fic: the california kids still hang (rpf)
the california kids still hang
rpf. they'll fill balconies with cheap merlot and even cheaper pauses for conversation. kristen stewart/emile hirsch. 325 words. rated pg.
notes: for viennawaits! and other than that, these are lies and lies and more lies on top of lies. no offense intended.
“Vampires?” he slurs.
He pours himself another glass of red, the liquid sloshing too close to the top. It’s not like she’s an expert or wine connoisseur or anything worldly or old like that, but she’s almost positive that while drinking wine, even this, cheap merlot and a view overlooking the parking lot, there are supposed to be actual glasses, that you don’t fill them to the rim and that said glasses are never tacky souvenir cups found in the back of a kitchen cabinet.
She snorts. He pours her another glass too; the side of her cup reads in chipped lettering something about Medieval Knights or whatever. It’s blue. The wine looks almost purple as it settles in the plastic.
“Speed Racer?”
The bottle is empty and he sets it down on a rickety table. There’s a vase of fake flowers that kind of look dead. She isn’t sure how that happened.
“Alright, alright,” and he is conceding around a thick swallow, “touché.”
A car alarm goes off in the parking lot below and the heat is kind of harsh. Someone finds the keys and the last blare of the alarm is lost in a strange echo, then quiet descends. For a moment it’s kind of like the desert again, kind of like that, only no sand and no trailers, but there is this surprisingly crappy pad of his and bad red wine and dead fake flowers and that all somehow seems to fit.
The night settles and she remembers seeing a Monopoly board under a stack of magazines in the living room. She doesn’t say anything about it.
Instead it’s weird. It’s quiet. They just sit and the wine continues to taste more like alcohol than anything else. She sips and thinks about stained lips and board games and things without consequence.
His hand settles on her wrist, his thumb sticky, and he traces the jut of bone there.
For now that’s all.
fin.
rpf. they'll fill balconies with cheap merlot and even cheaper pauses for conversation. kristen stewart/emile hirsch. 325 words. rated pg.
notes: for viennawaits! and other than that, these are lies and lies and more lies on top of lies. no offense intended.
“Vampires?” he slurs.
He pours himself another glass of red, the liquid sloshing too close to the top. It’s not like she’s an expert or wine connoisseur or anything worldly or old like that, but she’s almost positive that while drinking wine, even this, cheap merlot and a view overlooking the parking lot, there are supposed to be actual glasses, that you don’t fill them to the rim and that said glasses are never tacky souvenir cups found in the back of a kitchen cabinet.
She snorts. He pours her another glass too; the side of her cup reads in chipped lettering something about Medieval Knights or whatever. It’s blue. The wine looks almost purple as it settles in the plastic.
“Speed Racer?”
The bottle is empty and he sets it down on a rickety table. There’s a vase of fake flowers that kind of look dead. She isn’t sure how that happened.
“Alright, alright,” and he is conceding around a thick swallow, “touché.”
A car alarm goes off in the parking lot below and the heat is kind of harsh. Someone finds the keys and the last blare of the alarm is lost in a strange echo, then quiet descends. For a moment it’s kind of like the desert again, kind of like that, only no sand and no trailers, but there is this surprisingly crappy pad of his and bad red wine and dead fake flowers and that all somehow seems to fit.
The night settles and she remembers seeing a Monopoly board under a stack of magazines in the living room. She doesn’t say anything about it.
Instead it’s weird. It’s quiet. They just sit and the wine continues to taste more like alcohol than anything else. She sips and thinks about stained lips and board games and things without consequence.
His hand settles on her wrist, his thumb sticky, and he traces the jut of bone there.
For now that’s all.
fin.