fluorescent adolescent @tommyhyatt - Tumblr Blog

freddiecarcosc-deactivated20160

Ah, sometimes Tasha wanted to own the world. To let the planet rest in the palm of their hand and to watch what happened beneath their gaze. Yet such things were little more than topics to write of, and there was no instance where someone like them could bother to take over, and so they had to be satisfied with the thoughts of wreaking havoc with their words instead. Yet when Tasha was around Tommy, they felt like they were able to do something, no matter how small.

“Yes, really,” came the reassurance, though not quick in nature, instead slow to churn. Even if it was slow in its announcement, that didn’t lessen the hopeful impact of saying it at all.

It was their foot which reached out now, touching just the heel of Babe’s hind leg, the one that couldn’t fit beneath the rest of her body. Betty decided to make herself known once again, by pushing her head against the hand her fur still occupied, tongue lolling happily. This was the comeuppance of the existence of the Fleming child: always having to check, double-check, triple-check, always having to be more hyperaware, more sensitive, more alert, unable to claim the luxury of glancing around a couple of times and leaving it at that. Within seconds, something in the environment could change - the company, the temperature, the time. And at times, they gathered, it was hard enough for seeing-people to react, to do, to relate.

Sometimes - they became so very tired. Tired of reaching into a world that more often than not didn’t stop to give anything back to them. But Tommy gave back to them. When he narrated something as simple as a smoke ring or then performed a physical action of reassuring, he gave. Sometimes, it encouraged them - to keep on.

“What about royalties and full credit?” was their just as quick response. Bargaining, bartering, witty ends, stark beginnings. “Yes, but now, you have given me ideas, and done a whole lot of other things, and so I think now it is unfortunately impossible.” They sighed, half-dramatically. “I might be mean to you, but it will only be able to last for a couple of days. Besides, you know I can’t really - I’m not mean. I can’t be mean. Or loud, like Jordan.”

When he breathed in, breathed out, pressed his shoulder, ground his bones against theirs, they reacted by clenching - you’ve certainly got the hands for it - their fingers. Prints and nails scraped against the skin beneath his shirt, but the sensations said: cotton. Probably the colour black or white ( whatever those might look like. ) Cotton: tight when first touched, relaxing with the warmth of a hand or the care of wear. “You are a cotton-blend. I don’t know what this is.”

After a moment, they released him, and they ran their finger and thumb along the line of their collar. “I wrote that. Made it up on the spot. Obviously I am not scaring you; otherwise, you might have left. Am I?” Their fingers pressed to their cheeks - which, indeed, felt warmer than usual. Maybe there was a splotchy redness beneath their eyes. “Great. I wasn’t planning on making a day of it, but time just sort of - went away.” And they hadn’t asked their phone for it.

tommyhyatt

“It’s cotton, unless that’s not what you were askin’. White today, quite bright - Mum got new detergent,” he grinned, requiring a glance down at himself in order to check what he’d tossed on that morning. (Or perhaps it’d been the night before - it’d all melded together in a haze of his most recent stash-upgrade.) “With black jeans,” he nudged his knee against theirs, and then his foot, “and a pair of boots I think you’d like”. Tommy never quite knew when to stop giving such mundane things to Tasha - they must’ve grown annoyed by it at some point (who wouldn’t), but he’d keep on the same route until they told him to shut up. “Why you goin’ round thinkin’ I’m a cotton blend?”

“You’re a whole lot of things, Flem,” (or was it phlegm?), “but - no - not quite mean. Usually. Not on purpose, anyway.” They were, however, quite cruel, though they were naïve to it: with their triple-checking, little hands, with the turn of their collar. “What am I, then, if Jordan’s loud and you’re mean and smart? I suppose Luke is the blonde one. I’d like to know what my thing is - am I the supplier?” He huffed, ego bruised by his own words, and slouched further into the bench, nudging his forehead against Tasha’s shoulder quickly, toe of his boot tapping against one of Betty’s greying legs. “I was always wanting to be the trouble-maker, or the artist, or something.” A wicked, terrible, Tommy Hyatt grin, and then: “or the Frog King of Vancouver - get that on my headstone, would you?”

Of course you are. “No - I’m not scared of anything. Unless Mum’s had a bad day and gets that Jamaican-Mum look in her eye.” He watched as Tasha’s fingers stuttered along their cheeks, and grinned, wide enough that the gap at the corner of his mouth where he was missing a tooth was visible, dimples embedded deep in his cheeks. Curious and scatterbrained, Tommy pressed his fingers to his own face, skin brown where Tasha’s was pink, to see if he could feel his own dimples. His fingers were too clumsy, though, not adept enough for not relying on touch, and so all he felt was chubby skin. “As time is prone to. It’s four thirty-four, approximately. Sun’s getting low, though, so I think that’ll be about as bad as it gets. Have you been sitting here all day?”

#c: tasha

collinsnathan:

The regret Nathan felt towards the decision of ever going dressed up as Peter Pan for Halloween was immense — the little hat was not even the worst thing, it were those horrific tights that were maybe a bit too tight (and too short) for his liking, but he had to sacrifice something if he did not want to change his Halloween costume last minute. Besides, apparently he looked good in tights, if he had to believe his older sister, who scowled him for how great his legs looked in shorts.

He had went past the kitchen in Eri’s house to grab himself another drink, his second — maybe third of the evening, but in the meanwhile failed to spot any of his friends around in the crowd of vampire and zombie costumes, all smelling of cheap booze and a faint hit of perfume. His head shot up, however, at the sound of his name coming from a small distance. His eyes were scanning the room for whoever was calling him out. He caught Tommy not much later — his hair, even more messy than usual, was the true giveaway.

There was a hint of a smile on Nathan’s lips as Tommy has approached him, not even disappearing when he took a sip of his drink. “Why, thank you. You look pretty awful yourself, if I may say so. The messy hair look definitely works for you.” He let his fingers ruffle through the guy’s locks as there was a grin paiting his features. “You are a disgrace, Tommy, such a disgrace. I am Peter Pan — aka, the best Disney character that ever existed.”

“That’s what I told my Dad - he used to give me so much shit for growing it out,” he said quickly, then slapping Nathan’s hand away from his hair like a disobedient dog. Tommy had inherited more of his mother’s traits than his father’s - including his inability to allow just anyone to touch his hair. Even Nathan, who he’d known for far too long. “Don’t you go doing that, too - somebody dressed as Drake tried it earlier. And if Drake can’t, then nobody can.”

Tommy scratched his own hand through his hair, and made a clucking noise with his tongue. “I’m aware of my being a disgrace. It’s kind of my thing, isn’t it? Just like Tash is the smart one - probably. I’ve grown used to it. It’s so comfortable.” He stretched his long arms out to drive the point home, and let out a little tired groan. “I’ve not destroyed anything all night - not even a little - and I fully believe I’m beginning to lose it.”

Face screwed up in a grimace, Tommy shrugged, and then kicked Nathan’s shin - surprisingly lightly, given his state of inebriation and his fondness of kicking his friends - before leading them toward what he assumed was the kitchen. Tommy had been in Erika’s house countless times, but seemed to forget all of it the second he started drinking. “Peter Pan? Lame. You’re not even ginger.” He squinted, and leaned forward, evaluating Nathan’s hair. “Are you? Don’t think I ever saw that one.” If it’d been anyone else, he’d have supplied the information that his parents (read: his hippie-like mother, Leah) didn’t believe in electronics before the age of thirteen. But Nathan was an old friend, and so drunk-Tommy guessed that he knew this. He stumbled a little, and grinned. “How terrible is your night so far? Gotten beaten up by any - fuck - what’s her name? The little green one.” He held his fingers out about an inch apart, trying to demonstrate the words escaping his drunken tongue. “Blonde one?”

#c: nathan

LUCIEN HOLDEN & TOMMY HYATT MOODBOARD.

#moodboard #to tag #c: luke

( erikayosano. )

Minus the racist and offensive costumes, Erika rather liked Halloween. It meant free candy, haunted houses, and an abundance of horror movies. Sure, there was an excessive amount of orange and black and fake blood, what wasn’t there to like? It helped that the days after Halloween meant all the candy was on sale as supermarkets tried to get rid of their bags of chocolate and sweets. She wasn’t complaining at all.

It also meant costumes. This year, she’d gone as Harley Quinn—the version from the new movie coming out—clad in a shiny red and blue bomber jacket and ripped denim shorts in a light wash. She had even managed to snag a t-shirt with Daddy’s Little Monster written across it, though she’d lost her bat minutes into the the party. Just as she was pouring maybe a little too much rum into her sprite-slash-iced tea, someone tapped her on the shoulder, a question soon following.

“Of course I do! It’s my own house,” she exclaimed with a jubilant laugh, her fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle. “In fact, I have drinks for you right here.” Placing one hand underneath the base of the bottle, she held the rum out as if she was putting it on display. “Ta-da!” Did she already have two shots? Definitely. Did she care? Not really. “God, I really fucking miss cachaça, but I couldn’t find any in time for tonight.”

Erika was among the louder of Tommy’s friends - especially outside of their group, he tended to stick to quiet, calm friendships. He flinched at her loud laugh, rubbing at an ear as if Harley Quinn had Banshee-like powers, as well. “You’re a right mess - how many have you had?” Not that Tommy could judge that much; he was already tipping this way and that, feet unable to keep to the ground with any sort of stability. But he judged still, if only because teasing was more enjoyable than being actually kind. “I didn’t adhere to the rules of BYOB. I’m very sorry.” He wasn’t: this was the usual from Tommy.

Tommy grabbed the rum bottle with a grin, tucking it under his arm and tucking Erika’s shoulders under his other arm. He pulled her closer to him, brown cheek sliding against a pigtail, before releasing her. Physical affection was not outlawed, in Tommy’s mind, but it was rare that he cared enough about someone to assure them - that, well, he cared. “You’re so - smiley.” He resisted the urge only just barely to steal a little of Erika’s drink - that wasn’t to say that an attempt wouldn’t be made later on, though.

His eyebrows furrowed, then, at whatever it was Erika had said. His parents had trained Tommy in a variety of languages, enough so that he could be considered nearly fluent in most of them, but his drunken mind only understood French, Hebrew, and a little English. “Cucaracha? Uh - Kookaburra?” Tommy moved to hold the rum bottle like he might a baby, and patted the neck of it lovingly. “A Coke? Or just a cup - s'il vous plaît, une petite fille en rouge et bleu.” Ignoring that he’d slipped into his first language, Tommy nudged a foot against Erika’s. “Who’s gonna be your Mister J tonight? Missus J?” He tipped forward on his toes, and then backward again uneasily. “Also - alcohol. Kitchen. Point me.”

#c: erika

brookheimers

#inspiration #to tag

( tashaflcming. )

“You might not have known the answers to the mat thing, but you acted as if you did, which is a great skill.” Most people might have added an I think to the end of that statement, but Tasha did not give their opinion; they provided what was factual. They canted their head towards his narration, and all they managed to catch of its physical evidence was the tail-end of the smoke-smell and the brush of a remnant against their chin. Silence could be so filling when shared with the right sort of person; and it made it somewhat easier if both parties could see.

Usually, they weren’t resentful against it. It was how they had come into this world, and it was how they would go right back out of it. But there were moments, like the rush of emotions right now and the surge of nostalgia against learning more, where they wished they were just like the average human being. Just like everybody else. A cliche line, a cliche way in which someone should want to be, but that just seemed to be the way it was.

“I look both good and weird, so I have both succeeded and failed- and in a French manner. You know, someone could make a fashion line out of that description. Amazing the way some minds work.” Their hand twitched a split second before Betty’s tongue attacked their fingers, and a tiny hum of ticklishness was their response. “She always feels like she’s just consumed an entire bowl of water.” Not minding the texture, though initially once upon a time they had shied away from it, they immediately nestled their hands into the scruff of the dog’s neck, curling their fingers there. The pause in the air alerted Tasha that he was doing that - weird smoking thing. Where he let it drip from his essence like a part of him. “I would never be permanently mean to you. Don’t threaten me with dire things like that; I can’t handle the thought.”

Their hands drifted, as was their custom, from dog to book to bench to self, touching each thing and reassuring themselves that it still remained. They did not trust their sixth instincts as often as they probably should. They relied instead upon the most physical and carnal of things. And when they felt Tommy’s presence having snuck ever closer, just as he pressed his shoulder into theirs, their hand skirted against his shirt - just to make sure he was there.

“Anything can be broken and yet sometimes none of it can be fixed,” they said, sounding as if they quoted something ( but it was nothing except their own thoughts. ) “I don’t think my nose is broken at all regardless; I do like the smell of ashes and hearths.” Fantasy-moment ending, they came back into their reality; he was still there, and had posed a question. “I am scaring the boys - didn’t you notice I was sitting here alone?” They gestured in the general direction of the whispering voices and their human counterparts. “I’m always soft. Though I might be softer than usual. A satin instead of velveteen.”

“Hm - is it?” He'd dazed out of reality for a moment, as he was often prone to, but the question still stood. Confident and self-assured as Tommy acted, he still craved reassurance: in himself, in his skills or lack thereof. It was the fate of a child born to two geniuses, that he'd never be entirely sure of himself. No matter how many people clapped after a song, he'd still be left wondering if he was alright at all. How many times had he come directly off stage just to wonder if he was any good at anything at all? Where his Mother could create landscapes and actual emotions out of clay or acrylics, and his Father had somehow memorized every significant happening in the world’s history, Tommy could play a few simple chords on a guitar. And not even all that well. It would likely be a lifelong insecurity, as he refused to speak of it with people - even Tasha, who knew so many of his unspoken secrets. (Or so he thought: Tasha seemed the type to know everything about someone with no effort at all.)

“I'd ask for royalties, if you're thinking of dabbling into fashion with my idea, Fleming,” he said quickly. “You've certainly got the hands for it.” What skinny little birdlike things they were. He'd watched them often: reading, writing, petting Betty, ensuring their surroundings. A passerby eyed the two and their dogs - he wondered how wrong their assumptions of them were - and continued on soon enough. Tommy grinned at the exchange between Betty and Tasha - it wasn't often that people accepted Tommy's elderly mutt, with her ever-slobbery nature, her eternal raggedness, her tendency to annoy. (Tommy and Betty, aside from her being four-legged, covered in hair, and quite slobbery, were very much alike.) “I think you could be mean to me forever, if you really put your mind to it. I think I’m quite easy to be mean to -” a cheeky grin, “I give lots of reason. I wouldn’t blame you, Tash.”

He paid no mind to their wandering little bird hands - Tommy had once watched the exchange with themselves carefully, but had grown used to it over years of Tasha. It didn’t take visual proof to know it was happening. It seemed an intimate, private thing - it felt almost uncomfortable to observe it. It was only when Tasha’s hand found his shirt - a white t-shirt, today - that Tommy grinned. While it was only a part of their routine, a mindless habit, it felt good to have someone worry that he’d floated away. “Here,” he said, throat tight and his voice light. Tommy nudged his shoulder into Tasha’s a little harder for just a moment for good measure, his bones grinding into theirs.

“That's deep - you write that?” Tommy said, breathing slowly, as if there were still a cigarette stuck between his rows of teeth. “Well - you ain't scaring me, Tash.” A lie: he was almost constantly terrified by them. “Maybe some of Vancouver's faint-of-heart. You planning on making a day of it out here?” He pointed at their face lazily, grin curving his features. “I think you’re getting a sunburn.” Tommy moved a hand through and over his hair, working some locks away from his face. They immediately fell back into place, however, and he very quickly gave up on his halfhearted efforts. He cringed at the mention of both satin and velveteen and made a face, though Tasha couldn’t bear witness to it. “I don’t know that I like either. More of a simple cotton-blend myself, I suppose.”

#c: tasha

Thin King - Tommy Hyatt’s freshman EP, released August 2015. Listen here.

(a note: Frank’s actual band is Tinker Wright/TW, so that’s what Tommy’s voice sounds most like.)

Dedication:

To Mum, Grandmum, Da’, the Scooby Gang, and everyone who’s listened.

Hopefully this’ll be first of many. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

( lucianholden. )

“So… Drink? This one’s light, but I think I found some sake in the kitchen.” He thrusted his hand forward, offering the other person the extra glass he got.

A grimace was all Tommy awarded the drink, his hands and feet flinching (or stumbling, in the case of his feet) backward away from it. He stumbled forward again once the threat of whatever that was seemed to be out of the way. “I don’t trust that, you can have it,” he said, tongue already drunk, eyes hazy. “I’d rather drink all Eri Brokovich’s - Eri Quinn’s? - nihonshu, thanks. She got straws?”

#c: luke

@lennyrowe: @tommyhyatt @nathancollins i'm gunna go as john lennon on the front but nickel back on the back

@lennyrowe: @tommyhyatt @nathancollins you both win

@tommyhyatt: @lennyrowe @nathancollins ok but i win mostly so what's good, NATHAN

#c: lennon #c: nathan

skype [10/29/15, 7:55:31 PM]

luke h: lol ofc you had to mention that you're not wearing a shirt

luke h: but no i've never read that

luke h: talking to you, that's what i'm doing

luke h: can i come over

tommo: i am usually without a shirt but i thought you liked knowing

tommo: it's a PLACE not a BOOK oh my god

tommo: yeah, sure. what's up? or.... what's.. "up"

tommo: my mom's painting, though, so come through side door please

#c: luke

Hallowe’en, even with all it’s skeletons and candy, had never been one of Tommy’s favourite holidays, always much too easily trumped over his budding excitement for Hanukkah. His mother for years had to actually force him into skeleton onesies - the only thing he wouldn’t tear off - or into allowing her to paint his face. He’d just never really gotten the holiday, and where everyone else went wild with mindless, youthful excitement, Tommy felt only a dull indifference. And so Tommy measured up the happy, excited feeling he felt to the ‘funky’ cigarette he’d blasted through on the walk over. Maybe a little credit was due, as well, to the costume he donned that year - a red flannel under a jean jacket, fingerless gloves with a particularly beat up pair of combat boots left Tommy feeling as though he wasn’t dressed up at all. If asked, his terrible memory and even worse knowledge of film would leave him answering any questions of who he was with ‘that guy from the movie with that song’.

Perhaps - if he was feeling kind - he’d sing or drum out an excerpt of aforementioned song. But Tommy was not a kind person, and so it was likely that most would be left annoyed and guessing.

He’d stuck, as he usually did, to the outskirts of the party: he planned, later, on singing a terrible rendition of either Monster Mash or Red Right Hand, but wasn’t yet out of it enough. “Hey,” Tommy said, voice almost gentle, as he ran after someone whose back looked just like someone he knew. He tapped them on the shoulder, and shuffled through his pockets. “You know where the drinks are? I’m losing it sober. Certifiably.”

#whstart #here have this long ass thing

( collinsnathan. )

Four (and three quarter) drinks into Hallowe’en festivities at Erika’s, and Tommy was - surprisingly - in a halfway decent mood. (He defined a decent mood as not actively frowning, lurking about his friend’s basement, or finding an excuse to sneak outside for a smoke.) He’d greeted, in some way or another, most of his friends already, but the sight of a long-legged, pantyhose-clad Nathan brought a familiar, impish grin to Tommy’s face. He did his best, upon seeing him, to move fast through the costumed crowd, but being tall and badly coordinated made it more of a struggle than it would’ve been for anyone else.

“Nate - Nate! - alright, c’mon, person, could you please - thank you - are you a sexy Ghostbuster? - Jesus, alright, okay -”

and Tommy was out of the crowd, though a little worse for wear. (Read: hair a touch messier than usual, someone else’s drink spilled on his pants.) He completed his arduous trek to Nathan with a dimply grin, and a swig of whatever drink it was that’d been mixed for him. He grimaced at the taste, and shook his head frantically.

“You look awful.” (This was, generally, as good as compliments got in Tommy’s eyes.) He nudged a finger against Nate’s shoulder for no reason other than to be an annoyance. “Are you wearing tights? Your legs are so skinny. What are you meant to be, anyways?”

#collinsnathan #c: nathan

@nathancollins: @tommyhyatt @lennyrowe you're welcome

@nathancollins: @tommyhyatt @lennyrowe my vote is on nickelback, but nudist on strike is a close second

@tommyhyatt: @lennyrowe @nathancollins my vote is on nickelback as well

@tommyhyatt: @lennyrowe @nathancollins thanks for one-upping my ideas by the way, NATHAN, except a gift in ur mailbox momentarily

#c: lennon #c: nathan

@lennyrowe: ngl i've watched the nightmare before christmas, hocus pocus, halloween town and all the scream movies already today

@lennyrowe: still got no costume inspo tho

@tommyhyatt: @lennyrowe alright, larry, the obvious choice is john lennon

@tommyhyatt: @lennyrowe: you could always subvert the norm and go for yoko, though. you'd make a mean belle? i believe in you

#c: lennon

skype [10/29/15, 7:55:31 PM]

luke h: tommy

luke h: i'm bored lmao

luke h: i don't wanna do english

luke h: are u doing anything fun?

tommo: i'm not wearing a shirt and i just took two ritalin

tommo: u ever read about the dome on the rock?

tommo: i'm learning about jewish shit because i, too, am avoiding english

tommo: what you doing blue eyes

#c: luke #drugs tw

(tashaflcming.)

Babe’s ears perked up at the distinct sound of paws trampling through a nearby patch of grass. Tasha did not hear the reverberation from the noise until five seconds later. Tension filled their shoulders, and half a mind made them want to grasp for the harness; sometimes, the amount of noise that needed to be digested and dealt with made them ill. Even after having dealt with this their whole life, it made them clench their teeth and wince to prevent becoming overwhelmed. It wasn’t a good thing; it made their insides curdle and a distinct panic settle in. Sometimes, four legs registered as two sets of two legs, which transformed into a terrifying reminder that they, despite their dog and their ears, were helpless compared to the seeing-person.

But it wasn’t two-sets of two-legs. It was one set of four, and it was followed, after a pause, by a straggling two. Babe sniffed Betty’s nose, the two of them doing that communication only dog and dog could do, and when Tasha felt the skirting of the wagging tail increase, they relaxed. She wouldn’t have acknowledged the other dog’s presence if it wasn’t someone who was okay.

This literal blind trust thing was - so difficult sometimes.

The panic faded; their original thoughts returned. ( They remained uncertain of why their anxiety had decided to send them into a kind-of dissociation from what they recognised. It was an odd thing, the human brain. ) Though their heart raced, their mind said, Tommy. They sighed.

“I thought it was you. The sound of Betty’s legs threw me off a bit. Unskyld.” A cold nose hit their fingertips, and they slowly pushed their fingers against the longish hair around her head like a halo.·“Do I look weird? Damn. I was going for the isolated, starving poet aesthetic. But if I just look weird, then I’ve failed myself and the world.”·

S a r c a s m. Sometimes it happened. ( Most times, in fact. ) Over-dramatic tendencies were all part of the package.·“Oh does she? Hm. Maybe she was going to run towards you and Betty, like they supposedly do in Lassie. Tommy’s in the well. Or rather,” they fixated their mouth out of the smirk that attempted to appear,·“he smells like he’s on his way up. Unless, of course, my nose is broken.”

"Sure you did, chochem macher,” Tommy grinned, dimples embedded deep in his cheeks. “You knew that just like I knew the answers to every question on yesterday’s mat thing. Which is to say I didn’t.”

He tried to blow out smoke in a ring, and was happy that Tasha was unable to see his failure. “Just blew a ring of smoke. It was awesome.” Whether or not it bothered them, Tommy narrated everything for Tasha - it wasn’t just to hear the sound of his own voice, but rather because he’d want to be in the loop if he was in their situation.He observed Tasha, and shrugged his shoulders, moving a little closer to them. Betty followed happily, and rested her large head across his knees. She was an old thing, but still acted like she was a puppy. Tommy scratched behind her ears with his free hand, and tapped the end of his cigarette with the other, little bits of ash burning against his skin.

"You look good." He wasn't looking at Tasha, but he still knew they looked good. It was a consistent thing: like how he always wanted a cigarette, or how his Mother always had dreadlocks. Or how Betty was always slobbery."Real French look you got goin' today. Weird, though, too. Sorry."

A bark of laughter escaped his mouth, and his eyes crinkled with happiness. "Hey, now, don't be mean to ol’ Tommo, or I'll take away all your Betty visitation rights." That was a lie: Tommy was convinced he could read Betty's mind, and the raggedy thing loved Tasha with a particular devotion. "She's about to lick your hand, by the way. Warning." Betty did just as Tommy had warned Tasha - slobbered quite kindly against their hands, her paws begging for affection, propped up against the bench. He sucked in a little more smoke, and let it out slowly, allowing it to sneak out through a little gap in his lips and his nostrils. This - smoking - was a terrible habit, he knew, but Tommy didn't care enough to stop. "Is that a thing? Broken scent - skills? I mean, I can't smell cinnamon anymore, because I worked in that bakery, but - hm."

Tommy nudged his shoulders against Tasha's, scratched behind Betty's ears once more, and put out his cigarette against the bench. "What you doin' out here, anyways, goyim? Thought you'd be at home or scarin' some boys or somethin'. You gone soft?"

#c: tasha

(erikayosano.)

Much like Tommy, Erika would much rather light a bonfire with her homework ( which she had done—and planned on doing again—at the beginning of summer when school finally let out ) than actually do it. That didn’t mean she couldn’t try.

And fail. Miserably.

For today, anyway—she was sure she’d attempt again the night before her essay was due. Don’t procrastinate, she could hear her sister saying, you’re going to regret it three cups of coffee later when it’s 3 AM! The memory brought a smirk to her lips. As if Sumire hadn’t pulled all-nighters of her own, freaking out over a project due at midnight.

Any attempts at actually getting this godforsaken assignment done were tossed out when Tommy’s foot made contact with her shin. “Ow!” Erika yelped, throwing a bag of Hello Panda at his head in retaliation. “Oh, you can keep that, by the way.” Happily drawing the backpack closer towards her, she rifled through it for sweets, thankful for the distraction. Knowing them, the rest of the study session would end up being a very long break. “Your mom packs the best food,” she said as she pulled out two juice boxes, sliding one over to him, then the package of mochi. “Lychee, by the way. The juice boxes. Hey, what were you listening to, anyway? There’s no way that was some calm, studying music, like—- I don’t know, Mozart or some shit. Oh, right, my thing. That would be a no, and I’m not sure either, actually? I mean, I kind of know what it’s about, and Sparknotes is saving my ass, but still. It’s so boring.”

“Oh, man, yes, I love the strawberry ones,” Tommy grinned out in a way reserved for those he particularly liked. He shook the bag next to his ear, as if he could actually measure the amount of Hello-Pandas in one bag. (He hadn’t perfected the art just yet, but was getting quite good at it.) “Your sister packs these just for me, right? I think she - likes - me.” He raised both his eyebrows - unable to raise just one - and smiled again. “Put in a good word, did you?”

He stuck the straw into the juice box rather aggressively, and slurped down half of the drink before shrugging his shoulders. “Keep the mochi - she’s trying to convert me to them, even though I keep saying no.” He then made a little disgruntled face in the direction of the juice box, nearly crushed in his fist.

“My music?” He laughed, immensely pleased that she’d asked at all, and used his juice box-free hand to spin his laptop in her direction. The stickers on his laptop waved at him, and he returned the sentiment. “Bon Iver, 1975, Mac DeMarco, Amy Winehouse, Hozier, Arctic Monkeys, uh - The Front Bottoms.” He listed them off quickly, knowingly, and counted on his free hand - once he’d run out of fingers on that hand, Tommy held the juice box’s straw between his teeth and allowed it to dangle. The words became muffled and strange, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Why you even tryin’ so hard? Sounds gross.” He released his juice box, and instead tore open the box of Hello Pandas, chewing and swallowing down three and then turning his attention, again, to Eri. “I always kinda figured you’d go the Penny Lane route instead. Or, uh - Amy. Gone - Lady? Bye Girl?”

#c: erika #this is terrible next will be better #probably

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