Work Text:
He found it on the table, pen stuck between two pages, and curiosity got the better of him. So, he started reading.
It was poems, of heartache, happiness, confusion, anger, and guilt. He didn’t really realize you had written them, he didn’t really think that these were your journal entries, surrounding scenarios not explicitly mentioned in your day to day life.
He also, didn’t realize, that they were possibly about him.
You’d left it there this morning, between the plate you’d had your bagel on and the mug you’d drank your morning tea in. You’d quickly written something you’d surely forget later, and hopefully finish or come back to when it struck you again. You’d forgotten he was coming over early, with his key and takeout from your favourite Vietnamese place 2 blocks away.
He’d gotten to your place at 4:30, you got off at 5, took one bus and then another to get home. Luckily the stop was right in front of your apartment, and after 3 flights of stairs you were home.
You expected him in the kitchen, maybe setting the table, or finishing some work, or maybe even reading.
Well he was reading, just not something you ever really thought you’d share, with him, or anyone. For fucks sake, you barely even read what you’d written afterward.
So, you reacted.
“No! Don’t read that!” And he startles.
He had heard the door, the shuffle of pulling shoes and coat off, the drop of a bag. He hadn’t expected you to yell.
He flips it shut suddenly, face and ears turning red, body stiffening. You’re mad, or upset, or some other feeling that’s completely reasonable.
You stomp over, snatching up the journal, pen flying across the kitchen, and you follow it, putting distance between the two of you.
He chances a look up at your face, having been too embarrassed to really look at you.
He can see you’re red, in a blotchy crying sort of way, eyebrows furrowed and eyes watering. He doesn’t really know what to do.
“I’m sorry.” He says quietly. After all, he’s a gentle man, with a soft heart. His job is also to investigate and snoop, technically.
“I just-“ you start, voice shaking, feeling the burning in your eyes, unsure of what you’re going to say. The unfinished sentence hangs there, like laundry left to dry, forgotten in the rain.
You take a deep breath before starting again.
“I just don’t understand what made you think you could read it.”
He seems to go redder, feet shuffling as his body shifts to face you better, he still won’t look at you, even as you’re staring at him. He wonders if you heard the apology, understood that he’s not very good at those, that he was only going off of instinct, not purposely trying to break your trust.
He doesn’t answer, and you sigh, thwacking the journal on the counter, before reaching down for the pen.
You face away from him, knowing the night is ruined, you’ve ruined it.
“I didn’t really realize what it was at first,” he takes a breath. “And then I couldn’t really stop once I’d started.”
The silence hangs once again, wet and dripping a puddle on your floor.
“I didn’t know you wrote.” He says, thinking he might be able to draw you out into conversation, see if you’ll step over the silence puddle and say something that might indicate to him you can get past this mistake.
You still don’t speak, weight resting on your elbows on the edge of the counter, head between your hands as your hair hangs in your face. You don’t know what to do, or say. It’s tough. It’s not like you never wanted to share it with him, open up your ribcage and let him look at your lungs, and your heart, and see all the words trapped inside.
Your writing had been violated before, and he doesn’t know that, but it hurts.
“It’s really good, your writing. The handwriting was hard to read a bit, but the way you write is beautiful.” He adds, uncomfortable with your silence. Normally you fill the space with chatter, or a smile, even a brush of fingers over his. All you’re doing is standing though, shoulders tense, he knows you’re hiding from him.
“I don’t share it with anyone.” It takes you awhile to speak, your body shifting, so half of your face and body is actually facing him. You tuck your hair behind your ear, a habit that you have, regardless of what you’re feeling. He can see the nervousness in your fingers, as they begin to pick at the skin around your thumbs.
“I’m sorry.” He repeats, sounding guiltier.
“I used to have a diary, when I was younger, after I had moved in with my dad and step mum. They used to read it, and then get mad at me for what I’d written in it. Some of it wasn’t nice, I know that now, but when I’d written it I was 10 and angry because I didn’t know why I couldn’t see my mum.” The words come out in a rush, his shoulders relax a little, knowing you’re trying to work it out, trying to give him something to understand why you’re mad.
“I stopped writing in notebooks they could find after that. I only wrote things like that in English class, and my grade 8 teacher encouraged me to enter a competition with a short story. I entered it, I didn’t place, but they published it in an anthology of other teen stories. Suddenly it was all they could talk about, they were telling everyone, until they read it. It was a sad story, and they didn’t like that, so they stopped talking about it, it wasn’t to be celebrated anymore.” At this point you’re facing him fully, back pressed against the counter, feet crossed and head still low. You can feel his eyes watching you at the confession, studying your body language, looking for what he’s supposed to say.
“Can I read it sometime?” You want to yell at that, he’s already read your secrets, and it feels like he’s mocking you a bit.
You fix him with a sharp look, finally looking at him, and he feels a bit victorious.
“I think you’ve read enough.” You answer honestly, tone changed from vulnerability to closed off.
“I’m sorry I read your journal without your permission. I didn’t realize what it was, and I’m sorry I violated your privacy. I’d like to read the short story, if you’ll let me?” His tone is open, and soft, trying again now that he knows you’re not quite ready for humour. He’s starting to stand, to see if having him physically closer will allow you to find some comfort, to see he hadn’t meant to hurt you.
“I don’t know?” It’s an honest answer, your eyes are closed and there’s two tears starting a race down your cheeks. You want to let him in, you do, but it still hurt your feelings.
He makes his way to you now, wiping the tears away, and pressing a sweet kiss to the tip of your nose.
“That’s okay, I understand that that was a lot, and it was uncomfortable. Did I mention I was sorry? I really didn’t mean to violate your privacy, I promise.” At this last, repetitive confession, you look him in his eyes. They’re green, and they’re crinkled, mouth in a lopsided sort of frown. His thumb is brushing your cheek, body heat pulling you in.
“I forgive you.”
You’re uncurling your fist from the feeling you want to hold on to; gooey green mistrust, because he isn’t your dad or step mum. He’s Jason, with a soft heart, and a hard past, who understands having your trust broken. Yes, in a much more traumatic, life altering way, but regardless, understands.
He didn’t crowd you either, with kisses or touches, he waited it out and took a cue. He loves you, he wants to fix what he did wrong.
He pulls you in, slowly, tucking your head beneath his chin, one hand holding your back and the other your cheek.
He presses a kiss to your forehead before asking, hoping you might give a waterlogged laugh.
“So, can I tell you my favourite one?”
BONUS:
(The poem that was his favourite lol)
Freckled stars on a cerulean sky, and there you are, bathed in the yellow glow of a serene moon, shivering with autumn chill
Wrapped up in a creamy, cashmere scarf, a blue coat, and something gentle
You taste like a rainy yesterday, a cup of hot chocolate, and apples with peanut butter
So I kiss you, I kiss you, I kiss you
Brush your fluffy hair off your forehead, cup your cheek with the lines of my hand, the lines telling my life, pressed upon your skin in a promise of a future, reminding you that I trust you; I want you; I love you
You hold my face just the same, stroke a rosy cheek with your thumb, and there we are starry eyed
You look so lovely in this light, like a painting of a dream
Your face detailed perfectly, from your eyebrows, eyes, nose, Cupid’s bow, and the passionate kiss of your lips
Whereas the rest of you is a bit out of focus, like you’re made up of tiny pieces of snow, each a little different, a little out of place, that’s alright though; you’re my favourite dream
Something I use to curl up safe and warm with, and I can feel you there, beside me, all night
Except for when I wake up, and there’s a shape of you imprinted in my bed, imprinted in my heart
And it’s cold where you were now, but that’s alright, I know that you were there, I know you’ll be back again
So I give your shape a tender kiss, and send you a good morning text
I always know I’ll see you again