to get back into the hotel room. Ah! Now the field is empty. 21 Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don’t make a noise, don’t leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the bread and devour it. I’m in the hallway again, I’m in the hallway. The radio’s playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I’ll keep walking toward the sound of your voice. 22 Someone had a party while you were sleeping but you weren’t really sleeping, you were sick, and parts of you were burning, and you couldn’t move. Perhaps the party was in your honor. You can’t remem- ber. It seems the phone was ringing in the dream you were having but there’s no proof. A dish in the sink that might be yours, some clothes on the floor that might belong to someone else. When was the last time you found yourself looking out of this window. Hey! This is a beautiful window! This is a beautiful view! 1 hose trees lined up like that, and the way the stars are spinning over them like that, spinning in the air like that, like wrenches. 23 Let’s say that God is the space between two men and the Devil is the space between two men. Here: I’ll be all of them-Jeff and Jeff and Jeff and Jeff are standing on the shoulder of the highway, four motorbikes knocked over, two wrenches spinning in the ordinary air. Two of these Jeffs are windows, and two of these Jeffs are doors, and all of these Jeffs are trying to tell you something. Come closer. We’ll whisper it in your ear. It’s like seeing your face in a bowl of soup, cream of potato, and the eyes shining back like spoons. If we wanted to tell you everything, we would leave more footprints in the snow or kiss you harder. One thing. Come closer. Listen . . . 24 You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terr- ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.

Richard Siken, You Are Jeff

#quote #richard siken #you are jeff #poetry #crush #quotes

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thejokervaleska · 8 years ago

Text

stitches, part 2

Pairing: The Joker (Ledger) x Reader Rating: T Words: 1645 Summary: I didn’t know much about Jack but I had the strangest feeling that he was the kind of guy who could really complicate a girl’s life.

PART ONE

I woke up sore and groggy sometime around noon. As I laid there, blinking up at the ceiling, the reason for my aching muscles and bruised hand began creeping back into my mind and I found myself wondering if he was still around or if he’d slipped away while I was asleep.

As curious as I was about him, I knew my life would be much, much simpler if he was just gone, if he’d just vanished like something out of a bad dream. I didn’t know much about Jack but I had the strangest feeling that he was the kind of guy who could really complicate a girl’s life. And that was the last thing I needed.

Hauling myself out of bed, I found an old, bleach-stained pair of jogging shorts and pulled them on under the oversized t-shirt I slept in. It wasn’t my sexiest look but I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. When I opened my bedroom door, I was met first with silence and then the smell of cigarette smoke.

I found him right where I’d left him, slouched back against the couch cushions with his socked feet propped up on my coffee table and a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He was totally still, staring off into space with a blank expression. Even when I walked into his line of sight, he didn’t react.

Frowning, I walked a little closer and leaned down, putting my eyes on level with his. “Jack?”

When I said his name, his eyes snapped to mine. At first, it seemed like he didn’t recognize me. I watched his gaze move over my sloppy outfit, down my bare legs, and then back up to my face. He blinked those dark eyes and suddenly the recognition was there.

“Are you okay?” I asked him uncertainly. He raised his brows and, with some difficulty, took a drag off his cigarette. “Okay, that was a stupid question. Uh…are you in a lot of pain? I can get you something to take for it.”

He watched my lips move with a vague sort of curiosity but didn’t seem interested enough to respond to my question. Keeping his eyes on mine, he turned his head and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air beside me.

“Can you speak?” I asked as I started to grow uncomfortable with his scrutiny. His only answer was a half-hearted shrug. “Well, can you try?”

His eyes narrowed and he seemed to consider it for a while. After clearing his throat, he grimaced as much as the stitches would allow and, barely moving his lips, muttered a soft, “No.”

“There you go,” I said, smiling. He didn’t smile back but instead leaned around me to stub out his cigarette on my coffee table. “Are you hungry?”

He hesitated for a moment and then gave me a decisive nod. Glancing back at the coffee table, beyond his feet and a couple of cigarette butts, I saw a half-empty bottle of water which told me two things. One, he’d been up snooping around in my kitchen at some point and two, he was able to drink.

“Hope you like soup,” I told him, ignoring the feeling of his gaze burning into my back as I walked into the kitchen.

I hummed to myself as I opened a can of tomato soup into a bowl, splashed in a little milk, and slid it into the microwave to get hot. In the meantime, I put a Pop-tart in the toaster for myself. It wasn’t exactly a five-course meal but it was better than nothing.

Jack sat back and watched as I walked back into the living room but offered no help as I juggled his bowl, my plate, and a glass of water. Maybe George has a point, I thought, a tad resentfully.

“Be careful. It’s hot,” I told him, sliding the bowl over in front of him. He looked longingly at my Pop-tart but picked up his spoon as I sat down in the chair to his left. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Already hunched over his bowl, he merely shrugged.

“Okay,” I said, mostly to myself. “Are you in some kind of trouble? I mean, are the police going to be looking for you?”

Jack froze but didn’t look up. After a moment, he shook his head.

“Are you sure? Because you know, you can tell me. I’m not going to run down to the station and turn you in or anything. I don’t trust the cops any more than anyone else in this neighborhood.” I winced, watching as he spooned the still-steaming-hot soup into his mouth without so much as flinching. “I just want to be prepared, you know?”

“They’re not,” he mumbled.

“So, what’s the deal?” I asked around a mouthful. “Why did those guys do this to you?”

Staring down into his soup like it held all the answers, he said, “Dunno.”

“Jack, come on,” I said skeptically. “I heard them saying something about you stealing from them-”

The words were barely off my tongue when his head whipped around and he gave me a look so dark and so mean that I completely lost my train of thought. I gaped at him and he held my eyes, unblinking, until I finally looked away.

“Alright, moving on.” Clearing my throat, I set my plate down on the table. Suddenly I wasn’t so hungry anymore. “Do you have somewhere to go? A home, I mean?”

I could feel him watching me but I was determined to avoid his eyes, afraid of seeing that darkness in them again. I looked at the table, his twitching hands, anywhere but his face. The silence stretched long between us until I finally looked up to see him shake his head.

“Where have you been staying?”

Using the spoon, he gestured vaguely towards the window and the city beyond it which I took to mean as “wherever I can”. At that point, I was 99% sure I couldn’t trust him but looking at his too-thin frame and the way he was eagerly downing the soup despite the pain, I decided he was probably telling the truth.

“So, where are you going to stay now?” I asked, though I had a sneaking suspicion I already knew the answer. We both did.

He looked up and then over at me, startled. His brow furrowed as he studied my face and then murmured, “Here?”

His tone was questioning, maybe a little hopeful. I sighed, resigned to my fate.

“Fine,” I told him, aware that I was probably making a terrible mistake. “You can stay for a little while as long as you promise you’re not some kind of psycho serial killer.”

He huffed out a laugh through his nose and, with his finger, drew a “cross” over his heart.

With that settled, I decided it was time to run to the grocery store and stock up.

I was only gone for an hour but I returned to a mess.

Jack was still on the couch but it was clear he’d been busy while I was gone. Cartoons were blaring on the television and the floor was scattered with my books and DVDs. I could almost picture him standing in front of the shelf in the corner, glancing at each cover before carelessly tossing it over his shoulder.

As I walked further into the apartment, I heard the kitchen faucet running and found the refrigerator door standing wide open. His empty soup bowl was lying in pieces in the sink as if he’d tossed it in from across the room.

Dropping the grocery bags on the counter, I turned to look at him for some sort of explanation but his eyes darted towards me and then quickly back to the cartoons.

“What the hell, Jack?” I asked, stomping over to turn off the television. “This is unacceptable-”

When I turned back around, he was already on his feet and digging through the grocery bags. Marching over to him, I ripped the carton of chocolate pudding cups out of his hands and he frowned at me as much as he could without moving his mouth.

“Listen to me. This is my home,” I told him, my anger overriding the hesitation I’d felt towards him earlier. “You can’t stay here if you’re going to make a mess and destroy shit. I don’t have time for that. Do you understand?”

He stared me down but I held my ground, lifting my chin to glare back at him. After a few moments of this, he finally huffed out an irritated little sigh and nodded once.

“If it happens again, you’re out,” I said, finally relenting as he tried to tug the pudding out of my grip. “I mean it.”

As Jack started in on his pudding, I started cleaning up his mess. By the time he was done, I was on my hands and knees across the room, sorting through the mess on the floor. As I bent over to retrieve a DVD case from under a shelf, I heard the rasp of a lighter behind me.

“You know, you probably shouldn’t be smoking,” I told him. When he didn’t reply, I glanced back over my shoulder just in time to see him sheepishly lifting his gaze from my ass. “Really, Jack? Really?”

He didn’t even have the decency to pretend to be ashamed. His eyes crinkled up at the corners and I realized he would be smiling, maybe even laughing, if he could. It was surprisingly charming. Shaking my head, I turned away to hide my own smile.

Don’t even think about it, I told myself. You’re stupid but you’re not that stupid.

(Tagging: @nicolesyneah25, @killer-khaleesi, @kittylivesyou)

#the joker x reader #ledger joker x reader #ledger joker #joker imagine #ledger joker imagine #fanfiction #rating: t #story: stitches

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moonsovergoldsboro · 8 years ago

Quote

1 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which twin you are in love with at the time. Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advan- tage to remain impartial. Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands. The one in front will want to take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together. The sun shines down. It’s a beautiful day. Consider the hairpin turn. Do not choose sides yet. 2 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road. Let’s call them Jeff. And because the first Jeff is in front we’ll consider him the older, and therefore responsible for lending money and the occa- sional punch in the shoulder. World-wise, world-weary, and not his mother’s favorite, this Jeff will always win when it all comes down to fisticuffs. Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t always all come down to fisticuffs. Jeff is thinking about his brother down the winding road be- hind him. He is thinking that if only he could cut him open and peel him back and crawl inside this second skin, then he could relive that last mile again: reborn, wild-eyed, free. 3 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which Jeff you are. It could have been so beautiful—you scout out the road ahead and I will watch your back, how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy— but each Jeff wants to be the other one. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of looking at the back of your head. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of seeing my hand me down clothes. Look, Jeff, I’m telling you, for the last time, I mean it, etcetera. They are the same and they are not the same. They are the same and they hate each other for it. 4 Your name is Jeff and somewhere up ahead of you your brother has pulled to the side of the road and he is waiting for you with a lug wrench clutched in his greasy fist. 0 how he loves you, darling boy. 0 how, like always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night. When he throws the wrench into the air it will catch the light as it spins toward you. Look—it looks like a star. You had expected something else, anything else, but the wrench never reaches you. It hangs in the air like that, spinning in the air like that. It’s beautiful. 5 Let’s say God in his High Heaven is hungry and has decided to make himself some tuna fish sandwiches. He’s already finished making two of them, on sourdough, before he realizes that the fish is bad. What is he going to do with these sandwiches? They’re already made, but he doesn’t want to eat them. Let’s say the Devil is played by two men. We’ll call them Jeff. Dark hair, green eyes, white teeth, pink tongues—they’re twins. The one on the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about to. As they wrestle, you can tell that they have forgotten about God, and they are very hungry. 6 You are playing cards with three men named Jeff. Two of the Jeffs seem somewhat familiar, but the Jeff across from you keeps staring at your hands, your mouth, and you’re certain that you’ve never seen this Jeff before. But he’s on your team, and you’re ahead, you’re winning big, and yet the other Jeffs keep smiling at you like there’s no tomorrow. They all have perfect teeth: white, square, clean, even. And, for some reason, the lighting in the room makes their teeth seem closer than they should be, as if each mouth was a place, a living room with pink carpet and the window’s open. Come back from the window, Jefferson. Take off those wet clothes and come over here, by the fire. 7 You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room. Phone’s for you, Jeff says. Hey! It’s Uncle Jeff, who isn’t really your uncle, but you can’t talk right now, one of the Jeffs has put his tongue in your mouth. Please let it be the right one. 8 Two brothers are fighting by the side of the road. Two motorbikes have fallen over on the shoulder, leaking oil into the dirt, while the interlocking brothers grapple and swing. You see them through the backseat window as you and your parents drive past. You are twelve years old. You do not have a brother. You have never experienced anything this ferocious or intentional with another person. Your mother is pretending that she hasn’t seen anything. Your father is fiddling with the knobs of the radio. There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say hello. 9 You are in an ordinary suburban bedroom with bunk beds, a bookshelf, two wooden desks and chairs. You are lying on your back, on the top bunk, very close to the textured ceiling, staring straight at it in fact, and the room is still dark except for a wedge of powdery light that spills in from the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom is covered in mint green tile and someone is in there, singing very softly. Is he singing to you? For you? Black cherries in chocolate, the ring around the moon, a bee- tle underneath a glass—you cannot make out all the words, but you’re sure he knows you’re in there, and he’s singing to you, even though you don’t know who he is. 10 You see it as a room, a tabernacle, the dark hotel. You’re in the hallway again, and you open the door, and if you’re ready you’ll see it, but maybe one part of your mind decides that the other parts aren’t ready, and then you don’t remember where you’ve been, and you find yourself down the hall again, the lights gone dim as the left hand sings the right hand back to sleep. It’s a puzzle: each piece, each room, each time you put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, your ear to the wound that whispers. You’re in the hallway again. The radio is playing your favorite song. You’re in the hallway. Open the door again. Open the door. 11 Suppose for a moment that the heart has two heads, that the heart has been chained and dunked in a glass booth filled with river water. The heart is monologing about hesitation and fulfillment while behind the red brocade the heart is drowning. Can the heart escape? Does love even care? Snow falls as we dump the booth in the bay. Suppose for a moment we are crowded around a pier, waiting for something to ripple the water. We believe in you. There is no danger. It is not getting dark, we want to say. 12 Consider the hairpin turn. It is waiting for you like a red door or the broken leg of a dog. The sun is shining, O how the sun shines down! Your speedometer and your handgrips and the feel of the road below you, how it knows you, the black ribbon spread out on the greens be- tween these lines that suddenly don’t reach to the horizon. It is waiting, like a broken door, like the red dog that chases its tail and eats your rose- bushes and then must be forgiven. Who do you love, Jeff? Who do you love? You were driving toward something and then, well, then you found yourself driving the other way. The dog is asleep. The road is be- hind you. O how the sun shines down. 13 This time everyone has the best intentions. You have cancer. Let’s say you have cancer. Let’s say you’ve swallowed a bad thing and now it’s got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see what I mean but you’re happy anyway, and that’s okay, it’s a love story after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action, where the mirror says mirror and the hand says hand and the front door never says Sorry Charlie. So the doctor says you need more stitches and the bruise cream isn’t working. So much for the facts. Let’s say you’re still completely in the dark but we love you anyway. We love you. We really do. 14 After work you go to the grocery store to get some milk and a carton of cigarettes. Where did you get those bruises? You don’t remember. Work was boring. You find a jar of bruise cream and a can of stewed tomatoes. Maybe a salad? Spinach, walnuts, blue cheese, apples, and you can’t decide between the Extra Large or Jumbo black olives. Which is bigger anyway? Extra Large has a blue label, Jumbo has a purple label. Both cans cost $1.29. While you’re deciding, the afternoon light is streaming through the windows behind the bank of checkout coun- ters. Take the light inside you like a blessing, like a knee in the chest, holding onto it and not letting it go. Now let it go. 15 Like sandpaper, the light, or a blessing, or a bruise. Blood everywhere, he said, the red light hemorrhaging from everywhere at once. The train station blue, your lips blue, hands cold and the blue wind. Or a horse, your favorite horse now raised up again out of the mud and galloping galloping always toward you. In your ruined shirt, on the last day, while the bruise won’t heal, and the stain stays put, the red light streaming in from everywhere at once. Your broken ribs, the back of your head, your hand to mouth or hand to now, right now, like you mean it, like it’s split- ting you in two. Now look at the lights, the lights. 16 You and your lover are making out in the corner booth of a seedy bar. The booths are plush and the drinks are cheap and in this dim and smoky light you can barely tell whose hands are whose. Someone raises their glass for a toast. Is that the Hand of Judgment or the Hand of Mercy? The bartender smiles, running a rag across the burnished wood of the bar. The drink in front of you has already been paid for. Drink it, the bartender says. It’s yours, you deserve it. It’s already been paid for. Somebody’s paid for it already. There’s no mistake, he says. It’s your drink, the one you asked for, just the way you like it. How can you refuse Hands of fire, hands of air, hands of water, hands of dirt. Someone’s doing all the talking but no one’s lips move. Consider the hairpin turn. 17 The motorbikes are neck and neck but where’s the checkered flag we all expected, waving in the distance, telling you you’re home again, home? He’s next to you, right next to you in fact, so close, or. . . he isn’t. Imagine a room. Yes, imagine a room: two chairs facing the window but nobody moves. Don’t move. Keep staring straight into my eyes. It feels like you’re not moving, the way when, dancing, the room will suddenly fall away. You’re dancing: you’re neck and neck or cheek to cheek, he’s there or he isn’t, the open road. Imagine a room. Imagine you’re danc- ing. Imagine the room now falling away. Don’t move. 18 Two brothers: one of them wants to take you apart. Two brothers: one of them wants to put you back together. It’s time to choose sides now. The stitches or the devouring mouth? You want an alibi? You don’t get an alibi, you get two brothers. Here are two Jeffs. Pick one. This is how you make the meaning, you take two things and try to define the space between them. Jeff or Jeff? Who do you want to be? You just wanted to play in your own backyard, but you don’t know where your own yard is, exactly. You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet. You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here. You’re still right here. 19 Here are your names and here is the list and here are the things you left behind: The mark on the floor from pushing your chair back, your un- derwear, one half brick of cheese, the kind I don’t like, wrapped up, and poorly, and abandoned on the second shelf next to the poppyseed dress- ing, which is also yours. Here’s the champagne on the floor, and here are your house keys, and here are the curtains that your cat peed on. And here is your cat, who keeps eating grass and vomiting in the hall- way. Here is the list with all of your names, Jeff. They’re not the same name, Jeff. They’re not the same at all. 20 There are two twins on motorbikes but they are not on motorbikes, they’re in a garden where the flowers are as big as thumbs. Imagine you are in a field of daisies. What are you doing in a field of daisies? Get up! Let’s say you’re not in the field anymore. Let’s say they’re not brothers anymore. That’s right, they’re not brothers, they’re just one guy, and he knows you, and he’s talking to you, but you’re in pain and you can- not understand him. What are you still doing in this field? Get out of the field! You should be in the hotel room! You should, at least, be try- ing to get back into the hotel room. Ah! Now the field is empty. 21 Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don’t make a noise, don’t leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the bread and devour it. I’m in the hallway again, I’m in the hallway. The radio’s playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I’ll keep walking toward the sound of your voice. 22 Someone had a party while you were sleeping but you weren’t really sleeping, you were sick, and parts of you were burning, and you couldn’t move. Perhaps the party was in your honor. You can’t remem- ber. It seems the phone was ringing in the dream you were having but there’s no proof. A dish in the sink that might be yours, some clothes on the floor that might belong to someone else. When was the last time you found yourself looking out of this window. Hey! This is a beautiful window! This is a beautiful view! 1 hose trees lined up like that, and the way the stars are spinning over them like that, spinning in the air like that, like wrenches. 23 Let’s say that God is the space between two men and the Devil is the space between two men. Here: I’ll be all of them-Jeff and Jeff and Jeff and Jeff are standing on the shoulder of the highway, four motorbikes knocked over, two wrenches spinning in the ordinary air. Two of these Jeffs are windows, and two of these Jeffs are doors, and all of these Jeffs are trying to tell you something. Come closer. We’ll whisper it in your ear. It’s like seeing your face in a bowl of soup, cream of potato, and the eyes shining back like spoons. If we wanted to tell you everything, we would leave more footprints in the snow or kiss you harder. One thing. Come closer. Listen . . . 24 You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terr- ible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.

‘You Are Jeff’ from Crush by Richard Siken

#poety #prose poetry #prose poem #richard siken

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