The Shirt/Games/Fame - Fletcher/Jones - Ficlets
So I decided to make three ficlets. Don't know how it came about, but the ideas tortured me this morning and I had to write them down. I didn't have the energy to make full standalones of each one, so I reckoned ficlets would suffice just the same. They're all pretty short, especially the last one, but I hope I conveyed the feel of each one well enough.
The Shirt
“Look at his shirt.”
“I know. So fucking ugly.”
“Where’d he get that anyway?”
“Stolen from a corpse, probably.”
There they go again, talking about Danny’s infamous shirt. The blue checkered one with a rip on the side. Too big for his frame so that his hands disappear if the sleeves aren’t rolled up. He always wears it on a certain day, a mystery no one has been able to solve, and it never fails to elicit violent responses from his peers.
I watch from the sidelines when they pull on the sides as he walks down the hallway, making the rip larger. He takes all of it with his head hanging low, eyes fixed on the floor and nothing else, and it breaks my heart when they treat him this way.
So I decide to break the mold.
I walk over to him with a smile on my face, and he looks at me with apprehension, as though I’d pull on his shirt just like the rest.
“I really like your shirt, Danny.”
His eyes widen, and he looks at his shirt in disbelief, raising his sleeves up as though I hadn’t been able to look at them properly. I keep my smile, to tell him the compliment’s genuine, and he drops his arms, a smile finding its way on his face.
I know he appreciated it, because now, he wears the shirt everyday.
:::
Games
I don’t know what started it. Something about a can of soda or a bar of chocolate or something, but whatever it was, I’m thankful.
He pins me down on his bed, initiating a wrestling match, and I try to flip him on his back. I’m successful, and I sit on his thighs, thrashing under my weight, my hands fastening his wrists on the mattress. I know he’s pretending his struggle; he’s much stronger than me, and we both know that, but for the sake of the game, he relents, and he lets out his strangled cries that never fail to make me laugh.
Or make my heart beat quickly.
He “recovers” and replicates my actions on me, our chests heaving despite the fact that we had just begun, and we look at each other, neither struggling nor pinning.
Taking a breath, I lean forward, but he turns his head and hops on the floor, wheeling around to grab the sweater draped around the backrest of my computer chair.
I feel disheartened, and mad at myself for taking such a bold action. But I couldn’t help it. I love him, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I tried to make a move.
I sit up and look at him with a faint smile.
“You on for basketball night tonight?”
He pulls the sleeves on and turns back to me, shaking his head.
“Nah, I can’t tonight, Tom. It’s me and Jessica’s anniversary and I’m taking her out.”
I frown and dangle my legs on the edge of the bed.
“Oh. Well, have fun, then.”
He smiles and grabs his wallet from the bureau.
“Thanks, mate.”
He opens the door and leaves, and I sink back on the bed, heart pounding and chest rising up and down.
Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe I can cope with these games instead, and that maybe someday, if I try hard enough, he’ll feel the same.
:::
Fame
The cameras flash and he pulls me closer, sporting a wide smile worth a million pounds, presenting me to the world as his and his only.
He always does this. Takes me on important events, parties, gatherings, and he wears me like jewelry. Furthers his claim that he can get anyone he wants, man or woman, and I take it all with a false smile.
Sometimes I wonder if he really loves me. That he’s not just sporting me for the publicity or to expand his fame. He says he loves me in front of the cameras, on interviews, on talk shows, but they sound like empty words to me. No feelings behind them.
For fame, I tell myself sometimes. For fame.
But then at night, he pulls me aside and kisses me, makes love to me, embraces me, sleeps with me, and in the morning he just lays with me, arms tangled around my waist or my hips, head on my chest, inhaling my scent.
He tells me I keep him sane. Keep him grounded. Remind him of all the things he was before fame decided to swallow him and spit him out a different person. And then I know he means it. The look in his eyes tell me, his smile tells me, the way he holds me tells me.
And that maybe I’m wrong after all.
The Shirt
“Look at his shirt.”
“I know. So fucking ugly.”
“Where’d he get that anyway?”
“Stolen from a corpse, probably.”
There they go again, talking about Danny’s infamous shirt. The blue checkered one with a rip on the side. Too big for his frame so that his hands disappear if the sleeves aren’t rolled up. He always wears it on a certain day, a mystery no one has been able to solve, and it never fails to elicit violent responses from his peers.
I watch from the sidelines when they pull on the sides as he walks down the hallway, making the rip larger. He takes all of it with his head hanging low, eyes fixed on the floor and nothing else, and it breaks my heart when they treat him this way.
So I decide to break the mold.
I walk over to him with a smile on my face, and he looks at me with apprehension, as though I’d pull on his shirt just like the rest.
“I really like your shirt, Danny.”
His eyes widen, and he looks at his shirt in disbelief, raising his sleeves up as though I hadn’t been able to look at them properly. I keep my smile, to tell him the compliment’s genuine, and he drops his arms, a smile finding its way on his face.
I know he appreciated it, because now, he wears the shirt everyday.
:::
Games
I don’t know what started it. Something about a can of soda or a bar of chocolate or something, but whatever it was, I’m thankful.
He pins me down on his bed, initiating a wrestling match, and I try to flip him on his back. I’m successful, and I sit on his thighs, thrashing under my weight, my hands fastening his wrists on the mattress. I know he’s pretending his struggle; he’s much stronger than me, and we both know that, but for the sake of the game, he relents, and he lets out his strangled cries that never fail to make me laugh.
Or make my heart beat quickly.
He “recovers” and replicates my actions on me, our chests heaving despite the fact that we had just begun, and we look at each other, neither struggling nor pinning.
Taking a breath, I lean forward, but he turns his head and hops on the floor, wheeling around to grab the sweater draped around the backrest of my computer chair.
I feel disheartened, and mad at myself for taking such a bold action. But I couldn’t help it. I love him, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I tried to make a move.
I sit up and look at him with a faint smile.
“You on for basketball night tonight?”
He pulls the sleeves on and turns back to me, shaking his head.
“Nah, I can’t tonight, Tom. It’s me and Jessica’s anniversary and I’m taking her out.”
I frown and dangle my legs on the edge of the bed.
“Oh. Well, have fun, then.”
He smiles and grabs his wallet from the bureau.
“Thanks, mate.”
He opens the door and leaves, and I sink back on the bed, heart pounding and chest rising up and down.
Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe I can cope with these games instead, and that maybe someday, if I try hard enough, he’ll feel the same.
:::
Fame
The cameras flash and he pulls me closer, sporting a wide smile worth a million pounds, presenting me to the world as his and his only.
He always does this. Takes me on important events, parties, gatherings, and he wears me like jewelry. Furthers his claim that he can get anyone he wants, man or woman, and I take it all with a false smile.
Sometimes I wonder if he really loves me. That he’s not just sporting me for the publicity or to expand his fame. He says he loves me in front of the cameras, on interviews, on talk shows, but they sound like empty words to me. No feelings behind them.
For fame, I tell myself sometimes. For fame.
But then at night, he pulls me aside and kisses me, makes love to me, embraces me, sleeps with me, and in the morning he just lays with me, arms tangled around my waist or my hips, head on my chest, inhaling my scent.
He tells me I keep him sane. Keep him grounded. Remind him of all the things he was before fame decided to swallow him and spit him out a different person. And then I know he means it. The look in his eyes tell me, his smile tells me, the way he holds me tells me.
And that maybe I’m wrong after all.