Work Text:
“I see you walking home in the pouring rain
I watch you walk away, I want to call your name
I feel your awkwardness, I feel your crushing pain
You really shoot me through like no one else can do
I see your frightened eyes when i’m alone at night
Your heavy head hung low, your ever silent groan
I’ve watched you fading out, I want to scream and shout
You are the pain in me that I cannot set free
I love you, I do...”
- The Drinker by STRANGELOVE ♪
. . .
➼
The rain was dense and fell heavily from above. It was cold, wet and slippery underfoot as you walked through the downpour. You wrapped your arms closer around yourself, as you were drenched and were desperately seeking warmth. In the mass of grey and dark tones, you spotted an entrance of a doorway to shelter you temporarily from the rain.
While being stuck in the rain, the only thing you can do is wait until the rain eases. As you walked up the steps to the veranda, you noticed a few stalks of lone daisies growing out from between the cracks in the concrete from the side of the path.
As you waited while being sheltered from the rain, you continued to watch the flowers from a distance, observing the way the heavy raindrops interacted with the cluster of delicate flowers.
“When it rains, there's always a sense of clarity. Even if it’s only temporary.”
At the sound of a soft voice, you slowly diverted your eyes to a figure in the corner. In the shadows of the veranda, a young man was slouched against the wall. His hair was dark and short, with a few long strands falling in front of his eyes. He possessed such striking features, delicate, almost feminine. Large, dark and soulful were his eyes. His cheekbones were high and pronounced, yet hollow.
In his lap rested an open notebook that was accompanied with a pen, and every now and then, he would write down a few words in an elegant yet scratchy penmanship.
“The sky can have its off days, too. There’s always a balance, an equilibrium that occurs to keep the world sane or whatever.” However, as he spoke, a drop of rain dripped and trickled down from the roof, hitting his notebook and soaking through the paper, infusing with the ink of the written word. He silently cursed, smudging the watery ink with his thumb.
From first impressions, he seemed to observe the world in a harsh way, but with a curious manner. However, he then noticed that you were soaked to the bone. Your clothes were wet, heavy, and tight around you as you shivered from the cold. He then stood up and you flinched as he was near.
Before you could even mutter a word, he gave you his black coat. His slender hands were kind and tender as he draped it over your shoulders. You shivered in response, pulling at the edges of the coat and wrapped it tighter around yourself. It was warm as it still contained the warmth of his body.
As he was crouched beside you, he saw the cluster of small daisies that grew wild and unexpectedly. He then plucked one of the daisies from the crack in the concrete and rolled the green stem between his fingers. You watched as the line of white petals rotated with each turn from his fingers.
“Once a flower is plucked, it loses its innocence and all vitality, but not its will to live. If you nurture and water it, it should last for a few more days on its own,” he paused.
“...but nothing lasts.” He then stood up as he spoke those last words.
As he moved away to return back to his notebook, the daisy was still in his hand, still twirling between his fingers. Just as he was finishing what he was writing down, he placed the flower between his lips and bit down on the stalk with his teeth. He then played with the flower, using the tip of his tongue as he concentrated on finalizing his last words.
You still waited under the shelter, slowly warming up from his coat. The rain has since eased a bit. Yet despite his presence and his eagerness to speak, you haven't yet muttered a single word to him. Suddenly a door opened from the side.
“Hey Rich, we need you in the studio now.”
“I should get going anyway. Thanks for the coat,” you said and in an attempt, you try to shrug it off and give it back to him.
“Wait, you’ll need it,” he said. “Here.” He suddenly took your hand and with his pen, he wrote down his address and number on the sensitive underside of your inner wrist.
“Come and see me. You can give me my coat back then.”
He then quickly added, “I’m Richey by the way.”
“I’m y/n.”
As you quickly told him your name, you immediately left. From the doorway, he watched you as you wandered down the street. The rain was no longer intolerable, so it gave you a decent amount of time to head home in the comfort of his coat.
You still felt the sensation of his pen pressing against your skin, its sharp point leaving the memory of his cursive handwriting with his details. You smiled and tugged at the cuff of the coat to protect the pen’s ink from the exposure to the rain.
…
➼
The next time you see Richey, the sky was in an overcast which resulted in the afternoon to be dreary, grey and cold. The rain beat heavily against the paneled glass of a window as Nicky led you down the hallway towards Richey’s room.
As you entered, Richey was on his bed, his legs bent as he rested his hand on top of his knees. His eyelids were low as a book was laid open on his lap. The spine of the book was broken, the cover curving inwards with the name ‘Tennessee Williams’ in bold. From the way it was worn, the book had been abused yet well loved and possibly had been read more than once.
A cigarette was also held between his slender fingers. Every now and then, he would raise it towards his full lips and take a slow drag from it. The end of the cig was loose and was flaking off onto the top of the bedding. Black ash marks were now smudged into the bed sheets.
Suddenly realising your presence, he jolted off the bed and abandoned his book. He then quickly discarded the remains of his cigarette into a cold half-empty cup.
“I’m here to return your coat,” you said as you nervously held it out to him.
Richey was hesitant at first, but he slowly took it from you and carefully draped it over the back of his chair. However, as he did, he suddenly noticed the papers on the floor. Richey hesitated and started to hurriedly pick up the papers that were scattered around the room, bits of paper that contained abandoned lyrics.
As he was busy sorting out the scattered papers, you took a look around his room. Collages lined the walls, making use of the bare space. As you wandered around, you admired the glamorous faces of the present and past that looked back at you. Richey’s muses and forever growing inspirations of his life’s work.
After his mad panic, you noticed that Richey had settled on the floor, with his back leaning against the edge of the bed. He had positioned himself in a slouched pose with his chin resting on the tops of his knees as he waited. You smiled and settled yourself down beside him, maintaining a distance between the two of you.
Beside him was a binder or a folder, containing a large collection of papers. A few of them that had escaped the stack had corners of splattered paint.
“What does that folder contain?” You asked curiously, reaching over to have a better look. At first, Richey was reluctant to say anything. However, he lifted the thick folder into his lap.
“Nothing, really. Mainly just some ideas for possible lyrics or other random projects. It’s just a way to get the shit out of my head, I guess.” After he spoke, he quickly skimmed through the pages of the folder, giving you a secret glimpse.
Through the fast flipping of pages, you noticed an elaborate collection of collages in varying degrees with typed or handwritten words. He then suddenly closed the folder as he started to feel slightly self conscious and got up to carefully place it next to his typewriter on his desk.
"It's through music that an individual can hear the voices of a generation. It isn't necessarily about the music itself, but the lyric."
As he wandered across the room, he pulled out a guitar. It looked new as if it had been barely played or tempered with. He then settled back down, this time on edge of the bed as he balanced the guitar on his knees. As he prepared himself, every so often he would keep repositioning his fingers in a hesitant manner. He continued to speak.
"Sometimes it’s about being bitter with the world and realising your place within its social construct. When it’s written into a form of poetry, a possible lyric emerges. It then becomes a depiction of the soul and its internal suffering."
As he spoke softly, you watched as his pale slender fingers arranged themselves on the neck of the guitar. He then began to mindlessly strum different chords after carefully placing his fingers in the right sequence on the frets of the guitar, after multiple attempts, for each chord. His brow furrowed in frustration. Just as he learnt a chord, he quickly forgets it and has to struggle all over again.
“The time spent alone allows oneself to pity themselves, and I use that state of mind as a starting point for writing.” He hastily put away the guitar, shoving it under the bed either out of suppressed anger or embarrassment. He then scratched his neck, and gave you a small smile. However, it wasn’t long until he found a new scrap to quickly write something down that was on the top of his head.
“What are you writing down?” you asked curiously as you watched him scribble something down on the piece of paper beside him.
“It’s nothing.”
“Is it a letter?”
He smiled at the unexpected question. “I’ll write you a letter sometime, if you’d like," he said, his voice quiet out of shyness.
“I’ll like that very much.” As those words left your lips, he looked up at you and gave you a small smile and hummed in response, his voice gentle. His eyes were no longer hard and dark, but warm.
….
➼
After a bad night out, you visit Richey one rainy evening with tears in your eyes. Despite previously insisting on being left alone, he allowed you to stay for once out of desperate times. It’s a late night filled with writing, quiet late night conversations, and vodka. You lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Richey was at his desk with his personalized collaged typewriter laid out in front of him. From across the room, you observed the way his shoulders moved with each typed word. The sound of the rain combined with the sound of his typing filled the room. However, the solemness and emptiness of the night, and Richey’s state of melancholy, was a deadly combination.
As time went on, you noticed a glass full of wilting flowers. Three small little daisies that were beside him on the windowsill. The flowers that were growing out of the ground, where no sense of life expected to grow, between those concrete cracks.
In the abyss of the night, his thoughts were getting so loud! Almost intolerable. Despite the sound of the rainstorm drowning out the silence, the inner torment could not be subsided. The thoughts began to manifest themselves inside his head, pounding and throbbing with the weight of purgatory.
He resorted to the comfort of his bed, the sheets in a messy array around you, and rested beside you. In a demented and disillusioned state, he hesitantly rested his head in your lap. He let out a distorted breath as you gently soothe him by running your fingers alongside his head and coaxing his dark hair. His uneven breathing began to ease as he closed his eyes and reduced himself to only feeling the sensation of your hand and the delicacy of your fingers.
At this moment, you couldn’t help but remind yourself of the fact that you would be leaving the city at the end of the week. Tonight you were hoping for it to be a good opportunity to tell Richey. But under the current circumstances, you couldn’t even find the words. But all you were physically capable of doing in this moment was to comfort him, to hold him and kiss his scars.
…
➼
It’s raining, the morning you have to utter the unfortunate words of ‘goodbye’. You knew this day was coming, it’s been looming over you all week. As each day ended, the time spent with Richey was limited. However, ever since that night, Richey had become more distant towards you, preferring his time locked up in his room blasting records and contemplating over the written word.
Whenever you did manage to visit him or see him on the rare occasions he was out of his room was when he was either making a cup of tea, or walking around with his notebook, as he was trying to find somewhere quiet or with a view of the garden to write down his thoughts. Under no circumstances were you allowed to disturb him. The others made that perfectly clear.
When you’re trying to say goodbye to Richey, he seems distracted. Looking under scraps of paper. His eyes were wide and dark with a worrisome look. As if he was nervously looking for something.
“Come on, Richey!” Nicky yelled from the door. “It’s time to go! The bus will be leaving soon.”
As they headed to the silver car parked out front, Nicky suddenly screeched “shotgun” at the top of his lungs and got into the passenger’s side. Despite the access to more leg room in the front, his long legs still managed to take up half the car. You got into the back as Richey eventually got behind the wheel.
The ride to the station was quiet, half in torment and half in agony. Richey’s knuckles were white against the wheel, making a few of his old pink scars visible.
The landscape was in a constant blur of green and grey and the rain was streaming down the windows as they rounded a corner. The window wipers were swishing side to side against the windscreen, resembling eyelashes that were fighting away tears.
Every so often when his dark eyes would make eye contact with you in the rearview mirror, he would immediately look away.
As they reached the station, Richey parked the car. A crowd of people stood in the bus shelter as they awaited the arrival of the bus. The downpour of the rain continued and the sound of the drops became muffled under the roof of the car.
Inside the vehicle where they waited, the rain only just intensified the silence that seemed to stretch out between them. But Nicky was in the car and the radio became his latest fixation.
Despite the roaring of the radio, you couldn’t help but feel Richey’s presence and the intense weight of his eyes. The long awaited day has arrived and he couldn’t tolerate you, not even speak to you.
Before you know it, the large bus had arrived and had pulled up to the station. From the car, they watched as it loomed over the people who were patiently waiting to board the bus itself.
Nicky was digging around in the back, trying to find your suitcase as both you and Richey waited patiently by the car. Richey was leaning against the side of the car door with his hands buried in the pockets of his black jeans as his head hung low. You watched as he scruffed the underside of his shoe against the concrete, the rough surface penetrating and cutting into the rubber sole.
“Richey, I -”
“I don’t don’t want you to go,” he suddenly mumbled, his voice quiet. As his soulful dark eyes yours, you couldn’t help but-
“OK! ALL READY TO GO!”
A wild Nicky suddenly appeared, hauling a big suitcase in his hands, blocking your view of Richey. You nodded and gave Nicky half a smile as he led you to the bus.
Over your shoulder, you glanced back at Richey with his lone brooding figure. As you walked away in the direction of the bus, he kept growing smaller and smaller. He’s now a cold, but distant memory.
...
“Hey, wait!”
Suddenly the bus’ doors flung open, followed by a sequence of whiney, high pitched cursed words. A breathless Nicky appeared at the front of the bus. You watched from your seat as he was aggressively huffing and puffing and gasping for air.
“WHERE THE FUCK IS Y/N !” Nicky yelled, his voice drenched in his Welsh accent.
Your eyes go wide. He’s calling your name. What did I do wrong this time? You seeped lower into your seat as he approached. He then handed you an envelope.
“See ya next time,” he said as he ruffled your hair and gave you a wide toothy grin. He then exited the bus. As the bus pulled away, drops of rain suddenly hit the window and as the bus accelerated, the droplets became streamlined, resembling runaway tears.
You opened it slowly and curiously examined the contents of the envelope. Something thick was accompanied with the letter. Within the folds of the letter, a cassette tape resided. You turn the tape over in your hands. Its surface was slick and cold to touch.
You smile as you trace and admire his scratchy yet elegant handwriting that was written on the tape’s label.
Drop your life and pick up your soul
Richey’s mixtape dedicated to you. Each song was handpicked and carefully chosen by him. It was assembled in a particular order, for your ears and your ears alone. You cradled it in your hands. The rattling of the bus suddenly disrupted you from your thoughts.
As you look outside, you catch the forms of two people as they retreat back into a silver car. One of them was long and slender with a ‘wiry’ frame and the other was slightly shorter with hunched shoulders. However before you could gather your thoughts, realization hits.You’re on a bus leading out of the city. You’re leaving.
You then slowly pulled out your walkman from your pocket, unwinding the cord of the headphones that were wrapped around it. As you placed the headphones over your head and around your ears, you discarded the last tape you listened to and inserted Richey’s mixtape into the empty slot inside the walkman.
Taking a deep hesitant breath, you held down the button and pressed play. There was a slight rustling of noise, but as it subsided, it was followed by the soft sound of Richey’s voice.
“In the form of these words, remember me.”
His voice slowly drowned out and you waited until the melody of the first song began to play. Slowly, it headed to the chorus.
♪And now i’m trying to tell you about my life
And my tongue is twisted and more dead than alive
And my feelings they’re always been betrayed
And i was born a little damaged man
Look what they made
I said, don’t you find
That’s it’s lonely, the corridor
You walk there alone
And life is a game, you’ve tried
And life is a game, you’ve tried♪
As you listened to the lyrics, you unfolded his letter, Richey's letter possessing his handwriting. At the sight of his words, you shed a tear. As the tear landed on the letter, it began to flow with the ink, resembling the moment you first met him.
Dear y/n
It's about time I write to you. Since our first meeting and in the short time I’ve known you - remember that the shit weather will always bring us together.
I know i’ll watch people walking around outside my window and see you in every one of them. I know i’m too much and too little at the same time, that i’m needy yet not wanting, selfish yet giving. I’m sure you would understand these things anyway, with the ways of human nature and all.
I miss you already. It pains me not to see your face, even if I won't say it to you. It’s only been a month, a year. Wondering if in an indefinite distance we’ll still be close. To be near you, to hear your questions, that silence between us that flows so pleasantly - it’s all above holiness.
Through this, I want you to know me and hear me. I don’t think I would be able to say any of this by my own will. I’m far too bitter, too removed from everything around me. I wouldn’t leave you with something so dissonant.
A piece of me now resides with you. In the form of this mixtape and these very words. No matter where life takes you, find a way to console yourself in something and hold onto that. It will then become a part of you now.
Write to me, whenever the opportunity presents itself.
Take care of yourself.
Love
Richey x