[For Toye]

[le_traiteur]

I know this feelin'. I know it, and I hate it, hate it with an intensity that burns low in my stomach, useless. Uncertainty, helplessness. It drives me crazy, like that tickle in the back of your throat nothin' can quench. Waitin', hopin' for the best but prepared for the worst. With as confused as I've been feelin' lately, I should probably

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[remnantofjoseph]

It's dark. Gene can't see him half-focused-staring, wore out and--who he is beats, beats, his sternum humming, it says: you're terrified of him, aren't you? No, he answers, happy to see him, somehow, an almost cheerful "fuck you" before he moves, Gene doesn't, and they're at a standstill in the doorway. He tilts his head, speaks roughly, directly to the ear. "Let me in, or I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house down."

[le_traiteur]

Instinct has me wantin' to shove Toye backwards at the same time I'm resistin' the shiver that's tryin' to work its way up my spine at the tickle of his breath against my ear. The way he's close, right up against me, it's like I'm an enemy or a lover, but I ain't either of those things. At least, not last I checked.

The thing I can't figure, though, and what Toye's probably wonderin', too, is why I care so much where he's been when I've been avoidin' him for the better part of a week.

I don't move.

"You coulda told somebody," I say, and if Toye suggests I start wearin' an apron, I reckon I deserve it. "People disappear, you know."

[remnantofjoseph]

"That's life for ya." He hovers there, body stiff. "I'll bite you if you don't move," he says, trying to keep a laugh out of his voice.

[le_traiteur]

I ain't laughin'.

"No you won't," I reply, steady and low, because regardless of the lack of logic to it, I want him to know I ain't that easily placated.

I don't just step back; I turn and walk to the middle of the room, sit on the pallet that's been my bed since Toye showed up. "Bed'll be done tomorrow," I say, and lay down facing the wall.