aww!
So I went upstairs to change, while Awesome Husband made some copies of our wedding DVD for family. Came back down to find him holding a blank DVD, sending little flickers of light all over the living room, while Evil Demon Cat jumped and pounced and scampered. So I sat on the stairs and watched my boys play.
In other news, Part Eight of the Continuation went up earlier this week, over here. I am also working on at least one of my Fest Fic prompts. It is prompt 37 on the list. I did ask whether I could give them a happy ending and was told yes, so, don't worry! Also, the soundtrack for this one is very likely courtesy of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Excerpt under the cut, at the end of this post...
Also, if you all REALLY meant it about the original fic...I think I found the first one I'd be willing to share, after I look it over and make sure. The title right now is "The Glass Castle and An Exchange of Hearts," but I may change it, because I was never happy with it; this one did get published, in a semi-pro magazine, several years ago.
The door’s still ajar, slightly; he glances out into the bedroom. Michael’s collapsed back onto the bed. He doesn’t seem to be moving. Potentially passed out. James isn’t certain, at the moment, whether to be relieved by that, or angry, or something else altogether. Probably he should be angry, but mostly he just feels numb.
He finishes cleaning himself up, only wincing occasionally, and then walks carefully back out to the bed. Michael still hasn’t moved. James bites his lip. Takes a deep breath. Leans over to check on him, just making sure that Michael’s fine and alive and breathing, too.
Michael needs someone who will make sure he’s fine. Who will care if he isn’t. And that someone, apparently, is James. Because James can’t control his own idiotic heart.
He suspects that, as badly as he’s going to hurt tomorrow, Michael’s going to hurt more, assuming he remembers the night. Michael isn’t a bad person. And he’s clearly conflicted, caught between all the desperation and desires and whatever reasons he has for insisting, in the face of all the extremely physical arguments to the contrary, that he can’t want James.
He tells himself he's not hurting that badly. He can tolerate this amount of pain, if it’ll be what Michael needs.
It’s cold, in the bedroom; he has to walk past Michael to find his clothing. He tries to be as silent as possible.
“Still here?”
Not silent enough, evidently. “Yes? Also, go back to sleep. You’re already going to have a fucking awful hangover in the morning.”
“”You. You’re still here. Why’re you here?”
James actually has to turn away, for a second, and press a hand to his mouth. He’d always thought that was a cliché, something romance-novel heroines did when overcome by emotion. The emotion part is accurate, he thinks, grimly.
“I’m here because we’re in my room. You’re in my bed. Did you forget that fact?”
“I’m not nice to you,” Michael says, and James honestly can’t tell from the intoxicated and sleep-blurred tone whether Michael is apologizing for that fact, or proud of it, or just pointing out the current state of affairs.
Affairs. Hilarious.
“That’s not true,” he answers, while his heart turns quietly to lead, “you’re nice to me most of the time, that’s why we’re friends, and we are friends, come on, we’ve stolen golf carts and made fun of Kevin’s supervillain helmet together, so that’s why I’m here, I’m here to make sure you don’t give yourself alcohol poisoning or pass out and die in your sleep or something, and I think I’ve got aspirin in my bag if you want it. Now, or, um, in the morning.”
Michael stares at him. Doesn’t blink. But it’s only the intently drunken focus of alcohol and tiredness.
“Go back to sleep,” James says, and scoops the discarded blanket off the floor and throws it at him. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
Michael opens his mouth, closes it, and then closes his eyes, too. Pulls the blanket over himself, onehanded, without looking. Starts breathing deeply, after a minute.
James stands in the doorway until he’s sure that Michael’s asleep, tucks the blanket in again when Michael flops over onto his back and it slips down, and then goes off to spend the final few hours of the night lying painfully on the sympathetically soft cushions of the sofa, staring into the dark, and trying very hard not to think about anything at all.
In other news, Part Eight of the Continuation went up earlier this week, over here. I am also working on at least one of my Fest Fic prompts. It is prompt 37 on the list. I did ask whether I could give them a happy ending and was told yes, so, don't worry! Also, the soundtrack for this one is very likely courtesy of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Excerpt under the cut, at the end of this post...
Also, if you all REALLY meant it about the original fic...I think I found the first one I'd be willing to share, after I look it over and make sure. The title right now is "The Glass Castle and An Exchange of Hearts," but I may change it, because I was never happy with it; this one did get published, in a semi-pro magazine, several years ago.
The door’s still ajar, slightly; he glances out into the bedroom. Michael’s collapsed back onto the bed. He doesn’t seem to be moving. Potentially passed out. James isn’t certain, at the moment, whether to be relieved by that, or angry, or something else altogether. Probably he should be angry, but mostly he just feels numb.
He finishes cleaning himself up, only wincing occasionally, and then walks carefully back out to the bed. Michael still hasn’t moved. James bites his lip. Takes a deep breath. Leans over to check on him, just making sure that Michael’s fine and alive and breathing, too.
Michael needs someone who will make sure he’s fine. Who will care if he isn’t. And that someone, apparently, is James. Because James can’t control his own idiotic heart.
He suspects that, as badly as he’s going to hurt tomorrow, Michael’s going to hurt more, assuming he remembers the night. Michael isn’t a bad person. And he’s clearly conflicted, caught between all the desperation and desires and whatever reasons he has for insisting, in the face of all the extremely physical arguments to the contrary, that he can’t want James.
He tells himself he's not hurting that badly. He can tolerate this amount of pain, if it’ll be what Michael needs.
It’s cold, in the bedroom; he has to walk past Michael to find his clothing. He tries to be as silent as possible.
“Still here?”
Not silent enough, evidently. “Yes? Also, go back to sleep. You’re already going to have a fucking awful hangover in the morning.”
“”You. You’re still here. Why’re you here?”
James actually has to turn away, for a second, and press a hand to his mouth. He’d always thought that was a cliché, something romance-novel heroines did when overcome by emotion. The emotion part is accurate, he thinks, grimly.
“I’m here because we’re in my room. You’re in my bed. Did you forget that fact?”
“I’m not nice to you,” Michael says, and James honestly can’t tell from the intoxicated and sleep-blurred tone whether Michael is apologizing for that fact, or proud of it, or just pointing out the current state of affairs.
Affairs. Hilarious.
“That’s not true,” he answers, while his heart turns quietly to lead, “you’re nice to me most of the time, that’s why we’re friends, and we are friends, come on, we’ve stolen golf carts and made fun of Kevin’s supervillain helmet together, so that’s why I’m here, I’m here to make sure you don’t give yourself alcohol poisoning or pass out and die in your sleep or something, and I think I’ve got aspirin in my bag if you want it. Now, or, um, in the morning.”
Michael stares at him. Doesn’t blink. But it’s only the intently drunken focus of alcohol and tiredness.
“Go back to sleep,” James says, and scoops the discarded blanket off the floor and throws it at him. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
Michael opens his mouth, closes it, and then closes his eyes, too. Pulls the blanket over himself, onehanded, without looking. Starts breathing deeply, after a minute.
James stands in the doorway until he’s sure that Michael’s asleep, tucks the blanket in again when Michael flops over onto his back and it slips down, and then goes off to spend the final few hours of the night lying painfully on the sympathetically soft cushions of the sofa, staring into the dark, and trying very hard not to think about anything at all.