two more pumpkin pies!
pumpkin pie 4. bump in the night + sprinkles
+ malt: Would you like to lecture me on the wickedness of my ways?
story: second chances ; college era. wordcount: 600. rating: pg.
notes: I'm posting these together because they're both about the same length and...about minor characters and their significant others? Yeah, thematic similarity!! Or something.
"Are you drunk?" Stan asked. Wherein Roy stumbles in late. Click:
Side-stepping the dishes that Stan's housemate had stacked against the wall, Roy stumbled down the poorly lit hallway and into Stan's room. Where he proceeded to bang his shin on god-knows-what.
"Shit," Roy muttered, groping around in the darkness for the bed. Stan's room was pitch black. His hand found the corner of the mattress. "Stan? Hey, Stan-are you still awake?"
He heard the sheets rustle. "Hm," Stan said, probably half-asleep.
Roy plopped down on his side of the bed and started to take off his shoes. The laces seemed way too complicated in the dark, and his head was starting to spin. "See," Roy said, half to Stan and half to himself, "I said I was coming over and I came over."
"Hey," Stan said. He sounded more awake now, and the mattress shifted like he had sat up. "What time is it?"
"I don't know, like one-thirty?"
Stan groaned. "I thought you were coming earlier. I was waiting up for a long time."
"I said it would be late." Roy finally got his second shoe off. He laid down on the bed with a sigh. "Sorry."
"Are you drunk?" Stan asked.
"Yeah," Roy said. He expected Stan to at least sigh at his answer, but Stan didn't. Roy turned his head to look at him-now that his eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, he could just make out Stan's face. "What, you're not going to say anything?"
Stan's eyes were half-closed, like he was too tired to give a damn. "Whatever, Roy. I have to work in the morning."
"But not until ten, right?"
Stan didn't respond. He'd closed his eyes all the way.
"If you want me to leave, I'll leave," Roy said. Stan probably knew it was an empty threat-getting home this late, this drunk would require calling a cab and Roy had used up almost most of his cash already-but Roy had wanted to say it anyway.
Maybe he shouldn't have, though. It hung in the air for what seemed like forever.
"You can stay," Stan said finally. "Just shut up."
Roy found a small piece of the blanket to tug up over his legs. "Okay," he said, hoping it sounded appropriately sulky. He turned onto his side away from Stan, to stare at the dim strip of street-light shining coming in through the window. Stan made another sound like a "Hm" and shifted to drape a heavy arm over Roy's shoulder.
Roy sighed loudly, but it was for show. He liked having Stan close like this; it felt safe.
And he liked having a place to come after a kind of shitty night, a place that had started to feel more like home than his own bed. He could almost forget that he'd been telling anyone who'd listen, oh yeah, I'm definitely going to break up with Stan, for the last two weeks.
That seemed so cruel and unnecessary now, when Stan was letting him stumble in at almost two in the morning to sleep in his bed, under the crook of his arm. This was so nice. He couldn't break up with Stan, not now, not this week.
Closing his eyes, Roy let himself give the Maybes a spin again. Maybe they could stop fighting about nothing. Maybe they could start having sex again. Maybe it could go back to feeling like a real relationship. Maybe…
Stan was breathing lightly by his ear now. Feeling less dizzy, Roy curled up closer, listening to each breath.
It did always help him fall asleep.
* * *
The theme of this relationship is Neediness.
pumpkin pie 7. special effects + grapefruit 4. tough act to follow + sprinkles
+ malt: Everything that's realistic has some sort of ugliness in it. Even a flower is ugly when it wilts, a bird when it seeks its prey, the ocean when it becomes violent.
story: second chances ; pre-college era. wordcount: 629. rating: pg13. (mild violence/blood in an art context)
The next time he saw her, she was crashing an art opening. This is how Nathan met his first serious girlfriend. (So pre- all the Mike/Nathan stuff). Click:
The first time Nathan saw her was in painting class. She straddled the stool in her short cotton dress and frowned at her canvas, painting in short choppy strokes that betrayed her lack of experience.
"I'm taking this class for the credit," she said when she saw him look.
She kept her paints in a shabby yellow pouch with a zipper and when she tried to open the tube of Ultramarine, the cap wouldn't budge.
"Here," Nathan said, and took her paints to the sink to loosen the caps under the hot water.
"Mr. Incredible," she said. She smiled, but her face betrayed nothing.
The next time he saw her, she was crashing an art opening. Standing with a boy-"boy" seemed right-in a black, pilgrim-style hat, she was yelling at the crowd. "Help, Help!" while Pilgrim-hat waved a silver box-cutter around in front of them. They looked like a couple of misguided goth kids, Nathan thought. But when her dark eyes turned toward him, he felt a pang in the pit of his stomach.
"Do you love me?" she was asking the crowd. She was practically shaking. "Say you love me!"
"Tell her you love her!" The boy ordered, slicing the box-cutter through the air like an clumbsy samurai. He seized her small white wrist, held the blade above her skin. "Tell her, or I'll do it!"
The twelve-or-so-people who had gathered at the gallery were silent; no one believed he would do it.
But he did it.
Nathan heard himself inhale sharply when Pilgrim-hat brought the blade down on her forearm. She barely winced, but when he squeezed her arm the blood started to flow from the gash, beading up red against her skin. It happened almost too fast to feel real.
Bryan made a scoffing sound beside him. "It's so tacky, crashing an art opening," he was saying, "And that blood is so fake."
"Do you love me?" she was pleading again, and Nathan couldn't help but stare at the blood running down her arm. He didn't share Bryan's skepticism.
"Do you love her?" Pilgrim-hat was lifting the blade again.
"I love her! I love you, Ava!" Nathan called before he could over think it, while she held her bleeding arm, her eyes turned up at the lights like a saint in a painting.
Bryan let out a sound of surprise. Pilgrim-hat looked straight at Nathan, his snub-nose wrinkled in displeasure; he hadn't been expecting that, not so early in the act. Then he released her arm. The boy grabbed Ava's other arm and started to pull her away. She looked straight at Nathan; he saw her mouth Oh! before she was turned away. Then they were gone.
That meant the show was over.
"Fake shit!" Bryan called after them, joining the boos of the crowd. "Make some real art!"
Nathan caught up with her later on the other side of the building.
"You're a performance artist," he said, "That's cool."
She shrugged. Her cigarette was shaking between her fingers when she brought it to her mouth. She had a piece of gauze taped over the spot on her arm where the box-cutter had sliced her. Nathan knew it hadn't been a trick.
"That guy you were with," Nathan said, "Is he your boyfriend?"
She almost laughed, blowing out a line of smoke. Then shook her head. "He's just a friend."
Nathan joined her, leaning his back against the wall. He held out a hand. "Want to get a drink?" he asked.
Ava hesitated a second. Then she lifted her good arm to lace her fingers into his. "Okay," she said, with the same smile she'd given him in painting class.
* * *
And the theme of this relationship is WHOA, WHAT.
Before anyone asks: I do like performance art, but will go ahead and say that this piece was pretty terrible. It gets better.
+ malt: Would you like to lecture me on the wickedness of my ways?
story: second chances ; college era. wordcount: 600. rating: pg.
notes: I'm posting these together because they're both about the same length and...about minor characters and their significant others? Yeah, thematic similarity!! Or something.
"Are you drunk?" Stan asked. Wherein Roy stumbles in late. Click:
Side-stepping the dishes that Stan's housemate had stacked against the wall, Roy stumbled down the poorly lit hallway and into Stan's room. Where he proceeded to bang his shin on god-knows-what.
"Shit," Roy muttered, groping around in the darkness for the bed. Stan's room was pitch black. His hand found the corner of the mattress. "Stan? Hey, Stan-are you still awake?"
He heard the sheets rustle. "Hm," Stan said, probably half-asleep.
Roy plopped down on his side of the bed and started to take off his shoes. The laces seemed way too complicated in the dark, and his head was starting to spin. "See," Roy said, half to Stan and half to himself, "I said I was coming over and I came over."
"Hey," Stan said. He sounded more awake now, and the mattress shifted like he had sat up. "What time is it?"
"I don't know, like one-thirty?"
Stan groaned. "I thought you were coming earlier. I was waiting up for a long time."
"I said it would be late." Roy finally got his second shoe off. He laid down on the bed with a sigh. "Sorry."
"Are you drunk?" Stan asked.
"Yeah," Roy said. He expected Stan to at least sigh at his answer, but Stan didn't. Roy turned his head to look at him-now that his eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, he could just make out Stan's face. "What, you're not going to say anything?"
Stan's eyes were half-closed, like he was too tired to give a damn. "Whatever, Roy. I have to work in the morning."
"But not until ten, right?"
Stan didn't respond. He'd closed his eyes all the way.
"If you want me to leave, I'll leave," Roy said. Stan probably knew it was an empty threat-getting home this late, this drunk would require calling a cab and Roy had used up almost most of his cash already-but Roy had wanted to say it anyway.
Maybe he shouldn't have, though. It hung in the air for what seemed like forever.
"You can stay," Stan said finally. "Just shut up."
Roy found a small piece of the blanket to tug up over his legs. "Okay," he said, hoping it sounded appropriately sulky. He turned onto his side away from Stan, to stare at the dim strip of street-light shining coming in through the window. Stan made another sound like a "Hm" and shifted to drape a heavy arm over Roy's shoulder.
Roy sighed loudly, but it was for show. He liked having Stan close like this; it felt safe.
And he liked having a place to come after a kind of shitty night, a place that had started to feel more like home than his own bed. He could almost forget that he'd been telling anyone who'd listen, oh yeah, I'm definitely going to break up with Stan, for the last two weeks.
That seemed so cruel and unnecessary now, when Stan was letting him stumble in at almost two in the morning to sleep in his bed, under the crook of his arm. This was so nice. He couldn't break up with Stan, not now, not this week.
Closing his eyes, Roy let himself give the Maybes a spin again. Maybe they could stop fighting about nothing. Maybe they could start having sex again. Maybe it could go back to feeling like a real relationship. Maybe…
Stan was breathing lightly by his ear now. Feeling less dizzy, Roy curled up closer, listening to each breath.
It did always help him fall asleep.
* * *
The theme of this relationship is Neediness.
pumpkin pie 7. special effects + grapefruit 4. tough act to follow + sprinkles
+ malt: Everything that's realistic has some sort of ugliness in it. Even a flower is ugly when it wilts, a bird when it seeks its prey, the ocean when it becomes violent.
story: second chances ; pre-college era. wordcount: 629. rating: pg13. (mild violence/blood in an art context)
The next time he saw her, she was crashing an art opening. This is how Nathan met his first serious girlfriend. (So pre- all the Mike/Nathan stuff). Click:
The first time Nathan saw her was in painting class. She straddled the stool in her short cotton dress and frowned at her canvas, painting in short choppy strokes that betrayed her lack of experience.
"I'm taking this class for the credit," she said when she saw him look.
She kept her paints in a shabby yellow pouch with a zipper and when she tried to open the tube of Ultramarine, the cap wouldn't budge.
"Here," Nathan said, and took her paints to the sink to loosen the caps under the hot water.
"Mr. Incredible," she said. She smiled, but her face betrayed nothing.
The next time he saw her, she was crashing an art opening. Standing with a boy-"boy" seemed right-in a black, pilgrim-style hat, she was yelling at the crowd. "Help, Help!" while Pilgrim-hat waved a silver box-cutter around in front of them. They looked like a couple of misguided goth kids, Nathan thought. But when her dark eyes turned toward him, he felt a pang in the pit of his stomach.
"Do you love me?" she was asking the crowd. She was practically shaking. "Say you love me!"
"Tell her you love her!" The boy ordered, slicing the box-cutter through the air like an clumbsy samurai. He seized her small white wrist, held the blade above her skin. "Tell her, or I'll do it!"
The twelve-or-so-people who had gathered at the gallery were silent; no one believed he would do it.
But he did it.
Nathan heard himself inhale sharply when Pilgrim-hat brought the blade down on her forearm. She barely winced, but when he squeezed her arm the blood started to flow from the gash, beading up red against her skin. It happened almost too fast to feel real.
Bryan made a scoffing sound beside him. "It's so tacky, crashing an art opening," he was saying, "And that blood is so fake."
"Do you love me?" she was pleading again, and Nathan couldn't help but stare at the blood running down her arm. He didn't share Bryan's skepticism.
"Do you love her?" Pilgrim-hat was lifting the blade again.
"I love her! I love you, Ava!" Nathan called before he could over think it, while she held her bleeding arm, her eyes turned up at the lights like a saint in a painting.
Bryan let out a sound of surprise. Pilgrim-hat looked straight at Nathan, his snub-nose wrinkled in displeasure; he hadn't been expecting that, not so early in the act. Then he released her arm. The boy grabbed Ava's other arm and started to pull her away. She looked straight at Nathan; he saw her mouth Oh! before she was turned away. Then they were gone.
That meant the show was over.
"Fake shit!" Bryan called after them, joining the boos of the crowd. "Make some real art!"
Nathan caught up with her later on the other side of the building.
"You're a performance artist," he said, "That's cool."
She shrugged. Her cigarette was shaking between her fingers when she brought it to her mouth. She had a piece of gauze taped over the spot on her arm where the box-cutter had sliced her. Nathan knew it hadn't been a trick.
"That guy you were with," Nathan said, "Is he your boyfriend?"
She almost laughed, blowing out a line of smoke. Then shook her head. "He's just a friend."
Nathan joined her, leaning his back against the wall. He held out a hand. "Want to get a drink?" he asked.
Ava hesitated a second. Then she lifted her good arm to lace her fingers into his. "Okay," she said, with the same smile she'd given him in painting class.
* * *
And the theme of this relationship is WHOA, WHAT.
Before anyone asks: I do like performance art, but will go ahead and say that this piece was pretty terrible. It gets better.