I am a fictional character, in name and spirit. I enjoy fire and necromancy, and making heterosexual adventure stories as queer as physically possible.
He didn't say anything. Really, there wasn't much he could say, not then and certainly not now, standing in his doorway bare to the 3 am chill.
He stepped back into the apartment and lead the way to the kitchen, as if his visitor had forgotten, as if it was three years ago and they were both young and reckless, unaware that actions have consequences. John followed him, weight heavy on his left side, age and mistakes having left him with more than just sentimental wounds.
He leaned across the counter and reached for the half empty can of coffee grounds. There was a dull thunk as John sat down behind him, weary, jet lagged, and heart broken. He didn't react, instead removing the dirty filter and replacing it with a new one.
The only sound in the cold apartment was the steady drip of the coffee maker. Cameron sighed, and finally turned around to face the other man. The glint of John's dog tags caught his eye, and the weight of his own was suddenly unbearable.
"Sorry," he said, "I've only got decaf."
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (2 so far!)
There's quite a bit of heavy silence at 3AM in that kitchen. I feel like it is full of bitterness as black as the coffee.
Also, John might appreciate it if Cameron put on some clothes... possibly. "standing in his doorway bare to the 3 am chill."
- #1066 Posted 3 years ago
That last line was so well suited to the rest of the piece. It's the voice of defeat.
- #1067 Posted 3 years ago
- Published 3 years ago.
- Story viewed 16 times and rated 0 times.
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