separation anxiety
original fiction (Airports and Hipsters), Embry & Callum, "texts from last night", writerverse
separation anxiety
(727):
I'm at the airport and there's a guy here wearing all camouflage to go hunting … Should I bump in to him and say “whoa sorry didn't see you there”?
Embry knows that when he gets this text that his day isn’t just going to be tedious. It’s going to be long. His day is going to be long and tedious, and it’s entirely Callum’s fault. Entirely. Callum’s. Fault. It’s not enough that the jackass has the gall to assign him a10,000 word re-write in one weekend; he has to do it on a weekend when he’s not around for Embry to bitch at him about having to delete vital parts of his novel to better suit Callum’s ridiculous standards.
Callum is currently en route to a meeting with a few other editors in regards to the works they’ll be submitting to the publishing house. Embry’s story has already been submitted; this meeting is all about other writers and what those other writers are writing. And, even though it’s Callum’s job to edit for other writers and to get them published, too, Embry still doesn’t like sharing.
Not that Callum likes sharing, either. One of his associates (a pretty girl named Morgan, whom Embry suspected had a bit of a crush on him) had offered to check over Embry’s work for the weekend - like he was some teenager doing high school homework, Jesus Christ - and Callum had responded with a firm and non-negotiable “No.” And it’s the same story for whenever someone else offers to check over Embry’s writing; Callum’s overly possessive, unreasonable, unexplained rejections.
Embry doesn’t actually mind, because Callum’s the only one he actually likes getting critique from when it comes to editors from this particular agency, but he doesn’t appreciate the double standard.
Almost as much as he doesn’t appreciate the stupid texts Callum’s been sending him for the past half hour. He was working. Now he’s distracted.
(1-727):
I know you’re at the airport. Trying to work.
- E
He’s actually already done 5,000 words, but he doesn’t want to seem like an overachiever, because that’ll mean more work shoved on him in the future. Re-writing is the worst part of writing.
Which is a damn shame, really, because it’s all he’s been doing for the past three months.
(727):
Aw, babe, don’t be short with me. Be back before you even really notice I’m gone.
Embry scowls at his phone, typing in a curt reply before just chucking the thing across the room and into the futon pressed against the far wall. He’s not in the mood for Callum. And he’s not in the mood to write, either.
He’s really just not in the mood for anything. He retrieves his phone, collapsing on the futon with an exaggerated sigh that no one’s around to hear. It’s not really all that satisfying.
Embry decides to contemplate the value of nothingness.
(727):
Em babe are you mad at me
At least Callum appreciates the severity of what’s going on. He only usually abandons the rules of grammar while texting when he’s aroused or concerned. And Embry really hopes that his boyfriend isn’t aroused in the middle of an airport without him. Call him selfish, but he really would like to be able to torment him in person.
(727):
if u dont reply im calling u
Embry won’t answer. He won't.
The phone vibrates in his hand, quiet chords of Skinny Love filtering tinnily through the speakers. He’s set ringtones to nearly every single one of his contacts; the Jaws theme for the people at the bank who want his money, We Are Family for his mother, various One Direction songs for the people at the publishing house, and Skinny Love for Callum. Even though Callum’s not really all that skinny. He’s more built than he is skinny.
He answers.
“Em, if you didn’t want to do the re-writes, you could’ve just told me on Friday.” Callum sounds amused, the bastard. There’s nothing to be amused about. Life sucks.
“I think that we’ve reached that dangerously co-dependent part of our relationship. Come back, I can’t focus. See? I’m not even stuttering.” He usually stutters all over the place, when he has to talk on the phone. But he’s too agitated to. Which isn’t good. He’s never gotten so agitated, before.
“Oh, babe, you know I would. But I’ve gotta go to that meeting. It’s only for two days.” He still sounds amused. Doesn’t he get it? If Embry can’t write, he can’t finish his novel. If he can’t finish his novel, it won’t get published. And if he doesn’t get published, he’ll have no money and die on the streets as a gay prostitute rentboy with a million STDs.
Jesus Christ, he needs something. Not a cigarette. The last time he’d tried those, he’d been coughing for days.
“I need something.” But he doesn’t know what. His fingers drum against his thigh, an unsteady, staccato beat. “Don’t know what.” He wriggles, trying to dispel some of the tension in his shoulders, and bites his lip. This is the worst; needing, but not knowing what. It’s eating away at him.
“Are you hungry?” Callum doesn’t question him, thank God. He’s probably far too used to all this, actually. It’s not the first time Embry has suddenly been terribly antsy and hasn’t known why.
“No. Ate some cookies. The ones you left? They were good. But no, not hungry.” He’s eaten all forty-eight of the cookies. Not healthy, but not unsatisfying.
“I’d intended for those to be one every hour. Y’know. For each hour I’m gone. It was romantic.”
“Don’t listen to what Morgan tells you is romantic. I ate them all. And now I have no chocolate to eat for two days.” It’s a nice sentiment, though, and Embry has to smile, even though Callum won't see it.
“That explains it, then. You’re on a sugar high. Please tell me that you at least had the sense to stay home.” He’s been on a sugar high exactly three times in his life - once in high school, once in the university while he was still studying in London, and one after eating an entire chocolate cheesecake with Callum over Christmas on a dare - and the experience has never proven really all that pleasant. He has a tendency towards the shakes already.
“Nnnn. Just. Give me something to do.” He doesn't like being antsy. In fact, he enjoys being antsy about as much as he enjoys being alone with nothing to do but re-write scenes he's already re-written at least three times.
"And you don't want to take a break?"
"No. There's nothing to do. Why did you leave me in this house with nothing to do?" Callum has read the list of "How to Properly Care for Embry and Things to Have Him Do" from his mother. He should know better than this, especially by now. "I showered twice. Twice."
"I hope you don't plan on doing this every day that I'm gone. I can't afford to pay for all that hot water." Callum totally can. He could probably buy himself a second house back home, if he really wanted to, and pay for Embry to take two showers a day over there, too. "Have you considered taking up yoga?"
"I'm not getting more flexible so you can just abuse me." Embry's bendy enough, thanks. He actually can't even touch his own toes, but that's more a fault of his lanky legs than a lack of flexibility (or so he claims). He's not cut out for physical activity, anyways. It makes him even more irritable than usual.
Much like he is now, actually. "Come home." He knows that Callum can't. But that doesn't mean he isn't going to whine like a five-year-old at every given opportunity. It's who he is.
"I will. In three days."
He's going to kill Callum, one of these days.
separation anxiety
(727):
I'm at the airport and there's a guy here wearing all camouflage to go hunting … Should I bump in to him and say “whoa sorry didn't see you there”?
Embry knows that when he gets this text that his day isn’t just going to be tedious. It’s going to be long. His day is going to be long and tedious, and it’s entirely Callum’s fault. Entirely. Callum’s. Fault. It’s not enough that the jackass has the gall to assign him a10,000 word re-write in one weekend; he has to do it on a weekend when he’s not around for Embry to bitch at him about having to delete vital parts of his novel to better suit Callum’s ridiculous standards.
Callum is currently en route to a meeting with a few other editors in regards to the works they’ll be submitting to the publishing house. Embry’s story has already been submitted; this meeting is all about other writers and what those other writers are writing. And, even though it’s Callum’s job to edit for other writers and to get them published, too, Embry still doesn’t like sharing.
Not that Callum likes sharing, either. One of his associates (a pretty girl named Morgan, whom Embry suspected had a bit of a crush on him) had offered to check over Embry’s work for the weekend - like he was some teenager doing high school homework, Jesus Christ - and Callum had responded with a firm and non-negotiable “No.” And it’s the same story for whenever someone else offers to check over Embry’s writing; Callum’s overly possessive, unreasonable, unexplained rejections.
Embry doesn’t actually mind, because Callum’s the only one he actually likes getting critique from when it comes to editors from this particular agency, but he doesn’t appreciate the double standard.
Almost as much as he doesn’t appreciate the stupid texts Callum’s been sending him for the past half hour. He was working. Now he’s distracted.
(1-727):
I know you’re at the airport. Trying to work.
- E
He’s actually already done 5,000 words, but he doesn’t want to seem like an overachiever, because that’ll mean more work shoved on him in the future. Re-writing is the worst part of writing.
Which is a damn shame, really, because it’s all he’s been doing for the past three months.
(727):
Aw, babe, don’t be short with me. Be back before you even really notice I’m gone.
Embry scowls at his phone, typing in a curt reply before just chucking the thing across the room and into the futon pressed against the far wall. He’s not in the mood for Callum. And he’s not in the mood to write, either.
He’s really just not in the mood for anything. He retrieves his phone, collapsing on the futon with an exaggerated sigh that no one’s around to hear. It’s not really all that satisfying.
Embry decides to contemplate the value of nothingness.
(727):
Em babe are you mad at me
At least Callum appreciates the severity of what’s going on. He only usually abandons the rules of grammar while texting when he’s aroused or concerned. And Embry really hopes that his boyfriend isn’t aroused in the middle of an airport without him. Call him selfish, but he really would like to be able to torment him in person.
(727):
if u dont reply im calling u
Embry won’t answer. He won't.
The phone vibrates in his hand, quiet chords of Skinny Love filtering tinnily through the speakers. He’s set ringtones to nearly every single one of his contacts; the Jaws theme for the people at the bank who want his money, We Are Family for his mother, various One Direction songs for the people at the publishing house, and Skinny Love for Callum. Even though Callum’s not really all that skinny. He’s more built than he is skinny.
He answers.
“Em, if you didn’t want to do the re-writes, you could’ve just told me on Friday.” Callum sounds amused, the bastard. There’s nothing to be amused about. Life sucks.
“I think that we’ve reached that dangerously co-dependent part of our relationship. Come back, I can’t focus. See? I’m not even stuttering.” He usually stutters all over the place, when he has to talk on the phone. But he’s too agitated to. Which isn’t good. He’s never gotten so agitated, before.
“Oh, babe, you know I would. But I’ve gotta go to that meeting. It’s only for two days.” He still sounds amused. Doesn’t he get it? If Embry can’t write, he can’t finish his novel. If he can’t finish his novel, it won’t get published. And if he doesn’t get published, he’ll have no money and die on the streets as a gay prostitute rentboy with a million STDs.
Jesus Christ, he needs something. Not a cigarette. The last time he’d tried those, he’d been coughing for days.
“I need something.” But he doesn’t know what. His fingers drum against his thigh, an unsteady, staccato beat. “Don’t know what.” He wriggles, trying to dispel some of the tension in his shoulders, and bites his lip. This is the worst; needing, but not knowing what. It’s eating away at him.
“Are you hungry?” Callum doesn’t question him, thank God. He’s probably far too used to all this, actually. It’s not the first time Embry has suddenly been terribly antsy and hasn’t known why.
“No. Ate some cookies. The ones you left? They were good. But no, not hungry.” He’s eaten all forty-eight of the cookies. Not healthy, but not unsatisfying.
“I’d intended for those to be one every hour. Y’know. For each hour I’m gone. It was romantic.”
“Don’t listen to what Morgan tells you is romantic. I ate them all. And now I have no chocolate to eat for two days.” It’s a nice sentiment, though, and Embry has to smile, even though Callum won't see it.
“That explains it, then. You’re on a sugar high. Please tell me that you at least had the sense to stay home.” He’s been on a sugar high exactly three times in his life - once in high school, once in the university while he was still studying in London, and one after eating an entire chocolate cheesecake with Callum over Christmas on a dare - and the experience has never proven really all that pleasant. He has a tendency towards the shakes already.
“Nnnn. Just. Give me something to do.” He doesn't like being antsy. In fact, he enjoys being antsy about as much as he enjoys being alone with nothing to do but re-write scenes he's already re-written at least three times.
"And you don't want to take a break?"
"No. There's nothing to do. Why did you leave me in this house with nothing to do?" Callum has read the list of "How to Properly Care for Embry and Things to Have Him Do" from his mother. He should know better than this, especially by now. "I showered twice. Twice."
"I hope you don't plan on doing this every day that I'm gone. I can't afford to pay for all that hot water." Callum totally can. He could probably buy himself a second house back home, if he really wanted to, and pay for Embry to take two showers a day over there, too. "Have you considered taking up yoga?"
"I'm not getting more flexible so you can just abuse me." Embry's bendy enough, thanks. He actually can't even touch his own toes, but that's more a fault of his lanky legs than a lack of flexibility (or so he claims). He's not cut out for physical activity, anyways. It makes him even more irritable than usual.
Much like he is now, actually. "Come home." He knows that Callum can't. But that doesn't mean he isn't going to whine like a five-year-old at every given opportunity. It's who he is.
"I will. In three days."
He's going to kill Callum, one of these days.