the apartment, or: how to i learned to forget cooking and love take-out [6/?]
anonymous
December 8 2010, 03:12:19 UTC
After suddenly mustering up the motivation to finish homework, he decided to turn on his phone. He saw that he'd missed a call from Elizaveta. Elizaveta was currently attending school in Boston as an adult student, studying Psychology. She had spent all her life in Hungary studying calculus and physics because girls were encouraged to devote themselves to science. She came to America, ostensibly to continue these studies, but then an incredibly young and enthusiastic tenured professor at Wesleyan introduced her to Freud. Within a month, he had her smelling ether. She ended up marrying him, and they moved to New York where Roderich assumed the role of head chairperson of a non-profit association. The three used to go out on town a lot. Gilbert couldn't really remember when exactly they'd divorced, or why. For one thing, it wasn't his business. Another thing, people fell out of love just as quickly as they tumbled in. It was normal.
Anyway, Elizaveta still considered herself a kind of kin to Gilbert and occasionally she called him to ask if he had found himself a girlfriend. After years, the question became grating but Elizaveta hadn't caught on. When he called back, she was in the middle of a lecture. He called again an hour later.
"Miss me?" she said.
"Miss you? Man, who's the one calling me every other week?"
"Shut up, you know as well as I do that I worry for you. I can't help it. Does my little Gil get enough sleep?"
"You're not my mother okay."
"Oh hush. How're the others?"
"Alive, I guess. Antonio's at work right now. Francis has been in Ithaca since six o' clock today and he keeps texting me every twenty minutes, reminding me how cold it is there and that I need to get on Twitter."
"Ithaca's rather dreary, I remember. Professor occasionally taught there. Took me out once, and we had ice-cream in January." Professor was her name for Roderich when she didn't want to call him by his name.
"It's a pretty cool place. There's that bridge."
"The one where everyone jumps off?" She laughed a little. "No, I'm sorry. Let's meet up sometime. Come to Boston for Christmas and you can stay at my loft."
"Yours, or someone else's?"
"For the record, I'm single."
"Does he have a lot of money?"
"God, I forgot what a bastard you were."
In the background, Gilbert could hear hurried footsteps and the distinct ring of a bell. "You at the T?"
"On my way back home, actually."
"Hmm."
"You know, I do miss you. Only occasionally, mind you. We had such good times, didn't we?"
"Yeah, sure did." They talked a little longer; it was inconsequential chatter, a skill he had never quite acquired but nevertheless exercised for risk of appearing socially inept. Elizaveta was a good talker and he supposed that was why Roderich had married her. Maybe they had even loved each other. That didn't matter anymore though. Elizabeta was happy in Boston and Roderich had returned to Connecticut, and it was as if their time spent together had already been lost to the past.
I swear, this narrative jumps from nonsensical to serious and back every other part. ;_; Thank you to anyone who's actually keeping up with this, it means a lot! &hearts
Re: the apartment, or: how to i learned to forget cooking and love take-out [6/?]
anonymous
December 8 2010, 09:06:57 UTC
Ooh, but I love the narrative! It's what makes this story so lively <3
It's so interesting to see the Austria/Hungary/Prussia-relationship like that for a change. Usually it's always Austria/Hungary and Prussia being jealous and a dick xD
The little Prussia/Spain bit in this was so endearing <3 And France somehow always makes me laugh. Lol, the line with the cookies! Did I already tell you that I love your humor?
Awesome chapter again, anon! I'm already looking forward for the next :)
the apartment, or: how to i learned to forget cooking and love take-out [7/?]
anonymous
December 11 2010, 00:12:41 UTC
All though Saturday, Francis typed. Because he could, he owned one of those archaic typewriters from 1948 that still somehow worked, a novelty that had yet to be explained by modern science. Francis typed all of his first drafts on the typewriter, after which he transferred his works its distressingly uglier cousin, the word processor. He'd been quiet since returning late Friday night. Gilbert and Antonio had been home, and Antonio was telling Gilbert about one of his regulars, a Belgian girl who came every Tuesday and Thursday. She always ordered the same drink, tall Caramel Macchiato. But today, she blanked on her order and he had to remind her.
In the afternoon, Gilbert begrudgingly set out for a long overdue dentist appointment and Antonio slinked off to Spanish Harlem. It was a calm December, the kind of day where you wished something could happen but knew nothing would, and Francis was still typing when the two returned at separate times.
"You're not going out tonight?" Gilbert asked.
"Busy," Francis explained. He wouldn't tell his roommates what exactly he was typing but he did let it slip that it was inaccrochable.
"Which is to say it will never be published," said Francis, "but alas!"
"Then why write it?" asked Antonio, who had never told Francis that he wrote poetry.
"Because publishing is not the point of writing, mon cher."
"No?"
"To write is to fulfill a higher purpose, it is almost a spiritual journey. You purge yourself onto paper, so that when you are done, you are looking at yourself. That is the idea. You've transformed thoughts, wants, and needs into words. I write to satisfy my inner longings and hopes and feelings, taking them one by one and manifesting them all into a beautifully written work." He had worked himself up quite well. It was an impressive display.
"In other words," said Gilbert, crossing his arms, "this is yet another sign that you need to get laid. Intellectuals." He said intellectuals the way a person might have said, "That person just came out of the restroom and he didn't wash his hands."
"You know, I could just as well ask you both why I've been left out, but I won't! I have more dignity than that."
"Left out?"
"You and Antonio copulate every Thursday night at ten thirty. If you don't think I don't realize these things, then you are poorly mistaken! Did I miss the invite or was it simply a closed off event?" he said tearfully.
"Oh," said Antonio.
"Oh," said Gilbert.
"You never asked," Antonio pointed out.
"That's right," Gilbert agreed.
"All this time, all by myself, I've had to deal, no, cope, with my torn feelings by giving them a voice, albeit small, so that they may sprout wings and thereby gain your notice in whatever shape or form! Pure devastation and loneliness have been my mentors," and he wrapped his arms around his body in loving embrace of himself.
"You've been writing porn?" asked Gilbert.
"Were you writing porn of us?"
"Aw, how sweet of you."
"I write tasteful stories," Francis insisted.
"Let's read them out loud then," suggested Antonio. "We can take turns."
"I'll get us a few drinks, heh."
"W-wait just a second here."
"Dude, we got any more scotch?"
"Not since Francis gave it away to one of his friends."
"It was scotch from the Highlands. I'll have no such drink in my house!"
"You mean apartment?"
"And isn't this our apartment?"
"Dolts, both of you!"
"But we can still love each other, no?" said Antonio. Then, suddenly: "I love you both. I love you even when you leave out the cream on the countertop and it spoils or when Gilbert forgets to flush."
"I do not forget to flush!"
"Oh, oh. Sure."
Francis made a suspicious little sound and Antonio threw his head back.
the apartment, or: how to i learned to forget cooking and love take-out [8/?]
anonymous
December 11 2010, 00:17:15 UTC
"What is this, a fucking love confession scene?" Gilbert quickly recovered and solemnly held up his right hand: "Guys, I have something to say. I'm so much in love right now, I'm gonna shit my pants. I might even have an emergency."
"You didn't do it right. You need to flutter your eyelashes and pout."
"Like this?" he even blushed.
"Oh, you shouldn't have!"
"I'm about to faint, my head feels light!"
"I'll catch you!"
"Here, let me serenade you. Because that's the solution to life, really, serenading."
"Let me sing you a Spanish lullaby. While massaging your feet and gazing into your corneas. Or was it the pupils?"
"Let me sing you some Rammstein. Or Wagner. Take your pick."
"Good God, what is going on and why am I still living here," Francis cried, and undid his belt buckle.
*
Imagine a ballistic pendulum, except with a coffee can as the pendulum and a crossbow as the shooting gun. This was Gilbert's physics analogy-not that any one of them could attest to it-in explaining why Antonio usually ended up with the blankets. There was some jibber-jabber of the difference between initial and final velocity, multiplied by the mass of the object, and somehow this correlated to Francis's snoring patterns and Antonio's systemic kicks that could be graphed linearly by finding the amount of force involved and the displacement of his kicks. Mostly it was an elaborate attempt. What was more important, of course, was the fact that the Sicilian boy whose name Antonio spelled correctly on the first try never returned. "Maybe he was only here on vacation," Gilbert said on reflex.
"Maybe he went back to Sicily," Francis offered.
"Maybe he died."
"Maybe he was deported."
"Maybe he found another Starbucks to go to," Antonio said sadly. "Maybe another Barista spelled his name right on the first time."
"Maybe," said Francis, "he simply doesn't like coffee."
"You think he didn't like my coffee?" Antonio looked heartbroken.
"You are despairing over nothing, silly pooh."
"That's right! Forget the mafioso. You've been Employee of the Month for how many months in a row now?"
"Five."
"How much money have you got saved up?"
"Um, four thousand dollars and thirty-three cents last I checked."
"How much more do you need?"
He paused. "A lot, that's for sure."
"Get another job."
"No time, my friend!"
"Why don't you publish your poetry?" said Gilbert.
"You write poetry?" Francis said, and threw a temper tantrum because Gilbert and Antonio were always keeping secrets from him.
"Um," said Antonio.
"Say, I'm hungry. Let's go eat breakfast. A real breakfast. Let's eat at the Colony. I'm sure you know someone there, Francis. Oh see, look, it's lunchtime."
"No money, no money. I got no money but I got your lurve, love! Oh oh rah!"
"Idiot, that's not how the song goes! It's rah rah not oh oh rah."
"It all sounds the same to me."
"Raising money isn't so hard. We can start a foundation: Antonio's Coffee. We'll make money in no time. What if we just ask Clinton? He likes foreigners, right? Are you ingrates even listening?"
"I'm so fucking hungry, man, I could eat five horses."
"Thanks, guys," said Antonio, and if they had been gal pals they would have group hugged before going to splurge at Sephora, but since they were not, Gilbert burped, Francis beat him for it, and Antonio began humming the melody of Meat and Potatoes, only very much off-key. They rolled dice to see who would pay; Francis won the first round and Gilbert won the second, but since Antonio hadn't gotten his paycheck yet, the other two felt sorry for him and they ended up paying individually. When Antonio couldn't afford the third drink (or was it the fifth?), they left for a cheaper place known to be frequented by poivrottes, not that they meant any harm. It was a rowdy, small room and really, it was quite lovely.
Re: the apartment, or: how to i learned to forget cooking and love take-out [9/9]
anonymous
December 11 2010, 00:25:25 UTC
What they had, they believed, was not love; it was something even better. Francis had yet to coin a phrase for it, but one day he would find the right inspiration and until then it was this: three and only three. In many regards, it was easier. Fewer secrets, more fun, and transparency is a beautiful thing until you realize you don't want to know every minute detail of your friends' intimate lives. Like when Francis, in the midst of preparing for his dissertation, decided to become enamored with his Anthropology friend, Arthur, and thought the world was going to end because Arthur rejected him for reasons too silly to divulge here. That took a long time to get him to feel better, though it helped that Arthur later moved to San Francisco for a post teaching Linguistics.
Antonio said that Arthur couldn't cook and besides, he was a lightweight. Francis conceded he had a point and that night, they picked up one of Francis's girl friends for a bender that started in Greenwich Village and ended in Trenton. In the morning that came as an afternoon, Gilbert remembered the running faucet he'd forgotten to turn off, and it was a mad mess of tossed clothes, crushed out cigarette butts, and one-dollar bills as they high-tailed it back to 2F.
As they were struggling with the key, the three new tenants in 2E were moving in. They were international students from Japan who were visiting America for the first time. Everything was a meaningful and exciting experience. Takeru waved hello to Antonio while Touji struggled with a box that appeared to contain three kinds of rice cookers. Kiku, the youngest but brightest of the three, was deeply engrossed with playing, on his DSi, Professor Layton VS Gyakuten Saiban.
Work at Starbucks proceeded as well. In March, Antonio created the most perfect Java Chip Frappuccino and as a result, found himself presented with a marriage proposal. He later had to turn down the person, the sweet Belgian girl who worked as a professor's assistant at N.Y.U., because Gilbert and Francis adamantly objected to her particular shade of blond hair.
"It's not that I've anything against blonds," said Gilbert. (He was, of course, silver-haired, like Anderson Cooper.) "But it's not the right kind of blond. You wouldn't look right together."
"And to think, how would you survive? How can you provide for a family when you live with two men and must continue to help pay their obscenely high New York rent that is too damn high? Think of the gossip! The scandalmongers!" said Francis, who not-so-secretly did not mind it at all.
"You know," said Antonio, "it was just a joke. I think."
*
Also, Gilbert dropped out of school once and for all; he was sick of failing organic chemistry and he was tired of paying for and attending classes he'd stopped caring about five years ago. So he began work as a DJ at a third-tier dance club on the lower East Side. His hours changed drastically. His drinking tolerance increased. He fell in love with a girl whose name he forgot to ask (since she had looked like a Melissa), and when morning came he remembered how much he loved Antonio and Francis. Nevertheless, there was a time (it lasted about a week) he hated them both because they had bought a new sofa without consulting him.
"That was my bed," he bitched and complained.
"Yes," said Francis, "and this is your new one."
Utilizing his new found appreciation for American slang, Antonio said: "So suck it up."
It was stiffer. And the pattern was simple. But the fabric was clean, the size was large enough that he could fit his entire body on it, and for the first time in God knows how many years, Gilbert slept for nine hours straight. He woke up to Antonio burning milk and Francis scrambling eggs. He yawned a bit and contemplated going back to sleep. He checked his phone and his voicemail was full of spam but when was it not? Making his way to the too-small kitchen in the too-small apartment complex 2F, he said good morning and pantsed his two best friends.
WHAT. DID I JUST WRITE NJDS;DFAK
I wish I could explain how or why this fic is so silly-weird but I guess these things just happen ;_; Thank you OP and everyone who read through this nonsense; I am awfully flattered by the kind comments o////o
Re: the apartment, or: how to i learned to forget cooking and love take-out [9/9]
anonymous
December 11 2010, 07:56:25 UTC
This fill. I love everything about it. ;w; Like the above anon said, it is unique and amazing; I love how you bring in so many little details and you write their complicated relationship so beautifully. <3 Thank you, authornon!
Anon, that was just so goddamn beautiful... I don't even know what to say. You have such an amazing writing-style. And all those little bits in between that made me laugh and cry and go "aaaaaw" and the whole thing just has such a beautiful feeling about it... I will probably read this over and over and over again until I can quote from it like others quote from Shakespeare.
Seriously one of the best things I have ever seen on the kink_meme and I am so utterly grateful you chose my request to fill. I still can't believe my luck! You, anon, are a god to me. Thank you so much!
OP, I'm so glad you liked my interpretation of your beautiful prompt! /bows I love the interaction and chemistry the bad friends have with each other, and hopefully I've been able to portray a little bit of that here. Thank you tons for your support and love! &hearts
Anyway, Elizaveta still considered herself a kind of kin to Gilbert and occasionally she called him to ask if he had found himself a girlfriend. After years, the question became grating but Elizaveta hadn't caught on. When he called back, she was in the middle of a lecture. He called again an hour later.
"Miss me?" she said.
"Miss you? Man, who's the one calling me every other week?"
"Shut up, you know as well as I do that I worry for you. I can't help it. Does my little Gil get enough sleep?"
"You're not my mother okay."
"Oh hush. How're the others?"
"Alive, I guess. Antonio's at work right now. Francis has been in Ithaca since six o' clock today and he keeps texting me every twenty minutes, reminding me how cold it is there and that I need to get on Twitter."
"Ithaca's rather dreary, I remember. Professor occasionally taught there. Took me out once, and we had ice-cream in January." Professor was her name for Roderich when she didn't want to call him by his name.
"It's a pretty cool place. There's that bridge."
"The one where everyone jumps off?" She laughed a little. "No, I'm sorry. Let's meet up sometime. Come to Boston for Christmas and you can stay at my loft."
"Yours, or someone else's?"
"For the record, I'm single."
"Does he have a lot of money?"
"God, I forgot what a bastard you were."
In the background, Gilbert could hear hurried footsteps and the distinct ring of a bell. "You at the T?"
"On my way back home, actually."
"Hmm."
"You know, I do miss you. Only occasionally, mind you. We had such good times, didn't we?"
"Yeah, sure did." They talked a little longer; it was inconsequential chatter, a skill he had never quite acquired but nevertheless exercised for risk of appearing socially inept. Elizaveta was a good talker and he supposed that was why Roderich had married her. Maybe they had even loved each other. That didn't matter anymore though. Elizabeta was happy in Boston and Roderich had returned to Connecticut, and it was as if their time spent together had already been lost to the past.
I swear, this narrative jumps from nonsensical to serious and back every other part. ;_; Thank you to anyone who's actually keeping up with this, it means a lot! &hearts
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And I love this fill! ♥
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It's so interesting to see the Austria/Hungary/Prussia-relationship like that for a change. Usually it's always Austria/Hungary and Prussia being jealous and a dick xD
The little Prussia/Spain bit in this was so endearing <3 And France somehow always makes me laugh. Lol, the line with the cookies! Did I already tell you that I love your humor?
Awesome chapter again, anon! I'm already looking forward for the next :)
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In the afternoon, Gilbert begrudgingly set out for a long overdue dentist appointment and Antonio slinked off to Spanish Harlem. It was a calm December, the kind of day where you wished something could happen but knew nothing would, and Francis was still typing when the two returned at separate times.
"You're not going out tonight?" Gilbert asked.
"Busy," Francis explained. He wouldn't tell his roommates what exactly he was typing but he did let it slip that it was inaccrochable.
"Which is to say it will never be published," said Francis, "but alas!"
"Then why write it?" asked Antonio, who had never told Francis that he wrote poetry.
"Because publishing is not the point of writing, mon cher."
"No?"
"To write is to fulfill a higher purpose, it is almost a spiritual journey. You purge yourself onto paper, so that when you are done, you are looking at yourself. That is the idea. You've transformed thoughts, wants, and needs into words. I write to satisfy my inner longings and hopes and feelings, taking them one by one and manifesting them all into a beautifully written work." He had worked himself up quite well. It was an impressive display.
"In other words," said Gilbert, crossing his arms, "this is yet another sign that you need to get laid. Intellectuals." He said intellectuals the way a person might have said, "That person just came out of the restroom and he didn't wash his hands."
"You know, I could just as well ask you both why I've been left out, but I won't! I have more dignity than that."
"Left out?"
"You and Antonio copulate every Thursday night at ten thirty. If you don't think I don't realize these things, then you are poorly mistaken! Did I miss the invite or was it simply a closed off event?" he said tearfully.
"Oh," said Antonio.
"Oh," said Gilbert.
"You never asked," Antonio pointed out.
"That's right," Gilbert agreed.
"All this time, all by myself, I've had to deal, no, cope, with my torn feelings by giving them a voice, albeit small, so that they may sprout wings and thereby gain your notice in whatever shape or form! Pure devastation and loneliness have been my mentors," and he wrapped his arms around his body in loving embrace of himself.
"You've been writing porn?" asked Gilbert.
"Were you writing porn of us?"
"Aw, how sweet of you."
"I write tasteful stories," Francis insisted.
"Let's read them out loud then," suggested Antonio. "We can take turns."
"I'll get us a few drinks, heh."
"W-wait just a second here."
"Dude, we got any more scotch?"
"Not since Francis gave it away to one of his friends."
"It was scotch from the Highlands. I'll have no such drink in my house!"
"You mean apartment?"
"And isn't this our apartment?"
"Dolts, both of you!"
"But we can still love each other, no?" said Antonio. Then, suddenly: "I love you both. I love you even when you leave out the cream on the countertop and it spoils or when Gilbert forgets to flush."
"I do not forget to flush!"
"Oh, oh. Sure."
Francis made a suspicious little sound and Antonio threw his head back.
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"You didn't do it right. You need to flutter your eyelashes and pout."
"Like this?" he even blushed.
"Oh, you shouldn't have!"
"I'm about to faint, my head feels light!"
"I'll catch you!"
"Here, let me serenade you. Because that's the solution to life, really, serenading."
"Let me sing you a Spanish lullaby. While massaging your feet and gazing into your corneas. Or was it the pupils?"
"Let me sing you some Rammstein. Or Wagner. Take your pick."
"Good God, what is going on and why am I still living here," Francis cried, and undid his belt buckle.
*
Imagine a ballistic pendulum, except with a coffee can as the pendulum and a crossbow as the shooting gun. This was Gilbert's physics analogy-not that any one of them could attest to it-in explaining why Antonio usually ended up with the blankets. There was some jibber-jabber of the difference between initial and final velocity, multiplied by the mass of the object, and somehow this correlated to Francis's snoring patterns and Antonio's systemic kicks that could be graphed linearly by finding the amount of force involved and the displacement of his kicks. Mostly it was an elaborate attempt. What was more important, of course, was the fact that the Sicilian boy whose name Antonio spelled correctly on the first try never returned. "Maybe he was only here on vacation," Gilbert said on reflex.
"Maybe he went back to Sicily," Francis offered.
"Maybe he died."
"Maybe he was deported."
"Maybe he found another Starbucks to go to," Antonio said sadly. "Maybe another Barista spelled his name right on the first time."
"Maybe," said Francis, "he simply doesn't like coffee."
"You think he didn't like my coffee?" Antonio looked heartbroken.
"You are despairing over nothing, silly pooh."
"That's right! Forget the mafioso. You've been Employee of the Month for how many months in a row now?"
"Five."
"How much money have you got saved up?"
"Um, four thousand dollars and thirty-three cents last I checked."
"How much more do you need?"
He paused. "A lot, that's for sure."
"Get another job."
"No time, my friend!"
"Why don't you publish your poetry?" said Gilbert.
"You write poetry?" Francis said, and threw a temper tantrum because Gilbert and Antonio were always keeping secrets from him.
"Um," said Antonio.
"Say, I'm hungry. Let's go eat breakfast. A real breakfast. Let's eat at the Colony. I'm sure you know someone there, Francis. Oh see, look, it's lunchtime."
"No money, no money. I got no money but I got your lurve, love! Oh oh rah!"
"Idiot, that's not how the song goes! It's rah rah not oh oh rah."
"It all sounds the same to me."
"Raising money isn't so hard. We can start a foundation: Antonio's Coffee. We'll make money in no time. What if we just ask Clinton? He likes foreigners, right? Are you ingrates even listening?"
"I'm so fucking hungry, man, I could eat five horses."
"Thanks, guys," said Antonio, and if they had been gal pals they would have group hugged before going to splurge at Sephora, but since they were not, Gilbert burped, Francis beat him for it, and Antonio began humming the melody of Meat and Potatoes, only very much off-key. They rolled dice to see who would pay; Francis won the first round and Gilbert won the second, but since Antonio hadn't gotten his paycheck yet, the other two felt sorry for him and they ended up paying individually. When Antonio couldn't afford the third drink (or was it the fifth?), they left for a cheaper place known to be frequented by poivrottes, not that they meant any harm. It was a rowdy, small room and really, it was quite lovely.
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Antonio said that Arthur couldn't cook and besides, he was a lightweight. Francis conceded he had a point and that night, they picked up one of Francis's girl friends for a bender that started in Greenwich Village and ended in Trenton. In the morning that came as an afternoon, Gilbert remembered the running faucet he'd forgotten to turn off, and it was a mad mess of tossed clothes, crushed out cigarette butts, and one-dollar bills as they high-tailed it back to 2F.
As they were struggling with the key, the three new tenants in 2E were moving in. They were international students from Japan who were visiting America for the first time. Everything was a meaningful and exciting experience. Takeru waved hello to Antonio while Touji struggled with a box that appeared to contain three kinds of rice cookers. Kiku, the youngest but brightest of the three, was deeply engrossed with playing, on his DSi, Professor Layton VS Gyakuten Saiban.
Work at Starbucks proceeded as well. In March, Antonio created the most perfect Java Chip Frappuccino and as a result, found himself presented with a marriage proposal. He later had to turn down the person, the sweet Belgian girl who worked as a professor's assistant at N.Y.U., because Gilbert and Francis adamantly objected to her particular shade of blond hair.
"It's not that I've anything against blonds," said Gilbert. (He was, of course, silver-haired, like Anderson Cooper.) "But it's not the right kind of blond. You wouldn't look right together."
"And to think, how would you survive? How can you provide for a family when you live with two men and must continue to help pay their obscenely high New York rent that is too damn high? Think of the gossip! The scandalmongers!" said Francis, who not-so-secretly did not mind it at all.
"You know," said Antonio, "it was just a joke. I think."
*
Also, Gilbert dropped out of school once and for all; he was sick of failing organic chemistry and he was tired of paying for and attending classes he'd stopped caring about five years ago. So he began work as a DJ at a third-tier dance club on the lower East Side. His hours changed drastically. His drinking tolerance increased. He fell in love with a girl whose name he forgot to ask (since she had looked like a Melissa), and when morning came he remembered how much he loved Antonio and Francis. Nevertheless, there was a time (it lasted about a week) he hated them both because they had bought a new sofa without consulting him.
"That was my bed," he bitched and complained.
"Yes," said Francis, "and this is your new one."
Utilizing his new found appreciation for American slang, Antonio said: "So suck it up."
It was stiffer. And the pattern was simple. But the fabric was clean, the size was large enough that he could fit his entire body on it, and for the first time in God knows how many years, Gilbert slept for nine hours straight. He woke up to Antonio burning milk and Francis scrambling eggs. He yawned a bit and contemplated going back to sleep. He checked his phone and his voicemail was full of spam but when was it not? Making his way to the too-small kitchen in the too-small apartment complex 2F, he said good morning and pantsed his two best friends.
WHAT. DID I JUST WRITE NJDS;DFAK
I wish I could explain how or why this fic is so silly-weird but I guess these things just happen ;_; Thank you OP and everyone who read through this nonsense; I am awfully flattered by the kind comments o////o
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Your writing style is awesome and unique, don't ever change. XDD <3
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FFF IS IT A WEIRD ENDING OR WHAT
t-thank you, anon, it means tons ;~;
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I don't know, a lot of times I like writing about quirky little things instead of the bigger picture, but I'm glad you liked! :D and hee, thank you <3
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Anon, that was just so goddamn beautiful... I don't even know what to say. You have such an amazing writing-style. And all those little bits in between that made me laugh and cry and go "aaaaaw" and the whole thing just has such a beautiful feeling about it... I will probably read this over and over and over again until I can quote from it like others quote from Shakespeare.
Seriously one of the best things I have ever seen on the kink_meme and I am so utterly grateful you chose my request to fill. I still can't believe my luck! You, anon, are a god to me. Thank you so much!
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