Episode 202 Gapfiller
What IS it with me? I sit down to write one thing, and something completely different pops out. I'm just going with the flow here.
Trust Me
By Severina
* * *
Brian stands at the end of the bed and watches Justin sleep.
His chest rises and falls gently. The sunlight seeping from the window caresses his still form, bathing him in an ethereal glow. Brian thinks that he has never seen Justin look so fragile. So beautiful. Then Justin shifts slightly, a frown creasing his brow, and Brian jerks forward, a puppet on Justin’s unknowing string. But then Justin snuggles further into his pillow, and settles. Brian does not.
There had been solemn silence in the jeep on the drive home. Justin, cheek pressed against the cool glass, eyes closed. Hands tucked into the sleeves of his grey hoodie, hidden from view, but not well enough that Brian can’t see that his right hand is cradled delicately against his elbow, fingers crooked and awkward. And Brian, concentrating on navigating the crowded city streets, concentrating on the flashes of pedestrian colour, concentrating on not thinking about parking garages and sappy songs and the crunch of wood against bone.
When Justin chooses to take a nap when they get home, Brian doesn’t protest.
Brian has other ways of coping.
* * *
Justin has been sleeping for an hour when the knock sounds at the door. Brian rises quickly from the sofa, glancing toward the bed. The prone figure doesn’t move.
Brian isn’t sure whether that’s good or bad.
He pads swiftly across the floor, bare feet all but silent on the hardwood. Slides open the door to find --
“Jennifer.”
“Brian.”
He can see that she’s flustered. When isn’t she flustered? Her eyes briefly meet his before darting into the room, then back to his chest, back to his eyes. He is reminded of her first visit, and wonders if she is thinking of it as well. At least he’s clothed this time.
“I just wanted to see Justin.”
“He’s sleeping.” Brian doesn’t move from the doorway, arm stretched casually across the open space.
“Sleeping?” She blinks once, twice. “It’s three in the afternoon.”
Brian lifts a shoulder. “He was tired.”
Jennifer hesitates, then squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “Well, I don’t want to disturb him, but--”
“Then don’t.”
“Brian, you can’t prevent me from seeing my son!”
Jennifer’s voice raises an octave as she tries to push past him, and Brian briefly wonders how his life got to this point, how he ended up spending a Saturday afternoon not at the gym or Woody’s, but with a traumatized lover and his distraught mother. He knows that he should be able to see the progression, should be able to trace the steps that brought him here. But when he tries, all he gets are images of golden hair and pale skin and perfect lips.
He gently takes Jennifer’s arm and guides her to the hallway, sliding the door softly shut behind them.
“When I agreed to take Justin in, you agreed that I’d be in charge.”
“Brian--”
“My decisions. My rules.” Brian takes a deep breath. “Let him sleep.”
“I suppose you wore him out,” Jennifer snaps.
Brian presses his lips together and looks away, at the slats of the elevator, at the steps that lead to outside, steps that should lead to sunshine.
“I didn’t mean...” She falters. She did mean. “If it helps him...”
“We’re handling it.” Brian meets her eyes, his pupils pinpricks in the subdued hallway lighting, and hopes that she can’t quite make out just how he is handling it.
“I just...” She rests a cool hand on his arm, perfectly manicured fingernails pressing into his skin. “I’ve been seeing a new therapist, Dr. Fuller, and she’s wonderful. And I just thought that maybe I didn’t... maybe I could try to convince Justin to--”
“I’ve seen a therapist.”
“You?” Jennifer removes her hand, and huffs out a sceptical sigh. “Justin told me you said that therapy is bullshit.”
Brian leans against the doorjamb. “It is. But...”
But. He lifts his shoulders again. But. But I don’t have a clue what to do. But I fucked up your son’s life and I can’t fix it. But I’m lost here, and my usual remedy of have a good fuck and call me in the morning isn’t going to work.
“I just... I just want to protect my son. I want him safe. I want him whole. Isn’t that what every mother wants?”
Brian pinches the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes, and sees the immaculate kitchen, immaculate but for the papers strewn on the table, his own brow furrowing over trigonometry or calculus or something equally incomprehensible, Jack towering over him, eyes bloodshot, You’ll never amount to anything, papers flying, dust motes hovering in the air, sparkling in the sunlight, What are you, the village idiot, the stench of cheap whiskey, and at the counter, the thunk-thunk of Joanie’s knife as she dices the carrots for supper, doesn’t meet his eyes, just the thunk of sharpened steel and the slash of words biting into his flesh.
But I’m lost here.
Brian opens his eyes.
He straightens. He is not a failure.
“Then trust me,” he says.
Also posted on my website, here.
And there is more Gapfillerpalooza! brilliance from twistinside82, as usual. :)
Trust Me
By Severina
* * *
Brian stands at the end of the bed and watches Justin sleep.
His chest rises and falls gently. The sunlight seeping from the window caresses his still form, bathing him in an ethereal glow. Brian thinks that he has never seen Justin look so fragile. So beautiful. Then Justin shifts slightly, a frown creasing his brow, and Brian jerks forward, a puppet on Justin’s unknowing string. But then Justin snuggles further into his pillow, and settles. Brian does not.
There had been solemn silence in the jeep on the drive home. Justin, cheek pressed against the cool glass, eyes closed. Hands tucked into the sleeves of his grey hoodie, hidden from view, but not well enough that Brian can’t see that his right hand is cradled delicately against his elbow, fingers crooked and awkward. And Brian, concentrating on navigating the crowded city streets, concentrating on the flashes of pedestrian colour, concentrating on not thinking about parking garages and sappy songs and the crunch of wood against bone.
When Justin chooses to take a nap when they get home, Brian doesn’t protest.
Brian has other ways of coping.
* * *
Justin has been sleeping for an hour when the knock sounds at the door. Brian rises quickly from the sofa, glancing toward the bed. The prone figure doesn’t move.
Brian isn’t sure whether that’s good or bad.
He pads swiftly across the floor, bare feet all but silent on the hardwood. Slides open the door to find --
“Jennifer.”
“Brian.”
He can see that she’s flustered. When isn’t she flustered? Her eyes briefly meet his before darting into the room, then back to his chest, back to his eyes. He is reminded of her first visit, and wonders if she is thinking of it as well. At least he’s clothed this time.
“I just wanted to see Justin.”
“He’s sleeping.” Brian doesn’t move from the doorway, arm stretched casually across the open space.
“Sleeping?” She blinks once, twice. “It’s three in the afternoon.”
Brian lifts a shoulder. “He was tired.”
Jennifer hesitates, then squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “Well, I don’t want to disturb him, but--”
“Then don’t.”
“Brian, you can’t prevent me from seeing my son!”
Jennifer’s voice raises an octave as she tries to push past him, and Brian briefly wonders how his life got to this point, how he ended up spending a Saturday afternoon not at the gym or Woody’s, but with a traumatized lover and his distraught mother. He knows that he should be able to see the progression, should be able to trace the steps that brought him here. But when he tries, all he gets are images of golden hair and pale skin and perfect lips.
He gently takes Jennifer’s arm and guides her to the hallway, sliding the door softly shut behind them.
“When I agreed to take Justin in, you agreed that I’d be in charge.”
“Brian--”
“My decisions. My rules.” Brian takes a deep breath. “Let him sleep.”
“I suppose you wore him out,” Jennifer snaps.
Brian presses his lips together and looks away, at the slats of the elevator, at the steps that lead to outside, steps that should lead to sunshine.
“I didn’t mean...” She falters. She did mean. “If it helps him...”
“We’re handling it.” Brian meets her eyes, his pupils pinpricks in the subdued hallway lighting, and hopes that she can’t quite make out just how he is handling it.
“I just...” She rests a cool hand on his arm, perfectly manicured fingernails pressing into his skin. “I’ve been seeing a new therapist, Dr. Fuller, and she’s wonderful. And I just thought that maybe I didn’t... maybe I could try to convince Justin to--”
“I’ve seen a therapist.”
“You?” Jennifer removes her hand, and huffs out a sceptical sigh. “Justin told me you said that therapy is bullshit.”
Brian leans against the doorjamb. “It is. But...”
But. He lifts his shoulders again. But. But I don’t have a clue what to do. But I fucked up your son’s life and I can’t fix it. But I’m lost here, and my usual remedy of have a good fuck and call me in the morning isn’t going to work.
“I just... I just want to protect my son. I want him safe. I want him whole. Isn’t that what every mother wants?”
Brian pinches the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes, and sees the immaculate kitchen, immaculate but for the papers strewn on the table, his own brow furrowing over trigonometry or calculus or something equally incomprehensible, Jack towering over him, eyes bloodshot, You’ll never amount to anything, papers flying, dust motes hovering in the air, sparkling in the sunlight, What are you, the village idiot, the stench of cheap whiskey, and at the counter, the thunk-thunk of Joanie’s knife as she dices the carrots for supper, doesn’t meet his eyes, just the thunk of sharpened steel and the slash of words biting into his flesh.
But I’m lost here.
Brian opens his eyes.
He straightens. He is not a failure.
“Then trust me,” he says.
Also posted on my website, here.
And there is more Gapfillerpalooza! brilliance from twistinside82, as usual. :)