Ignored Tears
06-19-2007, 03:48 AM
little girls bury their grooms
house, m.d, cameron (house/cameron, chase/cameron), r, spoilers for insensitive.
He takes a breath and pulls her in
And shuts her out, the ways to hold her hand
nina nastasia, judy's in the sandbox
*
Want to know something funny?
Seriously, if you’re going to tell this right, it might as well be with the strikingly funny. But see, the problem then becomes what you want to admit, what you can, and what you’ve lost.
— you were just a kid in the end.
*
Chase wants to know. (Robert, Allison.)
Listen, let’s stop for a moment. You’ve got that question in your head: what am I doing? It’s not that you can’t have a relationship— one reality is that it’s been awhile. But, really, it’s you, here, and this point, you’re brushing a lack of self-understanding.
So dinner. Dinner, dinner, dinner— it’s the common step forward for things to drop into a categorized theory.
“What about the next step?”
Breathe, okay? There’s no need to panic.
“I,” you pause, shifting in your seat. You look away. “The wine’s fantastic.”
He sighs, looking away and into the dinning crowd. “Yeah.”
*
Everybody knows and you’re still replaying the conversation you had with Foreman on Valentine’s Day.
You didn’t love him.
Were you there— of all the things you could’ve said, there were too many. You lost yourself in a lot of things. Twenty one, in love with a dying man, and again, here are the things that you can and cannot admit. You get that.
“You’re hiding.”
Remember, it’s Wednesday night and you cancelled a lot of things to stay behind. There was a date, drinks with friends, stupid distractions that you need but are too tired to reach for.
“In plain sight,” you mutter, barely glancing up.
There’s a soft laugh. Wilson— oh.
“You figured it out,” he teases. “He avoids the obvious.”
You laugh softly. “Like the plague.”
He sobers. And you know what’s coming. It’s the pathology of left and right, spending too much time with people you know.
“I’m fine,” your excuse, firm and dry.
Wilson’s hands are shoved deep into his pockets. It’s too quiet in the room, remember what it’s like to here everything else? Here is the thickness that stretches inside of you and listen, it’s settling.
“Chase?”
Back to the reality of a q+a session, but there’s something else behind all of this. You look up, he looks away, and you feel it, don’t you, the lacing of panic that everything and nothing to do with all of those moments that you swore off.
But you still claim a right to privacy. (You used to think— yeah, well, keep it at used to.)
Standing, you start to gather your things. “It’s later than I thought,” you’re quiet, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Wilson never presses.
*
Lifetime commitment is terrifying.
People don’t have to understand. You don’t expect them too, okay? But remember, then, what you carry.
*
Out of the blue this happens:
“She,” he pauses, unsure. “She would’ve liked you.”
Sitting on his couch, side by side, it’s easier to hide that your throat is drying in pieces. Because you know what’s coming, you can feel it, counting slowly.
(for the reader: expectation is a funny weight, even though you do know what’s coming next. Robert never talks about his mother.)
So you do what the girlfriend (not a, even you own up to the trivial) should do. You shift, quietly, and dip your head against his shoulder.
It’s easy being wordless.
*
House finally finds you.
Habits on his time— remember, this is how this works between the two of you. In theory, defining connection falls to varying degrees:
a. It’s there. It’s there and it hates, undoubtedly, to be ignored. Remember you were twenty one (again) and you were in love with a man, a man. You could shelter yourself in romantic inclinations, but don’t forget.
He was yours.
b. Option B. This isn’t a test that will determine the rest of your life. You made a mistake. You see what they don’t understand is that, inevitably, you know what it’s like, what it’s really like to be alone.
Alone:
(— in bed, Chase’s leg curls around yours and you’re still getting used to be awake.
“This isn’t so bad, eh?”
You’re quiet. You’re not ready to say no.)
c. It never left you. And this, this is the most terrifying degree. It goes away and comes back. It seems small, but, no, it’s not. You see, this is that word. The word you know you’re not ready to say. Because saying it, understand this, saying it gives away to admission.
You know admission by guilt, by plea, by hopelessness— But this final degree has nothing to do with any of this.
Let’s really begin a proper conversation:
*
“So. It’s true.”
You want to laugh at the hints of dryness in his voice. It’s almost funny, you know, again.
“What is?” You lean back in your chair, tucking your legs under you.
He smirks. “Your stupidity knows no bounds.”
And this is supposed to hurt, mind you, but instead you look up and shake your head. This is introducing exhaustion into the equation.
But pause.
*
The flowers, you can’t remember. But they weren’t lilies— he hated lilies, like he hated Keats, and the Police.
And his eyes were green, right? Right?
*
Here’s another question, from those tests that determine the rest of your sorry life: does point a to point b automatically follow with a point c?
Yeah. Go figure.
(a secret: this is a layer for what really goes on.)
He’s at your place. You should’ve moved.
— yes, it’s about the advantage. You’re not the only one who knows this. But now, he’s here, in your space, is that kind of stupid question that no one answers. You do watch him from the kitchen, slowly hunting a cork screw down.
(You need a drink, duh.)
He’s taking apart what he can and again, you’re facing how frightening nudity really is. Everything is categorized by what you want people to see— your books, a treadmill, hello mum, dad, and your older brother in frames, and, again, a treadmill.
“I don’t have scotch,” you call.
(Note: yes, yes you do. Your dad’s a drinker, it’s under a cabinet. But this is a f**k you at best.)
“A beer.” It’s a grunt.
So it’s a sigh from your lips, slipping, as you grab a beer. Just a beer.
He’s in the kitchen, behind you with a sigh. And you find yourself waiting, easily. There’s a shuffle and then silence.
“How many times?”
You pause, tiredly. “Once.”
So what does this mean? Confession.
1. have you imagined?
2. this is not a drill.
3. he’s been here ______ times.
4. did you mean it?
Did you mean it? (Yes, you see, you meant all of the above.)
But he steps forward, yes forward, his fingers curling around your wrist. Maybe out of its own accord, your hand lifts, but you lose your concentration. His hand is cold, harsh, and curling tighter, merely stilling to slip into yours. It’s a fascinating language of silence, but in the end, your eyes are still wide.
His free hand cups your cheek and then slides into your hair. Okay, breathe. His fingers tighten, tangling, and god, his mouth—
“You won’t do it,” sounds like a prediction.
(You want to hate him. But the reality, again, is you on some mornings in the shower with a hand between your legs calling his name instead of Chase’s, who’s in your bed.)
Your throat dries slowly, twisting into a tremble. You beg yourself or, well, try. And any attempts at verbal breaks slip viciously as his mouth brushes once, twice, and then again as if you were only supposed to get this.
Get this.
“Do what?” And do you really have to fall to this again? It’s only a game, little girl, and maybe (after) he’ll smirk with the unsaid.
But, instead, his mouth opens against yours and you sigh— understand, control was never supposed to lead to this— his tongue brushes against yours, your hand rising to twist in his shirt.
You breathe against his mouth, once more. “Do what?”
His teeth graze your lip and you moan, shifting as he steps back. There’s a ghost of something, a thick air of disregard, but your thighs rub together and you’re thinking—
Chose your own ending. (He’s gone, moments later.)
*
But here you are.
Like the first time, you don’t expect it. There’s a ring, small and simple (well, maybe he does know you) and Chase is staring down at you as a terrifying laugh rips through your throat.
He’s serious. Chase is serious.
“Allison.”
You sit, the chair moans, and breathe. Your hands are shaking.
And here are the reasons you say no:
— you did it once and you knew then too, it wasn’t going to happen again.
end.
house, m.d, cameron (house/cameron, chase/cameron), r, spoilers for insensitive.
He takes a breath and pulls her in
And shuts her out, the ways to hold her hand
nina nastasia, judy's in the sandbox
*
Want to know something funny?
Seriously, if you’re going to tell this right, it might as well be with the strikingly funny. But see, the problem then becomes what you want to admit, what you can, and what you’ve lost.
— you were just a kid in the end.
*
Chase wants to know. (Robert, Allison.)
Listen, let’s stop for a moment. You’ve got that question in your head: what am I doing? It’s not that you can’t have a relationship— one reality is that it’s been awhile. But, really, it’s you, here, and this point, you’re brushing a lack of self-understanding.
So dinner. Dinner, dinner, dinner— it’s the common step forward for things to drop into a categorized theory.
“What about the next step?”
Breathe, okay? There’s no need to panic.
“I,” you pause, shifting in your seat. You look away. “The wine’s fantastic.”
He sighs, looking away and into the dinning crowd. “Yeah.”
*
Everybody knows and you’re still replaying the conversation you had with Foreman on Valentine’s Day.
You didn’t love him.
Were you there— of all the things you could’ve said, there were too many. You lost yourself in a lot of things. Twenty one, in love with a dying man, and again, here are the things that you can and cannot admit. You get that.
“You’re hiding.”
Remember, it’s Wednesday night and you cancelled a lot of things to stay behind. There was a date, drinks with friends, stupid distractions that you need but are too tired to reach for.
“In plain sight,” you mutter, barely glancing up.
There’s a soft laugh. Wilson— oh.
“You figured it out,” he teases. “He avoids the obvious.”
You laugh softly. “Like the plague.”
He sobers. And you know what’s coming. It’s the pathology of left and right, spending too much time with people you know.
“I’m fine,” your excuse, firm and dry.
Wilson’s hands are shoved deep into his pockets. It’s too quiet in the room, remember what it’s like to here everything else? Here is the thickness that stretches inside of you and listen, it’s settling.
“Chase?”
Back to the reality of a q+a session, but there’s something else behind all of this. You look up, he looks away, and you feel it, don’t you, the lacing of panic that everything and nothing to do with all of those moments that you swore off.
But you still claim a right to privacy. (You used to think— yeah, well, keep it at used to.)
Standing, you start to gather your things. “It’s later than I thought,” you’re quiet, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Wilson never presses.
*
Lifetime commitment is terrifying.
People don’t have to understand. You don’t expect them too, okay? But remember, then, what you carry.
*
Out of the blue this happens:
“She,” he pauses, unsure. “She would’ve liked you.”
Sitting on his couch, side by side, it’s easier to hide that your throat is drying in pieces. Because you know what’s coming, you can feel it, counting slowly.
(for the reader: expectation is a funny weight, even though you do know what’s coming next. Robert never talks about his mother.)
So you do what the girlfriend (not a, even you own up to the trivial) should do. You shift, quietly, and dip your head against his shoulder.
It’s easy being wordless.
*
House finally finds you.
Habits on his time— remember, this is how this works between the two of you. In theory, defining connection falls to varying degrees:
a. It’s there. It’s there and it hates, undoubtedly, to be ignored. Remember you were twenty one (again) and you were in love with a man, a man. You could shelter yourself in romantic inclinations, but don’t forget.
He was yours.
b. Option B. This isn’t a test that will determine the rest of your life. You made a mistake. You see what they don’t understand is that, inevitably, you know what it’s like, what it’s really like to be alone.
Alone:
(— in bed, Chase’s leg curls around yours and you’re still getting used to be awake.
“This isn’t so bad, eh?”
You’re quiet. You’re not ready to say no.)
c. It never left you. And this, this is the most terrifying degree. It goes away and comes back. It seems small, but, no, it’s not. You see, this is that word. The word you know you’re not ready to say. Because saying it, understand this, saying it gives away to admission.
You know admission by guilt, by plea, by hopelessness— But this final degree has nothing to do with any of this.
Let’s really begin a proper conversation:
*
“So. It’s true.”
You want to laugh at the hints of dryness in his voice. It’s almost funny, you know, again.
“What is?” You lean back in your chair, tucking your legs under you.
He smirks. “Your stupidity knows no bounds.”
And this is supposed to hurt, mind you, but instead you look up and shake your head. This is introducing exhaustion into the equation.
But pause.
*
The flowers, you can’t remember. But they weren’t lilies— he hated lilies, like he hated Keats, and the Police.
And his eyes were green, right? Right?
*
Here’s another question, from those tests that determine the rest of your sorry life: does point a to point b automatically follow with a point c?
Yeah. Go figure.
(a secret: this is a layer for what really goes on.)
He’s at your place. You should’ve moved.
— yes, it’s about the advantage. You’re not the only one who knows this. But now, he’s here, in your space, is that kind of stupid question that no one answers. You do watch him from the kitchen, slowly hunting a cork screw down.
(You need a drink, duh.)
He’s taking apart what he can and again, you’re facing how frightening nudity really is. Everything is categorized by what you want people to see— your books, a treadmill, hello mum, dad, and your older brother in frames, and, again, a treadmill.
“I don’t have scotch,” you call.
(Note: yes, yes you do. Your dad’s a drinker, it’s under a cabinet. But this is a f**k you at best.)
“A beer.” It’s a grunt.
So it’s a sigh from your lips, slipping, as you grab a beer. Just a beer.
He’s in the kitchen, behind you with a sigh. And you find yourself waiting, easily. There’s a shuffle and then silence.
“How many times?”
You pause, tiredly. “Once.”
So what does this mean? Confession.
1. have you imagined?
2. this is not a drill.
3. he’s been here ______ times.
4. did you mean it?
Did you mean it? (Yes, you see, you meant all of the above.)
But he steps forward, yes forward, his fingers curling around your wrist. Maybe out of its own accord, your hand lifts, but you lose your concentration. His hand is cold, harsh, and curling tighter, merely stilling to slip into yours. It’s a fascinating language of silence, but in the end, your eyes are still wide.
His free hand cups your cheek and then slides into your hair. Okay, breathe. His fingers tighten, tangling, and god, his mouth—
“You won’t do it,” sounds like a prediction.
(You want to hate him. But the reality, again, is you on some mornings in the shower with a hand between your legs calling his name instead of Chase’s, who’s in your bed.)
Your throat dries slowly, twisting into a tremble. You beg yourself or, well, try. And any attempts at verbal breaks slip viciously as his mouth brushes once, twice, and then again as if you were only supposed to get this.
Get this.
“Do what?” And do you really have to fall to this again? It’s only a game, little girl, and maybe (after) he’ll smirk with the unsaid.
But, instead, his mouth opens against yours and you sigh— understand, control was never supposed to lead to this— his tongue brushes against yours, your hand rising to twist in his shirt.
You breathe against his mouth, once more. “Do what?”
His teeth graze your lip and you moan, shifting as he steps back. There’s a ghost of something, a thick air of disregard, but your thighs rub together and you’re thinking—
Chose your own ending. (He’s gone, moments later.)
*
But here you are.
Like the first time, you don’t expect it. There’s a ring, small and simple (well, maybe he does know you) and Chase is staring down at you as a terrifying laugh rips through your throat.
He’s serious. Chase is serious.
“Allison.”
You sit, the chair moans, and breathe. Your hands are shaking.
And here are the reasons you say no:
— you did it once and you knew then too, it wasn’t going to happen again.
end.