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rainbowfic2015-06-26 05:27 am
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2015-06-26 05:27 am
Dragon Scale Green 8, Milk Bottle 19
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Corwin (POV), Martin, Spenser
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Dragon Scale Green, Milk Bottle, Summer Carnival)
Colors: Dragon Scale Green 8 ("Noble dragons don't have friends. The nearest they can get to the idea is an enemy who is still alive." ― Terry Pratchett), Milk Bottle 19 (Face Paint)
Word Count: 1,058
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Martin just wants a brother in arms. Who’ll take up arms against him.
Note: This is very silly! (All commentary fine as usual.)
Drawn Together
I don’t think I was the friend Martin wanted.
It’s not like we don’t get along, or like we never got close, or like shit hasn’t been great. It’s more that I’m the wrong kind of person. There are things he needs out of interactions that I can’t give him, and he probably wouldn’t have approached me at all if he’d known a little more about me. I have a blunt streak that comes out at the worst possible times, but I don’t know how to argue. I’m not a team player, but I don’t know how to compete.
Basically, he saw the wrong side of me, and thought he’d finally met his match.
And there’s no way he went very long without realizing that he actually hadn’t. Still, he stuck around anyway. There must be things about me that he didn’t want only because he didn’t know they existed. I think there’s something about the two of us that really works, in a strange sort of way. We’re fundamentally incompatible, and almost mutually incomprehensible. But, I was the first person who could see through his bullshit. He was the first person who could read all my signals. More to the point, we were the first people to see each other as we really are. That’s not a small thing. It pretty much glued us together.
But, I’m still not the friend he wanted.
*****
“…You fucking disaster. You’re drawing a dick on my face, aren’t you?”
Martin had been phased out for a while, lying on the couch, eyes glazed, dead again for a minute, or an hour, or however long it would last this time. It’s just a thing that happens. I’m usually fine with waiting for him to come back around, but not everyone was handling it so well. Spenser, bored out of his mind without someone interesting to antagonize, was bent over him with a marker, doing some elaborate art project with his face. Shadows under the cheekbones. Black in the eye sockets. Vertical lines on the lips. Martin’s blank mask of death was now, well, a Mask of Death. I guess I should have intervened, but I figured it was between the two of them.
“I wasn’t drawin’ any fuckin’ dicks! And you‘re s‘posta be all out to lunch and shit! Go back the way you were!”
Spenser was trying to push Martin’s head back down into the cushions. I guess he thought he could turn him off manually or something.
“What, so you can draw more dicks on my face!?”
“I ain’t drawin’ any damn dicks!”
“Were too! I was blanked out, and you started drawing dicks on my face. I felt the marker, so don’t try to get out of this, you stupid lying asshole.”
“Okay, fine. I was drawing, but I wasn’t drawing dicks. Why just assume dicks? Gimme some credit, man!”
Martin ran a hand over his eyes and mouth, which smeared the lines a little and made him look like the skeletal ghost of a dead coal miner. He examined his blackened hand, looking bewildered at the sheer amount of ink that had made it onto his face while he’d been elsewhere.
“…Spenser, the hell did you do to my face?”
“I was makin’ you into a fuckin’ skull!”
“A skull?”
Martin looked blank, but it wasn’t dead-blank. It was a kind of blank look that he’d always gotten. Even, and especially, when he was fully alive and healthy as anything. This was “about to start some shit” blank. Spenser, who didn’t know this, was smiley and oblivious.
“Yeah, man! Only got half your fuckin’ teeth-lines in, though, so it kinda looks like shit.”
“So, you just drew a goddamn Halloween mask on my face, in permanent ink?”
“No… Well, yeah.”
“You stupid motherfucker, I’m going to kill you!”
Martin started trying to kill him, but the murder weapon was a paperback book, so it was going to be a while.
“The ink isn’t actually permanent! Those markers lie!”
“I don’t care! It’s my head, I don’t wanna be a fuckin’ skull!”
Martin is small and weak and half falling apart, but Spenser is surprisingly easy to knock off balance when he isn’t prepared. They fell to the floor and Martin pinned him, still trying to cave his head in with that book.
“But you look so cool! …Ow, Martin, get offa me, Jesus!”
“Like hell I’m getting off! I’m going to reach my hand down your throat, rip out your windpipe, and strangle you with it!”
“That wouldn’t even work! You’ve got my fuckin’ windpipe, the hell are you stranglin’!?”
…Oh, you poor fucktard. If you want Martin to destroy you, all you have to do is even insinuate that he might be wrong. He screamed at the top of his rotten lungs.
“I’d be making an example of you!”
Spenser wasn’t dying quickly enough from just getting smacked with the book, so Martin rolled it up and used it as a cudgel. I was contemplating getting a bucket of water, or maybe putting something they both liked on the television, but the situation started resolving itself. I think the fact that Spenser had to be the voice of reason speaks volumes about Martin’s disposition.
“Martin… I know it’s, like, me talkin’ here, but you’re gettin’ a little intense.”
“…Like hell I am!”
“All I did was draw on your face! You don’t get, like, the death penalty for that… And you look cool.”
About to bring the book down again, Martin stopped mid-swing.
“…I do?”
“Yeah, man! Check it out!”
Spenser grabbed his phone off the table, then turned on the front camera. He passed it to Martin, who stared at it for a while, cycling through different facial expressions, trying to figure out what he thought.
“Hm. That is kinda badass, yeah.”
Before Martin even said anything, Spenser had the cap off the marker, grinning in anticipation.
“…Let me finish!?”
Martin shrugged.
“Oh, fine. If it makes you that happy.”
He laid back down on the couch. Spenser uncapped the marker and started scribbling on his lips. Before long, they were laughing, like the whole thing had been some great game they’d made up together.
I don’t think I was the friend Martin wanted.
I’m not even sure if what he wanted was a friend.
starphotographsStory: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Corwin (POV), Martin, Spenser
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Dragon Scale Green, Milk Bottle, Summer Carnival)
Colors: Dragon Scale Green 8 ("Noble dragons don't have friends. The nearest they can get to the idea is an enemy who is still alive." ― Terry Pratchett), Milk Bottle 19 (Face Paint)
Word Count: 1,058
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Martin just wants a brother in arms. Who’ll take up arms against him.
Note: This is very silly! (All commentary fine as usual.)
I don’t think I was the friend Martin wanted.
It’s not like we don’t get along, or like we never got close, or like shit hasn’t been great. It’s more that I’m the wrong kind of person. There are things he needs out of interactions that I can’t give him, and he probably wouldn’t have approached me at all if he’d known a little more about me. I have a blunt streak that comes out at the worst possible times, but I don’t know how to argue. I’m not a team player, but I don’t know how to compete.
Basically, he saw the wrong side of me, and thought he’d finally met his match.
And there’s no way he went very long without realizing that he actually hadn’t. Still, he stuck around anyway. There must be things about me that he didn’t want only because he didn’t know they existed. I think there’s something about the two of us that really works, in a strange sort of way. We’re fundamentally incompatible, and almost mutually incomprehensible. But, I was the first person who could see through his bullshit. He was the first person who could read all my signals. More to the point, we were the first people to see each other as we really are. That’s not a small thing. It pretty much glued us together.
But, I’m still not the friend he wanted.
“…You fucking disaster. You’re drawing a dick on my face, aren’t you?”
Martin had been phased out for a while, lying on the couch, eyes glazed, dead again for a minute, or an hour, or however long it would last this time. It’s just a thing that happens. I’m usually fine with waiting for him to come back around, but not everyone was handling it so well. Spenser, bored out of his mind without someone interesting to antagonize, was bent over him with a marker, doing some elaborate art project with his face. Shadows under the cheekbones. Black in the eye sockets. Vertical lines on the lips. Martin’s blank mask of death was now, well, a Mask of Death. I guess I should have intervened, but I figured it was between the two of them.
“I wasn’t drawin’ any fuckin’ dicks! And you‘re s‘posta be all out to lunch and shit! Go back the way you were!”
Spenser was trying to push Martin’s head back down into the cushions. I guess he thought he could turn him off manually or something.
“What, so you can draw more dicks on my face!?”
“I ain’t drawin’ any damn dicks!”
“Were too! I was blanked out, and you started drawing dicks on my face. I felt the marker, so don’t try to get out of this, you stupid lying asshole.”
“Okay, fine. I was drawing, but I wasn’t drawing dicks. Why just assume dicks? Gimme some credit, man!”
Martin ran a hand over his eyes and mouth, which smeared the lines a little and made him look like the skeletal ghost of a dead coal miner. He examined his blackened hand, looking bewildered at the sheer amount of ink that had made it onto his face while he’d been elsewhere.
“…Spenser, the hell did you do to my face?”
“I was makin’ you into a fuckin’ skull!”
“A skull?”
Martin looked blank, but it wasn’t dead-blank. It was a kind of blank look that he’d always gotten. Even, and especially, when he was fully alive and healthy as anything. This was “about to start some shit” blank. Spenser, who didn’t know this, was smiley and oblivious.
“Yeah, man! Only got half your fuckin’ teeth-lines in, though, so it kinda looks like shit.”
“So, you just drew a goddamn Halloween mask on my face, in permanent ink?”
“No… Well, yeah.”
“You stupid motherfucker, I’m going to kill you!”
Martin started trying to kill him, but the murder weapon was a paperback book, so it was going to be a while.
“The ink isn’t actually permanent! Those markers lie!”
“I don’t care! It’s my head, I don’t wanna be a fuckin’ skull!”
Martin is small and weak and half falling apart, but Spenser is surprisingly easy to knock off balance when he isn’t prepared. They fell to the floor and Martin pinned him, still trying to cave his head in with that book.
“But you look so cool! …Ow, Martin, get offa me, Jesus!”
“Like hell I’m getting off! I’m going to reach my hand down your throat, rip out your windpipe, and strangle you with it!”
“That wouldn’t even work! You’ve got my fuckin’ windpipe, the hell are you stranglin’!?”
…Oh, you poor fucktard. If you want Martin to destroy you, all you have to do is even insinuate that he might be wrong. He screamed at the top of his rotten lungs.
“I’d be making an example of you!”
Spenser wasn’t dying quickly enough from just getting smacked with the book, so Martin rolled it up and used it as a cudgel. I was contemplating getting a bucket of water, or maybe putting something they both liked on the television, but the situation started resolving itself. I think the fact that Spenser had to be the voice of reason speaks volumes about Martin’s disposition.
“Martin… I know it’s, like, me talkin’ here, but you’re gettin’ a little intense.”
“…Like hell I am!”
“All I did was draw on your face! You don’t get, like, the death penalty for that… And you look cool.”
About to bring the book down again, Martin stopped mid-swing.
“…I do?”
“Yeah, man! Check it out!”
Spenser grabbed his phone off the table, then turned on the front camera. He passed it to Martin, who stared at it for a while, cycling through different facial expressions, trying to figure out what he thought.
“Hm. That is kinda badass, yeah.”
Before Martin even said anything, Spenser had the cap off the marker, grinning in anticipation.
“…Let me finish!?”
Martin shrugged.
“Oh, fine. If it makes you that happy.”
He laid back down on the couch. Spenser uncapped the marker and started scribbling on his lips. Before long, they were laughing, like the whole thing had been some great game they’d made up together.
I don’t think I was the friend Martin wanted.
I’m not even sure if what he wanted was a friend.
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