There's too much time for reflection, these days. Too easy to sit up, sit down, say nothing. Their thoughts run quickly- too quickly- everything they say gets caught behind their teeth. That's not my name. You're a bit of a dick. What do you think you're doing? Can we leave now? I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here with you. I don't want to be with you.
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But they don't try and interrupt. They sink into the couch, down, down, down. Watching the smiles and smirks they flash each other throughout the back and forth (his smile shone brilliantly- that's, perhaps, the only honest compliment they can give him).
​
Eventually their drink runs out, and they have a reason to escape from the conversation. They flow through the party wordless- a familiar specter flitting alongside drunken dancers and high spectators.
​
It's not the first party they've attended. Not the first party they've attended with him. They've gotten good at being able to tell how long they can spend in the bathroom, in front of the mirror. Just- staring. Their reflection looks tired. A little pale. When was the last time they'd eaten?
​
They haven't had much of an appetite, lately. Eating forces them out of their room, into the kitchen, makes them vulnerable for conversation with their roommates. They always feel like they've misquemed, somehow. That they committed some unspeakable wrong by returning to his side.
​
Their fingers twitch against the porcelain, too weak to strangle it. So what if they did? They can't tell them that- then there'd just be a litany of we told you so, you should've known, what did you think was going to happen?
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Nothing. Really. Maybe they thought he'd have grown up in their years apart. Maybe they thought he'd gotten better, somehow. But he's just gotten better at talking. That's all. Talking them into coming back, into partying, into trying whatever's on the fucking table. He settles back into the well-worn grooves of their skin, a childhood friend turned lover turned-
​
They glance away from their grimace, down into the empty sink. A frantic, heavy knock rattles the door and they sink in on themselves, shoving off the sink and running a hand through their greasy, unwashed hair.
​
Their time alone had come to an end.
​
Returning back to the coach feels like a jury's verdict.
xo_pallas t1_j4xtqil wrote
Reply to [CW] Smash 'Em Up Sunday: Bildungsroman by Cody_Fox23
(edited to include title)
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ROUNDABOUT.
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There's too much time for reflection, these days. Too easy to sit up, sit down, say nothing. Their thoughts run quickly- too quickly- everything they say gets caught behind their teeth. That's not my name. You're a bit of a dick. What do you think you're doing? Can we leave now? I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here with you. I don't want to be with you.
​
But they don't try and interrupt. They sink into the couch, down, down, down. Watching the smiles and smirks they flash each other throughout the back and forth (his smile shone brilliantly- that's, perhaps, the only honest compliment they can give him).
​
Eventually their drink runs out, and they have a reason to escape from the conversation. They flow through the party wordless- a familiar specter flitting alongside drunken dancers and high spectators.
​
It's not the first party they've attended. Not the first party they've attended with him. They've gotten good at being able to tell how long they can spend in the bathroom, in front of the mirror. Just- staring. Their reflection looks tired. A little pale. When was the last time they'd eaten?
​
They haven't had much of an appetite, lately. Eating forces them out of their room, into the kitchen, makes them vulnerable for conversation with their roommates. They always feel like they've misquemed, somehow. That they committed some unspeakable wrong by returning to his side.
​
Their fingers twitch against the porcelain, too weak to strangle it. So what if they did? They can't tell them that- then there'd just be a litany of we told you so, you should've known, what did you think was going to happen?
​
Nothing. Really. Maybe they thought he'd have grown up in their years apart. Maybe they thought he'd gotten better, somehow. But he's just gotten better at talking. That's all. Talking them into coming back, into partying, into trying whatever's on the fucking table. He settles back into the well-worn grooves of their skin, a childhood friend turned lover turned-
​
They glance away from their grimace, down into the empty sink. A frantic, heavy knock rattles the door and they sink in on themselves, shoving off the sink and running a hand through their greasy, unwashed hair.
​
Their time alone had come to an end.
​
Returning back to the coach feels like a jury's verdict.
​
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.