(no subject)
It starts out as a perfectly fine day, which Lionel is used to by now. He's been happy lately; most of his problems just involve whether to choose between four by six or eight by eleven photo paper, or the 'your room or mine?' question with Peter. He's almost as content as he can be.
He's spent half the morning in the rec room, taking up most of the pool table and not really caring how many people can't play because of it. Pictures are strewn all over the green felt; half look smudged or blurry, and are discarded to the side in a haphazard pile. The other half are neatly spread out by person, by place, by color in some cases. There isn't any real pattern or why to it after that; some days, like today, Lionel kind of just has to admire the kind of luck he has when it comes to being able to do just this. (A lot of the time, he thinks if there's any one thing other than people he'd miss if he ever got home, it'd be this. He can't imagine waiting thirty years to reach this kind of technology.)
When he starts thinking about what the island's given him in terms of luck is when Lionel probably should have started wondering what he'll get to balance it out, but he's never been a glass half empty kind of person. His wedding band sits in the back of his bedside table drawer, and some days, he won't even give it a thought.
Stepping away for a second to stretch his back, Lionel turns away from the pool table and rolls his eyes at the jukebox. It's been obnoxious all morning, playing the same song over and over again (someone had mentioned the Spice Girls earlier, and quickly vacated the rec room) at different volumes. When he turns back to the pool table, there's something propped up against one of the legs, and Lionel crouches down to inspect it.
On first glance, it's easy to tell it's a photo canvas, and a type he's even used before. It's when Lionel's eyes stray down toward the bottom corner to see his name and Untitled; October 1976 neatly printed there that he goes completely still, and can't breathe.
He doesn't have to turn the canvas around to know exactly what's on the other side. The title, the bleed of black and red and silver is enough. It'd been his first, the one that made him uneasy to look at, knowing there was so much more of himself in it compared to the ones that followed. It was the only one without a price tag at the gallery opening, and for good reason.
It's the one that reminds him that no matter how far he gets, no matter how much he moves on, there is still that small part of him that will always, always be with John, a little bit of his heart that won't ever heal.
When Lionel can move again, can think again, he sucks in a deep breath that almost hurts, and turns the picture around.
And just like that, like the past two and a half years haven't happened, Lionel sits down hard on the concrete floor, palms pressed to the ground at his sides and the back of his throat burning.
[The image looks like this, and is about three feet tall.]
He's spent half the morning in the rec room, taking up most of the pool table and not really caring how many people can't play because of it. Pictures are strewn all over the green felt; half look smudged or blurry, and are discarded to the side in a haphazard pile. The other half are neatly spread out by person, by place, by color in some cases. There isn't any real pattern or why to it after that; some days, like today, Lionel kind of just has to admire the kind of luck he has when it comes to being able to do just this. (A lot of the time, he thinks if there's any one thing other than people he'd miss if he ever got home, it'd be this. He can't imagine waiting thirty years to reach this kind of technology.)
When he starts thinking about what the island's given him in terms of luck is when Lionel probably should have started wondering what he'll get to balance it out, but he's never been a glass half empty kind of person. His wedding band sits in the back of his bedside table drawer, and some days, he won't even give it a thought.
Stepping away for a second to stretch his back, Lionel turns away from the pool table and rolls his eyes at the jukebox. It's been obnoxious all morning, playing the same song over and over again (someone had mentioned the Spice Girls earlier, and quickly vacated the rec room) at different volumes. When he turns back to the pool table, there's something propped up against one of the legs, and Lionel crouches down to inspect it.
On first glance, it's easy to tell it's a photo canvas, and a type he's even used before. It's when Lionel's eyes stray down toward the bottom corner to see his name and Untitled; October 1976 neatly printed there that he goes completely still, and can't breathe.
He doesn't have to turn the canvas around to know exactly what's on the other side. The title, the bleed of black and red and silver is enough. It'd been his first, the one that made him uneasy to look at, knowing there was so much more of himself in it compared to the ones that followed. It was the only one without a price tag at the gallery opening, and for good reason.
It's the one that reminds him that no matter how far he gets, no matter how much he moves on, there is still that small part of him that will always, always be with John, a little bit of his heart that won't ever heal.
When Lionel can move again, can think again, he sucks in a deep breath that almost hurts, and turns the picture around.
And just like that, like the past two and a half years haven't happened, Lionel sits down hard on the concrete floor, palms pressed to the ground at his sides and the back of his throat burning.
[The image looks like this, and is about three feet tall.]