#sparksmire

wait for me to come home

post injury is when i think the communication starts to ramp up again. but it’s just soooo awkward. 😭😭. stilted, like joe is trying to talk with metal in his mouth. the calls are maybe not often at first i don’t think. if they are face-timing, ja’marr never looks him in the face when he asks how rehab’s going/how his leg is/how he’s doing . big brown eyes, still the same soft shade joe used to watch go glassy with laughter, now always a few degrees off, flick away, trained on some invisible point past the edge of the screen. like the answer might be easier to hear if he doesn’t have to see joe struggle to give it.

i guess objectively the leg is…legging. like he is hitting whatever milestones he needs to hit. but like. the whole thing sucks. awfully. joe lies kinda. says it’s fine. says it hurts but it’s manageable. says the new trainer doesn’t suck. ja’marr hums, nods, doesn’t push. sometimes joe wants him to. sometimes he doesn’t.

[and things aren’t the same like they were. back then it was all touch, touch, touch, they didn’t know how to breathe without skin on skin, every second apart too long so they made up for it by pressing into each other at every chance, jawlines and knuckles and collarbones, kissing like they were trying to memorize it all before it disappeared. and it did disappear. #sad. both of them want to pull the other through the phone, want to crawl into the grainy screen and stay there. but what can u do.]

anyway. the calls keep happening, and they get longer. stretch out like the days start to. and then spring starts creeping up, not all at once, just in stupid little hints. the snow gets ugly before it melts. sidewalks wet and slushy. slivers of grass poking through like they forgot it was too early. those scraggly white bloodroots popping up on the trail by the facility. bluebells half-dead from frost but still trying anyway. and he catches himself wondering what flowers are growing in louisiana right now. what kind of weather ja’marr’s walking through. whether he’s still wearing the sweater joe left at his house by accident or if he threw it out or donated it or—whatever. doesn’t matter.

anyway. shit like this reminds him that time is moving. that things grow back even after they go cold.

the calls are easier now. ja’marr starts to laugh again—really laugh, loud and unfiltered, like the sun cracking through cloud cover. and joe smiles so wide his face hurts. and the next night, when ja’marr calls again, he answers so fast the ringtone barely finishes. they talk about dumb shit. a terrible episode of something they both watched. a silly fan edit ja’marr saw that made joe look like a wet cat. a new cookie recipe ja’marr tried that came out kind of weird but not awful.

sometimes ja’marr falls asleep on the line. just like that. cheek pressed into his forearm. face half-lit by his busted lamp. joe watches him breathe. watches his hair shift just slightly with every exhale. he thinks about saying goodnight, then doesn’t. just listens.

he’s not at his best, joe can tell. the signs are there—little shadows under his eyes, pauses where words used to be. he’s not sure if ja’marr’s sleeping enough. not sure what he’s eating. also not sure who else he’s talking to. 🤕

blah blah the draft is coming….joe is doing what he is doing because he wants it so bad. wants him so bad. wants to throw to him again. wants to see him in the building. wants to look across the locker room and know. (also wants to kiss him. but well. 🫠. WE TAKE WHAT WE CAN GET.)

at whatever point ja’marr gets this little worm of hope. like Maybe. maybe? 🤔? but you never know, do you? and you know, so many teams would want him. so. but still—he calls joe. he always calls joe. —> wait for me to come home.

does this even make sense. i guess long story short i an saying. that inadvertently this is what ja’marr is telling joe. or what they are telling each other. home.

you could also in theory apply this whole song to like the contract situation i have so so many thoughts about that (esp like if u imagine that at that point they are not together yet. chiefs game. etc etc. yum.) but i’m talking too much already.

oh, you can fit me / inside that necklace you got when you were sixteen / next to your heartbeat, where i should be / keep it deep within your soul / and if you hurt me / well, that’s okay, baby, only words bleed / inside these pages, you just hold me / and i won’t ever let you go

idk this feels kinda self explanatory yk. i’m playing with the idea of gifts here in reference to the necklace thinggg. only words bleed - idk i’m kinda thinking abt like. two conversations here in which things kinda get. testy. also i think of very emotional sex here. poundtownnnnn 😜 but u are crying.

the scientist —

come up to meet you, tell ya i’m sorry / you don’t know how lovely you are / i had to find you, tell ya i need you / tell you i set you apart

well this goes both ways in my mind. u have ja’marr feeling like dogshit. dropping balls. fear that he’s wasting it, that he’s letting everyone down, that he’s letting joe down (who is like a God to him) then yeah tell ya i’m sorry you don’t know how lovely you are. (again 🔄 bc joe during all this)

i had to find you, tell ya i need you / tell you i set you apart

^ joe seeing the drops and not gaf. he needs ja’marr. yada yada yk how he feels abt him. on a pedestal.. so yeahhh set him apart etc etc. 🔄 and also the constant constant reassurances from joe. 🧿🧿. (also [REDACTED] 😉)

questions of science, science and progress / do not speak as loud as my heart / but tell me you love me, come back and haunt me / oh, and i rush to the start / runnin’ in circles, chasin’ our tails / coming back as we are

^ it’s too much to say abt this just being real. TELL ME YOU LOVE ME. COME BACK AND HAUNT ME.

Anyway. during this time they also give water under the bridge by adele. i also think of fire and the flood & back to you. if anybody gaf i can also talk abt those idk. and many many others.

There’s a knock on the door and he doesn’t answer right away — not because he doesn’t hear it but because he does and it doesn’t make sense, not at this hour, not on this day when his hands already ache from gripping too tight and letting go too easy, when his name is in mouths it doesn’t belong in and everyone’s got something to say about his hands and his nerves and the shape of his future like they’ve ever run a route with fire in their lungs and cotton in their head, like they’ve ever felt what he’s feeling now which is everything all at once and too much to say out loud. The knock comes again, firmer this time, and he wipes his palms on his shorts like maybe he’s sweating even though he’s been standing still and cold since practice, cold since he dropped another one, cold since the cameras caught it. And when he opens the door— His breath goes sideways. His dad. Just there, standing on the other side in a blue windbreaker that's probably older than Ja'Marr at this point, eyes sharp but soft —stormclouds in August — rocking back on his heels like they’d planned this or called ahead or spoke at all in the last month, like Ja’Marr’s not barely holding it together with strings and tape and stubborn pride. Ja’Marr’s moving before he can stop it — he turns away, into the living room, burning holes in the rug like he’s trying to walk something off except it’s in his chest not his legs, it’s in the shake of his fingers and the burn behind his eyes and he can’t stop moving, like if he keeps going maybe he won’t come apart completely. “You just —” he breathes, halfway to himself, “you just showin’ up?” A stupid question, really. Because this is his father, and it’s football, and the two are so tangled up inside him he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Every memory he has of learning how to be someone, learning how to be this — it’s got his dad in the corner of the frame. Voice like gravel and heat. Hands adjusting a helmet strap under his chin. Clapping his shoulder soft after a drop with a smile — shake it off, J, it’s okay. Driving six hours for a middle school championship. And now Ja’Marr’s here, here, the dream, the mountaintop, and everyone’s watching and doubting and whispering about if he’s a bust and his hands don’t work and what happened to chase? what happened to that kid? And now his dad’s in his living room and it’s like every nerve is screaming prove it prove it prove it show him you earned this show him you belong. ++ He can see himself in the lines of the man holding him steady. In the curve of his jaw. In the set of his mouth. He sees the little boy in himself too — the one who used to cry when he missed a catch in the backyard, and the same arms that lifted him up then are still here now.

😁😁😁😁😁

- deathversary coming up

- dad ***** **** **

- mom *****

- december layoff surely incoming

- and naturally im ********