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origfic_bingoContent Notes: Nothing to fear, just two people and an iguana.
Prompt:
“So I got an iguana.”
October looks up from tuning the guitar he doesn't actually know how to play. “You did what?”
Monday leans forward, crossing her arms. “I bought an iguana. He's green.”.
October snorts. “What color did you think he was going to be?”
Monday shrugs. "Stop laughing, I'm trying to fucking share with you.”
Setting down the guitar, October takes in a deep breath. “All right, Monday, I'm listening. Tell me about your green iguana. What is it's name?”
“His,” she corrects. “It's a boy, and his name is Atticus.”
October stares at her. “What?”
“Atticus.”
“And I can't laugh at you, right?”
“No.” She gives him a swipe across the arm. “It's not funny. I wanted a pet, I was getting lonely, so no, you can't fucking make fun of me just because I have needs.”
He clears his throat and picks up the guitar again. “Well then, if I can't laugh at you, I suppose the only thing to do is wish you and your new pet the very best.”
“That's all I wanted.”
Content Notes: Two people and an attempt to dance
Prompt:
March knows she's being watched, can feel the eyes on her, but she doesn't mind. She dances anyway, lets her body move to the music as easily as anything.
Dancing, like most things, comes naturally to her.
Her brother, though, he's a different story. She's not sure if anything comes naturally to him besides longing.
February can't take his eyes off of her and March blows him a kiss as she passes. He makes a gesture like he's catching it and that makes her smile.
That comes naturally to him too, the ability to make her happy.
She dances around the room again and this time, when she comes to him, she pulls him out of his chair.
“What are you doing?” he says, voice almost nervous. It makes her laugh.
“Dance with me,” she says.
“I can't dance.”
“You've never tried.” She leans in to kiss him on the cheek. “You don't know if you can dance.”
“You're a better dancer than I am.” He clearly doesn't want to be on his feet, but she holds on to his wrists.
“One dance, Feb, then you're free.”
"Do you promise?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
He gives her a look. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Dance, February.”
“What if I don't want to?”
That made her laugh. “I know you.”
“And?”
“Dance.”
He sighs, frustration giving way to a smile. “Fine.”
March beams and pulls him in as the next song starts on the radio.
Content Notes: Two slightly non functional girls and their wishes.
Prompt:
Friday is on a mattress, her limbs sprawled out and she's pretending she's flying. Her body is a leaf soaring through the air, dancing with the wind.
Saturday is upside down on the couch, watching her, waiting for her to take flight.
But Friday never flies and Saturday feels her heart break.
If she could have anything, anything at all, it would be wind rushing by them as they take to the sky.
When she cries she's not like September, the tears don't leave her shaking. She's quiet when she cries and the tears don't stain her cheeks but her forehead.
Friday sees, she sees it all but doesn't say anything. What is there to say? They'll never fly, the world won't allow it.
But she rolls onto her stomach and kisses Saturday gently on the mouth.
It doesn't make anything better, Friday's kisses don't have that power, but when they close their eyes and Saturday returns the kiss, it's almost like they're soaring.
Content Notes: Three dysfunctional girls instead of two.
Prompt:
September doesn't remember what it's like not to cry. She doesn’t remember what it's like to have an easy sleep. She doesn't remember how to smile right.
Saturday kisses her and tells her she's beautiful, but Saturday is kissing everyone and telling them they're beautiful because it's easier than telling them what she really sees.
Friday is curled up, her knees pressed against her eyes as she rocks back and forth. She doesn't remember how to stay still unless Saturday is curled around her.
The three of them don't know what else to do anymore. They don't have the capacity to go out in the world and explore it for answers, because the world doesn't like people like them. They're too broken for the public eye.
Instead they stay together, all of them in their shattered states, and wait for the answers to find them and, if they don't, for their siblings.
Content notes: Remember the two dysfunctional girls? They're back
Prompt:
They dance in hailstorms together.
Friday twirls Saturday and she giggles. Saturday kisses her on the cheek and Friday is nearly crying with joy.
The hail falls heavy all around them and the others try and get them to come inside but they don't listen.
“It's rain,” they chant in unison and dart out further, holding each other's hand tightly.
The hail has given Friday a fat lip and Saturday sore spots on the back of her head. There will be bruises later, blooming across their bodies like some kind of ink blot art. Friday will trace the patterns she can see in them and Saturday will kiss each one.
They'll make memories together, make something beautiful out of what hurts them. They know how to do it, they taught each other well.
Content Notes: Two people and a lake.
Prompt:
He looks at the water and thinks about how cool it would be. The sun is out and making him sweat. The water looks lovely and cold but he doesn't jump in.
There are things in the water, all sorts of creatures that he can't get out of his head. Maybe if he closed his eyes and pretended that he was in a pool and not a lake, but he knows it wouldn't work. Even so, there's a part of him that wants to do it, wants to cast aside all of his phobias and jump in.
March runs past him, her smile bright and excited as she leaps into the water.
He sighs and turns his back on the scene, not wanting to see how much she enjoys it. He wants to tell her of his fears, of all the things that live in the lake, of all the things that can happen to her, but he doesn't want to ruin her fun so he bites his tongue instead.
Content Notes: And we finish with the dysfunctional girls again.
Prompt:
Saturday closes her eyes and remembers.
She remembers sunshine and rain, remembers the sound of a cat purring. She remembers what it's like to laugh and how when you don't eat ice cream, it starts to bleed. She remembers the sound of sadness and what it's like to feel that way.
She remembers everything.
When Friday closes her eyes, she doesn't remember a thing.
She doesn't remember that she's not alone and she doesn’t remember that Saturday is with her. She doesn't remember that people take care of them, doesn't remember that she's been outside before. She doesn't remember the stories they tell themselves and she doesn’t remember the sound of music. She doesn't remember that there's a world behind her eyelids.
Saturday cries because she can't forget the life that waits for her when she's better. It's just that she's just not sure if there was ever a time that she was better to begin with. Friday cries because she thinks this is all there is.
They hold each other, reminding one another that at least there's something to cling to.
Prompt:
“So I got an iguana.”
October looks up from tuning the guitar he doesn't actually know how to play. “You did what?”
Monday leans forward, crossing her arms. “I bought an iguana. He's green.”.
October snorts. “What color did you think he was going to be?”
Monday shrugs. "Stop laughing, I'm trying to fucking share with you.”
Setting down the guitar, October takes in a deep breath. “All right, Monday, I'm listening. Tell me about your green iguana. What is it's name?”
“His,” she corrects. “It's a boy, and his name is Atticus.”
October stares at her. “What?”
“Atticus.”
“And I can't laugh at you, right?”
“No.” She gives him a swipe across the arm. “It's not funny. I wanted a pet, I was getting lonely, so no, you can't fucking make fun of me just because I have needs.”
He clears his throat and picks up the guitar again. “Well then, if I can't laugh at you, I suppose the only thing to do is wish you and your new pet the very best.”
“That's all I wanted.”
Content Notes: Two people and an attempt to dance
Prompt:
March knows she's being watched, can feel the eyes on her, but she doesn't mind. She dances anyway, lets her body move to the music as easily as anything.
Dancing, like most things, comes naturally to her.
Her brother, though, he's a different story. She's not sure if anything comes naturally to him besides longing.
February can't take his eyes off of her and March blows him a kiss as she passes. He makes a gesture like he's catching it and that makes her smile.
That comes naturally to him too, the ability to make her happy.
She dances around the room again and this time, when she comes to him, she pulls him out of his chair.
“What are you doing?” he says, voice almost nervous. It makes her laugh.
“Dance with me,” she says.
“I can't dance.”
“You've never tried.” She leans in to kiss him on the cheek. “You don't know if you can dance.”
“You're a better dancer than I am.” He clearly doesn't want to be on his feet, but she holds on to his wrists.
“One dance, Feb, then you're free.”
"Do you promise?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
He gives her a look. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Dance, February.”
“What if I don't want to?”
That made her laugh. “I know you.”
“And?”
“Dance.”
He sighs, frustration giving way to a smile. “Fine.”
March beams and pulls him in as the next song starts on the radio.
Content Notes: Two slightly non functional girls and their wishes.
Prompt:
Friday is on a mattress, her limbs sprawled out and she's pretending she's flying. Her body is a leaf soaring through the air, dancing with the wind.
Saturday is upside down on the couch, watching her, waiting for her to take flight.
But Friday never flies and Saturday feels her heart break.
If she could have anything, anything at all, it would be wind rushing by them as they take to the sky.
When she cries she's not like September, the tears don't leave her shaking. She's quiet when she cries and the tears don't stain her cheeks but her forehead.
Friday sees, she sees it all but doesn't say anything. What is there to say? They'll never fly, the world won't allow it.
But she rolls onto her stomach and kisses Saturday gently on the mouth.
It doesn't make anything better, Friday's kisses don't have that power, but when they close their eyes and Saturday returns the kiss, it's almost like they're soaring.
Content Notes: Three dysfunctional girls instead of two.
Prompt:
September doesn't remember what it's like not to cry. She doesn’t remember what it's like to have an easy sleep. She doesn't remember how to smile right.
Saturday kisses her and tells her she's beautiful, but Saturday is kissing everyone and telling them they're beautiful because it's easier than telling them what she really sees.
Friday is curled up, her knees pressed against her eyes as she rocks back and forth. She doesn't remember how to stay still unless Saturday is curled around her.
The three of them don't know what else to do anymore. They don't have the capacity to go out in the world and explore it for answers, because the world doesn't like people like them. They're too broken for the public eye.
Instead they stay together, all of them in their shattered states, and wait for the answers to find them and, if they don't, for their siblings.
Content notes: Remember the two dysfunctional girls? They're back
Prompt:
They dance in hailstorms together.
Friday twirls Saturday and she giggles. Saturday kisses her on the cheek and Friday is nearly crying with joy.
The hail falls heavy all around them and the others try and get them to come inside but they don't listen.
“It's rain,” they chant in unison and dart out further, holding each other's hand tightly.
The hail has given Friday a fat lip and Saturday sore spots on the back of her head. There will be bruises later, blooming across their bodies like some kind of ink blot art. Friday will trace the patterns she can see in them and Saturday will kiss each one.
They'll make memories together, make something beautiful out of what hurts them. They know how to do it, they taught each other well.
Content Notes: Two people and a lake.
Prompt:
He looks at the water and thinks about how cool it would be. The sun is out and making him sweat. The water looks lovely and cold but he doesn't jump in.
There are things in the water, all sorts of creatures that he can't get out of his head. Maybe if he closed his eyes and pretended that he was in a pool and not a lake, but he knows it wouldn't work. Even so, there's a part of him that wants to do it, wants to cast aside all of his phobias and jump in.
March runs past him, her smile bright and excited as she leaps into the water.
He sighs and turns his back on the scene, not wanting to see how much she enjoys it. He wants to tell her of his fears, of all the things that live in the lake, of all the things that can happen to her, but he doesn't want to ruin her fun so he bites his tongue instead.
Content Notes: And we finish with the dysfunctional girls again.
Prompt:
Saturday closes her eyes and remembers.
She remembers sunshine and rain, remembers the sound of a cat purring. She remembers what it's like to laugh and how when you don't eat ice cream, it starts to bleed. She remembers the sound of sadness and what it's like to feel that way.
She remembers everything.
When Friday closes her eyes, she doesn't remember a thing.
She doesn't remember that she's not alone and she doesn’t remember that Saturday is with her. She doesn't remember that people take care of them, doesn't remember that she's been outside before. She doesn't remember the stories they tell themselves and she doesn’t remember the sound of music. She doesn't remember that there's a world behind her eyelids.
Saturday cries because she can't forget the life that waits for her when she's better. It's just that she's just not sure if there was ever a time that she was better to begin with. Friday cries because she thinks this is all there is.
They hold each other, reminding one another that at least there's something to cling to.
