and we begin by giving in
for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so
This is a place to write down things I think up. May or may not be daily. I don't know: Most likely nothing will come of this. Just to remember.
for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so
This is a place to write down things I think up. May or may not be daily. I don't know: Most likely nothing will come of this. Just to remember.
So Bad It's Good
The Truth: There is a 50/50 chance of going to Heaven or Hell, and really, they have the same offices, same HR staff, and get the same wages. Black and white have no value or meaning, and are only corresponding colours of the two teams. Hell denizens are responsible for doling out 'bad' karma for those on earth who deserve it, and heaven citizens 'good' karma. Still, there are sharp divides between the two camps, and often will get in the way of the other and on each other's nerves. However, the edges are blurring, and the once dichotomous system is in turmoil. And really? Engel just wishes they gave him a desk job.
Engel - A 'demon' from Hell that is so bad at his job that half of the people at Hell Inc. is convinced he's a spy while the other half just hates his guts, plain and simple. Single-handedly dropped punishment rates by 20% since he was 'hired'. Was literally mistaken for an angel by Demo, and has been working with him ever since. Not his choice, really, Demo's got blackmail hanging over him. Clumsy, nervous wreck that no one really wants to hang out with, besides Demo.
Demo - An 'angel' that for whatever reason can't keep his trap shut, and at first blush, would seem like an easy target for hellions to exploit, except everything he says is mind-numbingly convoluted, and really not worth the time or energy to listen to. Still, he's a top-rate angel, and impossible to get rid of since he's practically married to his work. Constantly trying to get a partner for his missions, though everyone has long learned to avoid him, except for the hapless new guys. Finally found Engel to be his incredibly reluctant work partner. Believes strongly that rewards are and should be subjective, and in effect, does most of his work in strip clubs, casinos, and the stock market floor.
Engel - A 'demon' from Hell that is so bad at his job that half of the people at Hell Inc. is convinced he's a spy while the other half just hates his guts, plain and simple. Single-handedly dropped punishment rates by 20% since he was 'hired'. Was literally mistaken for an angel by Demo, and has been working with him ever since. Not his choice, really, Demo's got blackmail hanging over him. Clumsy, nervous wreck that no one really wants to hang out with, besides Demo.
Demo - An 'angel' that for whatever reason can't keep his trap shut, and at first blush, would seem like an easy target for hellions to exploit, except everything he says is mind-numbingly convoluted, and really not worth the time or energy to listen to. Still, he's a top-rate angel, and impossible to get rid of since he's practically married to his work. Constantly trying to get a partner for his missions, though everyone has long learned to avoid him, except for the hapless new guys. Finally found Engel to be his incredibly reluctant work partner. Believes strongly that rewards are and should be subjective, and in effect, does most of his work in strip clubs, casinos, and the stock market floor.
Always Do
There it is: blood, in the back of her throat.
It hurts not when you let it out, but when you let the bile and bitterness wash inside, and it becomes harder and harder to even think about breathing. But you keep it there, in an attempt to function normally. Because you're not sure how you're going to turn out after it.
It hurts not when you let it out, but when you let the bile and bitterness wash inside, and it becomes harder and harder to even think about breathing. But you keep it there, in an attempt to function normally. Because you're not sure how you're going to turn out after it.
Entry tags:
now - mates of state
NOW NOW NOW NOW!
He's laughing, spinning in place, hands in the air. Barefooted, sidestepping glass shards and dirty clothes. He's faltering, but it doesn't stop or mask his joy.
He's a little belligerent, it's true. But it evaporates, like smoke, puffs and clears away the wisps and fog and he rushes towards the windows to pull open the blinds and open them up. The sunlight pours onto his face, rushing, pulling him forward and he eagerly accepts. He tugs on his shoes, laces them up with perfect bunny ears and steps on the clothesline, not even looking down as he bounces his way over, the string vibrating with alarming speed, to the other side of the building, grabs hold of the ledge and hoists himself up.
This is it. This is it. This is it.
He's laughing, spinning in place, hands in the air. Barefooted, sidestepping glass shards and dirty clothes. He's faltering, but it doesn't stop or mask his joy.
He's a little belligerent, it's true. But it evaporates, like smoke, puffs and clears away the wisps and fog and he rushes towards the windows to pull open the blinds and open them up. The sunlight pours onto his face, rushing, pulling him forward and he eagerly accepts. He tugs on his shoes, laces them up with perfect bunny ears and steps on the clothesline, not even looking down as he bounces his way over, the string vibrating with alarming speed, to the other side of the building, grabs hold of the ledge and hoists himself up.
This is it. This is it. This is it.
Go ; Do
He dives headfirst, off the bridge and into the water.
You don't know why. He never told you why. You feel indignant. Didn't the 30 seconds of pleasantries between you two mean anything to him?
So you scrabble over the ledge yourself, and look deep in the water. He's splashing probably about 20 feet away, having the time of his life.
You are so fucking jealous you can barely stand it.
And so you jump off, screaming at the top of your lungs, a war cry pierces and shatters the quiet of the night and cold and bitterness.
And he watches you descend (he has to, he has to), and for a second, you wonder if he's just as proud as you are.
Here he is: the only person to ever show any sympathy, and for this you will follow him anywhere, and if this means anything: he will too.
Though it's rather strange, if neither is to lead, where would they go? Parallel tracks is so lonely, really. The earth quakes underneath your feet, you're pretty sure the tears down your face will be enough to burn through steel, and he laughs, and laughs and takes your hands and places them on his face. To learn the secrets of the blind.
You've never felt anything like this. You're not sure if you want to ever again. But all he has to do is look at you again, and you're back there on the ledge again, just like that night. You suck in a shuddery gasp, and get ready to take the plunge again.
You and sunrise will never fall under.
You should always know that we can do anything.
You don't know why. He never told you why. You feel indignant. Didn't the 30 seconds of pleasantries between you two mean anything to him?
So you scrabble over the ledge yourself, and look deep in the water. He's splashing probably about 20 feet away, having the time of his life.
You are so fucking jealous you can barely stand it.
And so you jump off, screaming at the top of your lungs, a war cry pierces and shatters the quiet of the night and cold and bitterness.
And he watches you descend (he has to, he has to), and for a second, you wonder if he's just as proud as you are.
Here he is: the only person to ever show any sympathy, and for this you will follow him anywhere, and if this means anything: he will too.
Though it's rather strange, if neither is to lead, where would they go? Parallel tracks is so lonely, really. The earth quakes underneath your feet, you're pretty sure the tears down your face will be enough to burn through steel, and he laughs, and laughs and takes your hands and places them on his face. To learn the secrets of the blind.
You've never felt anything like this. You're not sure if you want to ever again. But all he has to do is look at you again, and you're back there on the ledge again, just like that night. You suck in a shuddery gasp, and get ready to take the plunge again.
You and sunrise will never fall under.
[brighter and brighter]
River never had many friends, but now that he's been followed by a little girl ghost that enjoys a good practical joke and the local weirdo, he's finding companionship to be highly overrated. Possible slash.
River was in love.
He knew it was love, real love, not the stupid kind that grownups and girls in his class talked about; it was the kind that gripped you, hung you upside down, made your stomach feel queasy and still was the best feeling ever.
He stared into chocolate brown eyes that stared into his. He held his breath, as he took in sight. His heart skipped a beat, and he didn't even try to hide his blush.
The dog in front of him barked cheerfully. That was it.
River knew he had to have him.
--
He couldn't believe his ears.
"Amanda? AMANDA?"
"Yeah? So what?"
"You can't just name him anything you want! It's a BOY. It has a DICK." He pauses, still vibrating from anger, trying to come up with a biting insult. "You...you DICK." He's flushing. He sort of knows that it's a bad word, and now he's said it. Twice even. But it was true. Completely true. One-hundred percent true.
Fox just shrugs.
"Fucker needed a cool name, faggot."
"Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! That is SO not a cool name! You're like the opposite of everything cool! Shut up!" He's screaming now while Spider/Amanda rolls around between their feet, tongue lolling out and drooling on the sidewalk.
"What the fuck ever," Fox drawls, tugging at the leash around the dog's neck. "I own him, so I get to name him whatever shit name I want."
"He's mine!"
"You didn't buy him a leash."
"I made one!" River screams, the cloud behind him issuing out thunder and lightning. He's holding up a piece of 'string' he fashioned painstakingly from tying rubberbands together, dangling it in front of Fox like a noose. "I MADE ONE!"
"But it's not around his neck." He tugs once, twice on the smart blue nylon leash and Amanda bounces back up, trots towards Fox and follows him as he leaves.
"Say bye to the bitch, Amanda."
The dog obediently turns his head around, barks cheerfully at River, tail wagging.
River's cloud simmers down to a mild gray, now getting his backpack wet.
**
"i must be cruel, only to be kind. thus bad begins and the worse remains behind"
River coughs, feeling his throat chafe with the movement and swallows, grimacing, uncomfortable with the rawness.
"Hold still," Fox mutters, the sound made even louder by the acoustics of the cave. It's unbearably cold, wet, and dark, with neither knowing how to light a fire and the absence of drywood anywhere to even attempt. Still, Fox keeps plucking, prying the thorns out of River's lower left arm, doing his best to ignore the squirming and whining. The blood seeps out in rivulets, and he uses his jacket to dab at them, smearing the red liquid all over his hands, the smell pungent between the two of them. There were still ten more to go.
Now. Now, they're even.
**
He's alone. There's a thin, sky blue, dirty windbreaker draped over his chest, covering the wound. He looks down, and sees that his hand is bandaged, albeit rather sloppily. He experimentally curls his fingers, testing the wraps, not suprised as it comes loose, the dried blood flaking off his hand.
It's only a little later that he realizes River's gone.
**
River (11): Boy with his own cloud. Sort of like his pet, moodring...thing. He doesn't know, all he knows is that Fox was born to make his life hell. Likes yelling, screaming, breaking stuff, and sour foods.
Fox (10): Like Secret Garden's Dickon, including being a mama's boy. Swears like he has tourette's syndrome, though there's no meaning behind any of it. Not incredibly bright, but is exceptionally good at pushing at River's buttons (not like it was terribly hard in the first place, but he's a certified expert). Likes exploring, his army coat, insects, and sweet things.
Spider/Amanda: River and Fox's dog. River calls him Spider, Fox picked Amanda. Both of them stake claim on him and won't give him up to the other, hence why they met in the first place. Exceptionally pudgy since both of them feed him trying to win his affection, though he loves both of them equally. Has an exceptional talent for falling into wells.
**
for 10_shakespeare:
"With windlasses and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out."
"River!"
He didn't turn around immediately, waiting to see if she'll leave on her own accord.
Unfortunately, she turned him around for him.
"Fuck!"
"Oh shut up," she huffs, finally letting go of his collar and points right at his face.
"You haven't kept up your end of the deal."
"I was aware there was a deal."
She stomps her feet. Twice. River quells the maddening urge to roll his eyes. Prom queen nominee or not, she had just as much chance of getting the ever unflappable Fox to be her date. "I still don't understand why you couldn't ask him yourself--"
"Because that's not how you do things," she snaps, "everyone knows you need to research without them actually figuring out you're doing it!"
"Great. Don't drag me into it then."
Snarling, she rehooks her hand into his shirt and tugs so she can hiss into his ear, "I've never seen him initiate a conversation with anyone but you, you've obviously know how he ticks."
"Unfortunately, no."
She shoves him back into the lockers, glaring harder than ever before storming off.
Only to bump into Fox.
"Fox!" she stammers, leaping back, a wavery smile plastered on her face as she flips her hair in some coy fashion. He barely gave her a glance, despite running into the supposedly prettiest girl in school. "River, I need you to take me to Nike."
"Wait, what, now?"
"Yeah, I ruined my sneakers during gym."
"Wait, then what are you wearing now-- dammit, Fox!" He turns and fiddles with his locker to open it up and throw a pair of swimming pool sandals in Fox's face. "Wasn't gym first period?"
"Yeah."
"So you've been barefoot for the entire day?"
"Yeah. Meet you at the car." He sprints off, still holding onto the sandals in his hands.
"Are you sure you still want to be seen with him?"
She sighs, a dreamy smile coming over her face, "It would be a dream come true."
**
They lost. Again.
But no one seems to notice, or even care as they clamor to heap praises on Fox, who's pretending to be humble and sorry that he ended the season with no wins whatsoever. One girl that's standing much too close with the pouty lips and too short skirt looks just like Spider when he's humping someone's leg: shameless. Either Fox is too braindead to notice, or doesn't mind in the slightest bit.
Fucking bastard.
He does it all the time, all the damn fucking time, who the fuck does he think he is, being in all these clubs and activities and sports and still not have at least a driver's permit. Which makes River his designated driver. Which pretty much forces him to stay after school almost everyday for no reason. Which is utterly, ridiculously stupid that Fox doesn't ever, ever, ever accept rides from his stupid groupies that follow him around all the time, even tailing his car when he's driving Fox home, only stopping a block before they get home to appear not borderline psychotic. But all Fox ever does is smile sweetly, slip into the car, turn on the radio so neither of them have to talk (he always turns it onto the jazz station. both of them hate it but they won't fucking change it for some reason), and pretend that three cars filled with giggling classmates aren't following them home.
Goddammit, he doesn't even say thank you. Ever.
And for some reason, he's still here, still waiting on the bleachers for everyone to leave and Fox to seek him out and then he can go home, fix up a meat salad (pepperoni, turkey, and beef with a sprinkle of bacon) and die in front of the tv. And around midnight or so, Fox will enter through his second floor bathroom window, and sleep in his bathtub. He never questions it, and he doesn't intend to start now.
"River!" He turns around, pretending not to be fuming and staring for the past half hour. He holds a rather precarious, special placement in the school: not exactly popular, but no one dares to upset him, given his strange affiliation with the legendary Fox. He finds it to be total bull, but it does give him a peace of mind that no one's gunning for him.
"Yeah?"
"Um. There's going to a fuckin' party, so I don't think I'll be going home..."
What. At this time, he can't see straight, feeling the beginnings of a migraine coming on as he squeezes his eyes shut and watch the blood under his eyelids turn his vision red.
"River? River?"
"Yes?" Teeth bared, tone low, practically snarling.
"Would you...do you wanna come along?"
After I waited for you for three hours to finish up your little game? After I ditched my whole afternoon watching you get mauled by the other team? After I voluntarily said 'fuck it' to ever finishing that essay?
"No."
And if he had opened his eyes, he would've seen the fear flashed on Fox's face.
"Go. Have a great time." He clips, and turns away and takes the stairs out of the stadium.
**
Fucking shit fuck face four scores and seven fucking FUCK!
Fox is normally never mad. It's rare. Rarer than snow in the Bahamas, boybands making a sucessful comeback: it just simply never happens.
Except he is now, and for the first time ever mad at River.
Did he really think he wanted to attend this party? Really? Really? He was supposed to be Fox's last saving grace, his lucky ticket out of this utterly stupid waste of time. Was meant to roll his eyes, grab Fox by the arm, twist it for a good measure and say, "we're going home." Home, where he'll drop off his bag, wait fifteen minutes, then go over to River's and watch River do his essay under the pretense of watching the Matrix (for the fortieth time).
He doesn't know why he likes doing that. River puts on this terrible, constipated looking face and snarls and gnashes his teeth while he's writing about dead poets and politicians and lovers. It's more entertaining than the movie, by far.
But now he's stuck in the back of a SUV surrounded by teammates and cheerleaders, one of them who has somehow managed to stick onto his side like a leech. He's not actually sure of her name, even. He's pretty sure it starts with the letter V.
He wrestles his way to the front, next to the driver, practically crawling over people and taps him on the shoulder, "I need to go to the bathroom."
"Hang on man, my house is the next street over--"
"Now." Everyone's looking at him, but he really doesn't care right now. All he knows is that if he puts one foot in through the doorway, there's no way he'll make it out alive for the next 48 hours.
The driver, a linebacker (Fox doesn't know, he's not even sure if he's on the team), spots a gas station and parks, which prompts everyone to get out, shuffling in as they decide to load up on more sugar and fat in the form of deep fried corn chips and alcoholic beverages. Fox somehow manages to peel V off of him and dash into the bathroom without anyone following him. Goes in, spots the small window up at the top left corner and grins, scrabbling up to stand on the sink and open it. In less than six minutes, he's already out and running across the street, to the promise of meat salad and an incredibly angry River.
It couldn't get any better than this.
**
It takes him almost two hours, but he's home. Well, River's house, technically, but he already spends enough time there that half of his closet is in River's bathroom, along with tolietries, his textbooks, and laptop.
Ok, he's practicaly moved in. It's a wonder why River hasn't simply thrown everything away. But he has seen River using his laptop when his is on the fritz, so he supposes it balances out as rent of some sorts.
"Boring" he lies, having not gone to the party in the first place. He reaches over, underneath River's arm and steals a ham slice from his meat salad, largely untouched.
"Someone dropped you off?"
Fox stops chewing, puts the ham back into the bowl and edges out of the door.
"Fox!"
River (17): The chronically angry boy has now turned to an even angrier teen with a penchant for passive-aggressiveness. The cloud is now not really attached to him, sometimes leaving him for Fox. Half grateful, half jealous of Fox, and will go for days playing the ignoring game before feeling lonely again. Swears a lot (in his head). Of course, he utterly blames Fox for that.
Fox (16): Somehow managed to be class president, football quarterback, and debate captain. He's not very good at any of these, but noone seems to mind. About to become diabetic with the increasing sugar consumption. Still lets out a tirade of expletives, though by high school it's seen as edgy than blasphemy. Always has the time for River, even if River doesn't want him around.
River was in love.
He knew it was love, real love, not the stupid kind that grownups and girls in his class talked about; it was the kind that gripped you, hung you upside down, made your stomach feel queasy and still was the best feeling ever.
He stared into chocolate brown eyes that stared into his. He held his breath, as he took in sight. His heart skipped a beat, and he didn't even try to hide his blush.
The dog in front of him barked cheerfully. That was it.
River knew he had to have him.
--
He couldn't believe his ears.
"Amanda? AMANDA?"
"Yeah? So what?"
"You can't just name him anything you want! It's a BOY. It has a DICK." He pauses, still vibrating from anger, trying to come up with a biting insult. "You...you DICK." He's flushing. He sort of knows that it's a bad word, and now he's said it. Twice even. But it was true. Completely true. One-hundred percent true.
Fox just shrugs.
"Fucker needed a cool name, faggot."
"Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! That is SO not a cool name! You're like the opposite of everything cool! Shut up!" He's screaming now while Spider/Amanda rolls around between their feet, tongue lolling out and drooling on the sidewalk.
"What the fuck ever," Fox drawls, tugging at the leash around the dog's neck. "I own him, so I get to name him whatever shit name I want."
"He's mine!"
"You didn't buy him a leash."
"I made one!" River screams, the cloud behind him issuing out thunder and lightning. He's holding up a piece of 'string' he fashioned painstakingly from tying rubberbands together, dangling it in front of Fox like a noose. "I MADE ONE!"
"But it's not around his neck." He tugs once, twice on the smart blue nylon leash and Amanda bounces back up, trots towards Fox and follows him as he leaves.
"Say bye to the bitch, Amanda."
The dog obediently turns his head around, barks cheerfully at River, tail wagging.
River's cloud simmers down to a mild gray, now getting his backpack wet.
**
"i must be cruel, only to be kind. thus bad begins and the worse remains behind"
River coughs, feeling his throat chafe with the movement and swallows, grimacing, uncomfortable with the rawness.
"Hold still," Fox mutters, the sound made even louder by the acoustics of the cave. It's unbearably cold, wet, and dark, with neither knowing how to light a fire and the absence of drywood anywhere to even attempt. Still, Fox keeps plucking, prying the thorns out of River's lower left arm, doing his best to ignore the squirming and whining. The blood seeps out in rivulets, and he uses his jacket to dab at them, smearing the red liquid all over his hands, the smell pungent between the two of them. There were still ten more to go.
Now. Now, they're even.
**
He's alone. There's a thin, sky blue, dirty windbreaker draped over his chest, covering the wound. He looks down, and sees that his hand is bandaged, albeit rather sloppily. He experimentally curls his fingers, testing the wraps, not suprised as it comes loose, the dried blood flaking off his hand.
It's only a little later that he realizes River's gone.
**
River (11): Boy with his own cloud. Sort of like his pet, moodring...thing. He doesn't know, all he knows is that Fox was born to make his life hell. Likes yelling, screaming, breaking stuff, and sour foods.
Fox (10): Like Secret Garden's Dickon, including being a mama's boy. Swears like he has tourette's syndrome, though there's no meaning behind any of it. Not incredibly bright, but is exceptionally good at pushing at River's buttons (not like it was terribly hard in the first place, but he's a certified expert). Likes exploring, his army coat, insects, and sweet things.
Spider/Amanda: River and Fox's dog. River calls him Spider, Fox picked Amanda. Both of them stake claim on him and won't give him up to the other, hence why they met in the first place. Exceptionally pudgy since both of them feed him trying to win his affection, though he loves both of them equally. Has an exceptional talent for falling into wells.
**
for 10_shakespeare:
"With windlasses and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out."
"River!"
He didn't turn around immediately, waiting to see if she'll leave on her own accord.
Unfortunately, she turned him around for him.
"Fuck!"
"Oh shut up," she huffs, finally letting go of his collar and points right at his face.
"You haven't kept up your end of the deal."
"I was aware there was a deal."
She stomps her feet. Twice. River quells the maddening urge to roll his eyes. Prom queen nominee or not, she had just as much chance of getting the ever unflappable Fox to be her date. "I still don't understand why you couldn't ask him yourself--"
"Because that's not how you do things," she snaps, "everyone knows you need to research without them actually figuring out you're doing it!"
"Great. Don't drag me into it then."
Snarling, she rehooks her hand into his shirt and tugs so she can hiss into his ear, "I've never seen him initiate a conversation with anyone but you, you've obviously know how he ticks."
"Unfortunately, no."
She shoves him back into the lockers, glaring harder than ever before storming off.
Only to bump into Fox.
"Fox!" she stammers, leaping back, a wavery smile plastered on her face as she flips her hair in some coy fashion. He barely gave her a glance, despite running into the supposedly prettiest girl in school. "River, I need you to take me to Nike."
"Wait, what, now?"
"Yeah, I ruined my sneakers during gym."
"Wait, then what are you wearing now-- dammit, Fox!" He turns and fiddles with his locker to open it up and throw a pair of swimming pool sandals in Fox's face. "Wasn't gym first period?"
"Yeah."
"So you've been barefoot for the entire day?"
"Yeah. Meet you at the car." He sprints off, still holding onto the sandals in his hands.
"Are you sure you still want to be seen with him?"
She sighs, a dreamy smile coming over her face, "It would be a dream come true."
**
They lost. Again.
But no one seems to notice, or even care as they clamor to heap praises on Fox, who's pretending to be humble and sorry that he ended the season with no wins whatsoever. One girl that's standing much too close with the pouty lips and too short skirt looks just like Spider when he's humping someone's leg: shameless. Either Fox is too braindead to notice, or doesn't mind in the slightest bit.
Fucking bastard.
He does it all the time, all the damn fucking time, who the fuck does he think he is, being in all these clubs and activities and sports and still not have at least a driver's permit. Which makes River his designated driver. Which pretty much forces him to stay after school almost everyday for no reason. Which is utterly, ridiculously stupid that Fox doesn't ever, ever, ever accept rides from his stupid groupies that follow him around all the time, even tailing his car when he's driving Fox home, only stopping a block before they get home to appear not borderline psychotic. But all Fox ever does is smile sweetly, slip into the car, turn on the radio so neither of them have to talk (he always turns it onto the jazz station. both of them hate it but they won't fucking change it for some reason), and pretend that three cars filled with giggling classmates aren't following them home.
Goddammit, he doesn't even say thank you. Ever.
And for some reason, he's still here, still waiting on the bleachers for everyone to leave and Fox to seek him out and then he can go home, fix up a meat salad (pepperoni, turkey, and beef with a sprinkle of bacon) and die in front of the tv. And around midnight or so, Fox will enter through his second floor bathroom window, and sleep in his bathtub. He never questions it, and he doesn't intend to start now.
"River!" He turns around, pretending not to be fuming and staring for the past half hour. He holds a rather precarious, special placement in the school: not exactly popular, but no one dares to upset him, given his strange affiliation with the legendary Fox. He finds it to be total bull, but it does give him a peace of mind that no one's gunning for him.
"Yeah?"
"Um. There's going to a fuckin' party, so I don't think I'll be going home..."
What. At this time, he can't see straight, feeling the beginnings of a migraine coming on as he squeezes his eyes shut and watch the blood under his eyelids turn his vision red.
"River? River?"
"Yes?" Teeth bared, tone low, practically snarling.
"Would you...do you wanna come along?"
After I waited for you for three hours to finish up your little game? After I ditched my whole afternoon watching you get mauled by the other team? After I voluntarily said 'fuck it' to ever finishing that essay?
"No."
And if he had opened his eyes, he would've seen the fear flashed on Fox's face.
"Go. Have a great time." He clips, and turns away and takes the stairs out of the stadium.
**
Fucking shit fuck face four scores and seven fucking FUCK!
Fox is normally never mad. It's rare. Rarer than snow in the Bahamas, boybands making a sucessful comeback: it just simply never happens.
Except he is now, and for the first time ever mad at River.
Did he really think he wanted to attend this party? Really? Really? He was supposed to be Fox's last saving grace, his lucky ticket out of this utterly stupid waste of time. Was meant to roll his eyes, grab Fox by the arm, twist it for a good measure and say, "we're going home." Home, where he'll drop off his bag, wait fifteen minutes, then go over to River's and watch River do his essay under the pretense of watching the Matrix (for the fortieth time).
He doesn't know why he likes doing that. River puts on this terrible, constipated looking face and snarls and gnashes his teeth while he's writing about dead poets and politicians and lovers. It's more entertaining than the movie, by far.
But now he's stuck in the back of a SUV surrounded by teammates and cheerleaders, one of them who has somehow managed to stick onto his side like a leech. He's not actually sure of her name, even. He's pretty sure it starts with the letter V.
He wrestles his way to the front, next to the driver, practically crawling over people and taps him on the shoulder, "I need to go to the bathroom."
"Hang on man, my house is the next street over--"
"Now." Everyone's looking at him, but he really doesn't care right now. All he knows is that if he puts one foot in through the doorway, there's no way he'll make it out alive for the next 48 hours.
The driver, a linebacker (Fox doesn't know, he's not even sure if he's on the team), spots a gas station and parks, which prompts everyone to get out, shuffling in as they decide to load up on more sugar and fat in the form of deep fried corn chips and alcoholic beverages. Fox somehow manages to peel V off of him and dash into the bathroom without anyone following him. Goes in, spots the small window up at the top left corner and grins, scrabbling up to stand on the sink and open it. In less than six minutes, he's already out and running across the street, to the promise of meat salad and an incredibly angry River.
It couldn't get any better than this.
**
It takes him almost two hours, but he's home. Well, River's house, technically, but he already spends enough time there that half of his closet is in River's bathroom, along with tolietries, his textbooks, and laptop.
Ok, he's practicaly moved in. It's a wonder why River hasn't simply thrown everything away. But he has seen River using his laptop when his is on the fritz, so he supposes it balances out as rent of some sorts.
"Boring" he lies, having not gone to the party in the first place. He reaches over, underneath River's arm and steals a ham slice from his meat salad, largely untouched.
"Someone dropped you off?"
Fox stops chewing, puts the ham back into the bowl and edges out of the door.
"Fox!"
River (17): The chronically angry boy has now turned to an even angrier teen with a penchant for passive-aggressiveness. The cloud is now not really attached to him, sometimes leaving him for Fox. Half grateful, half jealous of Fox, and will go for days playing the ignoring game before feeling lonely again. Swears a lot (in his head). Of course, he utterly blames Fox for that.
Fox (16): Somehow managed to be class president, football quarterback, and debate captain. He's not very good at any of these, but noone seems to mind. About to become diabetic with the increasing sugar consumption. Still lets out a tirade of expletives, though by high school it's seen as edgy than blasphemy. Always has the time for River, even if River doesn't want him around.
[signals]
He laughs, raising his hands to shove Avery away as he stumbles forward, groping for the rail to hoist himself up the steps.
"G'wan. Get."
But Avery stays put, quietly looping an arm around the older man's back and letting the man's arm sling across his shoulders, practically dragging him upwards.
"Mush, Balto, mush!" The laugh is grating, not unlike a wood chipper. He's waiting to be dropped, kicked in the face, and shoved down the steps. Still, Avery continues, all with a strong grip and a determined face.
For the first time (in a very long time), Dodgson was stunned to silence.
Eventually, they reach his flat. He fishes for his keys, in his dirty parka filled with lint and disgusting food particles. He supposes it's about time to wash it.
"Welc'me ta tha na'bahoo'," he slurs, a bemused, obviously not all there smile forming on his face as he tries to keep upright. He manages a nod, before he passes out, right there.
When he wakes up, he's in bed, covered, the blinds (thank god) closed. Next to his bed, there's a bottle of tylenol and some water in the only mug that wasn't broken.
He laughs: the kid's never gotten a hangover, has he? Still, he downs the water, swishing it in his mouth before groaning and flopping back down, nixing the idea of getting up. Ever.
"Wesh--" He attempts, coughing up phlegmn and clears his throat before trying again, now sounding more like a braying goat.
"Wes'lay!"
No answer. He's probably at home.
Or maybe he can't hear him. But can't he feel the vibrations or something? Like a bat?
He'll have to ask him.
If he ever decides to come back.
--
No one can understand Dodgson's accent, worse when he's drunk (80% of the time). It's perfectly alright to Avery, who can't hear anything in the first place.
Avery Westley: 21 year old uni student. Majoring in Mechanical Engineering. Has lost 90% of his hearing ability in both ears.
Dodgson Scott: 28 year old, store manager of a nearby dunkin donuts. Neighbor to Avery. Borderline alcoholic.
"G'wan. Get."
But Avery stays put, quietly looping an arm around the older man's back and letting the man's arm sling across his shoulders, practically dragging him upwards.
"Mush, Balto, mush!" The laugh is grating, not unlike a wood chipper. He's waiting to be dropped, kicked in the face, and shoved down the steps. Still, Avery continues, all with a strong grip and a determined face.
For the first time (in a very long time), Dodgson was stunned to silence.
Eventually, they reach his flat. He fishes for his keys, in his dirty parka filled with lint and disgusting food particles. He supposes it's about time to wash it.
"Welc'me ta tha na'bahoo'," he slurs, a bemused, obviously not all there smile forming on his face as he tries to keep upright. He manages a nod, before he passes out, right there.
When he wakes up, he's in bed, covered, the blinds (thank god) closed. Next to his bed, there's a bottle of tylenol and some water in the only mug that wasn't broken.
He laughs: the kid's never gotten a hangover, has he? Still, he downs the water, swishing it in his mouth before groaning and flopping back down, nixing the idea of getting up. Ever.
"Wesh--" He attempts, coughing up phlegmn and clears his throat before trying again, now sounding more like a braying goat.
"Wes'lay!"
No answer. He's probably at home.
Or maybe he can't hear him. But can't he feel the vibrations or something? Like a bat?
He'll have to ask him.
If he ever decides to come back.
--
No one can understand Dodgson's accent, worse when he's drunk (80% of the time). It's perfectly alright to Avery, who can't hear anything in the first place.
Avery Westley: 21 year old uni student. Majoring in Mechanical Engineering. Has lost 90% of his hearing ability in both ears.
Dodgson Scott: 28 year old, store manager of a nearby dunkin donuts. Neighbor to Avery. Borderline alcoholic.
[dead in the best possible way]
"I'm sorry, I'm allergic to love."
The robot stares, the smile still fixed on its face, but still not entirely sure what to do. It wasn't programmed for this response.
It goes to the alternative route, the one designed for particularly stubborn customers. "Think of it, sir! Your own private lover, convenient, and worry-free! No need to waste your time worrying about making all the right moves when we've done it for you! And if you're not completely satisfied, just send her back to us for a full refund! You can completely trust u--."
Two seconds later, the robot is staring down a cherry oak wooden panel instead of a 24-year-old male, previous sexual partners: 1, birthplace: Tenamin, Kliver, graduated from the University of Quinton, has two older sisters...
The robot stares, the smile still fixed on its face, but still not entirely sure what to do. It wasn't programmed for this response.
It goes to the alternative route, the one designed for particularly stubborn customers. "Think of it, sir! Your own private lover, convenient, and worry-free! No need to waste your time worrying about making all the right moves when we've done it for you! And if you're not completely satisfied, just send her back to us for a full refund! You can completely trust u--."
Two seconds later, the robot is staring down a cherry oak wooden panel instead of a 24-year-old male, previous sexual partners: 1, birthplace: Tenamin, Kliver, graduated from the University of Quinton, has two older sisters...
[heart in a forest]
She's so beautiful.
He can't stand it. Can't. Can't. Won't. Rather rip his own heart out before he goes around, fawning after her like the rest of the boys in the village are.
But she smells like spring, has soft green eyes, and bakes.
Jesus fucking christ, she bakes.
So he swallows his tongue, stands by the edge of the street, clean and pristine, while the rest of the boys fight and bite and scratch and claw for the last of her apricot biscuits.
He tastes cinnamon in his mouth, and thinks of the best flowers that would match her ginger hair.
He doesn't even know her name.
He can't stand it. Can't. Can't. Won't. Rather rip his own heart out before he goes around, fawning after her like the rest of the boys in the village are.
But she smells like spring, has soft green eyes, and bakes.
Jesus fucking christ, she bakes.
So he swallows his tongue, stands by the edge of the street, clean and pristine, while the rest of the boys fight and bite and scratch and claw for the last of her apricot biscuits.
He tastes cinnamon in his mouth, and thinks of the best flowers that would match her ginger hair.
He doesn't even know her name.
[reel and bait]
"Goddammit, Fin!"
The boy looks up: wide-eyed, bushy-tailed, adoration plastered all over his face.
Sin grimaces, before feeling the anger simmer out of her body (not supposed to swear in front of kids, double strike when it's at them) and she flops bonelessly back down on the beach chair (that they made, together, two summers ago. out of hammock string and wicker.)
She doesn't want to think about what this might mean.
Except she does, because it's in her nature, to fuss and think up every possible way the world can fuck the two over like they've got a huge neon sign pointing at their asses.
It kind of keeps her sane, that way.
There's sand all over their kitchen floor, when it's below twenty degrees outside. And they're 200 miles away from the sea.
Gin is leaning on the doorframe, with a sleezy grin on.
"Get out," Sin hisses, grinding her teeth as she tries to keep her fists in check.
Fin: 6 year old boy that can perform teleportation, but isn't aware of it nor is able to control it. Depending on mood, he can transport just a part of himself (arm, head) or everything surrounding him to a certain degree (bed, Sin, the entire flat). Loves peanut butter cookies and waffles, best when the two are somehow combined. Nicknamed Huckleberry by Gin. Obviously: Sin hates it.
Sin: Fin's 32 year old aunt. A cynical painter, not that she wants to be (either the cynical part or painter part, your call), she nevertheless does what she does and more or less tries to keep Fin out of trouble. Disgruntled that Fin can teleport to the peak of Mount Everest, yet not be able to go to the grocery store.
Gin: 57 year old neighbor. Knows what's up with Fin (or as least, doing a damn good job acting like he does), but is being an ass by not telling. Often comes by to their house for some reason, letting himself in despite Sin installing deadlock bolts on every door.
The boy looks up: wide-eyed, bushy-tailed, adoration plastered all over his face.
Sin grimaces, before feeling the anger simmer out of her body (not supposed to swear in front of kids, double strike when it's at them) and she flops bonelessly back down on the beach chair (that they made, together, two summers ago. out of hammock string and wicker.)
She doesn't want to think about what this might mean.
Except she does, because it's in her nature, to fuss and think up every possible way the world can fuck the two over like they've got a huge neon sign pointing at their asses.
It kind of keeps her sane, that way.
There's sand all over their kitchen floor, when it's below twenty degrees outside. And they're 200 miles away from the sea.
Gin is leaning on the doorframe, with a sleezy grin on.
"Get out," Sin hisses, grinding her teeth as she tries to keep her fists in check.
Fin: 6 year old boy that can perform teleportation, but isn't aware of it nor is able to control it. Depending on mood, he can transport just a part of himself (arm, head) or everything surrounding him to a certain degree (bed, Sin, the entire flat). Loves peanut butter cookies and waffles, best when the two are somehow combined. Nicknamed Huckleberry by Gin. Obviously: Sin hates it.
Sin: Fin's 32 year old aunt. A cynical painter, not that she wants to be (either the cynical part or painter part, your call), she nevertheless does what she does and more or less tries to keep Fin out of trouble. Disgruntled that Fin can teleport to the peak of Mount Everest, yet not be able to go to the grocery store.
Gin: 57 year old neighbor. Knows what's up with Fin (or as least, doing a damn good job acting like he does), but is being an ass by not telling. Often comes by to their house for some reason, letting himself in despite Sin installing deadlock bolts on every door.