starphotographs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
starphotographs) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2015-04-04 05:47 pm
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2015-04-04 05:47 pm
Clean Again 7, Bittersweet
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Hal (POV), Spenser (he’s the one being spoken of in second-person here).
Colors: Clean Again 7 (Long-Term Relationship), Bittersweet
Supplies and Styles: Miniature Collection, Saturation.
Word Count: 988
Rating: PG-13 (?)
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Notes on a would-be friendship.
Note: Title lifted from a Heatmiser song! I'm not sure if I've even mentioned Hal yet, but you'll probably be seeing more of him. :) Questions, comments, concrit, whatever all awesome.
See You Later (If I See You at All)
We aren't friends. That's my fault. I could never bring myself to do what a friendship with you would require. You turn to leave, I reach out to grab your arm, and I stop. I let you go. Literally and figuratively. I watch you walk out that door, and think: "this time, he isn't coming back." You're too fast. You slip through my fingers. All I want to do is make you sit down and catch your breath. But, that wouldn't be my place. Because we aren't really friends. And I'm sorry. I couldn't make myself hold on.
*****
That day when we met, I think we were both around seventeen. Not quite done growing yet, and you had that look where it's like your bones outgrew the rest of you. You had long hair then, and kept jerking your head around to flick it out of your eyes, but it was always caught in your glasses. You were the new guy at the garage, playing gofer. You had a ready laugh, you were in constant motion, and you spoke like your body was just a vessel for your voice. I remember thinking that I kind of liked you.
*****
If I liked you, I should have gotten to know you, I know. But, you always had about you this air of someone I didn't want to get involved with. I couldn't know how, but I knew you were trouble. I couldn't know where, but I knew you would drag me down with you. And you just plain talked too damn much. It was refreshing in the quiet junkyard lobby, but I could see it becoming exhausting. You probably knew more than anyone that it was. Before anything else, I should have realized that you'd drag yourself down first.
*****
You were loud and pissy and scatterbrained, but pretty normal. I mean, you were weird, but it was a normal-weird. And then... What? Did something happen to you? I never felt like I could ask. Not when you came for parts and we ended up in screaming arguments, not when you roared in with your hair growing out, dried blood on your clothes, not even when you kept begging me to punch you in the face. The only way to stop you was to haul off and do it. I hated hurting you, but I had no other ideas.
*****
When I think about you, I try to just remember all the times you showed up okay. Banging through the door, laughing at every stupid joke I made (and some things that weren't even supposed to be funny). Talking up a bluestreak, full of weird and wonderful news that I could hardly keep up with, much less decode. More inarticulate than incoherent. Bristling with intensity as always, but so it radiated outward, and always seemed to enter the room three minutes before you did. Instead of driving into you, like an iron maiden cast from your own will.
*****
Looking back, it's obvious you always had your problems. Maybe what I miss is not having constant awareness of them, either because I was too young and dumb to notice, or because you really weren't so far-gone back then. Now, it's like there's this force-field of pain all around you. Surrounding that exuberant person I used to know. It's not like you've changed, but that's the whole thing. You're still very much that kid from all those years ago, and that's why I can only think about your better days. Whatever happened, it's too sad that it happened to you.
*****
There were a lot of times when I probably could have made things easier for you. This isn't even a "hindsight is 20/20" kind of thing. I'd mentally go, "okay, here’s what I can do," then dismiss it. I should have suggested you try working at the junkyard when the garage went under. I shouldn't have let you drive yourself home after you got stabbed. All those times you showed up worn-out, jabbering, griny, I should have made you stay. And every time you leave, I think: "this is the time I really screwed him over."
*****
Once, you disappeared for so long, and were in such a bad way when you left, that I actually did assume you were dead. But, as always, you turned up, looking thin and washed-out. Exhausted, filthy, unintelligible. Forearms almost completely scarred-over, except these huge, wet, open patches, which looked like they'd been that way for too long. I got out the first aid kit, practically doused you in peroxide, and bandaged everything up. I was going to make you spend the night, but you mumbled that you had somewhere to be. And I didn't want to get in the way.
*****
I had a new phone and wanted to test the camera. You hopped up on the hood of some old car and shouted; "take one of me!" Well, I wasn't sure if you were joking, but I did. A picture of you, way back before the garage went under. It shows you looking happy but a little tired, smirking, dirty, glasses sliding down. Leaning elbows on knees, the first few burn scars shiny on your arms. I get a warm feeling when I look at this person. I wonder why I could never bring myself to help him.
*****
When you didn’t come around for a while, I used to worry that you'd found a better junkyard, and I wouldn't see you anymore. Now, I worry that you're gone. I know the kinds of situations you wind up in. I've seen the things you've done to yourself. You're... Unstable. I don't mean crazy. I mean it like you're not built to last. So, no matter what kind of state you‘re in, I try to give you a nice hello, and a nicer goodbye. We're not friends. But, I want you in my world.
...You know that, right?
starphotographsStory: Corwin and Friends
Characters: Hal (POV), Spenser (he’s the one being spoken of in second-person here).
Colors: Clean Again 7 (Long-Term Relationship), Bittersweet
Supplies and Styles: Miniature Collection, Saturation.
Word Count: 988
Rating: PG-13 (?)
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Notes on a would-be friendship.
Note: Title lifted from a Heatmiser song! I'm not sure if I've even mentioned Hal yet, but you'll probably be seeing more of him. :) Questions, comments, concrit, whatever all awesome.
We aren't friends. That's my fault. I could never bring myself to do what a friendship with you would require. You turn to leave, I reach out to grab your arm, and I stop. I let you go. Literally and figuratively. I watch you walk out that door, and think: "this time, he isn't coming back." You're too fast. You slip through my fingers. All I want to do is make you sit down and catch your breath. But, that wouldn't be my place. Because we aren't really friends. And I'm sorry. I couldn't make myself hold on.
That day when we met, I think we were both around seventeen. Not quite done growing yet, and you had that look where it's like your bones outgrew the rest of you. You had long hair then, and kept jerking your head around to flick it out of your eyes, but it was always caught in your glasses. You were the new guy at the garage, playing gofer. You had a ready laugh, you were in constant motion, and you spoke like your body was just a vessel for your voice. I remember thinking that I kind of liked you.
If I liked you, I should have gotten to know you, I know. But, you always had about you this air of someone I didn't want to get involved with. I couldn't know how, but I knew you were trouble. I couldn't know where, but I knew you would drag me down with you. And you just plain talked too damn much. It was refreshing in the quiet junkyard lobby, but I could see it becoming exhausting. You probably knew more than anyone that it was. Before anything else, I should have realized that you'd drag yourself down first.
You were loud and pissy and scatterbrained, but pretty normal. I mean, you were weird, but it was a normal-weird. And then... What? Did something happen to you? I never felt like I could ask. Not when you came for parts and we ended up in screaming arguments, not when you roared in with your hair growing out, dried blood on your clothes, not even when you kept begging me to punch you in the face. The only way to stop you was to haul off and do it. I hated hurting you, but I had no other ideas.
When I think about you, I try to just remember all the times you showed up okay. Banging through the door, laughing at every stupid joke I made (and some things that weren't even supposed to be funny). Talking up a bluestreak, full of weird and wonderful news that I could hardly keep up with, much less decode. More inarticulate than incoherent. Bristling with intensity as always, but so it radiated outward, and always seemed to enter the room three minutes before you did. Instead of driving into you, like an iron maiden cast from your own will.
Looking back, it's obvious you always had your problems. Maybe what I miss is not having constant awareness of them, either because I was too young and dumb to notice, or because you really weren't so far-gone back then. Now, it's like there's this force-field of pain all around you. Surrounding that exuberant person I used to know. It's not like you've changed, but that's the whole thing. You're still very much that kid from all those years ago, and that's why I can only think about your better days. Whatever happened, it's too sad that it happened to you.
There were a lot of times when I probably could have made things easier for you. This isn't even a "hindsight is 20/20" kind of thing. I'd mentally go, "okay, here’s what I can do," then dismiss it. I should have suggested you try working at the junkyard when the garage went under. I shouldn't have let you drive yourself home after you got stabbed. All those times you showed up worn-out, jabbering, griny, I should have made you stay. And every time you leave, I think: "this is the time I really screwed him over."
Once, you disappeared for so long, and were in such a bad way when you left, that I actually did assume you were dead. But, as always, you turned up, looking thin and washed-out. Exhausted, filthy, unintelligible. Forearms almost completely scarred-over, except these huge, wet, open patches, which looked like they'd been that way for too long. I got out the first aid kit, practically doused you in peroxide, and bandaged everything up. I was going to make you spend the night, but you mumbled that you had somewhere to be. And I didn't want to get in the way.
I had a new phone and wanted to test the camera. You hopped up on the hood of some old car and shouted; "take one of me!" Well, I wasn't sure if you were joking, but I did. A picture of you, way back before the garage went under. It shows you looking happy but a little tired, smirking, dirty, glasses sliding down. Leaning elbows on knees, the first few burn scars shiny on your arms. I get a warm feeling when I look at this person. I wonder why I could never bring myself to help him.
When you didn’t come around for a while, I used to worry that you'd found a better junkyard, and I wouldn't see you anymore. Now, I worry that you're gone. I know the kinds of situations you wind up in. I've seen the things you've done to yourself. You're... Unstable. I don't mean crazy. I mean it like you're not built to last. So, no matter what kind of state you‘re in, I try to give you a nice hello, and a nicer goodbye. We're not friends. But, I want you in my world.
...You know that, right?