my prompt for you is: orange light!! good luck deciphering that!!
it took a few days but as soon as you said orange light i knew exactly what i wanted to include and what i wanted this to be about. this is actually a very personal and emotional piece for me, so i actually do hope you like it!
i even put this through two spell checks and a grammar check, so i made a genuine effort!
title from a novel by andré aciman called 'plus tard ou jamais', which means 'later or never' in french.
𝐏𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝, 𝐨𝐮—
pairing: male!oc x gn!nameless!oc (barely tbh)
rating: t cause i think there's swearing?
warnings: nothing really, dreaming, revisiting the past, talking about feeling safe, mention of chronic illness, bitching about climate change the heat, this is just a vent piece where my boyfriend catches me at the end that's it lol
masterlist
It’s too hot.
It’s been too hot for three days.
The air conditioner is barely providing any relief. In this heat wave, it would probably take three 18k BTU units to satisfy me. It’s horrible; everything is damp, everything smells like humidity and AC condensate. Every 5 hours, I have to force myself up and away from whatever I’m doing to haul The Bucket—used to be used with the mop, but since last summer, it’s exclusively used to collect the condensation from the air conditioner—to the bathroom and back again.
My fingers hurt. My head hurts. My back feels like it’s been twisted out of and back into shape too many time. Misshapen, I feel misshapen.
It’s 3:47AM and I’ve been on my back on my bedroom floor for... too long. Feels like forever, but I know it’s only been half an hour. But there’s nothing to do; I’m in between jobs, I did all the laundry in a bout of mania last night, the dishes were cleaned after I made myself dinner earlier...
There was a time when I would have known what to do with myself in a situation like this. Would have had a list of things that I could easily do whenever I happened to have the time for them. That list is long gone, though.
Maybe it's with my motivation; eloped, and forgotten about. Good for her.
Beneath me, I feel the old wooden floor shake when a loud clap of thunder sounds outside. Ah, finally, I think, something to cut through this wretched humidity and maybe return some sense of normalcy to my life. I pat my hand around on the floor to find my phone, but when I pull up the weather forecast, it’s grim.
92% humidity for tomorrow and yet more thunderstorms.
Carelessly throw my phone in the general area of the head of my bed. Miserable, this is absolutely miserable. I can’t go out like this; ten minutes in that kind of heat and nevermind heat exhaustion, I may as well just go straight to the nearest hospital for the inevitable heat stroke I’d be suffering from.
From its new place, probably half under a pillow from the sound of it, my phone dings. Probably another email to tell me that though my candidacy was appreciated and my résumé was impressive, they’ve gone ahead and hired someone else for the position.
Someone who was asking for a lower salary, probably.
Miserable.
The amount of motivation required to get myself on my feet again is gargantuan. But at this rate, I’m never going to sleep, and I’m not going to do anything productive. So I shuffle to the bathroom at the end of the hallway, pull open the mirror door, and pluck the bottle of melatonin from its shelf.
Mm. No. Put it back and grab the THC gummy bottle next to it instead. That’ll do. I only grab and pop one in my mouth to chew; I made the mistake of taking two once and only once, and I would rather lick the underside of my shoes than do that again.
I don’t both to get under the covers when I let myself fall into bed. Limbs akimbo, staring up at the ceiling, I wonder. I wonder what my life could be like if everything didn’t have to be so... this. There’s a bitter kind of resignation that sank in year ago, when my then-fiancé simply ghosted me the night before our trip to Japan.
Shit always happens.
And sometimes who you are matters.
The light-headed feeling from the edible starts to sink in. I should’ve just grabbed a beer from the fridge. Or maybe made myself a rum and coke. I’m always a happy, sleepy drunk.
Forgot that I tend to get too pensive and subsequently high when I’m too baked.
Ah, god dammit.
My eyes feel dry and sore. I feel so much more exhausted than when I fell asleep. At least, I think I do. I don’t remember falling asleep. I definitely don’t remember falling asleep outside, out on the grass. But the feeling on my exposed arms and legs is unmistakeable.
Freshly cut grass that will undoubtedly make me break out in hives.
I remember this place so clearly. It’s the playground behind my old elementary school. When I sit up and twist to look around, there’s a swell of something in my chest. Some unknowable emotion that’s probably an amalgam. The unkept field is still there, and so are the woods behind it. They flattened it all out and made condos there years ago.
So this is definitely a memory, then. Probably of one of the fundraiser spaghetti dinners they would do a week or two before school let out. If I look out to the softball diamond, there’s a mountain of old wood and pallets for the bonfire that would happen later.
There’s only me here, though. There isn’t the tell-tale chatter of parents by the doors, no shrieking children, no firecrackers. I remember, being freshly eleven years old, looking at my friends and the setting sun and thinking, yes, I need to remember this. This is a moment I’m going to need to remember, someday.
Basking in the setting sun, it’s easy to understand why. Despite the lack of people, I can still smell the industrial quantity of spaghetti sauce simmering in the cafeteria kitchen. The heat isn’t overbearing; it feels comfortable, actually. I remember getting a rash on my arms and legs from the freshly cut grass. The small scar on my forehead left there by a burning ember that got blown my way.
The sun never sets, here.
Through closed eyes, I notice the shadow falling over me.
"Go away," I say quietly. There’s no bite in my voice—no one who would be here would be anyone I get angry at. "I’m trying to nap."
A scoff. Then, "The chronic fatigue doesn’t hit for another..." A brief pause, for contemplation, I suppose. "Seven years."
I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. But I recognize that voice. I didn’t know that voice when I was eleven. Wouldn’t get to know it for a few months still. I sigh anyway and prop myself up on my elbows. I keep my gaze ahead when I open my eyes. I don’t want to know which version of him is here quite yet.
"Why are you here, Michael?" I ask, leaning heavily on my hands. I let my eyes flit from window to window, pausing on the windows I know look into the library longer than the others. I can just barely make out the diaphanous curtains my mother hung over one of the couches. The sheer fabric almost glistens in the orange glow.
"I show up whenever you need a reminder," he answers as he takes a seat next to me. Our shoulders are touching. He nudges my arm with his elbow. "What have you been forgetting?"
I can’t help but laugh. What have I been forgetting? Is that a joke?
"Everything," I grunt, scooching back a bit to lean forward and pull my legs up. "A lot."
Michael chuckles good-naturedly next to me. I missed—miss him. I miss him.
"Shooting stars, sib," he whispers, and I can feel the warmth of his fingertips when he starts to dig them into the nape of my neck. "You’ve forgotten that we’re shooting stars."
All at once, my eyes burn and my nose feels hot and itchy. I reach up for the hand at the back of my neck and bring it to my cheek instead. A thumb awkwardly brushes away the first tear to fall.
"I love you though," I manage to choke out. Look up at the sky like that’ll help my eyes dry out. "I haven’t seen you in forever. Did you get married? Do you have kids? Do you..."
Michael’s thumb stills on my cheekbone. I can feel him leaning in closer.
"...do you even think about me at all?"
Micheal sighs and I feel him rest his forehead against the crown of my head. His breath feels warm there, too. I can hear him inhale to answer, but I rush to speak first.
I don’t know if I want to hear his answer.
"I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not having been a better friend to you. I called you a brother, called you family, but I—"
"It’s fine," Michael cuts me off, gently,quietly. Pulls his head up off mine and his hand away from my cheek in favour of wrapping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me in. "We were young and stupid. You couldn’t have known. It’s not like anyone was helping."
"You did," I counter, a bit more petulantly than I’d like. "Even if you just let me get passionate about things, you—I didn’t get that from anyone else. You made it safe to like things."
Ah. There it is, isn’t it.
Michael’s laughter is still so wonderfully soothing. A perfect combination with the warmth of the setting sun. The sound of his voice like perfume in the air, sparkling and sweet.
"Yeah," Michael says eventually,giving my shoulder a quick squeeze before letting go to lean back and get a better look at me.
I forgot I didn’t want to look.
He’s got the braids in, like I’d done when we were kids. Otherwise looks just like he did last time I saw him nearly a decade ago; smart, dark slacks, a button-up with the sleeves rolled up with no tie in sigh, shoes shining like his eyes. I can't help but reach a hand out for his own face—to feel the thick beard he’s growing, run a hand through the hair I’d straightened and braided and put flowers in.
"He’s done a great job too, y’know," Michael says, looking away with a smirk. He doesn’t take my hand away where it’s brushing back hair at his temples. "Your husband, I mean."
"We’re not..." I start, but trail off. We’re not actually married, which doesn’t feel fair. "Yeah," I settle with. "He does, despite it all. Despite everything."
When Michael turns back to look at me, it’s a boy, and I find us sitting in his mother’s basement, on her dark green leather couch. The outro to Fortier is playing on the TV.
"He’s not the only one," Michael says, and it’s strange to hear an adult voice come from such a young face. I remember feeling that way after his voice changed over summer break in 9th grade, too. He turns to look back at the TV, but grabs the remote on the couch arm closest to him to turn it off.
I can hear his mother talking to his younger brother upstairs. I hear plates being taken out of a cupboard and pots and pans being moved.
"You were always welcome, you know," Michael says, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. His fingers just barely reach my hair to play with it. "Mom worried about you like her own."
"I felt that," I laugh, quiet and airily. "I just never wanted that kindness to be revoked."
"Dinner’s ready!"
"Come on," Michael urges me to stand up. "She made shepherd’s pie just for you."
The smell of a fresh, home cooked meal lingers in my nose when I wake up. It’s a slow process; I eventually remember that I fell asleep, and work carefully to unstick my clammy limbs from the floor beneath me.
"There they are," I hear next to me, and I can only muster the energy to hum in acknowledgement. "Floor comfier than the bed?"
"F’koff," I mutter, rolling over on the side before pushing myself up. Rub a hand down my face when I taste salt on my lips. Sniffle a few times while running my hands through my hair to try and loosen up some of the knots.
I can still feel the hand on the nape of my neck.
"Bad dream?"
I shake my head. "No, not bad, just..."
"Hmm, just maybe a bit too much?" When I don’t answer, my boyfriend—husband?—crouches by me and guides me to my feet with patient hands. Brushes the hair out of my face and kisses my forehead before pulling me in. A hand at my lower back and the other on the back of my head until I let my forehead rest against his shoulder.
"It’s okay," he whispers, kisses the top of my head. "We’ll go to sleep and you can tell me all about it in the morning."
"Even if it’s ab—about Mike?" The question is out before I can think better of it. He exhales like it’s funny.
"Obviously."
When I wake up again, the sun filtering through the thin curtains above the bedroom window make everything look like molten gold. The dust in the narrow sunbeams coming through look like glitter. Boyfriend pressed up against my back, his nose pressed against the top of my spine, a leg between mine, and a hand curled over my stomach.
I want to tell Michael that he’s right.
Despite everything, I do feel safe, here.
I won’t know until I’ve had breakfast and I’ve gone down in sleep shorts and an oversized Five Finger Death Punch shirt that definitely doesn't belong to me, with a coffee mug in hand, that there’s a wedding invitation waiting for me in the mail box.
@alovesongtheywrote thank you so much for sticking around for a whole year!! I've even gotten to see you change your url and pronouns!!
You have been so incredibly vital to maintaining my drive and motivation to write that now I feel like I can take the training wheels back off and write the things I want to write without worrying too much.
Love u!! Thank u!! Gonna go do what I've been meaning to do for a while and comb thru your masterlist ♥
@alovesongtheywrote jury’s still out on that one lol. I suffer from chronic fatigue and it’s been getting progressively worse over the past year so we’re trying to find out what’s going on. Unfortunately I’m still on the waiting list for a bunch of tests so for now I kinda just have to manage 🤷♀️
There are some days when I spend more time in bed than awake despite the few things my doctor’s been able to get me to try.
