“Well, ain't you so sweet. You make sugar taste just like salt."
@thscharmngman
❝Lyza–you’re the sweetest woman I’ve ever met next to my mother, and maybe Kira–but you’re still not allowed to hang with JC, you two are toxic together.❞
“Toxic?! ‘Ow you reckon? We jus’ ‘ave fun, Hart, that’s all. Y’use t’ ‘ave fun wi’h us, rem'ber?”
“I mean, we must all do our parts to protect the environment.”
@thscharmngman
❝This romantic getaway has turned into, ’Moana and Hartley Save the Planet!‘❞
❝Fine, I’ll recycle the stupid piece of cardboard from my pizza box Moana. R.E.C.Y.C.L.E.D.❞
“Romantic getaway... Riiight. I dunno who you went with on a romantic getaway, but it sure wasn’t me. And quit making it seem like recycling isn’t a big deal. You know how much marine life dies or gets destroyed ‘cause people toss their shit in the ocean? Don’t add to the statistic, Hart.”
“I dropped coconut shedding on my shirt,” he frowned as he dipped his head, pinching his argyle cardigan and pulling it slightly into view. Small, white shreds were scattered atop a gray diamond: an obvious contrast to the rest of his azure sweater. He moved his tapioca froyo aside and raised his free hand, palm up, toward Hartley. “Please, may I borrow a napkin? I can’t explore the rest of the city like this.” Never let it be said Etsuya didn’t care about his appearance.
“You ever think about colorin’ your hair?” A random question, but Lyza had been staring at Hart’s hair for the past few minutes. She got that quizzical glint in her eyes, the kind when she thought of her creative art. “Nothin’ mad now, but—” She shrugged, then combed her fingers through Hartley’s brunet strands, dragging her nails lightly over his scalp. “Somethin’ ash-blond, like.”
✿ + ☁ – five times my muse has thought about and almost texted yours and the one time they do something about it.
I. INSOMNIA
It’s late at night when he can’t sleep. The TV’s on low, the thrum of incoherent voices a modern lullaby for his restless mind. His eyes are on the screen, but he doesn’t see what’s going on. What he does notice is a guy on TV looks like Hartley. He doesn’t have Hart’s height or glasses, but the coloring is there. Moana smiles privately to himself. He picks up his cellphone on the bedside table and opens up his text messages.
to: trashy white boyjust saw you on tv
His hovers over the SEND button. This is stupid. Moana deletes it.
II. THRIFT SHOP
Weeding through some of the shirts on the rack, Moana finds something that looks a out of place with the plain dark T-shirts. He unhooks it off the rack. It’s a deep blue top that’s loose, kind of flowy, something one would relax in. The collar droops low, reminding him of those fashionable turtleneck. The sleeves are moderately short, probably stops right above the elbow. It’s a simple design, but has a mildly artistic refinery to it. He can see Hartley wearing something like this.
Moana snaps a photo of it on his phone.
to: trashy white boyit’s on sale. you want it?
On second thought, it’s better to surprise the man with the gift. If he doesn’t like it, Hartley can always return it. Moana’s not very good at shopping for other people, so he won’t be offended. He grabs the hippy shirt and a few more items before going to the checkout counter.
III. SICK
Once a year maybe Moana is under the weather, but for the most part his health is top notch. No one can say they’ve ever seen him sick, let alone cough or sniff, but Hartley gets to. He’s been lounging on his friend’s couch, bundled in a blanket, groaning pitifully. How does this even happen? Moana dresses appropriately for the weather, he washes his hands frequently throughout the day, and he feels completely fine when he crashes at Hartley’s place last night, too exhausted to go home.
Thinking over the events of their outing, he can’t think of anything that’ll give him a cold. Well, Hartley did sneeze in his face that one time, but that’s because he was chilly. Right?
to: trashy white boyi think you got me sick dickhead
If he has more energy, he might cuss Hartley out some more, but his eyes are bleary and it hurts to even have them open. Moana falls asleep before he can actually send the text. When he wakes up there’s hot soup on the table and Hartley hovering. He says something Moana doesn’t catch, but he throws the blanket over his head and furrows under it some more. This time he hears Hart chuckle. Moana wishes he has the strength to raise his hand to flip him off.
IV. HOOK-UP
This guy really doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s such a disappointment because he’s actually kind of cute, but beauty doesn’t make up for lack of skill. Moana maybe twitches a little down there, yet so far getting it up doesn’t really seem to be happening. Moana watches with sheer disinterest as the guy on his knees is determined to get more than a wiggle from him. It’s his technique; it can use a lot of work. Not the right pressure, not the right suction, not even the right kind of teasing. Hart knows what to do.
Maybe that’s the thing. Moana’s been spoiled by Hartley’s dick-sucking skills that others pale in comparison. He bets if he tells Hart that his ego will fill all of Central Park. If it’s true, that Moana can get hard unless Hart’s the one responsible, then he’s going to be mad as hell.
“You know what, let’s try something else.” Moana suggests impatiently, hauling the guy up, who looks slightly disappointed, but whatever.
Moana sits him down, tells him to use his hand instead. While he does that Moana plays with his ass, prepping him. It’s the sounds he makes more than the handjob that gets Moana ready. Apparently this guy is just shit at sex.
After he has the most dissatisfying orgasm of his life, Moana takes a piss, washes his hands, then re-enters the sea of thrashing bodies in the club. He looks for someone else in the crowd because that itch hasn’t gone away. Or maybe—
to: trashy white boyare you free tonight?
Wait, no. A woman just walked in who looks like she knows how to have a good time. Moana pockets his phone, then walks directly towards her. It doesn’t take long to get in the back alley and this time his experience is far better. Good to know Hartley doesn’t ruin sex for Moana.
Still, it could’ve been better.
V. AIRPORT
Delayed flights are the bane of his existence. Moana hates waiting around at terminals. There’s too many people, the Wi-Fi is shitty, the food is overpriced, it’s too loud, too bright—just too much of everything.
Scrolling through his Facebook, he sees a few updates on Hart. That profile pic is new; he looks good in it, if a little moody. Moana wonders when he’s going to ditch the beard and glasses. Does he actually need glasses or is that a fashion thing? Going through Hart’s status messages, he chuckles at some of them and gets that distinct yearning of missing somebody.
Gross, he’s getting attached. Moana considers that for a moment before he pushes it aside. He exits out of the Facebook app to go to his text messages.
to: trashy white boyyou need to shaveyou look like a poster boy for men in a mid-life crisis
Except his messages are rejected because the damn airport Wi-Fi sucks. It’s going to be a long wait.
I. BOREDOM
Hartley’s a good people to call whenever Moana has nothing to do. Generally they sit around watching Netflix, shoot the shit, or maybe go out somewhere if he feels like Hart’s been cooped up in his house for too long. A lot of the times they end up having sex. Maybe on the couch, maybe in Hart’s room, maybe against a random wall—it doesn’t really matter. He supposes he can ask for a bootycall, but Moana actually isn’t in the mood. All he wants is some company.
to: trashy white boyi’m coming over so take a shower. you probably smell.think of something for us to do. see you soon.
It hasn’t finished sending before Moana gets up to leave.
★ + ❤ – one time my muse thought yours looked breath-taking, but says they don’t love yours and the one time they admit it.
I. SLEEP
Seeing Hartley sleep is rare. Not because he doubts the man sleeps regularly, but because Moana doesn’t usually stick around for post-coitus cuddles or naps. He’s not sure why he does this time. It’s a little weird, he has to admit. This thing between them is suppose to be casual, but it stops being that, although he can’t pinpoint when. Moana just knows something is different now, especially because he’s never thought of Hartley as beautiful before.
Right now he does.
He looks peaceful, laying on his side, naked, only covered by a blanket at the waist. Moana can see a few freckles on his shoulders, something he’s never quite noticed before. Too busy trying to take clothes off and get instant gratification to actually appreciate the body of the person he’s with. Moana trails his fingers lightly over those patterns of brown dots, feeling the sleep-warmth of Hart’s shoulder seep into his touch. Hartley makes a drowsy noise, but doesn’t wake, just sighs softly and seems to relax more.
What makes Hartley stress out so much? His life doesn’t look complicated, but then again what does Moana know. They don’t really make a habit of talking about each other’s lives. Hartley doesn’t even know Moana’s dad is dead or that he has a daughter back on Oahu.
So is it even possible to feel something deeper with a someone he doesn’t know much about? Moana stares at Hart’s face like he’ll wake up to give him a answer, but he doesn’t. He keeps sleeping and Moana continues to watch while the sky gradually grows lighter and an alarm clock beeps to start the day.
I. HOUSEBOAT
This is a special occasion: it’s the first time he’s let anyone who isn’t family on his boat. The boat where Moana actually lives, not the apartment he’s taken Hart to many times, but his actual home. Does Hart have any idea how much of a big deal this is? Does he know that Moana is internally freaking out, despite looking like his normal calm, cool, collected self? His track Hartley as he roams the deck, taking everything in, then he follows his guest into the main cabin, the housing part of the entire structure.
It’s set up much like a normal house would be. Clearly it’s well lived in because there’s a few dishes in the sink, a couple of clothes on the backs of furniture, open DVD cases on the table in the den. But it’s clean and tidy and doesn’t look like a display for a realtor sale like his apartment does. There are personal affects on the walls and fridge, photos, letters, even amateur drawings in crayons.
Is it strange that Hartley looks like he fits in with these surroundings? Maybe that’s Moana romanticizing the moment, but he wants Hart to belong, although he doesn’t know when that becomes a wish of his. He just knows it’s not a trick of the light when he thinks Harley is stunning, standing in his kitchen in front of the fridge, hunched a little to check out the pictures the magnets hold.
Hartley carefully examines an illustration of a small girl, a woman, and man building a sandcastle on the beach. Despite the lack of fine detail and messy coloring, it’s easy to decipher the man is Moana. “Who are these other people?” Hartley asks, a question he’s been waiting for.
“That’s my daughter, Kahiwa, and her mom, Minase.” Moana answers as casually as he can, but a timbre of nervousness enters his tone.
As expected, Hart looks surprised. “Are you married?” Moana shakes his head. “I had no idea. Why didn’t you say anything?” Moana shrugs and he can see the mild irritation in Hartley’s face. He hates that Moana doesn’t talk a lot. “This is all before you came here. You have a whole life I knew nothing about. I’ve known you for months. What else are you hiding?”
That’s a loaded question. One secret at a time. He doesn’t think Hartley is ready for the fact the guy he sleeps with murders people. Instead he blurts out something completely random.
“You’re beautiful.”
“I know I am, but—”
“No, I mean it. Obviously you’re not ugly, but you’re just really… Sometimes I can’t breathe when I look at you. And lately I’ve been looking at you a lot and I didn’t use to before. I dunno what happened, but you’re on my mind a lot and I—”
“Moana, what are you—”
“I think I love you, Hart.”
The silence that follows is probably the scariest moment of Moana’s life.
Viola hardly concealed the shock in her face. Where Hart was a bit aged, she still looked young. (Shout out her parents’ genes). But there was still a wrinkle or two at the corners of her eyes and in her forehead. And the one in her forehead made its appearance as her brows rose, mouth dropping open, and a quiet little ‘oh’ escaped her.
“I think… it’s never too late.” There’s a flutter in her chest, trapping all her nerves in a tight knot over her heart. “I think a person can settle down whenever they want to… why?”
