Genre: Adult literary fiction, short fiction (a Moth Work story that occurs after BODY BACK)
Status: Currently drafting / 3k words
Synopsis: After a whirlwind romance devastatingly ends, Jeremiah moves back to his hometown in Maryland for support only to receive word there’s been a death in the family the day he's set to arrive.
Setting: Baltimore, MD
Vibe: Sunny backroads, noonday fields, retro diners, long car rides, the sparkle of headlights, motion blur, undeveloped film, dusty sunsets, a purple MP3 player, the way childhood feels in photographs, crackling home movies, misty autumn evenings, quiet bursts of grief, summers at the lakeside, the first dreamy flare of sunrise, returning to a place you once knew
On the evening Jeremiah decides he’ll drive thirty hours to Maryland, the other half of his mattress is cold and Madonna’s on the radio. In his bedroom, he taps his cigarette on the windowsill, the ash scattering into rainy blue hour, and listens. Time goes by so slowly, she goes, her voice singed through his boombox’s broken speakers. He’s meant to replace it, though he’s meant to do a lot of things: check the mail, make a quiche, buy lightbulbs, call his sister, take up cross-stitch, recycle an olive jar, move his bed to the opposite side of his room. But time goes by so slowly, and Jeremiah would know—he’s twenty-one, yet feels he’s been alive for much, much longer.
I wasn’t going to post this here because it felt rough but actually it’s so cute! Jeremiah asks Harrison to come over when there’s a blackout under the pretence that he needs to borrow his lighter for candles & now he’s crying bc he’s in love:
"What happened?" His thumb ironed at Jeremiah’s tears that'd continued to fall and he wrapped his arm tighter around his shoulders, then leaned forward and kissed his temple, his lips still on his forehead as he said, “Oh, what’s happened?” He began to rock them, a gentle sway, then linked their legs together as if to close the grief in their distance. He skimmed his fingers along the back of their hands, and Jeremiah clung to him then, his inhale a lightheaded jitter.
“I lied to you,” he whispered, although it’s not what he meant to say. He wasn’t upset, he knew that, but his body had identified something before he’d had a chance to, a feeling so large it felt like it could break him. Love.
“Yeah?”
“My lighter’s not broken.”
And then a laugh. The sound was twinkly, and for a second, Jeremiah almost thought it’d made the candle flames around them dance. Jeremiah turned to face him now, confused.
But he was smiling, all his teeth winking when he said, “Lie to me whenever you want,” and pecked Jeremiah on the cheek over and over again, enmeshing him.
Jeremiah tried to explain himself, that he hadn’t wanted to be in the dark alone, how large it felt, how he now felt guilty for tricking him into venturing into the night himself, how he hadn’t thought of how selfish the ask was, to beckon someone into the dark when he himself couldn't handle it and how he hadn’t meant to even bring up the lie or the lighter, how he couldn’t explain the feeling in his chest without using the word love.
But then: a coo above him, a gentle shush and a chin crooking against his shoulder, a voice saying not to worry, a voice saying he’d cross this city at midnight if Jeremiah ever called, a voice that said he could never be afraid of the dark knowing Jeremiah was inside of it, a voice that went soft, so close it was like he'd become him, whispering “You’re like the sun.”
He heads for the bar. He’s not planning on drinking tonight, not anything alcoholic at least, so when the bartender asks what he can get for him, Jeremiah asks for a diet Coke, thank you, extra ice please, and just out of instinct, the way a child does in the playground on their day, he says, “It’s my birthday today,” and pops up two fingers twice. Twenty-two. The bartender offers a margarita at this, on the house, but Jeremiah shakes his head, accepts the Coke, then heads onto the dancefloor where he can exist in a state he’s most comfortable in—enmeshed in bodies.
Some Jeremiah art from a few days ago hehe <3 happy new year!!!
Kara doesn’t say anything even though she should—for a moment, she seems frozen as if in shock, not even her hair braying in the breeze of Jeremiah’s standing fan. As he looks at his sister, her curly brown hair that’s grown far past her shoulder blades, her eyes that are now fitted with contacts instead of boxy glasses, her nose that’s now pricked on the right by a cubic zirconia, he realizes he wasn’t just vague about his reasons for returning home, but cruel. What kind of brother calls his sister on a Sunday morning and explains his abrupt return is nothing to worry about, that all he needs is time, that in a week he’ll be better, clearer? What kind of brother says that if a week isn’t enough, then two certainly will be because he’ll quickly learn how to love the scent of coffee again and how to ask for a table for one and how to dance on his own and how to think fondly of a sunset and how to pray without feeling wrong and how to sleep alone? What kind of brother says that in any regard Madonna’s releasing Confessions on a Dance Floor in less than a month so he expects he’ll change by then and if that doesn’t fix him he’ll figure it out anyway? And what kind of brother looks at his sister now and thinks that in all this time he’s relieved she was never there to see him get into a bar for the first time, see him find himself in his houseplants and in Biyu’s laugh, see him fall in love with the wrong man? When Jeremiah was ten and his sister was sixteen, they’d promised each other they’d stay close, and maybe at that age, he didn’t know what that meant, to remain intwined in someone’s life till you were an intrinsic part of them—a lung and a breath, dog and a bone, a god and the son he creates. But here they are, so close, so far apart, Jeremiah’s mouth formed around a question he can’t bring himself to say out loud. What kind of brother leaves?
Jeremiah held each candle out and watched as they were lit, the space between their bodies warming. A dribble of wax lapsed down the side of one, and he studied the face of the man next to him. His hair was more golden than it was brown in this ambience, freshly washed—Jeremiah knew because it puffed up spectacularly after a simple shampoo. He’d shaved recently too, probably that morning, his jaw smooth and relaxed as he laughed at something in the film. Jeremiah yearned to get closer to him even though they were already right next to each other—he wanted to sift into him, become one of his breaths or blinks. It was almost shocking, how he’d somehow ended up here, next to someone he saw worlds in, who he wanted to see worlds in him.
Will do this for Changing States because JEREMIAH BOYS RISEEE!!
5 words to physically describe your OC (do you have a drawing? even better!)
hot, hot, hot, hot, hot (LMAO SORRY).
am I WRONG (HE'S AN ANGELLLL - okay so angelic, sleek, fashionable, warm, beautiful <3)
Who inspired your OC?
Jeremiah appeared out of nowhere & isn't inspired by anyone! I was in Maryland when I created him during a writing sprint. He wasn't supposed to be a major character but the chemistry between him and Harrison took me by surprise that I had to keep going. I'll paste the first note I have of JJ under the cut (and the scene it turned into for those wondering about my drafting process).
Give me a song to define your OC
Changing States playlist HERE but one of the most important driving songs rn is Faith by George Michael because "oh but I need some time off from that emotion time to pick my heart up off the floor oh when that love comes down without devotion well it takes a strong man baby but I'm showing you the door cuz I gotta have faith" (waiting & the concept of faith are soooo important to CS!).
If I met your OC on the street how would they greet me?
Jeremiah is the WARMEST greeter in the world. He would def go for a hug after asking (UNLESS he knew you don't like hugs--like me!).
Can your OC be your best friend? Why?
YES PLEASEEEEEE my heart feels warm every time I think of him! <3 really generous, attentive but not clingy, deeply empathetic.
1 adjective and 1 noun to describe your OC
Gracious, gold. <3
Tagging @dallonwrites, @subtlefires & @encrucijada if u want (and an open tag!!!)
OKAY RACHEL FUN DRAFTING INSIGHTS BELOW!!
So a big part of the Moth Work drafting process occurred on my PHONE!!! As a teenager I didn't always have my computer on me lol (me in my 20s with my emotional support laptop lmao), so I wrote a lot of "scene skeletons" in the notes app. I actually envyyyy this process looking back because I RARELY think when I write now <3
But here's the very first Jeremiah note, though I did actually create him DURING the writing sprint (lol I love my brain):
At the motel Harrison becomes interested in Jeremiah. On their first night him and Lonan fall asleep only for Lonan to be missing along with the car the next morning. Harrison, distressed, is noticed by Jeremiah who is finished with his night shift. He realizes he’s distressed and asks if he’s okay. Do you need a ride somewhere? He asks Harrison. Harrison nods. They go to the Chinese restaurant and get the egg rolls. Harrison learns Jeremiah is a part time student at the university. He’s charming and wears a bracelet and has scribbly tattoos on his forearm. Harrison goes back to his apartment after breakfast and he fixes him a drink. Jeremiah puts on disco music and dances and Harrison is entranced by the way he moves. Harrison takes off his jacket and slings it on the back of the bar chair. You live here alone? My roommate is backpacking in Vietnam. He passes him his drink. How long have you worked at the hotel? Since I moved here. It pays the bills. Dance with me? Jeremiah asks. Harrison gets up and they move together, limber limbs. The music moves through his throat and the drink is good. He’s successfully enchanted by this boy.
The above note became three separate scenes, most of which is the penultimate scene in chapter 5 (Dead Disco).
"On their first night him and Lonan fall asleep only for Lonan to be missing along with the car the next morning.
The next morning when the light filters through the cheap lace curtains and the hum of the freeway harmonizes with the birds, Harrison wakes up to find Lonan gone. At first, he doesn’t panic—it’s easy to list solutions for his absence. It’s easy to check the bathroom and excuse the miniature bottle of shampoos sitting in place like pieces on a game board, the towels still folded, as Lonan being extra methodical. It’s easy to head outside to check if he’s on the porch with a box of cigarettes, and easy to excuse the empty space as a walk gone on too long. It’s easy to head to the lobby to check for a dining area only to realize there isn’t one. What isn’t easy is finding an answer for the missing car when he checks the lot ten minutes later.
early chapters MW lonan irritates me sm we should all kill him <3
2. "He realizes he’s distressed and asks if he’s okay. Do you need a ride somewhere? He asks Harrison. Harrison nods. They go to the Chinese restaurant and get the egg rolls."
Harrison continues fiddling with his zipper. He retraces the night previous, from check-in, to losing the car, to finding Lonan with the cigarettes, every word a curse, how of course he took the keys, how of course Harrison was too angry last night to notice. The sunlight scabs the ceiling of Greta, the parking space the car once idled in now empty. So many directions to turn—out of the front lot, the back, left on the main road, or right.
Harrison looks back at Jeremiah who’s still fluffing his hair with the pick. “Is there a place close by where I can grab something to eat? Or at least a coffee?” he asks.
Jeremiah leans back to grab another stack of those familiar coupons. He sets them down on the desk and says, “I think you know my stance on these egg rolls. I’ll take you.”
And the rest of the note (in JJ's apartment):
Disco isn’t dead. It’s all an illusion. This is what Jeremiah says when Harrison asks why he has a disco ball hanging from his popcorn ceiling. His apartment is small and decorated like it’s Paris in the 70s, broad windows, a dozen mason jars of propagated ivy. Harrison sits on a barstool at the counter. His head has stopped pounding because Jeremiah gave him Ibuprofen and a vat of hard candies to suck on. He currently mixes him a cocktail behind his kitchen island and it’s blue like Lonan’s eyes so Harrison drinks it without looking.
Harrison knows he shouldn’t drink around a stranger, but Jeremiah’s got a handmade bracelet and scribbly tattoos on his forearm so it’s hard not to trust him. Photo prints of hostels in Japan, statues in Europe, cathedrals in Paraguay decorate the walls in perfectly cut rectangles. Each is plumed with a dried flower and it reminds Harrison so much of Emily, he looks away, back to the Lonan-coloured drink. He studies the shot glass like it isn’t transparent, the grooves around the perimeter, the engraving that reads Cancun 1987. He loses Jeremiah’s absent swish around him and gets lost in the blue. The trifecta amazes him, how a colour as unnatural as this has manifested in Lonan’s eyes, his earring, this drink. He tips the glass back and finishes it in one go, and even though it’s strong of artificial blueberries, his mouth is tasteless.
“You live here alone?” Harrison asks. The apartment overlooks the strip across the street and Harrison gets lost in it, the artificial signs like bad advertising, the neons ill, an influenza. When he looks toward Jeremiah again, his glass is refilled, and he can’t remember if he emptied it in the first place.
“My roommate’s backpacking in Vietnam.” Jeremiah’s earring pings off the disco ball, and it creates a constellation on the ceiling. It could be Orion; it could be the Ursa Major. “You like the drink?”
Harrison doesn’t want to say he tastes nothing, that he sees nothing but Lonan at the bottom of the glass at full retina, that he hardly understands the concept of blue. He is so numb when he stands that his feet meeting the hardwood feels like floating. Harrison slings his jacket off his shoulders and throws it over the barstool. Words enter and exit his mouth like gunfire, and he hears his heartbeat like the organ has moved to his eardrums.
Jeremiah doesn’t comment when he twitches the nob on the radio, pooling through the channels. He doesn’t comment when Harrison lands on a throwback station brimming with the 80s, takes him by the palm and leads him under the disco ball. Jeremiah is intuitive and easy on the eyes, and this isn’t as difficult as Harrison thought it would be—he blinks Lonan away and keeps blinking.
He’d craved a body—the bluntness of the fact doesn’t stop it from being true. But he’d also wanted, fiercely, a moment afterward where he could hold another man’s face and have his own face held. A moment of grateful suspension, like praying after communion, where in the silence he could be adored.
jeremiah moodboard for youuuu <333 tacking the sign up sheet called Who Wants To Adore Jeremiah on the wall
how am I supposed to go on when jeremiah says he's got a "fairly broken heart"
Jeremiah’s not even sure when he begins to cry—he notices only when Mav reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of Kleenex, dabbing one gently under his eye, and it amazes him that this is all it takes to attain gentleness, a catastrophic night and a fairly broken heart.
