YGMM: Crowded

JournalWord: In sickness.

::

Jones tips his head back so it drapes over the back of the couch, letting off a throaty groan and pathetic sniff.

"We can hear ya," Tristan calls over the running water. He dries the last plate after Chris hands it to him and stacks it onto the dish rack to be dealt with tomorrow. "I've got you, Jonesy," he reassures as he wipes his hands on a clean towel and heads for their room. 

Chris dries her hands as well, wiping off the spilled water around the sink before hanging the towel up. She hears a series of shuffling from the living room as she heads to her own room. Without shutting the door, she gathers her patient files, pen, and notebook swiftly and turns back into the hallway. 

Jones has dropped himself to cover the length of the couch, and when Chris walks in, he is busy kicking his long legs over the back and arm as he fights for a comfortable position. He frustratingly grunts at the effort before giving up and throwing an arm over his eyes and allowing his other arm to dangle so his knuckles rest onto the floor. 

Chris settles her files and notebook onto the coffee table, and using the blunt end of her pen, pokes him  in the shoulder. "Shove over you," she commands.

He peeks from under his arm at her with irritation fixated in his expression, but grudgingly shifts to sit up so she has room. 

Tristan had walked in as well during the scene and deduces that Jones couldn't be too angry at her, because as soon as she is nestled into her seat and her work, Jones rests his head on her shoulder.

"If you drool on me, I'll murder you," Chris warns, but otherwise leaves him to close his eyes as she starts writing in her notebook.

Tristan tucks the blanket he has secured from their room around Jones, whom grunts with appreciation without opening his eyes. Figuring that he can't pass this moment by so easily, Tristan approaches the other end of the couch and, yawning widely, settles himself down and nestles his own head onto her free shoulder.

Immediately, Jones's eyes snap open to glare balefully at him. "Idiot, don't you have something else to do?" his scratchy voice demands.

Tristan replies by childishly sticking his tongue out at him. "Nope, took the day off too. I wanted to spend time with my dear Chrisy."

"Your dear Chrisy is going to maim the both of you if you don't quiet up while I'm working," she threatens, not pausing her pen. Although she was annoyed to have been called off of work to take care of Jones, she's more irritated by how much control these two boys have over her superiors in deciding when she should take a day off. 

Jones makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat and closes his eyes once again.

A scratchy throat and stuffy nose does not entail as an "emergency", or a reason to cancel her appointments and responsibilities for the day to shove lunch and medication down Jones's throat.

Tristan muses as he examines Chris's jawline and focus, having realized she's really not as angry as she portrays herself to be. Sure, she was angry initially when he had convinced Alice that Chris should tend to an emergency at home instead of dealing with work. And who knows, if Chrisy hadn't come home and taken over the nursing of poor, old Jonesy, he might have taken a turn for the worse. 

Well, at least there's no need to worry now, Tristan speculates and comfortably curls into Chris's side. How lucky they are to have someone drop their day just for them, and to have someone to rely on in times when neither are capable.

"Thank you, Chrisy," he whispers into her collarbone as he shuts his eyes for a nap as well.

::

I've been fighting (and failing) a series of persistent headaches, only to find out that I am having tension headaches induced by stress. So hopefully now, with the pain and dizziness under control, I can figure out what I want done :)

It seems like I'm a giant ball of stress. Maybe I'll end up popping, or blowing a blood vessel, before I can write up all my stories and ideas!

Who knows :P
Mera.

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YGMM: Apron Animus

JournalWord: That straight-jacket feeling.

::

"You are cooking?" she asks in disbelief. Tristan grins when Chris pulls the strap of her messenger bag over her head and drops it beside the doorway to the kitchen.

Jones picks up the orange book on the counter and waves the pages in the air. "Yup. We bought a cookbook."

Tristan twirls in his flour splattered apron. It's a sunny-yellow apron with smiley-faces decorated everywhere. Jones has his own apron; a cobalt blue apron with fluffy grey clouds. Chris notes that Jones has been spared from the spilled flour.

"You've got everything," she realizes, taking in the colorful array of bowls and matching cooking utensils strewn over the counter tops and cluttering the sink. 

Chris settles herself on a stool, relieved to see that the new stove hasn't been destroyed.

"Oh!" Tristan says, rifling through one of the plastic bags on the counter, "We got you something too!" 

She bristles when Tristan pulls out a lacy pink apron with red hearts out of the bag, tag still attached. "Now we'll all match!" he exclaims, ripping the price tag off.

Tristan tugs Chris off of the stool and turns her around so he can slip the apron over her head. The apron certainly isn't like the others. The boys have the average cotton apron that covers from full-body exposure and almost touched their knees. Chris's, on the other hand, is a totally different story.

"It's lingerie." She states bluntly. 

Tristan just keeps on smiling. "It's an apron," Tristan reassures, ignoring the glare sent his way. 

Jones just picks up the cookbook and scans the page they are on.

"Tristan, I'm not wearing this," Chris says, tugging on the hem of the lacy garment, but it wouldn't stretch from its mid-thigh length. Hell, it shouldn't even be considered clothing.

"Come on!" Tristan pleads, wrapping his arms around her, "You look absolutely delicious."

At that moment, the whole kitchen is silent at the sound of Tristan's husky growl. 

"Okay," Chris nervously starts as Tristan's face buried itself in her neck, "I really have to take this thing off." Chris frantically pulls on the bow behind her, struggling with the knot. "What the hell did you do to this stupid thing? Tristan!"

Tristan just lightly laughs, and smiles at her scrunched eyebrows, utterly amused by her sharp cry. 

"Tristan. Get this thing off of me," she commands, breathing slowly, humiliated that she had resorted to screaming. 

Tristan is ignorant to her still present, hostile expression, and gently rocks them left and right, his arms still around her. "Nope," is his stubborn reply.

Chris has had enough of his games and struggles out of his constricting hold. "Jones, put the damn book down and help me." Chris still tries to wrench the bow off while attempting to back away from Tristan. 

"Jones!" she yells just as Tristan starts running his hands up her sides, erupting an explosion of shrieks. 

"Oh!," Tristan says excitedly, a mischievous sparkle brightening his eyes, "Chrisy is ticklish!"

"Jones! He's going to rape me!" she screeches through a patch of giggles.

Chris and Tristan twist and turn, much to Tristan's pleasure and to Chris's displeasure. "Tris! Stop!" Abruptly, Chris jumps when Tristan pokes her in the side, causing them to lose their balance and topple over. 

Tristan ends up on the floor alone. Jones gives Chris an apologetic smile. "You still breathing?" he asks, letting go of her arms. 

Chris glances from Jones's apologetic but amused smile and Tristan's pleasured grin. "You should join me on the floor, Chrisy," Tristan proposes, leaning back on his hands to invite her in. "I swear I'm comfy."

Chris inches away from his sexual aura and sticks her tongue out at him. Jones's eyebrow raises. "That was very adult."

"I don't care," she pouts. Her hair is splayed around her face and her face is still flushed from the giggles. "I just want to get out of this wretched thing."

Jones gently turns her around and works out the tangled knot. Behind her back, Jones sends a returning grin at Tristan. Tristan watches from his place on the floor, admiring his handiwork being unraveled

. 

"You know, that was going a little too far, Tristan," Jones says conversationally, although Tristan remembers his unabashed and intrigued stare when Chris was calling for help.

Tristan openly ogles at Chris, who is purposely avoiding his stare by turning her gaze to the left. He can still make out the blushed cheeks she is trying to hide with her straight, black hair. She really is a headstrong lass.

"I'm sorry Chrisy," he repents, an apologetic smile directed her way. She nods, but doesn't flinch from her still position

.

The knot finally comes undone, and Chris immediately strips off the pink apron and tosses it in Tristan's direction without a glance. "It's all yours," she says breathlessly.

Tristan's smile never fades. "That's fine. I'll just find another way to get this beauty worn." He twirls the skimpy attire around his finger.

She glares at him, but her attention is pulled to Jones, who has suddenly disappeared. "Jones?"

"Just a sec," Jones calls from the hall, and he emerges from the hallway, a plastic bag in his hand. He reaches for the green apron in the bag and tosses it her way. 

Chris straightens it out and sucks in a breath. "It's perfect," she says, a light smile gracing her lips. Chris instantly dons the fabric, swiftly tying the back with an absently tied loose bow. She smiles at the green checkered print. "Thank you Jones." 

"Hey, what about me?" Tristan intervenes. "Where's my thank you?"

"What about you, Tristan?" Chris counters with a blank stare, hands on her hips.

"I got you an apron first. I deserve a hug."

"Not a chance."

Jones backs away to the kitchen and picks up the discarded cookbook. 

"What were you planning to cook anyways?" she asks, ignoring Tristan's whines, and walking to the counter. Tristan follows her to the counter, taking a seat on one of the stools beside her.

"Why don't you take a look?" he says, sliding the book across the counter.

Instead of cakes, roasts, and other regular recipes featured in cookbooks, this cook book is full of obscene concoctions.

"'The recipe of a Hate Cake. What?"

"That sounds scrumptious. What's in it?" Tristan leans forward on the counter.

"'First, mix together a handful of dried cat intestines and the blood of the suffering into a bowl.' Okay, I'm not reading anymore." Chris passes the book to Tristan.

"Come on. You haven't even seen any of the other stuff you can cook up," Jones prompts, trying his best to hold in a peal of laughter.

"You have gone nuts."

"Hey," Tristan calls, nose still buried in the pages of the book. "I need those for this one."

Chris shakes her head. "I know you guys make a lot of money now that you're working a lot of bookings, but don't spend it all on this.. crap." She waves her arms out to indicate the mess they've made in the kitchen, but pointedly flicks her wrist at the crumpled fabric on the floor.

"Save me some! I need two cups!"

Jones walks out of the kitchen and flops onto the couch. "You don't need to worry, Chris. We're huge hits." Jones flashes her a lounging pose with his signature smile. 

The smile didn't faze her since she has become used to its dazzle, but the exaggerated pose and concentrated pursed lips unconsciously perks a smile on her face. 

"Alright. It's your money."

Tristan leans sideways on his stool so he can holler into the living room. "Where the hell am I supposed to find a blushing virgin?"

::

I'm all over the place *sticks tongue out*

I just wanted to expel some of my YGMM obsession, and this is what ya'll got. 
This is set somewhere near the beginning of the timeline where the boys are fascinated and on a mission to figure out Chris.
Even if it requires making her scream.

Yeah... sexual innuendos are extremely prevalent in YGMM.. 

Keep cheery!
Mera!

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YGMM: The Baby Elephant

Warning: This has a lot of description.

JournalWord: Bubble-wrapping desks.

::

It’s another dreadful, winter afternoon at the downtown hospital. Flurries beat down over the cabin-fevered building, snuffing out light from windows in the mission to bury the hospital in white. The walk ways and paths winding around the hospital grounds, freshly scooped earlier in the day, are piling up again, disguising the stamped footprints and packed snow banks. Bare trees, hidden for months by hanging glass icicles, pack cold powder between frozen branches; puffing up the trees in a strange winter orchard. 

Clumps of snow fall from over the front entrance, landing and becoming welcoming mats to the concerned emergency medical technicians. The ice under the layers of snow crystals shine through the powder, winking danger at every passing victim to slip. Daggered icicles overhead wait for a strong gust of wind to knock them off the ceiling of the entrance, shaking in their patience. The automatic sliding doors are freezing together, sticking and hesitating an extra minute before opening to break the forming ice. 

 

The lobby of the hospital buzzes like a trapped hive; the air crackling in claustrophobia and fevered escape. The smell of disinfectant and bleach mix into a crude scent with the dank wetness of drenched fabric. Two secretaries slouch over keyboards and files, hiding behind their curved desk like a shield. They shiver and clutch at their layers of jackets and sweaters every time the entrance doors squeak open. A layer of snow that has managed to infiltrate the building, melts on the green mat, vaporizing in the blast of the heating system.

White capped nurses usher hunching, canned seniors away from frosting windows, and back into individual rooms. They muttering inconveniences as they stretch exhausted smiles over painted, chapped lips, attempting to soothe cabin fever with sweet words between grinding teeth. Their fleeting feet track into puddles of sleet, trailing rivers across the lobby’s dull white floor. Tuts and irritated sucking noises peal from their lips whenever they glance at the groups of shifting visitors trapped in by the blizzard.

The visitors cluster together in front of the expanse of the windows. They watch dejectedly as the cold glass is slowly swallowed by the blizzard, stamping their slush saturated boots. They flip their cell phones open and close in frantic clacks; all that is keeping them at bay from running out into the snowstorm. Their gloved hands grasp their coat’s collars, pulling them up to protect their curled mouths from incessant coughs and uncontrollable sneezes for fear of catching a doctor’s attention.

Down a series of corridors, past rooms and floors of various hacking and groans, Dr. Cahill’s office remains shut and ignorant of the gloom surrounding the rest of the medical building. A light shines though the opaque glass slit placed in the wood door, admitting a person inside by a shifting shadow, although the doctor is away, tending to a patient downstairs in the hustle of emergency surgeries. However, despite her absence, the trace sound of shuffling plastic can be heard underneath the howls of pounding wind and sighs of bored patients. 

In the centre of the square room, a slouched figure in dark jeans and a yellow sweater lightly kicks a black office chair out of his way. The expelled oversized, rounded chair slides from its place behind a cedar desk and careens over the floor. The expensive leather chair wobbles and rolls, top-heavy, across the expanse of the hardwood. An armrest collides softly into one of the ceiling-high bookshelves that covers three of the four surrounding walls. 

A thick medical textbook, one of the many hundreds of the like that fill the bronze wood shelves, knocks loose from its categorized fit. The blue hard covers flap open to swallow air into its pages before collapsing flat on pages six-hundred fifty-two and fifty-three. A cloud of aged paper emphasizes the fall and clatter. The books that depended on the toppled volume, tip into each other to sate the empty space. The crash of the fallen echoes like a booing crowd, the sound bouncing a path to the blonde head, snapped to attention.  

The tightness in Tristan’s face relaxes from a clenched frown to a mischievous smirk when he discovers the whereabouts of the sound. He glances at the door, and satisfied by the undisturbed lock on the doorknob, drops his gaze to the desk in front of him. His bottle green eyes frolic at the sight pf his doings, brightening his winter-paled complexion and distributing golden highlights to his already tousled, fair hair. He doesn’t flinch at the howls and scratching of the wind against the walls and windows, instead, masking the sound with a quiet hum of his own. 

The shriek of duct tape ripping off its roll is instantly muffled by the light pats of a hand smoothing the shiny, silver adhesive flat. Tristan’s warm hand skims the ridged tape, exerting just enough pressure to stick the adhesive to the bubbled surface covering the oak desk. Fingers stretch and reach for another roll of duct tape while the dominant left hand holds down another section of curling bubble wrap.

He elongates his lithe body over the length of the large cedar desk, straining for the extra roll tucked behind a tipped, framed photo. The concentration he applies is disguised by his tongue, peeking pink from between his lips, and a flop of wild, static-infused lock suspended inches from his narrowed eyes, His fingers poke the overturned roll, forcing it to flip, however, accidentally setting it on a course over the edge of the desk. 

The silver roll bounces and hops a couple metres before halting in the cushion of stacked bubble wrap sheets waiting in front of the door. A whoosh is exhaled by the stack as the top layer floats off the tower and skids to the door. The bubbled edge of the sheet jam themselves into the crack under the door in a fluid swoop. Tristan lifts his hand off the section of bubble wrap on the desk corner, allowing it to curl into a tube. He straightens to retrieve the roll and finish the job he has started. 

His well worn, tan jacket folds back into familiar creases when he readjusts his posture. He rolls his shoulders at the setting soreness of being slouched for so long, his suede jacket skimming over his torso with a liquid drift as he walks to the door. He bends over to gather the runaway roll, the obsidian buttons on his jacket winking and blinking in the light. They laugh, whether from the glow of the florescent lights overhead or from the radiation casting off Tristan’s quirked grin.

He resumes his position at the desk, smoothing down the curling flap of bubble wrap before taping it down with a swatch of tape. Despite the ear splitting screams and thunderous pounds of pulsing snow, Tristan keeps on humming. The ripping of duct tape unravelling contrasts with the visage of the cloudlike, bubbled desk. The translucent bubbles lining each sheet shine glossy reflections on their rounded shells. A corner of the desk remains unsheathed in safety plastic, but the exception is swiftly dealt with one last tear of tape, smoothed to perfection with the excess carefully tucked under the ledge.

The job is finished with a quick shuffle of desk trinkets, file folders, and framed pictures, all covered in matching bubbly sleeves and placed in their original places. He steps back to admire his work, a whistle of satisfaction and a smile adorning his pink lips. The duct tape roll twirls around is left index finger in admiration. He tilts his head down to check the time on his watch, only to fumble the roll between his hands when he notices the time. He jams the roll into his pocket and gathers and collects the leftover sheets of bubble wrap into his arms. He sprints to the door, hastily turning the doorknob before shutting it closed behind him as he rushes out to the elevators.

The young man smiles to himself in the crowd of frowns and scowls in the lobby. His eyes glitter and dance as he waits for the unrelenting storm to exhaust itself. He waits like everyone else in the lobby for the sun to peek out from behind the angry clouds. However, unlike everyone else, he holds a warmth of adding a smile and shaking head to someone, despite the dreadful afternoon. To him, it’s an otherwise sunny afternoon at the downtown hospital.

::

I've been busy lately, wrapping up on my classes (just a week left!) and worrying about finals. 
My emotions are on a sloppy run right now, zig-zagging dramatically, and I've been super tired lately. (Maybe from my anxiety peaking again?) Let's just hope I can pull myself together in the next week. 
And maybe crank out some more ideas! Or spend some time working on the ones I've already laid out... :P

Keep bubbly!
mera.

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YGMM: Jones Sedlack: A Pessimist at Eleven

This is Jones, recollecting how he met Tristan. This is just to set a background for Jones.

::

My childhood was built up on days of distrust and premature judgement. From an early age, I was abandoned by my teenage mother to the care of foster homes and irrational caretakers. I was raised in a world surrounded by suspicion and skeptical truths, and by the age of ten, I had made three concrete conclusions:

First, I would never see my mother again. 

Second, happiness is nonexistent in the foster care system. 

Lastly, there isn't anyone worth trusting my life on. 

Three weeks after I turned eleven, however, was the beginning of my crumbling beliefs.

Suzanne, my caretaker at the time, was yelling at me, scolding until her face blistered into a painful red. She was new, as I recall, and yelling like it would instantly reform me. She obviously didn't listen to what ever schooling it took to become a caretaker because she didn't caution off the kitchen. 

Number one of any list of household rules in a foster home was to never let the kids enter the kitchen without permission. She should have read the rule book if she didn't want boys melting crayons on her new stove elements. 

She eventually smartened up to my insolence and decided that I deserved time in the time-out corner, and I was glad. It didn't matter that I wasn't the culprit. I just wanted to read and not be disturbed by the other rambunctious children. 

At the time, I had given up making friends with the other kids. They were wary of my dark and silent demeanor  They thought I was gloomy and cryptic with my dark hair and eyes, and pale complexion. 

They could think what they wanted, but I wasn't always all doom-and-gloom. I used to be excited to meet the new arrivals when I was younger. I eagerly greeted them at the front door, joining the other younger kids in a chant for information on the new sibling. 

However, after years of witnessing the stealing and lies that came with friendships, I doubted anyone could be trustworthy, and I easily gave up the intention to acknowledge the others that came into the shifting homes. That’s the reason I didn't know about Tristan when he arrived two days prior to my scolding. 

I was standing in a corner of the living room, warmed only by the lamp beside me as I bent my head to read the book I had swapped. The cover was warm from where it hugged my back when I hid it under my shirt before being snitched. 

A boy I wasn't familiar with lumbered into the living room just as I was about to flip a page, and after seeing me, immediately sprinted at me. This older boy, sporting bruises and a split lip from a previous rumble, was still buzzing with pent up adrenaline and needed a vent. Much to my disdain, Suzanne forgot about me and sent this bigger, obviously aggressive boy to time out too. 

His fists were too heavy for my arms to block and my book wasn't a proper shield against pubescent rage. I shouted and screamed, rolling over the carpet for foolish escape from the pounding. I honestly believed that I was going to die. In between a fist and my line of sight of the hallway, I saw the frown and wide eyes of a scrawny blonde haired boy who looked to be about my age. 

The hope of help diminished when he disappeared down the hall in a flash of rustic, worn sneakers, and I dejectedly waited for the knuckles to cram into my eye socket. My head hit the carpet and I flopped as I attempted to avoid a blackout. It was inevitable and I did lose myself to the darkness, but before I allowed myself to be sucked in, I saw the triumphant smirk of the blonde haired boy slamming a pot lid into the crown of my murderer.

I obviously wasn't killed as I had believed, and when I woke up in my bed to the throbbing of my eye, I was welcomed by the same smirk that saved my life. He fueled my headache with his chatter and bright, sunny smile as soon as I groaned in pain. 

I couldn't handle the unfamiliar happiness radiating off him or his taste in bright green shirts. What I said next could have been the last of my pride washed down the drain by his rescue and my own helplessness. However, I suspect it had something psychologically to do with my jealousy of his rosy personality. Either way, I snapped at him to shut up. 

He instantly clamped his lips closed, staring at me with an unreadable glare. Guilt lapped at my heart when I saw the bag of frozen peas in his hands. I was about to apologize when he quirked his mouth back into a caring smile, lighting up his green eyes as he held up the bag of peas and pressed it to my eye. 

“My name is Tristan,” he retorted, puffing out his chest in a huff his thin, short build didn't seem comfortable holding. “And you should learn kinder words.” The bag stung and I hissed at him, pawing angrily at his spindly arm to get it off my eye. He easily blocked off my blinded hands, picking up where he left off in his chatter. 

For the next couple of days, he wouldn't leave my side. He would find me wherever I hid, sidling up beside me and chattering aimlessly as I tried to read. Every day I added to my sum of his character, including the nastiest words I could think of. His suspicious cheery attitude was distrustful and his taste in neon shirts wouldn't assist in hiding from bullies, I had concluded and I avoided him at every chance I could. But life has its ways of proving how a stubborn, antisocial boy’s assumptions are wrong, and it just so happened to be in the form of bullying. 

I hadn't had the chance to make a dent in the book when his jade eyes peeked through the crack of the closet doors. He flung the doors open with a hidden strength that defied his puny body, laughing like we have been playing hide and seek for the past four days. I glared at his hand, reaching out to help me up. 

“It’s your turn to be ‘it’,” he said, but I didn't wait around to see his face when I darted past him. I rounded the corners of the winding halls until I reached someone’s bedroom, and I slid underneath a bed, filling in the space farthest from the hall. I heard the light footfalls of his feet and heard the calling of my name. I also heard the taunting from the boy who used me like a punching bag. 

“Looking for your black-eyed boyfriend?” he asked. His friends shuffled and howled behind him. He was inching closer to Tristan with harbored revenge, pushing Tristan down the hallway until they were almost in the doorway. I crawled closer to see, but still hidden under the sagging mattress. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Tristan stated, standing his ground against the bigger boys. “He’s my best friend.”

The boys didn't falter in response and launched themselves at Tristan, before he could run but Tristan just stood there, a determined quirky smile on his face as he waited for the pummeling of fists. He would've taken a beating for me, and somehow that was enough to send me to propel the edge of my hardcover book into the bully’s gut. 

His weight overpowered me and, if Tristan didn't pull me out of the fall zone, I almost would have become the cushion for the four towering boys. We didn't stand around to watch them squirm as they untangled themselves from their gangling knots. 

I remember a quote from the book, ironically the only thing I read from it, stuck into one of the blank pages before the title of the story. It was by a J. Petit Senn, and it said, “It requires less character to discover the faults of others, than to tolerate them.” Senn is right because if I had just looked for all his faults, I would not have a best friend right now. I would not have survived the years until I turned eighteen and escaped the foster care system. I would not have found the courage to find my mother and meet my half-sister. Lastly, I realized that at age eleven, assumptions are never right.

::

Just a little insight on Jones. He's a character I struggle with. Probably because I personally adore Tristan (haha, I'm biased!).

Let me know what you think. I'm always going to be working on the characters of YGMM, so any input is appreciated! :)

Smooches!
Mera <3

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YGMM: Take a Bath

JournalWord: "Take a bath."

::

Chris sighs and flips a page. Her patient’s file is practically a novel and she’s going to have to spend the night reading every diagnosis her patient has had over the course of his life. She chews on her pen as she attempts to decipher a particularly interesting mess of scribbles for a prescription of aspirin. Chris leans back on her chair, impatient and drained of energy, and decides a break after four hours at her desk is worth her time.

Chris finds herself in the fridge, scrounging for some orange juice when the front door to the apartment swings open, announcing the arrival of her roommates. 

“Chrisy, you will not believe what happened,” Tristan shouts, trotting to the kitchen. Jones and their border collie pup, Mr. Marbles, trail behind him, hot on his heels. 

Chris shuts the fridge door, the carton of orange juice in her hand, and does a double take at them. They’re dripping wet and muddy. Water is pooling under their feet as they squirm under her scrutiny. The mud clumped to the hem of their shorts is drying and flaking behind them like a dust storm.

“Take a bath,” she orders, daring Mr. Marbles to shake off his fur. She waits for a response but decides to cut Tristan off. “I mean, now.” 

Jones, who has been looking quite miserable since he walked through the door, doesn't hesitate and tucks Mr. Marbles under his arm and strides down the hall to hose the puppy in the tub. Chris grabs a glass from the dish rack and pours herself some juice. Tristan coughs and finds himself a seat at the island across from her, despite her frown. Her eyebrow twitches at the squelch he makes when he sits.

“We were walking Mr. Marbles in the park,” Tristan says, starting his story. He fidgets in his seat for a comfortable position and finally settles, only to shake his blonde mop of grass sprinkled hair. A strand of something leafy plops beside Chris’s glass of juice and she pulls her glass protectively to her side of the island.

Chris begins to open her mouth to remark the inch thick footprints extending from the front door to the rest of the apartment, however she’s interrupted by the howling and clatter of Mr. Marbles’s claws pawing to get out of the bathtub. Tristan and Chris pause to listen to Jones’s irritated ramblings. 

“So, anyways,” Tristan says when the only sound coming from the bathroom is the shower. “We were checking out some girls when we realized, too late, that Marbles was checking out a duck. Next thing we know, we're in the water.”

“Well, yes, you smell like a swamp,” Chris adds, crinkling her nose as she sips her juice. 

“A pond, actually,” he corrects.

A yelp and a splash from the bathroom is given a moment of consideration. Tristan stands up and walks around the island, heading in the direction of his chip cabinet, setting off mines of squeaks every time his soaked sneakers hit the tiles. He opens the cabinet door and consults the array of his favorite snack. 

Chris tenses when he tugs on the collar of his plastered shirt, releasing a ‘pop’ when the wet cotton is forced off his chilled skin. 

“You’re going to get sick,” she states, hoping he’ll take the hint.

He shrugs and grabs a bag, shutting the cabinet door. Tristan has just split open his bag and dusted chip crumbs all over the front of his sticking shirt when Jones marches down the hall, a hand holding up a towel around his waist, his dark hair splattered to his forehead and water dripping into the hallows of his eyes. 

The puppy under his arm barks, sparkling clean and wrapped under his other arm with a towel. Jones strides over to the island, dumping the bundled, squirming puppy into Chris’s arms. He mumbles something under his breath, though Chris only catches “stupid duck” and “so much alien slime”. 

Jones marches his way back down the hallway only to stop, turn around, and grab the back of Tristan’s neck. Tristan drops his bag, adding chips to the growing mess on the hardwood floor. Chris gulps down the last of her juice as she watches Jones drag Tristan to the bathtub in a headlock with Tristan yelling and skidding down the hallway.

Splashing and cursing is the last thing Chris hears when she closes the door to her room.

::

Just a little something from the YGMM Universe. 

This is further along in the timeline, where they have somehow procured a puppy. -shrugs shoulders with a secretive smile- (If you want to know, drop me a hint? *wink!*) 

There's a lot about them that has just been revealed about the trio's behavior here :P I hope you enjoyed it!


I will definitely not be able to post a lot this semester, so I leave this story to amuse you all until I have the time. I'll be occupied by school, volunteering (I got a position at the hospital!) and BCIT application prepping. I hope I survive this semester! >.<!!

Wish me luck and I hope you all have a gnarly time while I'm super busy setting my life in motion :)

Be good ;)
mera!

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YGMM: Cracking the Chrisy Code

::

"What are you plotting?"

Jones's accusation is hissed as soon as they enter the kitchen. Tristan places the plastic bag full of empty, crumpled wrappings from their burritos and used napkins on the counter beside the sink and starts to run water over his hands. Jones waits patiently for an answer as Tristan washes his hands.

Tristan shuts off the tap and flicks his hands in the air to fling water droplets at Jones's scowl. "I'm making a friend," he finally says, stepping away from the sink. He wipes his palms on his jeans and hoists himself up onto the counter. This is just the start of a very long conversation, he realizes.

Jones takes his place in front of the sink and starts to wash his hands as well. "We don't need friends."

Tristan smiles thoughtfully at Jones's hunched shoulders. "She isn't at all like the others," he defends, "Chris is genuine and she's very interesting. She doesn't want anything from us." 

The tap shuts off and Jones wipes his hands on his jeans. The furrow between his eyebrows is still present. "I trust you," he states, pressing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "I just don't trust your decisions."

Tristan laughs, much to Jones's annoyance. "I'm glad! But you'll be swayed by her charm!" He knowingly points his finger at Jones and winks. "Maybe you already have!"

Jones rolls his eyes and joins Tristan on the counter, leaning back so his head rests against the cupboards. Tristan is usually just as cautious of others, although he outwardly doesn't show his wariness as he does. The trust and unrestrained curiosity Tristan displays around Chris, is usually reserved only in the company of each other. 

"You'll fall for her," Tristan repeats, gently. "She's special, and maybe we need to start trusting people, besides each other." Jones turns his head and watches Tristan focus on the wall opposite them. "We can't keep running. This is our opportunity to change and I think we can do it; we can trust others, starting with Chrisy." 

Jones grips the edge of the counter top contemplating Tristan's words. His decisions are never right but his intentions are always in a good place. Jones sighs and glares at the ceiling. "Fine, but I want in on your new plan. Don't think I didn't catch you scheming." 

Tristan gasps dramatically and pouts. "What plan?" he asks innocently and dodges Jones's jab with a smile. He sobers up and glances at the hallway. "I just want to spend time with her, is that bad? I want to know everything about her; what she likes, what her favorite color is, why she's so defensive against burritos." 

Jones nods, reflecting on Tristan's jovial response at retelling about his information on Chris. "You want to interrogate her."

"No, no, no," he shakes his head slowly, then stops to smile playfully at Jones. "Actually, kinda, yeah."

Jones chuckles to himself. "Fine, but watch what you ask. You've already had a taste of her punches."

Tristan joins in on the chuckle, fingering his jaw, devoid of any swelling. "Yeah," he breathes, "but the aftercare was wonderful." He wiggles his eyebrows at Jones and, once again, dodges a jab. 

Tristan hops off the counter and heads toward the hallway. "Detective Tristan off to crack the Chrisy Code," he announces with a wave, and Jones leans back, digesting the revolution being lead by the blonde idiot.

::

I'm going to keep going and, maybe, I'll reach where I wanna be.

~mera.

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YGMM: The Hands That Crank Her Key

Infinitesimal by Mother Mother. 

"There's a million, billion, trillion stars, but I'm down here low, 
fussin' over scars on my soul, on my soul, on my soul..." 

***

During the nights where the dark side of the world is enchanted by stars peeking through holes in a pitch, black curtain, and dreams are held for all their blissful minutes; one apartment never sleeps. The hush of sighs and quiet murmurs of the asleep is disturbed by the pinprick beep of a pager. 

There’s an emergency and Chris is on-call, and although the other two roommates shouldn't be able to hear the rustles and soft footfalls of her wakening, they do. They’ll find her in the bathroom, splashing cold water onto her sleep stricken face to wake up. She’ll apologize for waking them up and she’ll tell them to go back to bed. They’ll ignore her, following her around the apartment as she scrambles to get dressed and find her bag, and finally to the door as she says a quick goodbye and apology before she leaves for the hospital. 

They never do go back to bed, instead they lounge in the living room. Jones will lay on the couch and Tristan will take up an armchair; both will stare at the clock, counting down the hours until she comes back. They worry, for her and for whoever is in need of her assistance, but usually for her. 

For someone who only turned twenty, she is in need of someone to worry about her. She may be a genius, and she may be amazing at her job, but she’s still twenty, and unlike them at her age, she has someone looking out for her. 

They wait for her to appear in the doorway, tired but smiling, and always with a disappointed shake of the head when she sees them awake. They’d laugh and smile around cups of coffee and she’ll tell them about what happened and how silly they are to wait for her. She would also fall asleep at the table right after she tells her story, not a missing drop of coffee in her cup. 

However, recently, Chris doesn't come back. They usually wait until daybreak for her, but when she doesn't appear, Jones grabs his coat and goes after her. Tristan has tried but always loses in the battle to bring her back, caving in when she ignores his wheedling and pleading to go home and sleep. Jones never fails. By the time he enters the hospital, he’s downright grumpy, and with a stern, icy glare and order of “That’s enough”, Chris will sigh and put down her clipboard and papers. 

Jones and Tristan make sure she’s in bed at six and Tristan always remembers to book Chris off for the next five hours so she can sleep. They have a system, from the first beep of the pager to the alarm of the city waking at sunrise. It’s their promise to help someone when they don’t know they need it.

***

I adore Mother Mother (check them out!), their lyrics are just heart-wrenchingly amazing!
My taste in music is questionable, hehe :P

This is just a snippet that, hopefully, explains the sort of relationship the trio have.

Btw, I sorta have a thing for threesomes. (Go ahead and figure that one out~!)

~mera!!

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YGMM: Talkative Eyes.

Slowly chugging along with this story.

::

Chris has unloaded all the documents out of her bag and stacked them neatly on her desk when she entered her bedroom. Her chair that she had bought along with her desk isn't assembled, or unpacked from the boxes yet, so she takes the first file from the stack and locates a pen from her bag, settling onto her bed on her stomach to start reading. 

She is separating pages as she reads, comparing charts to diagnoses and observations when the doorknob of her door jiggles. Tristan peeks his head into the room slowly and grins when he finds her on her bed, twirling a pen between her fingers as she focuses intently at the pages scattered in front of her. 

Tristan doesn't take a moment to contemplate his motion, instead he launches onto the bare space beside her, effectively throwing her in the air above her bed. The papers scatter with her sharp shriek, and, quickly, before she lands back onto the plastic wrapping, she grabs the sheets and charts before they fly away. 

Clutching the patient's file in her hands and arms, she deals a menacing glare at Tristan, who sheepishly grins as he eyes her from under his lashes.

"My bad," he says, lifting his shoulders playfully. When she turns away from him, he winces, regretting his decision to crash her party. Opening his eyes after expecting some sort of physical retribution, he finds her at her desk, shuffling her sheets and charts back into order. 

He gets up and slides off the bed, discovering that he had instilled a large rip into the plastic covering in his grandeur landing. Turning to face her back, he asks, "My bad, do you need help?"

She shakes her head, and thinking she might be lying, he approaches her to peek at the papers. She has organized the papers back into the file, a satisfied smile on her lips when she finds all the papers are there. Tristan stares at her smile, realizing he hasn't seen her smile as of yet. 

She looks up at him then, realizing that he is very close, but before she can say anything about the proximity she finds something she needs to attend to. 

She walks past him to the bed, startling Tristan out of his thoughts to follow her.

"Uh, I can fix that," he starts when he sees her regarding the rip he had created. Her hands finger the rip and suddenly start to tear the plastic off the mattress. 

She struggles with the plastic and turns her head towards him. "Would you mind helping me tear this off?" 

He instantly shoots forward to help her, tearing off the plastic from the mattress with ease. Her politeness had shocked him. He was sure she would yell at him for ruining the plastic, but then again, do mattresses usually come wrapped in a plastic coating? With all the plastic ripped off, she grabs an armful and tows it out of the room. He helps her, finding he enjoys following her and aiding her, and doesn't feel resentful for doing a chore.

She deposits the plastic in the living room against the wall beside her tower of boxes. He deposits his armful on top of her pile on the floor when she takes a second to regard him. "Where is Jones?" she asks when he catches up to her on her way to her room. 

He turns to see her studying his face, her hair still mussed from scrambling for the pages. "Oh, I left him at the burrito shop. I'm much more interested in you." He winks with a crooked smile and she watches, a tad bit dumbfounded as he launches onto her bed again, spreading his arms out to cover the mattress. 

He lifts his head up, along with his arms. "Come join me," he beckons, a bit playful, and is shocked when she obediently follows his instructions, plucking the file from her desk and seating herself on the bed. 

Tristan crawls towards her and drapes his arms over her shoulders, pressing his cheek beside hers. She doesn't struggle under his weight, nor makes any move to touch him back to encourage his actions. "So, what is this you have here? A story?"

"Well, sort of," she breathes, "It's the patient file for Henry Baxter. I am going to be performing an angioplasty for him in a week and I need to review his medical history." 

Tristan oogles at the papers, trying to decipher the codes and foreign words. "What is it you do again?"

Chris turns to face him and he pulls away, arms still draped over her as she turns around. "I'm a heart surgeon at the general hospital; Dr. Chris Cahill." 

Tristan whistles, "Wow, you're a doctor," he repeats, bringing a hand to push back his curls from his face. "How old are you?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow, suddenly suspicious.

She smiles lightly and laughs. "Twenty," she answers and raises both her eyebrows when his eyes grow wide.

"Tristan!" Jones shouts from the living room after slamming the door.

"In Chrisy's room!" Tristan shouts back and winces when Jones slams open the door, glaring murder. Chris furrows her eyebrows at the nickname, but Tristan only shrugs.

"Where the hell did you go? You left me at the shop and I couldn't find you!" 

He breathes deeply to calm himself, stepping into the room and dropping the bag of burritos onto the desk before hooking his arm around Tristan's neck to pull him down as he collapses onto the mattress. Tristan lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, allowing his arms to slip from their hold on Chris. 

Jones jumps when Chris flips a page, having not noticed that she is in the room. 

"Calm it down, Jonesy. Chris is a doctor," he says with a grin, proud to have some information to share.

"Heart surgeon," she corrects, pulling a chart from the file without looking up. 

Tristan plucks it out of her fingers and shares it with Jones. "See, she has x-rays! She's only twenty but she's legitimate!"

Jones scrutinizes Tristan's excited smile, trying not to be doubtful when Tristan is so trusting of her. Then again, there really hasn't been anything that can prove that she isn't, except for the fact that Tristan trusts her. Why start trusting others now? And why start with her?

He glances at Chris as she scans her papers. Tristan accidentally nudges Jones when he shifts to prop himself on his elbow to examine Chris as well. He peeks at Jones and meets his eye to raise his eyebrows in hopes to quiet Jones's worry. 

"Your food is being neglected," she reminds them, bothered by their stares and silent conversations behind her. 

They slide from the bed to reach for their plastic bag. They join her on the edge of the bed, unwrapping their burritos. Tristan tilts her head up from her papers with his fingers and waggles the unwrapped burrito under her nose. "Would you like a bite?" he asks, much to Jones's shock. 

Chris glances at the ripped burrito, peering at the dark meat and bright, charred vegetables peeking from the dough. "No, thank you," she quickly replies like a conditioned response and shakes her head from his grasp.

Jones bites his burrito and chews, lost in thought as he surveys the interaction between Chris and Tristan. Attempting to figure out what it is that is charming Tristan when it really should be the other way around. 

Tristan usually uses his charm to manipulate people, mostly women, to do whatever he wanted, and at the moment, they were supposed to find something to encourage her to want to leave the apartment on her own accord. 

As he broods on his friend's strange behavior, he watches Tristan patiently wait on Chris, scrambling to hand her files when she packs away the papers back into their documents. 

***

I never really notice when a story snippet gets too long. My bad!

These aren't chapters, they're just snippets that after combined together, could potentially comprise a chapter. I just don't trust myself to permanently write something in a mass.

Be good, 
Mera. 

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