Neon dreams fueled by caffeine āļøāØ Dive into "Cyber Brews," my latest artwork where coffee shops meet chrome skies!
Picture this: gleaming skyscrapers pierce the clouds, hovercars zip past holographic advertisements, and amidst it all, nestled in a neon alcove, thrives "The Nebula Nook." Inside, warmth radiates from bioluminescent plants, robots whiz up lattes with precision, and holographic menus swirl above sleek chrome tables.
Would you grab a cup in this futuristic cafe? Let me know in the comments!
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This is the first story Iāve written since ... fuck knows when. Itās short, bittersweet, and I hope you enjoy it.
The summer that had taken too long to arrive ended on a sticky, sweat-slow September morning. Richie lay beached on his sea-foam bed covers, counting his breaths,
in and out,
in and out,
in and out,
His mother hasnāt seen the inside of his room since mid-April, and since then, the floor had become littered with the remains of food devoured long ago, a graveyard of chip packets and half-eaten candy bars grown furry with neglect. Heād lived the last few months in relative solitude, Diogenes in his barrel, his only reassurance the inevitability that this too shall pass.Ā The days had gelled together into a gelatinous clump of anxiety-infused monotony, a self-imposed isolation that had Richie desperately wishing that heād tried harder at school from the beginning of his senior year.
Like the stem of a plant locked in darkness, Richieās skin, blue-veined and sun-parched, twisted and turned on his bones, sunflower seed freckles waiting under his skin, waiting to be called to the surface by Helios himself. Heād spent day after day after night after night with his nose buried deep into various textbooks on subjects he couldnāt pretend to find interesting anymore, until, one afternoon, he was done. It was all rather anti-climactic, the walk from the exam hall to his car, the sun waving frantically at him from behind the thin icing-sugar dusting of cloud in the sky, youāre done, youāre free, your life is your own! Richie had pulled his prescription sunglasses down over his eyes, and climbed into his rust-bucket Ford, leaving the sun hanging bloated and ignored in the sky.
And now, as he lay on his bed, legs stuck in the air, parallel to the wall upon which they rested, all Richie could do was count his breaths and wait for Eddie to arrive.
Most of Richieās life had passed him by as he waited for Eddie. When they were children, knee high to grasshoppers and twice as bouncy, heād waited at Eddieās house, hopping from foot to tiny foot, waiting for Sonia to baptise her son in sun-cream, waiting for the moment that Eddie would finally emerge from the dark, womby house, a thick film of white cream on his face, a sticky-sweet toothy grin. When they were middle-schoolers, Richie would wait for Eddie at the arcade, feeding quarters into the greedy machines as quickly as he could, trying desperately to stall for time, to hog the machines until Eddie would arrive, face crimson and knees knocking awkwardly as he walked, his long overdue growth-spurt still clinging to his bones.
Read the rest under the cut or on AO3
And so, now theyād finished high school, emerged not quite boys but still not men, Richie was still waiting. He spent the summer waiting for Eddie to finish his summer homework so they could go and watch the kingfishers dancing in the reeds at the barrens. He waited for Eddie to finish work at the library, standing in the parking lot, the August air wrapping itself around him, tickling his sunburnt skin. He waited for Eddie to open his window, witching-hour late, so he could clamber through and wrap himself around Eddie, terrified Tetris-pieces clutching at each other after nightmares, hoping that they were each braver than each other.
It's been nearly two hours since Eddie got out of church. The image of Eddie, knelt on the floor of St Benedictās, hands clasped tight, so tight, eyes screwed shut, set Richieās stomach alight, a forest-fire, destructive, lethal. The image floated in Richieās brain for a while, Eddie knelt on the cold, stone floor of the church, Eddie knelt in the shower, rivers of water flowing across the parched plain of his back, Eddie knelt on Richieās grimy carpet. So fucking dirty.
Richie grabbed his half-interested dick, squeezing it just so, just enough, a whisper of friction. Half-interest turned sailed straight to undevoted attention, and Richie sighed. The air was too hot, stifling, judgemental, and his hands were already damp with sweat. Sliding off the bed with a grunt, Richie slunk into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
Ā *
Ā Another hour passed, and Richie was still waiting. The worst of the heat had gone, had sunk into the scorched grass, and the sounds of midsummer started floating back through Richieās open window as people emerged from their houses. Children, screaming in delight, having wriggled free from the desperate clutches of their parents who stood, sunblock in hand, defeated. Heād run the water in the shower as cold as it would go, but it hadnāt been of much use. Heād come, gasping, face red with embarrassment and the release of a tension that had sat coiled in his abdomen for what felt like forever.
Theyād spoken about it once.
Theyād been at the library, Richie browsing the fiction shelves blindly, fingers skating over the spines of books he never had any intention of reading. Theyād walked home together, an unspoken arrangement, and Eddie followed Richie up past the old well house on Neibolt street, and didnāt turn down the dusty track. They barely spoke as they walked, and Eddie kicked an old glass beer bottle all the way to Richieās street, before sending it skittering into the undergrowth.
āHave you ever āā
The question died in Richieās mouth before heād realised heād been half way to asking it. Eddie looked up from where he was lying.
āHuh?ā
āAw,ā Richie started, throwing the elastic band ball heād been working on at the wall, ānever mind, Eddie Spaghetti.ā
āNo, come on, you canāt do that. Have I ever what?ā
āIt really doesnāt matter, Eds.ā
thunk, thunk, thunk went the ball against the wall, a rhythmic heartbeat.
āIāll fucking garotte you, Richie. Have I ever what?ā
thunk
āAre you going to let this go?ā
thunkĀ
āWe both know the answer to that question.ā
thunk, thunk ā
āHave you ever wondered what itās like ā¦ā
Eddie stared at him, slack-jawed, almost bored.
āWhat itās like to what?! Stop being so cryptic, youāre not smart enough to pull it off.ā
āWhat itās like to suck someone off, like ⦠a dude?ā
Richie expected Eddie to react in one of three ways. One, to punch Richie on the nose and flee from the Tozier house never to return again. Two, to admit that yes, he had wondered what itās like to suck someone off, why, isnāt Richie very perceptive for asking such a question. Three, to shrug his shoulders, all ānope, never have, never will, now stop fucking pining after meā.
Instead, Eddie just blinked.
āYouāre killing me here, Eds. Are you gonna say something?ā
āIām thinking.ā
āWhat is there to think about?ā Richie babbled, motormouth running at full speed, max-fucking-horsepower, āit was a dumb question, just a joke. A classic Richie jest, heh. Donāt sweat your pretty little head about it any longer āā
āIāve thought about it.ā
Blink.
āDo you want to go and see whether Bevās finished her shift? I fancy getting out of here, sātoo fucking cold in your house,ā Eddie yawned, standing up and stretching his arms above his head.
And that was that.
After that day, they never sat down and had a conversation about why they look at each other for slightly too long, eyes meeting over shitty diner coffee at two in the morning after an evening of tomfoolery in Mikeās barn. They never acknowledged that, when they walk home together after leaving the diner, six dollars left in a neat pile on the edge of the table, Richie would grab Eddieās hand, and hold on tight, fingernails digging in, just scarcely, just enough. If Eddie thought it was weird, thought that Richie had a screw-loose and needed tightening, he didnāt mention it, he just rested his hand in Richieās vice grip, barely holding on himself, but he didnāt need to. Richie had him.
They never acknowledged that when they said goodbye, Richie would duck down, face hovering next to Eddieās, and heād kiss the soft spot behind Eddieās ear, a secret pressed into Eddieās skin.
Ā *
Ā Eddie showed up close to midnight, when the sun had been chased across the sky by the moon which shone brilliantly in the sky.
Ā [Eds: 23:42: are you gonna let me in?]
[Eds: 23:42: i brought you something]
[Eds: 23:43: seriously trashmouth this branch doesnāt feel like itāll hold forever]
[Eds: 23:44: OPEN YOUR FUCKING WINDOW]
Ā The window was barely half open when Eddie tumbled through it, limbs knocking together awkwardly. Heād had a growth spurt last year, shot up several inches in one summer, and Richie often found himself staring at the criss-cross silver slithers across his back when they went swimming at the quarry. Eddie hated them and had spent ages on the internet looking up remedies for stretchmarks, had even gone to the doctor, convinced that heād need a skin graft, but Richie loved them, wanted to trace them with his tongue.
āI wish youād let me use your door like a normal fucking person, asshole,ā Eddie groaned, rubbing his elbow where it had fought with the sharp edge of Richieās desk and lost.
āYou really think Went would let that slide? Anyway, youāre a fucking liar if you donāt find this way more romantic.ā
āRomantic?ā
āYup, romantic.ā
āYouāre a fucking idiot.ā
Eddie was right, of course. Richie was a fucking idiot, with his heart glued messily to his sleeve.
āHere,ā Eddie says, thrusting a small, wrapped package at Richieās chest. His face has gone an odd colour, almost the colour of the marshmallows Richieās mother decorated her apology hot chocolates with. āJust, donāt say anything until youāve opened it, okay?ā
The package was wrapped in newspaper,
āthe senator staunchly denies the accusations of ā¦ā
āthe next few days will be mostly dry, with the occasional ā¦ā
āMick Jagger, 77, has been caught with ā¦ā
āStop reading the fucking wrapping paper, Jesus Richie,ā Eddie snaps, and Richie looks up.
Eddieās standing in the middle of Richieās room, and he looks ⦠panicked. Not the sort of panic that Richie is so used to seeing painted on Eddieās face, panic that his mother will find out heās snuck out of the house, panic heās flunked a test, panic heāll be late for his shift, panic he got some of Richieās spit on his face when theyāve laughed with heads bowed close together. This panic, this is different.
āEddieā¦ā Richie warns, voice low, gravelly. āWhat is it?ā
āJust ⦠open it,ā Eddie says, and thereās no bite, no sarcastic-witty-āshut-the-fuck-up-Richieā-Eddieness. Richie doesnāt recognise the look on his face, canāt match it to the bank of Eddie expressions he keeps in his mind.
The paper comes away easily, and Richieās left clutching a blank CD in a clear case.
āA CD?ā
Eddie rubs the back of his neck with his hand, still not looking at Richie straight.
āYeah, itās ⦠I thought about just sending you a link to a Spotify playlist but this ⦠it felt more real.ā
āReal? Eddie ā¦ā
Eddie shakes his head. āShut up, okay. Just ⦠listen to it. When Iāve gone, listen to it.ā
The room feels smaller. The memories of them sitting here, playing video games on Richieās dads old gamecube when they were seven, of watching horror movies about killer clowns and monstrous body snatchers when they were thirteen and Eddie would shriek loudly into Richieās shoulder before punching him, of sitting and staring at the walls, a joint balanced precariously between Richieās lips, Eddie bobbing his head along to Chris Cornellās voice seeping out of Richieās shitty speakers, the memories pushed at Richieās arms, at his legs, squashing him. The room felt smaller, and Eddie, standing there, with his ridiculous determined expression and a set jaw, felt huge.
āUh..,ā Richie stammered, dumbly, staring at the CD in his hands.
āIām gonna go now, okay? I think ⦠I think itās best if I go now. Text me, when youāve listened to it. Text me and ⦠yeah. Listen to it when Iāve gone?ā
Before Richie could answer, before he could look at Eddie in the face, the room was empty.
Richie threw the CD on his bed, staring at it as if it might grow legs, arms, a mouth ā as if it might speak to him, āthis is what you think it is! It canāt be anything but this! Listen to me and find out! Itās what you always wanted!ā
Richie stared at it. The insignificant chunk of plastic lying on his bed innocently, provocatively, as if it didnāt contain the secrets of the universe, as if it didnāt have the capacity to change Richieās life in several short yet monumentally significant minutes. Heās almost sure he wonātā listen to it. He grabs at it gingerly, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as if itāll burn him, as if itās something disgusting. He drops it in his overflowing waste bin, before marching out of the room, and down the stairs. The house is silent, and Richie stands in the sitting room, unsure what to do now.
Half of him wants to throw open the front door, and hot foot it to Eddieās house, clamber in through the downstairs bathroom window that never shuts properly, tiptoe past Sonia passed out on her La-Z-Boy, pin Eddie against the wall of his immaculate bedroom, and demand that Eddie take it back. He wants to thrust the CD at Eddie, wrapped in the stupid newspaper, and leave. Pretend it never happened. It would be easier this way, nothing would have to change. They could go back to stolen glances across the room, clasped hands on intoxicated walks, dry presses of mouths to secret spots that no one else knew about. Easier.
The other half of him screams at him, begs him, to dig the CD out of the bin, to scrape the pencil shavings and the toenails off of it, and to put it in his Walkman, and to listen to what Eddie had to say. Hell, it might not even be what Richie thinks (hopes, dreams, dreads) it might be, it might be something mundane, a new album Eddie has found online, a new artist he thinks Richie will like, a recording of his new, perhaps ill-advised, stand-up comedy routine, and ā¦
Not an expression of undying love, a token of affection, a symbol of everything Richie means to Eddie ā¦
Wrapped up in a neat little plastic bomb that threatens to detonate and lodge shrapnel in Richieās, till now, carefully-guarded heart.
Shit.
Ā *
Ā Most of Richieās life had passed him by as he waited for Eddie. Only now, on this sweat-sticky summer night, Eddie waits for Richie. Impatiently.
Ā [Eds: 01:54: have you listened to it?]
[Eds: 02:13: this isnāt fucking funny]
[Eds: 02:43: Rich?]
[Eds: 04:20: im sorry]
Ā The sun filters in through the living room window, reborn. Richieās still sitting on the sofa, head in his hands.
Ā [Eds: 05:12: Richie seriously]
[Eds: 05:45: listen to track 3 again]
Ā Track 3. Richie hasnāt listened to track 1, the CD is still lying in the waste bin, rejected, a grenade with the pin still intact, but waiting, ready, willing. It feels inevitable, really. Richie knows that, eventually, whether today, tomorrow, next year, thirty years from now, heāll listen to that CD and heāll run to Eddie. Heāll run, and itāll all be different, the kind of different that sends electric-shock excitement shooting down Richieās spine, and anticipation collects in his pores, seeping, oozing, unstoppable. Itāll be different. Richie needs, craves, different.
But, and itās a huge, omnipresent but, they canāt go back from different. They canāt decide that actually, things were better the way they were, letās stop being different and go back to what came before. Different is permanent, a deep gash that scars but doesnāt disappear, a tectonic shift, Atlas shifting his grip on the world, never again to place his hands exactly where they were before.
Whether itās worth it, to take a punt on different, to screw his eyes closed and hope for the best, to jump into the void and hope it catches him with velvet-plush arms, Richie doesnāt know.
His phone buzzes, a long, prolonged clattering against the wooden coffee table.
[incoming call from: Eds]
Richie ignores the phone.
He sleeps the day away, a sleep that doesnāt quench his thirst for oblivion as he dreams vividly, dreams of difference and soft hands and eyes that roll and squint and of premature laughter lines etched on soft, youthful skin.
Ā *
Ā When Richie wakes up, itās dark. He has 17 missed calls, and two texts.
[Eds: 14:52: donāt freak out, okay. I made that tape because I canāt bear the thought of you going off to college and of being such a fucking coward that Iād let you go without telling you. Iām sorry if itās all weird now, but at least Iāve been honest with you. If you donāt feel the same, itās fine, honestly. Itāll stop being weird eventually.]
[Eds: 17:19: Iām still coming to wave you off tomorrow, just FYI]
Ah. Tomorrow. The day Richie bundles himself into his fatherās Subaru and leaves Maine for Chicago, the Windy City, the city that never sleeps, the city that Eddie wonāt be in. Ay, thereās the rub.
Leaving Eddie behind as they are now, friends, best friends, best friends who look at each other for too long and hold hands in the dark, feels like a sucker punch that Richie can never recover from. Leaving Eddie behind as something different ā¦
Itās half past eight and the CD is still in the bin, but now, Richie is in his bedroom, staring at it, daring it,
Make it different.
Ā *
Ā It takes him two hours to pluck up the courage to dig the CD out of the bin and put it in his Walkman. Another thirty to press play. He skips straight to track 3, fingers shaking.
Ā You have always been my safe home
I walk, I run, I burn out into you
You have always been my safe home
My whole world has moved on
Ā Fuck.
Immediately, different settles over Richie like a thick smog. As soon as the song stops, before heās even spoken to Eddie, itās different. He can feel it, taste it, touch it in the air. And, as if he knows, as if heās watching Richie at that very moment, Eddie texts.
March 19th,2020: We did it! Cappy and I filmed our video today for the @littlebit_trc Virtual Dressage Show! Iām so grateful to Mrs. Lisa and Nina for allowing me to enter and for everyone who helped out today! I couldnāt have done it without you! I found that I was really nervous when we first started filming, but by the second take everything was fabulous! I learned so much today and hope to use my new knowledge as I continue to perform. Itās amazing just how much changes in feelings affect my body and how I am able to sit on my horse! Iām planning on entering more shows later this year and riding independently! Cappy was such a star and the most perfect little show pony! I was so blessed to be able to have him as my partner today. It was such an emotional, amazing day and I know that this is just the very beginning of so many wonderful experiences on my journey to the 2028 Paralympics. Today i was reminded just how much I love to perform and I canāt wait to see where we ho next! . #cpawarenessmonth Sometimes with my CP, I find it difficult to appreciate my body as it is. When Iām on a horse, I forget about the limitations I have and feel like the greatest athlete ever. They have touched my life like nothing else. . Show outfit: @troxelhelmets Avalon Black Helmet @kerritseq Affinity Aero Show Coat @tuffrider_ White Knee Patch Breeches @ariatequestrian Paddock Boots . #showseason #showseason2021 #horseshowing #horseshow #horseshowlife #virtualshow #dressageshow #dressage #paradressage #equestrian #paraequestrian #usef #adultamateur #explorepage #photooftheday #teamworkmakesthedreamwork #positivity #thefutureisbright #enjoythejourney #trustyourself #troxelhelmets #troxelshare #sponsoredrider #kerritseq #myariat #strongereveryday #chasingdreams #cerebralpalsy #aspiringparalympian (at Emerald M Therapeutic Riding Center) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMnYsARHNV6/?igshid=1tgcsbszlgh2b
āThe crocus of hope is peaking through the frost.ā Meanwhile those lemons need making into lemonade! #pingsweetie #madewithpaper #wetransfer #spring #thefutureisbright #bloodycovid (at Netley Abbey) https://www.instagram.com/p/CLoJ2cmBSCJ/?igshid=18w3jzpu1d6yn
š„ What a race! Sydney McLaughlin wins Silver at the World Championships in Doha In the 400 meter hurdles with a 52.23 sec! š„ This makes Sydney the 2nd fastest 400 m hurdle woman ever. . . . . . Trackandfieldimage.com . . . . . . . #sydneymclaughlin #usatf #jeffcohenphoto #400mhurdles #doha19 #iaafworlds #trackandfield #sydthekid #newbalance #nbrunning #athletics #athlete #olympian #thefutureisbright @sydneymclaughlin16 @usatf @newbalance (at Khalifa International Stadium) https://www.instagram.com/p/B3N870fgmCt/?igshid=id6ztahcm0xe
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Quality
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Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming