Work Text:
On a train, 1987
Like a dream.
Sitting next to you in the current moment, I'm looking at all you are - a golden, gleaming wash, reflecting off your every pore as you stare straight into the sun. Ephemeral orange in its last rays that shoot into the tinted window. A patch near the base of your neck is lighter where a section of the tint has peeled.
Your hand tentatively grasps onto the same page of the paperback you’ve been holding for hours, the one you read when you want me to think you’re focusing on written words on a page instead of anything else, or me.
I’ve seen that page a lot lately. Car, planes, trains.
By habit, my hand walks its way towards yours. I’m still looking right into you, as you continue to survey the scenery we pass by. It’s been the same for the past two hours, paddocks and blur of unkempt grasses.
What are you thinking? When that pensivity sets in, eyes widening slightly and settling, as they seek out answers in the distant meadows that we swiftly pass and leave behind.
What are you thinking, Charlie?
You finally twist your head, just the slightest, when my hand slides firmly into yours. Your eyes, light hitting them at the angle that ignites them a raging shade, they quietly ask me questions when our fingers interlock and I press a tad harder.
I can see the loaded questions eager to pop out and jump the answering queue, but the calmer ones stay steady. Those ones, the easy ones that my eyes can siddle around and answer.
Apologies slowly light up in mine, dilating my pupils and hoping that you’ll pick up the contrite cue.
The sorry, that my lips don’t vocalise.
The sorry for what? You ask with your eyes, though you very well know.
I don’t know, perhaps all I’ve done? I’d need a bloomin’ book for it, you know. You do know, and so painfully often it’s tied to you. It isn’t personal, I swear it isn’t.
You know how much of me badly wants to recite some words of affirmation right now? Promises?
A quarter of me, half of me, hell... all of me, I guess.
But I can’t. The words fade to floating crisp. Wordless apologies - then, now, and probably, the future.
It’s funny how it smarts, but the dull ache is soothed away with your hand still in mine. Still clasped and real, still a reminder that this isn’t just a glazed tangerine-tinted dream. Next to me always, aren’t you, Charlie? With me always.
More than I am, with you.
Sorry.
Shift and turn, our arms connect as I move, almost timidly, further into your chair. Into your personal space. Hair rustles as my head tilts toward your shoulder.
I shuffle close and nuzzle my head and kiss along your neck, each touch barely audible, tangible. I want your head to turn and connect us in truth, but all I know is that I will be given a single sideway lean of your head toward mine like you’re currently doing.
All you feel you can give me, and all I deserve.
I’ve hit my quota of apologies, limit set solidly in stone some long time ago.
I give you the “thank you” instead. Dripping and melting into your neck, words melting like a sweet honey that ultimately dissolves into the crisp heat of your skin and the apologetic press of my lips.
Thank you for all that you do, Charlie.
I hope you get to read the words my lips are saying before the honey dissolves too far. They tumble out in slow motion for you, you know.
Of course, then this heart of mine just goes and ticks off the cliches, eh? I’m really not trying to, honest.
Head still slotted into the refuge your neck provides, the tear slips. Like a traitor, corner of my eye wettened, pathetic isn’t it? One more follows the trail it’s set. And softly, another.
Water usually extinguishes fires, not ignite them.
The sun refracts on the suspended drop, like its magnified light could burn a piercing hole through your skin after my tear’s crossed the boundary, sliding invasively down your cheek now.
And it’d just hurt you again, wouldn’t it? With the way it singes?
Oh, fuckin bother.
The droplet ignores me, gliding down like an intruder on your skin until it's enveloped by the denim fabric on your shoulder silently.
I’ll do better, I promise.
The squeezing glow of your palm pulsates against mine as I feel the press of your fingers, gripping mine back. The cuticles appear a pale peach in the light. They offer support, tacitly.
I promise you, I will.
No reaction.
All for you, Charlie.
Your eyes stay scanning the horizon, and your hands seem to ignore my promises.
They only grip.