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Will ends up with his face pressed to Hasan’s thigh, and as prone to fidgeting as Hasan is he ends up with his hand in Will’s hair, strands of it getting caught on the damn rings he already put back on, but Will can’t find it in him to complain. If he thinks about the state of everything for too long it gets a little terrifying, the gentle tug on his hair, the warm body next to him, how much he craves to keep it, so he resolves not to think about it at all.
In which Will crashes a couple of couches, participates in a dark ritual known as girls’ night, and wrings blood out of the stone that is Hasan Piker. In that order.
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“That’s what your problem is. That’s not…” 5up shakes his head and smiles back at the ground, like Steve said something terribly silly. “Tennis isn’t about, you know. Going pro or playing college or whatever. Really, it’s about… fifteen seconds. Fifteen seconds when you’re on the court with somebody, and it’s just— it’s like— it’s a relationship. Sort of. Fifteen seconds where you understand somebody completely and nothing else matters. Like you’re in love.”
break point (n.) — a situation in tennis in which the receiving player can win the game by scoring the next point.
Steve and Apollo go chasing after pipe dreams, tennis balls, 5up, and each other for thirteen years. A lot can change in a decade. But a lot can stay the same, too.
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Michael wraps his arms around Chris’s neck and leans forward enough to hide his face so that he can’t see his head spinning. It’s this, exactly this— this is how he wants it to be with Chris, all the time. Quiet and certain and warm, Chris’s stubble scraping his cheek when he kisses his jaw and his hands hot where they sneak under Michael’s shirt, fingers pressing into his bare skin.
Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe it’s not really believing that Chris might not want him anymore, but fearing the possibility of it. The possibility of ruining it all. Losing a good thing he’s managed to stumble his way into.Michael worries, until he doesn't.
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Chris’s cinematography leaves much to be desired, but it’s enough to see the scene of the crime: him and Michael leaning on each other, yelling incomprehensibly and stumbling through jokes. Blurry flashes of Tomar and Lyle, trying to either steady them or push them over. Pews. An altar. Shitty pink wallpaper for a shitty pink chapel. An honest-to-god Elvis impersonator. Somewhere along the way from adolescence to adulthood, Zach’s life became a wacky series of stereotypical sitcom mishaps, or perhaps a poorly-received remake of The Hangover (2009).
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“You know you want to!” Zach drops the voice, pulls back from the camera. Some part of him is still putting on the dramatics, but he knows it doesn’t do much to hide how genuinely he means it. All of it. Because surely he does want to, wants it like Zach does, sick of the timezones and the back and forth and the goddamn absence. Ditch the jokes; Zach would, in fact, like to turn over in bed and be able to see somebody. Is that so fucking crazy?
(Zach has a question. Michael may or may not have an answer.)
Recent series
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September 9, 2019
5 songs, 13 minutes
℗ 2019 SUGR?- Words:
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unrelated greek mythology inspired oneshots. ovid probably wouldn't approve.
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a vampire and a werewolf move in together. what could go wrong?
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welcome to the thunderdome
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“This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking, I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush:
This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.”-Marie Howe, What the Living Do
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