Hedwig/Hansel Schmidt (
beautifulandnew) wrote2019-10-26 05:23 pm
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Part of me thought there might have been a possibility that 'takeout and crafts' had taken on a new meaning. Perhaps it was code now, a less hip version of 'Netflix and chill'. Much, much less hip, considering the source.
Once inside Danny's apartment, however, it quickly became pretty clear that there was no hidden meaning. There was takeout and there was crafting paraphernalia.
It's been a week and I'm no less confused now than I was then. Maybe even a bit more so right now, sitting here, neither of us having actually acknowledged what had happened. Is he expecting me to play along? Eat and drink and cut construction paper and never speak of it? Is that what he plans to do? Or has he blocked it out? Did he have more to drink that night than I realized? Because there's a whole movement and hashtag now that I would potentially have to answer to.
Maybe agreeing to come was a bad idea. I'm not sure I'm prepared to pretend to deal with takeout and crafts if all it really is is takeout and crafts. I'm not sure I'm prepared to deal with the alternative either.
Once inside Danny's apartment, however, it quickly became pretty clear that there was no hidden meaning. There was takeout and there was crafting paraphernalia.
It's been a week and I'm no less confused now than I was then. Maybe even a bit more so right now, sitting here, neither of us having actually acknowledged what had happened. Is he expecting me to play along? Eat and drink and cut construction paper and never speak of it? Is that what he plans to do? Or has he blocked it out? Did he have more to drink that night than I realized? Because there's a whole movement and hashtag now that I would potentially have to answer to.
Maybe agreeing to come was a bad idea. I'm not sure I'm prepared to pretend to deal with takeout and crafts if all it really is is takeout and crafts. I'm not sure I'm prepared to deal with the alternative either.
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Two. I make a mental note of it.
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Of the two of them, the doctor is probably the one that ought to be concerned about the health of vital organs, so he's not convinced he just received a straight answer.
"Well," he announces on a deep breath, surveying a table piled with take out and craft boxes. "I think I'm too tired to craft tonight. Fancy some wrestling instead?" He offers, pushing to his feet and taking his plate over to the sink. He'll leave the tidying up til later.
"Help yourself to a drink," he says, clapping Hedwig on the shoulder as he passes behind him on the way to his bedroom. "Bring your food over too if you want."
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"What is it with straight men and watching wrestling?" It's not as dumb as NASCAR, but it's close. I'd rather watch something blatantly homoerotic even if there's zero payoff in the end, instead of seven hours of cars making a left turn.
"You know wrestling is just gay porn without the orgasms, right?" I add before eating another fry. It might actually explain a thing or two, but not nearly enough.
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There's a wave of relief when he hears Hedwig from the bedroom. Clearly he still thinks of Danny as a straight man. Good. It's short lived though and Danny's eyes only just return to their normal size before he reappears with a blanket in hand.
"Gay p--uh, wow. That is news. I wouldn't know. I've never... Actually, I think maybe there's some NASCAR we could watch instead?" He turns away from Hedwig quickly and drops down onto the sofa, blanket balled up in his lap.
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"Mm-mm. I've lived in a trailer park and I'm still not quite at the level of white trash it takes to enjoy that." And I'm completely sober, so I can't even find it within me to pretend.
"I'm foreign, so maybe that scale is graded on a curve for me."
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"NASCAR ain't white trash. Wanna know what is white trash? That show Mindy's always watching in the break room, Keeping Up With The Cardigans. This is for you," he transitions smoothly, twisting to lay the blanket across the back of the sofa. "In case you get cold."
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Rounding the sofa, I take a seat. I can't tell if it's too close or maybe too far away. A week ago something that stupid wouldn't have even crossed my mind.
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"Look what's on," he sing-songs enticingly, slouching back against the sofa, legs falling open. "Oh no." He presses a fist to his mouth, trying to hold back the sudden wave of emotion, even as his eyes begin to water. He knows this episode well. "Captain Phil, you were taken too soon. Oh, why God, why? Crabbing was never the same after this."
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"Nope." I snatch the remote away in an instant, dropping it down on the cushion between us once the screen goes black.
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He peeps at Hedwig out the corner of his eye, not brave enough to look him head on yet, and suddenly feels the urge to cry for an altogether different reason. Not one to usually show much emotion beyond anger, frustration and pride, Danny wipes his eyes quickly with the hem of his t-shirt.
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Leaning forward in my seat, I rest my knees against my elbows, fingers pushing deep into my hair. Why does he have to be so fucking weird?
"How much did you have to drink the last time I was here, Danny?" I realize asking a question like that for a second time makes it sound like I'm staging an intervention for an alcoholic, but it seems like the gentlest way to approach it. Not that I'm convinced gentle is the way to go. Quick, like a band-aid, that might have been easier. Direct, with less chance for crossed wires. Maybe this approach will result in less shouting.
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Shifting up to the arm of the couch, giving them a little more space between them, Danny swallows and twists to face Hedwig's direction. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees in an almost mirror image.
"A bit," he eventually answers in a low tone. But not so much that he can't remember everything from that night. "You?"
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If that's the case, then Danny's pride just took a huge blow.
Not a blow!
"You can explain to me what happened then," he says, volume slowly taming. It feels like his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. "Why...you left."
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It isn't until he asks why I left that I actually look at him. What was my other option? Stay? Wake up to Danny shouting and turning colors and pacing a hole in his floorboards. Blaming it on the alcohol or Mercury nearly being in retrograde again. Telling me to leave.
Waking up and liking it a bit too much before a wave of all that other stuff hit.
"It seemed like the safest of my two options."
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"Yeah, you're probably right," he says, gravelly voiced, running the pad of a thumb along his bottom lip. Who knows what he would have done had Hedwig still been there when he woke. All Danny knows is that he'd felt an overwhelming urge to punch things and it had taken four trips to different boxing gyms to work it out of him.
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"Great... You're welcome."
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Danny blows air between his teeth, flexing his cheeks and mouth as he thinks, like he's weighing up a decision.
"Tchhhh tchhhh tchhhh..." More steepling. His socked toes curl into the sofa cushion.
They should definitely leave it here, he eventually decides. He's very Catholic and very straight and Hedwig is, well, Hedwig.
"Did you want to leave?" He hears himself asking instead.
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"No."
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Danny gets that a lot. Women never seem to want to leave in the mornings. They're always clinging on to his chest like a limpet while pretending to still be asleep, hair and make up miraculously retouched. Danny's alarm clock is military grade. They're not fooling anybody.
In that respect, it was sort of nice not to have to peel another body off him in the morning. On the other hand, it didn't feel that great waking up alone, especially not after that.
"You should have stayed. Or at least left a note. Leaving without a word wasn't FBFs."
Hedwig could have at least had the decency to stay and freak out with him.
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"You say that now because we're a week out." I've known Danny long enough to knew a level head does not prevail in the heat of the moment. And I wouldn't have even been able to blame him if I had been there while his head was going through the roof. "You already agreed that was the safest way. You can't have them both."
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He sits upright, stretching his spine and tipping his head back imploringly. For help. For forgiveness, maybe. There's so much guilt.
"Is it hot in here?" He asks, pinching his shirt and wafting. "It's hot as hell." He wipes his forearm across his dampening forehead, revealing a sweat patch under his arm. "Oh boy." He stands, intent on opening a window or ten to get some air into the apartment. "Talk about the lair of Lucifer."
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"It's just you." He's free to interpret that how he likes. He didn't go out of his way to get a blanket because it was hot in here. "Maybe you're flashing. You are of a certain age."
Or maybe he can actually feel the fires of Hell coming for him.
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"I'm not flashin'," he drawls. "Castellano men don't flash, we got too much testosterone for that."
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