#ireworn

     “you know, this might be the one cup of coffee that’s worse than the shit we sell.” technically, they’re not hanging out. maybe that had been their intention twenty minutes ago—driving down dirt roads through the empty town for some hole-in-the-wall bar—but his alternator put a stop to that while making a hearty dent in their attempt at comradery. maybe it’s a sign, timothy had grumbled aloud while pulling into the gas station parking lot. the plan had been to make good on their beer pong bets, carpooling in timothy’s once-trusted pickup truck after a late night shift to a bar on the outskirts of town (all bars were on the outskirts, as if locating them as far as possible from the heart of everything would make this town any less of a shithole). 

now they’re stuck in some gas station near the outskirts of town but not close enough to justify walking the last mile to the bar and playing a round anyway. by the time they got back, whatever tow truck his insurance people called would have probably made off with his truck and they’d have to call somebody to pick them up. which is worse than waiting in the aforementioned gas station and drinking stale coffee because the only people timothy could call would be a) his father or b) his sister, and one of them is already a pain in the ass without being asked for favors while the other one doesn’t have a license.

so he’s dealing with the repercussions of trying to be nice and doing something fun with spencer by drinking a large cup of what this gas station calls their regular exclusive blend, sans cream or sugar. he’s also seated in one of those tiny booths in the restaurant section of the station that doesn’t have room for anybody over five foot four to sit sideways and rest their legs on the seat. an apt atonement, if anybody asked him.

        “so what’s it like being another year older?” the question comes after an eager spoonful of gelato. hugo sits across from spencer in a patio table outside the shop, thoroughly enjoying the dessert he’d been reluctant about only minutes prior. he’s not big on sweets, never has been. he’ll take greasy and cheesy and savory, but sugary is where he draws the line. usually, when spencer’s birthday rolls around, he sticks to pizza or diners and gifts her a couple of books he thinks she’d like. sometimes video games, too. despite knowing she’s a fan of gelato, he’s never taken her out for the treat until now. he’s more than a little surprised to find he actually likes it.

@ireworn . 

[ tears ]  your muse wiping away mine’s tears. [ comfort ]  your muse pulling mine into a reassuring hug. [ lean ]  your muse inviting mine to lean into their side while they’re sitting or laying together.

                    ❝ then he came in his pants,  blew up as red as a tomato and then passed out. ❞   the brunette finished her story,  followed by laughter.   ❝ the guy almost had a freakin’ heart attack by lapdance. ❞ 

        “you know what we need to do one of these days?” the question comes between sips of beer. tucked away in the back of the diner, timothy sits across from spencer in what could arguably be called their booth. not that either of them would ever call it that (their booth, timothy would roll his eyes), but they always find themselves here on the few occasions they share lunch breaks—like today. it’s a slow day. the diner’s empty. timothy figured now is as good a time as any to take a break. still a full half hour till noon according to the clock above them—probably too early for it to actually be lunch, but timothy has a beer and a plate of chicken tenders in front of him all the same. had there been any customers, he’d be more discreet about the can in his hand (boss doesn’t care about much of anything unless there’s people), but there isn’t, so he lifts it, shows it. one of the fingers curled around the can taps against its side. then, like it’s the best thing he’s ever said: “beer pong.”

he grins, more proud than he has any right to be. the grin stays as he sets the can on the table, stays as he leans to rest his arm on the back of his seat.

You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take. Or whatever.

     “Maybe sometime, whenever you’re free, we could... check it out? Together? I mean, if you’d be into that.”