It wasn't always the spur of the moment.
The buildup starts from early morning when you walk to kitchen in your soft robe.
A silver of leg here, bared torso there;
Cheeky grins and lowered lashes.
There was the deliberate bumping of hips,
The scrap of chest against chest, lips inches away.
Mint breath clouding up glasses, winks threw behind shoulders.
Lick your dry lips, run you hands across your body, hungry eyes stare.
Finally, you were isolated; catch your breath sweetheart, there's his call.
"Baby baby, I miss you."
Barely an hour smartass.
"I bet you think about me too. I can't wait to taste your skin. To lick across your inner thighs, I want to feel you writhing under me. God, you make me so hot. I'm still driving baby-"
Please... a gasp of pleasure, turn back. I'm calling in sick.
"You don't get away so easily baby. I'll call you."
Your moan was recieved by the dialtone.
Scrambled thoughts, heated sex, you could barely think. Confident fingers grazing and probing, sweet God.
A co-worker passes by, "Hey man, you okay?"
An animalistic growl in response. Surried footsteps and a moan of pleasure pain.
Tick tock tick tock.
Finally; you hurry out the office door, clicked footsteps on the cement stairs.
The sharp ringing penetrated your whore hazed mind.
"Hey baby, where are you?"
On my fucking way.
"I love it when you swear." and he hangs up.
Good God, that man was infuriating.
Change was everywhere as you paid the cab driver in front of your loft.
You rolled your eyes when he cursed at you and stumbled out, attacking the elevator with force.
You growled at the ding! and ran out, briefcase a distant second thought.
The door was unlocked, fucking exhibitionist.
He was fully dressed, smirking.
"Hey hun, how was work?"
Fuck you, you threw your briefcase somewhere off to your right.
"That's the general idea."
You loved this man.
Stalk, step by step, he stood like a Greek God, waiting.
You grabbed his hip, pressed it to yours and gyrated to the beat of the honking cars downstairs.
You rocked forward and he followed, the friction undoing you.
His mouth attached to yours, tongues fighting for dominance.
You shivered as he pulled on the hair at the nape of your neck.
Unbuckling, unzipping all to the sweet lilt of his moan.
Swimmer's build spread across swimmer's build.
Tongue swiping across ears, nibbling on necks.
Legs tangled together, across hips and sex.
Sweat slicked body up and down up and down.
Remember to breathe, pant, groan oh God.
Lick, suck, nibble, pound in a variety of order.
The whole loft shook.
Your hands ran up and down his frame,
post-coital cuddle, dinner forgotten.
His tanned stomach flexed as he dozed.
Pretty, pretty, I love you.
"Me too."
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Talk Is Cheap.
Nobody could lie and say the back alleys of America were clean. Once in a while, you could hear grunts and short, breathy moans. There was the obscene sound of skin on skin, the sound of tongues sliding against the other. If you turned the wrong corner, you could see a boy on his hands and knees. You could witness people being slammed into walls while their clothes were ripped open. Stay long enough and you could hear the squelching of fluids and the work of a tongue lapping his work up. The rolling of coins follow, clinking on the cobblestone floor along with hurried footsteps; and then they were gone. Upstanding citizens vanishing to where it was acceptable. That was where you stood, wiping your mouth on your sleeve, on the corner of Fourth and Fremont.
Fetching your coat from behind a small loose brick on the wall, you wrapped it around your small body, your last piece of clothing, ripped into pieces. Uniformed men always needed to take something from you to justify their cause. Your body felt numb; there was an aching throbbing at the bottom of your spine. You arched yourself up, trying to loosen your muscles but it caused a sharp stab of pain right there and ohfuck.
Curling into yourself, you half wanted to walk away and sleep already. But pay was pay and you were living hand to mouth as it was. Stumbling out from behind the alley, you leaned against your corner; face a betrayal to any pain you felt. You were calm, cool and collected, as though a real pioneer in this trade. Inside, you were shivering and tearing yourself up into two, knowing you were nothing more than a week old whore.
An unusually loud moan came from somewhere to your right. You ducked your head down as fellow pedestrians turned to stare. This business, it was supposed to be a silent affair. Hushed up sounds and sloppy kisses to cover up for orgasming moans. You avoided their accusing stare, reminding yourself that half of the people in disgust were serviced by one of your kind before. Nobody was perfect, the others said. You believed them.
A man walked past. Your “friends” on all the other corners watched the brunet with the smart suit and tie. His hat was perfectly positioned atop the luscious head of hair. He walked with an air of confidence. This man was not new.
You pushed yourself off the corner, trying to make a good impression. This customer knows exactly what he wants but you don’t. You decided to back off at the last minute, let Bryan from the corner after have him but too late. The man stopped in front of you, your corner, and grinned.
“Tonight’s a good night.” You hesitated a while, glancing around. The other boys were staring at him, malice in their eyes. You gulped down fear.
“I suppose sir, it depends on your whereabouts.”
“Then I’m pretty lucky myself.”
“Where are you headed to mister?” he asked, hoping the man would go away. His voice was too smooth, too comforting for it to mean anything more than lies.
“Five blocks from here. Just pass the corner. Do you happen to know what’s there?”
“It’s two for the price of one sir,” you answered, almost feeling disappointed. The man knew what he wanted, but what was not you. The men on that corner, they were effeminate. They were beautiful and graceful and delicate. And they were never hurt. Their heads weren’t bruised by a too hard slam against the wall- their knees weren’t scratched from the cobblestone floor. They were well taken care of. You were about to turn away, to dismiss the classy man who wanted something other than yourself, when you felt a soft hand on your chin, making you turn back.
“And what say you if I pay for two but I only get one?” His voice was spinning silk in your ears. Unable to turn away, you stared at the glossy lips and the full eyelashes; into the deep, brown eyes and past the pale skin.
“I would say you were easily cheated mister,” you licked your lips self consciously, fully knowing the other man was watching your tongue like a hawk.
“Even if it’s you?” Your heart stopped for a beat or two or five. Double the pay means one less customer to take. Looking at the man, you decided this is not a mere hour fuck, he would take his time, it would take a whole night. That could cover you twice. That man caressed your face with one hand as the other hand wandered lower. It ran up and down your sides, probing and threading over sensitive skin. Even through the material of the coat, you felt the determined fingers slide past bruises and bones to rub on skin. You couldn’t help it, you gasped and he gave a chuckle in your ear.
“Please sir, there is only yes and no. You cannot frequent for a trial,” you groaned out, your eyes fluttering close. “His hands were made of magic,” you thought as some sort of current jolted across your body, under your skin and you let out a sigh of pleasure in the middle of the street with everyone else watching. Instantly the man backed away a step and you felt a yearning for his body heat a second before relief hit you.
“How much do they pay you sir?” his voice held real curiosity but it still shamed you into looking away. Your slight chest was heaving; you were still short of breath. No other man has managed to extract such reactions from you in the one week.
“Enough mister.”
“Surely not, with that pretty face of yours. You’re worth more; I can give it to you.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary to flatter sir. I’m just a common whore.”
“I’m making you an offer. I ask you to work with me,”
“Under you, I guess was sir’s initial thought.” You didn’t try to hide the scorn in your voice just as he didn’t try to hide the jolted yearn at your voice sensually moving and hinting at the innuendo filled words.
“For me. We work five blocks away.” You felt your guts curling and twisting with every syllable of his words. Instantly, you tried pushing yourself as far back into your corner as possible, the ridges of the uneven bricks scratching into your back.
“I work alone,” you muttered.
“Even so, I can treat you better.”
Fetching your coat from behind a small loose brick on the wall, you wrapped it around your small body, your last piece of clothing, ripped into pieces. Uniformed men always needed to take something from you to justify their cause. Your body felt numb; there was an aching throbbing at the bottom of your spine. You arched yourself up, trying to loosen your muscles but it caused a sharp stab of pain right there and ohfuck.
Curling into yourself, you half wanted to walk away and sleep already. But pay was pay and you were living hand to mouth as it was. Stumbling out from behind the alley, you leaned against your corner; face a betrayal to any pain you felt. You were calm, cool and collected, as though a real pioneer in this trade. Inside, you were shivering and tearing yourself up into two, knowing you were nothing more than a week old whore.
An unusually loud moan came from somewhere to your right. You ducked your head down as fellow pedestrians turned to stare. This business, it was supposed to be a silent affair. Hushed up sounds and sloppy kisses to cover up for orgasming moans. You avoided their accusing stare, reminding yourself that half of the people in disgust were serviced by one of your kind before. Nobody was perfect, the others said. You believed them.
A man walked past. Your “friends” on all the other corners watched the brunet with the smart suit and tie. His hat was perfectly positioned atop the luscious head of hair. He walked with an air of confidence. This man was not new.
You pushed yourself off the corner, trying to make a good impression. This customer knows exactly what he wants but you don’t. You decided to back off at the last minute, let Bryan from the corner after have him but too late. The man stopped in front of you, your corner, and grinned.
“Tonight’s a good night.” You hesitated a while, glancing around. The other boys were staring at him, malice in their eyes. You gulped down fear.
“I suppose sir, it depends on your whereabouts.”
“Then I’m pretty lucky myself.”
“Where are you headed to mister?” he asked, hoping the man would go away. His voice was too smooth, too comforting for it to mean anything more than lies.
“Five blocks from here. Just pass the corner. Do you happen to know what’s there?”
“It’s two for the price of one sir,” you answered, almost feeling disappointed. The man knew what he wanted, but what was not you. The men on that corner, they were effeminate. They were beautiful and graceful and delicate. And they were never hurt. Their heads weren’t bruised by a too hard slam against the wall- their knees weren’t scratched from the cobblestone floor. They were well taken care of. You were about to turn away, to dismiss the classy man who wanted something other than yourself, when you felt a soft hand on your chin, making you turn back.
“And what say you if I pay for two but I only get one?” His voice was spinning silk in your ears. Unable to turn away, you stared at the glossy lips and the full eyelashes; into the deep, brown eyes and past the pale skin.
“I would say you were easily cheated mister,” you licked your lips self consciously, fully knowing the other man was watching your tongue like a hawk.
“Even if it’s you?” Your heart stopped for a beat or two or five. Double the pay means one less customer to take. Looking at the man, you decided this is not a mere hour fuck, he would take his time, it would take a whole night. That could cover you twice. That man caressed your face with one hand as the other hand wandered lower. It ran up and down your sides, probing and threading over sensitive skin. Even through the material of the coat, you felt the determined fingers slide past bruises and bones to rub on skin. You couldn’t help it, you gasped and he gave a chuckle in your ear.
“Please sir, there is only yes and no. You cannot frequent for a trial,” you groaned out, your eyes fluttering close. “His hands were made of magic,” you thought as some sort of current jolted across your body, under your skin and you let out a sigh of pleasure in the middle of the street with everyone else watching. Instantly the man backed away a step and you felt a yearning for his body heat a second before relief hit you.
“How much do they pay you sir?” his voice held real curiosity but it still shamed you into looking away. Your slight chest was heaving; you were still short of breath. No other man has managed to extract such reactions from you in the one week.
“Enough mister.”
“Surely not, with that pretty face of yours. You’re worth more; I can give it to you.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary to flatter sir. I’m just a common whore.”
“I’m making you an offer. I ask you to work with me,”
“Under you, I guess was sir’s initial thought.” You didn’t try to hide the scorn in your voice just as he didn’t try to hide the jolted yearn at your voice sensually moving and hinting at the innuendo filled words.
“For me. We work five blocks away.” You felt your guts curling and twisting with every syllable of his words. Instantly, you tried pushing yourself as far back into your corner as possible, the ridges of the uneven bricks scratching into your back.
“I work alone,” you muttered.
“Even so, I can treat you better.”
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Soothing Whispers For Panicked Ears.
Fasten your seatbelts ladies and gentlemen
Stop your airway; we’re going down the road.
Your past, your present, near ending future.
You’re just a picture for your dearly beloved.
Would choking work, do you like pain?
Get a Magnum 5, buy a Swiss army blade
Whip your marble skin, drown in a lake.
‘Cause nobody cares honey, nobody cares.
I’ll assure you baby, I’ll make sure you know.
Don’t you fear the unknown, go out and put a show.
Maybe you’ll get lucky; maybe you’ll miss your mark;
Close your eyes to see what’s behind the white door.
Drink your poison, ignore what people say.
Grab a knife and push it through your head.
Thoughts are running at miles in a minute,
You’ll bleed right through, you’ll bleed right through.
I’ll assure you baby, I’ll make sure you know.
Don’t you fear the unknown, go out and put a show.
Maybe you’ll get lucky; maybe you’ll miss your mark;
Close your eyes to see what’s behind the white door.
Honey, your room goes bang boom crash,
Baby, I’m warning you you’re such a mess.
Honey your room goes bang boom crash
Sweetie one word, the word is Death.
I’ll assure you baby, I’ll make sure you know.
Don’t you fear the unknown, go out and put a show.
Maybe you’ll get lucky; maybe you’ll miss your mark;
Close your eyes to see what’s behind the white door.
Stop your airway; we’re going down the road.
Your past, your present, near ending future.
You’re just a picture for your dearly beloved.
Would choking work, do you like pain?
Get a Magnum 5, buy a Swiss army blade
Whip your marble skin, drown in a lake.
‘Cause nobody cares honey, nobody cares.
I’ll assure you baby, I’ll make sure you know.
Don’t you fear the unknown, go out and put a show.
Maybe you’ll get lucky; maybe you’ll miss your mark;
Close your eyes to see what’s behind the white door.
Drink your poison, ignore what people say.
Grab a knife and push it through your head.
Thoughts are running at miles in a minute,
You’ll bleed right through, you’ll bleed right through.
I’ll assure you baby, I’ll make sure you know.
Don’t you fear the unknown, go out and put a show.
Maybe you’ll get lucky; maybe you’ll miss your mark;
Close your eyes to see what’s behind the white door.
Honey, your room goes bang boom crash,
Baby, I’m warning you you’re such a mess.
Honey your room goes bang boom crash
Sweetie one word, the word is Death.
I’ll assure you baby, I’ll make sure you know.
Don’t you fear the unknown, go out and put a show.
Maybe you’ll get lucky; maybe you’ll miss your mark;
Close your eyes to see what’s behind the white door.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Loverboy.
They call you loverboy.
But I don't mind;
It is I who has your attention,
It is I who wins your smile.
We spend hours and hours once in a while,
Laughing and blushing, we danced throughout the night.
Saying goodbye has never been so difficult;
I think back on out moments, I wish to be your other significant.
The clicking in silence, I don't want to get caught.
I bite on my lip as you crack out another joke.
Do you feel the same way, do you smile as I say
"I less than three you too. Are you up for chess today?"
I know you might think of me as just a girl.
But you're definitely more than just a boy.
You left me smiling in my sleep,
You make me pine for our first kiss.
And don't think I don't know that's a big first step,
But I want to go there, to have that.
Because you mean a lot more to me,
Than I could ever mean to myself.
Can't figure out if I want you to find this.
Its revealing but isn't that what I want to say?
Yeah, its out in the open, I love you.
Tell me, do you feel the same way about me too?
But I don't mind;
It is I who has your attention,
It is I who wins your smile.
We spend hours and hours once in a while,
Laughing and blushing, we danced throughout the night.
Saying goodbye has never been so difficult;
I think back on out moments, I wish to be your other significant.
The clicking in silence, I don't want to get caught.
I bite on my lip as you crack out another joke.
Do you feel the same way, do you smile as I say
"I less than three you too. Are you up for chess today?"
I know you might think of me as just a girl.
But you're definitely more than just a boy.
You left me smiling in my sleep,
You make me pine for our first kiss.
And don't think I don't know that's a big first step,
But I want to go there, to have that.
Because you mean a lot more to me,
Than I could ever mean to myself.
Can't figure out if I want you to find this.
Its revealing but isn't that what I want to say?
Yeah, its out in the open, I love you.
Tell me, do you feel the same way about me too?
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Not A Morning Person (2/3)
Brendon wakes up sweating and panting with his bed sheets a tangled mess at his legs. He thinks maybe he should check under his bed. Maybe he should pinch himself a few more times to be sure he really was awake. He dismisses them all, knowing it was his own little, overactive imagination that got him in this predicament; to put or to not put his one’s feet on the floor. He debates on whether the cheestos monster from his nightmare will attack him or if it’s just a dream. He wonders and he whimpers slightly. Almost whining, clearly shivering (he dared not put his blanket over him for he fears those tiny Sour Patch Kids will attack him).
He finally gives in and pushes his feet gingerly on the floor. Face slightly tensed, praying to all the Gods and Saints he knew to help him save his feet. Twisting his upper body, Brendon sees the clock and runs. He barely had time to think about those manic cheestos and just dashes for the bathroom. Then, under the hard hitting warm water from the shower head, Brendon realises again, like he does every morning, that maybe he wasn’t such a morning person.
He gets dressed efficiently, mistaking socks for his underwear. So maybe Brendon isn’t a really big morning person. He doesn’t like late mornings. He’s not a day person. But he gets dressed anyway. He puts on a blue shirt and black jeans. He never really thought much about what he wore. Brendon thinks that maybe he never thinks. By the time he finishes getting ready; Brendon gets more confused than before he knew about the three body problem.
After saying bye to his Mormon mother and father, Brendon leaves the house to turn into their neighbour’s driveway. He knocks on the door and out comes a somewhat harried looking woman
“Hey Mrs Siska; Sisky coming?” Brendon charms old woman. He charms young woman too. But the older ones would pinch his cheeks and coo about how a lovely boy he is. The younger chicks just wanna get into his pants. But Brendon treats them all the same. Old and young. But his pants are his. So nobody gets near them. Brendon likes to think that but he knows it’s not true.
“Oh yes Adam is just about finished getting ready. But Brendon, Sisky is such an awful name. Makes Adam sound like a drug dealer.”
Brendon doesn’t wanna tell her that her son is actually a drug dealer. He doesn’t think he could too
because at that moment, drug dealer Adam T. Siska flies out from behind his mother onto the sidewalk. He waves at his mother and then drags Brendon before he could even say bye to that sweet woman.
They walk to school silent. Brendon doesn’t skip. He thinks just being with Sisky leaves him exhausted. So he just walks on the sidewalk and counts the cracks in the pavement. But Brendon doesn’t like to stay silent so he speaks. “Dude, your mom thinks you work in the high trade.”
“Don’t I man? By the way, Navarro’s asking for the white, class A bull. I got some extras. You want some? I’ll give you the five finger discount and I promise I’ll look away.” Brendon snorts before missing a step in walking. He almost falls but gets up again. Brendon is not a morning person.
“No thanks bro. Bull, class A or Z, is so not my cup of tea, nor is it my pill or powder of choice. I pass.”Sisky shrugs and continues walking. Brendon thinks maybe he should jog to catch up with him. Sisky seems to be rushing. Brendon checks his watch and becomes confused. At that speed, they would be in school before the doors are even open. He sighs but follows anyway.
Surmise to say, Brendon was not entirely surprised that he was slightly earlier than before. After the short disturbance with Mike Carden and his gang, they made their way into the school. As he was about to turn into his homeroom however, Sisky grabs his shirt sleeve. He pulls Brendon close. Their chests were touching; Brendon felt Sisky’s breath in his ear. Brendon could feel the other guy’s heartbeat. He found it hard to breath but he tries not to think about it. He feels Sisky’s hand travel up his arm towards his shoulder. Brendon thinks of Audrey. But he sees Sisky so he stops thinking. He knows its not his fault he leans into the touch. It was the pushing crowd. Sisky’s other hand was... where was it? Brendon thinks that he felt it on the nape of his neck, twisting the hairs. But Brendon doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. So he doesn’t think. Brendon just acts. He pushes against the gangly body behind him. He thinks maybe they should find an empty room. Tantalisingly slow, Sisky leans into his ear, tongue swiping at the shell.
“You’re socks are mismatched.” And he was gone. Following the crowd amidst calls for Sisky.
Brendon gapes for a while. He stares at the fading figure and gets pushed around. He stares at his socks. And Brendon thinks he gets the shock of his life. One was zebra-esque inspired black and white sock on his left foot. His right foot had rainbow and stars. Brendon thinks that maybe he was an owl in his past life.
___________________________________________________________________________________
“SISKY BEE-ZY-NESS!” Brendon shouts from across the cafeteria. He rushes towards the brunet who was cringing slightly. Brendon knows the name sticks. He will stick it with super glue himself if it needs to but Sisky Business is Sisky Business.
After he gets to Sisky with his lunch tray, they make their way to their huge long table they acquired from a long time ago. Brendon doesn’t say much in that twenty second walk. He’s too busy blushing. He sees that Mikey, Frank, William, Pete, Greta and Vicky T are already there. He grins at them brightly still red. William was draped over the chair, long limbs stretched out. Brendon swears he can see Bill’s toes sticking out from the other side of the table. Mikey and Frank were conversing with each other. Brendon thinks they’re so disgustingly in love that it’s almost lovely. The other four who were not in love were... just talking. But maybe they were just making noise. Brendon doesn’t know the difference. Pete was constantly distracted though. Brendon could see that.
“So Mouse, you finally here eh? Sisky, any new pros man?” Pete greets them. Brendon grins while Pete and Sisky talk business. His eyes scanned the room. He sees Gabe walking in with Chislett. Brendon grins even more when he sees William straighten up. Right behind Gabe though, he sees two other guys walk in. He knows them slightly but he doesn’t know them know them. Brendon thinks he would like to know them though. He follows them with his eyes. The two boys, one slightly tall and gangly, a bit like William but much shorter, with brown mousy hair; the other slightly chubby with the same shade of brown hair but maybe not the same same. Maybe slightly lighter. Brendon doesn’t know.
“My Muse, Mouse, what you looking at man?” Brendon shakes his head a bit. He didn’t realise Gabe was already here. He looks at the Hispanic boy who has his arm draped behind Beckett’s chair. William has his head leaning against the other boy’s arm.
William is not gay. Maybe he is. Brendon doesn’t really know. He thinks maybe William is but he did see William and Jac kissing. Then of course on the same night, he sees William and Travis kissing. So maybe William is bisexual. Or maybe William is just horny.
“No, that guy.” Brendon said, discreetly pointing at the brown haired, blue eyed one. “ Spencer Smith. With that other. Who are they?”
“Aww man. Ryan Ross. He has the tightest ass since frigging virgin Britney. But he pretty much is asexual. Bloody guy doesn’t understand a pass if it danced in front of him like Pamela Anderson!” Brendon had to stifle a giggle. He turns back towards the two boys. Brendon thinks that maybe someone died. There are four seats but only the two of them. And nobody else seems to want to sit with them. Maybe they don’t want anyone else. But Brendon feels that maybe he should. He thinks that maybe he wants to sit there. So he moves.
“So, where’s the other half?” Brendon feels the heat from two pairs of eyes and he wonders if its too late to run. He thinks he missed his chance when he heard Frank covered snort from somewhere behind him. Let them think he can’t do it! He can! So he gives a winning smile.
“Excuse me?” The blue eyed wonder said. Really feminine, Brendon thinks, asks. There’s an air of bitchiness if that’s a word, surrounding the boy. But there’s something positively masculine about how protective he is. Brendon is reminded of a lioness.
“Your seat. There’s two of you. Where’s the other two?”
“What makes you think there is anyone else?” This time, its Ryan that answers him. Brendon thinks that maybe this is where feminine or androgynous people sit because, God, Ross was such a girl. He has the boniest face since forever, Brendon thinks, and his whole body was a stick. A nice stick, Brendon compromises, but a stick all the same.
“I don’t... um what I mean is... it was just” and Brendon trails off still looking at Ryan. There was submission in him. But Brendon knows the submissive aura is not because of him. He doesn’t know who Ryan is submissive for. Somehow, he likes that even more. Then Brendon realises that he was just thinking of liking Ryan Ross, so he thinks of Audrey Kitching. He thinks and maybe he got his blush to calm the heck down.
Nobody spoke for a while but the cafeteria din makes up for their silence. Brendon looked down at the table with his tray, Spencer looks at Brendon with those blue eyes. Ryan’s gaze shifts between him and Spencer, looking slightly unsettled. At this Brendon wonders if he should be afraid and just run for it. Instead, he gulps down his fear and speaks.
“Can I join you for lunch then?” He fetchingly bites on his bottom lip while Spencer turns to Ryan. They seem to be conversing but there were no sounds. They just stares into each other eyes and nobody moves. They stared. Brendon stares at them. Brendon thinks that maybe he’s intruding. But then Ryan looks away and he doesn’t feel that way anymore.
“Yeah okay. Join us. Fine. Whatever.” Brendon breathes a small sigh of relief that he hopes will go unnoticed by them. He pulls the chair and right before he turns to sit down, Brendon looks over to his mates at the other table and winked. There were clapping and catcalling even though Brendon had no idea why they are celebrating. They just were. Brendon smiled at that. When he turned back, Ryan and Spencer were looking at him as though he grew two heads.
“What? Have you not realised that we,” Brendon waves his arm around to mean the school. “are surrounded by insanity? Might as well join in the fun.” Ryan thinks about it for a while before shrugging and going back to his food. Spencer stares at him a bit more before turning to his... what was it?
There was silence. Brendon hates silences. He could never understand a funeral. He never been to one, but when he watches movies, funerals make him cry. Brendon still hates silences. So he figures he should start a conversation.
But Brendon shuts up. He doesn’t know what to say. He clears his throat. He opens his mouth. He takes a deep breath. He took a bite of his sandwich and chews. He sighs a bit.
“So Brendon, you’re in Spin’s classes right?” His eyes snap up to Ryan. He tries to tell himself that its common courtesy to look at the other person in the eye. Brendon knows he’s bullshitting himself.
“Yeah I am. But not all though; right Spencer?” Brendon’s not stupid. He knows and he sees that Spencer has the bitch-face on. He totally gets Spencer’s dislike at the intrusion. So maybe Spencer doesn’t like him. Doesn’t like him a lot. But Brendon can so live with that. He totally is okay with that.
Spencer grunts through his potato ship that he was chewing. His face was on full blast as though just waiting for the shit to hit the fan. Brendon knows he’s the shit that Spencer so wants to slap back. But he tried not to think about it.
Brendon really wants lunch to end.
For the next forty five minutes, Brendon and Ryan make stilted conversation. Spencer grumbles and sulks a lot. Brendon ignores him. But he can’t really because Ryan isn’t. For Brendon to pay attention to Ryan, he has to talk to Spencer. Because Ryan can’t tear his eyes off him. Every other minute, he’ll glance at the pouting boy to... confirm? Brendon has no idea why. He thinks he shouldn’t though. But what Brendon shouldn’t do Brendon will because he can. So he fights down those monstrous seconds of... jealousy? And continues to talk to Ryan. And he thinks maybe he should have spoken to Ryan earlier because Ryan is really really awesome. Not like oh-you-listen-to-the smiths-awesome but more of an I-want-to-have-your-biologically-imposiible-babies-with-my-child-bearing-hips-awesome. Not that Brendon has child bearing hips. But his mother always said he inherited her hips. Brendon shakes his head to stop think about his mother for once because it so wasn’t the right time.
So the bell rang and Frank so did not have to pull him away from the table. So not. He just walked off by himself; all cool and jock-ish with a smirk playing across his face. As if. Pete actually pulled him away. After repeated screams of his names that is. But Brendon made it away. He turns around once, after almost tripping on his foot with Mikey and Pete and Frank all dragging him; only to see Ryan smirking at him. But it wasn’t really a smirk. More like a half smile that he never seen before. Spencer was just looking bored and bitchy as ever. But Ryan. He turns to face his three goons and hisses.
“I hate all of you.”
“You cannot hate the Cobra!” Brendon feels like head-banging into Gabe.
The next few days there was a pattern. There was almost a schedule. Brendon would get his lunch, make a pit stop at his own table; giggle with Vicky at Frank and Mikey, roll his eyes and William’s flirting and then skip-literally wizards of oz skips- to Ryan’s and Spencer’s table. He always has a full on grin no matter what. And Ryan will smile back. It would be a three quarter smile. Not the half smile he rarely gets but the kind of smile a parent would give their kid after they did something unnaturally stupid or just adorable. The half smiles were all, Brendon notices, saved for Spencer. Brendon dreams of Ryan’s half smile for him. The half smile so full of something; So full of admiration; Of safety. Brendon wants safety. He wants Ryan’s safety encasing him. Brendon should get his head checked.
“Brenny, get your boy toys to join us.” Sisky gins toothily at Brendon. Brendon smiles a small smile, blushing from everywhere. Greta winks at him. He feels a giggle bubble up at his throat and he laughs loud and obnoxious. He glances at Ryan’s and Spencer’s table to see Ryan’s head cocked to the side, watching him. Spencer was watching him too; but Brendon sees that Spencer was watching Ryan first. Ryan was always first.
“Hey you guys! Over here,” he tries to shout across the cafeteria. They understood him but Spencer gives a imperceptible shake of his head. Ryan catches it and frowns deeply. Brendon lost them so he grins and waves and motions for them to join him. Spencer finally turns to Ryan and Brendon could see him deflate as he sighs.
He finally gives in and pushes his feet gingerly on the floor. Face slightly tensed, praying to all the Gods and Saints he knew to help him save his feet. Twisting his upper body, Brendon sees the clock and runs. He barely had time to think about those manic cheestos and just dashes for the bathroom. Then, under the hard hitting warm water from the shower head, Brendon realises again, like he does every morning, that maybe he wasn’t such a morning person.
He gets dressed efficiently, mistaking socks for his underwear. So maybe Brendon isn’t a really big morning person. He doesn’t like late mornings. He’s not a day person. But he gets dressed anyway. He puts on a blue shirt and black jeans. He never really thought much about what he wore. Brendon thinks that maybe he never thinks. By the time he finishes getting ready; Brendon gets more confused than before he knew about the three body problem.
After saying bye to his Mormon mother and father, Brendon leaves the house to turn into their neighbour’s driveway. He knocks on the door and out comes a somewhat harried looking woman
“Hey Mrs Siska; Sisky coming?” Brendon charms old woman. He charms young woman too. But the older ones would pinch his cheeks and coo about how a lovely boy he is. The younger chicks just wanna get into his pants. But Brendon treats them all the same. Old and young. But his pants are his. So nobody gets near them. Brendon likes to think that but he knows it’s not true.
“Oh yes Adam is just about finished getting ready. But Brendon, Sisky is such an awful name. Makes Adam sound like a drug dealer.”
Brendon doesn’t wanna tell her that her son is actually a drug dealer. He doesn’t think he could too
because at that moment, drug dealer Adam T. Siska flies out from behind his mother onto the sidewalk. He waves at his mother and then drags Brendon before he could even say bye to that sweet woman.
They walk to school silent. Brendon doesn’t skip. He thinks just being with Sisky leaves him exhausted. So he just walks on the sidewalk and counts the cracks in the pavement. But Brendon doesn’t like to stay silent so he speaks. “Dude, your mom thinks you work in the high trade.”
“Don’t I man? By the way, Navarro’s asking for the white, class A bull. I got some extras. You want some? I’ll give you the five finger discount and I promise I’ll look away.” Brendon snorts before missing a step in walking. He almost falls but gets up again. Brendon is not a morning person.
“No thanks bro. Bull, class A or Z, is so not my cup of tea, nor is it my pill or powder of choice. I pass.”Sisky shrugs and continues walking. Brendon thinks maybe he should jog to catch up with him. Sisky seems to be rushing. Brendon checks his watch and becomes confused. At that speed, they would be in school before the doors are even open. He sighs but follows anyway.
Surmise to say, Brendon was not entirely surprised that he was slightly earlier than before. After the short disturbance with Mike Carden and his gang, they made their way into the school. As he was about to turn into his homeroom however, Sisky grabs his shirt sleeve. He pulls Brendon close. Their chests were touching; Brendon felt Sisky’s breath in his ear. Brendon could feel the other guy’s heartbeat. He found it hard to breath but he tries not to think about it. He feels Sisky’s hand travel up his arm towards his shoulder. Brendon thinks of Audrey. But he sees Sisky so he stops thinking. He knows its not his fault he leans into the touch. It was the pushing crowd. Sisky’s other hand was... where was it? Brendon thinks that he felt it on the nape of his neck, twisting the hairs. But Brendon doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. So he doesn’t think. Brendon just acts. He pushes against the gangly body behind him. He thinks maybe they should find an empty room. Tantalisingly slow, Sisky leans into his ear, tongue swiping at the shell.
“You’re socks are mismatched.” And he was gone. Following the crowd amidst calls for Sisky.
Brendon gapes for a while. He stares at the fading figure and gets pushed around. He stares at his socks. And Brendon thinks he gets the shock of his life. One was zebra-esque inspired black and white sock on his left foot. His right foot had rainbow and stars. Brendon thinks that maybe he was an owl in his past life.
___________________________________________________________________________________
“SISKY BEE-ZY-NESS!” Brendon shouts from across the cafeteria. He rushes towards the brunet who was cringing slightly. Brendon knows the name sticks. He will stick it with super glue himself if it needs to but Sisky Business is Sisky Business.
After he gets to Sisky with his lunch tray, they make their way to their huge long table they acquired from a long time ago. Brendon doesn’t say much in that twenty second walk. He’s too busy blushing. He sees that Mikey, Frank, William, Pete, Greta and Vicky T are already there. He grins at them brightly still red. William was draped over the chair, long limbs stretched out. Brendon swears he can see Bill’s toes sticking out from the other side of the table. Mikey and Frank were conversing with each other. Brendon thinks they’re so disgustingly in love that it’s almost lovely. The other four who were not in love were... just talking. But maybe they were just making noise. Brendon doesn’t know the difference. Pete was constantly distracted though. Brendon could see that.
“So Mouse, you finally here eh? Sisky, any new pros man?” Pete greets them. Brendon grins while Pete and Sisky talk business. His eyes scanned the room. He sees Gabe walking in with Chislett. Brendon grins even more when he sees William straighten up. Right behind Gabe though, he sees two other guys walk in. He knows them slightly but he doesn’t know them know them. Brendon thinks he would like to know them though. He follows them with his eyes. The two boys, one slightly tall and gangly, a bit like William but much shorter, with brown mousy hair; the other slightly chubby with the same shade of brown hair but maybe not the same same. Maybe slightly lighter. Brendon doesn’t know.
“My Muse, Mouse, what you looking at man?” Brendon shakes his head a bit. He didn’t realise Gabe was already here. He looks at the Hispanic boy who has his arm draped behind Beckett’s chair. William has his head leaning against the other boy’s arm.
William is not gay. Maybe he is. Brendon doesn’t really know. He thinks maybe William is but he did see William and Jac kissing. Then of course on the same night, he sees William and Travis kissing. So maybe William is bisexual. Or maybe William is just horny.
“No, that guy.” Brendon said, discreetly pointing at the brown haired, blue eyed one. “ Spencer Smith. With that other. Who are they?”
“Aww man. Ryan Ross. He has the tightest ass since frigging virgin Britney. But he pretty much is asexual. Bloody guy doesn’t understand a pass if it danced in front of him like Pamela Anderson!” Brendon had to stifle a giggle. He turns back towards the two boys. Brendon thinks that maybe someone died. There are four seats but only the two of them. And nobody else seems to want to sit with them. Maybe they don’t want anyone else. But Brendon feels that maybe he should. He thinks that maybe he wants to sit there. So he moves.
“So, where’s the other half?” Brendon feels the heat from two pairs of eyes and he wonders if its too late to run. He thinks he missed his chance when he heard Frank covered snort from somewhere behind him. Let them think he can’t do it! He can! So he gives a winning smile.
“Excuse me?” The blue eyed wonder said. Really feminine, Brendon thinks, asks. There’s an air of bitchiness if that’s a word, surrounding the boy. But there’s something positively masculine about how protective he is. Brendon is reminded of a lioness.
“Your seat. There’s two of you. Where’s the other two?”
“What makes you think there is anyone else?” This time, its Ryan that answers him. Brendon thinks that maybe this is where feminine or androgynous people sit because, God, Ross was such a girl. He has the boniest face since forever, Brendon thinks, and his whole body was a stick. A nice stick, Brendon compromises, but a stick all the same.
“I don’t... um what I mean is... it was just” and Brendon trails off still looking at Ryan. There was submission in him. But Brendon knows the submissive aura is not because of him. He doesn’t know who Ryan is submissive for. Somehow, he likes that even more. Then Brendon realises that he was just thinking of liking Ryan Ross, so he thinks of Audrey Kitching. He thinks and maybe he got his blush to calm the heck down.
Nobody spoke for a while but the cafeteria din makes up for their silence. Brendon looked down at the table with his tray, Spencer looks at Brendon with those blue eyes. Ryan’s gaze shifts between him and Spencer, looking slightly unsettled. At this Brendon wonders if he should be afraid and just run for it. Instead, he gulps down his fear and speaks.
“Can I join you for lunch then?” He fetchingly bites on his bottom lip while Spencer turns to Ryan. They seem to be conversing but there were no sounds. They just stares into each other eyes and nobody moves. They stared. Brendon stares at them. Brendon thinks that maybe he’s intruding. But then Ryan looks away and he doesn’t feel that way anymore.
“Yeah okay. Join us. Fine. Whatever.” Brendon breathes a small sigh of relief that he hopes will go unnoticed by them. He pulls the chair and right before he turns to sit down, Brendon looks over to his mates at the other table and winked. There were clapping and catcalling even though Brendon had no idea why they are celebrating. They just were. Brendon smiled at that. When he turned back, Ryan and Spencer were looking at him as though he grew two heads.
“What? Have you not realised that we,” Brendon waves his arm around to mean the school. “are surrounded by insanity? Might as well join in the fun.” Ryan thinks about it for a while before shrugging and going back to his food. Spencer stares at him a bit more before turning to his... what was it?
There was silence. Brendon hates silences. He could never understand a funeral. He never been to one, but when he watches movies, funerals make him cry. Brendon still hates silences. So he figures he should start a conversation.
But Brendon shuts up. He doesn’t know what to say. He clears his throat. He opens his mouth. He takes a deep breath. He took a bite of his sandwich and chews. He sighs a bit.
“So Brendon, you’re in Spin’s classes right?” His eyes snap up to Ryan. He tries to tell himself that its common courtesy to look at the other person in the eye. Brendon knows he’s bullshitting himself.
“Yeah I am. But not all though; right Spencer?” Brendon’s not stupid. He knows and he sees that Spencer has the bitch-face on. He totally gets Spencer’s dislike at the intrusion. So maybe Spencer doesn’t like him. Doesn’t like him a lot. But Brendon can so live with that. He totally is okay with that.
Spencer grunts through his potato ship that he was chewing. His face was on full blast as though just waiting for the shit to hit the fan. Brendon knows he’s the shit that Spencer so wants to slap back. But he tried not to think about it.
Brendon really wants lunch to end.
For the next forty five minutes, Brendon and Ryan make stilted conversation. Spencer grumbles and sulks a lot. Brendon ignores him. But he can’t really because Ryan isn’t. For Brendon to pay attention to Ryan, he has to talk to Spencer. Because Ryan can’t tear his eyes off him. Every other minute, he’ll glance at the pouting boy to... confirm? Brendon has no idea why. He thinks he shouldn’t though. But what Brendon shouldn’t do Brendon will because he can. So he fights down those monstrous seconds of... jealousy? And continues to talk to Ryan. And he thinks maybe he should have spoken to Ryan earlier because Ryan is really really awesome. Not like oh-you-listen-to-the smiths-awesome but more of an I-want-to-have-your-biologically-imposiible-babies-with-my-child-bearing-hips-awesome. Not that Brendon has child bearing hips. But his mother always said he inherited her hips. Brendon shakes his head to stop think about his mother for once because it so wasn’t the right time.
So the bell rang and Frank so did not have to pull him away from the table. So not. He just walked off by himself; all cool and jock-ish with a smirk playing across his face. As if. Pete actually pulled him away. After repeated screams of his names that is. But Brendon made it away. He turns around once, after almost tripping on his foot with Mikey and Pete and Frank all dragging him; only to see Ryan smirking at him. But it wasn’t really a smirk. More like a half smile that he never seen before. Spencer was just looking bored and bitchy as ever. But Ryan. He turns to face his three goons and hisses.
“I hate all of you.”
“You cannot hate the Cobra!” Brendon feels like head-banging into Gabe.
The next few days there was a pattern. There was almost a schedule. Brendon would get his lunch, make a pit stop at his own table; giggle with Vicky at Frank and Mikey, roll his eyes and William’s flirting and then skip-literally wizards of oz skips- to Ryan’s and Spencer’s table. He always has a full on grin no matter what. And Ryan will smile back. It would be a three quarter smile. Not the half smile he rarely gets but the kind of smile a parent would give their kid after they did something unnaturally stupid or just adorable. The half smiles were all, Brendon notices, saved for Spencer. Brendon dreams of Ryan’s half smile for him. The half smile so full of something; So full of admiration; Of safety. Brendon wants safety. He wants Ryan’s safety encasing him. Brendon should get his head checked.
“Brenny, get your boy toys to join us.” Sisky gins toothily at Brendon. Brendon smiles a small smile, blushing from everywhere. Greta winks at him. He feels a giggle bubble up at his throat and he laughs loud and obnoxious. He glances at Ryan’s and Spencer’s table to see Ryan’s head cocked to the side, watching him. Spencer was watching him too; but Brendon sees that Spencer was watching Ryan first. Ryan was always first.
“Hey you guys! Over here,” he tries to shout across the cafeteria. They understood him but Spencer gives a imperceptible shake of his head. Ryan catches it and frowns deeply. Brendon lost them so he grins and waves and motions for them to join him. Spencer finally turns to Ryan and Brendon could see him deflate as he sighs.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Face Value
The thing with David Archuleta is that nobody understands him. They can’t differentiate his words from his meaning. This quiet shy kid everyone takes at face value. He’s just too submissive. Not many people can figure him out. But you somehow can. You can tell what he wants exactly even though his words betray it. By looking at those huge brown eyes so full of innocence and yet so full of contradictions, you can tell he wants some time alone even though he says he’s willing to help Jason for his song. His downward tilt of his head signals his uncertainty of a certain topic when he is questioned. His vague “I’m not too sure about that” actually means that he really doesn’t think anyone should try that. But his opinions never truly mattered because nobody thought they had any benefit at all. People took everything he says with about a jar full of salt because he’s so vague all the time. But you know he puts a lot of thought into everything he has to say; it’s just that the only problem is he doesn’t know how to voice out without hurting someone’s feelings or offending someone’s idea.
In short, David Archuleta is just too damn polite. And you feel maybe slightly sorry for him, poor kid.
It’s down to just the two of you. David A and David C. You hear wordplays all week long. Predictions were thrown out into the media like wildfire. He’ll win but you’ll be famous. You’ll win but only because you have those “emo” teens with a hell lot of money. Archie will win but that’s because they will screw up the voting. The new American Idol will be David... DavidDavidDavid.
“Oh, I’m thinking about all our younger years, there was only you and me, we were young and wild and free!”You mock serenaded to the youth in front of you.
A feeling of warmth tugs at your heartstrings as he gives a grin, wide and made of puppies and rainbows you think, and continues on the song. He really has grown. It was a slow and gruelling process you remember, but Archie has grown so much. You remembered from Hollywood Week-- The kid who stands at the edge of the big group, listening in to the conversation, trying to find his place. Then he made it into the top 24. And you remembered the glee so evident on his face. You remembered him smiling, ear to ear, and proud of himself.
It wasn’t so lasting was it? Behind that full voice, he was still Archie-- The barely legal boy who has seen too much. Week after week, he sings his heart out and for those five minutes, he was the star of the stage. But for the next ten thousand and seventy five minutes, he was just nobody following them; a small abandoned puppy that nobody wanted to kick but everyone was reluctant to keep.
There is so much potential in him. So much wit and personality that nobody ever gets to see because one hour on National television doesn’t show much. It’s not until you spend some time with him do you realise this boy is a gemstone surrounded by rubble. You listen to his soft voice every day, so innocent yet, there it is, laced with slight mischievousness of someone dishing out a quick one liner. Nobody will laugh at his pun except maybe you and for the next fifteen seconds, you will see a small smile dancing across his face. Somewhere along the line of this competition, you start to live off those small smiles.
***
You both sat fidgeting in hard-backed chairs in the dressing room. It was to be mere minutes before the performance of the season; the performance that mattered. You were seated across from the brown haired youth. His eyes were downcast, his lips silently moving to the melody only he can hear. His hands were clasped in front of him, twisting and making odd patterns on his pants. One of his leg was bouncing up and down. You take your phone out of your pocket and before you can think about it, you snap a picture. How can it simultaneously be so embarrassing and yet so ready for Hallmark, you may never know. At the default sound your phone makes as it saves a picture, David looks up.
For that split second, you expect to see that small smile he was always gracing you with. You expect it to shine and douse the room in its brilliance. But you expect too much because he barely lifts up the corners of his mouth. It was then when it hits you. He’s still just a kid. Archie was just a kid and all this pressure from the media, from his family. He doesn’t deserve this burden.
Without thinking about it, without daring to even dream of the consequences, you stand up and walk over to where he’s seated. You see him open his mouth to question but before he could get past mumbling your name, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and you pulled him into a hug. You felt him calm up for a minute and you half thought he’ll push you away. You just held on a little bit tighter, half wondering if this was for his or your sake.
Slowly, his hands come around to embrace you. And then it wasn’t about you hugging him anymore. It was him searching for something. He was pressed up against you, body wrapped around yours for comfort and warmth. His head was fitted against the curve of your shoulder, his breath tickling your neck. You felt his lips move mumbling something incoherent into your skin.
You open your mouth tasting his soft hair and you whisper back “Me too,” before kissing the top of his head affectionately. You rest your head there, keeping Archie’s body steady against yours.
This was how it was meant to end. This was everything you both have ever been put into a moment. This was the moment the competition ended for you no matter who won.
- All disclaimers and warnings apply.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Not A Morning Person (1/3)
Only psychos and insomniacs stay awake that early in the morning and Ryan is not an insomniac. He is not. He only stays awake because he can; just because he cannot sleep. That’s it - it’s a one time thing. He swears it.
Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he is insomniac. But he doesn’t have to admit it. He really does want to stare at his bald ceiling every night. He wants to stare and think. But what can he think about. Spencer. Spencer Spencer Spencer. He thinks about Spencer and smiles.
At 2.40am, Ryan is sound asleep with a grin on his face.
It's the only sleep he can get. Sunshine's in his face in the morning but he can sleep. He is asleep. Smile on his face, Ryan takes a shower. Ryan is a good kid. He gets dressed decently; at least fully (unlike that Hurley kid who goes around school half naked with just short shorts). He does all his homework. He doesn’t face girls sobbing to him because of unwanted pregnancies. He even aces Maths (but not English, surprisingly. He sucks in that subject.) Ryan Ross is a good kid. He's just a good kid with a problem.
So it's no surprise when he walks into school with a small smile. People glide by, shrugging their shoulders. Maybe he just got laid. Maybe, Ryan smirks. But he didn’t. He was just happy he slept, and then he isn’t anymore. Turning the corner to his locker, Ryan’s mood turns sour because he sees someone leaning against it. Of course, said person always leans against Ryan’s locker, but this time Ryan doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t need the boy to remind him, but the boy does.
“Hey Ry, slept any?” He shrugs. He gives a non-committal grunt, somewhere between, “yeah-yeah-I-slept-get-out-of-my-way,” and, “no-did-you-think-I-could-sleep?”
"Yes," Ryan lies. He might be a good person generally but he still lies when he needs to. And this, he needs to lie.
“Whoa man. I was just wondering.”
“Hmm yeah okay, I need my History text,” he mutters, hinting at said boy to move away from his locker. Of course said boy knows what Ryan is doing and so he plants himself firmly on the spot. Come on, said boy and Ryan have been friends for close to ten years already. They won't not know each other.
“C’mon, Spin. No joking around. I need my text.”
So Spin moves. Ever so slightly, so that Ryan has to figure his locker combination sideways, squashed between Spin and a big blond guy, Bryar, next to him. Finally, after much struggling filled with Oriental fighting moves, Ryan gets his Maths notebook and Literature story out. No History though. He curses softly under his breath. Spin watches him.
“Here take my book, I only have History after common Lunch anyway. You can return it to me then.”
Of course the school corridors are always crowded; it’s a school corridor, and Ryan never minded; he just followed the crowd. But now, sides pressed up against his locker edge, back bruised by Bryar’s locker door, he hates it. He hates having to stare at those blue eyes. Having to watch them from so close.
He hates being only a hairbreadth apart. They're jostled and pushed. Spin's being bumped up against the girl behind him by the ever moving school. They're both in each other’s faces. Their toes are touching. If Ryan really wanted to, he could stop breathing. Spin would breathe for him. So staring into those shocking blue eyes, Ryan curses the world in his head. In his head, the world doesn’t play fair. But he can’t say much because he doesn’t know what game they’re playing. So he goes along with it.
“Thanks man. Yeah, um, I’ll see you at lunch.”
So Ryan lets the crowds pull him along. And Spin, the said boy with blue eyes by his locker, starts to fade until he is just a tiny speck; until he is no more. Or maybe that's just Ryan’s obsessive thinking. But they do part. And Ryan sits down for History still cursing.
Ryan Ross isn’t emo. He is perfectly normal with his brown hair and brown eyes. He is a normal, acceptable boy. He doesn’t sit at the back of the class cutting or writing poems Shakespeare will gag at. He sits in the middle seat of the middle row. So while he waits for the teacher to walk in and start on American History, Ryan stares at his borrowed History book. He stares at the cover page, illustrating the revolution. He stares and he sighs. Slowly, he flips it open.
There, on the bottom right hand corner, are printed words. Or are they? Upon closer inspection, Ryan sees that the words are handwritten, painstakingly copied in the exact font as the printed text above. Written are the words, “Property of Spencer Smith.”
Ryan seriously thinks he should join the people at the back.
So as Mr Toro animates the killing of soldiers, -"comrade in arms," he says to the boys, winking slightly - Ryan reads the cramped little notes in the book. He wonders how Spencer can listen and take down notes at the same time. He wonders whether Spencer has more than one coloured pen besides navy blue. He thinks maybe he should get Spencer coloured markers for his birthday. He wonders and he thinks till the end of lessons. By the time Maths starts, Ryan has a list of questions to ask Spencer during Lunch.
Maths leaves him very little time to think. Ryan was made into the teacher’s assistant which was just a sweeter name for goody two shoes. So after the twisted explanation Mr Joe Trohman gives on solving two quadric equations using algebra formulae simultaneously, Ryan is sent to tutor certain students who are lost. And he does. With Gabe Saporta and Travis McCoy flagging his two sides respectively, Ryan sets on using imagery of the crudest kind to theorise the problem. And it might work, Ryan doesn’t know. He is too busy wondering if Spencer will get his Fight Club mention. He wonders if Spencer remembers their movie marathons. He thinks maybe.And he adds those questions into his list.
Literature sends him running to the toilets. Literally. They're studying the works of Mary Higgins Clark. Mr Butch Walker, a big fan of group discussion, sends them all in threes to discuss Clark’s latest heroine. Due to bad timing, or good luck, Ryan is sent off with Patrick Stumph and Gerard Way. He sits and does all the work. Silent while the two debate from across of him on the ironic comedies of comics.Ryan wonders while he takes down notes. He wonders what Spencer thinks of it. He wonders if Spencer would bring up his Calvin and Hobbes theory. He wonders if Stumph would laugh. He wonders if it would just cause Stumph and Spencer to debate on Garfield. He wonders and he sighs. He adds those questions to his list. He adds the debate topic to his list. He runs off, faking a stomach ache and wonders. On the toilet seat he wonders if maybe he should just go away. He should just float away and not come back. Maybe he should have just listened to that Ryland Blackinton on his hippie theory and fly away with love or the doves or the pigeons.
Finally, it's lunch. Ryan doesn’t know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. He doesn’t want to think about it. He shuffles towards the cafeteria. He shuffles and maybe drags his feet a bit. He would crawl but the hall is too cramped. He walks over to their usual table for four, right in the corner. He never understood why it was a table for four. It was only them two. But he never questions it. He just sits. He sits and he waits. Seconds - maybe minutes - later, he sees an outstretched hand. He looks up and sees Spencer, in his hailing glory with blue eyes and brown hair. Gingerly, Ryan stands up thinking it was similar to a first date. He blinked owlishly at the thought and shook his head.
“Thanks for the book. I mean yeah. I owe you one.” And as Ryan passes the book on to Spencer, he feels the tips of their fingers touching. Immediately, he thinks time slows down, maybe time stopped. He stares into those blue irises and he thinks he’s drowning. He feels himself blush, he feels himself shake. He wonders if he should let go. He stops wondering and just does it. Ryan thinks maybe it’s a stupid thing to do because he has to sit back down. Sitting means he will have to stop staring at those blue blue eyes. He sits down anyway.
He waits for Spencer to call his bluff. He waits, tense as hell, for Spencer to call his game. He knows Spencer knows. Spencer knows he knows that Spencer knows. Ryan knows Spencer is just waiting to catch him off guard. He knows it.
Ryan is wrong.
“So Ryan.” Ryan busies himself with unwrapping his sandwich, he doesn’t think he can bear eating lunch on Mystery Thursdays. “Heard Trohman made you tutor.”
Ryan nods, his mouth full. He still thinks those eyes are all he needs. He then thinks he should maybe ask for a time out from the game. The world is killing him. The world never plays fair anyway. He thinks maybe it is a way to get back at him for not being able to sleep. He thinks that Spencer was sent from some other planet to fill Ryan up with guilt. He thinks Spencer was accidentally switched as a baby so Ryan is actually friends with a baby genius who knows exactly what’s going on. He thinks and he believes but he doesn’t know. So he stays that way. Chewing slowly, trying to not avoid looking at that face but avoiding looking at it anyway. Ryan thinks he is slowly going crazy.
As he walks to his next science class, Ryan remembers his list of questions for lunch conversation.
Not one of those questions made it past his back jeans pocket.
At home, Ryan stares at the television screen. He has no idea what sitcom it is even after 10 minutes of supposed watching. Ryan thinks one of the girls looks like Spencer. Ryan thinks that maybe he thinks about Spencer too damn much. He realises he doesn’t care. He thinks of all the things he should know about Spencer. Spencer’s birthday is on the 2nd of September. He smiles. Ryan was born on the 30th of August. Spencer has two sisters. That's common knowledge. He sits and he thinks and he realises he doesn’t know a thing about his best friend of ten years. He doesn’t know what Spencer’s favourite food is, he has no idea which colour Spencer prefers, he doesn’t think he knows where Spencer’s favourite holiday destination is. After ten years, Ryan only knows Spencer hates wasting food because underprivileged people have nothing to eat. Spencer doesn’t believe in favouritism because there is no equality. Ryan knows that Spencer would rather be in a dark cave with his mad second aunt twice removed than alone.
Ryan feels slightly better. He still thinks their relationship should not be based on just fears. So he jumps up, like a spring, off the couch. He sprints to his room and sends the door open with a flying kick complete with sound effects. He feels a bit stupid doing that so he stops pretending to be a Secret Military agent on a recon mission. He rushes for a piece of paper and a pen. Then, with the television still blasting recorded laughter downstairs, he starts to set himself a pop quiz: Do You Know Spencer James Smith (the fifth)? After half an hour, he ends up with a paper filled with anything and everything he could think to ask about Spencer Smith. Ryan is ready for it.
Two hours later, Ryan realises he fails it.
At 3 am, Ryan surrenders. He spent the whole of his night actively trying to not think about Spencer Smith. He falls short badly. He needs Spencer to sleep. So he gives up, waving a white piece of paper above his head.
“Enough! You won. Take Spencer back to planet Qwerty. I’m going to sleep.” And he does; thinking of Spencer all the while.
Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he is insomniac. But he doesn’t have to admit it. He really does want to stare at his bald ceiling every night. He wants to stare and think. But what can he think about. Spencer. Spencer Spencer Spencer. He thinks about Spencer and smiles.
At 2.40am, Ryan is sound asleep with a grin on his face.
It's the only sleep he can get. Sunshine's in his face in the morning but he can sleep. He is asleep. Smile on his face, Ryan takes a shower. Ryan is a good kid. He gets dressed decently; at least fully (unlike that Hurley kid who goes around school half naked with just short shorts). He does all his homework. He doesn’t face girls sobbing to him because of unwanted pregnancies. He even aces Maths (but not English, surprisingly. He sucks in that subject.) Ryan Ross is a good kid. He's just a good kid with a problem.
So it's no surprise when he walks into school with a small smile. People glide by, shrugging their shoulders. Maybe he just got laid. Maybe, Ryan smirks. But he didn’t. He was just happy he slept, and then he isn’t anymore. Turning the corner to his locker, Ryan’s mood turns sour because he sees someone leaning against it. Of course, said person always leans against Ryan’s locker, but this time Ryan doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t need the boy to remind him, but the boy does.
“Hey Ry, slept any?” He shrugs. He gives a non-committal grunt, somewhere between, “yeah-yeah-I-slept-get-out-of-my-way,” and, “no-did-you-think-I-could-sleep?”
"Yes," Ryan lies. He might be a good person generally but he still lies when he needs to. And this, he needs to lie.
“Whoa man. I was just wondering.”
“Hmm yeah okay, I need my History text,” he mutters, hinting at said boy to move away from his locker. Of course said boy knows what Ryan is doing and so he plants himself firmly on the spot. Come on, said boy and Ryan have been friends for close to ten years already. They won't not know each other.
“C’mon, Spin. No joking around. I need my text.”
So Spin moves. Ever so slightly, so that Ryan has to figure his locker combination sideways, squashed between Spin and a big blond guy, Bryar, next to him. Finally, after much struggling filled with Oriental fighting moves, Ryan gets his Maths notebook and Literature story out. No History though. He curses softly under his breath. Spin watches him.
“Here take my book, I only have History after common Lunch anyway. You can return it to me then.”
Of course the school corridors are always crowded; it’s a school corridor, and Ryan never minded; he just followed the crowd. But now, sides pressed up against his locker edge, back bruised by Bryar’s locker door, he hates it. He hates having to stare at those blue eyes. Having to watch them from so close.
He hates being only a hairbreadth apart. They're jostled and pushed. Spin's being bumped up against the girl behind him by the ever moving school. They're both in each other’s faces. Their toes are touching. If Ryan really wanted to, he could stop breathing. Spin would breathe for him. So staring into those shocking blue eyes, Ryan curses the world in his head. In his head, the world doesn’t play fair. But he can’t say much because he doesn’t know what game they’re playing. So he goes along with it.
“Thanks man. Yeah, um, I’ll see you at lunch.”
So Ryan lets the crowds pull him along. And Spin, the said boy with blue eyes by his locker, starts to fade until he is just a tiny speck; until he is no more. Or maybe that's just Ryan’s obsessive thinking. But they do part. And Ryan sits down for History still cursing.
Ryan Ross isn’t emo. He is perfectly normal with his brown hair and brown eyes. He is a normal, acceptable boy. He doesn’t sit at the back of the class cutting or writing poems Shakespeare will gag at. He sits in the middle seat of the middle row. So while he waits for the teacher to walk in and start on American History, Ryan stares at his borrowed History book. He stares at the cover page, illustrating the revolution. He stares and he sighs. Slowly, he flips it open.
There, on the bottom right hand corner, are printed words. Or are they? Upon closer inspection, Ryan sees that the words are handwritten, painstakingly copied in the exact font as the printed text above. Written are the words, “Property of Spencer Smith.”
Ryan seriously thinks he should join the people at the back.
So as Mr Toro animates the killing of soldiers, -"comrade in arms," he says to the boys, winking slightly - Ryan reads the cramped little notes in the book. He wonders how Spencer can listen and take down notes at the same time. He wonders whether Spencer has more than one coloured pen besides navy blue. He thinks maybe he should get Spencer coloured markers for his birthday. He wonders and he thinks till the end of lessons. By the time Maths starts, Ryan has a list of questions to ask Spencer during Lunch.
Maths leaves him very little time to think. Ryan was made into the teacher’s assistant which was just a sweeter name for goody two shoes. So after the twisted explanation Mr Joe Trohman gives on solving two quadric equations using algebra formulae simultaneously, Ryan is sent to tutor certain students who are lost. And he does. With Gabe Saporta and Travis McCoy flagging his two sides respectively, Ryan sets on using imagery of the crudest kind to theorise the problem. And it might work, Ryan doesn’t know. He is too busy wondering if Spencer will get his Fight Club mention. He wonders if Spencer remembers their movie marathons. He thinks maybe.And he adds those questions into his list.
Literature sends him running to the toilets. Literally. They're studying the works of Mary Higgins Clark. Mr Butch Walker, a big fan of group discussion, sends them all in threes to discuss Clark’s latest heroine. Due to bad timing, or good luck, Ryan is sent off with Patrick Stumph and Gerard Way. He sits and does all the work. Silent while the two debate from across of him on the ironic comedies of comics.Ryan wonders while he takes down notes. He wonders what Spencer thinks of it. He wonders if Spencer would bring up his Calvin and Hobbes theory. He wonders if Stumph would laugh. He wonders if it would just cause Stumph and Spencer to debate on Garfield. He wonders and he sighs. He adds those questions to his list. He adds the debate topic to his list. He runs off, faking a stomach ache and wonders. On the toilet seat he wonders if maybe he should just go away. He should just float away and not come back. Maybe he should have just listened to that Ryland Blackinton on his hippie theory and fly away with love or the doves or the pigeons.
Finally, it's lunch. Ryan doesn’t know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. He doesn’t want to think about it. He shuffles towards the cafeteria. He shuffles and maybe drags his feet a bit. He would crawl but the hall is too cramped. He walks over to their usual table for four, right in the corner. He never understood why it was a table for four. It was only them two. But he never questions it. He just sits. He sits and he waits. Seconds - maybe minutes - later, he sees an outstretched hand. He looks up and sees Spencer, in his hailing glory with blue eyes and brown hair. Gingerly, Ryan stands up thinking it was similar to a first date. He blinked owlishly at the thought and shook his head.
“Thanks for the book. I mean yeah. I owe you one.” And as Ryan passes the book on to Spencer, he feels the tips of their fingers touching. Immediately, he thinks time slows down, maybe time stopped. He stares into those blue irises and he thinks he’s drowning. He feels himself blush, he feels himself shake. He wonders if he should let go. He stops wondering and just does it. Ryan thinks maybe it’s a stupid thing to do because he has to sit back down. Sitting means he will have to stop staring at those blue blue eyes. He sits down anyway.
He waits for Spencer to call his bluff. He waits, tense as hell, for Spencer to call his game. He knows Spencer knows. Spencer knows he knows that Spencer knows. Ryan knows Spencer is just waiting to catch him off guard. He knows it.
Ryan is wrong.
“So Ryan.” Ryan busies himself with unwrapping his sandwich, he doesn’t think he can bear eating lunch on Mystery Thursdays. “Heard Trohman made you tutor.”
Ryan nods, his mouth full. He still thinks those eyes are all he needs. He then thinks he should maybe ask for a time out from the game. The world is killing him. The world never plays fair anyway. He thinks maybe it is a way to get back at him for not being able to sleep. He thinks that Spencer was sent from some other planet to fill Ryan up with guilt. He thinks Spencer was accidentally switched as a baby so Ryan is actually friends with a baby genius who knows exactly what’s going on. He thinks and he believes but he doesn’t know. So he stays that way. Chewing slowly, trying to not avoid looking at that face but avoiding looking at it anyway. Ryan thinks he is slowly going crazy.
As he walks to his next science class, Ryan remembers his list of questions for lunch conversation.
Not one of those questions made it past his back jeans pocket.
At home, Ryan stares at the television screen. He has no idea what sitcom it is even after 10 minutes of supposed watching. Ryan thinks one of the girls looks like Spencer. Ryan thinks that maybe he thinks about Spencer too damn much. He realises he doesn’t care. He thinks of all the things he should know about Spencer. Spencer’s birthday is on the 2nd of September. He smiles. Ryan was born on the 30th of August. Spencer has two sisters. That's common knowledge. He sits and he thinks and he realises he doesn’t know a thing about his best friend of ten years. He doesn’t know what Spencer’s favourite food is, he has no idea which colour Spencer prefers, he doesn’t think he knows where Spencer’s favourite holiday destination is. After ten years, Ryan only knows Spencer hates wasting food because underprivileged people have nothing to eat. Spencer doesn’t believe in favouritism because there is no equality. Ryan knows that Spencer would rather be in a dark cave with his mad second aunt twice removed than alone.
Ryan feels slightly better. He still thinks their relationship should not be based on just fears. So he jumps up, like a spring, off the couch. He sprints to his room and sends the door open with a flying kick complete with sound effects. He feels a bit stupid doing that so he stops pretending to be a Secret Military agent on a recon mission. He rushes for a piece of paper and a pen. Then, with the television still blasting recorded laughter downstairs, he starts to set himself a pop quiz: Do You Know Spencer James Smith (the fifth)? After half an hour, he ends up with a paper filled with anything and everything he could think to ask about Spencer Smith. Ryan is ready for it.
Two hours later, Ryan realises he fails it.
At 3 am, Ryan surrenders. He spent the whole of his night actively trying to not think about Spencer Smith. He falls short badly. He needs Spencer to sleep. So he gives up, waving a white piece of paper above his head.
“Enough! You won. Take Spencer back to planet Qwerty. I’m going to sleep.” And he does; thinking of Spencer all the while.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Never Alone
I waited for you today,
You didn’t come. I missed you. I stared outside, just waiting. Just watching but you weren’t there. The window was my barrier, you didn’t walk past. Where were you? I had to just watch mom cook. She was a hurried mess. I guess they are gonna fight when he comes back from work. They always do. I wanna live with you. I want you.
I needed you today.
They were shouting again. I couldn’t sleep. Where were you? I couldn’t understand them but mom, mom got hurt. She cried and I cried with her. Dad went off after. Will you be there for me tomorrow? I really need you. I hate him. She’s cut up pretty bad. Can I meet you after school?
You told me to call.
I did. No one answered. It was Sunday. So maybe you were at church. Maybe. But I wanted to talk to you. They were fighting again. They always fight. Dad left again. He always does. I asked mom after what it was about. She said I was too young to understand. But I understood. The fight; it was about nothing. It was about breakfast. They fought for an hour about breakfast. Can you believe that? When will you be back?
He read his piece of work again. Was this really fiction? Or was this him? This wasn’t any nameless character, this was him. Ryan Ross. George Ryan Ross the third. He felt a strange sensation in him; as though he was choking. There was a blockage at his throat. He could breathe but even breathing was difficult.
“Yo, Ross; you’re not looking too good. You okay man?” His face snapped up. An unnamed member from his class was staring at him. Ryan shook his head once to clear it before speaking. He assured the boy; Gabriel was his name, that he was fine. But was he? He didn’t seem fine. He sure as hell didn’t feel fine. George Ryan Ross wasn’t fine. But nobody else had to know that.
_____________________
Where are you?
I need you. I called and I called but you don’t seem to be there. You promised me you’ll help. You promised. You said you’d be there. Didn’t you? I heard you. I know I did. Please where are you? Please he’s hurting me. Please. Mom; please! Please. No. Please no. NO! Mom, help me. Mom. Where are you! Mommy! Mommy he’s not here! Mom! Please! Bring him, MOM! Please! PLEASE!
I prayed for you today.
I prayed you would come by. I prayed really hard. I need you to save me. I want you to. Please. Save me. Did you pray for me? You said you would. But he still beats me. You pray but you’re not praying hard enough. If you prayed harder, I wouldn’t have all this bruises and welts. Please pray for me. Please.
“Ryan, seriously man; What the hell are you doing?”Bent over his notebook, he almost didn’t hear his friend. Almost.
“Hmph.”
“Ryan! Jeez, I could kill you. Lunch! Lunch!” Spencer Smith dragged his friend towards the general cafeteria direction. To no avail of course. Ryan Ross was older and even though he was a scrawny pick of a man, he has strength one cannot imagine. It didn’t take long for Smith to tire.
“Ry please.”
That was like a switch. He almost could hear his own voice screaming those words. And he did. In his mind. It was like a looped reel. Please please please. Somehow, the difficulty came again. It was like a panic attack but it wasn’t. He just couldn’t breathe. God, when did he become so weak? Shrugging Spencer’s hands off him, he turned to stalk towards the cafeteria, ignoring the creeping guilt at the harshness he left his best friend.
____________________
I cried out for you.
I really did. You didn’t reply. Why? You knew I needed you. You knew. He’s still here. He still hurts. She’s gone. She left me. You can’t leave me. I won’t let you. I won’t I won’t I won’t. I swear I won’t. Please don’t leave me. You’re going! No, no you can’t! Just stay; An hour please; just another hour. Please? Just. One. More. Hour. That’s all. No! Please, don’t. Don’t leave me. No, don’t. Please. You promised! You promised! I hate you.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean it. I don’t hate you. You know I don’t. C’mon, please? I don’t hate you. I told you, I love you. I love you. Love love love you. A lot. Lots and lots. Come on please? Stay with me today? Look, I said I was sorry. You know I am. Please B, please.
There was a loud clatter as the paper was ripped out of his hand. There stood Jon Walker. Professor Jon Walker. Shit. Shit shit shit. Fuck. Damn it. No. This was supposed to be private. For himself. Screw fucking creative language. This was his to write, read and fucking own. Damnit. Jeez. And why must it be Professor Walker anyway? Son of a bitch. Walker was a tyrant. A reasonable tyrant who won’t tolerate students who don’t concentrate. A tyrant all the same.
“I waited for you today… you didn’t come…” A pause while Professor Walker read through his ode to emo or whatever. “Ross, love letters are to be written after school. In your own room. Wallowing in bad blood and uncouth kisses. Not, during biology.”
The class roared in laughter. With an infuriating smirk, slightly marred by fiery eyes, Professor threw the piece of paper, ‘fuck you Jon’ thought Ross, back at him before continuing on his empty lesson.
Ryan was shaking. Honest to God, shivering, in anger. If he could just punch that guy; just once. Oh man, his fists were clenched. White, knobby bones showing through pale skin on tanned tabletop. Fuck you. He sat with stiffened back, pursed lips, and burning eyes for the next period. Until the lesson was over. He didn’t move. Not an inch; Stone still just watching the board in front of him. The rest left the moment the bell rang; he didn’t think some waited for Walker to dismiss them. Serves him right, that son of a gun. But Ryan waited. He waited until the whole class left, until it was just him and Jon-I’m-All-That-Walker.
When the older brunet made his way to the front of the class for his briefcase, Ryan just stared at him. His backpack was zipped up and ready, books all stacked up for the next class. Ryan could see the slight tension in his teacher’s shoulders. Slowly Jon looked up. Looked right into those hazel eyes, burning gold. They both held their stares. Nobody wanted to give up. Not showing any emotion at all, just plain indifference, Ryan slung his bag over his shoulder, shrugged once and carried his books and head high as he walked out. The piece of paper crumpled and forgotten.
_______________
Rewind a decade back. Two friends. Two neighbours. Both families living in isolation on that well to do street. Different beliefs, different lifestyles, different moral compasses. Two boys. Two innocent boys cared for differently, taught differently, disciplined differently, made friends. With each other. One slightly older, slightly more matured, a lot more vulnerable. The other, younger, safer much more naïve. With mousy brown hair, deep hazel eyes, angular face, George Ryan Ross met shy, carefree mormon boy Brendon Boyd Urie. They shared smiles through window panes; they played cautiously, never with each other. They hardly spoke to the other.
A friendship grew. From curiosity and maybe jealousy, they became friends. They even went out to play together after a while. They didn’t understand the other. They caused pain, they cried because of the other but they loved. Ryan loves Brendon. Brendon loved Ryan. But only they understood their destruction. Only they can understand why they hurt and love at the same time. At seven, they understood the world that didn’t understand them.
You will lose the things you love. That’s why they shouldn’t love. But they did. So they lost. They lost their game against the world. All that took was abuse. Accidental abuse for the wrong child. It was supposed to Ryan. It was Ryan who should be slapped. But he was drunk. There were too many little kids running around in his house. He grabbed the boy from the neck, the little kid screamed. Shut up you! A tight slap. The kid was sent hurtling across the living room. He saw his son coming down the stairs. Fuck. He stared at the boy on the floor, bleeding. That’s not Ryan. That’s not his child, shabby, scared Ryan. Whoever it was was too cleaned up, too neat to be his son. He ran.
And Ryan was left to pick Brendon up from the floor. Crying and bleeding Brendon who needed his own mother. He half carried the younger boy down the street and when his mother opened the door, hell broke loose. Screaming and shouting and cursing. All Ryan thought about was Brendon. Brendon couldn’t think. And then, two days later, the Urie family moved. Ryan’s first heartbreak.
Fast forward to 2 years from then. From the present. Ryan’s eighteen now. College bound. School bound. Home free. He could leave. He was leaving. Finally. His room was cleaned out. His mom had to work. Dad was dead. He died a long time ago, did Ryan forget to tell you? With his duffel bags and all his itmes in place. He started the trip to his car, bag by bag. He was leaving. For real. Forver. He made sure of that. At his boot, trying to lift in his second bag alone, Spencer had already left for Har-frigging-Vard, a blue car drove past him. He saw a flash of brown. Was that Professor Jon Walker? He watched the car stop in front of the driveway of a house three down from him. A guy stepped out. He looked young. In a red hoodie and dark jeans. He held a piece of paper, Ryan could see. Must be lost. Or blind. Can he not see the “For Sale” sign on the top floor window? Suddenly, the boy turned back to look into the car. He leaned in before abruptly straightening up. And looked straight at Ryan. Ross blinked. The boy walked towards him. Ryan contemplated running. Maybe he just wants instructions. If he does then I’m a fucking rock star.
The boy stood in front of him. Not too close but Ryan could almost feel the excitement from this guy. He looked like he was in his late teens. His hair was shaggily cut, but short enough. He had dark chocolate eyes that were shining. He was fit border lining on anorexic but who was Ryan to judge? Ryan stared expectantly. The boy cleared his throat; he stared down at the paper.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry, I didn‘t come back Ryan. I’ve missed you. For a long time, I never stopped thinking about you.” Ryan was shocked. Who was this guy? He looked down at the paper in the brunet’s hand. I waited for you today. He almost fell to the ground. Could this really be? Brendon. The boy, with utmost seriousness in his face looked into Ryan’s eyes.
“I was half-assed without you.”
And Ryan just knew. He knew it was Brendon. It was his Brendon. Tackling the boy, he wrapped his skinny arms around him, sobbing with relief. They were both crying. They were hugging and crying and Ryan felt so good to be alive. Finally he pulled away.
“Brendon, are you trying to say I’m half your ass?”
“Aww man, how can I ever compare to this!” the other boy replied, laughter in his voice, waving Ryan’s long forgotten “love letter” up in the air. They both chuckled, eyes never leaving the other. Finally when it was too awkward to continue, they both stopped. And they stared. Seconds passed.
They moved with amazing speed. They launched at each other, lips meeting. It was decisive and desperate. They moved jerkily, unsure but wanting all. Ryan ran his hand through Brendon’s hair, lips and tongue messaging the other. They both were breathing hard, flushed red when they pulled apart. They grinned at the other.
“I’ve missed you.”
“Me too”
They held hands. Suddenly, Ryan remembered him moving. He looked at his two bags in the car, and thought of the rest still waiting.
“Hey B,” the nickname fell off his lips so easily. “Wanna help me move out?”
And they did. They moved in together soon after. Brendon and Ryan. Urie and Ross. Together. Not alone
Never alone.
You didn’t come. I missed you. I stared outside, just waiting. Just watching but you weren’t there. The window was my barrier, you didn’t walk past. Where were you? I had to just watch mom cook. She was a hurried mess. I guess they are gonna fight when he comes back from work. They always do. I wanna live with you. I want you.
I needed you today.
They were shouting again. I couldn’t sleep. Where were you? I couldn’t understand them but mom, mom got hurt. She cried and I cried with her. Dad went off after. Will you be there for me tomorrow? I really need you. I hate him. She’s cut up pretty bad. Can I meet you after school?
You told me to call.
I did. No one answered. It was Sunday. So maybe you were at church. Maybe. But I wanted to talk to you. They were fighting again. They always fight. Dad left again. He always does. I asked mom after what it was about. She said I was too young to understand. But I understood. The fight; it was about nothing. It was about breakfast. They fought for an hour about breakfast. Can you believe that? When will you be back?
He read his piece of work again. Was this really fiction? Or was this him? This wasn’t any nameless character, this was him. Ryan Ross. George Ryan Ross the third. He felt a strange sensation in him; as though he was choking. There was a blockage at his throat. He could breathe but even breathing was difficult.
“Yo, Ross; you’re not looking too good. You okay man?” His face snapped up. An unnamed member from his class was staring at him. Ryan shook his head once to clear it before speaking. He assured the boy; Gabriel was his name, that he was fine. But was he? He didn’t seem fine. He sure as hell didn’t feel fine. George Ryan Ross wasn’t fine. But nobody else had to know that.
_____________________
Where are you?
I need you. I called and I called but you don’t seem to be there. You promised me you’ll help. You promised. You said you’d be there. Didn’t you? I heard you. I know I did. Please where are you? Please he’s hurting me. Please. Mom; please! Please. No. Please no. NO! Mom, help me. Mom. Where are you! Mommy! Mommy he’s not here! Mom! Please! Bring him, MOM! Please! PLEASE!
I prayed for you today.
I prayed you would come by. I prayed really hard. I need you to save me. I want you to. Please. Save me. Did you pray for me? You said you would. But he still beats me. You pray but you’re not praying hard enough. If you prayed harder, I wouldn’t have all this bruises and welts. Please pray for me. Please.
“Ryan, seriously man; What the hell are you doing?”Bent over his notebook, he almost didn’t hear his friend. Almost.
“Hmph.”
“Ryan! Jeez, I could kill you. Lunch! Lunch!” Spencer Smith dragged his friend towards the general cafeteria direction. To no avail of course. Ryan Ross was older and even though he was a scrawny pick of a man, he has strength one cannot imagine. It didn’t take long for Smith to tire.
“Ry please.”
That was like a switch. He almost could hear his own voice screaming those words. And he did. In his mind. It was like a looped reel. Please please please. Somehow, the difficulty came again. It was like a panic attack but it wasn’t. He just couldn’t breathe. God, when did he become so weak? Shrugging Spencer’s hands off him, he turned to stalk towards the cafeteria, ignoring the creeping guilt at the harshness he left his best friend.
____________________
I cried out for you.
I really did. You didn’t reply. Why? You knew I needed you. You knew. He’s still here. He still hurts. She’s gone. She left me. You can’t leave me. I won’t let you. I won’t I won’t I won’t. I swear I won’t. Please don’t leave me. You’re going! No, no you can’t! Just stay; An hour please; just another hour. Please? Just. One. More. Hour. That’s all. No! Please, don’t. Don’t leave me. No, don’t. Please. You promised! You promised! I hate you.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean it. I don’t hate you. You know I don’t. C’mon, please? I don’t hate you. I told you, I love you. I love you. Love love love you. A lot. Lots and lots. Come on please? Stay with me today? Look, I said I was sorry. You know I am. Please B, please.
There was a loud clatter as the paper was ripped out of his hand. There stood Jon Walker. Professor Jon Walker. Shit. Shit shit shit. Fuck. Damn it. No. This was supposed to be private. For himself. Screw fucking creative language. This was his to write, read and fucking own. Damnit. Jeez. And why must it be Professor Walker anyway? Son of a bitch. Walker was a tyrant. A reasonable tyrant who won’t tolerate students who don’t concentrate. A tyrant all the same.
“I waited for you today… you didn’t come…” A pause while Professor Walker read through his ode to emo or whatever. “Ross, love letters are to be written after school. In your own room. Wallowing in bad blood and uncouth kisses. Not, during biology.”
The class roared in laughter. With an infuriating smirk, slightly marred by fiery eyes, Professor threw the piece of paper, ‘fuck you Jon’ thought Ross, back at him before continuing on his empty lesson.
Ryan was shaking. Honest to God, shivering, in anger. If he could just punch that guy; just once. Oh man, his fists were clenched. White, knobby bones showing through pale skin on tanned tabletop. Fuck you. He sat with stiffened back, pursed lips, and burning eyes for the next period. Until the lesson was over. He didn’t move. Not an inch; Stone still just watching the board in front of him. The rest left the moment the bell rang; he didn’t think some waited for Walker to dismiss them. Serves him right, that son of a gun. But Ryan waited. He waited until the whole class left, until it was just him and Jon-I’m-All-That-Walker.
When the older brunet made his way to the front of the class for his briefcase, Ryan just stared at him. His backpack was zipped up and ready, books all stacked up for the next class. Ryan could see the slight tension in his teacher’s shoulders. Slowly Jon looked up. Looked right into those hazel eyes, burning gold. They both held their stares. Nobody wanted to give up. Not showing any emotion at all, just plain indifference, Ryan slung his bag over his shoulder, shrugged once and carried his books and head high as he walked out. The piece of paper crumpled and forgotten.
_______________
Rewind a decade back. Two friends. Two neighbours. Both families living in isolation on that well to do street. Different beliefs, different lifestyles, different moral compasses. Two boys. Two innocent boys cared for differently, taught differently, disciplined differently, made friends. With each other. One slightly older, slightly more matured, a lot more vulnerable. The other, younger, safer much more naïve. With mousy brown hair, deep hazel eyes, angular face, George Ryan Ross met shy, carefree mormon boy Brendon Boyd Urie. They shared smiles through window panes; they played cautiously, never with each other. They hardly spoke to the other.
A friendship grew. From curiosity and maybe jealousy, they became friends. They even went out to play together after a while. They didn’t understand the other. They caused pain, they cried because of the other but they loved. Ryan loves Brendon. Brendon loved Ryan. But only they understood their destruction. Only they can understand why they hurt and love at the same time. At seven, they understood the world that didn’t understand them.
You will lose the things you love. That’s why they shouldn’t love. But they did. So they lost. They lost their game against the world. All that took was abuse. Accidental abuse for the wrong child. It was supposed to Ryan. It was Ryan who should be slapped. But he was drunk. There were too many little kids running around in his house. He grabbed the boy from the neck, the little kid screamed. Shut up you! A tight slap. The kid was sent hurtling across the living room. He saw his son coming down the stairs. Fuck. He stared at the boy on the floor, bleeding. That’s not Ryan. That’s not his child, shabby, scared Ryan. Whoever it was was too cleaned up, too neat to be his son. He ran.
And Ryan was left to pick Brendon up from the floor. Crying and bleeding Brendon who needed his own mother. He half carried the younger boy down the street and when his mother opened the door, hell broke loose. Screaming and shouting and cursing. All Ryan thought about was Brendon. Brendon couldn’t think. And then, two days later, the Urie family moved. Ryan’s first heartbreak.
Fast forward to 2 years from then. From the present. Ryan’s eighteen now. College bound. School bound. Home free. He could leave. He was leaving. Finally. His room was cleaned out. His mom had to work. Dad was dead. He died a long time ago, did Ryan forget to tell you? With his duffel bags and all his itmes in place. He started the trip to his car, bag by bag. He was leaving. For real. Forver. He made sure of that. At his boot, trying to lift in his second bag alone, Spencer had already left for Har-frigging-Vard, a blue car drove past him. He saw a flash of brown. Was that Professor Jon Walker? He watched the car stop in front of the driveway of a house three down from him. A guy stepped out. He looked young. In a red hoodie and dark jeans. He held a piece of paper, Ryan could see. Must be lost. Or blind. Can he not see the “For Sale” sign on the top floor window? Suddenly, the boy turned back to look into the car. He leaned in before abruptly straightening up. And looked straight at Ryan. Ross blinked. The boy walked towards him. Ryan contemplated running. Maybe he just wants instructions. If he does then I’m a fucking rock star.
The boy stood in front of him. Not too close but Ryan could almost feel the excitement from this guy. He looked like he was in his late teens. His hair was shaggily cut, but short enough. He had dark chocolate eyes that were shining. He was fit border lining on anorexic but who was Ryan to judge? Ryan stared expectantly. The boy cleared his throat; he stared down at the paper.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry, I didn‘t come back Ryan. I’ve missed you. For a long time, I never stopped thinking about you.” Ryan was shocked. Who was this guy? He looked down at the paper in the brunet’s hand. I waited for you today. He almost fell to the ground. Could this really be? Brendon. The boy, with utmost seriousness in his face looked into Ryan’s eyes.
“I was half-assed without you.”
And Ryan just knew. He knew it was Brendon. It was his Brendon. Tackling the boy, he wrapped his skinny arms around him, sobbing with relief. They were both crying. They were hugging and crying and Ryan felt so good to be alive. Finally he pulled away.
“Brendon, are you trying to say I’m half your ass?”
“Aww man, how can I ever compare to this!” the other boy replied, laughter in his voice, waving Ryan’s long forgotten “love letter” up in the air. They both chuckled, eyes never leaving the other. Finally when it was too awkward to continue, they both stopped. And they stared. Seconds passed.
They moved with amazing speed. They launched at each other, lips meeting. It was decisive and desperate. They moved jerkily, unsure but wanting all. Ryan ran his hand through Brendon’s hair, lips and tongue messaging the other. They both were breathing hard, flushed red when they pulled apart. They grinned at the other.
“I’ve missed you.”
“Me too”
They held hands. Suddenly, Ryan remembered him moving. He looked at his two bags in the car, and thought of the rest still waiting.
“Hey B,” the nickname fell off his lips so easily. “Wanna help me move out?”
And they did. They moved in together soon after. Brendon and Ryan. Urie and Ross. Together. Not alone
Never alone.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Never Win
I'll screw with your mind.
I'm worse than a lingering touch.
I can be so much more, so much worse;
I can be wildest dreams,
I'm your deadliest nightmare.
I'm no child's play.
No teenage kicks.
You're fooling with a right old professional dear.
You're mixed up in a tangled web.
The rules,
There are no rules.
Don't talk about me.
I can be a simple laughter,
I can be your death.
Play as long as you want.
Manipulate everyone.
Lose your friends.
Lose them all for me.
They'll die one by one
Believe me, you'll never win.
You'll play to the end,
Yet the victory is mine.
No more questions,
No more hesitation.
All or nothing.
Are you nervous yet?
I am your friend.
Your enemy
I am disdain.
I am the Nervous Game.
Do you dare play me?
Can you not?
Take a chance.
Feel fear.
Play the Nervous Game.
I'm worse than a lingering touch.
I can be so much more, so much worse;
I can be wildest dreams,
I'm your deadliest nightmare.
I'm no child's play.
No teenage kicks.
You're fooling with a right old professional dear.
You're mixed up in a tangled web.
The rules,
There are no rules.
Don't talk about me.
I can be a simple laughter,
I can be your death.
Play as long as you want.
Manipulate everyone.
Lose your friends.
Lose them all for me.
They'll die one by one
Believe me, you'll never win.
You'll play to the end,
Yet the victory is mine.
No more questions,
No more hesitation.
All or nothing.
Are you nervous yet?
I am your friend.
Your enemy
I am disdain.
I am the Nervous Game.
Do you dare play me?
Can you not?
Take a chance.
Feel fear.
Play the Nervous Game.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Without the exclamation mark, I don't know whether to panic... or even if it is at the disco y'know.
May I fall in love?
May I seize the chance
Let me jump off a cliff for you
Let me brush your hair
Let me watch the stars
Shine and explode to feel love
Let me feel the rain
tracing the lines on your face
Fingers pale around my arm
I relish the pain
Warm and soothing on my back
I want you to stay
But I want to soar
Far beyond any explorer
Far beyond the seven seas
Far above the light blue sky
Let me dream
Let me wish
Let me plead
Let me go.
May I seize the chance
Let me jump off a cliff for you
Let me brush your hair
Let me watch the stars
Shine and explode to feel love
Let me feel the rain
tracing the lines on your face
Fingers pale around my arm
I relish the pain
Warm and soothing on my back
I want you to stay
But I want to soar
Far beyond any explorer
Far beyond the seven seas
Far above the light blue sky
Let me dream
Let me wish
Let me plead
Let me go.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
A Lost Chance
" Eyes
Through day and nights.
I see your eyes
Sparkle, glinting, dead.
But I still love you.
Lips
From sun to rain
they were chapped, moist and salty.
The beaches, the winds
Could not keep them away.
Not from me
Were we meant to be?
Smile
Bright but confused.
Its always reliable
Keep me safe, warm and yours
That smile is all I need.
Hands
Soft never calloused,
Didn't the guitar hurt?
Warm in mine
All through the winter night
Companionship
You were there.
Chicken soup and all.
Blankets up to my neck
You didn't hear my thank you.
Friendship
Did it matter anymore?
Did I cross the line?
Love me, you did not
Hate me, you should have.
You
Do you even know who you are?
My prince charming from afar
Don't save me, I love to fall
Just stand next to me
I want to hold you, because I love you. "
"Ryan... that was. Enlightening. Thank you for that. Anyone else?"
He sat back down ears and face burning up. He didn't bother turning behind. He could already see him. Staring agape, in surprise, maybe even horror and disgust. It was all too much and too good. Why him? Why me? Why goddamnit why? Feeling a lump forming in his throat, e quickly coughed before slapping his palms on the table. Mrs Parrish gave him a disapproving glance. But it was mild mixed with the pity he saw that softened her eyes.
A girl, Chelsea, was up next. Her poem was about true love ands boundaries and slitting the wrist. He didn't even bother to listen. It was a big scrawl of crap yet for some reason, at the end, everyone cheered. Nobody cheered for him. Compare him to her, she might be winning the presidentail elections. He cringed slightly, but she saw it. She threw him a dirty look walking back to her seat. Sebaldt, Tenehaur, Urie.
Three more until him. Until Urie. Could I call in sick? That's stupid. He may not even know. Or maybe he did. Maybe he wouldn't come tomorrow. That would be a good thing.
It was. One week, two absentees, a substitute teacher and many slamming against lockers, attempted rape and reciting of lines from his poem later, it was finally the day. He thought his world has ended. Or coming very close to it anyway.
"Brendon. Finally. You're up then. Blow us all away."
The walk he took in the purple hoodie with no script, seemed to be Ryan's longest wait. With every footstep, Ryan became that much closer to a cardiac arrest. Or he might just vomit. Finally, from the corner of his eye, he saw the red Vans coming into view. Hours later, Brendon Urie reached the front of class. In front of him. Looking straight at him. Shit.
"Mrs. Parrish, I don't have a poem ready."
"Urie this assignment was given weeks ago. How can you not have a poem ready?"
"I already have one. But it doesn't match up with what I really wanna say." A calculating look. What is he about? The whole class went into a hushed conference. Ryan just stared. Mrs Parrish contemplated.
Silence. Deja vu isn't it?
"Well say it." Shocks from the class. And from Brendon. But with a gulp, he started.
" You still remember? Our first day? Flying books and curse words. But you looked at me. I remembered. Right into my eyes. We didn't say a word. How could I not realise you exist?"
"Another fag poem."
"Shut up Chelsea." Even Ryan was surprise at his quick snap.
"You did the same for me. I had the sniffles didn't I? You gave me skittles. You knew it didn't help. You wanted me to be happy. You just wanted me to be happy. I to you too. But not like this. Never like this." Ryan stared into the hazel eyes, imploring. Each breath He held was a breath Brendon let out. Each word Brendon spoke was like thunder. Loud and echoing in his mind. Brendon looked at him. There was only them two. Everybody must have noticed but nobody said a word. Not even Chelsea.
"I can't make sense. We are more than that. But you're asking for too much. I like the winter day. The indoor camping, the summer camps and the soft fireplace. But I can't give you all of that. Not now not ever. We still share memories but I can't help you imagine new ones."
A gasp. Stupid girl at the back. Ryan just stared. His eyes must be red now but he kept silent, waiting. Even Mrs Parrish was looking solemn.
"I can't love you. But hating you would be the last thing on my mind. Further than last. It didn't even cross it. Thank you"
He took tentative steps back to his seat. Ryan didn't turn. He didn't want the class to see his teary eyes. Mrs Parrish pretended to not see them too.
"So Urie, done. Ah five more before the end of presentation. Antonio Valence, you're up."
The past was then drowned out by the accented pronunciation but it remained clear in Ryan's mine. It was crystal in Brendon's too. But neither boy said a word. Until graduation. Whereas, a hug was not even present. For all the said to each other, face to face on the last day they could be together, the last day they could salvage whatever they had, they only could say a single sentence.
"Good luck."
" You too."
In the end, there was no fairytale. There was no Prince Charming, no more skittles and no more love. But that doesn't mean Ryan ever stopped. Not until one day when Spencer, his chubby five year old asked him "Daddy, I think I don't like Jon anymore. He didn't share his Lego with me. He's not my best friend. I wanna tell him tomorrow. I can right?"
"Son let me tell you about a girl and her prince charming..."
Through day and nights.
I see your eyes
Sparkle, glinting, dead.
But I still love you.
Lips
From sun to rain
they were chapped, moist and salty.
The beaches, the winds
Could not keep them away.
Not from me
Were we meant to be?
Smile
Bright but confused.
Its always reliable
Keep me safe, warm and yours
That smile is all I need.
Hands
Soft never calloused,
Didn't the guitar hurt?
Warm in mine
All through the winter night
Companionship
You were there.
Chicken soup and all.
Blankets up to my neck
You didn't hear my thank you.
Friendship
Did it matter anymore?
Did I cross the line?
Love me, you did not
Hate me, you should have.
You
Do you even know who you are?
My prince charming from afar
Don't save me, I love to fall
Just stand next to me
I want to hold you, because I love you. "
"Ryan... that was. Enlightening. Thank you for that. Anyone else?"
He sat back down ears and face burning up. He didn't bother turning behind. He could already see him. Staring agape, in surprise, maybe even horror and disgust. It was all too much and too good. Why him? Why me? Why goddamnit why? Feeling a lump forming in his throat, e quickly coughed before slapping his palms on the table. Mrs Parrish gave him a disapproving glance. But it was mild mixed with the pity he saw that softened her eyes.
A girl, Chelsea, was up next. Her poem was about true love ands boundaries and slitting the wrist. He didn't even bother to listen. It was a big scrawl of crap yet for some reason, at the end, everyone cheered. Nobody cheered for him. Compare him to her, she might be winning the presidentail elections. He cringed slightly, but she saw it. She threw him a dirty look walking back to her seat. Sebaldt, Tenehaur, Urie.
Three more until him. Until Urie. Could I call in sick? That's stupid. He may not even know. Or maybe he did. Maybe he wouldn't come tomorrow. That would be a good thing.
It was. One week, two absentees, a substitute teacher and many slamming against lockers, attempted rape and reciting of lines from his poem later, it was finally the day. He thought his world has ended. Or coming very close to it anyway.
"Brendon. Finally. You're up then. Blow us all away."
The walk he took in the purple hoodie with no script, seemed to be Ryan's longest wait. With every footstep, Ryan became that much closer to a cardiac arrest. Or he might just vomit. Finally, from the corner of his eye, he saw the red Vans coming into view. Hours later, Brendon Urie reached the front of class. In front of him. Looking straight at him. Shit.
"Mrs. Parrish, I don't have a poem ready."
"Urie this assignment was given weeks ago. How can you not have a poem ready?"
"I already have one. But it doesn't match up with what I really wanna say." A calculating look. What is he about? The whole class went into a hushed conference. Ryan just stared. Mrs Parrish contemplated.
Silence. Deja vu isn't it?
"Well say it." Shocks from the class. And from Brendon. But with a gulp, he started.
" You still remember? Our first day? Flying books and curse words. But you looked at me. I remembered. Right into my eyes. We didn't say a word. How could I not realise you exist?"
"Another fag poem."
"Shut up Chelsea." Even Ryan was surprise at his quick snap.
"You did the same for me. I had the sniffles didn't I? You gave me skittles. You knew it didn't help. You wanted me to be happy. You just wanted me to be happy. I to you too. But not like this. Never like this." Ryan stared into the hazel eyes, imploring. Each breath He held was a breath Brendon let out. Each word Brendon spoke was like thunder. Loud and echoing in his mind. Brendon looked at him. There was only them two. Everybody must have noticed but nobody said a word. Not even Chelsea.
"I can't make sense. We are more than that. But you're asking for too much. I like the winter day. The indoor camping, the summer camps and the soft fireplace. But I can't give you all of that. Not now not ever. We still share memories but I can't help you imagine new ones."
A gasp. Stupid girl at the back. Ryan just stared. His eyes must be red now but he kept silent, waiting. Even Mrs Parrish was looking solemn.
"I can't love you. But hating you would be the last thing on my mind. Further than last. It didn't even cross it. Thank you"
He took tentative steps back to his seat. Ryan didn't turn. He didn't want the class to see his teary eyes. Mrs Parrish pretended to not see them too.
"So Urie, done. Ah five more before the end of presentation. Antonio Valence, you're up."
The past was then drowned out by the accented pronunciation but it remained clear in Ryan's mine. It was crystal in Brendon's too. But neither boy said a word. Until graduation. Whereas, a hug was not even present. For all the said to each other, face to face on the last day they could be together, the last day they could salvage whatever they had, they only could say a single sentence.
"Good luck."
" You too."
In the end, there was no fairytale. There was no Prince Charming, no more skittles and no more love. But that doesn't mean Ryan ever stopped. Not until one day when Spencer, his chubby five year old asked him "Daddy, I think I don't like Jon anymore. He didn't share his Lego with me. He's not my best friend. I wanna tell him tomorrow. I can right?"
"Son let me tell you about a girl and her prince charming..."
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Essence Of Love. Or at least the hope of it.
I can't believe you told me.
I rather you didn't.
You knew I didn't want to know
Your vices and unforeseen secrets.
You can't pretend it's gonna be okay
Your vulnerability and my insane possesion
Its not a good combination
We cause pain and sorrow to us
Only Us.
Naturally competitive, I hate myself
You don't.
Damnit you should
I hate you because of that.
You can't have us both.
Choose one.
I rather her than me.
Life is worth nothing.
Not now
---
You
Yes?
There's nothing
I can't understand
You're not making any sense.
Yet...
Its magic
Shut up
C'mon
Nothing. What is this?
What were you saying?
Nothing.
Then why...?
Just because.
I don't get you.
I know
I still...
Yeah
Oh?
I know.Me too.
-LOVE.
When its louder than words,
Stronger than fights,
And safer than tears.
I rather you didn't.
You knew I didn't want to know
Your vices and unforeseen secrets.
You can't pretend it's gonna be okay
Your vulnerability and my insane possesion
Its not a good combination
We cause pain and sorrow to us
Only Us.
Naturally competitive, I hate myself
You don't.
Damnit you should
I hate you because of that.
You can't have us both.
Choose one.
I rather her than me.
Life is worth nothing.
Not now
---
You
Yes?
There's nothing
I can't understand
You're not making any sense.
Yet...
Its magic
Shut up
C'mon
Nothing. What is this?
What were you saying?
Nothing.
Then why...?
Just because.
I don't get you.
I know
I still...
Yeah
Oh?
I know.Me too.
-LOVE.
When its louder than words,
Stronger than fights,
And safer than tears.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Broken. A Harry Potter AU standalone.
A shard of broken glass. Like a shard of broken glass. Delicate, painful, and so sharp. That he was. Sharp. Angular. Yet so very curved and smooth. Beautiful. Like tainted glass.
Taller than average with skin smooth and taken care of. Skinny but deliciously so. Lanky but it was the wrong word. Curvaceous would be too feminine but that was what he was. Feminine. Spectacularly woman. A lady’s hips. Small waist but he covers it up pretty well. With slightly overlarge uniforms that’s fitting at the sleeves and leggings. His body, so sweet and girly like his face.
High cheekbones. Angular but very delicate. Just like everything about him. Nose, small and turned up slightly but beautifully. Eyes prominent on his face. Grey, almost an icy blue people would say. Just like the seasons. But only winter. And he would have somewhat thin lips that would look ugly on anyone else but him. Not extremely thin per se, the top lip somewhat thinner than the plump bottom lip. His hair would be fine and longish. But not so. A boy's regular, flopping over his forehead randomly but still kept in check.
Pretty. Spunky. Cowardly. He was everything. He was nothing. Draco Malfoy the androgynous. Draco Malfoy, the Queen of all Kings. No one could have guessed. No one would even realise. No one but himself. And father and mother but they still would love him. Can he love himself? Can he love his woman body? Can he accept the fact that he’s a man who had woman features? He’s the boy that looked like a girl.
He can’t. He hates himself. Constantly. He covers it up protectively. What would people say? What would people think? They would stare and gossip. They would taunt with the smirk that was his. They would kid with his smugness. And then what would he have? What would belong to him? Not his lips, not his legs, not his body. He hated himself. He hated his curves, his blue-grey eyes with so much emotion. His smooth skin stretched along model cheekbones. He hated everything. He wished he were Goyle. Maybe even Hannah Abbot. Plain old Hannah. Nobody notices her. Pity. But heaven sent. He would love to be her for one day. No one to impress, no one to hide from. But he’s Draco Malfoy, the boy-girl so shut up.
Walk around school, dread spooking him at every turn and corner. Behind every door, he opens with anticipation. Half expecting a loud bang and a large sign saying “WE KNOW YOU PONCE!” and the school population laughing at him with wonky hats and even wonkier make up. It sounds unrealistic, illogical but it’s his irrational fear and no one can tell him other wise because he’s too consumed. Too overwhelmed. Too damn afraid.
It’s not funny, he thinks as he feels this urge to laugh at the image of Dumbledore in blue makeup. Its god awful scary. But he still giggles anyway. Giggles not chuckles because he’s a girl, he remembers. Suddenly, his face became stone. How quick. Scary. He pressed his eyes shut. I am not a girl. Keep telling yourself that darling. I am not a girl. You are a true blue woman Malfoy.
“SHUT UP!” He’s slumped on the bathroom floor now. Naked. He hated himself. He hated his body. The hot jet of water showers him. He doesn’t dare get up. Tears mingled with the rivulets down his cheek from his almost white, wet hair. I hate you. You hate yourself. Knees pulled up, he leans his head against them. Seated there for hours maybe, he cried and hated himself even more.
Can he hate himself less for feeling dirty even after two hours in the shower? Not happening. He crawls into the bed, underneath his green satin duvet, cheeks red. Eyes bloodshot. The blanket is up to his neck. He’s dressed in full body pyjamas with only his neck and face to be seen. And maybe his feet but even he thinks that’s too much skin. The rest of his mates walk in, talking loudly. They pretend to not see him. They knew. But they said nothing. For him, they agreed. He watches as Blaise strips to his boxers. Taut muscles pulling and relaxing. Tears prickled in the corner of his eyes. Damn it. Turning to his side, he falls asleep. But fitfully, because boys like him can never sleep in peace. Not when he learned hatred so harsh at such young age.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all of its characters do not belong to me. They are property of Joanne Kathleen Rowling, Scholastic Books and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended and this will not be mass produced.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Clad In Black [1/1]
Do you get dreams?
I do. I get nightmares. Its horrifying to think that a grown man; a genius; a child prodigy can get nightmares. I am the only twelve year old who graduated from high school. The only kid there with an IQ of 187. I am the kid who could read 20, 000 words per minute. The kid who, at the age of twenty-four, already works for the FBI.
I suppose that makes sense doesn’t it? The FBI. Who won’t get nightmares? Morgan did. I’m sure I heard JJ tell Garcia. The other day Hotch was advising Elle on vanquishing your inner demons. I’m convinced that, although Gideon doesn’t show it, he gets nightmares too. Yet, even so, I don’t feel good. These dreams. These sick, twisted dreams aren’t… they aren’t normal.
Now for me to be telling you this, its a breach of national security. Scoffing are you? It’s the truth, it is. I’m revealing my weakness, my one flaw and if you decide to exploit it, the B.A.U won’t have a Spencer Reid on its team any more. Won’t have another member that can realize that the profiles were all wrong. That it was a severe case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder instead of the work of a serial arsonist. No one to save you from being shot in the head by a delusional psychopath using a magic trick. Scared already? Then my warning shall suffice.
These dreams of mine. They start from nowhere. One moment I could be dreaming of flowers and singing birds or magical creature with fluffy skin galloping around in circles; Watching a Broadway Musical, Jessica Alba… well you get the picture. Anyway, suddenly I will be transported to a dark abyss. Maybe it’s a cave.
There, a big circle is drawn; its edge at the tip of my bare feet. Its blood red and hurts to touch. I tried a million times. At first, all I did was stand there thinking but a while later, I heard the sounds of a crying baby. I try to run into the ring but it just seem to move further away. Illogical isn’t it? But it did happen. In my dream.
It seems like hours. I keep running, trying to save the baby . Its cries get louder but the volume suddenly lowers. That’s when I reach it. The loop. It didn’t burn me. I cross it safely and was able to pick up the baby. This was when my nightmare truly began.
As I cradle it in my arms, I spot a hooded figure in front of me. Outside the ring of blood. Draped in a black cloak, I could only smell his rotting scent. Slowly, he waves a decomposed hand in my direction and the baby disappeared. It wasn’t a baby anymore. It was just a bloody mess of organs. Ever felt a heart still beating in the palm of your hand? The slimy feel of intestines sliding through your fingers. You wouldn’t want to; trust me.
Before I even had time to react, I felt a searing pain on my lower back. I immediately dropped the organs, which swiftly turned back into a baby. In the back of my mind, I felt overwhelming guilt. I murdered an innocent life. A baby. It had a life ahead of it but I killed it.
With my remaining strength, I turn, determined to see who shot me. There, I saw all those I had help put a stop to. The Tommy Killer. Maggie, Lila’s stalker, Clara Hayes, and all the rest. They stood, staring at me, malicious grins adorning their faces. I fell to the floor.
I wasn’t dead. Oh, how I wish I was. The pain seeped through every nerve cell. The pain was beyond description. Somehow the fire erupted from the ring. I was literally burning. Laughter floated all around me. They taunted. Tortured. Why oh why couldn’t I die?
I try to plead. I beg. I cry. I writhed on the cold cave floor. I screamed and shout till I went hoarse. But they just laughed. Just laughed. The cloaked man had the worst laugh. It was high-pitch. It was a cackle. Like the one in a boiling or highly explosive cauldron. All through my begging he laughed. Je ne soigne pas de votre douleur. I care not of your pain.
It was an eternity before it all mercifully ended. And that only happens because I woke up. In a pool if sweat and breathing hard. Even when awake, I can still see their faces, feel the blood, hear the laughter.
Tell me, do you have dreams?
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Stitched Backpack.
He stumbled with his heart safety-pinned
His sleeves ragged and bloodied.
There’s no tunnel, no light
There’s the demons that hunt him in the night
He wanted a fix, wanted not needed
Maybe he needed but who gives a care?
The alley lined with scum
He looked like he might be slumming
Wrapped in a small cloth smaller than a blanket
He shivered and cried to the territorial fights.
Stench surrounding the oil galleon
The shrimps rubbed and slinked,
Not looking at the other
Hooded faces, hooded eyes, lowered voices
Shame disguised.
Wrenched from fitful dreams
Menacing bodies held him close
They screamed and grunted
He pleaded and pleaded
Who would listen?
Everyone else, all the scum and homeless,
Laid their heads to bed.
Woke up, blood more than ever
They avoided his accusations
His screams for righteousness ignored
Why not? They were not served, justice was taking a nap.
Packed up his one blanket-but-not-really,
Needed some money, needed a snack.
Needed more than wanted.
Begged on the streets, doe eyes and quivering lips.
Couldn’t stand, couldn’t sit; just braced for pain.
Needed to be tested, needed a heck more than wanted
But really, who gives a care?
Not that business suit, not that power dress, those flirty shoes?
Not a chance
Breakfast didn’t come, lunch was all but none
Dinner, don’t even ask.
Starving, lost and hurt, he lurched to a different spot.
Far away, far cooler, far more silent.
Sunken eyes could shed no more tears.
Pallid skin sickly, a map of veins.
The flavour of crystal meth lingered.
Cocaine was a heaven sent.
Tongue peeking out, tasting the air like it was the drugs itself.
Trampled on, squeezed against.
Life was tough baby, it still is.
Crawl back to me, torn and battered.
My doormat from green to red.
You push on me, of course I’ll take you back.
You’re my brother with the safety-pinned heart.
You’re my brother who’s addicted to drugs.
I’ll take you back, I’ll scrub you good.
One week maybe two, you’re out the door.
I just have to wait for a week more,
Before you come, leaning against my door.
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