it's 8:17 pm, on December 20, 2001 - back to you.
~
Today I got something in the mail that reminded me of why I don't know why 'need' is happy or sad. And other things.
This forum is, uncomfortable, now, for discussing things of this shape. There's this story that I wrote once, that had Remy buried in Bobby's shoulder, I think, but I don't know where it is, or what fic it was-- I barely even remember the scene the way I wrote it.
So I got this package in the mail, and I remembered, I wanted to write about Justin and Chris, and how Chris was all saying, "I forgot to bring you the water."
My new box says, "everybody got their something"; also:
"Jesus, Lance." Joey held up a hand, and Lance saw his mouth crumple and he moved forward -- and Joey's face was buried in the crook of his neck before he knew what was happening. Joey's hands were wrapped around the back of his head desperately, shaking him with wet, keening sounds. He breathed, "You are so full of shit."
So later, Lance says, "oh."
You go, little box.
~*~
Someone also a lot smarter than I am said, "go to water" and that's what made me think about writing the Chris and Justin story. I'm putting it off because, like I said, I want to make it a happily-ever-after story. I think it would break my heart to have it make me cry.
Went back to find some wisdom. Read an old journal entry of yours, and found the line, "I can't imagine how the snow will lay // this year."
Somewhere in my head, I think I'm convinced that all I have to do is drive back to Hurt, to find that road sign that was pointed out, and I'll find that month again. I think that I'm hoping it to be the way it was.
Hey now. They're writing books about the way things used to be. --that's Al's quote, because when is it not.
~*~
I remember something else I wanted to talk about: I wrote to Kitty, because I wanted to disclaim about going back to Bobby and Remy after this, vacation from them--
There's something else I wanted to say, I think. I'm so full of things I want to say and none of them are the right things.
Anyway, so I sent Kitty this email which was probably full of self-confession, and, I realized in the car, looking at my box (that also says, "the grief of imagined loss") that I'm an open book. People must know every fucking thing about me. I mean, I reread this and go, you're open to be read, there's nothing under the surface. Forget being subtle. And that's no Lance.
I think that's why, though I like Lance, I always *get* Chris better.
Yeah, you can take your pick as to which Chris that is, too; and ain't that special.
~*~
Chris looks out past his bars, and sighs.
A guard walks past, and Chris hates these bars, because nothing reminds him of Toby in here except what he's thinking, and that hurts.
One of his posse yells something obscene, and Keller answers absentminded, while Chris is thinking about Toby wrapped around him so tight, arms gripping hard and choking, so that he couldn't see.
~*~
I think I could go around in circles for hours and hours and hours and hours about this, and I'd get back to where I started, which is, I can't say these things here, and I don't... I mean, I can't decide whether Justin should *want* more than he should be *adult*. Until I do, I don't know whether I should mourn or just feel really, really stupid.
yeah, so I mourn and feel really stupid, and mourn some more.
There's grief where once I'd pushed it down, and, missing, hard, and, want. Chris is used to it, I guess, but I guess I haven't gotten that way even though I've tried.
~
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