Author: staying-anon PM
noun: an original model on which something is patterned, warning: slash. a story about a boy trying to understand what went on with himself when he was younger and understand where he is headed nowRated: Fiction M - English - Angst - Chapters: 3 - Words: 3,874 - Updated: 02-10-04 - Published: 02-02-04 - id: 1515434
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
When I wake up after getting high I still feel high; so when I woke up, I still felt high. But in no way shape or form could I have been high enough to tolerate the migraine harvesting show on early morning kids television. Talking hands speaking in extreme laymen terms was just too much. The night before we had fallen asleep watching a show about high school life on a teen network. It was vivid in my mind now, the way Bran stood up and did a little honky-tonk dance to the cliché theme song. Again I was afraid I'd never stop laughing so it was just as horrifying as it was hilarious.
The television stayed on all night; as annoying on my throbbing ears as the stiff leather chair was on my throbbing ass, throbbing because I had been sitting in one place for too long. Blood was having trouble getting to the area and my ass had resorted to desperately sucking at nearby areas for some. The throb was beginning to inch down to my thighs as well.
When my eyes opened to realize that it was in fact talking hands on the television that were slowly infecting me with any kind of disease that might be contracted from complete and utter annoyance, I saw that Bran's eyes were halfway open staring at the screen as well. I couldn't decide whether I though they were half open from being tired or from being high. I guess it didn't really matter, it was just a musing.
Corin's eyes always looked that way in the morning, and he had a special smell too. You've heard of morning smell on people but this was something more than that. It wasn't magical, it wasn't sweet, it was completely disgusting. He would smell like warm moldy bread in the morning, not that I ever actually smelled warm moldy bread before. I just imagine that it would have the same smell as Corin in the morning. And I'm not sure how something smells warm unless you actually feel waves of heat radiating off of it, which you actually could on morning-Corin. So when I tried not to breath around him before he took a shower or sprayed something, I loved to touch his skin. He was so warm in the morning, and I wondered how he ended up with the stink gene or gland or whatever is was that caused that awful smell.
"I can't take this." The acorn was still in my pocket and the fabric that had saturated its moisture was now stiff, as stiff as the stiff leather chair causing my ass to throb. I was looking at Bran but could still see talking hands teaching each other to paint in my peripheral vision, even that was too much to handle. I saw the remote lodged between his upper leg and couch, which I might add, he got to stretch out on while I lost blood to vital organs on the stiff leather chair.
"Oh thank god." His hand knew exactly where to direct itself to clasp the remote but his fingers had trouble fumbling over the buttons, possibly breaking some part of the carefully organized satellite stations in their neat little rows along the screen, until he finally found a way to change the channel. Ending up on some church sermon before losing the button and fumbling some more would even work out for me. Anything but the talking hands.
His eyes had resumed their half open/ half closed status. I guess it depends on whether you are a pessimist or optimist to determine which it was, like deciding whether a glass is half full or half empty. Although I don't think it's the best approach to determine that kind of thing, they are too general of terms to encompass the personality of a whole human so entirely. Anyways, since birth we are taught to consider it a glass half full so people don't think we are weird.
After we had both settled back into comfortable breathing I noticed a body in the other leather chair. They didn't seem as uncomfortable as I did though, they were scrunched up into a ball which must have been hard to do, it was actually more like the fetal position, but like many professionals they made it seem like the easiest thing to fall into. Stirring slightly, I noticed their long hair tied back and painted fingernails, black, but I still knew it was a girl.
"Cor…" I whispered so that the new figure would not wake up. I didn't get any answer from the half opened/half closed eyes, however you like to think of it. The smell of nothing in the air reminded me that it was Bran, not Corin. He looked like me and I had just woken up, so I was still slightly high; a good excuse to mess up yet again on a simple name. I needed to use the bathroom anyways and my ass needed a blood bath so I stood up and clenched it which only made me need to pee more. Bran noticed me then and opened his eyes a little more, or closed them a little less. I guess it depends on how you look at the situation.
"Who is she?" I whispered again although I was by him now, vertical to his horizontal. My thumb was jutted out, directing his gaze toward her, or it might have been testing the direction of the air currents. I think it was safe to assume he hadn't noticed her either when his eyebrows nearly touched and his hand was at my knees pushing me to the side to get his own peek at the new body. After a quick glance he was flopped back on the couch with a small slapping sound and a whiff of air being squeezed from the cushion to compensate for his weight. He was relaxed again.
"That's Raiden, she's cool. Don't fret." And he made a little giggle type laugh after the word threat, although I don't want to call it a giggle because that might make him seem weird. Maybe he was though. I must have been blocking his view with my crotch but he just stared at the television, choosing not to acknowledge me again. The illusions projected onto his face and cheeks and nose and forehead, dangerously close to the dimple.
I slipped past him to the door I'd watched him rush to earlier when he exclaimed that he needed to piss like a supposed race horse which ended up sparking an entire conversation about what that was even supposed to mean. It was one of those French style bathrooms with nothing but a toilet and a sink that is shaped like a soap shell. No real shells where shaped like that, just the soap molds. The actual soap never even ended up that perfectly shaped.
I peed, no descriptions needed, and stood in front of the sink to wash my hands. Three times over, dried the first time but not the second, and dried again the third. All three times with soap and no wiping the remaining dampness on my pants or I would have to go through the whole process over. Not once did I look up to see myself in the mirror, and I wouldn't.
If I wanted to see someone that looked like Corin I'd stare at Bran. In a mirror, behind you is the only thing you have to look forward to.