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rainbowfic2015-04-04 02:55 am
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2015-04-04 02:55 am
Clean Again 2
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Corwin (POV), Spenser, Martin, Tyler (who has been mentioned before, but this is his first appearance).
Colors: Clean Again 2 (Full and Strong)
Word Count: 1814
Rating: PG -13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Casual evening at home with friends.
Note: Any sort of commentary fine by me!
“Dude, like… No. No fuckin’ way, I don’t want any of that shit!”
“Suit yourself, Spense.”
“…Oh, fuckin’ fine! I’ll have some. …Tyler, what the crap?! Just give it to me!”
I didn’t see Tyler very often. Usually, Spenser went to him, wherever the heck he even lived. But, sometimes, he’d follow Spenser home and sit on our couch, just kind of Tylering around. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him, because he behaved like no one else I’d ever met. And, well, I wasn’t sure how he felt. About anyone. He was always insulting people for no reason, and he always acted violent when, I suspect, he was trying to act affectionate. Him and Spenser were constantly throwing things and headbutting and taking swings at each other, which seemed to suit both of them just fine, but as a bystander, I always felt like I was about to get caught in their crossfire or something. I think they were probably only friends because Tyler, like Spenser, was always doing weird shit. Tonight, he’d brought an old two-liter soda bottle, a little more than halfway full of some weird murky liquid that he kept idly sipping at. Going on the way he was acting, and the way Spenser wanted some even though he’d already decided it was disgusting, I assumed it had alcohol in it.
“Uh-uh. No way. You disrespect the Swizzle, you don’t get to enjoy the Swizzle. Sorry, bub, but I don’t make the rules. Fuckin’ Swizzle makes the rules. Them’s the breaks!”
They’d had this same conversation about thrice in the last half hour. Each time, I came this close to interjecting. I kind of wanted to taste it, if only to figure out what the stuff even was. Spenser was demanding. Tyler was possessive. Behavior on both sides implied it was disgusting. I was intrigued.
“…Come ooooon.”
“…Will you respect the Swizzle?”
Spenser groaned. For what felt like the millionth time, I thought about how easy it was to imagine him at eleven.
“Yes.”
“…Suit yourself, then.”
He tried to offer the bottle, but Spenser yanked it away before Tyler could make any kind of formal gesture. Then he unscrewed the cap, took a good chug, and immediately clapped his hand over his mouth, like he was holding back barf. After a healthy shudder, he unclasped his hand, took another gulp, and produced a noise that made me think he was going to start crying in pain. Tyler was laughing uproariously. Martin, who had been reading in the recliner next to the couch, gave the night’s first indication that he even knew anyone else was around: a look of bewildered contempt. Eventually, Spenser regained his powers of speech. That it had even disabled them for this long made me wonder why we weren’t just feeding him this stuff all the time.
“…Jesus Assfucking Christ, the hell did you put in this!?”
I sat at attention, hoping this would answer my questions so I wouldn’t have to bother with getingt my mouth ready to ask them. My working theory was that Tyler had a bottle of pruno. But, I wasn’t even sure that pruno wasn’t like champagne, in that it could only properly be called pruno if it was made in a prison. Let alone if this was what it looked like. Tyler squinted at the ceiling, like he couldn’t remember. He was propping his left leg on his arms in a strange way. I didn’t like it, because it kind of looked like one of the involved limbs would pop out of joint if he held the position too long. Spenser told me it was normal, but it still struck me as unnatural. I’d try not to gawk, but I’d always had trouble not staring at things, and making people gawk was half the reason he did it.
“That… Is a good question. I think there’s like… Gin. Sour watermelon. Some of this coffee stuff… That nasty hot pepper vodka I was trying to get rid of. And like, normal vodka. Cheap scotch some douchebag gave me. And… You know what, I don’t even know. Some of the bottles didn‘t have labels.”
Honestly, I’d have been less confused if it was pruno. I decided asking questions would probably be worth it after all.
“But… Why did you do that?”
Spenser was more than happy to answer on Tyler’s behalf.
“Oh, when he like, goes to the liquor store to restock, he pours all his dregs and shit in one bottle so they don’t take up space. That’s the Swizzle!”
“…Why?”
Tyler unscrewed his lips from the bottle, swallowed hard, and belched a belch that I hoped I wouldn’t have to smell.
“…Takes up less space.”
That, apparently, was as good an answer as I was going to get from either of those halfwits. Spenser smacked Tyler on the back of the head. Tyler punched him in the stomach, passed him the bottle, then turned to me and leaned in uncomfortably close.
“So… When that lunkhead’s done, you want a swig?”
I wondered what would happen if I just went and poked Tyler in the eye right then.
“I’m… Good.”
Spenser, still visibly cringing, shoved the bottle right in my face. I thought about swatting it out of his hand, but I’d just end up cleaning the carpet.
“Dude, I thought you liked, I don’t know, all alcohol.”
The smell was intolerable.
“…Not mixed together!”
Caught up in the total novelty of the “Swizzle,” and the lively discussion surrounding same, I’d almost forgotten all about Martin. Until he slammed his book shut with a spectacular bang that made me duck and cover my ears, just trying to avoid the assault of the sound itself. When I regained composure, I thought of those cats that bite you if you stop paying attention to them. Tyler looked personally offended.
“…Can I punch him?”
I was about to tell him no, but it was soon apparent that I was the only one that cared. Like I said, Tyler constantly talks about punching people. Sometimes, he actually does. It’s literally the only way he knows how to interact, and all you can do is go with the flow and get used to him. But, I’d only just barely gotten standard people figured out, so it would probably be a while before I could intuitively grok the chaos that is Tyler. And no one else in the room even batted an eye at him anymore. Still clutching the book in his left hand, Martin insistently held out his right.
“…Spenser, hit me!”
Okay, this was where I had to intervene.
“Spenser, no. He’s like, the world’s cheapest drunk, and that shit’s straight… Well, all the crap it is.”
“…Spenser, yes! Jesus Christ, Corwin, you’re not the fuckin’ king.”
“You get all argumentative and shit! Nobody likes dealing with you.”
“I’m always argumentative and ‘shit…’” He actually used air quotes, which made me think of turning to Tyler and saying that, yes, he could punch him after all. “…Besides, those two goons are drunk as hell and everyone’s dealing with them. Anyway. Spenser. Pass it over here.”
Since Spenser is an uncontained mess who has to do everything in the most destructive way possible, he didn’t so much “pass” the bottle as he did “lob it across the room.” I was sure that the thing was going to bean me in the head, so I rolled ungracefully off the couch, my body trying to make a break for it before my brain could catch up. Tyler found this hysterically funny and just about rolled off himself. Nothing ever really phases Martin, and Spenser pretty much lives his life on the edge of an inappropriate laughing fit, so they remained unchanged. Martin calmly leaned over to fetch the bottle from where it landed, clean on the other side of his chair. All three of us watched him intently as he went to remove the cap and take a swig.
“God, stop staring, you look like a bunch of stupid owls.”
I looked at the floor, Tyler pretended he had to cough, and Spenser kept on staring. Which was alright. He was allowed. Generally, when he did something weird, we all let it slide, because we assumed he either couldn’t help it or just plain didn’t know any better. Martin threw back a healthy gulp from the bottle, then matter-of-factly twisted the cap back on. No comment. No reaction. No anything. I wondered if this confirmed my hunch. See, I’d always privately wondered if Martin was too dead to taste things, because maybe it works sort of like what people always said would happen to me if I didn’t quit smoking. Of course, I could never just come out and ask him, because it’s the exact kind of thing that he’d yell at you for. Like when I watch him holding a book two feet out from his body and suggest that he might need glasses. It isn’t worth the trouble. Still wondering what this meant, I watched him slowly and deliberately rise from the chair, in his usual way. Then, calmly, casually, he walked over to Tyler and clocked him upside the head with the bottle, its hollow plastic producing a weirdly satisfying “thonk.” Martin snarled under his breath.
“The fuck is wrong with you?”
Okay, I guess he can taste things okay. With that done, he resettled in the chair, picked up his book, and didn’t resume reading. He just sat, book open, staring daggers at Tyler from across the room. By now, I was pretty curious.
“Hey, Tyler?”
Tyler’s hands were busy, rubbing the back of his head, combing through his hair, and gathering it back up in the rubber band. Not a hairtie. A thick, blue rubber band, the kind you find on broccoli. I have no idea how I notice these things.
“…What, you wanna crack me over the skull, too, you stupid little shit?!”
(Honestly, I kind of did, but not any more than normal.)
“Uh. No… I was just wondering if I could try some.”
“Sure. Knock yourself out. Just don’t knock me out, got it?”
Still glaring from across the room, Martin gave Tyler the finger. He even did that “invisible hand crank” thing. Tyler still hadn’t passed me the bottle, and for some reason, my first thought was that, in the space of about twelve seconds, he forgot.
“Okay. I’m… Like, right over here.”
Tyler must have felt like being a lazy shithead, so he passed it to Spenser, who passed it to me. I shook the bottle, which didn’t help the color. I opened the cap, I took a sip. I resisted the very physical urge to spit everywhere. I glanced at Martin. Martin shrugged. I made the universal “gag” gesture.
There wasn’t much else to be said.
starphotographsStory: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Corwin (POV), Spenser, Martin, Tyler (who has been mentioned before, but this is his first appearance).
Colors: Clean Again 2 (Full and Strong)
Word Count: 1814
Rating: PG -13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Casual evening at home with friends.
Note: Any sort of commentary fine by me!
“Dude, like… No. No fuckin’ way, I don’t want any of that shit!”
“Suit yourself, Spense.”
“…Oh, fuckin’ fine! I’ll have some. …Tyler, what the crap?! Just give it to me!”
I didn’t see Tyler very often. Usually, Spenser went to him, wherever the heck he even lived. But, sometimes, he’d follow Spenser home and sit on our couch, just kind of Tylering around. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him, because he behaved like no one else I’d ever met. And, well, I wasn’t sure how he felt. About anyone. He was always insulting people for no reason, and he always acted violent when, I suspect, he was trying to act affectionate. Him and Spenser were constantly throwing things and headbutting and taking swings at each other, which seemed to suit both of them just fine, but as a bystander, I always felt like I was about to get caught in their crossfire or something. I think they were probably only friends because Tyler, like Spenser, was always doing weird shit. Tonight, he’d brought an old two-liter soda bottle, a little more than halfway full of some weird murky liquid that he kept idly sipping at. Going on the way he was acting, and the way Spenser wanted some even though he’d already decided it was disgusting, I assumed it had alcohol in it.
“Uh-uh. No way. You disrespect the Swizzle, you don’t get to enjoy the Swizzle. Sorry, bub, but I don’t make the rules. Fuckin’ Swizzle makes the rules. Them’s the breaks!”
They’d had this same conversation about thrice in the last half hour. Each time, I came this close to interjecting. I kind of wanted to taste it, if only to figure out what the stuff even was. Spenser was demanding. Tyler was possessive. Behavior on both sides implied it was disgusting. I was intrigued.
“…Come ooooon.”
“…Will you respect the Swizzle?”
Spenser groaned. For what felt like the millionth time, I thought about how easy it was to imagine him at eleven.
“Yes.”
“…Suit yourself, then.”
He tried to offer the bottle, but Spenser yanked it away before Tyler could make any kind of formal gesture. Then he unscrewed the cap, took a good chug, and immediately clapped his hand over his mouth, like he was holding back barf. After a healthy shudder, he unclasped his hand, took another gulp, and produced a noise that made me think he was going to start crying in pain. Tyler was laughing uproariously. Martin, who had been reading in the recliner next to the couch, gave the night’s first indication that he even knew anyone else was around: a look of bewildered contempt. Eventually, Spenser regained his powers of speech. That it had even disabled them for this long made me wonder why we weren’t just feeding him this stuff all the time.
“…Jesus Assfucking Christ, the hell did you put in this!?”
I sat at attention, hoping this would answer my questions so I wouldn’t have to bother with getingt my mouth ready to ask them. My working theory was that Tyler had a bottle of pruno. But, I wasn’t even sure that pruno wasn’t like champagne, in that it could only properly be called pruno if it was made in a prison. Let alone if this was what it looked like. Tyler squinted at the ceiling, like he couldn’t remember. He was propping his left leg on his arms in a strange way. I didn’t like it, because it kind of looked like one of the involved limbs would pop out of joint if he held the position too long. Spenser told me it was normal, but it still struck me as unnatural. I’d try not to gawk, but I’d always had trouble not staring at things, and making people gawk was half the reason he did it.
“That… Is a good question. I think there’s like… Gin. Sour watermelon. Some of this coffee stuff… That nasty hot pepper vodka I was trying to get rid of. And like, normal vodka. Cheap scotch some douchebag gave me. And… You know what, I don’t even know. Some of the bottles didn‘t have labels.”
Honestly, I’d have been less confused if it was pruno. I decided asking questions would probably be worth it after all.
“But… Why did you do that?”
Spenser was more than happy to answer on Tyler’s behalf.
“Oh, when he like, goes to the liquor store to restock, he pours all his dregs and shit in one bottle so they don’t take up space. That’s the Swizzle!”
“…Why?”
Tyler unscrewed his lips from the bottle, swallowed hard, and belched a belch that I hoped I wouldn’t have to smell.
“…Takes up less space.”
That, apparently, was as good an answer as I was going to get from either of those halfwits. Spenser smacked Tyler on the back of the head. Tyler punched him in the stomach, passed him the bottle, then turned to me and leaned in uncomfortably close.
“So… When that lunkhead’s done, you want a swig?”
I wondered what would happen if I just went and poked Tyler in the eye right then.
“I’m… Good.”
Spenser, still visibly cringing, shoved the bottle right in my face. I thought about swatting it out of his hand, but I’d just end up cleaning the carpet.
“Dude, I thought you liked, I don’t know, all alcohol.”
The smell was intolerable.
“…Not mixed together!”
Caught up in the total novelty of the “Swizzle,” and the lively discussion surrounding same, I’d almost forgotten all about Martin. Until he slammed his book shut with a spectacular bang that made me duck and cover my ears, just trying to avoid the assault of the sound itself. When I regained composure, I thought of those cats that bite you if you stop paying attention to them. Tyler looked personally offended.
“…Can I punch him?”
I was about to tell him no, but it was soon apparent that I was the only one that cared. Like I said, Tyler constantly talks about punching people. Sometimes, he actually does. It’s literally the only way he knows how to interact, and all you can do is go with the flow and get used to him. But, I’d only just barely gotten standard people figured out, so it would probably be a while before I could intuitively grok the chaos that is Tyler. And no one else in the room even batted an eye at him anymore. Still clutching the book in his left hand, Martin insistently held out his right.
“…Spenser, hit me!”
Okay, this was where I had to intervene.
“Spenser, no. He’s like, the world’s cheapest drunk, and that shit’s straight… Well, all the crap it is.”
“…Spenser, yes! Jesus Christ, Corwin, you’re not the fuckin’ king.”
“You get all argumentative and shit! Nobody likes dealing with you.”
“I’m always argumentative and ‘shit…’” He actually used air quotes, which made me think of turning to Tyler and saying that, yes, he could punch him after all. “…Besides, those two goons are drunk as hell and everyone’s dealing with them. Anyway. Spenser. Pass it over here.”
Since Spenser is an uncontained mess who has to do everything in the most destructive way possible, he didn’t so much “pass” the bottle as he did “lob it across the room.” I was sure that the thing was going to bean me in the head, so I rolled ungracefully off the couch, my body trying to make a break for it before my brain could catch up. Tyler found this hysterically funny and just about rolled off himself. Nothing ever really phases Martin, and Spenser pretty much lives his life on the edge of an inappropriate laughing fit, so they remained unchanged. Martin calmly leaned over to fetch the bottle from where it landed, clean on the other side of his chair. All three of us watched him intently as he went to remove the cap and take a swig.
“God, stop staring, you look like a bunch of stupid owls.”
I looked at the floor, Tyler pretended he had to cough, and Spenser kept on staring. Which was alright. He was allowed. Generally, when he did something weird, we all let it slide, because we assumed he either couldn’t help it or just plain didn’t know any better. Martin threw back a healthy gulp from the bottle, then matter-of-factly twisted the cap back on. No comment. No reaction. No anything. I wondered if this confirmed my hunch. See, I’d always privately wondered if Martin was too dead to taste things, because maybe it works sort of like what people always said would happen to me if I didn’t quit smoking. Of course, I could never just come out and ask him, because it’s the exact kind of thing that he’d yell at you for. Like when I watch him holding a book two feet out from his body and suggest that he might need glasses. It isn’t worth the trouble. Still wondering what this meant, I watched him slowly and deliberately rise from the chair, in his usual way. Then, calmly, casually, he walked over to Tyler and clocked him upside the head with the bottle, its hollow plastic producing a weirdly satisfying “thonk.” Martin snarled under his breath.
“The fuck is wrong with you?”
Okay, I guess he can taste things okay. With that done, he resettled in the chair, picked up his book, and didn’t resume reading. He just sat, book open, staring daggers at Tyler from across the room. By now, I was pretty curious.
“Hey, Tyler?”
Tyler’s hands were busy, rubbing the back of his head, combing through his hair, and gathering it back up in the rubber band. Not a hairtie. A thick, blue rubber band, the kind you find on broccoli. I have no idea how I notice these things.
“…What, you wanna crack me over the skull, too, you stupid little shit?!”
(Honestly, I kind of did, but not any more than normal.)
“Uh. No… I was just wondering if I could try some.”
“Sure. Knock yourself out. Just don’t knock me out, got it?”
Still glaring from across the room, Martin gave Tyler the finger. He even did that “invisible hand crank” thing. Tyler still hadn’t passed me the bottle, and for some reason, my first thought was that, in the space of about twelve seconds, he forgot.
“Okay. I’m… Like, right over here.”
Tyler must have felt like being a lazy shithead, so he passed it to Spenser, who passed it to me. I shook the bottle, which didn’t help the color. I opened the cap, I took a sip. I resisted the very physical urge to spit everywhere. I glanced at Martin. Martin shrugged. I made the universal “gag” gesture.
There wasn’t much else to be said.
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And thanks! Tyler isn't part of the core group, but when he shows up... Well, this. XD
Thanks for reading!
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I do like cinnamon candy, and cinnamon candy flavors in my booze, though, so I'm glad Fireball-type products became a thing.
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Fireball + Hot Cider = Best "it's really cold outside" drink ever.
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YES XD
That it had even disabled them for this long made me wonder why we weren’t just feeding him this stuff all the time.
YESSSS.
But, I wasn’t even sure that pruno wasn’t like champagne, in that it could only properly be called pruno if it was made in a prison.
YE-... I think I broked something laughing.
On one hand, my inner bartender weeps. On the other- I've made punch that way already.
“Spenser, no. He’s like, the world’s cheapest drunk, and that shit’s straight… Well, all the crap it is.”
I just. I broked another thing.
Can "stupid owls" be my new thing?
And Martin can taste! I have been educated and this is totally on my list for things to read to Mum before Nightvale.
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AND PUNCH IS FOR RANDOM. Maybe not THAT random, but still.
IT SO CAN!
...Truth be told, before I started writing this, I didn't even know that was a question. XD So I asked and answered it in the space of a paragraph.
DRAMATIC READINGS OF UNDEAD CYBORGS DRINKING DISGUSTING BOOZE. Your mom's gonna be super entertained. :P
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Thanks for reading!