Advent calendar: December 3rd
Art by hobbitworld || Ficlet by museling || Wordcount: 2.209 || Characters: Kieren, Simon || Pairings: Siren
Jesus, it’s so cold out. Kieren peers at his watch while he rubs his hands together. Ha. These buses sure don’t know how to keep to their timetables. He sighs and scratches his ruffled hair out of anxiousness. His professor doesn’t care if he’s late but Kieren himself just hates tardiness.
As Kieren shifts a bit in an attempt to warm up his freezing bum, a guitar-toting man sits down next to him. God. He smells terrible. And looks it, too. Looks like he’s hungover, eyes red and glazed, back hunched over his shoulders, countless yawns. Despite his current state, Kieren’s sure if this bloke got his act together he’d look fine, if not handsome, though.
Kieren shrugs it off. He’s a bit peckish due to the fact he was rushing out the door this morning. Staying up all night listening to music with Jem will do that. Guess he’s been as irresponsible as this man, in a way. He reaches in his messenger bag and pulls out a pouch of old Maltesers. Kind of gross, but it’ll hold him over. Kieren catches the man next to him looking over enviously.
Kieren rolls out a handful and gestures to the man, “Hungry?”
The man nods with a deep grumble and shoves the candies into his mouth. Once he swallows he smirks, “Thanks, mate.”
Kieren smiles. He reaches in his bag again, figuring that the bus will be awhile. After pulling out his beaten journal, he feels a light tap on the shoulder.
“Yes?” Kieren is tired, and finds the whole tap to be a bother. The Maltesers were just a pacifier for the disheveled man.
“You dropped this,” the man is holding out a crumbled piece of paper Kieren must have accidentally pulled out with the Maltesers. Kieren blushes. Not because of the cliche line this man is using, but because he knows what paper it is. He quickly snatches it up.
The man is caught off guard by the sudden movement, but shrugs it off anyway. Kieren sighs, and shoves it back into his bag.
“If that’s slam poetry, you should come to open mic night sometime.”
“Excuse me,” Kieran felt his heart practically burst out of his chest. He couldn’t believe the man read the poem.
“I’ll be playing some covers most likely, nothing special. At Bennet’s, you know, that coffee shop next to the university. We need some slam poets,” he glanced at Kieren’s bag, “And it seems like you could help with that.”
Kieren supposed this man was beating around the bush, trying to compliment him on his poem. And it was slam poetry, he wrote it awhile ago when he was having a particularly bad night. He shook his head and chuckled, turning away. The thought of sharing something so personal and, well, not even the best quality made Kieren laugh.
Suddenly Kieren feels a chilling brush on his right hand, as the man grabs his hand and begins writing several digits.
“My number. Call if you can make it so I can change the schedule. Quentin’s a prick and no one enjoys his goddamn ukulele. You’ll be a much better hit, trust me.”
At this point, Kieren doesn’t think this encounter could get any stranger, so he just rolls his eyes and nods. The bus finally rolls up. Thank god.
As he boards the bus, Kieren looks back at the man on the bench, who still nonchalantly sitting with his guitar.
“Aren’t you getting on,” Kieren calls out.
“No. Have to go to my flat,” he pointed to the grey building behind him.
Wait, what, Kieren thinks, but before he can reply, the bus driver takes off steadily and all he can do it just blankly stare at the man, who is grinning and turning to the building. He waves and Kieren reluctantly mirrors him. Was he… flirting with me, he thinks. No, of course not, just some creep at the bus stop, he tells himself. He remembers the elderly man who stared at him until he offered him some popcorn out of his pants. He shudders at the recollection. Okay maybe not like that…
*** Classes breeze by for Kieren today, he really is just going through the motions. Even his poetry class bores him half to death. For some reason the only thought that occupies him is the strange man from the bus stop. His pale, silver eyes and grimy appearance flood his mind, almost parasitically.
Kieren sighs as he leaves university for the day, and as he passes by the creative writing lab, he catches a glimpse of a flyer on the bulletin board.
“OPEN MIC NIGHT AT BENNET’S,” the poster shouts in its scribbled photocopied writing, “TUESDAYS AT 9! MUSICIANS AND POETS WELCOME!”
Kieren smiles, although he’s not entirely sure why. Normally he’d be reluctant to share his art, he won’t even publish his poetry in the literary magazine at the university which rarely sees the light of day anyway. But something tells him, why the hell not. There’s nothing to lose, he thinks, there’s nothing to lose. Those pale, silver eyes…
***
“Ey! Welcome to Bennet’s, all! I’m the joint’s namesake, here just to pop in before these talented lads get the night started. We got some new faces here tonight, so be sure to give ‘em an extra hand. Enjoy,” the bubbly owner of the coffee shop grinned from ear to ear as he backed away from the mic, leading way to the first ukulele player of the night.
Kieren is sitting at a table in the middle of the cafe, enough that he can dash up to the stage if he so desires and enough he can run away if he gets frightened. As he looks down at his crumpled sheet of paper on the waxy, coffee-stained wood, he thinks the latter is most likely. The words all seem too cheesy, too poetic, everything is all out of place…
“Glad to see you showed up,” the man from the bus stop pulls a chair up right next to Kieren.
“Uh, hi,” Kieren is startled and anxiously folds his paper.
The man ignores the gesture, and points at the skin and bones boy at the stage playing Riptide, “God awful, I know,” he pats Kieren on the back, “You’ll be great, uh…”
“Kieren,” Kieren chuckles, meeting the man’s silver stare.
“Simon,” the man smirks back, and looks down at Kieren’s clutched paper, which is now probably drenched in his clammy hand sweat,”That’s for tonight?”
“Uh, yeah,” Kieren gives up and loosens his grip on the paper, although he is still determined not to let Simon read it. If he’s going to show his poem off tonight, he’s going to do it once and be done.
“It’s alright, I understand, mate,” Simon smirks again,”I’ll take the wheel, seems like this fellow’s almost done, thank god.”
Almost on cue, the skin and bones boy gives a weak smile holding his cheap ukulele before stepping off stage. Simon waltzes up and looks back at Kieren, “I was wrong about tonight. It’s a special one, I’m done with covers.”
What? Kieren thinks, although he suspects what Simon means. He starts sweating profusely, this is going to ruin his poem, the whole night, everything…
“Seven amber nights, pills and bottles Red eyed, in the fog Felt like a goddamn log…”
Kieren laughs, maybe this isn’t too bad, this isn’t what he thought Simon was alluding to.
“Acoustic on my back, preparin’ for mic night But at the J-2 stop I see a man, Didn’t need to be here, but now I am…”
Fuck fuck fuck, Kieren thinks.
Simon’s strumming gets louder, and he breaks into a chorus, where he looks straight into Kieren’s terrified eyes.
“Bus boy! Your slam poetry, your mystifying eyes. Bus boy! You can’t even pick up on my ‘hey I’m hungry’ Bus boy! Now it’s your turn.”
Simon smiles on the last syllable, and wiggles his index finger, trying to reel Kieren on stage, who is practically dying of embarrassment right now. Fuck, he thinks as he looks down at the smudged ink on his paper. What Simon had hinted at before going on stage was true, and know he has to read his own poem about… He shakes his head rapidly, but the whole audience is cheering for him, so he reluctantly steps up.
Simon taps him lightly on the back before he leaves to take a seat at Kieren’s table. Kieren tries to give Simon the most angry stare he can, but that only makes him smile even more. Fuck it, Kieren says. He opens his mouth, ready to read this goddamn poem, no matter how embarrassing it is.
“Slung some weed, slung some guitar Yeah that’s what you were to me Before you gorged on my moldy Maltesers You’re not an appeaser, or at least a first Read my horrible poem, I’m convinced you’re the worst But you’ve got pools of silver (Sorry, there’s nothing that rhymes with silver)”
Simon flashes Kieren his hallmark smirk once again, and Kieren bites his lip so he can finish the poem.
“When I take off to uni and leave you behind I’m thinking, there’s never gonna be a greater find Silver man I don’t know your name All I can possibly claim Is that somehow, you’ve got me now,”
Kieren finishes his poem and throws his crumpled paper to the ground, and decides to throw in one more line.
“Fuck you, there’s nothing I can say but wow.”
Kieren is about to break into tears, it simultaneously feels like there are thousands of people in the room and just the two of them. Simon’s silver eyes stare right back, and Kieren dashes off stage and out the door.
Fuck, why the hell did I do that? That’s not even remotely the kind of shit I usually write! And I came up and read it even after that Simon guy sang his “bus boy” thing… Kieren slumps himself down on the curb a few feet away from the entrance, rubbing away his anxiety-ridden tears.
Kieren hears some shuffling and then soon after, a gentle tap on the shoulder.
“Of course,” Kieren spits.
“Hey, look, I honestly don’t know either–” Simon ruffles his hair, looking down at the cracked pavement below him.
Kieren sighs, he knows Simon means no harm, so he slaps part of the curb next to him, inviting Simon to sit.
Kieren is about to say something to Simon, opening and closing his mouth in hesitance. He shakes his head and nervously chuckles.
“Ah, fuck it,” he smiles, and he pulls Simon in for a tight kiss. His hands find their way onto Simon’s cold cheeks, and Simon’s hands entangle softly around the back of Kieren’s neck. They move rhythmically, as if they can both predict the other’s movements. They know how to get the most warmth, the most feeling out of each other. They just know each other. They have an impeccable familiarity, and they both realize this as they pull away from each other.
Kieren grabs one of the hands that rests on Simon’s thighs, and Simon wraps his other arm around Kieren’s shoulder. Kieren sighs.
“Fuck you, I don’t even know you,” he laughs, looking into the dark sky above them.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that–”
Kieren meets Simon’s silver-eyed gaze for the first time, and shakes his head. He squeezes Simon’s hand tighter. Simon squeezes back.
“No. Strangely, no. Simon.”
“Kieren,” Simon says with a nervous chuckle.
“Yeah,” Kieren rests his head on the faux fur of Simon’s parka, “It’s like I’ve known you for years. It’s not even been a day…”
Simon stays silent, letting Kieren finish, “There’s billions of stars up there,” he points to the cloudy sky, “Well, you can’t see all of them, but you get it. I’m saying that there’s billions and billions of people, and you meet a handful of them in your life. You’ve got this pile of stars, and you sort through them until you’ve found the one to take you home,” Kieren pauses to search the sky.
Simon drops his arm off of Kieren shoulder and lifts one of Kieren’s arm to the right, and points for the two of them, “Here.”
Fuck, Kieren thinks, he knows already. He finishes regardless.
“You know, like the North Star. It takes some people years to do it,” Kieren gulps and he looks into the silver gaze of that bright star, the only one that shines this night, “As stupid as it may sound, I think–”
“You’re quite the poet, aren’t you, Kieren,” Simon puts his arm back on Kieren’s shoulder.
“Oh, shut up. ‘Bus boy’? Get more creative, Simon,” Kieren rolls his eyes.
Simon just smiles, and Kieren sees the world in those silver eyes. There’s so much pain, there’s so much love. And that’s home for Kieren. He looks at the single shining star in the sky, and then back at Simon.
“So I’m a ‘weed slinger’, eh?”
Kieren laughs. He happily presses his lips against Simon’s and watches the silver of the star and of his companion’s eyes fade as he himself melts away into the night. He’s made it home.
