Days pass like feathers on the wind, there and gone in a fleeting weight that leaves the remnant of touch on your cheekbones-- but no evidence it was ever there. He blinks and the months melt into one another. There is blood on his hands some days, and on others he can even wash it off. You live with your trauma, rusted pins in a broken spine that can’t be repaired beyond spit and tape and sheer determination. Some days it’s easier, it’s FORCED. Gritted teeth against the world while living, functioning, carrying grief and pretending it isn’t tied around your legs.
But then there are reminders. And Christmas, it’s cliche, it’s painful, and it’s hard. The force of concrete on already brittle bones.
( Reminders of family, of love, of happiness burned into every song every moment and every passing voice. ) Isaac tastes Nicole on the back of his tongue. Feels memories of living friends and lovers who mourn a fake grave for him itching in the back of his mind. Quicksand, chains. No, more like hooks dragging down and buried in flesh with growing strength each time he struggles. That doesn’t stop him -- makes it more painful, knowing that someone is waiting. Some things are easier shaken off than others, just as the snow he stomps from his boots before stepping inside.
A lock in place. ( No chance of interruptions tonight, the apartment building nearly empty or full of self absorbed families. ) Isaac tosses his jacket to the side as he moves from hallway to living room with cool breath turning to steam against hot air. Pausing under the pressure of a blow to the gut when he smells alcohol.
Perhaps not even touched to throat and stomach yet. Chris seems to be staring at it like an unwanted temptation.
He crosses the room in silence, and settles onto the couch besides him. Hot to cool, utterly silent. Every attempted word rises and falls dead upon his tongue. A living battlefield of well meaning promises and icy reminders that can never make it past the gritted gate of his teeth. They would be like needles. Sound like a bitter sort of hate that Isaac can’t stomach on this night, of all nights.
With a soft sound, he raises his hand. Presses his palm over the top of Chris’s glass, and ignores the twinge of a torn muscle with each twitching motion. No pressure to lower it, but resistance against attempts to raise it.
( The fluid looks beautiful against his skin. )
