*conforms to my gender in a gnc way*
*conforms to my gender in a gnc way*
little green friends (commissions open!) 🌿🐸
I don't feel like the fact that I'm non-binary is ever taken seriously and that I'm still typically seen as a man. I know I look masculine and I really didn't change much of my appearance when I came out, but that doesn't make me a man. Because my coming out wasn't about my appearance, it was about who I am and how I feel.
When I look inside myself, I do not feel one way or the other. Some things that I do may make me feel masculine or feminine, but my natural state is neither. To make myself look one way or the other feels performative and against who I am, as my appearance is based largely in what is comfortable to me as an autistic person with a hypersensitive sense of touch.
Someone: What's your gender?
why does pretending to have an accent make me feel more comfortable
is that bad
its like a mix of british and australian
its just so gender
is this a rude thing to do
Aw fuck everyone in the warehouse gets to deal with pollux awake at the stupidest hours
That’s the “oh sh*t I think I love her” look iF I’VE EVER SEEN ONE
yeah, my boy here is falling FAST
Just saw a post on ig abt queer ecology and then it gave examples of non-human organisms who form homosexual partnerships and are "polygamous" or are "bisexual half of the time" among other things that literally do not apply to non-humans
I hope that when u see my Yuu u think of:
that’s. All I want.
"The words I use in this book may become outdated in a very short time, because the transgender movement is still young and defining itself. But while the slogans lettered on the banners may change quickly, the struggle will rage on. Since I am writing this book as a contribution to the demand for transgender liberation, the language I'm using in this book is not aimed at defining, but at defending the diverse communities that are coalescing. I don't have a personal stake in whether the trans liberation movement results in a new third pronoun, or gender-neutral pronouns, like the ones, such as ze (she/he) and hir (her/his), being experimented with in cyberspace. It is not the words in and of themselves that are important to me - it's our lives. The struggle of trans people over the centuries is not his-story or her-story. It is our-story."
- Leslie Feinberg, "Transgender Warriors" (1996)
All for the love of spit
• OF @ bangslarue
• NF @ Bully Bateman
Hi I don’t have any money but if any RQG loving artist is feeling kind... could someone maybe draw Zolf with top surgery scars?
it would be so nice to see someone who looks like that
Cw: nsfw mention - clit
For fuck sake you don't need to masculinize yourself to be a trans man. I'm a femboy most of the fucking time. Yes, I'm perceived as a girl and no I ain't gonna stand when I'm misgendered. You don't get to put me in a box. It's my identity and I get to showcase who I am. Oh, what's that? He/They pronouns don't exist? Shut the fuck up and suck on my extraterrestrial clit you cisgender pick.
This isn't directed towards anyone, (apart from transphobes and "I'm not transphobic but" fuckers who might see this) I'm just reminding myself that I am who I am and shoukd take pride in it instead of trying to put myself in a "this is what a boy is" box. Fuck you, I'm a dude with a clit and that ain't ever gonna change.
screensavers for my faves
If you happen to be one of those "pronouns =/= gender" people, you are openly saying you can't misgender people, unless you literally say they are a different gender than they ID.
Even if pronouns only SOMETIMES don’t equal gender you are saying there is no INHERIT link for pronouns to a gender.
He/Him =/= man, and as such has no gender correlation. He/Him only means he/him, it doesn’t mean man, or woman, or neither, it means he/him.
So by your own logic, unless I literally call another trans man a girl, a trans woman a guy, or a nb person either, I am not misgendering them.
As me referring to a trans woman with he/him pronouns I could still be calling her a woman, because “I mean women go by he/him are you saying that he/him only means man??? I still see him as a woman, he doesn't mean man.”
Meaning that, for example, calling a trans woman he, or a trans man she, or a nb person she/he, isn't misgendering since, none of those pronouns would specifically mean any specific gender, or are gendered in any way.
It still isn't nice thing, but not nice in the same way calling a girl who prefers to be called Jessie, Jessica, isn’t nice. Ya know? Not punishable legally in anyway, nor should it be, just not a nice thing to do.
As such you've openly and proudly (and probably argued with people) to give up the right to bitch about someone using the "wrong" pronouns for you. Since there really are no such thing as “wrong” pronouns, really only preferred pronouns exist, in the sense that, you prefer them, but calling you different ones are only vaguely not nice.
It's not misgendering, for me to use any pronouns for you that I and literally anyone/everyone else, sees fit, since apparently, pronouns have no correlation to gender.
I hope this made sense why people are so adamant, that you all understand that pronouns ALWAYS equal gender.
Been feeling so 😬 today because I keep getting called she more than usual and then I got called a woman 😬
Looks Like Rain
Description: Chas tried his hardest to stop everything in the wake of you leaving. He was on a trip, but decided to take another after failing to qualm the pestering images in his mind.
Pairing: Gender Neutral Black Reader x Chas Reader
A/N: I really wasn’t sure where I pulled this from. I listened to a few songs that brought up a few feelings. And then I considered Chas for a little bit, he’s not seen much in this fandom but the young lad deserved some attention. This might be one of my sadder stories that I have written. (It also might not make any sense and I apologize for that lol)
Word Count: 5.4k
Warnings: heavy drug use, smut descriptions (18+!), depressive symptoms, puzzling ending, heartache, confusing feelings, angst, Chas wants to do whatever he feels is the right thing.
Errors weren’t intended, please enjoy y’all!
His thumb pad swiped against his index and middle finger, a little residue was still left over. The specks were embedded in just about any space they could reach; the fabric of his trousers, shirt, and now the microscopic grooves in his skin.
He rubbed and he rubbed. The particles melted away, leaving nothing for the nerves to pick up. Which bled deeper, farther than the nerves, down to the bone.
Then there was the tapping, like a curious thump that you would hear in the dead of night only more rhythmic.
Into the aging cushion below, his hands sank.
The fabric was as lush as can be and would put a hefty dent in anyone's wallet, but it was collecting stains. Dismissed and expendable.
There’s that wondrous breeze slipping through the opened window, sweeping the curtains up and about, untethered from gravity. Evidently untethered from anything and they simply fly for a few moments.
The air was humid, stimulating on his damp forehead.
Chas can smell the night; the smoke and the concrete, the gas from the cars whirring past down below. He wonders about the other odors, those only emerging when the sun disappears, those that signal for the aberrant to come out and run around.
He was close to forgetting the stinging in his nose, the thick liquid dripping over his lips and down his chin.
Dotting his collared shirt, staining the couch.
He licks and he ingests some of the copper. It slides along his tongue, blends with his saliva, and he swallows. It’s familiar, reminds him of being in grade school when he would lose a tooth.
Except, he’s never really enjoyed that flavor. It was the tang that was carnal, rather grisly. His head falls back and he sniffs, using his white sleeve to smear it all away. It didn't matter that much if he missed a spot, everyone in the vicinity was stuck in their heads.
He can hardly breathe through one of his nostrils but he starts to feel—
Seven, eight, nine, maybe ten minutes.
That thumping is back again and it smites like some sort of nitro, white-hot voltage permeating his veins. His jugular throbbed, pushing against the skin of his throat. Then he could feel it right against his skull, picking up by the second.
This was always the moment that you felt most alive. Didn't people say that? Your body works diligently to keep you breathing, to keep you moving forward. You feel the most alive when your heart thuds against your ribs.
Though soon enough, he's not feeling much, nothing in his nose or along the back of his throat. There is some tingling from the bottom of his feet to that sensitive spot near his ears, but it always disintegrates.
It's so close, virtually there—perhaps he's reached it this time.
He wants to spring up off that couch, out the front door to run wild in the obscurity. He wants to do so much He knows that he can, just gotta decide on what. His father's voice comes to him, ‘the world is your oyster, son.’
Indeed it is, but Chas is afraid that those options his father had in mind were far more skewed.
Then he falls in his mind, he's strolling through the halls and inspecting those neurons zooming by faster than the speed he can blink. He sifts through those ideas, tosses away the unappealing. Chas sits and reflects.
He gnaws at a hangnail, and he ponders:
‘What about grabbing those keys off the counter?’ Just a little fresh air, feel the wind on your face and push through your hair.
For the life of him, he can't recall if he's ever taken a drive like that. ‘Have you?’
This is what he asked himself: 'You know where you drive so fast that everything is just a blur? All the colors look like streaks then.
He examines his desire, weighing his options. It's been a long time since he's left that stuffy apartment. No one would be able to stop him, really.
‘Chas, consider how much it would wake you. You might feel even better.’
Through the badly marred reflection of the glass table, he sees the red smudged on his chin and lips, drying slowly and flaking. He sees his grease-tinged hair, no longer in that neat part that he always styled it in.
There's more crimson, like tree roots through the whites of his eyes. There is more contrast with his irises yet they're just about covered with black. They sting every time he closes them.
Chas understands that it's been days since he's laid his head down and slept, been around the same time from him eating last. It was that cycle. He never felt hungry, so he didn’t eat. He didn't feel tired, a few nights without sleep would be fine. He's done this many times back home, in the pristine walls of Bredgar Hall.
It was the warmest time of the year, the moon was out and lazily so. Chas could see it was radiating now and again.
Next to that ray of light, the kitchen stove read 3:36 a.m. He could hear the vague snores of the people in his bed, each of the unknown, pretty, and contrived.
He thinks back to earlier that day. A sea of limbs, each moving with each other. Lips and tongue tasting his skin, teeth sinking in to leave marks. He remembers being in the center, wishing that everything was done harder. As if he needed the rough and the grating for it to resonate, to get his body to respond.
(It’s not like he needed to take a couple tablets to help him get ready.)
He would lay back and watch that orange light at the top of the camera-stand blink, the aperture capturing every movement, every sound. He would be adorned in those men and women, all taken in the flesh of each other—of him.
But Chas would retain that vision like he was standing a thousand miles away. He was never there even after leaving an indent in the sheets.
Time moved faster than he could comprehend now. Several months had to pass by, but he never found himself pulling away. This was what he wanted, wasn't it?
The boy doesn't know what he wants.
He can't feel a thing. Nothing inside his body nor the outside. He spoke with those faceless people, side-eyeing him in his expensive shoes, the creases of his suit jackets. Chas had wishes burning through his eyes and stacks of cash ready at the willing. He thought he was doing it right.
They had to have noticed it. The look of a young man desperately clawing for the keys to warp reality, to forget that...Chas craved this, far more than any breath entering his lungs.
And right here his mind is tormenting. Without a hand grasping at control, he'd begun to see a face in everything, one that was pivotal.
They weren't everyday features. No, nothing that he would see ever again.
Something to your likeliness would materialize in the darkness of the bedroom, your lips and your cheekbones, your voice ringing through a group of people.
He would blink, but no longer would you be there. So he tried his best to keep his eyes open, to focus his hearing. After each disappearance, there was him reaching out with those fingers, trying to feel for himself.
Nothing, you weren't there anymore, just a void remaining. It was that sensation of static on his fingers in that blank spot. There was a rational explanation for it.
So none of it happened.
“I dreamt of you.”
You were still in that position where your head leaned against the white beams of the balcony railing. Your back was supported as well, and your legs stretched out in front of you. Your lap was reserved as a spot for his head to lay.
Your fingertips had begun to trace the line of your lower lip. Absentminded, it was a habit he noticed you perform while amid a thought or two. You had your eyes aimed upward, drifting over the black and swirling sky.
From his place in your lap, he was able to watch the clouds too—only that, the storm brewing above was not the true motive of his attention.
Something began to tug at the corner of your lips.
You turned your head down to him, peeking through the strands of your lashes. He felt your fingers slip through his hair, stroking against the sensitive spot behind the shell of his ear. He'd twitched a little in response, though he wasn't intending to run from you.
Chas scratched at his ribs and attempted to nod, his head hardly moving against you, all before gathering the memories of that night.
"Yeah, but of course I was in it too."
It took a moment, but you didn't say anymore, you didn't rush him. Chas waited after a low roll of thunder, explicating,
“You and I were sitting in an overgrown field, there was grass but some yellow and orange flowers around us. We couldn't have been older than five. The sky was clear and bluer than I had ever seen it. You were located right next to me, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. I was too, only I was cradling my right arm. It was covered in a hard, green cast. It looked fresh like I just had it put on."
"How did you know it was me sitting next to you?"
You let out this light, airy laugh, and it stirred quite the mess inside of his stomach. Chas' eyes widened, not helping the inhibited expression on his face.
He'd forgotten that he never saw what you looked like as a child. He racked his brain,
"I could tell because of the way that your face was shaped, your eye color, and your nose. You didn't appear too different than what you look like now, only smaller."
You pinched his earlobe in jest.
"You were wearing jean overalls that had grass stains on them, I think I was wearing something similar. We were chattering happily but I remember feeling sorry for myself. I couldn't do much without my right arm. You appeared quiet, drawing shapes in the dirt. I didn't understand why until you whispered: 'I'm sorry for chasing you with a frog. I didn't mean for you to fall down.'"
Chas’ fingers twisted around a loose string in the blanket, he paused to gaze at his fidgeting.
"I told you that it was okay and that my parents were only concerned about me. I took the blame for getting hurt and you sniffled, wiping away a few tears. After a little bit, you scooted closer and asked me if it hurt. Your finger dragged along the rough surface of the cast, and I shook my head. 'It only hurts if I bump the cast on something.' So you stopped and looked up at me."
Your fingers began to slow in his hair. Chas paused once again, and he gaped up at you, reflecting. You were inquisitive but the rest of you was unreadable. He could feel that he held all the interest you could give, not missing a word.
Chas waited...for what? He wanted to finish.
"We decided that we couldn't play like we normally did. You were trying to find fun things to do that wouldn't get me hurt again. We had trouble finding one—until a lightbulb went off: I had a black marker stashed in my pocket. I took it out and asked if you would like to draw on my cast."
"You were...absolutely ecstatic to have been the first person to write on it. You brought yourself real close to me, so close that your hair brushed against my cheek. You took the marker in your fingers and began to write on my arm. It took a long time, but when you pulled away to let me read it, it said: 'This is a magic cast that will make everything you're scared of go away.'"
"Even though you scribbled it messily, I could discern what you wrote. I didn't know what to say to you, I just smiled, thinking about all the frogs outside vanishing to somewhere far away. I wanted you to draw more, so that's what we did But, I couldn't remember anything else after that."
Your touch reappeared with more confidence, gliding down his cheek, his throat, and settling to the front of his chest. He had gone to turn his head, still attached to you but looking through the balcony entryway and the shadows of the bedroom.
He waited until he could hear your voice.
"That was...some dream, Chas. I wonder what it could mean."
He hadn’t thought about that. What could it mean? Anything and everything he supposed. You let out a sigh,
"I think the last dream I had was about me playing the piano in school."
Chas hummed, suddenly riveted, you playing? That was certainly news to him. You only showed your skills in other areas.
You smiled, taking a moment to consider, "Yes."
"I love playing, but I am nowhere as great as you are. You've got this way about performing that makes it look effortless. You play freely, pieces that I know are the most complicated. I can't do none of that."
This is where Chas entered a mental block, despite the shade of him glowing nearly sanguine. He knew how it went with you. A willful thing who declares every word with sure conviction.
You never missed an opportunity to speak to him with firm approval, challenging his diffident mind on everything. Taking how gifted he was with a piano, he grappled with accepting that he was as good as you say. (He would if it was coming from anyone.)
Though his image had become so important to him in these past few years. All the eyes of his elders, friends—even his contemporaries were a constant force.
Chas thought that shaping his image for them had become taxing, the most formidable thing.
When your lips formed around those words, the accolade, the delight in your voice. He was tortured with it, repeatedly with no other stressor coming close.
If you did enough in one day, he could feel an ounce of acceptance for it. But, he wouldn't be able to grasp those words for long.
There was a reservation that tossed around in his mind, most frequently in those days he spent with you. Why?
Chas looked back up at your face. "Why do you hold me to such high regard?"
This time you did stop, but you tilted your head down and scanned his face for a little while. Soon, he could feel your fingers tap the center of his chest. With your head, you gestured for him to sit up, off of your lap.
When Chas untangled himself from you, he let go of the blanket, sliding his hands back to brace his weight. He stiffened them at the elbow to support his torso up. And, just as you did, his legs stretched out before him.
You abandoned your previous spot by the railing, rotating to drape over his thighs. At this moment you were just about eye level with him, your body, and his bare before the night.
His abdomen tensed under the light drag of your nails.
You had intended to pierce his eyes with yours. It was only made obvious the way you took hold of his jaw, a different grip than he ever felt from you.
"I'm not very good with words," you began.
Lightning struck in the western horizon, crackling and casting the image so vividly in your irises. It was right then, he could hear a thumping in his ears.
"For me, it's everything that you are. The way you do things, walk through life…You give yourself to everyone, no matter the cost. I've never seen anything like it."
You crept up and stroked the bones in his cheeks, so gently that he thought he'd never felt it. But if Chas could see from your position, he would notice the mindless patterns you were drawing.
"This life is fleeting, you know? Nothing will last, you, me, our friends, family. Even the things we make won't be here forever. It’s just that...something about you bends those rules."
And you grinned, again, with a particular intent. One of your brows rose a fraction as if you were sharing an inside joke with him. Though, he was looking at a puzzle. You were hard to read, always were. Chas got used to it in the time he spent with you. He chalks it up to the way you handled yourself
—but you were never this much.
This night you were some sort of the zenith of riddles. What were you hiding?
A million things could have been behind it. Chas was musing but he said nothing. To be honest with himself, he hadn't been able to find an adequate reply.
You leaned in real close, just like the dream, only, your words danced on his lips.
"There's something…thriving inside you Chas. I think it will last until the end of time."
You pulled back and came another crack of thunder. This one lingered and stretched wide above your heads. Nothing else could be heard between you two.
“That’s why I hold so much respect for you, there’s no one else like you.”
Chas exhaled a long bated breath, disconnecting your eye contact.
He'd begun to feel nauseated. He let his head fall back to look up at the sky, hoping that the cool air would settle him back down. Chas held his focus upward, steadfastly, while your fingers found purchase in his hair.
Eventually, there was a wet smack, a light tap in the middle of his forehead. Then there were more, dozens landing on the balcony floor and the tops of your heads. The sprinkle escalated to a blanket of rain.
He could feel you steal a tender look at his dripping face. You were whimsical when you said it,
"Looks like rain."
Chas placed a glance at his dark surroundings, seeking the nearest interstate. He picked up sporadic wanderers. The tops of their heads glowed under the amber streetlights.
Around each bend of the winding streets there seemed to be someone. Upon his departure from the city, a small group of young adults flickered in his rearview before they disappeared into the gloom.
He wondered why his hands shook, why he couldn't seem to steady them on the wheel. He would tighten his grip on the leather, but there was a shiver each time he removed his fingers to glide through his hair.
Chas had a handle on how to drive this vehicle, he was sure of it. So he turned the volume dial on the radio up.
He rolled the windows down, let the air flood the space and grab at his skin. The wind whipped sheets of paper about in the back seat, spilling them out the opened windows and leaving them forgotten on the empty highway.
He leaned his elbow on the metal rim of the window, taking hold of the wheel in his right hand.
There are neon green signs. Cities and attractions approach in random distances: a quarter of a mile, two and a half. He wants to eyeball what is to offer. What was listed on the signs again? He squints as he gazes down the stretch of the road. He had passed by those placards quicker than he realized.
Chas would dwell, but—did it matter?
Listen, he could drive all night. He didn't have a clue what was to be on the other side of this city, the state. This foreign land and all of the new wonders within it, Chas was a newcomer. He'd been too occupied in the past few days to sight-see.
Yet the gas tank was full. He had nothing to call his attention, nothing to fasten him whatsoever. He could do as he pleased as if he was on the stretch of a vacation. He was.
The boy was just passing through.
He went underneath an overpass, another city limit was swiftly approaching. Indubitably, he did not recognize the name.
The melody of a song comes in from the speaker, and Chas reminisces for a spell.
"What are we?" he asked while you were busying yourself with unknotting his tie.
The sun was falling behind the clouds, and in that old room where he was beckoned Chas saw pieces of dust dance by your head.
Your uneven breaths pushed them away.
Then those very breaths were captured in the juncture of his neck. You had removed the constructing fabric from his collar, kissing down and down, until you couldn't reach past the ridge of his collarbone. Little pink marks were to soon rise in the aftermath.
His eyes slid shut when you reached to untuck the shirt from his belt.
"What do you mean?"
Chas inched into the fog between your knees, not helping his fingers to rid the fabric from your skin. You twisted, sliding your bottom further on the surface of an old table, rattling about books and trinkets.
You took the time to unzip your jacket. Beads of sweat accumulated on your neck. His eyes took in a droplet flowing down and vanishing under your uniform. He wet his lower lip and his palms fell to the tops of your thighs.
You were red-hot, burning him up. How does he say this?
"I mean...what are we? You and I."
Butterflies chewed at the lining of his stomach. He was more anxious than he had ever remembered, skin clammy and sticky but you wouldn't have known the difference.
There had been an understanding, yet the line began to blur during the weeks to months between you two. He would feel sure with himself, confident in what he was feeling. Then you would do something that shatters all that.
Under those thick lashes, he met the color of your eyes. There was an expression that was light as air, almost too broad. Even more weight flowed into his gut, seeing the ludic curvature to the corner of your lip.
You wound your fingers over the back of his neck and brought his mouth to yours. There was a vibration coming from your lungs, the familiar melody of your laugh.
You pulled away here and there, murmuring,
"We're just friends, yeah?"
Chas was brought so close, he thought he would fall into the table. He made a move to nod his head, humming a low confirmation. “Yeah.” He knew that, but…
His lips were suddenly released. The tip of your nose brushed along his, and for a second or two, you shared the same air.
You grasped him with your other hand, trailing more wet spots down his chin, surely picking up the small pricks of hair there. When you reached that point where his pulse lied—he stumbled, hips falling forward.
He wasn't able to control what arose from his throat. You were the same. Chas pressed onward and your voices were laced with hushed release, both echoing into the empty room.
Wider, your thighs opened. His hands were rehearsed, shifting the most sensitive spot on your skin, taking hold, and lifting.
He dug into you to the point where his belly touched yours, forgetting what his last thought had been. Until he could hear you, quietly, teeth grazing the shell of his ear,
"We're friends who like to do this."
Over and over and over again. It had become more than an occasional blip, ignoring the importance of where he was or what he was doing at the time. What if he was in class? During a meeting with someone higher up? Or when he’s staring at a wall?
He thought about you far more than a friend should have. Much more than what should have been the understanding. (Whatever that originally was.) He lost the ability to distinguish what was, what you originally wanted out of this companionship.
And did you come to realize it?
There was an unsettling feeling inside of him. Christ, you saw past the veil he strung up, after all that time. The lingering looks, the book with your name scrawled in it about a thousand times or more. You stared at his boyish face and you were appalled by what you saw. Obsessive, wretched, flawed.
Well, then it made sense then, why it went the way it had or why it went at all.
Everything seemed to be flowing for the longest time, flowing continuously in the same direction. You still took his hand in yours and you still laughed in a dulcet tone.
You'd tugged him out of his dorm room late at night after everything was quiet. He was greedy and drank everything up.
He could take it away by the last words you spoke to him, the last image of your face, or the weight of your voice in his ears. It was complicated, and he couldn't understand—
"I’m not staying in this town anymore. I want to get out, be exposed to more than this."
Chas heard the song fade and the radio station shift to another. He had taken a right after departing from the highway, following the path of an old Mazda.
The street lamps were softer than the city he left from, the temperature of each bulb matched, never flickering. Chas didn't sense unease, no. The atmosphere of this place was placid. There hadn't been much wind, the strange sounds of the night.
The number of people out was scarce, (unlike the last town). If you could see someone out and about they moved rapidly, almost like they rushed to get home.
He shifted his eyesight and noticed the windows of a few businesses illuminate. The smell of grease and meat wafted up to his nose.
Light was approaching from the east, the dark indigo sky transformed to violet.
There was another hour before morning came and the boy still couldn’t figure out where to go.
He wasn’t running, nothing of the sort was in his mind. Only the feeling of finally moving, getting outside, and feeling the fresh air on his skin. He saw new, experienced new. He believes that, well, if he drives enough maybe he will start to feel better.
Ah, he wonders what you would think. ‘Where would they say I should go?’
He can hear your voice in his ears, saying ‘Go. Go as far as you can until you feel satisfied with what you see. Find something beautiful.’
And, Chas wants to stop to think about what that entails, what you would have considered beautiful. You were particular, a little unusual with your selections. He remembers how you collected beer bottle caps with a specific font on each one, or your affinity for yellow-colored notepaper.
He struggles with his memory for a moment or two, finding the car taking a left at the light.
He looks up and the Mazda is no longer in front of him, the multi-laned road is revealed to be empty and he is the only one cruising west. In the smudged mirror, he saw no sign of headlights, no people, no sudden movement.
The reflection of the town behind him only shone back, with the barely noticeable sway of trees.
In the air, he can smell something faint. At the start, he can’t place his finger on it. What and how to describe it? He wants to say that it reminds him of his grandparents, their amazing home with the high stone archways, the land stretching to the ocean.
That’s what hits him, the sea. He can envision the waves crash and pull back now, how hypnotic it was to him as a child. The color was bluer than anything else.
The scent of the brine and the fish grow stronger as he passes several neighborhood streets. Soon enough he starts to believe that he’s found his answer for you.
He met you in a lone part of the local library, where the walls saw thousands of students from decades past and were in dire need of renovating.
It was private, though, that's why you wrote the location down on a sliver of paper and pressed it into his hand. He was distracted when you had, eyes probably glued to a book or two.
But he didn't forget. There was a peculiar way that you didn't stop. You didn't tell Chas where you were going. When he brought his eyes up to the world around him you had been long gone.
So he was there, a hand rubbing at his ironed blazer and the other holding the paper up. He stood outside and double-checked the number on the building before walking up the front steps.
His eyes were taking in all that you had on the table. There were more stacks of books than he was able to count, more sheets of paper, pencils, note cards. On the floor close by your feet were crumpled up sheets. That was when he saw your damp cheeks and the mess your hair was in.
You removed your head from your hands and the look you gave was reminiscent of someone lost.
“I can’t figure this out, Chas. This paper...it’s due tomorrow morning and I don’t understand what to put down.” (You had no one else to go to.)
Chas had been unsure in that instant, without a clue of why. ‘Think’ he would tell himself. Your eyes were so dim when he peered right in them he couldn’t help but hold his breath.
He remained stiff in front of you. In his hand resided the directions to the library, but it slipped and fell to the floor. Your tears dripped from your cheeks and landed on the crumpled paper, mixing with the ink on the surface of the pages, staining them.
It took a moment for the boy to move his legs, his eyebrows rose and pinched together as he crouched close. To your left was where you opened up, his hand took hold of the pencil from your hand and set it down.
Your chin was nudged upward between his index and thumb. And right then he could see past your reddened eyes, “Hey...hey hush now. I’m right here. It’s going to be alright.”
“Is it?” You softly bit. “I feel so dumb, I can’t see the answers right now.”
You brought the back of your hand up to rub at your eyes, and Chas frowned. He glanced at all of the papers on your desk, all of the scribbled words. To his knowledge, he understood that you were turning in a final paper.
His last day had been that day, only earlier and involving math and science. But that didn’t mean that Chas wouldn’t know the feeling you had in your chest. All the pressure building up. He loathed watching your body sink in that chair.
The details and the guidelines for your assignment would have to be determined next, and he questioned you what it all entailed.
“Well…” and you sighed. You carried on telling him about what your Professor wanted, stopping here and there to close your eyes to gather your thoughts. You spend a few minutes doing this, not catching that Chas moved you so that you resided on his lap.
It’s not like you never did this before, there had been only one chair in the room. The boy wasn’t even sure what he had done then, all his attention was focused on your face, the papers on the table.
He remembered you mumbling a sorry into the fabric of his sweater, something about how you should have looked for a second chair but he shushed you again.
This time you let go, you let all of your weight onto him and burrowed yourself closer. He scooted up to the table without any effort. Chas let you watch while he gathered a fresh sheet of paper and a pen. His left hand rubbed up your back, resting there.
In your ear, he whispered, “Let’s see what I can do.”
He had approached an intersection adjacent to the entryway of Leobourg Bay. No other vehicle shared the road with him up until that point. The radio falls silent, as with the rest of the world outside his window. He tilts his head and, the wind didn’t blow, the trees halted their swaying.
A warm-colored light starts to shine, spreading over the car and blanketing his face. Chas takes a breath past his lips, gathering it in to fill every cavity of his lungs. The thumping stays as he enters the crossroad, and in his mind’s eye, he can hear you again.
Another moment passes by until his lids flutter shut, fingers sliding from the wheel of the car.
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