In a universe where everyone is born with numbers on their wrists counting down to when they'll meet their soulmate, send me 00:00:00 for my muses reaction to their numbers hitting zero when they meet yours.
This is stupid.
This clock is stupid and it's dysfunctional, incorrect, wrong.
Clocks are human things, a byproduct of human evolution. Not of ... Ink ... Shadow people ... whatever evolution.
So this has to be wrong. Strider definitely isn't who he's supposedly destined to be with forever. (Ach, that's a weighty word, isn't it? Forever. Makes him shudder just to say.) There must be some mixed signals here. Strider saw somebody just over his shoulder and Six saw the booze of Strider's shoulder and they both just happened to hit 00:00:00 at the same time.
Six fixes the other with a cold, humourless stare and pushes past him. "Don't get so excited," he mutters beneath his breath, reaching for the tequila shot that's obviously not for him sitting on the bar's pocked counter. "My clock hit 00:00:00 when I saw this. Not you."
In a universe where everyone is born with numbers on their wrists counting down to when they'll meet their soulmate, send me 00:00:00 for my muses reaction to their numbers hitting zero when they meet yours.
He's never liked this thing. Maybe when he was younger he didn't hate it so much. When he was younger, he was curious; and his mother and father explained so tenderly when he came to them vulnerable and confused, wondering why he had so many numbers while oldest sister and soon-to-be-wed Vivienne didn't have any that he too would lose each number. That one day he'd watch them dwindle down to mere seconds and when he looked up, the love of his life would be standing smack dab in front of him.
They held hands and recalled their meeting while he sat pondering the depleting seconds and wondering how hard he'd have to wash to get them to fade away.
Even now he hates watching it. He hates watching everybody else's tick tick tick down to nothingness while his seemingly never moves. He sees it happen daily and grows to resent his own clock every time he does, makes a point of pulling his sleeve down further around the glowing number and bandaging it before he sleeps at night. It's safe to say Six doesn't look at it much anymore.
Not until now, anyway.
Because he doesn't know what's happening. There's a kid -- sorry, young adult; he's just been informed that said kid young adult is eighteen -- standing here with his hands up saying his name is Oliver and to put the gun down, maybe, that this could probably very easily be worked out and he isn't looking for trouble, the light of his clock bright on his pale face and wide eyes and is blinking, flashing even in the way that they do when they're about to hit zero and --
Six freezes, fixes the other with a funny, vaguely frightened look and lowers the gun if only to use it to move his sleeve further up his forearm.
DEAR BEST FRIEND FROM ... SIX OR ONE... TO ONE OR SIX
Dear best friend,
I don't know where to begin. Mostly because I don't really write letters (and, come to think of it, have never written a formal, traditional one before) and not only am I not sure of what to say, but it just occurred to me that I'm a fucking idiot and even if I did have something to say, I could just sit with you on the couch and talk to you about it mano y mano.
But I've already started and this pen is fucking cool, so I'll probably just do something flowery like wedge it between the couch cushions so that you find it when you pull out the futon after I'm finished writing it.
I guess I just want to thank you, really. And we don't talk about this often if at all, but namely I want to thank you for ... bringing me out of my rut while I was going through withdrawal and all that. I don't even know how you did it. I would have punched me in the face. Gandhi would have punched me in the face.
You didn't punch me in the face.
Considering the fact that I'm positive that at that time everyone I came into contact with wanted to give me a good roundhouse kick to the stomach and you didn't, that's actually pretty fucking phenomenal, Cory.
I honestly don't think I would have lasted long if you hadn't. You know. Engaged me in a positive way. That sounds gay as all hell. But I honestly think I would have either fallen into old habits again, gotten myself killed, or killed myself. Withdrawal is a bitch. If I remember correctly, that was one of the first things you said when we met.
I don't really talk about this because it's just not something that people talk about, you know? It isn't really casual conversation. So I guess maybe it's better I'm writing it down instead of just spilling my guts to you aloud. It feels good to finally get it all down. To finally get in a proper thank you for getting me through a hell of a time grappling with withdrawal and seven years of utter fuckery.
You're my best friend. Sheila and Frances are good friends, but I like you best. I'm honestly not quite sure what I'd do without you or what I would have done without you then. Damn. You're just a good fucking person, you know that? Fuck. This is so fucking gay. Don't show the others. Especially Frances.
(I love you a whole fuckton. Even if you are kind of a schmooze and your dog shits everywhere.)
Christ, Six, it's not like he said he was pregnant or anything. "Ya what. Nah, don't -- " He coughs, brings his sleeve to wipe the half-spat beverage from his lips. "Don't do that. Dumb idea. Really fuckin' stupid idea, actually. Bad. Shame on ya."
