#maxgraybooks

Message me if you’re interested! 

It’s contemporary, implied queer romance, and about 2300 words (that’s 6 pages). Here’s the first few paragraphs: 

THE FACTORY WAS LONG SINCE ABANDONED. Weeds intruded through the broken pavement, the sky gray reflecting off the boulders along the path. It’d just finished raining, leaving the ground dangerous, one slip fatal, puddles like landmines for Micah’s shitty sneakers. The factory itself, Micah had never strayed inside, but the outside was just as monotone as the rest, staring at Micah in boredom. “Took you long enough,” it said. “Where’ve you been?” 

A slumped figure sat on the wet pavement in the distance, swallowed by his black hoodie. He held something in his hand, green and yellow. 

Micah stopped in front of him. “You’re going to get sick.” 

Ezra glanced down at the puddle he was sitting in. He shrugged, the leaf in his hand fluttering to the sticky ground. 

Gently kicking his boot, he said, “Don’t be emo, I can’t take it today.”

There’s a ritual to it now, and after a few years of being with Virgil, Patton has it down to a science.

Or perhaps it’s an art, not a science, because there’s nothing but pure artistic beauty in everything about Virgil, in the music of his laughter and the sparkle in his eyes, or the graceful swoop of his hair as it falls delicately over his pale brow. There’s not enough poetry in the world to explain the way he makes Patton’s heart flip-flop when he does that glance, the one where his head is tilted forward and he tips it up to the side to look at Patton and smile, a private, secret smile shared just between the two of them that means I understand everything about you and I love every piece of it.

Then again, Logan might argue that it is a science. There’s science in the careful observation and documentation of just what makes Virgil smile like that, in the careful noting of precisely how he likes to be held and touched and kissed. There’s also a kind of beauty in the precision of ritual and the rigorous practice of perfecting a routine--of refining it until you have achieved the optimal outcome--so maybe it’s not art or science, but some combination of both: some blissful, perfect in-between.

Maybe in the end they’re just two words for the same phenomenon.

Patton will leave that debate to greater minds than his, though, because all he knows is at night, when Virgil’s starting to get tired, his blinks get slower, and the ritual begins.

That’s the start: the slow blinks. When Patton sees Virgil’s lids droop slowly, then rise again but never quite as high as they were before, those are the first few notes of the song of the routine, and it’s a melody he knows as well as breathing, as well as his own heartbeat.

The first part of the routine is a bit more like science, perhaps, because it’s perfunctory. After Patton has risen to his feet and reached out to take Virgil’s hands, to pull him up and close for a long, soft embrace, he murmurs, “Bedtime,” and Virgil nods where his head rests on Patton’s shoulder, and then the business part of things begins.

First, there’s the sharing of the bathroom as they each brush their teeth and wash their faces, a careful step-slide around each other as they make use of their single sink. Roman has offered multiple times to conjure another one for them, but they’ve never taken him up on it, content, Patton thinks, to share it as they’ve come to share the other pieces of their lives. It’s intimate, and it gives them an excuse to press into one another’s sides as they attend to the the demands of biology and hygiene.

He leaves Virgil to remove his make-up and heads into the bedroom, where he tugs down the comforter on their large bed (this they had allowed Roman to create for them, though Patton often thinks with fond amusement that they probably could’ve made do with a twin--they spend so much of the night wrapped up so closely that they only use the tiniest of spaces anyway--but even he must blushingly admit there are other uses for a large bed space, ones that he and Virgil make use of freely and gladly).

He changes into his night clothes then, usually no more than a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt, though on cooler nights he might don a pair of flannel pants instead. By then, Virgil is done in the bathroom, and emerges, and this part is so important: Patton greets him at the foot of the bed, just outside the bathroom door, and admires the face that is bared to him. He plants a tiny kiss on every freckle, blemish, and perceived imperfection, and Virgil accepts these offerings of adoration willingly, cheeks warm and flushed pink by the time Patton finishes the ritual with the tiniest of kisses to the tip of his nose.

Then, Patton waits while Virgil disrobes, folding the hoodie and laying it out across their desk chair (some pieces of the ritual are private, and Patton doesn’t intrude here).

But when he’s ready, he turns back to Patton and they lace their fingers together, climbing onto the monstrously large bed and curling into the center.

Some nights, there are interludes--peaceful and sleepy, generally, as their more energetic encounters tend to take place in the afternoon--but most nights, they simply fold into one another’s arms and snuggle close, slotting into the familiar fit that they have worked together to perfect over the years: Virgil’s head on Patton’s shoulder, Patton’s cheek resting on Virgil’s hair, arms and legs intertwined. There’s barely a breath of air between them--no room for nightmares or uncertainties to worm their way into their rest--and Patton wouldn’t have it any other way.

The final piece of the ritual is the most important, if there can be said to be a superlative piece to a perfect event: in the darkness of their room, lit only by the dim glow of fairy lights strung high overhead, Virgil will draw back only far enough to tilt his face upward. In the dimness of that light, his eyes glitter darkly, and his lips part on an expectant breath of air.

It’s impossible to resist that siren’s call, and Patton wouldn’t dream of trying, anyway. He leans down, tipping his head just far enough to slot his lips against Virgil’s, eyes drifting closed as he breathes in the minty taste of their toothpaste. The goodnight kiss is never perfunctory: it’s a perfect slow melding of lips and tongue, a several-moments-long exploration that usually leaves Patton a little breathless. If they are to enjoy one of their sleepy lovemaking sessions, this is where it begins: in that deep, soul-searching kiss.

But not tonight. Tonight, the kiss ends, and is punctuated by several tiny additional ones, and Virgil’s face breaks into a smile that still goes straight to Patton’s heart with its sweetness, even after all these years.

“G’night, Pat,” he murmurs, tucking his head back into the crook of Patton’s shoulder. He doesn’t say I love you because he just has, not in words but in a language they have perfected along with their ritual.

“Goodnight, Virge,” is his response, and Virgil’s arms tighten around him before his breathing grows deep and slow and steady.

Black Siblings & Black Death: Orphaning in Apocalypse

I’d be disappointed if you killed the Black dad off. The Black mother has already died (again, i’m sad) and even without them being Black, dead parents is a well-worn trope. 

Survival of Black characters is generally good and welcome representation.

Still, I get that it’s the apocalypse and few actually survive in these concepts. 

Here are my suggestions for alternatives, or ways to “soften” the pain of this concept:

Death is not the only solution. Long-term separation and other hardships that one has to live with is another way to create turmoil for characters without killing everyone. 

Don’t kill every single Black character. And perhaps, not both parents. 

Avoid graphic death scenes or needless torture/suffering of Black characters

Bitter-sweet endings. Keyword here is sweet. There’s a positive even within a bleak situation. Perhaps the family shares a special moment before saying goodbye, or they’re left with a key advantage thanks to the parent (not something they sacrificed themselves to provide, though, ideally)

Treat hardships equally. The Black people’s lives shouldn’t be the only ones faced with tragedy or losing family. If there’s other races, they should face hard times of comparable difficulty so as to not single out Black characters with all the pain.

mud 🌱 - how do you relax before you go to sleep?

usually, i  drink a cup of milk and then read until my eyes get tired. currently, i’m reading The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion at the recommendation of my mom, and i’m enjoying it so far