tezcatl_ipoca: (csi: domestic morning)
Al's apartment, a few days later

Spending more of my time here, now. Much of it as I can, really.

Still have to be careful, of course. Think Al's got some kind of plan in place to tidy away any evidence of our previous deal; figure I'm better off not knowing the details.

But we've been able to get up together in the mornings, mostly, and I'm here when he comes back from work - which seems to be getting earlier, these past days. And it's - easy. More absurdly domestic than I'd've thought possibly, when he straightens my tie under my chin with a slight frown for my scruffiness, or I take his jacket and kiss him as he comes in the door. Almost frightening how fast it's starting to feel normal, him and me, here. Not sure I realised how I've missed living with someone, since Syl. Knowing it'll last, god willing. Knowing that I'm home.

[Open to Al]
tezcatl_ipoca: (all roads lead)
It's raining when I arrive, hot close drizzle. Stare out of the cab window; it's not the city I remember, and it is. Gives me a tight sick sort of feeling, like the beginnings of a hangover.

His apartment's in a better building than I expected, a solid middle-class neighbourhood. The super, short and broad and scowling, lectures me as she takes me up there, gives me the key: Everything paid up, she says, as if it's an insult, until the end of next month, and how can I let it? Who will rent it when a man has died there? When all his goods are there, still? I shut the door firmly in her face, lean my back against it as if she's going to break in.

The sparseness of it's too familiar, too like my own place. Nothing of the boy, the young man, that I remember. He was always neater than me, and he's gone about this like he went about most things, methodical, respectable. No clothes discarded on chairs, the kitchen clean. The fridge empty, though that could have been someone else. Bed against one wall, sofa against the other, tiny kitchen and bathroom. Almost a hotel room.

The bed's made up, hospital corners like my mother taught us. I feel my jaw clench hard.

I drop my suitcase to one side, my carry-on on the sofa. I'm tired and stiff from the flight, and I just want a fucking drink.

[continued in comments]

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tezcatl_ipoca

September 2010

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