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bravegrumpyThis is my first, unedited draft of a work that will eventually maybe tie into a Merther fanfic, but by way of Outlander-style time-travel?
I know it doesn't make a lot of sense, and I need to go back and fix a lot of the malformed NYC references.
The main text, that Stanley's story may eventually one day link to is Misunderstood. I would place it in the Working Together series, but again as a story that doesn't really intersect with the main Merther story-line. That being said, one Misunderstood "fan favorite" OC, Kathy, does intersect with Stanley. However, the timeline is such that Kathy interacts with Stanley, after the events of Misunderstood are completed.
Swagger is not the only fic that would fall in the category of "side-quest". There are a few other stories that are interesting stories to tell, that just like...... aren't relevant to the main quest. Like I'm sorry Merlin does not give two fucks about how three immortal fourteen year olds observe European history.
Let me explain. I am the pianist in our band. My grandma moved to Ft Lauderdale, and left me her rent-controlled apartment. While she is still alive, I can sublet the place from her. Steve, Will, Mason and I (Stanley) live together in the 3 bedroom place. We make ends meet, most of the time. We eat well when we can get our crew and equipment down to Time-Square for all the rich-people and tourists. We don’t play in any kind of venue, but our spot, two blocks north of Time-Square, is a place where some of the wealthiest people in the world think is an “out-of-the-way hideout”. They sometimes drop hunods into Mason’s guitar box.
I have managed to snag a job at one of the Libraries. The others don’t know that I have a masters in library science, and BS in mideval history. I kept up with my piano skills, getting a minor in piano-performance, and use it only when we go out. I’m more known for my crafty ren-fair looks. I make all of my own clothing. So there are two ways to get leather. I sometimes just get it off of Amazon. Yes, I also hate that Bezos profits from it, but like, if I’m trying to make a gift, or draft a new design, I’ll make it from cheapo leather first. Then I can source some leather from one of the book-binderies contracted from the library. Don’t yell at me okay. I make do with what I have. I usually sell the Amazon-leather on Etsy, but don’t make much back on it, because of all of the bots. When going to ren-fairs (or ya know… leather-fairs), I usually only sell real-leather when I can afford it.
Will is the only one of us with a real job. Like the kind of job that involves polo shirts, slacks, and the ability to push buttons and say “Yes sir”, to the madlad getting orders from the wealthy. I think he works on Wall Street or something, because he always has extra money for stuff. Just last week, he rented a mother fucking lambo to bring a girl upstate for a date. Or at least thats what he let Steve and Mason think.
One day, after I got home from a shift, teaching some third graders about fencing, Will told me that it was actually for a wealthy client. I still don’t know what he does, but it pays the rent. My library job wouldn’t cover the rent in this place. I get the feeling that Will’s job would. Heck, even splitting rent four ways, I need the band to actually be able to afford food and my phone bill.
Mason and Steve were off being metal men, likely getting high out of their minds, when Will and I decided to go out. Its cold out side, when we decide to take the A down to Rockafeller Center. I don’t know what inspired us to do it, but we didn’t need to talk about it. The smell of urine on our block is familar as we walk into the subway. This is new york, so other than the moment when Jin waves at me, asking if we are going to eat at his stand tonight, nobody blinks twice. During most of the ride, I rest my head on his shoulder, as we each have our phones out. I’m scrolling through Pintrest, trying to find inspriation that isn’t clearly generated. I assume Will is doing some important work email thing.
I smile to myself, as my finger slides across the conspicuous bump across the center of my phone, worn from years of flipping open and closed. I remember my parent’s stories about the old kind of “flip phone”, that lacked touch input, and internet. Will’s slick black iPhone is in a black rubber case, as his wallet with his id and physical copy of his credit card and such is magnetically attached to the back. I’m smart enough to keep my important cards within the virtual wallet within my phone. Apple, ever the expensive arbitor of style, still has refused to come out with a foldable. However the did recently release a solar-powered battery that can be hooked up to their magentic charging system. Leave it to rich folk to have a solar-powered battery bank rather than charging a phone like a normal person.
Even though the subway is loud, and eventually becomes fairly packed, as people heading into the city filter onto the train, I don’t move my headphones from around my neck. There is something almost sacred about this particular ride with Will. If I were alone, I would have my headphones on, clearly signaling to others that they better not touch me. Not, that this was a real risk anyway.
We are on a local, so we get off at a tiny station, 3 or 4 blocks away from Rockafeller, knowing we would have to walk. The cool air nips my nose. Will comes up behind me and places an arm around my shoulders, wiping some lint off of my leather jacket. This leather jacket, lined with some faux fir, goes down to my knees.
“You should make one of those for me”, I hear Will breathe into my ear. I keep walking, placing one step in front of the otehr. I’m not sure I’ve heard him correctly. The last thing I want to do is betray to him how his words affect me. He doesn’t need to know what I get up to on weekday nights.
“You can get whatever designer bs is in fashion this week with your money” I respond. I drop his hand, and pull out my phone. I didn’t even realize I was holding it. Somehow I still miss the warmth of his touch. I then feel his fingers ruffle my hair, as he kisses my forehead, laughing.
“I know, but I want one of your leather coats”. I laugh nervously, stepping away from him for a moment. I notice that the little winter “village” that surrounds the ice rink and the library are coming closer. We pull over to a bench. He grabs my hand again, sitting on one of the benches. I remain standing, curious about what he is going to do.
I start wringing my hands, remembering that I did not put on any of my collection of trinket-rings, because of the cold.
“Here, take this,” Will states, placing his fucking class ring on my right index finger.
I roll my eyes, “Will, hun, you know how much I like shiny things,” I gesture at my garb. It would fit perfectly in 13th century, wherever, okay Europe, but is bedazzled as possible, while fitting neatly into my mideval aesthetic, “But isn’t this ring like meaningful to you and expensive or whatever? I think I know a bribe when I see it.”
The ring is a signet ring gold, and has a black onyx stone in the center. A band shaped with the year “2020” goes across the stone. One side of the ring is stamped with a circle with spokes, and the other side has as a stamp with a syringe. This indicates his pharmacy degree from some years ago. I’m unsure if he uses it today. He likely wanted to remember that last year of school when the world shut down. It was his connection to people during that time.
I took the ring off, and handed it back to him. Obviously he wasn’t going to part with this. Its part of what made him look so agressively manly, and, well, it made him function in what ever situationship he was working in.
Instead he pushed the ring back onto my finger, and fished a box out his pocket. He opened it, and inside was a ring encrusted with gemstones, each a different color of the rainbow. After shoving my right hand into my pocket, he grabbed my left hand, and placed that ring onto my fourth finger.
“This is also for you, Stan. I uh, well I want you to have it.”
I’m not sure how to react to this. Will knows how much I like fidgety rings, but most of my spinner rings are stainless steel, and anodized to be rainbow-colored. A couple of them have rainbow enamel. I guess my collection of rainbow items, and swashbuckling aesthetic makes it, well easy to make assumptions about me. But like jeez a guy can like rainbows and pirates, without sucking dick. Have yall not seen that TikTok trend? It was from like a decade ago. But I also know that this ring is from Will. I want the ring to mean something, but I don’t know what that something is.
“What about that girl you took up to the Catskills last week? Won’t she be jealous or something? I hope I’m not an experiment. I haven’t seen you on the apps, and I don’t do guys who are only gay for pay.”
Will breathed out, as if he was holding it, still holding my hand. Okay, lets be real, I’ve liked Will for ages, but assumed he was het.
“I was worried that you were just like metrosexual or something,” Will teased, pulling me in for a hug. I hold him close, still unsure of what just happened.
“Fine, you gave me a ring to bedazzle with. I hope its cubic zircona, because I am not responsible enough to keep track of like expensive gems, and don’t really want to support the that industry.”
“Stan, I just placed a rainbow ring on the fourth finger of your left hand. I know we had to live through Trumps America for a bit, but we are both adults. Symbolism hasn’t changed that much in the past fifteen years.” Will moves one hand to the bridge of his knows, to rub his brow. Five minues ago I didn’t even know he was into men, so I obviously wasn’t paying that much attention to what was happening.
“I'll make you a coat if you want. I’ll even make it out of my good leather. I then lean closer to him. Take his hand off of his brow, and rest my forehead on his.
“I’ll even throw in a leather flogger, decorated with acrylics if you want.” I’m overcome with the urge to kiss Will. His pouting lips are almost touching mine. Instead I pull back.
“Hey Will, we should get some of the stupid tourist snacks. Your treat of course". I wasn’t sure what stopped me. Maybe its because of what happened last time I tried to kiss a guy, without knowing he was gay first. I will stick to anonymous hookups from the apps, or while high in the village thank you very much.
“Stanley, you are impossible, you know this right?” Will stands up, after tapping on his phone, moving towards the little stands.
“You don’t get to be as fabulous as I am without being a little impossible,” I respond. I made the right choice. Look I live with the guy, so he can find me later.
After a walking around a bit, and then renting some skates and attempting to skate, we find ourselves meandering again. I feel content. Its been too long since I’ve been able to laugh with a friend, without worrying about money, or whether a friend of family member would be dissappeared by ICE.
We take another subway ride. This one is a little less full, but we hear a heavy silence. The kind of silence where violence is hidden. We both sit up straight, and move to have a subway seat in between us. Both of us start staring at our phones, headphones on. This is the easiest way to avoid trouble. I pull up my camera just in case.
While I might struggle for cash, I still live in New York City. My getup has often been a boon here, as people just assume I’m some actor pulling a gag. When busking near Mid Town, I sometimes even get foreign tourists asking me for a selfie because they think I’m Jonnie Depp. Typically I only get flack for my outfits when I leave the city. I sometimes forget that in some places my aesthetic is weird. Hey it doesn’t matter how weird you look, when there is some hobo crossdresser half high on crack asking you for lipstick across the street.
However, since the second Trump term, I do sometimes get harassed by random white folk wearing black bandanas over their faces. I’m not a small guy, but there is something about a shaved-head white guy, wearing a black tevlon vest, black leather pants, a black ski mask, and holding a glock to your waist to make you sober up. I’m brown, so this always gives me a fright, but luckily my degrees and years working at the library have taught me how to talk like an educated white man when I need to. Will’s obvious wealth also does him favors in moments like these. The latest YouTube meta has been to pass around more tips on how to appear as “white people” as possible.
The unfortunate thing is that the social media trend does not discriminate between people trying to assimilate for safety reasons, and people whom have actually drank Trump’s fascist Kool-Aide.
The train ride smells of a mix of urine, expired fried food, some leftover vomit, and weed. The wonderful smell of New York. The conductor skwacks inaudibly on the intercom, as the dot-matrix light display located over the train-car doors flashes amber. The lights likely were aiming to say something, but instead flashed three vertical bars on an off. As the train moved from this station, three burly men, wearing their uniform in black walked in. They all have weapons attached to their hips, and one of them has what looks like a handgun. I keep recording, hoping somebody else on the train has 911 dialed. This time they were also wearing backpacks, turned around and zippers unzipped. I turn to make eye contact with Will. I see him shift his left hand, flashing a bill. I press record on my phone, discretely hold it towards the men, while trying to appear nonchalant. My right hand wanders to one of the pockets in my trousers, to unsheath and grip my “boot” knife. I’ve found that knives are a much better deterrant than a handgun, as most people don’t expect that I know how to use it.
An elderly japanese woman, with chin-length hair and round, magenta glasses, is knitting in the seats across from us. A dozen or so toursists start gibbering to each other in some eastern-european language, while the columbian family to our right grab onto each other, the father making eye contact with me. I pull out the handle of my knife, just enough to be sure the father sees, as we nod to each other. I know the knife is a risk, but honestly, its worth it, given that we can’t tell who is a fed these days, and often the local NYPD will look the other way if ICE is involved.
The train door that the three men just walked in from opened in again, this time bulky man, a little shorter than me, but still large, shirtless, strumming an acoustic guitar. He has tufts of curly hair in a bunch of various pony-tails. Some of them seem to be spray-died with various color, like he just purchased halloween makeup from the local Magic store. His guitar strap flashes silver, with aluminum foil as a stop gap between the webbing of his strap. I think I even see the glob of glitter glue holding the foil to the black strap. His jeans are torn, like he just walked off the set of an early 2000s Terminator movie. I swear he would at home right next to Brittney Spears and Justin Timberlake in that photo of them wearing denim, that my mom keeps framed on the “mood board” she had when I was growing up.
He was strumming his guitar and singing in some of the worst falsetto I’ve ever heard, “….Mama loves her baby…… and Daddy loves you too….”. Two of the men who could have been ICE agents were walking holding out the open bookbag, seeing if people could spare money. When taking a closer look at one of the men, I notice that he has salt-and-pepper hair, and wrinkled leathery skin, as if he should have been old a decade ago. This would have been obvious if he weren’t asking for physical money. The knitting lady, fishes out a bill, and throws it in the bag. The other man walks around with the sensible CashApp QR code. I’m still scared shitless, so I don’t move. The third man sings into a lav mic, attached to the USB-C port on his phone. His backup vocals are actually good enough that I think he has at least some classical training.
While I breath a sigh of relief that nobody on this train will necessarily die, right now, I tense again when two of the black-clad men corner the family. I make eye contact with them again.
I wasn’t able to grow up in my Grandma’s apartment without knowing the entirety of “The Wall”. She was a 90s kid, so naturally, in order to be “not like other girls”, she had to like 70s music. Or thats what I’ve always asusmed.
I get up, continuing to record, and place myself between the men and the family, getting up into their faces, “The seaaa may look warm to you babee, and the sky may look blue”.
I try my best to lean into them, giving a slight wink. I don’t want to seem like I’m coming onto them, but I also ensure that my body is in between these men and the family.
I tense as the man singing into a mic pulls out what I think is going to be a gun. I don’t know whether I’m dealing with hustlers, ICE agents or what, but I feel my breath quicken as I hear my heart beat in my heart.
I thank whatever goddesses might be watching me that my foldable phone continues recording if it is in a partially folded state. So I “fold” my phone over the collar of my jacket, knowing that it is not closed properly. I was surprised when I found out that leather does not register as a touch. I ready my defensive stance, keeping my knife easily reachable.
Suddenly I hear a blast of applause, as a new piano riff starts. The “gun” is simply a Bluetooth speaker. Of course. I look in one of the men’s bags and see some rainbow lining. Maybe these really are performers, and not some demented version of the government trying to trick us into complacency.
While continuing to sing along with the group, I push forward, creating more space between me and the family, as they quickly take the opportunity to move over to the next train car. The father nods at me in appreciation. I then exchange a glance with Will. We wordlessly decide that this is our stop, as I dance my way over to the doors.
“So, you are still wearing my rings,” Will teases, grabbing my hand. He fiddles with his class ring, making sure it stays on my hand. After that ordeal we decide to walk a couple blocks until we can take the express A up towards home. We are in a a bougie artsy street, and pass three different stores that have expensive-looking antique stained glass lamps. There is a palmistry shop, with a flickering “open” neon sign, and a fading blue A sticker in the window. My stomach rumbles, after the excitement from earlier, but I know that food from this place likely isn’t cheap.
“Do you want to get your palm read, or your wallet stolen?” I ask, diverting attention away from the gifts, I intend to sneak them back into his jeans when he isn’t looking. If I don’t manage it now, I’ll at least put them in his room later.
Rather than following me into the shop, he holds onto my hand more firmly than earlier. Its more like grabbing my wrist than truly holding my hand.
“Can we talk about us?” Will asks again.
“What even is there to talk about?” I retort. Will never asked me any questions, and last time I checked we were roommates. I’m pretty sure I’d remember sleeping with Will. Or at least I would remember if I slept with him while sober. I’ve been around long enough to not base an entire relationship on a ecstasy-filled one-night stand.
“You placed two rings on my hands like not even an hour ago, and you know I like whatits to fidget with on my hand. So yeah, I haven’t had a chance to take them off yet. Were you not with me during the scare-o-thon on the subway? I’m not trying to loose your expensive-ass jewlrey, so the safest place is on my fingers. If you were trying to propose to me then use your words. But usually proposals happen between couples that know they are together. If its news to one of us, how can it be a romantic thing? What are we even doing?” I realize I’m starting to shout, and don’t want to bring too much attention to us.
I then swing my arm in a circle, forcing Will’s thumb to part with his forefinger, freeing my arm. I march away towards a train. Any train that will get me further away from this.
As much as I hate actually being in nature, I am really glad for Central Park. I mean, sure there are bits of wildlife in the bronx, but none so curated as Olmstead’s wonderous planning. Horses still sometimes circle the pathways, as Mounted Police. Unfortunatley, Central Park, being what it is, is probably more surveilled than anywhere else in this godforsaken city. I don’t like that they, whoever they are, know exactly who I am, and where I am at all times, but I hope that I have an anonomyous enough face to be seen as boring— for now. Hot tip kids — never do a deal in Central Park, as you will be caught. Bryant park is better for that nonsense.
I feel my phone vibrate against my neck. I already know its Will. Steve and Mason are either high or asleep right now, and Will is the only other contact that is allowed through my Do Not Disturb setting. I’m not stupid enough to have a twitter send me notificaitons. I’m semi-famous on one of the Fedi twitters. I don’t need that kind of interruption in my life. (Look I just post pictures of my outfit builds. People eat that shit for breakfast).
The winter wind ruffles my hair, as I slow down, leaning against a tree, reading Will’s messages.
Yes I get it. Will is the fucking hottest shit out there. Whenever he shows up in one of our TikTok vlogs, the views go up by three orders of magnitude.
I remember the gay thirst-trap Will and I did once, where we started the video back-to-back, wearing matchign grey hoodies and head phones, texting on our empty phone-cases. Then we cut to me in my wonderful swash-buckler garb, hair softened with product, and chest peeking out from the tunic I had underneath my iconic leather jacket. Will was wearing a wifebeater and jeans, and looking longingly at my mouth.
Look, we landed a sponsorship deal, and enough money to make rent for the next two months after that video dropped. It also landed a spike in spotify sales, so it was SO worth it. I always assumed Will did that just to humor us. Mason and Steve’s thirst traps never did quite as well as that one did. It might have been because Will doesn’t even have his own TikTok. I never told him that I almost kissed him after that shoot. Instead I wored off my arousal by doing pushups.
I respond to the text message:
Will responds immediately.
I continue wandering for a bit, with my headphones on. The whining metal music calms me, as I feel the anger-fueled adrenaline pump to my extremities. I start jogging around Central Park’s external perimeter for a bit. The exertion usually calms me down. As long as I dont fall into a flat-out sprint, my jacket shouldn’t get too sweaty. The run allows me to let tears slip out, without it being super obvious. While I’m running I hear the robot voice interrupt my music with a “You have a new message from heart growing heart peach eggplant house flying money”. I ignore it, rather than tapping my headset to read the message. The string of emojis is for Will. I try not to keep actual names in my contacts, just in case my phone is stolen or something.
I slow down as I round the corner into Columbus Circle, remembering the BLM protests of 2020 that happened here. I was in the crowd, trying to keep morale up, and descalate. I still have the remains of the accordian I had with me that day. I’ll never forget the feeling of tear-gas, as I distributed milk to other protestors.
Crossing the stone bridge from the park to the circle, I take a deep breath an approach the rear of the goddforsaken statue. I feel the sadism of government towering over me, insisting that I am not welcome unless I conform.
I’m not sure what draws me to the statue. Maybe its the relative quiet of the night. Instead of having to push my way through a dense crowd, I hear only scattered groups of tourists, and a few locals lounging about. A guy with a boombox walks past the circle as I approach, and the falafel stand has closed up for the night. Across the street, the LED neon sign of the pizza place is lit up, and I hear some latent noise from the various clubs and house parties happening around, just above the latent roar of traffic.
I arrive at the center of the circle. I can no longer see the bronze anchors protruding from the back of the base. I take off my headphones, placing them around my neck. The feeling of the ear cavities against my neck feel grounding, like something real is keeping me on this earth.
Somehow, I start hearing a huming. This is louder and more aggressive than the din of New York. It nearly overwhelms me, and I’m not one to get much sensory overload. The humming sounds a bit like some chanting, my grandmother used to play on the boombox. To steady myself, I place my left hand on the base of the statue. I feel like I’m pulled off into another dimension. Its like if I got waaaay too high, but, I haven’t taken anything. Or like if I went to Coney Island, and tripped some acid before going on the roller coaster. T
I know it doesn't make a lot of sense, and I need to go back and fix a lot of the malformed NYC references.
The main text, that Stanley's story may eventually one day link to is Misunderstood. I would place it in the Working Together series, but again as a story that doesn't really intersect with the main Merther story-line. That being said, one Misunderstood "fan favorite" OC, Kathy, does intersect with Stanley. However, the timeline is such that Kathy interacts with Stanley, after the events of Misunderstood are completed.
Swagger is not the only fic that would fall in the category of "side-quest". There are a few other stories that are interesting stories to tell, that just like...... aren't relevant to the main quest. Like I'm sorry Merlin does not give two fucks about how three immortal fourteen year olds observe European history.
However, this does remind me that Stanley could interact with these children, if I ever figure out how to get him from pre-colonial Manhattan across the water. While I originally wanted him to travel back to like the 1300 / 1400s, if he only travels in time, from Columbus Circle, then it actually would make more sense for him to travel back to possibly the pre-roman Era, when the Vikings might have made it. Though, the native americans in Manhattan at any time from 200 to 1500 likely have very little concept of sea travel.
I think the best solution here, because I need him to get to Europe, is that he travels north, during a Mohawk trade route, as that tribe seems to just accept the eccentric weirdo, and then he falls for an Inuit, bringing him further north. Then when Ragnor gets to NewFoundland, Stanley interacts with him, recognizing the boat as like a tech he knows, then moves to Europe that way.
I don't really know.
Any whoooo, enjoy the draft chapter below.
Chapter One
Will is just about the best thing to have ever happened to me. Like seriously. I mean, sure he is hot and all, but he knows that already. What I mean is that he seems to understand me in a way that the others in the HUT Nut Houseee! (Our appartment in the lower Bronx), just don’t.Let me explain. I am the pianist in our band. My grandma moved to Ft Lauderdale, and left me her rent-controlled apartment. While she is still alive, I can sublet the place from her. Steve, Will, Mason and I (Stanley) live together in the 3 bedroom place. We make ends meet, most of the time. We eat well when we can get our crew and equipment down to Time-Square for all the rich-people and tourists. We don’t play in any kind of venue, but our spot, two blocks north of Time-Square, is a place where some of the wealthiest people in the world think is an “out-of-the-way hideout”. They sometimes drop hunods into Mason’s guitar box.
I have managed to snag a job at one of the Libraries. The others don’t know that I have a masters in library science, and BS in mideval history. I kept up with my piano skills, getting a minor in piano-performance, and use it only when we go out. I’m more known for my crafty ren-fair looks. I make all of my own clothing. So there are two ways to get leather. I sometimes just get it off of Amazon. Yes, I also hate that Bezos profits from it, but like, if I’m trying to make a gift, or draft a new design, I’ll make it from cheapo leather first. Then I can source some leather from one of the book-binderies contracted from the library. Don’t yell at me okay. I make do with what I have. I usually sell the Amazon-leather on Etsy, but don’t make much back on it, because of all of the bots. When going to ren-fairs (or ya know… leather-fairs), I usually only sell real-leather when I can afford it.
Will is the only one of us with a real job. Like the kind of job that involves polo shirts, slacks, and the ability to push buttons and say “Yes sir”, to the madlad getting orders from the wealthy. I think he works on Wall Street or something, because he always has extra money for stuff. Just last week, he rented a mother fucking lambo to bring a girl upstate for a date. Or at least thats what he let Steve and Mason think.
One day, after I got home from a shift, teaching some third graders about fencing, Will told me that it was actually for a wealthy client. I still don’t know what he does, but it pays the rent. My library job wouldn’t cover the rent in this place. I get the feeling that Will’s job would. Heck, even splitting rent four ways, I need the band to actually be able to afford food and my phone bill.
Mason and Steve were off being metal men, likely getting high out of their minds, when Will and I decided to go out. Its cold out side, when we decide to take the A down to Rockafeller Center. I don’t know what inspired us to do it, but we didn’t need to talk about it. The smell of urine on our block is familar as we walk into the subway. This is new york, so other than the moment when Jin waves at me, asking if we are going to eat at his stand tonight, nobody blinks twice. During most of the ride, I rest my head on his shoulder, as we each have our phones out. I’m scrolling through Pintrest, trying to find inspriation that isn’t clearly generated. I assume Will is doing some important work email thing.
I smile to myself, as my finger slides across the conspicuous bump across the center of my phone, worn from years of flipping open and closed. I remember my parent’s stories about the old kind of “flip phone”, that lacked touch input, and internet. Will’s slick black iPhone is in a black rubber case, as his wallet with his id and physical copy of his credit card and such is magnetically attached to the back. I’m smart enough to keep my important cards within the virtual wallet within my phone. Apple, ever the expensive arbitor of style, still has refused to come out with a foldable. However the did recently release a solar-powered battery that can be hooked up to their magentic charging system. Leave it to rich folk to have a solar-powered battery bank rather than charging a phone like a normal person.
Even though the subway is loud, and eventually becomes fairly packed, as people heading into the city filter onto the train, I don’t move my headphones from around my neck. There is something almost sacred about this particular ride with Will. If I were alone, I would have my headphones on, clearly signaling to others that they better not touch me. Not, that this was a real risk anyway.
We are on a local, so we get off at a tiny station, 3 or 4 blocks away from Rockafeller, knowing we would have to walk. The cool air nips my nose. Will comes up behind me and places an arm around my shoulders, wiping some lint off of my leather jacket. This leather jacket, lined with some faux fir, goes down to my knees.
“You should make one of those for me”, I hear Will breathe into my ear. I keep walking, placing one step in front of the otehr. I’m not sure I’ve heard him correctly. The last thing I want to do is betray to him how his words affect me. He doesn’t need to know what I get up to on weekday nights.
“You can get whatever designer bs is in fashion this week with your money” I respond. I drop his hand, and pull out my phone. I didn’t even realize I was holding it. Somehow I still miss the warmth of his touch. I then feel his fingers ruffle my hair, as he kisses my forehead, laughing.
“I know, but I want one of your leather coats”. I laugh nervously, stepping away from him for a moment. I notice that the little winter “village” that surrounds the ice rink and the library are coming closer. We pull over to a bench. He grabs my hand again, sitting on one of the benches. I remain standing, curious about what he is going to do.
I start wringing my hands, remembering that I did not put on any of my collection of trinket-rings, because of the cold.
“Here, take this,” Will states, placing his fucking class ring on my right index finger.
I roll my eyes, “Will, hun, you know how much I like shiny things,” I gesture at my garb. It would fit perfectly in 13th century, wherever, okay Europe, but is bedazzled as possible, while fitting neatly into my mideval aesthetic, “But isn’t this ring like meaningful to you and expensive or whatever? I think I know a bribe when I see it.”
The ring is a signet ring gold, and has a black onyx stone in the center. A band shaped with the year “2020” goes across the stone. One side of the ring is stamped with a circle with spokes, and the other side has as a stamp with a syringe. This indicates his pharmacy degree from some years ago. I’m unsure if he uses it today. He likely wanted to remember that last year of school when the world shut down. It was his connection to people during that time.
I took the ring off, and handed it back to him. Obviously he wasn’t going to part with this. Its part of what made him look so agressively manly, and, well, it made him function in what ever situationship he was working in.
Instead he pushed the ring back onto my finger, and fished a box out his pocket. He opened it, and inside was a ring encrusted with gemstones, each a different color of the rainbow. After shoving my right hand into my pocket, he grabbed my left hand, and placed that ring onto my fourth finger.
“This is also for you, Stan. I uh, well I want you to have it.”
I’m not sure how to react to this. Will knows how much I like fidgety rings, but most of my spinner rings are stainless steel, and anodized to be rainbow-colored. A couple of them have rainbow enamel. I guess my collection of rainbow items, and swashbuckling aesthetic makes it, well easy to make assumptions about me. But like jeez a guy can like rainbows and pirates, without sucking dick. Have yall not seen that TikTok trend? It was from like a decade ago. But I also know that this ring is from Will. I want the ring to mean something, but I don’t know what that something is.
“What about that girl you took up to the Catskills last week? Won’t she be jealous or something? I hope I’m not an experiment. I haven’t seen you on the apps, and I don’t do guys who are only gay for pay.”
Will breathed out, as if he was holding it, still holding my hand. Okay, lets be real, I’ve liked Will for ages, but assumed he was het.
“I was worried that you were just like metrosexual or something,” Will teased, pulling me in for a hug. I hold him close, still unsure of what just happened.
“Fine, you gave me a ring to bedazzle with. I hope its cubic zircona, because I am not responsible enough to keep track of like expensive gems, and don’t really want to support the that industry.”
“Stan, I just placed a rainbow ring on the fourth finger of your left hand. I know we had to live through Trumps America for a bit, but we are both adults. Symbolism hasn’t changed that much in the past fifteen years.” Will moves one hand to the bridge of his knows, to rub his brow. Five minues ago I didn’t even know he was into men, so I obviously wasn’t paying that much attention to what was happening.
“I'll make you a coat if you want. I’ll even make it out of my good leather. I then lean closer to him. Take his hand off of his brow, and rest my forehead on his.
“I’ll even throw in a leather flogger, decorated with acrylics if you want.” I’m overcome with the urge to kiss Will. His pouting lips are almost touching mine. Instead I pull back.
“Hey Will, we should get some of the stupid tourist snacks. Your treat of course". I wasn’t sure what stopped me. Maybe its because of what happened last time I tried to kiss a guy, without knowing he was gay first. I will stick to anonymous hookups from the apps, or while high in the village thank you very much.
“Stanley, you are impossible, you know this right?” Will stands up, after tapping on his phone, moving towards the little stands.
“You don’t get to be as fabulous as I am without being a little impossible,” I respond. I made the right choice. Look I live with the guy, so he can find me later.
After a walking around a bit, and then renting some skates and attempting to skate, we find ourselves meandering again. I feel content. Its been too long since I’ve been able to laugh with a friend, without worrying about money, or whether a friend of family member would be dissappeared by ICE.
We take another subway ride. This one is a little less full, but we hear a heavy silence. The kind of silence where violence is hidden. We both sit up straight, and move to have a subway seat in between us. Both of us start staring at our phones, headphones on. This is the easiest way to avoid trouble. I pull up my camera just in case.
While I might struggle for cash, I still live in New York City. My getup has often been a boon here, as people just assume I’m some actor pulling a gag. When busking near Mid Town, I sometimes even get foreign tourists asking me for a selfie because they think I’m Jonnie Depp. Typically I only get flack for my outfits when I leave the city. I sometimes forget that in some places my aesthetic is weird. Hey it doesn’t matter how weird you look, when there is some hobo crossdresser half high on crack asking you for lipstick across the street.
However, since the second Trump term, I do sometimes get harassed by random white folk wearing black bandanas over their faces. I’m not a small guy, but there is something about a shaved-head white guy, wearing a black tevlon vest, black leather pants, a black ski mask, and holding a glock to your waist to make you sober up. I’m brown, so this always gives me a fright, but luckily my degrees and years working at the library have taught me how to talk like an educated white man when I need to. Will’s obvious wealth also does him favors in moments like these. The latest YouTube meta has been to pass around more tips on how to appear as “white people” as possible.
The unfortunate thing is that the social media trend does not discriminate between people trying to assimilate for safety reasons, and people whom have actually drank Trump’s fascist Kool-Aide.
The train ride smells of a mix of urine, expired fried food, some leftover vomit, and weed. The wonderful smell of New York. The conductor skwacks inaudibly on the intercom, as the dot-matrix light display located over the train-car doors flashes amber. The lights likely were aiming to say something, but instead flashed three vertical bars on an off. As the train moved from this station, three burly men, wearing their uniform in black walked in. They all have weapons attached to their hips, and one of them has what looks like a handgun. I keep recording, hoping somebody else on the train has 911 dialed. This time they were also wearing backpacks, turned around and zippers unzipped. I turn to make eye contact with Will. I see him shift his left hand, flashing a bill. I press record on my phone, discretely hold it towards the men, while trying to appear nonchalant. My right hand wanders to one of the pockets in my trousers, to unsheath and grip my “boot” knife. I’ve found that knives are a much better deterrant than a handgun, as most people don’t expect that I know how to use it.
An elderly japanese woman, with chin-length hair and round, magenta glasses, is knitting in the seats across from us. A dozen or so toursists start gibbering to each other in some eastern-european language, while the columbian family to our right grab onto each other, the father making eye contact with me. I pull out the handle of my knife, just enough to be sure the father sees, as we nod to each other. I know the knife is a risk, but honestly, its worth it, given that we can’t tell who is a fed these days, and often the local NYPD will look the other way if ICE is involved.
The train door that the three men just walked in from opened in again, this time bulky man, a little shorter than me, but still large, shirtless, strumming an acoustic guitar. He has tufts of curly hair in a bunch of various pony-tails. Some of them seem to be spray-died with various color, like he just purchased halloween makeup from the local Magic store. His guitar strap flashes silver, with aluminum foil as a stop gap between the webbing of his strap. I think I even see the glob of glitter glue holding the foil to the black strap. His jeans are torn, like he just walked off the set of an early 2000s Terminator movie. I swear he would at home right next to Brittney Spears and Justin Timberlake in that photo of them wearing denim, that my mom keeps framed on the “mood board” she had when I was growing up.
He was strumming his guitar and singing in some of the worst falsetto I’ve ever heard, “….Mama loves her baby…… and Daddy loves you too….”. Two of the men who could have been ICE agents were walking holding out the open bookbag, seeing if people could spare money. When taking a closer look at one of the men, I notice that he has salt-and-pepper hair, and wrinkled leathery skin, as if he should have been old a decade ago. This would have been obvious if he weren’t asking for physical money. The knitting lady, fishes out a bill, and throws it in the bag. The other man walks around with the sensible CashApp QR code. I’m still scared shitless, so I don’t move. The third man sings into a lav mic, attached to the USB-C port on his phone. His backup vocals are actually good enough that I think he has at least some classical training.
While I breath a sigh of relief that nobody on this train will necessarily die, right now, I tense again when two of the black-clad men corner the family. I make eye contact with them again.
I wasn’t able to grow up in my Grandma’s apartment without knowing the entirety of “The Wall”. She was a 90s kid, so naturally, in order to be “not like other girls”, she had to like 70s music. Or thats what I’ve always asusmed.
I get up, continuing to record, and place myself between the men and the family, getting up into their faces, “The seaaa may look warm to you babee, and the sky may look blue”.
I try my best to lean into them, giving a slight wink. I don’t want to seem like I’m coming onto them, but I also ensure that my body is in between these men and the family.
I tense as the man singing into a mic pulls out what I think is going to be a gun. I don’t know whether I’m dealing with hustlers, ICE agents or what, but I feel my breath quicken as I hear my heart beat in my heart.
I thank whatever goddesses might be watching me that my foldable phone continues recording if it is in a partially folded state. So I “fold” my phone over the collar of my jacket, knowing that it is not closed properly. I was surprised when I found out that leather does not register as a touch. I ready my defensive stance, keeping my knife easily reachable.
Suddenly I hear a blast of applause, as a new piano riff starts. The “gun” is simply a Bluetooth speaker. Of course. I look in one of the men’s bags and see some rainbow lining. Maybe these really are performers, and not some demented version of the government trying to trick us into complacency.
While continuing to sing along with the group, I push forward, creating more space between me and the family, as they quickly take the opportunity to move over to the next train car. The father nods at me in appreciation. I then exchange a glance with Will. We wordlessly decide that this is our stop, as I dance my way over to the doors.
“So, you are still wearing my rings,” Will teases, grabbing my hand. He fiddles with his class ring, making sure it stays on my hand. After that ordeal we decide to walk a couple blocks until we can take the express A up towards home. We are in a a bougie artsy street, and pass three different stores that have expensive-looking antique stained glass lamps. There is a palmistry shop, with a flickering “open” neon sign, and a fading blue A sticker in the window. My stomach rumbles, after the excitement from earlier, but I know that food from this place likely isn’t cheap.
“Do you want to get your palm read, or your wallet stolen?” I ask, diverting attention away from the gifts, I intend to sneak them back into his jeans when he isn’t looking. If I don’t manage it now, I’ll at least put them in his room later.
Rather than following me into the shop, he holds onto my hand more firmly than earlier. Its more like grabbing my wrist than truly holding my hand.
“Can we talk about us?” Will asks again.
“What even is there to talk about?” I retort. Will never asked me any questions, and last time I checked we were roommates. I’m pretty sure I’d remember sleeping with Will. Or at least I would remember if I slept with him while sober. I’ve been around long enough to not base an entire relationship on a ecstasy-filled one-night stand.
“You placed two rings on my hands like not even an hour ago, and you know I like whatits to fidget with on my hand. So yeah, I haven’t had a chance to take them off yet. Were you not with me during the scare-o-thon on the subway? I’m not trying to loose your expensive-ass jewlrey, so the safest place is on my fingers. If you were trying to propose to me then use your words. But usually proposals happen between couples that know they are together. If its news to one of us, how can it be a romantic thing? What are we even doing?” I realize I’m starting to shout, and don’t want to bring too much attention to us.
I then swing my arm in a circle, forcing Will’s thumb to part with his forefinger, freeing my arm. I march away towards a train. Any train that will get me further away from this.
Chapter Two
I’m really glad that Will doesn’t try to follow me. I walk east on 60th street for a while, until I hit Central Park. My feet know where they are going even in if my brain doesn’t care.As much as I hate actually being in nature, I am really glad for Central Park. I mean, sure there are bits of wildlife in the bronx, but none so curated as Olmstead’s wonderous planning. Horses still sometimes circle the pathways, as Mounted Police. Unfortunatley, Central Park, being what it is, is probably more surveilled than anywhere else in this godforsaken city. I don’t like that they, whoever they are, know exactly who I am, and where I am at all times, but I hope that I have an anonomyous enough face to be seen as boring— for now. Hot tip kids — never do a deal in Central Park, as you will be caught. Bryant park is better for that nonsense.
I feel my phone vibrate against my neck. I already know its Will. Steve and Mason are either high or asleep right now, and Will is the only other contact that is allowed through my Do Not Disturb setting. I’m not stupid enough to have a twitter send me notificaitons. I’m semi-famous on one of the Fedi twitters. I don’t need that kind of interruption in my life. (Look I just post pictures of my outfit builds. People eat that shit for breakfast).
The winter wind ruffles my hair, as I slow down, leaning against a tree, reading Will’s messages.
Look, I’m sorryI take a moment to think. I reread the second message. I love you it stated. I’m assuming its likely a joke. Just like the joke of putting a loud rainbow ring on the possibly-gay guy.
I love you Stanley, I don’t want to push you away. Will you please just think about us?
Meet me at home when you don’t want to kill me, I guess?
I’ll get hogies. The others will be hungover and appreciate it as well. Don’t eat ice cream without me <3
Yes I get it. Will is the fucking hottest shit out there. Whenever he shows up in one of our TikTok vlogs, the views go up by three orders of magnitude.
I remember the gay thirst-trap Will and I did once, where we started the video back-to-back, wearing matchign grey hoodies and head phones, texting on our empty phone-cases. Then we cut to me in my wonderful swash-buckler garb, hair softened with product, and chest peeking out from the tunic I had underneath my iconic leather jacket. Will was wearing a wifebeater and jeans, and looking longingly at my mouth.
Look, we landed a sponsorship deal, and enough money to make rent for the next two months after that video dropped. It also landed a spike in spotify sales, so it was SO worth it. I always assumed Will did that just to humor us. Mason and Steve’s thirst traps never did quite as well as that one did. It might have been because Will doesn’t even have his own TikTok. I never told him that I almost kissed him after that shoot. Instead I wored off my arousal by doing pushups.
I respond to the text message:
I’ll bet you five shots you won’t kiss me.We have an ongoing bet in the house. Kissing is no homo if we are at least five shots deep. I am not ready for whatever Will was planning, but I think that a five-shot blow job might create more problems that a future version of me can solve.
Will responds immediately.
So you don’t want to kill me?I snap a photo of my right hand, with his class ring, while the hand is resting “nonchalantly” on my thigh. My fingers are pointed inward. After sending Will the photo, I stuff my phone into one of the many pockets in my coat and move on. I happend to correctly guess the same pocket that has my physical wallet, mostly full of expired Metro cards, business cards, and a credit card that expired six months ago. Obviously its my fake wallet. I’m not stupid enough to carry around anything other than my phone and metro card on my person.
I continue wandering for a bit, with my headphones on. The whining metal music calms me, as I feel the anger-fueled adrenaline pump to my extremities. I start jogging around Central Park’s external perimeter for a bit. The exertion usually calms me down. As long as I dont fall into a flat-out sprint, my jacket shouldn’t get too sweaty. The run allows me to let tears slip out, without it being super obvious. While I’m running I hear the robot voice interrupt my music with a “You have a new message from heart growing heart peach eggplant house flying money”. I ignore it, rather than tapping my headset to read the message. The string of emojis is for Will. I try not to keep actual names in my contacts, just in case my phone is stolen or something.
I slow down as I round the corner into Columbus Circle, remembering the BLM protests of 2020 that happened here. I was in the crowd, trying to keep morale up, and descalate. I still have the remains of the accordian I had with me that day. I’ll never forget the feeling of tear-gas, as I distributed milk to other protestors.
Crossing the stone bridge from the park to the circle, I take a deep breath an approach the rear of the goddforsaken statue. I feel the sadism of government towering over me, insisting that I am not welcome unless I conform.
I’m not sure what draws me to the statue. Maybe its the relative quiet of the night. Instead of having to push my way through a dense crowd, I hear only scattered groups of tourists, and a few locals lounging about. A guy with a boombox walks past the circle as I approach, and the falafel stand has closed up for the night. Across the street, the LED neon sign of the pizza place is lit up, and I hear some latent noise from the various clubs and house parties happening around, just above the latent roar of traffic.
I arrive at the center of the circle. I can no longer see the bronze anchors protruding from the back of the base. I take off my headphones, placing them around my neck. The feeling of the ear cavities against my neck feel grounding, like something real is keeping me on this earth.
Somehow, I start hearing a huming. This is louder and more aggressive than the din of New York. It nearly overwhelms me, and I’m not one to get much sensory overload. The humming sounds a bit like some chanting, my grandmother used to play on the boombox. To steady myself, I place my left hand on the base of the statue. I feel like I’m pulled off into another dimension. Its like if I got waaaay too high, but, I haven’t taken anything. Or like if I went to Coney Island, and tripped some acid before going on the roller coaster. T
