There are things that Leckie always associates with certain people. With Stella it's red wine and good cheese and crusty bread and the hot sun coming down as she lifts her skirt above her knees, the sound of her laugh, clear and free and unlike any sound he's ever heard before or since.
Vera. With Vera, he thinks of snow -- the scent of the air just before the first white flakes fall from the sky. Sometimes he thinks of the deep blue stain of ink on dirty fingers -- words on water-logged paper, lost someplace forgotten -- and even he can't remember them all. But when Vera looks at him he sees every syllable and consonant etched in her gaze. She gets it. Somehow, without ever having to know that terror that kept him awake at nights, that challenged him to his very soul, she gets it. It's why he loves her, he suspects.
Chuckler, on the other hand?
The things he thinks of when he thinks of Chuckler are things he would rather not speak out loud.
The smell of death, the blue of the ocean and of Chuckler's eyes, the feel of his hands running rough over Leckie's skin, the muffled sounds they made together on the rare occasion they had a chance to be alone, the taste of sweat.
The letters he writes to Chuckler go unanswered. The letters he actually sends to Chuckler do as well.
Stella, though? She writes him back. She even calls one afternoon in an unexpected surprise. She's getting married, she tells him. The conversation turns from idle chat to one of those slow and easy talks you have with a good friend after a long day, comfortable and quiet and full of truths better left hidden, drunk on each other's company, inhibitions all but gone. He asks her what time it is there. It must be late -- or early, or both. Stella just laughs and doesn't answer. Later, she reminds him of a particular day, an afternoon turned to night, the three of them together; her and him and Chuckler. Leckie listens in silence, lets her recall the memory, feels himself growing hard at the recollection.
He sleeps unsoundly that night, thoughts and memories disturbing his rest. Vera just holds him, lets him fuck her, rough and fast, and then fall asleep again in her arms. He knows she understands that there are things about him that she can never know -- things she'd never understand anyway. She accepts that about him and she doesn't ask where he goes when he disappears some nights, or even where he's gone to on nights like this one when he's wrapped in her arms but still oceans away.
Leckie is someplace else.
He'll always be someplace else.
Nothing he can do, no words he could ever write, will ever change that.
The next letter he sends to Chuckler says simply one thing:
Come to New Jersey.
He doesn't expect his old friend -- lover -- to ever answer. But he sends the letter anyway -- an act of good faith, a blind hope.
Two months later, there's a knock at his front door.
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the ink well; the pacific, leckie/chuckler/stella (leckie/vera); pg13?
Date: 2011-02-01 05:05 am (UTC)Vera. With Vera, he thinks of snow -- the scent of the air just before the first white flakes fall from the sky. Sometimes he thinks of the deep blue stain of ink on dirty fingers -- words on water-logged paper, lost someplace forgotten -- and even he can't remember them all. But when Vera looks at him he sees every syllable and consonant etched in her gaze. She gets it. Somehow, without ever having to know that terror that kept him awake at nights, that challenged him to his very soul, she gets it. It's why he loves her, he suspects.
Chuckler, on the other hand?
The things he thinks of when he thinks of Chuckler are things he would rather not speak out loud.
The smell of death, the blue of the ocean and of Chuckler's eyes, the feel of his hands running rough over Leckie's skin, the muffled sounds they made together on the rare occasion they had a chance to be alone, the taste of sweat.
The letters he writes to Chuckler go unanswered. The letters he actually sends to Chuckler do as well.
Stella, though? She writes him back. She even calls one afternoon in an unexpected surprise. She's getting married, she tells him. The conversation turns from idle chat to one of those slow and easy talks you have with a good friend after a long day, comfortable and quiet and full of truths better left hidden, drunk on each other's company, inhibitions all but gone. He asks her what time it is there. It must be late -- or early, or both. Stella just laughs and doesn't answer. Later, she reminds him of a particular day, an afternoon turned to night, the three of them together; her and him and Chuckler. Leckie listens in silence, lets her recall the memory, feels himself growing hard at the recollection.
He sleeps unsoundly that night, thoughts and memories disturbing his rest. Vera just holds him, lets him fuck her, rough and fast, and then fall asleep again in her arms. He knows she understands that there are things about him that she can never know -- things she'd never understand anyway. She accepts that about him and she doesn't ask where he goes when he disappears some nights, or even where he's gone to on nights like this one when he's wrapped in her arms but still oceans away.
Leckie is someplace else.
He'll always be someplace else.
Nothing he can do, no words he could ever write, will ever change that.
The next letter he sends to Chuckler says simply one thing:
Come to New Jersey.
He doesn't expect his old friend -- lover -- to ever answer. But he sends the letter anyway -- an act of good faith, a blind hope.
Two months later, there's a knock at his front door.
-fin