You just described a dog. [ which is rude as shit, and he should be irate about it. ] Fuck you.
[ but ash was worried about him, and that sends a complicated, hungry pang through his hollowed out chest. he wants ash's attention, craves the full weight of his worry. he's starved for it, after seeing him so warm and soft with tim, feeling locked and chained outside. exactly like a fucking dog.
but he can't say that, nor can he really tell him what's wrong, not after his lies have practically entombed him. if ash knew how bad he felt — not just from the crack in his ribs, but from the way it makes him feel to see him looking at someone else — he'd do something idiotic like resign on national tv and move to montana to build him a fucking house with his bare hands. embry would rather die.
a different tack, then. ]
Tim's not sleeping well. He could probably use your touch.
( which is true. ash likes dogs, but ash loves embry.
anyway. it's as roughly as he used to treat embry, he supposes. it's been awhile. their goodbyes always seem to end on a familiar note — ash asking him a question, and embry saying no. he accepted many years ago that embry would never stop being a sore spot in his heart, but it seems especially brittle tonight. it hurts worse, because he's positive one touch from embry would fix him, make him whole again. )
I'm not an expert on sleeping. ( not unless he's next to someone. even then, embry was the only real medicine he ever found for insomnia — tim helps, jenny helped, but embry was reliable in a way no one else has ever been. he's exhausted, overworked and underslept, and still tense with worry alongside the looming cloud of complete ineptitude. it makes him think his words come across too snappish — the sound of whiskey hitting the bottom of a glass fills the quiet of the white house. ) Sorry. I don't feel like myself right now.
( probably the crux of why he called, why he was so mad when embry didn't answer. anytime he's ever needed embry, he's been there, regardless of where they stand. )
And I miss you. I can hear the morphine in your voice, I guess it's making me nostalgic.
[ he's fucked. it's one thing for ash to come down hard on him in the way only he knows best how to do. it's another thing entirely for ash to come to him with an admittance of weakness, knowing full well that embry is incapable of turning away from it. he can run from his love or even from the fight, but he would never leave ash broken. everything he's done — all the things he's gone without — has been, after all, to build ash up into the man that embry believes in.
it doesn't help the bitterness that spikes the sweetness of those words. i miss you. did he miss him over those seven years embry had gone without him? every christmas spent with a bottle, every countdown to new year's watching ash kiss jenny sweetly on the mouth as the clock struck midnight? he ignores it, and goes back to tim. ]
He's scared, and you being around him would help him not be.
[ the last time he was this doped up he'd been full of bullet holes and full of ash's cock. now he's neither, and yet his pain level feels about the same as that day he thought he was going to die. it's all internal though, and all because ash called. ]
Ash. You know what happened wasn't your fault, right? I shouldn't have to tell you that.
[ and then, even though his mind screams at him not to say it, not to offer himself up on a silver platter, not to carve open his chest and claw out a horrible hope that should be long gone, dead and buried — ]
( a sigh. not heavy, and not especially surprised, but there nonetheless, like a summery breeze on cool, damp skin. he doesn't know how he and embry have done this so long, this dance they know the steps to, the purposeful way they each stop the music in their own time, and embry can still not know ash, the lofty extent of his feelings, the necessity for embry that's embroidered itself into his chest with golden thread. that he asks is proof he doesn't know, because the truth is as unchanging as the stars. it's been that way for years. )
I don't know what it feels like not to need you.
( getting better at living with it doesn't mean there isn't still a hole in his heart where embry used to take up occupancy. his favorite tenant. the only tenant he'd ever have, if life worked out the way he wanted it to.
it's a healed patchwork of skin. jenny worked as a balm for the worst of the pain for awhile, but now she has her own vacancy in that yawning, empty place — and seeing embry with hawk only opens up those old wounds freshly, an endlessly bleeding sore. the ice rattles around in his glass. by ash's count, he is a single parent and anything that happens in america is his own fault, but he knows better than to admit that much out loud. it's in everyone's best interest to see him as infallible, doubtless, and strong, or so merlin seems to think. avoidance is usually embry's tactical advantage, so maybe ash learned it from him. )
Is it serious? ( he doesn't want to ask, but he has to know, before he makes embry do something they'll both regret. he also doesn't want embry to feel bad about the answer — but a key is something. a way in that ash never had. ) You and Hawkins.
[ ash is, as always, incapable of simply not. he couldn't just let things lie, let things go on like they'd been, let embry be fucking happy basking in his warmth even if it meant straightening up when someone else looked sideways at them. he had to propose. he had to want to announce to the entire world that he was in love, because ash doesn't know how to be anything but honest. every time he talks to ash — even now — he's reminded of how happy he'd been, how that space right at ash's feet is the only place he's ever felt that sense of rightness and belonging, and ash is the selfish one for not being able to compromise, for taking it all away from him just because he can't understand sacrifice.
his burst of anger dissipates, leaving him hollow again. he doesn't actually believe ash is selfish when he knows what true selfishness is. he sees it every day when he looks in the mirror. ]
I don't mean in the abstract sense. [ he puts a hand over his face, slumped like a drunkard on his couch, his phone resting on his chest where he has ash on speaker. ] I mean if you need me, you know how to take it. No strings. Doesn't change anything.
[ he has to tack on the end, just because it's ash. he still won't give. he still won't take the ring. he still won't hold his fucking hand in public like a teenager in love.
his nose wrinkles at hawk's name, as if he can suddenly smell cigarettes in his house. actually, he would like that. ]
Is what serious?
[ he's not fucking his aide. okay, maybe he is, but not with any frequency that matters. it was once, maybe twice, but if he's too drunk to remember, does it count? do hand and blowjobs count? what does hawk's dick even look like? hard to see it when he's ramming it in his ass.
hawk has never been absent from his phone or his presence for so long since he took on the job, but he gets it now. it's tim. well, embry's also put his tongue in tim's mouth, so there's that. ]
There is no me and Hawkins. He works for me. At least he's supposed to, but he seems like he's forgotten. I like the privacy, though. Should I tell him that Tim and I got wasted and made out in a bar?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ but ash was worried about him, and that sends a complicated, hungry pang through his hollowed out chest. he wants ash's attention, craves the full weight of his worry. he's starved for it, after seeing him so warm and soft with tim, feeling locked and chained outside. exactly like a fucking dog.
but he can't say that, nor can he really tell him what's wrong, not after his lies have practically entombed him. if ash knew how bad he felt — not just from the crack in his ribs, but from the way it makes him feel to see him looking at someone else — he'd do something idiotic like resign on national tv and move to montana to build him a fucking house with his bare hands. embry would rather die.
a different tack, then. ]
Tim's not sleeping well. He could probably use your touch.
no subject
( which is true. ash likes dogs, but ash loves embry.
anyway. it's as roughly as he used to treat embry, he supposes. it's been awhile. their goodbyes always seem to end on a familiar note — ash asking him a question, and embry saying no. he accepted many years ago that embry would never stop being a sore spot in his heart, but it seems especially brittle tonight. it hurts worse, because he's positive one touch from embry would fix him, make him whole again. )
I'm not an expert on sleeping. ( not unless he's next to someone. even then, embry was the only real medicine he ever found for insomnia — tim helps, jenny helped, but embry was reliable in a way no one else has ever been. he's exhausted, overworked and underslept, and still tense with worry alongside the looming cloud of complete ineptitude. it makes him think his words come across too snappish — the sound of whiskey hitting the bottom of a glass fills the quiet of the white house. ) Sorry. I don't feel like myself right now.
( probably the crux of why he called, why he was so mad when embry didn't answer. anytime he's ever needed embry, he's been there, regardless of where they stand. )
And I miss you. I can hear the morphine in your voice, I guess it's making me nostalgic.
no subject
it doesn't help the bitterness that spikes the sweetness of those words. i miss you. did he miss him over those seven years embry had gone without him? every christmas spent with a bottle, every countdown to new year's watching ash kiss jenny sweetly on the mouth as the clock struck midnight? he ignores it, and goes back to tim. ]
He's scared, and you being around him would help him not be.
[ the last time he was this doped up he'd been full of bullet holes and full of ash's cock. now he's neither, and yet his pain level feels about the same as that day he thought he was going to die. it's all internal though, and all because ash called. ]
Ash. You know what happened wasn't your fault, right? I shouldn't have to tell you that.
[ and then, even though his mind screams at him not to say it, not to offer himself up on a silver platter, not to carve open his chest and claw out a horrible hope that should be long gone, dead and buried — ]
Do you need me?
no subject
I don't know what it feels like not to need you.
( getting better at living with it doesn't mean there isn't still a hole in his heart where embry used to take up occupancy. his favorite tenant. the only tenant he'd ever have, if life worked out the way he wanted it to.
it's a healed patchwork of skin. jenny worked as a balm for the worst of the pain for awhile, but now she has her own vacancy in that yawning, empty place — and seeing embry with hawk only opens up those old wounds freshly, an endlessly bleeding sore. the ice rattles around in his glass. by ash's count, he is a single parent and anything that happens in america is his own fault, but he knows better than to admit that much out loud. it's in everyone's best interest to see him as infallible, doubtless, and strong, or so merlin seems to think. avoidance is usually embry's tactical advantage, so maybe ash learned it from him. )
Is it serious? ( he doesn't want to ask, but he has to know, before he makes embry do something they'll both regret. he also doesn't want embry to feel bad about the answer — but a key is something. a way in that ash never had. ) You and Hawkins.
no subject
his burst of anger dissipates, leaving him hollow again. he doesn't actually believe ash is selfish when he knows what true selfishness is. he sees it every day when he looks in the mirror. ]
I don't mean in the abstract sense. [ he puts a hand over his face, slumped like a drunkard on his couch, his phone resting on his chest where he has ash on speaker. ] I mean if you need me, you know how to take it. No strings. Doesn't change anything.
[ he has to tack on the end, just because it's ash. he still won't give. he still won't take the ring. he still won't hold his fucking hand in public like a teenager in love.
his nose wrinkles at hawk's name, as if he can suddenly smell cigarettes in his house. actually, he would like that. ]
Is what serious?
[ he's not fucking his aide. okay, maybe he is, but not with any frequency that matters. it was once, maybe twice, but if he's too drunk to remember, does it count? do hand and blowjobs count? what does hawk's dick even look like? hard to see it when he's ramming it in his ass.
hawk has never been absent from his phone or his presence for so long since he took on the job, but he gets it now. it's tim. well, embry's also put his tongue in tim's mouth, so there's that. ]
There is no me and Hawkins. He works for me. At least he's supposed to, but he seems like he's forgotten. I like the privacy, though. Should I tell him that Tim and I got wasted and made out in a bar?