Original -- Negativity
Title: Negativity
Rating: G
Word Count: 535
Warnings: crap writing, schmaltz
Prompt: "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" by the Smiths at pulped_fictions
Summary: Maion refuses to let everyone else's negativity get him down.
Author's Note: If this reads like crap, it's because everything I do is crap right now. :D
NEGATIVITY
It is a distressingly downbeat day at Vincent’s, and the mass of negativity is starting to make Maion’s skin crawl now that his heart has finished sinking like a lead-coated stone in a pool with a magnet at the bottom.
Maion pauses to reflect, somewhat morosely, on the fact that his metaphorical powers seem to have dissolved with the good mood he’d had until he celestial-teleported into Vincent’s foyer early this morning.
In the desperate hope that something might have changed, he makes another circuit of the house. Alistair Thompson is draped over an ottoman in the sitting room, just as miserable as he was the last time Maion peeked in to check; he has an old photograph in one hand and a bottle of extremely cheap vodka in the other. Maion had always wondered why Vincent kept that particular spirit in his well-tended cabinet, especially since he tended to look at it among his fine wines as though it would sprout tentacles, wrap them around the other bottles, and feed arsenic into them through the glass.
Maion glances into the living room next. Edward hasn’t even moved from the position in which Maion saw him last-sprawled facedown on the couch with a blanket over his feet. The name badge on the floor, which lies surrounded by the shards of a school identification card and the confetti that remains of a pink piece of paper, have led Maion to conclude that the poor young man has lost his janitor job. Maion had assumed that one thing an economic downturn could never hope to jeopardize was the quantity of trash produced by heedless teenagers, but apparently budget cuts have gotten the best of Edward nonetheless.
It’s only after a fortifying deep breath that he sets his eye to the two inches of space where the door to Vincent’s office has been left ajar.
Vincent’s also how Maion left him-seated motionless in his desk chair, looking at the crack of sunlight between the curtains.
Well, Maion’s sick of all this moping (literally; prolonged exposure makes him nauseous), so he’s going to see if he can put a stop to it.
All he wants is for his friends to be happy with who they are and what they do have. Sometimes it’s not easy, but he’ll drag them into better moods kicking and screaming if he has to, because good people deserve to have good days.
He tries to hide his delight when they all perk up a little at the cupcakes with which he fills the kitchen. Edward looks a bit stabler after devouring four of the red-velvet ones topped with little wolves and hooded girls drawn in frosting, and Alistair genuinely compliments his baking upon trying one of the almond-vanilla specimens adorned with Maion’s best attempt at Vincent’s company logo.
As for Vincent himself, he selects the chocolate cupcake where Maion lay dark licorice frosting broken by a white crescent moon and a dozen tiny stars. He licks at the edge of the nightscape, smiles faintly, and reaches out to ruffle Maion’s hair.
Maion adjourns the cupcake-eating session by hugging everyone and evaluates today as an indisputable success.
Rating: G
Word Count: 535
Warnings: crap writing, schmaltz
Prompt: "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" by the Smiths at pulped_fictions
Summary: Maion refuses to let everyone else's negativity get him down.
Author's Note: If this reads like crap, it's because everything I do is crap right now. :D
NEGATIVITY
It is a distressingly downbeat day at Vincent’s, and the mass of negativity is starting to make Maion’s skin crawl now that his heart has finished sinking like a lead-coated stone in a pool with a magnet at the bottom.
Maion pauses to reflect, somewhat morosely, on the fact that his metaphorical powers seem to have dissolved with the good mood he’d had until he celestial-teleported into Vincent’s foyer early this morning.
In the desperate hope that something might have changed, he makes another circuit of the house. Alistair Thompson is draped over an ottoman in the sitting room, just as miserable as he was the last time Maion peeked in to check; he has an old photograph in one hand and a bottle of extremely cheap vodka in the other. Maion had always wondered why Vincent kept that particular spirit in his well-tended cabinet, especially since he tended to look at it among his fine wines as though it would sprout tentacles, wrap them around the other bottles, and feed arsenic into them through the glass.
Maion glances into the living room next. Edward hasn’t even moved from the position in which Maion saw him last-sprawled facedown on the couch with a blanket over his feet. The name badge on the floor, which lies surrounded by the shards of a school identification card and the confetti that remains of a pink piece of paper, have led Maion to conclude that the poor young man has lost his janitor job. Maion had assumed that one thing an economic downturn could never hope to jeopardize was the quantity of trash produced by heedless teenagers, but apparently budget cuts have gotten the best of Edward nonetheless.
It’s only after a fortifying deep breath that he sets his eye to the two inches of space where the door to Vincent’s office has been left ajar.
Vincent’s also how Maion left him-seated motionless in his desk chair, looking at the crack of sunlight between the curtains.
Well, Maion’s sick of all this moping (literally; prolonged exposure makes him nauseous), so he’s going to see if he can put a stop to it.
All he wants is for his friends to be happy with who they are and what they do have. Sometimes it’s not easy, but he’ll drag them into better moods kicking and screaming if he has to, because good people deserve to have good days.
He tries to hide his delight when they all perk up a little at the cupcakes with which he fills the kitchen. Edward looks a bit stabler after devouring four of the red-velvet ones topped with little wolves and hooded girls drawn in frosting, and Alistair genuinely compliments his baking upon trying one of the almond-vanilla specimens adorned with Maion’s best attempt at Vincent’s company logo.
As for Vincent himself, he selects the chocolate cupcake where Maion lay dark licorice frosting broken by a white crescent moon and a dozen tiny stars. He licks at the edge of the nightscape, smiles faintly, and reaches out to ruffle Maion’s hair.
Maion adjourns the cupcake-eating session by hugging everyone and evaluates today as an indisputable success.