“They weren’t dreams,” John says quietly, his fingers flexing. “You promised not to drug me again.” John curls forward. “No. You promised not to be wrong again. I knew it.” John shifts his knees apart, drops the couple inches to the floor, slowly straightens his legs and presses in with them from either side. “I know I’ve threatened to kill you.” John takes a deep breath. “Don’t let me have done it.” He frees his left hand, begins rubbing circles again. “Don’t.” John hunches his right shoulder and rocks more to the left as he leans forward. “I don’t care what you’ve done. To me, to anyone. I don’t care. I forgive it all, everything. Just don’t be dead.”
There’s a vibration under his hand, against his cheek. John’s fingers dig in.
“Ev’rything?” The sound is more croak than word, but John understands it.
“Everything,” John repeats and pauses to breath. “So far,” he adds, lifting his head slightly. “It’s not carte blanche for the future,” John clarifies. His whole body clenches to keep his voice even, but he fails on the last word, the final syllable scraping over his lips. He had almost relegated that concept to fantasy. Future.
He can feel the muscles work against his cheek.
“Oh.”
John knows that tone, disappointment. “What? You want me to forgive you in advance?” He breathes, but it isn't easy. His hands move, scrabbling a little ways, clutching wherever they stop, moving again. John pulls his head back a bit and turns to look into an eye whose colours are brighter than he remembered, the white tinged with pink, the iris iridescent.
There’s a cramp in John's chest. His eyes squeeze shut as it twists. It makes him gasp.
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***
“They weren’t dreams,” John says quietly, his fingers flexing. “You promised not to drug me again.” John curls forward. “No. You promised not to be wrong again. I knew it.” John shifts his knees apart, drops the couple inches to the floor, slowly straightens his legs and presses in with them from either side. “I know I’ve threatened to kill you.” John takes a deep breath. “Don’t let me have done it.” He frees his left hand, begins rubbing circles again. “Don’t.” John hunches his right shoulder and rocks more to the left as he leans forward. “I don’t care what you’ve done. To me, to anyone. I don’t care. I forgive it all, everything. Just don’t be dead.”
There’s a vibration under his hand, against his cheek. John’s fingers dig in.
“Ev’rything?” The sound is more croak than word, but John understands it.
“Everything,” John repeats and pauses to breath. “So far,” he adds, lifting his head slightly. “It’s not carte blanche for the future,” John clarifies. His whole body clenches to keep his voice even, but he fails on the last word, the final syllable scraping over his lips. He had almost relegated that concept to fantasy. Future.
He can feel the muscles work against his cheek.
“Oh.”
John knows that tone, disappointment. “What? You want me to forgive you in advance?” He breathes, but it isn't easy. His hands move, scrabbling a little ways, clutching wherever they stop, moving again. John pulls his head back a bit and turns to look into an eye whose colours are brighter than he remembered, the white tinged with pink, the iris iridescent.
There’s a cramp in John's chest. His eyes squeeze shut as it twists. It makes him gasp.