Day fifteen: letters
The little AU: advent calendar: day fifteen: letters
slashfairy
G
Once upon a time there was a boy in Kent who was bonnie and bright and good and gay. Although he hadn't been born on a Sunday, not full of Grace, but on a Thursday, with far to go, he'd been loved and wanted: so loved and wanted that great pains had been taken to have him at all, never mind to make a family around him, over and over, so that when he was of an age to go away to school, he went with a loved and glad and willing heart.
He worked hard and played hard, made understanding and friends and his way in the world, until, as he neared his 29th birthday, it would seem to any observer that he must not have a care in the world. But as he was not a Sunday's child, he was not granted a care-free birthright (and those who think a Sunday's child are care-free should think again, for no-one is born into this world free of troubles), as he was a Thursday's child and had far to go, the length of the road in front of him stretched on seemingly endlessly until, one day, he found himself unable to move.
He'd come off the plane in LA and, instead of getting on the commuter that would take him closer to home, he'd gotten on the shuttle to the hotel, checked in, and holed up. That was three weeks, no, nearly a month ago now, and until today he'd shown no real outward signs of coming out again except for work, and that without heart, without spirit, until the cameras came to catch him and he had to pull it up from some deep reserve just long enough to fool them until he could retire again to stillness, to...to near immobility.
But. Today he'd put his dirty trays outside the room, then looked down the hall, shrugged, thrown on sweats and walked down to the concierge. He'd bought stamps, and a couple postcards of the hotel, and gone back to his room where he carefully drew a likeness, just barely smiling, on each card, addressed it, stamped it, and set it out with the as-yet-unpicked-up tray to be carried out onto the wider waters in the hopes it might find its way to shore near the house at the end of the bluff road.
Day sixteen
slashfairy
G
Once upon a time there was a boy in Kent who was bonnie and bright and good and gay. Although he hadn't been born on a Sunday, not full of Grace, but on a Thursday, with far to go, he'd been loved and wanted: so loved and wanted that great pains had been taken to have him at all, never mind to make a family around him, over and over, so that when he was of an age to go away to school, he went with a loved and glad and willing heart.
He worked hard and played hard, made understanding and friends and his way in the world, until, as he neared his 29th birthday, it would seem to any observer that he must not have a care in the world. But as he was not a Sunday's child, he was not granted a care-free birthright (and those who think a Sunday's child are care-free should think again, for no-one is born into this world free of troubles), as he was a Thursday's child and had far to go, the length of the road in front of him stretched on seemingly endlessly until, one day, he found himself unable to move.
He'd come off the plane in LA and, instead of getting on the commuter that would take him closer to home, he'd gotten on the shuttle to the hotel, checked in, and holed up. That was three weeks, no, nearly a month ago now, and until today he'd shown no real outward signs of coming out again except for work, and that without heart, without spirit, until the cameras came to catch him and he had to pull it up from some deep reserve just long enough to fool them until he could retire again to stillness, to...to near immobility.
But. Today he'd put his dirty trays outside the room, then looked down the hall, shrugged, thrown on sweats and walked down to the concierge. He'd bought stamps, and a couple postcards of the hotel, and gone back to his room where he carefully drew a likeness, just barely smiling, on each card, addressed it, stamped it, and set it out with the as-yet-unpicked-up tray to be carried out onto the wider waters in the hopes it might find its way to shore near the house at the end of the bluff road.
Day sixteen