#myplutoisms

"breaking and entering... now, following me home because your, and might i add, suspiciously german brother, and his blonde haired minion jumped me? stalking, cavender? really? we have got to stop meeting like this." finn's talking shit because that's what he does — it's what the two of them do at each other, at this point; and yeah, noah cavender can talk shit. mad shit. ( at least, where finn is involved. he's half convinced he specifically brings it out of him and he loves it. ) mean little thing. ( and he loves it. ) finn doesn't stand at the door for long before he's stepping back to let noah in, leaving it up to him to shut the door and then to follow. his old man isn't home and his mom's wine drunk in the west wing, but he takes him to his bedroom anyway.

he turns on his heel with a squeak of his sneaker, a long-legged motion that is complete with a swing and everything, parks his butt on his made bed and looks up at a man much too short to normally have this view of. finn's head cocks, his expression? surveying. he isn't upset by the fight, personally, but it seems like noah's somewhat worked up. could be from looking at him with a shiner, maybe? and whatever else he walked out with. he's hurting, but he isn't really reacting to any of the injuries. never does. as usual, finn's a little too... lackadaisical about the whole thing. there's a pang of guilt. "...i'm alright, mouse." his tone is uncharacteristically gentle, his stare, softer than it normally is. finn juts his head in a gesture to sit with him on the bed. "... glad you came back with me, actually. hang around a while, stalker." as if to punctuate the request, he extends his leg to poke noah's calf with the tip of his sneaker.

there's a long moments pause. a break in the armor.

sat next to his younger brother in the study, which apollo was entirely uninvited to join him in, he sits with his head tipped to stare at the chandelier, a dreamy look on his face. "this is the summer, you know. this is the one." mhm. "i know she hates me, but, but, not for long. i've been paying attention, you know. she's always got paint on her fingers. she's always got this journal when she's ignoring me too, i thought it was a diary when we were little, but —" right, yeah. "right! i think there might actually be stories in there. isn't that so great? she's so creative. i bet she'll tell our kids stories. oh, i think i'd want to name a child... leo. brave and strong, like a lion." okay.

it's that time of year again. princess naomi, his betrothed since childhood, staying in their castle for the summer months is an inevitability that the kingdom of lyari sees annually, and what was once apollo's least favorite season has become the one he keeps count of the days towards via scratches on his headboard. she doesn't know — she'll never know, of course, how bright the torch he's come to carry for her burns, not if his brother has anything to do with it ( though, aris' role is still something apollo himself barely understands; there are few things he'll earnestly blame him for, and he attributes most of what went wrong here to his own wrongdoing ), and not if apollo's harlot reputation does, either. doesn't stop him from trying, doesn't stop him from knocking on the door to her room, grin spread from ear to ear, his back pressed to the wall in the hallway right outside of it.

song — your graduation by modern baseball.

— " bullshit. you fucking miss me. " completely and utterly shit-faced, as an extreme of a description as that is, is an understatement to the place benji is at right now; the exact mix of substances he's on? who knows. sincerely, who knows. not him. he remembers drinking, sure, remembers starting around 4pm and now it's 4am. remembers finding some pills in the bathroom, remembers snagging those. molly earlier in the night, but that's worn off. now he's standing on a curbside and he was going to ignore his ex — the ex of his life — as he walked past him out of this party, but benji's mouth opens in a betrayal against his better judgment. they haven't been together in three years. there's been check ins, sure. the obligatory are you doing okay? texts. his least favorite question in the fucking world, and everyone's favoooorite to ask him, even though he's fucking fine. he's never always fine. he'd decided not to approach when he heard him inside ( glared at him though, before ducking into the bathroom to swipe those pills ), talking about someone not him, not being sure if they're the one — bullshit. it's all fucking bullshit. of course they're not the one. that was him. it was always, always him.

he sways where he stands, eyes tracking his movement as he comes to stand in front of benji. his throat's constricted, tight with some effort to not cry. his knuckles whiten at his side, but his face is relaxed, or limp. whichever you wanna call it. " there. i said it. guess we'll talk in a few months. hm? " there's a sudden movement, a swift kick to the car tire nearest to his foot beside them, and then the upset rolls in — he's like a tidal wave, you know? like the ocean. calm when it's calm ( sedated, more like ). roaring when it isn't. destructive. " you know... " he's slurring as he's hopping back into the grass, trying to find his footing, hissing through his teeth. he's slurring and he's talking more, and he's thinking, stop. don't do it, but the words are coming anyway. " it's been three fucking years. three years of thinking of you. every day. sometimes for hours, sometimes, passing." there's a shrug over passing, like it's nonchalant, even though it isn't. he's talking with his hands now, gesturing, both hands palms up and fingers curled in frustration. "i never — never! never, thought i'd see the day where i just... let you walk away, you know that?" yelling, now. he's yelling. shaking. "for so many months, i wished — wished you'd stop pretending! but you never did. do you remember me telling you i loved you? do you remember me telling you not to forget it, ever?"

he's not letting him get a word in. he knows. it's not fair. he knows. but neither has anything else, been. hasn't been fair to him, hasn't been fair to benji. and that's not all about him, not all about this, but nothing has ever felt fair, and it's like the anguish of that is bubbling out of him all at once in the melt-down of a century. "oh, just..." the breaths are coming slower now, and he really does feel his upper half constricting, like maybe he isn't breathing right. ( his body is trying to cry. the tears are flowing, funnily; he isn't noticing it, he isn't sobbing, but he's crying ). "just forget it. go ahead, walk away. i don't care."