a lot of eccentric characters bottled up in a tiny body.
“So, let me see if I understand this.” He drinks some of his bright pink punch, eyes full scanning. “You are a werewolf tacco.”
“Yeah.”
“A werewolf tacco. ”
“Don’t you think it’s great?” Kyle says, a smile on his face, a plastic cup on his furry hand. “I even got a discount in the store I bought the costumes. It was really cheap, you wouldn’t believe if I told you how much I paid for this-”
“Oh, I think I would.”
“-and I found out that Mr. Jenkins - the guy who sells the costumes - went to a Safari with my mother ages ago and then we talked about elephants and he tried to sell me an elephant costume. I almost bought that, I won’t lie, it was so cool, but I thought a werewolf tacco would be cooler and so I— Rowan, are you listening?”
“Yeah, yeah. Guy who likes elephants sold you weirdness, continue.” He gives another sip on his drink, comfortably sitting on the zebra couch of one of Valentino’s hundreds of houses in neighborhoods he didn’t even know existed.
“Well, so I bought this cool gloves and this cool tail-” He stops.
Kyle raises an eyebrow at Rowan.
Rowan raises an eyebrow at Kyle.
“What?”
“You are not wearing a costume.” Now Kyle is frowning, and he sounds like he didn’t pay attention to the fact until now (but who can blame him when his outfit is so damn groovy). Rowan is not sure because the furry brown eyebrows glued to his face kind of difficult his better judgement.
“Nonsense.” He taps at the knee crossed over the other one, as if he is cleaning some imaginary dust from his well-lined pants. “I most certainly am.”
“You are wearing a suit, Rowan.” He sounds a little judgemental, as if he thinks the British is spoiling all the fun of the night. “It is a Halloween party. You should have come with a costume.”
“But I did.” Rowan retorts, seeming well comfortable wearing his one button, peak lapel jacket with jetted pockets.
“You came as yourself in formal clothing.”
“Don’t be so naive.” He finishes his drink, and Kyle gives him a funny, boarding skeptical look. “I’m Bond.”
“Bond- wait, James Bond? Really?” He sounds just like he doesn’t buy it at all. He saw Rowan using these same pants weeks ago at Alex’s exposition at college, he is sure of it.
“Do you think I would lie about it? I’m even using a Rolex Submariner. My favorite Bond gadget.” He says, dead serious, even though there’s crooked smile on his lips. He slowly draws each word, rounding his vowels so his accent gets heavier. He shows Kyle his wristwatch. He receives an even funnier look from him. “If you want to, I also can show you my explosive pen. But I’d be careful when handling that, if I were you.”
“That’s cheating, do you know that?”
“You are just envy I am a secret agent with license to kill while you’re-” He looks at him again, as if he is choosing the right words. “-a Mexican crispy sandwich with fur.”
“I’m a yummy Mexican crispy sandwich with fur. And dangerous claws. Which makes all the difference.” He sits by Rowan’s side, sounding oh-so-proud of his costume. He scratches his forehead and thinks it itches a lot to be using fake bushy eyebrows, but that is worth it. Alex and David loved it. Best outfit idea since he dressed like the hippie Frankenstein, they said. “You could have put some fake vampire teeth. You could be a vampiric secret agent with license to drain blood.”
“God, don’t even start.” He rolls his eyes, because it would be worrisome if he didn’t, but there’s also the principle of a smile when Kyle completes what he is saying with a British accented ‘Rowan, the bloody agent’, because that was just a terrible joke. He thinks it is worrisome that he doesn’t feel as offended as before for seeing him dressing like a complete fool. Which proves he is spending too much time with him and he is still trying to decide if it’s another thing he should worry about. “What a pity you dislike my costume. Here I was thinking you would fancy my bow tie.”
Kyle looks at him with the corner of his eyes, and he has to make some effort to doesn’t smile a little.
“That’s indeed a nice one.” Kyle says and turns a little to Rowan’s side, so he can reach for each side of the tie and give it a little tug, as if it needed a little fix. “The real James Bond would be so proud.”
“Wouldn’t he?” He gives a small half-smile and thinks that’s a little daring, a little insolent of Kyle to imply he didn’t give his tie a perfect knot. Kyle gives it one more tug and Rowan still think it is funny how he is putting so much effort in not smiling. “I guess it gives the outfit a classical touch.”
“Yes, pretty classy too.” He agrees, looking so stupid with that weird dog nose and wolf ears tied on the top of his head, and the more he looks at it, the more stupid it looks and he should feel a little bit more offended by that. “Where did you buy it?”
“You tell me.”
(Really, just a little bit more insulted.)
Kyle cracks a small smile, efforts put aside.
(But he doesn’t.)
This should probably be the stupidest, silliest thing he has ever done in his life - this cheesy kissing under the mistletoe thing - but he did not verbalize that. Not when Kyle kissed him so promptly, right after he looked up to point out to Rowan the existence of that little thing over their heads, an almost sappy smile on his full lips as he spoke. He rolled his eyes, just a little. Said an skeptical ‘are you serious?’, because that was pretty much lame even for the magician. But at some point, Rowan had a hand pressed against the small of Kyle’s back, chin raised to properly meet the absolutely dashing lips that locked with his with a quiet endearment, and he has no idea how he has been persuaded into that. A part of himself just insisted to tell him he hadn’t had to be ‘cause, oh, when was the last time Kyle had a major trouble talking him into all sorts of things? But the other part told him that thinking about that was bullshit, and Rowan was fondest of this one opinion.
His mouth felt warm over Kyle’s and it shouldn’t feel so great after all this time, he supposed, but it did. It’s actually a little scary how right it felt like, the way Kyle made this low throaty sound when Rowan caught his lower lip between his teeth and pulled it a little, the way Kyle sort of smiled under the pressure of their lips together when his tongue easily found his way inside Rowan’s mouth, as if he was actually proud of himself for having earned that easy, uncommitted willingness, that smooth parting of lips during a crowded Christmas party under a silly mistletoe. A little scary, like having lent a small piece of himself without knowing if he was ever going to get it back.
But then the fact it felt a little scary was muffled by the fact he was more than just a little under a stupid mistletoe, and he finally managed to say that under his breath - because he would have to, at some point, he wouldn’t miss the opportunity - , and Kyle merely laughed, a little sheepish but more than just a little satisfied with the whole thing, and the sound of his laugh sounded like it was just floating, lazy and with a taste of belonging, as if he didn’t care at all but found funny how Rowan didn’t stop kissing him even if they looked too foolish standing there in the cold, all gloved hands touching freezing cheeks and half-lidded eyes peeking at each other’s faces and small kisses over chilly messy breath.
He was going to let it all pass this time, Rowan thought. For the Christmas spirit.
Sr. Lowel, boa tarde. Eu sou a professora do seu filho, Sra. Jones. Importa-se de dar uma palavrinha aqui na minha sala?
Ah, boa tarde. Está tudo bem com o Alex?
Venha por aqui, por favor.
Ele deu um pacote de Fandangos ao filho e mandou-o esperar, enquanto ela indicou uma sala e o fez sentar…
When they first saw each other Rowan’s hair was green,
like the grass of Woodstock, like a stain on a screen, like plain chaos disguised as plain chaos that passed unseen in the mess of blurred visions and long hairs and floral skirts. Like anarchy poking at peace and rebellion poking at love, only that it wasn’t quite right, only that something was out of place. Not there, with him messing with the where. Something was out of place about him; him messing with himself.
A green dot, a broody stain, a bourgeois anarchy.
When they first saw each other, Rowan’s hair was green and he couldn’t look away.
-
When they first fucked Rowan’s hair was purple,
like the shabby couch of someone they didn’t know the name, like the small bruises that were left on necks and shoulders and chests, like the dark circles under the eyes of one who writhed and gasped and couldn’t look away from a purple dot who crashed and bucked and groaned full clear obscenities against his cheek.
When they first fucked Rowan’s hair was purple and he fucked like loud music, like a guitar solo that never wrongs a chord, like a scream that jumped from deep notes to falsetto, like it could struck a spine and made one arch all their body because there’s simply no way of staying still when a drum starts to thrum.
And it thrummed in all his body, reverberated on the tip of his fingers, in his belly, escaped through his mouth, loud as a nonsensical song, as the movements Rowan played and sang on him over and over and over, gritty as only crude reality is when it slaps you right in the soul.
When they first fucked, Rowan’s hair was purple and he didn’t want to stay away.
-
When they first got high together Rowan’s hair was blue,
like the shades that danced in front of his eyes, bright and dark and light and so, so many. Fresh colors and washy colors, colors fading and curling like smoke in the air. One, two, three blues, maybe four, and they seemed to get countless as he filled his system with expensive visions and temporary dreams.
They were alone, yet there was all that noise in their ears, all that buzz, all those laughs. Rowan’s limbs were languid, relaxed muscles and loose tongue, and for that he told him many stories. He talked about music and capitalism and the weather. He told him about piercings and politics and the colors of the fence of a small house in England. He mumbled about the society and the economy and the smell of homemade cookies eaten in secret.
Colors and lights were still dancing in front of his eyes, fading more, brightening less, and he asked Rowan if he missed home.
“I fancy home just as much as I fancy your ugly hair and your fringe jacket” He said, groggy and casual and a little dreadful. His voice was fading like the blue of his hair.
The first time they got high together, Rowan’s hair was as blue as his brown eyes, and they looked far away.
-
When they first fought, Rowan’s hair was orange,
like vulgarity and blatantliness, like the way one lets each cell of their body be shaken with anger and shock and fear, orange as madness and fear and stupid decisions taken on a whim, orange as madness and fear and pungent smell of sickness, restless as the way Rowan shouts his life is none of your business, impulsive as the way he backs off as rebellious as he does not needs to be, as he does not should be, as a colorful dot who still didn’t find a place to himself in the middle of the painting even if it was being handed to him, right on his face, poured on his hands, on each knuckle in the form of kisses, of brushed words of belonging, of i want you to stay and i’m here and kiss me, but the kiss didn’t happen, because now Rowan was not thinking, scary and scared, avoiding to see what was in front of him like the crazy color on his hair.
When they first fought, Rowan’s hair was orange, and he gave him his hands, but he didn’t want them. So he took them back, and Rowan broke away.
-
When they first made love Rowan’s hair was red,
like the blood on his t-shirt, dark, deep, dry, like the swollen bottom lip that moved against his shoulder and whispered i’m fine i’m fine before anything could be questioned, as if the slender hands on his shoulders, his neck, his back didn’t beg to say the contrary. Rowan’s hair was red and his bottom lip was red and his tee was red and he wanted to say i want you to leave and to say where have you been and to say do not shit with me you’ve been gone for months and to say do not kiss me, but the kiss happened and it was like coming back to a safe place he didn’t remember having.
His hair was red as loud music, as a scream that goes from deep notes to a falsetto, as fucked up anger and boiling blood and as too much, but Rowan kisses him with red lips and it tastes like a lullaby, he touches him as a piano solo and his fingers are everywhere and nowhere to be seen, playing on him like a sonata in adaggieto and it was like for a moment Rowan was not that messed up green dot he met in Woodstock.
In the middle of everything, the too colorful clothes and the dark ones and no one, in the middle of fingers touching fingers and lips touching lips and hips striking hips, that red dot whispered he had missed that ugly hair, that fringe jacket.
The first time they made love, Rowan’s hair was red and, this time, he was not simply a dot, he had a name and a face and when he sighed Kyle against his temple, he knew Rowan had hated to stay away.
-
In a random day with no firsts, Rowan’s hair was brown
just like his eyes, as his large backpack and his inexpensive pea coat and the chocolate bar they bought in the airport. Brown curling in soft waves and locks, and it felt so natural and right to feel them between his fingers once, twice. Brown as so many other hairs of so many other men and so many other people and it was actually the prettiest shade he has seen until then.
Rowan’s hair was brown, plain and boring and nothing like him but at the same time just perfectly fitting. Brown as the ugly fringe jacket which was thrown away a while ago. Brown as the hair of the lady on the cover of the dye’s package he appeared with two days ago, and not nearly as brown as it would be in two years. Brown with a name and a face and it was like he was finally letting himself be seen.
In a random day with no firsts, they weren’t away. Just there.
He tells you what you always wanted to hear. What you imagined in your craziest dreams, the ones you’re ashamed even of thinking about. His voice is hoarse in your ear and he smells like smoke and bad rum. You blink your eyes drunkenly, painfully aroused and you know there’s something…
Happy Birthday, dear mother <3 !
Look at all these Rowans in a freak-psychedelic-poor-style-pop-art-wannabe!
I tried something different this time XD I hope you like it
And I don’t even care if your eyes are hurting… Really
Anyways, luv u, mommy <3
Art by me
Rowan(Yaoi’s Creed) is Marina’s (aka crippspink) creation.
you’re a lovely person, sweetie, thank you for such a cute gift! <3333
Oliver tried to cook a sweet (to give it to Sam later) and asked Rowan to taste it.
.
.
.
Shit happens.
Obs.: (Same observations. View previous posts)
Art by me
Oliver (Yaoi’s Creed) is my creation.
Rowan(Yaoi’s Creed) is Marina’s (aka crippspink) creation.