#i decided that damen is one of those shower thoughts people | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dreamdropxoxo · 4 years

Text

Lock-down Story, Part III

Part I, Part II

"How about you start your own home workout stream?" When Laurent had asked this question the day before, Damen had really asked himself why he hadn't thought about it sooner. He had all the equipment, was a trained chiropractor and fitness instructor and had enough time to just do it.

He sat down and started drafting his first set of training with alternatively easier method for people who were not as sporty, muscled or simply motivated as he was. It occupied him for half a day and that was much better than to just stare at the windows and asking himself if he should clean them once again.

When he went outside to install the camera, he saw, to his surprise, his boyfriend kneeling in the dirt in their backyard.

"Sweetheart, what are you doing there?"

"Gardening, Damianos, don't ask stupid questions." Laurent didn't even look up while he was weeding their former flowerbed which was overgrown und messy.

"And why are you doing that?"

Laurent sighed, as if he didn't have the patience to explain every miniscule detail to Damen, but contrary to what one could think, Damen knew his boyfriend had all the patience in the world for him. "Because it looks horrible and I have nothing better to do. I can't stand for our backyard to look like a battlefield."

Damen nodded, it made perfect sense. Laurent was a perfectionist and his nature didn't allow him to let this state of disorder go on like that. "Am I disturbing you, if I start my workout recording now?"

"No, as long as I am not in your video I am perfectly fine." Laurent finally looked up and then his eyebrow climbed up his forehead. "Are you sure you want to wear that while you start with whatever you intend to do?"

"A live stream, Laurent. Don't talk as if you are 100 years old and slept through the last decades of technological progress. And what is wrong with it? I always wear that while training."

"You always wear that? Not only here?" The corner of Laurent's mouth twitched. Damen was honestly confused. "Yes?"

"No wonder they offered you a discount on your gym subscription. Well, then good luck. I will be over here, keeping myself away from your video camera." Laurent turned back around and continued with his task. Damen still couldn't understand what was wrong with his outfit. He wore long pants, for God's sake.

Although he was confused, he started with his training, while he trained he explained the easier execution of the routine and what advantages the different exercises had. He realized while drafting the training plan that he could include quite a bit of his chiropractor knowledge. It was fun and very satisfying.

After two hours of grueling training, he stopped the stream and posted the video on YouTube too. Nik promised to watch it and give feedback as soon as he finished with work. Then he went to shower and finally helped Laurent with his gardening. Which meant that he could help him move the bigger stones and pots full of dirt and weed.

Laurent was a mess, his face full of smutches, his hair messy with the occasional twig and leaf stuck in it, his clothes dirty, and yet, he looked very satisfied after all the work. Damen drew him closer and kissed him. He was sweaty again and decided to join Laurent for another shower.

This continued for some days more and suddenly Damen's account on YouTube exploded, his live stream had thousands of followers and Damen didn't know what had happened. He did what every responsible boyfriend would do in that situation; he ran to Laurent, a bit hysterical and demanded an explanation.

Laurent, calm as one can be took his laptop from him and made a quick google search. Then he said, dead-pan, "well, it looks as if I am dating the next internet sensation. Some important guy found your videos and shared them, people love you and now you have a lot of followers."

Damen gaped. "What?"

"Yes, congratulation, Damen. I bet half of the followers just stare at your arms while you do all those push-ups." Laurent laughed when he gave him his laptop back. Damen sat down, absolutely shocked and did a quick google search. It was true, the singer of a very famous band, Lazar Lafeu had mentioned in a telephone interview that he killed his new found free time with Damen's training video. He had said, "If we can't go on our tour I can at least look at all these nice Akielon muscles. And even better, the guy has a fully functional brain, very sexy."

Damen seriously didn't know what to do with his new found internet fame. He decided to ignore it and just continued with his videos like before. The only difference was, that after every video he took ten minutes to answer questions of his followers. What startled him the most was that people started to notice everything about him.

They complimented the color of his façade, which was a very very pale mint, picked by Laurent. They asked where he had purchased his yoga mat. They discussed the circumference of his bicep. He even understood why Laurent had been so amused by the choice his outfit. It was because his loose fitting tank top gaped open whenever he didn't stand and provided a deep look to his chest and stomach.

His follower called it the sweetest tease ever, they begged him to keep wearing them and Damen, who never had a problem with being ogled did exactly that. The question if he would do a training without a shirt however, was firmly answered in the negative.

Laurent had finished weeding their whole backyard and even started planning new flowers. Their local gardener had started to deliver the plants directly to one's doorstep and Laurent took full advantage.

Damen had been overjoyed to realize that Laurent truly enjoyed his new hobby. He could kneel in the dirt for hours and didn't care even one bit how messy the work could be sometimes. Right now he planted rose bushes while Damen was in the last two minutes of his live stream.

"Fuck! Damn it." Laurent's voice was muffled but still very clearly audible. Damen's head shot up, "Sweetheart?"

"I'm alright. Just ignore me." Laurent smiled pained and hurried inside. Damen didn't even look at the stream when he shut it down and ran behind his boyfriend. Laurent had his hand under the water in their kitchen. The stream tinted red. Damen felt the nausea grow, not because of the blood in general, but because it was LAURENT's blood.

"What happened?"

Laurent sighed. "My hand slipped."

"Show me." Damen took his hand carefully in his own. There was a very long gash in the palm of Laurent's left hand. It looked horrible and would need stiches. He was once again glad that as chiropractor he had studied together with the physicians for four years. He could do the stiches at home.

"Stay here. I will go get my medical kit."

The next day, Laurent lounged on his bench in the shade because he had decided to take a break from gardening for a day when Damen started his stream. He apologized for the abrupt ending of the stream but his followers were so over the moon that Damen had a boyfriend that they didn't care at all.

It was no surprise that the whole ten minutes after the training were filled with questions about his relationship and Laurent in general. He informed them that the mysterious boyfriend preferred to stay mysterious but that he was fine and only needed four stiches.

The fans were somewhat disappointed that they didn't get to know Laurent but accepted the decision with grace. However, they didn't give up completely. Over the course of the next day Damen was asked random questions concerning Laurent. They varied from, "Is he younger, older or the same age as you", over "Is he beautiful?", to "What is his job?". Damen answered them with permission from Laurent with, "younger", "yes", "He's a lawyer".

Then a day came when Damen didn't install the camera the same way as always because he did a later training and the sun would otherwise be too bright. He had told Laurent about it the day before and even on the same morning but Laurent was not very attentive to details that didn't concern him directly. Thus it came that he walked right through Damen's stream. It was not so bad because only his lower half was recorded, but it caused an uproar.

Damen could understand it, because Laurent's ass looked damn hot, even in the video and everybody was curious before. His fans asked about Laurent even more often and the blond man finally seemed to give in, at least in typical Laurent fashion. He answered some of the questions about himself from the off.

It was hilarious, because Laurent had a wicked kind of humor. When one guy asked if he could see him just once, Laurent answered, "Sorry, I think I am too much to handle for you, so no. There were people who actually crashed their car because of my face."

The fans asked Damen if it was true and he had to confirm it. He told them that he almost fell down a staircase when he saw Laurent for the first time. And in his humble opinion Laurent only grew more beautiful with the years.

#lock-down story #damen #laurent #captive prince #story #handling lock-down together #damen is an internet sensation #lamen #damen x laurent #they are so cute #I wrote this during my break #I need to get back to work #I'd rather write some more...

51 notes · View notes

thelioncourts · 4 years

Note

I'm gonna join the people asking for Capri fic recs! Any you've got from 2019?

oh boy do i! 2019 was the year i read the most capri fanfiction (since i didn’t read the series until 2018, kind of makes sense) so some of these or even a lot might not be from 2019, but i read them in 2019.

kimihia by thewriterofperfectdisasters

Laurent frowned and drummed his fingers against his laptop as he considered what to say. In theory, nothing was stopping him from going to Greece. Nothing was stopping him from maybe running into someone he met over Tinder. The only thing standing in his way was his own apprehension and mistrust about the whole situation.

Rating: Mature; Word Count: 22876; Warning(s): None

Receipts and Reciprocity by itallends (and its sequel

Damen has a thing for buying Laurent stuff.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 49948; Warning(s): None

The Tall Kingdom I Surround by yekoc

The first time it happened, in the midst of battle preparations at Karthas, Damen had dismissed it as a momentary lapse. Laurent’s voice, issuing curt orders, and his own involuntary reaction: nothing more than force of habit, the instincts he had trained into himself, deliberately, in order to survive.

Nikandros had noticed then, and had let it go with the circumspect silence of a kyroi to his king. That was as it should be, Damen thought. It was not worth discussing. It was not even worth thinking about.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 3719; Warning(s): Power Dynamics

to taste your beating heart by onekingdomonce

It had been Laurent’s idea.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 10531; Warning(s): Aphrodisiac

Homeward Bound by Seek_The_Mist

In Vere, a Récurrence marks the five year anniversary of every married couple, from humble commoners to Kings and Queens. The Kingdom hasn't seen royal celebration for two decades when Laurent decides to hold one.In the distance, the bells of Arles chimed up, marking the eleventh hour of Laurent and Damen’s fifth anniversary, one ring at the time.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 12382; Warning(s): READ TAGS!

got we walkin’ side to side by sweetricebuns

They're both really sweaty. It shouldn't be hot, but somehow, it is.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 1830; Warning(s): None

Felled by You, Held by You by okhotnik

Laurent has some hang ups that are worsened by Nikandros's inability to knock. Damen is just glad to no longer be bedridden.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 5423; Warning(s): None

Kiss Me on the Mouth (Set Me Free) by tasteofink

Breathlessly, Laurent spoke. “I’m not sure we are playing this courting game anymore.” “I graciously accept the loss if you’ll have me in spite of it."

Rating: Teen; Word Count: 6474; Warning(s): None

Only Human by exyking *Laurent/Nikandros*

He hopes against hope, for a brief and whimsical moment, that perhaps Damen hadn’t left. That it is him taking the shower that Nik has just walked right in on. But of course, Nik isn’t so lucky.

It’s blue eyes he meets when he turns his head, not brown; golden hair turned a nutty colour under the spray of water, not black.

Ok, this is fucking awkward.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 5622; Warning(s): Infidelity, Degrading Praise

Paradigm Shift by Just_Another_Day

After years of coming to terms with how misplaced his unrequited teenage crush on Damen probably was, Laurent finds that Damen starts actually paying attention to him after all. Laurent's not very good at dealing with the change. (Nor is Damen, for that matter.)

Rating: Teen; Word Count: 4181; Warning(s): None

Since When? by MimiJae (2016 story)

Eventually he understood clearly he was soon to witness the two most powerful people on the continent make love, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 3793; Warning(s): Voyeurism

Take Me Down in White by covertius (and its sequel!)

The staff at Charls’s bridal salon is no stranger to a difficult entourage. But when accommodating bride Lykaios brings along her opinionated mother, her fashion-conscious sister, her ex-boyfriend, her sister’s ex-boyfriend, a close friend of the groom, and the brother of her sister’s current boyfriend, it could prove a recipe for more drama than dresses - especially when those last four? Are the same person. It’s up to fashion-director Laurent to get this appointment back on track, this week on Say Yes to the Dress.

Rating: General; Word Count: 11463; Warning(s): None

Mine Again by FanaticeIllabantur

After Damen spends a month in Ios, Laurent intends to make up that lost time in a single night.

Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 12666; Warning(s): None

there are, no doubt, so many more, but here are some! they are all kinds of wonderful and deserve all the love

#captive prince #captive prince fic rec #nice human #kirsten answers #Anonymous

166 notes · View notes

my-honourable-barbarian · 6 years

Text

I doubt nicknames will be necessary - Part 3/?

Part 1 / Part 2

AO3 Link

Damen was clean, dressed, and an exciting mixture of hopeful and mortified. He was holding pie.

Showers – even utilitarian ones – had the unfortunate tendency to make him think, and as much as he’d like to believe he was about to be greeted with a wry smile that barely lifted the corner of a gorgeous mouth, chances were, he was going to be verbally eviscerated instead.

It was… unclear what Laurent thought of this thing, or why he’d even gone along with it. And he had the unique quality of keeping Damen ever so slightly off-balance, so it might well have been nothing more than material gathered to bring Damen to his knees, in an entirely unsexy way.

But Damen was, at his heart of hearts, a hopeless optimist. And whatever was broken already would not be fixed by cowering. At the very least, he was going to give Laurent the apology he deserved.

Gathering all his long-learned and oft-earned self-confidence into the Dimpled Smile of Charm as Nikandros called it, Damen finally raised his hand to knock.

Only to have the door swing open.

“You do realize this door contains a viewer.”

Laurent casually leaned against the doorframe and watched as Damen slowly and awkwardly let his hand sink.

“Uhm,” said Damen at the height of eloquence, the Dimpled Smile of Charm faltering.

Laurent eventually took pity on him. “I’m assuming this pie is for me.”

“Less cardamom,” Damen finally managed.

How Laurent could possibly contain an eye-roll was astounding, seeing as with this, Damen could now congratulate himself on surpassing any levels of idiocy previously known to man.

But Laurent didn't react at all. He just looked at Damen for so long that it became hard not to squirm.

“Well," he said finally, "bring it inside.”

He stepped aside. The gesture, small and precise as it was, was dizzying. He was being invited in.

In a heroic effort that included reminding himself of why he had baked this pie, Damen stayed where he was. “Can I apologize first?”

“I don’t know, can you?” It was an automatic reply, one that was then followed by a much more perplexed, “What for?” And then, as if tailored, “A very high-pitched bedpartner or calling a phone sex line? Neither of which seems like an offense specifically towards my person.”

Damen tried not to flush even as he straightened his back and forced himself to look Laurent in his eyes.

“For trying to kiss you in my kitchen.”

Silence.

“Why,” said Laurent, evidently baffled, “would you apologize for that?”

“It was clearly unwanted. I shouldn’t have presumed. I’m sorry.”

Laurent stared at him for a long moment. Damen had the distinct feeling he may have just regained some of his footing.

“Come inside,” Laurent repeated, quieter.

This time, Damen did. Turning his back on Laurent still felt like exposing a weak spot to a particularly venomous snake, but he walked past him anyway.

Considering how much the furniture was probably worth, it was a rather subdued place. There was more focus on open spaces than personalized decoration or lived-in clutter. Even the fin-de-siècle desk seemed like little more than an expensive afterthought. On it, at least, there was evidence of use. Stacks of paper, neatly ordered, a pen that seemed made for calligraphy and a whole set of disposable ballpoints, as well as a row of books.

Actually, now that Damen had noticed them, there seemed to be a lot of books throughout the room. Most of the titles revealed a sort of snobbery not unusual to people who prided themselves in being well-read, but they did look like they’d been read far more often than a cursory first time.

“You like to read.”

Laurent had closed the door to the hallway, and was now leaning against that, arms crossed. Damen wondered if he’d thrown the suit on because he was expecting a guest. He didn’t react to Damen’s statement, but instead minimally indicated the space to the left.

“As you might be able to discern, this is the kitchen. Do place the pie on the table.”

Damen did as he was told. It was a very clean kitchen. Cooking books were nowhere to be found. Instead, on the windowsill, a whole collection of Dostoyevsky.

“There is a cake knife in the second drawer from the left.”

Damen shook his head to clear it, suddenly acutely aware of how rude it was to intrude on someone’s personal space and examine every detail.

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

The utensils, despite maybe never getting used, were well maintained, the drawer meticulously organized. Damen realized Laurent had very likely only hired the movers out of necessity and would have preferred doing everything himself.

He closed the drawer and cut the pie into even pieces. To his surprise, Laurent brought two plates and forks and set them down so that they’d be sitting on neighboring sides of the table. Then, he sat down, casual as could be, and watched coolly as Damen loaded both plates with pie.

And Damen, against his previous instincts, relaxed. Trusting Laurent in the setting of his own arena was foolish, maybe. But if after all of this, this man, his neighbor who valued distance more than friendly conduct, invited him inside his home, the least Damen could do is understand it as an offering.

He sat down.

* * *

Laurent made no move to pick up his fork. The pie would undoubtedly be a slice of heaven on a desert plate, but the mere fact that he had even tried the first one still made him feel on edge. Let alone eaten every last crumb and then allowed this man to feed him filling.

And now Damianos was here, with another pie specifically baked for Laurent. Because that’s the kind of person he apparently was. Underneath the table, their knees almost brushed, yet it wasn’t Laurent who arranged himself in a non-intrusive way.

“So, what did you invite me in for?” Damen said easily. “Need to make sure I didn’t poison the pie?” As if to demonstrate, he shoveled a few mouthfuls in, swallowed, then grinned. “I can assure you, I’d never waste food like that.”

It once more occurred to Laurent that he was quite attractive. Even if he was wearing a loose red hoodie to hide those massive bulging muscles. Concealing his bulk to appear less of a threat.

“Actually, I was attempting to be…” He felt distinctly out of his depth. “… neighborly. Consider it an apology of my own.”

Damen seemed to mull it over. Where Laurent would school his own face into careful blankness, his neighbor was an open book. One who clearly did not see where Laurent was coming from any more than Laurent had earlier.

“For what?”

“Being unneighborly.” Laurent took a bite now, a bit too aware of Damen’s eyes flicking to his mouth.

As expected, it was delicious. Truthfully, Laurent hadn’t minded the seasoning last time either, but this pie was perfection baked in a custom-made tin.

He deliberated for another forkful, then decided he might as well approach the topic at hand. “And for recognizing your voice right away and still allowing you to humiliate yourself.”

The entire time Damen had been sitting in Laurent’s kitchen, he had been trying to take up as little space as possible. It didn’t seem to stem from lack of self-confidence either, it would appear he simply latched on to the fact that Laurent needed him unimposing. An impressive feat, considering the sheer size of him.

This was different. True to form, all it took was one word from Laurent to make this giant animal of a man look small.

“Humiliate myself. Is that what I did.”

And Laurent was not used to this. The people he dealt with every day were not the kind to deserve any particular sensitivity. If they could not handle the way Laurent spoke to them, they most certainly deserved showed no mercy in turn. Most of them could handle it. Most of them were as ruthless as he was.

Damen, evidently, was not.

“No, I-…” Laurent began, then didn’t find the right sentiment to convey that he shouldn’t have belittled him, that he hadn’t even meant it as harshly as it had come out.

Ever since he had first realized Damianos was determined to become a fixture in his life, Laurent had treated the entire thing like an experiment. Even his attire when disturbing Damen and his rather telling bedpartner – an expertly mussed too large dress shirt that had been misdelivered - had been carefully chosen. The interruption itself, as much as it partly stemmed from genuine annoyance, had been nothing less than calculated.

Now Laurent was startled to understand this man likely deserved far better than to be treated like an experiment.

“You were-…” he tried again, but in the epitome of cliché got lost in Damen’s eyes, all brown and earnest and unbearably warm now that Laurent was the one floundering for once.

Laurent could feel his cheeks heat.

“I was what?” Damen beckoned, a hint of a smile revealing that frankly devastating dimple.

“Napkins!” Laurent sprang up, the humiliation all his own now. “I forgot them. Please wait here.”

He couldn’t go far to flee, as the cabinet in which he kept them was just outside the kitchen space, but at least it bought him time to turn his back on Damen for a few short moments and gather himself enough to stop blushing.

Still, he had never felt less prepared to face another human being. Even the kid he was currently helping represent in court was easier to talk to. At least there, Laurent could draw from experience.

He had no template for actually liking somebody.

But when he had returned to the kitchen and set out the napkins – cloth, of course, the same deep blue he favored in clothing – Damen didn’t recommence his teasing.

“Why do you do it?” he asked instead, face serious and open. “Not with me. In general. You don’t seem to need the money.”

Because it was the only way Laurent could stay in control of a sexual interaction.

“I’m a law student who doesn’t qualify for scholarships due to my familial background while at the same time being too young to inherit,” he finally answered, words carefully chosen. “I do come from money, but I-… I don’t necessarily want to rely on the relatives I have left.”

It was more than he could remember revealing of himself in years.

“Oh.” Damen had sat up straighter, obviously startled. “You’re-… how old are you?”

“Worried you’ve paid for getting off with someone underage?”

This time, he more than allowed the ice to coat every last word.

But Damen only shook his head. “Worried I’ve considered having sex with someone not old enough to consent.”

Laurent’s fork stilled, abandoned in the pie he’d started mindlessly stabbing. It was difficult to breathe, suddenly.

“My twenty-first birthday is this spring,” he said, after a long pause. It was an offering as much as it was a concession, even as his back threatened to snap under the tension. “And I did,” he tested the word out, “consent.”

It was a terminus he had been using a lot, during this case. It would accompany him throughout his entire career, as it was the predominant reason for his choice of profession.

It still felt foreign, in correlation to himself.

“That’s-…” Damen sunk back down on himself and gave Laurent a heart-wrenchingly relieved smile. “I’m twenty-six.”

Laurent knew this already. He knew rather a lot about Damianos. He was not the sort of man who had scruples about looking someone up on every available resource. To form a more coherent picture than clumsy helpfulness, expanses of brown muscles, and dimples.

And while Laurent himself was more than careful not to leave a single trace of himself on the internet, Damen was unsurprisingly the opposite. It was actually quite boring, how open he was about himself. He never even questioned the acceptance of a friend request made on several platforms, under a fake account and with a generic name: ‘Charls’, a social media abbreviation approved version of ‘Charles’. There was an entire backstory Laurent had come up with, for who this ‘Charls Merchant’ was in relation to Damen, but disappointingly, he was simply added to the list of several hundred acquaintances.

The posts themselves were a mixture of pictures with friends – how one single person could be so popular was unthinkable to someone as reclusive as Laurent – and a wide array of sports, and comments on his friends’ anecdotes, ranging from ‘haha lol’ to surprisingly eloquent feats of compassion.

He was also on more professional platforms, and his company – co-run with his slightly less pleasant looking half-brother – published its fair share of generic novels (historical romance among the more popular genres), but also more than its fair share of gems, some of which Laurent had had in one of the bookshelves in his bedroom long before moving here.

“I would be rather a prodigy,” Laurent idly commented, “if I were attending law school underage.”

The dimple grew and Laurent wanted desperately to stop blushing like a teenager with a crush. Well, like a normal teenager might have.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were,” Damen said, “a prodigy,” and then, as if it were related, “Are you enjoying the pie?”

Laurent, as it were, was very unopposed to a change in subject and something else to focus on than the way one of Damen’s dark curls had fallen over one beautifully shaped eyebrow.

“Yes, it’s,” he tapped his fork against the outer crust as if to test its consistency, “quite good. I like,” Damen was listening intently and suddenly he wished he didn’t have to finish the sentence because it would be far too revealing, “sweet things.”

To distract them both, Laurent took another few bites, his piece slowly dwindling. He wondered if Damen would leave by the end of it. He wondered if he’d have the nerve to take back control over this by that time.

But Damen only ate his own piece of pie – with astoundingly good manners, Laurent noted. He seemed lost in thought.

“Why did you go along with it?” he asked finally, not quite meeting Laurent’s eyes. “If you knew it was me? From what I hear the Prince is known to be discerning.”

And Laurent had absolutely never wanted any insight to what people thought of him on the other side of the line, but he felt compelled to focus on it now. It even drew a bit of a smile on his lips. “The Prince? Is that what they call me?”

Damen huffed another one of these pleasant low laughs.

“You may also have the epithet ‘Untouchable’.”

Which, of course, was very much the point.

Laurent decided he did not need to hear more.

“I have an ear for voices and experience has made me a good judge of character. You may have been crass, and you’re undoubtedly a barbarian brute, but you’ve never been disrespectful.” He should leave it at that.

He did not.

“I was intrigued what your fantasy would be.”

And there, finally, it was. The metaphorical nail in Laurent’s coffin.

Because Damen, suddenly, grew confident.

“Oh.” He sounded pleased. “Did I disappoint?”

And Laurent was helpless against it.

“No. No, you were-… sweet.” He really very much wished he could have kept his mouth shut before. Instead, he couldn’t even seem to do so now. “A very generous lover.”

The fact that they were having this discussion without ever even have touched made his head spin a little.

Well, they had touched. Once. And Damen had apologized for it.

Damen used words like ‘consent’ like they meant something. Damen’s fantasy had been to make Laurent want to be kissed. Damen would back off immediately if Laurent told him to stop bothering him. Or just to stop. Damen was kind. Damen had arms that could probably carry Laurent’s entire weight while he fucked him against a wall. Damen had very nice lips and a very pleasant dimple. Damen had hands made for worship. Damen baked pie and looked at Laurent like they had something to give to each other.

The decision, truly, had been made a phone call ago.

“I would like to try something,” said Laurent, “if you’re amenable.”

Damen looked at him openly, his posture relaxed.

“What?”

Laurent’s body, however, had been brought back under his own sharp control. Muscles tense, ready for battle. He wondered if Damen pictured him soft, underneath his armor. He was not.

“I would like to kiss you.”

It was as much a request as it was a challenge.

Damen blinked twice to accommodate this turn of events.

“You did like my fantasy, then.”

On any other man, this kind of response would have meant Laurent not being very kind about showing him the door. But he sounded… like it was entirely unexpected praise. Not because he didn’t think he deserved it, but because he never expected Laurent to give it.

“You misunderstand,” Laurent said, keeping his eyes coolly on Damianos’. Not one flick to his lips. “I would like to kiss you. You, in this scenario, will sit there and let me.”

“Can I kiss you back?”

Laurent thought about it as seriously as Damen had. His jaw felt tense. He was in a very uncomfortable state between anticipation and dread. Maybe he shouldn’t do this.

“Don’t get sloppy. And don’t touch me.”

Damen nodded. Unlike Laurent, he had no qualms about where his eyes fell.

Laurent, of course, had been subject to lewd glances all his life. They no longer unnerved him.

But this was-… softer than that.

“The woman you were sleeping with the other night,” he asked to buy himself a moment, “was not, in fact, a girlfriend of yours?”

“Jokaste?” Damen looked back up. “Uhm, ex-girlfriend. We’re not sleeping together anymore either. As of-… today. This morning. I ended it. Whatever was left of it.”

“Presumptuous.”

Damen shrugged. He looked embarrassed. It was yet another good look on him.

“Honestly, I did not expect you to ever want to talk to me again.”

“I did. I find myself-…” Laurent cut himself off by biting his own lip. Felt the blood welling up underneath tender skin and wondered what it would be like if he allowed Damen to do this to him.

“Stand up,” he ordered. Damen, slowly, complied. It was not submissive, exactly. But he was taking Laurent’s wishes very seriously. He offered a hand.

Laurent remembered, suddenly, the first time he’d seen Damen. Lugging around priceless antiques like their weight was nothing and then dropping them only when he spotted Laurent. He’d been sweaty and enormous and he dealt with Laurent’s unrelenting rudeness far better than he’d dealt with Laurent’s looks. He’d offered his hand then, too. His name as well. And a smile.

And Laurent had known he was danger in a way he was unequipped to deal with and had rejected every friendly advance.

When he gave the movers their well-earned tip, he learned Damen had already given them near the same amount to make up for any potential loss of income due to his clumsiness. It was a generous number. And Laurent’s eyes had strayed to that door opposite his. He’d been doubly glad to have pushed Damen away.

Except he hadn’t stayed away. Unobtrusively, sweetly, he hadn’t stayed away.

Laurent took his hand. It was very warm. Far rougher skin than Laurent’s own. His grip was pleasant and strong and his hand folded around Laurent’s like he was touching something precious.

He let go when Laurent stood opposite him.

Closely.

He smelled good, too. Fresh from the shower he’d taken. Because it was what Laurent had asked him to do.

Laurent had to look up a little, but he knew Damen would bend down to meet him. Making his height an offering, not a threat.

“I want you to know, however this pans out, you will have a considerate neighbor across the hall.”

“Neighbors,” said Laurent, tonelessly. “Is that what we are.”

Then he kissed him.

Against his lips, Damen drew in a sharp, shocked breath. As if, despite everything, he hadn’t expected Laurent to follow through. Then he held himself very still and let Laurent improve the angle.

And it was not fireworks or the world falling away or any such cliché, but it was nice. Damen’s lips were pleasing in shape and feel. They gave easily under Laurent’s slow exploration, parted a little as Laurent tried a single swipe of his tongue.

Kissing back, to Laurent’s astonishment, still meant letting Laurent set the pace entirely. Gentle presses of lips were met with equal care. Slight changes of angle had him adjust to make it better, which it always, unerringly, was. He only reciprocated with tongue when Laurent’s inexperience fell shy of hesitancy. It was nice, too.

He was trembling, Laurent suddenly realized. Damen was trembling and clutching the back of his chair so hard the possibility of it breaking underneath those giant hands was a real one.

He was not sloppy. He did not touch Laurent.

Laurent pulled back and found himself breathing as hard as Damen was.

“If I were to tell you I might never be ready to have sex with you, could you still imagine wanting to spend time with me?”

Would you take me for who I am?

“I would like to court you,” Damen said. “With all the grace and courtesy you deserve. And if you’ll ever kiss me again, I’ll be the luckiest man on earth.”

Laurent kissed him again. He took Damen’s hands from the back of the chair and put them on his own hips. They folded around him easily. Became warmth through layers of clothing.

There was a molten thing inside him, golden and glowing and almost crying in relief.

He could want. He could want.

And he could let himself be wanted.

Damen did not see any of the rot that bit of molten light was fighting against. Damen did not even know Laurent had never kissed anyone before.

His kiss was worship anyway. His hands held gently. They did not trap.

“I might,” Laurent breathed, finally, a long time later, “be able to do more than kiss.” With you. “At some point.”

Then he stepped back and Damen dropped his hands. They left broad, warm spots on Laurent’s waist. On the nape of his neck, where Damen had cradled his head. Had laid his palm over Laurent’s hair.

He probably looked a young man who had just been kissed. Damen very much looked like a man who had just given a kiss.

“Thank you for the pie.”

It was a dismissal, and with a slow nod, Damen accepted it as such. His eyes were very dark. It-… affected Laurent.

When he opened the door, the scene became a mirror of previous encounters. Except this was different, because Damen was far quieter.

Laurent should close the door. He needed space. He needed to think and to reassess and to wonder if everyone felt like everything about them had changed after their first kiss.

“I would like,” Damen finally said, “to take you out. On a lunch break, maybe, if that works with your schedule.”

His voice was soft and reverent, and Laurent was helpless against it.

“Tuesday,” Laurent said. “At noon.”

“We’ll go out for milkshakes. There’s a place near my company. I could show you around there first, if you’d like.”

Laurent might break himself open on this man. There were too many cracks already.

He might break himself or he might break Damianos. It was not a responsibility he had asked for.

“You do like to read.”

Enamored, that was the correct word for that tone. For that look.

“I would like that,” Laurent said, “very much.”

He had never closed a door this gently.

#lamen #captive prince #phone sex operator au #and they were neighbors

14 notes · View notes

fahye · 7 years

Text

CP bachelor AU: part 9

***

Through group dates, individual dates, competitions, parties, product placement and public meltdowns, the show continues. Laurent has been sure of the finalists since soon after the start of filming, but he manages to weave in enough red herrings and emotional tripwires to keep a viewing audience engaged. Even Kallias looks genuinely shocked when he beats out Pallas for a spot in the last four.

Pallas looks up at Damen, rueful, and accepts Damen's hug goodbye. They both look sleek and strong and masculine in their suits.

"So," Nicaise murmurs, "d'you think Lazar--"

"Don't tell me," Laurent says, "and I won't have to fire anyone."

"Ugh, you're going soft," Nicaise says.

The other finalists are less surprising. Erasmus has been unfurling with happiness like a literal fucking flower as the weeks pass, increasingly relaxed in front of the camera, constantly laughing and telling fond stories about the kids on his ward. For Damen not to choose him at this point would be like kicking a whole sackful of a puppies.

Jokaste is still Jokaste. Her cattiness behind the scenes is matched only by her charm when one-on-one with Damen. She is witty and edged and lovely, and if she isn't inundated with offers after the season goes to air, Laurent will eat his headset, or possibly hire her himself.

Kashel has drifted through elimination after elimination by being genuinely nice to everyone and displaying a frank and unapologetic lust for Damen, which ranges from exchanging innuendo with Jokaste to appallingly explicit fantasies delivered into the camera lens during her individual sessions at the end of the day.

Nicaise, because he is still Nicaise, edits all of these into a five-minute monologue that comes out sounding like Anaïs Nin by way of Pornhub.

"We can't air any of this," says Laurent, who has been helplessly aroused since Kashel's dreamy description of riding Damen with her knees locked around his hips and his mouth dropping to worship her nipples. Laurent is not going to be able to look at Kashel again without hearing the word nipples.

"I know," says Nicaise.

Two men, two women. And now, for the third-last episode, they're shooting a weekend getaway in the Southern Highlands, which is so heavily sponsored it's amazing that they’ve managed to shoehorn any flirting into the script around all the brand names.

Damen put his foot down and refused to have either his father or his brother on the show, despite the usual format involving a shameless and excruciating inquisition of the last few suitors by the bachelor's family.

"You can make it work without," he told Laurent. "It'll be a challenge."

Laurent looked at him flatly to let Damen know that he had been manipulating people since before he was old enough to drive, and was not going to be manipulated back, and then said, "Fine."

Instead, they have Nikandros, who as the best friend is clearly here for love of Damen and no other reason. He probably thinks he is making bad television, with his dry comments and open disdain and how unimpressed he looks with absolutely everything. This is because he does not know how to make television.

Laurent does.

"I don't know what you want me to talk about," Nikandros says, gazing woodenly into the camera. "I've just met these people."

Laurent affixes his most pleasant smile to his face. "First impressions," he says.

Nikandros looks over at Damen and the four finalists, who are standing around a table in the winery's courtyard, carrying on a conversation while makeup attacks them for touchups. His gaze lingers on Kashel, openly appreciative, before he sighs.

"First impressions? I'm amazed he managed to keep the blond ratio as low as fifty percent."

"Really," says Laurent, sensing blood.

He manages to hook a few more gems out of Nikandros before Damen raises his voice and summons his friend to join the others at the wooden table. Ostensibly, they are tasting a series of canapé-size dishes along with the winery's current cellar range, and giving their opinion about food matching for the catering menu. During development meetings, half the room objected that this was going to come off as too fancy and pretentious for the show's key audience demographic. But they're at the tail end of the season now, and Laurent wants to remind everyone that Damen is not just a ball of implausibly noble sunshine with a distracting mouth. He has serious money. Anyone marrying him is marrying a lifestyle. Laurent knows how to build a fantasy brick by brick, and if one of those bricks consists of light gleaming off Riedel wine glasses and tiny servings of duck liver parfait, so be it.

In exchange for keeping Damen's family out of it, Laurent has acquired absolute personal control over Damen's wardrobe and styling for the remainder of the show. Today Damen's hair is half loose and half tugged back in a small ponytail ("Like an elf," Halvik said solemnly, which made Nicaise laugh so hard he choked.) and he is wearing a white shirt with three buttons open at the neck. He and Laurent had a ten-minute fight over one versus three buttons which Damen probably expected would end in a compromise of two.

It did not.

It was the most enjoyable ten minutes Laurent's had in weeks, and that was only partly because he won.

Now Laurent yells, "Cut," and the AD shoots him an exasperated look, because technically Laurent is not a director.

"Damen," Laurent says. "Your sleeve has slipped down again. Fix it."

Damen shoves the white sleeve back above his elbow, baring a few more inches of toned brown forearm. "There," he says.

"Roll it," Laurent says, "you inept barbarian."

Damen's eyes dance. "Isn't that what I did?"

You are being baited, Laurent tells himself, and then decides he doesn't care. He strides forward, ignoring the aborted attempt by the closest wardrobe assistant to do the same thing, inserts himself between Damen and Erasmus and smooths out Damen's pitiful attempt at a neat cuff. He rolls it once, twice, letting it lie neatly. His nails scratch against the dark hair of Damen's arm. Damen's grin is level with Laurent's forehead; Laurent doesn't even have to look up, he can feel it.

"You're here to say nice things about this wine. And to try this food," Laurent says coolly, finally lifting his eyes. "Do you think you can manage that, or do I have to feed you with my own fucking hand?"

Damen's mouth arranges itself into the beginnings of something unwise. Laurent, blocking his hand from the cameras with his body, pinches the skin of Damen's forearm. Hard.

"I think I'll cope," Damen says.

"Oh God," mutters Nikandros.

Satisfied, Laurent walks back to his position behind the cameras. He's composed his face by the time he turns around, wiping the small smile clear. He needs to keep his mind on task. This, what he and Damen are doing, no longer feels as clinical as a bargain, but Laurent needs to remember that Damen's the one who used the word alliance. There isn't room here for anything else.

Filming resumes. Damen picks up a crispy wonton cup full of chilli prawn tartare, which looks almost comically tiny in his hands, and turns to Erasmus.

"Here, Erasmus, you like spicy food. Try this one."

Erasmus smiles at him. "You remembered."

Damen, because he is a fucking dick, feeds it to Erasmus. The two of them make pleased sounds and Erasmus reaches for the bottle of riesling.

Laurent catches Jokaste looking at Damen's bare forearms--she turns away from the camera to cough delicately into her wrist, and uses the motion to send Laurent a wink--and then catches Nikandros looking at Laurent as though he's memorising his face to describe to a police sketch artist. Laurent throws a sweet smile back, and has the satisfaction of seeing the man's expression waver. Nikandros can think whatever he wants of Laurent and his trashy, sensationalist, exploitative show. Laurent's gut has a sense for ratings, and his are going to be great.

That evening, Laurent--who has been awake for long enough that strange twinkles and shadows are flickering in his peripheral vision--is carrying his shoes down the corridor of the winery's guesthouse, heading for a hot shower and a soft bed. He passes the suite where Damen is staying and puts his fingers on the door handle, meaning to step inside and make sure Damen's head is in the right place leading into their final week of filming. The door, which was only just ajar, moves silently inwards a few inches with the pressure of his hand.

He hears: "So this is why you're still here."

"I'm here because my father--"

Nikandros interrupts with a disbelieving sound. "Damianos, no matter how good your intentions, this trite, staged bullshit isn't your style. I thought you'd be on my doorstep after two weeks, telling me you'd lost patience and run away from the whole thing. But it’s all right. Now I get it."

A pause. Laurent tugs the door back again, leaving enough of a crack to listen through. His pulse has picked up. He remembers Damen, at the beginning. It's so--staged.

Now Damen says, "It's not like that," but it sounds weak.

"Come on, Damen. How long have we known one another? Of course it's like that. Are you fucking him? Is that it?"

"No." Damen's vehemence is cold water on an emotion that Laurent doesn't have time to identify before it's quenched.

Good, Laurent thinks. Good. Laurent would have marched in there and twisted Damen's balls off if he was already fucking one of the suitors. And Erasmus of all people. If it were any of the other three, they could probably sell the story as passion and exuberance if it ever got out that they'd fallen into bed before the finale, but Erasmus is sweet and innocent. That's his thing. That's what Damen wants.

Nikandros groans. "No, that'd be too easy. Bloody hell. You've actually got feelings for him."

Laurent, chest tight, steps away. He doesn't need to hear any more. That's what this is about, isn't it? Real feelings. Sometimes they're harder to sell than fake ones, but Laurent is very good at his job. It's all about how you put things together.

#captive prince #what kind of melodramatic nonsense would this be #without MISUNDERSTANDINGS?

240 notes · View notes

iamnotthedog · 6 years

Text

CHICAGO: DECEMBER 14, 2012

Alise is gone. I drove her out to O’Hare this morning before the sun came up. We listened to talk radio and didn’t really say much on the drive. Then we stood there on the curb where steam from the exhaust pipes of the idling cabs swirls around in the chilly air and people stand next to ashtrays and smoke cigarettes and husbands in hats lift their wives’ suitcases out of open car trunks, and we hugged with tears in our eyes, and a Salvation Army volunteer was standing there by the sliding glass doors ringing her little bell and the sound of that bell was pretty much the most depressing thing in the world.

Alise blew her nose and smiled. Her lips quivered. “I need a Bloody Mary,” she said. Then she put on her sunglasses even though it was still dark, and she walked through those sliding glass doors, into the airy lobby decorated with forest green garland and sparkling white Christmas lights, and out of my life.

I would be lying if I said the whole thing didn’t make me want to puke. I made the mistake of starting to clean our place out as soon as I got home this morning, when the sky outside the frosted apartment windows was just starting to show signs of daylight and the coffee maker was gurgling away on the kitchen counter. I thought cleaning would make me feel better about the whole thing, but after not ten minutes of packing up a drawer full of random crap we had collected over the past four years, I came upon a stack of photographs of the two of us together—the two of us drinking Manhattans in a dark bar in Logan Square on the week we first met, the two of us sunburnt and windswept on top of Lembert Dome in Yosemite, the two of us kissing at a legendary Labor Day barbecue in my buddy’s beautiful, rat-infested wood chip backyard down on Armitage Avenue, the two of us standing outside Li Po in San Francisco’s Chinatown on Thanksgiving—along with a bunch of birthday cards and Valentine’s Day cards and anniversary cards that Alise had drawn for me in her cute way. I started to trip out about her being gone, thinking about all the people I had left in my life and then never connected with again, and also thinking about my friends and relatives who had died recently, which is ridiculous because there is nothing any of us can do about people dying, of course.

My Uncle John just died. I told you about Uncle John. There is nothing I could have done about his death, and he is most certainly never coming back. But even if he was, would I be hanging out with him right now? I wish I was, but I probably wouldn’t be. And my dear friend Jessie, who was honestly one of the nicest people I ever met in my life. Jessie was a surfer—she was a fish out there in the water—and she drowned in a freak accident in a swimming pool several years back. I didn’t get into that earlier, because I quite frankly don’t have the stomach for it, and I’m not up to that point in the timeline of my life, anyway.1 My point is just that all the goodness and beauty that Jessie brought into all of her friends’ and family members’ lives couldn’t do a thing to change the fact that she drowned in someone’s swimming pool. There is nothing anyone can do to change that. But even if Jessie was still here, still being her wonderful self, where would I be? Would we still even keep in touch with each other anymore? I hope so, but my point is that no one knows. Time never stops, and no one knows anything.

I was thinking about all this earlier this morning while looking at those photographs of Alise and I, and I thought about how I was letting yet another person slip out of my life possibly forever, and then I pretty much started bawling like a baby. It was weird. Willie just sat there on the floor next to me with this concerned look on his face, wondering what the hell was going on. Then he started licking my forearm. After about fifteen minutes of that—me crying and Willie really going to town on my forearm with his sloppy tongue—I decided that we needed to get out of the house, so I put Willie’s little sweatshirt on him, and I clipped on his harness and hooked him with the leash, and then I put on my coat and scarf and my old grey stocking hat that I got from Morrison True Value Hardware last Christmas, and the two of us walked out into the blustery morning.

I wasn’t exactly sure where we were headed, but we started walking north and I decided I’d pop in on my good buddy Kevin and see how he was doing. Last I heard, his wife Kate told me he had finished the first round of chemotherapy and was starting the second, and he was really doing a lot better, considering. I mean, no one’s ever really doing well when they are going through that sort of thing, but it is generally agreed upon that the first round of chemotherapy is the worst, so that’s something. Kevin was less nauseated and he wasn’t puking as much, and he got a blood transfusion that made him feel pretty good, and he also got to get the PICC line taken out of him, at least for a couple weeks.2 Can you imagine what that must feel like, having that tube running through your veins for so long, and then getting it taken out? It must feel pretty damned good. And you also can just take a regular old shower because don’t have to worry about covering it up and waterproofing it and all that anymore. I bet taking a regular shower is pretty amazing after weeks of covering your arm with a plastic bag and trying to tape it down and all that every time you get anywhere near the bath tub.

Willie and I walked up Damen Avenue to Irving Park Road and cut east on Irving Park all the way to the Graceland Cemetery. The tall iron gate at the main entrance was open, so we walked among the snowy graves for a freezing cold hour or so until I figured Kevin would probably be awake. Then we walked up Clark Street to Leland and tiny little Chase Park, where I let Willie off his leash and let him run around and get some of his crazy puppy energy out before we walked a block over to Kevin and Kate’s big apartment building on Paulina.

My plan the whole time was just to pop in on Kevin and surprise him with a hot cup of coffee or something, but I thought better of that as soon as Willie and I got to Paulina. I mean, Kevin was going through chemo after all. He might be getting a treatment at that very moment, or he might just be feeling like shit or having one of his headaches, and might not be up to having a visitor. Especially not a visitor with a dog who would probably want to jump all over him and lick him a thousand times.

So, standing out by the gate right in front of their apartment building, I took off my gloves and got my phone out of my pocket while Willie snorted at the snow and ran around in circles until he was tangled in his leash, and I gave Kevin a call.

After just a ring or two, I heard his voice. “Dan?”

“Kevin! How are you, buddy? How’re you doing? Are you home?”

“Hey man. I’m doing pretty good. I’m not home, though. Kate and I have actually been up at her parents’ house in Antioch while our kitchen is being worked on.”

“Oh, shit. I’m in front of your place right now.”

Kevin laughed. “What the hell are you doing there?”

“I don’t know. I was just walking the dog and thinking about stuff. What the hell happened to your kitchen?”

“A water pipe burst in the wall this summer, and we fixed the dining room, but never got around to fixing the kitchen. So Kate’s dad is actually doing it right now, replacing all the cabinets with help from the family.” He paused a minute and cleared his throat. I heard a television in the background. “So, you’re outside our building right now? Isn’t it freezing cold outside? It’s zero degrees here.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty fuckin’ cold. And it just started snowing. Willie and I are going to walk home right now. How’re Kate and the baby?”

“They’re both great. Kate’s huge. She’s due in a month.”

“Holy shit, man.” I stopped for a second and swallowed. The whole situation choked me up, to tell you the truth. “That’s great!” I continued. I untangled Willie from his leash and we started walking. My feet were really cold. My toes hurt like hell.

“How are things with you?” Kevin asked. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. I wasn’t about to tell Kevin about Alise and I over the phone. I didn’t even really want to tell him at all, frankly. He had enough going on in his own life.

“I’ll be home in a couple days,” Kevin said. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got some time and I’m up for hanging out. I could use a bánh mì pretty soon.”

“Alright, man. Sounds good. I’ll talk to you soon.”

What a great guy, that Kevin. No bullshit. I stood there and looked up at his apartment and smiled thinking about him being so selfless. Then I put my phone back in my pocket and kind of looked around at all the houses and the big apartment buildings right there on Paulina as I put my gloves on, and I got creeped out. I can’t really explain it—that section of the neighborhood is perfectly nice and everything, with rows of big trees and nice lawns and all that—and I wasn’t afraid or anything, I just felt like I was somewhere where I definitely did not belong. Not without Kevin there. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. But Willie and I started walking really fast together—almost running at times—which is hilarious because all we were doing was running towards more of the same. That’s the thing about living in a big a city—you have to run pretty goddamned far to get out of it. I mean, in Chicago you can go to the lake and look out on the water. That calms me down sometimes when I’m really feeling bummed out. But if you head any other direction—north, west, or south—it’s going to be a while before you see a landscape that even remotely resembles anything different.

By the time Willie and I got back down to Addison after about twenty minutes, I was nice and worked up, breathing heavy, and I really didn’t even feel that cold anymore. I didn’t want to go back to the apartment quite yet—I wanted some company—so I decided that we’d walk over to Schubas and I’d get a Bloody Mary and talk to whichever of my coworkers was tending bar for a little while. I thought I could just drink a Bloody Mary and pretend that I was sitting with Alise in the airport, and we were going somewhere nice together. But once Willie and I got back out onto a main thoroughfare, I got kind of creeped out again. All the people we passed walking down Lincoln Avenue were on their cell phones. I mean, they weren’t talking on their cell phones, they were just looking at them. And I know that’s pretty much the way things are these days—everyone is constantly on a phone all the time, checking their e-mails or looking at Facebook or writing something mind-numbingly enlightening and important on Twitter or playing Words With Friends or goddamned Angry Birds or whatever—but this was different. All the people we passed who were on their phones also had really concerned looks on their faces. I almost didn’t want to know what was happening, too tell you the truth, so I just left my phone in my pocket and decided I’d figure it all out when we got to Schubas. I’d hear the news from a real live human being. Then, just south of Roscoe Street on Lincoln, we were walking by Dinkel’s Bakery where my 92 year-old Grandma Jevne used to buy cupcakes as a little girl in post-WWI Chicago when I noticed a group of four older women all huddled around an open car window with their coat collars pulled up around their necks and scarves wrapped around their heads. They were all listening to the radio playing inside the car and a couple of them were crying.

“What’s going on?” I asked them.

“There’s been another school shooting,” one of them said. She wiped at her eyes with a wrinkled off-white handkerchief that had lipstick all over it. “At an elementary school in Connecticut.”

Willie sniffed at one of the old ladies’ sneakers and she leaned over and patted him gently on the head.

“The victims were just first graders,” she said. “Twenty of them. And teachers.”

What exactly I said next, I’m not really sure. I may have thanked the old ladies or said, “I’m so sorry,” or “Take care of yourselves,” or something along those lines. Then I decided the last thing I wanted was to go to a bar and have to sit there and listen to a bunch of people form opinions about the whole thing before taking any time to think about it all first, which is what people do most of the time. So Willie and I walked back to our apartment, and he ran around in the yard and ate snow while I stood on the porch and smoked a couple of cigarettes. I had my phone in my hand while I smoked, and I thought about calling Mom, Jeni, Jim, Adam, or maybe even Kevin again. But I didn’t end up calling anyone. I went inside and did what I am still doing now, which is listening to an old Ethiopian music compilation with the volume turned almost all the way up, and putting four years of accumulated domestic belongings into cardboard beer boxes from Schubas, which I will then take to the Village Outlet thrift store down the block.

And you know, despite the things I’m doing right now to try to distract myself from any sort of negative feelings about anything, the one thing I haven’t been able to get out of my head all morning is that after the shock of the tragedy that took place today dissipates—after we all find our miraculous ways come to terms with such young and innocent lives being taken in such a grotesquely violent way—I am absolutely positive that there are a bunch of people out there in the world—the kind of people who think they are good and righteous, but are really just holding on to an antiquated and ridiculous world view that allows them to feel like they have some sort of control over their existence—people who are just itching to get on their cell phones and their computers—on Facebook and Twitter and maybe some of them will even end up sitting in front of a microphone on ABC and NBC and CNN and MSNBC and definitely Fox News—and they’ll somehow find a way to make this all about them, all about their lives, all about their GUNS and their JOBS and their OPINIONS and their FREEDOM (whatever that is), and they’ll start saying that nothing can be done about anything, that this stuff just happens and will keep happening, and there’s nothing we can do about it. And while they are saying all that and going on in the way that they do, there will be these parents—these brokenhearted, emotionally destroyed people—sitting in their living rooms next to Christmas trees, and there will be some lights twinkling on the trees and maybe some music on the stereo—and at least a few presents under those trees will be all wrapped up for absolutely no one.

That’s what this has become, hasn’t it? A timeline of my life, with a big chunk missing from 2001 to 2012, which I’ll probably end up writing about later if I don’t get run over by a bus or something first. ↩︎

A peripherally inserted central catheter is a long tube that is inserted in a vein in the crook of the elbow, such as the cephalic vein or basilic vein or one of those, and then it runs through increasingly larger veins toward the chest until the tip actual comes to rest in an upper portion of the heart. ↩︎

#sandyhookelementary #guns #christmas #america #airports #death #time #endings #dogs #snow #cancer #chemotherapy #friendship #banhmi #dinkelsbakery #chicago

0 notes