location: bathroom of fanny's. status: closed for bri @eclvpses

it’s weird how the doors on the bathrooms in bars always seem to be looser. or maybe, when people are drunk or high, they’re more prone to forgetting the lock. either way, there’s a body on the other side when rory shuts the door behind them, a shedload of apologies forming an orderly queue at the back of their throat before they realise it’s teddy bent over the sink. “it was teddy, with the cocaine in the bathroom.” rory says, by way of announcement, silently scalding himself moments later. “sorry, i’m like, on my agatha christie whodunnit bullshit at the moment. gagging for a game of cluedo,” rory adds, an inkling of hope in their tone. take the bait, teddy. take the bait. “no one will humour me.” he’s assuming the substance lined up on the veneer is coke, but when he steps closer and dips his finger down into the plastic film for a taste, rory can’t quite put his finger on it. “is that ketamine?” rory asks, finger pressed to their lips as they try to identify the taste, a sommelier sampling fine wines. “i’m getting notes of horse tranquiliser.” they won’t berate teddy by telling him that he should have found a biodegradable way of transporting his drugs by now, although rory’s still toying with the idea of starting a beeswax wraps baggie business — maybe even go into a partnership with that colby girl from the colby honey co down at abernathy creek where they make their own shampoo out of spit or whatever. “i can’t even tell what that is. kinda fallen off the horse, so to speak, with that whole scene.” ‘that whole scene’ being the practice of popping pills every weekend and nightly ambien to sleep, though rory was never in the red as much as teddy, always more of a casual partaker. popping the lid of the toilet down, rory takes a seat on the lid, knees pulled tight to their chest as they glance up at teddy. “we have to stop meeting like this,” rory notes, gesturing between the two of them, once again meeting in a bathroom. “people are going to start assuming we’re fucking.”

         they detest the performativity of open mic nights, where graduates in berets stand shoulder-to-shoulder with chin-stroking lecturers as they contemplate whether a nectarine can ever be a metaphor for a vulva. rory’s therapist says it’s ‘ good to put yourself out there ’ — probably in the secret hope that by becoming someone else’s problem, they’ll no longer have to deal with him, crying, hysterical, cross-legged on the roof of the triage centre in scrubs still covered in blood. they were supposed to end up in music, an electronic music EP out by now and a small but dedicated following on soundcloud, but somewhere along the way they’d lost their path, ended up as an admin assistant in the critical care ward of a downtown community hospital, which had turned into a night shift as a glorified porter. thursdays were their day off. they had most of friday to recover from the mid-week, before the night shift into the early hours of saturday morning began. so wednesday-night open mic becomes the melting pot where each week he cuts a strip along his arm, bleeds out a poem, a song, a refrain written on his guitar, more often than not a haiku, the long hours mopping up other people’s guts watered down into a rhyming couplet about a climate change. 

        “ hi. me again, ”    comes their uneasy start, the self-conscious wave of his hand a half-apology for being there as rory takes to the stage, the mic unsteady in their grip.  “ uh, rory. for those of you who don’t know me... okay, this is a little different to my usual stuff, but i’m just gonna go for it… it’s a narrative poem i’ve been working on. it’s called winter with nilsen. ”  clearing their throat, they pull a scrappy lined piece of paper from the pocket of their corduroys and take a swig of liquid luck from the rim of a beer bottle, sticky resin where the label once stuck.  “ november, our bodies tight like toothpicks in a cigarette tin / you press your thumb against the hollow of my throat and i, losing my breath, losing my mind, disintegrate. i still hate the taste of praline — you told me once they made you think of dad, louisiana, a stranger in a pig pen who gave you tooth decay — it stuck like gum. longer than you did, at any rate. i reach for you / in dreams and grip the air, the lilac taste of… ”  eyes snap up from the page, a prick at the back of their neck, and they lose their place on the page. there, by the jukebox, beside a journo grad in a gaudy bucket hat ; freya. rory swallows a gulp, averts his gaze, presses on.  “ the lilac taste of… ”  an attempt at continuing as if nothing’s happened disperses on rory’s tongue, a sudden claggy feeling, like all of the blood’s been sucked up into his ears.  “ sorry, i’m not… i don’t usually get stage fright. but it needs more workshopping. cynthia, do you wanna take over ? ”   it’s posed as a question, but really it’s a cry for help, thrusting the mic into the general direction of the open-mic emcee as they stumble down from the steps and out of the fire escape door to the smoking area, heartbeat throbbing like a metronome. @halfrest​ .

                  If he was asked, Family Feud style, name a place that people find intimate, a gig would hardly be the top of his list. But perhaps, like house party bathrooms or the smoking area of a club, it was one of those liminal spaces that felt private because of how public it was  —  it was easier to become anonymous when you were surrounded by strangers. Craft ale in one hand, he kept the other clenched in a ball, alternating between shoving it in his pocket and leaving it hanging by his side ( which appeared more casual ? ) as he approached from the back, weaselling his way through the crowd to find Leo. For a moment he stood in silence watching Leo watch the band, the way the light glinted from the strings of their guitars and then skittered across the crowd. If he saw his own smile, he’d call it corny. Still, he hesitated until he couldn’t help but lean in close to stir the other from his stupor and shit on the whole experience. “Yo, these guys fucking suck,” It was meant to be a whisper, although by the circle of heads that turned to glare he assumed he’d overshot the mark. “Oh shit, I didn’t —  it was actually meant as a joke.” Backtracking was never Rory’s forte, and come to think of it neither was intentional sarcasm, his cheeks reddening by the second as he tried to explain himself to the pitchfork-wielding mob. “I don’t actually think they’re shit... I’m not like, a mean person, I promise. Just a little joke between friends. Sorry.” Burying his head in his hands, Rory split his fingers open only to look at Leo through the cracks, a silent ‘help me’ pleading from the whites of his eyes.  @cvastals

         On reflection, the text he’d sent in restless agitation was perhaps a little hasty. No one was dying. There was no grand catasrophe. He’d simply woken in the dead of night with a pain in his chest so fierce he could swear he’d swallowed a needle.

          SMS from RORY, 01.14: hey man i know it’s late so no worries if you don’t see this til morning. if on the off chance you’re a) awake n b) not busy can we talk?? going for a smoke @ the knocking lake either way x

        The kiss, he realised upon reflection, had been a bad call. Or maybe he was just overthinking it. He put kisses on his text messages to Levi, to Lana, to Felix. Why shouldn’t Teddy be the same? The weight of something unsaid, heavy on his shoulders like a long-carried secret, shifted in response to his question. Perhaps the unease that he felt from his neck to his toes was answer enough, though it settled into something thinner and warmer like hot spaghetti the moment Teddy’s image came into view. “Oh. Shit. I was beginning to think you were...” With Blake. “--asleep.” Rory finished, feeling a twinge of guilt in his stomach, despite how agreeable and easy this should feel by now. They were friends. This was fine. This was exactly what Rory had always wanted. So why did every time he saw Teddy feel like a fucking rugby ball to the stomach? “Did you happen to bring a lighter, old man? My zippo’s fucked.” Hands rubbing together for warmth --- although it wasn’t cold, he was simply full of a kind of static --- Rory pulled his legs up onto the grass verge a threw a stone out, watching it’s rough back skip over the surface of the lake. “I’ve just been sat here with this joint in my mouth like... like when you’re a kid and you finish a lollypop and pretend to be smoking the stick. Or was that like, an English thing? Anyway, it’s pretty soggy now. Kinda gross actually. But I’m not a butt-sucker, I promise. I just... couldn’t light it. You can still have some, if you want. But I’ll get it if it’s a hard pass because of saliva or whatever. Germ city.”      @teddylawrence

the library felt bare, it’s high-rise shelves and brutalist decor almost rendering it a product of the late sixties, if not for the laptops spilling light across their desks. three hours in and he was past the point of tiredness. now, as the time neared one am, a frantic energy began to stir in the remaining students who had resigned themselves to typing into the night. rory took the staircase two steps at a time, almost stumbling when he reached the top one, before he clocked saige at the end of the table where he’d noticed her earlier, face lit by a screen. “hey,” he started, setting down a coffee from the vending machine in front of her, hands warm from carrying the two polystyrene mugs up from the lobby. “uh--- i know it’s like, probably way too late for coffee, but you looked like you could use it.” a half-hearted shrug lifted his shoulders as he lingered awkwardly, one hand on his coffee cup, the other pressed deep into the pocket of his cords. “you got a big deadline coming up? or just like... bingeing a netflix show?” @scige

setting: outside the museum somewhere, idk some kinda garden / patio gig. maybe there's a bandstand or a flowery trellis or something equally romantic n gross. status: closed for piper @laughstrack

“...the corsage was my mum's idea,” rory admits, unsure if that makes the whole thing sound more or less lame than it already is. “she, uh… she really likes you.” more than once, inga had urged rory to redirect his attention from a certain curly-haired thespian to the proverbial girl next door. “sorry if it feels like, totally inappropriate or whatever. i know it's not prom.”  talking about the cluster of flowers around her wrist serves a larger purpose ━ it allows rory the opportunity to take her hand in his, turning it this way and that in the guise of looking at the petals, now that the joint that the two of them had come outside to share is long since burned out. there’d been a moment when rory had pressed the joint back into her mouth that he’d thought about kissing her, but she had a throat full of smoke. maybe she’d get angry if he tossed her joint aside and wasted all that weed to aggressively start making out with her. or maybe she’d have liked it, found it edgy and called him a stud. either way, it’s too late to tell now. as custom, rory had found himself thinking this could be it, a moment, only to fumble it through his inability to act. this time, he isn’t squandering it, the hand that isn’t threaded through her fingers trailing his thumb over the throbbing blue pulse point of her wrist. it feels like having a live animal under his thumb, something delicate and dangerous that pulses in his stomach. “i, uh… i kinda wish i had asked you to prom.” instead he'd taken catherine cooper, and she'd blown him in a closet at an after party he wasn't even meant to be invited to. his eyes refuse to meet piper's out of fear that they might accidentally reveal every secret longing he’s ever had. it sometimes feels like piper gets him in a way that other people can’t, a split psyche shared since sandpit days. “kinda wish a lot of things, honestly.” 

location: fanny's open mic night. status: closed for ella<;3 @laughstrack

they detest the performativity of open mic nights, where graduates in berets stand shoulder-to-shoulder with chin-stroking lecturers as they contemplate whether a nectarine can ever be a metaphor for a vulva. rory’s therapist says it’s ‘ good to put yourself out there ’ — probably in the secret hope that by becoming someone else’s problem, they’ll no longer have to deal with him, crying, hysterical, cross-legged on the roof of the triage centre in scrubs still covered in blood. they were supposed to end up in music, an electronic music EP out by now and a small but dedicated following on soundcloud. somewhere along the way they’d lost their path, ended up slaving away at bad track records to pay their way through a med school degree they're not sure they even want, selling vinyls that cost more than their daily pay to people who don't even understand chord progressions. thursdays are their day off. they get most of friday to recover from the mid-week, before the sound tech shift into the early hours of saturday morning begins, and then back to the MGH. so wednesday-night open mic becomes the melting pot where each week rory cuts a strip along his arm, bleeds out a poem, a song, a refrain written on his guitar, more often than not a haiku, the long hours mopping up other people’s guts watered down into a rhyming couplet about a climate change.          “ hi. me again, ”  comes their uneasy start, the self-conscious wave of his hand a half-apology for being there as rory takes to the stage, the mic unsteady in their grip.  “ uh, rory. for those of you who don’t know me… okay, this is a little different to my usual stuff, but i’m just gonna go for it… it’s a narrative poem i’ve been working on. it’s called winter with nilsen. ”  clearing their throat, they pull a scrappy lined piece of paper from the pocket of their corduroys and take a swig of liquid luck from the rim of a beer bottle, sticky resin where the label once stuck.  “ november, our bodies tight like toothpicks in a cigarette tin / you press your thumb against the hollow of my throat and i, losing my breath, losing my mind, disintegrate. i still hate the taste of praline — you told me once they made you think of dad, louisiana, a stranger in a pig pen who gave you tooth decay — it stuck like gum. longer than you did, at any rate. i reach for you / in dreams and grip the air, the lilac taste of… ” eyes snap up from the page, a prick at the back of their neck, and they lose their place on the page. there, by the jukebox, beside a journo grad in a gaudy bucket hat ; freya. rory swallows a gulp, averts his gaze, presses on.  “ the lilac taste of… ”  an attempt at continuing as if nothing’s happened disperses on rory’s tongue, a sudden claggy feeling, like all of the blood’s been sucked up into his ears.  “ sorry, i’m not… i don’t usually get stage fright. but it needs more workshopping. cynthia, do you wanna take over ? ”   it’s posed as a question, but really it’s a cry for help, thrusting the mic into the general direction of the open-mic emcee as they stumble down from the steps and out of the fire escape door to the smoking area, heartbeat throbbing like a metronome.

plot / connection  : here.

              this is a bad idea. it wells up inside of his stomach and threatens to spill out in a nervous fart, but he refrains. she’s maybe the hottest girl he’s ever met. she’d always been pretty — even when they were kids — but in recent years, it’s the kind of hot rory’d always tried to ignore for the sake of their friendship. before the awkwardness of adolescence had ended, she was simply his friend — she still is his friend — and so far being her friend has worked. even if it did mean feeling guilt in the pit of his stomach whenever he agreed to a date with some local going-nowhere-fast store clerk in the knowledge that they’d always be slightly overshadowed, eclipsed by the fucking tornado that was his ‘first love’. and now somehow stopping by her house to free his mind of idle worry over his approaching date with casey decker  — ‘what if she doesn’t like me?’ ‘what if i forget to chew my food or do an ugly laugh?’ — had fallen into unmarked territory, bubblegum lips and that lilt in her voice like she didn’t know what she was doing. “you... you want me to what?”  an unzipped skirt, a heat in his chest as he tried to fathom a way out of this situation that didn’t end with him hard and embarrassed. if you can’t touch your best mate, who the fuck can you touch.  “obviously i want her to have a good time, but it’s a first date. i mean— i figured we’d just talk about cool movies and netflix shows and stuff. she won’t be expecting me to fuckin’ locate the bermuda triangle or whatever.” and the fact that he’d even equate a woman’s body with the bermuda triangle speaks volumes for how little experience he has in the art of sex, and while he knows he isn’t going to sleep with casey on the date — a date that’s in little under two hours —  it’s hard to defy her, his hand sliding along her thigh with a gulp to press between her legs. 

              “ah— i don’t know if i can do this…. i mean… this could seriously fuck up our friendship. you really want to fuck it up? i mean… just to give me ‘advice’ or whatever?” it aches how much he wants her to say yes. yes, i want to fuck up our friendship. yes, i want to fuck up every thought you’ve ever had that doesn’t involve me. “i mean… that’s very honourable of you.”

         With the thrum of city-wide parties and campus ragers approaching he’s been out selling again, a wad of twenties rolled up in his bum bag as he slides his way into the lobby of Manon, roller skates clicking over the floor tiles. He hits the button for the lift without hesitation, a gold circle lighting up around the fourth floor, and it isn’t until he’s outside her door, hand poised to knock, that Rory’s even realised where he is. He doesn’t live on the fourth floor. Whim and a lapse in judgement have brought him here, lips pursing like a soured grape as he draws back his hand, then lifts it again, then drops it, torn between knocking and retreating before by a wicked twist of fates there’s a click of the latch and Lilah on the other side of the door, on her way to empty the trash or collect the post or perhaps out on a date, and he’s merely standing there, raised fist an inch from the door, feeling sheepish and stupid and rooted to the spot, almost tripping on the wheels of his skates. “Uh... Hi.” For a moment, that’s all that sits on the air, eyes burning holes into the carpet as he avoids meeting her stare, finally clearing his throat and finding her eyes. “I was just about to knock. I wasn’t just... standing here or whatever.” Hot-cheeked, he feels vastly underprepared. What had he even intended to say in coming here? Sorry? I miss you? None of those words seem apt. All that escapes him from the knot in his stomach is a somewhat expressionless “---can I come in?”   @dclchs

“You know in High School Musical?” Back against a couch, a bottle of rum against his stomach and his teeth rich with the taste of a post-vomit mouthwash, it seemed as good a conversational topic as any, his brain meandering between what had and what hadn’t already been said. “I just keep thinking about that bit where---” a hiccup bisected Rory’s line of thought, eyes eventually snapping to find Benji’s. “---that bit where Troy’s dad says you’re a basketball player, not a singer.” Impression heavily cartoonish, the crease of his brow held something poignant like he was quoting Plato or Aristotle and not merely a coming-of-age romp. “And Troy says, you ever think that maybe I could be both?” For a second his breath stuttered before he brought the neck of the bottle to his lips like a new age James Dean, wincing at the taste of spiced rum, and threw one of his legs over the back of the couch cushions. “I think about that a lot. You ever think... that maybe... I could be both. Fuck.”    @benjigates  @bnjigates

          With hands curled into fists in the other’s hair they were an image of domesticity, dirty plates abandoned to the sink for the comfort of a couch, blankets tugged over pale jeans and knobbly knees. The television set was largely ignored in favour of one another’s company, Rory’s smile infectious as he struck his index finger against the tip of Teddy’s nose, his hand lingering to trail along his jaw. “You know, in some cultures, undercooked pasta is considered a delicacy. In Italy they call it Al Dente,” Rory explained, a theatrical Italian lilt to his words, kissing his fingers as he wriggled to get comfortable against the sofa cushions, knee wedged against Teddy’s hip. “Besides, it wasn’t undercooked it was fucking gourmet. Who else can you say has ever cooked you gourmet cheesy-tomato pasta? Dick.” The title of the film they’d planned on watching had long since been forgotten, lost in the curve of Teddy’s mouth if not in footsie beneath the dinner table, heart still racing in his chest. Was this a date? Or merely cooking with friends? Things with them never seemed to be just friendly, and the way he touched Teddy wasn’t the way he’d touch Levi or Felix. “Hate to be a dick now you’re comfortable but someone left the fucking hot drinks in the kitchen and since I cooked, I think you owe it to me to play butler.” Finger-gunning, he mimed the twirling of a gun at a wild west shootout, trigger pulled like the slam of a saloon door. “On your horse, cowboy.” @teddylaws

         crying in the movies is always a beautiful affair shot on black and white film with that natalie portman feature set, a single drop salivating on each cheek. the reality is far from cinematic, rory's eyes bloodshot, snot on the sleeve of his shirt, rhett's shoulder thick with moisture -- tears or saliva, he can hardly tell -- and the other's perhaps too polite or oblivious to comment. still, he buries his head in the crook of rhett's neck with the whimpers of a wildling, wondering how he got here. a bottle of rum. hands that quiver and shake. too much love in his heart. “shit,” he eventually murmurs, half-laughed, wiping the back of his hand across his cheek. “i’m.. i know i’m being a fuckin’ baby. it’s just---” just what? a shift of tectonic plates in his ribcage. whine noise. violence. “i mean... it mcfuckin’ sucks when someone you, i don’t know, sort of had a thing with or whatever starts dating someone else...” a haphazard shrug afflicts him, and he notes that the sun’s long since set over the tide by now. in fact, there’s a slight chill to the air. rhett’s patience, or disinterest, only makes rory more pliant, another swig of rum on his lips. “but when it’s two people you liked with each other? fuck... it’s brutal, rhett. it’s brutal.” he’s sure rhett doesn’t want to hear it, yet he’s subjected him to it, snivelling and stoned. “do we have any weed left? i could do with some weed, old boy.”  @collapseds

             For half ten on a Sunday night, it’s surprisingly full for a gay bar but clearly, the circle stretches wide among the bartenders and night shift workers of Rochester, nine-til-five office drones less common in a joint like Rhino’s. Rory’d never understood the choice of name. Was it supposed to allude to a violent sexual act intrinsic to the practice of homosexuality? If so, he’d find offence. Tenderness was just as likely to be found in the neon bar where barmen dressed like sailors served hourly rounds of on-the-house shots. “The thing is, Levi---” Rory began, clamping his hand against the other’s shoulder with something between warmth and aggression while someone butchered Like a Prayer on the Karaoke machine. “Love is a con. You ever see that John Hughes movie... Oh, fuck, what was it?” Clicking his fingers, he searched for the name, words slurred and spoken through the haze of rum and tequila. “St Elmo’s Fire! There’s this bit... And the guy says that love is an illusion, right, created by lawyers and greeting cards companies to--- to generate... the need for divorce lawyers.” He spoke with such a confidence that he could rally a battalion. “They... they rope you in with this idea of marriage, of monogamy, and boom! They’ve got you. You get your fuckin’ picket fence kids and become just another watered down Suburban nuclear family.” Like a Prayer had thankfully come to an end though Rory was fired up enough that he was leaning in on his chair, hands pressed flat against the table, wide-eyes almost wired with the way he spoke of love. “You can’t see the oppression going on... You’re blinded by little Emily’s school reports. It’s... a fuckin’ con, my guy!”  @parklevi

Sweat and euphoria mingled in the scent of Teddy’s skin. The bits of him he could catch glimpses of every time he tore his eyes from the stage were glowing, glitter-smeared and heat-streaked, their eyes like milk saucers against white backdrops. Rory didn’t know the name of the band, but he didn’t need to --- the feeling was enough --- a Hawaiian shirt left open with pride not profit written in sharpie on his chest. His hand found Teddy’s and squeezed the fingers tight. “I’m going to win you something!” was promised, over-enthusiastically, a wad of gum lodged behind his teeth and eyes that thrummed with an ecstatic adrenaline. Should this feel weird? To be holding his hand in public, to be wrapping his fingers into Teddy’s hair as he pulled him closer, foreheads knocking clumsily. “We’ll find the ugliest fuckin’ teddy-bear at the fairground, and I’ll win it for you. Even if I have to spend, like, all the cents in my wallet. I’ll do it.” It didn’t feel weird, or too soon, or any of the things he’d presumed it would feel. It didn’t feel forced like it could with others, or leave a nervous itch in his skin. It felt easy as breathing. “I want you to meet my mum. Is that weird?” @teddylaws

@heavnlyed

       like climbing ivy, he sticks to the walls until someone like teddy or norman grabs him by the wrist and pulls him into the thicket of pounding bass and thrumming bodies. he’s worried about the speakers ; in a place like this, it’s hard to monitor reverb, though the size of the place means the acoustics are way better than they would be in student housing, and the fact that he’s even considering sound power is enough to tell him he needs to loosen up, so he swallows a gulp of sailor jerry’s. and another. and another. until he’s halfway down the bottle and talking amicably to anyone who’ll give him the time of day when he half-stumbles upon her, hair dishevelled, face like a fever dream, wrapped in silk and blood with that faraway look in her eyes. ‘ hi. ’   he says, and it feels inadequate, but it’s impossible to summarise the thoughts that have been gushing through his head since the last time he saw her ; since that kiss. ‘ hi ’ he says again, with a little more conviction, dropping an elbow onto DIY plywood furniture -- and it’s supposed to look casual, but he misses, and has to right himself, leaning successfully this time. ‘ the shining’s a really good film. ’ he remarks, a little too enthusiastically. ‘ still remember the first time i saw it. i was maybe nine or ten. gave me nightmares for weeks. ’ it’s kind of resurfacing them in his gut just seeing her dressed as one of those weird sisters, but it’s ivy. ivy with the grace of a swan song. ‘ i feel a bit cheap and basic, to be honest... i wanted to go as marko from the lost boys. or, you know, tim roth’s character in the cook the thief, his wife and her lover? but it’s a bit niche, and i thought no one would get it. ’ rory shrugs half heartedly and swipes an abandoned bottle of diet coke from the worktop, pouring it straight into the neck of the sailor jerry’s bottle. ‘ kinda good though cos it means i can just put my headphones in and it’s in keeping with patrick, or whatever, not just that i’m like... wanting to get away from shit. man. i sure hope this isn’t spiked.’ brows crease as he pours the last of the coke into his one-litre rum bottle. ‘ want some? not trying to get you drunk or anything, just... offering. ’

There’s something restless in Rory --- like wherever he is, he won’t be there for long. Perched on the edge of a swivel chair, legs drawn up to his chest, he pours over a digital screen and overlays save files while Apollo sprawls over the rug. "Mate," Rory starts, after a long moment, headphones clamped over his ears to save the drummer the trauma of listening to it over and over, each second squeezed out to pulp. "We're gonna have to re-record the drums. On the eighteenth bar you're half a beat out." A drawn out breath puffs from his lungs as he volts from the edge of the chair and almost trips over an amp lead, pacing back and forth before a Indian Mandella, the studio kitted out with kitschy fabrics designed to 'inspire' that are really just migraine-inducing. "I know you want it to be like... fresh or whatever. But it just sounds sloppy. You can get that gritty feel to it and still be structurally sound. But for a first EP, we can't afford to make mistakes."