Now, who wants a story?

What do we have to start with?  Just as a warning, my stories are under no obligation to make sense. Let’s begin with the sounds he makes when he comes home, the sounds Niah hears while lying half asleep on the old mattress they set up for themselves in the living room.  The mattress practically is the living room now; the blankets have inched their way onto a carpet piled high with books, papers, Dray’s unfinished homework from this morning, and the like.  There’s a coffee table that’s been beat to hell (Zila bought it off some guy down the street), but that space is reserved for the War, plus Moon’s beer cans, and Niah’s pack of cigarettes.  There’s no jingle of keys that pulls Niah from sleep; he doesn’t need them, he just exhales lightly, and the door unlocks for him because he knows the inside of that lock like he knows the exact position of every mole and every scar on Niah’s body; and the feel of it, the feel of that slight swirling swish of energy so close, is what wakes him.  Then there’s the creak of the door, soft shuffling feet, usually a muttered curse at the lack of food or the presence of bills, or because he’s sat down at his computer and noticed that something important has happened somewhere, and he’ll have to deal with it in the morning.  Niah feels silly for not paying attention.  It is his war, after all, he supposes.  Although Moon always feels it’s necessary to remind him that this is not his fault.

You’ve got enough to be going on about.  Let me worry about winning; you just worry about staying alive. 

Whatever you say, my love.  Niah knows it’s not going to happen, this staying alive business.  That’s not what this is about; it never has been.  You can hit the brakes all you like, but if you start your train out on the wrong track, you’re going to crash, even if you stand still.  Somewhere, some child is contemplating a word problem that will define the exact position and time of the apocalypse.

There is a rustling above him, and Niah sighs in relief, because this sound means that Moon is about to lie down and fill Niah’s world with warm and safe and love.

Hey, you awake?

Yeah.  How was your day?

A’right.  You?

Decent.  Missed you.  You were at work for a long time.

Yeah, but now we can pay the rent.

Niah can feel Moon smiling against his own lips, and the spectre of the rent, or whatever else caused the customary sigh, is obliterated piece by piece with each kiss, each gentle brush from calloused finger tips, each rising tendril of blue-green light.

Ashita nante konai you ni to negatta yoru kazoekirenai . . .

Wagamama to wakatte mo . . .


~ by followingsherlockholmes on October 16, 2012.

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