cstellos.
there’s a moth crawling on the window. the sound and movement catch will’s attention and he stands, the empty space in his wake instantly becoming occupied by the pillow, which sits there slumped in a position that’s eerily similar to the way will was just hunched over at his laptop. he shuts the blinds in the moth’s face and pretends he’s doing it a great disservice. it’s a cia moth, it came here to spy on them. but it can’t very well spy on them now, can it? “fuck you, moth,” he tells it. on his way back, he grabs a sweater, and uses it to make a tiny bed out of the chair. he’s too big to curl up in it. he tries anyway, lying at an odd angle on the pillow. “nah. those taste fake to me. i think it’s the fuckin’ lack of chocolate.” he shuts his eyes. “you need a ratio, or else it’s so fuckin’ weird. it’s like taking a bite outta the uncanny valley.”
the moth is watched intently. it’s an unspoken suspicion, one juniper thinks she can decipher by the way the corner of his mouth might quirk, the rigidity in his shoulders. yellow light from the desk lamp glows weakly in the windowpane, an artificial sun in the gloom of the night sky and trail of cobwebs that reach out, veiny in the brightness. ‘ the moth says fuck you too, ’ she murmurs, thumbing the edge of her textbook for the newest dog ear to be added at the top of a page. she’s too lazy for bookmarks — or perhaps without one again, the last crumpled 7/11 receipt swept up by the hungry mouth of a vacuum. legs tucked under her, it’s a subconscious mirror of her friend. they’re alike, a matching set of statues she thinks, although it’s hard to deny the slight chill that rests on the bare skin at the ankle of her trackpants that forces her to huddle. her words are muffled around the candies. ‘ but it’s not about the chocolate. it’s about the peanut butter. ’ a pause, as if to contemplate a deep thought embedded. ‘ it isn’t meant to be real sweet. more savoury and sweet, y’know? ’ she makes to read a page of her textbook, words running over but not sinking in. with a huff she glances back up at him, laughing breathily at the swathe of blankets will buried himself under. ‘ c’mon. you can’t say all of it’s bad. it’s like, a guilty pleasure or whatever. wait. nostalgic. that’s the word. ’
