disgustingly cute domestic scenes to imagine your otp in:
getting slightly too drunk in the middle of the afternoon and slow dancing to dumb cheesy old music and kissing in a way that’s more laughter than actual kissing, mouths clumsy and hands gripping tight and sunlight slanting over them as they move lazily together
curling up on the sofa together, feet tucked under thighs and arms around shoulders, watch the kind of crap tv that only airs at 3am because they don’t want to go to untangle themselves to go to bed
hectic mornings when they each need to be somewhere and they’re rushing around each other, ducking into bathrooms and bedrooms and kitchen cupboards, pausing to straighten tops and press kisses to cheeks
going through old photos together and collapsing into laughter every three pictures, and zooming in on ones where they’re pulling awful faces or ones that were taken at just the wrong moment
getting ready for nights out together, standing shoulder to shoulder as they brush their teeth or get their faces ready or style their hair, knocking elbows and hips as they try and hog more space
standing quietly together in the kitchen after long, exhausting days, leaning into each other for support, breathing in the smell of home, fingers carding through hair and stroking down spines, until they feel like they can relax and smile properly again
“Your turn,” Marty had said. “Why’d you, uh…why’d you come back?” “This…” Rust had replied with a gesture of his hand. “Something I had to see to. Before gettin’ on with somethin’ else…” He’d gotten up then, and continued. “My life’s been a circle of violence and degradation long as I can remember. I’m ready to tie it off.”
As Marty turns out the lights, as he locks up, as he walks to his car, as he drives himself home – he replays the conversation in his head. Over and over again.
Each time, it plays out differently. But each time, Marty speaks up. Forces Rust to own his meaning. His intentions.
Marty doesn’t simply let him leave with his jacket folded over his arm, his ledger in his hand, and a cigarette between his lips.
He stops him. Says, “What the fuck does that mean? You’re ready to tie it off?”
Rust only exhales a cloud of smoke into the space where an answer should be, so Marty says, “Jesus. You can’t just say shit like that.”
Rust narrows his eyes at the other man. tilts his head, and challenges him. “That a fact?”
“Yeah, it’s a fucking fact.”
“And why not?”
“Because I said so!”
No.
No, that answer doesn’t hold up like it once did. Not without Marty’s ego to support it. He’s since been humbled.
He’s since been brought so low.
“Because I said so” is hollow and powerless. So Marty replays the conversation again, once more, as he pulls into the driveway.
“What the fuck does that mean? You’re ready to tie it off?”
He shifts into park, turns out the headlights, and kills the engine.
“Jesus. You can’t just say shit like that.”
He climbs out of the car, shuts the door behind him, and starts up the walkway.
“That a fact?”
He lets himself inside and steps into the darkness.
“Yeah, it’s a fucking fact.”
He drops his keys onto the table in the foyer then flips the light switch.
“And why not?”
He leans back against the door and looks around the empty living room.
“Because I love you.”
Marty closes his eyes and swallows hard.
“Because I love you.”
Goddamn it, Rust.
For your arms will build a sheltering wall around me, / And your heart will be my room, your eye in my window / where the morning shines.
Gertrud Kolmar, from Dark Soliloquy: The Selected Poems; “The Angel in the Forest,” (via writemeanna)
lookashiny 