Honeydew and Watermelon, by Bug
I'm posting this here so that things will not be jeopardised. This isn't mine, but I love it.
Title: Honeydew and Watermelon
Discalimer: Own nothing, make no claim.
Summary: Feeling a little sentimental
The sweet, sticky taste of cold wet fruit, that was soft to suck in greedy slurps, was still a vivid memory of his childhood. They had been golden afternoons of spring scent and peeking summer warmth where he and his sister had held the fruit in ageless fingers with widening grins as the juice dribbled down their chins and hands. Eating the same way, just as twins should; the grass lush beneath bare feet, the sun streaking them in horizontal lines.
He remembered being a teenager with his first girlfriend; that awkward pubescent stage where he was proudly gaining the fine new facial hairs and hoping he wouldn't be like the other boys with spots that could play join the dots. They had sat in his backyard at the wooden table near the tyre swing with a bowl of triangle pieced watermelon and crescent moon honeydew. They had reached for a piece, fingers brushing, eyes meeting to run away with soft giggles, and both growing blushes. They'd fumbled apologies with cheeky grins and wanting eyes. It had been early spring then, and she had wilted from his life in late spring - the first of many short nothings.
When he was sprouting the first of chest hairs and hair that led to dark curls, his voice wonderful and settled, his melodies so sweet and honest, he had brought Johnathan home. Often. His mother had accepted that it was for school reasons, though she had her smiling doubts, and they had climbed the tree in fits of laughter and grunts as they precariously balanced the bowl of sweet smelling fruit - passing it between themselves as the other sought higher ground to cuddle in the bough where they could not be seen. They had thrown the peels at the yapping dog and had competitions to spit the watermelon seeds before summer had ended and so too had the tree climbing. Years later, when he had returned home to grab a box of old 'things' and opened its lid to sort through the contents, the ceramic bowl was sitting dusted on top - the same chip in the rim from many years ago when he had thrown it in anger at the break up and found it horribly ironic that the bowl had not broken like it was meant to, like what he believed, then in youthful naivety, his heart had.
School had finished in a single blink, and he was left standing at creaking gates - thrusted into a world he had no clue of, and on a street that did not tell him what to do, or what class to be in, or what room it was this period. He had found a grocer and paid for a half a Honeydew and sat on the steps that led from his six years of prison to the fearful outer world. He had scooped away the insides with his fingers, letting them splat on the asphalt and thread through his open fingers. With a spoon, he had hacked into the soft and supple fruit, sucking at the silver and inhaling in large slurps mouthfuls of the only thing that could comfort him as the November sun glistened on his sticky fingers and shimmering lips. He hadn't finished the fruit, letting it fall from hands and tumble down steps in damp splodges and squelches, and it struck him how alone he was - having no one to finish the fruit with him like years before, leaving school without a childhood love, or teenage romance, or anything. A boy had come and sat down next to him then, not seeming to mind his sticky handshake, and they spoke until the crisp night air parted them, talking about life oddities and a guitarist called Richie.
He remembered bringing Tim and Richard home one day, fretful of his parents reactions. They were good Christians and their son was not; they knew, they frowned, but they loved and so it never mattered. But now he was trying to explain what he was about to do on the streets with these two delinquents, and how he, the older one, should be setting an example but was in fact being influenced to these juvenile antics. They had sat outside in October air, the grass green and young and cool to their skin. Richard had been charming, and Tim polite and there'd only been an awkwardness when he had set up a rough and very modified tale of their future run. Tim had held the last piece of watermelon, tasting it savoringly as he sucked, rather than bit, the juicy, watery red. He had looked across while his father disapproved and his mother contemplated, linking eyes with Tim and watching him, with mouth parted, as he ran a finger over his lips to the corner of his mouth in fluid motion to wipe away a sticky trail and black seed. His stomach had flipped, his body hot and clenched, and he knew then how very much he wanted Tim.
They'd come back from a month of busking and promoting and shit residence. They were all a little thinner, all a little more weary and worn and aware of the industry and he had come home, hammering the door down and chucking his bag on the porch when his mum had opened it in slight alarm and then embraced him when he had collapsed into her arms. He was so tired and upset, wanting to sleep and eat and have a real shower, with hot water in a clean bathroom and loving house; and when he'd come out of the shower in only his track pants and towel dried damp hair, a bowl of Honeydew and watermelon was sitting on the coffee table with iced tea and he had sighed in blissed contentment. The afternoon warmth shone through the lounge window, heating the room in sleepy comfort and he had let the cool drips of fruit fall and burn on his naked chest, trickle down in tiny thin rivulets. When he woke from an unintentional doze, the lines were a faint pink and mixed yellow, hard and creased.
He'd rushed home with the boys as soon as he'd hung up the phone, ending their journey and tour before it had truly begun, and hammering the door down and dropping his bag like he had those many months ago. But unlike those many months ago, he fell into his mothers ready embrace as her tears stained his top and her fingers dug into his back, and he gripped her tight, and closed his eyes and sobbed dryly into the warm crook of her neck where strawberry smelling hair tickled his nose as affectionate hands and caring words of Tim and Richard comforted them, saying how sorry they were for her husband's, his father's, death. Hours had passed and she had gone outside with a plate of childhood fruit and placed it on the disintegrating wooden table where he sat pressed to Tim's side, hands entwined and sharing warmth; sharing love his mother had spotted the very first time she had met Timothy, and she smiled watery through tears. He hadn't bothered to lift his head from Tim's chest, or to stop the fingers that weaved through his dark, feathery hair, knowing now was not the time to be ashamed or fearful or seeking acceptance. Her smile told him much the same and she had sought the waiting comfort of Richard. Automatically, he had reached for the beloved fruit and for the first time, the fruit tasted sharp and vinegary in his mouth and he chocked around the formless pieces, fingers curled in his mouth and dragging out the soggy mess; glistening saliva webs that linked between his fingertips, stretching from his moist lips to fall in broken silver strands. A strangled sob had escaped him - short and harsh and beautiful in its pain. Tim had kissed the side of his head, smoothed the slippery soft feathers of his hair with his nose and whispered his name. A thumb ran across the back of his hand and their fingers had entwined with a gentle slick as Tim let him cry until his head throbbed; falling tears washing their hands of bitter sweetness.
There'd been the beach trip not long later where it seemed all of England had crammed on a beach on a rare hot day. They had lazed on the sand mostly; sleeping and reading, writing down sketches and licking melting ice cream where he had stolen vanilla kisses from Tim when Richard wasn't looking. Tupperware containers lay half buried in the sand, plastic hot to touch as they'd battled for the skins of Honeydew and watermelon, throwing them at each other with dull wet smacks against warm stomachs and running when a man much larger had chased them for the poor throw of Richard's doing.
Tim had thrown a BBQ in the heat of summer at their place towards the break up of DAAS. It had been a weird sensation inviting Richard to their house, so accustomed to always having him there, and realising how unprepared they were for the inevitable separation in the month to come. He had choked on words and Richard had hugged him fiercely and over beer they had let their hearts ache while sausages hissed behind them. Their friends had been great, the laughs long, the insults thick and low and he had smiled when he spied a drunk Richie stuttering to a blushing woman. He had slung an arm over his lean friend when she had excused herself, and tipsily teased him and kissed his cheek with a loud smack that left a circle of sticky Honeydew and the air smell of candied watermelon as Richard blushed in embarrassment. She had been Richie's first and only love; become his life.
He had appeared childish and pedantic, refusing to perform unless he had his Honeydew and watermelon like he religiously did before each set. They were all tense and quiet, their last show only moments away from sabotage because of his sulking ways. Tim had grabbed him by the shoulders, slammed him against the wall and yelled at him without true meaning, eyes brimming with unshed tears as the revelation of their last performance hit him. Richard had placed a hand on Tim's trembling shoulder and said 'I know' and the three of them had held fierce to one another; heads lowered and faces pressed, arms wrapped tight around one another, fingers digging into flesh and fabric, a dark triangle of excitement and nerves and despair and love, disbelief at the pained knowledge that this was the end of them - no longer would they sleep and eat and breath together. No longer would they spend hours road tripping and sleeping in box rooms and creating hoaxes. No longer would they be a comedy trio. He was not being childish, they all knew - he was trying to slow the inevitable end.
One day in September Tim had taken him to damp fields of golden flowers and purple weeds. They had walked knee deep, shouting out corny movie lines and running at each other in perils of laughter, tackling as they met and tumbling down the slightly sloped hill. He had spoken from the movie, twisting the words, and Tim had laughed at their mocking that was somewhat true deep inside. The sun was hot on their backs and his neck was damp with sweat - beads rolling down the natural curve of his spine and being flattened by his shirt. The creek had glistened from the distance and twinkled up close and Tim had fallen into the shaded dirt with a heavy thud and pulled out glasses and containers full of gentle green and refreshing red. He had smiled at Tim's proud face as he told him he had never been on a picnic before with someone he loved.
There'd been the time of high prices where he'd complained to his Italian grocer but still handing over the ludicrous amount of money. When the prices had dropped back to normal he still couldn't believe the cost now, compared to an odd ten years ago.
There'd been a particularly bad season one year in his thirties. The fruit was cheap and small and rotten and Tim had looked at him with pity each day when he'd bring home a new fruit only to chuck it out from the rank taste. He never relented though, determined to find passable pieces.
There'd been a year in his early forties where he did not touch any of his favoured fruit. Did not smell it, taste or even look at it. It had been his own stupid fault, where he'd eaten so many during a night that had stretched into weary and melon rays of morning, that he'd thrown it all up unwillingly. The taste and the look had made his stomach flip for a long time afterwards
The channel ten studios had made fun of him for a good many weeks when Tim had 'accidentally' let slip that Paul had an unhealthy obsession with the fruit, and at age forty seven, take away his Honeydew or watermelon and he became a wide eyed and tantrum child.
A basket had been sent to him of 'get well' fruit and flowers - that contained no flowers and only his two favourite fruits - when he'd fallen ill. A funny cough and occasional shiver that had led to bronchitis and Tim saying 'I told you so.'
He had sworn loudly when he'd found the source of foul odor in their bedroom coming from a bin that hid, beneath balls of paper and plastic wrapping, skins of Honeydew and watermelon.
He had sworn quietly and tenderly as Tim and he shared a languid kiss of sweet watery coolness in the moist caverns of their fused mouths, lips pulling away and tongues licking the remains off lips. His fingers had been taken and kissed by Tim's lips as he sucked each digit slowly - tongue lapping up the stickiness that was so sensual and arousing in a different way from what they were used to; a shivering feel as the smell and feel engulfed him and he watched transfixed Tim's translucent saliva become thick and pretty as it mingled with the juice of fruit in settling dusk sun.
He remembered these amongst the many.
These were his sticky tastes of sweet memories.
Title: Honeydew and Watermelon
Discalimer: Own nothing, make no claim.
Summary: Feeling a little sentimental
The sweet, sticky taste of cold wet fruit, that was soft to suck in greedy slurps, was still a vivid memory of his childhood. They had been golden afternoons of spring scent and peeking summer warmth where he and his sister had held the fruit in ageless fingers with widening grins as the juice dribbled down their chins and hands. Eating the same way, just as twins should; the grass lush beneath bare feet, the sun streaking them in horizontal lines.
He remembered being a teenager with his first girlfriend; that awkward pubescent stage where he was proudly gaining the fine new facial hairs and hoping he wouldn't be like the other boys with spots that could play join the dots. They had sat in his backyard at the wooden table near the tyre swing with a bowl of triangle pieced watermelon and crescent moon honeydew. They had reached for a piece, fingers brushing, eyes meeting to run away with soft giggles, and both growing blushes. They'd fumbled apologies with cheeky grins and wanting eyes. It had been early spring then, and she had wilted from his life in late spring - the first of many short nothings.
When he was sprouting the first of chest hairs and hair that led to dark curls, his voice wonderful and settled, his melodies so sweet and honest, he had brought Johnathan home. Often. His mother had accepted that it was for school reasons, though she had her smiling doubts, and they had climbed the tree in fits of laughter and grunts as they precariously balanced the bowl of sweet smelling fruit - passing it between themselves as the other sought higher ground to cuddle in the bough where they could not be seen. They had thrown the peels at the yapping dog and had competitions to spit the watermelon seeds before summer had ended and so too had the tree climbing. Years later, when he had returned home to grab a box of old 'things' and opened its lid to sort through the contents, the ceramic bowl was sitting dusted on top - the same chip in the rim from many years ago when he had thrown it in anger at the break up and found it horribly ironic that the bowl had not broken like it was meant to, like what he believed, then in youthful naivety, his heart had.
School had finished in a single blink, and he was left standing at creaking gates - thrusted into a world he had no clue of, and on a street that did not tell him what to do, or what class to be in, or what room it was this period. He had found a grocer and paid for a half a Honeydew and sat on the steps that led from his six years of prison to the fearful outer world. He had scooped away the insides with his fingers, letting them splat on the asphalt and thread through his open fingers. With a spoon, he had hacked into the soft and supple fruit, sucking at the silver and inhaling in large slurps mouthfuls of the only thing that could comfort him as the November sun glistened on his sticky fingers and shimmering lips. He hadn't finished the fruit, letting it fall from hands and tumble down steps in damp splodges and squelches, and it struck him how alone he was - having no one to finish the fruit with him like years before, leaving school without a childhood love, or teenage romance, or anything. A boy had come and sat down next to him then, not seeming to mind his sticky handshake, and they spoke until the crisp night air parted them, talking about life oddities and a guitarist called Richie.
He remembered bringing Tim and Richard home one day, fretful of his parents reactions. They were good Christians and their son was not; they knew, they frowned, but they loved and so it never mattered. But now he was trying to explain what he was about to do on the streets with these two delinquents, and how he, the older one, should be setting an example but was in fact being influenced to these juvenile antics. They had sat outside in October air, the grass green and young and cool to their skin. Richard had been charming, and Tim polite and there'd only been an awkwardness when he had set up a rough and very modified tale of their future run. Tim had held the last piece of watermelon, tasting it savoringly as he sucked, rather than bit, the juicy, watery red. He had looked across while his father disapproved and his mother contemplated, linking eyes with Tim and watching him, with mouth parted, as he ran a finger over his lips to the corner of his mouth in fluid motion to wipe away a sticky trail and black seed. His stomach had flipped, his body hot and clenched, and he knew then how very much he wanted Tim.
They'd come back from a month of busking and promoting and shit residence. They were all a little thinner, all a little more weary and worn and aware of the industry and he had come home, hammering the door down and chucking his bag on the porch when his mum had opened it in slight alarm and then embraced him when he had collapsed into her arms. He was so tired and upset, wanting to sleep and eat and have a real shower, with hot water in a clean bathroom and loving house; and when he'd come out of the shower in only his track pants and towel dried damp hair, a bowl of Honeydew and watermelon was sitting on the coffee table with iced tea and he had sighed in blissed contentment. The afternoon warmth shone through the lounge window, heating the room in sleepy comfort and he had let the cool drips of fruit fall and burn on his naked chest, trickle down in tiny thin rivulets. When he woke from an unintentional doze, the lines were a faint pink and mixed yellow, hard and creased.
He'd rushed home with the boys as soon as he'd hung up the phone, ending their journey and tour before it had truly begun, and hammering the door down and dropping his bag like he had those many months ago. But unlike those many months ago, he fell into his mothers ready embrace as her tears stained his top and her fingers dug into his back, and he gripped her tight, and closed his eyes and sobbed dryly into the warm crook of her neck where strawberry smelling hair tickled his nose as affectionate hands and caring words of Tim and Richard comforted them, saying how sorry they were for her husband's, his father's, death. Hours had passed and she had gone outside with a plate of childhood fruit and placed it on the disintegrating wooden table where he sat pressed to Tim's side, hands entwined and sharing warmth; sharing love his mother had spotted the very first time she had met Timothy, and she smiled watery through tears. He hadn't bothered to lift his head from Tim's chest, or to stop the fingers that weaved through his dark, feathery hair, knowing now was not the time to be ashamed or fearful or seeking acceptance. Her smile told him much the same and she had sought the waiting comfort of Richard. Automatically, he had reached for the beloved fruit and for the first time, the fruit tasted sharp and vinegary in his mouth and he chocked around the formless pieces, fingers curled in his mouth and dragging out the soggy mess; glistening saliva webs that linked between his fingertips, stretching from his moist lips to fall in broken silver strands. A strangled sob had escaped him - short and harsh and beautiful in its pain. Tim had kissed the side of his head, smoothed the slippery soft feathers of his hair with his nose and whispered his name. A thumb ran across the back of his hand and their fingers had entwined with a gentle slick as Tim let him cry until his head throbbed; falling tears washing their hands of bitter sweetness.
There'd been the beach trip not long later where it seemed all of England had crammed on a beach on a rare hot day. They had lazed on the sand mostly; sleeping and reading, writing down sketches and licking melting ice cream where he had stolen vanilla kisses from Tim when Richard wasn't looking. Tupperware containers lay half buried in the sand, plastic hot to touch as they'd battled for the skins of Honeydew and watermelon, throwing them at each other with dull wet smacks against warm stomachs and running when a man much larger had chased them for the poor throw of Richard's doing.
Tim had thrown a BBQ in the heat of summer at their place towards the break up of DAAS. It had been a weird sensation inviting Richard to their house, so accustomed to always having him there, and realising how unprepared they were for the inevitable separation in the month to come. He had choked on words and Richard had hugged him fiercely and over beer they had let their hearts ache while sausages hissed behind them. Their friends had been great, the laughs long, the insults thick and low and he had smiled when he spied a drunk Richie stuttering to a blushing woman. He had slung an arm over his lean friend when she had excused herself, and tipsily teased him and kissed his cheek with a loud smack that left a circle of sticky Honeydew and the air smell of candied watermelon as Richard blushed in embarrassment. She had been Richie's first and only love; become his life.
He had appeared childish and pedantic, refusing to perform unless he had his Honeydew and watermelon like he religiously did before each set. They were all tense and quiet, their last show only moments away from sabotage because of his sulking ways. Tim had grabbed him by the shoulders, slammed him against the wall and yelled at him without true meaning, eyes brimming with unshed tears as the revelation of their last performance hit him. Richard had placed a hand on Tim's trembling shoulder and said 'I know' and the three of them had held fierce to one another; heads lowered and faces pressed, arms wrapped tight around one another, fingers digging into flesh and fabric, a dark triangle of excitement and nerves and despair and love, disbelief at the pained knowledge that this was the end of them - no longer would they sleep and eat and breath together. No longer would they spend hours road tripping and sleeping in box rooms and creating hoaxes. No longer would they be a comedy trio. He was not being childish, they all knew - he was trying to slow the inevitable end.
One day in September Tim had taken him to damp fields of golden flowers and purple weeds. They had walked knee deep, shouting out corny movie lines and running at each other in perils of laughter, tackling as they met and tumbling down the slightly sloped hill. He had spoken from the movie, twisting the words, and Tim had laughed at their mocking that was somewhat true deep inside. The sun was hot on their backs and his neck was damp with sweat - beads rolling down the natural curve of his spine and being flattened by his shirt. The creek had glistened from the distance and twinkled up close and Tim had fallen into the shaded dirt with a heavy thud and pulled out glasses and containers full of gentle green and refreshing red. He had smiled at Tim's proud face as he told him he had never been on a picnic before with someone he loved.
There'd been the time of high prices where he'd complained to his Italian grocer but still handing over the ludicrous amount of money. When the prices had dropped back to normal he still couldn't believe the cost now, compared to an odd ten years ago.
There'd been a particularly bad season one year in his thirties. The fruit was cheap and small and rotten and Tim had looked at him with pity each day when he'd bring home a new fruit only to chuck it out from the rank taste. He never relented though, determined to find passable pieces.
There'd been a year in his early forties where he did not touch any of his favoured fruit. Did not smell it, taste or even look at it. It had been his own stupid fault, where he'd eaten so many during a night that had stretched into weary and melon rays of morning, that he'd thrown it all up unwillingly. The taste and the look had made his stomach flip for a long time afterwards
The channel ten studios had made fun of him for a good many weeks when Tim had 'accidentally' let slip that Paul had an unhealthy obsession with the fruit, and at age forty seven, take away his Honeydew or watermelon and he became a wide eyed and tantrum child.
A basket had been sent to him of 'get well' fruit and flowers - that contained no flowers and only his two favourite fruits - when he'd fallen ill. A funny cough and occasional shiver that had led to bronchitis and Tim saying 'I told you so.'
He had sworn loudly when he'd found the source of foul odor in their bedroom coming from a bin that hid, beneath balls of paper and plastic wrapping, skins of Honeydew and watermelon.
He had sworn quietly and tenderly as Tim and he shared a languid kiss of sweet watery coolness in the moist caverns of their fused mouths, lips pulling away and tongues licking the remains off lips. His fingers had been taken and kissed by Tim's lips as he sucked each digit slowly - tongue lapping up the stickiness that was so sensual and arousing in a different way from what they were used to; a shivering feel as the smell and feel engulfed him and he watched transfixed Tim's translucent saliva become thick and pretty as it mingled with the juice of fruit in settling dusk sun.
He remembered these amongst the many.
These were his sticky tastes of sweet memories.