Ketchup.
I'm a bit of a late-bloomer, but I thought msaramat's QaF improv community idea was absolutely brilliant, and have finally sat down with the intention of contributing to it. Consider this my doing a little catch-up.
1. rapture, champagne, herb, spin, flustered
The first thing you notice when you get back to Ethan's apartment after a long day away from it are the candles, some cloying herbal scent that kind of upsets your allergies. They're the only source of light in the room, and since Ethan's possessions and decorating sensibilities (and funds) are sparse, the dimness actually makes the cramped living space look more attractive -- even, as Ethan is probably going for, romantic.
You see him next, standing in the middle of the room, cradling a bottle of champagne -- too expensive for Ethan normally, and not something that would dip into Brian's seemingly unlimited funds at all. You're not sure why, but the setting feels ominous, somehow. "What's all this?" you ask, flustered.
Eventually, Ethan drops the bombshell: "I've been thinking about signing the deal," he says. You can't say you're entirely surprised - or even not relieved, because you definitely didn't want Ethan to give up a potential career break for your sorry ass - but you can't help but be disappointed; that you just don't seem to be destined for a fairy-tale romance with anyone; that, despite Ethan's trying to put his "we'll make it a romantic adventure!" spin on it, you can't seem to bring yourself to match the excitement in his eyes.
But he makes a good case for an exciting new life together (even if it has to be mostly in secret), his face glowing with anticipatory rapture, and you toast his opportunity, your glasses clinking together and echoing slightly. You force yourself to smile and kiss him in a congratulatory way, the short hairs on his chin tickling your lower lip.
You're happy for him, you tell yourself, and hope that can eventually translate into being happy for you, too.
--
2. plumbing, frame, black, spray, headphones
The first weeks of Brian and Justin attempting to live together in the loft were filled with events that would one day make for fabulous anecdotes at Woody's, and lessons learned by everyone involved.
For Brian, it was readjusting to having somebody around all the time, hearing the plumbing gurgle or the spray of the shower from the bathroom and remembering that, oh, yeah, I have this kid living with me, now. Even when he was still underneath Jack Kinney's roof, Brian's co-habitation was a lesson in avoidance, an adolescence spent with headphones almost surgically attached to his ears to avoid communication as much as possible. Dinner was hardly filled with the nuances of the happy hetero home purported by those disgustingly saccharine family sitcoms that Brian's sister Claire liked to watch, where there was lots of conversation peppered with phrases like, "and how was your day, dear?" and "pass the mashed potatoes, please." (Brian hated mashed potatoes, too.)
Other than mealtime, Brian's mother spent her days in the house getting drunk, while his father ambled over to the nearby bar to commisserate with a couple of his buddies over how they should never have gotten married and saddled with "fuckin' kids". More than once, Brian had had to pick Jack up and practically carry him home, his old man's drunken frame heavy and sluggish as Brian struggled to maneuver him into the passenger seat of his own beat-up station wagon that looked like it'd lost a few bar fights of its own.
For Justin, co-habitation was not the issue so much as the realization that he'd been severely spoiled by his mother growing up. Gone were the days of having somebody keep a running inventory of every medication and bathroom accessory that he used, or of leaving his favorite black boxers on the ground and not inciting World War III when Brian found them there. And then he would apologize and grin shamelessly, and Brian would smirk and take advantage of the fact that Justin's underwear was already on the floor.
Over the course of the next five years or so, he would find himself living in many different places, with various people. He would come to realize that he'd only ever felt content and safe and happy living with Brian, and whether they co-habitated in the loft, or a house out in the West Virginia countryside, or a New York City penthouse, he didn't foresee that ever changing. Brian was his one constant, his rock of stability, no matter where life decided to take him.
--
3. headlight, disillusion, quicksand, fade, ashes
He doesn't like to admit it, because coloring her in a positive light at all seems like far more benevolence than she deserves, but Hunter remembers a time when his mother wasn't a total cunt. He remembers at least a couple of years of his childhood where he didn't feel completely disillusioned about having to grow up too fast because neither of his parents knew how to raise him. He remembers a time when the headlights of an oncoming car didn't equate to the hope of a fresh meal and maybe even a warm bed for one night.
Hunter takes up hustling at his mother's insistence, though, and the couple of memories he has of her tucking him into the small cot he uses in the cramped apartment they both called 'home', but without any sentimental value attached to the word; of her red curls bouncing as she talked animatedly about work while he slurped his soup (chicken noodle, his favorite), fade over time.
Pretty soon, they're akin to a pile of ashes in his mind; things he thinks he might like to still have, but that have been far too decimated by forces beyond his control (like his mother's desperation for a larger income for their broken household) to hold onto. So he tosses them away and grows accustomed to the idea that he'll probably be dead on the streets before he can realize how little he got to live.
He doesn't count on Ben and Michael taking him in; occasionally, he latches onto a trick who takes enough pity on him to offer him some food or slips an extra fifty into his hand, but "Pretty Woman" success stories - especially in the gay ghetto of Pittsburgh - are hard to come by. It's not something he dreams about every night or anything, either; he knows how useless it is to dream, how easily fantasies about a Better Life can suck a person in like quicksand, until the gap between reality and fantasy becomes irrevocably wide. Dreams were like drugs, any hustler would tell him; Hunter knew he couldn't afford to get addicted.
He knows he can't afford Ben and Michael's charity, either, knows they're just doing their good deed for the week or month or year or however long it takes for them to get sick of having him around. He keeps waiting for them to send him packing, but then there's hot miso soup and a clean bed that he's not expected to suck or fuck somebody in, and a set of unconventional father figures with their own unconventional family. They promise him safety and support, and he doesn't want to accept them - doesn't think he deserves them, somehow, like those things were handed out at birth and he just happened to get the short end of the stick. He feels himself getting sucked in, though, and despite all the odds - the shady past, the HIV, and the fact that he looks nothing like fucking Julia Roberts - he thinks it might be okay. He feels good about this; he feels loved.
He feels, finally, like he's come home.
--
(Cross-posted to my personal journal.)
1. rapture, champagne, herb, spin, flustered
The first thing you notice when you get back to Ethan's apartment after a long day away from it are the candles, some cloying herbal scent that kind of upsets your allergies. They're the only source of light in the room, and since Ethan's possessions and decorating sensibilities (and funds) are sparse, the dimness actually makes the cramped living space look more attractive -- even, as Ethan is probably going for, romantic.
You see him next, standing in the middle of the room, cradling a bottle of champagne -- too expensive for Ethan normally, and not something that would dip into Brian's seemingly unlimited funds at all. You're not sure why, but the setting feels ominous, somehow. "What's all this?" you ask, flustered.
Eventually, Ethan drops the bombshell: "I've been thinking about signing the deal," he says. You can't say you're entirely surprised - or even not relieved, because you definitely didn't want Ethan to give up a potential career break for your sorry ass - but you can't help but be disappointed; that you just don't seem to be destined for a fairy-tale romance with anyone; that, despite Ethan's trying to put his "we'll make it a romantic adventure!" spin on it, you can't seem to bring yourself to match the excitement in his eyes.
But he makes a good case for an exciting new life together (even if it has to be mostly in secret), his face glowing with anticipatory rapture, and you toast his opportunity, your glasses clinking together and echoing slightly. You force yourself to smile and kiss him in a congratulatory way, the short hairs on his chin tickling your lower lip.
You're happy for him, you tell yourself, and hope that can eventually translate into being happy for you, too.
--
2. plumbing, frame, black, spray, headphones
The first weeks of Brian and Justin attempting to live together in the loft were filled with events that would one day make for fabulous anecdotes at Woody's, and lessons learned by everyone involved.
For Brian, it was readjusting to having somebody around all the time, hearing the plumbing gurgle or the spray of the shower from the bathroom and remembering that, oh, yeah, I have this kid living with me, now. Even when he was still underneath Jack Kinney's roof, Brian's co-habitation was a lesson in avoidance, an adolescence spent with headphones almost surgically attached to his ears to avoid communication as much as possible. Dinner was hardly filled with the nuances of the happy hetero home purported by those disgustingly saccharine family sitcoms that Brian's sister Claire liked to watch, where there was lots of conversation peppered with phrases like, "and how was your day, dear?" and "pass the mashed potatoes, please." (Brian hated mashed potatoes, too.)
Other than mealtime, Brian's mother spent her days in the house getting drunk, while his father ambled over to the nearby bar to commisserate with a couple of his buddies over how they should never have gotten married and saddled with "fuckin' kids". More than once, Brian had had to pick Jack up and practically carry him home, his old man's drunken frame heavy and sluggish as Brian struggled to maneuver him into the passenger seat of his own beat-up station wagon that looked like it'd lost a few bar fights of its own.
For Justin, co-habitation was not the issue so much as the realization that he'd been severely spoiled by his mother growing up. Gone were the days of having somebody keep a running inventory of every medication and bathroom accessory that he used, or of leaving his favorite black boxers on the ground and not inciting World War III when Brian found them there. And then he would apologize and grin shamelessly, and Brian would smirk and take advantage of the fact that Justin's underwear was already on the floor.
Over the course of the next five years or so, he would find himself living in many different places, with various people. He would come to realize that he'd only ever felt content and safe and happy living with Brian, and whether they co-habitated in the loft, or a house out in the West Virginia countryside, or a New York City penthouse, he didn't foresee that ever changing. Brian was his one constant, his rock of stability, no matter where life decided to take him.
--
3. headlight, disillusion, quicksand, fade, ashes
He doesn't like to admit it, because coloring her in a positive light at all seems like far more benevolence than she deserves, but Hunter remembers a time when his mother wasn't a total cunt. He remembers at least a couple of years of his childhood where he didn't feel completely disillusioned about having to grow up too fast because neither of his parents knew how to raise him. He remembers a time when the headlights of an oncoming car didn't equate to the hope of a fresh meal and maybe even a warm bed for one night.
Hunter takes up hustling at his mother's insistence, though, and the couple of memories he has of her tucking him into the small cot he uses in the cramped apartment they both called 'home', but without any sentimental value attached to the word; of her red curls bouncing as she talked animatedly about work while he slurped his soup (chicken noodle, his favorite), fade over time.
Pretty soon, they're akin to a pile of ashes in his mind; things he thinks he might like to still have, but that have been far too decimated by forces beyond his control (like his mother's desperation for a larger income for their broken household) to hold onto. So he tosses them away and grows accustomed to the idea that he'll probably be dead on the streets before he can realize how little he got to live.
He doesn't count on Ben and Michael taking him in; occasionally, he latches onto a trick who takes enough pity on him to offer him some food or slips an extra fifty into his hand, but "Pretty Woman" success stories - especially in the gay ghetto of Pittsburgh - are hard to come by. It's not something he dreams about every night or anything, either; he knows how useless it is to dream, how easily fantasies about a Better Life can suck a person in like quicksand, until the gap between reality and fantasy becomes irrevocably wide. Dreams were like drugs, any hustler would tell him; Hunter knew he couldn't afford to get addicted.
He knows he can't afford Ben and Michael's charity, either, knows they're just doing their good deed for the week or month or year or however long it takes for them to get sick of having him around. He keeps waiting for them to send him packing, but then there's hot miso soup and a clean bed that he's not expected to suck or fuck somebody in, and a set of unconventional father figures with their own unconventional family. They promise him safety and support, and he doesn't want to accept them - doesn't think he deserves them, somehow, like those things were handed out at birth and he just happened to get the short end of the stick. He feels himself getting sucked in, though, and despite all the odds - the shady past, the HIV, and the fact that he looks nothing like fucking Julia Roberts - he thinks it might be okay. He feels good about this; he feels loved.
He feels, finally, like he's come home.
--
(Cross-posted to my personal journal.)