[ He’s heard it before, the querying ’how long do you think you can keep this up,’ the ’dear, this act’s getting old.’ The ’haven’t you aged out of whatever this is’ and the ’it isn’t cute to be so messy anymore’ and the ’Treavor, this became a cry for help six years ago.’ He’s heard that you can drink and frown and give the world the bird in your twenties, but beyond that it’s trying too hard, it’s pathetic, it’s something you’ll have to give up someday and recede into… what? The nothing otherwise that he is?
It’s true he’s learned to make a touchstone of his status as an outsider. True that he’s found fuel from prodding at others and acting contrary, that he’s built a self - however fragile, however often and easily damaged - from these acts and ideas. Treavor Pendleton, outsider, sounds far far preferable to Treavor Pendleton, unwanted piece of nothing. (The same way that Treavor Pendleton, looks like he fell off the alternigoth wagon, sounds better than Treavor Pendleton, what a weird fuckin’ face what a bug-eyed fuckin’ creep.)
But it all circles back, doesn’t it? But he’s never really ceased to amount to nothing, and maybe his hair won’t save him maybe the rings have never been more than a trace of cover. Just a whole lot of, fucking. Nothing. Die young or die a sad, empty bastard.
It’s a pit of thought he shouldn’t fall into. It’s a pit of thought he does sometimes fall into, and finds a hard time climbing out of. Can stay in that pit for hours, days, trying to drink his way out of it because there’s never really an answer, is there? Or there hasn’t been much of one, hasn’t been much promise beyond that resounding empty.
Now, though.
Now Katrina’s offering a rope before he’s even really fallen, pointing his attention toward what he’s done, what he’s actually done and doesn’t dislike, what eases him a little bit (maybe, maybe much more than a little bit) to think about. Now she’s making promises toward a future, now she’s…
Shit. She’s good. She’s very, very good.
All right. He nudges his forehead against hers, slight sign of a nuzzle. ]
The fuck did I ever do to deserve you.
[ Eyes closing for a moment because he wants to feel her, only feel and be aware of her, the fact of her beside him, the way she grounds a world that seems so often fractured and uncertain. ]
It’s luck, isn’t it? I’m the luckiest bastard, and I never knew it.
[ A thought. Hm… ]
Hey, but.
What would you do if I did cut my hair?
[ Not that he would. Not that he’d ever consider it, he’s fond of his hair, but she brought it up. ]
no subject
It’s true he’s learned to make a touchstone of his status as an outsider. True that he’s found fuel from prodding at others and acting contrary, that he’s built a self - however fragile, however often and easily damaged - from these acts and ideas. Treavor Pendleton, outsider, sounds far far preferable to Treavor Pendleton, unwanted piece of nothing. (The same way that Treavor Pendleton, looks like he fell off the alternigoth wagon, sounds better than Treavor Pendleton, what a weird fuckin’ face what a bug-eyed fuckin’ creep.)
But it all circles back, doesn’t it? But he’s never really ceased to amount to nothing, and maybe his hair won’t save him maybe the rings have never been more than a trace of cover. Just a whole lot of, fucking. Nothing. Die young or die a sad, empty bastard.
It’s a pit of thought he shouldn’t fall into. It’s a pit of thought he does sometimes fall into, and finds a hard time climbing out of. Can stay in that pit for hours, days, trying to drink his way out of it because there’s never really an answer, is there? Or there hasn’t been much of one, hasn’t been much promise beyond that resounding empty.
Now, though.
Now Katrina’s offering a rope before he’s even really fallen, pointing his attention toward what he’s done, what he’s actually done and doesn’t dislike, what eases him a little bit (maybe, maybe much more than a little bit) to think about. Now she’s making promises toward a future, now she’s…
Shit. She’s good. She’s very, very good.
All right. He nudges his forehead against hers, slight sign of a nuzzle. ]
The fuck did I ever do to deserve you.
[ Eyes closing for a moment because he wants to feel her, only feel and be aware of her, the fact of her beside him, the way she grounds a world that seems so often fractured and uncertain. ]
It’s luck, isn’t it? I’m the luckiest bastard, and I never knew it.
[ A thought. Hm… ]
Hey, but.
What would you do if I did cut my hair?
[ Not that he would. Not that he’d ever consider it, he’s fond of his hair, but she brought it up. ]