(no subject)
So in case you hadn't noticed, my best friend is really fucking brilliant. It's a fact, and it can't be helped. I was all growly and lusting after an older man today, and Aly said, "Hey, let's snippet." It's sort of like the golden word around these parts, and snippet we did. Or she did.
And it's brilliant.
The Starbucks Ryan works at is across the street from a park that's a haven of lush greens with jungle gyms for the kids and plenty of paths for the bikers and joggers of the city to exercise without restraint during the day. At night and even at dusk, the homeless come out to sleep on the benches and it's less painted in gold.
Ryan gets off at five, shrugs on his hoodie and heads outdoors.
He's nineteen and not in college, living in a shitty apartment in a shitty part of town because he couldn't stay at home and he can't seem to figure out how to get away. It's endless and cyclic and he hates it, in a distant way.
He crosses the street in a swirl of fall leaves, rapidly fading from fire tinged glory to brown. They crunch underneath his sneakers and there's a strange satisfaction in the sound. It's cool and before long it will be cold, but all he has to hurry home to is broken heat and sketchy water and maybe a mouse or two sitting on his mattress.
Brendon's sitting cross-legged on a bench on the corner, strumming at his guitar and humming under his breath.
He looks up, squinting, as red glasses with no lenses slide down on the end of his nose. Bangs slant into his eyes, ragged at the end and rapidly growing from a little on the long side to just fucking too long. He's beautiful. "Rough day?" he asks and maybe it's that he doesn't know Ryan's name. Ryan doesn't know.
"Had better, had worse," Ryan says, noncommittally. "What's your favorite book?"
They talk about the ins and outs of life that get ignored in the rush and it's brilliant, bold, and meaningful, or at least Ryan hopes it is. He has nothing or next to nothing and, ignoring the fact that Brendon is probably sleeping in the park, Ryan plays and replays their conversations.
Brendon taps his thumb against the battered wood and shrugs, laughing. "Pete and the Purple Crayon."
It's a joke but it's not a lie and Ryan pulls his knees up, leans back, and breathes.
And it's brilliant.
The Starbucks Ryan works at is across the street from a park that's a haven of lush greens with jungle gyms for the kids and plenty of paths for the bikers and joggers of the city to exercise without restraint during the day. At night and even at dusk, the homeless come out to sleep on the benches and it's less painted in gold.
Ryan gets off at five, shrugs on his hoodie and heads outdoors.
He's nineteen and not in college, living in a shitty apartment in a shitty part of town because he couldn't stay at home and he can't seem to figure out how to get away. It's endless and cyclic and he hates it, in a distant way.
He crosses the street in a swirl of fall leaves, rapidly fading from fire tinged glory to brown. They crunch underneath his sneakers and there's a strange satisfaction in the sound. It's cool and before long it will be cold, but all he has to hurry home to is broken heat and sketchy water and maybe a mouse or two sitting on his mattress.
Brendon's sitting cross-legged on a bench on the corner, strumming at his guitar and humming under his breath.
He looks up, squinting, as red glasses with no lenses slide down on the end of his nose. Bangs slant into his eyes, ragged at the end and rapidly growing from a little on the long side to just fucking too long. He's beautiful. "Rough day?" he asks and maybe it's that he doesn't know Ryan's name. Ryan doesn't know.
"Had better, had worse," Ryan says, noncommittally. "What's your favorite book?"
They talk about the ins and outs of life that get ignored in the rush and it's brilliant, bold, and meaningful, or at least Ryan hopes it is. He has nothing or next to nothing and, ignoring the fact that Brendon is probably sleeping in the park, Ryan plays and replays their conversations.
Brendon taps his thumb against the battered wood and shrugs, laughing. "Pete and the Purple Crayon."
It's a joke but it's not a lie and Ryan pulls his knees up, leans back, and breathes.