charlesmydarling
Offline
████████████████████
╍❀ } ANTHONY CARRION
LYRICS LYRICS LYRICS______(adjust length of this line and/or size of text so lyrics line up with his name)_____ LYRICS LYRICS LYRICS
LYRICS LYRICS LYRICS______(adjust length of this line and/or size of text so lyrics line up with his name)_____ LYRICS LYRICS LYRICS
████████████████████
╍❀ } ANTHONY CARRION
LYRICS LYRICS LYRICS______(adjust length of this line and/or size of text so lyrics line up with his name)_____ LYRICS LYRICS LYRICS
LYRICS LYRICS LYRICS______(adjust length of this line and/or size of text so lyrics line up with his name)_____ LYRICS LYRICS LYRICS
████████████████████
╍❀ } ANTHONYCARRION
I SWEAR WHEN I GROW UP___________ I WON'T BUY YOU JUST A ROSE
_____ I WILL BUY THE FLOWER SHOP__________ AND YOU WILL NEVER BE LONELY
I SWEAR WHEN I GROW UP___________ I WON'T BUY YOU JUST A ROSE
_____ I WILL BUY THE FLOWER SHOP__________ AND YOU WILL NEVER BE LONELY
Anthony was on the bus on his way home when he got the text from Chan (he seemed to have misplaced his car keys again. . .). He quickly read the text and smiled. Slinking down in his seat, he looked out the window and tried to picture what Hugo’s house might look like. His mind immediately constructed a Snow White-esque cottage, complete with an honest-to-god straw roof and cobble-stone path that lead to an intricate hand-carved wood door with one of those gold knocker-things you had to bang with. Tony snorted. Okay, that was a bit much, even for Hugo.
He edited it then; now he saw a small, modest single-story house. There’s a little garden outside, and maybe a lawn gnome or two. There’s a car, not a pony, and the windows are lit with the warm blue glow of a television, not a candle in sight. Hugo’s mother is doing the dishes in the sparkly clean kitchen and his father is hanging his fedora on the rack by the door and picks the newspaper up off the coffee table on his way over to give Hugo’s mom a kiss on the cheek. And Hugo’s at the dinner table, rolling his eyes at their public display of affection with just the right amount of childish disgust and teenage exasperation. He’s probably doing his homework, or else sketching something (he’s not sure if Hugo is artistic at all, but he sometimes liked to pretend that he is), or maybe listening to Morrissey, or reading something by Jack Kerouac.
When Tony opened his eyes again, he realized he fallen asleep and missed his stop. By the time he jogged back to his house, it was five o’clock, and he was kind of starting to panic because he didn’t even know what he was going to wear, and he really ought to do some laundry because he was pretty sure he didn’t have any clean pants and he should shower too while he was at it because he’s all sweaty and he should get something to eat as well because he didn’t want to have to ask Hugo for food because that would just be embarrassing and oh god didn’t he have math homework oh whatever his grade could stand to take another zero he had more important things to worry about.
After an exciting sparring match with the washing machine, Tony took his shower, breaking the record for Most Things Ever Done in the Shower (except for that thing, which he can’t do when he’s nervous- not that it’s any of your business) which included some of the following: washing his hair and body and teeth, eating a sandwich (not in that order), trimming his bangs, and checking the clock on his phone ten times. His parents (and their accompanying unpleasant smells) were home by the time he got out, which was good because he needed the ride, unless he planned on taking his bike to Hugo’s. He quickly toweled his hair dry and threw on a dress shirt and black slacks, then spent about five extra minutes trying to decide between a tie and a bow-tie. He groaned and threw both over his shoulder and just unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, rumpling his collar a bit (then smoothing it, then rumpling it again, and then screaming into a pillow). He grabbed a shoulder bag and threw his cell phone, his wallet, a travel sized perfume bottle, and a copy of Perfume: The Story of a Murderer in (you never know when you’ll get an opportunity to read), cast one last desperate look around for his car keys, then sprinted down the stairs.
Before he could get sucked into the endless abyss that was parental coddling, Tony snuck out the back door to his mini garden.
Maintaining a mini organic garden throughout the year was hard, but it was a labor of love; he was able to sell some of the fruits he grew, and everyone said his flowers were lovely (one of his lilies had won a prize once). He knelt on the ground, mindful of his pants, and inhaled. It was the most beautiful smell in the world, and the fact that he had planted them, fed them, watered them, took care of them, only made the smell sweeter. But all good things must come to an end. He took his tiny scissors off the tiny hook on the wall and snipped two tiny bouquets; red anemone and white camellia for Chan, and purple diosma and pink azaleas for Hugo. He wrapped them in a simple paper with ribbons and smiled down at them. “Alas, poor Yorick, I knew thee well.”
His father was in the kitchen, skinning a particularly large fish while his mother smoked at the table. When they saw him they smile in that way parents do when they want their children to think they think they look nice. His mother came over to him and took his face between her hands (the still lit cigarette between her fingers dangerously close to his hair). “You look so handsome.” she cooed and kissed his cheek. Tony squirmed, fingers itching for the lemon scented moist towelettes in his wallet. But he just smiled back sheepishly.
“You need me to take you over to that boy’s house now, right?” His father asked, setting the de-scaled fish aside and wiping his hands on a towel. Tony wasn’t sure if he should be overjoyed, or dismayed at his parents overwhelming support for his supposed polyandrous relationship with two boys. (His parents were case examples of stinky, new-agey hippies (except they weren’t vegetarians) who were open to just about anything Tony could think to throw at them. He liked to play a game sometimes called, Can Anything I do Shock Them? He usually lost.)
Tony slipped a hand in his bag and thumbed his mini perfume bottle. He could do this. “That’d be great, dad.”
*
When his father's rickety Oldsmobile grinded to a stop in front of a dark path leading into the woods for the third time, Tony had to concede that this was probably the right address after all.
“You boys have fun now,” His father laughed, rubbing his shoulder good-naturedly. “You have that protection your mother gave you, right?”
“Yes, dad.” It was exactly where he’d put it after she gave it to him; in a box wrapped in old homework pages under his bed.
He got out of the car and bid his father farewell, and, out of courtesy, waited until he was out of sight before he started showering himself in his perfume. Then he turns to the dark path leading into the woods. He took a deep breath and started walking, calming himself with the reminder that soft-spoken, handsome young men hardly ever turn out to be serial rapists/murderers.
Halfway up the path and Tony was seriously starting to rethink this whole dance thing. He wasn’t even that good at dancing. And they would probably only play obnoxious, hip-grinding trash anyway. He really ought to just call his dad and beg him to come get him.
He pulled out his phone and stared at Chan’s text to give himself strength. Believe in the Chan that believes in you. This thought got stuck on a loop as he continued to walk.
*
Tony nearly choked on his own tears by the time he reached Hugo’s actual house.
It was a cottage.
An actual ******** cottage.
Perhaps it was the hectic night he’d been having; perhaps it was the stress; perhaps it was the mental image of Chan in star shaped glasses; perhaps it was the fact that Hugo lived in an actual ******** cottage in the middle of the ******** woods- it’s hard to say for sure, but something pushed Tony over the edge. He doubled in half as he was assaulted with a fit of hilarity that felt like a series of baseball bats to his stomach. He laughed so hard he felt tears in his eyes and his throat hurt and he couldn’t breathe for a few minutes afterwards. It was the kind of laugh that had the same effect of a good long cry.
It took a moment for Tony to not only work up the energy to not be laughing, but to move, and then to knock on Hugo’s door (he literally had a knocker thing, just like he’d imaged- he bit his knuckles to keep from keeling over again). He stood there panting, holding the flowers in one hand while he tried to smooth his hair with the other, and wondered if Hugo had heard him laughing.
He wondered if it was too late to call his dad.
