loudenver

[loudenver]

@loudenverauthor: Am I the sun?

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The sun comes out, a golden huzzar, from his tent, flashing his helm on the world.

- Herman Melville.

[loudenver]

@loudenverauthor: You looked really cute and you did really great, darlin.

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POV: You’re watching me bomb my segment of the Fales presentation for the second year in a row. 📸 credit: @ivy.rogers

[loudenver]

Yeah, sometimes it's best to leave things out of print. Oh, I just mean. You sound fond of him, or somethin'.

I don't know if that's a compliment but I'd rather just be a person. Um, does he? How would you know? You don't know him. Charlie knows a lot of people.

[loudenver]

I'm not a book you're trying to write. Um, no? I just don't really have friends. Hence Hendrix.

[loudenver]

I don't know, I'm a writer. I should be better. You think? What, is there like, romantic tension there? Heh.

If you say so.

What? Why would I tell someone? Charlie’s my friend, I think. He’s a DJ.

[loudenver]

'Cause Prufrock sounds cooler.

Sometimes you don't know you're lonely 'til you've got friends again. Wait, that was awful - don't tell anyone I said that. Who's Charlie?

So why didn't you name your cat after... Um, Magical Miriam Margolyes, or whatever.

I figure they're the same, probably. I don't know if I knew I was lonely before. I have friends, I think. I have Charlie.

[loudenver]

I didn't make them up. T.S. Eliot did. Don't worry, we're kind of sharing the cat now.

Aw, I didn't ask if you were normal. I asked if you were less lonely. Normal's overrated.

Oh... Would it be considered, um, antisocial if I said those sound like words you just made up? Because they do. You should ask your boyfriend to give your cat back.

Dunno. You tell me. Do I seem "normal" to you?

[loudenver]

You know - the practical cats? Rum Tum Tugger? Magical Mister Mistoffelees? No? Alright. And yeah. Pretty weird.

Has it helped?

The what poem? Oh ok. And he didn't give it back. Weird.

Ok. Um. I dunno. They thought I was lonely. Or something.

[loudenver]

Oh, uh. Sorry. My bad. It's a poem that I like, by T.S. Eliot. Ironically, the guy who wrote the cats poem. He was just sort of - looking after my cat.

I promise not to call you Marc. You can call me Lou. So how come your Mums saddled you with this gorgeous boy, Marcus?

You said "J Alfred Prufrock" as if that would clear things up. Ah, writers. That makes more sense. I'm not really a literature sort of guy. You gave your cat away? To your boyfriend? Ok. Oh, um. Hi Louis.

Oh. Sorry. I'm Marcus. Just Marcus. Don't call me Marc.

[loudenver]

Yeah, I think he does. Good boy, Hendrix! Well, Pru's government name is Prufrock. As in, J. Alfred Prufrock. And Sybil's after the female character in Dorian Gray. Ulysses is after Joyce. I don't think he is, though he might have read the Percy Jackson books, I'll have to ask him. We're both writers - though all the tragic names are down to me. Heh. It's a long story, Ulysses was mine first. I'm Louis, by the way. Lou.

He's okay, yeah. He likes you, I think? Those are odd names for cats. Is your boyfriend a fan of Greek mythology? I think if it's your boyfriend's cat then that doesn't make it yours. Unless you live together. It's fine, I think. You can talk about him.

[loudenver]

You're right, Hendrix is much cooler than Lulu Belle. Aw, he's sweet, isn't he? Oh! They're called Pru and Sybil. And technically I still got Ulysses, but the uh, aforementioned boyfriend has custody of that one. Sorry. I don't want to be one of those guys who keeps talking about their boyfriend. Or my cats, really.

What was your name, again?

My mums got him for me without asking. He's grown but I've only had him for a couple of months. He's a rescue. His name was Lulu Belle which I thought was stupid so I renamed him. You can pet him, he doesn't seem to mind. Oh, I think I'm supposed to ask you what your cats are called?

[loudenver]

Ha, noooo. I work a minimum wage job at a theme park, and only then to get outta the house sometimes. You didn't get like, a little taste before it splattered all over you and the pavement? Just looking for silver lining, here.

A dreamer? Like, that's your job? Are you like, a hippy or whatever? I didn't eat the pasta. It wasn't even mine. Some poor bastard out there is gonna be waiting on their delivery and it's splattered across the damn sidewalk outside The Black Dog.

[loudenver]

You must love dogs at least enough to have one. And this one's a cutie. Hendrix, right? Cool name. Can I pet him? Cats are kinda their own beast. Mine are just kittens, so they love everyone right now.

Oh. I don't know if I love dogs either yet. I know people with cats. Cats don't like me. I didn't ask, no... Um... but you didn't ask Hendrix to lick your knee either. So...

[loudenver]

That's okay. No harm done - I love dogs. Actually, that's uh, not strictly true. But my boyfriend has a dog, and my housemates, so I'm used to them. I have cats. Which, you didn't ask about...

Sorry. I don't know why he did that. This is my first time having a dog. I've never seen him do that to a stranger before.

[loudenver]

I believe you’ve got no intention, he'd said. The words rattling around Louis' head over and over as he tried his hardest to remember that up was down and left was right and reckon with the fact Wardo's hands were still on him. It was a start. It felt like the start of something. Better even. It would've been easy to say, I know you're not going to hurt me, but it would've been untrue. This was tentative trust, Wardo giving himself over the same way he did with his kisses, hesitant, gentle, not all at once. Louis let hope crack his chest clean in two. He could work with that.

Wardo was close, so close that his nod was barely perceptible, so the quick bob of his head wasn't the thing that let Louis know it was okay to kiss him again. It was the little laugh that made it's way to a smile, crinkling the corner of his eyes so that Louis had to resist the urge to press his lips there. It was coupled with the lazy way his hands traversed his waist, a gentle, safe exploration, the way Wardo called him baby. He wished he could say they weren't baby people, they were both writers, you'd think them more imaginative than that. Over the years they'd called each other kid and darlin' and asshole and fucker, but they always made their way back to baby. It just fit right.

"C'mere then, baby." he echoed the other man, the words lost almost immediately in a kiss.

Louis could feel his own walls crashing down, letting Wardo kiss into his open mouth, the soft slide of his tongue and the hungry noise that followed, threatening to undo him entirely.

He knew from his history of stealing kisses in the library and in small, indie bookshops with Wardo that there was nothing more uncomfortable (and unfortunately, hotter) than a sharp corner of a bookshelf digging into your lower back while a beautiful boy dragged his tongue against the sweat-salted expanse of your neck. It was familiar territory for them, made unfamiliar by the large stretch of years, and Louis moved to wedge a hand between the bookshelf and the small of his back, a small mercy. He was kissing him breathlessly, gorgeous and too fucking tall and Louis longed to get him on even footing, fold his too-long limbs into the chair in the corner of the room so he could sink into his lap, press him against the unmade bedsheets, but he was scared. He didn't want Wardo to think...

Louis' feet tangled together, tripping on the edge of the rug, fingers digging clumsily into Wardo's bicep as he was walked backwards, a breathy giggle escaping him, as though the other man had read his mind.

"Mm, yes. Yes, of course." he mumbled, stumbling over his words as he worked to reassure him, breathless and giddy. He smoothed his hands over the front of Wardo's shirt, the places his overeager touches had crumpled the fabric there, then smoothed the apologetic smile from his face, dragging a thumb against his bottom lip, slick with Louis' spit.

"More than okay." he admitted, nudging Wardo's nose with his own. Pressing their mouths back together, he half fell, half dragged Wardo down to his bed, letting his ridiculous, gangly... well, something press him to the bedsheets, hands tangling in his hair as he smiled up at him.

"Long as you don't stop kissing me anytime soon, alright?"

"Whatever I can get." he admitted, words muffled against the warmth of his cheek, lips parted gently, pressed against his skin in the mimicry of a kiss. It was like being drunk, the dizzying, immediate effect of touching him, of being allowed to touch him. His dark, unruly hair tickling the pale underside of his palm, calloused writer's fingers catching on a tangle in his hair, a laugh, a murmured sorry. He would stand forever pressed close to Wardo Martinelli, delighted to stand in his orbit, their lips never quite touching, if this was all he was allowed.

"Oh, kid." he choked out, his free hand moving to circle his waist, made brave by his admission. Louis wasn't much of a drinker anymore, but he felt every drop of the swigs he'd taken of Amy's steadily-warming beer, the sharp, bitter bubbles on his tongue. He'd blame the cheap beer they kept in the back of their kitchen cupboard for the way his head was reeling, that was the safest bet right now.

"I got no intention of hurting you again." he stated, trying to make his voice sound resolute. He knew that Wardo would hear nothing but empty promises, despite the conviction he felt. He would have to do a hell of a lot more than promise, swear on his Maman's life, swear on all the things that mattered. On Truman Capote and their shitty New York apartment and on Ulysses. He didn't know how to promise Wardo that if he was allowed to love him again, he would love him for the rest of his life, and have Wardo believe it.

"I wouldn't." he breathed, his voice overlapping Wardo's own, mingling with his breath, blocking out all the sounds from beyond his bedroom door. He wanted to tell Wardo all the things he'd kept from print, defend himself. Their first date at the library, Wardo haphazardly plucking books from the shelf and being shushed by the librarian whilst Louis giggled. The first time Louis had covered Wardo's shaking body with his own, the sofabed, Louis trailing kisses down his stomach as he murmured, "I'm not gonna hurt you, darlin'". Those things had only been for them.

But he couldn't speak up - because as his mind was running over all these stupid, moot points, Wardo leaned in and kissed him. He made a noise like a man struck, aching and guttural and horribly fucking embarrassing in the back of his throat, and then the chaste press of Wardo's lips was over.

Louis' head was spinning, but he couldn't help but get stuck on one minute detail. Something so trivial that if it had been penned in a book he might have missed it his first read, overshadowed by the kiss, til his eyes scanned over it a second time, taking in the weighty significance. Something we write about, he'd said. God, had Wardo written about him? If he was to be believed, Wardo hadn't put pen to paper in years. And yet, Louis hoped that somewhere there were pages tucked away about him. Ink pressed to paper just for him - had Wardo written about his heartbreak, his fonder memories? It alleviated some of his guilt to think so, the cold creeping ice that had flooded his veins when he thought about just how much Wardo he'd put into his novel.

He braced a shaky hand against Wardo's chest, reaching up, uncertain hands tracing the line of his jaw, unable to hold still.

"I wouldn't even know how to put this into words," he laughed, nervous. Eyes wide and soft, he asked, "Can I kiss you again?"

[loudenver]

@loudenverauthor: Oh no, did you find them?

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meeting my friends for coffee wow i sure hope i can find them in this busy crowded city 🙄🙄

[loudenver]

↳INSTAGRAM: @loudenverauthor uploaded a photo:

“I give you my heart,

a safe house.

I give you promises other than

milk, honey, liberty.

I assume you will always

be a free man with a dream.

In america.”

- Essex Hemphill