Realistic or Modern 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 (𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦)

[timshel]

til death.
a one on one roleplay between low fidelity and timshel .
(cecilia montgomery & orey reinhardt, respectively.)

 

[timshel]

[class name=container] margin: auto; height: 250px; width: 400px; [/class] [class name=containercont] height: 240px; width: 390px; [/class] [class name=chapterpic] background:URL(https://i.imgur.com/1a1vFPA.png); float: left; height: 240px; width: 190px; background-size: cover; [/class] [class name=scroll] float: right; height: 240px; width: 190px; overflow: hidden; margin-left: 5px; [/class] [class name=scrollbox] height: 98%; width: 100%; overflow-y: scroll; padding-right: 17px; [/class] [class name=text] font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; [/class] [class name=title] font-size: 18px; text-align: center; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #b7c7d4; [/class] [class name=codetag] font-size: 9px; text-align: center; margin-top: 3px; [/class] [div class="container"][div class="containercont"][div class="chapterpic"][/div] [div class="scroll"][div class="scrollbox"][div class="title”]orey reinhardt.[/div][div class="text”][/div][div class="text”]“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."

Even in the city he spent his entire life in, studying in a place that was practically his back yard, Orey had never felt more lonely than he did his first year of college.

Although he didn’t have the same change of location crisis that many of his classmates had, something about the new environment had an isolating effect on him. It was something his father had briefly mentioned to him during one of their rare conversations about nothing but business: you’re gonna have the best years of your life in college, but you’ll also have the worst. The academic pressure and stress of multiple major assignments due at once, coupled with the social challenges of making friends and maintaining peace in the dorms, made him miserable.

And his best friend wasn’t there to weather the storm with him.

He had done his best to stifle his emotions when Cecilia shared with him that she had gotten into her dream college, Carnegie Mellon. Of course he was happy for her—Orey shared in all of her joys, big and small—but part of him had hoped she would also pick a college in New York City; maybe not Columbia, but NYU, or Fordham, or one of the other dozen world-class choices. But she had to have her distance from her mother, and the young man could understand. That being said, the idea of them spending more than a week or two apart was unfathomable. In those last blissful weeks of summer, he made conscious efforts to fully immerse himself in each moment he had left with her.

They’d made a promise to each other before parting ways for the fall semester to stay in touch, and they’d be damned if they just let their best friend slip away due to a relatively small amount of distance. They were both incredibly diligent in maintaining their communication, and in a way, it was as if nothing changed: the two texted each other constantly throughout the day, sending pointless little Snapchats and sending silly pictures to each other’s Instagrams and Twitters. Orey spoke to Cecilia on the phone more than he spoke to his own parents, which wasn’t saying much, considering his family’s tendency towards coldness.

But of course, it wasn’t perfect all the time—schedules got busy, exams, papers, and dance recitals began to stack one after the other in intimidating, insurmountable challenges. It was then that the text streams slowed down to only a couple brief exchanges during the day, fewer pictures were exchanged, messages were opened and neglected in the midst of more important things to do (but always with the forgotten promise of, “Oh, I’ll get back to him later, I just can’t do it this very second”).

The key difference between the two was in their personalities. Cecilia didn’t need anyone, really. He knew she did at the end of the day, deep down, but she could function just fine, pulling all-nighters in the quieter, removed library stacks, retreating to her room to crack down and study, able to leave her phone alone and shut people out until she was done. Sure, Orey could wear that calm, composed, self-assured and outgoing demeanor, but he did need the occasional break from it all, and there was no better escape than the smug, stubborn humor in his best friend. He secretly wished she would reach out to him more when times were bad.

And then there were the couple of things that he’d received that were certainly not meant for him: the young man would shamefully never forget where he was or what he was doing when he saw his best friend’s naked body for the first time on a Snapchat. Of course he knew who it was, even without her face included—he’d known that frame and silhouette well, having helped her choose outfits for years, but he’d never seen that much of her before. It was horrible as it was intriguing, and as Orey hesitated to click out of that Snapchat for a half second longer, he felt the stirring of something he’d stuffed deep down in his chest a long time ago, intent on ignoring.

It wasn’t like he would ever tell her his private thoughts about, though. When they would finally reconnect and catch up on their stressful weeks, Orey would always, always underplay how it had really gone: what was actually a couple days of unintentional isolation, those strange crying spells that would come out of nowhere, many skipped meals due to spiraling depression and a few close essay deadlines was phrased as a mild inconvenience. Sparing her that was for the best: they both knew from the rare occasion that Cecilia saw one of his nightmares that she wasn’t the best equipped, emotionally, to deal with the aftercare.

And it was fine. He understood it and accepted it for what it was, knowing that getting what part of him had always yearned to have would ruin something precious, and that wasn't worth the risk for him.

He’d slipped up once, unintentionally, but Orey still felt terrible about the position he knew it put her in. One night, during one of his more free weekends, he took a little bit too much ecstasy and found himself though the haze and joy of it all, sobbing as he spoke into his phone. When Cecelia didn’t pick up his initial phone call (a fortunate coincidence), he left her an honest, emotionally raw message in which he detailed how much he valued her as a friend and confidant. He’d be lost without her, but lamented how much he missed seeing her, how little they seemed to talk these days, and how it made him feel. It was all completely uncharacteristic of him, but it was also things he’d been dying to say.

Orey was more than grateful that she only mentioned it lightly in passing, jokingly. Perhaps it hadn’t been as bad for her as he thought it would be. His own memory of it was a bit fuzzy and unreliable, anyway.

But today was one of his first few days of summer vacation, and Cecelia had beat him home by just a week. He’d been looking forward to it for that last dreadfully long month of May, almost to the point where he was beaming inappropriately during move out week. (“I’m sorry—I know we won’t be able to drink together for some time, but you don’t understand, my best friend is back. You know the one. I’ve told you all about her.”)

He climbed into his car, stopped on his way to her home to pick up a tiny greeting bouquet—mostly baby’s breath and those little chic wildflowers, but with a couple of intentionally yellow roses for friendship and new beginnings—before heading to Cecilia’s house, only a stone’s throw from his own. The young man already called, and then double-checked with the restaurant that they had kept their lunch reservation. Of course he stressed that morning about dressing just perfectly for this occasion, settling for a nice outfit that maintained a casual air: a pair of cuffed chinos, his white Chuck Taylors, and a plain long sleeved shirt.

When he arrived, Orey was lucky enough to find a parking spot right away, despite claiming it with a less than grateful attempt at a parallel park. Still though, it didn’t dampen his enthusiasm; he practically bounded out of the Mercedes, stifling a grin as he strode up the steps to her brownstone. He rang the doorbell two or three times in a row, one right after the other, just like he used to as a child, clutching the bouquet behind his back, heart racing.

[/div][/div][/div] [/div][/div] [div class="codetag"]coded by ukiiyo[/div]

 

[low fidelity]

[class=backg] position: relative; width: 350px; height: 360px; border: 1px solid #000000; overflow: hidden; margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto; padding: 0; [/class] [class=topbackg] position: relative; width: 350px; height: 150px; background: url(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/56/38/45/5638456177f6f2cdf51d957160d6f1d4.jpg); background-size: cover; background-position: 85% 15%; [/class] [class=hovertext] width: 100%; height: 130px; font-size: 10px; overflow: hidden; top: 0; left: 0; background-color: #000000; opacity: 0; color: white; z-index: 2; padding: 10px; [/class] [class name=hovertext state=hover] opacity: 1; transition-duration:.6s; [/class] [class=textbox] position: relative; width: 355px; height: 285px; font-size: 10px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 10px; padding: 5px; text-align: justify; overflow: hidden; [/class] [class=textbox_two] width: 100%; padding-right: 130px; height: 200px; overflow-y: scroll; [/class] [class=cecil] position: absolute; left: 250px; top: 100px; right: 8px; overflow: visible; font-family: Times New Roman; font-weight: bold; text-transform: lowercase; font-size: 22px; width: auto; padding: 0px 2px 0px 2px; display: inline-block; background-color: #000; color: #fff; [/class] [div class=backg] [div class=topbackg][div class=cecil].Cecilia.[/div][div class=hovertext] mood ; trying to contain her excitement.
outfit ; a proper lunch date outfit of course.
song ; rest my chemistry - interpol. [/div][/div] [div class=textboxcontainer][div class=textbox][div class=textbox_two]

“This is not a love story, but love is in it.
That is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.”
— Jeanette Winterson, from Lighthousekeeping​

--- Leaving home was one of the hardest things Cecilia has done so far, she reckons.

--- She could still recall the utterly scandalized look on her mother's face when she told her, with no bells or whistles, that she would be majoring in English, and minoring in ballet performance and studies. The argument that ensued was short lived.

--- At the end of the day, what really made her heart ache as she slept in an unfamiliar dorm for the first night of her new college life in Carnegie Mellon, was the fact that home wasn't just a place. Home was a person, with a face and a heart that Cecilia knew like the back of her hand. She wouldn't show it too much, but she missed Orey dearly.

--- Her new mattress was stiff, her bed sheets were scratchy, and the girl spent the first week of living in dorms and attending her first classes in a lower mood than expected. At night, Cecilia tossed and turned and barely got more than five hours of sleep. She knew adjustment wouldn't be easy, and she thought she was adequately prepared to face it. For the first time in her life, Cecilia had the independence and control she so often craved, and she wasn't as sure about what to do with it than she originally was. Her mother wasn't there to scrutinize her every choice. If she wanted to eat pasta for dinner, or sleep in late on a Saturday for once, or spend a bit too much money on new clothes, that was all on her. But, for lack of better words, it felt so weird. It was an odd sensation knowing Cecilia didn't have to specifically perform for anybody anymore. And she couldn't just turn around and find Orey standing next to her, as he often did, and share their complaints and criticisms of day-to-day life. Picking up the phone felt like picking up a brick -- Cecilia knew his adjustment period wouldn't be easy either, and she couldn't stand the idea of adding onto his growing stress with her petty little complaints about the dining hall's choice of food for the day, or the annoying habits of her new roommate. And so, she did what she always does best. Bottle things up inside.

--- It was so odd to her, how lovely and horrible college was as the days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months. She kept track of the time by the due dates of assignments, the times for rehearsals and performances, by the time it was when her long phone calls with Orey would end. The freedom and new experiences and meeting new people was great. Her fellow ballerinas would often exclaim, Wow Cecilia, if only I had your stamina! I could never keep going that long, and she'd hold her head up high. Cecilia had a reason to be proud of her skill. The physical toll on her body was rough, even if the payoff was worth it. Ballet was a brutally disciplined dance, and any day that she took as a break was considered wasted time. She had to be focused to keep her body at peak performance during practices for recitals and performances. But there was a new element to it that the girl hadn't fully explored during her time in high school. Ballet was still meant to be a dance, a movement of her body, an enjoyment and extension of the music. Her dancing had a new found freedom to it, a puppet now cut free from its strings, and that quality was reflecting into her hard work. This was supposed to be a good thing. But, her heart continued aching.

--- Cecilia recalled the moment she sat in her dorm, mottled feet soaking in an ice bath as she had a little self care moment that night. Her irritating roommate was thankfully sleeping over at her boyfriend's place, somewhere off campus. With her gone, Cecilia figured she could do some pampering. The ice bath was heaven for her extremely sore feet, she had a hydrating face mask on, and she even had a chance to touch up her slowly browning hair roots. The girl hadn't realized she missed a call from Orey, phone accidentally on silent, and she blinked at the little notification that popped up. One (1) new voicemail message. Cecilia listened to the voicemail without a second's pause, anticipating something urgent since Orey was the type to simply shoot a couple of text messages if she didn't answer the phone. What she heard, however, was unexpected. As she listened to her best friend spill his innermost thoughts, voice wrecked and so sad, Cecilia felt a lump in her throat and tears prick her eyes. Something near her heart went slack, a once-taut ball of emotions that she'd tucked down her throat and let sit in her chest cavity, with old thoughts and desires beginning to poke out.

--- Cecilia knew Orey quite well, of course she did. And she knew when he said things like this, it was no easy feat. He must've been keeping this in for so long, she thought to herself, wiping away a tear. As the semester went on, their daily messages had been more and more sparse. Cecilia had gotten quite shit at responding to his Snapchats. She knew now she needed to rectify this. I've been a shit friend, haven't I? I promised him we wouldn't get like this.

--- The end of semester came in all at once, it felt like. Despite it, Cecilia did her best to keep a steady stream of communications with him. She even went so far as to send him a very nice large envelope, the paper cream and the stationary much too expensive. Inside, a handwritten letter, addressed to my dearest Orey, in Cecilia's signature thin, slanted cursive, and a DVD of her major ballet performance from the end of the year. It was even sealed with purple wax. Only the best for her closest friend. And before she knew it, summer had arrived, finals were over, and she was back home with her mother and step-father in good ol' New York City. Damn, how she had missed its awful summer stench and chaotic traffic.

--- The week before Orey was set to come home left Cecilia antsy. There was too much free time all of a sudden. Spending all day with her mother was pure hell, and so she got her chauffeur to take her down to shop on Fifth Avenue at least twice, set on a mission. They hadn't seen each other in months, so at the very least, she could get him a nice gift. A gift that said Sorry we didn't get to see each other on our birthdays, and the holidays, and also every day. By the end of the week, tucked in the quaint little gift bag was a cool-toned button up shirt (A color that'll make the green in his eyes pop — and it's name brand, of course), a mini-box of his favorite expensive chocolates, and a knick-knack she brought back from college: a silly fridge magnet depicting Philadelphia's Museum of Art, with Rocky Balboa standing triumphant on it's very steps. She had seen it in the gift shop while visiting the museum on a weekend, and just had to save it for this very moment.

--- Cecilia had sat waiting in her room, leg bouncing anxiously as she peeked out the window of her bedroom. Any moment now, and he'd be there, and things would be right in their little universe again. She didn't have to wait long — he was on time, a small miracle. Cecilia was hurrying down the stairs by the time he rang the doorbell. Before opening the door, the girl smoothed out her skirt, tucked her hair behind her ear (her hair was long enough to sit on now if she wasn't careful, she hadn't trusted any hairstylists in Pennsylvania to cut her hair right), made sure the patterned tissue paper of the gift bag was arranged just right. Satisfied after indulging her nervous habits, Cecilia held her breath and opened the front door.

--- Seeing Orey for the first time in such a long time was like a sigh of relief. So familiar, but a sight she feared she would never tire of. Cecilia couldn't help but grin ear to ear, almost eye-level to him with her heels on, and before Orey could react she moved forward to wrap her arms around him and tuck her head into his shoulder, a long-awaited hug.

--- "God, It's so good to see you, I missed you!" Cecilia said, a bit breathless as she moved back from her bear hug to instead leave a quick kiss on his cheek. Her heart was fluttering so quick in her chest, and the no-good, wrong, bad thought crossed her mind as she pulled away and glanced at his face, eyes, lips. It would be so easy. I shouldn't. Instead, she presented him his gift, still smiling. "I got you a gift! You can open it in the car, I don't want us to be late for our lunch."
[/div][/div][/div][/div]

 

[timshel]

orey reinhardt

mood simultaneously overjoyed and terrified.

location making his way to Brooklyn, NYC.

tag low fidelity

outfit chinos, Chucks, and a long sleeve.

song Goth Babe, Surf Curse.

“You haven’t ever been—head over heels for someone, have you?”

Questions like this from Eustacia weren’t exactly uncommon; even though the suspiciously-young looking woman was his mother, Orey considered her his more fun, spontaneous counterpart. He’d taken much more after his father in his personality and mannerisms, which was hilarious considering how absent he was—and the concept that he’d one day become as stoic and cold as that man terrified him to no end when he found himself snapping at friends or withdrawing altogether.

But he had always been incredibly close to his mother. Stacia decided from the very start that this only son of hers was the apple of her eye, her pride and joy, and the New York socialite scene had so much to show him. When Orey started getting older, his intellect always miles ahead of his age, she firmly established herself as the friend kind of mother. There was little formality or discipline in their relationship, since he’d always proven himself well-behaved and trustworthy, and she loved hearing about the minute details in his life.

He’d only identified why his mother seemed so invested and curious about everything happening: this was quite literally all she had to look forward to. Stacia didn’t work, didn’t have many friends of her own—despite the tremendous weight of her husband’s name and the promise of her son, certain habits of hers scared off the more vanilla housewives, and rumors spread like wildfire in that crowd—and her marriage was less than fulfilling. So Orey made the conscious effort to stop finding her prying annoying when he was old enough to pity her, and began letting her in more and more.

She surprised him with a much-needed dinner on the Upper East Side after his spring midterms, and they sat at a table for two, chatting loudly over the hushed whispers and live jazz around them. Eustacia asked him that question with a glass of Chardonnay in her hand, eyeing him curiously as it took him by surprise. “Well, have you?” She asked again, raising an eyebrow, expectant.

Orey sipped thoughtfully on his Manhattan (with how much they ordered and how hefty this bill was going to be, waiters turned a blind eye to the obviously underage guest) as he considered it. He finally set the glass down after a moment. “No, of course not. You’d know,” he added, smirking. “I haven’t even been on a date this semester.”

She looked off to her side to the twinkling city lights and traffic below them. “It’s a weird thing,” she began, musing, “You feel… Stupid. Like you see this person and your heart just—!” His mother gestured, waving her glass in the air. “It’s so hard to explain. But being with that person makes you feel so light, and happy, and—and you just can’t stop smiling.”

His mother met his eye, and then chuckled. “I know. It’s really weird.”

Orey sipped his drink again. “I have yet to feel that way,” he told her simply. “I feel like I’d definitely know.”

—​

In the moment that he hesitated to pull Cecilia in closer towards his chest the way he really wanted to, the young man recalled that conversation. The implication of it washed over him like an all-consuming wave, and all of the sudden, he felt very, very strange with this girl in his arms. The feeling wasn’t necessarily good, and although it wasn’t exactly dread, it still carried the same kind of weight and commitment.

His words stayed put in his mouth when he felt her lips on his cheek, and for half a second, Orey was stunned silent. You idiot. She used to do this all the time. Get out of your head. He blinked, grinning at his very best friend. “Hey Cecil,” he crooned, “Missed you too.” The understatement of the fucking year—he had a physical pain in his chest in that moment.

“Oh—yes, absolutely. Let’s get going.” He strode bravely into the street to hop on the driver’s side of the car with the boldness of a true New Yorker, then started the Mercedes. After focusing for just a moment to pull out of his parking spot without scraping anyone else’s bumper, he met her gaze across the console, beaming.

“Of course you got me something,” was his first complaint. “You’re always outdoing me. This isn’t a competition, you know—you don’t have to one-up me every time we see each other.” Orey’s voice was light, playful as he pulled up to one of those endless red lights. “I just wish you’d told me so I could have also brought you a gift." He huffed. "But it's fine, I suppose. You have your flowers."

He glanced down at the city map on the car’s digital display, taking mental notes of where he was going and where he ought to turn. “Hope you’re in the mood for Italian, by the way,” the young man added. “Something told me that a place like, erm, Pittsburg didn’t exactly have the same culinary landscape as here. You always loved Faro.”

“Oh—and the AUX is yours, by the way.” Orey handed her an iPhone charging cable out from the center divider with an easy grin. "It'll probably be ten, maybe fifteen minutes 'til we're there."

coded by weldherwings