#laughlin

laughlin, nev. july 2025

ʟɪɴᴋꜱ ↪ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ↪ ᴊᴏɴᴀᴛʜᴀɴ ʙᴀɪʟᴇʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ↪ ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ

ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏꜱ ↪ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.8ᴋ ↪ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴛɪᴍ ʟᴀᴜɢʜʟɪɴ x ᴍᴀʟᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ↪ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ

English is not my native language, so I apologize for any mistake and if you can help me improve it, I will greatly appreciate it. I hope you enjoy it :D

Tim's smile spread across his face as soon as he saw you reappear over the horizon, wearing your usual white shirt, buttoned down to the last button, except for the one on your collar, which seemed to bother you because he'd noticed your Adam's apple in that very same area, perfectly pronounced with a curve that rose and fell when you swallowed. Your shirt sleeves were rolled up slightly to avoid getting them dirty with the graphite from your pencil. You were carrying that black notebook you'd been scribbling in for the past month, practically since he'd met you. Of course, you wore your usual stoic, neutral expression to everyone you crossed paths with, including him, after a month of seeing or knowing each other, if your interactions could even be called that. You were too quiet to say that the two of you had actually had a conversation.

When he met you in early May, once the usual April rainy season had ended and the park benches had completely dried out, you were sitting on the bench he'd been accustomed to occupying for lunch for the previous month. He saw you in a relaxed and comfortable position, with one of your legs crossed over the other—specifically, your right leg over your left—and with that same notebook, which you were carrying at that moment, draped over your right thigh, a pencil in your right hand and an eraser in your left, never the other way around and never in a different position. You didn't seem to be carrying anything else with you: no lunch, no pack of cigarettes, no jacket or hat. And, of course, you had the same facial expression, whether you were amused, happy, sad, angry, or simply interacting with him. The few times you'd looked at him, you'd left him speechless because he thought you were angry that he talked too much and prevented you from responding.

"I took care of our bench. I came a little early so they wouldn't take it away from us."

The mention of his care seemed to go unnoticed, as you just looked at him with those cold eyes that erased his smile. You sat in your usual spot, on the right side of the bench, with your right leg over your left, using it as a base to open your notebook and continue with your sketch or your unfinished work. Although Tim didn't ask, he knew you were involved in something related to art or that you had it as a hobby because the way you worked seemed magical. It wasn't clear, but every day you had a new drawing, and even if it took three hours to complete and your model was no longer in sight, you always memorized every little detail of that model to bring it back through your drawings—whether it was a pet or a person, or even a bouquet of flowers from some happy bride who had been surprised by her boyfriend who had been in sight.

You wouldn't let him see any of your drawings. He asked you once and thought you could take his head off with a single slap, so he didn't ask again. But that didn't mean he didn't know you were a man dedicated to what you loved, and that art seemed to enchant you. Tim might not have been the most perceptive man on Earth, but he did notice the little things that could please others.

"I've been thinking about getting a hobby too, you know?" he commented with a sly smile, placing his brown paper bag on his lap so he could open it and take out his egg salad sandwich, which he'd started to like so much, and his small bottle of milk. He balled the empty bag up and placed the bottle aside so it wouldn't get in the way while he ate. "I like running, but I wouldn't feel like doing it after work. Do you think it would be a good idea for me to do it?"

You didn't answer; you just looked at him out of the corner of your eye as you settled your notebook on your lap and sighed deeply. You took as much air as you could, until your chest swelled, and then you let it out; he took this as a refusal to answer his question.

"Yeah, I thought so too," he continued without your answering, taking your sigh as an answer. Because you only sighed occasionally, shrugged, or settled back on the bench if you needed to. "Physical exercise, in general, is out of the question. And music... well, I like good music, singing especially, but playing an instrument is a bit difficult for me, and I don't have as much space in my room as I'd like to have all the instruments I want," he continued. "I have to hang my laundry in the bathroom, even my underwear, so..."

Again, you fell silent, and he didn't continue his chatter; he'd given away too much information.

Tim assumed at first, when he first met you, that you were shy, that you withdrew into yourself and needed time to break out of your antisocial bubble, but he found you to be a complete block, devoid of emotions or expressions. But you didn't seem to want anything to do with him either, because you never spoke to him; you only expressed yourself with your body and your eyes. But nothing changed; you were a robot—something like one—but human, and he didn't want to give up on you, because he knew there was some warmth in that cold stare you always gave him.

"Well, maybe collecting, right?" Tim continued, after clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses, before taking the first bite of his sandwich in an attempt to make the conversation less awkward. "But it's expensive. I mean, what exactly do I collect? Bottle caps? But I'll have to intentionally spend money on bottles. Or maybe discount coupons. Then I could use the duplicates, and it would be a bit more beneficial, don't you think? It's not like I have a fantastic salary that I can live comfortably on without any worries."

Tim's question caused your gaze to momentarily leave the drawing and shift to him, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye before returning to the sheet of paper you'd devoted so much time and care to making perfect. Although you didn't admit it out loud, you'd found yourself drawing that same model over and over again in search of a perfect finish, and you thought you were on the verge of achieving it, so you didn't feel the overwhelming need to answer him immediately.

"Yeah, I know collecting coupons is really tacky, and maybe it would be better to find something else to collect, like trading cards—baseball cards," he said with more enthusiasm, gently patting the bench as if he'd just had the greatest idea of the century. "They sell them in little packets, don't they? They'll also have a book so you can track which ones they are, what season they were from, and that sort of thing. You know, to keep track and trade in duplicates."

Tim's enthusiasm was contagious most of the time. He'd always been a cheerful boy, lively most of the time, and he'd smile broadly and unashamedly at everyone he liked, even you. But you didn't reciprocate that joy; you just stared or didn't respond, and you beat yourself up for doing that because you didn't mean to—you didn't want to be rude.

You saw that he was a good boy, how well he treated you and everyone else, how he sometimes offered you a coffee, how he would sometimes place his hat on your head so the sun wouldn't hurt your eyes every time it fell as the afternoon wore on. But you didn't do anything to respond to his kindness and his kind gestures; there was only silence and discomfort, which Tim interpreted as best he could.

"Being here is also a hobby. I enjoy it, getting some fresh air before I come home from work, on this bench," Tim commented, fearlessly, surprising you with how he said those words that could be misinterpreted as him enjoying something more than the park. "Even if you don't answer me, even if you might look down on me in annoyance every time we go our separate ways because I'm so tiresome, because I'm constantly talking, I want to tell you that I also enjoy your company."

His statement might have been frowned upon—it was frowned upon by society because of the almost homosexual connotation it had, because he was gay—but all that was forgotten for a second. A new gust of wind, stronger than the last, blew down your backs, causing your hairstyles to be messed up again and the sheet of paper you'd been working on to quickly slip out of your notebook without you being able to avoid it, even if you'd let it slip on purpose. You raised your head when you saw Tim get up from his part of the bench so he could go after it, leaving his jacket next to his hat and his half-eaten lunch he'd been eating while he'd asked you unanswered questions.

Tim cursed under his breath when he saw the sheet of paper peel away from your notebook and fly forward, causing him to run after it to catch it when he noticed you didn't seem to have noticed. But the damn thing seemed too slippery, and he didn't stop until he stepped on it with the toe of his brown shoe, trying not to ruin your drawing. He found himself on the other side of the road where your bench was, panting and sighing at how much he'd moved in a matter of seconds. In fact, he almost collided with a couple walking calmly in the area, surprising both of them—and you.

With a final gasp to catch his breath, Tim bent down and grabbed the sheet of paper, turning it over to find a drawing of his face—his profile. But it wasn't just a profile; it was a portrait of his face from your point of view, with his almost round glasses. With those little wrinkles on either side of his face that appeared when he smiled and that would stay with him for life because of how much he laughed and openly showed happiness to the world, like the happy person he was; with that natural sparkle in his eyes that you had perfectly reflected with the small strokes of your eraser on the paper; with those little hairs that met at the line between his forehead and the beginning of his hair; every little shadow, every freckle, every little imperfection was there, and you had stopped long enough to observe him.

It was him, and next to it, a series of written words.

"Shall we meet at my apartment on Friday for dinner?"

Hotel View

Nevada

All The Time In The World

Hasselblad 500c/m