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josh washington just wants to have a good time (
2015-10-27 08:07 am (UTC)
｡ﾟ(ɔ ˘̩╭╮˘̩)˘̩╭╮˘̩ c)゜：。
josh swallows around the dryness of his mouth, tonguing against the back of his teeth. in the warmth they've made together—this single shared couch, their own little bubble in a big empty house—it doesn't seem like such a big deal to answer honestly. sober, josh would be kicking himself; sober, josh would be laughing it off.
sure, man. she's hot, if you're into the whole, like, greenpeace soccer mom vibe.
instead, he clumsily laces his fingers across his abdomen, allowing his eyes to drift up, and up, until he's staring hazily at the dim ceiling.
Yeah, I guess. A little.
sam. hannah's friend. his too, in a way, but more hannah's than his. hannah's best friend.
it's true. he likes her well enough. she doesn't really reciprocate his flirting; she's way more likely to roll her eyes at him than respond in kind, but that's fine. it means it's safe to keep going—keep it fun, keep it casual, surface-level, no expectations either way. he's not sure he has a
on her. it's not really like that. it's more of... well, if he could, if he was the dating type, if he was like mike, he probably would. just to see. just to try.
but he's not, and he can't. every time the idea surfaces, a tiny beacon of hope in the eternal fog of bullshit, josh makes himself forget it. the prospect of a normal relationship, a chance at experiencing something sweet and intimate—it's not possible. it's just not. how is anyone supposed to deal with him like that when he can barely deal with himself?
well, he could always lie. he's gotten pretty good at it over the years, the whole acting thing. but you're not supposed to keep people in the dark when you're in love. you're not
chris is the closest he's ever let anyone get, and josh is
terrified of what chris might think if he found out about the worst parts of him: the dark corners, the fragmented, wrong spaces, the miserable spirals of thought that keep him from sleep, numb, unable even to cry. what he does to cope. it fucking sucks in josh's head, and he knows that. why would he dump that shit on other people? for all their good intentions, they'll never be able to help. he can never be fixed. his illness will never go away.
but they might.
maybe sam would understand. he gets the feeling she'd be a good listener, if he reached out, if anything happened, and—well, if he couldn't talk to chris, maybe he'd be able to talk to her. but if he opened up, put everything on the table, then what? would she take the plunge, warm-hearted and well-meaning? would she eventually draw away, frustrated and annoyed, when, inevitably, he'd mess up? would she look at him differently—like a helpless, ailing animal, or like something broken, to be treated with the utmost care?
josh doesn't want her to look at him any differently. hell, he's lucky that chris doesn't. chris has never treated him like a glass ornament, and josh appreciates that more that chris will ever know. he can't take that chance again, just in case his luck runs out, but he
live vicariously through other people—he can make sure his friends have the time of their lives from a good, safe distance. he's always been the kind of guy to look at things through a camera lens anyway. it's not... it's not a big deal.
it'd be easier if it was just sex. feelings wouldn't have to get involved. but it wouldn't be 'just sex' with sam, either; he already knows her.
josh lolls his head to the side, cheek pressing against the fabric of the armrest. his chest feels tight. the sensation radiates up to his throat, a nameless ache.
a little, but...
But not... [
the words come slowly, gradually.
] But not enough, you know? There's no, uh. Connection. Not like between you and Ash.
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