(no subject)
Eugene's gone.
Snafu's pretending not care because he's not supposed to care, not really--he'd made his mind up on the train that it was ending there, that he'd walk away and let that part of his life go just so he could survive the next one.
This isn't so different. It's a few months of consequences for his disappearing act turned into some kind of warped punishment by Eugene's own, but it all adds up the same. He's gone and it should be better this way: nobody screaming in the room next door, nobody listening to Snafu scream when he actually sleeps, even if he doesn't sleep anymore.
There are dreams he doesn't want to face--not without Eugene on the other side of that wall and mostly just not without Eugene, and not facing them is as easy as pacing his room in tight circles when he's tired, the fucking cat chasing him around until feeding it's just one more thing he can do to keep out of his bed. And when the sun comes up he washes his face and chain-smokes until Shari brings breakfast, is as casual and evasive as he can be with the circles bruising heavy under his eyes and his whole body twitchy with
with what? This is how it was always going to be, in the end. Him on his own with strangers, even if the strangers were supposed to have familiar faces, familiar accents. Getting himself out of bed even if he couldn't find a reason, or failing to get himself to bed because there'd be nobody there. Nobody to tell him to get a few hours of sleep and nobody to watch the world while he did.
On the third day it's really sinking in, the mess he's somehow made--chosen for himself and finally gotten, all he'd wanted was Eugene to stop being mad at him but at least when he was mad he was--fuck, he was a presence, one that made sense and burned up and, and just--
he leans into the door frame of the barracks, where he's sitting with his first cigarette of the day, and tries to just hold himself there with one hand braced on it, almost dozing until the cigarette burns his fingers. He has to learn how to be on his own again. He has to just keep going, one foot in front of the other until it's over.
It's better this way.
It's what he wanted from the start.
Snafu's pretending not care because he's not supposed to care, not really--he'd made his mind up on the train that it was ending there, that he'd walk away and let that part of his life go just so he could survive the next one.
This isn't so different. It's a few months of consequences for his disappearing act turned into some kind of warped punishment by Eugene's own, but it all adds up the same. He's gone and it should be better this way: nobody screaming in the room next door, nobody listening to Snafu scream when he actually sleeps, even if he doesn't sleep anymore.
There are dreams he doesn't want to face--not without Eugene on the other side of that wall and mostly just not without Eugene, and not facing them is as easy as pacing his room in tight circles when he's tired, the fucking cat chasing him around until feeding it's just one more thing he can do to keep out of his bed. And when the sun comes up he washes his face and chain-smokes until Shari brings breakfast, is as casual and evasive as he can be with the circles bruising heavy under his eyes and his whole body twitchy with
with what? This is how it was always going to be, in the end. Him on his own with strangers, even if the strangers were supposed to have familiar faces, familiar accents. Getting himself out of bed even if he couldn't find a reason, or failing to get himself to bed because there'd be nobody there. Nobody to tell him to get a few hours of sleep and nobody to watch the world while he did.
On the third day it's really sinking in, the mess he's somehow made--chosen for himself and finally gotten, all he'd wanted was Eugene to stop being mad at him but at least when he was mad he was--fuck, he was a presence, one that made sense and burned up and, and just--
he leans into the door frame of the barracks, where he's sitting with his first cigarette of the day, and tries to just hold himself there with one hand braced on it, almost dozing until the cigarette burns his fingers. He has to learn how to be on his own again. He has to just keep going, one foot in front of the other until it's over.
It's better this way.
It's what he wanted from the start.