wip amnesty, continued. #8; #9.
These two are both: v. v. short; variants on this. The general idea: worldbuilding stuff happens in which we find out that there is magic in the world. Patrick, after graduating, happens on a flyer advertising music lessons, or something, recognizes Brendon's name, and goes to visit him. He's worried that Brendon's still crazy, but then later (Brendon has him over for dinner with the guys!) when he gets to Brendon's apartment he ~hears voices from the kitchen.
no idea. December 3 2008. 240 words.
"Hi, Brendon," Patrick says when the door opens, and for a second Brendon's eyes bug out. Then he's grinning, smothering him in a hug just like Patrick remembers, and for a second he actually thinks maybe he's okay again.
"Oh my god, Patrick," Brendon says, grin still firmly on his face, when he pulls back. "Dude, what's up, how are you, how did you find me? Do you want to come in?"
"Uh," Patrick says, but it's nice, being attacked by the questions. Kind of reassuring. "Sure, yeah," he settles on, finally, and follows Brendon into what looks like a one-bedroom apartment -- there's no bed to be seen, anyway, and the kitchen seems to be in its own little area with a half-wall and everything, so chances are high it's not a studio.
It's cluttered, but that's not a surprise. There's a guitar propped up in a corner, and a keyboard laying flat on the floor near it, and a tambourine and a bass near them, and that's ... well, Patrick remembers Brendon playing all of those instruments, and he's pretty sure Brendon got the tambourine for Christmas one year as a gag gift and taking to it ridiculously, so it doesn't really mean anything. But when he keeps walking, there's only one bedroom, so.
Well he's assuming it's a bedroom; the door's closed. The only other thing he can see is a bathroom, though, and then he runs out of doors,
bandomficathon. February 4 2009. 493 words.
It doesn't look like there's room for more than one bedroom. From the front door, anyway, which really isn't the best indication, but it's a front door on the third floor of a four-floor walkup, and the rest of the building gives off small-apartment vibes.
Whatever the hell that means. Patrick can admit to himself that he's mostly just hoping that there's only one bedroom, because that would make his fucking day, to be honest. It would probably make his year, actually, and it might go some way toward doing the same for Pete.
Although considering he's knocked about fifteen times now and there's been no answer, he probably won't ever know, because somehow it had never crossed his mind that Brendon might not actually be home.
He knocks a few more times, just for good measure, and this time he hears a faint "Coming! Just gimme a minute!" from somewhere, and it's definitely Brendon. Whether he's alive or not may be up for debate -- his voice sounded vaguely zombie-like -- but definitely, definitely Brendon.
"Holy shit," Brendon says as he opens the door, and there's such an absolute void where Brendon's standing that Patrick very nearly says the same thing.
"Hi, Brendon," he says instead, and a moment later Brendon blinks, like he's coming out from a trance, and beams.
"Oh, yeah, no, I've had this fucking cold for like a month now, it's awful," Brendon says, curled up in his brightly plaid armchair with a blanket over his lap. "I mean, I can still teach and stuff, and it's not like I'm an invalid, I'm just. Tired all the time. And kind of stuffed up." He shrugs. "Oh, hey, is that how you found me?"
"-- yeah, actually," Patrick says, forcing himself to pay attention to the conversation. He can figure out what the hell is really wrong with Brendon later, when he can dissect everything Brendon says a thousand times until he comes to a satisfactory conclusion. For a given value of satisfactory. "I was getting coffee a few days ago, looking at the bulletin board while I was waiting, and I saw that flyer you'd posted." He pauses, not sure how to say this without spooking Brendon again. "I was, uh. I was surprised you came back, after what happened."
Brendon smiles a little, pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself. "Yeah, well. After I left, I kind of -- I had a lot of stuff to work out, you know." Right, thinks Patrick, and tries to surreptitiously scan the living room again for signs of other occupants. There's a lot of stuff around, but from what he remembers Brendon wasn't ever the tidiest person. A lot of instruments, too, but he'd actually be more worried if the opposite was true. "So I left for a while," Brendon says, "but, I don't know. I liked this city, the time I lived here. It's as much my home as any other place."
"That's fair, I guess."
no idea. December 3 2008. 240 words.
"Hi, Brendon," Patrick says when the door opens, and for a second Brendon's eyes bug out. Then he's grinning, smothering him in a hug just like Patrick remembers, and for a second he actually thinks maybe he's okay again.
"Oh my god, Patrick," Brendon says, grin still firmly on his face, when he pulls back. "Dude, what's up, how are you, how did you find me? Do you want to come in?"
"Uh," Patrick says, but it's nice, being attacked by the questions. Kind of reassuring. "Sure, yeah," he settles on, finally, and follows Brendon into what looks like a one-bedroom apartment -- there's no bed to be seen, anyway, and the kitchen seems to be in its own little area with a half-wall and everything, so chances are high it's not a studio.
It's cluttered, but that's not a surprise. There's a guitar propped up in a corner, and a keyboard laying flat on the floor near it, and a tambourine and a bass near them, and that's ... well, Patrick remembers Brendon playing all of those instruments, and he's pretty sure Brendon got the tambourine for Christmas one year as a gag gift and taking to it ridiculously, so it doesn't really mean anything. But when he keeps walking, there's only one bedroom, so.
Well he's assuming it's a bedroom; the door's closed. The only other thing he can see is a bathroom, though, and then he runs out of doors,
bandomficathon. February 4 2009. 493 words.
It doesn't look like there's room for more than one bedroom. From the front door, anyway, which really isn't the best indication, but it's a front door on the third floor of a four-floor walkup, and the rest of the building gives off small-apartment vibes.
Whatever the hell that means. Patrick can admit to himself that he's mostly just hoping that there's only one bedroom, because that would make his fucking day, to be honest. It would probably make his year, actually, and it might go some way toward doing the same for Pete.
Although considering he's knocked about fifteen times now and there's been no answer, he probably won't ever know, because somehow it had never crossed his mind that Brendon might not actually be home.
He knocks a few more times, just for good measure, and this time he hears a faint "Coming! Just gimme a minute!" from somewhere, and it's definitely Brendon. Whether he's alive or not may be up for debate -- his voice sounded vaguely zombie-like -- but definitely, definitely Brendon.
"Holy shit," Brendon says as he opens the door, and there's such an absolute void where Brendon's standing that Patrick very nearly says the same thing.
"Hi, Brendon," he says instead, and a moment later Brendon blinks, like he's coming out from a trance, and beams.
"Oh, yeah, no, I've had this fucking cold for like a month now, it's awful," Brendon says, curled up in his brightly plaid armchair with a blanket over his lap. "I mean, I can still teach and stuff, and it's not like I'm an invalid, I'm just. Tired all the time. And kind of stuffed up." He shrugs. "Oh, hey, is that how you found me?"
"-- yeah, actually," Patrick says, forcing himself to pay attention to the conversation. He can figure out what the hell is really wrong with Brendon later, when he can dissect everything Brendon says a thousand times until he comes to a satisfactory conclusion. For a given value of satisfactory. "I was getting coffee a few days ago, looking at the bulletin board while I was waiting, and I saw that flyer you'd posted." He pauses, not sure how to say this without spooking Brendon again. "I was, uh. I was surprised you came back, after what happened."
Brendon smiles a little, pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself. "Yeah, well. After I left, I kind of -- I had a lot of stuff to work out, you know." Right, thinks Patrick, and tries to surreptitiously scan the living room again for signs of other occupants. There's a lot of stuff around, but from what he remembers Brendon wasn't ever the tidiest person. A lot of instruments, too, but he'd actually be more worried if the opposite was true. "So I left for a while," Brendon says, "but, I don't know. I liked this city, the time I lived here. It's as much my home as any other place."
"That's fair, I guess."