Fic
This isn't beta'd. I wrote if simply for the sake of writing something for my #1 fandom. Because, I've become a bit of a failure in that department.
You spend the better part of the late night/early morning drinking too much Chivas Regal and picking up on the things he left around the house. It’s a slight deja vu, but somehow this hurts more.
The god-awful house shoes that he bought in LA-velour mules with martini glasses on them. A book by Lauren Grodstein that he was somehow always reading-always trying to get you to read. A half empty bottle of Minute Maid Cranberry-Apple-Raspberry juice in the fridge. You always told him it was dark red sugar water, but he still never took heed of your high dollar juicer-the one you had to replace when he forgot to set the alarm...years ago. Neutrogena T-Gel shampoo in the shower, as well as some red currant body wash from The Body Shop. Despite what everyone would like to think, Sunshine was certainly not the flawless tow-head he was made out to be. He has dandruff, athlete’s foot occasionally, and he even had a plantar wart removed from the bottom of his foot a couple weeks ago. You aren’t grossed out by any of these things, and you are baffled as to his remaining doubts of the way you feel for him.
You wish he were lounging on the couch in his ugly slippers, reading The Best of Animals, and drinking a glass of the too-sweet juice. You wish you could lean over and smell his neck-a mix of his tar-like shampoo and bittersweet soap. You want to rub your lips over his skin and whisper things against his hair so that he giggles like a seventeen year old again. You wish he would’ve kissed you goodbye. Or fucked you goodbye. Anything more than the heavy-hearted embrace he gave you might have helped you through the night a little better. Who are you kidding? Him pressed against your back with his hand caressing your lower abdomen was all that really helped you to sleep-his lips pressed against your back, his breath tickling the fine hairs there.
You miss him. You’ll admit that to yourself. Here, alone, in the dark, with just the bright orange ash of your cigarette. You’re feeling something you don’t care to deal with. Remorse? You reason this by telling yourself you don’t just regret. You have no regrets. It’s more than that. It’s bitter and rueful. If you could punch yourself in the face, you would. For feeling this way. For allowing yourself to feel anything for this kid. For not allowing yourself to wish you’d never met him. You think your life may’ve actually been worse off if you hadn’t. You’re feeling very, very sorry for yourself so that you don’t feel bad for making fun of him. So that you don’t remember the look on his face when he called you on your shit. So that you don’t remember your backing down when he did.
You think, that if you let yourself feel it, you would love him. You’re sure he’s the only person you would ever want to love. Ever want to fuck more than once. Ever want to grow- age- spend a fair amount of birthday’s with. You’d like to celebrate things with him. The many accomplishments he’s bound to have. You’d like him to celebrate your’s with you.
You were going to miss the way his lips pursed when he was drawing, and the way he bit them when his hand would start to shake. You loved sitting next to him and working the nerves out of his hand with your thumbs. Rolling your lips into your mouth as you did it. Not looking at him, but knowing that he was looking at you. Knowing he was smiling. You’ll miss his smile. He didn’t smile at all tonight. You wish he would’ve smiled just one more time before he left. You’ll miss the way he would steal the cigarette from your mouth to take a drag. Even tough he’d quit. You’ll miss the way his limp body fit perfectly between your steepled knees when you would watch MSNBC on mute-reading the crawls and tickers at the bottom. The way your hands loved the feel of his back, under his shirt. You’ll miss eating home-cooked food with him. His are the only home-made concoctions that you’ll allow yourself to eat-besides Deb’s. You feel really pathetic.
You think it would be a lot easier if you could just tell him that you love him. But, you can’t-fucking CAN’T. You know that even if you could, it wouldn’t be enough. He wants all of you, and you don’t know how to give him that-you don’t know what all of you even is any more. You don’t want to get married. It’s a farce anyhow. May be you wouldn’t mind sharing your assets with him. May be you already were. He’d been on your health insurance since Kinnetik was up and running.
And, children? You can’t imagine being a full time parent. You’re too you to so that. You love Gus. You love him with this purity that you didn’t think you had in you. And you love Justin with Gus. You want Justin to have babies, if he wants them. The world needs more sunshine. You just can’t imagine a crib in the corner of the loft-and you’re not selling the loft. You could also never fit a car seat in to the corvette. The bile itches at the back of your throat and you have to shake the thoughts, of blankets spread out on the hardwood floor and warming bottles on your stainless steel stove top, out of your head.
You are suddenly disarmed by the thought of Justin raising these babies with someone else. Which is disarming on a whole new level, because you truly want him to be happy. More than anything. You just wish you could be the one to make him so.
You spend the better part of the late night/early morning drinking too much Chivas Regal and picking up on the things he left around the house. It’s a slight deja vu, but somehow this hurts more.
The god-awful house shoes that he bought in LA-velour mules with martini glasses on them. A book by Lauren Grodstein that he was somehow always reading-always trying to get you to read. A half empty bottle of Minute Maid Cranberry-Apple-Raspberry juice in the fridge. You always told him it was dark red sugar water, but he still never took heed of your high dollar juicer-the one you had to replace when he forgot to set the alarm...years ago. Neutrogena T-Gel shampoo in the shower, as well as some red currant body wash from The Body Shop. Despite what everyone would like to think, Sunshine was certainly not the flawless tow-head he was made out to be. He has dandruff, athlete’s foot occasionally, and he even had a plantar wart removed from the bottom of his foot a couple weeks ago. You aren’t grossed out by any of these things, and you are baffled as to his remaining doubts of the way you feel for him.
You wish he were lounging on the couch in his ugly slippers, reading The Best of Animals, and drinking a glass of the too-sweet juice. You wish you could lean over and smell his neck-a mix of his tar-like shampoo and bittersweet soap. You want to rub your lips over his skin and whisper things against his hair so that he giggles like a seventeen year old again. You wish he would’ve kissed you goodbye. Or fucked you goodbye. Anything more than the heavy-hearted embrace he gave you might have helped you through the night a little better. Who are you kidding? Him pressed against your back with his hand caressing your lower abdomen was all that really helped you to sleep-his lips pressed against your back, his breath tickling the fine hairs there.
You miss him. You’ll admit that to yourself. Here, alone, in the dark, with just the bright orange ash of your cigarette. You’re feeling something you don’t care to deal with. Remorse? You reason this by telling yourself you don’t just regret. You have no regrets. It’s more than that. It’s bitter and rueful. If you could punch yourself in the face, you would. For feeling this way. For allowing yourself to feel anything for this kid. For not allowing yourself to wish you’d never met him. You think your life may’ve actually been worse off if you hadn’t. You’re feeling very, very sorry for yourself so that you don’t feel bad for making fun of him. So that you don’t remember the look on his face when he called you on your shit. So that you don’t remember your backing down when he did.
You think, that if you let yourself feel it, you would love him. You’re sure he’s the only person you would ever want to love. Ever want to fuck more than once. Ever want to grow- age- spend a fair amount of birthday’s with. You’d like to celebrate things with him. The many accomplishments he’s bound to have. You’d like him to celebrate your’s with you.
You were going to miss the way his lips pursed when he was drawing, and the way he bit them when his hand would start to shake. You loved sitting next to him and working the nerves out of his hand with your thumbs. Rolling your lips into your mouth as you did it. Not looking at him, but knowing that he was looking at you. Knowing he was smiling. You’ll miss his smile. He didn’t smile at all tonight. You wish he would’ve smiled just one more time before he left. You’ll miss the way he would steal the cigarette from your mouth to take a drag. Even tough he’d quit. You’ll miss the way his limp body fit perfectly between your steepled knees when you would watch MSNBC on mute-reading the crawls and tickers at the bottom. The way your hands loved the feel of his back, under his shirt. You’ll miss eating home-cooked food with him. His are the only home-made concoctions that you’ll allow yourself to eat-besides Deb’s. You feel really pathetic.
You think it would be a lot easier if you could just tell him that you love him. But, you can’t-fucking CAN’T. You know that even if you could, it wouldn’t be enough. He wants all of you, and you don’t know how to give him that-you don’t know what all of you even is any more. You don’t want to get married. It’s a farce anyhow. May be you wouldn’t mind sharing your assets with him. May be you already were. He’d been on your health insurance since Kinnetik was up and running.
And, children? You can’t imagine being a full time parent. You’re too you to so that. You love Gus. You love him with this purity that you didn’t think you had in you. And you love Justin with Gus. You want Justin to have babies, if he wants them. The world needs more sunshine. You just can’t imagine a crib in the corner of the loft-and you’re not selling the loft. You could also never fit a car seat in to the corvette. The bile itches at the back of your throat and you have to shake the thoughts, of blankets spread out on the hardwood floor and warming bottles on your stainless steel stove top, out of your head.
You are suddenly disarmed by the thought of Justin raising these babies with someone else. Which is disarming on a whole new level, because you truly want him to be happy. More than anything. You just wish you could be the one to make him so.