When you glance around this time at the objects in his room, panic flares up hot and hard in his chest. He doesn't want you to see any of it. To see how obviously fake and foolish it is. They aren't his photos, and his house is a glorified lean-to, catching drafts of cold air any time the wind blows. The illusion, as is, is thin. But it's still there. One word from you will shatter the dream. He wishes you wouldn't look at it. He wishes he had never told you, that you would leave and not come back. He can meet you in Clear Lake in the morning.
It seems to take ages for you to say anything. The twisting in his chest seems akin to torture. Melodramatic, perhaps, but torture is the only time he's had to impose the same ruthless determination to remain still and let the moment wash over him without touching him. How to stay patient and distant without actively trying to leave or lash out. You nod, and he swallows along with you.
All right? Honestly this time. You consent to pretend for one night. Once again, it feels as though everything has gone completely still, as though he's just floating in space, his heart beat loud and echoing inside his chest. He takes a deep breath and releases it on a laugh, accidental, when you say he can't tell anyone. It feels like relief. Like—happiness.
"Of course." Who would he tell?
At some point, he shuts his eyes. He leaves them closed for a moment, smiling softly to himself, enjoying the moment. Of course, he doesn't know what to do. His assumptions or fantasies for how things might occur displays a distressing lack of relation to how things ultimately play out. But he can try. He's thought about it often enough that putting it into practice shouldn't be too difficult. Improvisation is your forte. But backing out now isn't an option.
Taking the whiskey bottle from the table, he grabs his coffee cup and stands up to cross to the bed. He offers you the bottle and the cup to hold while he slides the blanket from his shoulders and wraps half of it over your own as he sits down next to you, shoulders pressed together. His knee rests on top of your thigh when he crosses his legs beneath him on the box spring. Sharing the blanket, settled close against you like this, he waits intently for your response, to make sure it's okay. To help, and in gratitude, he takes the bottle again from you and pours a couple shots of whiskey into each glass. He leaves the bottle on the floor, and then, tentatively, reaches for your hand, placing his on top of yours.
"Thank you." For doing this. For agreeing. He can't look at you as easily when he's seated next to you, which works for this moment. His face already feels overly warm. He's sure if he met your eyes it would turn an uncomfortable shade of red. The reflexes of the human body are strange and nonsensical. Instead, he concentrates on the whiskey in his mug, and eventually takes a sip. He wants to sit like this for a few moments before they go to bed. He's not tired yet.
no subject
It seems to take ages for you to say anything. The twisting in his chest seems akin to torture. Melodramatic, perhaps, but torture is the only time he's had to impose the same ruthless determination to remain still and let the moment wash over him without touching him. How to stay patient and distant without actively trying to leave or lash out. You nod, and he swallows along with you.
All right? Honestly this time. You consent to pretend for one night. Once again, it feels as though everything has gone completely still, as though he's just floating in space, his heart beat loud and echoing inside his chest. He takes a deep breath and releases it on a laugh, accidental, when you say he can't tell anyone. It feels like relief. Like—happiness.
"Of course." Who would he tell?
At some point, he shuts his eyes. He leaves them closed for a moment, smiling softly to himself, enjoying the moment. Of course, he doesn't know what to do. His assumptions or fantasies for how things might occur displays a distressing lack of relation to how things ultimately play out. But he can try. He's thought about it often enough that putting it into practice shouldn't be too difficult. Improvisation is your forte. But backing out now isn't an option.
Taking the whiskey bottle from the table, he grabs his coffee cup and stands up to cross to the bed. He offers you the bottle and the cup to hold while he slides the blanket from his shoulders and wraps half of it over your own as he sits down next to you, shoulders pressed together. His knee rests on top of your thigh when he crosses his legs beneath him on the box spring. Sharing the blanket, settled close against you like this, he waits intently for your response, to make sure it's okay. To help, and in gratitude, he takes the bottle again from you and pours a couple shots of whiskey into each glass. He leaves the bottle on the floor, and then, tentatively, reaches for your hand, placing his on top of yours.
"Thank you." For doing this. For agreeing. He can't look at you as easily when he's seated next to you, which works for this moment. His face already feels overly warm. He's sure if he met your eyes it would turn an uncomfortable shade of red. The reflexes of the human body are strange and nonsensical. Instead, he concentrates on the whiskey in his mug, and eventually takes a sip. He wants to sit like this for a few moments before they go to bed. He's not tired yet.