School

NOVEMBER 7: school

“Lemme school you on this,” Connor said in his lyrical accent, shaking the can of spray paint in his hand. He regarded the dusty brick wall in front of him with a slightly tilted his head. He took a step forward. “I’ve been doing this since you were in diapers.”

“Uh-huh,” Noel said but he watched Connor with veiled interest in his blue eyes. He sat on an old milk crate turned upside down, hands between his legs and gripping the crate. His black and grey striped tuque was pulled down low enough to cover his eyebrows, covering his piercing. He bit his lower lip and Connor could see him jiggling his right leg before his gaze darted around.

“Don’t worry, we won’t be caught,” he assured the kid before he stepped forward and began to spray out his initials. CDO. He smirked at its correlation with OCD. People thought that was what it was, the code that he sprayed. He heard some girls scoffing about it before and he almost laughed aloud right in their ears. He didn’t, of course. Graffiti artists were a notorious attention seeking lot but they wanted to remain anonymous at the same time. It was a weird kind of exhibition.

“You start with your signature?” Noel asked.

“Yep.” He didn’t bother explaining why.

When he finished his initials, he started in on his actual painting, which he had decided would be…

“Is that a shamrock?” Noel asked.

“Yep.” He smirked. “Irish, in case you didn’t notice.”

Callous

NOVEMBER 6: callous

He stared down the barrel of the gun, imagining how it might feel to pull the trigger.

Loneliness was a bitter ache, deep in his bones. All this time, he thought by remaining detached and callous, he could keep his heart guarded. All this time, he didn’t even believe he had a heart to guard. Who in all this time had he loved as much as his younger brother, whom he loved as much as he resented, whom he missed and who seemed to have forgotten him. Then when they saw one another again, he was met with anger and misunderstandings. Miki was too quick to jump to conclusions. And what must he think of Hiro, deep, deep down, for him to believe that Hiro willingly melted into the shadows and out of his life.

Hiro didn’t want a heart, when it felt so heavy as this. He thought of all those nights he came home late and Joo Won looked at him with those hurt eyes but smiled as he tried to understand, tried to logically piece together the reasons Hiro stayed away or the way he touched him, the way he tried to keep pace when Hiro was disgustingly voracious or when he was dolorously incapable, his body unable to react even when his heart was at its fullest.

Joo Won was a man of science. Logically, if Hiro said one thing but his body said another, it was easier to believe the body. A body wasn’t supposed to lie while the tongue could elicit and create untruths, hundreds of them, thousands. He watched for a long time, the way Joo Won’s mind tried to be practical when he was feeling emotional, the way he tried to apply emotion to logic later. What would he do, in his place? It was frustrating.

He wished lately he had no heart to ache and he wondered if it would be better that way in the end for Joo Won. He lowered the gun. It would be easier for him to pull the trigger but deep down, deep, deep down, he knew it would do Joo Won no favors. Lying to himself about why he wanted to do it made it no less easier to put the gun down.

The heart inside him, that was a testament to the human still left inside. He touched his hand to his chest. It ached even to touch, as if his body sympathized with his heart and mind.

Memory/Three

NOVEMBER 4: memory

He missed him. Life wasn’t the same without Blue. There were days when he felt close to the end of his rope with him, when he didn’t know how to react to the things he did or said. Those years were long past him, nothing but a distant memory, but they had shaped Raziel into the man he was today. Blue had shaped him into the man he was today.

He missed him. He thought about him all that time he was gone, believing he had died out there. It killed him, his own inaction, his own hand in his demise. And when he discovered he was alive, it killed him that Blue had survived without him. He taught him well, but now he knew Blue was still alive and that there was nothing now between them. They were no longer partners or brothers or whatever it was one would have called them. They were nothing and Raziel had nobody but himself to blame.

He missed him. He shouldn’t have walked away the way he did. Raziel looked down at his own hands. So he was willing to bend his knee to him and beg forgiveness but he… Raziel closed his eyes, wishing he could shut out his own thoughts. They were loud, playing over and over in his mind, from the past, from just recently, there were flashes of images, the sound of his voice, the sound of his own voice saying stupid, foolish things. Raziel turned his head. He missed him but now he was nothing but a memory.


NOVEMBER 5: three

It used to be the three of them. Wiley remembered those days–they seemed like they were a long time ago. There was himself, of course, and then there was little Leelee, his cute little shadow, and lastly, there was Tristan, who acted like he hated Wiley’s guts but was still counted amongst Wiley’s top three people in the camp (because he counted himself, too!).

Now things were different. Tristan just stared at him like he seriously hated his guts now, instead of just playing around (that was how Wiley saw it, anyway) and Leelee skulked and sulked and stared, too. The three was just Wiley. Or… Now it was Wiley and Blue and everybody else was just background noise.

It wasn’t a bad thing, having Blue, though. Wiley just wished he could have been an addition, instead of having to subtract people. He thought pretty much since Blue came around, the three had broken up because Tristan liked Blue and Blue liked Wiley and Leelee like Wiley but Wiley liked Blue. It was a whole head game and Wiley was admittedly not good at head games. Unless he was playing chess with Tristan but that was a whole different thing. Winning against Tristan was funny because Tristan got so mad and indignant. That was probably because he saw Wiley as a thing beneath him but that was okay because Wiley didn’t think the same.

Leelee barely even talked to him or Blue anymore. She really, really didn’t like Blue, which was hardly fair. Just because Blue came here and Wiley liked him didn’t mean everybody should hate him. Leelee hated Blue, Tristan hated Wiley. He wished it could be less dramatic, honestly. He wished they could all chill and just get along.

 

Teeny

Falling behind here a bit… Here’s day 2’s prompt a day late.

NOVEMBER 2: teeny

“I have something to show you,” Adair said over the phone in his cute mischievous voice. Cam eyed the other guys in the studio, a slow grin forming on his face. Most of them were going through the motions of their dance, some were muttering songs under their breath. Cam turned away from them. Something to show him, huh?

“Oh yeah?” He looked at the time on his watch. “How about I come by your place in oh, fifteen?”

“Fifteen! You’re really eager, aren’t you?”

Cam laughed. Of course he was. After years of chasing around the unmovable, it was nice to be wanted back. There might have been some small part of him that was always holding out for Alan. He still had stupid photographs and little things he pilfered from his as a child. They weren’t big things, but they were mementos to remember him by. Did Alan ever notice those things went missing? Even if he did, he probably never would have thought to check Cam’s bottom drawer, underneath his t-shirts. (Not everybody used the old underwear trick.)

“I’ll see you in fifteen, babe,” he pressed. Adair couldn’t expect to call him with that taunt and not have him show up on his doorstep. What could he possibly have to show him? Some kind of new underwear collection? Adair was a model, after all… He could have some kinda kinky outfit. Cam’s eyebrow rose at the thought of it. Not that Adair was ever that kind of model. If anything, he fell into the occupation quite by accident.

“Later guys,” Cam said to the others, not caring whether they wanted him to stay or not.

Standing outside the apartment door at Adair’s place, he was totally expecting him to answer the door half clothed or something. Instead, the door opened just a tiny bit and he could just make out one blue eye staring back at him. Cam leaned forward, inspecting that blue eye.

“You are naked under there!” he said, because he liked being right and he tended to be on the vocal side of being right. He heard Adair laugh, then he moved back and opened the door. Much to Cam’s disappointment, Adair was not in a state of undress, nor was he wearing anything nice and kinky. And then, there it was. It was thrust into his arms, a teeny little cotton ball of a puppy with floppy ears and coal black eyes.

“What?” Cam said, confused as he took it and looked at it. It licked his nose. “A puppy?”

Rain

Another prompt given to me from Heather at Distant Fantasies. The challenge was to take one word and incorporate it into a scene of no more than four paragraphs. My word was rain.

Rain

When he looked down at his hands, he saw nothing but bright red, staining the creases of his palms, congealing between his fingers. Beneath his knee, the other man remained still and silent. Lips were grey, breath no longer drawn. Emil’s lips curved upward in a terrible smile, even as his heart trembled in his chest and his hands began to shake.

“You bastard,” he whispered, staring down at Christian’s unseeing eyes. Petrichor filled the damp air and thunder rumbled in the grey skies. Glued to his back, Emil’s suit jacket felt uncomfortably tight. Something in his chest contracted and he took in a shuddering breath as he leaned back, sitting on his heel.

“You made me do it…” His fists clenched at his sides and he raised his head, closing his eyes as a gust of cool wind rifled through his hair. Even through his closed eyes, he could see the flash of lightning. Another crack of thunder.

The rain started out gentle, kissing his face, sliding over his closed eyes and down his lips. Then it fell in earnest–big, fat droplets slapping his cheeks as he opened his eyes. Raindrops fell from his lashes, from the tips of his hair as he slowly rose. And when he looked down at his hands, the blood had washed away. Emil’s smile disappeared.