Ficlets
Two ficlets. I'm trying to train myself into conveying more in less. Does that make sense?
Pete/Jeanae - She's Leaving Tuesday.
Jeanae’s breath is warm on his neck, hovers in the space between shoulder and chin and Pete fumbles over air, fingers clenched in coral sheets like pen on paper. He counts the cracks in the ceiling, the mosquitoes around the window pane and he tries not to shift when Jeanae does, when her eyelids flicker and her feet toe the quilts tangled at the bottom of the bed.
She lets out a heavy breath that weighs down Pete’s head, bleeds words between his eyes and she wrings her fingers in the waist of his boxers. Jeanae sighs, “How am I supposed to say I can’t do this anymore when you wouldn’t hear it if I did?”
“I listen,” Pete mumbles, and he kisses Jeanae on the forehead, presses his fingers against her back.
Jeanae’s up though, pulling herself over Pete and off the end of the bed before he can stop her. She grabs her underwear, her t-shirt from the floor and fumbles pulling it over her shirt, up her thighs. She doesn’t turn around before she leaves the room, but she mumbles to the doorframe.
“Not to me.”
Neither of them say goodbye, but, Pete supposes, neither of them really need to. They can both read between the lines.
Andy, Pete, gen. - BC.
The gig’s this weird underground hardcore thing complete with floods of bad hair and tattoos that scrawl from one person to the next, leak over arms, torsos, chests and waistlines and Pete’s never felt more at home (never will) between lips and heads, tits and dicks and sets.
He’s with this shitty little band that doesn’t so much play music as they do thrash their instruments together in a haze of sound that bleeds in Pete’s ears and builds in his chest until he’s centre stage; screaming across, beneath, over, through the crowd. Pete’s the Noah to this Arc, the Moses to this crowd of Israelites and right now, right here, he could take it on, could take it over.
It’s fleeting though, the power, possession, whatever and he’s thrown off stage for the next act, next band that practices finesse over Pete’s blind aggression.
The band’s not great, and Pete might not have an ear for music, but he has an eye for talent and the drummer beats and thrashes his way into blog entries that Pete hasn’t even written yet. The sets over and the drummer rips off his shirt, throws it back behind the kit before jumping off the stage and into the crowd. Pete loses sight.
It’s a night of watching his friends drink and yell and mosh and Pete feels drunk off the fumes. He spends the minutes looking out for familiar faces and when he catches a painted arm, a sleeve of colour, Pete leaps at the opportunity.
The drummer’s sprawled back on one of the feral sofas and Pete bounds over, stands in front of him and the guy looks up over the tops of his glasses.
“You drum like a fiend,” Pete says.
The drummer stares for a moment and then, beat, says, “You scream like a bitch.”
Pete laughs aloud, crinkles his nose and tilts his head until the drummer manages to crack out a grin and Pete just collapses onto the guy’s chest, wraps his arms around his waist. “You’re my new best friend.”
“Fuck off,” the drummer says, but he doesn’t move Pete. “’m Andy.”
Pete just grins again, “Andy, this is the start of something beautiful.”
Pete/Jeanae - She's Leaving Tuesday.
Jeanae’s breath is warm on his neck, hovers in the space between shoulder and chin and Pete fumbles over air, fingers clenched in coral sheets like pen on paper. He counts the cracks in the ceiling, the mosquitoes around the window pane and he tries not to shift when Jeanae does, when her eyelids flicker and her feet toe the quilts tangled at the bottom of the bed.
She lets out a heavy breath that weighs down Pete’s head, bleeds words between his eyes and she wrings her fingers in the waist of his boxers. Jeanae sighs, “How am I supposed to say I can’t do this anymore when you wouldn’t hear it if I did?”
“I listen,” Pete mumbles, and he kisses Jeanae on the forehead, presses his fingers against her back.
Jeanae’s up though, pulling herself over Pete and off the end of the bed before he can stop her. She grabs her underwear, her t-shirt from the floor and fumbles pulling it over her shirt, up her thighs. She doesn’t turn around before she leaves the room, but she mumbles to the doorframe.
“Not to me.”
Neither of them say goodbye, but, Pete supposes, neither of them really need to. They can both read between the lines.
Andy, Pete, gen. - BC.
The gig’s this weird underground hardcore thing complete with floods of bad hair and tattoos that scrawl from one person to the next, leak over arms, torsos, chests and waistlines and Pete’s never felt more at home (never will) between lips and heads, tits and dicks and sets.
He’s with this shitty little band that doesn’t so much play music as they do thrash their instruments together in a haze of sound that bleeds in Pete’s ears and builds in his chest until he’s centre stage; screaming across, beneath, over, through the crowd. Pete’s the Noah to this Arc, the Moses to this crowd of Israelites and right now, right here, he could take it on, could take it over.
It’s fleeting though, the power, possession, whatever and he’s thrown off stage for the next act, next band that practices finesse over Pete’s blind aggression.
The band’s not great, and Pete might not have an ear for music, but he has an eye for talent and the drummer beats and thrashes his way into blog entries that Pete hasn’t even written yet. The sets over and the drummer rips off his shirt, throws it back behind the kit before jumping off the stage and into the crowd. Pete loses sight.
It’s a night of watching his friends drink and yell and mosh and Pete feels drunk off the fumes. He spends the minutes looking out for familiar faces and when he catches a painted arm, a sleeve of colour, Pete leaps at the opportunity.
The drummer’s sprawled back on one of the feral sofas and Pete bounds over, stands in front of him and the guy looks up over the tops of his glasses.
“You drum like a fiend,” Pete says.
The drummer stares for a moment and then, beat, says, “You scream like a bitch.”
Pete laughs aloud, crinkles his nose and tilts his head until the drummer manages to crack out a grin and Pete just collapses onto the guy’s chest, wraps his arms around his waist. “You’re my new best friend.”
“Fuck off,” the drummer says, but he doesn’t move Pete. “’m Andy.”
Pete just grins again, “Andy, this is the start of something beautiful.”