A Temporary Crisis
Why is it every intense experience and bright memory must have its roots in childhood? His lips are dry and his muscles the kind of tenseness that feels as if every cell in his body is trying to twist itself in opposite directions. And he is not a child anymore. Things made then last until now, and he is a man, and he is a child, and he is himself, and can that be so simply pegged as child or adult? And do any of us ever really grow up?
It would be so easy, he thinks (he knows) to find the answer to it all. He used to find it every night, every single night, and from time to time when the daylight shone. He always had the answer in his pocket. The flask of answers. The bottle of calm. He doesn’t know where Draco put his flask. It’s the one thing he took with him when he left his mother’s house-the flask with her father’s name on it. Brennan.
Tonight he’s gone as far as the hallway. His lover is sleeping; his lover doesn’t know, and cannot know. But he can go no further than the hallway, crumpled near the edge of the stairs, his arms around his knees, his head bowed and hair cascading in front of his face. It would be so easy to stand up and go further. It would be so easy to drift down into the bar, late at night, find some stranger who doesn’t know, who doesn’t need to know, someone with time and a little money who would buy him his glass of answers, or maybe two, and two turns into three and then where does it end? By the lake in the cold? Winter’s still clinging to the night air, as warm as it’s been getting in the daylight.
Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
We had crossed each other's way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
But in the shameful day.
It would be so easy to sink lower. It’s so hard to turn around and go back to the room where he knows his lover’s arms are waiting. His mind is so unused to the notion of someone, so unaccustomed to the habit of reliance, it makes it hard to let himself seek that kind of safety, makes it hard to let someone else catch him. All it would take is to stand up and go back inside. But Draco would be annoyed to be woken up or Martin would squawk and Draco would be cross and…
It would be so easy to go down into the Bar and solve his problems and quiet his mind’s unsettled anxiety, and no one would ever have to know, would they? It would be just once, just this once…
…and if he was right, and it was that easy, why not once more? Why not ten times, why not every night? Why not, why not, until the promise breaks and he, in an alcohol-induced haze, stumbles back and it all comes out, and he knows? What then, Miniver Cheevy? What then?
So he doesn’t move. He waits between two safe harbors, unable to move in either direction. He can’t even bring himself to find somewhere he won’t be noticed. He just perches on a step and remains there, rocking slightly, whispering to himself all the logic and reason he can muster, and trying to order his mind to calm, his body to undo the knots in his muscles, his heart to stop pounding in his ears. Stop. Calm. Breathe. But his breath comes in staggers and hitches and every now and then, behind the cascade of tangled curls, a tear or two drops down onto his trembling hands.
It would be so easy, he thinks (he knows) to find the answer to it all. He used to find it every night, every single night, and from time to time when the daylight shone. He always had the answer in his pocket. The flask of answers. The bottle of calm. He doesn’t know where Draco put his flask. It’s the one thing he took with him when he left his mother’s house-the flask with her father’s name on it. Brennan.
Tonight he’s gone as far as the hallway. His lover is sleeping; his lover doesn’t know, and cannot know. But he can go no further than the hallway, crumpled near the edge of the stairs, his arms around his knees, his head bowed and hair cascading in front of his face. It would be so easy to stand up and go further. It would be so easy to drift down into the bar, late at night, find some stranger who doesn’t know, who doesn’t need to know, someone with time and a little money who would buy him his glass of answers, or maybe two, and two turns into three and then where does it end? By the lake in the cold? Winter’s still clinging to the night air, as warm as it’s been getting in the daylight.
Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
We had crossed each other's way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
But in the shameful day.
It would be so easy to sink lower. It’s so hard to turn around and go back to the room where he knows his lover’s arms are waiting. His mind is so unused to the notion of someone, so unaccustomed to the habit of reliance, it makes it hard to let himself seek that kind of safety, makes it hard to let someone else catch him. All it would take is to stand up and go back inside. But Draco would be annoyed to be woken up or Martin would squawk and Draco would be cross and…
It would be so easy to go down into the Bar and solve his problems and quiet his mind’s unsettled anxiety, and no one would ever have to know, would they? It would be just once, just this once…
…and if he was right, and it was that easy, why not once more? Why not ten times, why not every night? Why not, why not, until the promise breaks and he, in an alcohol-induced haze, stumbles back and it all comes out, and he knows? What then, Miniver Cheevy? What then?
So he doesn’t move. He waits between two safe harbors, unable to move in either direction. He can’t even bring himself to find somewhere he won’t be noticed. He just perches on a step and remains there, rocking slightly, whispering to himself all the logic and reason he can muster, and trying to order his mind to calm, his body to undo the knots in his muscles, his heart to stop pounding in his ears. Stop. Calm. Breathe. But his breath comes in staggers and hitches and every now and then, behind the cascade of tangled curls, a tear or two drops down onto his trembling hands.