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midnightdiddleAnd it's an original. Gasp? Gasp.
The seat was hard plastic, and when the lights from outside the window flashed by, it looked almost red. The seats in front were the same, a sickly red under the speeding yellow lights. Ethan shifted, his knees hitting the seat in front, and he leaned a little to the side, until his shoulder hit Adam's.
"You okay?" he asked softly. He waited a moment, but Adam didn't move. Ethan leaned back in the seat, until his head was resting against the top of the hard plastic, and stared up at the ceiling of the bus.
x
Adam, their parents said, was special. Ethan didn't agree, not for a long time. Adam was irritating, a little snot-faced kid who tagged along, shirking piano lessons and ignoring homework. Adam, their parents said, was a genius.
Ethan almost hated Adam, for a while. He hated the way Adam got away with anything, hated the way Adam never had to try to get anything. Everything was handed to Adam, on a silver platter. Adam was a little brat, who never had to work.
Adam got smacked around a few times, too. Sometimes, when Adam got home from school, he'd have a bloody nose, and one time, when Adam came home, he had a bruise over his eye. Sometimes, when Adam was sniveling in the front room, sitting on the piano bench, Ethan would feel a little bad for Adam.
Sometimes Ethan almost loved Adam.
x
"Adam," Ethan said softly, and he pinched Adam's arm, through the heavy sweatshirt, stained with dirt and sweat.
Adam shifted a little, this time, pulling his arm away, and slumping further down in the seat. Ethan leaned across Adam, pointing out the window.
"Look, Adam."
x
Adam left for a private school when he was nine and a half. The school year wasn't even half over, but their parents packed up some of Adam's things. A few books, a model car, and some action figures. They packed up his piano books, too, and his metronome, and his books on theories and composers and dictating.
When Adam left, the leaves on the tree out front were red and brown and black, and they were rotting on the ground, too. Ethan shuffled his feet in the leaves, watching his shoes squelch in the rot, and it smelled like old mud. Adam was taken away in a blue car, and Ethan kicked a clump of moldy leaves after it.
The leaves never hit the car.
x
Adam turned his face away from the window resolutely, and his breath, when it hit Ethan's cheek, was hot, and smelled of alcohol. His eyes were bloodshot, and looked red and puffy. Ethan wondered if Adam had been crying.
"You okay?" Ethan asked again, and he leaned back into his own seat, stretching his legs to hit the seat in front of him. He pretending like he wasn't trying to trap Adam in.
"I'm fine," Adam snapped, and his voice sounded strangled. He swallowed, adam's apple bobbing, and his skin was pale under the scraggly beginning of a beard.
x
Adam came home when he was fifteen, carrying a guitar and a bag full of sheetmusic. All the music was his, notes written with pencil lead, words scrawled beneath the measures. Ethan looked at all the music, songs about girls and sex and drugs, and he listened to Adam and their parents scream. Adam slammed his way out of the house, and he left the guitar and the music.
Ethan sat in his room, looking at all the songs, and late that night, when their parents were at the store, Ethan sat on the piano bench in the front room, picking out keys, playing the songs in short, jerky movements.
Adam never came home.
x
Ethan stared at his hands, hanging between his knees. He leaned forward, hunched up, then leaned back, stretching. The seat dug into his back, and his legs, and his arms, and he groanedm rubbing at his eyes. They felt dry and itchy, and they watered when he yawned.
"You tired?" he asked Adam, and Adam looked away, towards the window. Ethan licked his lips, and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "Cold?"
"I'm sorry," Adam answered, and he sounded angry, bitter. His head was leaning against the window, and Ethan watched as it left a smear on the glass.
x
At seventeen, Adam was half-famous in the city. Everyone knew about the conservatory kid, the boy-genius who sat down at pianos in museums and hotels, and played for hours. He slept on the streets, sometimes, when the museum closed down, and the buses were late.
Other times, he'd disappear for weeks, and then he'd reappear, playing on some piano in a coffee shop. Or he'd be sitting in the subway station, picking strings on a guitar, and there would be coins scattered around him. Then he'd disappear again, into some conservatory or another, a music school in the city, or sometimes across the country. After a few weeks, he'd be back, sitting on a broken piano bench, fingers spread over the keys.
Ethan listened to all the gosip, whenever he was in the city. He listened to their parents, too, pleading on the phone for another chance, for another admittance for Adam.
Sometimes Ethan hated Adam.
x
"Doesn't matter," Ethan said, and he pretended to believe it himself. He elbowed Adam, in the ribs, and Adam flinched away, closer to the window. Ethan felt a red-hot stab of pity, or maybe anger, and he looked away, towards the aisle of the bus. There were scraps of papers, trampled magazines with muddy footprints. There was water there, too, melting from slush in the rubber tracks.
Ethan looked back at Adam after a few minutes, and he watched Adam blink slowly, owlishly. "Are you drunk?" he asked, and Adam turned quickly, a defensive look on his face.
"What do you care?" he snapped, and he was turning back towards the window. Ethan looked at Adam's reflection in the mirror, then closed his eyes again, leaning his head against the chair.
"Doesn't matter."
x
They called Adam a rock star when he wasn't even twenty. He was in the newspapers, sometimes, his face in black and white, smearing grey under greasy fingers. Once, he was on TV, and a few times, he was in magazines. Ethan clipped all of the newspapers, and bought all of the magazines, and he even recorded the TV, once. Adam came and went, songs on pianos and electric guitars, screaming and crying and singing, raspy voice and broken eyes.
Adam knocked on Ethan's door, once. Ethan let him in, and Adam sat down on the edge of the banged-up couch, hands hanging between his legs. Ethan sat on the coffee table, and Adam cried a little, in that little sniveling way he always had.
Adam left before morning, and Ethan tried to forget how stoned Adam had been.
x
"You think I'm an idiot?" Adam's voice was low, and almost unheard in the dark. Ethan blinked, sleepily, and stared at the dim lights above the aisle-way.
"You're a genius." He blinked, and the lights flickered in his head. He blinked again, and then closed his eyes. It was too hot, and he fumbled at his coatzipper, yanking at it with numb fingers. "They always said you're a genius."
"Fuck that," Adam said clearly, and his voice sounded very close to Ethan's ear. Ethan tugged at his coatzipper again, then pulled it half-way off. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
"You're an ass," Ethan said angrily, and he fought with the coat, finally tearing his arms out of the sleeves. "You're a stupid ass, and I hate you."
x
Once, Ethan was called to the hospital. He went, and signed a series of papers, writing down social security numbers and driver's license numbers, and numbers for insurance. He handed over a co-payment, and they led Adam out. Adam's hands were bandaged, all around the palm and fingers, and they gave Ethan a slip for medicated salve and instructions for bandaging.
They walked to the bus-stop together, and the bloodstains on Adam's clothes were nearly black in the night.
Ethan almost hated Adam, right then.
x
On the eleventh stop, Ethan stood up, and after a moment, Adam stood up too, stumbling after him. They got off the bus, Adam nearly slipping on the stairs, and Ethan led Adam into the bus terminal, coat hanging off his shoulder. The terminal was chilly, their breath icy-white in the air, and after a few minutes Ethan pulled on his coat again, shoving his fingers into his pockets. Adam sat on a bench, swore angrily, and stood up again. Ethan sat on a bench, and winced at the cold metal. After a few more minutes, Adam sat next to Ethan, and Ethan scooted over, so Adam could sit in the warm spot.
Almost half an hour later, Adam shivered, and Ethan pulled of his coat, handing it to Adam. Adam pulled it on clumsily, slipping it over the bulky sweatshirt, and Ethan helped zip it up, because Adam's fingers couldn't bend. Ethan looked at Adam's hands a long time, then glanced away, searching the bus terminal for a clock.
"Why'd you cut 'em?" he asked, curiosity a dead-weight in his stomach. The clock read three twenty-one, and the seconds ticked away.
"Didn't want them anymore," Adam said in a low voice. Ethan shifted on the bench, cold, and shoved his hands between his legs to warm them.
"Yeah? Let's see, then."
Adam held out his hands, no hesitation, and Ethan hated him for it. Stupid Adam, always getting what he wanted, without any work. Didn't want his hands anymore, and he could get rid of them, just like that. Stupid Adam. The bandages around Adam's hands were still white, not dirty yet, even though Adam stank like sin. The bandages wound around his palms, and the base of his fingers, too, thick and unyeilding. Ethan grabbed one of Adam's wrists, turning it so Adam's hand was turned more upwards.
"Your fingers, too?"
Adam shrugged, and Ethan let go of the wrist, turning back to look at the clock. Three twenty-three. Three twenty-four. Three twenty-five.
"Why?" He hunched forward, hands between his legs again, head bowed. "You didn't- I could have helped you, if you'd needed anything. You didn't have to-"
"I hate it," Adam said, and his voice was surprised, like someone with a revelation. Ethan glanced at Adam, at Adam's face, dirty and pale and sickly. "I hate music."
There was nothing to say. Ethan stared at Adam's face, and Adam stared back, bleary eyes above thin lips. Ethan watched Adam bite his lip until it bled, and Ethan watched Adam snivel, shoving his bandaged hands against his eyes. Ethan watched Adam cry, like a little boy on a piano bench, with a bloody mouth and bruised eyes. Adam cried for a long time, and Ethan watched him for a long time, and when Adam stopped crying, wiping his red eyes and running nose, Ethan looked back at the clock. Three forty-nine.
At three fifty-five, Ethan stood up, and Adam stood up, too. Ethan walked towards a bus that was pulling in, and Adam followed him. When Ethan was almost to the bus, he felt a hand touch his back, a brush of bandages across his thin shirt, and he didn't quite wince, and he didn't quite smile, and he didn't quite cry.
"Where are we goin'?" Adam asked, and his voice was hoarse from crying. The bus door was sliding open, and the driver was looking at them curiously. Ethan hated the driver from looking at Adam like that, and he climbed the stairs, dropping the change in the machine.
"Home," he said, and he stopped next to a pair of seats, waiting in the aisle. "You want the window?" He watched Adam slid in next to the window, and he watched Adam tug at the coat, fingertips dark above the white.
"Thanks," Adam muttered towards the window, and Ethan watched the reflection on Adam's bloody mouth, shaping words that Ethan always pretended not to hear. He sat down in the aisle seat, knees knocking against the seat in front of him, and he tilted his head back, closing his eyes.
"Go to sleep," he muttered, "it's a long ride." Rough canvas touched his arm, and he shifted, bumping elbows with Adam. Adam shifted away, making a disgruntled noise, and Ethan almost smiled.
Sometimes, Ethan almost loved Adam.
The seat was hard plastic, and when the lights from outside the window flashed by, it looked almost red. The seats in front were the same, a sickly red under the speeding yellow lights. Ethan shifted, his knees hitting the seat in front, and he leaned a little to the side, until his shoulder hit Adam's.
"You okay?" he asked softly. He waited a moment, but Adam didn't move. Ethan leaned back in the seat, until his head was resting against the top of the hard plastic, and stared up at the ceiling of the bus.
x
Adam, their parents said, was special. Ethan didn't agree, not for a long time. Adam was irritating, a little snot-faced kid who tagged along, shirking piano lessons and ignoring homework. Adam, their parents said, was a genius.
Ethan almost hated Adam, for a while. He hated the way Adam got away with anything, hated the way Adam never had to try to get anything. Everything was handed to Adam, on a silver platter. Adam was a little brat, who never had to work.
Adam got smacked around a few times, too. Sometimes, when Adam got home from school, he'd have a bloody nose, and one time, when Adam came home, he had a bruise over his eye. Sometimes, when Adam was sniveling in the front room, sitting on the piano bench, Ethan would feel a little bad for Adam.
Sometimes Ethan almost loved Adam.
x
"Adam," Ethan said softly, and he pinched Adam's arm, through the heavy sweatshirt, stained with dirt and sweat.
Adam shifted a little, this time, pulling his arm away, and slumping further down in the seat. Ethan leaned across Adam, pointing out the window.
"Look, Adam."
x
Adam left for a private school when he was nine and a half. The school year wasn't even half over, but their parents packed up some of Adam's things. A few books, a model car, and some action figures. They packed up his piano books, too, and his metronome, and his books on theories and composers and dictating.
When Adam left, the leaves on the tree out front were red and brown and black, and they were rotting on the ground, too. Ethan shuffled his feet in the leaves, watching his shoes squelch in the rot, and it smelled like old mud. Adam was taken away in a blue car, and Ethan kicked a clump of moldy leaves after it.
The leaves never hit the car.
x
Adam turned his face away from the window resolutely, and his breath, when it hit Ethan's cheek, was hot, and smelled of alcohol. His eyes were bloodshot, and looked red and puffy. Ethan wondered if Adam had been crying.
"You okay?" Ethan asked again, and he leaned back into his own seat, stretching his legs to hit the seat in front of him. He pretending like he wasn't trying to trap Adam in.
"I'm fine," Adam snapped, and his voice sounded strangled. He swallowed, adam's apple bobbing, and his skin was pale under the scraggly beginning of a beard.
x
Adam came home when he was fifteen, carrying a guitar and a bag full of sheetmusic. All the music was his, notes written with pencil lead, words scrawled beneath the measures. Ethan looked at all the music, songs about girls and sex and drugs, and he listened to Adam and their parents scream. Adam slammed his way out of the house, and he left the guitar and the music.
Ethan sat in his room, looking at all the songs, and late that night, when their parents were at the store, Ethan sat on the piano bench in the front room, picking out keys, playing the songs in short, jerky movements.
Adam never came home.
x
Ethan stared at his hands, hanging between his knees. He leaned forward, hunched up, then leaned back, stretching. The seat dug into his back, and his legs, and his arms, and he groanedm rubbing at his eyes. They felt dry and itchy, and they watered when he yawned.
"You tired?" he asked Adam, and Adam looked away, towards the window. Ethan licked his lips, and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "Cold?"
"I'm sorry," Adam answered, and he sounded angry, bitter. His head was leaning against the window, and Ethan watched as it left a smear on the glass.
x
At seventeen, Adam was half-famous in the city. Everyone knew about the conservatory kid, the boy-genius who sat down at pianos in museums and hotels, and played for hours. He slept on the streets, sometimes, when the museum closed down, and the buses were late.
Other times, he'd disappear for weeks, and then he'd reappear, playing on some piano in a coffee shop. Or he'd be sitting in the subway station, picking strings on a guitar, and there would be coins scattered around him. Then he'd disappear again, into some conservatory or another, a music school in the city, or sometimes across the country. After a few weeks, he'd be back, sitting on a broken piano bench, fingers spread over the keys.
Ethan listened to all the gosip, whenever he was in the city. He listened to their parents, too, pleading on the phone for another chance, for another admittance for Adam.
Sometimes Ethan hated Adam.
x
"Doesn't matter," Ethan said, and he pretended to believe it himself. He elbowed Adam, in the ribs, and Adam flinched away, closer to the window. Ethan felt a red-hot stab of pity, or maybe anger, and he looked away, towards the aisle of the bus. There were scraps of papers, trampled magazines with muddy footprints. There was water there, too, melting from slush in the rubber tracks.
Ethan looked back at Adam after a few minutes, and he watched Adam blink slowly, owlishly. "Are you drunk?" he asked, and Adam turned quickly, a defensive look on his face.
"What do you care?" he snapped, and he was turning back towards the window. Ethan looked at Adam's reflection in the mirror, then closed his eyes again, leaning his head against the chair.
"Doesn't matter."
x
They called Adam a rock star when he wasn't even twenty. He was in the newspapers, sometimes, his face in black and white, smearing grey under greasy fingers. Once, he was on TV, and a few times, he was in magazines. Ethan clipped all of the newspapers, and bought all of the magazines, and he even recorded the TV, once. Adam came and went, songs on pianos and electric guitars, screaming and crying and singing, raspy voice and broken eyes.
Adam knocked on Ethan's door, once. Ethan let him in, and Adam sat down on the edge of the banged-up couch, hands hanging between his legs. Ethan sat on the coffee table, and Adam cried a little, in that little sniveling way he always had.
Adam left before morning, and Ethan tried to forget how stoned Adam had been.
x
"You think I'm an idiot?" Adam's voice was low, and almost unheard in the dark. Ethan blinked, sleepily, and stared at the dim lights above the aisle-way.
"You're a genius." He blinked, and the lights flickered in his head. He blinked again, and then closed his eyes. It was too hot, and he fumbled at his coatzipper, yanking at it with numb fingers. "They always said you're a genius."
"Fuck that," Adam said clearly, and his voice sounded very close to Ethan's ear. Ethan tugged at his coatzipper again, then pulled it half-way off. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
"You're an ass," Ethan said angrily, and he fought with the coat, finally tearing his arms out of the sleeves. "You're a stupid ass, and I hate you."
x
Once, Ethan was called to the hospital. He went, and signed a series of papers, writing down social security numbers and driver's license numbers, and numbers for insurance. He handed over a co-payment, and they led Adam out. Adam's hands were bandaged, all around the palm and fingers, and they gave Ethan a slip for medicated salve and instructions for bandaging.
They walked to the bus-stop together, and the bloodstains on Adam's clothes were nearly black in the night.
Ethan almost hated Adam, right then.
x
On the eleventh stop, Ethan stood up, and after a moment, Adam stood up too, stumbling after him. They got off the bus, Adam nearly slipping on the stairs, and Ethan led Adam into the bus terminal, coat hanging off his shoulder. The terminal was chilly, their breath icy-white in the air, and after a few minutes Ethan pulled on his coat again, shoving his fingers into his pockets. Adam sat on a bench, swore angrily, and stood up again. Ethan sat on a bench, and winced at the cold metal. After a few more minutes, Adam sat next to Ethan, and Ethan scooted over, so Adam could sit in the warm spot.
Almost half an hour later, Adam shivered, and Ethan pulled of his coat, handing it to Adam. Adam pulled it on clumsily, slipping it over the bulky sweatshirt, and Ethan helped zip it up, because Adam's fingers couldn't bend. Ethan looked at Adam's hands a long time, then glanced away, searching the bus terminal for a clock.
"Why'd you cut 'em?" he asked, curiosity a dead-weight in his stomach. The clock read three twenty-one, and the seconds ticked away.
"Didn't want them anymore," Adam said in a low voice. Ethan shifted on the bench, cold, and shoved his hands between his legs to warm them.
"Yeah? Let's see, then."
Adam held out his hands, no hesitation, and Ethan hated him for it. Stupid Adam, always getting what he wanted, without any work. Didn't want his hands anymore, and he could get rid of them, just like that. Stupid Adam. The bandages around Adam's hands were still white, not dirty yet, even though Adam stank like sin. The bandages wound around his palms, and the base of his fingers, too, thick and unyeilding. Ethan grabbed one of Adam's wrists, turning it so Adam's hand was turned more upwards.
"Your fingers, too?"
Adam shrugged, and Ethan let go of the wrist, turning back to look at the clock. Three twenty-three. Three twenty-four. Three twenty-five.
"Why?" He hunched forward, hands between his legs again, head bowed. "You didn't- I could have helped you, if you'd needed anything. You didn't have to-"
"I hate it," Adam said, and his voice was surprised, like someone with a revelation. Ethan glanced at Adam, at Adam's face, dirty and pale and sickly. "I hate music."
There was nothing to say. Ethan stared at Adam's face, and Adam stared back, bleary eyes above thin lips. Ethan watched Adam bite his lip until it bled, and Ethan watched Adam snivel, shoving his bandaged hands against his eyes. Ethan watched Adam cry, like a little boy on a piano bench, with a bloody mouth and bruised eyes. Adam cried for a long time, and Ethan watched him for a long time, and when Adam stopped crying, wiping his red eyes and running nose, Ethan looked back at the clock. Three forty-nine.
At three fifty-five, Ethan stood up, and Adam stood up, too. Ethan walked towards a bus that was pulling in, and Adam followed him. When Ethan was almost to the bus, he felt a hand touch his back, a brush of bandages across his thin shirt, and he didn't quite wince, and he didn't quite smile, and he didn't quite cry.
"Where are we goin'?" Adam asked, and his voice was hoarse from crying. The bus door was sliding open, and the driver was looking at them curiously. Ethan hated the driver from looking at Adam like that, and he climbed the stairs, dropping the change in the machine.
"Home," he said, and he stopped next to a pair of seats, waiting in the aisle. "You want the window?" He watched Adam slid in next to the window, and he watched Adam tug at the coat, fingertips dark above the white.
"Thanks," Adam muttered towards the window, and Ethan watched the reflection on Adam's bloody mouth, shaping words that Ethan always pretended not to hear. He sat down in the aisle seat, knees knocking against the seat in front of him, and he tilted his head back, closing his eyes.
"Go to sleep," he muttered, "it's a long ride." Rough canvas touched his arm, and he shifted, bumping elbows with Adam. Adam shifted away, making a disgruntled noise, and Ethan almost smiled.
Sometimes, Ethan almost loved Adam.
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no subject
Date: 2006-04-08 06:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-08 11:46 pm (UTC)Me-likey
ANYWAY.
I love how in many of your stories you're always so good at describing sights, sounds, touch...all those feelings. That's the part of writing that is the hardest for me. So I really appreciate it in someone else's writing, especially when it's done well (as it is in yours).