Mindon Island
April 2nd, 2010
The world still felt off-axis, and so did Scotty, but at least it didn't feel like it was shrouded in perpetual darkness.
He knew he was fighting against something still. He wasn't sure what, exactly, but he knew that he was because he could feel it. He still felt lost, and he still felt as though he wouldn't find his way out of that lost state and back into certainty. It didn't feel quite so hopeless as before, though. Not quite so impossible.
He didn't really want much to do with people, but he had stopped spiralling out of control at the mere thought of running across them. More, he thought of people like something wild thinks of people -- as something to be appropriately wary of. He wasn't sure if it was because of what had happened or because of his own lack of focus and certainty. He couldn't see himself being warm and somewhat open with them at all.
He was having a hard enough time being warm and somewhat open to himself.
But it wasn't quite so hopeless as before. He was wounded, somehow, but it wasn't as outright painful as it had been. It was easing up. Somewhere inside, he worried that it was just a rise before a fall, but he didn't give into it.
Mostly, he felt worried about his husband. He couldn't even fathom how hard this was for Harold; how hard it was to be married to a man who couldn't really keep his head together. Who couldn't stop aching over one stupid move and be a proper husband again. He worried for Harold because Harold deserved a husband who could focus, who could touch and feel touch again, properly. He worried because Harold did deserve a beautiful honeymoon, where they laughed and felt joy and made love and got to be themselves.
Scotty worried, too, because he couldn't seem to give Harold any of that right now.
He knew Harold wouldn't blame him. Such was the patient man he'd taken the name of. But it didn't mean Harold didn't deserve all of these things, and Scotty kept trying to figure out how to... live. Again. Breathe and feel. One hurdle down. What seemed a thousand more to try and jump or crawl over.
The island was beautiful, and he could sometimes feel the sun and warm air and wind, and that was better than it had been. He could sometimes feel the water, or the softness of their bed, or the gentle touches Harold lavished on him in affection. It was more than he had recently. It still wasn't as much as his husband deserved.
He woke up, and he made breakfast -- mango sauce over french toast, with some tropical fruit salad on the side. And a steak, too, to go and give a counterpoint; spiced and moist, something to offset all of that sweetness. He made it because at least in cooking, he felt more... useful, less of a failure. And because Harold deserved that, too -- deserved a husband as here and present and attentive as said husband could be.
He took the warm food on a tray and went to serve it, after slipping out and into the wilderness around the beach house to grab some orchids in blues and golds to put in a vase to go with it. They grew wild here, and Scotty wondered what it would take to bring some home to plant.
He sat on the edge of the bed, setting the tray aside. Took one of the yellow orchids and trailed the soft pedals down the side of Harold's face. And somewhere inside of himself was a lot of swirling lost and fog and ache and fear and wariness and uncertainty.
And under all of it, a little spark, tiny but there, of joy for the beauty of waking his sleeping husband with flowers.
April 2nd, 2010
The world still felt off-axis, and so did Scotty, but at least it didn't feel like it was shrouded in perpetual darkness.
He knew he was fighting against something still. He wasn't sure what, exactly, but he knew that he was because he could feel it. He still felt lost, and he still felt as though he wouldn't find his way out of that lost state and back into certainty. It didn't feel quite so hopeless as before, though. Not quite so impossible.
He didn't really want much to do with people, but he had stopped spiralling out of control at the mere thought of running across them. More, he thought of people like something wild thinks of people -- as something to be appropriately wary of. He wasn't sure if it was because of what had happened or because of his own lack of focus and certainty. He couldn't see himself being warm and somewhat open with them at all.
He was having a hard enough time being warm and somewhat open to himself.
But it wasn't quite so hopeless as before. He was wounded, somehow, but it wasn't as outright painful as it had been. It was easing up. Somewhere inside, he worried that it was just a rise before a fall, but he didn't give into it.
Mostly, he felt worried about his husband. He couldn't even fathom how hard this was for Harold; how hard it was to be married to a man who couldn't really keep his head together. Who couldn't stop aching over one stupid move and be a proper husband again. He worried for Harold because Harold deserved a husband who could focus, who could touch and feel touch again, properly. He worried because Harold did deserve a beautiful honeymoon, where they laughed and felt joy and made love and got to be themselves.
Scotty worried, too, because he couldn't seem to give Harold any of that right now.
He knew Harold wouldn't blame him. Such was the patient man he'd taken the name of. But it didn't mean Harold didn't deserve all of these things, and Scotty kept trying to figure out how to... live. Again. Breathe and feel. One hurdle down. What seemed a thousand more to try and jump or crawl over.
The island was beautiful, and he could sometimes feel the sun and warm air and wind, and that was better than it had been. He could sometimes feel the water, or the softness of their bed, or the gentle touches Harold lavished on him in affection. It was more than he had recently. It still wasn't as much as his husband deserved.
He woke up, and he made breakfast -- mango sauce over french toast, with some tropical fruit salad on the side. And a steak, too, to go and give a counterpoint; spiced and moist, something to offset all of that sweetness. He made it because at least in cooking, he felt more... useful, less of a failure. And because Harold deserved that, too -- deserved a husband as here and present and attentive as said husband could be.
He took the warm food on a tray and went to serve it, after slipping out and into the wilderness around the beach house to grab some orchids in blues and golds to put in a vase to go with it. They grew wild here, and Scotty wondered what it would take to bring some home to plant.
He sat on the edge of the bed, setting the tray aside. Took one of the yellow orchids and trailed the soft pedals down the side of Harold's face. And somewhere inside of himself was a lot of swirling lost and fog and ache and fear and wariness and uncertainty.
And under all of it, a little spark, tiny but there, of joy for the beauty of waking his sleeping husband with flowers.