This Was Not Promising to be a Good Day
Author's note: THANK YEWS VERY MUCHES TO my l'il sister Callie and Bucklind for thrusting the idea of Mark having a teddy bear in both of our heads. I loved "Blueberry Muffins" by the way Bucklind. You're such a sweetie for writing it.
Yes, it's long. Yes, it's a chapter fic. Yes, it's probably going to end up about three chapters long.
No, I don't expect to ever be taken seriously when it comes to this fic.
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The sun did not shine on April 14th. Nor did birds sing in the laminated trees that were potted in rows to create the makeshift affect of nature in the East Village.
Not like any birds would live in those things anyway.
Still, a gloomy air was wafting around downtown New York. Rain fell against insufficient roofs, and peals of thunder boomed in between flashes of lightening that occurred so frequently and so brightly that lights were hardly needed in any homes with windows.
Which, as the case may be, was pretty much all of them.
Angel opened one amber eye up, then the other. One hand drifting up to scrub at the film over his vision, the boy stretched, yawned, and looked eagerly to the window for the bright, cheerful rays of sun.
The resounding crash of thunder echoed through the room, and Angel's face fell slightly.
"Damn."
Looking around, Angel collapsed back to the bed. Not for the first time, he wished it were sunny. The weather, however, had decided (it seemed) to follow the way his life had been going for the past few days. In the course of 48 hours, he had:
1. Managed to lose his best friend Sasha's affection to some uppity ditz of a drag queen named Shelby.
2. Miss the third consecutive payment on his flat and was expecting an angry landlord any time now.
And 3. Get in the biggest fight of the century with Collins over something so small that Angel didn't remember what it was.
Naturally, the week wasn't promising to be a good one, and at 7:32 a.m. on Sunday, Angel didn't feel like getting up. Not to mention, his stomach ached and there was a strange pounding right between his eyes that made his mind throb with pain.
Blame it on the crappy food at the Life Cafe.
"I need a drink." Angel mumbled, "a good, strong drink. And a cigarette, now that I think about it." (This statement was proclaimed completely disregarding the fact that he had quite smoking about six months ago.)
Maybe food would help.
With a groan and an obscene word, Angel lifted himself out from under the warm covers and out into the freezing world.
Instantly, he regretted his decision. Although now it was too late, because he knew there was no way he was going to be able to get back to sleep now. So, with another groan and another obscene word, he trudged wearily to the kitchen.
It took him about three seconds to realize why his gray sweatpants were so big. They were Collins'.
Not that he wanted to have anything to do with Collins.
But the pants were Collins'.
Probably from an earlier load of laundry.
Judging by the materialized gray color of the fabric, Angel concluded that the pants had probably started out a beigish-ivory.
Collins couldn't do the wash.
White stockings ended up pink. Purple shirts turned out yellow.
"Memo to self: Stop letting Collins do the wash."
Angel paused, and then spoke again.
"Memo to self: Stop wearing Collins' clothing. One day, you're gonna trip over the bottoms and break something."
Then again, Collins had much warmer clothing than he had. Mostly.
"Memo to self: Grow so you don't trip over the bottoms so you can wear Collins' clothing and not have to worry about hospital bills."
Angel was just putting a pot of water to boil on the stove for cocoa when the phone rang. He jumped, and sprinted for the ringing device.
Maybe it was Collins, calling because he wanted to apologize.
Maybe it was Collins, calling because he wanted his pants back.
"Hello?"
"Hi, is Bob Morriset there?"
"You've got the wrong number." Angel muttered, and slammed down the phone. "I'm better off without him anyway."
/That/ particular conviction lasted about three seconds. A new record.
Angel went back to his pot, which was now bubbling. The water spilled over, and scorching liquid spilled onto Angel's bare chest.
"SHIT!!!"
The drag queen scrambled around for a towel, and saturated it with freezing water. Next, he pressed the soaking material against his chest.
That felt better for about four seconds. Then he got cold.
"Memo to self: Don't put too much water in pot."
Angel whimpered in pain, before pouring the remaining water into a mug and adding the instant hot cocoa mix. Next stop, the freezer-he needed chocolate ice cream and needed it fast.
The phone rang again.
Angel walked to get the phone, slower this time.
"Hello?"
"Angel?"
"Who's this?"
"Shelby."
Oh, goody.
"What is it?"
"I called to ask you if you were mad at me."
"Why would I be mad at you?"
"I dunno, but when Sasha introduced us, you acted sorta distant."
'That's just because you're a lying, cheating, no-good, best friend stealing slut.' Angel thought to himself, before smiling forcefully into the phone.
"I'm not mad at you Shelby. I was just...not feeling well."
"Oh. Okay. Bye then."
Angel slammed down the phone again. Why the fuck didn't Sasha call?
Why the fuck didn't Collins call?
Why the fuck wasn't he calling Collins?
Why the fuck was he asking this many questions?
Angel collapsed to his chair, and dug into the bowl filled with chocolate ice cream. For a fleeting moment, he thought about his weight, but it left his head as soon as it entered it. He wasn't having a good morning, a good day, hell; we could shoot for a no-good week while they were at it!
The chocolate began to work, and he slowly felt better.
Then the phone rang.
Angel went to get it, and picked it up warily.
"Hello?"
"Is this Angel?"
It was Mark.
"Yeah. It's me."
"Angel? Um, I can't find my...um..." the voice on the other line whispered, "teddy bear."
"Gee, I'm...well...sorry Mark." Angel wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. He didn't even know Mark /had/ a teddy bear.
Come to think of it, Angel figured no one else did either.
It didn't surprise him though. The poor guy probably made out with it at night and named it Maureen.
Poor guy.
"Yeah, well, I was wondering if you could come and help me look for it."
Wow. Just what he wanted to do with his morning. Hunt for a fuckin' lost teddy bear.
"I'm sorry Mark. But I'm real busy. Maybe you could get Col-I mean, Roger to help you."
Angel slammed the phone again.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
WHY WASN'T COLLINS CALLING?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!
What a stupid question. Angel returned to his chocolate. The ice cream was melting.
"IT'S FUCKIN' COLD IN THIS DAMN FLAT!! WHY IS IT MELTING?!?!"
Angel pushed the watery ice cream and bowl into the sink half-heartedly, and sipped at his hot chocolate.
It had turned cold.
"Oh sure, the thing that's /supposed/ to be cold, isn't. And yet the thing that isn't, is. What a shitty day."
Angel looked at his watch. 8:14.
The phone rang.
"Hello." This time, Angel didn't even bother sounding interested.
There was a strange halt on the line, before the person on the other end hung up.
"Hello? Oh, well, FUCK YOU TOO!" Angel slammed the phone down on the receiver. He knew who that was, Collins.
With an aggravated sigh, he picked up the phone and dialed Collins' number.
It rang. Once, twice.
"Hello?"
That was Collins' voice on the other end. Angel resisted the temptation to beg for forgiveness, but instead let the phone drop nonchalantly onto the hook.
The phone rang five seconds afterwards.
"Hello?"
Pause.
Click.
Collins hung up.
Angel dialed back and repeated the process. For almost ten minutes the game continued.
Finally, Angel unplugged the phone.
Then he looked forlornly at the melted ice cream and lukewarm cocoa.
He wanted to go back to bed.
8:23
8:24
8:25
8:26
8:27
8:28
8:29
8:30
Angel was getting sick and tired of looking at the clock.
He waited for Collins to call back.
He forgot that the phone had been unplugged.
He considered calling Collins and apologizing.
He considered jumping out the sixth story window.
He considered flinging himself in front of a speeding truck.
He considered going shopping.
He considered going back to bed.
He decided on plugging back in the phone.
THUMP THUMP THUMP!!
A heavy knock came from the door.
Angel didn't check how he looked in the mirror, but opened the door anyway.
Instantly he wished he had made sure he looked all right.
Instantly he wished he hadn't opened the door in the first place.
Collins stood in the doorway. Brawny dark arms were folded across his chest, his brown eyes were narrowed, and his lips were drawn into a forced frown. A small box of things was set at his feet.
Angel yelped, and instantly grabbed a shirt from the couch-despite the fact that Collins had often seen him with much less clothing that what he was wearing at the moment.
"You left this junk at the loft."
Angel opened his mouth to retort something cutting, but halfway through the journey from his brain to his mouth, words and thoughts got mixed up. Thus, instead of a harsh comment, out popped-"Damn you're sexy when you're pissed."
The drag queen's cheeks flamed a brilliant red, and his amber eyes widened in mortification. "Oh shit..."
Collins' mouth shifted slightly, and his expression softened a little bit, before he averted his eyes to the box, kicking it into the door. "I don't want it. You take it. And I know I left some clothing here, so I'd like it back."
Anything to get out of Collins' sight. Angel spun around and collected a basketful of clothing he had accumulated that belonged rightfully to Collins. This was thrust into Tom's arms. "Fine, here you go."
"Those are my pants."
Angel glanced down at the pair he was wearing, and shrugged. "Oh well, I'm wearing them now, and as soon as you said 'we're over' you forfeited the right to pull my clothing off."
This time, Collins' cheeks blushed slightly, before he tightened his mouth sternly. "They're mine."
"You can wait until I've washed them. Then I'll give 'em back, I promise."
"I guess that's better anyway-you washin' them first. Lord knows, I don't want them after they've been on you until they've been sterilized and bleached."
"Yeah, I guess it is better that I wash them anyway-because you couldn't rinse a pair of socks if you tried."
"Oh fuck you!"
"No thanks, I've already done that plenty of times. You've forfeited /that/ right too."
Collins' eyes blazed, and he shifted his weight to the other foot. "Fine then."
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
Angel slammed the door in his face.
Instantly, he regretted yelling at Collins.
And for slamming the door in his face.
And for giving Collins that basket. He had left his necklace in one of the pockets in Collins' pants. The same pair of pants that were sitting under a shirt and pair of socks in the /same/ basket that was now being carried home in Collins' arms.
Boy would he love to be that basket at the moment.
Angel slumped down on the couch. This was not promising to be a good day...
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There will be more. I didn't mean it to be this long...I promise!!
But if you make it to the end, I solemnly promise to love you forever.
Not really. But yanno...I'm not quite sure where this is going yet...I'll figure it out. Reviews would be welcomed. Oh yeah, and flames...I prefer those sent directly to email.
Flame me at: ares3@machm.org
Love yas!!
Author's note: THANK YEWS VERY MUCHES TO my l'il sister Callie and Bucklind for thrusting the idea of Mark having a teddy bear in both of our heads. I loved "Blueberry Muffins" by the way Bucklind. You're such a sweetie for writing it.
Yes, it's long. Yes, it's a chapter fic. Yes, it's probably going to end up about three chapters long.
No, I don't expect to ever be taken seriously when it comes to this fic.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sun did not shine on April 14th. Nor did birds sing in the laminated trees that were potted in rows to create the makeshift affect of nature in the East Village.
Not like any birds would live in those things anyway.
Still, a gloomy air was wafting around downtown New York. Rain fell against insufficient roofs, and peals of thunder boomed in between flashes of lightening that occurred so frequently and so brightly that lights were hardly needed in any homes with windows.
Which, as the case may be, was pretty much all of them.
Angel opened one amber eye up, then the other. One hand drifting up to scrub at the film over his vision, the boy stretched, yawned, and looked eagerly to the window for the bright, cheerful rays of sun.
The resounding crash of thunder echoed through the room, and Angel's face fell slightly.
"Damn."
Looking around, Angel collapsed back to the bed. Not for the first time, he wished it were sunny. The weather, however, had decided (it seemed) to follow the way his life had been going for the past few days. In the course of 48 hours, he had:
1. Managed to lose his best friend Sasha's affection to some uppity ditz of a drag queen named Shelby.
2. Miss the third consecutive payment on his flat and was expecting an angry landlord any time now.
And 3. Get in the biggest fight of the century with Collins over something so small that Angel didn't remember what it was.
Naturally, the week wasn't promising to be a good one, and at 7:32 a.m. on Sunday, Angel didn't feel like getting up. Not to mention, his stomach ached and there was a strange pounding right between his eyes that made his mind throb with pain.
Blame it on the crappy food at the Life Cafe.
"I need a drink." Angel mumbled, "a good, strong drink. And a cigarette, now that I think about it." (This statement was proclaimed completely disregarding the fact that he had quite smoking about six months ago.)
Maybe food would help.
With a groan and an obscene word, Angel lifted himself out from under the warm covers and out into the freezing world.
Instantly, he regretted his decision. Although now it was too late, because he knew there was no way he was going to be able to get back to sleep now. So, with another groan and another obscene word, he trudged wearily to the kitchen.
It took him about three seconds to realize why his gray sweatpants were so big. They were Collins'.
Not that he wanted to have anything to do with Collins.
But the pants were Collins'.
Probably from an earlier load of laundry.
Judging by the materialized gray color of the fabric, Angel concluded that the pants had probably started out a beigish-ivory.
Collins couldn't do the wash.
White stockings ended up pink. Purple shirts turned out yellow.
"Memo to self: Stop letting Collins do the wash."
Angel paused, and then spoke again.
"Memo to self: Stop wearing Collins' clothing. One day, you're gonna trip over the bottoms and break something."
Then again, Collins had much warmer clothing than he had. Mostly.
"Memo to self: Grow so you don't trip over the bottoms so you can wear Collins' clothing and not have to worry about hospital bills."
Angel was just putting a pot of water to boil on the stove for cocoa when the phone rang. He jumped, and sprinted for the ringing device.
Maybe it was Collins, calling because he wanted to apologize.
Maybe it was Collins, calling because he wanted his pants back.
"Hello?"
"Hi, is Bob Morriset there?"
"You've got the wrong number." Angel muttered, and slammed down the phone. "I'm better off without him anyway."
/That/ particular conviction lasted about three seconds. A new record.
Angel went back to his pot, which was now bubbling. The water spilled over, and scorching liquid spilled onto Angel's bare chest.
"SHIT!!!"
The drag queen scrambled around for a towel, and saturated it with freezing water. Next, he pressed the soaking material against his chest.
That felt better for about four seconds. Then he got cold.
"Memo to self: Don't put too much water in pot."
Angel whimpered in pain, before pouring the remaining water into a mug and adding the instant hot cocoa mix. Next stop, the freezer-he needed chocolate ice cream and needed it fast.
The phone rang again.
Angel walked to get the phone, slower this time.
"Hello?"
"Angel?"
"Who's this?"
"Shelby."
Oh, goody.
"What is it?"
"I called to ask you if you were mad at me."
"Why would I be mad at you?"
"I dunno, but when Sasha introduced us, you acted sorta distant."
'That's just because you're a lying, cheating, no-good, best friend stealing slut.' Angel thought to himself, before smiling forcefully into the phone.
"I'm not mad at you Shelby. I was just...not feeling well."
"Oh. Okay. Bye then."
Angel slammed down the phone again. Why the fuck didn't Sasha call?
Why the fuck didn't Collins call?
Why the fuck wasn't he calling Collins?
Why the fuck was he asking this many questions?
Angel collapsed to his chair, and dug into the bowl filled with chocolate ice cream. For a fleeting moment, he thought about his weight, but it left his head as soon as it entered it. He wasn't having a good morning, a good day, hell; we could shoot for a no-good week while they were at it!
The chocolate began to work, and he slowly felt better.
Then the phone rang.
Angel went to get it, and picked it up warily.
"Hello?"
"Is this Angel?"
It was Mark.
"Yeah. It's me."
"Angel? Um, I can't find my...um..." the voice on the other line whispered, "teddy bear."
"Gee, I'm...well...sorry Mark." Angel wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. He didn't even know Mark /had/ a teddy bear.
Come to think of it, Angel figured no one else did either.
It didn't surprise him though. The poor guy probably made out with it at night and named it Maureen.
Poor guy.
"Yeah, well, I was wondering if you could come and help me look for it."
Wow. Just what he wanted to do with his morning. Hunt for a fuckin' lost teddy bear.
"I'm sorry Mark. But I'm real busy. Maybe you could get Col-I mean, Roger to help you."
Angel slammed the phone again.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
WHY WASN'T COLLINS CALLING?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!
What a stupid question. Angel returned to his chocolate. The ice cream was melting.
"IT'S FUCKIN' COLD IN THIS DAMN FLAT!! WHY IS IT MELTING?!?!"
Angel pushed the watery ice cream and bowl into the sink half-heartedly, and sipped at his hot chocolate.
It had turned cold.
"Oh sure, the thing that's /supposed/ to be cold, isn't. And yet the thing that isn't, is. What a shitty day."
Angel looked at his watch. 8:14.
The phone rang.
"Hello." This time, Angel didn't even bother sounding interested.
There was a strange halt on the line, before the person on the other end hung up.
"Hello? Oh, well, FUCK YOU TOO!" Angel slammed the phone down on the receiver. He knew who that was, Collins.
With an aggravated sigh, he picked up the phone and dialed Collins' number.
It rang. Once, twice.
"Hello?"
That was Collins' voice on the other end. Angel resisted the temptation to beg for forgiveness, but instead let the phone drop nonchalantly onto the hook.
The phone rang five seconds afterwards.
"Hello?"
Pause.
Click.
Collins hung up.
Angel dialed back and repeated the process. For almost ten minutes the game continued.
Finally, Angel unplugged the phone.
Then he looked forlornly at the melted ice cream and lukewarm cocoa.
He wanted to go back to bed.
8:23
8:24
8:25
8:26
8:27
8:28
8:29
8:30
Angel was getting sick and tired of looking at the clock.
He waited for Collins to call back.
He forgot that the phone had been unplugged.
He considered calling Collins and apologizing.
He considered jumping out the sixth story window.
He considered flinging himself in front of a speeding truck.
He considered going shopping.
He considered going back to bed.
He decided on plugging back in the phone.
THUMP THUMP THUMP!!
A heavy knock came from the door.
Angel didn't check how he looked in the mirror, but opened the door anyway.
Instantly he wished he had made sure he looked all right.
Instantly he wished he hadn't opened the door in the first place.
Collins stood in the doorway. Brawny dark arms were folded across his chest, his brown eyes were narrowed, and his lips were drawn into a forced frown. A small box of things was set at his feet.
Angel yelped, and instantly grabbed a shirt from the couch-despite the fact that Collins had often seen him with much less clothing that what he was wearing at the moment.
"You left this junk at the loft."
Angel opened his mouth to retort something cutting, but halfway through the journey from his brain to his mouth, words and thoughts got mixed up. Thus, instead of a harsh comment, out popped-"Damn you're sexy when you're pissed."
The drag queen's cheeks flamed a brilliant red, and his amber eyes widened in mortification. "Oh shit..."
Collins' mouth shifted slightly, and his expression softened a little bit, before he averted his eyes to the box, kicking it into the door. "I don't want it. You take it. And I know I left some clothing here, so I'd like it back."
Anything to get out of Collins' sight. Angel spun around and collected a basketful of clothing he had accumulated that belonged rightfully to Collins. This was thrust into Tom's arms. "Fine, here you go."
"Those are my pants."
Angel glanced down at the pair he was wearing, and shrugged. "Oh well, I'm wearing them now, and as soon as you said 'we're over' you forfeited the right to pull my clothing off."
This time, Collins' cheeks blushed slightly, before he tightened his mouth sternly. "They're mine."
"You can wait until I've washed them. Then I'll give 'em back, I promise."
"I guess that's better anyway-you washin' them first. Lord knows, I don't want them after they've been on you until they've been sterilized and bleached."
"Yeah, I guess it is better that I wash them anyway-because you couldn't rinse a pair of socks if you tried."
"Oh fuck you!"
"No thanks, I've already done that plenty of times. You've forfeited /that/ right too."
Collins' eyes blazed, and he shifted his weight to the other foot. "Fine then."
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
Angel slammed the door in his face.
Instantly, he regretted yelling at Collins.
And for slamming the door in his face.
And for giving Collins that basket. He had left his necklace in one of the pockets in Collins' pants. The same pair of pants that were sitting under a shirt and pair of socks in the /same/ basket that was now being carried home in Collins' arms.
Boy would he love to be that basket at the moment.
Angel slumped down on the couch. This was not promising to be a good day...
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There will be more. I didn't mean it to be this long...I promise!!
But if you make it to the end, I solemnly promise to love you forever.
Not really. But yanno...I'm not quite sure where this is going yet...I'll figure it out. Reviews would be welcomed. Oh yeah, and flames...I prefer those sent directly to email.
Flame me at: ares3@machm.org
Love yas!!