mcrshalls-blog

[mcrshalls-blog]

ohcaspcr:

             casper wishes it didn’t always have to be a fight with him. his mouth is a war zone, and everyone he cares for somehow ends up caught in the crossfire. it’s exhausting, he thinks, to love someone who has a heart like a defibrillator. heart like go, heart like, no, please, stay. heart like an empty stretch of land, bomb testing desert, heart like being left defenceless somewhere in the middle. loving him is like a cease and desist, leaving like dishonourable discharge. casper imagines that when he’s gone, two military uniforms will knock on the doors of every heart that’s had the misfortune of coming under fire in his care, saying, finally, it’s over.

              unconsciously, casper’s grip relaxes under marshall’s palm, wanting the closeness, the bridge that he’s so bad at making with his words. there’s an unspoken vulnerability in the way mars’ hand rests over his, and casper doesn’t want to get this part wrong, but it’s a lot easier to get things right when he speaks by touch, instead of with his mouth. marshall’s skin is warm, always has been, like he’s soaked up too much dry country sun, and he overflows with it now. the angle of casper’s shoulders drop by a few significant degrees, and he squeezes his friend’s hand, savouring the sun-roughened skin. his heart beats steadily; even; considering, teaching itself to track the seconds he has here with marshall and not count them down. 

              too soon, it’s over. mars returns to his side of the booth, back into the light, and cas’ hand sits on the table, exposed, until he shelters it in the padded space of his pockets. somehow, it feels colder than before. “ i haven’t done that in a long time, ” he says, in reference to days of climbing into windows and evenings spent teetering on the edge of something more on windowsills. “ ‘don’t suppose you’ve got a door or something at yours, instead ? ” the curve of his mouth feels strange for this hour. or maybe it’s not the time of night, maybe it’s just the long periods of time he spends without one. casper’s smile belongs to him, but it has a funny way of looking like it doesn’t.

              casper will be here until the diner’s morning staff rotate in, consuming coffee to stave sleep off because he knows a match-stick mouth will be waiting for him if he sleeps. it’s better to pass out than doze off, it leaves his dreams empty. casper doesn’t say this to marshall. instead, “ you know all the fucked up night drivers start comin’ in after four, so, uh, i don’t know if you want to be here for that. ” it’s an indefinite answer at best, ill-defined and left open to mars’ interpretation.  “ but yeah, give me your new number, and we’ll do— ” pause, blank. “ —– something. ” brilliant, casper.

                   maybe this was enough emotional exhaustion for one day. perhaps their five minutes of interaction should be all that there was. obviously they have made it clear that they want to be back in one another’s lives, and not just in the passive, crossing paths kind of way they were before. it’s time for change. things need to be different now. he’s back home and it’s time to change his life. adjust it just a few degrees until he can start going in a direction that’s better.

the check is given to him and he takes it with a warm thank you. accepting it, he slides in fifteen cash and turns it to the edge of the table. with a pen he keeps in his coat, he scribbles, no change, please on the receipt. he wasn’t working a lot but just because he had little money didn’t mean he’d deprive those working at three in the morning of getting a nice tip. he looks back at casper, the reason for this evening being such a shit show. in the best way possible, though, mars would not hesitate to clarify that. he was unsure whether he’d get this day. he’d never know if casper hated him or not, this settled it right here. things were going to be alright. the world was giving him another chance.

obviously, the world was showing marshall he had to take this chance and run with it. no fear, no questions of whether it would work or not. marshall didn’t sit on his hands and wait for the world to fall at his feet, he got what he wanted. now, what he wanted was casper.   he laughs at the comment and shakes his head, looking back at his hands. soft, pale, begging to be grasped.    “ doesn’t really sound as fun though, does it ? “   even as an adult, he liked the adventure of sneaking to windows with rocks at his fingertips. like a fairy tale. no doubt he was prince charming. question was, what did that make casper?

maybe to just another individual, casper’s words wouldn’t make much sense, but marshall understood. he grabbed his backpack, putting everything back where it belonged, and grabbed a napkin, and his pen once again.   “ just don’t let those night drivers rough you up too bad, ‘kay man? “   he looks up with a smile, the kind that knows. probably things he shouldn’t. scrubbling down numbers and the address of the place he’s residing, he slides it to casper, standing from his spot.   “ i’m glad i ran into you, casper. “

[mcrshalls-blog]

naomiggomez:

“Why can’t I stop watching these crappy true-crime shows? Every story is the same and the dramatizations are SO bad but…I can’t look away! Someone save me!”

           “ those dramatizations are the best parts, though! why would you ever want to stop watching those? they’re hysterical! “

[mcrshalls-blog]

fxrestxrter:

                           alison scanned his stack of books out of curiosity, and turned to him as he spoke again, a smile on her face. “no,” she agreed, “they really aren’t.“ it was pretty saddening – books were her life, and now people were turning them away for bright screens. while she could understand, of course, she felt a little sad about it. “you look like you’re reading up a storm, though. what do you have there?”

             he only had a stack of three books, but he was reading them carefully. Not like he needed them for academics or anything.   “ nothing extreme, just some botanics and science. “    he was absolutely a nerd for nature, and that was apparent in the way he dressed; all neutral, looking like he was always going on a fashionable hike. it’s just him, though. it’s who he is.

[mcrshalls-blog]

ohcaspcr:

           in the dim light of the room, the shallow dips in casper’s face look hollow, like a hole, like if he were to tilt his chin a up, marshall would see right through the backs of his teeth. he’s more bruises than skin these days, more ghost than boy. in another booth on the other side of this diner - always near a window, wherever the sun will hit - a version of casper is eating half his body weight in chocolate brownies with his friend marshal, stealing a spoon of whipped cream from his side of the plate while he’s distracted by the condensation slipping down the side of his ice tea. mars flips him off, and this casper laughs, loud, around a mouthful of cream. this version hasn’t existed for a while, but casper understands that reunions with him are more like funeral rsvp’s for the people he sees, they’ll always be left with that after-bite of disappointment.

           knowing he’s not what mars wants is a low, overfamiliar ache. without needing to do anything much other than exist, casper has a natural talent of letting people down. his friends miss the ‘ OLD ’ cas, the one he approximates. casper doesn’t know which qualities of his older versions he still has left, or if anyone realises that leaving those parts behind had been an act of survival, that he had to take all the hurt he marinated inside himself out with his bare hands, to keep it from expanding, until there was nothing left of him. he took the scorched earth approach; tear it all to nothing; try again. 

           because the truth is this: when his mother talks about the car that broke down five days after he got his license, the slashed tires are a metaphor. when his father wept over cas’ bad maths, it was the prescription of two a day that he multiplied by eight one hour, and then twelve the next. casper’s life isn’t defined by these admissions, but fuck, his swollen heart still fighting it’s own tide is a factor. he isn’t the same person anymore; he can’t afford to be.

          “ wait, mars— ” casper’s palm falls flat over marshall’s wrist, his fingers curling to touch the center. “ i’m sorry, i know i’m— ” ruining this, making it harder for you, “ i know i’m difficult to deal with. ” these aren’t necessarily casper’s own words, but he’s heard them enough to parrot them back. a long-term side effect of other people’s constant disappointment is the apologies.  “ i don’t know how to talk to you anymore but, fuck i want to, alright ? i don’t want us to be like this. ” whatever this was; the undefined, ambiguous shape they’d somehow moulded themselves into. “ can i see you again ? ”

               marshall understands the hardships of life. he knows that life changes and people do too. he knows that because he changed. the only thing is, mars also knows he tends to be imaginary to those he accepts in his life. because marshall is good, marshall is smart, and kind. he he endless love and he’s an adventurer. he understands that the person he is is fictional. the one he presents to everyone is the best parts of him. they don’t see the bags under his eyes, they don’t read the pages and pages of how much he hates leaving his mother behind. or the fact that he never talks about himself the way he listens to others. how he’s ruined relationships because he’s grown too comfortable and he doesn’t like taking risks when things are going well. he believes casper fits with the rest of them. that he’s on some pedestal to him. he can’t change that. if he tries to explain he’s flawed like the rest of society, he sounds like a prick. he just has to accept that he’s no longer a person to casper, but a passage in a book. 

his body is tired. he wants to sleep. they both have dark circles under their eyes and they look like a sadder version of their previous selves. as if he were to look beside him and see the booth with their teenage bodies eating like beasts. how vibrant they looked. how dulled out they were now. he’d wish for them to never see their futures. to keep living the way they did. maybe mars would tell his younger self to just do it, and not be so fucking afraid. because if there’s one person he’s met in his life who would be worth the risk, he knows it’s casper. and had he taken the risk, and it fallen flat, and least he’d hope that maybe casper would know a good thing when it was in front of him, and not choose someone with blood under their fingers. 

he keeps on truckin’, though. marshall might know the person he is, is barely real, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t remind himself life is bright, the world has plans for him, and he’s blessed to be on this planet. he’s blessed to being front of casper. even if casper’s words hurt a part of him he no longer thought was there. 

his fingers are cold, and mars’ body is always warm like the sun--- a source of heat he’d always use as a reason to sneak closer. when they passed out on those colder summer nights and casper shivered, no hesitation their bodies were glued together. but those fingertips, in this room temperature diner, sent a sharp shiver down his spine as he looked at the ghost,  and the words poured into his soul like sweet wine. like his lips would tint red and he’d get on his knees for him. he’d grasp those hands, kiss the heavens, tell him that the world is difficult but fate deals is mysterious ways and how badly he wanted to share the maple syrup on his tongue with him.    “ casper, “   that name felt fragile and so good to say.    “ difficult is not impossible. “   he wanted to whisper it again and press their foreheads together. to tell him casper was not something to give up on. casper was a person.    instead of that, he smiled. the kind that poured from the sun. unreal. he knew he was unreal. but godamnit even if there was sorrow in those words, he wanted to see casper again, too.  his free hand moved over the one gripping his. delicate. moving gently over the soft, cold skin to prove his point. to say something under the surface he might not have gotten before.   “ i don’t want us to be like this either, okay? i’ll fight for you, casper. i will. “   he leans forward, his words growing more quiet, his smile still shining through the darkness.   “ i didn’t drive across the country just to give up on you five years later. we all have promises to keep. “   with that, he drew back, freeing both his hands.   “ do you want to try this again or would you really like me to leave you be. “   He sat back, eyebrows raised. waiting. " either way you’ll leave with my number and address. day or night you come to my window. “

[mcrshalls-blog]

ohcaspcr:

             marshal is all warm soil and ivory teeth. when he speaks, the room wants to swallow the sound. listening to him, casper feels a twinge under the roof of his ribs, it’s brief but sharp near his heart. it takes a moment to self-diagnose the ache, but ultimately he remembers the feeling; it’s half watered-down envy, half poorly directed self-loathing. mars’ mouth pulls words from the silence, can make a birds’ nest of someone’s heart. cas’ is full of cemeteries, his tongue neatly lined with tombstones, each marked with WHAT DID YOU EXPECT, COMING HERE. their differences never used to divide them, but now there’s a curtain between them that only casper can see.

              his head dips a fraction, leaning closer; somewhere past the debris, thrushes sing, and casper is in nevada, or some other desert, with marshall. his beat up car is parked right on the edge of a small town, but it might as well be the edge of the world, back country nothing stretching out into a day that never exists. cirrus clouds scatter and stumble over themselves, borne blue from smoke. there’s so much possibility that the sky burns with it. of course there’s something beautiful here; when everything on the horizon is golden, even the word barren can mean becoming, slowly. casper smiles, soft as a wing, soft as the napkin he’s folded in his hands. happiness has never come easily to him. it comes by like a flying saucer, here one moment, gone the next, often left to debate whether it was really there at all. but he feels it now, furiously, in every way that counts– he feels it for mars, his friend, and like that, cas is a believer.

             he wants to stay a little longer in this half awake moment, take down the curtain completely, and ask mars about every other city that has come undone in his memory, hazy and worn. marshall looks at him, straight on, and this is just like casper, he only ever see’s the SLOW DOWN sign seconds before his heart runs itself off the road. marshall went to wilson. casper’s hands go still, not knowing how to process this new and strange information. for a prolonged second, the world forgets to turn. marshall looks at him, and casper looks back; here, some things are too important to say out loud. here, the world is no teeth, just eyes. here feels like a starting point for something else, but there, there, an old feeling crawls up the back of casper’s spine. 

            wilson is like a bruise he’s learnt not to touch, the pain comes, as far as he’s concerned, when you remember the action that caused it. casper wasn’t in wilson. he doesn’t like to poke at the reason why. “ there’s not a lot there, is there ? ” he looks away, over the right of mars’ shoulder. here, the sky isn’t burning; everything just remains dark. 

           he remembers wilson. sure, it was over five years ago since he went and he wasn’t there for very long, but he went. and there was a part of casper he then understood. another level of melancholy. he had coffee with his mother for an afternoon. it wasn’t like they were close but marshall had just been off the tail of fighting with his dad and looking for one of his best friends and his mother was what he got. marshall was vulnerable, and wanted someone to talk to. in all reality, she probably heard the words he wasn’t saying. his most prominent memory was the hug he got when leaving her home. one his mom gave him after he’d be locked in his room for days. it was lingering, and tender. she told him that casper would be back someday, and he knew she meant nothing of those words but the way she said it gave him hope for something else. so he left. 

he left and he drove. miles and miles until his eyes couldn’t stay open anymore. he has photos from wilson he’d imagined to give to casper at some point. he’s mailed a few to his mother but he’s not sure what ms. sable has done with them. it doesn’t really matter, he did his part.

but now caspers in front of him, and he didn’t even have to drive across the country to find him. they were simply in font of one another once again. he remembered wilson. he hears those words bounce in his head. does he understand that he wasn’t in wilson for the scenery?  suddenly those words fall flat and marshall sits back. a chord struck him and he’s reminded that casper was never his, nor could he probably ever see himself as marshall’s. he didn’t travel to wilson because he was curious of the hometown his friend had. not because it was small and quaint and one of those obscure towns he could say he’s been to. it was because of a promise he made when he was thirteen. it was because he was shattered and heartbroken and he’d left his family and the only person he knew would understand was hundreds of miles away and he was going to go to him.

marshall didn’t reply. he saw casper’s eyes shift and he held his gaze. his eyebrows pulled together and he watches how far he feels. they weren’t best friends anymore. he’s trying not to get angry and he wants to throw the photos in his face. of wilson. of him. the stupid poems written half delious on nights when he hadn’t thought of him for weeks. there wasn’t you, he wanted to scream. there’s not a lot there because casper wasn’t there. he finally looked away and flagged down the waitress,   “ check please, “   he gave her a smile and pushed away his plate, looking back at casper.   “ you said you weren’t going to stay long so i wont keep you. “   it had only been a few minutes but marshall wanted to go back to his place now. for once, he wanted to just go to sleep.

[mcrshalls-blog]

sofiadonovxn:

“Right? I think i should run that by my boss, sees what he says. If he ever shows up that is.” She said checking her watch. She looked back at the male and chuckles, “I can see you in that suit he wears. You can pull it off.”

           he raised his eyebrow and takes another step forward into the bar, still unaware of what to do with himself. was the place even open or was it normally this dead?   “ do you--- do you think i’m your boss? “   he laughs, looking at his neutrals and general dumpster chic attire.   “ i can assure you, miss, i am the least bossy as they get. “

[mcrshalls-blog]

stcrliing:

          it had been an eventful few days; his arrival had been met with already being stopped by the police, the inevitable argument that happened on his arrival back at the warne family home and now he had only one plan. the same plan that had already got him through this much of his life. - get wasted. the problem was, there was hardly a decent club scene around here, so here he was with a basket full of bottles of Smirnoff and Bacardi. ‘ i doubt you know a dealer round here, do you?’ he asked the only other person on the isle. not seeming to have any concern about the fact he was discussing an illegal topic in such a public space.

            marshall was just trying to mind his own business. he just wanted to have a good day and not run into anyone that would set him off course. he’s still been pretty worried about running into his parents or someone who knew his parents, where word would get back to them and they’d find out. so this situation; some kid approaching him asking about DRUGS, set off every inner alarm he had.    “ what the fuck are you doing, man? “    he laughed. as troublesome as it was, this guy was ridiculous, and also coming from new york city, or the dumbest of people asked these questions.    “ no i don’t know a dealer and if i did, why would i tell you?  are you trying to get us both arrested? i could be a cop. you could be a cop for all i know. you have no idea how this works, do you? “

[mcrshalls-blog]

fxrestxrter:

                            alison watched him as he continued to read, and then looked out the window as kids passed by. he was right, and she bit her lip slightly before turning back. “oh, i know. that’s why we have wi-fi. if they come here and read their buzzfeed articles, maybe one of them will read a book. i haven’t given up on today’s kids, yet.”

               he chuckled, setting the book on the stack of others he had collected in looking this afternoon. things he’d probably check out and bring back with him to read in downtime.   “ well i commend you for that. most people have. at least when it comes to books that is. times are a-changin’, miss. people aren’t reading like they used to. “    proven fact. at least in this country. no wonder kids were ending up dumber.

[mcrshalls-blog]

ohcaspcr:

          casper’s tongue is well trained in sitting still and in silence, it’s his hands that can’t keep a secret. when he was fifteen, they spent a whole summer open wide and fascinated by mars. on hot, lazy days they found any excuse to be nearer to his skin; the back of cas’ hand would find ways to brush against mars’ in the long grass, his palms would push against his shoulders under the guise to climb higher, sun-lotion would spill through the gaps in his fingers as he smoothed the last of it into mars’ back when they’d go to the lakes. casper’s hands went tender for people like mars, following the line of his spine like it was drawn in chalk. 

         seven years later, they still want to reach across and touch the ridge of mars’ cheekbone and the delicate skin under his right eye. there’s a push and pull that casper can’t get out of, throwing his heart around like it’s not already a damaged thing, and marshall is talking over the sound of casper’s heartbeat as it climbs through the attic of his throat. he curls and uncurls his hand into a fist, trying to unsettle the stiffness that has settled in the joints of his fingers from the cold, and to prevent them from giving him away. the movement feels disjointed, it looks uncomfortable even to him. it feels like he’s pulling on the muscles of someone else. another body. this one doesn’t feel as though it belongs to him anymore.

         casper isn’t sure if mars’ question is rhetorical or not, only knows that his eyes can’t decide where they should be. they flicker over the arch of his brow and the mole on his jaw, briefly pausing on a mouth he’d once edged closer to in a dream, pining, with the windows open. an inane part of casper wants to apologise for the coldness of his hands, as if they’d already reached out and touched him without his permission. instead, he hums at marz’ theory, remembering now how everything seems to have a more obvious answer to him. nothing is ever as dire for marshall; his turns aren’t as break-neck, his laughter is always closer to the front of his mouth. 

         mars’ heart is too big for his body, and when his gaze falls, casper wants to say ‘ you have so many miracles ahead of you, can’t you see it ? ’ he’s careful not to knock the salt and pepper shakers as he reaches for the napkins on the table, something for his hands to hold, and says “ good thing the border’s not going anywhere, then. ” marshall is twenty-four, not eighty-six; south america is still waiting for him, along with a large-fucking-percentage of the world. “ so, where did you go ? before, uh, you know. ” new york.  “ california ? missouri ? if you say texas, i’m walking outta’ here. ”

              what if they had been friends in new york? then what? he imagines things would have crashed and burned right before him. exactly the reason why he didn’t do skinny love. exactly the reason why he doesn’t sit on his feelings for too long. there weren’t many cases of love in a platonic relationship ending well. there would have been drunken nights of marshall getting too close to casper, and he’s had dreams about sitting too close to him with lips brushing against ears, talking low, fingertips playing with hems of shirts. but those were just dreams and reality was proving that the things he felt in side were of no use to him--- to them. they were just there, and they caused more harm than good.

              especially right now, sitting in front of his old friend, wondering how he’s really been. how did new york treat him? he wanted to cry and yell and apologize and confess that he’d be damned if he couldn’t do it better than any of the hands that have touched him.  most of all, he wanted to say how much he missed his friend. how many things he wanted to share about his journeys in life and to laugh about things from the past. there wasn’t much left from back then he liked to talk about--- most of all the good stuff came from casper. 

his fork traces patterns in the pools of syrup, creating thick paths that would soon return back to their even state. he thought about the question asked. where did he go? the better question was where didn’t he go? he wasn’t sure if casper understood what he meant about the border; a more melancholy situation than a longing one. a beast his mother’s family fought and he knew casper couldn’t fully grasp it, but it was there and he saw it, and it was slightly haunting.   he cleared his throat, adjusting in his spot. a hand reached to grab his journal and slide it beside him on the booth, removing it from question altogether. where had he gone?   “ i went to texas. not for long; just to eat a big steak and stop in san antonio. it’s beautiful there. absolutely stunning. like a tiny italy. “   he has many pictures. maybe casper can see them one day.   “ i went wherever my car could take me. i spent a lot of time in new mexico, and arizona, and nevada. i know it’s kind of the opposite of trees, but there was something beautiful in the desert too, that i loved just as much. “   he smiled, his hands folded in his lap, slightly uncomfortable.   “ but i went everywhere, casper. “   he cleared his throat, looking his dead in the eyes. something he’s wanted to say for years.   

               “ i went to wilson. “    there it was. finally. there was marshall’s i love you, laid plain and simple on the table. he kept his promise to casper, after all those years. 

[mcrshalls-blog]

dnvrdwyr:

denver missed his childhood dog, the golden retriever he’s had since he was a kid. honestly, he couldn’t remember a time when zoe wasn’t jumping up on couches his father always told her not to jump up on, or snagging food off of the kitchen counters, or snuggling up close to denver when she knew there was something wrong. there were no retrievers at the pet store he currently walked through, but there were a few other dogs that caught his eye. he hadn’t come in with the intention of buying a dog, just wanted some dog time. as he was walking back to the small blue-eyed husky he’d seen a few minutes ago, the dog was already in the arms of someone else. “hey, uh – are you, um, planning on buying him? i mean, her. i’d really like to buy her if, um, you’re not.” 

          growing up, mars never got to have a dog. they had a couple cats, which he was fond of, but marshall’s personality always fitted for a dog. so when he left, and moved to new yok city, the first thing he did was adopt a dog, and now adonis was just the rowdy thing he needed. he was at the store getting him groomed, and decided that hey, now was a good time to pick up some dog food while he waited. but he managed to travel back to the other dogs, and they were all as cute as the last. that bought a stranger to speak up to him. maybe he looked like a new bubbling dog owner. with a bag of food over his shoulder and a beaming grin at all the dogs, he looked at the stranger, and it took a moment to register his question.   “ huh ? oh--- no, no, definitely not. i got my own monster to take care of. i definitely can’t handle another one. no thank you. “   he turned to see adonis in the window, getting groomed, looking like he was having the time of his life.   “ by all means, man, she’s your’s. “

[mcrshalls-blog]

ashtcnurl:

ashton could tell that the other was very kind just after practically a second of watching him react to her request. she was extremely relieved that he was kind enough to help her, because in all honesty - she felt like burying herself in the ground at how embarrassed she felt. “ thank you. really. i’m not a fan of gifts, i’ll pay you back. ” she said, looking at the other. “ but i appreciate it. ”

            marshall kept looking at her, even after the card was handed back to him and he was stuffing it back into his wallet.   “ that’s hard to believe but i wont argue with you on it. “   someone not liking gifts is about as hard to believe as someone like liking cake. everyone likes cake. he wasn’t going to be that prick who insisted on being nice, he did his part now, and if it made her feel better to pay him back, so be it. he wasn’t expecting it, though. marshall would be fine with an extra two dollars gone to fuel another person.

[mcrshalls-blog]

ohcaspcr:

            whenever casper laughs, it’s like the sound has been startled out of him, like his body has already forgotten it can shake in a way that doesn’t indicate pain. this time is no exception. pretty banger. cas snorts as something fond uncurls in the centre of his chest, making itself comfortable, lodged squarely in his ribcage. there’s a time warp here. mars is half in shadow, half in light; his smile, in that moment, is the grass that tickled along the curve of cas’ spine and the summers that the two of them spent together, it’s the sun-kissed shoulders and flat bike tires. it’s from years ago, and it has no place with casper here, now. 

              the thought is sobering and cas is now the shadow; his expression falls like a building heaving it’s last sigh in the seconds it takes for him to be unable to fill the silence. he doesn’t wonder which one of these tables has their names scratched into the bottom, which window is the one mars would dream outside of, or if he ever made it to that place cas couldn’t see. it’s both pitiful and fitting that the only way cas knows how to think about mars is in motion, still. suspended somewhere between interstate seventy-five and new mexico. he can’t guess where marshall has been, or why he would ever come back.

              mars is looking at him strangely as he speaks, like he’s not sure what this is, or, very possibly, like he’s not sure what he see’s. cas thinks about how every part of mars seems painstakingly constructed: locked jaw, straight spine, a ribcage hands would fit themselves over just to learn how he breathes. casper is the opposite; he’s difficult cheekbones, a melting wick, his chest hurts to carry, let alone touch. “ i wasn’t planning on staying long, ” he says in an odd imitation of his normal voice, the sound of something that’s been hazardously thrown back together but isn’t working the same way as before. 

              he should leave. he shouldn’t leave. casper sits across from mars in the booth, despite giving him every indication he wants to go. “ do you want a coffee ? ” he asks, a far cry from the vanilla floats and chocolate shakes they used to order. guilt and something else twists tightly in his stomach; something he can’t place. loss, maybe. regret. a word that could translate the years that sat between them; time where cas didn’t try. “ what’re, uh—- what’re you doing back here ? ” a valid question, but not when it’s coming from him. “ ‘always thought you’d end up in south america or something. ” 

           marshall bucio was a man of many friends.  he was likeable and enjoyed being around people. something he understood was different about his and casper. so when he left, there were many losses he had to get over, but that didn’t mean that traveling to the grand canyons and the great forests and the largest ball of twine in the world, he wanted to share it all with him. he did still have a picture of him with that twine he’d dreamed of sharing with casper one day. something the stumbled upon on their internet searches together when they were thirteen. it was a joke for years. 

but that picture sits in his jounral in his hands right now and there’s casper right in front of him, moving to fill in that empty space in the booth. he’snot moving an inch to show him the picture. would he even remember? he imagines not. he thinks memories of himself have no been covered by calloused hands and sweet whispers by someone who didn’t mean it. memories of marshall’s fingers, with dirt firmly packed under his nails, moving over those of a softer variety, over the neck of a guitar. his memories of coasting the web for hours have probably long since been forgotten and replaced by things more important. marshall was never as important as other people in his life. because people don’t love like marshall loves.

every fragment, every touch, every word tossed in the air in dark coated skies. the eyes of a photographer remembering the rain trickling over pale skin and thinking if he looked this beautiful when he cried. how his stomach churned the summer he told casper he had a girlfriend. every memory was staked right next to the other and at late hours on the road, he thought of those; over, and over, and over again.    “ then don’t. don’t need to stay because of me. “   it strikes something in his chest and he curls in himself. his glowing eyes dull just a little and that initial happiness to see casper was fading, so he closed the journal where scattered, half insane words were scribbled about the young man in front of him. where he couldn’t see sketches of his lips and the cigarette smoke that used to come from there. he just stared at his pancakes until he remembered you’re supposed to EAT THEM.

why hadn’t he ended up in some foreign land where nothing was around except for trees. why had he gone to new york? why did he come back home? the latter really baffled him. but he got in his car one day with his dog and they came back. he’d been staying in some half beat down apartment that had peeling wallpaper and he’d been taking pictures for random people until he could properly figure out what to do with himself. but he was happy casper asked. like he cared.   “ i’ve got coffee, thank you. “   it’s his fifth cup, but he keeps that to himself.  he even takes a sip of it before answering.   “ i don’t have the slightest clue as to why i’m back. i think sometimes we just need to come back to our roots, you know? “   he grabs his fork and takes a bite off the drenched flapjack.    “ i never went south of the border. i just stared at it... for a really long time. “   he says quietly, his eyes being kept down from the memory. it wasn’t a happy one, but it was one he felt he needed to have. 

[mcrshalls-blog]

fxrestxrter:

                           after the kids had ran out, she turned to the person who’d spoken, and then laughed a little, shaking her head. “i’d like to, but i want them to come back. reading’s good for young minds – or so my mother used to say.”

            marshall laughed, flipping the page in his book and crossing one leg over the other. at this point, he watched the kids pass by the window and he shook his head.    “ i’m afraid there’s already a lost cause, miss. their reading days are now only BUZZFEED articles and FACEBOOK posts. “    he sighed in disappointment, shaking his head at the younger ones.

[mcrshalls-blog]

sofiadonovxn:

Sofia heard a voice that didn’t belong to the music, causing her eyes to fly open and turn her attention to the male with a sheepish smile, lowering the volume. “Not yet, i’m thinking of making that part of the bar…” She pointed to the right. “A little dance area. you know get the dance floor, maybe add a disco ball.” she joked as she leaned against the bar.

         he looked to where she was pointing and nodded with utmost interest, even if it was a little mockery.   “ oh yeah, i can totally see it. fits with the overall aesthetic of the place. “   as if disco balls weren’t overly tacky already, he honestly wouldn’t be surprised to see one in a place like this.   “ i could finally live out my dream as being john travolta in saturday night fever. “   it was in no way mocking her, just making a mockery in general.

[mcrshalls-blog]

ashtcnurl:

ashton was waiting for her morning coffee, after a long night of working off the clock, for extra money, washing cars. though once the cup of coffee was given to her by the cashier, she tucked a hand in the pocket of her jeans, to find out it was empty. and so were her other pockets. “ shit. ” she muttered under her breath. she looked around her quite helplessly, feeling the cashier’s eyes on her. she hated asking for money, and she never would’ve, but the cup of coffee was already in her hand. “ hey, um, can you give me like, two dollars ? i’ll, uh, pay you back. ” she mumbled, speaking to the first person she laid her eyes on.

          a quick coffee to keep him going, that’s what it was. he was between jobs and after running into one of his mom’s old friends, she asked for him to photograph a party. no issue there, he’s only running on two hours of sleep, but that’s typical. he body expects it now. it’s just used to all the caffeine dumped into his system to help with it. yeah. he’s standing in line and the person in front of him is taking a few extra seconds to dig for her change. she comes up with nothing and turns to him, and it’s nothing but a beat of silence then a smile, reaching into his wallet to give the cashier his card,    “ add a tall black to that, would you please? “   he asks the barista and they take it gladly.  he looks at the stranger and shrugs.   “ don’t worry about it. consider it a gift for being here today. “   karma was on her side, the world was telling him so.

[mcrshalls-blog]

ohcaspcr:

2 : 46 am

        a familiar, but not so familiar sense of grief is caught in casper’s hands as he clicks his lighter, a rolled cigarette hanging from his lips. the carpark is near empty and the diner’s sign casts a blue hue over everything it reaches; a bike propped against the side of the building, the tips of casper’s shoes, edges of a memory. years ago, there was a crack in one of the steps leading up to the diner’s doors, and casper would eye it carefully, wondering it it was getting worse, wondering if he’d still be here by the time it became a problem. a shoulder would bump into his then, and that thought would stop. the step is replaced by a ramp now, smoke pools around his chin and there’s no other body beside him; casper has no right to feel the loss of the things he left behind. flicking ash, he rests the weight of his body against his car and thinks about anything other than seeing love in this. love in the slowing of tires between lines, love in the rear-view mirror, love in the parked space of a car. 

2 : 53 am

a bell chimes as casper slips through the door; the world would be full of a lot less hurt if everyone announced their coming and going so clearly. he doesn’t notice him at first, and that’s casper’s own hurt eclipsing his vision again. he picks up a menu from an unoccupied booth, another thing that has changed, probably for the better, in the years that casper hasn’t visited. without sparing a glance at the diner’s savoury options, he flips over to the back to scan over the desserts; it’s a force of habit, although funnily enough, he hasn’t had the stomach for sweet things these last few months. a minute passes and cas looks up, as though someone had called his name in the quiet hum of the overhead lights. 

2: 54 am

casper notices him, finally, and it feels, suddenly, like there’s too much air in his chest, making him ache. he knows those eyes, that bone structure; he knows mars’ face like he knows a guitar, all those individual pieces adding up into something his hands know how to touch. he knows him, even if the last time they saw each other– 

                                        NO, casper doesn’t want to think about new york.

he doesn’t want to do this, either. there aren’t enough witnesses to make an exit seem anything other than cowardly; nothing is between them, only everything. casper moves forward whilst he tries to re-orient himself, his gravity shot. “ mars, ” something has to follow this, there has to be more than a name. a plate of half eaten pancakes are next to mars’ hands. casper wasn’t looking at his hands. “ they as good as they used to be ? ”

2 : 55 am

             there was no expectation of words.  if they hadn’t talked in months--- years, really, what would make things different now? maybe because they were actually alone and there was no one to come between either of them. no wandering lips or strong hands around hips. no OFF LIMITS signs pasted to blushed cheeks. while casper had some goon’s hand around his heart, marshall danced the streets of new york and sang the words of tony bennett and professed loved to countless near strangers. lingered limbs with bodies who knew that life was fleeting and so was companionship; but that didn’t make it any less meaningful.

                      twisted cries no one hears but it still sounds the same                                 you’re lost in street lamps                                 and i don’t know who to blame.                       but you’re gone and there’s no use crying over spilt milk                                  even if i still hear you past the dead radio air                                  and your laugh still feels like silk.

         you’re dead in my carcass of a heart.

2 : 55 am

                time moves slowly and he knows these words were written at a point of night when his sheets cried for him and his body wanted to collapse. but his mind traveled to dark places and deep thought and he missed his ghost. he missed the spirit that traveled over his soul and would console him. who could relate to his uncommon desires of never leaving his bed. the same page has unrecognizable sketches of something marshall only imagines to be a scattered heart and cigarette smoke coming from busted lips. time moves slowly and he’s hearing his name like a distant song. an unexpected one, at that.

2 : 56 am

              it takes a moment to register the interaction. oddly, casper spoke first, and it was the last thing he expected. but marshall wasn’t a bitter person, and he always thought casper hated him. the question had a smirk beginning to form on his lips and he laughed, looking back down on the plate. was it really that funny? of course not. But there were those words, slapped on his dinner plate right with his syrup covered pancakes. he looked at those words like he’d never thought he’d see them.   “ yeah, “   he nods, looking back to the source of those words. he might have to write them down.   “ yeah, they’re pretty banger, as always. “

2 : 58 am

             there’s silence and it lasts almost as long as the absence of one another in their lives. it eats at him and he wants to keel over like he’s overcome with a rotting disease. it’s stiff. but that stiffness is better than anything he’s ever been given. he slept six hours yesterday, he’s running low again, but he’ll be damned if this is sweeter than the syrup dripping down the back of his throat.   “ seems kind of silly for you to be sitting all the way over there. “   he speaks again, and it’s obvious who he’s speaking two since there’s barely anyone around. no need to address. casper’s in the same room as him and it’s like the graces of the world have planted him something good for once. 

[mcrshalls-blog]

date ---  5 . 25 . 17 time ---  2 : 54 am

         the time is late and once again, mars is not found in a bed sleeping. instead, he’s found picking at pieces of a pancake, putting the fluffy bits past his lips and flips his non-sticky fingers through the pages of a journal, reading entries from previous weeks. scattered words saying things he had hoped not to say out loud. memories swam through him--- never ending as he came back to his home town. he passed parks and trees and statues and places where he made stupid young boy choices. they all came back and there marshall was, reliving all of it. he could smell the cigarette smoke around him like once again he was fifteen with his guitar singing campaign supernova and wondering what sort of curve-ball life would through at him next.

a moment where his body was telling him sleep was advised was better spent reflecting. thinking of the memories revisited, and the people running through his mind that he would see once again. always, always, always, however, it came back to one person and that person’s name got scribbled down more than he’d like to admit. parts of his face that he did remember; like the curve of his nose and the crinkle of his smile. mars heard his boyfriend cheated. mars head he was in love with him. the kind that transcends all life. that can’t be held down by a single finger. he’s heard he disappeared back home. he’s heard a lot of things. none of which was directly from him.

                  moments away from the sun, i think of you                           and how your body moves                           and how your laugh shakes my chest                  moments away from the sun, and there’s no shadow                  where your body was.

his eyes travel over the dark stained page and he sees the sketching at the bottom of the page--- seventy-two hours without sleep. he notes the scramblings below that. the hallucinating of the familiar face. like an old ghost that wont let him go. he wonders again if he’s hallucinating when the figure walks through the door. but he reminds himself he slept last night. no way that was possible.   // @ohcaspcr