bowieleblancâ:
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Bowie has never really been the sort of person who bites their tongue. They firmly believed in saying what they thought or how they felt, because suppression is good for absolutely no one. But itâs always been different with Isaac, and sitting across from him now, they keep all the words that surface to themself. Mostly, theyâre too tired, both in a literal, present sense and in a way that stretches far beyond this coffeeshop. Itâs the same dead horse they spent so much time beating towards the end of their relationship. Whatâs the point of arguing about it again now, this time over tea and pastries as exes? Itâs the last thing Bowie wants to do or even talk, especially considering it pertains to his momma, but more specifically, his goddamn daddy. âI remember,â They say simply in response to his constant need to explain himself as they reach for their tea again, taking a sip. What they want to say, however, and maybe they will, is that this matter of wanting to build something and wanting to provide for and take care of his parents doesnât make him special. Itâs a basic human desire. Hell, Bowie wants to build something. They want to make sure their mommaâs good when the time comes too. Difference is, they never felt the need to sacrifice or change or compromise who they are in order to make these things happen.Â
They laugh as they place their mug back onto the table, ready, willing, and eager to move on. âPoetry donât got a name?â Bowie teases him in spite of themself, tilting their head right back at him as a smile pulls at their lips. They roll their eyes, their smile growing as Isaac speaks. âOh like me, huh?â They ask, looking at him for a beat longer. It should be a shame how heâs still able to warm the same heart he broke. âWhy would I laugh at that? You know I love creativity and color,â They add, gesturing before letting their hands settle in their lap.
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Sacrifice, settling for less because it was the right thing to do. As a kid, his mother raised him to reach for the stars no matter how far away they were. But his father? His father had him on a path for success since he was in diapers. It was always the same thing. Excel in school, graduate from Law school, pass the bar and work in the public sector for a little while for the experience. And then, when all was said and done and his father was ready to retire, he'd move back to Macon and take over the family practice.
That was what he meant to do.
That was what he was supposed to do.
And yet... the longer he sat there with Bowie, the more at home he felt. He never felt this way in his own childhood abode, never felt comfortable enough to shed his skin and show the world what was underneath. They brought him out of the shell he had formed around himself to keep the frivolous dreams and hopes instead, and they actually encouraged him to delve into a part of himself he left behind.
If only things had been different... if only he were different.
His face split into a wide grin. "Yeah, yeah, poetry got a name. It's uh, this old French dude. Sonnet on Love XIII," His smile turned sheepish. "It's, uh, kinda corny. Every time I read it though... your face pops in my head." He shrugged, his cheeks reddening at how open he was being. He chuckled. "Yeah, I know you do. How's the shop going?"














