Two pages. Perhaps I shouldn't feel so accomplished.

“Wes, I—“

“Shut the fuck up.” I don’t turn around, but there’s that distant sort of fuzz of him. It’s like some bad radio line, tzzhhh—khhhh—tzzhhh, and he smells like burnt plastic. Sharp, toxic. (Fuck him.)

The skiffs on the docks are disturbingly still. There’s a storm-front off the coast, just creeping up the horizon like a fat, gray cat. No one in town but the sailors knows about it yet, but the waves are already livening up. I’m on my stomach, head propped up on my fists, with the spray spitting in my face; it feels nice because it means that there’s something else out there beyond me and myself.

The Argonaut says nothing—that’s what I call him between my friends and I, the Argonaut—and I can hear the mental processor whirring. Nothing comes up, though, so he sits next to me.

“Go away.” I say. He touches my hair, hand catching on the flyaways and they snap. Thanks a lot, but I won’t say anything.

Whirr, whirr, whirr goes his mind. Chink. Clunk.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Gee, thanks. Such a fucking comfort. He’s not looking at me as he speaks, so I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. The Argonaut’s pretty in that too-pretty way that rather diminishes him, pearl-gray eyes and a marble smooth face. His lips are colorless and I see the hair on his arms standing up like cactus spines. “I never quite know what to say to you. I’m sorry for it, too, but it’s not all my fault. You’re not exactly the easiest kid to talk to. It felt so—so good?—to be your friend, someone you trusted because you didn’t do it with anyone else.”

Silence, again. It’s my turn this time, but I have nothing to say to him. After awhile, his hand stops, a pause where he’s unsure whether not to continue or not. I give him no encouragement, but he starts again anyway. My mind makes up.

“Yeah. Well. Your timing sucked, a lot.” I say it softer, now. Like it might matter, but it doesn’t. There’s more confidence in his hand, rising and falling quickly but he’s taking care to untangle his fingers now.

“Sorry.” He offers, and it’s only part of what he’s offering. I know this, and I think he does too.

“I know,” And I finally turn my head. Eyes are closed, so he can’t get inside my head, can’t make any connection. Still that fried plastic smell, underneath the sea-salt spray.

There’s a careful sort of stillness to him now. His hand on my hair slows, thoughtful almost. I am almost asleep when he finally speaks, “So what did you tell him, anyway?”

Should I tell him? I think. And then: does it matter? “Not too much. He was more interested in the other things going on. I don’t even think that he really cared much.”

“Oh.” The Argonaut sounds carefully blank. “Okay. That’s good.”

“I guess.” I mutter into the sweatshirt cotton gathered in the crook of my elbow. A moment, two, and I hear the rapid scrape of movement over the seawall stone. He’s right next to me, head propped up on a fist and level with mine.

“Wes, I’m sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“But I really am. Really, really am. Don’t be mad at me—I’m not even sure if I deserve it anymore.” He says; I know that, stupid, I think. His warm breath ghosts along my cheek, raises the hairs on my neck. “What can I do to make it better? I’m sorry I said anything to Carrie at all. I think she didn’t mean any harm by it—yeah, shhh, I know!—but she’s just an idiot.”

“She’s a stupid bitch.” I crack an eye at him, and he’s looking all strained and earnest. Suddenly, I just want to make him laugh so it can all be over.

“I am not your sassy, gay friend.” The Argonaut says, vaguely scandalized. He snatches a lock of my hair trailing over the wall, and tucks it into my hood. Frowns, purses his lips—it’s a pity he’s so gorgeous. I think I might love him better if he weren’t, maybe.

“I don’t know. You dress a little too well sometimes, Joseph. I’m sort of the opinion that a lad shouldn’t dress better than his lady friends.” I’m trying to change the subject, now, and but he’s got the bit between his teeth. This subject is going to be talked out, so help him God.

“Jesus, Sarah. Don’t you even want to know what I said to her?” He smacks the stone next to my face and I startle, glare at him. What? “You should! I mean, you only caught a bit of it, not all. Only the scuttlebutt version.”

“Don’t call me Sarah.”

“Wes.”

“Fine. Tell me.” I hold his gaze, even if his eyes are too gray and lovely. That earnestness again! And when he speaks, his voice is low, sweet, and positively throbbing with emotion.

Days are seeming more solid now, plodding and plowing along like a dancing march. I am doing things!

Dylan and I went on a walk in the rain, escaping from his friends who sat with their amiably competing egos and studied nonchalance. We ran inelegantly, him blind as a bat without his glasses and me with my determined love of puddles. Highland park, and he shivers as he boxes me into being truthful. I'm so warm, the steam rises off my clothes: I am as cheerfully irreverent as I ever am with him.

He's still asking me why AJ and not him. He's the one who gave me a rose, took me to the uppermost of a parking garage to show me the painted rooftops. Dylan thinks that it's because AJ was honest with me--to tell the truth, I have no fucking clue except he cared and AJ did not. How pathetic is that?

And as quick as thought, it's gone. Where am I going? What the frelling hell am I doing? What. Where. Why? Who? Whatwhatwhat?

Hard to remember, sometimes, that people aren't as bad as they sometimes seem. What's that quote? Human beings can be awful cruel to one another. And the only thing you can do, it seems, is growl and snarl and carve out a little corner of good, then hope it grows. (Or, you know, go out and hunt down good things so you can stuff them and put them on the mantle. See? There are good things in the world! I hunting one down and killed it, just to show!)

Broke up with AJ. I'm weeping one of those loud, violent storms of tears that has very little to do with me or my emotions, just sort of exploding from somewhere inside of me. Out of me, and somehow they don't even touch what it is that I feel. I mean, it's passing go without collecting the 200 bucks. Doesn't make any sense, crap analogy, but there is.

It is better like this.

Briefly

Exhausted, and in the clitter-clatter between thoughts I am more regretful than he knows. This may or may not be speaking from the rational heart, but sometimes I think that no one deserves to be with me (though maybe 'inflicted with'.) Do a good job of hurting without meaning to--

--and I've always thought that if you hurt people 'without meaning to' it's your own damn fault because you're not trying hard enough not to. In fact, I don't try hard enough not to--what does this say about me? This is an old hamster wheel, though, and I'm one fit little rodent; I loved Patrick. I still did this. (I did that.) (And I am not who I think I am, either.)

Dose-y Truths

IF I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

--Emily Dickinson, Not In Vain

19 is so freaking Dire

As of the 8^th of August, I am now 19. The general idea was to spend it alone, in peace and quiet contemplation. That way I could welcome my new year at a more leisurely pace, toe first and whatnot. I could figure out who I want to be and—stuff.

And 19. It’s a big number.

Then Matt posted a status, and I saw it. No-one to talk to? I said, Well, I’m here. (Insert worrying Matt comment) And you did what?Again? No, no, I insist. We really must talk.

And we did. In the park. It was lovely because there were arching oaks and sun dappled shade, cool grass, good company. I was pretty exhausted, but that was alright. I want to be there for people. He’s going through a super rough patch, but I think he is feeling better by the end. I left about three.

Then James called. He’s been feeling off for awhile, and due to a miscommunicationatory stuff it was put off and off. Sunday was free, and he was feeling fairly crisis-y and—So we hung out too. Soon enough someone called with the notion to all hang out at the drive-in and it’s my birthday—I have to go, right?

Some time about three in the morning I trundle off to collapse on Yav’s bed.

* (Just a Ficlet)

“Trusting someone,” Adam mutters, only partly to himself, “is like catching a fast ball—one part intuition, one part faith, and two parts courage. Or more than two parts. Who said that there should only ever be four parts in something—I know it gets a bit complicated after that, but still. Shit. You know, that putting a hand out for something coming at you really fast bit. Fucking scary.”

He says this with his hands cupping the back of his head, and the edge of his shirt riding up. There is a line of red-brown skin at the gap, testament to too much time spent by the lake docks and something of a characteristic absent-mindedness. He’s twenty-four, virile, some how only of an average height, which he resents mightily. I don’t mind, even if I look him in the eyes directly when I kiss him. I’m twenty-six, and some somehow things have always been a little shook up anyway.

“Sure.” I say. Little strips of cloud, high up, look like the ripples over water and catch the last of a perfect summer day. The air hangs still but for the occasional hum of a car far off, and it’s like every story where there’s a bubble of twilight held suspended in time.

“And love! Fuck love.” He says. There’s this smile, like this is humorous somehow. He has pretty strange lips, tugged down in one corner and up in the other. “Like the Emperor’s new clothes—”

“That’s a little cynical, don’t you think?”

“—because it only exists when you believe.” He rolls over, props his head up on a hand, and then threads my fingers though his. Lying on my stomach, I can smell the bruised grass so bad it’s like a taste in my mouth; when I look at him, he’s flat out grinning.

“Like fairies. You could’ve said, like fairies.” I say, and scritch my nails lightly across the back of his hand.

“Yeah. But I think the Emperor’s new clothes is a bit less mainstream, and a bit more apt.” There’s a little silence, and I know that he’s laughing at a private joke he thinks I’m in on. “Plus, I just like it when you get my references.”

“Ha.” Close my eyes. “I know. So elitist, Mr. Voysey.”

“Hardly.” Adam says, very distinctly. It’s a sore point, but he should laugh about it.

I think he’s pouting. Somehow, the lip quirk is more noticeable when he’s pulling a face. Open my eyes, just to check, and he’s looking ridiculous. Close them, smug. There’s a pause, and I ask, “Where did this come from?”

“It’s our one month anniversary. I think this is the longest that I’ve been with a girl since secondary school.” Adam’s a little too smug about this, and I frown. Pause again, and then the space between replies is suddenly apologetic when he raises my hand to his face and runs it up and down his stubble. It’s to make me laugh, and I do.

“Okay, alright.” I pull my hand away and look at him. The evening’s falling quicker now, and the damp pulling up the smells that only exist in the dark. From the garden, there’s now that marshy musk. His face is bleached into smooth, soft planes: a high forehead, black eyes, light brows that are pulled into a question. I shrug, murmur, “Yup.”

He reaches for my hand again and I give it to him. Adam, for all his emphatic resistance to touch-comfort, loves it much more than he lets on. He’s wearing his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbow and open at the collar, and all I can think of is what a devil of a time he’ll have trying to get out the grass stains.

There’s that smile again, where something is genuinely funny, while his thumb is tracing circles into the back of my hand. I can barely see the outline of his lips, but I raise myself onto my elbows. A white, toothy smile in the darkness, and he leans over and kisses me.

Somehow it’s one of those kisses that is wonderful more for what feelings you’re carrying into it than for the sensations themselves. For that, it’s a peaceful kiss, a hungry, hopeful kiss. It’s there in him too, and he takes it sweet, leaves it when it’s only the tiniest, most powerful and gentle touch of our lips together.

I smile, worm the foot of distance between our two bodies until he can throw an arm over me and pull me close. It’s our autumn, and winter’s not so far off that I can’t feel its nip. And yet…still there’s something of summer here. Enough to remind, enough that I still burn for him, enough that I’m strangling myself with hope.

“Strange, Mr. Voysey.”

“Curious,” He corrects. He is smiling. I am not.