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Realistic or Modern — 𝑳𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑾𝑬 𝑫𝑰𝑬
- Thread starter the lotus eater
- Start date
timshel
𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙨𝙩
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[div class=tag]location the Belmont estate (the Hamptons, NY).
[div class=tag]tags
the lotus eater
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[div class=tag]mood
trying to subdue all this nervous energy.
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the lotus eater
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orey reinhardt
Summer waited for him at the end of that two hour long drive; something about the slow crawl out of the urban jungle before breaking free of it to get to the beaches and sand dunes stretched on for much longer than it actually was. The young man gazed blankly out of the rear window of the car as his parents waited patiently in traffic, not saying a word to each other. All one could hear in that car was the occasional sigh over the barely-there music leaking from Orey’s headphones breaking through the tense silence between his parents up front.
Moving out of the Columbia dorm had gone as easily and painlessly as it always did. It tended to when it involved no manual labor on his part; Orey simply stood sentry at his door, giving orders and instructions to movers who diligently packed his things away into boxes, save the things he’d take to the summer home. There was an understanding between the young socialite and the laborers—if they did excellent work, each of them may be tipped the same amount he owed them for their work. Not that Orey was a saint, or that he did it to look better, but he was certainly different from the rest of the boys that crowded his hallway, too loud and too obnoxious for him to ever seek out on his own. And they were good people.
His parents met him at the curb in the G Wagon. No hugs or handshakes were exchanged between him or either of his parents; they lived in the city, so they all saw each other often, and he simply did not have that kind of relationship with his father. In fact, his father was upset that the movers took as long as they did when he expressed to Orey that they had dinner plans at seven o’clock precisely, and it was already almost five thirty (his son didn’t tell him that he spent some time asking the movers, the same ones he hired every year, about their families). They didn’t want to be late for the rest of the families they always met up with in the Hamptons. They would look like idiots, and this was not the moment to choke.
That was the other thing that made Orey so breathlessly excited for their stay. It was something he didn’t quite acknowledge until he left the house, away from the oppressive silence from his father and his mother, desperately hanging on his every word for some companionship—his attraction to men. College hadn’t proved to be quite as exploratory as he wanted it to, as the young man found himself more drawn to his studies and his societies then finally getting over himself and setting his Tinder preferences to both men and women. The antidepressants that killed his sex drive didn’t help the situation, either, and part of him feared the possibility of putting himself out there only to make a fool of himself when it was time to perform.
But Orey was convinced he was beginning to turn a corner with it, and after a series of long, nearly pleading discussions with his therapist and psychiatrist, they decided as a team to lower his dose. It was strange—he definitely noticed the difference, and he enjoyed living more on his own accord. Maybe he could finally act the way he wanted to around Clementine. Maybe, just maybe, they could talk about all the moments they’d had together as boys, sneaking off to poke around in the tide pools and staying up late looking at the stars. Something was there. It had to be. Why else did their gazes linger on each other for just a moment too long? Their brief moments of physical contact leave him turning over in his mind hours, even weeks later?
Maybe I’m just reading into this way too much. He frowned at his faint reflection in the window. No, don’t even start going there. The cheerful melancholy of Crosby, Stills, and Nash droning on in his ears at just the wrong moment encouraged the worst thoughts out of him for the moment, though.
They ended up making it home just in time, about thirty minutes early: each one of them had time to freshen up and change before making their way to the Belmont home (housekeepers had gotten there before them to dust off the place and make it presentable). Orey usually wasn’t this nervous about what he wore (was he trying too hard, or not hard enough to impress him?) but finally settled on a thin sweater, a pair of linen shorts, and boaters—beach casual. When he met back up with his parents in the living room, they’d thankfully chosen similar enough outfits to make it look like a planned affair. Maybe they just all thought the same. Maybe they all knew how to play the look rich game at this point.
Orey could practically hear his heartbeat in his ears during the short drive just a mile or two away to the other sprawling oceanside property. He hadn’t forgotten his backpack, either, a beautiful leather and canvas piece he’d had specially made for him. The young man wouldn’t admit it even in the privacy of his own thoughts, but he’d been preparing for his reunion with Clem for some time. His little go bag contained an expensive bottle of champagne, an eighth of marijuana and a new (classy) pipe, and some dried mushrooms, sealed in a Ziploc bag. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was into; they were awful at maintaining communication during the school year. But might as well be prepared for anything, right? The Clem he knew never turned much of anything down, and he had always been the bolder of the two.
But God, he just wanted things to change between them this summer. Despite that pessimism that always lingered, part of him dared to be hopeful.
After greeting Clementine’s mother and father with a polite smile, firm handshake, and uncomfortable but brief hug, his expression immediately turned from hospitable to searching, perhaps a tad desperate—all out of his usually composed and dignified character. Their home, like his own, was way too big to go seeking him out on his own, so he didn't even consider that as an option.
Orey gently approached his mother once his father had taken his parents down the hallway. “Excuse me, Ms. Belmont—where’s Clem?” Please tell me he’s coming for the summer. Don’t say he took a job or couldn’t make it, I couldn’t bear it. I know it's selfish, but just let me have this. He didn't know who he was asking, really.
Moving out of the Columbia dorm had gone as easily and painlessly as it always did. It tended to when it involved no manual labor on his part; Orey simply stood sentry at his door, giving orders and instructions to movers who diligently packed his things away into boxes, save the things he’d take to the summer home. There was an understanding between the young socialite and the laborers—if they did excellent work, each of them may be tipped the same amount he owed them for their work. Not that Orey was a saint, or that he did it to look better, but he was certainly different from the rest of the boys that crowded his hallway, too loud and too obnoxious for him to ever seek out on his own. And they were good people.
His parents met him at the curb in the G Wagon. No hugs or handshakes were exchanged between him or either of his parents; they lived in the city, so they all saw each other often, and he simply did not have that kind of relationship with his father. In fact, his father was upset that the movers took as long as they did when he expressed to Orey that they had dinner plans at seven o’clock precisely, and it was already almost five thirty (his son didn’t tell him that he spent some time asking the movers, the same ones he hired every year, about their families). They didn’t want to be late for the rest of the families they always met up with in the Hamptons. They would look like idiots, and this was not the moment to choke.
That was the other thing that made Orey so breathlessly excited for their stay. It was something he didn’t quite acknowledge until he left the house, away from the oppressive silence from his father and his mother, desperately hanging on his every word for some companionship—his attraction to men. College hadn’t proved to be quite as exploratory as he wanted it to, as the young man found himself more drawn to his studies and his societies then finally getting over himself and setting his Tinder preferences to both men and women. The antidepressants that killed his sex drive didn’t help the situation, either, and part of him feared the possibility of putting himself out there only to make a fool of himself when it was time to perform.
But Orey was convinced he was beginning to turn a corner with it, and after a series of long, nearly pleading discussions with his therapist and psychiatrist, they decided as a team to lower his dose. It was strange—he definitely noticed the difference, and he enjoyed living more on his own accord. Maybe he could finally act the way he wanted to around Clementine. Maybe, just maybe, they could talk about all the moments they’d had together as boys, sneaking off to poke around in the tide pools and staying up late looking at the stars. Something was there. It had to be. Why else did their gazes linger on each other for just a moment too long? Their brief moments of physical contact leave him turning over in his mind hours, even weeks later?
Maybe I’m just reading into this way too much. He frowned at his faint reflection in the window. No, don’t even start going there. The cheerful melancholy of Crosby, Stills, and Nash droning on in his ears at just the wrong moment encouraged the worst thoughts out of him for the moment, though.
—
They ended up making it home just in time, about thirty minutes early: each one of them had time to freshen up and change before making their way to the Belmont home (housekeepers had gotten there before them to dust off the place and make it presentable). Orey usually wasn’t this nervous about what he wore (was he trying too hard, or not hard enough to impress him?) but finally settled on a thin sweater, a pair of linen shorts, and boaters—beach casual. When he met back up with his parents in the living room, they’d thankfully chosen similar enough outfits to make it look like a planned affair. Maybe they just all thought the same. Maybe they all knew how to play the look rich game at this point.
Orey could practically hear his heartbeat in his ears during the short drive just a mile or two away to the other sprawling oceanside property. He hadn’t forgotten his backpack, either, a beautiful leather and canvas piece he’d had specially made for him. The young man wouldn’t admit it even in the privacy of his own thoughts, but he’d been preparing for his reunion with Clem for some time. His little go bag contained an expensive bottle of champagne, an eighth of marijuana and a new (classy) pipe, and some dried mushrooms, sealed in a Ziploc bag. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was into; they were awful at maintaining communication during the school year. But might as well be prepared for anything, right? The Clem he knew never turned much of anything down, and he had always been the bolder of the two.
But God, he just wanted things to change between them this summer. Despite that pessimism that always lingered, part of him dared to be hopeful.
After greeting Clementine’s mother and father with a polite smile, firm handshake, and uncomfortable but brief hug, his expression immediately turned from hospitable to searching, perhaps a tad desperate—all out of his usually composed and dignified character. Their home, like his own, was way too big to go seeking him out on his own, so he didn't even consider that as an option.
Orey gently approached his mother once his father had taken his parents down the hallway. “Excuse me, Ms. Belmont—where’s Clem?” Please tell me he’s coming for the summer. Don’t say he took a job or couldn’t make it, I couldn’t bear it. I know it's selfish, but just let me have this. He didn't know who he was asking, really.
coded by luna.
the lotus eater
a plume of crimson smoke
All he saw from the backseat of his dad’s motor, was the lacklustre ghost of his past life, and the promise of something more on the other side. Something was in the air, he felt it. This year was going to be different. Perhaps he’d never see those pearl white gates that shone so vastly behind him again. Perhaps that was a good thing. Life had a way of shoving him around to different places and people, but where he was going now, was far away from his old life, and north to his new horizons. Clem never stayed in one place for too long anyway. He got agitated. A seeker of the world, a born explorer is what his dad had always deemed him — but that was just a kinder way of saying impulsive. Whatever word he used, he would be right. Clem was impulsive, reckless, but only involving himself. Bringing other people into his messes was something he tried hard to defer.
Summer at the second home was usually a humdinger. Sex, drugs, girls, and on even more risqué nights, boys. Not that his parents knew. Even if they did, it would be hypocritical of them to judge. In his younger years he was always akin to the idea that eating snow would make you happy — mostly because he saw his parents sliding it up their noses during these extravagant events and unexplainable loosening their aggravation with him. It was only later years he started to question where they were getting it from. It never snowed in The Hamptons, and especially not in the midst of June.
When the usual pleasantries that began the parties had ceased, was when the two groups, split by only age, sifted into their separate sides of the house. Adolescents, snorting Tokyo from the confines of the bedrooms; Adults, snorting Snow from expanse on the whole ground floor. Though neither side alluded to the other. If somebody let it slip, it would be followed by an awkward smile, or giggle, and they would rush to part.
Clementine loved the boujee lifestyle, he’d never known anything else. But he loved his poverty stricken friends nonetheless. He even invited some of them along every year, around five or so living in the house here and there until they all left. To them it was a holiday, for Clem, it was the least he could do. He was a generous boy, and an all loving boy. Perhaps one day the generosity would be the death of him.
He’d been in his room, sorting clothes neatly into their allocated drawers. His friends had arrived abruptly after him, yet they had already departed to their own rooms. He wouldn’t see them until later that night, when he would be talking to the exaggerated versions of themselves — drunk on euphoria and high on the riches they could never dream of owning.
Clem was in the middle of a book, the soft gums of his record player fizzling in the distance. His windows were open and the light summer breeze wafted through, though not enough of a force to call it a draft. He didn’t like music with words, not while he was reading. The collection was from the charleston era. The quick tempo of trumpets and sax. Nobody would be able to read with that racket going on, but Clem found the intrusive sounds comforting, as if it matched the whirlwind of shouting thoughts in his head — making them seem normal.
He heard his father and without changing his expression, memorised the page number in his copy of The Secret History, and placed it, in the exact right place on the nightstand.
When he arrived downstairs, he was in a world of his own, eyes to the floor and he moved, still moving his body to the remnants of jazz he could hear echoing from upstairs. “Clementine.”
His face snapped up and was met with a familiar face of a stranger. “Christ, old boy, it’s been a lifetime.” He said, a grin spread harsh across his face as he accelerated his pace and went in for a hug, hand resting in his back. He then patted it, before pulling away. “How’ve you been?” Was all he could muster up.
timshel
Summer at the second home was usually a humdinger. Sex, drugs, girls, and on even more risqué nights, boys. Not that his parents knew. Even if they did, it would be hypocritical of them to judge. In his younger years he was always akin to the idea that eating snow would make you happy — mostly because he saw his parents sliding it up their noses during these extravagant events and unexplainable loosening their aggravation with him. It was only later years he started to question where they were getting it from. It never snowed in The Hamptons, and especially not in the midst of June.
When the usual pleasantries that began the parties had ceased, was when the two groups, split by only age, sifted into their separate sides of the house. Adolescents, snorting Tokyo from the confines of the bedrooms; Adults, snorting Snow from expanse on the whole ground floor. Though neither side alluded to the other. If somebody let it slip, it would be followed by an awkward smile, or giggle, and they would rush to part.
Clementine loved the boujee lifestyle, he’d never known anything else. But he loved his poverty stricken friends nonetheless. He even invited some of them along every year, around five or so living in the house here and there until they all left. To them it was a holiday, for Clem, it was the least he could do. He was a generous boy, and an all loving boy. Perhaps one day the generosity would be the death of him.
He’d been in his room, sorting clothes neatly into their allocated drawers. His friends had arrived abruptly after him, yet they had already departed to their own rooms. He wouldn’t see them until later that night, when he would be talking to the exaggerated versions of themselves — drunk on euphoria and high on the riches they could never dream of owning.
Clem was in the middle of a book, the soft gums of his record player fizzling in the distance. His windows were open and the light summer breeze wafted through, though not enough of a force to call it a draft. He didn’t like music with words, not while he was reading. The collection was from the charleston era. The quick tempo of trumpets and sax. Nobody would be able to read with that racket going on, but Clem found the intrusive sounds comforting, as if it matched the whirlwind of shouting thoughts in his head — making them seem normal.
He heard his father and without changing his expression, memorised the page number in his copy of The Secret History, and placed it, in the exact right place on the nightstand.
When he arrived downstairs, he was in a world of his own, eyes to the floor and he moved, still moving his body to the remnants of jazz he could hear echoing from upstairs. “Clementine.”
His face snapped up and was met with a familiar face of a stranger. “Christ, old boy, it’s been a lifetime.” He said, a grin spread harsh across his face as he accelerated his pace and went in for a hug, hand resting in his back. He then patted it, before pulling away. “How’ve you been?” Was all he could muster up.
timshel
