#widwer

" anywhere you like. " pressing a kiss to beverly's shoulder. " maybe somewhere you've never been. would you let me do that? "

the sound of beverly's voice grows louder over the sound of the rain and allows jayne to make some estimation of how he's managed to catch up to jayne's long stepped stride. do you think i spend my time in theatre seeking a replacement husband? jayne stops, and feels beverly stall behind him more than he hears it.

jayne turns to face him, raising his eyebrows in lieu of actually begging beverly's pardon. as if there would be any confusion, he calmly takes one hand from his pocket to place his finger in the center of beverly's chest.

" you've barely spoken to me in three days. you've barely been home. " after letting the silence sit and weigh as heavily between them as this fact seems to weigh on jayne, that this isn't just about this evening, jayne pockets his hand. " and then you go and say a thing like that. "

" you're fucking with me, right? "

chris never developed the taste for being preened. however, it feels like bev's way of saying he's looking out for him. he doesn't have the heart to be quite as difficult as his instinct asks of him. it was already extremely kind of bev to insist he come today.

" we're gonna be late. " holland is about to graduate some fifty feet behind those doors, and they're already late according to chris's comfort.

" if we end up in the nosebleeds, i will make a scene so everyone knows it's your fault. "

perhaps luis has made himself so scant as to be a ‘nothing,’ a negative space. a boring, impossibly dry notch in the fabric of time and space. he thinks grief has turned him inverted; turned him to shrubbery, a non-playable painted into the background. life moves through him, especially here— squat, elbow to knee, chin held at the cusp of this horrific grave with its horrific date.

bev’s question floats into one ear; wrapped in gauze, knife-point wings.

“it’s a mating call,” he drones, still staring; half-concealed by a neighbor grave’s poorly planted and vaguely threatening boxwood bush. next time he’ll be sure to bring his shears and take a few inches off the top. other people exist.

when beverly isn't home or does not notice him, jayne spends the majority of his time running his fingers over the wallpaper of their front room. there is little else for him to do. pages do not turn for him, and his piano refuses to make any sound under the instruction of his hand.

every once in a while, he presses his fist solidly into the plaster beneath the damask texture of the wall, testing whether it would yield and send him anywhere else.

it never does, and he would like to think it means he'll stay here as long as beverly goes looking for him through his tears.

" i don't believe i could be anywhere you don't want me to be, deep down. whatever it takes. " this idea seems to please jayne as he kneels in front of beverly's chair to look into his downturned face. " it's very romantic. don't you think? "

thus far, jayne hasn't yet attempted to reach for beverly, feeling strangely prohibited. he only ever toys with the idea, this time placing his hand on the armrest and smoothing over the ornate reliefs in the wood with his fingertips. the sight of beverly looking so unwell over him is ... unsettling, and intimate.

" am i hurting you? "