Okay...I've reread this a few times and now that the tears have cleared up, I want to feed back to you the best of this:
When his hand encounters air and then the mattress, grasping for someone he should know better than to expect, it’s Peter he misses. Peter he looks for when he sits up and sees Moz. Peter that echoes through him when he takes stock of himself and adds up the dried tears on his face, the sting in his palms from the red crescents his fingernails had dug, the ache in his throat, and remembers the night before. Peter’s not there. But Moz is. I love that you give us hope from the very beginning...that despite everything, Neal needs and wants Peter.
Moz ponders for a minute. “If you don’t come with me, I’ll break in and bug the dog. And put Saran Wrap over the toilet, just for kicks.” Pure, unadulterated and perfect Moz. Ever the hero.
Peter’s right behind him, but he doesn’t wrap himself around Neal like he used to. Just presses his torso against Neal’s. His thighs against Neal’s, his knees tucked into the curve of Neal’s legs, his breath on the side of Neal’s neck. El climbs into bed behind Peter, and they all shift for a few minutes before coming to rest. After all the pain, all the harshness, this is absolute sweetness, with a slight touch of the tart.
These words aren’t rosary beads, they’re bruises that still haven’t healed, they hurt. The imagery here is exquisite.
And the end...
And sometimes – sometimes, he sleeps through the night and wakes up smiling in the morning and pretends to enjoy El’s fake bacon and watches basketball games he doesn’t understand with Peter, art history book open and ignored in his lap, Peter’s arm around his shoulder. Sometimes, he starts to think that he deserves this. Being happy. Like crocuses in the snow...
Again, many, many thanks...this is just wonderful.
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When his hand encounters air and then the mattress, grasping for someone he should know better than to expect, it’s Peter he misses. Peter he looks for when he sits up and sees Moz. Peter that echoes through him when he takes stock of himself and adds up the dried tears on his face, the sting in his palms from the red crescents his fingernails had dug, the ache in his throat, and remembers the night before. Peter’s not there. But Moz is. I love that you give us hope from the very beginning...that despite everything, Neal needs and wants Peter.
Moz ponders for a minute. “If you don’t come with me, I’ll break in and bug the dog. And put Saran Wrap over the toilet, just for kicks.” Pure, unadulterated and perfect Moz. Ever the hero.
Peter’s right behind him, but he doesn’t wrap himself around Neal like he used to. Just presses his torso against Neal’s. His thighs against Neal’s, his knees tucked into the curve of Neal’s legs, his breath on the side of Neal’s neck. El climbs into bed behind Peter, and they all shift for a few minutes before coming to rest. After all the pain, all the harshness, this is absolute sweetness, with a slight touch of the tart.
These words aren’t rosary beads, they’re bruises that still haven’t healed, they hurt. The imagery here is exquisite.
And the end...
And sometimes – sometimes, he sleeps through the night and wakes up smiling in the morning and pretends to enjoy El’s fake bacon and watches basketball games he doesn’t understand with Peter, art history book open and ignored in his lap, Peter’s arm around his shoulder. Sometimes, he starts to think that he deserves this. Being happy. Like crocuses in the snow...
Again, many, many thanks...this is just wonderful.