TREMBLING //

“enough what ? ”  he’s mistaken salutations as salivating with some questionable tenses, “so what, those guys just spit on rocks all day ?  i thought monks were meant to like, pray and shit ? ”  and any male proficient in yoga for a religious brother, apparently. remi’s brows draw closer together. his thoughts have begun to wander, but his hand remains with moses, solidly, and it’s becoming incessant. his arm is draped over him like a tightly-sewn shadow, and his hand works it’s way around the barricade of fabric, slipping underneath cotton to press into skin. 

nandos had been a good idea, in theory, holding just the right amount of sentiment––––  but now remi finds himself resenting the menu laid before him and the time it promises to consume. any waiter  ––  sebastian, unfortunately, included ––  will likely receive the same unfair irritation. he wants to go. remi crowds back into moses’ space, his mouth grazing the underside of his jaw, full lips and the gentle scrape of stubble. “they’ve got all the hot sauces over by the forks. we could just like, chug a bottle ‘n go. i’ll suck you off now.”

moses looks decidedly dumbfounded, blue eyes squinting and head drawing closer as though proximity might be the thing to lend him the understanding that he lacks.  remi has a decorated history of mishearing  ( or not hearing at all )  and of filling in the gaps himself as best he can manage whenever he can be bothered to put forth the effort and moses has familiarised himself with that tenuous train of thought over time like someone might take up a new language but he’s at a loss here no matter how thoroughly he racks his drug-addled brain.

“who’s spitting on rocks?”  the cackle that bursts forth then is unabashed.  it cuts through the hum of the restaurant’s chatter, draws attention from nearby tables in time for his blonde head to dip back and his pale hand to press against remi’s denim-clad inner thigh ostensibly so it might be the thing to ground him.

connellys speak with that sprained wrist kind of tongue, speak with their hands turned to fists. broken noses, dental trauma, compound fractures  ––  it’s how they were taught to communicate with the world. it’s a language that  ––  from what casper has gathered through sporadic sunday lunches and thoughtful, quiet regarding  ––  fletcher goodman has spent years trying to undo, both in his fiancé and his siblings that, together, they have committed themselves to raising.

they don’t know how to speak plainly; there’s too much crushed in their chests, maybe, with no way to get it out so their tongues can only transmute it to aggression. casper regrets that the one time max has found his words and is noticeably careful with them, he cannot find his own. he’s not proud of his silence. it’s all the ocean can do to try and mask the weight of it, it’s waves folding onto the shore the only sound for a beat too long.

no, he doesn’t think so.

“‘got bad last time, didn’t it ? ”

max knows better than to trust silence.  raised in a home filled to the brim with all sorts of noise the quiet has always seemed an oddity to him, has always brought with it a sense of foreboding that clings to his lungs like wet chewing gum.  when they were younger hushed voices meant mischief.  marshall and benton huddled together whilst they tied their shoelaces at the front door was likely never a welcome sight for scott nor for whoever they might have been conspiring against.  once they had all grown a little older and the injustices of their circumstances had had some time to seep in max had come to associate hushed voices with an unfurling suffering.  in his experience, quiet voices were for hospital hallways and for courthouses.

        it’s certainly been a while. it’s been a long while since she’s been a body he can call his own. vinnie knows that was a conscious choice. daisy is covered in wild flowers and honey and all things good and sweet and vinnie is black tar in lungs. he’s a disease. there was a reason prior to all of this that he was with girls far too toxic to handle. he deserved them. he didn’t deserve daisy. 

but that wasn’t even related to the very real fact that they weren’t. they were wrapped in a novel with words too pretty for their own dark lives. vincent harvey might not have deserved her but even if he did, they were living on a cloud above the real world and unfortunately, that made them crash harder than others. but her memory was exhausted. the year of creeping into homes and twisting bedsheets with desperate kisses and touches to hold onto what beauty they had in eachother —- it was warn. a fraying shirt that had been washed too much and vinnie just wanted to toss it.

yet here she was, and there vinnie is, wanting to bury himself back in that old shirt. “she’s good.” he smiles. “i think she’s a bit glad i’m out of her hair now.” he chuckles. there’s more distance now that he’s across the hudson. he’s not always by, trying to check up on her. more so for vinnie’s sake than her’s. “’m good too. you don’t need to worry about me, daisy.” he shrugs again. he wished she could take his word. it wasn’t exactly her job anymore to worry. 

there is an affection that seeps from daisy’s skin on contact and it bleeds red; leaves her palms stained a conspicuous colour that gives her away and looks like self-harm.  there is no harm to be had in loving.  it’s expectation  ––  that breathless, hopeful wanting for reciprocation  ––  that is liable to be someone’s undoing.

you don’t need to worry about me, daisy, vinnie says  ––  and he’s right, she thinks, but they both know by now that she will regardless; that seeing him here will have reminded her of a freshly stifled but familiar refrain of anxieties that vinnie would undoubtedly argue are not hers to bear any longer.  there is a warning nestled in his vowels, she is sure, but when she speaks he will find one in hers too.  time has passed but daisy has not forgotten their footwork; could retrace each step if it came down to it and find herself right back in the thick of it all, defending something that she is certain, now, she should not be apologising for.

here is the aesthetic we’re working with ok let’s go

remi looks appropriately appalled by the withdrawal of his invitation to moses’ wet mouth around his dick, made worse by the length of time it’s been since they were last together. the last time had been quick  ––  because it had to be  ––  with remi’s hips pinning moses to one of the last stalls in a public restroom by the coach station, where his fingers hadn’t carefully drawn down the column of moses’ throat because there hadn’t been enough time. time. sat stationary, remi feels it slipping. he flicks his menu again. “already tried to,” he murmurs, now turning a page. “my spines like, i dunno’, too long, ‘spose. or it’s like, we’ve got too many ribs or somethin’.  ––  cos’ didn’t michael j have to get rid of one of his so he could suck his dick ? ”  again,  “dumb fucking design.” 

salt. noun. 1. a white crystalline substance which gives seawater its characteristic taste. 2. a chemical compound that makes a cut sting worse, but 3. will clean and heal the wound. lazy, languid laps of water kiss the shoreline as the sun resigns for the day, making it’s slow descent behind the sea. casper seems to drift closer to it’s edge like a ship pulled east, lulled into something he cannot name, only to pull himself back every time he reaches for max’s hand.

there’s a golden blur ahead of them, dashing across the stretch of sand and inspiring a flock of seagulls to take flight, squawking and twisting in the air as they part. still, it feels quiet. casper had said that it would. he turns the pebble in his hand over for a third, fourth time. he thought max’s question would be more of a pinprick  ––––  thought it was something he’d still be sensitive to. he hesitates. “  ––  you think that’s a good idea ? ”

max has never excelled at communicating.  he’s used to sharing his pain with brothers far more adept at airing their grievances  ––  far more concerned with being heard  ––  and he’s always been happy to allow them to speak for him, lingering in the wings and nodding along in muted support.  after twenty-five years of scott fighting his battles for him and benton’s needs far outweighing his own max has found himself apparently ill-equipped to cope with the realities of conflict where there is no one else to hide behind or to champion themselves for him.

yellow has become more than a colour, it’s now a feeling. it underpins the goosebumps that have lay claim to odette’s body, to her arms, the sensitive curve of her neck, and it catches itself on the shy corners of her mouth. inexplicably, all she’d like to say is hello, and if she were to follow through on the strange impulse, odette might find herself asking is that you ?  instead, she draws her hand back and smooths down her fabulous jeans   –––   after receiving two compliments, they’re likely to see a heavy rotation in her wardrobe.  “thank you. it’ll only be a few days until they become a casualty to superglue and meet an untimely demise, i imagine, but if they’ve managed to earn your approval today, that’s certainly made them worth the retail price.”

        work and academics was a bit of a balance vinnie had to teach himself to perfect. truth be told, none of it was hard, it just took time. time that would bleed into vinnie’s weekend of robust working and trying to make enough cash to still send back to him mom. vinnie’s work night was only just beginning.

apparently though vinnie’s work night was going to be stopped by the bounce of a brunette and a sudden attachment around his neck and he’s acutely aware of what’s happening and for the love of all that’s holy he asks why the big guy upstairs would do this to him. his bones were achey and seeing her face made him just deflate. like a half-pumped tire that wouldn’t get you as far as you’d need to go. it was unfortunate. it was painful. it was a look he wished he could deserve but the fact of the matter is he’s going to part from this conversation tonight to go deal hallucinogens to rich white kids and hope maybe if he gets drunk enough himself he’ll find a girl who talks a bit too much about art theory to take home.

but daisy smells like clementines and he lets a hand rest on the dip of her back for a moment before he finally answers. “uh— college.” but that’s stupid. that means nothing. according to daisy, vinnie went to college all the time, but they both knew it wasn’t to study. “i mean… like, i study here. they gave me a full ride so i jumped ship so to speak.” he detaches himself from her and gives her a crooked smile. she always leaves his mouth feeling sour, and he wishes she didn’t.

of all the things he could have told her, daisy wouldn’t have expected college.  it’s not that she doesn’t think him capable, moreso that she doesn’t think the world kind enough  –––  that she worried that circumstance would keep him from living up to all of that potential.  before vinnie’s had the chance to detach himself from her embrace daisy is drawing back to get a good look at him, her expression one that hardly hesitates in its transition from surprise to genuine joy as she grasps at his shoulders with her hands, suddenly giddy to have heard the good news.  “you’re joking.  a full ride?  vin, that’s incredible !!  oh, your mum must be so pleased for you !!”

this, daisy thinks, is what he deserves.  not the sour taste on his tongue, a flawed sensory memory that she would want to replace if she knew, but his academic achievement and the pride with which she regards him even after she’s released his jacket from her grip.  it practically radiates from her now, as bright as the street lamps dotted around the square, undoubtedly something that vinnie will decide he is unworthy of  ––––  an admiration that she hasn’t managed to shake yet, despite all they’ve waded through together and the time that they’ve since spent apart.

“don’t wanna’ be like, hypocritical or anythin’, but you’re so fuckin’ white, dude.”  it’s not something remi thought he’d say after a kiss. “if you got extra hot chicken, you’d like–––– you’d die. you’d just die.”  he leans back in their booth and after a glance at his menu, his brow dips into a frown. remi knows what sides there are but he’d still like to see them again, and in order to do that, one of his hands will have to stop touching moses to open the menu. it’s an unwelcome dilemma. not for the first time, remi is annoyed he wasn’t born with tentacles. they’d be so practical in situations like this. “dumb design,” he mutters in reference to god, to adam  ––––  the other one, that is. his hand leaves moses’s thigh to give his menu a petulant flick.  “we could try like, one of the honey glazes for you. dunno’.”

there is a distinct october chill that comes off of the water and laps at exposed skin.  it finds him here, alone of this stretch of beach beneath a greying sky save for the bundled boyfriend at his side; elicits a pink flush in his cheeks and the tips of his ears that seems to say what everyone else in new york apparently knows to be true  –––––––  that it is far too late in the year to be caught skipping rocks at the shoreline at sunset.

max finds his shoulders rising, finds himself burrowing into the collar of his hoodie for a reprieve from the biting autumnal wind.  he hasn’t complained yet  ––  won’t, in fact, because in some sense he thinks this outing his idea  ––  but the nudging of his elbow against casper’s side as they walk and the question that follows seem to indicate that any resistance will likely be met with, at best, a deep frown.  “you’re coming back to work now, right?”

the sun’s barely dipped below the horizon when daisy spills out onto the street on a wave of remixed top 40 hits from the 90′s.  her hair’s been piled high on her head, barely held in place by an elastic on loan from a girl she’d met in the bathroom an hour or so ago, and there’s a rosy heat that’s made itself at home in the apples of her cheeks under the coaxing of competition and the discounted shots offered to pub quiz participants.  the injustice of her loss is sure to be the hot topic of conversation for the foreseeable future  ––––  daisy will describe it in  ( excessive )  detail once she’s home with heavy emphasis on words like robbed and bias until everyone is in agreement that a conspiracy has unfolded worthy of the spotlight of a moderately popular youtube channel.

she is halfway through tapping out a hastily written warning in the group chat when she spots him out of the corner of her eye, inadvertently condemns the others to a  ‘...’  that lingers until imessage decides that the locking of her screen might indicate she’s abandoned whatever thought never quite made it to the send button.  “vinnie?”  there is a fleeting moment of hesitation, a breath that daisy hadn’t quite realised she was holding, and then she is crossing the square to meet him with an odd feeling that she will later identify as relief and a noteworthy absence of whatever doubt or good sense might have kept her from greeting him with a hug.  “this is so crazy, vin, what the fuck  –––  what are you doing across the river?  feels like i haven’t seen you since obama was in  –––  are you just down for the day?”

Kelly felt herself become a bit more calm at his reply, feeling the stress of no cigarette on her lips subside. It was almost instant, hearing another’s voice assure her and make light of her messy bag was the sigh of relief she needed. “ I think I lose more things in my pockets than my actual purse ,” she explained, suddenly feeling the small weight of her lighter. She scoffed to herself, pulling out the white light and holding it up to the other. “ See what I mean ?”

odette is far from a scholar, but she is well-versed in the intricate art of a handshake and first impressions. years of introducing herself to parents desperately seeking reassurance  ––  or, just as commonly, validation  ––  have taught her how to apply the right pressure, how to make a stranger feel safe in her hands. “odette orwin.” her expertise falls short at compliments, which is evident in the telling red-tips of her ears. “that’s very kind, and i suspect very generous, of you to say. –– you know, there are so many new labels. low rise. high rise. boyfriend jeans. capri jeans. i saw a pair described as straight ‘ cigarette ’ jeans. remarkable, isn’t it ? ”

remi understands eve and the apple. moses may not be someone he feels he was never supposed to touch but, for the sake of the story, he’s been given a taste all the same, and it puts the garden to shame. the difference is, this will not ruin him   ––––   a kiss shared between them will never be damning. only divine. he gives moses’ thigh a playful, tight pinch under the table, before his fingers spread out and stay there. “you startin ? you tryna start with me ? ”  with so much sheepish and contradictory confidence tucked into hunched shoulders, remi doesn’t strike many as menacing. the threat of him is comprised further by the laugh moses’ has drawn out from him, which sounds gleeful, before it’s sealed in an indulgent kiss.