i take it out on my good friends.
For cercaluna.
i: living is what fades you
the mouth of the sky
Summer was scorching and vengeful. They filmed la Boca del Cielo on a Wednesday, and Diego sat at the edge of the water, half on dry land and half with the sand damp against the soles of his feet and the sun stripping his hair of whatever wetness was left from the ocean. Gael walked over, bending down occasionally to pick up a rock, a shell. Stood next to Diego, eyes squinted a little, and he had to look up, hand above his eyes because the sun was right behind Gael and he could hardly stand to look at him, it was that bright. The warm, whitish sort of light hit the edge of his glasses and sparked there. It was strange, being around Gael all the time after years spent on different continents.
"Oh, fuck, just sit down. I know you like being taller than me when you can, but I think I'm going blind."
He barely saw Gael roll his eyes before he sat down, a flutter of motion instantly settling into stillness. Diego was bad at stillness. Gael passed a bottle of sunscreen over. "Alfonso wanted me to deliver a message." "Wow, you're really funny today." Gael lifted a shoulder expressively, the thin green cotton creasing and stretching. "I'll get your back. Shooting starts at four, by the way." "I knew that." "Yeah, okay." He began slathering the stuff over his arms, on his elbows even. He could feel Gael's fingers digging into the edge of his shoulder blade, his spine, the faint protrusion of calcium and bone at the base of his neck. The ridge of a hipbone. The waves rushed in and drew back again. Diego heard the faint click of a lighter before he saw the cigarette itself; it was a moment before he turned his head and saw Gael with a cigarette between two fingers and smoking curling like a touch out of his mouth. He was absentmindedly scooping sand up and letting it leak out from the cracks between fingers, eyes toward the horizon, and the motion reminded Diego of an hourglass. Smooth, inevitable. Gael smoked only when he had something on his mind.
"What is it?" Gael didn't bother denying anything. He just took another drag on the cigarette, let another handful of sand fall back to the ground before he turned.
"What are we doing? No, honestly, what are we doing here?"
Diego wanted to say, you're smoking your fifth cigarette of the day and I'm being baked to death and coated in sunscreen and we're shooting a goddamned movie, that's what we're doing. But he knew what Gael meant. He tried not to think about it, sometimes, but he knew.
"Look, Alfonso gets it. You. We're not just shooting some pointless movie all about fucking, you know that. That's not the only thing."
Gael looked at him over the rim of his glasses.
"Right, because we're doing so fucking much to help those people on the streets we filmed. Yeah."
Diego didn’t say anything. He thought, your problem is that you aren't selfish enough and that's the worst and best thing about you. After a beat, Gael took off his glasses, rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes a little, blinked.
“Shit. Sorry.”
Diego shrugged, shifted a little, unconsciously tracing circles on the bottle of sunscreen under his hand. “It’s fine.” Gael gave him a look that said, no, no it’s not; he didn’t know what to do in response to that. There were these moments that Gael had, pauses and spaces where he looked hopeless and frustrated and more than a little pissed off. That, and they would be back to playing football and driving around and insulting each other’s mothers. Diego always stayed, that was what he did. He stayed and he didn’t say anything or do anything but be there; maybe that was the most important thing.
It was weird, though, how Gael was so cynical and so idealistic at the same time. He saw everything wrong with the world, but it made him angry, not resigned. There was a difference there. He was so painfully and intensely aware of all the injustices, so much so that Diego wondered how someone could stay furious for that long. It sounded exhausting. Because that was how Gael lived, furiously and sharply. He was so very vivid and there that it seemed like a crime. Diego felt responsible, in a way, responsible for warning him about all the disappointments he'd have to come to terms with someday, in some different, glossy town. (Deep down, Diego knew he wouldn't be able to do it, because he was just as idealistic as Gael. He only hid it better, which seemed strange, considering; but Gael wore his sarcasm and his dreams equally out there in the open, for the world to see if they looked closely enough. Diego made his less obvious. It went along that saying, something about hiding in plain sight, something about tricking people with the obvious things. First impressions.)
But the thing was that Gael probably knew that already - he was the type to do things through sheer force of will if it came to it. Diego didn't think that he knew how to stop, at least when it came to those things he believed in. They sat in silence for a little while, and Gael stubbed out his cigarette in the wet sand near their feet, rested his hands over his knees, loose. Diego scratched words into the sand with the edge of a seashell. There was a tinge of something citrus in the air, in the color and the smell and the feel. Something sharp and lovely and acidic all at the same time. Everything was lit in a golden orange haze, the water flashed and the wind blew Diego's hair into his face, but he didn't bother doing anything about it. Gael spoke, quieter but loud in the empty strip of beach.
"I think this is the most beautiful place I've ever seen." He could get away with saying things like that. Diego, watching the light hit the angles of his face, the pale dry color of his mouth, wanted to say: you're the most beautiful thing I'll ever see, but he wasn't stupid or drunk enough to be that honest, that brave, at least not then.
i: living is what fades you
the mouth of the sky
Summer was scorching and vengeful. They filmed la Boca del Cielo on a Wednesday, and Diego sat at the edge of the water, half on dry land and half with the sand damp against the soles of his feet and the sun stripping his hair of whatever wetness was left from the ocean. Gael walked over, bending down occasionally to pick up a rock, a shell. Stood next to Diego, eyes squinted a little, and he had to look up, hand above his eyes because the sun was right behind Gael and he could hardly stand to look at him, it was that bright. The warm, whitish sort of light hit the edge of his glasses and sparked there. It was strange, being around Gael all the time after years spent on different continents.
"Oh, fuck, just sit down. I know you like being taller than me when you can, but I think I'm going blind."
He barely saw Gael roll his eyes before he sat down, a flutter of motion instantly settling into stillness. Diego was bad at stillness. Gael passed a bottle of sunscreen over. "Alfonso wanted me to deliver a message." "Wow, you're really funny today." Gael lifted a shoulder expressively, the thin green cotton creasing and stretching. "I'll get your back. Shooting starts at four, by the way." "I knew that." "Yeah, okay." He began slathering the stuff over his arms, on his elbows even. He could feel Gael's fingers digging into the edge of his shoulder blade, his spine, the faint protrusion of calcium and bone at the base of his neck. The ridge of a hipbone. The waves rushed in and drew back again. Diego heard the faint click of a lighter before he saw the cigarette itself; it was a moment before he turned his head and saw Gael with a cigarette between two fingers and smoking curling like a touch out of his mouth. He was absentmindedly scooping sand up and letting it leak out from the cracks between fingers, eyes toward the horizon, and the motion reminded Diego of an hourglass. Smooth, inevitable. Gael smoked only when he had something on his mind.
"What is it?" Gael didn't bother denying anything. He just took another drag on the cigarette, let another handful of sand fall back to the ground before he turned.
"What are we doing? No, honestly, what are we doing here?"
Diego wanted to say, you're smoking your fifth cigarette of the day and I'm being baked to death and coated in sunscreen and we're shooting a goddamned movie, that's what we're doing. But he knew what Gael meant. He tried not to think about it, sometimes, but he knew.
"Look, Alfonso gets it. You. We're not just shooting some pointless movie all about fucking, you know that. That's not the only thing."
Gael looked at him over the rim of his glasses.
"Right, because we're doing so fucking much to help those people on the streets we filmed. Yeah."
Diego didn’t say anything. He thought, your problem is that you aren't selfish enough and that's the worst and best thing about you. After a beat, Gael took off his glasses, rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes a little, blinked.
“Shit. Sorry.”
Diego shrugged, shifted a little, unconsciously tracing circles on the bottle of sunscreen under his hand. “It’s fine.” Gael gave him a look that said, no, no it’s not; he didn’t know what to do in response to that. There were these moments that Gael had, pauses and spaces where he looked hopeless and frustrated and more than a little pissed off. That, and they would be back to playing football and driving around and insulting each other’s mothers. Diego always stayed, that was what he did. He stayed and he didn’t say anything or do anything but be there; maybe that was the most important thing.
It was weird, though, how Gael was so cynical and so idealistic at the same time. He saw everything wrong with the world, but it made him angry, not resigned. There was a difference there. He was so painfully and intensely aware of all the injustices, so much so that Diego wondered how someone could stay furious for that long. It sounded exhausting. Because that was how Gael lived, furiously and sharply. He was so very vivid and there that it seemed like a crime. Diego felt responsible, in a way, responsible for warning him about all the disappointments he'd have to come to terms with someday, in some different, glossy town. (Deep down, Diego knew he wouldn't be able to do it, because he was just as idealistic as Gael. He only hid it better, which seemed strange, considering; but Gael wore his sarcasm and his dreams equally out there in the open, for the world to see if they looked closely enough. Diego made his less obvious. It went along that saying, something about hiding in plain sight, something about tricking people with the obvious things. First impressions.)
But the thing was that Gael probably knew that already - he was the type to do things through sheer force of will if it came to it. Diego didn't think that he knew how to stop, at least when it came to those things he believed in. They sat in silence for a little while, and Gael stubbed out his cigarette in the wet sand near their feet, rested his hands over his knees, loose. Diego scratched words into the sand with the edge of a seashell. There was a tinge of something citrus in the air, in the color and the smell and the feel. Something sharp and lovely and acidic all at the same time. Everything was lit in a golden orange haze, the water flashed and the wind blew Diego's hair into his face, but he didn't bother doing anything about it. Gael spoke, quieter but loud in the empty strip of beach.
"I think this is the most beautiful place I've ever seen." He could get away with saying things like that. Diego, watching the light hit the angles of his face, the pale dry color of his mouth, wanted to say: you're the most beautiful thing I'll ever see, but he wasn't stupid or drunk enough to be that honest, that brave, at least not then.