Have stories that speak to you? Was taking a late night shower to clear my mind, and this just started writing itself, every moment in the shower adding to the detail. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a story write itself this literally. By the time the shower was done, all I had to do was type, do some refining, and here it is. Life and FLCL inspired this. And 777 words? Awesome. Oh, and click the link. It’s what I imagine Tyler playing and the band’s overall sound. Since, you know, it’s from the OST of FLCL. Enjoy!
“Do they ask about you?”
Tyler pulled out a toothpick and put it between his teeth, gnawing on it. “Those friends. Do they ask about you?”
“No.” Claire scowled. “Is this one of your games?”
“Do you tell them about yourself?”
“Answer my question, first, Ty.”
“I always answer first.” The words were grumbled and he scrunched his nose. “So they know nothing about you.” He shook his head, shaggy brown hair rustling. “So they aren’t friends.”
“What? They are, too.”
“You act like a kid.” The words came out more vehemently than he wished, and he bit his lip, closing his mouth around the end of the toothpick. He kicked the dirt, swishing his toe and heel back and forth through it. “If they don’t know anything ’bout you, then they aren’t friends. Just people you know about.” His voice was quiet. It was supposed to sound gentle, he wanted so badly to be gentle with her, but inside he quivered.
“So what are you saying?” The look on her face was familiar, the way it trembled and the eyes narrowed: She was going to cry. “Are you saying you’re my friend? Are you saying you know me?”
Tyler stopped kicking and looked up at her. The black hair was straightened. She rarely straightened it for Ty, but now she straightened it every day. He clenched his fist. “I’ve always known you.”
There was a truck near by and he walked to it, jumping into the back. His carpenter pants scraped along the rust spots. The frays on the bottom of his left pant leg got caught for a bit, but he jerked hard and was able to get his back against the cab.
“Tyler, what the hell does that mean?!”
Now she was crying, words nearly feral. He pulled the toothpick from his lips and flung it over the side of the truck bed. She was the only girl he hated making cry. She was the only one cuter when she smiled.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
“What was that?” The sobs shook her shoulders, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t you dare drive away, don’t you….”
He looked up at her, his blue eyes making her pause, aside from the sobbing. He hit the cab twice and the guys in the front gave a hoot, then started to drive off, wheels spinning in the dirt before gaining traction and taking off. “I love you,” he mouthed, but she was looking down.
Twenty minutes later, the truck stopped in front of a country home, three stories with a large fence. Cows and corn were in the distance. The boys got out, three from the cab and Tyler in the back, and headed to the garage.
The door was open and inside were instruments. Tyler was the first to the garage as the other boys pushed each other, laughing and talking. One of the boys, Clay, shouted, “What’s got you down? She yankin’ on ya again?”
“Whatever. I don’t know what this shit is.” He picked up his guitar and slung it over his shoulder before he pulled a pick out from his pocket. It was chipped. He placed it in his mouth, then retrieved another one.
Bryce snickered, picking his teeth with his tongue. “Is that her pic?”
“Fuck you,” he snarled as best he could, keeping the pick between his teeth. Fingers moved over the thick strings, bringing the amp to life. The gritty sound vibrated through the garage, through Tyler’s bones. It made his hair stand on edge and his heart explode with every cord.
Will, the third boy, picked up a guitar. “Faggot’s on a leash.” He started a riff, but nothing that could overpower Tyler’s angst.
“Stop being such a pain in the ass.” Tyler shouted between freshly strummed emotions, snorting a little with laughter. He looked up, blue eyes just visible under scruffy hair. “Get it?”
Clay was still picking at something in his teeth with his tongue, but he grinned when he picked up the drum sticks and took a seat. “Ladies, be sensitive. There are people out there who would consider that impolite.” They all laughed, warming up on their instruments, giving everything they had to give their souls embodiment through sound. All four boys were panting after a few minutes of dissonance, grinning and giggling.
Clay spoke up, “But seriously, Thomas will be here soon and I’d rather not piss him off. So knock off the slurs.” He hit the sticks together four times, and the music blasted out of the garage, gritty, fierce, but in its own way harmonious. And Tyler forgot everything in that moment.
...like butta' on your toast!
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