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lucius branwen / 10 — fox
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bury me — r&v / in every universe Aug 13, 2024 13:57:28 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Aug 13, 2024 13:57:28 GMT -5

They end up sitting through another ballad, the hit from The Cars, summer of 1984, one of the more divisive music videos between them, Roe thought it was bad, Mat thought it was inspired. They sat on the couch, reading a book through the argument, thinking nothing. Don't ask them.

It's one more slow song for the hour, and the three of them are perched around the half of the table that's facing the dance floor. The girls are still in the bathroom.

Prom's only partway over at this point. Another hour thirty to go. A little absently, they lean on an elbow, watching the disco ball spin, tapping against the tabletop in some kind of mild restlessness.

They drop out of the lean when a chair suddenly screeches back like a squeak on vinyl, right through the chorus, fault in the grooves. Roe's up and pacing, picking at the bright green shade of Mateo's suit, and they have to scowl, have to turn to Mat.

It's not bad, they're trying to say. It's a little bad. Roe scoffs loud enough to be heard over the music.

He pauses mid-sentence on the complaint, stares out in the crowd, drags a hand down his face. That's what makes them all look in the same direction. It turns out the girls are back, except there's the set of Antigone's jaw, the way she's marching over furiously. It's like the garage, and the lunch table, and the double date again. Mat makes eye contact with them.

The escalation is so abrupt, they're still sitting when the screaming starts. Kool & The Gang kicks in, Mateo tries his best to get Roe to back down.

It's almost surreal, the argument's punctuated by the little yahoo's. At some point, they stand up, at some point Arcadia comes around and grips their arm, sighing out a long breath.

They should break up, is what she said last summer. How many times have they watched them fight and make up. Over a year later, Antigone's screaming.

Then, she picks up the glass, throws the punch.

Little rivers of juice drip on the floor off Roe. It's suddenly just the music, just her voice, just her saying his mom, saying he's going to die alone just like that. And then they're very suddenly wrenching out of Arcadia's grip, snapping at Antigone.

"Shut up. What is wrong with you, shut up–"

Something thumping through them, dizzying rush as the disco lights keep spinning. They can feel it flare in their throat, pulse to their stomach a second later. Arcadia's just staring, hovering between them. They don't want to look at her.

Antigone rips off the corsage, tilted laugh, throws it at their feet. Pushes towards the opposite direction. Feels like they can't get enough air, the room sways as they move. They step over the ribbon of wilting flowers, heading towards the exit.

The drift of the music quiets as they get further from the gym, their ears are still ringing. There's people at the makeshift photo booth, lingering couples in the hall.

Roe's not in the bathrooms, he's not in the parking lot. Tremor in their chest when they finally sit down in the car, sucking in a deep breath, steadily turning the key into the ignition. The engine hums up their arms from the steering wheel, bones aching, and they drive beyond the few blocks around the school where the sidewalk ends around the bend.

No one walks in the midwest. Not built for that. Drive American. Support the automotive industry, you'll probably get run over if you don't have a vehicle.

They make it about five minutes down the darkening road before they spot him hiking towards the highway.

Roe's lit in the glare of their headlights. The streets are emptier now, three hours past the peak evening rush. They ease the break until they're right beside him, rolling down the window, leaning towards the passenger side. The air is cool, cold night for May.

Get in the car.

Well, he doesn't.

Flips them off and ignores them.

Funny, they could get out there and grab him by the lapels, the way that they're clenching the wheel. Funny that no one else can really frustrate them the same way, that no one else probably ever will. And yet, still, they stare at him flatly, lean on the horn, one long blaring note, until he finally looks at them.

"Get in."

He won't.

Good. Great. Fine, they can drive like this until he gets home. They can keep pace, no problem. They can fight through the window, if he wants to. A green pickup swerves around by them, honking their horn, but they just keep inching forwards on the road, hitting the hazard lights on the dash.

Won't leave this time, can't get them to. They end up stubbornly following him along the shoulder for about a damn mile before he relents. Roe finally swivels around to rip open the passenger door, uttering a string of curses that they ignore. He climbs in, and they reach upwards for the dome light.

It's still dim. They shift in the seat, move across the console to hold Roe's face still between their hands, staring at the enormity of his pupils. There's the pink stain of punch at the collar, that weird raspberry Listerine smell that makes them wrinkle their nose. Could barely catch what Antigone was saying over the music, halfway through a slow dance with Arcadia, but now they know.

Christ. "You're so stupid."

They drop their hands, leaning back, breathing out a short sigh that turns into a groan. The indigo emptiness stretches before them, staring out of the windshield at the suburban nothing. The houses turn into fields, the fields into the dark.

In the hanging stillness, it begins to occur to them that they took the van. The ride. Probably have to go back at the end of the night and get everyone. Mat. Arcadia. Antigone.

Arcadia can drive. They'll walk home.

They pull a hand through their hair, then on their seatbelt again.

"How long does it last." A very flat tone, they feel so very exhausted now.

Can't take him back to Mat's. Don't want to leave him alone either. The only good thing is it's not too late in the night, they'll just have to drive around until they can drop him off without Laurel zeroing in on how suspiciously early they're suddenly back. Another sigh, turn off the hazard lights, turn off the dome light. They glance over, glaring, gripping the wheel until their hands hurt. "Put on your seatbelt."

Silence from them. The fields and trees look purple in the shadows as they drive. They keep the window a quarter down to let the wind in, cold on their cheeks, cold in their lungs. It's another ten minutes before they finally say something.

"Are you hungry."

tick 12a / calla
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bury me — r&v / in every universe Aug 19, 2024 0:08:36 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Aug 19, 2024 0:08:36 GMT -5

There isn't really a plan. He just sort of picks a direction. Goes to join the roadkill. Curl up in the ditch. He trips in Elias’ shoes twice. It's fine. He's fine. He could run all the way to the Bloomington right now and not break a sweat.

He could've.

It's just that now he’s too mad at Vin for following him. Annoying him. That way that they’re looking at him. Can't do anything now. All he can do is sit in the passenger seat and glare out the window, picking at the seatbelt, feel of their hands on his face still.

You’re so stupid.

Funny how he's strangely hurt by it.

It’s different coming from them.

Because when Mat says it, it's nothing. It's different. Inconsequential. Roe slumps a little deeper into the seat, pouting, fuming. Well, you're so tense.

There's a cross up their ass. It's a wonder they can even walk.

"It’s fine." He retorts. "Tavi’s stuff is clean."

Whatever the hell that means. No better dealer than another teenager who has no idea what he’s doing.

Roe kicks at the floor mat. Keeps knocking on the door handle He can’t sit still. He's ranting. Won’t stop talking. Antigone was so awful. He should've split with her after that first fight. But they’re over now, really over, he’s said that before but it’s true this time. Head on the dashboard, head on the window, pull at the shirt collar, it's really over now, her brother’s going to kill me.

Whatever. He keeps getting distracted. Weird that they still haven't fixed that streetlight on Nairn. He's not hungry, but he won't shut up. Won't stop moving. Vin pulls into the Amoco station off Banning just to get Roe to stop reaching for the glovebox.

It's a good move. This Amoco is the best Amoco.

Gas is a whole cent cheaper on this side of the tracks. The station itself is a stout little brick building. There's an air pump around the corner. An insulated ice bin out front. The car wash that stopped functioning back in ‘81.

But the real treasures are inside.

This Amoco has the all-day dogs. 8 inches of mystery meat. Watch them spin for six hours and then eat twelve of them. There’s a rack in the far corner with a backlog of Playboys. There’s a fly stuck in the fridge section, continuously smacking into the glass of the door. Little bastard keeps flying further in when you try to let it out.

And the Slush Puppie machine.

Beautiful machine.

Beautiful piece of machinery.

It’s the less popular version of the Icee. It's a smaller home-grown company, sent over for trial use from neighbouring Ohio.

The Icee drinks all come pre-mixed. The Slush Puppies, though, you get to make yourself. The machine just spits out the ice, and you pump your own flavour, as much as you want.

Amoco’s got five of the six syrups, because Wild Cherry's always the most popular, it never lasts. But there’s still Lemon Lime. Blue Raspberry. Orange Frenzy. Watermelon Madness. Grape.

The only way to drink a Puppie is to grab the biggest cup and put two pumps of each syrup in. It turns into such a sugary mess that you can’t pick a single flavour out. The colour is so atrocious that you can’t look down as you sip. It's an abomination.

Roe trips again.

Doesn’t spill the drink, though.

The fluorescents are so bright. Vin puts a pack of M&Ms on the counter when Roe starts to stare a little too mournfully at the cigarette wall behind the cashier. He takes a long pull of the slush and feels his teeth rattle.

They’re not allowed to snack in the van.

All it takes is Roe’s grip on the cup slipping once. Just a little. They look like they're suddenly about to faint.

So they end up turning into the middle school. Sitting in the playground, on the swings. Roe tells them about the metal slide and about Mat's untreated tetanus. He picks out all of the red M&Ms, and Vin gives him a funny look when he hands the rest of the package to them.

They don't know stimulants suppress appetite. They probably don't know anything about drugs. Because God probably wouldn't like it if you did. You don't even smoke. Christ.

Christ he wants to kiss them so bad.

When they held his face like that. Staring at him. Didn't matter that the gear shift was digging into his leg. The way they pulled him closer, the way he went with it, swayed into it. Even now, the way the light above the playground turns them a little sickly. Their skin looks like wax paper. When they eat one of the M&Ms, he can see the blue underside of their wrist slip from their sleeve. He tries to touch it.

There's a piece of pea gravel in his shoe. Annoying, stuck under the heel.

Maybe it's the suit that makes them look like that. The red. Has he ever seen them wear red before.

You can always tell when the Amoco gets its cherry syrup back in stock, when the kids start running down the street with their mouths stained bright red, laughing at each other, screaming ewww you're wearing lipstick.

The five-flavour combo gets old quick. Roe's tongue feels numb from the glucose. It's so much work to keep drinking it, to keep holding it, it's still at least halfway full. He never really wanted it in the first place.

Are they still mad at him.

Wild Cherry or bust.

He sighs.

"Wasn’t coke that killed her." Flat retort, side of his face against the swing chain, staring at their sleeve. "Heroin."

Did he ever tell them that he'd been living in a motel for nearly the entire time they’ve known him.

Well, surprise. Room 5. How does that make you feel, you suburban piece of shit.

Drink your slushie.

No, this part’s good, they’ll want to hear this.

Roe, drink your slushie.

He can do both. Get the straw stuck between his teeth, keep talking anyways, wipe his nose on his hand. He had his first kiss under those monkey bars. No, you wouldn't know her, she moved away. Lives in the big city now.

He stops halfway through another sentence just to groan and abruptly sit forward, head falling between his knees.

He digs the heel of his hand into his chest. It feels like his pulse is sitting right at the bottom of his throat. It feels like the opening baseline of Push Comes to Shove. Van Halen's sleeper hit.

God, that one really snuck up on the airwaves. And from their greatest album of all time. Sammy Hagar wishes he could sound like that.

What are the signs of a heart attack.

Keith had one. It must be something like this.

The bud of addiction comes from fear of the comedown. As the euphoric phase of a drug starts to wear off, it causes a bout of intense and opposite effects. Hangover to the power of eleven. Dopamine fadeout. Serotonin depletion. Whatever the opposite of being coked-out is.

Soon he'll be starving. He might get a bit of the shakes. Won't be able to focus. He'll be tired, but he won't be able to fall asleep.

And cocaine hits the brain so fast. Powerful, nasty, but usually metabolized within an hour. Which means the comedown is immediate, unless you have more to binge, to stave off the depression, the sluggishness, that fog. Long term use has terrible cardiovascular side effects.

Maybe two lines was too much.

Maybe he's dying.

Isn't paranoia one of the side-effects too.

But if he's in the comedown, it should be opposite-paranoia. He shouldn't be paranoid. It shouldn't feel like he's about to have a heart attack, shouldn't feel like his heart is about to suddenly just jackrabbit and explode.

Slush Puppies' fault. 38 grams of sugar's fault.

He glares down at it, fist still pushed against his chest.

Might as well take another sip. If it's here and he's here. If she's here. He's wearing yellow for chrissakes. He dated Antigone for over a year and never even let the implication slip that he loved her. He's good at settling. Adapting. Leaning into their hands.

It's time to go now.

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lucius branwen / 10 — fox
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bury me — r&v / in every universe Aug 21, 2024 16:50:38 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Aug 21, 2024 16:50:38 GMT -5

They're out of the cherry at the Amoco.

Roe drags along the pebbled ground beneath the swings. The boutonniere is still pinned to their chest, rose-scented wilt.

Would be nice if they could unfasten it, but one hand's holding the M&Ms, one hand's holding the bottle of water he'd insisted he didn't want. No, he wanted a slushie. He wanted all five flavours, two pumps each, settled for everything else in the absence of cherry.

The Pup cup in his hand looks like the winter curbs of February.

That's fine.

He says it's good. He's drinking it. They prop up the water bottle by the poles of the swings as he sits.

The solemn buzz of light ebbs to their corner, pulling out the shadows from their bodies, strangely distorted on the gravel. Feels like they're in some other dimension, like people shouldn't be at a playground at night. He's talking like a train, and they absently shake out an M&M, biting through the sugar coating.

There's movement. Roe's abruptly reaching. His hand lands feebly against their wrist, missing the packet of chocolate completely before he lets it drop. He'd already picked out all of the red ones, fingertips stained in the dye under the light. They hold it towards him anyway. Does he want green now.

He just stares.

Have you ever worn red.

"Yeah."

He's back to sipping. Brief lull.

They twist the end of the packet and tuck the rest into their pocket.

Are you still mad.

That makes them look over again.

Sitting slack against the chain, suit jacket unbuttoned, shirt a little rumpled at his collar, he's asking them.

Maybe. Or maybe something like it. Or they were, and the ache now is just the aftermath, that feeling pinned between lung and stomach. But they glance at Roe once, and maybe it's the way he's clutching his drink like a little kid, the way he says it. They want to laugh all of a sudden. It's ridiculous almost.

They shake their head. He stops biting on the straw to let out a sigh.

Heroin, he replies flatly, still staring at the same spot. The breeze rustles through the trees. In the motel, room five. No, he never told them.

They look down at the shadowy shapes.

He'd probably hate it if he knew. They won't proselytize, they've never really mentioned to him what it is they believe. But sometimes they will pray. At night, before bed. Sometimes. And they'll think of him.

Drink your slushie.

They want to ask, where were you going. On the road, when they picked him up. Halloween, when he disappeared for a night. The chains are cold, the grit of rust on their palms, a kind of numbness in the grip of it. The metal slide's edge glints in the dark. Why did you leave.

They don't though, and he keeps on with the ramble. Monkey bars. First kiss. The big city.

Roe stops. The swings creak under the shift of weight, and they turn to see him doubled over. They're already jolting up, crossing the distance so fast, calling his name.

He doesn't really answer, just groans.

He has a fist against his chest, dragging in short breaths. Then, they're kneeling into the gravel in front of him, hand on his shoulder, what's wrong. It's so long before he looks up, leaning half on the swing chain, half against them. The drink is being nudged towards them weakly. That gutter snow.

Have some.

They exhale out between gritted teeth.

Okay. Okay, no more for him. We're going home, get up, c'mon. They take the cup. Take the water. Unscrew the bottle and make him drink some. The slushie goes unceremoniously into the trash at the playground exit. The M&Ms too. He trips for what feels like the hundredth time, and they grab him before he goes down, feel the pulse leaping from his wrist, and walk him back towards the van.

They drive very carefully, slow.

It's a lot quieter now, Roe slumped in the seat. He's tilting forward to rest his forehead against the dash, weight straining against the seatbelt. They reach across the console, pat his back lightly, hand settling between his shoulders.

"Roe. Tell me if I need to pull over."

This time, it's their turn to talk. Have to make sure he's alive while they keep their eyes on the road. They turn on the radio to fill the gaps. The station's on classical, some string piece, Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra on low volume. It'll have to do.

The rolling fields gradually turn into sparse neighbourhoods again. First kiss. The monkey bars. Well, they say, you were there for mine.

He might've known that already, might've guessed even though they've never mentioned it. Was sixteen a little old for that? Arcadia was thirteen, that's what she told them. Some boy named Tyler who lives in Lansdale now. Well. Well –

They run a hand through their hair, chewing on the inside of their cheek as the violins swell.

You know, they start, staring straight ahead. When I was little, I used to want to be a nun.

It's very stupid. It's a little embarrassing. What five year old answers that when asked what they want to be when they grow up.

Back at Sunday school, over the kid's bible and the selected cuts of Christian media. The children's pastor had to send them home with a note. Their mom had to explain a few things. You can't be a nun because you aren't Catholic. You can't be a nun because nuns are all girls. Yes, the Love of Christ, yes there's that. But it's not like that. You can be in ministry. Be a pastor. Why are they girls? Because. Just go upstairs. They have to stop showing Eyvindr those Lutheran cartoons at church. It's confusing them. They're confused.

Creep of warmth up their cheeks, a little laugh. "I wasn't – I was dumb."

The faith-centered lessons for the little ones, they pipe up again, "But I did like Davey and Goliath. I think they still air. On Sundays." They turn into Mat's street, house glowing in the distance, tall oak tree filling into view.

It's fine, it's funny now. Why was that their answer. Of all things. Almost home, don't spill the water.

The radio comes in and out, static haze, disjointed notes. They take in a deep breath.

"Anyway, parents made me stop watching. Sat out."

But it wasn't just because it was technically Lutheran. It wasn't just because they didn't really know what a nun was. They pull into the driveway, put down the parking brake, keys jingling as they grab it from the ignition. It's very quiet without the rumble of the engine. The exhaustion's settling, something tired catches in their chest, and they stare up at the house through the windshield.

"They, uh, got sick of me asking for a dog."

That little cartoon. Boy and his talking dog. They turn to Roe before they open the door.

Don't tell anyone.

Laurel's thankfully not downstairs. It's Mat that's floating from the kitchen with a pop tart, paused in the hall, already home. He's still wearing the mint green pants, freed from the jacket though, freed from the ruffles and in a t-shirt. Got a ride home early. The girls were gonna go with the cheer squad so they don't have to drive back. Their prom party kinda fizzled out after the explosion of a break up.

And some weird couple got the junior king and queen. Felt like a write-in or something. Karl Jardens and Jane O'Hart. Yeah, farmer kids.

Last Edit: Aug 21, 2024 16:59:37 GMT -5 by lucius branwen / 10 — fox

tick 12a / calla
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bury me — r&v / in every universe Aug 21, 2024 22:50:53 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Aug 21, 2024 22:50:53 GMT -5

Roe wakes up with Mateo about three inches away from his face.

"Don't scream." He says, "I'm making sure you're still alive."

Great. Awesome. Roe groans and tries to roll over. Why isn't he at home.

"Vin thought you shouldn't be alone."

Awesome. Great. Why does Mat still have Superman sheets on his bed.

"Okay, asshole."

What a shitshow.

He remembers being hit with the punch. He remembers leaving with Vin, thinking he was going to die and then mourning his slushie instead. He remembers blearily looking out the window when they eventually pulled into Mat’s driveway, going I don’t live here, and then being taken inside anyways. So tired that he tripped at the door again. So tired that he tried to console them.

Nuns are hot, he'd said sagely, Elvira.

“Elvira isn’t a nun,” Mat says flatly now. “Why would you even think that.”

The main point, he’s reminded, and the thing he should be focusing on, is the fact that he broke up with Antigone.

Allegedly.

For real, Roe had said. For good this time.

Now Mat turns back to his page spread, just rolls his eyes and says okay.

Roe tries to smother him with his own pillow.

The next weekend, the next Saturday, Roe leans far out the window of the Pinto as Vin comes down the street.

No practice today. Mat's out. Don't know, didn't ask. Doesn't matter.

“We’re going to Louisville.”

They can’t, they complain, no way they can. Absolutely not.

Well, he’s kidnapping them. How about that. They have no choice, how about that. They can ride in the trunk to make it more believable. He’s already called ahead, had to use two bucks for the payphone because the bastard didn’t pick up the first time, but the appointment’s been made, they can’t back out.

What appointment.

Funny how they don’t trust him. Funny how they get in the car anyways.

Welcome to Kentucky says the interstate two hours later, after all the CCR cassettes have been played and Roe's had his obligatory snack break, after he's taught Vin to play punchbuggy somewhere on the 65 and then almost immediately regretted it.

He parks in front of a Pizza Hut, and then tells Vin to rein it in, not to get too excited because they still have to walk a block over. They can get a slice on the way back, don't worry, c'mon, watch out don't step in that.

A block over, he holds the door open for them. The neon sign above it says Iron Lotus, pink and glowy even in the middle of the afternoon. It's a teeny tiny nondescript place with a brick facade and blackout windows. But they’re playing Deep Purple inside. There’s pictures of Marilyn Munroe up on the wall, Jimmy Hendrix, Lenny Kilmister. Plants everywhere. Framed newspaper articles hanging above a shelf of binders labeled 1-12. There’s a full wall tapestry blocking off the back entryway with the woven face of a tiger snarling out at them.

The guy behind the counter starts yelling as soon as he sees Roe.

He pulls Vin the rest of the way inside, makes the introductions, Vin, Skylar. Skylar, Vin.

“Antigone’s cousin,” the guy says, fistbumping them. Then he claps Roe on the shoulder, “But we don’t talk about that.”

Then license he says to Roe, hand out and waiting. He snorts when he gets it, when he checks it over and writes something down. He manages to flash the picture to Vin before Roe snatches it back and shoves it back into his wallet with a scowl.

Skylar just laughs, clicks his pen. Let's get started.

Vin gets directed to the chair beside the chair. The mom chair. Because that's where everyone's mommies sit, Skylar says. He can get a teddy bear too, if Roe needs it.

Very funny. So funny. The friends and family discount almost isn't worth it.

Skylar puts the stencil on at the mirror once Roe's taken his shirt off. He eyes it, shifts his arm a couple times and then gives the thumbs up. On the way back to the chair, he angles to hide it from Vin, and when they lean to look, he shoves them, not yet, don’t ruin it.

He makes them sit on the other side, doesn’t even let them get a glimpse before Skylar hunches over with the machine.

The sensation is fine. It’s better than the stick and poke. He doesn’t actually have to listen to the needle pop in and out of his skin this time. Skylar does the outline, does some fill, and when he gets close to Roe’s spine he tells Vin to reach over, hold his hand because it’s about to 'get nasty.'

Roe tells him to fuck off. Skylar’s got such a soft touch, you tattoo like a girl man, is this the best you’ve got?

He squeezes Vin’s fingers when Skyler digs the point of the gun in, just a little harder, definitely on purpose, right over the notch of a vertebrae.

Feels like it sits there for eternity, back and forth, back and forth as the line thickens.

"It was mutual, you know." He grits out, very still.

Skylar doesn't say anything, but the gun does lighten up, just a bit.

"She can take care of herself." He mutters quietly, as he leans back to dip into the ink again, "Word travels fast in the family though, maybe keep that in mind."

Yeah. Her brother. The one that had already threatened Roe before all of the fighting started. Won't that be a pleasant conversation.

Then Skylar slaps his shoulder suddenly, not hard enough to really do anything, but hard enough to make Roe jump and yelp and swear at him again.

“You’re all done, dude.”

Roe staggers up. Skylar laughs, says he'll bring over some juice, go check it out in the mirror.

He stands with his back to it, looks over his shoulder to see Vin peeking at the reflection too.

It’s a raven. Trad style, mid-flight with its wings open, talons outstretched. The initials are hidden somewhere under the belly, in the curve of the flight feathers.

It’s a crow. Roe corrects. After the first Scorpions album.

The whole tattoo’s a lot more noticeable now. It’s larger now. Better. More professional, at the very least. It takes up that whole section of his back, feathers brushing over his spine on one side, just nearly curling around his shoulder on the other.

It's pretty badass. Roe grins, looks at Vin in the mirror, then back to the tattoo.

"Cool, right?'

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Aug 24, 2024 18:06:31 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Aug 24, 2024 18:06:31 GMT -5

Don't get your hopes up, Mat kept saying.

They took a break last summer too. Before school was starting again. Before the weather cooled in August. Before Roe and Antigone were home from the city, her initials freshly carved into his shoulder.

And remember when they were broken up through September and October. That was so long, it felt like the end of it for sure. But then, by the time it was Halloween, they were back to sucking face at the party, the jacket slipped off him, the tattoo in its little permanent lines.

Kinsey's very own Sid and Nancy.

Bury me next to my baby.

Sid wasn't a very good bassist though, they replied, watching the Gremlins charge down the screen. Mat just snorted, tossed them the controller for the next round.

They might believe Roe this time though. They might, maybe for once, staring at the wingtip touching his spine. He turns around from the mirror, and the crow disappears as he does. They keep looking at that spot when his back is towards them, covered, trailing out of the shop.

Classes are wrapping up. The end of May turns pleasantly warm through the afternoons, still nice and cool during nights. This time, Arcadia doesn't forgive them so easily.

They left her at prom. Didn't even say a word as they went. She moves desks and sits with Wolf for the rest of physics. Hangs out with the cheer squad at lunch, back firmly turned towards their table. They try to catch her at the lockers, but she'll slam it shut and walk the other way. They call her in the evening, and her mom picks up instead. It's not so much fighting as they're just not talking to each other.

Weird feeling in them. Tensed like a muscle. A fist.

It sits in their chest.

Before the last week of school, they put flowers in her locker, tape a note to the inside of the door.

Arcadia marches up to them in the parking lot as they're unlatching their bike, holding the message crumpled in her hand.

"You really pissed me off," she's saying, bristling like she's going to yell. And then she comes closer, lands in their arms with enough force that it almost makes them trip over their bike behind them. They touch the back of her head, her chin resting on their shoulder.

She keeps the flowers.

Arcadia's having a pool party the Friday before she turns seventeen, right at the beginning of summer vacation. Her parents are out of town that weekend to pick up her sister from college. They can make it up to her by playing a birthday set.

The thing is, Roe's not invited.

He can't come.

He ruined prom, ruined the diner. And now that Antigone's finally done with him, finally, thankfully, thought she'd never come to her senses, he's not invited.

But he's in the band. But they need a bass player, they need him, how else could they have a rhythm section. He's also the owner of the band vehicle, how else are they supposed to lug over an entire drum kit to her house. Mateo can't drive still, they can't take a car out that late at night without their parents noticing.

She huffs out a sigh, frowning deeply, pressing her lips together.

Roe's not going to the party. That's what he's saying now, partway through practice in the garage on Saturday, the amps still buzzing, the cymbals radiating up their hands. No way in hell is he going to be playing stupid Duran Duran covers. No way in hell is he stepping near Arcadia's house. And Antigone, she'll be there too. He's not going.

They're putting the sticks down, they're crossing their arms, taking in one deep breath before looking at him stonily.

Mateo hasn't really been as militant about practice lately. Hasn't been pushing so hard on the band activities. He's in a kind of weird mood, a little brooding these days.

Failed his driver's test for the second time, complained that it wasn't his fault that the cyclist came out of nowhere. And no one even got hurt. He probably would've been fine actually, the license examiner didn't need to yank the wheel like that. What an asshole. Can't believe he has to spend another summer in the backseat.

But he relents easier, more lax about the setlist than the last time. They can put in a few requests, fine.

June scrapes into the high seventies, gets warm enough for the pool just in time. Friday is supposed to be clear skies, sunny all week, the hydrangeas in her backyard are coming into full bloom. The dappled light sways with the breeze, spots of gold and green moving over them. Arcadia sits on the lawn by the newly chlorinated pool, going through the plans for the party. She has the boombox on with the playlist she's made, been into the new Tears for Fears album recently.

Roe better not do anything, she warns for like the hundredth time.

It'll be fine. I'll have to go home early though, they reply quietly. Curfew and all that. They wrap a blade of grass around their finger.

That makes her roll her eyes, scoffing a little. Because it starts at like 8:30, they can't leave at nine. And plus, they're not playing until ten, at least, when enough people will show up to listen. They're done being juniors. It's summer. It's her birthday party.

The light refracts off the water, glowing faintly. They stare down at it.

Well, what are they supposed to do.

She leans back on her palms, surveys them for a minute, tilting her head. Arcadia grins.

Why, have you never snuck out before?

Last Edit: Aug 24, 2024 18:32:36 GMT -5 by lucius branwen / 10 — fox

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Aug 26, 2024 12:17:57 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Aug 26, 2024 12:17:57 GMT -5

It takes way too long to take the drum kit apart.

They've never actually done it before. Alfer put it up years ago, smashed around on it a few times, and then never touched it again. Roe wasn't exactly convinced that the thing wasn't just nailed to the garage floor.

He'd only fiddled with it once, when he kicked clean through the bass drum and had to get a new once, had to figure out how to replace it.

The screws are probably still a bit loose. But whatever. He takes the kit apart, divides all the pieces between the trunk and the backseat, trucks it all the way to Arcadia’s, and then he painstakingly puts it back together under Vin’s watchful eye. He has to readjust the height of the crash when they sit, when it’s obvious they have to reach just a little further for it than normal. He’s under the kit before they can point it out, gets them to tap out a test rhythm, shimmying down on his back to tighten one of the connectors.

Arcadia must be fuming to have Roe’s car out in front of the house. Terrible eyesore. Almost as bad as having him there himself.

She makes sure to comment on it, in her offhanded innocently petty way, the fact that he wasn’t invited, he’s only here because Mothers Talk wouldn’t sound the same without that bass riff. Maybe he can move his car down the street to make room for other people carrying things in, maybe he can leave early, after the set’s done, it’ll take a while to get the drums disassembled and then all the way back to Mat’s and reassembled, he’ll probably want to get a head start on it, when the time comes.

Uh huh. Yeah.

Roe props up on one of the lounge chairs, sticks his legs out and leans back. Mat had followed him up the driveway with the case of Coronas but is still wandering around looking for a bottle opener.

Roe’s not doing anything wrong. He’s just sitting here, quietly. Not causing a fuss. Antigone hasn’t even seen him yet. He hasn’t seen her. They’re keeping it that way. Relax. Have a drink, princess. He picks up a pink balloon and spikes it across the pool.

Vin insisted on him coming, did she know that? They kept asking, kept wearing him down, he just couldn't say no. He couldn't let them down. She gets it. Of course she gets it. You do get it, don't you?

He beams at her, slides the shades down his face as the sun sets.

She stomps away to come up with something else.

It's been awkward, the whole outcasted-via-breakup thing, but Roe's great at being avoidant. Fantastic, actually. He's really good at it, and Vin only gripes at him once for skipping class instead of facing her.

Roe gets blessed relief from both Antigone and Arcadia, because one can't be mad without the other, obviously, except then Vin gets weird about it, kinda fidgety about it, keeps glancing at Arcadia four tables over in the cafeteria until Roe repeats himself for the third time and flicks the side of their face.

They don't need her. They could do better. They hate it when he says that.

The music's started up somewhere on the other side of the yard, preliminary bubblegum pop heralding Arcadia's guests as they start arriving en masse.

Someone sits on the end of Roe's chair once she's out of sight, holding a beer out in his periphery. He's pretty sure it's Mateo finally, until he turns and looks past the bottle, up the arm, the face.

It's Laney.

She's got two bottles between her fingers, waving them impatiently. She’s wearing a Pacers shirt and denim cutoffs, the homemade kind, hacked at the knee. She must’ve cut her hair recently, the way it brushes her shoulders. Year and a half since they were together. Almost two years. Roe takes one of the bottles. He looks at her blankly.

"Antigone invited me," She says after a sip, after she's pulled her feet up on the chair and made herself at home, "Pretty sure she's got it out for you now."

Like he couldn’t have guessed that.

But his quiet surprise must go on for a little too long, because then Laney grins into the top of her bottle, glances at him sideways, warns him, "Don’t go into the kitchen, by the way. Sacrifice is in there, they're riling each other up."

That makes Roe finally groan, and he sinks further into the chair, pressing the beer to the side of his face. The humidity makes the condensation melt off, drip down into his neckline.

Half the guest list probably has it out for him. That was probably the plan. Undoubtedly the plan. Ghosts of girlfriends past. He really shouldn't have come. But Vin's the one who made him come, so if anything happens, it's on them.

If Roe dies, there’s only three stipulations. The bass goes to Mateo. The band shirts go to Vin. The car needs to be set on fire and pushed into the lake Viking-funeral style, like they did in that Bond movie.

Give the old girl a good send off.

”How’s uh.. mh-

“Bentley?"

Weird how she doesn't sound that mad. Not like she did that night, like the way she looked at him, dragging Bentley away from him, bloody.

"He's fine. Surprisingly. Moved to Denver, some kind of private college-prep school.”

”That’s… good.”

“Yeah." Another sip. Mild. "You were a real asshole.”

”Javier could've at least taken off the rings.” And he points at where he knows the scar still is, just above his eyebrow. "You weren't that nice, either."

“Well, I thought you were cheating on me.”

Stillness to the way she says it. Halfway through the sentence it becomes less of a joke. She saw the obit though, and they had to put the name of the motel in for legality purposes. There’s protocols for when someone dies at your place of business. Paperwork.

Laney was right to be suspicious, it was just for the wrong reasons. She couldn't have known. Vin didn't even know. Mat didn't even know.

”I wouldn’t have done that.” The edge of the beer label peels up, Roe nudges her knee with his foot, ”Not to you.”

“Just to Antigone.”

Sharp, except her shoulders are shaking a little. Small glint in her eye. She's got the glass rim of the bottle between her teeth, like she's stopping herself from saying anything else.

They make eye contact and both burst out laughing.

”Shut up,” He tries to hiss as she cackles, ”Shit, shut up, you'll summon her.”

Laney was always funny. In that cutthroat, almost-mean, definitely-mean sort of way way. It’s the first thing that caught his attention. That bite. She said once that it came from being the only girl in the family, having all those brothers, she needed some kind of defense.

And Roe liked her. He really did.

Still does, he thinks, as she leans back on one hand, tucks her hair behind her ear with the other.

He can't picture Irene drinking a beer like that. Can't imagine Sacrifice wearing anything like that, or Antigone ever styling her hair like that. Arcadia might have a fit later, because Laney's got mud splashed across her shoes and up one leg, and it keeps flaking off onto the pool deck.

He wonders if she smokes. If she ever bought into that blue eyeshadow trend, because he really can't picture it. Anything frilly seems to exist in an entirely different world. He doesn't even remember seeing her at prom.

She chuckles one last time, sighing as she closes her eyes and tilts her chin up, “God, you were such a bad boyfriend.”

”This is gonna sound crazy, but I actually get that a lot.”

She shoots him a dry look for that. Scathing in a way that makes him grin back.

"Did she really tattoo you?"

Well, it sounds crazy when you put it like that. Sounds like an obviously terrible idea. What's with the tone. Judging, much?

But, yeah, he admits. Except he got it covered. Sign of the times. The label finally lifts, tearing along the glue line of the bottle instead of neatly peeling off. Roe crumples it up in his fingers, flicks it at her.

"You wanna see?"

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Aug 30, 2024 0:08:51 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Aug 30, 2024 0:08:51 GMT -5

Last summer, Arcadia would duck out of the ground floor bathroom window, all the way in the back of the house. She'd hop in the car that was cruising the street a block away, drinking Boone's Farm in the backseat as they drove to the party. That summer tasted like Strawberry Hill.

It's easy, she said.

The sycamore's branches brush their side of the house. They loosened the window screen in their bedroom the evening before.

Came home from school. Had dinner. Went upstairs to go to bed early. Yeah, they haven't been feeling well the last couple of days. No, no, it's fine. They're fine.

Just need to sleep it off.

On the first evening of summer vacation, they're standing on Arcadia's back patio, wearing a pair of white shades she tucked into their hair, wearing the cuffed sleeves she rolled up because it's a pool party.

It ends up taking some time to put the drum hardware together. Far as they know, Mat's the only one who's ever tried to move any part of it, in February, when they came back in the winter to that new bass drum. And since then, they haven't really told Mat how much they like it. The punchiness of it, the black oyster shell. The pedal placement he'd put down, same as it always was.

Roe finally finishes screwing in the last cymbal. They reach for the sticks. Then, before they've even hit the crash, he bends down again to move it for them.

There's a pause, and they sit back. Look at him, faintly surprised.

First on the set is Tears For Fears. Songs from the Big Chair. Studio version used a drum machine, so they had to pick through it during the week. The groove's weirdly satisfying, just on the edge of being a little odd. In the end, they finally settled on hitting a 12/8 shuffle, 6/4 on the hi-hats, tapping out the first eight measures now, and Roe gets underneath the snare to tighten it.

When the kit's assembled, he turns towards the lawn, but they step in front of him. They hold out their hand.

Car keys.

They're driving tonight.

That was another thing brought up during the back and forth. Someone needs to drive them all home. Someone, not Roe. They have to climb back into their house anyway, have to be properly sober for that. Don't want to fall off and die.

He stares at them, fishes the Pinto keys out of his pocket begrudgingly, slaps them down in their palm.

There.

They grin.

Mat's still in the house. They're a foot in the kitchen, looking for him, and then a foot out again when they catch a glimpse of Antigone, immediately turning into the living room.

During Easter, Arcadia's brother came down from the city with the fiancée and a Sony CD player in tow. Had to listen to him rattle off a bunch of facts about the tech over dinner, she told them, rolling her eyes, the first time they saw it. The black box sits on the shelf of the TV console.

It's in the same spot, wrapped in plastic though. Her parents would ground her for eternity if a drunk high schooler spilled beer on it.

There's a small selection of CDs at the music store in the mall. Just a couple of albums on the rack, twenty dollars each, her dad has one of Springsteen at home. Born in the U.S.A was the first disc to be released on American soil in the fall of 1984, manufactured right here in Indiana. Who knew the future would start in Terre Haute.

Maybe it'd be more exciting if we didn't just have classical pressings, Arcadia said, tapping on the plastic cases of the discs. God, the future can't sound like Chopin.

In her room, they finally give her the present, before all the guests arrive, sound of the cars pulling into the driveway of the cul-de-sac. Phil Collins album for her birthday, it's the one with the prom song, the very last slow dance of the night.

And it's the song they weren't actually there for, sitting on the swing set outside the middle school instead.

But she has it now, she holds up the iridescent disc, wrapping paper peeled. The sunset gleams off it in her bedroom, her face lit in the reflection of it.

Alright. Arcadia smiles, leans in to kiss their cheek. But you owe me a dance too.

By the time they get downstairs, the backyard's filling up. She links her arm through theirs, and just as they're stepping off the sun-soaked patio, they glance across the pool.

It is warm, even with the sun dipped below the horizon. Funny how the season changes so slow from fall, but so quick from spring. They can feel the heat off the concrete slowly rising. Roe's looking over his shoulder at Laney on the lounge chair. TThe tip of those dark feathers touching his spine. He twists, and the crow twists with him.

Arcadia's pulling them. She wants to go say hi to a couple of the graduating seniors.

Their very second party, it's a lot different this time. Not just the decor, the pink and gold balloons a kind of stark contrast to the beer-spilt garage during Halloween. The evening darkens, pool lighting up blue in the twilight. The stereo blasts Madonna. They very dutifully sip on a coke, and Mach starts saying something about how a tab of aspirin dissolved in the bubbles is supposed to be a quick high.

That's a myth, stupid. Wolf rolls her eyes.

But the New Coke is sweeter though. Tastes different. Has anyone tried it with the new formula. You want an aspirin, Vin? You wanna tell us?

The can crinkles a bit in their hand, tense as they turn to look at Mach. It's worse that they climbed out their window, worse that this party's only a few blocks away from their house as it gets louder and louder. Sets them on edge, and they're well aware of it this time, of how crowded it's getting. They glance back down at the dying fizz, smell of smoke drifting with the June green, the Wild Cherry wine.

Roe's still over there with Laney. Metal aftertaste. The sharp edge of the tab pressed to their mouth as they drink. Where is Mateo. They suck in a breath between their teeth.

Will it be like that winter again. Stuck at the screening of Dune, sitting in the backseat. Or worse in the heat, the burning depths. Every summer feels like a blaze, feels like the closest to the end of the world.

You could have a beer at least. And Mach holds up his bottle in offering. They can't. The tree, the window. Wouldn't it be funny though, the absurdity of dying like that. They twist the metal tab, distracted, until it comes all the way off.

There's the sudden pitch of voices over the music. Tati's squealing as one of the senior basketball players crashes into the pool, water spraying across the chairs on the deck. He lounges at the edge when she comes up give him an earful. Then, he flicks his hand, splashing her legs again with a laugh.

You're so fucking dead, she yells, kicking off her shoes.

The real pool party starts. One by one, people start diving into the water. Arcadia giggles, grabs their hand. They should go swim.

Didn't bring a swimsuit.

That doesn't really deter her though. She only shrugs, tossing her hair over her shoulder, a little impatiently. It's fine. Her brother has old clothes in the storage closet upstairs. The night's still pleasant, it'll be fun.

They don't want to swim.

They pull back. Maybe after the set, they're saying. Maybe they should play now so they can get into the pool later. Maybe. It's late enough, right? They'll get Roe. Find Mat.

The tab of the coke can is pressed in their fist, hard enough to draw blood, not enough to ease that coiled up tension. They're suddenly walking around the lawn, walking right up to him. The feathers very nearly crawl around his shoulder. He's glowing from the pool lights.

Slowly, their gaze shifts away from it, to Laney, to Roe. The flatness of their voice doesn't sound like them.

"Get up. We're on soon."

Last Edit: Aug 30, 2024 0:10:22 GMT -5 by lucius branwen / 10 — fox

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Aug 30, 2024 17:10:27 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Aug 30, 2024 17:10:27 GMT -5

He's got his shirt off again, showing Laney the raven.

She doesn't touch it, just looks, her face shifting into something very distinctly unimpressed as he flexes and makes the wings shift.

Crow. It's a crow.

What's so special about a crow.

Well you see, in 1972 Scorpions released their first album, Lonesome Crow.

They'd been trying to break through the hard rock scene in Germany, flopped until they found Klaus Meine to do vocals. He was from a Led Zeppelin cover band, played with Schenker's little brother - that's Scorpion's lead guitarist. And now Meine and Schenker are the only two members to be on every single album.

That's where it started though, with the crow. When Meine lost his voice on the '81 tour and they had to delay the album, when the doctors told him to maybe definitelystart looking at a different profession, Schenker was the one that said they weren't kicking him out. He couldn't leave. No Scorpions without him.

They're only three months apart. That's brotherhood. It's special.

The atmosphere changes like a wave.

Roe glances over his shoulder, at Vin, at get up, and at how Laney continues to look very unimpressed. Mat's aura rolls up with him too, like he was summoned, he's strangling a solo cup, strangling the damn air as he says a very terse hello to Laney and then immediately ignores her in favour of asking Roe where he put the amp cords.

Laney rolls her eyes, says see you around, Daniels as she gets up. She takes his empty bottle with her.

Nice going, Mat. What's wrong with you.

Doesn't matter. Laney turns to get around someone, slipping past the little groups still standing around, and they turn at just the right angle. Roe shouts. He shoots up from the chair, narrowly avoiding Vin, waving his arm so Marik can weave through.

He's immediately grinning, meeting Marik halfway, incredulous, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Marik points behind him, and Roe peeks around to see Siberite talking to Sunrise, enunciating something.

"He needed a ride."

Plus, he admits, he came to keep an eye on things, Lansdale Community Pool Lifeguard reporting for duty. Joking. That's a joke. He's retired. Hung up that whistle years ago, at the grizzled age of 16. Joke again.

"Oh god." Mat groans from behind.

And Roe actually does turn, because that's weirdly rude of Mat. Again. It's kind of an asshole move, he's kind of been an asshole all night. The joke wasn't that bad, Marik's probably just nervous to be around so many new people. Don't be such a dick, Mat. Christ.

But Roe actually does turn, and so he sees what Mateo is actually looking at, and why he actually groaned like that.

Antigone's walking up. Skirting the side of the pool. She's marching, actually.

There's that deja vu. Prom all over again. She's moving with a single-minded purpose towards them. Roe's surprised there's no clap of thunder accompanying her.

Would Vin think it was lame if he hid behind them.

His back had been to her. Shirt still thrown across the chair. She must've seen it. And that thing about being in the kitchen with Sacrifice. That too. He doesn't even want to know what they've been talking about. They're all ganging up on him.

She's getting closer. No one moves. Simultaneous prey freeze.

Marik's the only one looking around, and so Mat leans over to helpfully mutter to him, cringing, big fight at prom, this should be good, and Marik nods in understanding.

He still doesn't seem worried enough.

When Antigone’s close enough he tips his drink innocuously, friendly even, and asks, “Vin, right?”

Somehow that halts her in her tracks. War path interrupted. Everyone stops. Mateo doesn't really look like he's breathing.

It would almost be funny if Roe didn’t still feel like he was actively experiencing organ failure.

Marik's voice isn't exactly friendly, but it's not not friendly either. It's flat, monotone, probably because there's some kind of unsure reaction starting in the group.

“You’re Vin.” He doubles down with. Antigone's looking at him blankly, “Roe’s girlfriend.”

Then Mat inhales weird. Then Roe chokes on absolutely nothing at all and starts coughing. Marik’s hand is outstretched. Antigone looks at it like it’s something she’s found on the side of the road.

They could almost be siblings.

Isn’t that weird.

They're both very blonde, faces so neutral, looking at each other while Roe slowly maps out how to leave town, how fast he can get the keys back, how fast he can run. Maybe he can get out before the spell breaks and she unfreezes.

Mat's glancing at Roe now, eyes so wide. Roe won't look back. He laughs too loud. Slaps Marik on the back.

"No, dude." He directs Marik away from Antigone, away away, points at Vin, "That's Vin." Stupid. Idiot. Duh, haha.

And Marik just sort of makes a placid noise of understanding.

He reaches into his stupid little messenger bag that no one noticed, and Roe dies even more inside as he pulls out the BOYTOY belt, coiled around itself.

He holds it out to Vin and says, "This is yours then."

Vin doesn't really move, but Roe practically leaps in front of them anyways.

"Vin's not my girlfriend." He says, all in a rush, very fast.

And Marik, perhaps with the first bit of tact of the night, leans closer to Roe, but does not lower his voice in the slightest.

"Did you break up?"

"Wrong person." He can't stop laughing, way too high-pitched now, "Wrong person. You must've heard me wrong."

Because yes, obviously, that's it.

Roe did not actually tell Marik that Vin was his girlfriend. He did not go on and on about it, about the mixtape he made her, how strict her parents are so he has to drop her off blocks from the house, how she was so so mad at him over the winter, the fight was so bad, they didn't speak for an entire month, how he picked up someone else from her church, flirted with her cousin, just to get her attention back.

He didn’t. Why would he do that. Only an idiot would do that.

It was just easier to explain that way. He didn’t have time to get into the nuance of it.

Marik's not even phased. Never is. He certainly wasn’t the first time. He just sort of slowly looks between them. Blinks.

He doesn't retract the belt. He reaches around Roe instead, gives it to Vin anyway, because they still haven't really moved. Antigone makes an unbelieving sort of noise. Marik looks at her a little harder.

Because guys putting on dresses is probably some high form of anarchy, it's probably an elite level of protest that Roe is not metal enough to even know about.

And Sunrise is Siberite’s best friend, of course, and Siberite is Marik’s roomate. If Marik was that judgemental, they wouldn't be living together.

“Shots!” Roe says suddenly, so loud, hands on Marik’s shoulders, shoving pushing steering him away before he can do something stupid, like bring up that Public Enemy song, or the glaring faults of the Regan administration - the fact that Marik’s got the President's picture up as a dartboard at the end of the hall - or that stupid movie, the Some Like it Hot one. Because breaking the Hays Code was very punk rock, it was so badass to ignore Hollywood, Billy Wilder did whatever he wanted without producer approval, without board approval. More people should be like that. And now it's a classic. Jack Lemmom in heels, calling himself Daphne and running away from the mob, dancing with Joe Brown, agreeing to marry him. Roe said he'd never seen it. Marik said he'd figured. It's a reference to the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre.

The what.

Al Capone? The police involvement? Proof of corruption? Nothing. Okay. Dead Kennedys made a song about it. Listen. Anything the government wants to suppress, we need to uplift.

Even if Jerry puts on the dress.

And even Mötley Crüe, in their full faces of makeup, their giant teased-to-hell-and-back hair. Some of the shit Vince Neil wears on stage wouldn't even fly in Playboy. America's going insane for it. The tabloids keep trying to use Pretty Little Blonde Boy as an insult, they don't even mention the car accident, the vehicular manslaughter, the drummer. There's still millions of his posters hung up in all sorts of bedrooms all across the country. Neil's a sex symbol, a convicted felon, still made music with Crüe during his trial. The news only ever attacks the band for wearing lipstick.

They're falling off, Roe had agreed, and Marik just kind of looked at him, said uh-huh in a weird placating way.

He does it again now, that agreeable uh-huh, his tone making it very obvious that he's not actually agreeing.

“Shots." Roe says again, weaker, "Now? Now. Who’s sober enough to pour?”

“We’re supposed to be starting soon-"

“Just one. Don’t be a buzzkill.”

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Sept 3, 2024 0:01:11 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Sept 3, 2024 0:01:11 GMT -5

The autumn of 1980, seventh grade.

The first foray into public school.

First day. Half the kids already know each other from being in the same district for elementary. In the morning, they stand in the aisle of the big yellow bus a second too long and get shoved into the closest seat. But it's fine, they scoot towards the window, holding their bag in their lap to make room.

The cafeteria's very big, and they sit in the back, feeling not very hungry. They have a mouthful of a name, and it's shortened, butchered very neatly into three letters by the time it's fourth period.

That's okay though, they don't really mind. Never liked the sound of their name.

They're soft-spoken, they're a little weird. They carry a bible in their backpack and ask strange questions. That's probably how it starts.

The season gets cold quickly. It's a long walk to get home, but the bus is gone now. The street is empty in the afternoon. They're standing underneath the anemic trees, wind howling like a dog between the cage of gray branches, fishing out their books from the icy gutters.

One by one, they pick them up, he knocks them from their hands again. They still bend back down to grab the soggy pages of a notebook, tips of their fingers going numb in the chill. The curbs are lined with brown leaves, muddied with decay.

Well, he moves on from the books.

It's November, and they're sitting on the edge of the road, looking up at that eighth grader as he leans, tip of his shoe under their chin. Their palms bleed, smear on the asphalt.

You're like a girl, you know that?

They're not though.

He shoves them down with his foot.

In June, Roe's saying Vin's not my girlfriend, and Marik still looks at them, still gives them the belt anyway.

Strange how numb they feel now, even though it's warm, dizzy in the heady night, the buckle suddenly a hundred pounds in their hands. The smell of beer and chlorine wafts, splashed across the pool deck, and there's the steady sickness of nausea lining their stomach. Roe's laughing, like maybe it's supposed to be very funny. The pitch of it rings in their ears. The crow shakes on his back.

There'd been that peeling truck, the one that dropped him off after Halloween, the one they watched blow exhaust into the hazy morning, down the road as it went. They slowly look up at Marik, over Roe's shoulder.

And in the science classroom in December, the words sharpen in memory. Their fingers fold over the belt, nails digging into their palm.

Is it supposed to be a joke. Lansdale Community Pool Lifeguard reporting for duty. And also Vin's so sensitive, always been a little delicate, a little pathetic. What a girl.

Is it supposed to be funny.

Did Jesus Freak get too boring. Did it. Well, they've already heard that one too.

No one's thawed from their positions since the moment Marik showed up. They haven't said a word yet, clutching the belt too hard, and then Roe's yelling shots loud enough that more people turn to look. Some nearby senior's arrived with a bottle of vodka in hand, heralded by the call. They get a cup thrust into their grasp, and the pour spills onto the lawn.

Can't drink. Not supposed to drink. The car keys are in their pocket. The stupid tree they have to climb back up. The stupid tree that might kill them if they slipped from a second story height, impaled by a branch, skull smashed open on the brick side of the house.

But how bad could one shot be.

Cup raised to mouth, they don't get to take it though. Because Arcadia weaves her way into the group, drawn in from the shouting. She pauses to look from Roe to Antigone, then eyeing the curl of the wing just coming over his shoulder. Finally, her gaze drops to the glimmer of the boytoy buckle clutched between palm and the plastic cup in their hand.

"We're getting ready."

First thing they finally manage. Sudden. Before anyone else can say anything.

They don't want to hear Antigone, who's finally gearing up again now that her best friend's here.

They're shifting, pushing past Roe, can't look at him, deadened kind of movement. A small bloodstain's on the satin from the imprint of that coke tab, cut along the crease of the lifeline. Can't look at Antigone either, shoving the belt at her, gaze locked on Arcadia who frowns at the strange energy.

It's fine. One set, and they can leave. If Mat and Roe want to stay, they can walk back. Or better yet, Marik can take them. Roe's already been in that car. Apparently stayed over too. All the way in Lansdale. Good. Great. They're going home after this.

"Going to tune," they tell Arcadia, lean to kiss her cheek, stomach roiling.

The cup gets ditched, placed on the birdbath that's been turned into a perilous table. The soda's too sweet, gone flat, and they ditch that too. Halfway to the patio, they turn at a hand on their shoulder, stiffening.

It isn't Roe, and it isn't Arcadia. Mat hovers into their vision. He touches them, and they're shaking, one breath caught. Jagged piano teeth ribcage. Discordant.

The drums, they're trying to say, because they were taken apart. Because they weren't put back together quite the same. Because they need to fix it, the tuning. It isn't right yet.

Sometimes, it's almost funny how bad Mat's always been at keeping a straight face.

"I need help looking for the amp cords," is all he says.

They end up being in the Pinto, coiled in a deep corner of the trunk. Mat ducks in to shift the loops around his shoulder, that new extension to snake out of the interior they bought yesterday. The front of the house is marginally quieter, there's the drift of synth music coming in disjointed pieces from the backyard. They can see the movement through the windows, the house glow reaching the length of the driveway, long shadows down the streets from the topiary on the front lawn.

"Got it." He sticks his head back out. They shut the trunk.

Neither of them really move to go back up the front steps. Mateo inhales like he's going to say something, but they get there first.

I think I'll go home. Mat shuts his mouth. They stare down at their hands, thumbnail pressed to the shallow cut. After the set. Don't want my parents to find out. You can stay.

They hold out the car keys. And when he doesn't take them immediately, staring wide eyed, they pull on his arm, unfurl his hand, drop them into his palm.

"Don't drive. And don't let Roe drive." They nod at the Pinto behind them. "It's for the morning. When he needs it back."

The door opens to a rush of sound, of light, more people spilling into the party from the street of the tree-lined cul-de-sac. They turn towards the house again, and Mat shuffles after them.

"Well," he says idly, hand on the door. "If Roe and Antigone start again, I call shotgun."

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Sept 4, 2024 14:00:40 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Sept 4, 2024 14:00:40 GMT -5

They're getting progressively more hammered. The party starts to turn into an actual party. There's a beach ball being tossed across the pool. People are batting the balloons back and forth and still singing along to whatever mind-numbing pop mix Arcadia's got going.

Roe spends the small interlude trying to keep Vin and Marik firmly away from each other, which means that he keeps running back and forth, keeps looking like an idiot as he does the worst damage control known to man.

Do a shot with Marik and Siberite. Sprint back across the yard to make sure Vin's still where he left them. Ask if they want anything. Ask twice because they don't hear him the first time. Roll eyes because of the way they say they're fine. Well, okay, fine. Whatever. If you say so. Run back to Marik, who's drifted, who's started talking to someone else. Stop him. Stop that. Hey, remember the shots? C'mon man, this way. Cheers.

But they're starting for real. Mateo has to do the rounds twice, he has to physically grab Roe and start pushing him, because they're starting. It's happening. Death by Duran Duran. Except so much can happen while they're busy playing, Marik can talk to so many people in the span of just one song. Mothers Talk is five minutes long. The thought of Marik even saying hello to Antigone makes Roes heart drop out of his ass.

Don't be so dramatic, Mat says.

But then he trips, because Roe trips him. Because Maia is here and Mat's been drinking too, he's a little wobbly, he almost goes down fully, and it cheers Roe up enough to get him to walk on his own.

He got away with it. It's fine. Vin doesn't care. This is just how they always are at parties, too stuck up to calm down. Too uptight to let loose.

Roe's shirt's still tossed on one of the chairs, all forgotten about, all lonely. The strap of the bass's over his shoulder, warm even after the sun's been dragged down.

Mateo really sounds nothing like David Lee Roth. Van Hale will be so much better without him. And Roe had nearly smacked him for that. The joke's on Mateo though, California Girls climbed the charts so fast. Fast enough to hit all the suburban radios, lightning speed into the hearts of high schoolers, it's been riding the airwaves well into the summer months. Number 3 on the Billboard 100. Sixteen straight weeks.

Mat doesn't want to do California Girls.

Well, Roe doesn't want to do Duran Duran, and you can't always get what you want.

He doesn't want to do Billy Idol, either. Or Cyndi Lauper. God forbid Arcadia suggests a Wham song.

But after last year, Roe is allowed to have essentially a zero-value opinion of the setlist.

The birthday girl is allowed to make requests. He is not allowed to make any comments on these requests.

Would it really have been so bad though. If he hadn't gotten away with it.

Mat's doing the mic test. Roe never really got to explain.

He doesn't know what they actually think. Maybe they're just ignoring it, or they didn't really hear Marik right. Still, why didn't they even say anything. Surely, they should've said something. Even if it was just a whatever or a very funny. What if it festers now.

Maybe Roe should just. Bring it up. Maybe. Clear the air. Yeah, he said Vin was his girlfriend, but not in a weird way. Not in that way. It was an accident. When he originally told Marik, he didn't mean for it to come across like that.

The feedback from the speaker stand makes a few people look over, they start to gather, moving closer. People float over to the edge of the pool to see better. They're stupidly close to it. But they needed the outlets, and the drum kit takes up so much room, and now there's an extension cord looping across the pool deck, the perfect obstacle for the first dozen drunken idiots that stumble over it, splashing their drinks, splashing the chlorine. Someone's going to end up getting electrocuted.

It's good that he wasn't caught.

Caught. Like he did something wrong.

It's fine. He doesn't need to bring it up. He shouldn't. It's better if he doesn't. He shouldn't worry.

What he should do is get another beer and throw his empty bottle into the yard as hard as he can, just to see what happens.

It doesn't shatter, it just rolls into the grass, harmless, but someone still yells out a complaint.

They had to change the register of the Kim Wilde cover so Mat could actually get the notes out. Roe turns to lock in with Vin, tries to communicate just by look how stupid this all is. They barely even glance up - just a peek from the snare to Roe’s hands, back to the snare. Fine. That’s fine, whatever. Roe catches the gap in the pedal just fine. Everything's so fucking fine. He could play the six rhythm in his sleep, anything else he can just make up as he goes. The other two will just have to keep up with him, because Roe knows Mateo just loves it so much when he goes off script. It's not his fault the strings want what they want, the fret sings too, she's got a mind of her own.

There had been one practice, when Roe was playing around too much, being an idiot, and Mat had looked over, incredulous a little, a little weirded out, "Your bass's a girl?"

"'Course." Roe had said, "She's a lady."

Mat said no chicks at practice, and that was fine, because Vin wasn’t a chick.

Their name's Eyvindr, still weird, still funny, but that's about as confusingly neutral as it gets. When Roe told Marik that Vin was the name of his girlfriend, and that they'd had a terrible fight over Thanksgiving and probably weren't going to make up, he believed it without much fuss. Blue-eyed murder in a size five dress. He never even mentioned Antigone. Maybe he conflated the two, switched some things around, got the stories so mixed up that Marik's confusion is understandable.

He can't remember if he actually said Vin was dressed as Madonna for that party. He can't remember if he said his girlfriend plays the drums or if she's got her mind sent on a nursing diploma. He doesn't think he really talked about it that much. Surely not. They had talked about other things too. Marik has a collection of manifestos. He's got ancient second hand Cooper records. His third elusive roommate has a knife collection. Roe didn't spend every minute in Lansdale talking about his girlfriend. That's impossible. He shouldn't be getting this hung up on it.

Vin obviously doesn't care.

Laney's sitting on the edge of the pool. Roe didn't notice before, but now he does, halfway through the Honeymoon Suite chorus. Mat's getting reading for the riff solo, shifting his hands up.

Vin doesn't want to fill with him, whatever, that's fine, Roe's good at playing to the crowd. Halloween night, before it all went to shit, Shout At The Devil, he went up to the edge of the crowd just like Nikki Sixx does, bass slung low, showing off for the girls in the front row. Roe's just buzzed enough to do it again, running around a little, playing it up a little, doing a terrible little spin that peters out and makes him miss the next eight count because suddenly he's so dizzy.

But they set up so damn close to the pool. And just as Roe's backing up to it, very quickly, and as Laney's looking up at him, almost-smirking, Arcadia's coming from the other way. She's holding a flat tray of little pink shots, sugar flavoured vodka, sprinkles in the bottom, and Roe's back collides directly into her shoulder, hard enough that she shrieks a little.

The tray hits the water first. Arcadia loses her balance first, teeters them over first, and Roe flails in fast behind her because in that quick second of panic they had both grabbed at each other, counteraction making it worse.

The splash is huge. Two bodies and a bass guitar.

Except the bass doesn't sink the way Roe does, so when it hits the water, it sits there for half a second too long and he ends up smacking his forehead against the body on his way down. Arcadia's wearing something flowy that swirls as they struggle through it, stuck between latching on or pushing away, not wanting to touch each other but also not wanting to drown, somehow doing both.

This is Duran Duran's fault. That song from the first album. Lipstick cherry all over the lens as she's falling, and miles of sharp blue water coming in where she lies. What a shit lyric. What a joke. If Vin knew about the original version of that music video, they wouldn't be so eager to play it for their precious little girlfriend. What would their parents say. What would her parents say.

Roe needs to get out of the pool so he can tell them the only place that would air it was the Playboy Channel. How about that. Duran Duran restricted to R-rated Cablevision. Popular on Playboy's Hot Rocks, where they'd play anything that MTV wouldn't.

The chlorine burns worse than the vodka did, tastes awful, sits so uncomfortably in the stomach, in the lungs. It feels so weird to choke on, trying to take a breath and just getting more of it. Arcadia's hair is in his mouth, she keeps hitting his shoulder, annoying as hell, trying to keep herself above the water when Roe's just trying to do the same.

It's just that Duran Duran song, the way it sets him off, the way the water's getting into the bass, the way his head hurts so bad, his lungs. But that's probably the cigarettes. The smoke from the fire. That's what happened to Joe. Twice a month at the clinic before the breathing stopped.

Last Edit: Sept 4, 2024 14:01:05 GMT -5 by tick 12a / calla

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Sept 4, 2024 23:56:44 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Sept 4, 2024 23:56:44 GMT -5

Roe's across the lawn again, slinging back another shot with Marik, the sound of his voice floating over the pool. They turn to face Mateo, turn to face the patio setup that's the makeshift stage for tonight, jaw tightening. Their hands are still hovering over the drum set, aimless, until they finally close their fist around the sticks lying on the head of the floor tom.

Mat stares.

"What."

All Mateo does is let his fingers fall over the strings lamely. The guitar buzzes a little, amps plugged in, the reverb echoes as he tunes, pick between his teeth, and averts his gaze casually. He doesn't say anything. But there's a kind of mild expression he's wearing.

They go back to tightening the tension, tapping the lugs over and over, but it doesn't sound right.

Well, Mateo can't drive. So if Roe gets alcohol poisoning, then it's going to fall on them to get him to the nearest clinic, to spend the early hours of Saturday morning holding his hand while his stomach gets pumped. So it's understandable, really, the hot creep of annoyance in the back of their throat, metallic.

They glance over again. Roe's got an arm around Marik, and they accidentally knock the sticks right off the tom.

One rolls down the slight ledge of the patio, then a few short feet towards the edge of the pool. They go to retrieve it, and then Roe's standing in front of them when they straighten up, making them jump.

He never put his shirt back on for some reason. They glance up from his chest.

No, he doesn't have to get them anything. They don't want anything. Roe rolls his eyes, goes back to join Marik, and they stare at the crow on his back as he leaves.

Why do they care if he drinks too much. He was fine on Halloween, evidently.

He was fine the whole time they were sitting awake all night, thinking he was dead in the teeth of some corn field, the stalks wet with blood.

He was fine. With Marik.

Mat actually has to go over there and get him once Arcadia asks if they're really going to start any time soon because people will want to swim before the night gets too cold. They watch Mat push Roe through the crowd, and he's dragging his feet, looking over his shoulder at the little group that Marik's in.

Interesting people out there. Fun people out there. They try to warm up with just rudiments, and their hands hurt from the grip.

New Moon on Monday is Arcadia's favourite Duran Duran song, but they put Rio on the setlist because it has the best bassline. Holy Grail of pop music, rooted underneath all the synths, feels almost like a drum, how percussive it is. They watched Roe pluck out all the ghost notes in the garage during the last run-through, speed of the riffs almost hypnotic. Cherry ice cream smile. It's fine. Arcadia still likes the song.

But they don't watch Roe this time. They keep their eyes on the kit. A very dutiful, metronomic beat. The song reverbs into the next, they sit the four bars until they hit the cymbal intro for Kids in America. They just want to go home.

Roe steps off the patio, pulling on the cord, and that makes them finally glance up. Their chest tightens strangely, painfully. It leaves them breathless.

They should be focused on the beat, but their gaze shifts slightly, catching Arcadia walking around with a tray.

They catch the collision, the slow motion fall, the arch of the splash. The foam froths around the impact, beads of water hitting their cymbals in a light, metallic ring. They catch Mateo abruptly stopping, mic vibrating with feedback.

The crowd moves towards the pool, they're aware that they're standing now, dropping the drum sticks.

In Lansdale, there's the community pool. It's close enough to Kinsey for an afternoon trip, but they've never been. No real good reason to because Arcadia had one at home, and Mat and Roe had never really wanted to go. They're in Indiana, nearly landlocked except the tip of Lake Michigan just brushing the northernmost corner of the state. The largest body of water for miles is that fenced in, aqua rectangle.

Maybe that's part of the reason why Mat's always talking about making that trip out to California. None of them have ever seen an ocean. They've wanted to.

But they haven't been swimming during the summers, not since they moved to Kinsey, not for the last three years. It occurs to them, in a vague sort of way, in a way that makes their stomach plummet to nothing, that they don't actually know if Roe can swim.

In the pool, they both sink.

But it's the impact, weight of hitting the water. You're supposed to float up. It just takes a few seconds. It's not that deep, they didn't fall that far.

And Arcadia does, gasping, swimming towards the edge, her clothes billowing out in the blue-green lights. There's pink and gold balloons on the surface, plastic cups bobbing up and down to the motion of the water.

She grabs the ledge of the pool. And Roe still doesn't surface.

It's funny. They've been to the theatre. The mall, drive-in. Arcade. Why haven't they ever gone to the pool.

Does Roe know how to swim.

Oh my God. Someone's intoning, a little drunk, voice rising over the din.

He's dead.

And then they're suddenly at the edge, pushing Sacrifice out of the way.

And then they're diving in.

The world is so quiet underwater, there's just the sound of their pulse in their ears like cannons going off. They find him, they wrap their arms around his middle, pull him to their chest, sinking ten feet to touch the bottom, then they kick up from the tile to rise to the surface.

This is the beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

From Nazareth of Galilee, and was baptized of John in Jordan.

His death. His burial. Begin again.

Water baptism is supposed to be like a kind of resurrection. They learned this from a very young age. There's a version of you that dies in the water. There's a version that emerges, that is saved. The Holy rite. They remember the hands that held them down. Summer, eleven years old.

The air's cold, the first breath, house light like a heaven glow.

Swim to the shallow end, push him over the ledge, heave themself out of the pool with what must be a samsonian effort, but they can barely feel anything right now. Their blood pounds, bass deep. The water drips off their hair, into their eyes, everything blurring into strange halos. They're still holding onto him.

Marik's reaching towards them, his face hazy, moon-pale with the chlorine stinging their eyes. They snap at him, sharp inhale, it's a reflex when they shove him away.

It takes a couple of minutes.

How long was he in there for.

They're still holding onto him.

Can't let go, but Roe's coughing up water now, curling on the deck, breathing, and they finally breathe too. Warm to their touch. The relief shudders through them, turns into a sob that they have to swallow. They could cry.

It's incomprehensible between the coughing fits, what he's trying to say. Incomprehensible, but he keeps trying to get up, grabbing their arm, still bent over on the deck trying to clear out the water from his lungs. They press a palm against his back, pulse still hammering so so hard that it makes their hands tremble so badly.

Show's over. Mat's trying to get the crowd to scatter. Roe's not dead, you can all go back to what you were doing. The party continues tentatively, slightly dampened, but someone turns on the music again.

The bass, Roe finally croaks out.

What?

He takes a fistful of their shirt, pulling them closer.

The bass. Save her.

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Sept 5, 2024 20:37:23 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Sept 5, 2024 20:37:23 GMT -5

He can't remember his mom ever actually praying.

They never actually went to church. They didn't say grace over the table, never watched the new televised sermons coming out of the Californian valleys. There weren't any crosses at home, they never owned a bible.

Still.

It's not real faith, the Christian pastors said. It's these free-love radicals. It's these hippies, polluting our streets, claiming they've found the Lord in the bottom of a Campbell's can. How can they know Him. They're uneducated in the faith, they don't know a thing about Him, His love, His Kingdom.

But it was the peace communes. The scars from Vietnam. It was the One Way. We hear Jesus through song, and we love him through laughter. He loves us, the misfits, who have never been loved by anyone. We don't need scripture. This isn't something you learn. This is something you know. You feel it.

She liked that.

She liked that, until realized that maybe the Lord doesn't like to venture out of Pasadena very often.

Until she tried to follow him there, when she got pregnant and ran out of cash. When she had a son and was still alone despite it. When the drugs turned bad. When life took the same turn. When her son set their house on fire, when he got throttled and kept on biting, the smell of the smoke stuck in the walls forever, the Lord looked away, He followed the music further west, unthinkingly turned His back to the rest of them.

Sometimes Roe takes the meat tenderizer outside and beats the sidewalk and she doesn't know why. In his pockets, he carries the bottlecaps he finds on the way home and he meticulously lays them out on the street for cars to run over. He cried so much as a baby, but you'd never know it now. He had to be rocked for so long before he would sleep, he'd need the music playing, now he doesn't want to be touched at all. She touches his arm, gentle to get his attention, but he flinches and she doesn't know why.

Why hasn't He helped her, why hasn't He helped her son. She loved Him. And He loved her. When no one else did. She left home for Him, sold all her jewellery, got in that truck and didn't look back even after her mother said what she did.

The love didn't matter in the end. Maybe she did something wrong. Somewhere. Maybe she should've tried harder. Maybe if she had gone to church, watched the sermons, read the bible, done it properly, the way He actually wanted it.

She stopped talking about an ocean baptism. Love and liberation and freedom; to live is to work. You need to work. You need to do things on your own. Roe keeps flinching, she does too, but they're handling it on their own.

Keith doesn't believe in God either. Maybe that's what they need.

The water in California is supposed to be warm. The Pacific ocean. Unfathomable. Mateo only ever started talking about that trip because Roe said it first.

The pool is cold.

Instantaneously, he’s on the ground. The coughing hurts, as he shrinks on his back, as he curls into the fetal position, hacking and hacking and hacking.

The water comes back up, and that chlorine that stings so bad, some of the vodka too, a different kind of sharpness. The entire backyard is spinning, felt through a wheeze, the pressure's like a band around his head.

He's flinching again, hands on his shoulders that turn him, stopping him from choking on all that water again.

There's the eternal gild in front of him. There's the features that glow a little too harshly, too biblically, mouth like a bloody slash, like skin peeled back, red still fresh. Something gory in it. The way he can't focus. Something horrifying, an ancient sort of understanding, skin peeled back, bone.

Okay. He's dead. Dying.

There's no Kingdom on Earth. The angels aren't real. And if they were they'd be terrible, so cruel to look at, there would be no love in that beauty. Too alien. Too otherworldly. Can't look directly at them. Be not afraid, hovering over the landscape, buzzing like a streetlight, taste like static, cherry aftertaste.

Why are you all wet, he tries to say.

Marik gets in close with a towel, but Vin takes it before Roe can, they're helping him sit up and they're unfolding it, setting it over his shoulders. Marik is asking him something, trying to reach for his head except Vin's plastered against his side, they're holding him and their voice sounds so hollow, but there's a buzz under it, a ringing. Tinnitus is the call of an angel. They're shrieking. Stuck in the power lines.

He can't really hear right. He doesn't feel right. He’s leaning on Vin, enough that he should probably be flattening them. His body's made of lead. It's not cold except his teeth are chattering. His entire chest aches like a bruise.

Should he tell them that he saw his mom.

A gulp of water comes back up. There's a knife wedged between his lungs, he can feel it now, between every breath.

The bass in still in there.

Save her, because he can see it when he looks, vaseline melting, it's floating in the middle of the pool, bobbing gently. Don't just leave her there. Don't leave her alone.

She shouldn't be alone.

His chest hurts so bad.

Sometimes CPR can break ribs. It's common, apparently. Maybe that's what happened. He reaches down, presses against his abdomen, hisses. Painful, but not broken ribs painful. Not shattered bone painful. He knows that feeling. So maybe not chest compressions. Maybe not. Did they have to do mouth-to-mouth.

He keeps trying to blink the water out of his eyes, dazed, screwing his knuckles into the sockets, the whole yard's like a smudged lens. Heaven's still screaming.

He touches his mouth.

He’d probably know if they had.

He’d know.

And that’d be too cruel. Wanting to kiss them for so long. Missing out on it like that. Doesn’t matter that he could’ve died. That wouldn't be fair. That'd be a sick joke. Terrible labyrinthian evil.

In the beginning stage of drowning, the airway closes to prevent additional water from entering the lungs. It forces the body to hold its breath, to fall unconscious as the hypoxia sets in, as the organs shut down, cardiac arrest.

When the oxygen doesn't reach the brain, the brain protects itself. That's what the paramedic told him. She probably didn't realize it was happening. He didn't either.

He can’t tell them that he saw his mom. He can’t tell them that, lying there, they really did look like an angel. And the fact that that's not the part he's shaken about. Nothing so primordial.

It's not even the CPR. He'll laugh off the mouth-to-mouth, if that's what it came to. Because, certainly, he can’t tell them that the only reason he’s upset about nearly drowning, about Vin maybe-kissing him, is because he thinks he might’ve been unconscious for it.

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Sept 7, 2024 21:15:51 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Sept 7, 2024 21:15:51 GMT -5

The adrenaline ebbs out of them so quickly. But they hold onto him. Even when their legs are starting to hurt in the doorframe, even when they're tripping underneath the weight, tangle of legs, hitting the bathroom wall, and then sliding down to the tile.

Roe coughs again, violently, lungs like an earthquake the way they can feel them shake up their fingertips.

He's fine. He's here.

He is kinda crushing them though, a little bit.

They have to turn so that their back is braced against the wall, so that they're facing him. So that his forehead is suddenly landing against their chest as he wheezes. The window is cracked open an inch, air coming in through the slits of the blinds. There's puddles on the floor, water trailed all the way from the backyard. In the downstairs bathroom, their heartbeat finally settles to something more normal. His weight rests above their pulse.

There's a strange lump in their throat. They touch his back.

By the time they're out in the driveway, Mateo's fished the bass out of the water with a rake from the toolshed. He's wrestling with the drum hardware now, out of breath from having lugged the whole set off the patio.

It's tepid outside. Their shoes are squishing with every step. Roe's a little drier after they sat on the floor and tried to dry his hair off, the towel still wrapped around his shoulders because whatever shirt he was wearing is lost forever now.

It's gone. They're not walking back to the pool for it. It's lost. Hold onto your towel.

After five more mind-numbing minutes, Mat finally gives up and just grabs the entire stand of the crash, starts opening up the Pinto door, because it'll probably fit if he puts it diagonal in the backseat right. It's like Tetris, right. Or Trig.

Roe groans, sitting on the curb. He's well enough after the near-drowning experience to threaten Mat's life if he messes up the car.

They tilt to look up at the second story of the house. The lights are on upstairs, yellow smudge in the dark.

It's the autumn of 1983, and Arcadia sits next to them in chemistry. The church pipes creak outside of the bathroom, old radiator clanking awake to breathe steam on the first cold day of the season. She talks like someone who knows everything she wants. She likes that they're in a band. Has a crush on Roger Taylor.

On Sundays, she sits between her parents in the church. The little gold cross on her collar catches the mild sunlight, and sometimes they watch it reflect off the dark wood of the pews during the sermons. She says hi to them in the halls now. She waves to them during the afternoons when band shares the field with cheer.

The summer before junior year is very long and very hot. They ride their bike through the neighbourhoods, into her street, down the shady cul-de-sac. Those dog days are spent by the pool, languid and aching underneath the trees of her backyard. In the heat of the sun, she smells like hairspray and lip balm and coconut sunscreen, chemical but sweet, so strangely familiar. Arcadia wants to talk about crushes and pop stars. The pitcher of iced grape juice melts into the grass. They listen to the cicadas buzz, bodies built like a drum, reading through the Jane Austen paperbacks on her shelf. Her friends drive by, but they can stay, she wants them to.

When school starts, Arcadia breaks up with Jack. It's hard to explain, she says at first, on the phone, in the glare of the movie on the tv. But they're reading at the foot of her bed one evening when she tells them I didn't really love him.

How many people live in their town. The kids at school have known each other since kindergarten. And of those people, how many of their parents really love each other? Was it time, convenience. Did he have to marry her because they were at an age, and she did she have to say yes because they were supposed to. Have you ever seen your parents in love, or was that something that happened before you, something like a very old story, boxes in the attic, carried into the house the last two moves but never taken out.

All the lights on in the neighbourhood. Do they really know anyone who wants to be like their mother, their father. Maybe no one really ever gets what they want. Maybe, winding the music box in her room, saying I didn't really love him, she means I won't ever let that happen to me.

Arcadia kisses them in the garage. And they're too drunk, and too sick, but they've never been touched like that before. Strange that it doesn't hurt. And it's good. And they kiss her back.

The radiator clanks like a train in the church. They walk in the fine lines of twilight, and she finally says they better ask her out.

They're thinking it's a little crazy. Does she know that she's probably the prettiest girl they've ever met. That maybe the reason that they haven't asked is that it never really crossed their mind that it was possible, that it was something they could do. That anybody could like them so much.

They listen to her records. The intersection of what they both listen to regularly is slim. Starts at Bella Donna, ends with The Wild Heart. But then, there's the odd folk record she'll only pull out when no one else is around. Joni Mitchell. Joan Baez. Judas Priest did a cover of Diamonds and Rust. The band is named after a Bob Dylan song, did they know that. She smiles when they reach for it the next time they're around.

And Arcadia's the one that got them the Walkman. She's the one that taught them to skate. The only person who really calls them on the phone.

She was their first kiss. Their first girlfriend.

They weave up the staircase and down the hall. Faint orange glow seeps from under Arcadia's door. They knock softly.

She opens it slowly, eventually, looks them up and down, then huffs out a long sigh, dragging the door wide to let them in.

They sit on the edge of the bed beside her, wearing the dry clothes she pulled out of the closet of the guest room, boxes of her brother's college things. IU patch on their chest. The sweatshirt's a little big, but it's soft from age. The lamplight floods over them.

I'm fine, she answers, very tersely, when they reach to touch her cheek.

Strange how the party sounds muffled from up here, far away. There's a very long silence as they both listen to the laughter and the voices coming from below. They're thinking, suddenly, how they've spent a very long time in her room, enough to remember the texture of it even in the dimness, the nail polish on the rug, the paperbacks that have bookmarks tucked into them, the ballerina on the music box.

She crosses her arms, tepid in her tone.

It's over.

And they nod. And they know it is. And it was probably over at prom, when they weren't there for that last dance. And maybe, it was over even before that, at the diner, when they walked out of D-Jay's after Roe.

Did they know for a long time? And maybe that's been sitting there between chest and stomach, unnameable.

They still tell her they're sorry.

Arcadia softens a bit. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, slightly damp, dark gold down her back. She lets them take her hand.

Their chest squeezes. A muscle, a fist. It's a little like relief too when they breathe, like prying fingers open.

"Roe really owes you." A glance sideways, shaking her head. Though they're sure there's stronger words for what she wants to say.

They brush their hair back with a hand, curling as it dries from the chlorine. Well, how many times can they drive his car this time. There's three whole months of break.

And the wedding. They look down at the sweatshirt, pulling at the hem. They're sorry for that too.

I'll find someone, Arcadia shrugs.

They never really fought the whole time they were together, they don't really fight now. That's just how it ends. In her room, very quietly, after four seasons together, the beginning of summer creeping in on them. It's over. Their chest aches.

The car keys rest on the duvet, and they fold their fingers over it. Time to go. Mat's probably figured out how to load in the drums by now. It's late. They're probably waiting in the Pinto.

"I have to–"

"Go." She slips her fingers from theirs. "Yeah, I know."

Arcadia leans against the door frame, the light of the lamp a beam across the floor. Someone's shouting in the kitchen, people laughing, dream-like from a distance. They finally leave her room.

"See you around, Vin."

tick 12a / calla
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bury me — r&v / in every universe Sept 8, 2024 0:38:25 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Sept 8, 2024 0:38:25 GMT -5

Vin gets to drive all summer.

That's the deal they come to, very terse over a picnic table, very stilted in the heat. They get the Pinto whenever, as long as Roe's not working, as long as he's going with them, whatever the event is, they get to be the driver. Because they sort of saved his life. Allegedly. And this is the least they deserve.

Allegedly.

They want to be able to pick the music too, and that's when Roe gets up and pretends like he's leaving them there.

Nothing to do lately. The bass was toast. There was a very solemn funeral. Mateo got a picture of Roe holding her for the last time and Vin scattered some of Laurel's marigolds. They played Metallica through the Pinto's speakers

The last few days have just felt like killing time. The new Crüe album comes out on the 24th. Roe's making Vin go to the mall with him, line up with him, beat the rush to make sure he gets a copy. Sure, yeah, whatever, they can drive. Then they're going straight home to listen to it.

Something changes as summer finishes creeping in.

Something changes in Mateo. It's weird. Because Mat used to roll his eyes at all the old old records, especially at Roe’s outdated tastes, but now the little shit's been listening to the stuff he used to scoff at. He's evolving backwards, discovering things that people already discovered decades ago.

Like The Velvet Underground.

They invented the New Wave sound, way back in the sixties. So revolutionary. They had a female drummer. Warhol was their manager.

Roe looks at him like he’s stupid. Yeah, I know. Idiot. Who the hell finally clued you in.

Except now Mat’s listening to Stephanie Says, and to Foggy Notion, Temptation Inside Your Heart. Lou Reed's their main singer. He's pretty good, you ever heard of him?

Jesus.

VU came out February 2nd of this year. It was the first time the members of The Velvet Underground had gotten together to work on something in 12 years. It’s a retrospective album. It's just okay.

Okay seems to be enough. Now Mat’s prized possession is a second hand copy of Lou Reed's Sally Can’t Dance and he’s determined to hunt down White Light/White Heat too. He wants all the earlier stuff, nothing past '81, moving frantic like he’s under a deadline.

Lou Reed is a poet.

Okay, if you say so.

When he left the Underground, when he went solo, the decline was monumental. No sales. Downward spiral.

Did you know that his parents agreed to electroconvulsive therapy after his first breakdown at NYU, because he got so unbelievably depressed? He wrote Kill Your Sons about it.

Mateo loves the droll of that one. How the lyrics all stay in a single octave. They're heavy without being weighty. Melancholic, but genius too.

One night, he brings home some horrific type of cartoon on an unmarked tape just because Reed did a song in it.

“If you start doing heroin, I’ll kill you.”

Weird look.

“Mat, I mean it.”

What happened to Maiden. What about that five minutes of engine revving you were raving about last year. Who the hell are The Smiths. Talking Heads? Really?

Sally Can’t Dance is the album from '74. Mat would've been six.

It has an illustration of Rachel Humphreys on the back, reflected off of Reed’s sunglasses. She looks gorgeous in technicolour, and she was streetwise in the way Reed only pretended to be. Apparently she carried around a knife. She would tape razor blades in her dresses for walking home. They met in a drag bar and she was his lover for five years back in the 70s, went from Richard to Ricky and then settled on Rachel. They lived together with two dachshunds on the side of New York that tolerated that sort of thing.

Coney Island Baby was dedicated to her. It’s still considered to be the most romantic record of Reed’s discography. Remember that princess up on the hill, who loved you even though she knew you was wrong. Common knowledge that Rachel was the glue holding Reed together. On their three year anniversary, he gave her two diamond rings. Mutually abusive, their friends would call it later.

Reed went after the press after they broke up. Robert Quine, Reed’s guitarist, was friends with one of those magazine rock critics, the awful kind that wrote about Rachel a lot, and when that terrible critic died, Reed gave his short condolences, his that’s too bad about your friend. And then according to Quine, who told the story years later, it devolved into a forty-five minute rant against a dead man.

"Do you understand, Quine—this is a person I was close to. And he is calling her a creature and 'thing.'"

Reed was notably unpleasant to be around. 1978’s Street Hassle is eleven minutes of retrospective heartbreak. It's eleven minutes of grief. Don't you talk about her like that.

And then something else. Something later. He never talked about Rachel publically again, and if he did, it was some off comment about being able to put out whatever he wanted now.

He went “clean and straight” and he married Sylvia Morales within a year. He would write that his parents’ original purpose for that NYU therapy was to discourage homosexual feelings. It would come out that he was adamant Rachel not go through with any kind of reassignment surgery. He would admit that she had creative influence in his music, that she helped define that new artistic period of rock n’ roll before everyone forced her into the footnotes, and he played his part in that too. He never even said her name again.

Rachel faded back into the New York landscape and died 12 years later, although people wouldn't know it until 2018, when the Times released an article about the million unclaimed bodies buried on Hart Island, thousands of them being unidentified AIDs victims, and one of the names listed in that internment database was a Richard Humphreys, died in 1990 at age 37 at St. Clare's Hospital. Grave 23. Plot 205, section I.

Pioneer of the music world. Doted on by one of the most famous musicians to ever come out of America's gloom. Doted on by a very unpleasant, very famous man. Lost in an unmarked, mass grave for almost thirty years.

Mat’s got Coney Island Baby too, the love letter to Rachel, it’s the top of the stack which seems to be growing day by day until it’ll probably consume the house and everything in it. The record’s still in the jacket, and there’s a name written on the top of the inside flap.

Property of Javier Mercado.

Roe flips it back closed.

Okay.

So maybe it isn’t Maia. Maybe it was never Maia.

God. Shit.

How many times did Mat want to watch Psycho. How many times did he get all starry-eyed over Anthony Perkins, when Roe had to keep glancing at the wall, had to listen to himself say something nasty and feel Mateo inch his knee away. They're supposed to be making a Psycho III next year. Perkins is in therapy for his lifestyle choices, did you know that. Do you think the therapy will save the franchise. Do you think it will make him a better actor. How many more Harrison Ford movies are you going to make me watch. How about Swayze. Kurt Russell. Anita Bryant.

Mat had recoiled, how do you know anything about Anita Bryant?

Roe didn’t answer. Just told him to shut the hell up because Vin was walking back in with the snack bowl.

All that shit he did without thinking. Wrestling Mateo to the ground. Mat looking up at him with that weird expression on his face. Spin the bottle at Halloween. Mat had squeaked when Roe came at him. You shy, Izar?

Roe let him listen to a Sabbath album and they started a rock band together. Javier’s got him listening to Minutemen, to Lou Reed, the Smiths. What now. What does that mean.

Mat had been taken aback the first time Roe called Vin a freak, too much vitriol in it than was strictly necessary. Did he expect him to call them a thing instead.

He knows about the Arlo fight now. The bass drum. Arcadia. Marik. He knows about everything, how nasty Roe gets if he hears someone treating them now the way he did back then. No one else gets to call them a freak, or a thing. Not to his face.

Where is Rachel Humphreys now. Now, in 1985, just five years before her unnoted death. While Lou Reed is still off being his unpleasant, wildly famous self. He was heralded an icon for dating a transgender woman in the 70s. She's never listed as a spouse on any modern website, even though they were practically married, in all the ways they could've been. You have to dig to find her. It took thirty years.

But, Reed, a pioneer. A legend.

What about Rachel. How is that fair.

In the early 2000s, Mateo will end up making a movie loosely based around the story of his very troubled friend who passed away in the late 80s. It won't be all that good, and it won't be all that popular. Maybe it'll be a cult classic. But it won't be all that important to his career in the long run, the closest Mat will ever make it to Hollywood will be Sundance, but it'll be a cinematic two hours about the band they formed in high school, and about the weird kid that joined it, and how Mat watched, aghast, as his best friend danced around them for four years.

It could've been sooner. He makes sure to add in a lot of those almost-there moments, dramatic swells of music that are abruptly cut off when someone walks into the room. The actor playing Roe looks forlorn every time.

Why not sooner. Why four years. Why not now. Now, in 1985, when the pining is the worst and there's finally an opening. It's unclear in the film. One day, something just happens, the last almost-there moment comes, and Roe doesn't take it. Won't take it for a while. Even after that cigarette, the bathroom, and the closeness of that empty classroom, the bathroom again.

Thirty years after the fact, for the tenth anniversary of the film, Mateo might finally do an interview about his weird little indie movie. He might say it's like Roe just gave up one day in the summer of '85. He doesn't know why. He never got the chance to ask.

Rock Hudson had been having dinner with Ronald and Nancy Reagan just three weeks before his diagnosis. A year later, the statement his publicist releases says that he has inoperable liver cancer. Four days later, the story changes. July 25, 1985, one of Hollywood's best. It's not the liver type of cancer. He goes into hospice care. He can barely move.

In October of 1985, Rock Hudson will die. Reagan still won't address the AIDS crisis. In February of 1990, Rachel Humphreys will die, and then in April, Ryan White.

Maybe it was never Maia.

It's easy to remember now, how after Laurel had given them The Talk, Roe had to start sleeping on the other side of Mat's room. He was never allowed on the bed to begin with, but the sleeping bag got shuffled further every time. Mat started getting a lot worse at fighting back all of a sudden. In muggy August, they'd hit the record for number of times Roe pinned him to the ground and demanded no more Raiders.

When did he meet Javier. Roe can't remember. He can't remember when Mateo actually started wrestling back, when he scoffed at Roe and rolled his eyes at the teasing, got fed up with it, when he started glancing at Vin instead of glancing away. Maybe it was when Roe brought up Anita Bryant, when he said Mat liked Harrison Ford too much, maybe he was being tested without ever noticing.

Failed that one. Failed it miserably.

Maybe that fight was never about Dune. Mat couldn't stand Laney once Roe started going out with her. He didn't like it when he brought Antigone to practice, or when he picked up Irene, or when he flirted with Vin's cousin.

What would Mat say if he knew about Marik. What would Mat say if he knew about Vin.

Except he does. Doesn't he.

There's not a lot the Christians hate more than devil-worshipping rock and roll. It's probably the same for the Catholics. Every time Mateo glances at Vin after Roe says something stupid, every time Roe got shoved in their direction after Mat managed to wriggle out from under him, what was that. Was that a test too.

What if John Hinkley Jr. had really succeeded in shooting Reagan. Or, what if he hadn't tried at all. Despite being aware of it in 1981, the President of the United States gave his first speech on the AIDS epidemic in 1987, after twenty one thousand Americans had already died.

What if Roe had never carried that knife around. Or if they'd never gone to the drive-in. No fight, no bleeding, no Jesus staring down as Vin so carefully felt along his jaw. Would that have been better. Would things be better. Would there still be this feeling. Javier gave Mateo Coney Island Baby. Mateo shoved Vin into the pantry after Roe and locked the door. When Antigone had gotten mad at Roe, really mad, when they were both stoned out of their minds and talking about things they shouldn't be, she burst out into tears and said why them and not me.

They would hate him.

Do they know about Mat. Do they know about Roe. He told Marik that Vin was his girlfriend, and that they were on a break, so whatever happened in Lansdale didn't matter.

Roe opened their mixtape with Rock You Like a Hurricane. He wanted to kiss them so badly. Not like that though. He’s not like that.

Why did Lou Reed have such a change of heart. After Rachel, he told everyone he was going straight. He wouldn't talk about her. He married twice afterwards, cisgender women, only thing he kept was his taste for brunettes. A Times retrospective wrote that as the 80s rolled around, he renounced the theatrics and changed the narrative, he became openly heterosexual. It took him years to chart again, now that he was no longer publicly gay and no longer pretending to shoot up heroin on stage.

And yet still, a queer icon. How is it fair to call him anything else? Even after he tried to hide it himself. Is it even fair. Is it fair to erase Rachel Humphreys.

If Vin really was Roe’s girlfriend, would any of this still be happening. Would it matter. Would he even still want them, if the chase was easy and over, or if the goal was attainable.

Maybe it would be like Antigone. A good idea from afar. Alluring, but only when there’s distance involved. She was good, she wanted to be a nurse, still probably does, but Roe’s influence isn’t minuscule. He’s an asshole. He's unpleasant. His shittiness rubs off on everyone he comes into contact with. Look at how Vin had to start lying. Look at Mat getting into fights again. Look at how, every time they reached a week, things with Antigone fell apart so fast, viciously and violently. Just like Laney, and Sacrifice, the twins, Irene. Puppy teeth on the plush toy, he gets what he wants and immediately ruins it.

He can’t ruin them.

It would be enough to be near them.

Come, light my cigarette. Let me drive you somewhere. Make room on the couch near your feet. If you want one diamond ring, I’ll get you two. Doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to. We can live somewhere where they won't ask questions. We can live apart, even, if that's wha you want. If they ask me about you in twenty years, I won’t say a thing, promise, as long as you look at me now.

It could be enough.

Don’t look at the claw marks in the walls, how he’s gnawing at his own leg. He’s so good at ruining things, but it’s easy to just let your eyes drift over him.

Vin has Arcadia. They're very happy together.

They’ll have a life. They’ll graduate and get out of Kinsey. Roe will sit at home and fantasize about ruining that for them. He’ll drink himself to death, liver failure at 71, just like Lou Reed. A long life, but a slow death, a death that takes five decades to finally set in. Making it seventy years really doesn’t seem very lucky in the end. Mateo’s movie will turn out boring and dull and sad, and maybe he’ll fly Vin in to see it after they agree to take a day off from their work and their family in whatever sleepy Bible Belt town of Central America they eventually ended up in.

They might like the movie, they might protest a little at the use of Billy Joel’s Uptown Girl in the majority of their scenes, and they might sue Mateo for using their likeness and implying that Roe was in love with them the entire time.

But if Mateo makes a reference to Poison, and how much Roe secretly liked that trash, hopefully Vin would be decent enough to be disgruntled on his behalf.

In 2008, Gowan might play on the radio, Strange Animal, finally getting airtime in the States, and they might turn the dial, they might up the volume a bit and think, he would’ve liked this one. They might go out and buy the CD and listen to A Criminal Mind, and then backtrack so fast, realize Roe would’ve hated this, leave it in the glovebox and never touch it again, they’ll play Scorpions for their kids instead.

But because Roe is a horrible person, and because Mateo’s a decent one, he’ll leave out a little part of their history from his movie. After Roe put Sally Can’t Dance down, when Vin came over and they watched MASH until Mat finally came home from the study session that he told Roe was with Maia, the one Roe had ribbed him for, had said don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, and took Mat’s strained laughter as a sign of nerves.

The part that won’t make it in is when Mateo walks through the door, takes off his shoes, and Roe doesn’t even look away from the tv as he asks, casually, “How’s Javier?”

Mat freezes with a sneaker in his hand.

Vin looks over too.

Roe's got Coney Island Baby open on his lap, he’s been reading the inside fold, the producer credits, the little handwritten notes. Mat sees it. But that's probably not what does it. It's the fact that Vin's sitting there, feet up on the couch beside him. The fact that Roe's decided to do this in front of them.

And Mat's taller than him now. Roe keeps forgetting this.

He remembers it, very suddenly, when Mat grabs him and pushes him into the kitchen a little too wild-eyed.

Roe's laughing. "Okay fairy," he’s saying, "okay, okay."

He's still got the record and Mat's trying to snatch it back, looks like he can't decide whether he wants to cry or sock Roe in the stomach. He's telling Roe to stop touching it, put it down, stop being such a fucking dick.

And Roe goes oooooh like an asshole, draws it out, because Laurel would ground him for a month if she ever heard him say that.

Mat keeps looking over Roe's shoulder. And maybe, yeah. Maybe Vin should be here for this too.

"You were in love with me," Roe's still laughing, they're joking, he's joking, "say it, say you were in love with me."

Roe, stop.

Eleven minutes is so long. It's so long for a song. How heartbroken do you have to be to write an eleven minute song about someone leaving you, about choosing to leave them. The kitchen is so quiet.

Last Edit: Sept 8, 2024 0:49:31 GMT -5 by tick 12a / calla

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lucius branwen / 10 — fox
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bury me — r&v / in every universe Sept 9, 2024 20:59:59 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Sept 9, 2024 20:59:59 GMT -5

Vacation starts, and they start their job at the Kinsey Animal Clinic.

They're not allowed to work at the mall. Or the video store, or the theatre. And God forbid they work at the Fotomat on the strip. They can't spend all those hours anywhere that feels vaguely corruptible.

But still, haven't they proven themself. Three whole years of the horror of high school, and they haven't succumbed to drugs or drinking or premarital sex. And except for that little blip last year, they've come home before curfew every day of the week. They volunteer at church and make honour roll and have never gotten detention.

The money will have to go directly into the college fund because they're not actually allowed to buy anything. It's about work ethic and also responsibilities and also becoming an adult. But it's not about being able to spend any of it.

Fine. That's fine.

The very tired tech assistant asks if they're okay with getting teethed on by stubborn puppies and mopping up the piss from geriatric dogs. And so during the summer they're finally sixteen, they're cleaning kennels. They're taking the dogs out for walks. Visiting the cats. Two times a week, they still volunteer with the children's ministry, but it's better than sorting the filing cabinets in the church basement. It's better than detasseling corn with the farm kids, which was an option.

And they get to drive the Pinto.

Roe said he'd have to be in the car with them, but they were already biting back a grin.

The drum kit goes untouched for a while. The bass is gone. There's Cherry Coke in the convenience stores of Indiana. The radio plays The Boys of Summer. They fall asleep with the window open, to the sound of the crickets chirping in the soft, drowsy warmth of night.

At this point of the month, they haven't told anyone about Arcadia. It's not on purpose. It just won't really come up until the Crüe album is about to hit the shelves, until that weekend before, when Mat will ask about the wedding they're supposed to be going to, all of them lounging on the couch in the early evening.

Aren't they supposed to be at a vineyard or something. How are they driving Roe to the mall instead.

It'll be very casual, it'll be unceremonious. They will say we broke up two weeks ago without even looking away from the tv, and everyone will move on.

Out of everything that will happen during the summer, it'll probably be the least important thing.

But right now, before any of that, it's late afternoon when they bike over to Mat's, and it's just Roe that's home. He has one of Mat's new records in his lap, and they watch M*A*S*H absently, pulling a cushion to their middle.

The door creaks open. Roe suddenly says how's Javier, and then Mat's yanking him up by the shirt.

It's very audible actually, from the living room, their voices in the kitchen.

They get up so slowly.

It takes so long to get there.

Heaven is an interpretation. It is a book you read.

If you ask a question to your pastor, it'll probably also be a question that theologians have spent very long trying to answer.

A dog is sinless. It is not righteous, but it will not be condemned. The Lord has created every animal on earth. Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. Our God is in the heavens: he hath done whatsoever he hath pleased.

A dog does not believe in God. It does not have an eternal soul, and therefore it does not have an afterlife. Like sheep they are laid in the grave; death shall feed on them; and the upright shall have dominion over them in the morning; and their beauty shall consume in the grave from their dwelling. But God will redeem my soul from the power of the grave: for he shall receive me. Leave the worldly things that hold you down. The love of the Lord will be enough, and you will miss nothing, want for nothing.

A dog sees God everywhere. Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth? A dog fears with the slant of love, it is fed by you and thinks this must be God, it sleeps in the warmth of the foot of the bed and thinks this must be God. The ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master's crib. And your dog too, will wait outside your door.

What happens when your heaven is not my heaven. What happens when your dog dies, and your pastor says you won't remember him in heaven anyway, so don't worry about it kid.

Okay.

They're standing in the frame of the kitchen, Roe holding Coney Island Baby.

Some sins are worse than other sins. There's probably not enough room in hell for everyone that owns a Joan Jett record. That's the kind of sin that Jesus Christ died for. So that Americans could listen to rock and roll and drink coffee in the mornings.

They go home one day in middle school and ask their parents what a word means, and they get very angry. It feels like they've done something wrong, so they very innately know they have to lie. Just heard it around the playground. That's all.

It's very bad, and it just has something to do with the way they are. But it's okay because it isn't true.

Some sins are worse than other sins. It's strange how it changes.

New school, eleventh grade. It's okay if they show up to Halloween with their eyes painted, if their mouth is stained red from the smudge of lipstick, if they have glitter on their cheeks. That's just rock and roll now, that's just heavy metal. And that's okay because they like girls.

Roe kisses Mat on Halloween. But that's just spin the bottle, that's what they told Nessa, wasn't it. They were all so drunk. That's okay because they both like girls.

It isn't true.

You were in love with me, Roe laughs. Mat stops trying to reach for the record, and they stop moving.

It is a book you read. And the book is final.

When I say unto the wicked, Thou shalt surely die; and thou givest him not warning, nor speakest to warn the wicked from his wicked way, to save his life; the same wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thine hand.

The Christian duty is to spread the gospel of Jesus Christ. Let Him save you.

But what if they can't. What if he doesn't want to be saved. What if they pray and pray and it cannot be changed. What then.

Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. You will not remember him, you will have no room for him in the glory that fills you. Or maybe, up in heaven, you will regard him with the perspective of God, looking down. And you will have acceptance of the path chosen by the sinner, free from earthly temptations.

But what about now, in the kitchen.

Roe might say Neil Peart is their favourite drummer. He's probably right. And Mat would know, for reasons entirely unrelated to drumming, because they're actually a little more sentimental than they let on, it's Nicko McBrain. And he would be right.

So what about now. In the kitchen. When they're still here, when three years ago they might've not been. When it was Mat who followed them out of the school and gave them the Maiden tape, let them join the band when they couldn't actually play. Who went over every record of his collection so very eagerly, who wanted them there for some reason. Mat, who was their very first friend.

"What do you mean?" They're asking, softly, stilted. Mateo turns over his shoulder to look at them.

It takes so long, the understanding. It takes the whole trek from the living room, and the lengthy silence, Roe just holding that record. It takes sixteen years of being that dust from the ground, life breathed in by God, formed in the shape of God.

Their pastor said you will never see him again. They were thirteen.