Do you know the extent a man would go to feel less lonely?
There's not a damn lot he wouldn't do.Five A.M. on the dot. These mornings went by in a blaze of brunette hair and emerald green eyes—not to mention a white blob of fur.
The routine was simple: work out to get the blood flowing, hot shower to mull away the trivialities of life, breakfast of eggs and toast in which half were consumed by a greedy ball of contempt, and get dressed and styled.
Impeccable with a dash of handsome, his mother called it.
Vanity didn't serve much purpose in Flynn's life, but a mother's words were that of encouragement. And, staring into the mirror with a smile, he did have to say: dashing suited him well. Despite the smile, though, his eyes wandered to the side, drawing a distance too often seen inside emerald orbs. The smile vanished, Flynn tugged taught his tie, and walked out of the bathroom. Confidence eased into him like a well tailored suit, but a suit only covered—it did not instill. Flynn lacked nothing of the sort; a fire was always brimmed in his eyes. But, it wasn't confidence that struck Flynn in the moments he caught himself thinking.
Self-esteem issues did not draw a distant gaze and an indifferent expression, something else did.
He smelled of lilacs. It was the cologne he used, coupled with the natural fragrance that he'd accustomed his house with—the kind of scent you smell on a person and realize it's just the way their home smells when waves of it smacks your nostrils. That's how he smelled. It was his mother's favorite flower and favorite aroma, the original over anything synthetic, but one couldn't just rub lilacs onto everything. They settled for a happy medium, in which Flynn took a liking to, as well. When one grows so accustomed to a scent or a smell, anything different feels foreign. This was what he took from London: the sent of lilacs, coupled with a different, earthy smell. The mixture could only be described as Flynn Zimmerman.
Pawing at Flynn's cap toed Oxfords, Oedipus let out a soft yowl to grasp his owner's attention. Having stood for quite awhile at his counter top, Flynn slowly averted his gaze downward with a brow arched. A blink, and then a light tinge of pink crawled onto his cheeks before he stooped lower to scoop Oedipus up, grabbed his briefcase, after filing through it one last time, and made for the door. After setting Oedipus firmly on his lap, with the helmet strapped on tight, he ignited the engine to his Bonneville motorcycle and took off. After a month of doing this exact thing—Oedipus' cage had been misplaced—Flynn forced himself to get used to Oedipus digging his claws straight into his thighs in order to hold on. The cat was relaxed, sure, but it didn't take away the pain of flesh ripping as they sunk into the thin fabric of his suit pants throughout the ride to Caelbury. It was a misfortune that grew into a very bad habit.
Punctual as possible, Flynn arrived early every school day, regardless of the occasion and left the latest of all the teachers. He took his job very seriously; this was literally his life. Teaching satisfied him in ways no other job could, and Flynn made sure he kept it. That usually meant going above and beyond reproach, something he didn't like doing, but didn't hate either. It simply formed into a habit, as all things eventually do. Habits and Flynn seemed to work in tandem.
He couldn't stress that enough, 'It worked.'
The assembly was to start in an hour, giving Flynn ample time to prep his room. Well, in a manner befitting a teacher who had already done so a week prior. On cue, Oedipus leaped from Flynn's arms onto the mahogany desk facing centered around an arc of desks in a very amphitheatre-esque fashion—everyone was required to sit as close to the front as possible, no exceptions. The cat snuggled up to the pair of dishes set at the very edge of the desk, filled to the brim with food and water. He'd have to thank the janitors later. It was amazing how fast he devoured the food, seeing as he had already eaten prior to leaving. Flynn could see the tufts of fur expanding under the ever growing body—that thing was going to get too fat for him to carry around. As if sensing Flynn's judging gaze, Oedipus turned and hissed, giving him the nastiest glare a cat could.
"Imp," he breathed with a wide smile.
Flynn could only sit and think from that point on. He had all the time in the world to.
The loneliest people think solitude is a is a quick respite and life is full of people.
His window faced the sunrise and he made an effort to watch one every morning.
The beauty of a world in one fleeting moment.Quiet morning—quiet for nature, with its chirps and trills.
Take it all in: the smell of the trees and grass in the wind, the sounds of birds and bugs and frogs, and the warm bathe of sunlight fluttering across exposed skin. This was what he lived for—quiet moments in the rush.
A morning ritual for a man who didn't have a habitual bone in his body. Things were planned in passing moments and actions were spontaneous. That's how life worked, so that's how he worked. Too much of that was detrimental to one's health, and so here Jaycen stood staring into the one stable point in his life. A sunrise to most was a call to action; to Jaycen, a sunrise meant being able to stop time for just a second and savor everything, from the complexities of his own thoughts to the simplest beating of his heart.
As reliable as the sun.
But, eventually, he'd have to move. He'd have to move before everything had a chance to catch up to drag him back down to that place where all his fears were laid. A fragile hummingbird stuck in what many determined to be a strong body. He tried not to fool anyone, but that was hard to do when your exterior has a louder voice than your conscience. People didn't want fragile Jaycen; they demanded a brick wall of a man always on his toes. It was hard to be the exact opposite of what currently dominated one's mind. But, Jaycen had a pretty good way of hiding things.
When one continuously insists that something didn't happen or something doesn't exist, the conscious mind eventually gives up.
Jaycen couldn't stand to be two seconds inside his own mind. Spontaneous actions, keeping on one's toes, all of that was a good way to focus on anything else. So, every morning he'd only focus on what he was currently doing. The present was far more important than the future. 'We live in the now' is a philosophy Jaycen loved to live by.
After a rigorous exercise routine, a nice, hot shower, and an enormous breakfast, Jaycen made his way through the halls of his apartment complex with a large piece of tupperware balanced in the palm of one hand. Alli lived just across the hall from him, but the brown paper bag in his other hand was for her. The cookies inside the container was for the elderly woman at the end of his hallway.
He knocked on the door, anticipating a lengthy wait. "Come in," a voice called out. Jaycen jumped from his leaning position to set the bag down, twisting the knob of the door to let himself in.
"Good morning, Mrs. Krantz," Jaycen said, smiling as he moved straight for the kitchen counter top, "I'm just setting these cookies down here. I heard your grandson was having a birthday party later today and I thought you could use some help with food."
"The sweetest young man, I swear," Mrs. Krantz, set down by the balcony doors responded, giving him an equally bright smile, "You would have made for the nicest son."
Jaycen's features twisted and he scrunched his nose in that millisecond she looked away. "You're too kind."
"I'll tell Cody his favorite quarterback said happy birthday."
"Right—oh, I forgot," Jaycen breathed, holding a finger up as he walked back into the hallway. Reaching into the paper bag, he took out a pastel green envelope with 'Happy Birthday Cody' written on the back. Reentering the apartment, he set the envelope on top of the batch of cookies. "I don't see how I've let such a long time pass by when he asked for an autograph a year ago."
"Better late than never," she laughed, resting a hand on her chest, "But, he holds the meanest grudges."
"I bet," Jaycen chided, "I'll have to make it up to him then. I'll get my plans to you later this evening; I'm running a bit late for work. Have fun, Mrs. Krantz."
"Of course."
And with that, Jaycen shut the door to the apartment and left, not forgetting to go back to grab the paper bag, of which he sneaked into Alli's classroom to drop off. The contents of which was a frame for the picture they took at Disney World, and a cat key chain with her name on it, as well as a note, 'Don't fall asleep in class again, Alli-Cat. ;) Love the manliest beard you'll ever need.'
The moment called for a sunset, emblazoning the sky with hues of orange, purple, pink, and red.
They didn't get the sunset, but it was worth imagining.
The line is blurred between justice and revenge.
When in doubt, ask yourself who this is for. Revenge is selfish; justice is selfless.Get up, get dressed, forget about work out, get redressed, work out, eat breakfast, shower and get dressed again, feed the dogs, say 'hi' to the neighbors down the hall, drive from home to work, get settled, forget about everything for a moment, and then remember that it is the first day of school, which is a lot different than other days. Syllabus day, he likes to call it, featuring a school wide assembly. Right, he had to speak at that. Of course, definitely not as much as the principal did; in fact, he was tasked to give the students the usual rundown along with who had who for homeroom. It was in the schedules, but he learned a long while ago that repetition is the key to a kid's mind.
And he forgot his Starbucks.
"Shit," he cursed.
This was what he did everyday, though it often varied, but the one thing that was a key point was the Starbucks. Hayden wasn't at all addicted to coffee, but he was addicted to not being humiliated for falling asleep at his desk. As vice principal, he had a numerous amount of jobs to attend to, including the task of making sure everything was proper and helping the principal with anything he needed. The guy probably didn't know that the previous principal had just tasked him with dealing with the finances. Business and Hayden didn't go well, but numbers often went better with him than anything else—a paradox he's not willing to explain. It was just a matter of deriving finances, costs, employee payment, event planning, all of it into a bunch of numbers and figures. It was essentially that, minus the dollar sign and a few weird formulas. If anyone knew formulas best, it was probably Hayden. As long as he wasn't tasked with making them a profit or advertising and marketing, then Caelbury would be in good hands—they had people for those things. Mostly press because someone had to keep reputation up.
Then there was the social climbing. Hayden dreaded high class affairs, but he was tasked with keeping up appearances with future 'investors'. In other words, the parents. Who else but the eldest Hawthorne child? The Hawthornes ran most of the energy that supplied the United States, which meant that he, regardless of what he did, would be among the top tier men of the world. That unnerved Hayden the most; he disliked anything concerning highfalutin, sanctimonious, hypocritical bigots. Not only that, but his mother had pretty much a domain of her own in the high fashion business. People compared her to the likes of Calvin Klein, Louis Vuitton, Guccio Gucci, the Pradas, and so many more. She supplied the wealthiest of the wealthy with designer clothing, designer accessories, designer anything. And that entitled more people with his time. It was the reason Hayden had a deep love for designer wear suits. He'd throw on jeans and a regular t-shirt, but when it came to three piece, bespoke men's suit wear, he was the pickiest shopper ever and very vigilante when it came to maintaining them.
"Your order sir."
Hayden's head snapped up and he reached for what looked to be his coffee, only reassured by the weird stare and nod from the barista. She'd given him two—wait, did he order two? Setting one down, Hayden reached in his pocket for the receipt. Huh, guess he did. With a shake of his head, he exited the building and made his trek back to the school where he'd have to traverse the campus into the assembly hall. Looking down at his watch, it seemed he had plenty of time for that. He just had to figure out why he had ordered two coffees. Guess someone would have to just appreciate his love for peppermint.
It takes courage to hide behind a smile.
Being true to yourself is being true to others.How one spends mornings proves to show a lot about a person.
In particular, Saul spent his mornings doing routine things, but most of all he spent it smiling; he made a tiny pact with himself to find one thing to laugh at every morning and to laugh his ass off. Something positive to start the day, so that the rest fell into place.
He stared at the bathroom mirror, eyes traveling the length of what he could see. They stopped at his chest, in particular the scars that lie on his heart. His fingers trailed over them, a small hum emitting from his lips. If he didn't like what he saw in that mirror he'd change it until something popped and he was satisfied, smiling even. These, however, could not be changed; he learned to live with them. But every morning, regardless of his mood, he come in, shower, and the proceed to scowl at the blemishes on his chest and neck. Afterwards, he'd fix himself up, make sure he was presentable, and smile as bright as he could. And then he'd leave.
But not after piling as much food in the bird cage as he could. This is where he got his laugh today, staring at the parakeets perched on their beam. They stared back, not necessarily paying attention to where they were inching and smacked right into each other. One fell in shock, though grasped onto the beam before it could collide with the steel floor of the cage and proceeded to chirp angrily at the man watching. Saul cracked a smile and let out chuckle that grew into a soft, breathy laugh. Tapping the cage, Saul made a light wave before exiting the house with a backpack slung around his arm. It was a necessity and he hated briefcases.
After a quiet morning drive, Saul pulled into the teacher's parking lot and made his way to the assembly building to help moderate before classes started. He had a homeroom afterwards, but it wasn't piled to the brim with kids, so it was a quiet way to start the morning. And, as usual, the assembly was a snooze fest, though he made sure to keep the rowdier bunch in line, sneaking a glare at Connor as he made faces at Alena. Connor plus inside voice didn't work as intended. It wasn't a big deal, so he didn't make it one, especially since he couldn't blame the kid 'cause when the assembly was done and gone, he made a beeline for his classroom after a pit stop at the lounge to grab a snack and a water. Really, honestly, he didn't have quite enough to do that day, but he did it with as much panache and blunt force as he could. Though, he did sneak a peak in Flynn's room, seeing the statue of a man reading today's newspaper. Flynn gave him the blankest stare as Saul waved and smiled. At least Oedipus acknowledged him with a pleasant mewl, though only because he gave the little guy a treat, to which Flynn sighed deeply and turned back to his comic strips.
And then he snuggled into his desk situated int he corner of his classroom, smiling as he greeted the students that funneled in with a yogurt smeared lips.
A personality like his is neither contagious nor pleasant.
He was a porcupine with extra prickly needles and a nose longer than you could believe.
Boy, did he love to wiggle in between a crowd of peers and smile the brightest smile you'd ever seen...
As if he hadn't just impaled everyone with pikes out to here and an incessant need for love.
The softest melody goes unheard; it can only be felt.A soft murmur.
A groan from a violin taught against the neck of a musician, still, yet fluidly churning out notes that fluttered in the morning air. The bow caressed the strings, vibrated them in such a manner that the gentleness swelled inside one's heart and grew with every passing note and ever stroke of the bow. This was how to start a morning, bright sunrise filtering in through an open window, shining a hazy glow through the tree in front of the complex, filtering in through dust particles that spotted the air. And the softest tune that lulled those who could hear out of their sleep just enough for them to appreciate the softness. It was how one responded to the birds chirping out their window; it was an inexplicable need to listen, but had the effect on a narcotic. He could barely keep his eyes open, but he stood in the sunlight for a reason: the effect was nice, should he ever be filmed, which is unlikely, but the sentiment was a good touch, and the sun's warmth and blinding light forced him awake.
From bed to violin, to the showers, to dressing, to the violin once more. The only thing his mothers would approve of being addicted to and it became custom to those who could hear it. So much so that the roommates situated next door his freshman year stalked him every year to make sure they had the room right next to where he slept. It would have been creepy, had they not been good enough eye candy to allow such a thing. Sure, that was his dick talking, but if they're attractive and they can't stop following you, then why the hell should you deny such wanton pieces of sexuality waiting to happen? Even if they were gay, he'd not have the pleasure of acting on his libido due to his incessant need to stay reclusive. But all be damned if he can't have one nice thought while attending the fucking academy for the richest and wealthiest, who all had wonderful taste in fashion and all looked as if they came straight from the hottest porno—uh, Abercrombie and Fich catalog.
Silas pinched the bridge of his nose and scowled before putting everything back in place. The music from the kitchen drowned out whatever noise he was attempting to make and replacing it with something obtrusive and offensive. Maybe not offensive, but certainly obtrusive. Silas made for the door, sighed and poked his head out in attempt to either stop the source or just find out where it was coming from. Of course his roommate, and of course this was to be expected every day. At least he'd enough time to between then to make use of. Connor was aggravating, but not in the way one would expect at first glance. No, dealing with Connor was a lot more complex, especially when the guy fancied running around half-naked just asking to be—the libido of a teenager was a bitch. There were always things to remind him that it just wasn't worth pursuing.
After waiting for the click of the door slamming shut, Silas made way to the kitchen to clean up the small mess, though Connor was adapt at handling himself, oddly enough. At least he wasn't the pig he thought he was. Not that he... Silas isn't an asshole, but with Connor, what would one expect? Honestly. A sigh broke from his lips as he grabbed a juice box from the fridge and made way for the assembly.
He looked nice, in his perspective, and that was really all that mattered, especially since he wasn't keen on socializing. Which made the assembly that much longer. Sure, he was a goody-goody and did as best he could in class, but some things melted his insides to a blase mush of boredom and discomfort. The expression currently stuck on his face, a deep scowl with a frown and furrowed brows to top it off, did well to keep those around him focused on anything but the stink eye he was giving to the lighting fixtures overhead. But, when it was over, his whole body just slumped over and the expression lifted, though he left as fast as humanly possible when trafficking through a few hundred or thousand or so kids.
The schedule in his hand had called for homeroom first, as usual, and so he was as curt as possible with his movements, ending up just behind a few juniors who entered Mr. Zimmerman's class early. The teacher himself was seated atop his desk with Oedipus meandering through the back row of seats; his eye was fixed on the cat who gave nonchalant glances back. The feline was testing him, seeing what it could do by gauging Flynn's current expression, however subtle it was. Whenever Oedipus' claws stretched forward, the oak desk under it groaning in protest, Flynn would get the smallest twitch in his eyebrow and his gaze would harden. The man leaned forward only slightly, but enough that it caught the eye. And then everything would fall back when Oedipus mewed, retracted his threat, and disappeared under the row to venture further through the room.
"Morning," he nodded.
Connor had just accosted the teacher, to which Flynn replied, "Oedipus—morning—is above petty murder. Genocide, though, is probably a top priority on his list. If he doesn't first deem you worthy for slave labor."
That Silas allowed for the smallest grin as he took his seat in the second row, backpack propped against the end underneath.
Lifting from his perch, Flynn announced, "If only I could teach you all, but that's not in the paycheck. This is homeroom: you use this time to study and work on assignments, not chat over a reasonable level and certainly not to browse Facebook or Twitter commenting about Becky and her plebeian stepmother on your latest beta iPhone 10 or something else equally ridiculous. I'm to give you your rundown of today, which I will once everyone is seated and ready."
Flynn paused in his speech, doing a full three-sixty turn with a few pauses to collect his thoughts. He lifted a finger before continuing, squinting his eyes as he looked at particular students currently in the room, "If I catch you feeding my cat treats—ah, I'll leave that to the imagination. Fear is a tool of the mind."
Every second counts.
Every tune.
Every melody.
Every note gone sharp or flat.
Every mistake
And every perfect lilt in the moment of a chorus; a mistake turned right in the heat of it all.