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Entry tags:
(for Larita)
October 12, 2022
To say Martin is circling the park like a hungry, pacing predator would surely be a little bit melodramatic. Hungry isn't the right word, and his overall demeanor likely doesn't suggest 'predator.' But even out here in the pleasant autumn air he feels more like a caged creature than anything. John was right to nudge him out of the flat for a while, to give them each a bit of space. John needs it; he needs it. But he doesn't have to like it.
It's miserable, is the thing, watching John struggle and suffer and sulk and knowing there is just nothing he can do. That there are no words he can find, no reassurances he can make, no tenderness he can offer that will allay the weight of the guilt that sits on John's perpetually hunched shoulders like a physical force, slowly crushing him. Knowing that if anything, his efforts to make it better are only making it worse. He hasn't felt this useless since his early days working at the Institute, so long ago he might as well have been a different person.
So he paces, trying not to check his phone every five seconds, trying not to invent excuses to run home. Trying not to hope John will ask him to return and trying not to feel hurt by the certainty that he won't. This isn't about him. He tries to enjoy the fresh brisk air, the changing colors of the leaves, the crisp smell of fall. He tries, mostly failing, to let his mind wander anywhere else from the mental image of John sitting at home alone and hating himself.
At least he imagines he must look like there's a storm cloud following him; at least, he thinks, it's likely no one will bother him. He doesn't even have the wherewithal to consider the inherent danger of considering solitude a perk, so soon after having dreamed himself so deep in the Lonely. Regardless, he isn't expecting anyone to break his surly concentration.
To say Martin is circling the park like a hungry, pacing predator would surely be a little bit melodramatic. Hungry isn't the right word, and his overall demeanor likely doesn't suggest 'predator.' But even out here in the pleasant autumn air he feels more like a caged creature than anything. John was right to nudge him out of the flat for a while, to give them each a bit of space. John needs it; he needs it. But he doesn't have to like it.
It's miserable, is the thing, watching John struggle and suffer and sulk and knowing there is just nothing he can do. That there are no words he can find, no reassurances he can make, no tenderness he can offer that will allay the weight of the guilt that sits on John's perpetually hunched shoulders like a physical force, slowly crushing him. Knowing that if anything, his efforts to make it better are only making it worse. He hasn't felt this useless since his early days working at the Institute, so long ago he might as well have been a different person.
So he paces, trying not to check his phone every five seconds, trying not to invent excuses to run home. Trying not to hope John will ask him to return and trying not to feel hurt by the certainty that he won't. This isn't about him. He tries to enjoy the fresh brisk air, the changing colors of the leaves, the crisp smell of fall. He tries, mostly failing, to let his mind wander anywhere else from the mental image of John sitting at home alone and hating himself.
At least he imagines he must look like there's a storm cloud following him; at least, he thinks, it's likely no one will bother him. He doesn't even have the wherewithal to consider the inherent danger of considering solitude a perk, so soon after having dreamed himself so deep in the Lonely. Regardless, he isn't expecting anyone to break his surly concentration.