Fuck it, I’m just going to start posting my original stuff on here again. Because no one’s going to read it anyway, published or no, so what have I got to lose?
This story uses characters from another story I started, Charlie and Ezra, but I think they feel better in this setting. If you read it, thank you. If not, no hard feelings.
Orchid
~*~*~*~
Ezra was gnawing his lip raw. The email had made sense the first time he had read it. The second, third, fourth, and fifth time too. Now, on his eight pass through, he finally felt the dread seep into his system.
Dear Mr. Southerns,
Thank you for reaching out to my client. Mr. Ruvenacht has declined your request for interview but thanks you for your interest in his work and wishes you the best of luck.
Sincerely, Heather Amaral
That was the pin in the balloon. Couldn’t exactly write a profile on someone when that someone wouldn’t agree to an interview. People had done it, sure, but how many of them were memorable?
Only one, as far as Ezra could remember from writing classes in college. Besides, he had pitched this whole thing as an interview-based piece. He’d thrown the very last dregs of his self-confidence into convincing his editor, then had been knocked off balance when she agreed to it, telling him to get after it. Now he was certain she’d just been humoring him.
Ezra leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and scrubbing his hands over his face. What was he kidding? Of course she was humoring him.
Charles Ruvenacht hadn’t given an interview to anyone in nearly a decade. No in-person or on camera, no questions answered by phone or email, not even a response for comment. When he had won the Grammy for Best Contemporary Classical Composition four years ago, he had taken the golden gramophone with a bright smile, said a perfectly polite thank you very much into the microphone, then walked off stage — a grand total of one-minute-six-seconds spent on stage.
A record, apparently.
Besides that brief moment, the man hadn’t said a word in public in nine years. Why Ezra thought he’d be the one lucky enough to crack the seal, he didn’t know.
Youth and hubris maybe?
He ran rough hands through his hair, then came back to stare at his computer screen. Heather Amaral’s email stared back. He couldn’t get comfortable against the back of his chair. His kneed bounced in an erratic four-count. He’d all but torn a whole through his lower lip.
He could get in front of this or he could let it run him over, he reasoned. The first option was distasteful, but he didn’t think he could stomach the shame of the second one.
A second later, Ezra was up and walking, notebook and pen in hand. By the time he reached his editor’s office — her door wide open, at once inviting and threatening — he was ready to jump out of his skin. He took a steadying breath, then knocked underneath the nameplate on the wall.
“Come in.”
Ezra put on his best everything’s fine smile and leaned around the door jamb. “Hey, India. Do you have a second?”
“I have a second,” she answered dryly, pen moving light and quick across proof pages. Her eyes slid up to where he stood, humor crossing her face. “Are you going to sit down or stand there pretending to be my door?”
“Oh. Sorry.” Ezra coughed light to cover as he quickly moved to one of the chairs in front of her desk. He sat at the very edge of the seat. A quick escape felt preferable. “So. I wanted to give you an update on—.”
“He turned you down, didn’t he?” India asked, a knowing smile on lips.
Ezra let out a breath like a popped balloon. So much for psyching himself up. “Yes.”
“I figured.” India pushed her pen away and sat back in her chair, folding her hands across her lap. “How do you want to do this?”
“I still want to write it,” Ezra answered slowly. Her too-calm demeanor and understanding gaze did nothing to ease his discomfort. Still, it was a far cry from the pure embarrassment that would have overtaken him if he’d shown up with nothing to show for his efforts. He’d been expected an immediate reassignment. She was giving him a chance. “I think I have a decent plan, but if you’d rather I moved on to something for this coming issue, I would understand.”
India nodded, then motioned for him to continue.
“I know Talese knock-offs are played, but I think I could do it. There has to be more to this guy than piano compositions and radio silence.” Ezra caught himself wiggling his pen in his fingers, dropping it to stop himself from fidgeting. He cleared his throat and remembered his notebook. He kept talking as he rifled through pages. “I’ve already made a list of all known associates, as it were, and I’m willing to bet at least one of them would be willing to talk to me. If five of them would, I think I could put together some sort of…” He thought a moment, picking his words carefully. “Respectful approximation.”
India smirked. “Respectful approximation?”
“The man’s a known recluse.” Ezra shrugged. “I don’t want him to talk to me only because he wants to sue me.”
“Well, if I thought that was a possibility, it wouldn’t go into Adobe.” She held out a hand. “Can I see your list?”
Ezra passed her the notebook without another word. He’d run out the length of his frantic, Hail Mary pitch. Now was the time for him to sit back and shut up. Knowing that didn’t help time pass any faster or keep him from wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Knowing that didn’t stop his editor from being as thorough and she ever was.
India poured over his notebook, his notes and lists, coffee stains and crumpled-edged Post Its written in his terrible scratch handwriting.
Ezra’s mind clung to that as he tried to ride out this latest wave of short-term panic — he was thirty-two years old and wrote like he had just learned his ABCs. Maybe his sister was right and he should dig out those printing practice notebooks she had given him for Christmas as a joke that wasn’t really a joke. Maybe all that stood between Ezra and India’s go ahead on this scheme was the woman’s ability to read his kindergarten chicken-scratch. That might have been giving him too much credit; there were likely kindergartners with far better handwriting than his.
“Ezra?” India had placed his notebook on her desk between him.
“Thoughts?” he asked, the brightness he mustered sounding false.
India didn’t react if she noticed. She balanced the point of her pen on one of the pages. “Tell me who all these people are?”
“Did I not put it in there?”
“No.”
“Damn. Sorry.” Ezra cleared his throat. His palms were sweaty all over again. “So, um. Mercedes Lane is his younger sister, Cosmia and August his parents. Hudson is the sister’s boyfriend or fiance — romantic live-in basically. Matthew Carlyle, Holly Avery, and Lucas Greenhow are friends. Daniel Roth is his former collaborator, album producer, and a college friend.”
India hummed and made a few small marks with her pen. “How about teachers and mentors?”
“He went to Oberlin and graduated early. I can send a few emails, get some names.”
“Do that. What about his childhood teacher?”
“There isn’t one.”
India glanced up at him.
Ezra thought back, rattling through his memory. “According to an interview he gave after he was nominated for Best Contemporary Instrumental, when he was twenty-ish, he’s self-taught with some instruction from his grandmother, who passed away seven years ago. So, unless you want me to track down an elementary school band teacher, I’d call it a dead end.”
“Fair enough,” India conceded with a nod. “Who are…” She squinted at the page and Ezra’s stomach dropped. “Heather and… Parijatha? Those two. Why are they crossed out?”
“I saw them in a few older articles. He talked about them like friends.” Ezra took a breath, pretending this was going well. “Turns out Parijatha is his therapist, so that eliminates her completely. Heather could be a friend, but she’s also his agent-slash-assistant. That felt like crossing a line.”
“Heather sent the rejection email?”
“A new development, but yes. Helped support my thinking there.”
“Reasonable.”India pulled a notepad closer to her and began writing quickly. By the time she tore the page off and shoved it into his notebook, Ezra was beginning to taste copper on his teeth. “Like you said, Frank Sinatra Has a Cold has been ripped off eight ways from Sunday. The fact that Ruvenacht is also a musician doesn’t help the comparisons much. But, that being said, try to get somewhere with this. If it’s good enough to work with we’ll go from there.”
Ezra blinked, brain catching up. “You want me to keep working on it?”
“I want to you to actually write it,” India clarified. “Do what you usually do, give me a draft, and we’ll see. No promises.” She held his notebook back out to him.
“Thank you,” Ezra said, dazed as he took back his things with numb hands.
“Honestly, I have nothing else I could put you on until the July issue, so you’ve got the time.”
“Is that my deadline?”
India thought a moment. “I want to see progress by May’s to-print date.”
“Got it.” Ezra rushed to pull a pen from his pocket and scrawl April 24th across the top of a fresh page. “I’ll get started on this today, I’ll get somewhere-.”
India held up a hand to hush his rushed words. “Just show me what you can do with what you’ve got, and we’ll go from there.”
Henry Fitzgerald, making a brief reappearance in my brain as I try very hard to finish the sequel to the runaway. I know I haven’t posted in a long time, and I’m still not 100% about being back posting. But I really wanted to post this excerpt.
It’s the first time in a minute that I actually wrote something down without giving myself a migraine that I liked in the end. Also, I have a cold and I’m a little bored rn, so enjoy :)
warnings | bbu, bbu backstory, extended family, family reveal;
~*~
The waiting was getting to Kieran.
Henry could tell.
The nervous picking at the skin of his hand. The overly-measured inhales and exhales, as if was hooked up to a precisely timed machine. The glasses on top of his head, glinting bronze in the spring sunshine.
Eli had had to clue him into that one; how sometimes Kieran found it easier to talk when the world was watery and he couldn’t make out so much as the hand in front of his face. He could be honest when he couldn’t instantly course correct for someone’s reaction. It was easier than hoping someone would keep their facial features completely neutral for the duration.
The longer this went on, the more wound up Kieran would get. The longer Henry went without saying anything, the worse his nerves would fray.
Cause and effect.
Not that Henry wanted that.
He’d seen Kieran flare out only once before — the moment he’d come to full consciousness and realized he was in a hospital bed. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t something he’d force a repeat performance of.
Leaning up against the Mar Y Cielo’s faded brick, Henry couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He couldn’t pin down a single thing to feel. Thoughts consumed the inside of his skull in a vicious storm. Words bubbled up, jammed up behind his teeth before vanishing, leaving empty confusion behind. He tilted his chin up to stare at the sky — a delicate blue shot through with coral pink, thin high clouds drifting through. The day moved forward. The turmoil was in his head, in Kieran’s head.
Henry took a deep breath, then another, then another. “I. Um… I don’t know what you’re expecting, Kier.”
“I’m not expecting anything.” Kieran pounced. He’d been waiting, words building up in his throat too, for Henry to speak. “I’m really not. You don’t have to do anything, I don’t want anything from you, this isn’t transactional, Henry, I swear it. Keeping it hidden didn’t seem fair, but I wanted to wait until you were back on surer footing to —.”
“How long?”
“Oh, right. A-about…” An embarrassed flush covered Kieran’s neck and cheeks. “Since the November—. The November after you got back.”
Henry turned to look at him. Fury held his jaw tight. Stubborn training kept his tongue still. Sadness and something he suspected was real fear pounded in his skin alongside his pulse. “Two years then.”
“More like sixteen months,” Kieran said quietly, then blanched. “But that doesn’t matter.”
“It really doesn’t.”
Kieran swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
Henry turned back to the sky and exhaled slowly.
“How are you feeling? About the possibility?”
“I’m not,” Henry said quietly. He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets, almost disappointed to not find a carton of cigarettes there. He’d quit months ago and had so far been successful at quelling the cravings when they crept up on him. Standing there, he almost wished he hadn’t. He bit into his tongue. “I mean, fuck. Kieran. Seriously?”
“Seriously what?”
“You’ve known something like this for that long?”
“I meant well—.”
“Did you? Did you really?”
Kieran’s hands curled into fists, his shoulders tensing hard. He closed his eyes as he spoke. Henry watched him carefully, knowing how close he was to jumping over a line. “I found out right after you got back. I only suspected, but I didn’t have any true ground work. By the time I had anything substantial, you weren’t doing well and didn’t need anything more on top of it. Eli and I both thought it was best if I waited, gave you time. No one else knows. Just me, you, and my wife. It will stay that way as long as you’d like it to, until you’d like that to change.”
“I don’t want it to change.” The words fell out of Henry’s mouth. “I don’t want change. I don’t want anything new. I don’t need anything else in my head, and I don’t fucking need this. Christ, Kieran.”
“Should I have just kept it to myself then?” Kieran relaxed a fraction, but kept his eyes shut. His voice was strained, thin and tense.
Henry pursed his lips. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I just.”
“Just what?”
“I don’t want this right now!” Henry burst. “I don’t want another thing that I have to think about and think about how I feel about. I don’t want something else I have to take to therapy because I can’t work it out in my head for myself. I don’t want to have to be anyone else, Kieran.”
I have goals to finish the whole second book of Henry’s story by, approximately, November. It’ll be available on Gumroad when the time comes, but so far I’ve got 50-ish chapters to write and only about 20 written. So, for another time. BUT I still want to post bits and pieces periodically. So, for today: the boys taking a moment as Aiden does a lot of thinking. Enjoy!
warnings | angst, memory loss, memory recovery, weird times in CT.
~*~*~
It was too cold for boats and docks and shore-side towns. The season had long since wound up, wrapped up, and closed down for the year. Only a scant few restaurants were open and, every time they darkened the door of one, it was clear they were the only non-locals around.
Not that anyone seemed to mind once Carter flashed them a smile, mentioned the two of them staying at his grandmother’s old cottage up the way for the weekend to clear their heads. Someone had asked Carter if he worked on a fishing boat. Carter had just laughed and answered with a good-natured something like that.
Less Manchester by the Sea and more Charles Darwin, fortunately for me.
Whatever that meant, Aiden couldn’t help thinking.
Late November and the leaf-peeping tourism had dried up just as surely as the summer lobster roll tourism. But here they were, sitting on plastic chairs in a warm dock house, eating things good and hot, and staring at the expanse of gray North Atlantic water just outside the windows.
Aiden’s view fogs whenever he lifts his still-steaming mug to his mouth. The tea is strong, over-brewed, and intensely sweet. Carter had watched him as he dumped two whole packets of honey into it, fascination quirking his eyebrows and turning the corner of his mouth up.
Apparently, Henry had a similarly reckless sweet tooth. He left rubber-banded bags of chocolate chunks in drawers around their house; was known to shove a palm-full into his mouth when he was bored, stressed, studying, reading, or too focused on the television to bother getting up for dessert.
Aiden smiled at the image, then added chocolate chips to his mental list of snacks.
The more Carter talked about Henry, the more Aiden liked him.
The more he seemed like an extension of himself, a named part of himself, rather than someone he was supposed to embody, become, pretend to be.
The longer Aiden sat with Henry Aiden Fitzgerald — twenty-five years old and four years sober the previous May; an obsessive reader, stress-eater, and chemistry nerd — the better he could feel himself filling out. The longer Carter talked about Henry in the third person, the more Aiden could see all of Henry’s edges just inside of his. Could better pull at the tender threads that connected them, slowly slowly drawing them closer together.
Aiden Iain James liked Henry Aiden Fitzgerald.
He liked that Henry had kept a part of his name before he knew it was his. He liked how Henry cut his hair and ran laps in the mornings. He liked Henry’s clothes and shoes, the precision neatness of his desk, his taste in books and book shops. He liked Henry’s worn-soft wool winter coat. It was a little tight in the shoulders but it did the trick. Carter said he’d had it since he was sixteen and couldn’t bear to part with it. Henry loved it enough to track down a tailor and have them stitch in new panels to fit his older body. Aiden could smell the remnants of Henry’s cologne on the collar.
Aiden liked reading Henry’s journals and diaries. He had paged through all fifteen of them since Carter had dropped off the collection. He liked the hesitation in the early pages — a therapy assignment frustrated by withdrawal and brain fog — that gave way first to brittle clarity, then disbelieving comfort, then brutal honesty and hesitant kindness.
Fifteen fully filled journals in five years.
Aiden couldn’t help but think it might be a record somewhere.
Carter had told him that Henry had taught himself how to write again. That he stayed up nights reading the most difficult books he could find to bolster his reading. Told him that Henry had struggled with every textbook he had ever opened and secretly recorded every lecture on his cell phone. That he rewrote all of his notes by hand in that now-familiar painstaking even printing; all to make the ridiculous formulas, vocabulary, and copied down diagrams easier to read later.
Carter said Henry was the bravest person he had ever known. He’d gotten himself away from Aldersky and Caldwell not once, but twice. He’d gotten a journalist to publish a carefully edited version of his story, knowing he could win a court case so long as everyone believed he had been adopted. That seeing the other boy in the same suit and tie on the nightly news, jaw stiff and blue eyes firm, made Carter love him for the first time. Carter said he’d cried when he saw Henry back in class several months later; that Henry had cried too. They’d skipped class to celebrate. Their first real date.
Between the escapes Henry wrote about, the court transcripts he had read, the pages of crisply penned self-flagellation, and the velvet bracelet box of sobriety chips, Aiden couldn’t help but agree.
Henry was brave. Henry was impressive. Henry was self-made in the most literal sense of the sentiment.
Henry was the reason Aiden was sitting in a locals-only restaurant on the Mystic side in the middle of a snow storm. Henry was the reason Aiden was holding Carter’s hand across the table as he drank tea and picked at french fries.
Aiden was Henry, even if he couldn’t remember him.
Suddenly, that knowledge wasn’t a weight anymore. It wasn’t daunting or infuriating. It didn’t make Aiden want to scream in the shower or pull out his hair. It didn’t make him sad, not like it once had. Henry was proof Aiden could be a stubborn son of a bitch.
Aiden liked knowing he had it in him. He liked knowing Henry had put it there.
He liked feeling the smooth ivory of the curled rabbit netsuke in his coat pocket and knowing the vicious persistence that made it his. Just as much as it was Henry’s.
~*~*~
Let me know if you’d like added or removed from the tag list, thank you!
Ask and you shall receive, dear readers. Finn’s paperwork arrives, unimpeded, to Charlie, who attempts to read it for the first time. This is only a small part of Finn’s WRU paperwork; there is much more to come because I enjoy a slow-burn reveal. Tag list at the bottom. Please enjoy!
warnings | bbu, wru, wru paperwork; invasion of privacy, personal information, details about family life; angst, memory loss, emotional stuff.
~*~*~
Charlie weighed the envelope in his hands. It was larger, heavier, thicker than he expected it to be. It had arrived by special courier that morning, wrapped in plain brown paper and addressed to him. Finn had answered the door and brought it to his room for him. Charlie’s gut twisted. At least the package bore no mark of WRU.
At least Finn couldn’t read.
There was a very slim veneer of respectability in that gratitude. Charlie’s nose curled up in self-disgust. He didn’t know how he’d begin to explain his reasons to Finn if he did know what the envelope held. He didn’t know how he’d explain being in possession of it without telling him at all. He didn’t know how to convince himself to open the folder.
That’s all it was. A brand new file folder labeled in crisp, black handwriting Ruvenacht, 394286 “Finn.”
He ran his thumb over the edges of the pages like it was a deck of cards. There was so much here, just under his fingers. Charlie bit deeply into his lower lip, casting a wary glance at the ceiling of the music room. He thought he was hearing footsteps. He wasn’t. Mercedes was at school, his father at work and his mother out shopping with his grandmother. Finn had gone still and quiet this morning, a sheen of sweat showing on his forehead in the telltale signs of an oncoming migraine. Charlie had sent him to bed after pushing a pain pill into his palm, and Finn hadn’t argued. He’d given him a small, grateful smile.
He had a nice smile.
He wouldn’t smile at what Charlie was doing now.
His finger caught a paperclip hanging from the folder’s front. Inhaling deeply, holding it until his lungs burned, Charlie flipped it open.
A photograph looked up at him. A young man with soft looking hair, a smattering of freckles and a brush of sunburn sat on his cheeks and nose. A gray sweater stretched across his shoulders and biceps. His eyes were bright, his head tilted giving him a curious look.
Charlie swallowed roughly, his throat suddenly dry and sticky. He had the same smile. The same small, slightly crooked, soft as homemade marshmallow smile. He braved a glance at the page opposite. A name. He needed a name.
Previous Alias: Ezra Anselm Southerns
He’d been 21 two years ago. He’d be 23 years old in two days.
Charlie swallowed again, finding it no easier than the first time. He clasped his hands in his lap, his legs straddling his piano bench, and bent forward to read. He couldn’t tell the difference between abdomen muscles clenching to keep him upright or keep the nausea down.
DATE OF ACQUISITION: 01.16.20XX
TIME OF ACQUISITION: 09:48.00 AM
LOCATION ASSIGNED: FACILITY 004
SUBJECT: 394286
PREVIOUS ALIAS: Ezra Anselm Southerns
AGE: 21 years old
DATE OF BIRTH: 01.07.19XX
HAIR: Reddish-brown
EYES: Hazel-green
HEIGHT: 5’11’’
WEIGHT: 147lbs
SEXUALITY: Gay; no current relationship but sexually active.
DESIGNATION: Domestic, specialty care training (*see Training)
KNOWN SKILLS: mechanical engineer, former R.A., search/rescue protocols, field first aid, advanced first aid, cooking.
HOBBIES: antique repair, historic mechanic reproduction, hiking, swimming (competitive swimmer in high school),
KNOWN CONCERNS: No known concerns. Recommending preliminary mental and physical evaluation before and after IV drip. Subject appears to be suppressing emotional distress.
KNOWN IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Joseph Southerns (father), Rosalie Kessler (mother), Conrad Southerns (brother, twin), Linnea Southerns (sister). Family contact information was given voluntarily, “just in case.”
OTHER KNOWN FAMILY: Extended family not asked about at this time. Commentary made regarding familial disapproval of the impending divorce.
METHOD OF ACQUISITION: Voluntary, walk-in
ACQUISITION DETAILS: Subject arrived shortly after opening for the morning, asked to meet an acquisition agent. In meeting subject detailed current quality of life and a desire to “walk away from it.” Subject is an engineering student at a nearby university, described himself as “too involved” in campus life; has a number of friends in his program and clubs.
Claims to be a good student; works at a local cafe and repairs antique machines (clockwork, music boxes, record players, gramophones, etc.). Subject produced a mechanical bird from his coat pocket — claims to have made it out of clockwork himself, chirps and hops along table; very impressive if true.
His family — parents, two siblings, extended family — lives on the west coast. Catholic, traditional. Mother is adherent; subject says him, his siblings, and father are not. Parents are divorcing and distracted; subject did not comment further. Subject and twin do not get along. Claims only his sister will miss him.
Family and friends are not aware of his decision. Family and friends are not aware of his whereabouts. Cellphone was turned over voluntarily. Subject does not show signs of exhaustion, injury, inebriation, or visible mental illness. Subject turned over folder of medical and identification information (accompanying this form). Subject is being recommended for mental evaluation as well as physical evaluation before and after I.V. drip.
SIGNATURE PROVIDED VOLUNTARILY, SUBJECT NOT SEDATED FOR SIGNING. SUBJECT SHOWED NO VISIBLE SIGNS OF INJURY AT TIME OF SIGNING.
CONTRACT SIGNATURE: Ezra Anselm Southerns
CONTRACT SIGNED: Jan. 16th 20XX
PRESENT AT TIME OF SIGNING: Handler Nora Khan. Attorney Sabrina Morales, WRU Legal Counsel. Attorney Elle Hickman, WRU Assistant Legal Counsel.
I, Ezra Anslem Southerns, consent to being filmed throughout my evaluation process and contract signing. My consent has been given voluntarily. I attest I am of sound mind and body, that I have not used drugs or alcohol in at least 12 hours, and that I am over the age of majority. E.A.S.
Signed: Ezra Anslem Southerns
CURRENT LOCATION: Medical Eval., room 2
ASSIGNED HANDLER: Handler Nora Khan
ASSIGNED MEDICAL: Dr. Insung Cho
Charlie took in a shaking breath, closing his eyes. His palm rested flat over the page on top. He’d made it through two whole pages. There were at least thirty more -- maybe even more than that.
He didn’t know what he was expecting. He didn’t know how he expected himself to take this well.
So much of Finn -- Ezra, he repeated internally, trying to commit it to memory -- lay inside this stack and all it’s text. A whole life reduced to black ink and white computer paper. So much that Charlie could swear he felt a pulse beating through his skin.
He had chosen this. Had walked in to walk out of his own life.
Charlie’s skin felt numb. His hips ached and he shifted on the piano bench.
To any passerby, he was studying sheet music. No one bothered him when he was wrapped up in his music; not even Mercedes, who was developing a taste for posting him all over her social media, pretending that they didn’t hate each other’s guts. Pretending that Finn was just a sweet friend for comments and likes.
Charlie coughed in a closed fist and reached for his phone. He opened it, found his way to the internet browser, then froze. His fingers hung over the digital keyboard, the letters daring him to type something.
Ezra Anslem Southerns was his first instinct. A strange name. An old fashioned name. A deliberate sort of name, which was something he knew a little something about having been saddled with Charles Augustus Ruvenacht.
What his fingers spelled out in the search bar was Anselm name Catholic.
He stared at the words, brow creasing in confusion. Maybe his brain was finally getting in on the avoidance tactics; a feeble attempt at protecting himself from his own ill-advised curiosity. When the page loaded, an older many in red robes with a golden shepherd’s crook stared back up at him.
Saint Anselm of Canterbury
Charlie couldn’t shake the feeling that it meant something. It had meant something to someone twenty-three years ago, almost to the day.
~*~*~
tags | @vickytokio @boxboysandotherwhump @deluxewhump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @melancholy-in-the-morning @itstrueiwasthewraithberry @whumpthisway @wolfeyedwitch @thecyrulik @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @warm-my-whumpee-heart @winedark-whump (let me know if you’d like +/- to the tag list, thank you!)
Almost new year, almost new story... right? Well, I think so in any case, and I’m genuinely hoping this story goes the way of Henry’s -- namely, that I can keep writing and posting here regularly instead of hoarding it all in a word doc in the off-chance I might publish it some day.
So we’re going back to the well that is the BBU -- surprise, surprise. I don’t have individual chapter names at the moment, so be on the look out for the numbers in parenthesis. Alright, all that being said, you didn’t come to my blog for a look behind the curtain into my brain. You came for a story. And a story you shall get!
Thank you and enjoy!
tags | @vickytokio (let me know if you’d like added/removed)
warnings | general bbu warning, implied training/conditioning
~*~*~
“I’m not going to give you orders or anything, so you might as well relax.”
Finn blinked a few times at the other boy, confused again. Thoroughly confused. He’d been confused ever since he arrived, at times oddly wishing for the small room and small bed that wasn’t his anymore. The other boy was staring at him from across the room, fingers drumming on his thigh. He looked stern, but not unfriendly.
Eventually, Finn’s voice came back to him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said.” The other boy rolled his gray eyes, but Finn didn’t get the idea that the annoyance in the gesture was aimed at him. It bled out quickly, leaving an even, serious expression in its place. “I’m not going to give you any orders or chores or whatever. I don’t need the kind of help you’ve been trained to give. I’m sorry my mother got you out of some perverted need to keep up with the Joneses because this is just going to be a waste of your time. I’m not your owner, I’m never going to be your owner. I didn’t ask for you.”
“Okay...” Finn swallowed, not following.
“So, if you’re going to insist on waiting around for orders I’m never going to give you, you might as well get comfortable. Because it’s never gonna happen.”
The other boy cut off with a sharp nod, eyes still on Finn. He didn’t move away, didn’t look away. He seemed keen on waiting for Finn to answer him back and say he understood, just like the handlers. But he couldn’t for the simple fact that he didn’t understand, so his mind wouldn’t let him say otherwise. He was stuck standing in front of the bedroom door, hands clasped in front of him and feeling useless.
The other boy raised an eyebrow. “You can sit down, if you like. That’s what I’m saying, if that isn’t clear.”
“If you’re sure, sir,” Finn murmured, taking a few steps and perching on the edge of the bed frame. His stomach clenched and his shoulders tensed. He could do that, understood that. He didn’t understand... refusal. Or maybe it was rejection? He didn’t know but, judging by the other boy’s expression, that much was satisfactory.
“I’m quite sure,” he smirked, an unfamiliar look in his eyes. “And you should call me Charlie, you know, if you’re sticking around.”
Finn squinted at him. “What else would I do?”
“I don’t know. Bother my mom for chores?”
“But...” Finn glanced around the room, taking in its colors and shades. The tall windows, the dinged-up and smoothed-over wood floors, the haphazard collection of water glasses and aluminum cans on the writing desk, the television screen that seemed at odds with the age of the house.
Charlie whistled softly, drawing Finn’s eyes back to him. “But what?”
“But she told me to stay here. With you.”
“Oh well.” Charlie shrugged. “Then stay. What do I care?”
With a half-hum, he rolled over to a chaise lounge pushed into a corner, a wall of teal-painted bookshelves behind it. In one practiced motion, he pushed himself out of his chair and onto the cushions. He settled, arranging a pillow and grabbing something off the shelf, then laid back.
For a moment, Finn found himself entirely forgotten. It was a new feeling, a strange feeling. Being left to his own devices after being supervised for so very long. He chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself from fidgeting but only succeeding in tasting the nose-curling copper of his own blood. He let his eyes trail over Charlie -- the way he held the phone over his face, the muscles of his shoulders and arms, the way he breathed, the tilt of his head as he read and scrolled.
Finn shook his head to himself. He needed to do something. So he stood and busied himself with the drinks on the desk -- emptying the cans into an empty glass before throwing them into the waste basket, pouring all the contents of the glasses into one before walking to the bathroom and pouring them down the sink; quickly cleaning out the sink, refolding towels, finding the laundry hamper in the corner. When he stepped back into the bedroom, Charlie’s eyes were back on him, eyebrow raised.
“I can do that myself you know.”
Finn shook his head. “I’m supposed to.”
“I didn’t tell you to.”
“It needs doing.”
Charlie dropped his phone to the side, pushing himself upright. “Do you really need something to do that badly?”
Yes, Finn’s brain shouted. Yes he did. Yes. He needed to do something -- anything -- to make sure he was acting in accordance with everything he was ever taught. Doing what his owner wished, which Charlie made clear was nothing. Charlie also made clear he wasn’t his owner, but who else was he supposed to listen to.
A prickle of a headache started behind his eyes. He blinked it away.
Before he could cobble together an answer, Charlie started talking again. “Do you want a book or my Nintendo or something?”
“I don’t know... what that is.”
“You..?” Charlie shook his head in disbelief. “Okay, fine, you want to do something?”
Finn nodded, relief flooding him.
“Okay. Grab the blanket off the bed and the beanbag chair and come over here.” Charlie twisted and grabbed something else off the shelf -- Finn couldn’t tell what and didn’t stop to look as he rushed to comply. “I’m going to play a game called Hades and you’re going to help me.”
Back again, for a little something. Trying to ease back in with a Charlie chapter. He’s 19 here, almost a year out from the car accident and hospital stay; 18 months from meeting Finn. Mostly, I wanted to introduce you to Joy. You’ve read about her in pieces before, now you get to meet her. Enjoy.
(tag list under the cut)
warnings | college parties and alcohol use, kissing, swears. PG-13. Let me know if I missed anything.
~*~
Sweat rolled down from his hairline to his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. The thin fabric stuck to the small of his back, in his armpits. Charlie gripped his beer bottle tighter and leaned against the cinder block wall.
Natasha had insisted he come with her.
She’d talked it up to him, mentioned it every time they crossed paths, and was very persuasive. A start of the semester party, no cover at the door if he showed up with her. Having worked all summer with someone who took his social improvement and awareness as seriously as Natasha had didn’t leave much room for Charlie to deny her. He kind of owed her; they both knew it. He hadn’t had the heart to tell her no, and at some point had started to look forward to it.
Charlie wasn’t sure why he was expecting more than a messy basement in a frat house that was in no way up to code. Glancing around the basement, full to bursting with underclassmen, he couldn’t help but feel painfully old and just flat-out awkward. Sweating in a gross basement where the only sustenance is warm beer and picked-over cheese puffs wasn’t the good time it would have been before he was legal. Or at least, as a good a time as he had imagined it was.
He took a long drink, trying to drain the bottle. His nose wrinkled as he checked his watch. He was proving his own point. Who wore a wrist watch to a frat party?
Him. Now. Apparently.
It was midnight. He didn’t want to leave Natasha, but he was bored stiff. He hadn’t seen her in over an hour. He might as well go find her, or her girlfriend. Maybe then he could make his excuses and work towards getting back home before 2.
Charlie set the empty bottle on the floor, then slowly wove through the party-goers towards the stairs. Most of them were a good head and shoulders shorter than him. A few touched him, smiled at him as he walked by; one tried to grind on him before being tugged away by a friend. He would have let it happen; an embarrassed flush rose in his cheeks at the thought. It would have made for a few interesting minutes at the very least.
At least the stairwell was free of people — a few moments of dark, relative-quiet between the crush of people upstairs and downstairs. Charlie pressed himself against the wall, the handrail dug into his back, and inhaled deeply. He already felt better, as if his whole body had cooled ten degrees. He tugged absent mindedly at the front of his shirt. He swabbed his palm over his forehead, jaw, neck, and collarbones; wiped what came away on the leg of his jeans.
“Are you hiding too?” Someone had rounded the corner on the stairs, their whole person obscured by the dark. A faint outline against the other wall.
Charlie smiled, staring in the direction of the ceiling. “Yeah. Needed a break, you know?”
“Not really, but I’m good at pretending.” They laughed. As his eyes adjusted, Charlie caught pale legs ending in a mini skirt, the dull glint of a soda can and the slim fingers holding around the top.
He licked his lips. “What are you hiding from then?”
“My friends.” They shifted against the wall. “I love them, but they’re a little too protective sometimes.”
“That doesn’t sound too terrible.”
“It’s not usually… but I’m trying to pull tonight and they kind of. Make a wall?” They laughed, a hand raising to short black hair. Bare midriff and long neck, a skin tight tee shirt and a pair of sneakers. “It’s a little stifling. Because no guy is brave enough to come over, no matter how long I’ve been flirting with them across the room.”
Charlie snorted, catching himself off guard. He felt himself flush furiously, the only relief being the knowledge that they couldn’t see it. “Sorry. Your candidness is refreshing.”
“Nice vocabulary,” the stranger teased. He swore he caught a flash of teeth as they smiled at him. He thought he could hear their smile. His stomach swooped. He hoped they had. “English major?”
“Oh, um, no. Math and music.”
They sighed, relieved. “Thank fuck. So you just talk like that?”
“Yes?”
“Perfect. Do you know how many people do that just to sound superior?” They scoffed. “Fucking annoying.”
Charlie blinked slowly. He wasn’t sure if he was totally lost or if all that bland bad beer had finally kicked in enough. As his brain ran through every conversation he’d ever had with Natasha, he caught himself staring at their legs. His conscience banged around in his head, reminding him that they could have noticed and he should cut it out. He tried too, pulling his gaze up to where theirs was — dark and soft, just catching the basement light.
He cleared his throat. “What do you study?”
Lame, his brain scoffed at him from nowhere.
“Environmental science, but I like art history more.”
“Then why not switch?”
“Don’t want to ruin something I love by trying to make money off it.”
“Huh…” Charlie took a breath. “Never thought about it.”
“I’m only speaking for myself you know.”
Charlie hummed. “And who are you? Exactly?”
They took a step forward, arms crossed over their chest. “You first.”
“Sure, um. Charlie. ”
“Alright.” They took another step. “Joy. She, please.”
Charlie grinned, more to himself than them. “Manners are telling me I should shake your hand, but that’d be weird in a place like this right?”
“Pretty weird, yeah,” Joy laughed. She was close now; close enough for Charlie to place everything. Soft face, shimmer sitting on the curve of her cheekbone. Her dark hair set just at her jaw, thin fringe brushing her eyebrows. Dark eyes looking up at him through eyelashes. Taller, willowy, a necklace sitting in the hollow of her collarbones. Something warm fluttered in his chest and he rushed to grab hold of it.
He leaned forward, fingers just in his front pockets. “You said you were, um. Looking to pull tonight. Right?”
Joy nodded.
“What about me?”
It had been years since Charlie stumbled so badly through his words. His heart had beat its way out of his chest and up into his throat. He resisted the urge to berate himself for being too forward, braced for a rejection he felt sure would be warranted. It was late. He should beg forgiveness and get home; maybe back track, get her number and start with coffee.
His internal ramblings were cut off by the sound of other feet on the stairs. By Joy pressing close to him, letting whoever they were past them. Jasmine flower and skin salt reached his nose. Charlie leaned in, then stopped short.
Her hands rested in the center of his chest. “Sure.”
He came back down to earth with a jolt. “Really?”
“Yeah… You seem alright.” Her hands pressed more certainly, sliding up to his shoulders. Her head tilted towards his, mouth set in a smirk. “I’m a sucker for broad shoulders.”
Charlie let out a stilted, breathless laugh. “Baseball was good for something then.”
“I’d say so…”
“So, um. How do you want to do this?” He was hoping she had some kind of idea because he was fresh out and severely out of practice. “Didn’t exactly get a feel for the floor plan, you know?”
“I think I saw a bathroom off the kitchen on the second floor,” Joy said. Her fingers still moved, light and agonizing, over his shoulders, his neck, tucking under his shirt to skim across his skin. “This okay?”
“More than,” Charlie exhaled, trying to keep his bearings. He grinned. He’d forgotten how much he loved the beginning of these things; the feelings, the dizzy head space, the breathlessness.
“We could right here…” Joy pressing in closer, his thigh sliding between her legs. Charlie let his hands come to rest at her shoulder blades, dragging them down the length of her back, fingers pressing into the warm skin exposed from her shirt riding up. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”
He leaned his forehead against hers. “I might like that sort of thing, yeah.” Her fingers found the waistband of his jeans, tucking underneath. He shivered, pulling her hips towards him. “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her slower than the occasion demanded — soft, new, perhaps not anything special, but with intention. He brought a hand to cup her face, holding her gently before pulling away for a moment. “Tell me if I do something you don’t like, alright?”
“You’ll know if you do.”
“Sure, but tell me anyway.”
Her fingers tangled in his shirt, tugging him back down. Charlie groaned low in his throat. He finally let his hands move with intention — dipping his fingers up under her shirt to feel her ribs, kneading her hips, cradling her head. He wrapped his arms firmly around her, sliding down the wall to get even to her height. Joy wrapped her arms around his neck, but by no means gave anything up. She bit at his lower lip, swiping her tongue over the mark. She scratched lightly at his neck, tugging at his hair and smiling when he let out a whimper. Charlie felt the moment the air left his lungs, moving to kiss her jaw and nip at her ear until she she was squirming against his thigh.
One arm still secure around her waist, Charlie caught her lips in another kiss then slipped a hand under her skirt. Common sense had been over-ridden by the clawing need to touch her, feel her. Her mouth was warm, wet, the lingering taste of strawberry
Joy pulled away, her fingers still in his hair. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Charlie panted. “What for?”
“I should have said something.” Joy whispered, barely audible over the music. “Just in case you’re—.”
“You don’t owe me that, and I’m not uncomfortable.” Charlie shifted so he could better see her face. “So. You’re trans?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” Charlie paused, finally hearing the air-deprived strain in his voice. A few deep breaths took care of that. He cleared his throat, trying an apologetic smile. “Sorry. You had forgetting to breathe.”
Joy laughed a little. Something was missing from the sounds. Her fingers slid from his hair and she put some distance between them.
“I’m sorry, for not asking,” Charlie started again. “I should have, I swear I know better. And, um, I’m sorry again because I’m going to derail this whole thing but, um. I lied earlier.”
Her eyes flashed. “About what?”
“When I said I was into doing things in dark stairwells.” Charlie pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m not. Like, not at all.” He felt her tense under his hands and pulled away again. “D’you want to go get pizza or something?”
Joy hesitated. “I. I should tell my friends.”
“Sure.” Charlie nodded. “This might be too eager, but they could come too, if it’d make you feel better. I’ll pay. I just—.”
“Really eager.” Joy stared, studying him like she was trying to read a book in the dark. “You’re not a one and done kind of person are you?”
Charlie figured his chances were already up in the air. There wasn’t anything left to lose. The late hour, the watery beer, something made him honest. “I’m not. I’m really bad at one night stands. I like getting to know people and if that’s not what you’re looking for or its too much too soon, that’s just fine by me, just. You were worth dragging my ass out of my apartment tonight and, well, the offer’s open for whenever.”
Joy was still watching him closely, inspecting him. He’d never felt so under the gun in his life outside of a conversation with his own father. He swallowed and hoped, quietly.
“That was a lot. I’m sorry.” Charlie said, unable to help himself. It was a sad attempt to calm his nerves, vibrating terribly in anticipation. He chest tightened and he braced himself to make a smooth, but inelegant escape.
Finally, Joy seemed to make up her mind. “I want to think about it.”
“Really?” He smiled, a strange kind of relief spreading through him.
“Yeah, why not.” She granted him a faint smile, stepping back. “That’s not a yes or anything, so you know. I don’t really date so much, but you made a decent case for yourself.”
“I did?”
“Mhmm.”
A smile crept across Charlie’s face. “Do you mind if I ask what I did?”
“Saying I don’t owe you,” said Joy, an airiness in her voice. She tapped her fingers against the soda bottle in her hands. She gave a half shrug. “Doesn’t hurt that you’re a good kisser with nice hands either.”
When Caleb and June Garcia take in a teenage runaway, Henry, they aren’t expecting much – help him find a job, his family, a way home. Those expectations are turned on their ear when Henry reveals exactly where he comes from. An act of goodwill soon reveals itself to be more important, difficult, and potentially dangerous than either of them anticipated.
A dystopian story about a boy’s escape, the family who takes him in, and what it means to make yourself.
Now available on Amazon (eBook) and on Blurb (softcover)
In anticipation of my first novel, The Runaway, arriving this upcoming Saturday, I wanted to take the time to properly re-/introduce it. Some of this may be old hat for the folks who have been hanging around my blog for the last few years. But for those of you who are new around here: thanks for being here and I hope you find this helpful!
I began writing Henry’s story back in early May of 2020. I expected it to go the way of much of my other original writing: absolutely nowhere. Instead, you all shocked the heck out of me, receiving this very angry teenager and the whole of the Garcia family with open arms. I am incredibly grateful for all of your readership, your support, your love over the last few years. I am more grateful than I have words for or can adequately express. Without you all, we wouldn’t be here right now. Without you all, I wouldn’t have even tried.
So, thank you. Thank you so much.
About the Book
genre | contemporary fiction, distopian/alternate world
market | adult (18+)
summary | When Caleb and June Garcia take in a teenage runaway, Henry, they aren’t expecting much -- help him find a job, his family, a way home. Those expectations are turned on their ear when Henry reveals exactly where he comes from. An act of goodwill soon reveals itself to be more important, difficult, and potentially dangerous than either of them anticipated.
Questions | A Brief Selections of Qs and As
If you don’t see a question you have answered here, my inbox is always open. Feel free to drop me a line. I am more than happy to answer!
When can I get a copy?
The Runaway will be available as an eBook starting on November 13th, 2021. The paperback edition will be available for pre-order starting on November 13th, 2021 for a November 18th release.
Where can I buy the book?
Amazon! When everything goes live, I will make a post with the necessary links. Those links will also be scattered about through my blog header, pertinent master lists, and the
Can I get it as a physical copy?
Yes, you absolutely can! The full paperback copy will be available on Nov. 18th, but there will be a pre-order so keep on the lookout for that.
How much will it cost?
eBook will be $9.99 USD. Paperback will be $12.99 USD.
How long is it?
Roughly 60 chapters, divided into four parts. If you remember what the original masterlist for The Runaway looked like, the book is laid out very similarly for ease of reading.
If I can read it all here, why should I buy it?
“Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” eh, dear reader?
I get it, trust me I do. BUT not everything that’s in the book is posted here on Tumblr. In fact! The book has eight brand new chapters and even more chapters that were expanded for even more content. So if you ever wondered about the scenes I would reference but never write, they’re all here now!
Can I get my copy signed?
I would love you too, but I’m still working out the logistics.
That’s kind of a bummer, I know, BUT there may be an opportunity to win a signed copy coming to a Tumblr dashboard near you... just saying *wink*
Will there be more?
Maybe! I would like there to be more, but life, pet-parenting, and grad school often conspire to get in the way. So hang tight and stay tuned!
