for the i love you writing prompts: 32 with jarrich?
#32, in a way I can’t return
This is also sort of for @itsevidentvery who requested "on a post-it note."
Richard isnʼt sure what Jared means when Jared says, “I love you.” He throws those words around - slapdash, haphazard - like they mean almost nothing at all.
Today Richard finds them scribbled on a post-it, tucked into his carefully-packed lunch bag. And again, this evening, printed neatly in the corner of his whiteboard. Jared’s handwriting, of course. Who else’s?
“Good work today, Richard,” Jared says, lingering too long - the way he always does - in his office doorway. “You’re really getting the hang of motivating this new team of yours. I love you.”
Richard canʼt say “I love you” back. Not all casual like that. Not the way Jared blurts it out, like itʼs any other polite pleasantry. Jared loves him the way his mother loves him, maybe: despite everything. But the way Richard loves Jared - if that’s what this is - is too big for that. The way Richard loves Jared comes with a need to possess.
Jaredʼs love, Richard thinks, is like a spotlight. He can - and does - swivel it in any direction, and whoever heʼs currently pointing it at is illuminated by the light of, like, a thousand fiery suns. Jared is careless with his light sometimes. Heʼll shine it on anyone. (Even you, a disbelieving voice in Richardʼs head says.) I mean. Right? Itʼs like. Jared fucks a different girl every night.
Richard wants to say “I love you” back, but the way he means it is so much bigger, so much scarier, than the way that Jared does.
So Richardʼs eyes go dead instead. So instead he doesnʼt say anything.