lilyrizzy
lilyrizzy
to realise heaven is here, in the honest dirt beneath our feet
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i came across one of your old my own cloud posts and it made me curious if youve written anything new for it recently! no pressure of course, just wanted to add that i love your writing and the characterizations you have in that verse <3
thank you for the interest and love, this story meant so much to me! as this is a largely abandoned wip, I'll post the last little part I think that isn't posted for it (though I wrote it a long time ago and it's very unedited so keep that in mind when reading haha).
cw: aftermath of sexual assault. please, please don't read if that is something that you will struggle with
Underneath the artificial yellow of the spotlights, the mark looks almost non-existent. No bigger than a two euro coin, the rest of the mess washed away down the drain. For a moment, Max imagines what would happen if police broke down his door, shining blue lights down his shower plug hole, over the sofa, over the floor where no matter how hard Max tried he couldn’t stop a little dripping out. Eventually, they'd cast the light over his body and work out where the real crime scene was.
It’s only when Max steps forward, towards it, and then backwards and away again that he can really see it, the stain. The shine of it like the trail that snails would leave along the pathway of his mum’s garden.
It is stupid, Max would tell Victoria, for them to let every other creature know where they were going to hide.
He almost wants to laugh at his naivety, now he knows the limits of his own escape. Two boarders and another year older and still nothing is enough to make it stop.
Not even-
Maybe a damp cloth would get it off, but Max isn’t sure he has one of those. He considers licking the hem of his t-shirt and scrubbing at it, but it’s new. Everything in here was meant to be new, Max included. New Max who could let his oily fingertips touch the granite countertop in the kitchen, could kick off his dirty trainers in the hallway, could sleep naked against crisp bedsheet and feel clean enough for it all.
He shoves at the sofa, ignoring the terrible screeching noise it makes as the feet drag along the hardwood floor. His mum will be so disappointed when she visits next week and sees that, “Maxje, you cannot look after anything. Already you have ruined it,” in that soft admonishing voice, as though his tendency to destroy is just another something to love about him. The way he leaves his own silvery tracks.
Getting it out of the door alone is a challenge but now he’s started he can’t stop. Something is crawling up his throat, thick and hot and threatening to choke him if he tries to do more than take panting breaths as he pushes and pulls. Distantly he feels the bloom of pain across his toe as it hits the doorframe and he should care more, about what it will mean for driving in sim tomorrow.
He is a Formula One driver.
You are a Formula One driver, Max.
He is-
“Max?”
It’s not until he looks up, blinking, that he realises he’s been staring at the stain. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to focus again on the rest of the world.
“Daniel,” he says, and then flushes scalding red because Daniel’s eyes dart down to the sofa and back to Max’s face. “I-“
“What are you doing?” Daniel asks, clearly confused. In his hand there is a four pack of beers, beads of condensation rolling down the glass and dripping onto the apartment buildings carpet.
Their apartment building carpet. Daniel lives here too.
It’s not until Daniel’s eyebrows creep higher on his face that Max realises he’s still waiting for something, an explanation probably, or for Max to make this into a joke. That’s what they’ve done most of the few times they’ve seen each other before now; laugh.
“I am taking my sofa to the rubbish,” Max says.
Silence. Another drip-drop of water onto the floor.
“Right,” Daniel says glancing down at it again, and Max needs to find a way to get him to stop looking. “Because?”
“Because I don’t like it,” Max says and it’s not a lie. He wants to set it on fire.
Daniel does laugh at that, but that is usual for them. Max somehow making a joke without knowing it.
“Okay,” he says nodding, glancing down again- “and why don’t you-“
“Daniel,” Max interrupts, shoving the sofa as though he is going to run Daniel over with it, “I just- I really need to get this fucking thing gone, okay? Can you-“ he shoves again- “get out of the way, or just-“
Daniel takes a step back, hands raised in the air like a surrender, like Max is a spooked horse Daniel must have on the farm he told Max a little about last time he saw him.
“Okay, okay,” he says again, though this time much nicer sounding. Gentle. “Well you aren’t going to make it very far down the stairs alone.”
Daniel walks past him to deposit the beers onto Max’s doormat. Echante, it says. A gift from Victoria, something French to fit his new apartment.
It’s only then that Max realises Daniel must have been bringing them for him. Another gift.
“What are you-“ Max starts, but already Daniel is leaning down to lift the other end of the sofa with a dramatic grunt.
“Well, get moving,” he says and his voice is still kind. “You aren’t getting my seat by making me blow my back out. Gotta earn it first, mate.”
Max wasn’t trying to do that, to hurt Daniel, but when looks at his face he sees that he is smiling. Another joke they aren’t quite on the same page about.
Later, when they are back in the walls of Max’s apartment and the sofa has been left with one end sticking out of the bin because ‘they won’t take it if you don’t at least try to put it in, trust me,’ Daniel opens a beer for each of them.
“Don’t tell Christian,” he says with smirk, lifting the bottle to his lips. “Or worse, Helmut, or your dad or-“ He lets out a nervous giggle. “Just don’t tell anyone. I know you’re technically underage still.”
Max shakes his head, taking his own pull on the beer.
“I am eighteen now,” he says. Against his tongue, the burst of bubbles feels almost cleansing. “It was my birthday yesterday.”
Daniel kicks his foot out to press against Max’s calf where they are sat on the floor, gentle. Always gentle.
“Oh shit,” he says with another laugh, another thing he is always, always, “well happy birthday, for yesterday. An odd choice of time to move though mate, middle of the season, right before your birthday.”
In his empty stomach, the bubbles keep popping.
“I needed to move,” he says, trying not to hiccup. "I couldn't stay."
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I’m unwell about how happy he looks (and the #3 above him).
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read the rest on my substack !!
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similar topic but it's so funny to me when people are like "you can't ship these people one of them is the other's father figure!" as if wanting to fuck a father figure isn't the only joy left in this life
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there are awful takes and then there are awful takes
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nico hischier, family & home
the athletic / guess how much I love you - sam mcbratney / the ny times / the players tribune / the hockey news / giovanni’s room - james baldwin / markerzone / regrets - hether / electra - euripides
#lil self reblog#the urge to make one for him becoming a captain is… strong but#I shall contain myself:)#Nico hischier#New Jersey devils
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