leave a word, set of words, or quote for one of my folks. or leave a comment and i'll respond with a word/words or a quote. (if you're searching for words, you might try this site or this site.)
He used to shine. He used to flare across a world of nobodies. How's he supposed to find that again?
He knows the answer, that there's no finding anything at all, that it's going, almost gone. Knows the answer but won't think about it, doesn't have to think about it as long as he lives. Because what's the point in dwelling on what's lost, right? If only it weren't so hard not to dwell these days. If only his mind and mood didn't fuzz over, anchor him in glumness, downness, moods he's rarely and maybe never felt in his life. He doesn't know what to do about it. He mostly closes his eyes and tries to barrel through. Because there's always a brighter side, isn't there?
And there's Eda. Right now, there's Eda. He keeps almost steady watching her for five minutes, ten, he doesn't know how long. And then there's the itch. The pull toward the bottle of scotch left on the bureau. He'd told himself he wouldn't. That he'd wait until she woke up and they had breakfast (he assumes, lets himself assume she'll stay for that much longer, though really, she shouldn't have to). But he knows from experience that the itch will only become more persistent, the need harder to ignore. And anyway, isn't it better if he has his drink before she wakes up? He knows she doesn't like it; this way, he's at least not doing it in front of her. (As if it won't happen again before she goes. As if there's any way of avoiding it.)
So he pours himself a drink, tries to make it last.
He knows it's a shame to keep her here. To call her back time and again and hang onto her when there's so much for her beyond these walls, beyond him. He should let her go. Tell her to go. Stop begging on and off his knees for her to come back.
But what else is there? He can play at courtroom exploits and sharp banter (harder and harder to do even that, to hold onto a conversation, to remember the ways words can soar). And yes his work still matters, from time to time he feels the accustomed flash of it all and from time to time he's lucid, so clear and so clear to everything he's been and can be, everything he hasn't yet become–
All of that fades, so quickly.
The morning is becoming melancholy, and suddenly it's hard to be alone while she sleeps, hard to let her rest, though he wants to and knows that he should. Her presence here is a gift; he ought to respect that. But he's lonely. But he doesn't want to lose her, and right now she seems too far away. Then, too, because he knows he needs to part with her, a piece of him tries to hold on harder still.
Fallon sets his glass aside, making a vague effort to place it out of sight. "Eda?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
He knows the answer, that there's no finding anything at all, that it's going, almost gone. Knows the answer but won't think about it, doesn't have to think about it as long as he lives. Because what's the point in dwelling on what's lost, right? If only it weren't so hard not to dwell these days. If only his mind and mood didn't fuzz over, anchor him in glumness, downness, moods he's rarely and maybe never felt in his life. He doesn't know what to do about it. He mostly closes his eyes and tries to barrel through. Because there's always a brighter side, isn't there?
And there's Eda. Right now, there's Eda. He keeps almost steady watching her for five minutes, ten, he doesn't know how long. And then there's the itch. The pull toward the bottle of scotch left on the bureau. He'd told himself he wouldn't. That he'd wait until she woke up and they had breakfast (he assumes, lets himself assume she'll stay for that much longer, though really, she shouldn't have to). But he knows from experience that the itch will only become more persistent, the need harder to ignore. And anyway, isn't it better if he has his drink before she wakes up? He knows she doesn't like it; this way, he's at least not doing it in front of her. (As if it won't happen again before she goes. As if there's any way of avoiding it.)
So he pours himself a drink, tries to make it last.
He knows it's a shame to keep her here. To call her back time and again and hang onto her when there's so much for her beyond these walls, beyond him. He should let her go. Tell her to go. Stop begging on and off his knees for her to come back.
But what else is there? He can play at courtroom exploits and sharp banter (harder and harder to do even that, to hold onto a conversation, to remember the ways words can soar). And yes his work still matters, from time to time he feels the accustomed flash of it all and from time to time he's lucid, so clear and so clear to everything he's been and can be, everything he hasn't yet become–
All of that fades, so quickly.
The morning is becoming melancholy, and suddenly it's hard to be alone while she sleeps, hard to let her rest, though he wants to and knows that he should. Her presence here is a gift; he ought to respect that. But he's lonely. But he doesn't want to lose her, and right now she seems too far away. Then, too, because he knows he needs to part with her, a piece of him tries to hold on harder still.
Fallon sets his glass aside, making a vague effort to place it out of sight. "Eda?
"Hey, baby?"