ļ¼ ļ½ļ½ ļ¼ ļ½
ļ½ļ½ļ½ļ½ā:
he eyes the liquid amber in front of him, letās griffinās words echo in his ears and tries not to feel like theyāre displaced ā lost before they even reach him. ( he wants to tell him: youāre wrong, youāre wrong ā how could you know any better? but something in his gut, compensatory before it is ever self-preservative, says that elias has no right to say that to him. ) āyou think so?ā he says instead, deep brown gaze cutting up until it rests on griffin. maybe if you looked at it under the wrong, fluorescent light, youād see something desperate in it. if even under the rousing hold of liquid courage elias was strong enough to just let go, maybe youād see the desperation in his eyes that put a call to the yearning in his chest. the part of him that was still the kid that ran away from home and kept running & running, who wanted someone to grab him by the shoulders and yank him into place ā into staying.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā ā you canāt wish someone away.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā canāt you? canāt you?
but these were no fluorescent lights. here, elias was just another patron making conversation with the enigmatic bartender. this was just another friday evening for them both, another week passed in the arms of a sleepy town that blinked so slowly with every coming moon ā you could spend years here and youād forget to count them as they pass by.
except, it wasnāt just that. it wasnāt just any friday.
elias had called mum before taking his leave to the town tonight.
it had been surreal, hearing her voice. like she was the sepia tune of a broken record player playing songs he remembered growing up with, a memory caught somewhere between being forgotten. ( he hadnāt called her much since heād left. they stuck to letters; slow & steady as they were, the distance and time they took was the saving grace of an otherwise fading relationship. ) there was silence in between their words, just as there always was ā but somehow, it felt brighter. colored. elias had been suspicious of it, afraid what it meant. ( because he had forgotten what joy tasted like on his tongue, even more so when it came at the lap of the life he had once lived. ) she never told him why she sounded brighter, and elias wasnāt heartless enough to ask. he was glad, if anything, the guilt in his chest easing up to think that she was moving on once again.
( a part of him was selfishly, monstrously suspicious. suspicious, that maybe they were trying again. maybe there was a little noah in the makings after all.
he was fucking pathetic. )
the disgust at himself comes clawing up his throat, rearing teeth and tongue with a vehemence ā elias promptly drowns it with another hearty pull of his drink. heās too enthusiastic about it, almost chokes on; but he manages to swallow past, head shaking once as water softly colors along the edge of his vision.
āthereās nothing hiding in the silence.ā he says, voice a few ways hoarse after the big gulp heād tried to stomach. raising his gaze again, he turns it to griffin. āpeople think iām quiet so i must have a lot of say. must have a lot iām not sayinā.ā and itās like heās bartering with griffin, rationalizing why the man with his tightly fitted mirage and moonlight of a smile should see elias for the shadows he was. āi donāt.ā
the terseness in the air feels heavy on his shoulders, like it will tire him out. and elias ā oh elias, the modern tragedy he is, feels choked on the silence he begs to sow into his tongue and past his lips. ( he wants to swallow it whole, lick it until itās a fist sized ball that he can fit into the stretch of his throatā - ) the alcohol makes his tongue loose, makes his eyes shine with something he canāt pin between curiosity and apprehension.
āyou got family, griffin?ā he asks, the question somewhat silly in its nature. he figures, not everyone must have the sob story that he does ā surely, someone must have sunshine in their past. āanyone you keep in contact with? someone to call on sunday mornings?ā
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā THEREĀ WASĀ NOTHINGĀ TOĀ SEEĀ WHEREĀ there was nothing to hide, but there was no one in this town that had no secrets. griffin had a foot in many peopleās lives, as a bystander only, and it had him unlocking scenes he was in no way meant to partake in. but it was odd how much people were willing to share once they had something in their system, and griffin drank it up willingly. it was something he could not shed ā the need to know everything about everyone to be one step ahead in the game, as if everything he did was a move on a chessboard. he had always told himself that the key was to stay alive, but time had worn him down: he was no longer sure if there was a point to anything. he was not sure if there needed to be.
elias remained a mystery to more than just the bartender, but something told him not to dig. the last he would want was for the other boy to close himself off completely, walls that griffin could only dream of climbing, and heād find his own bare feet standing on unknown territory. he had no means of navigating his own mind and elias seemed to be much the same ā haunted boys sought each other out to trade ghosts, after all.Ā
you didnāt argue with a shadow and it was why griffin felt no need to let elias in on his feelings towards the boy. he had learned that words were of significantly less importance than men had come to think, and if he wanted them he had plenty of his own. there was relief in the silence, pools and pools of it to make even the most restless of hearts beat with less hesitation. griffin would know.
Ā«thatās where you and i differ,Ā» griffin gently pointed out, piece of fabric in his hand coming up to clean the glass in his hand. it was a mechanical feeling to his hand by now, another piece of boy that had become him, whoever he was supposed to be. griffin was to himself still a blank canvas, and he let no one close enough to paint anything coherent. Ā«i have a lot to say, but none of it sticks,Ā» and he found it to be the truth. his words were a drizzle rather than a storm and no one seemed bothered by it. Ā«i donāt think one is better, or worse, than the other.Ā» it was a conversation he found he could not possibly have with anyone but the young man sitting in front of him.
he had perfected different lies eight times and it was why when elias asked, he was prepared, like he was a predator and griffin was a prey, but he already knew he was being hunted. there was no end to this hunt, and griffin lived with that fear, but never once did he sweat it out ā battles lost could mean life or death for him. Ā«i got one,Ā» he replied, voice neutral, visage kind. Ā«donāt speak much to them. momās an accountant back in london.Ā» my mother wouldāve left me for dead back then if she had felt she had the choice. she saw too much of my father in me ā she never did love a monster and it was what she feared iād become. i canāt blame her: she couldnāt help it if my hands weighed with ashes and my tongue tasted blood and my throat clogged with smoke. she saved my life not out of mercy, or love, for me, but for what she knew wouldāve come if my father had killed me that night. it was a game to protect herself and she lost, and so did i. if it was up to her iād be dead.
Ā«dadās unemployed. accident broke his back a few years back.Ā» this is wishful thinking. my dad would snap you in a million pieces to get to me and to have me buried six feet under. i am a threat ā i know his secrets. i can name all his victims. sometimes i look at myself in the mirror if i dare and my eye bleeds. i tried to claw it out that night and i would have succeeded, and he would have let me. i was a monster to him too:Ā i was always more asset than son. if it was up to him iād be dead.
none of that left kieranās tongue, but the question had his head spinning in retrograde. this, of course, was not allowed. Ā«and yours, elias ?Ā»
