Forever Blue: Part 2

by Sweeneybird

Author's disclaimer: Although I adore them, all I own are wee Sculpy replicas of them. Damn.


Do you know the story of The Little Mermaid? No, not the Disney movie with Ariel and that Bob Marley-wannabe crab thing and the kick-ass sea witch who gets hers in the end. The Hans Christian Andersen story. Naomi read it to me when I had the flu; I must have been six or so. I loved that story, man - it just seemed so pure and noble. The mermaid changes herself into something she isn't for the one she loves, gives up her greatest accomplishment, endures unbelievable pain with a smile on her face, and ultimately sacrifices her life for him. Her reward - a shot at an immortal soul. Beautiful story. I've always carried that image - her dancing on bleeding feet while smiling at her prince - as the face of true love.

And you're sitting there now thinking, 'Now I get it. Now I know.' Trust me, you don't know shit. Because I'm no mermaid, and a fairy tale this most certainly is not. Or maybe it is - maybe it's the epilogue where happily ever after turns out to suck beyond all imagining.
Back up a step, Sandburg - maybe these nice people don't know why you're sitting on the floor at the academy watching your world walk away from you for the thousandth time. Trying to remember why you shouldn't eat your service revolver. Maybe they don't know that giving up everything for someone only works in fairytales.

Yeah, I love him. Or at least I did - it feels kind of academic now. So you look at him and nod sagely - he's fucking beautiful, of course I love him. There are still days when I'll look at those Sears slacks he wears and catch a glimpse of his stupid white socks or see his handkerchief peeking out of his back pocket and my heart will try to jump out of my body. Not to mention the acrobatics that my dick will attempt - christ.

Then I see his eyes, or rather watch them slide away from me, and I remember everything, and before I can stop it the hate hits me like a gut-punch and I use my tongue to cut him, to try to push my pain to him. Or to whomever happens to be there.

I'm an asshole.

But he's a coward.

That's what hurts - he's a fucking coward, and after everything I did, he won't, he can't...

Ah fuck. My favorite word lately.

Back up again, Sandburg - Western storytelling conventions, everything in order so the nice people know what the hell you're talking about. This time it was about a girl, of all things. Kesley Howe, to be exact - 116th in a class of 117 cadets. She begged me to tutor her, and like a shmuck I agreed. Let's face it, I was jonesing for the rush of teaching, of watching that light bulb go on. Except that those stupid cow eyes were the windows to a soul that was operating at about 15 watts. But she kept looking at me, twisting her hair, and hell, Jim wasn't touching me anymore. Why not her? If only to remind myself that I was alive, why not her?

I'd been working with her for about 3 weeks when I noticed that she was doing much better on the quizzes. Which would have been great except that we spent most of our study sessions screwing. And then I figured it out - the fucking bell curve. I wasn't studying, and it was dropping the curve. And she was passing while I was failing. So I broke it off - to be specific, I told her to find another fuck-buddy, and of course she started to cry. And of course Jim picked that moment to show up.

My life sucks.

Okay so I was a little rough on her. And maybe I shouldn't have sneered when she started to cry. But when Jim pulled that guardian of the innocents crap - why is it that he cares about every lowlife in the world, he believes every tearstained face that he sees, but he can't believe in me? I couldn't help it, I had to make him look at me, see me. It was like a throbbing pain in my head, in my gut - I couldn't stand it. I needed him to suffer like I had. I gave up everything I cared about for him, for his privacy, his safety - he was supposed to see that for the declaration of love that it was. I didn't realize how much it hurts to dance on bleeding feet.

So I cut him with words, the only weapon I had left. Surgical slices, dismembering him so skillfully that he wouldn't bleed until he was alone.

And when it was over, when he stumbled away, I sank to the floor and tried to summon up the energy to end it. Anything was better than this misery. I couldn't breathe - the ball of rage that I carried where my heart used to be swelled up so that it blocked my throat. Then I heard the crack, looked down the hall to see him land hard on his bum knee as he tripped over a bag. Oh god, from Sol's - he'd brought me dinner.
Somehow that tiny, sad act galvanized me - I ran after him, tackling him just as he reached the door and knocking him to the floor again as I bellowed at him. He twisted in my grip but I locked my arms around him, using my legs to pin his to the floor.

"You stupid fuck! A goddamned sandwich - it's always food with you, you think starch cures everything, you goddamned fucking moron! It's not enough, damn you to hell, it's not enough. I want, I want..." By now I had him surrounded, arms and legs wrapped round him as if he were the last flotation device on the Titanic. Even as I yelled, I checked his head to make sure that he hadn't hurt himself when he'd fallen. He lay beneath me, frozen, as I ranted. "No more, Ellison, no more - it can't go, I can't go on like this. I can't do it."

His shoulders slumped at the words, and he whispered, "Can't do what, Chief?" The raw anguish in his voice stopped me for a moment, and I knew that my next words held both of our fates.

"I can't - I can't not touch you, Jim. I can't not be touched BY you." I pulled him close, the grip half an embrace and half a restraint.
For a moment there was no sound but our harsh breathing. Then, in a voice so soft that I thought I imagined it, I heard him say, "Thank god, Chief. Thank god."

I held on to him. He held on to me. We don't know any other way.

He's still a coward. And I'm still an asshole. But maybe my feet can stop bleeding.


Continue on to Forever Blue: Part 3 .

Feedback goes to Sweeneybird .

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