WorcestershireWolves

Exactly. What now? You’ve gotten to the point of the story when you’re inspired, motivated, ready to run yards could you only find your shoes. I’ve gone for a run, because that’s what I do. Now, however, in the darkness of my room, the excitement is fresh and there’s nowhere to put it. It’s a Monday night and it’s going to storm. Should I get drunk for the third time in a week or simply try to pull the words from my aching mind? I long for something to change myself when really it is only me who can do it. I’m not a very strong person mentally. Ruin the routine and I’m better off delusional.

           Anyway, when you’re like this and unable to go and re-enact a music video where the women gets grinded by an attractive man in a club that doesn’t smell like sweat or vodka sunrises, you can write whatever you want. I don’t care if it’s cringe-worthy, unable to flow, doesn’t make sense, doesn’t make sentences meet. Simply release what’s been building up as a knot between your shoulders in the form of something creative. Mine’s here. It’s shit. It’s not for you, but it was hella fun to write. And though I may regret not doing something fantastical with my motivation, I can at least look back and note I did something. That something is this.

This was not the first time nor would it be the last that Vexen, returning from a graveyard shift that had then transcended into seventeen hours on the job, was scared out of his wits. The mannequin had been purposely pressed with its nose against the glass, certain to cause heart failure for anyone who went to unlock the front door. Of course who had done it was barely an investigation.

           “Marluxia!” He pushed past the mannequin (which the other man had so skilfully placed in a dress shirt and black slacks) and entered the living room. The table was a mess of fabric samples and crushed flowers, a drink on the rocks melting in the glass. He could smell the tequila and it was sickening. “By god if you’ve passed out in the bathroom again I shall throw you onto the street.” There came the sound of heeled shoes on the tiled floor of the kitchen, undisturbed by Vexen’s calls. Marluxia’s voice, when it finally echoed quietly through the near empty house, was smooth and slow, unrushed and evidently pleased.

           “Yes yes, what is it? I’m cooking dinner.”

           “You put the mannequin by the door again!”

           “I can’t hear you. Come to the kitchen” He did as the voice of his lover told him, walking to the granite counter and slamming open palms hard upon it. “I said,” Vexen started with a growl, “you put that damned mannequin by the door again, and you did so intentionally, you snake!”

           “This snake is cooking you spaghetti like a good wife, so don’t complain.” The pasta boiled quietly in the pot and Marluxia hadn’t looked up from the capsicum he was currently cutting, scooping into a bowl with the end of his knife. “Besides, you don’t let me keep him in the bedroom anymore. Where else is he supposed to live?”

           “Outside, or better yet, in the bin for Monday’s trash collection, dearest wife” Vexen scoffed, reached forward and snatched a square of capsicum from the bowl, chewing it bitterly. The meal, despite half finished, already harboured the perfect smell to have the scientist consider how long it had been since he’d eaten something fresh, healthy, an item of sustenance that hadn’t been accompanied by lukewarm coffee from a decade old machine. He took a seat at the table before deciding a mundane Friday was the perfect date for that pinot noir that had been sitting without purpose under the sink. He went to retrieve it, collecting two wide glasses and placing them on the tablecloth. Marluxia, this time, had washed the damn thing.

           “My nana told me it’s bad luck to drink wine without visitors” Marluxia muttered, voice near inaudible under the hissing of the full frying pan.

           “We’re not exactly renowned for being lucky so I do believe we’ll be fine.” The cork popped with little ease and Vexen poured two generous glasses, placing Marluxia’s between the carrot peels and cutting board. He was currently stirring the sauce, deeply red with flecks of green. It smelt of comfort and winter nights. “And I assume this is the same ‘nana’ that cut the tail off local cats.”

           “Just because she’s crazy doesn’t mean she’s wrong. Pass me my wine” Marluxia, without turning from the pot, held out his right hand, fingers parted enough that the stem of the wine glass could be placed between them. He took a modest sip and placed it beside the stove. “Is the table set?”

           “No”

           “Then set it please”

           “I’ve been working mercilessly for seventeen hours!”

           “I don’t care. Set the table and stop complaining or the bolognese is going on your head”

           “Well... you left the mannequin by the door! Intentionally!”

Drinking and implied incest so whatever. Keep reading, you nonce.