pöpöilyt

[Robert]

parempi otsikko tulee kyllä
 

[Robert]

      feb 04— study in friendship 

Robert likes her. Like really, really, really likes her. Not in the sappy, all heart eyes kind of a way—except maybe a little, but not like romantically, okay—but the hey, I’m happy you stick around kind of a way.

She's easy, like water. Soft, all gentle caress, flowing effortlessly through everything. Patient: even dripping water wears away a stone, and nothing in the end can stand against it.

It’s interesting, especially to someone who is more or less used to, when facing an obstacle, giving up. He’s not sure why he is like that with everything, but it’s also very hard to be deep when you are two beers and one of those green-looking drinks with just a too big of a splash of vodka and three shots into the night. Even the bartender is starting to look lovely at this point, and he’s a dude.

“A’ight, so, if you got a million quid”, Robert starts as they stumble out of the bar, she in her high heels and he offering his arm for her. His Finnish is long gone, out of the office for the night.

“A million quid, yeah?” she humours him, grabbing his arm.

“A million quid, right, and like, every time you see someone you’re attracted to, you’d, like, vomit a lil in your mouth.”

“What do you mean by attractive? If I like them?”

“Like, if you would... shag them.”

“How much vomit are we talking about? Just projectile vomiting all over the place or?”

“Nah, like... two ounces maybe, like you could just swallow it back I guess”, he shrugs.

“That’s gross”, she says.

“I probably wouldn’t do it. Or, I mean, a million quid is a million quid. Maybe I would do it. You could, like, learn new things about yourself. Like there’s a shirtless dude jogging about and I’d be, like, oh, so that’s a thing now. I’d just carry mouthwash or something.”

“You’re gross”, she says.

“Yeah”, he says.

Her arm feels warm around his, and it’s ten different kinds of nice, and he’s almost sad when they find themselves back at the apartment. Although he is happy to kick off his shoes and Mikaela, she’s probably even happier.

“You’re thinking really loudly”, she murmurs, at 5 in the morning, his head tucked in the crook of her neck. He blinks up at her jaw, because he wasn’t really thinking that loud, was he now? He shifts, his hips nearly hanging off the couch.

“You’re nice”, he says.

“Okay”, she says, because she’s not as drunk as he is.

“I like you”, he says.

“Okay”, she says, again.

“Not like that”, he says.

“Okay”, she says, one last time.

The silence that follows is only little awkward, but she’s soft and makes a half decent pillow so Robert thinks it’s all good in the end. And the couch isn’t even that comfortable. They could always move, or he could move, or she could move, and they could be comfortable together or as individuals, but somehow even the idea of moving is tiring already.

He tries not to think so loudly afterwards, but it’s kind of difficult with his heart pounding in his chest and the alcohol turning his mind into just one big blur. Everything is so loud anyway. The beat of that annoyingly popular Finnish song that was playing back in the bar, the warm memories of that one specific summer, the paranoid worry over Harry and her leg, the steady thump of Mikaela’s heart and the slow pace of her breath.

“D’you think we’ll get back together?” he asks when it becomes too much. Her breath hitches, a tell-tale that she’s awake, and she shifts under his weight. She sighs, and then there’s a noise that vaguely sounds like a question mark, so he takes that as a permission to go on.

“Britta and I?”

She sighs again, and this time it sounds like she doesn’t want to hear about it. Which is, like, fair and sh!t, considering she’s been hearing a lot about it. Kind of, at least.

“That’s up to you”, she murmurs.

He thinks about it.

“Probably not.”




Robert doesn’t really drink too much too often. Sometimes, like after leaving in the middle of that pre-Christmas party in December, he wonders why exactly that is, but now, as the sunlight pushes through the cracks in the blinds and Mikaela is breathing far too loudly and he feels like he wants to vomit and do everything in his power to keep himself from vomiting at the same time and it’s hot and his skin feels sticky and she’s really warm against him and his mouth tastes like he ate tobacco ashes for midnight snack, he remembers why. He kind of wants to push her off, off himself and off the couch, but he reckons it wouldn’t be very nice since it is her couch and her apartment and her, well, everything. And she’s on the backrest side anyway.

He should be thankful, really.

Besides, it’s not that bad. It’s comfortable and cosy and it feels kind of nice to be there with her breath hot on his arm. Kind of feels like belonging, in a way. Not that he’d belong there in her apartment with an arm around her. But, like, maybe he belongs in this town, after all. With these people. In this dysfunctional, little family they have formed.

He drifts off again, and the next time he opens his eyelids, she has her phone out. There’s a brief moment where the phone screen is too bright in the already darkening afternoon and he kind of just wants to put his hand all over the text conversation she seems to be so into, but then something much familiar settles.

Panic.

Oh, the good old panic.

He falls on the floor in one swift motion, and when he sits up and steals a glance of her, he’s pretty sure she’s grinning. Like, honest-to-god you are a fcking idiot kind of a grin.

It might be because his shirt looks like it was buttoned by a drunkard or because his hair is sticking up in all cardinal and intercardinal and secondary-intercardinal directions. At least he looks the part—the part being a fcking idiot.

“I’m sorry??” he pipes up, worried, before rubbing a soothing hand over his aching back.

“Idiootti”, she snorts, not even looking away from her phone screen.

[Robert]

      nov 13— study in relationship 

They're out and about, or as out and about as one can get in this town, and it's nice—Robert likes spending time with these people, nevermind they haven't got much in common. But there's people in common, events in common, and it's enough in common to keep him where he is, sitting around the table with the girls. The feeling in indescribable—it's warmth spreading across his ribs, it's ache in his cheeks from too much laughter, it's ease, it's home.

The idea that there was a time when this wasn't home, now seems absurd.

Cella hops up to grab them another round, Robert uses the break in the flow to excuse himself for a wee.

The bar is crowded—after all, it is the go-to place for the youth, and it is the weekend night—and all he does is peek in the bathroom before backing into the wall opposite the door. His back hits the wall with a quiet thud and a heavy sigh escapes his lungs: the bathroom is full, he doesn't feel like standing in there like a dickhead.

To pass the time, he pulls his phone out. The screen is far too bright in the dim hallway, and there aren't too many notifications, or his friends are all pretty much around that one table back at the bar, but there's one that piques his interest.

[01:39am] arthur: oi mate wyd? dya remember alessandra? x

He squints his eyes at the text, at the livid memory of Alessandra, of dating her.

[01:42am] robert: srs? you're having me on
[01:42am] arthur: come again lad

There's not enough time for him to reply before a familiar guy steps out of the bathroom. Robert doesn't notice, fingers stuck hovering over the keyboard, screen lighting his frowned features. Maybe he's a bit drunk, too, cheeks flushed from the beer and letters blurring on the phone screen; the wall a trusty support behind his back.

"Robert?"

The voice is familiar, so is the bright smile following it.

"Heya", Robert smiles back, easy and flustered. And there it is again: the warmth, the ache, the ease. He lets his gaze run the other lad from head to toes and back, tired eyes studying the bright ones. He smiles, again, all lazy and hazy and soft, and the back of his head hits the wall. The phone vibrates in his hand, yet he doesn't feel it. Don't judge him—he likes the guy. Despite making a show out of how he doesn't, he really does.

It's nice to have someone genuine around, you know, someone who genuinely enjoys your company. Someone who just listens as you ramble on, with that certain absent spark in their eyes. And look, Robert doesn't want to get all Disney, but someone who looks at you like Flynn Rider looks at that Tangled girl when she looks away.

It's pretty wicked.

"Hi", he says, again, softer now, eyes idly shifting from the sharp cut of the other's jaw to the soft plump of his lips. "Fancy seeing ya here", and God, he's so awfully English when he's drunk. But the guy doesn't seem to mind: he merely smiles, in that amused but fond way, hands twisting together and head ducking down.

"Fancy seeing you here", is the poor imitation he attempts as a reply, but Robert grins anyway, feels the warmth spread, tingling in his fingertips.

It's almost funny, how easy it is to touch his arm, to drag him back to their table by the wrist, to sit next to him.

It's easy, it's warm, it's nice.

He kind of really likes the guy, despite telling his best friend otherwise later that night.

[Robert]

      mar 11— study in relationship, pt II 

It was real then, he realises now, the uneasy feeling he'd gotten lately. He sees it in the eyes of the other boy. He blinks, eyes wide like he's a deer in the headlights, neck uncomfortably crained to pull away.

The music's still blasting somewhere in the background, there's a streak of flour across Konsta's face, his fingers are still tight around Robert's arm, and their conversation feels terribly out of place.

"You can't keep doing this", he says, and Robert flinches.

"I, what? I mean, I have no idea what you're talking about", he lies, blatant, and his eyes search for answers in the others'.

Konsta takes a step back, and Robert finds himself missing the weight of his hand.

"This", he says. "Just, like, stop, okay? If you're not interested then stop fucking acting like it."

It's much like an open-palmed slap against his cheek: he doesn't expect it, doesn't see it coming, he just goes with the flow of it.

He swallows, and it seems to echo in the apartment kitchen.

And I'm right over here, why can't you see me, and I'm givin' it my all, some guy sings to a Tiesto beat.

Konsta scoffs, that I can't believe you kind of a way that seems amused but disappointed at the same time. He shakes his head, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, even if his smile lines don't show and the wrinkles around his eyes stay hidden.

"Right", he says, ducking his head down awkwardly.

But I'm not the guy you're taking home, the soulful guy--Calum, or something, Robert wants to say--keeps singing.

"You were going to kiss me", he says slowly. There's a whisk in his left hand and his hip is leaning against the kitchen counter at an awkward angle.

The pancake mix in the bowl bubbles.

"Yeah?"

"That's--I--Why", he stumbles with his words.

"Did you just really ask me why?" Konsta asks, and there's an incredulous burst of laughter following. It dies fast enough, leaving only a blank face behind.

Robert shifts on his feet and finds them much more interesting than the other boy. He feels his cheeks burning all of the sudden, the hot underneath his freckles threatening to surface. His pinky toe peeks out of his sock.

"Dude", he says at the floor.

"Don't dude me", Konsta says.

The songs quiets down to a silence, only noise in the apartment coming from the slowly sizzling butter on the pan.

A different beat starts to pick up. Someone in the old apartment building hallways slams their door shut. The fridge makes a low hum.

Robert's not one for rash decisions, or deviating from his daily routines.

It feels wrong to surge forward, to push his lips against the other's. He feels out of place, unsecure, like he's standing on an island of ice about flip any moment.

It feels different, though, when he feels like melting against the boy's warmth, hands catching the crook of his elbow and the slant of his waist.

It feels real, it feels right, in a way he's not familiar with.

[Robert]

      jun 2— study in friendship in motion 

the first realisation: it is terribly warm, scorching. there's skin against skin, rays of sunshine through the blinders, birds singing outside, and there's sweat and sweat and sweat. it's very idyllic, unlike at home, and as he fights his tired eyes open, the second realisation comes: it is not home.

the ceiling is white, unscathed, unlike at home. there's no blackout curtain, to obscure the difference between day and night, unlike at home. the sheets feel soft, laundered with care, unlike at home. and, worst of all, there's a body next to him—most definitely unlike at home. he is, most definitely, not at home.

the third realisation: it's her. he doesn't know what to make out of it. he utters a laugh, incredulous. she doesn't stir.

there are clothes scattered all over the apartment. shoes merely tossed away and coats dropped in a rush, a bottle of corona spilled on the floor. remember? it's all screaming, and he swallows—no, and his head hits the pillow again, fingers gripping at sheets, knuckles all white.

"shit", he murmurs and rubs his eyes with force, and his head is thumping.

he's never seen her like this, and he feels like he's not supposed to see her like this, not supposed to be there, here—he's intruding. she seems soft, like this: light hair spread all over the lighter sheets, last night's lipstick a faint smear on her lips, a leg throw over his, a pale thigh hugging a tan one. it's poetic, like in any better romantic film of sorts. he's supposed to tuck the strands of hair behind her ear, and she's supposed to smile in her dogsleep.

"hey", she suddenly whispers, and his heart skips a beat. he doesn't know what to say. he doesn't say anything. "are you not gonna say anything?"

"no, probably not."

"okay."

"okay."

and they simply lie there, with their morning breaths awful and thighs stuck together. he doesn't dare to move—is it less awkward to just lie there, skin against skin, rather than to make a move to unstick their skin from one another? he reckons yeah, yes it is.

"i can make breakfast", she says, and he looks at her. it's an odd perspective: over the freckles on his shoulder, her piercing eyes peek through the curtain of hair, all innocent, asking, begging.

"no", he says, uncomfortable.

she's quiet, and then, "okay."

"okay."

he doesn't leave for another half an hour.

[Robert]

(morning after this)

Today 7:43 am

Jätä Effi vaan sisälle, tuun ratsastaa sen nyt aamulla.

Sori, piti laittaa toi meidän aamutallintekijälle..

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Today 8:12 am

👍

kaikki ok?

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Haluutko sä totuuden vai kansikuvaversion?

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either

voidaan leikkiä arvausleikkiä sit

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Arvausleikkiä?

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nii

sä kerrot ja mä arvaan kumpi on kumpi 🤷

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… Mistä lähtien sä oot halunnut leikkiä mitään?

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hah

just tryna joke

keventää tunnelmaa, vai mitä ne sanoo

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Aa, hyvin kevennetty sillä “Ehkä” - jutulla eilen.. Sulla oli aika kiire häipyä kisapaikalta?

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ei me nyt sinne asumaankaan voitu jäädä

talliporukalla oli illanistujaiset

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Kiva. Oliko hauskaa?

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niin hauskaa kun voi olla :)

shit pretendin to enjoy the night with the fam when u dunno if ur gonna see em ever again as is

nyt sä voit arvata

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Jälkimmäinen?

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correct!

joten

🤷🍻

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Harmi, jos teillä nyt porukat hajoaa sen tallin vuoksi. Varmaan hankala pitää sit yhteyttä enää, jos joku lähtee.

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exactly why we wouldn’t work

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Ai sä oot kuitenkin ajatellu asiaa?

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well obviously

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Ja sä päätit ihan yksin, että koska joku on hankalaa, niin sitä ei kannata edes yrittää?

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well there’s no point if the other one’s not in it fully, right

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Tarkotatko sä tolla itseäsi vai mua?

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miksi sä luulet että mä lähdin silloin finaaliyönä

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Pois vai? Koska sä et kestänyt keskustella asioista aamulla selvinpäin?

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pointless to talk when there's nothing to talk about

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Kiva tietää miten vähän mä sulle lopulta merkkasin. Mistähän mun pitäs tietää mitä luurankoja sulla on kaapissa?

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täh? miten sä nyt ton vedit tosta

me sovittiin ettei ole järkeä

why should we go where it would just f(u)ckin hurt

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En mä tiedä enää. Tai tiedän, mutta sä et halua kuulla sitä, eikö?

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why did you kiss me

idk do i? you tell me

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Koska mä halusin. Koska mä pidin susta.

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but you were in a f(u)ckin relationship

and you didn't think to tell me that

i had to hear from someone else and that's f(u)ckin ridiculous

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Mä luulin, että oon tehny tän hyvin selväksi jo: mä en todellakaan ikinä ajatellut, että se ilta päättyisi niin. Mä en ole mikään helvetin pettäjä, se vaan tapahtui ja mä pelästyin, että se tapahtui ja niin.. No, kai mun olisi pitänyt katua sitä paljon enemmän, jos sillä ei olisi ollut mitään väliä. Ja mä kerroin sulle heti, kun me nähtiin seuraavan kerran. Millä sä ajattelit, että mä olisin sen ilmoittanut siinä välissä? Savumerkeillä?

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joo vaikka

mutta anyway, joo ehkä et oo enää varattu ja niin, mutta silti, eihän tässä oo mitään järkee

sä oot siellä ja mä oon täällä

what can you do

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Kyllä mä sen tiedän.

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mikset sä sitten anna olla?

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Koska mä.. Vittu mistä mä tiedän? Koska mä tykkään susta edelleenkin, vaikka sä et haluakkaan kuulla sitä, niinhän se meni? Mä tiedän, että mun pitäisi osata antaa olla, mutta no, tässä mä avaudun maanantai aamuna krapulaiselle Robertille siitä, miten tyhmä mä olen.. Niin..

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Today 8:59 am

what do you want me to say?

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En mä tiedä. Ettei sua kiinnosta tippaakaan suudella mua takaisin?

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i'm not gonna say that

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Mikset?

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cos

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?

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joko sä meet ratsastamaan effin?

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Ehkä.

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good one

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Mun mielestä myös.

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[Robert]

      jun 9, 2019— study in parallels 

one could say he’s on friendly terms with panic. it’s an awfully familiar feeling, one he often doesn’t shy away but lives with, but this one’s got new hues. it has little to do with him, and all to do with what he wakes up to.

what does he wake up to?
a) a girl with tan skin
b) long legs tangled with his
c) rather unfamiliar sheets
d) all of the above

panic rumbles in his chest with such force it sends his heart stumbling all over its cage of ribs. it’s a different kind of sensation, compared to the one with clammy hands and nervous tongue. suddenly, he finds himself out of breath despite having done nothing at all. his heart, however, has ran something akin to a marathon.

arm numb under her head, he fears to move.

there’s sun peeking in from the basement windows. they paint the ceiling all shades of golden, and he tries outlining them with his gaze, a mere distraction to sort his overheated brain out. something fuzzy pokes around the edges of it, white noise fading in and out, in and out, in and out.

she doesn’t seem to mind when he braves an inch, then another one, and another after that. the bed whines, an unfortunate squeak in the quiet morning, as he gets up. the apartment feels strange, all of the sudden—like he’s doesn’t know the place, but he’s been there before.

there are clothes scattered all over the apartment. shorts merely tossed away and shirts dropped in a rush, a bottle of wine spilled on the table.

he blinks, cheeks flushing pink as he hurries to his clothes: shorts, shirt, cap… hadn’t he worn underwear? in another rush of panic, he pulls up his shorts nevertheless, his hands trying to find the sleeves of his shirt.

that’s when the bed creaks, followed by, “morning.” her smile is as soft as her greeting, and he averts his eyes as she untangles her bare body from the sheets. the more he focuses on buttoning his shirt, the more the small buttons slip away from his fingers.

“do you want coffee? aspirin? both?”

there’s a smirk playing on her lips as she moves closer, and he’s envious of the ease in her bones. she touches him on her way to the kitchen, just a soft hint of touch on his arm, but it makes him shudder, almost spook—”tea’s fine”, he blurts, more as a safe mechanism, a distraction, than to reply to her question, and he regrets it the moment the words rush out: “i mean, no, i’m okay, i should be well on my way, honestly, i’ve overstayed my welcome, uh, so, yeah.”

but she’s already shuffling in the kitchen, and he’s standing there with a god damn basecall cap in his hands, searching for her eyes.

he can’t swallow it down. “sorry.”

sarah reyes laughs.

“sorry? for sleeping, or the sxx?” she merely humours him, and her features soften when she looks at him, “which flavour tea you’d prefer? i think i have a few options.”

he shakes his head, soft. “no, honestly, i gotta go.”

despite the words, he finds his legs unable to carry him to the door, or anywhere near it. they stay put, and he doesn’t move. he’s fiddling with the buttons of his shirts, fingers finally getting the hang of it and working them one by one, only leaving the two top ones alone. the rest of them, they’re buttoned awry.

there’s an awkward beat of silence, filled only with her working around in the kitchen. he thinks of f()cking her, the way he had her pinned against the sheets, a hand in her hair, mouth on neck, collarbone, anything. he thinks of f()cking her, and he struggles for a moment.

“both.”

sarah smiles, all null, and he thinks there’s a song called that, sarah smiles.

“well, neither of us can change what happened”, she starts, and suddenly, she’s so very close. his eyes wander, desperate to study her features. “but i do agree, it was a stupid thing to do.”

he can’t help but let his gaze fall down, on to her lips, as she bits down, chewing on the pink flesh as her amber eyes search his. there’s an idle wonder floating around his mind: what is she looking for?

“still”, and her bottom lips goes free, “i’m sorry to tell you i regret nothing.”

she’s terribly relaxed and he’s not even close—a smile plays tricks on her lips as she leans against the kitchen counter, seemingly at ease as she brushes a hand through her short hair. “you need a ride? i need to go get breakfast, i can take you on my way.”

“no!” he hurries, eyes shifting from her to the door and back again. he opens his mouth, ready to ask about his f()cking underwear, but hesitates. “no, it’s fine. i’ll go.”

and this time, he does go. all the way to the door, a firm grip on the handle an all, until.

“uh”, he turns to look at her, “you don’t happen to know where he lives, aleksanteri?”

sarah shakes her head softly, and she seems somewhat fond, an it twists his insides like a corkscrew. her smiles is there, though more or less null again. “but if you remember what’s in the neighbourhood, i think i can find it. if you still want my help?”

“f()ck”, he murmurs, mostly to himself as he pats down his pockets. his phone’s there, but as he pulls it out, it’s dead. he shoves it back into his shorts, admits his defeat with a small, “i guess.” the cap comes off as the boy runs his hands through his hair. he shouldn’t, really, really, really shouldn’t. then again, had that stopped him, anyway?

f()ck, he hates himself and his stupid god damn f()cking c()ck.

slowly suffocating in self-hatred, he watches as sarah collects her things, with all the time in the world, and finally, as she’s slipping her sneakers on, she looks at him like there’s something funny.

“you think you need those too?”

and her finger points to the boxers, neatly folded over the back of a chair, as if to dry. his eyes wander, from her dropped gaze to the boxers and to her, again, and heat strikes his skin at once.

“yes”, he admits through gritted teeth and takes a few determined strides to stuff the briefs in his pocket, not too comfortable going commando but unwilling to change there with her present. she’s probably seen enough of him, already.

“look”, he starts. his hands rub together, clammy all of the sudden, and he’s tired. “can we go? i shouldn’t—i should have never come, just… do you have, dunno, a group convo, or something? maybe find out where he lives? i can walk, honest, there’s no problem.”

sarah considers. she’s leaning against the doorway, a solid wave of calm.

“no”, she then says, “or, i mean yes, we have, but he’s not in it. i’ll take you, it’s no bid deal. we’re still friends, robert. or at least that’s what i hope, or was the sxx so bad you never want to see me again?”

“don’t say that”, he murmurs, painful, eyes directed anywhere but at her.

“do you want your beer from upstairs?”

“sure”, he sighs. he feels eleven shades of defeated, oddly not too embarrassed, and he finds the point in her words. “i didn’t mean that, y’know.”

stuffing his hands in the pockets of his salmon shorts, shifting from his heels to his toes and back again, he carefully finds sarah again. and what can he say? he’s unsure, lost, and it’s all on display right there, on his face. biting the corner of his lips, he replaces the cap on his head and searches her eyes for something. help, closure, solace? who knows. he sure doesn’t.

here’s what he knows:

1. slugs have four noses.
2. a human heart, on average, beats over a hundred thousand times a day.
3. he’s f()cked sarah reyes.

“why are we doing this?”

sarah shifts. there’s an odd change in her presence, almost as if she’s suddenly uncertain, uncomfortable. she seems to want to give him an answer, ponders it as she swallows, hard, before returning his gaze.

“i don’t know. i can’t give you any answers even though i know you deserve them”, she says. “can’t it just be what it is? do we really need to know why?”

he doesn’t answer, merely winces. he remembers this conversation, the one he had at the stables, hidden behind the hay in the attic. it’s terrible to be on this side, he realises, and the inhale he takes is sharper than he’d like.

sarah grows bored of waiting and starts towards upstairs. her voice is blank when she speaks again, “i think your shoes are up there as well.”

“someone’s gonna get hurt.”

it seems like his voice echoes in the staircase, in the heavy air between the two. he looks up at her, from the foot of the stairs, and he’s truly sorry now, wincing through it.

there’s a terrible, terrible feeling in his gut—someone going to get hurt, and oddly enough, he’s not thinking of the two standing in the staircase. his mind drifts, so far away sarah’s sudden proximity makes him flinch.

“someone always gets hurt, robert, that’s life”, she says, her tone heavy. “i’m not asking for your love here.”

he swallows at the word. love, right. because this, they had always been about f()cking, right? just some primal instinct to put your d()ck somewhere, anywhere, whether it’s his best friend of god knows how many years or a girl he barely knows.

“alright”, he accepts, nods even. “good. ‘s kinda hard to come by.”

“i know. let’s just get your beer, worry about the world later, yeah?”

this isn’t about the world, he wants to say, this is about us. but all that comes out, is, “sure.”

it’s quiet as he walks up the stairs, a terrible hangover pounding his head like that one dude pounds the punching bag in the gym: unforgiving, relentless, some odd shade of desperate, even. he’s not sure if it’s that, or merely closing in on her, that’s making the walk worse, more difficult than he’d like.

pushing past her, he finds himself scraping along the walls, her proximity suddenly undesired. nevertheless, that’s where he stops: his back against the wall, both literally and figuratively.

“i don’t know about friends.”

his voice is soft. it’s the kind of tone one would find in an apology. a tone to mellow disappointment, soften the blow, ease it.

“you don’t know what about friends?”

“come on”, he urges, pained. the confusion is an easy find, painted on her features like a jackson pollock—all over and everywhere. “you know i can’t be your f()ckin’ friend.”

his hand finds the back of his neck, rubbing at it to mend the awkwardness, the baseball cap rising and falling on his forehead, following his movements to a tee. and it’s not funny, per se, even less funny when considering the very situation, but he chuckles anyway: “or, that exactly, yeah, sure.”

sarah doesn’t follow, harsh lines not bending into amusement.

“are you suggesting we’re just friends with benefits, without the friend bit?” and he thinks she blushes, “just benefits?”

“c’mon”, he begs not to have to say it out loud. the pink idles on her cheeks, and he wonders if it’s anger rather than embarrassment. he doesn’t want to know, instead, he chuckles, dry and incredulous, obviously lacking humour: “what, you want to, i dunno, facetime me? go out for lunch? go ride? to the movies? out and about? come on.”

“well”, and her lips curve into a smile, “a ride sounds good.”

he doesn’t smile.

“fine”, she hums, but her smirk doesn’t subside, “but you can’t be this sorry afterwards, every time. it’s really hard work making you feel less awkward about everything, you know?”

“you don’t have to. i don’t wanna be your fu—i don’t wanna be hard work. and it shouldn’t”, he shifts where he’s standing, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of being hard work to someone, especially someone he’s f()cked. he winces at the thought, crossing his arms, eyes falling down at his feet. “i don’t want to f()ck around, honest.”

“so which one is it?” she asks, and he’s sure she doesn’t mean it to be so sharp, but there’s pain in her eyes, and he thinks he gets it. it doesn’t soften her blows, however. “you don't want to see me ever again or you do? sxx or no sxx? you're kind of sending me mixed messages. that much i understood that you don't want to be friends with me.”

she takes a step forward, he takes one backwards. it’s much like a dance, and when she does close the distance, he doesn’t dare to back away from her, to provoke her. he doesn’t know her, after all, does he?

“and do be honest, robert. like i’m being with you when i say i wouldn’t mind having last night happening again. drunk or sober.”

she touches his arm, and he shudders.

“i think you’re better off with someone like him. you don’t want”, he starts, vaguely gesturing to himself as a whole, “well, this. not really.”

there’s a pregnant pause. her eyes, expectant, on his. her fingers caressing his arm. she, in his space, and he suddenly feels like suffocating. the silence is broken by a whisper: “i don’t think i can be friends with you.”

at that, sarah nods, slowly. her hands fall to her sides, her gaze avoids his. it’s, as if, the tables have turned all of the sudden, and now it’s her who’s trembling.

“i’m too broken to be with someone like him.”

she leaves her with that, and it sits heavy in his chest.

“get your beer, will you? we should get going”, she calls, from the kitchen on the main floor.

“leave it”, he murmurs and heads to his shoes. they look rather lonely now, compared to the sea of shoes at the entrance last night. his sneakers feel too loose on his feet, and maybe it’s not just a feeling: he looks at sarah and the heavy weight of loss grabs him by the collar, shakes him around, makes his heart rattle in his chest.

they walk to the car in silence.

her smile doesn't seem genuine when she looks at him. there’s weight on her words, like she’s tired. “any details? are there any shops, street names, anything you’d remember?”

he doesn’t.

there's a song playing in the radio, fast and irregular and upbeat. he doesn't know what song it is, can't separate it from the one before that and the one before that. it's all the same, adding to his fading focus.

kalla is quiet today. houses, streets, blocks pass in his window. he pulls his hands up to his face, presses fingertips into eyelids, drags them down to his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. there’s a steady white hum in his head. it’s all too familiar, and he feels suddenly tired—this again?

“i think it’s here”, he says.

he doesn’t recognise the place.

“okay”, sarah says looking around, “should i pull over there?”

“yeah.”

“okay.”

she parks the car, sets it carefully in the park mode, but he barely notices, hurrying to get rid of his seatbelt and out of the car like it’s harder to breathe in there. the car door is about to be slammed shut—

“hey!”

his hand stills its movement.

“just… let me know, okay?”

there’s something bittersweet stuck in his throat, hard to swallow around, and he rasps, “okay.”

“okay.”

[Robert]

sisältövaroitus: huumausaineita

      may 6, 2020— first time 

It starts at Hanami.

It could’ve started anywhere, really, but Markaryd isn’t home and Robert doesn’t want home. The interior of the castle is far too fancy: the carpet on the floor feels expensive in between his toes and the marble in the bathroom cold against his skin, flushed hot with booze and giddy ease.

He’s been strung up for so long relaxation feels like a dangerous ache in his bones, familiarity of it too distant to recognise.

In the mirror, the boy who stares back at him isn’t him: pupils blown, lips ajar, hair wild, dimples somehow awry, mouth slack with numbness, the hand sneaking around his waist not his own.

“You ever,” the voice says, accent thick and English staggering to the point where it’s broken, “this?”

Robert inhales, short and sharp, and the surprised giggle that spills from his lips is almost feral. His heartbeat is rough, a violent rhythm out of control, pulsing feverish blood in his veins. The body behind him is solid, warm, and Robert leans into it, the back of his head crashing against where skin is pulled taut over the sharp edge of the collarbone.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, his grin too toothy, too earnest in a way that is not him, at all.

The breath against his throat is hot, fingers that tangle in his hair pulling to expose more, more of him, more of his freckled skin, more more more—

“Snow.”

Robert thinks he’s Russian.

“You.”

His breath hitches, and he stares, stares at the hands fisting at his white shirt, the way his body is moved rather than moving by itself. He stares, stares at the boy staring back at him, eyes barely blue, pupils blown so dark he looks otherworldly. He stares, stares at the bob of his throat, the blooming purple where his neck turns into shoulder. It is not him and it is him. Funny, he thinks.

“In that order.”

At that, Robert shudders.

The hand dragging up to his neck, resting at the hollow it, fingers digging in deeper, makes his skin feel like play-doh: easy-going, malleable, blunt nails pressing crescents into the softness of it like nothing, almost as if they’re trying to pierce their way to his jugular. Which, Robert notices, pulses faster the tighter the hand around it squeezes.

It doesn’t hurt, and he laughs. It stutters, but it’s happy as it bubbles from his lips, all over his hands, knuckles white with how hard they grip the marble edge of the sink. His hands anchor him to the moment, to the nagging question at the back of his head.

What are you doing?

“You do, before?”

Robert tilts his head at their reflection. The older boy, arms hardly toned but still bigger that his own, stands behind him, a stark contrast to Robert’s lightness in all of his darkness: dark hair spread across the skin of his forearms, the calluses on his fingers, the way Robert can’t tell where the black of his pupils end and brown of his eyes begin.

There’s a conversation in his head, and it goes something like this:

What are you doing?

You’re not going to do cocaine.

Well, I’m not not doing cocaine. Did it, already.

Barely. Don’t do it, again, then.

What comes out of his mouth, sounds something like this:

“Hurry up.”

There’s weed and there’s ecstasy, and then there’s fucking cocaine, but Robert’s always been all or nothing kind of a person. The weight behind him disappears, and his eyes follow, in the mirror, the fluorescent light merciless on the soft features of his face.

Just as his skin starts to crawl, starts to miss the heat against it, the weight, pressure— “Danya,” he hears, soft murmur of Russian. It echoes in the hollow bathroom despite the blaring party on the other side of the door.

“What,” Robert manages, his voice hitching in surprise as the next words are barely anything but a lingering sting of a breath on his neck: “Danyushka. You call me Danya.”

Danya doesn’t meet his eyes anymore, and the quiet tap of a credit card and the scrape of it on the marble sound all too loud in his ears. He doesn’t move, follows Danya’s hands from the mirror, watches the long planes of his back stretch the fabric of his shirt as he leans down. There’s the sound, the gasp, the groan, and Danya hands him the bill this time.

Curious, Robert rolls it open. The letters are Cyrillic, like Russian, but the outline of the country drawn there is unknown to him. Not Russian, then, he guesses and loses himself in the deep purple bill and how there seems to be too many zeros for it to be real.

“What?” Danya asks, the glint of his eyes different now, and runs a finger along Robert’s jaw. “You want I rub it again?”

If his jaw goes slack, it’s at the memory of Danya’s finger sliding into his mouth, pressing white along his gums, and he shivers, eyes shut and lashes casting dancing shadows across his freckled cheeks. His grip loosens, at last, and he follows Danya, the all too strange bill rolled up at his nose.

His inhale is sharp, punching all the way into his throat and forcing a cough. There’s a burning sensation in his nostril and he rubs at it, holds the back of his hand under his nose as if expecting it to bleed.

It doesn’t, and it doesn’t feel much like anything.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, soft and languid, and Danya’s hands are soft on him as he leans down again, the rest of his line mere scattered grains on the marble. Throwing his head back, he feels the burn, sharper, all the way in his lungs this time. He gags, the bitterness at the back of his throat too overwhelming, and presses his nose to the ball of his palm, grinding his teeth, focus knife-like.

The high doesn’t come.

“Aw, fuck.”

It comes later, and with it Robert swears he can hear the bright pink of his skin swelling as Danya’s teeth drag against his throat, can feel every vertebra of his spine prickle with want.

[Robert]

sisältövaroitus: huumausaineita ja ~*~ kevyttä väkivaltaa

      may 23, 2020— second time 

He doesn’t mean to do it twice: the opportunity simply presents itself and he’s nothing if not an opportunist. There’s a lot less glamour to it this time, though. No marble counter tops, and certainly no international showjumpers sucking hickeys into his summer skin.

The guy in his dress shirts and slacks is no Daniil Reshetnikov. He looks thoughtful to the point it seems almost dubious, glancing at Robert as he’s arranging lines on a book in the dimly lit bathroom stall, and they’re so close to each other behind the locked door, mere inches between their bar warm bodies, and Robert thinks he shouldn’t. Shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t be here.

Or that he should, at least, google it. You know, be smart about it.

Be smart about it, ha, he thinks, eyes mesmerised as the guy moves the white around, molding short but fat strips on the hard cover of an old Harlequin novel they grabbed from the bar. Robert’s mum used to read those. She still has a few at home, forgotten in a box up in the attic. They’re all soft porn, Robert knows—there was a summer when he was a teenager and bored, and he read them all under the scorching June sun, wondering if that’s what all the girls really want and if they were getting hot and bothered too.

In a Harlequin novel, Robert probably wouldn’t have a rolled up twenty between his fingers.

In a Harlequin novel, Robert probably wouldn’t buy groceries tomorrow with the same twenty he’s about to stick up his nose in a second.

But his life isn’t a Harlequin novel, far from it, and the twenty feels dirty between his fingers, and it’ll feel ever dirtier at the grocery store tomorrow. It’s a lot less glamorous than they make it seem in the movies, doing cocaine.

The first line burns, different than last time but not worse, somehow easier.

“Ok?” the guy asks.

And Robert doesn’t know much about cocaine, so he nods. The guy holds the book up again and it’s terribly intimate as Robert leans over. There’s a brief moment where all he can smell is the unfamiliar cologne, but then it’s gone, just like everything else: the second line feels numbing all over, and he barely feels the wall of the stall rattling against the back of his head when he stumbles back.

God.

The guy doesn’t look at him like Danya had, and it makes Robert’s skin crawl as he digs through his jacket pocket for cash, and when their fingers brush, the crawling gets worse. He bites into the inside of his cheek, malleable flesh there soft and silky. He’s wishing it was someone else digging their teeth into his flesh.

Robert barely hears the lock slide open, and he should really get back to the group of misfits he came here with: his roommate, Josefina and her boyfriend, Märta and her… something. It’s the Something he finds himself with later, tucked in a dark corner as their friends had gotten lost at the bar, on the dance floor, on their way from the bathroom.

Robert’s skin still itches to touch and he finds out that Eliel plays ice hockey. That means he has more than enough inches and pounds to tower over Robert, to loom above him like danger. The town isn’t big enough for them to pretend to not know each other, that blue haired girl often in tow of both, of either, but it isn’t small enough for them to really know each other.

Robert feels drunk and high, two different states, both reaching but never quite grabbing, and it’s not enough. The body next to him is warm, solid under his fingers where he dares to let them adventure.

Robert looks at his lips: soft, plump, pink and shiny despite the dim lighting. He thinks of how this all started, thinks of Kristian and tumbling buckets in the small feed room; of how Kristian had looked at him and kissed him, no questions asked but enough room left for him to back out.

He hadn’t.

So he kisses Eliel: no questions asked but enough room left for him to back out.

He does.

“Whoa”, he says, and his smile is almost gentle as he pushes Robert down and against the wall behind them, hand firm but kind on his shoulder. “I’m not—”

“I wasn’t, either”, Robert says, hurried as he pushes back up for another kiss, skin purring at the sensation, hands twisting into the fabric of Eliel’s hoodie until the back of his head collides with the wall. It rings in his head, panic making his vision pulse with a familiar sense of nerves, and that’s when worry starts to paint Eliel’s features.

“Shit, I’m sorry, are you—Are you okay?” he asks, hands now pulling rather than pushing. The roughness in his English keeps reminding Robert that he’s home now, that he shouldn’t push this, that you don’t shit where you eat—And there it is, then, the other voice: you can eat anywhere, after all, for nowhere is home, nor will it ever be.

“I’m fine”, he finally says, but it doesn’t erase the worried tilt of Eliel’s eyebrows. Then there’s something wet gliding over his lips and—oh. His hand comes back red from where it swoop over his cupid’s bow, the colour all too stark against the pale of his skin. “Oh! This isn’t you, I’m fine, it’s just that I’m—”

And he stills, heart suddenly irrational in his chest. —high, it’s normal, he doesn’t say, words bitter as he forces them down his throat. Instead, what he says, is: “I want to kiss you.”

Because Eliel is hot: all broad shoulders and strong arms, wide chest but skinny waist, lips pouting and so pink, the sheen of sweat across his forehead where some light hairs have stuck to.

“I’m not gay”, he says, again, uncertain, and it doesn’t sound like a no.

“‘s that why you’ve got me against the wall, then, huh, big boy?”

The comment burns like fire at Eliel’s hands, both of them leaving at once: one pushing from the wall next to Robert’s head, one from where it’s cradling his jaw, going from gentle to shocked at an instant, as if electricity has just ran through them. Robert’s eyebrows twist in annoyance, his whole body suddenly cranky as he pushes his hands against the other’s chest, rough as Eliel staggers a few feet back.

“Not that tough, I see, what a fuckin’ pus—” and that is all Robert manages to sneer before the back of Eliel’s knuckles catch him straight across the jaw. It’s probably not hard enough to do anything but sting, and Robert grins, all toothy and wild. The blood trickles down his face, pools at his cupid’s bow and nestles between his pearly whites as he bares them, chapped lips crusty as his mouth twists into a laugh.

Eliel looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do, what do say.

And Robert gets it, he does.

He snickers. “Right.”

[Robert]

sisältövaroitus: huumausaineita

      june 13, 2020— nth time 

The bag of coke is burning a hole in the pocket of his salmon pink shorts, and he’s a nervous wreck by the time Cella’s friend’s car pull into a strange driveway neither one of them has ever stood on.

She’d asked if he was nervous, and he’d said yes before he had been able to stop himself—of course he’s nervous, he’s never once carried a bag of literal fucking cocaine in his pocket. But she had only nodded, settling a hand on the small of his back as she had pushed him towards the house. As if they’d be less mad at him than her.

Only when a familiar, more than a full head shorter blonde meets his eye over everyone else, Robert realises Cella had meant her—had Robert been nervous about her. Which, of course, makes sense, because she can’t know the guy she’s known for half a decade is carrying a fucking minigrip bag of white powder in the depths of his pocket. But now that Inkeri is standing right in front of him... Yes, he’s nervous about her, too.

The mixup makes him laugh anyway, forces this amused puff of a sound from his throat, and Inkeri looks at him, incredulous and fucking pissed off, and he can’t stop smiling. She doesn’t welcome him, only Cella, her smile sickly sweet as Robert pushes past her and inside the house where some kind of a party is already full on happening.

The premise seems off: it’s Robert’s roommate after all, the platonic love of his very life; a soulmate, if you will, and Aleksanteri is fidgety and apologetic and nervous.

Friends and family are invited, Aleksanteri had said.

Robert feels he’s neither as he’s slipping into the bathroom.

He sucks in a breath that sounds awfully lot like a good old fuck, focusing his gaze to the corner where the walls and the ceiling meet. Someone could’ve done the tiling better. It’s a bit off, the squares climbing up the wall not quite reaching the wooden panels of the ceiling, and the very top tile is grimacing at him. Robert leans away, his back meeting the door with a quiet thud. He’s not drunk, not yet. Definitely tipsy but barely buzzed, and his thoughts are running miles too fast for him to catch.

There’s one he manages to catch, and he closes the distance between himself and the washer. It’s stacked up with products like hair spray and rolls of toilet paper, and Robert swipes them to the side, runs his hand over the surface to wipe away all the dust and hairs and whatever. It’s probably not that hygienic, but he also doesn’t care that much. The little bag of cocaine, when he pulls it out of his pocket and places it in front of him, seems like it doesn’t quite belong. Here in this town; here in his friends’ house, here in front of Robert.

Here, next to a hairbrush tangled with light blond strands of a girl he used to love and a half empty bottle of mouthwash that someone has scribbled Allun!!! on a black marker.

But it’s the one thought he manages to catch, and the bonus card for their grocery store back in Kalla organises three neat lines in front of him. The fine powder is much whiter than the top surface of the old washer. The contrast is almost stark, Robert notices instead of his trembling hands.

Robert stares at the lines.

His hands feel clammy against the soft of his shirt.

Someone knocks on the door.

He frowns at his hands. Instead of fabric, they’re now twisting each other, bones grinding against one another in the idle grip. He lets his gaze flick away from his hands, to the hollow reflection of someone who is not Robert. He blinks at the mirror, and his fingers twitch, and he shakes his hand in order to make it stop.

It doesn’t.

Robert in the mirror looks tired, like this, with the lights casting more dark underneath his eyes, cheekbones leaving little to nothing to the hollows of his cheeks.

Absently, Robert wonders if he’s always looked like this, if this has always been him. He stares, greedy and desperate to know, but the harsh eyes just stare back at him, unyielding.

His fingers twitch again, wanting to pull into a fist, to dig his fingernails into his palms. His jaw is tense, he notes as it moves a hint, a blatant telltale of the way his teeth grind together. He cocks his head to the right, pursing his lips to push whatever traces of that unrecognisable discomfort bothering him away.

Robert lays his palms flat against his thighs.

”Fuck”, he murmurs.

His calm feels terribly forced.