Author: sereace_m
Prompt: Maine and RJ. Acquaintances. In a bar.
RJ and Maine are the biggest what could have been in their high school. Mainly because, they were the biggest ship of the school but the ship had to sink when RJ had sex with one of their friends. They stay friends. After all, they aren't together. RJ and the girl he had sex with ends up becoming boyfriend and girlfriend. Anyway, years later, in this bar, they're waiting for her best friend but she ends up not coming. The two talk about the what is and what could have beens.
Prompter: rjandmengconvos
NINA for the the prompt. I know it sort of went off tangent than the one you wanted, but it wouldn't let itself be written any other way T_T
ARCI MUNOZ for the inspiration (HAHAHAHA)
RORO for the mutual clinging
POWERPUFFS for being badass
JOWEE AND MJ pordalab
AL04 for everything
MAICHARD for my heart, and my sanity. Stay happy, be happy, always.
STANDARD DISCLAIMER APPLIES. THIS FIC HAS NO MONETARY VALUE. I DO NOT OWN MAICHARD, BECAUSE IF I DID YOU KNOW WHERE I'D PUT THEM.
---000--
He was a handful little boy, he knew. He'd either go under the couch, hide inside the cabinet, and squeeze himself in between spaces, or run from one end of their gated subdivision to another, play with their dogs, and climb any of the numerous trees that lined the sidewalks. His mother has gotten used to her middle child's sudden disappearances or silent spells. They - she and his father - has worried about him, about his sudden mood changes, his unpredictability. That nothing seemed to hold his attention for so long, that he can't seem to find the balance between being a boy and an old soul.
Until she came.
It burned, going down his throat, as he watched her text their friend.
She's always beautiful, but he prefers her brown hair tied up in a high ponytail. Sure, he can't play with random strands and curl it up against his fingers, like fine silk against his skin, but it's a small price to pay to see her nape, long and elegant, and the feminine curve of her shoulders, the enticing call of her collarbones, a seeming invite to him, and his tongue --
That was where it started.
Or not.
Maybe it was when he taught her to run --
He gripped her small hand in his, as he looked at her at the corner of his eyes. The tears has stopped finally, but her bottom lip still protruded outwards, her cheeks and nose as red as the roses in her mother's gardens. He breathed a sigh of relief, finally skidding to a stop from their run. She just stood there beside him, her small frame shaking, and in Richard's 6 year old heart he swore he would kick and punch anyone who would make her cry as much again.
He reached out, unmindful of the thorns, and broke a perfectly opened rose from the meticulously crafted landscape. He handed it to her wordlessly.
