s a i n t verona { joseph&robert

s a i n t verona { joseph&robert Aug 29, 2017 22:33:00 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Aug 29, 2017 22:33:00 GMT -5

It's ya boy, bad dad.

Eight p.m. -- god I love day care hours. It's the best hours for doing nothing, getting paid for doing nothing, eight to eight and all I do is sleep around, put gum under desks and cut up wood. Arts and crafts HA, they thought. Lucien's the only kid interested in it and it's kinda disheartening- I mean, how fuckin' boring is that? Even I don't care about it and I'm the teacher around here. Ass on the window sill, cigarettes in my jacket pocket, gotta be careful, got knives under there. Closing nights are the best. Them and opening, the last few minutes when the kids are coming or leaving and I can just take a smoke break. Right hand in the flower pot, left hand on the smoke, staring off the second floor.

I think I might like working with kids. Reminds me of when Val used to smile, reminds me to stop thinking about her so much. All I do is smoke and sleep and eat around here, the other day Mat woke me up sleeping on two desks pushed together. Face pressed into a desk, he learned not to catch me off guard and I feel a little bad about it, throwing paper balls at me and I gruff out "I'll knife you," before I even woke up.

"Man, why don't you just move a bed in at this point?"

"Sleeping on desks reminds me of home, Mat," pressing my arm into the smell of leather. "Haha, didn't know you love school so much."

"They have desks in prison?"

I toss the cigarette out the window, smoke clinging to my pores but hey, with my diet my skin's bound to just fall the fuck off anyways. Closing time, just me and Joseph left now -- hell yeah. Last kid leaving and I watch from the second floor window, Ernest following his mother and Joseph waving from the front door thank god. The hugs and kisses part of closing makes me vomit, shit's too much fluff to deal with sober, I mean I'm a cool teacher and all but I'll see you tomorrow? It's a day care, not like I'm leaving for the hunger games. Anyways I love working with Joseph, he's the easiest to manipulate into having sex with me.

Kidding, that's fucked up- he's just stupid. Found out he was a religious kid, that was an adventure. All smiles and perfect skin and told me he believed in ripred; I told him I did too. In fact, my dad was a founder of a hidden ally church, one of those reservoirs for religious gatherings y'know, so that peacekeepers can't arrest them and all that. Stared him in the eyes and lied in the name of ripred and the one question he had was where was it! Where was this glorious state of worship! He believed me so fast I had every plot hole question answered, readied, hard working and everything not to get caught in my own lies and what did he ask? When were the visiting hours.

Why do I even try anymore?

"AYE JOSEY-"

Screaming from the top of the staircase, waiting for blonde hair to appear- "HEY-" my voice echoing and I chase it down the stairs, running along the banister, smirk already deep to my soul. Eight p.m. in my throat, smoke in my skin, ghosts on my back- blonde in my eyes. I don't wait much for a response, crushed cigarette in my pocket, I always feel especially sinful near Joseph. Like running next to white walls with paint on my hands, something's bound to get fucked up -- it's a little exciting. "WE GOOD?" Joseph seems the type of guy that if I invited him over, he'd try to clean up my living room. Can't trust people like that, don't know how to hide their secrets. What if they were hiding a body, huh? What would they do then? Just clean up old miss Jennifer Tuceps and prop her up like a dinner piece?

"Got any plans for tonight?" Eyebrow piqued, finding Joseph in the lobby, pale skin reflected in the mirrors- good. Proves he's not a vampire, one step closer to trusting him. Next step, shooting him with a silver bullet and lighting him on fire; if he doesn't die then he's a witch. If he does? Werewolf, boom.

"I think we've got some shared interests, yknow?"

Ghosts. Distractions. Same thing- he'll understand.

Maybe.

s a i n t verona { joseph&robert Dec 28, 2017 0:56:02 GMT -5

Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Dec 28, 2017 0:56:02 GMT -5

☾

Kids are really fucking wild sometimes –

Crish draws on the walls in magic marker, crayons, baby scribble, great impressionism, Ernest gives lip, the twins are into learning these big words these days – (“Sweetheart, ‘suckass’ isn't a nice thing to say to your sister”) – and it doesn’t help that Robert swears like fuck whenever someone wakes him up, sleeping on a pocketful of knives and metal desks like it's the comfiest.

I mean, I want to too.

But I don’t.

Eight p.m. closing time, and the daycare empties. The halls drain of spoon duels and brownie batter, Ripred’s book, colouring sheets. And I pick up after the kids, give Christie her shoes, a hug, follow Lucien out carrying whatever great antiestablishmentarianism thing he made today, make sure no one’s lost anything worse than a finger.

I'm responsible. But cool. ~~Responsicool.~~

Fuck. That was lame.

I hand Ernest off last, his mom pulling him out the front door as he kicks up the asphalt with the heel of his shoes – thank God – no, he’s not a bad kid or anything, swear. But he is around for twelve hours of my life on the regular.

And I’m not a saint.

Eight o’ five, I’m scrubbing ink off the wallpaper because these k i d s. The room smells like lemon detergent. In the air, sharp and soapy, abrasive tropical and the scent of an intemperate night somewhere, long ago – it makes me tired. Sleeves rolled up, but the cuffs are still damp from the layer of foam. My eyes hurt. It’s getting late.

In a moment of tangency, I think about a fragile heartbeat and hair like holy light. I think about Mary breathing next to me, the rise and fall of her shadow on the wall like the quaking of a storm somewhere far, far ahead. The first time, a hurricane gathering in the moonlight, and we could never have known.

I put the caps back on the markers, snapping closed, one by one.

A second, closing my eyes, lean back on the scratchy carpet, air heavy with citrus of a faraway place, long nights folded and pressed between the now and all the years in between somewhere swimming. And exhale.

It’s quiet like this. In the morning and in the evening, afterhours. Everything leaks from me like an oil spill, something dark and torrential rushing forwards – and I’m tired. Because I could fall asleep on knives and desks and daycare hours too. Because lying on the carpet, the sound of water dripping and bubbles popping –

but I don’t.

Responsicool.

"AYE JOSEY-"

Ripred. The kids are wild.

Leaving a citrus dream, hazy and pink, and I follow the mood echoing down the corridors, all the way to the bottom where there’s a "HEY-" bouncing from the steps in the air.

Everyone else is gone, I guess.

I look up, see Robert barreling down the stairs, like a force of nature, stopping next to me with all the great power of an unstoppable doom. Smoke clinging to his skin like morning mist over water, citrus on my sleeves, and I can’t lie, I can't because sometimes he reminds me of how things used to be. Sometimes, when I’m tired.

"Got any plans for tonight?"

Maybe I should.

There’s an idea, a thought that I should say yes, that it’s late and I should go home – to sleep, to be with my wife, to wake up next morning to feel some familiar space clutching at the foot of the bed even though somehow I always find myself closing, always last out of the building, walking around the dark and wanting clean a little longer or stay a while more or to push two desks together because I could, I could, I could.

And maybe I should have plans for tonight.

I remember the time he told me that lie, first time we met, stuff about his dad and Ripred and secret underground worship, and maybe this is mine:

“No, not really. Why?”

Shared interests, and I try not to think too hard about it.

"Like what?”