cathartic writing
Title: Cross Country (part one)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 771
Summary: A bunch of hafjklsdf because I just like to write when I feel a special sort of sadness come along.
Characters: Hank Lawson, Evan Lawson, implied!Peck.
Warnings: Awful metaphors and diction. Read at your own risk.
Author's Notes:
DERP.
In the deepest, darkest, recesses of his mind, he knows that this is right. Absolutely, positively right to the point where he makes a movement, makes a shift and creates this whirlpool in his stomach, watches all of the contents mix and swirl regardless of how they shouldn’t or should. And oh, he’s not afraid of the combination that may come out of this. He’s no longer afraid of anything, terribly fluid in his movements because they can’t keep him, they can’t decide where he goes and what he does and what he thinks and breathes and ingests into his nervous system.
He doesn’t even know what he takes in.
But surely, he thinks-but surely he cannot be doing any worse than the people around him. Surely, he thinks, there’s no way that he can be denying himself a pleasure that has slowly developed over the parts of his life that he remembers. No, this is a commodity that he could have; but for whatever reason he doesn’t find the time, can’t seem to move himself far enough to snatch it up.
He’s busy.
He’s got important things going on.
He’s got the biggest plans in the universe unfolding, and they’re withering underneath his fingertips with every step he wanders.
It’s what he tells himself, what he assures himself-the hot air with which he fills himself, and he wonders if Hank can feel the expanding heat, if he can absorb the helium through the pads of fingers and palms, through the shared anxious glances when neither of them know what to do and Evan is failing miserably at keeping everything inside. Those moments creep on him, when he’s suddenly filled with venom and struggling to shift across, get to the life that he had left with his brother and beg him for it back. He knows he left it with Hank. He left it there, in his right pocket next to the fraying lining and the bruise from where he had awkwardly punched him in the leg during a tussle. During a fight. When Evan screamed and Hank bellowed and suddenly things aren’t right anymore.
Suddenly Evan has a hole in his heart that can’t be fixed, isn’t being fixed, why isn’t Hank fixing this it’s what he does. He wants to kick and cry and yell for his big brother to swoop in and sew things up so neatly, because he can see the way that Hank’s fingers linger on the pads of the phone, the remote, the way that they shake when handling bags and chairs and won’t one of them say something, Evan feels like he’s drowning and the only way to breathe is to leave.
And he can’t leave.
Hank wouldn’t forgive him.
Not that such a thing would happen anyway.
And he wonders where all of his privacy went. Before, he had all this silence and quiet and soft silk that laced the entire house-he had to go out of his way to create a symphony of crashes and spills, just to grab attention; but now, now he cannot move farther than three inches before Hank is there, suffocating him with the smell of another house, another home, places that he doesn’t belong.
Evan wants to tell him that Hank doesn’t belong there, that she’s no good that the world is no good and please come home, he misses you so much that he’s started to sit on the staircase in quaking anticipation for the four a.m. ringing that cues the moment that his big brother steps through the door; that his big brother doesn’t notice the way that Evan silently slips back up the stairs into his own room. It’s atrocious, the way that Hank sneaks in, poking his head in his little brother’s room, pausing to hear whether or not Evan is soundlessly asleep.
They wait.
They wait.
The sound of a silent house nearly collapsing Evan’s eardrums.
And after holding his breath for too long, he lets it out in a drawn-out sigh that convinces Hank just enough to close the door and pad off to his own room, to his own sanctuary. Where he can change and clean and lay in his room for all of the rest of eternity and no one will care, no one will poke their head in to check on him because everyone in this country of walls and silence and strain is too scared to assure themselves that their King is still alive and well-because they don’t know what will happen if he isn’t and they can’t fix it. They’d far rather be ignorant than responsible.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 771
Summary: A bunch of hafjklsdf because I just like to write when I feel a special sort of sadness come along.
Characters: Hank Lawson, Evan Lawson, implied!Peck.
Warnings: Awful metaphors and diction. Read at your own risk.
Author's Notes:
DERP.
In the deepest, darkest, recesses of his mind, he knows that this is right. Absolutely, positively right to the point where he makes a movement, makes a shift and creates this whirlpool in his stomach, watches all of the contents mix and swirl regardless of how they shouldn’t or should. And oh, he’s not afraid of the combination that may come out of this. He’s no longer afraid of anything, terribly fluid in his movements because they can’t keep him, they can’t decide where he goes and what he does and what he thinks and breathes and ingests into his nervous system.
He doesn’t even know what he takes in.
But surely, he thinks-but surely he cannot be doing any worse than the people around him. Surely, he thinks, there’s no way that he can be denying himself a pleasure that has slowly developed over the parts of his life that he remembers. No, this is a commodity that he could have; but for whatever reason he doesn’t find the time, can’t seem to move himself far enough to snatch it up.
He’s busy.
He’s got important things going on.
He’s got the biggest plans in the universe unfolding, and they’re withering underneath his fingertips with every step he wanders.
It’s what he tells himself, what he assures himself-the hot air with which he fills himself, and he wonders if Hank can feel the expanding heat, if he can absorb the helium through the pads of fingers and palms, through the shared anxious glances when neither of them know what to do and Evan is failing miserably at keeping everything inside. Those moments creep on him, when he’s suddenly filled with venom and struggling to shift across, get to the life that he had left with his brother and beg him for it back. He knows he left it with Hank. He left it there, in his right pocket next to the fraying lining and the bruise from where he had awkwardly punched him in the leg during a tussle. During a fight. When Evan screamed and Hank bellowed and suddenly things aren’t right anymore.
Suddenly Evan has a hole in his heart that can’t be fixed, isn’t being fixed, why isn’t Hank fixing this it’s what he does. He wants to kick and cry and yell for his big brother to swoop in and sew things up so neatly, because he can see the way that Hank’s fingers linger on the pads of the phone, the remote, the way that they shake when handling bags and chairs and won’t one of them say something, Evan feels like he’s drowning and the only way to breathe is to leave.
And he can’t leave.
Hank wouldn’t forgive him.
Not that such a thing would happen anyway.
And he wonders where all of his privacy went. Before, he had all this silence and quiet and soft silk that laced the entire house-he had to go out of his way to create a symphony of crashes and spills, just to grab attention; but now, now he cannot move farther than three inches before Hank is there, suffocating him with the smell of another house, another home, places that he doesn’t belong.
Evan wants to tell him that Hank doesn’t belong there, that she’s no good that the world is no good and please come home, he misses you so much that he’s started to sit on the staircase in quaking anticipation for the four a.m. ringing that cues the moment that his big brother steps through the door; that his big brother doesn’t notice the way that Evan silently slips back up the stairs into his own room. It’s atrocious, the way that Hank sneaks in, poking his head in his little brother’s room, pausing to hear whether or not Evan is soundlessly asleep.
They wait.
They wait.
The sound of a silent house nearly collapsing Evan’s eardrums.
And after holding his breath for too long, he lets it out in a drawn-out sigh that convinces Hank just enough to close the door and pad off to his own room, to his own sanctuary. Where he can change and clean and lay in his room for all of the rest of eternity and no one will care, no one will poke their head in to check on him because everyone in this country of walls and silence and strain is too scared to assure themselves that their King is still alive and well-because they don’t know what will happen if he isn’t and they can’t fix it. They’d far rather be ignorant than responsible.