Sunrise From Indigo
Your Winter: Joey
By skeabs

We've retreated to far corners of the house. You're doing the dishes, but only because we made a rule long ago that the cook doesn't clean. I'm reading Rolling Stone in the living room. Or, rather, looking at the pictures, because I can't concentrate enough to read.

So we fought. I can't remember what started it this time, and it doesn't matter really. I know you're still angry. You always hang on to things longer than me.

I can hear the water running in the kitchen, the scrape of steel wool over the dishes. I can hear the low rumble of angry muttering as you throw silverware around in the bottom of the sink.

I put the magazine aside, stand, and go to the kitchen door. You don't hear me come in, or you do, but you ignore me. I move further in until I stand behind you. I know the moment you see me, become aware of me, because you freeze for a moment, and your eyes catch mine in the glass.

You drop them quickly, and start attacking dried on food with a renewed vigor. I can't stand fighting. I can't stand not talking. I know you're not ready to talk yet, but I can't not attempt.

"Lance?"

"What." No rising inflection, it's not a question.

"I'm sorry."

"Great."

You keep washing, and I'm still standing here, waiting. Waiting for some sort of response. Waiting for you to yell, scream, cry, fall into my arms, anything but this utter lack of response.

"I said I'm sorry."

Your shoulders tense a moment before you turn around. "But what for?"

I meet your angry eyes, flashing green. I don't know what to say. I feel like everything hangs in the balance and everything I think of just doesn't seem adequate.

I shrug. "I'm sorry." You snort and turn back to the dishes. "I'm sorry for hurting you. I can't stand the idea of hurting you and if I did I hate myself. I never ever want to hurt you."

You're still slamming dishes around, and I stand and watch you for a bit before turning to leave the kitchen. I whip back around at the sound of breaking glass and your shout. "Fuck!"

You're bleeding into the sink. I grab your hand and hold it under the water to wash out the glass, and then wrap a dishtowel around it.

Your eyes, which were fixed on my hands wrapped around yours, rise to meet mine. "Don't hate yourself," you say. "I'm sorry too."

"Forgiven," I whisper, before catching your lips with mine.

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