I couldn't get up this morning, lying in bed tracing the numbers on the back of Lochlan's neck while he slept instead. The numbers represent the sum of the miles he traveled with the show. He kept a log. He kept a diary. Then Caleb stole it and when Lochlan got it back he realized that it wasn't what was on the pages that was important after all. He had it all in his head. The things he wanted desperately to remember, his favorite quotes and these numbers, he had tattooed all over the place and the rest he let burn.
He burns everything, including the bridges behind him as he runs. We build them again and he comes back long enough to set them alight before taking off once more. If he had wings I-
He doesn't.
He never will. He'll live forever and so I'm not even going to finish that thought. Instead I'll just marvel at the distance he'll go to be who he wants to be.
He's made it and circled back again.
He's tired.
Last night he followed me wordlessly across the driveway, up the steps and down the narrow glass patio to Caleb's front door. I opened it and Lochlan reached up over my head and closed it again, pulling me out of the way with a cry of surprise, taking my hand, leading me back down the steps, back across the driveway, pulling me inside through the door, locking it, throwing the bolts without looking, for he was glaring mildly at me instead. I nod at his expression and he softens so visibly guilt shoots through me like a thunderbolt. I wasn't doing anything, I was just going for that second drink, the first dry in my throat from the morning, long forgotten in taste. That's all.
He presses me against the door with a kiss, twisting my hands up against the window, pushing himself against me. He disengages so we can breathe.
Stay put. Our foreheads are pressed together. I can't nod but I try and he finishes the motion for me. He takes my hand and pulls me up the steps and through the house. Upstairs. Lights off, doors locked as we go. Inside our room he repeats himself in case I missed it.
Stay put. Stay here. And I can deal with things just fine. I asked you if you wanted me to come. Don't let him blame it on me if you said no. They want me to treat you like an adult and I'm trying, Peanut but you make it hard. Don't let him undermine me like that.
I'm sorry. I whisper it to him but he's already kissing me more, stripping us down, wapping me in blankets and then holding his finger out meaning stay here and he goes and starts a fire. The room still feels so cold but we'll warm up. We'll get there.
I always have woken up first in the morning. I've always remained right where I am (as instructed, always), studying him. The semi-crooked smile he sleeps with. The eyebrows, pale yet disapproving, as if the top half of his face doesn't match the bottom. The way his curls refuse to sync up together and spill over each other. I can wrap them around my wrist without stretching them. Rarely do I see such huge curls in the wild. The color of his hair as it changes from one season to the next, now dark winter red at the ends, summer strawberry blonde at the ends, meeting in the middle in a hope for spring. His nose that he hates that I love. A little bit bigger than normal giving him a friendly appearance that a perfect nose would have interrupted. Too perfect isn't good and good isn't in being too perfect.
Now I trace the lines on his face and he grunts in protest and turns away. But he leaves his arm wrapped around me so I don't stray too far, my hand on his heart, just covering the lower case letter b tattooed there, right where it should be.
Story of my life, right here.
Written on his skin.
He burns everything, including the bridges behind him as he runs. We build them again and he comes back long enough to set them alight before taking off once more. If he had wings I-
He doesn't.
He never will. He'll live forever and so I'm not even going to finish that thought. Instead I'll just marvel at the distance he'll go to be who he wants to be.
He's made it and circled back again.
He's tired.
Last night he followed me wordlessly across the driveway, up the steps and down the narrow glass patio to Caleb's front door. I opened it and Lochlan reached up over my head and closed it again, pulling me out of the way with a cry of surprise, taking my hand, leading me back down the steps, back across the driveway, pulling me inside through the door, locking it, throwing the bolts without looking, for he was glaring mildly at me instead. I nod at his expression and he softens so visibly guilt shoots through me like a thunderbolt. I wasn't doing anything, I was just going for that second drink, the first dry in my throat from the morning, long forgotten in taste. That's all.
He presses me against the door with a kiss, twisting my hands up against the window, pushing himself against me. He disengages so we can breathe.
Stay put. Our foreheads are pressed together. I can't nod but I try and he finishes the motion for me. He takes my hand and pulls me up the steps and through the house. Upstairs. Lights off, doors locked as we go. Inside our room he repeats himself in case I missed it.
Stay put. Stay here. And I can deal with things just fine. I asked you if you wanted me to come. Don't let him blame it on me if you said no. They want me to treat you like an adult and I'm trying, Peanut but you make it hard. Don't let him undermine me like that.
I'm sorry. I whisper it to him but he's already kissing me more, stripping us down, wapping me in blankets and then holding his finger out meaning stay here and he goes and starts a fire. The room still feels so cold but we'll warm up. We'll get there.
I always have woken up first in the morning. I've always remained right where I am (as instructed, always), studying him. The semi-crooked smile he sleeps with. The eyebrows, pale yet disapproving, as if the top half of his face doesn't match the bottom. The way his curls refuse to sync up together and spill over each other. I can wrap them around my wrist without stretching them. Rarely do I see such huge curls in the wild. The color of his hair as it changes from one season to the next, now dark winter red at the ends, summer strawberry blonde at the ends, meeting in the middle in a hope for spring. His nose that he hates that I love. A little bit bigger than normal giving him a friendly appearance that a perfect nose would have interrupted. Too perfect isn't good and good isn't in being too perfect.
Now I trace the lines on his face and he grunts in protest and turns away. But he leaves his arm wrapped around me so I don't stray too far, my hand on his heart, just covering the lower case letter b tattooed there, right where it should be.
Story of my life, right here.
Written on his skin.