#johnstian

Sebastian stared at the ceiling fan spin around, getting lost in thought. A dangerous thing to do when your mind is as messy as his, but he couldn't help it. He was bored and there was nothing better to do than dive into the deep end.

What was John doing right now?

Sebastian blinked at the question. The hypnotic sync his eyes had with the fan broke, making it's rotation look wrong. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes from it, feeling a bit dizzy now.

Maybe drinking tea or eating lunch. Maybe he went out for lunch too, enjoyed the nice weather. Probably wearing a nice jumper too.

He sighed, dropping his hand onto his face. The one time he would've welcomed harsher thoughts of people in the past, it had to go to John Hamish Watson.

Hopefully his bed isn't cold. Maybe he met a nice girl or fella. Maybe he's just got better heating. Either way, I hope he's warm.

He groaned now, rolling onto his side to stare out the window. It wasn't a nice view of the street at all, but it was still enjoyable. He could see birds flying from above rooftops, he could see smoke rising from chimneys.

Funny. Wishing someone is warm when I've pointed a gun at him.

Sebastian blinked then closed his eyes, huffing quietly. "It was one time. He doesn't even know." He muttered to himself, rubbing his temple. "He won't know."

Everything was quiet for a moment. He thought about taking a nap, despite the midday sun glowing in his room.

I could contact him. His email is on that stupid website. We could try again.

The blonde sat up, glancing at his phone on the nightstand. It'd be so easy to do, but he stopped himself. Getting involved with someone who was unfortunately very tied up into work was a horrid idea.

It could be for just one night. Feel good, mimic the good ol' days, sleep comfortably. I always slept better in his arms...

"God damnit," he muttered, getting out of bed and walking to the bathroom. A shower sounded nice. Maybe that stupid massage setting could steer his thoughts away from...whatever this was.

I wonder if he ever thinks of me when he-

Sebastian turned the water on blasting cold to nip that thought in the bud, biting his tongue to hold back a shriek. Too lazy to change the temperature, he dealt with the cold. Wasn't the worst shower conditions after all.

I miss him.

He started rubbing shampoo in his hair. Fruit scented; how fitting. Sebastian snorted at the irony of it. Maybe he should get a haircut soon, his hair was getting long...or grow it out again.

I miss how nice he made life seem.

He ducked his head under the water, closing his eyes. He'd gotten used to the cold water running over his body, making sure all the soap was rinsed from his hair and face before opening his eyes again.

I want to be ordinary.

"What am I, the living embodiment of that fuckin' song?" He muttered out loud, laughing at himself. "Forget that, I'm too far gone for a 'perfect soul'."

He shut the water off, snatching his towel from the rack. Army green; Jim must've thought he was being real cute with that. Regardless, he still used it to start drying off. At least it wasn't a rough towel, it didn't make his chest scars flare up.

I wanted to be with him.

Sebastian wrapped the towel around his waist, kicking his old clothes into the growing pile. He knew he had some clean comfortable clothes somewhere in his closet.

We were going to get a place together. We'd wake up and eat breakfast together.

He snatched a discarded robe. He was just getting increasingly more upset about thinking of the "what ifs" from the past and just wanted some damn sleep.

I want to be ordinary with him. No one else. Just him. He makes it look so lovely.

Sebastian laid down in bed, setting an alarm for the evening so he could eat dinner. The thought of contacting John came back to mind, this time the impulsiveness winning.

"Hey, It's Moran. Found out you've got a blog, wanted to get in touch. Hope life's been treating you well. -Bastian."

He reread the email too many times before hitting send and flinging his phone away. There was enough damage done to the blasted thing, getting thrown onto either the floor or nightstand couldn't hurt.

He makes the mundane look like art. Reading the newspaper, eating breakfast, setting alarms. He's a masterpiece. And I'm...not.

What a lovely train of thought to start drifting asleep to. Not the worst, of course, but not any better. Sebastian wrapped the blankets tightly around himself, burying half his face into the plush pillow.

I'm the paper used to test colored. Dried paint peeling off, colors that didn't work out staying around. The smell of expired paint soaking through. Used over and over, yet never discarded. I still have use. I still have blank spaces that can test a color.

Poetic self hatred. That was new. A bit nicer than the aggressive repeated words that would only stop after a bottle or two. Still hurt like a knife to think, of course.

Sebastian shut his eyes tightly. Trying to think of anything; some show he had seen recently, his favorite song, the stars. But no, it always circled back to John.

He'd listen to me talk about the stars. Listen for hours, to the point we'd both be exhausted the next day. Poor bastard must've really liked me to lose sleep over listening about the story of Orion or the difference between the Big and Little Dipper.

That got a chuckle from Sebastian, shaking his head a little. He missed being the bright eyed idiot that would talk about the stars with whoever listened. He was still an idiot, but didn't have the bright eyes and talked about the stars with whoever was closest emotionally.

I want to tell him about Canes Venatici and explain the different types of moons to him. Super moons, blood moons, blue moons...

Sappy. At least he was still a sap. He was starting to drift asleep, hearing the notification sound from his discarded phone but too tired to check it out.

I want to know if his eyes still shine when he smiles. I want to know if he still hates the smell of cinnamon but loves the taste. I want to know if he still remembers what I told him about the galaxy. I want to know if he ever thinks of me when he smells cigarette smoke.

Another notification sounded as he finally fell asleep, comfortable in the blanket tomb he made for himself. He didn't dream of anything special. The stars, mostly. How they danced with each other, even when both were dead and still shining brightly. How it was just like the memories of him and John in the past. The younger versions of themselves were dead but still danced together.

...