Life : And Then
Thanks to Caro, Pam, Sally, Sheila and everyone else at SenBetas who helped beta this piece.
Written for Sentinel Thursday Challenge #41 Games and #42
Opening drabble "Life" inspired by "The Game of Life" by Ellisonbabe.
Story concept inspired by "Day 1" icon by Castalie.
Jim moved his car four spaces to the GET MARRIED square, and carefully inserted a blue peg into the passenger seat next to the driver.
Blair frowned. "Uh, Jim? You are supposed to put a pink peg there."
Jim quietly placed the car with two blue pegs back onto the game board. "Yeah, well... Life doesn't always turn out the way you expect it to, does it?" He stretched a hand, brushing the wheel with an almost steady finger, before raising his face to meet Blair's wide-open eyes.
Jim fucked me today.
One moment we were playing Life -- hey, I have no idea why the set was stuck in the bottom of my closet, I certainly didn't put it there, but seeing it got me nostalgic about the few times I did play the game, always at other kids' places, Naomi certainly wouldn't buy or keep a game like this -- and I'm rambling.
So we are playing Life, and Jim lands on the GET MARRIED square, and he calmly sticks another blue peg into his car. Bastard. I thought I'd have a heart attack. I swear I actually stopped breathing. And then...
Blair sighed mournfully at the ink-and-semen-stained pages in his journal that were now hopelessly glued together, and glared at Jim.
"You are so buying me a new journal."
Nice journal. Jim went all out. Leather binding. Crisp, thick sheets you can sink a pen into. Mmmmm, fresh paper smell. It's even got a velvet ribbon for a bookmark. Must guilt Jim more often into buying me journals. And come to think of it, I know exactly how to do that. Heh.
Hey, Chief. Glad you like the journal so much. And you better not ruin this one, it set me back a fortune. I could, however, be persuaded to keep you perpetually supplied in these extravagant, impractical and ostentatious JOURNALS (what's wrong with diary, I ask you? although, you are right, it does smell nice), if... well, you figure it out, genius.
He wrote in my journal! Says he paid for it, he can damn well write in it if he wants. Yes, I told him he could read it, but write in it? That big, smug, self-satisfied prick! He can go eat himself for all I care! See if I ever suck him again. Oh damn, but it tastes so good, who am I punishing? Hmmmm, maybe I can ban him from sucking me. Um, what am I, nuts? (Urgh, can't believe I wrote such a bad pun!) He has such a wicked tongue. Who'd have thought? I never imagined half the things he can do with that... Damn, this is so not what I envisioned using this journal for! Fuck Jim, it's all his fault. Hey, now, that's an idea...
That was an idea.
God, it's been years. Never thought I'd have a guy again. Never thought I'd love a guy. Never thought I'd love anyone so much. And if you tell anyone I said so, no one's going to find your body.
Wow. Hefty pen. Writes sooooo smoothly. The ink's got this slightest hint of blue to it. Looks beautiful as it sinks into the slightly creamy paper. Wonder what this looks like to you? And you better watch it, Jim, you've got a gift-a-day thing going here. You're going to spoil me, aren't you?
You're the best thing that's ever happened to me -- I don't need to tell you that, do I? I still can't believe this -- I mean, otoh, I feel like I've loved you forever, and otoh, this is so new. I can't believe I didn't realize you loved me -- I mean, I knew, but I didn't, you know? Guess you don't have a monopoly on the repression thing, heh.
Gotta run. My, you can yell when you're impatient!
How can things go downhill so fast? It's all just little things, but everything is just more intense, everything gets magnified, innocent words suddenly have double meanings, every look, every gesture gets blown out of proportion... Oh god, isn't love supposed to make it easy? Instead, everything just seems twice as hard. Why? Is this how things always are, or is there something wrong with me?
I just feel so horribly empty. This should be your turn, it should be you writing in this space. The more I fill it up the more empty I feel...
I love Jim. I do. But things have changed, and it's too fast. I just need time to adjust. I just... Damn, doesn't it sound pathetic when I put it like that. Why should I need more time? Like, hello? Isn't three years living with a person enough? OTOH, why shouldn't Jim just trust me? After all we've been through? After all the crap, I'm still here, aren't I? I'm not going anywhere. GET THAT IN YOUR FUCKIN' THICK SKULL!!
ARGH! Just "sorry, love you"?! And a panther and wolf charm? On a platinum chain, of all things? And a post-it note? You couldn't have woken me up to tell me you are going? Ellison, I'm going to kick your butt when I catch up to you! All-day stakeout, my ass! I'll wrangle your location out of Simon, just watch me! Gifts are good, gifts are wonderful, I love them, I love everything you've done for me -- but damn if I let you pull a William Ellison on me.
I'm a coward. There, I've said it. Written it. Whatever.
Was that what Dad was? Afraid? Afraid of failing his kids, not measuring up, not being good enough for us -- so he hid behind his job? Substituted giving us stuff -- expensive gifts, big house, all the material comforts -- instead of being there himself?
And you. Sleeping in your room again? No fucking way. I'm burning that futon. We can get another fold-out couch or something for when Naomi comes to visit. What did you call it? Cleansing ritual? Purification ritual? Yeah, that's it. Purification. Burn all bridges. No turning back from this. For me or for you.
That futon is going, going, gone.
Wow. Make-up sex with Jim Ellison is abso-fuckin-lutely fantastic.
When he's in me, around me, holding me, surrounding me, moving oh-so-slowly and tenderly I can hardly stand it -- when he shudders against me, arms and legs tightening around me as he breathes my name into my ear, and his hand clamps tight on my dick, pulling me out, drawing me in, holding me in place as I twist and shatter in a million pieces -- and when we're lying together afterwards, our skin cooling in the ebb and flow of each other's breath, the rhythm of our heartbeats thrumming through our nerves -- every single one of your touches, every stroke, every caress tells me how much you love me, more than words ever could --
Must guilt you into make-up sex more often.
Kidding. That was the most miserable 36 hours in my life, and I don't ever want to repeat it again. But I suppose it's inevitable, seeing how we're this pair of stubborn, opinionated assholes.
But Jim always gives in in the end, of course. ;)
Just promise me mind-blowing make-up sex every time, and I can live with it.
I think I came just reading that.
Do not. Can do.
You so do. And can you really? Every time?
Of course I do. And we can. Every time.
And on the seventh day, they fucked like bunnies all day, and the poor abused journal lay forgotten on the desk. Oh, but since its pages are so thick and sturdy, this time it was just a single page that sacrificed itself for the greater good.