Every Rose Has a Porn - or "Fancy Meeting You Here!" (Closed for Talon)

[Talon]

Rus remained in her bed while Cass showered. Lying on his back, he absently rubbed the patch of soft hair along his belly as he stared blankly up at the ceiling. The lingering warmth of the moment they’d just shared was still settling over him, and the white noise of the shower threatened to lull him back to sleep with its soothing hiss.

He let his eyes drop from the ceiling to drift around the room from object to object lazily. It was still an unfamiliar space, and he hadn’t taken the time to look around before falling into bed with her. With a different woman, he might have been worried he’d failed some sort of test. Like, “Well, yeah, like, I was the one who asked for sex, but, like, you were supposed to turn me down.”. It was part of what had made Cass so pleasant to deal with as a ‘business partner’: if she said something, she meant it.

Not a bad trait to have in a girlfriend, either.

Rus sighed gently. “Girlfriend…” he murmured unconfidently, as if unsure of the proper pronunciation of a word belonging to a foreign language. He didn’t hate how it sounded, though, and so he gave it another try. “Girlfriend… ‘Hey guys, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend’...” Shaking his head, eyes drifting back up to the ceiling, he chuckled at himself. “Fuckin’ dork…”

He knew they weren’t quite there yet, in a place where they would need to use such rigid definitions. ‘She’s my’... she didn’t belong to him, and from his understanding of her, wasn’t the sort of woman who needed(or would want) to be claimed or kept.

Perhaps it was down to the fact that Rus simply wasn’t the type who felt they always needed to be in control. ‘Easy-going’, ‘laid back’, ‘chill’- all phrases that fit him to a T. He’d never been in a fight, a true knock-down drag out fist fight, in all of his life. A few dust-ups on the basketball court, pushing, maybe the occasional punch or elbow thrown(never by him), but that was pretty much the extent of his experience with interpersonal conflict. He was a fairly big guy, six-two, six-three-ish, and broad in the shoulders, though for most of his teenage years, he was teetering on the edge of being gangly, not properly filling out until his early twenties. Maybe part of it was down to his physical size, or the fact he tended to fall into the ‘jock’ peer group in high school, but he always attributed the idea that nobody had fucked with him to the fact that, well, he simply hadn’t given them a reason to. He was an easy guy to get along with.

That easy-going nature had extended over into his relationships, as well- if you could even properly call what little ‘romantic’ experience he had a relationship. Maybe a little too easy-going, from the point of view of his partners. ‘Unambitious’, ‘lacking passion’- cons that would be listed on his review page if he had one. His first girlfriend, the one he’d been with throughout high school, had certainly felt that way.

She was a member of the cheer squad, he one of the Captains of the basketball team… it was almost a thing he had maintained because it was expected of him. He’d made a show of inviting her to Prom- they hadn’t won King and Queen, though they’d been in the running- he took her out for dinner each year on Valentine’s Day, they had lost their virginity together- all the normal All-American shit. She was nice enough, personality-wise, very Christian in her upbringing and values, and beautiful, looks-wise; it’s just… he had never really felt that spark. Ever. Even when they first started ‘dating’.

She was boring. She didn’t share his sense of humor(she thought he was goofy in an embarrassing way), she didn’t like his taste in music, his taste in movies, the fact that the only sort of plan he had in mind for potential post-college careers was to become an EMT. “Why not a doctor?” had been her response. And the fact that he wasn’t sure he wanted to have kids and openly stated as much? That was probably the ultimate deal-breaker for her, as she was the type who wanted to be a broodmother. And she had already chosen the names, boy and girl, by the time she had hit puberty. In a way, Rus admired that. Like, to be that certain of what you wanted, that focused, that driven.

It also scared the shit out of him. Like, ‘wear two condoms and still pull out’ scared the shit out of him.

In the end, their break-up had been mutual, though she had been the one to bring it up. One of those “going away to separate colleges” things, or at least that was the surface-level excuse given at the time. It had been weird to Rus, to be ‘single’ after all the years of being ‘taken’, but in the end, he missed the moniker far more than he ever did the relationship.


When Cass emerged from the bathroom to get dressed, he watched in silence, still lounging atop her bed, hands clasped behind his head, the ghost of a coy grin creasing his lips. He wasn’t exactly leering—there was no hunger in his gaze, as if he were reducing her body to merely a collection of sexual attributes. It was a thing of curiosity, simple observation, as he watched her move through her morning routine. When she finally left the bedroom, he moved to follow, rolling out of bed with only the slightest grunt of protest.

He had tried at first to insist on being the one to cook. Not forcefully, and not in an argumentative way—after all, it was her apartment— with a couple of “Are you sure?” and “I don’t mind, I want to”s given before he finally relented.

And true to his word, he remained in the nude, though he had asked for something like a towel to sit on- despite her blessing, it still felt like disrespect to drag his bare ass all over her furniture- and having been given an old towel she deemed fit for the purpose, he tossed it over one of the beanbags before moving to join her in the kitchen. Well, not in- there wasn’t really room for him in- but he settled for around, leaning against the counter along the outside, mindful enough to stay out of her way as she cooked, content to watch and listen as she recounted her experience with her stalker, absently sipping at a can of sparkling water as he followed along.

Naturally, he found the details disturbing, though not particularly surprising—not beyond the fact that it had happened to her, at least—as sadly, with the evolution of the Internet, it was becoming a more regular occurrence.

Rus had never dealt with anything quite like that himself. The worst of it, for him personally, had been the occasional email or crude comment left under a video. He had entered the industry at a transitional time—when performers weren’t necessarily expected, or even welcome, to market themselves online. Since most of his professional work had been under the big studios, they, along with his agent, had handled that side of things.

Maybe that was part of why his transition out of the industry had been so seamless. For a time, he had been a mainstay in the business, yet when he walked away, there was little baggage to carry out with him. His agent had once told him about a fan club dedicated to him—one of those old message board type things where his fans gathered to discuss his scenes—but neither he nor his representation had any involvement in it. He never had an “official” Facebook group, a Twitter handle, or an Instagram page that he’d had to scrub once he left.

When the tube sites first started popping up, he’d poked his head around a bit- curiosity killed the cat, and all that- looking for what sort of comments were left under videos he’d featured in. It was the usual sort of juvenile, derogatory stuff- most commonly that his dick wasn’t big enough for porn, or, on the opposite side of the spectrum, there was the sort of backhanded compliment that was the speculation as to what surgery or procedure he’d undergone to make it as large as it was- He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, what sort of comments he would have ‘liked’ to see, but what he’d found was enough to put him off the idea of adopting any sort of ‘official’ online presence altogether.

Independent artists like Cassandra didn’t have that luxury, however. Without an industry deal, they had to market themselves, had to engage with fans. It was a necessary evil. A double-edged sword. For every genuinely wholesome encounter, there was sure to be an even greater number of unseemly ones, with the potential for something crossing over into the realm of criminal. It sounded like Cass had experienced the worst-case scenario, and what she had gone through made his experience seem like a walk in the park by comparison.

Rus, not wanting to barge in on what was her moment, offered little commentary as she retold her story- not beyond the occasional “Jesus…” muttered under his breath as she spoke to some of the grittier details of her account. He couldn’t imagine what it had been like to see the journals, to have access to the most deranged of this unhinged individual’s thoughts- but he seemed engaged, his brow furrowed, lips pursed, as he followed along.

He took the plate of food when offered, nodding his thanks with a forced smile that broke through the cloud of gloom that had formed over his visage. “Yeah, I’m sure we’ll get it figured out. If nothing else, I’m sure they’ll air dry to an acceptable level. I mean, it was just water, after all.” His grin deepened as he looked himself up and down as if to draw attention to his state of nudity. “Thanks for, uh… accommodating me in the meantime, though.”

 

[Talon]

“And thanks for sharing…” He groaned as he eased into the fluffier of the two beanbags, balancing his plate carefully as he sank into it. A few small wiggles helped him settle in further, though the positioning left him sprawled awkwardly, thighs splayed apart, his sex on full display, resting between them in a lazy sprawl. He reclined just as cautiously, keeping his plate hovering over his chest.

“Seriously,” he continued. “I mean, it’s kind of ‘buzzword’-y, ‘Thanks for sharing’” his tone was mockingly flamboyant. “But you’ve been through a lot, and it can’t be easy for you to relive all that. I appreciate that you felt comfortable enough to share it with me.”

It seemed like he was being earnest, and he was. They were, on every level beyond physical, essentially former colleagues. They’d joked, and laughed, together, but their topics of conversation had been kept to things mostly surface deep. He had no idea what her favorite type of food was, her favorite movie, her favored genre of music- basic shit. That she’d felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable, to truly open up to him about something so personal- it felt good to occupy that ‘space’ with her.

He cut into his eggs with the edge of his fork, taking a bite. The full weight of his hunger hadn’t hit until he smelled them cooking, and though he was fully engaging in the conversation, not just making small talk, his stomach was threatening to eat a hole through his back.

“Ryan always did seem like good people…” Taking a bite, he paused to chew and swallow. “Mmmm… it’s very good, by the way… thank you…” He commented to her before continuing. “...but yeah, I’m glad you had at least him, insofar as someone in your corner.”

Another pause to swallow another forkful of eggs. “Beyond the physical and psychological damage, though—” he exhaled, shaking his head. “...which I in no way mean to minimalize- but I think what gets me the most is how that fuckin’ asshole ruined “Sister Sunshine” for you. That what he did destroyed it, and all your hard work along with it. It was something special.”

He met her gaze then, grinning sheepishly as he forced down another bite.

“No, seriously. I mean it. You had this vision. This passion. This message. And I was proud to be part of something truly different, for once, you know? Something real. For what little part I played in it, I was grateful for the opportunity to work with you.”

“Not to, like, fanboy out on you and make things awkward or anything…” he looked down at the state of himself. “... well, any more awkward, at least.”

Taking another bite of eggs, he put his fork down atop his plate as he chewed and swallowed, picking up a slice of toast. “Speaking of your ‘vision’... maybe you could sketch me like this…” His eyebrows lifted. “...huh? I mean, kind of an interesting pose. Maybe call the piece “The Man and his Beanbag”... a nice little double entendre in there.” He bit into the corner of his toast, beaming a smile over at her as he chewed with one side of his mouth.

“You know…” He took another bite and swallowed. “Assuming you’re not already sick of me…” His delivery was dry, teasing. “Maybe I could run over to my place real quick, grab a couple bottles of wine—maybe something stronger if we’re feelin’ frisky. A change of clothes, stop by the pharmacy, pick up some condoms. Awkward, yeah, but, you know—‘responsible adults’ and all that.” He shrugged as if it couldn't be helped.

“Could pick up some dinner, too, if you don’t feel like cookin’. Your call, though. I’m smart enough to know when to pick my battles.” He smiled at her cheekily, taking another bite from his toast. “But yeah, I mean, I’d love to just hang out, keep this, uh, y’know, ‘vibe’ going… and, uh, maybe if you’re feeling froggy, later…” he gestured towards the game console with his piece of toast. “... we could play a game…” He raised his eyebrows, taking another bite of his toast, talking around a mouthful. “... assuming you’re not afraid to get your butt-kicked, that is.”

His tone of voice suggested his next move would be to issue the dreaded ‘Triple Dog Dare’ should she refuse.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“I always thought you were above that. Dating, I mean.”

It’d been some years ago, in some off-handed conversation with a high school friend. She’d jokingly mentioned never being asked out and had received that as an answer. And…it made sense. Both at the time, and in her reflections, going back. She hadn’t really given much thought to the air that she put off; so focused was she on survival, let alone achieving academic excellence. All of the things that were, in a sense, distinctly un-high school and yet at the core of it all.

Dating Rus would be…interesting? ‘Dating’ was a strange word; came with strings and complications that inevitably only lead to one place: marriage, kids, housing together and slowly resenting one another as time went on, unable to accept the fact that people change and that adding kids to it just because that’s what people do wasn’t always the best solution. So, in simple terms, Cassandra had never seen herself as a girlfriend, or a wife candidate, or anything of the sort. Companionship she wanted - she was human, after all - but on her terms. Someone that would allow her to remain independent, who wouldn’t be threatened by her distance and pursuit of greatness in other avenues. If ‘greatness’ was even the word to be used. She wanted to do her things on her terms, explore the world around her on her own terms as well. All of it had been fiercely fought for; the weird kid above all weird kids.

No dating in high school for her, then - occasional sexual experimenting with a guy that said he liked her - a friend of a friend, went no further than hand and mouth stuff. He’d been unnerved at how she wanted to look at him aroused. Not necessarily to coax to a fumbling end, but to see the magnification of the differences between their bodies. The semi-straight tangle of rust colored pubic hair, the way that his penis stuck straight out, instead of up. The curiosity went both ways, apparently - "Huh. Every part of you is dark," he'd said in response to her naked body. Apparently he'd thought that her nipples would be pink, rather than the dark brown that they were. It was one of those random things that, on occasion, crossed her mind when she looked at herself nude and would have to suppress a giggle.

That’d ended when it turned out he was still hung up on her ex. She acted as she thought she was supposed to; ‘devastated’, though not actually really, and in the end, it was more mourning the escape from her usual life than the actual person. "But I love you," she'd tearfully choked out, but the words were from someone else's script; one she didn't have time to study and didn't know how to appropriately react. Love? That was absolutely ridiculous. She hadn't loved him; she was barely interested in the guy outside of his interest in her and new experiences. But that was how she was supposed to react to the end of a 'relationship,' so, she played along accordingly. It'd taken years to mend the relationship with the friend that had initially brought them together, a punk girl who she shared art classes with. God, the melodramatics - those hoops she jumped through just because she thought that's what she was supposed to do. Maybe if she'd been herself, truly, it would've been different.

Virginity was lost in college - to someone she felt cornered into dating, maybe interested from a distance. The type of guy that was interesting from a distance, really - the more she got to know him, the more she realized he was drowning in his own self-esteem issues, spat back into the world as him being as contrary and belligerent as possible. If her politics were left, his were right - if she liked a director, the director was a cliche, his work amateurish, but if he liked someone, then that person was the greatest film auteur to ever live.

And so on.

So it wasn’t that much of a loss when she ended up exchanging smoky-mouthed tongue kisses with a hapless pale red-headed underclassman, who’d said, in that unshakeable, clear-eyed serious way that first time drunks had, that he’d saved her life when they were outside on the dorm stairs. She’d been sober, but mis-stepped all the same (not a lot of space to move, and there were 5 of them crammed onto the rickety top of the stairs), ‘saved’ by his grabbing the bottom of her sweatshirt and tugging her back so hard that the fabric nearly gave in protest. Even then, their fooling around had come later, after she’d laughingly thanked him and it wasn’t until weeks later that a mutual friend told her that ‘girl; he is so in love with you he even stopped smoking’, and Cassandra laughed until she cried - shocked into silence when she realized her friend wasn’t joking. Even as she said ‘what’s there to fall in love with?’, the idea frightened her.

But that was decades ago, so…

There had been that "one that got away," though, in retrospect, that might've been wishful thinking. Another underclassman, someone who shared her major and apparently her ability to poke holes in any argument. She liked that. Liked that he actually cared about class and the material and seemed to be interested in learning. But, he was an underclassman, she was a senior at that point, and it felt odd to go after, or even be interested, in someone that was 'considerably' younger. Now, the age gap would be negligible, but at the time, it seemed unthinkable. Turned out, he'd ultimately been unimpressed with the major, and decided that he was going to transfer. On the day he'd received his paperwork, she'd run into him, and he'd picked her up and swung her around like they were in a musical and she was wide-eyed stunned, and even more when he hugged her and somehow when she opened her mouth and mentioned that he'd slept with another underclassman (a girl that seemed to glower at her whenever she walked through the quad, the cafeteria, etc.), and how he shouldn't have done that, not when she would've been willing if he'd asked, and he simply set her down and looked at her and said, "I respect you too much for that," and it felt like a compliment but the kind that also seemed a missed opportunity - if she thought about it too much, maybe it was also a subtle way of turning her down (what a gentleman), and he'd then given her his email address to keep in touch and she never had. Was that was what 'interest' was? Damned if she knew, even at this advanced age. So it became easier to either be the first to approach (boring), to speak frankly (no misunderstandings), and, well, move when the spirit moved her. Which was rare.

As things were now, she wanted to know more about Rus. Definitely wanted more sex with him. Would appreciate if maybe he kept the sex to just her; she had no interest in competing (imaginarily or otherwise) with others, nor did she have interest in experiencing sex with others. In a sense, she’d had the best - and he’d proven himself to be just that indeed, even with the passing of time - and, well, why would she want to deviate from that? In theory, it could only get better, as she learned more about him. He’d prove himself to be human, and that in and out of itself would be where the challenges would lie. Not that she deluded herself into thinking otherwise, but, realistically, crushes were formed on passing associations; not actual relationships of any depth.

For the most part, anyway.

He was still nice - he seemed to have something going on. Something a lot deeper than job woes. And of course she wanted to know more, but now wasn’t the time to pry. He’d given her a glimpse of what was in his mind - and of course, the normal thing was to respond in turn with possibly her most recent, biggest, trauma. A lot over breakfast, but -

“Eh, you know, I figured you might’ve been curious as to why I upped and vanished,” said nonchalantly as she took a sip from her cup of tea. The tea was an absolute perfect shade of clear green, and it was hard not to smile in response to how it tasted. Learning how to brew the perfect cup was an ongoing quest - and though she was far from proficient, sometimes she had the gift for just one stellar cup.

She’d taken her seat in the chair opposite him; for all appearances, just as plush, but missing that particular ‘oomph’ that made the one he was in nothing short of perfection. Settling her plate on her knees with clear practice, she absent-mindedly clinked the side of her tea cup to the side of his can of sparkling water, a ‘cheers’ without words. Her teacup was actually that - a startlingly fragile, dainty thing of shell thin white porcelain with a scrolling, looping illustration of old time-y fat roses and green leaves. The green of her tea was reflected back, almost unnaturally brilliant, against the well-taken care of sides.

“I mean, if you even wondered. And I’m not saying that as a dig; we were coworkers. I wouldn’t expect you to keep track of everyone that you’ve met, you know? But, yeah. That was it - I mean, I sort of picked up and left overnight. With good reason, but, you know, once the trial was over, I couldn’t get away fast enough. I guess I could’ve stayed, but the cops suggested a legal name change and all of that, and I mean, I get it, but my name? I’d lost damn near everything else; I was going to hang onto my name.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

His airy-ness in response could’ve been aggravating - someone who didn’t take it seriously. She didn’t take it that way; it was a lot to drop on someone, let alone someone that she’d just recently reconnected with. And his mention of her work? Might be considered flattery - she paused in eating to watch his face as he spoke, calmly measuring each word. His earnestness was endearing - and as he finished, she allowed herself one soft laugh.

“Yeah, well, I mean…it was what it was. I kept some of the more touching letters, you know. Sometimes I skim the ‘net, seeing if anyone remembers, and there’s a few that do. The only good thing about porn is that it moves fast enough and people have short memories. I’ve been replaced a thousand times over by people who were way more…in tune with what sold than what I ever was. While ‘Sister Sunshine’, as a concept, as an art piece, is dead, the lessons I learned and the people I’ve met are not. She’s still here,” she playfully pressed her hand to her chest, “But like anything, there’s a time to move on. Even if the stalker didn’t happen, it wasn’t sustainable and I knew it. I was coming to the end - he just…sped things up.”

Stretching her legs out in front of her, she pointed and flexed her feet, watching the way the muscles moved and popped, ripples beneath the brown skin.

He wanted to stay longer; that was…good, right?

Maybe they should leave; resist the temptation to jump back into bed and keep playing around. Give whatever this could be a chance to grow?

“You know…” she trailed off, that sentence possibly ending in either a denial or a confirmation; her, unconscious of the tension it could’ve produced. “I’m actually not much of a wine person,” a small, sheepish grin, “I never developed a taste for it. But if you’re proposing drinking and hanging out, that’s not a terrible idea. I do need to actually see what I have going on today, though.”

Not a dismissal, but an intrusion from the adult world. Jobs, responsibilities. The Plan B being a random, not insubstantial unaccounted for cost that some overtime might help clear up. Or a side-gig. That was the other thing, too - if this was going to be a common thing, then she would probably have to budget for it. Not a terrible thing, but a consideration.

How does this actually work?

There were things she wouldn’t mind doing - being a homebody (not only out of financial necessity, but personality, even moreso after the stalker), she was the quintessential “Netflix and Chill” - or Music and Books. But…

“You know, Rus, what’s your full name? And what do you like to do?” It was said with a bit of a laugh, but - “Because it just occurred to me that I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced outside of our first names. So - I’m Cassandra Henry. Pretty much everyone calls me ‘Cass,’ clearly. I like to read, visit museums, libraries - the arts in general. Like, I don’t mind catching everything from the orchestra to the theater troupe. Ballet’s a bit much for me, though - it’s beautiful in pieces, but when it’s all put together, I sort of lose the plot. And that’s it, to at least start with. And I also say all of this to say that, well, I mean, I don’t mind farting around at home for hours on end, but I wouldn’t want to assume the same for you.”

Her plate empty, she set it down carefully on the floor beside her, taking a demure sip from her tea before she set the cup down on top of the plate. The cup, still half-full, caught the light filtering through the blinds. “I guess I’m not good at this - I don’t mind you hanging out. Really. We could get to know each other better - and that’s what I’d like. To get to know you better. But I also know we’ve got bills, and jobs, and, you know, the world…and I don’t want to keep you from anything.” Try to do our best to catch the threads of the night that got away from us, weave it back into the regular fabric of our lives. “Usually the weekends I’ve got class prep, sometimes I pick up an extra gig here or there. When I checked my phone earlier, I didn’t have anything scheduled, but I’m sure there are errands that I need to run or whatever. You ever just go to an art store to just look at the stuff you want? Don’t buy it or anything - that would take money - but like, just to go in and smell and enjoy the ambiance of it all? Well, maybe not art stores, but like, a move theater, or wherever you like to go? Parks are good, too. Just…to not be where you usually are for a few minutes, hours, whatever. Give yourself a break from yourself.”

 

[Talon]

Rus nodded emphatically as if he knew exactly of what she was speaking.

“Music stores,” he added after swallowing his last mouthful of eggs. “My, uh, ‘happy place’ spots are music stores. Every now and then, I’ll hit up a pawn shop or two…” His nose wrinkled in distaste. “…Not my favorite, though. Even if you do find something legit, it’s sorta tainted by this, like, air of desperation, or whatever, y’know? Like, you just know the person who pawned it was in a bad spot, or worse—some ungrateful fuckin’ kid flipped it after their parent died. Like, they didn’t even care enough to find it a proper home, just took the quick cash.”

Having cleaned his plate, he scrubbed at his mouth with his hand a few times before following Cassandra’s lead, placing it down beside him. His fork clanked against the plate as he set it on top.

“Browsing for guitars, mostly—just in terms of what I know how to play.” He straightened up, brushing his hands together. “Found a ‘78 Gibson Explorer that way, in some little ma and pop shop- cost me an arm, a leg, and my left nut, but it’s pretty choice, so worth it.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he met her gaze, realizing the specifics of guitar brands and models were probably going over her head. “…I’ll show it to you if you ever come over. It’s nothing special or anything- as in it wasn’t owned or played by anyone famous. It’s just old. Made back when they did it more by hand than machine.” A scoff signaled his disapproval as he continued. “There’s just something about old guitars, man. I always say they’re like cars; You could have two of the same make and model, built the same day in the same factory, sold by the same dealership, and one will go for a hundred thousand miles without a hiccup, while the other craps out after a hundred and turns out to be a total fuckin’ lemon. Just one of those things, y’know?”

He leaned back a little, getting more comfortable. “And just like cars, sometimes guitars have these little quirks… like, this one came from the shop with a neck shape that’s just a little different, or maybe the humbucker coils were wound too tight or too loose, or it was wired up backwards. Minor ‘imperfections’ that give each guitar a unique ‘personality.’ And if you bought it new like that, you’d probably be pissed, right? Like, ‘This isn’t what was advertised on the box.’ But over time, those ‘quirks’ become like eccentricities, not defects. Like, because of those ‘defects’, maybe the tone is a little brighter, or it plays better, just fits your hand perfectly…”

He was animated as he spoke, his hands moving demonstratively in front of him, mimicking the hand motions of playing guitar.

He laughed again, throwing his hands up as he sank deeper into the beanbag, letting his head loll back. “Real guitar nerd shit, I know. Probably not at all that interesting…” His fingers scratched absentmindedly at the tops of his thighs. His head lifted as he shot her a wink. “…but that’s my ‘happy place.’ Playing guitar- or listening to other people play guitar- and fuckin’ nerdin’ out over it. I’m sure if we hang out enough, you’ll be subjected to all sorts of rants about how this or that guitar part speaks to me.”

“I’ll try not to be too insufferable, but, y’know, on some level, it’s kinda involuntary. So if I’m ever just borin’ you to fuckin’ tears, feel free to elbow me in the ribs or somethin’…”

“Oh! And, uh…” He rolled onto his left side, stretching out a hand between them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cassandra Henry. I’m Rustin Daniels.”

Smirking playfully, he pulled back, settling back into his beanbag. “Pretty sure I’d caught the Cassandra part before, but I don’t recall ever hearin’ Henry.” His eyebrows raised, lips pursing as he nodded approvingly. “It fits. ‘Cassandra Henry.’ Sounds like the name of an old jazz singer or somethin’. I dig it.”

He settled further back into his seat with an exaggerated wiggling of his butt. “Don’t get me started on ‘Rustin,’ though, in case you were about to ask. I don’t have the slightest fuckin’ clue where it came from, and I don’t think my parents do, either. At least not one they shared. Probably one of those ‘saw it in a baby book’ situations…”

He chuckled. “Not that I’m complainin’ or anything. It’s unique, y’know? I for sure was never one of those kids who had to add the last name initial after the first. Heh, not like my poor sister…”

It was like his record skipped- his whole vibe changed. He had been relaxed and open, just riffing, and it was likely the most ‘passionatly engaged’ Cassandra had ever seen him be, aside from during the heated moments of their intimate encounters. At the mention of his sister, however, it was like the positive energy was sucked out of the air around them in an instant.

Are you really not going to tell her? Ever?

He would. Someday, he would. Not today, though. Not on a day when he wasn’t sure he could tell the whole of it without ending up in tears. Not sobbing, not like a baby—those particular species of cries had long gone extinct. But a few tears rolling down the cheek? He could hardly even mention her name in passing without stumbling over it; did he really think he could get through the whole thing without breaking down?

No. He wanted to tell her, particularly if they were ever going to be anything more than “fuck-buddies”. This was the type of thing a partner- even a casual one- should know. It wasn’t shameful, not like his other secret. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and neither had his sister, for that matter. And it wasn’t that he distrusted Cassandra or that he worried in the case of this one particular situation that her well of empathy would dry up. It was more that he didn’t trust himself, that he worried he couldn’t keep his composure. Not only as a man but just as an adult. No one wanted to see a grown-ass adult- a naked, fully grown adult, to boot- break down and cry like a little baby.

She told you about the stalker, right?

Yeah, but then it would just seem like a ‘who’s more fucked up’ dick-measuring contest. “Oh, you had some fuckin’ psycho from the internet stalking you? Yeah, well, my sister almost died!”

Fuck that.

Stay strong, Rus. Hold it together. You’ll tell her eventually.

Just not today.

His eyes darted before settling on her, like he was searching for something- not in the room, but inside himself. His head had fallen forward, and now he peeked out at her from beneath the shelter of his brows.

“...who, um… y’know, her name was…” He blinked hard, swallowing forcefully. “...is, uh. Her name is Jessica, y’know? So, like…” It was clear that the momentum of whatever he had been about to say had been derailed, and he was struggling mightily to get it back on track, to just get the words out, any words, to make the moment he had made awkward pass.

“... yeah, y’know. Jessica is a super common name, so she was always ‘Jessica D.’ in school.” He scoffed, a warm smile curling at the corners of his mouth even as his eyes had grown wet. “I used to tease her all the time about it, say it stood for ‘Jessica Deez Nuts’...” He cleared his throat, shaking his head gently. “Don’t feel too sorry for her, though. She’d always get me back in some kind of 'big sister' way. Y’know, like pin me down and give me a wedgie or fart on me or somethin’. She was always fuckin’ freakishly strong for someone half my size, y’know?”

He sucked in a deep breath, like he was trying to center himself, to regain his conversational balance, before he continued. “So, anyways. To answer your other question; No, Cassandra Henry. I really don’t have anything better to do today than spend it lying around with you, talking about how boring we both apparently have become in our old age.”

“With that in mind,” He smiled at her, his ‘cool’ seemingly fully recovered for the moment, eyes only still the slightest bit wet. “... anything else you’d like to know?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“ ‘Music stores’?” Curious - I hadn’t thought of him as a musician.

Would explain his skill with his hands. He-yoooo.

Crumpling her smile like balling paper, she fought back the stupid laugh that threatened to escape. She’d asked, and he was talking, and by Jove, she was going to listen to him. Not that she could relate personally; her talents didn’t extend to producing / playing music. Still, it left her with the lingering thought of, He really seems to light up when he talks about this. I hope he still plays.

Taking his hand, she gave it a firm shake, grinning. “Likewise, Rustin Daniels.” The first name she rolled around in her mouth. Before she could say anything, he did it for her -

“Don’t get me started on ‘Rustin,’ though, in case you were about to ask.”

“Fair,” she held up her hands, “Though I think ‘Rus’ does you a disservice. I’m going to be nice and ask, can I please call you ‘Rusty’? I mean, it’s such a 1950s throwback nickname, it’s gonna slip at some point and I just want you to know ahead of time it’s not out of malice. Not that you look like a ‘Rusty’, though. That screams ‘red-headed freckle faced kid that might also be called Opie.’ Ach. Gross. Forget I said anything. ‘Rus’ it is,” the imagined deal sealed with a stoic head-nod from her.

Then he mentioned a sister - and the whole vibe changed. It wasn’t a chill; more like an intense ripple of sorrow. Raw wound there; spoke of loss, even though he struggled between past and present tense. Recent, then. Not something she wanted to poke at, but maybe ease…

“A big sister, huh?” Her smile turned wistful. “I actually always wanted an older brother. But it was just me. My parents passed a while ago.” Easier for her to say now than it was years ago - they’d passed at least five years before she started ‘Sister Sunshine’; she couldn’t have imagined doing any of that while they were still alive. Not so much as the ‘shame’, but the feeling that it wasn’t proper, that such explorations should be kept private, and that they’d…she wasn’t sure, but maybe this was the right way of saying it, that they’d done a better job of raising her than to produce a child that would…show off so intimately? It was a strange ground, that, and one she still didn’t like dealing with.

My parents are dead - and even before they died, they lived their own lives. I should be allowed to do the same.

But how easy was it to just think it? The thing about the dead was that they never were truly gone; their old ways, real and imagined, still wrapped round her, spiderwebs of tradition and thought. What made it so malicious was that it was never from a place of ill-will, but from a place of wanting to help, to pass on life lessons that had guided them through a tough world. It was their desire to see her succeed that held her back.

What to say next? This wasn’t a trauma Olympics. And though she wanted to ask about this Jessica, she felt in her gut that now wasn’t the best time.

So…Rather than charge in, all sensitivities be damned, she decided to show that she had indeed matured a bit, and rolled forward with it. Shuffling out of her chair, she retrieved her empty plate and his own, kneeling over him long enough to place a soft, quiet kiss to his forehead. Then, acting on something else entirely, she set the empty plates down to the side of him, far out of reach, before settling down on top of him, easily straddling him. The way her body molded to his, still, was still absolutely a marvel to her. Despite being in the prime seduction position, she simply wrapped her arms around his neck, looking deep into his eyes.

“Why, Mr. Daniels, I want to know everything about you.” Said simply enough, but with enough fire to know well and full that she wasn’t kidding. “Your birthday, your likes and dislikes. Darkest secrets. You know, normal things.” Lightness, then, “If I could swallow you whole, I would.” Maybe darker than she intended - it was always hard for her to indicate her level of interest without sounding absolutely batshit. And, well, maybe that would have to be something that he’d have to get used to. ‘Obsession’ wasn’t so much her thing; not how she would describe it, anyway. A strong interest, yes - a desire to want to know more because she liked him and he intrigued her and she wanted him to find her a safe place, but more than that, she wanted knowledge, the knowledge that she knew him better than anyone else and because of that he would be freer with her than anyone else. The usual game - captivity and freedom, chasing after the idea of that perfect friendship, not relationship, but actual friendship, the one soul in two bodies.

Maybe she was putting too much on him. She probably was; she could feel the emergency lights flickering in the corner of her mind. Slow down; you’re assuming too much of him. You’ve spent a lot of time and no time at all thinking about him, about that connection. It’s there, but it’s tiny. Don’t blow it out by trying to overfeed it.

Another kiss to his forehead, as if trying to erase the sudden shift in tone. Enough to cause any bystander whiplash - from being open to fighting back something deep and scarred to what could be easily be called -by the uninformed, of course- obsession, and not a fun, cute, new crush kind, but the darkness in desire kind, the worshipping a dark goddess in the slim hours of the night kind -, and she was standing up again, retrieving the plates to deposit them into the sink. She’d wash them later; it wouldn’t make sense to run the dishwasher for such a small load.

“So,” the word popped out, “With that in mind, let’s actually do some housekeeping. Cause as much as I don’t mind, I’m pretty sure you can’t walk around like that,” a small flick of her dish towel towards him. “Why don’t we do this: let’s get you showered, and while you do that, I’ll go take care of some laundry. Come back, get you dressed, then we figure it out from there?”