jameson feels so much uglier than what victor describes. he feels as though they're staring at each other through some fucked - up mirror, seeing reflections that aren't, people that never have existed, and never will. maybe once, jameson had been unafraid of loving victor. maybe once, before david had died, he could've been that gentle, loving person, who loved and loved and loved. but he feels, now, like he'd made of jagged edges, and that victor is only pretending not to have cut his hands raw upon him, to have bled at how jameson had treated him. there's so many ways they'd hurt themselves and one another. there's so many ways his grief ( that's what it is, even when he won't acknowledge it ---- grief, that makes him sharp as a knife ) had made jameson terrible. he feels terrible. he feels like the opposite of what victor claims him to be.
and victor . . . victor doesn't seem to care. worse, victor seems to think that flawed as jameson has been, it's still worth bearing the hurt that has passed, and the hurt that will, that must, come. hadn't he opened the door for him today? hadn't he welcomed jameson back in, even after what had happened, days before? maybe victor sees him. maybe victor sees him, and doesn't care. or maybe he forgives him his trespasses, his silence, his avoidance, his refusal to love. it would be a grace jameson hasn't ever experienced, to fuck up as bad as he had, and been forgiven ---- forgiven, and loved anyways.
he doesn't yet lie down, but looks contemplatively at victor, his eyes still red and swollen from his tears. he wonders what would have happened, if he hadn't gotten a black eye from some asshole named chad or bruce or some shit, and if he hadn't ranted his anger to victor, and if victor had recognized dynamite and decided not to bring it to bed. maybe it all would've been easier for him. no hospital no aching, no grief in his throat, no fear at every unknown number. jameson can picture a world without victor. he remembers, rather, what it had been when he was not loved, and it was easier. lonelier, but easier.
for once, jameson, who never shuts up with vulgarity and rudeness and joking, doesn't know what to say to something so sweet and so wrong. so, even though he opens his mouth as though he'll speak, he chokes up, for once, and just nods and complies. he lies himself down, arms wrapped over his chest, nestled into victor. it makes him feels small.
" are you still gonna love me when i fuck this up? " jameson asks, quieter than usual. he's raw with emotion, his throat chafed and his heart tired. he's never gonna be a prince, not even a sad imitation of one, and he hopes victor knows. as much as jameson doesn't want to be seen, he hopes that victor sees him. he hopes that victor isn't making as much of a mistake as jameson thinks he is.
titsay
ellievsbear
vaporwave
gummygunk
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
