Hello, good people of fanficdom! I apologize for both the utter sappiness and poor formatting of the last chapter - my computer seems to be having some issues with its Wordpad .txt formatting. Aside from that, I hope this chapter is more to your liking, and the formatting bugs will be squished! As a major side note, thanks to all of you who have reviewed, and I hope this chapter will meet your standards!
Disclaimer: All of the stuff involved with, and generally affiliated with, Boy Meets Boy is the intillectual property of Sandrah K. Fuhr, AKA Sandrah Delete. She gets props for this. However, I don't own anything involved with, or affilliated with, Boy Meets Boy, with the exception of a fangirlish enjoyment of said series. Thus, I am writing this fanfiction of my own free will, and I hereby declare that I own none of this. So, please don't sue me.
Chapter 3: Mik's Head Hurts.
I sat back down in the very chair all of this started in. Thoughts were running rampant through my brain. Was Skids really in love with Harley, or was it infatuation? Did Harley have any idea at all what was going on? Was Cyanide hurt because he was now in the middle of a convoluted love triangle?
On top of this confusion, I also felt guilty for having overheard the entire conversation. More to the point, guilty that I had strained to hear Cyanide's last words before they started for a stairwell, and I bolted down another. I got home in something of a blue haze, and I didn't even exactly remember my half-hearted greeting to Allen downstairs.
My head hurt terribly now, and I couldn't blame it on my pseudo-minor-concussion. I didn't want to tell Harley what was going on and muddle things up for Skids, which by proxy was muddling things for Cyanide as well. But there were so few people that I could go to for advice on matters of this nature …
I mentally ran through my list of possible sources for advice. As previously stated, Harley was pretty much out of the picture. Similarly was 'Sheequa, because she was a member of the band, I didn't know her all that well, and she would probably make far too many quirks about being stuck in a gay version of Blink 182.
Tabitha and Allen were out of the picture mainly because, well, … they're creepy. None of my 'art friends' would give me decent advice, either due to their lack of real experience with other people or they would turn it into some metaphor for how much life sucked.
I was stumped. I decided I needed a person who knew relationships. Preferably one who understood internally-homophobic-man-wants-man situations, too. One who had some finesse at romance and mending a broken heart … Who the Hell did I know that was like that?
Ruminating internally on my dilemma, I didn't even notice a certain offending household ferret that was back to her sovereign duty: gnawing on my toenails. I sighed exasperatedly, and reached down to pick up her up, albeit less violently this time around. Remembering her name, I started out something along the lines of, "Cordelia, What the Hell am I going to do with those two?"
Petting Cordelia for a while, I mulled the entire situation over. I didn't even especially know why I was so worried about those two, but I guess they'd rubbed off on me some. But, well, I remembered a time in my life when I had grandiose crushes on guys I knew would never want me, but I wanted them nonetheless. If someone had been there to tell me, "Mik, it'll get better. I know, cause I've been there" I probably would have felt a lot better about all of it.
Skids and Cyanide just got about 3 times more complicated to me that day, and my brain already didn't want to stay up much longer. So, petting the resident furry critter, I fell asleep in my favorite chair, probably snoring like Harley always says I do.
I never really remember my dreams all that vividly. All that I remember when I woke up was a strange sense of foreboding. When I gained some semblance of cognition of my surroundings, I knew why.
Harley had tried to cook again. He always tries his hardest, but he's nowhere nearly as cooking-inclined as his sister. I enjoy the thought behind it, what with the blackened toast in his breakfasts in bed. But most of the time Tabitha ends up coming over, eerily happy and noting that the smell reminds her of home.
That woman scares me much of the time.
But back to the task at hand, I groggily got up from the chair and zombie-walked over to the kitchen. Harley looked like he already had the fire mostly under control, judging by the fire extinguisher in one hand. He looked so dejected, and it looked like he had been trying to make cream cake. I gave him a hug from behind, and the somewhat sleepy question of "Hello, lovely. How was your day?"
Harley giggled at the question, despite the pretty obvious display that at least one part of it didn't go so well. "Oh, same old, same old. I had to go to the music store down the street after my fourth string broke. On top of that, there was some new sheet music from a musical or two you might like to hear a la Harley." I murred at this, glad that Harley was around …
Harley turned around and laughed, and scruffled my hair a little bit. "You look like Hell, dude." I had to say that it was kind of crappy compared to what I normally try to keep up. "You slept in your clothes, too?"
I laughed, although a little hollowly.
"Well, I don't know what happened .." Harley pulled some of my disheveled hair away from my forehead, and kissed my bruised forehead. "… But I think you definitely need some cheering up. Let's go to the couch and watch some TV."
I smirked a little at that. "Buffy's on tonight, isn't it?"
Disclaimer: All of the stuff involved with, and generally affiliated with, Boy Meets Boy is the intillectual property of Sandrah K. Fuhr, AKA Sandrah Delete. She gets props for this. However, I don't own anything involved with, or affilliated with, Boy Meets Boy, with the exception of a fangirlish enjoyment of said series. Thus, I am writing this fanfiction of my own free will, and I hereby declare that I own none of this. So, please don't sue me.
Chapter 3: Mik's Head Hurts.
I sat back down in the very chair all of this started in. Thoughts were running rampant through my brain. Was Skids really in love with Harley, or was it infatuation? Did Harley have any idea at all what was going on? Was Cyanide hurt because he was now in the middle of a convoluted love triangle?
On top of this confusion, I also felt guilty for having overheard the entire conversation. More to the point, guilty that I had strained to hear Cyanide's last words before they started for a stairwell, and I bolted down another. I got home in something of a blue haze, and I didn't even exactly remember my half-hearted greeting to Allen downstairs.
My head hurt terribly now, and I couldn't blame it on my pseudo-minor-concussion. I didn't want to tell Harley what was going on and muddle things up for Skids, which by proxy was muddling things for Cyanide as well. But there were so few people that I could go to for advice on matters of this nature …
I mentally ran through my list of possible sources for advice. As previously stated, Harley was pretty much out of the picture. Similarly was 'Sheequa, because she was a member of the band, I didn't know her all that well, and she would probably make far too many quirks about being stuck in a gay version of Blink 182.
Tabitha and Allen were out of the picture mainly because, well, … they're creepy. None of my 'art friends' would give me decent advice, either due to their lack of real experience with other people or they would turn it into some metaphor for how much life sucked.
I was stumped. I decided I needed a person who knew relationships. Preferably one who understood internally-homophobic-man-wants-man situations, too. One who had some finesse at romance and mending a broken heart … Who the Hell did I know that was like that?
Ruminating internally on my dilemma, I didn't even notice a certain offending household ferret that was back to her sovereign duty: gnawing on my toenails. I sighed exasperatedly, and reached down to pick up her up, albeit less violently this time around. Remembering her name, I started out something along the lines of, "Cordelia, What the Hell am I going to do with those two?"
Petting Cordelia for a while, I mulled the entire situation over. I didn't even especially know why I was so worried about those two, but I guess they'd rubbed off on me some. But, well, I remembered a time in my life when I had grandiose crushes on guys I knew would never want me, but I wanted them nonetheless. If someone had been there to tell me, "Mik, it'll get better. I know, cause I've been there" I probably would have felt a lot better about all of it.
Skids and Cyanide just got about 3 times more complicated to me that day, and my brain already didn't want to stay up much longer. So, petting the resident furry critter, I fell asleep in my favorite chair, probably snoring like Harley always says I do.
I never really remember my dreams all that vividly. All that I remember when I woke up was a strange sense of foreboding. When I gained some semblance of cognition of my surroundings, I knew why.
Harley had tried to cook again. He always tries his hardest, but he's nowhere nearly as cooking-inclined as his sister. I enjoy the thought behind it, what with the blackened toast in his breakfasts in bed. But most of the time Tabitha ends up coming over, eerily happy and noting that the smell reminds her of home.
That woman scares me much of the time.
But back to the task at hand, I groggily got up from the chair and zombie-walked over to the kitchen. Harley looked like he already had the fire mostly under control, judging by the fire extinguisher in one hand. He looked so dejected, and it looked like he had been trying to make cream cake. I gave him a hug from behind, and the somewhat sleepy question of "Hello, lovely. How was your day?"
Harley giggled at the question, despite the pretty obvious display that at least one part of it didn't go so well. "Oh, same old, same old. I had to go to the music store down the street after my fourth string broke. On top of that, there was some new sheet music from a musical or two you might like to hear a la Harley." I murred at this, glad that Harley was around …
Harley turned around and laughed, and scruffled my hair a little bit. "You look like Hell, dude." I had to say that it was kind of crappy compared to what I normally try to keep up. "You slept in your clothes, too?"
I laughed, although a little hollowly.
"Well, I don't know what happened .." Harley pulled some of my disheveled hair away from my forehead, and kissed my bruised forehead. "… But I think you definitely need some cheering up. Let's go to the couch and watch some TV."
I smirked a little at that. "Buffy's on tonight, isn't it?"