(no subject)
The little AU: Waiting Spring: No-one
slashfairy
~~
The last time he was that drunk he lost an argument with some barbed wire. This time he's lost an argument with his own sense of maintaining a safe distance between how he feels and where he is.
Fuck it, just -fuck it.
He's worked so hard- so hard- and he's disappointed, frustrated, outraged that it'd all be taken away from him.
"All I want is enough to live on, to travel, to pay for college for my son."
But that presupposes a place to live, a livable place, and places to which he can travel, the means of travel and the existence of destinations of places to which one can actually go. It assumes he can maintain his health, that the banks where his money is stay healthy, that it's healthy to travel, to live, even, that Columbia stays open, that Henry stays focused and attentive and pays attention, keeps his attention on the path, keeps his eyes on the road, and oh goddamn it, fuck it, even The Road was supposed to be finished by now so that he could just get on with his own life, do what he needs to do for himself, instead of becoming, what was it Johnny called it?
A commodity.
Fuck it.
A commodity. The outside of the other half of a bottle of Jameson's. A carrier of gift bags. The image exposed when the film's developed, the camera card uploaded, the window refreshed and refreshed and refreshed and why does none of this refresh him? Why does none of it feed him, make him feel like part of a team? Why does he feel like no-one?
Why can't he find his way back to the house at the end of the bluff road?
It's not like Orlando's not around. He is. It's not like Karl's not around. He is.
It's that he can't settle down for long enough to call them, to say Help me in that tiniest of voices, that single note that starts avalanches, that shatters glass, that is only heard by those whose hearing is attuned to it: the hearing of the heart. He can't settle down even when he's got a week to himself. He's got to be busy, he's got to be out, to be writing, to be where laughter and kicking and running around like a child pass for adult behaviour, because if he's not there, not doing those things, then he's drinking, he's smoking dope, he's unslept and unkempt and weaving his way up the aisles of life so very, very carefully, one step at a time, until he can't go any further.
Then it's caution to the winds, boys, and way haul away, we'll haul away, Joe! and let fly with words, with thoughts and sentences that go this way and that, with sound and fury signifying everything, and he can only hope that somehow he's pinged them, and they'll come find him, and bring him home.
Because if the third day after the drunk's the roughest, and there's a day after that, and a day after that...
And he has no-one, is no-one...
Then
What's he going to do?
He picks up his bags and waits to board the plane.
slashfairy
~~
The last time he was that drunk he lost an argument with some barbed wire. This time he's lost an argument with his own sense of maintaining a safe distance between how he feels and where he is.
Fuck it, just -fuck it.
He's worked so hard- so hard- and he's disappointed, frustrated, outraged that it'd all be taken away from him.
"All I want is enough to live on, to travel, to pay for college for my son."
But that presupposes a place to live, a livable place, and places to which he can travel, the means of travel and the existence of destinations of places to which one can actually go. It assumes he can maintain his health, that the banks where his money is stay healthy, that it's healthy to travel, to live, even, that Columbia stays open, that Henry stays focused and attentive and pays attention, keeps his attention on the path, keeps his eyes on the road, and oh goddamn it, fuck it, even The Road was supposed to be finished by now so that he could just get on with his own life, do what he needs to do for himself, instead of becoming, what was it Johnny called it?
A commodity.
Fuck it.
A commodity. The outside of the other half of a bottle of Jameson's. A carrier of gift bags. The image exposed when the film's developed, the camera card uploaded, the window refreshed and refreshed and refreshed and why does none of this refresh him? Why does none of it feed him, make him feel like part of a team? Why does he feel like no-one?
Why can't he find his way back to the house at the end of the bluff road?
It's not like Orlando's not around. He is. It's not like Karl's not around. He is.
It's that he can't settle down for long enough to call them, to say Help me in that tiniest of voices, that single note that starts avalanches, that shatters glass, that is only heard by those whose hearing is attuned to it: the hearing of the heart. He can't settle down even when he's got a week to himself. He's got to be busy, he's got to be out, to be writing, to be where laughter and kicking and running around like a child pass for adult behaviour, because if he's not there, not doing those things, then he's drinking, he's smoking dope, he's unslept and unkempt and weaving his way up the aisles of life so very, very carefully, one step at a time, until he can't go any further.
Then it's caution to the winds, boys, and way haul away, we'll haul away, Joe! and let fly with words, with thoughts and sentences that go this way and that, with sound and fury signifying everything, and he can only hope that somehow he's pinged them, and they'll come find him, and bring him home.
Because if the third day after the drunk's the roughest, and there's a day after that, and a day after that...
And he has no-one, is no-one...
Then
What's he going to do?
He picks up his bags and waits to board the plane.