(no subject)
[note: this was written for my own entertainment and posted here only for archiving purposes. this journal is not to be construed as "active" for the purposes of mbp.]
On TSN I see that Malkin has resurfaced in Los Angeles, safe and sound after all, eyes bright as silver dollars. He doesn't look the way I remember him--he's larger, not as skinny and lanky, less a puppy too small for his paws and more the man he will one day be.
I dream about Marc-Andre that night, the way I dream about all of them from time to time--as I knew him then, when his voice was softer and he shivered where I touched him. In my dream he is the sweet sad boy who loved me, not the man who wouldn't return my calls, who looked through me when we occupied the same room and laughed louder and sharper in my hearing. In the dream all his words are soft and warm, whispered into my throat; his mouth has not yet learned how to hate me.
The dreams are never very different from each other, except that every once in awhile it is Genya's mouth under mine, or it is Johan whispering sweet things in a language I can't understand. No matter who or what or how, they all end the exact same way, because all dreams have the same ending--you wake up.