Esquire Theme by Matthew Buchanan
Social icons by Tim van Damme

08

Jan

timaeustestimony:

>Dane: Find yourself interrupted from your melodramatic melancholy rudely.

‘Rude’ is one way to put it. A more accurate description would probably be ‘startlingly sudden and inducing heart attack.’ In your despondent moods, you find yourself staring off into space and staring at your computer screen, text blurring and scarring into your retinas, and not a whole lot else catches your attention. In fact, you honestly don’t notice a whole lot else outside your teenage depression-bubble. 

Ordinarily you would have noted Dave’s entrance before he could startle you that violently, but today is one of those days your peripherals in all senses are dulled and feel pointless. So instead of outing his appearance with a sassy remark, you don’t notice him until you’re tackled like a quarterback about to make the winning touchdown and then smothered beneath your tangled sheets, a kitten trapped in a burlap sack and drowned in a river by a misanthropic farmer.

The noise you make is unfortunately apt for that metaphor, and you thank everything you’ve ever held dear that your head was buried under a mass of blanketry when your vocal chords squawled in betrayal.

Before you can muster a suitably indignant complaint to Dave’s clear violation of your personal space, both emotional and physical, he says something.

“We’re going on a road trip, dickbag, get your bone yard ass up or I’m going to hijack your shit and drag you out myself! We’re taking the Vanquish, by the way.”

This is just exactly the thing you wanted to do today, how lovely of him to figure it out. You were clearly pining to drive nowhere in particular with the way you were unmoving from your bed.

“Get off of me, you crack-snorting gonad,” you gripe, and take the opportunity of being covered in fabric to burrow deeper under your dirty covers.

>Dave: Continue your pestering.

Your face breaks out into a grin, a real, genuine twist of your mouth that is so foreign it almost hurts. You practically expect to hear the bones of your jaw creak with discomfort and the muscles to fight stubbornly against your abnormally amused expression.

A very nearly inaudible sound issued from beneath the fortress of duvet that’s now swathing your brother in what he thinks is some barrier of protection, and it makes you halt for a moment, leaning in over the lump of blankets. You want to laugh but something about the pitiful little squawk makes you feel a little guilty.

Not that guilt has ever stopped you.

Gently, you prod him, face slipping back into that very vaguely amused but otherwise deadpan expression. It’s common and familiar to you, easier than forcing your face into something flaunting any sort of true emotion. You figure you shouldn’t scare the shit out of him by digging down into his blanket cavern with a ridiculous smile on your face. Even to you the thought seems distinctly terrifying.

"C’mon," you huff, an unusual amount of energy built up in you despite the lack of fervent drinking lately, "It’ll be fun and I’m afraid I’m going to come in here one day and find that you’ve melted into a helpless puddle of mush, bed fibers clinging to your soggy blob of a body. I won’t even be able to bury you properly, I’ll just have to prop the mattress up against the living room wall."

You shove at him a little impatiently, going as far to drape yourself across his thin blanketed body and pull away some of the covers to peer in at him.

"Let’s go, goddamnit. Either you come willingly or I tie you up in these disgusting sheets — what the hell man they look like a lonely neckbeard has been fapping to his anime waifu on these — and drag you out to the car myself."

As if assuring him of your intent to follow through on your threat, you pull back and begin groping for the edges of the sheets beneath him, yanking them up until you’d be able to pull them together and lift him in the makeshift kidnapping accessory.

(Source: tabescentgalahad)