sweet dreams (are made of this)

[sloppybitch]

It's been bothering Richie since that weirdo took him out, like what the fuck did he have to do with Ian and why the hell was the guy so stilted when he tried to bring it up? He'd asked around but it's no small wonder he received nothing in the ways of intelligence. Fuck this place and its strict bro-codes.

Actually, everyone seemed to think he was pretty damn pleasant. Which only made him angrier.

He falls asleep honestly pretty irritated by the whole thing and it's not until about two days of further reconsideration, after taking on a lot more work to make up for the lost time that he wakes up pleasantly from a dream he never should have-

Holy shit. NO??? That didn't happen it was just a fucking wet dream.
It felt pretty real, but..
He definitely didn't.
He did.
He definitely did.
NO, that fucking happened.

"SHIT. SHIT SHit!!!!"

Richie fixes his glasses back on his face but oh god no he no longer wants clarity, take them away, keep them off.

His roommate asks him why he's tripping and let's just say: FUCK YOU CHERYL!!! carries a lot louder when you live in a commune full of only so many people.

"Can't you see I'm fucking dealing with something? Go somewhere not here!"

Comments

[wittingly]

Which is, of course, perfect timing for Cheryl to open the door just as Ian's raising a hand to knock on it. He'd stopped mid-motion around the time all those fucks started carrying around the commune, and he... well, between right now and their not-so-great trip to CVS he's starting to think he didn't quite have an accurate first impression of Richie.

Turns out the guy's just kind of a dick, apparently. Shame, because he'd been sweet and fun as hell when he was drunk.

Whatever the case, he offers up a sort of lame and vaguely dry, "This a bad time?"

Cheryl doesn't bother to answer, just sweeps by him with her eyes rolled up to the sky. Ian's got a pair of boots hanging from his left hand, and since the door got left wide open, he's going to just... hold them up for Richie to see.

"Just... wanted to drop these off."

And... immediately leave, so you can get back to yelling at your roommate or whatever.

[sloppybitch]

Right. The boots. Richie is stupidly silent and sort of just stares at him jaw agape until that same face turns into a wincing grimace. Only his face. Only fucking Trashmouth. How many people out here got so high they didn't remember a person? Probably just him.

"I fucked you. You didn't tell me that we fucked, Ian, I had so many shrooms that night. Jesus, I only just now got recollection."

This was just so not like him but given the dry spell being a drought by now the necessary evil of some hallucinogenics is just about the only way he'd unwind enough for that to happen.

"I didn't even remember who the fuck you were, oh my god, I thought you were just being a douchebag."

Hello and welcome to the show. Tickets sold for two for a dollar at the door. His hands are in his hair and he's swaying around like the lack of Adderall really just hit his ass 20 years after the fact. It's all coming back to him now. Every little detail.

"Man, I had your whole ass dick in my mouth and you didn't say shit? I'm not that petty, I'm pretty fucking up front I just threw Cheryl out of her own room. WHAT?"

Talk about this guys timing, he just busted in here like the goddamn Koolaid man. Richie is still in boxers and a t-shirt. Fuck this. Guess who just leaves. There are other rooms in this cabin to have a breakdown in.

[wittingly]

Wellp, that is... a fuckload to unpack right there. Yeah, he had no idea about those mushrooms, my dude, or he wouldn't have dicked down. At the very least, he can confidently say if he'd been sober he wouldn't have dicked down. Something about consent, blurry lines, decision making, that whole thing. Whatever the case, he's never actually had sex with anyone who flat out straight up forgot him.

That's...

Wow, that's something. Does it make that whole failed attempt at post-coital bonding a few days later better or worse in hindsight? Maybe best not to dwell on it.

...

...

"Okay, so I guess I'll just leave these here then," he calls mildly, because it's way easier than figuring out what the fuck to say to the rest of this, and after... you know, everything so far he's not gonna just follow the boxer clad man into his bedroom after the guy walked out on him and shut the door.

GOOD TALK, THIS HAS BEEN GREAT - AGAIN. Let him just step in to drop those boots off gently on the floor before he retreats.

[sloppybitch]

"Fuck."

So, the really cool thing about Richie is that Ian might as well not have even been there. That was all him just wrapping his head around it. He wasn't mad, he was just shocked and embarrassed. Given about twenty minutes and some time away from the rest of them and he'd really be able to understand.

He might seem eccentric to everyone else, but after his head being fucked with by a literal demon clown for 37 years he's a little prone to anxiety when he feels like his memories are twisted or not where they're supposed to be. He could give a shit that he slept with Ian, that was fun, and based on what he does recall full of chemistry but he's tired and mortified and doesn't have much recourse for avoiding this shit because he literally has another shift to get to.

He cames back out in khakis and a fucking apron. He literally opens the door as Ian's setting them down, almost clocks him with it but pulls it back just in time.

"I had literally just figured it out... when you... you know what, keep the boots. Consider them emotional damages."

He still has his stupid hospital shoes too. The slip-on kind that just look like white vans when you slid into them. He's bottomed-out. He wouldn't want to be around him either right now. "Anyway, thanks for coming to my one-man show. I really don't want to explain myself, honestly, at this point, its easier to let you think I'm dingo ate my baby crazy so just andele, mira al idiota."

[wittingly]

Takes some kind of feat to avoid a door to the head, which would really just be a cherry on top of this whole experience. It's not that any one piece has been particularly bad, so much as it's all adding up bit by bit to maybe be one of the worst dating experiences he's had in a long time. Definitely since, you know, the alien apocalypse.

He reels back to start carefully backing his way out of the cabin, one awkwardly backpedaled step at a time.

"Yeah, they're not really... my size." So there's literally no point in keeping a rando spare pair of boots around his joint as a weird memory of a strange one night stand that went super sideways in the following weeks.

I don't really want to explain myself.

Wellp, okay then. This is all sort of... a little too much for the level of chill he aspires to be, so he offers up a mock salute. "Love is a battlefield, pal. Good luck."

Because... you know, when in doubt, echo the wise words of Pat Benatar. He turns around to hop off Richie's porch and take a nice long walk off a short pier.

[sloppybitch]

"Why would you ever quote Pat Benetar at me?"

The underlying comedy is that he fucking loves Pat Benetar, Queen, Phil Collins, all things the 70s and 80s. He will and does sing Motley Crue in the showers. As far as love is concerned, Richie just doesn't think it's on the table anymore.

The only person he ever loved was dead. Definitely would've been euthanized.

"I've got more issues than the national enquirer and seems to me these days love is less of a battlefield. It's life that's more likely to bend you over and make you take it."

This would have been a hilarious story to tell someone if he ever had any anybody to tell. He's about as good at making friends as he remembers random people he fellates while on shrooms.

"But thanks. For the shoes. I didn't win though."

[wittingly]

"Pat's a saint. Legend has it she'll be the last person alive once the aliens convince us all to suicide bus. She'll be doing a solo show at our collective funerals." Don't you ever talk about his hero Pat Benatar, who sings with her entire heart okay.

But unless Richie wants to sit down, have a drink, and let Ian get to know him so he can ask about those issues - which doesn't seem to be anywhere in the cards based on every single reaction he's had so far - there isn't much Ian can say about his national enquirer end of the world gangbang.

So instead, he points to the boots. Tacks on a kind, "You're welcome," and leaves to let Richie get on with his shift.

[sloppybitch]

"I didn't argue that she's a good singer but dude, weird. So, in return for that throwback. I see you,
Let's hear it for the boy. Let's give the boy a hand."

If you thought he was beneath quoting Deniece William you are absolutely wrong. She was his game to every aerobics session he, unfortunately, may have been forced to witness.

"I still have to make that food. Spaghetti with some actual meat, if I can ... figure out how to season venison. If you still have questions after mess, you can come by, but the saga of my life is pretty fucked."

[Richie slips some tools into his apron and takes off after that. His whole life was spent as a loser so it won't surprise him if Ian doesn't care enough to ask. It's a lot easier, but he figured he'd at least offer since he definitely had ownership in some of the bullshit this guy, unfortunately, had to go through because of him.]