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lucius branwen / 10 — fox
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bury me — r&v / in every universe Jun 15, 2024 20:29:45 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 15, 2024 20:29:45 GMT -5

Truth is, Roe was mean from the beginning. Since the first day. Such a pain in the ass.

They still joined the band. They still did whatever he wanted, played whatever he wanted. They still kept the lighter so he'd lean towards them and let the end of his cigarette touch the flame. They still have his shirt from church in the back of their closet, buried underneath all the summer clothes. They have the mixtape he made for them, they have the one they're making for him now. His hand loosens off their wrist suddenly, the edge of a desk cuts into their back.

You've just been lying there and taking it, accusatorial tone, mocking tone. Roe's close enough that they can't see anything else. The air is combustible, they forget to breathe. Closer than even when they had their hands on his face in the bathroom, on his brow, their fingers coming away red.

It felt like was they shouldn't be touching him. Could never touch him like that again. There was blood on their hands when they pulled away.

They're still shaking.

Maybe he's right. It's a lot like fear. Lives in the same place in the body. How can you tell the difference when you can't look at the thing you want?

And what does fear of the Lord mean? They've read about it a million times since they were a kid. Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? Come, ye children, hearken unto me: I will teach you the fear of the Lord. And why must they be so afraid?

He's so close now that their hand is raised halfway, unthinking.

They're burning, they're angry. He leans down and there's the drop of his shadow, liquid over them, painful to hold his gaze. They can't look at anything else, it's like the flash blindness Vali always used to talk about. The greatness of the Lord. You're not supposed to see Him. For there shall no man see me, and live.

But they still joined the band. They still stayed. When he plays, Roe never hangs too long on a note, he brings the action up because he’ll dig so deep that the strings end up slapping against the fret. They like the way he turns to look at them before key changes, fine even if he doesn't, they'll still watch the way his hands move across the bass anyway. They have, since the beginning.

And what do you really call that? Is it the same thing? Did they just want him to like them because they were scared?

They've bitten the inside of their cheek raw, the pain settling. He's always been a little mean, fine. They already know this. If Roe wasn't so close, if they were allowed a little space, if they could catch their breath and try not to think about lying on that road, they could come back tomorrow with the feeling swallowed. They could apologize for bringing Arcadia to practice, for yelling at him now. They could take it.

After so many Saturdays, they know when he'll change the chord by now. They should've seen this coming.

I left that night because of you.

The tone's different.

"What?"

Barely audible, they recoil, let their hand drop, grip the table edge instead. I thought about not even coming back. I could've stayed there with him.

The car in the driveway, someone was driving him home. Someone after a long night. I left that night because of you. It's so fast how the anger changes. How the fire burns out into something freezing. They can feel their stomach drop, the warmth draining from their cheeks. They can't move.

You are miserable to be around.

He doesn't mean it. He does though. Maybe it's true. Maybe there's something wrong with them. Little nuclear family in the suburbs, the good part of town. They've got two cars in the garage and a nice big room. What's there to complain about really? Why did they have to move across the state? Out of the old school district? Now their room in this house has a door on it, it didn't before. Now breaking their sticks and running their hands on paper's the worst thing they've done this year. The scars are below the hip, can't see them. Kept pressing the bruise on their leg in the summer, did it almost feel the same? Can you pray that away, can God forgive that? Weak in faith, was what their pastor said. So really, actually, what is wrong with them.

Everything is fine now. Everything has been fine. They're good in school, they come home on time, go to church, rinse and repeat. The Reagan ad. And Arcadia is great, she's so nice. And they should feel very normal, they shouldn't be here, feeling so sick all the time.

What is there to complain about honestly.

They really can't breathe.

Maybe they shouldn't be in the band.

Maybe they've strayed away from the faith too much. Now it's time for the restoration of a straying believer. God loves us enough to redeem us, right?

Maybe they shouldn't have been lying the whole year, or gone to Halloween, or done so many things that they haven't even really confessed to. When was the last time they really prayed, not just going through the motions of it in the morning, on Sunday. When was the last time they felt guiltless.

And for what.

After all of it, Roe's just here to tell them it was a mistake.

Maybe the problem is this.

They don't even recognize their voice. Just comes out of them, they're not yelling anymore. There's not enough air in their chest to manage that.

"Go to hell."

It's a little numb, how they push past him. They get to the door finally, they don't have to look at him finally. The room's spinning, wavering. They're reaching for the handle, glancing some place past him, at the posters pinned to the wall, diagram of the circulatory system. They can barely feel the pulse in them. Are you sure that's where the heart is. Their chest is lead. "You don't have to be miserable anymore."

The bell rings. They open the door.

"I quit."

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Jun 16, 2024 1:24:47 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Jun 16, 2024 1:24:47 GMT -5

Vin stays good on their word. Roe doesn’t see them at Mat’s for a week. Two weeks. He doesn’t see them at lunch, but that's because he stops showing. Antigone doesn't say if they're there or not. He doesn’t see them in class either because he’s busy and isn’t there.

He doesn't see a lot of people. He'll still skulk over to Mateo's when he knows Vin won't be there, and he goes to Antigone when he knows they will be. There aren't any other girls now. That fun's over. It didn't work, might as well stop. Jig's up. No sense in trying to have a good time now that there's no one watching. He goes through the logic of it all, numb.

So it's just Mat, whenever he's in a good enough mood to let Roe in. And it's just Antigone, whenever she's in a good enough mood to let Roe in.

He starts thinking of taking a trip east again, 11 miles down the 135, he's not thinking of much else. He's not thinking of Vin. Can't, actually. Really. They quit. Good. Fine. Their playing was shit. Their attitude was shit. Now Roe doesn't ever have to deal with them again, as long as he avoids them, doesn't have to look at them, doesn't have to think about him. There's plenty of other things to think about. Plenty of other things to look at.

Tavi deals, actually, and Roe gets to know him quite well.

Most articles from the late 70s still claim coke as non-addictive. By 1982, there were 10.2 million cocaine users in the US alone. Public releases would keep labelling it as harmless until early 1985. Because it wasn't until then that things got serious, when crack really entered the scene. First in Miami. In Los Angeles. In New York. The people take cocaine, they take water and baking soda, they cook it down into something solid. It becomes a million times more affordable that way, but a million times more dangerous. It becomes the working class’s drug, who cares if it kills them off, at least Lou Reed will be fine. At least the A-listers can keep their heavy doses of elitism. The rabble keeps away from their powder, they cut it to make it last.

The crisis lasts well into the 90s. Congress has to step in. Reagan signs the Anti-Drug Abuse Act. Powder cocaine becomes irrelevant and the difference in possession sentences shifts to something remarkable. In comparison, powder becomes almost safe to sell. Getting caught with it will only get you months. Crack will get you decades.

It’s nearly impossible to describe the normalization of it. The availability of it. How delayed the public concern was. It became the rival to heroin, then it surpassed it. Even when the purity improvements meant that street heroin could be smoked and snorted, when it was placed in the hands of a new crowd with no needle required. Even when it was no longer just the criminal’s choice. It still wasn't quite enough to shake the king.

Nixon had the wrong focus all along. Reagan couldn't reroute fast enough. Speed was still buried in the clubs. The LSD stayed in San Francisco. People were dying, and America was cracking.

Roe's the one that calls the ambulance this time.

She's already dead though, probably since the morning, when he left for the shift at the gas station.

It's a regular Thursday. The weather's fine despite it being the middle of December. The snow that's on the ground is still pretty light and the wind keeps swirling it up into funnels, none of it's sticky enough for building yet. It's a regular Thursday, and Keith is out of the picture now, and that's good. Things will get better. All things get better, eventually.

Roe gave Mat his Bunnymen tape back on Tuesday, said he found it under the passenger seat of the car, must've left it there or something. Doesn't matter, just take it back. Don't forget it next time.

Boris asks if he needs some time off. Meredith and Al both keep eyeing him at work, edging their way around him, delicate in a way they've never been before. Mat plainly tells him he looks like shit. He's still mad about the party, and about losing a drummer. He can't believe that whatever Roe said to Vin was enough to make them just quit like that. Antigone loses patience with it all rather quickly. She doesn't have time for him moping. He can come back and find her when he's done.

It's just a Thursday though. It's a regular Thursday, and Roe gets off work and goes back to the motel and he's so tired that he just wants to fall face down in the parking lot snowdrift and stay there. But he doesn't. He unlocks the door to room five, he kicks his shoes off, dumps his jacket on the chair by the window and dumps the leftovers from the restaurant on the table beside the chair. The tv's playing a re-run of Laverne & Shirley. It's one of the California episodes, from after they moved away from Wisconsin, but before Cindy Williams tried to sue Paramount.

It's Edna and Frank's 5th wedding anniversary. They all think he's forgotten. The party's a disaster. The trailer keeps rocking.

The only phone in the motel is still the one in the front office. There's someone trying to haggle a room price in the lobby when Roe bursts in through the door. The tourist turns to look at him, the owner's already turning heavenward, but there's no colour in Roe's face, and he's panting, and he's swaying, he's rushing through the entrance and stuttering incoherently for the phone, for the ambulance, 911.

They come. It takes about twenty minutes. Nothing they can do though.

The paramedic tries to explain about convulsants, and about respiratory arrest, seizures, how when the oxygen doesn't reach the brain, the brain protects itself. She probably didn't realize it was happening. She probably didn't feel it. And there won't be any legal problems, you don't have to worry about that, because they can't charge a dead woman. Roe won't get it either, because he's still underage and no court can prove who the drugs actually belonged to.

They won't even take her to the hospital. She's gone. Been gone for hours. They won't know the actual time of death until they do the autopsy, so for now it's just Thursday. December 13th. Christmas is in less than two weeks. Roe watches the paramedics load his mom's body into the ambulance and take it away and he stands there outside the room for a very long time. The motel owner and the tourist and the rest of the little gathered crowd of guests eventually go back inside.

They've already contacted social services, the paramedic said. They'll be sending someone within an hour, and Roe will need to tell them his next of kin, they'll have to send him somewhere. The police are on their way too, for everything that needs to be confiscated. They'll probably want to ask some questions. But it's the 80s. It's a small town. Things move slowly.

Roe leaves before anyone shows up.

He leaves the car and walks to Mateo's. Mat'll be home from school by now. He'll probably be playing Atari or reading a comic or watching Star Wars again, because if there's one thing Roe can count on, it's that Mat is undyingly consistent in his lameness. Roe doesn't even knock on the door, he just walks in, kicks off his shoes and dumps his jacket on the coat rack by the window.

It doesn't even cross his mind that Vin could be there.

They're not.

But, still, they could've been.

Doesn't matter.

Roe moves mechanically down the hall, to Mateo's room, where the door is half closed and Mat's lying on his duvet with a copy of Playboy tucked into a copy of Superman #400. He looks up, surprised, then starts to complain when Roe walks over and tries to crawl into his bed. He stops suddenly though, after he sees Roe's expression, he stops trying to shove him out from the sheets after Roe turns and presses his face into them.

He eventually starts crying. He eventually stops. Mateo bounces between frantic questioning and awkward attempts at comfort, eventually he just settles on sitting there and saying nothing.

They must stay there for an hour at least.

Laurel gets home from work, and the moment she sets foot in Mateo's room, Roe starts sobbing again. He tries to burrow all the way through the mattress, pulls Mat's bedding around him so tightly that the stitches strain. Laurel touches where the back of his head peeks out as Mat says something above him. It feels like there's ten pounds of pressure pushing against his skull, against his chest. Feels like he can't breathe.

I hated her anyways, he says into Mateo's thigh, when suffocating in the duvet isn't enough anymore, I knew it was coming. We knew.

He's eventually coaxed out. Just for food, if nothing else. They go out into the living room and Mat puts something mindless on so that Roe can just lie there and pretend to watch it.

He promises that he’ll pay for a new bass drum. Because he kicked the one still sitting in the garage. Broke it. It’s fine, Mat says. Vin hasn’t been coming around to play anyways.

But, they'll be over later, he remarks casually. They have a project to work on. Roe should stay. It might help keep his mind off… everything else.

Mat keeps looking forward at the tv, doesn't acknowledge his stumble.

Roe doesn't acknowledge it either.

Vin is coming over. They won't want to see him. He doesn't want to see them. He wants to hide back in Mateo's bed, wants to climb into the snowbank and let it drift over him, wants to go back to the morning and scream at his mom, find Keith and finish what the heart attack started.

You should stay, Mat says again.

Roe leaves.

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lucius branwen / 10 — fox
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bury me — r&v / in every universe Jun 18, 2024 19:20:15 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 18, 2024 19:20:15 GMT -5

In the evening, they're at Arcadia's house after youth group, textbook opened between them, notes spread across the coffee table. She's writing out flash cards in different coloured pens for the different units, and the television drones in the background.

It's not their fault, she says, Roe's always been like this.

They close their notebook.

Since before them, she continues without looking up, flipping a page of an old lab idly. Seventh grade. Beat up Jimmy, remember? Bunch of other fights too. You were there at the drive-in, you know what it's like. And then there was the whole thing with the fire. Dad was talking about it. Used to volunteer with the department.

It's seven pm. It's already dark outside. The evening news is starting. Another nuclear test somewhere out in the world. Another road accident out on Jackson from the wet weather. It snows and then melts. They touch her shoulder as they go, try to stop a tremor in them, and they're saying I'm really tired. I'll see you tomorrow.

But they stop going to lunch. There are term exams anyway, they're busy studying for those. Mat keeps asking them what happened, leaning over in class.

What is there to say. This is how it should be. Roe's done tolerating them. They shouldn't have joined anyway. Terrible idea.

They're tired.

The mixtape's still in the Walkman. They take it out, put it on the shelf of their closet.

On Friday, Arcadia corners them in the library and scoots into the chair across the table. They keep reading the same page over and over again, keep pressing the tip of their pen into their thumb, running blue. The notebook stays empty. Roe hasn't been to English class since Monday. Stupid. How is he supposed to graduate. Then again, why do they care.

They look up and tuck their hands under the table. The copy of Wuthering Heights flips closed.

You want to come by this weekend? she asks.

It's getting colder. There's a dull ache that hums all the way to their bones. She's looking at them, and they grip the pen until it feels sharper, clearer, and they can meet her gaze long enough to speak.

I should study.

The week passes. They don't go to Mat's on Saturday. Arcadia calls them in the afternoon, and they let the phone ring and ring and ring. It snows, half-hearted, light dust on the sill. It's Sunday. They have to leave for church. Pallid morning.

Their mom's in the frame of their door, she's asking why they're still in bed.

She asks soft enough though, and it feels like they're eight years old again, cheek pressed to her shoulder as she measured out a spoon of medicine. It's winter. They want to tell her everything so badly. There's a lump in their throat.

My chest hurts, they want to say. Their eyes are the same colour as her's.

I quit the band I was in. And there's Roe, who I was friends with. Or maybe we weren't. And maybe it doesn't matter because we're not anymore. I don't feel well. Can you tell me how to fix this. I haven't been able to sleep at night. Sometimes I have this dream where I'm not in my body, sometimes I don't even think about moving when the car comes in it. I don't mean to just stand there. But if I'm not as good as you thought, would that be okay. If you knew me, would you still love me. Would you, mom.

"I think I'm sick," they tell her, staring at the ceiling.

She comes over, touches their forehead, hand warm. The weight shifts from lung to lung.

Can I tell you something.

"You feel fine."

The light in the room is cold, comes streaming from the window in beams of blue. They close their eyes as she shifts away. She turns around, sighing. "We're going to be late, Eyvindr."

Okay. The door closes behind her. They'll get up from bed very soon. They'll be downstairs in twenty. It's Sunday. December. The church will be cold, they'll need to put on a thicker sweater. They'll listen to the way the radiator clunks through the old building as the pastor reads the last book of the Old Testament. And he will say I will spare them, as a man spareth his own son that serveth him. Loves us, as He loves His son.

They'll get up from bed very soon.

Okay.

For Christmas, they're going north, that's what they're told over dinner time. Back through the rust belt, into the cornfields. Up to LaGrange County to visit the family there. Mateo asked them if their cousins were Amish right before Thanksgiving. They said no, well at least not the ones he'd met.

The ones up north aren't either. But they don't have a television. They live on a farm. To Mateo, that's probably the same thing.

It's fine. They nod, swirling their spoon into the tomato soup. Fine.

They do eventually talk to Arcadia in physics, they do apologize for being busy on Saturday. They tell Mateo they'll come over Tuesday and Thursday so they can work on the Government presentation. Can't come today, because they'll study with Arcadia. Can't come on Wednesday because of youth group. They tell him all this, and he doesn't ask why because he knows.

Whatever Roe said, he didn't really mean it, Mat tries to convince them. You can't just quit.

He says stuff about me all the time. We fight all the time.

It isn't the same.

It doesn't matter.

Mat's already in the living room on Thursday when they come through the door. They're in the middle of unraveling their scarf when they pause to look at him. Strange that he's sat so stiffly at the edge of the couch, strange that he's so completely silent.

"What?"

He doesn't answer immediately, and that feels like a very bad sign.

They're sitting before he starts talking. He treads lightly.

Roe was here. Because his mom. His mom. His mom is gone. The ambulance came but she was already gone. He was here and he left.

They're standing now.

Where is he?

Don't know, Mateo answers.

They think of the church bathroom. They think of being baptized. Jersey. Ohio. The ocean. Roe left, he was here, and they're drifting towards the entry now, pulling on their coat. The cold rushes in as the door opens, Mat behind them.

"I didn't–" they start. Pit in their stomach. They swallow, start again. "I didn't have to come. He didn't have to go."

The air hits their lungs funny. They really need to be outside.

"Tell me when he comes back."

They don't go over to Mat's anymore. Roe doesn't come to school though. The news is on in the background in the evening. Weather report in the morning. The chill settles the week before Christmas, numbs everything out. It still doesn't really snow. They bike along the road, the path they used to take by car. The inside of their cheek stings, bloody. The slush splashes under the tires.

The week is ending, school is ending, they never see him in the halls, Mat doesn't know where he is. They take the long way home, they ride along the tracks, they go across town, aimless. The fields are barren. Miles of nothing. They sit in the band room, they sit in the stall of the bathroom during second period until they can remember how to breathe again, until they can feel their body again. Until the dizziness softens enough for them to stand.

It feels like a very long time since they've gone up to steps to Mat's. The sky is still gray, has been for days. The sun lights the edges of the clouds the faintest yellow as it sets. He opens the door.

The papers were finished during lunch yesterday. And the last week's worth of homework. They opened their notebooks, all of Roe's little scribbles in the margins they kept, and traced out his handwriting a few times in the middle of the night. Couldn't sleep anyway. Mat stares at them, then down to their hands, a little surprised.

"Hand this in for him," they tell Mateo. Two sets, paperclipped. "This is for English. This one for Government."

Nothing they can do about Roe's exams, but at least he might not totally fail.

If he ever comes back.

Mat takes the stack of papers before they get wet from the drift of the snow. His gaze flicks up, but they're already looking away, already shrugging on their backpack. "You wanna come in?"

School is almost over. Almost the new year.

They have to go home and start packing.

Last Edit: Jun 18, 2024 19:30:37 GMT -5 by lucius branwen / 10 — fox

tick 12a / calla
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bury me — r&v / in every universe Jun 21, 2024 0:26:00 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Jun 21, 2024 0:26:00 GMT -5

The thing is, it doesn't really matter if he graduates. Marik dropped out, and he's doing just fine.

Except, now, Roe's got a flagged record. He's got previous trouble. He's straddling the line of a legalese nightmare. It'll take time to get processed through the system, but the cops track him down eventually and they sit him down with a social worker who's very hopeful. She's very apologetic. She asks about twenty too many questions and Roe does his best to answer none of them.

They won't let him fly under the radar this time. There's an officer who asks a couple times why he was never admitted in '79. Things don't quite line up. Whoever was in charge of his case shouldn't have just let him go like that. Doesn't matter if he was a cute kid or not. He set a fucking house a fire.

He also finds out that Bentley, or someone Bentley-adjacent, had reported the drive-in incident.

They could just send him to juvie now. He tells them that. He tells them that several times. He doesn't care anymore. Wait another two months and you can send him to the real thing instead. Minimum security, please. Let him at least try and tunnel his way out.

That's not their solution, though. It's just two months. They shouldn't even be worrying about this. They ask what he wants out of the motel room.

He's not a kid. Eighteen in two months, that's basically an adult. He tells them that. He’s an adult, they can’t force him to go anywhere.

Orphanages went out of style in the 60s. Legally, you can’t call them that anymore. The 1980 Adoption Assistance and Child Welfare Act transferred Youth Welfare Services from private jurisdiction to the jurisdiction of the state. And now, from the state, foster homes receive maintenance payments and reimbursement for the care of each child. They provide the four staples - food, clothing, shelter, supervision. A plan must be determined within 18 months regarding the child's future in the system.

Roe will be eighteen in less than 2 of those months. This shouldn't be applying to him.

There's foster families, but the kids that don't do so well in those end up in children's homes. Group homes. At least that term's better than the old Orphan's Asylum.

There hasn't been one of those in Indiana since 1941.

But Roe can't stay with the Izars, they're not foster licensed. And it becomes clear very quickly that there won't be another family signing off on his file.

His mom still has relatives in Jersey, she must, but the two months isn't worth it. If it had happened earlier, maybe. He might've been shipped off to the coast on the only condition that they would take him. He doesn’t even know if she stayed in contact with them. He doesn’t know if they would still exist. Maybe he has grandparents. She never said. She only ever talked about Jersey in those first five years when she was still talking about taking Roe with her to California.

They could live on the beach. He could learn to ride his bike on the boardwalk. Learn to swim in the ocean.

Now she’s dead. And Roe can’t swim.

The Wilson House in Brownstown covers Jackson, Monroe and Brown counties. It's between Kinsey and Lansdale, in one of the feeder towns off the US-50.

School's out. Which means the House is unbearably full with three counties worth of boys on winter break. Roe's mom has been dead for nine days. He stays in Lansdale for a night and it causes all hell to break loose.

There's a curfew he's expected back by, there's a set schedule, and he's reported if he doesn't follow it. He's reported if he doesn't show up to morning prayer. He's reported if he smokes in the house or if he gets into a fight or if he destroys something. He’s reported if he locks one of the smaller kids in the bathroom because he's creepy as hell and won't stop talking about the spiders he keeps under his bed.

Roe’s the oldest one there, which means the kids either avoid him out of fear or watch him with a sort of wary worship. He’s put in a room with three other boys; fifteen, fifteen and fourteen. He's threatened them all at least twice.

None of it really matters. They can’t force him to do anything. He just has to bide his time. They can't take his car, can't impound it to make him stay put, that certainly isn't legal. They can’t confine him. They can’t have someone tail him in January to make sure he starts going to class again.

Her obituary is in the paper, condensed into two neat sentences.

Merry Christmas.

Roe takes the Dr. Hook record to Lansdale with him that afternoon. They're in the parking lot of the truck stop as Marik watches him break it into hundreds of tiny meticulous pieces, listens as Roe goes from a rambling sort of euphoria to a very guilty regret. He ends up scooping the bits of plastic together, holding them, I shouldn’t have done that, over and over again. She loved that album, it’s gone now, she's gone now.

Marik just keeps watching him. Listening. Like Roe's a particularly thought-provoking art exhibit that just came to town. They're going back to his, he says suddenly, and Roe gets into his truck instead of taking the Pinto.

Turns out Marik's roommate is home. Siberite. But everyone calls him Siber. Don't call him Sibe. He talks like an eighty year old and dresses like a narc. Marik says he's a klepto, check your pockets before you leave.

"This is Roe." Marik mutters, when Siberite is squinting across the room long enough that it becomes obvious he's trying to place him, "He's an orphan now."

Muted reaction. He nods sagely. Roe doesn't even flinch.

"Staying?"

"No." Marik leaves the room, heading down hte hall, "Don't bother us."

"What's in the bag?"

Marik's long gone. His bedroom door swings. Roe pauses.

"A gun."

A record. Pieces of one.

Weird type of silence then.

Roe leaves when Siberite just keeps staring at him.

Marik doesn't look irritated at having to wait. He never does. Like that red light. Placidity disguised as something else. He’s an anarchist, he dyes his hair but purposefully leaves the roots dark, he lets the people on the crosswalk go by. What is action in the midst of inaction.

Roe smokes off the end of Marik’s bed and blindly stares at all four of his blank walls.

No posters, no knick knacks. Nothing. The walls are an off shade of grey. No curtains on the window. There’s a bed and a dresser and a nightstand and that’s it. It’s like he moved in yesterday, or he’s moving out tomorrow. He doesn’t even have any pictures.

His dad died. From the system, he said. But he still sees his mom and his sister, he helps support them.

No pictures.

Maybe there’s a box under the bed. Maybe Marik really is a serial killer and this is how he gets his victims. Maybe this is where he takes them, a nondescript room with a couple of hired roommates who pretend to be stoned. First base is a ride in the Chevy. Second base is the knife, the little length of rope. It’d take ages for someone to think of looking for him here.

He left the car.

Except it’s fine if Marik’s been lying. Roe’s been lying too.

“You picked up someone from her church?”

“It was a good idea at the time.”

“And her cousin.” Marik says, completely flat, “That’s sick.”

But his mouth keeps twitching in a way that Roe has learned means he approves.

"We're done now though, so, you know, this-" wave of the cigarette, "-it's fine."

That twitch again.

There’s a deal for the new year. There’s 34 days until he’s 18. He’s already missed the first week of the term. But they'll give him an extra-curricular, so they contact the school, work something out, if he shows up to the boxing team twice a week for the rest of the school year, administration will pass his two failing grades from last semester.

He’s supposed to be failing much more than two classes, but he doesn’t bring that up.

The altercations start immediately. Because of course people know. Of course word got out. Roe gets into three fights on his first day back and the only reason he avoids suspension is the people from Wilson stepping in and waving around their psychologist stamped evaluations.

It’s easy to avoid Vin, easier than it is to avoid Mat. Roe convinced him to hand over copies of both their schedules under the guise of wanting to talk to Vin, to fix things, and now he keeps asking how it went, how it’s going. Shit man, we thought they sent you to Howe.

And thank Christ they didn’t. It's a spartan type of military school, and the horror stories that come out of there are worse than the cadets. Sometimes the only answer to the Headmaster smacking you with a ruler a few too many times is to step on a landmine as soon as they let you off the bus.

But he has English with Vin again. It takes another few days before he actually works up the nerve to step into that room. He sits at the very back and slowly wears a hole through his paper, pushing and pushing until the pencil hits the desk. He doesn't look up when they walk in. Doesn't watch them walk out.

It's fine, to survive like this. At least he's surviving.

Antigone's in that class too, and she makes it clear that she isn't impressed with the way Roe's been acting for the past month.

Just another person to avoid. Put them all on the same list. Why did he even come back. He doesn't need to graduate. He'd already resigned himself to accepting that he wouldn't. Why did he come back, then. Happy New Year. Things are different now. Meredith has cancer and is going down to Nashville to be with her son for it. Boris wants Roe to start waiting tables once she's gone.

He doesn't really want to.

Go back in time and ask Mateo what he wanted to be when he grew up. He would've given you a million different answers. Astronaut. Director. Actor. Photographer. Little dreamer kid.

Roe's answer was always the same. He just wants to make it. Wants to keep his mom under a roof. Wants to be able to eat every night. He doesn't want to have to take shitty jobs just to make almost-enough, but he'll still do it. He'll pump gas at five in the morning. He'll wait tables for twenty years and pretend that that's the American dream. At least he's alive. At least he's useful. Sometimes his mom will look at him standing there and actually see him.

What now though. Why did he even come back.

Boxing is after school. To channel that aggression, he’s been told. He's supposed to take it out on the unfeeling bag instead of taking it out on poor feeling Jimmy. Training is an hour and a half each Monday and Thursday, up in the mezzanine of the gym. There's five other kids and Roe rounds it out to six, so now everyone always has a sparring partner. Roe’s looks about six feet tall. He's one of the seniors, graduating this spring like Roe should’ve.

"Mach." He introduces himself as, and then, "Sorry about your mom."

Roe punches him so hard that he staggers backwards, lands flat on the mat, and they all have to go over safe knock-out procedures again.

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 22, 2024 0:13:22 GMT -5

tw: suicide

It's the start of the economic downturn in the Rust Belt around the year they're born.

They move out of the little steel mill town where the waters bleed silver and the sky's green with smoke. Their dad's firm takes them to Fort Wayne where there's supposed to be more jobs, and so they end up being raised in the suburbs, right in the center of northeastern Indiana. The City of Churches, but still. A real actual city. Petra came from there after all.

The cliff gets steeper.

In the spring of '80, their dad gets laid off for months because the engineering firm's downsizing, the manufacturing industry's downsizing, the country's going through a recession, call it Volcker Shock. Again, it's the post-industrial wasteland. Bethlehem Steel survives the 70s, but grinds to a halt in the early 80s. Entire towns are hollowed out until there's nothing left but a shell. Storefronts, billboards, parking lots. Modern day ruins.

They get baptized in the summer, then sent off to public school because their mom picks up an admin job during that stretch.

And that's the problem in 1982.

Their parents argue a lot about it. Their mom wants them to go to a Christian school. The new firm doesn't pay as much, they're doing way better than most of the people in the state, but they still can't afford that now. But maybe it's that Fort Wayne is just too big, their kid's been exposed to all these bad influences in school, can't believe they let Ozzy Osborne into this city. It's the subliminal messaging. The new firm can send their dad as a consulting engineer down south, a satellite office. That's what they need. Kinsey's close to the plant.

And if that doesn't work, their dad says, maybe their son just needs to toughen up, maybe their son can go live up in LaGrange.

They move again.

And Kinsey is small.

But Kinsey has a theatre, Kinsey has something of a strip. Elmwood township has an Amish furniture shop. The Dollar General's in the next one over. The farm in LaGrange is actually in the middle of nowhere.

The cousins call them city boy.

1984, it's the middle of the farm crisis too. The embargo's over, but things only get worse. The closest town's been dwindling down as the stores shutter one by one. It's the great rural exodus, the interest rates are too high, small farms are being wiped out by mounting debt. The current generation will join the military or they'll go find something left to do in the cities. It's a year before Farm Aid and John Mellencamp, hero of the Midwest. Some places never really do recover though.

The ruination is slow. They're used to the thought of war, the generation's acclimated to the idea of a fiery end. But the withering is a kind of death too. They drive on the pitted roads, through the dead stalks of corn, broken lines in the wash of white, through the old industrial plants, decaying now, red on the snow.

At the Forrester farm, their parents get the guest room, they get the air mattress in Ivan's room. He's fine. Keeps to himself. It's sparsely decorated. The furniture is decades old.

Every odd year they spend a holiday here, the seams feel like they get looser. Jimmy Carter ruined this country, is what their uncle always says. Before dinner, he's talking about the neighbouring farmer, somewhere miles towards the west. Died right before Thanksgiving, found his body in the barn. The family said it was an equipment accident. But what kind of equipment leaves a man with his brains blown out.

You can't enter the Kingdom of Heaven that way, he sighs, shaking his head. Family can't get the life insurance either. Wife must've tried to get rid of the shotgun, but it was too obvious.

It's just the beginning. In one year, Dale Burr of Lone Tree, Iowa, will shoot himself. But unlike all the other farmers who've killed themselves, he'll make it onto the news because he'll first walk into Hills Bank & Trust Co and shoot his banker. And then his neighbour. And his wife. And finally, himself.

Said he couldn't deal with it anymore. The half million dollars of debt.

The Midwest rots, the Midwest decays. Do you want your dying farm town or your dying manufacturing town. Either one will eat you up.

Outside, the snow clumps high on the sill.

Eventually, the talk settles on the move down south of the state. How is Eyvindr doing? Their uncle asks their dad, like they aren't sitting there too on the crumbling leather couch.

Good. Good grades. Applying to college next year.

Well, what else.

That's how the conversation turns. What are they doing outside of class though. Why are they in band of all things. Who's in something like that but devil worshippers with the long hair. Nevermind that Mr. Schultz waffled on introducing I Saw Her Standing There to the pep band repertoire before settling for the usual You're a Grand Old Flag. They've played nothing but classical concert material or patriotic marches.

The leather is flaking off from under their palm as they curl their fingers. There's the sound of the doors in the house opening and closing, the gusts of cold wind shaking in through the frames, a shiver running down their back. The yellowing lace curtains flutter. Mild scent of mildew from the perpetually wet welcome mats, the writing faded out. Their uncle looks at them, glacier blue gaze, then away again.

Eyvindr doesn't do sports, huh? Always was a little delicate for that.

Funny way to put it, nicer way to put it, maybe because they're still in the room. Maybe because their mom is walking in from the kitchen. Their uncle goes on though, unperturbed, reclining in the old armchair so it creaks. Never roughhoused with my kids, always quiet, sensitive weren't you?

It's directed to them now. And still quiet, still swallowing something before speaking, they don't answer.

My wife coddles too much, their dad replies, off-handedly. Eyvindr has outgrown it.

The smell of oil wafts in from the kitchen, too greasy. Heavy in their stomach. Dinner's almost ready, the kids are coming into the living room from the evening chores. Their uncle laughs, rising from his seat, patting them once on the shoulder as he goes.

We'll see, won't we?

They're a family of hunters. Taught them the basics with a gun. Took them out on two hunting trips, and they never really liked it. Mostly it was just being cold, just standing there between bushes in humming silence, which was fine, which they could almost like. But they were a terrible shot, didn't really have the instinct, and something about the way Vargen liked to handle his prey made their stomach turn. That gray fox, still alive, the steam of its curdling blood, his hand curled into its fur. The first time, maybe they were eight. The second time, twelve.

They still get loaded up in the truck in the early morning, two days before Christmas, they still trudge into the woods, the sharp sting of the wind on their face. We'll bring home a bear, Vargen laughed before they left the house. The tone slid offkey as the door shut, cold.

Kol smiles sweetly, shoves a muzzleloader in their arms, says don't shoot yourself, and they can only think of the farmer with the missing shotgun. After minutes, their hands go stiff in the cold from holding it. The wind keeps howling, blows the snow off the branches, shimmering in the wan, yellow sunlight.

It's hours before anything happens. It's hours before Vargen finally spots the rise of antlers between the branches in the belly of the late afternoon, wild thing moving slowly through the brush, a shock of muscles, alert. Kol's ready, he's smiling, but Vargen puts his hand on his back and nods towards them instead.

They lift the gun, snug onto their shoulder. They're holding their breath, looking at the little opening right there behind its head. Their hands are aching. Their lungs feel frozen. Would it be clean.

Strange, they keep thinking about the farmer.

He must've known, right? When he went out to the barn in the middle of the night. I wait for the Lord, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope. Live your life for God. Because it is only God who decides life or death. The buck tenses a little as the breeze rustles through, the blue-gray conifers sway with their earthy scent.

The gun feels heavy.

That's a sin, their mom had said. And they didn't mean it like that, back then. They hadn't thought about it like that. But it would've been easier to say it was an accident, really. They fell off their bike, it was a fence, scraped their thigh. What kind of fall cuts that neatly though.

What equipment accident leaves a man with his brains blown out.

The inside of their cheek bleeds.

The buck suddenly swivels its head around.

They pull the trigger.

Vargen's staring at them as the whitetail bolts off, the bullet lodged into the tree trunk behind it. Their ears are ringing. Smell of smoke from a gun.

By sundown, the other group is back at the trucks with a bag of rabbits, Vierra's wiping her hands off, the salty smell of blood still clinging to her, staining her sleeves oil-dark. Kol's complaining the whole way that he almost had it. He's still rolling his eyes after they say grace, through dinner, a solid eight-point buck, we were this close.

Then they had to go and miss.

They leave on the 26th.

And after the hunt, they spend most of their days in the barn. They don't mind feeding the animals, don't even mind shoveling after them. It's easier to say hi to the chickens than anything to their cousins, feels like they've spoken three sentences the whole week. They spend time playing with the little barn cat, dragging around a piece of yarn, chatting idly to him. Dagny named him Terje. Good Terje.

In the evening of Christmas Day, they come back, calling for him as the sun sets.

The orange cat slinks up, out of the shadows. He steps a little closer, and they bend down to greet him.

Ah.

There's a mouse. A mouse twitching in his mouth, maybe still alive, maybe just in shock. Moving. A little bit. Okay. Fine. No problem. Good cat. Yes, for me? Thank you. Good. Please let go.

He drops it at their feet.

"Eyvindr."

They jump, turning. Vargen's behind them, the cat's already pounced away. He's looking at the tiny gray thing on the barn floor, gaze flicking back up to them. There's a shovel leaning against the wall. Vargen hands them the rusty hunk of metal.

"Right. I can take it outside–"

Except he's looking at them, just like in the woods.

They just stare back, and then slowly at the little twitching mouse, still holding the cold shovel, clenched in their fists hard enough that their fingers turn white. They don't move. Fragile, delicate, little vermin.

The bone crunches. It splatters. Bits of mouse fly onto their shoes.

Vargen's got his foot on it, he lifts, smears the film off the sole, idly turns back to them.

"God put man in charge of animals," he says. "So don't be weak about it."

The grit of rust stains their hands.

"Clean it up," and then, a half-smile, curling onto his face. "Dinner's ready."

The winter break ends.

School starts again. Their dad looks up from his plate one evening and says you should join a sport.

They stop moving the food around with their fork. The potatoes are cut in pieces, into smaller pieces, into something they might be able to swallow. Now it feels like their throat is closing.

It's junior year, they start. It's too late.

His tone goes clipped. Then quit band.

Strange how the sickness never goes away now. Roe is back in school. Back in English. Haven't spoken to each other since the fight. They dream about the dark stain on the barn floor. Sometimes they'll look in the mirror and it's like their edges are worn. Sometimes they really don't feel like a person anymore.

But they're just tired. They're fine.

They pick up the fork to push around their food.

Okay. They'll quit band. They'll do as they're told. They'll be fine. They will. They can. And they'll really never play drums again.

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Jun 23, 2024 20:49:20 GMT -5

The worst fight happens when one of the theatre kids says something about Vin.

Roe's so sick of hearing about them. Thinking about them. Now, actually showing up to school, it's like they're lurking around every corner.

He sees them in the corner of his eye now, he catches them just as they leave the classroom, little blonde flashes every day until he loses his mind and smashes Arlo Monroe's face into a locker because he thinks he's just so funny, thinks he's just so hilarious. Roe’s hit shakes two of his teeth loose and the canine pops clean out of his mouth as it smears down the metal door.

So Arlo goes for Roe’s knee. He ends up catching him off guard and bending it back, forces the cap out of place, shifts it wrong, now Roe's missing boxing for the rest of the week. The nurse makes him wrap it, ice it, drags Mat into the office to hobble Roe back out. 12 days until he's eighteen.

Mat coerces him back to his place. He can't drive, he argues, can't walk very far like this, might as well go home with him. It's been long enough. He promises that he’ll put Roe’s favourite movie on, Christine, that dumb one about the haunted murder car, he can lie on the couch with his knee up and Mat won't complain even once. He won’t bring up the fact that the film was released only eight months after the book, and that that really speaks for itself. He won’t bring up the fact that it’s ridiculous and the effects are so, so bad. The car is the other woman. The car is the one trying to murder Arnie's girlfriend because it's jealous. The car.

But Mat won't say any of that. He’ll even make cocoa, c’mon, it's been so long. Roe hasn’t been over in two months.

Mat got Gremlins for the Atari for Christmas, they can play that too. There's eight levels and a two-player mode.

Fine. Roe can do that. Twist his arm, he won't say no to Christine. He can pretend that Mat sitting him down on the sofa and chucking a blanket at his head doesn't make him want to curl into a ball and shove his head down in the cushions.

Christine's still being restored when Roe starts to drift in and out. Something about being in the house again, and something about being so on edge for two months. His entire body is sore, aching down to the bones. He hasn’t really been able to take a good breath since October.

The doorbell makes him jump.

Mat is suddenly in his face, which makes Roe jolt again, squinting over the blanket, going "Who'sat?"

"Pizza." He says quickly. He's taking the blanket back, and Roe tries to fight it for about three seconds before Mat manages to pull him up, "I gotta- pay. Go get the cereal"

"Cereal?"

He might still be a little drowsy, a little disoriented. Arnie's started smuggling on screen. The blanket was so war,.

"I- yeah, I want cereal with my pizza. Pantry. Go."

Roe mutters the whole way. He's not an invalid, he can still move around, but that doesn't make it pleasant. Mat knows that. Mat's stupid. Who wants cereal with pizza? Mateo. That's who. Freak of the century. That title’s his now. They're going to have to rewind Christine.

Mat didn't even say what cereal he wanted. Laurel always gets Quisp, but both Mateo and Alfer were notorious for slipping something gross and sugary in every once and a while.

There's a Pac-Man box on the shelf, with both regular Pac-Man and Super Pac-Man marshmallows, and the chance to earn a free hat.

Roe can hear Mat walk through the kitchen behind him, back for his cereal presumably, shuffling into the pantry.

"This looks so gross-"

Roe turns with the box, and then he stops.

He didn’t flip the pantry light on when he went in, it isn’t really big enough to need it, the light from the kitchen is good enough. It brackets Vin now, blurs their outline, makes them glow a little.

Roe hasn’t fully looked at them since that fight. He hasn’t seen them straight on since they said they were quitting, when Roe wanted to kiss them so bad.

This is why.

Suddenly, having them so close, he can't fathom why he isn't allowed to see them every day, isn't allowed to be near them every day. Roe looks at them and can’t remember why he’s supposed to be angry. He just knows that he is. It’s tiring. He's tired.

And when they look at him like that.

He knows they don't want to see him. He knows they hate him. He knows they’re ashamed of just knowing him.

They turn quick enough that Roe is still focused on them instead of the door slamming, there’s a delay in his moving, small stutter.

The light goes out all at once, all that’s left is the sliver from the door. Feels stupid to still be holding the Pac-Man cereal.

Roe slides past Vin to try the handle, too tight like this, he ends up pushing past them instead. The pantry door doesn’t even lock, but it won’t budge, what the hell is he doing, is he just standing there and blocking it-

“Mat.” Roe grits out.

”Work your shit out.”

Roe’s stronger than Mateo is, he should just be able to strong-arm it back open, but nothing’s happening.

”Mat.” He says again.

No answer this time.

Flight, fight, freeze. Roe refuses to turn back around. He doesn't even have to look. Can't look. He has to stay angry. Has to stay tired because if he isn't, then he'll start thinking, remembering, piecing together things he shouldn't be. His mom never got a funeral, but he did cut the obit out, tucked it in the glovebox with the matchbook.

Mat still isn't responding. The handle still doesn't move when he rattles it. Roe starts muttering again. He shuffles away from the door, squeaking up against the spice jars so Vin can get to it.

"You try."

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Jun 24, 2024 23:56:33 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 24, 2024 23:56:33 GMT -5

Not much had changed during the two weeks of winter break.

Maybe it's just them.

Something gone funny, it feels a little like being whittled down to fit into their own life again.

They do quit band. Mr. Schultz is nice about it, says it's too bad, says he'd wanted them to be in the jazz section for the Spring Concert, that there'd be a lot more drum parts for that. But if they change their mind, it won't be too late. If they decide they want to do marching again in the fall, that's fine too. They can always come back.

And it's very numb, how they say maybe, thank you, goodbye.

Nessa's asking them if it's because of Arcadia. Still suspicious, still doesn't trust her, still so weird that she would want to date them. They were so firmly inconsequential until Mat gave them the Iron Maiden tape, until they joined the band, until that Halloween party. Now they're not the drummer anymore. Now they're inconsequential again. Now it's just strange that they're still together. The rumours sour a little.

"It's not like that." They don't look up from their textbook, from the wave diagrams they're penciling into their notebook. It's new, the margins clean. "She's nice. You might like her if you talked."

That brings out a huff from Nessa, leaning back into her chair, and she frowns. "Yeah. Just don't go joining the football team."

They almost snort, have to roll their eyes. The librarian shoots a look their way, a very stern glance that makes them lower their voice to a whisper, waiting for her to start shelving again before speaking. "I'll come see the concert."

Don't know if they actually can. But they still try. They glance up.

"You'll be great."

And they keep trying. They go over to Mat's to do homework. They have lunch sometimes in the cafeteria. On Saturdays, they'll head up to the mall with Arcadia, go ice skating, watch a movie. They get their permit, and it turns out driving isn't all that stressful when there's not a person in the back with a concussion. They don't have to lie anymore about band practice, about who they're hanging out with these days. They should feel better.

They're trying not to think of Roe.

Interesting people out there. Fun people out there. Not them. Not miserable them.

They should feel better.

Mat wants to play Gremlins after school. They've got to go to drop by the church first, their mom wants them to lend a hand with some kids programming. It's not too bad, they don't mind doing the arts and crafts with the preschoolers. Bible colouring pages. Turn Jesus blue. Scribble over the little lamb. Rip a hole through Noah's Ark. The sky is still light out when they're done, sun just starting to dip.

Their hands are a little stained from the crayons, they realize this belatedly just as they're ringing the doorbell, blue smudged at their fingertips. Mateo's smiling at them, ushers them in so fast. For some reason, he's got the movie about the possessed car on, and if they weren't so tired from stopping the kids from chasing each other around, maybe they would've thought about it for a second.

He doesn't let them sit though, he's saying he needs to set up the Atari, and so they need to get the snacks. From the pantry. Right now.

They've barely taken their coat off.

And maybe it would be weirder if it wasn't Mateo. Because maybe he just really wants to play Gremlins. Maybe he just really wants Quisp. As an evening snack. For some reason. They're not thinking that hard about it, walking to the kitchen, still trying to rub the colour from their hands. The pantry door's already open, they take one step in, look up, and then freeze.

First thought is how stupid. Of course.

Because nobody likes Christine except Roe.

He's got a box of Pac-Man cereal in his hand.

The light comes in behind them, falls like a veil over his face. They're turning, they have to leave, but the beam narrows to a slit as the door slams shut right in front of them.

There's a kind of drumming in their ears now, Roe's squeezing past them to push open the pantry door. The rack is pressed into their shoulders blades when they back up to let him. The handle doesn't budge. Mat's voice comes muffled from the other side.

"Work your shit out."

What. No. There isn't anything to say. There isn't anything to work out. Everything is how it is. They should've told Mat they wouldn't mind if he wanted to get a new drummer. It would be fine, if that was the reason. They're fine.

Dazed, they put a hand to the door after Roe shuffles away for them to try. It won't give.

There's not even enough space on the floor for both of them to sit without touching. They're staring at the ground, leaning against the shelf again, wedged there with the boxes of pasta and the cans of soup. It feels like they're just as inanimate, brain creamed, still stunned. Roe keeps trying to turn the handle, but somehow Mat's jammed it completely. There's no answer from the other side.

Then, there's just silence.

It's dark except for the line of light around the door.

It's a month from winter break. They trawled through January with a strange thinness to their being, trying to fill something leaking. They're fine, except for the part of them that's still in the barn. Roe came back after the first week of school. They aren't angry anymore. Or maybe they are. Something else that's like it. They can still feel the edge of the desk cutting into their palms.

"He'll let us out," they murmur. "We can wait."

Has to. Eventually.

Roe's standing too close, like in the classroom, just inches apart. It's because of this, because of that, the way they can barely breathe. How he sucks the air from their lungs. They can see the silver line of him, can feel the room move with his chest. No one's ever made them so angry.

And it doesn't matter. It's not really that.

Their mouth tastes like metal.

They should've told Mat it was pointless. They weren't just angry. The farmer again. Stain of the crushed skull. Something wrong with them. Something malformed. Maybe Roe really meant it. Mat should just let them out already. It's useless. There's nothing to work out when everything's been said. It's done.

More silence.

In the darkness, their eyes adjust incrementally. Takes a long time before they notice. Glancing down at the streak of light, Roe's got his knee wrapped, leg cuffed up, bulky with bandage. They blink, forget everything for a second.

"What happened to your knee?"

Then, they scoot as far back as the shelves let them without knocking down the pasta, making more room. "Sit down."

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Jun 25, 2024 13:46:56 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Jun 25, 2024 13:46:56 GMT -5

He doesn't turn around. Doesn't look at them.

What happened to your knee.

“Nothing.”

It was nothing. Is nothing.

It's just that the consensus of the school seems to be that now, since Vin doesn't hang around Roe anymore, they've somehow become free game.

No one should be talking about them.

Stop bringing them up.

Don't try to endear yourself to Roe by making fun of them, it won't work, he doesn't want to hear it. He's so sick of it. All you'll get is a black eye for the trouble. Don't try to do it out of earshot either, he can still hear it, he's right around that corner.

Even Antigone - about time they stopped being so obsessed with you - he hasn't talked to her since.

Especially because she brought up Arcadia. Especially because she brought up how awful it made Arcadia feel to only ever have half of Vin's attention. That's no type of relationship to be in. It wasn't fair to her. Wasn't fair to Roe either, because he probably felt indebted to them, didn't want to hurt them too badly, had to let them down easy. He couldn't have focused on his own relationships with someone like that hanging around. Look at the state they left you in. I want you. I'm the one that's here. Can't you see that.

They can be happy now. He can be happy now. No more noose.

He had to storm away, so sick suddenly.

Is that what it was.

Mateo doesn't get bullied anymore because Roe's taken over the bulk of it. He can still remember little Mat so clearly, so short for seventh grade, the other kids would tease him so bad, would chase him and corner him and mock him for an accent he didn't have.

Then he started hiding behind Roe, hanging around him, because Roe was mean and scary but he still seemed to be the better option.

Was he Vin's better option too.

Is that what it was. Did Roe just get tired of feeling bad for them. Did they get tired of keeping up the act. Was the reward no longer worth the effort.

It's not like anyone ever just wants to be around Roe. Mateo had an ulterior motive. Vin had one. Marik probably has one too. The only one that doesn't is Antigone, she's been trying so hard to make Roe see that. She wants him. She's the one that's here.

Here, in the dark of the pantry, with Roe burning a hole through the door. Nothing, he says. Is that what it was.

He hasn't heard them speak in over two months. Since they said they were quitting.

Nothing, Roe says, as though his knuckles aren't bone-white where he clutches the shelf.

He's going to kill Mateo.

And he loses patience so quickly. So fast. He's huffing. Shifting. If Mat just shoved them in here and walked away, he's going to kill him.

There isn't enough room to pace, there's barely even enough room to breathe. He can tell exactly where Vin is without seeing them. And of course, that doesn't feel new. That isn't a novel feeling, it's always been like that, it's just worse now. Karma for the kid at Wilson. He runs when he sees Roe now, doesn't talk about his spiders anymore. Roe's always been so effective in his methodology. He only ever needs to bite down once.

"We have to do something."

Mat's crazy. They can't wait. He'll probably let them starve in here just to prove a point.

But then Roe will be gone, his protection gone with him. The band's finished, Mat's popularity will fade, the bullies will come back eventually.

And then what. And then a replacement. Hound's worst fear. There's plenty of angry boys out there to latch yourself onto. Take your pick. And because Mateo is sentimental, and because he likes old things, he'll show up to the pound and ask which one's been there the longest. That's the one he'll choose. Put a Christmas bow on it. Good boy. Good guard dog, stay outside on your chain, you know you're not allowed on the bed.

They need to get out of here. So Roe can breathe again, cover his back, go back to gnawing his leg off and feeling sorry for himself. What would Mat take as consolation. Some teary sort of confession, a swell of the music, two dramatic close-ups. But there's only ever been one way Roe solves problems. Halfway between violent and avoidant.

"You can hit me if you want. Make it even."

He turns but he keeps his eyes closed, squeezes them shut, he holds his arms out enough that they brush either wall - "Free shot."

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 26, 2024 22:25:10 GMT -5

He doesn't sit down.

Roe's glaring at the door, hand on the shelf, wired up. Stubborn, never listens. They could roll their eyes if they weren't supposed to be not arguing, weren't supposed to be not talking, not anything anymore actually. The silence crowds the pantry, shoved up between them like something unwieldy. That weight squeezes their chest.

"We have to do something."

They look up. His back towards them.

What could they do but wait for Mateo to get bored. Mat's trying to kill them, he's trying to get killed. Like that Halloween, that first year, when he crept up to the window wearing a slasher mask. Can't remember anything after that except they were pressing their face into their hands, that Roe had bolted outside to wrestle him into the ground.

It took a month to feel alive, it takes less than twenty minutes to feel like they're being smothered slowly.

You can hit me if you want, Roe says. Suddenly.

Now he's turning around.

The spice jars rattle as they step back into the shelves. Feels like their bones are rattling with it. Their mind blanks out.

Free shot.

He was right. About them. All of it really. They've never hit anyone. They'll just take it, always have. That's what a good kid does. That's how they're liked, a little pliant, so well-behaved, spent enough of their life on their knees. Cried too much when they were younger, their dad never liked that. So they learned not to. Don't make it any more difficult.

They'll take it, and it's fine, their dad really never did anything hard enough to leave something permanent. He wouldn't. That's discipline, that's love. Repent.

They've never hit anyone.

Roe has his eyes closed, he's got his arms held down at his sides. Something embering in the tiny space. They're staring at him.

And it was because of this too. Why they quit. Can't think when he's around, can't even catch their breath.

Do they want to. What is it that they really want.

Maybe just to get out of here, to go back to ignoring each other. Maybe that's what he would rather have. Roe's so close, they're burning. Is this still anger. Fist to face, it would be like snapping their sticks, maybe. It would be like touching a fire, a knife. Clench a fist. Are they still angry. They're moving from the shelves. It would hurt a little, and then, maybe, there'd be a kind of relief. They're not even thinking.

They hit him.

Lightly.

In the darkness, they reach over, let their knuckles press against his cheek, let their hand rest there for a moment. He feels warm, they feel dizzy. They aren't breathing right.

"There." There. A beat. "We're even."

Stupid, they think. What a stupid thing to tell them to do. They're unfurling their fingers slowly, dropping their arm. The heat leaves. He's still facing them.

"You don't have to–" Those words get caught, they look somewhere else. "We're even. You don't have to do that."

Roe doesn't have to do anything at all. They can exit the pantry and never have to speak to each other again. They'll leave this time, he doesn't have to. He should've stayed on Halloween, on that December evening. If they'd known. He should, his knee – he should. They'll go.

It was so light, but their hand still aches. Their chest still aches, differently now. They'll have to stop coming over. Mat will give up, he'll find another drummer. Someone will audition, who'll know how to play Rush already, who'll trade fills with Roe, and it won't have to be like this.

It's nothing new. Too soft for their cousins, too much of a freak for the kids in middle school.

"You don't have to like me," bland how they say it, staring at a spot on the floor. They lean back along the stacks of cans. "Mat can understand that."

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Jun 27, 2024 22:35:31 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Jun 27, 2024 22:35:31 GMT -5

He doesn't flinch at the touch, but falters a little when it lingers.

There, they say, we're even.

Roe blinks in surprise. In the time it takes for the static of the darkness to settle, Vin's already taken their hand back.

Strange to look at them now. It felt like the moment would've been more catastrophic. Like there would have been an earthquake, or a thunderclap, all the pasta jars would've exploded and rained down rigatoni. Divine intervention.

Someone please step in.

"You don't have to like me." Roe repeats, high-pitched and mocking, antagonizing on purpose. "Knock it off. What did I say about that martyr shit?"

He ignores the protesting. The apologetic, abashed sort of demurral. Worse than Mat, he mutters. They're so much worse than Mat. Worse than he'd ever been.

He takes their hand.

"Curl your thumb here."

Looking away from them was supposed to keep the anger fresh. It wasn't supposed to happen from looking at them. It wasn't supposed to flare up again, too close, shelf digging into his shoulder. Seeing them bowed makes him want to break something. What an odd quality.

And now he's touching them. And now he's thinking. Is this the first time. It can't be. Surely not. He would remember. Don't just stand there thinking about it, the moment keeps stretching out, it's getting ridiculous now. Their hand is cold, a callous in the crook of their thumb from the drum sticks. Say something. Close your mouth, my god. Get a grip.

He has to clear his throat, lets out the greatest put upon sigh.

He presses his thumb against the joints of their fingers. "If you don’t squeeze your fist tight enough, you’ll hurt your wrist. Don’t bend it." And then a finger drags across their knuckles, ”Don’t hit with the edge, hit here.”

The grip loosens.

Make him angry again. That's something he knows how to deal with. Vin can't even punch properly. What a loser. What a pushover. Doormat. Why do they keep acting like this.

From day one, Roe was trying to rile them up. But it's a personal failure now. He can push and push and push, he can bully them, make fun of them, make them ride in the backseat, they won't even hit him properly.

Why though. Why are they like that. Why is Roe not.

"Everyone's life is terrible," Terrible tone, mean again, "So stop feeling sorry for yourself. Don't say it like it's your problem, say it like it's their problem. It's their problem if they don't like you. Screw them."

He’s still holding their hand.

Divert.

"The face isn't as effective as the movies make it seem."

Yes, that's it. That's why he started touching them. Vin can't punch. Won't.

Roe would like to see it though. He'd like to see it a lot, actually.

He can't remember what they did during the incident at the drive-in. He's pretty sure no one but him and Javier were actually throwing punches around. Something was soda-sticky. Bentley was bleeding. Roe crawled away with at least three different head injuries.

And then the church. The bathroom. Jesus on the wall. Maybe that counts as the first touch. Did Vin hold his face still, or did they just dab at it with the paper towel. He can't remember if their hands were cold then either. Must've been. That summer was so hot. Maybe he wanted to kiss them then too.

"Go for the head if you're fine with accidentally killing someone. Otherwise-" He's guiding their fist now, holding it close to his stomach, angled up and under the ribcage, "-go for the gut."

Maybe he wanted them then too.

"Not now, though." He says hastily as their knuckles brush against bruising, "Try it later. I already-"

Arlo's fist, stuck in his stomach and then around his knee, smacking into the centre of Roe's palm.

He’s turning abruptly, back to the door and dropping their hand, calling for Mat again because they said they're even now, let them out already, he did it, let him out.

Last Edit: Jun 27, 2024 22:38:09 GMT -5 by tick 12a / calla

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Jun 29, 2024 18:07:23 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 29, 2024 18:07:23 GMT -5

There's a new bass drum waiting inside the garage the Saturday that Mat tells them they're having practice. The shell is in black, silver hardware. Sounds a little punchier than before. He just shrugs when they ask, says that it had to be replaced.

It was old. That's all. It was Alfer's. It was somebody else's before that. And it was time for a new one.

Bands break up and reunite all the time. That's what Mat says, very wisely. Happened to Deep Purple. And in 1984, after an eight year split, they dropped the most successful album the band had ever produced. And Aerosmith too. Finished the seven month reunion tour just last month, Back in the Saddle, five years since Steven Tyler said he never wanted to play with Joe Perry again.

Roe goes out for a smoke break between songs, and they get up with him. Wet February, the slush runs off the driveway. They pull out the lighter.

It flicks on easily.

And why had they kept it. Why hadn't he ever asked for it back. He should've gotten a new one by now because they said they were quitting the band. They should've thrown it away because what else would they ever need it for. And strange that it was only hard to remember how to play for the first fifteen minutes. But then, his hands were moving on the fret, and the wires were buzzing beneath theirs, and two months later, Roe still leans in as they cup the flame for him. The odd swell of their chest aches differently now. Since the pantry.

Roe's still adamant that his knee is no big deal. Won't tell them what happened. Bad enough that he shouldn't be driving though.

They ask for the keys to the Pinto. Got their permit last month so it'll be okay. They're taking the test in the spring. They've driven.

Unmoving, he just stares back, weird look on his face.

Fine. Fine then, they can take the bike. Sit on the rear rack. You can't keep walking everywhere. How will it get better.

He refuses that too. And they end up pushing their handlebars for about a mile, trekking beside him through the winter melt, until they finally get sick of it, stop in the middle of the sidewalk, and tell him to just get on the bike.

Christ's sake, Roe. You'll lose your leg.

At school, Antigone sits beside Roe in English, begins coming by to the lunch table again. Arcadia ignores him when she slides into the seat beside them, only remarks a little off-handedly how nice and peaceful the last two months have been. Too bad the break is over. The winter break, she means.

Mat's suddenly coughing, choking out his drink of water.

It's tumultuous, but in the same way it's always been.

Roe's knee gets better, he's driving again. They're at Mat's in the middle of the week, listening to his newest record in the background as they do their homework. Sixteen Blue, everything drags and drags. The Replacements are a lot better than Minutemen.

It occurs to them it's almost Roe's birthday. He'll be eighteen.

Weird in a way. The stretch of time where he's two years older instead of one. He's looking down at the notes on the table, and there's that flare of a feeling.

Everything's fine now. But they sleep a little less than they should. They take the bike past the fields of nothing, going the long way home. They're never hungry at dinner. And even though they're not fighting, even though they've made up, there's still that moment in the pantry, that rush like anger, right before they put their hand to his cheek. That feeling doesn't go away, flickers on and off inside them.

It's different. Maybe it'd been different for a long time. From the first day, they were oddly struck seeing him play the bass. What a weird feeling to carry, that he would always be older, always be somehow distant. Then they got a little better at drumming. Then they turned sixteen. And then they fought, he curled their hand into a fist, we're even now, they said.

Roe tries to get up to make Mat change the record, but they pull him down again.

C'mon, we're finishing this. Still the first page of the worksheet. He scowls, drawing faces with x'ed out eyes into their notebook.

It's almost Roe's birthday, which means it's almost Valentine's Day.

They're together in the physics study group when Arcadia brings it up. Wolf pointedly picks up the textbook like a barrier.

Valentine's is on Thursday. They should do something the weekend before too so there's no school to worry about.

Okay. Right. They should. Maybe she'll want to go to the rink. They should get her flowers. They could ask Alfer to drive them up to the mall on Friday, Mat had wanted that new album, didn't he. Got one of the band's old EPs from his cousin's, the lyrics were totally indistinguishable, and that's the point, he'd insisted, but at least the singer's voice was nice.

They could make her a mixtape. Except what would Mat have that she'd like. What do they have except the album she gave them. Except the mixtape Roe made them. It's on the shelf of their closet. They've made up, they're not fighting, but they haven't touched it.

A double date, Arcadia announces. Saturday.

They smile, nod. Bury a feeling. Okay.

Last Edit: Jun 29, 2024 18:11:44 GMT -5 by lucius branwen / 10 — fox

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Jul 1, 2024 23:35:27 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Jul 1, 2024 23:35:27 GMT -5

Vin's a maniac.

Roe didn't really get it at first.

Okay, church kid. New kid. Okay. They keep time for the marching band, they've never had Sprite before, never seen an R-rated movie, never even heard of Scorpions, or Van Halen, or Metallica.

Okay. So, they're a little different. More than a little. That's fine. All it'll take is a little re-education. Mat's got a whole speech about it.

But anyone can sit in the low light corner of the garage and pretend to be a metronome, Mat had a list of at least five other options, unexplored.

Okay, but there's this new kid. They took the Maiden tape, there might actually be something there, just give them a chance, I told them to come over this weekend, just give them a chance, don't be a dick.

That was it.

Mat liked them. That's what it made it so genuinely terrible - Mateo actually liked them.

And Roe has never been very likeable.

Okay, new kid.

Okay.

What makes you so interesting. Why you.

Mat had looked so damn pleased when Roe spun something complicated off the top fret and the snare just dutifully kept tapping away. He'd been so cocky after they left, even when Roe had loomed over him and said no, absolutely not, not that one.

Find someone else.

But Mateo had put his foot down for once. There is no one else.

Liar. You've still got that list.

But, okay.

Fine.

It wasn't worth losing Mateo over. Roe would just have to make the new kid miserable. Then they'd quit on their own. Problem solved. Easy solution.

Well.

Well, it worked eventually.

And somewhere in there, at some point, something shifted a little. Mateo gets picky about a certain fill, he starts needlessly picking the beats apart because his dad is back in town and that always makes him irritable. Roe's the one that tells him to lay off Vin. Roe's the one that snaps at him, as they all begin to enter a parallel universe where Roe is actually defending Vin's playing.

Little things too.

Mat, you get to pick the movie every time, let Vin have a go. No, you don't get the front seat anymore. Get Maia to drive you if you want it so bad. Yeah, yeah, that's what I thought.

It should be making Mat furious. Roe knows it would be driving him insane, if things were the other way around.

But then Mat is in such a good mood. Something shifts again.He's the cocky one now, got taller than Roe at some point, maybe that changed things.

Doesn't mean Roe is magically nice to Vin now, though. They go to hassle Mat at work and Vin tries to slip The Great Muppet Caper into Roe’s pile, between American Werewolf in London and Fast Company. He has to grab their wrist to grab the case, digging his thumb in between the little bones there and shaking until they let go.

Doesn't mean Vin is magically nice now, either.

Back to the maniac thing.

Roe didn't really get it at first.

They were passive, but they were watching. Placid, but plotting. He's sure of it now.

They withhold his pudding at lunch until he tells them what he got on that history paper. They argue with him a little more now, they push back a little harder. When David Lee Roth's solo debut EP comes out, they only let one song play for each magic triangle problem Roe solves.

And the bike.

Roe must tell them to slow down at least ten times, clinging to their shoulders and trying not to let his heels drag on the road.

It's payback for his driving, he's sure of it.

Maniac. He gets it a little better now.

And it is a little distracting. It does help a little.

Roe gets possession of a place in two weeks. His own place. It was hell to find, but he did it. Top unit of a duplex, really small, further away from Mat’s, but closer to downtown. It’s basically just a single room and a hall, but it’s something, it’s his own. It’s got a separate set of stairs that crawl up the siding to a separate front door. Two weeks left at Wilson, but at least he can mooch at Mat’s again. At least he can pick up some extra shifts in preparation for the rent cheques. One week and he’s an adult.

Normal eighteen year olds use that as an opportunity to celebrate. Throw a bash. Roe’s not celebrating anything, though. He's working, mourning, trying not to mourn, working again, tightening that tuning peg for the hundredth time, getting so frustrated with Vin and their algebra sheet that he has to go take a walk.

Life goes on.

And Antigone. She's back. That's a little distracting too. That helps a little.

Except there's something looming, and it's a something that they can both sense. It feels like they're both gearing up for the big one, it's right there on the horizon, nearly visible to the naked eye. Something about the way she came back this time, or maybe something about the way he came back, it all makes it seem like the last time. When they go out again, because they will, it'll be with a a bang. It's going to end differently. Badly. Worse than any of the other times things ended badly.

Pat Benatar releases a new single in February. Cyndi Lauper covers Prince. Antigone doesn't want to listen to Roe talk about David Lee Roth.

It's funny, how wide of a berth they get in the hall now. The hot and cold goes to boiling and freezing. It's hard to catch them when they're not fighting. And maybe this is just what a relationship is. It's what Roe grew up with. It's what he has now, not just with Antigone, but with Mateo too, and with Vin. Maybe the problem is just a Roe problem. He has to make everything so difficult, so disastrous, has to pick at every little short fuse he can find.

Screaming attention is still attention. Being told I hate you is still being told I see you.

Antigone tells him that they're going to do something nice for Valentine's day. On Saturday. He doesn't get to protest, she's already got it sorted. Because she knows he wouldn't have bothered to plan anything. He probably wasn't even planning to hang out with her, he would've probably been with the band, with them.

Roe offers no reaction, no ammunition. Not worth it. They've just had a go at it, the yelling's made him exhausted.

She gives him a nice shirt, wrapped in tissue paper, and immediately forces him into it because, at this point, she's well acquainted with the fact that his wardrobe consists of variously aging band shirts and that's it.

Happy early birthday, now tuck it in.

It's dark blue. And it has a collar. Every time Roe undoes a button, she leans over and does it back up, still so adamant that she can fix a lost cause.

They're sitting in the car outside of the diner. Real classy.

"I look ridiculous." He says.

Antigone looks him up and down for a long moment. She purses her lips, sighs, and then she nods.

"Yeah." She agrees, and then she reaches out to undo the top button again, flattening the opening of the collar back, she leans back to appraise him again.

That'll do.

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Jul 6, 2024 23:20:19 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jul 6, 2024 23:20:19 GMT -5

The door frames are hung with shedding garlands of red and white tinsel. There's Valentine's decals stuck on the window panes, little cherubic cupids already peeling at the edges from the cheapness of the vinyl and the bored patrons picking at the wings.

It's 11 a.m on a Saturday, and they're sitting at a booth sandwiched between a middle-aged couple and a family of four. The toddler's eating spaghetti by the fistful. The lady behind them is asking if they serve alcohol here. No, not beer and wine. She means like a screwdriver, hold the orange juice.

D-Jay's Family Diner.

That's where they end up.

Absently, they touch the little grooves of the table beneath their hand, rough outline of a heart scratched into the surface, the word JARL scraped into the center. It makes them look down, just to make sure. Makes them stare at the lettering for a full minute.

They're at D-Jay's.

They're pretty sure Arcadia went somewhere with tablecloths last year.

But she only reaches over, sitting shoulder to shoulder, and laces their fingers together underneath the table top, chatting away.

My brother's wedding, it'll be in late June. He's getting married right outside of Indianapolis, her family lives in Meridian Hills. They met in college, both studied business.

The last time they were at the diner, it was October, Walkman in hand, Roe stepping around the counter just as it started to pour outside.

God, it was hard to find a venue that wasn't a barn. They probably would've had the wedding on the east coast, but his fiancee's great grandfather didn't want to leave the state. Couldn't, actually. Can people that old even get on a plane. Too bad he's like a big deal. So Daniel's Vineyard. They're settled on that. Vin, what do you think?

The last time they were at the diner, they were holding his tape, feeling so out of breath. How many times had they listened to it since.

"Vin."

They blink. She squeezes their hand.

"Yes."

"The wedding," she repeats, tilting her head, little silver hoops in her ears, catching the sun. "You wanna come with me?"

"The wedding," they mumble, a little blankly.

The waiter's returning with menus. Valentine's week special is a slice of sugar cream pie. Hoosier homestyle.

No, they're not ready yet. Still waiting, thank you, she says.

She's looking at them. It's sunny out, doesn't feel like winter anymore, doesn't feel like spring either. Strange interlude of weather, some season without a name, lingering in their lungs on the inhale. Her flowers are propped up against the pane, pink and cream petaled, wrapped in a silver paper. Grown in a greenhouse somewhere. Lined with the condiments.

It looks so strange beside the bottle of ketchup.

They're sitting at a family diner for Valentine's, the flowers are for her. The wedding is in June. There's a hole inside them, and maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. How it will always be. They can live with it. God is felt somewhere between the stomach and the ribcage.

"Yeah," they put her hand into their lap. The air smells sweet and greasy, hard to swallow. "I'll come."

Arcadia smiles, leaning into their shoulder, hair soft on their neck.

The cups of water make rings of condensation on the table as they wait.

Mat said he was busy on weekend anyway, sure whatever, band practice canceled. They didn't ask Roe what he was doing.

It's another little difference. This time, Mat will catch their gaze across the lunch table, and they'll leave right as the yelling starts. And this time, he's been putting his foot down about practice. Don't bring girls. Don't bring anyone.

They haven't really seen Roe and Antigone together.

Hadn't expected to see them now.

Something lurches like a bone slipping out of place as they look up from the stained menu.

All of a sudden, there's Roe. There's Roe just as they were thinking of him, there's Roe in a collared shirt, dark blue. There's that sudden rush again. The sunlight streams in. Makes them dizzy.

And all of a sudden, Antigone's sliding into the seat across from Arcadia, she's laughing, they're both laughing, sound muffled out by the hammering in their ears. It takes so long for them to realize that this is supposed to be the double date. It takes until the moment that Antigone wraps her hand around Roe's wrist and pulls him down in the seat across from them. She smooths out his collar, giggling. The top button undone.

Their gaze flicks up to his face, edges of his hair coloured bronze in the first beautiful day of February.

"Vin got me those flowers." Little pat on their arm. They're looking away, finally, to the bouquet Arcadia's touching, white silk of the ribbon between her fingers. She's answering a question.

They haven't said a word yet.

It's the sun maybe, the heat of it. The light is very warm. The whole week's felt like coming out of a long cold. Since the pantry. Not sick anymore. Or sick in a new way. Sick in a way that has no likeness.

"Yeah." Eyes on the flowers, Arcadia, Roe again.

Wanted it to be a surprise, water under the bridge, we can all be friends, Arcadia says. She grips their hand again, resting on the table, little weight that pulls them down, earths them to the booth. Blue in the corner of their eye, softer than the colour of ink in the brightness of the diner.

The waiter's coming back, looks at them flatly. He takes the pad out, click of the pen, are you ready to order now.

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bury me — r&v / in every universe Jul 10, 2024 23:58:40 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Jul 10, 2024 23:58:40 GMT -5

Roe digs his heels in when he sees the table. Antigone’s got their fingers twined together, vicelike as she trudges forward without even breaking her stride. With her free hand she starts waving at Arcadia, a little wiggle of the fingers that increases in speed as they both start shrieking at that frequency only dogs can hear.

Roe alternates between staring at Vin and staring at the tabletop he's being steered towards. They can't possible be here. That can’t possibly be their table. Can’t be. Why would she do that? But, no, there’s Vin, sitting in the booth beside Arcadia, in a sweater that's much too big for them. Antigone threw such a fit over Roe hanging out with them again. Why would she do this. Especially now.

Feels like a trick. Especially now, as Antigone pulls him into the booth after her, as she takes her jacket off and balls it up against the wall.

They both look so out of place here. Arcadia and Vin. It's surreal, actually. They look like they belong at a country club. Little cookie-cutter couple. Like if Roe was laid out on the table and bleeding, they'd only be calling the sommelier back to ask if his blood would stain.

At D-Jay’s, the closest thing to a sommelier is a greasy teenager counting down the minutes to his break. The whole building has that permanent smell of grease that lingers in the air, gets in the clothes, and in the hair, sticks there. Roe knows, because he deals with it every weekday. Somehow, the Jays that own the restaurant aren't at all affiliated with Antigone's family.

How charitable of Arcadia, then, to withstand that. How generous of her to pick the only place in Kinsey that Roe could afford.

Maybe that’s why they both linger over the flowers. Arcadia is smiling at Vin. Antigone is not smiling at Roe.

Vin has the cuffs of their sweater rolled up, fleece curled around their wrists, they’re holding Arcadia’s hand.

What did Roe get you, Arcadia is asking, and so Antigone looks over at him expectantly, drilling two laser beams into the side of his face. But the look isn’t really that expectant. She knows. She’s looking at him in the way that’s telling him, alright, okay it’s over, time to fess up, tell them how awful you are. They deserve to know.

"I'm paying."

Disgruntled, a little defensive. Antigone just shifts back to glance at Arcadia.

She starts absentmindedly tracing his shoulder as the subject moves on, as the gossip starts up and a single perfectly painted blue fingernail drags down and across his back. It takes him a couple rounds of it to figure out that she's tracing her initials over his shirt, right over the tattoo.

He squirms. Pushes at the back of his neck. He should be talking to Vin since the girls are catching up, but he can’t think of a single thing to say. Can't think of a single thing to even think. He's not even sure what's happening. What's the point of this. There has to be one.

Steven is a blessing.

Meredith only has a week left before she heads out, so Boris has his nephew shadowing during the day. Roe didn’t want the promotion, so now Steven gets to be the one stuck waiting tables instead of the one stuck mopping up soda spills and baby vomit.

There’s only one person Roe's supporting now, so he's decided, just maybe, he can afford to be a little more picky. The garage down near the gas station said they’d consider taking him on as an apprentice once he’s officially eighteen. Maybe he won’t be stuck at D-Jay’s forever. Maybe it’s alright. Things could be alright, probably. Maybe.

He’s finally got the rest of the belongings from his mom now. The three records that were left, a shopping bag of clothes, the one ring she never pawned. Meagre little things that somehow made up a life.

Funny how that works. Strange what a person leaves behind. Got him thinking about what would be in his shopping bag, all those band shirts, all the records that would be sold off.

Maybe Mat would be sentimental and keep one.

Roe wants the pancakes. Antigone leans over to point at something else on the menu. Something classic, a little healthier, not as sweet. She's still telling everyone she wants to be a nurse. Roe'll be her first successful patient if she just tries hard enough. She can fix him if she just puts the work in, because surely the answer to getting him to behave is just hidden in the footnotes of a textbook somewhere.

Roe tells her to get off his back. Tells Steven that he'll take the pancakes, thanks. Al knows how to make them the way he likes.

Antigone, like any normal person, doesn't appreciate being snubbed. Roe doesn't listen to her sage advice. She scoffs. Gets pointed. He's about to snap at her. He's about to snap at all of them. Antigone for getting him here. Arcadia for undoubtedly organizing the whole thing. Vin for just sitting there.

Maybe they're embarrassed to be here. Like that Christmas, when Roe was clearing a table and looked up and they were already staring at him. How quickly they averted their eyes. How suddenly they went back to their conversation while Roe stormed away to the back.

That annoyance gets overshadowed though, because Arcadia decides to get herself involved. The escalation is inevitable. Roe's not allowed to talk to her best friend like that, obviously. His foot starts tapping. His knee starts jumping.

Arcadia implies that his childhood had a negative effect on him. Roe implies that she looks inbred.

"The food isn't even here yet." Antigone complains, when Roe starts to shift to get up.

"Goin' for a smoke." He mutters, already halfway out the booth.

Then Vin and Antigone both move at the same time. Everyone freezes a little.

Finally, tone short, Roe says "Vin's got the light." and Antigone narrows her eyes, but she slowly sits back down.

There's a bowl of mini chocolate hearts at the register, delicate things wrapped in pink and red foil. Roe grabs a handful of them as he passes by.

Last Edit: Jul 11, 2024 0:00:53 GMT -5 by tick 12a / calla

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lucius branwen / 10 — fox
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but a butt ?

bury me — r&v / in every universe Jul 13, 2024 14:34:58 GMT -5

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Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jul 13, 2024 14:34:58 GMT -5

How long does a lighter last. How long until the wick burns out.

They'll refill the fluid. They'll put in a new flint from time to time when the wheel stops spinning, a small cartridge of them stored in the back of their drawer from last summer.

Does a Zippo really last a lifetime.

Maybe. The soldiers had them in Vietnam. Windproof. Durable. Sometimes they'd find the lighter before the body.

And in the shade of the alley, Roe leans towards their hands as it flicks on. The metal is warm against their palm. How long will they have him like this.

The collar of his shirt catches their gaze as he moves away, blue peeking out from beneath the unzipped part of his jacket. There's a belated realization that they left their coat inside the diner. Didn't remember to grab it. It might still be too cold to just wear a sweater outside, it might be. They don't really feel it. The smoke drifts towards the sunlight as he exhales.

The suddenness of it all fades a bit in the clear winter air, easier to breathe outside, easier to think.

"That was mean."

They're re-rolling the cuffs of their sleeves, leaning against the wall beside him.

The maybe that's why you look like that bit he'd said. Could feel Arcadia bristling beside them. Could feel themself slowly sink into the booth.

And now they can hear Roe scoff, the way he's gearing up to retort, but they get there first, turning their head to glance at him. He's got a handful of foil chocolates, halfway through peeling one, and they reach over, take it from him, bite down on the heart.

Tastes a little bitter with the smoke in the air. It melts in their cheek in the silence.

All they really remember of it, standing in the blue shadows of Mat's house, was how bad the cigarette tasted when they tried it on Halloween, how it burned down their throat on the inhale. And yet now, yet again, why do they have the strangest urge to ask for it.

Could they. Just one more, just to hold the smoke in their lungs, see if it would taste any different this time. Sweeter with the chocolate maybe.

Could they.

They don't though, averting their eyes from the crumbling ash. Absently, they fold the red wrapper back into its shape, then crinkle it into their fist again. Fold, crush, fold. The foil tears.

"We should go back," is what they say instead. They should, but they haven't moved yet. Still lingering, still standing there, hands numb now. The sun shifts into the alley. Makes his silhouette glow in a way that's like fire.

Finally, Roe crushes out the Newport.

Back in the diner, the girls both glance up when they near their table, when they scoot in across from each other again. Arcadia's brushing against them, she's touching their cheek, you're so cold, she comments, frowning. Doesn't look at Roe when she emphatically adds, someone should be big enough to carry his own lighter.

A twisting in their stomach. They brush her hand off, twine their fingers together under the table instead. "I needed air. I wanted to go."

It's funny how abruptly that feels like the wrong thing to say, funny how painfully quiet it becomes after, four of them sitting there in a silence thick enough it's like their lungs are swimming in it. The cupids are peeling off the windows. The toddler's crying in the booth in front of them, wailing about wanting to leave. High-pitched. A fork clatters to the ground, red ribbons of spaghetti following it down like entrails.

The waiter has their order a minute later.

It's fine. Good. The food is here. Just have to eat. All they have to do is eat. Can't argue while eating.

Roe's asking for the syrup, and they shift a little out of Arcadia's grasp to pass it towards him. They're already holding it up when Antigone starts to insist the pancakes are sweet enough.

They just reach over and pour it for him.

The mood's nosediving.

"So," Antigone starts. She looks at glaze of syrup on the pancakes, at them. "The band." Now at Roe.

Something very whetted in the tone, slides right across their edges, grates against their bones.

She's leaning on the table, she's sipping the water from her glass. And then she's talking about the Halloween performance, if there's going to be another one now that the band is back together, she thought they had to quit because their parents found out or something.

They stop eating, paused in the middle of cutting their toast in half.

"No."

Go back to cutting, knife clinking on the plate.

But she's still talking. Must be hard to keep it up, must've been all too much so they needed a break. That's why they just quit. Cad told her they always have to say they're at her house when they're actually with the band. Arcadia's nudging into their shoulder, rolling her eyes, what can I do, their parents love me.

Their insides are starting to feel like the spaghetti that's congealing to the floor. Have to put the knife down, sitting back into the cracked leather of the booth. Why is this the double date. Why did they come back inside.

"We're going to my brother's wedding in June," Arcadia adds, turning to them, smiling. Because they are, because they agreed about half an hour ago. Because they can without needing to lie about it. Why would their parents say no.