AN OPEN CASKET FUNERAL PLAYS OUT in the caving on his chest. dutiful mourners paying respect to the darling dead. his innocence, the fourth member of their family whose desires had spilled onto the pavement outside his London flat. stained, bloodied, alone. he wonders if his fate would be the same, that if he were to prise the remainder of tenderness from hollowed bones and smear against the other; would his body lay a limp sacrifice. who would come out of those he cared for? â lifeâs given us both back to you, â but it hadnât. it had chewed and spat guilty flavoured flesh onto the sidewalk, forcing a wounded animal to retreat into the comfort of what deemed safe. jamie wasnât safe, no, - he was the carcass of them leaving. a home he had once yearned to be near. deathless, breathing. perhaps if he had taken care of him this wouldnât hurt so much. yet he was everything and anything he had wanted, - needed. sullen hands, broken bones, why could he not stay?
â and weâll need to have a library in our house, one that is ridiculously big that we get lost. you can pick out as much poetry as you like, the boring kind, annoy someone else other than me with it,â was how their usual conversations would go beneath the orange tinged hue of oxford, soft curls spread array amongst the collarbone of his lover, - the arm not pressed beneath him, waving with emphasis. they are the aching, the cold remainder that winter had settled, - boarded up the walls of their heart. the only keys they have hidden beneath the back of their throats, erupting in a groan. â iâd follow you into the ends of the earth, silly. â pathetically. darling, darling, he melts, moulding, - light headed spells permitted his vision to speckle. i love you, i love you ! he tucks those words into the lining of his stomach, embedded until they come  out in hymn shaped praise. â nothing happens to me. â those his chest twists until he canât breathe, words captured; palm pressed thighs. he hadnât thought of what would be left to fend for after this, perhaps merely bones, - organs not yet swallowed, his tears that waver. â you should, but you wonât, baby. i know what you will say, you will say that it doesnât matter, that you still want me. i canât give you that. weâre not in oxford, in our own dorm, - that safety, privacy is gone. â tears come crawling from his hues, hot - warm, and the back of his hand desperately swipes at the strays that culminate until his features are a soaked flush.Â
HIS BREATH COMES AND goes, watching their entire secret history play across mirrored screens, watching a lifetime of tragedy wrack fragile ribs, beating in place of a heart, two hearts. he doesnât notice when his lungs scream for air, when his chest starts to burn, when he chokes, desperate. he can feel the walls he built so carefully around the two of them crumbling, piece by piece, collapsing in on him. it feels like when his father would pull him from his room, large hands that gripping tiny wrists so tight they left burning marks. too exposed, too foolish, to think there could be safety. that home could be a person, that there could even BE a home.Â
â and i donât care where it is, as long as itâs with you. â how childish, how honest. the things heâd shouted into night skies, talking to stars when he had the sun right next to him. telling gods about a god, words that came easy, drunk on the warmth that pooled in bedsheets, between shoulder blades where his hands fit perfectly. âitâs not too late,â but it is, and he knows it. a truth that wraps around his throat, that clogs shrinking lungs. itâs too late. he came too late, and even though his hands are reaching again he pulls them back. I LOVE YOU. he wants to scream it, like a plea, but heâs never been any good at begging. he can feel them, holding their choking breaths together, lungs that suffer from weakness of the heart. his teeth are gnawing at his cheek, and all he wants is to press the hurt there, where itâs bearable. âitâs not like itâs a choice,â the words are rough, pushed out with a sharp exhale. suddenly heâs tired, succumbing to a world without. without rose lips, gentle hands on warm skin. âyou understand that better than anyone. you .. you arenât a choice.â would he still choose him if he was? without pause. he wants to taste the salt of grief, kiss a trail of reprieve, but it would be impossible here. thatâs elijahâs whole point, isnât it? an immovable object meets broken boys. he whimpers, like a dog thatâs been kicked. âdonât say that,â please. âi donât want to lose you. again.â but he never quite had him back in the first place, this reunion was a funeral. he doesnât want to cry in front of him, twist the knife of loss that much further, but itâs hard to keep the pain at bay. âfuck, lij. you donât know how hard it is,â a shaky breath through his nose, ânot to kiss you.â he shouldnât have said it, but heâs glad he did. if this is it, then he wants it to be known. some feelings donât fade.
