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TABLE SET #6
Injury:
Michael Brennan's concert pianist career ended before it'd even started, dreams shattered like the broken bones in his fingers.
Underestimate:
"I'll teach you how to use a knife, and then no one will hurt you anymore," she promised.
Cute:
"No, don't - he's not so bad... really."
Forgive:
Rest in peace, Medea Gaspar.
Gossip:
He spends an awful lot of time over at the Clubs...
Lazy:
Ice on the car, snow blocking the door, cold afternoon tea on the table, last week's Copenhagen Post on the floor, half-naked men on the couch.
Home:
A garish mansion on a sizeable estate, the pinnacle of opulence, abandoned and steadily declining into a state of disrepair.
Pain:
It's not the feel of the edge of a knife cutting deep into flesh, or the rope digging into his skin, but knowing what's coming next, and thinking that no one cares if he doesn't make it out alive this time.
Bed:
Two bodies, one creased blanket, no middle-of-the-night screaming.
Trust:
The conversation isn't immediately shut down even though Lasse's opening statement was "Can we... talk about your nightmares?"
Answer:
It's never really too late to just... go, you know?
Complete:
The cadence hangs in the air until the foot slowly eases off the pedal.
Queasy:
"I'm pregnant," she said to him softly, but she's not afraid of having a baby as much as she's afraid of not really knowing who the baby's father really is, or where he comes from, or what happened to his family, or why he has all those scars.
Unexpected:
"Julien... is still talking to me."
Finally:
"This is my boyfriend."
Lover:
"Lasse," he greeted softly as he stumbled into the Dane's flat, after having temporarily come to terms with his internalised homophobia over too many drinks, grasping and creasing Lasse's shirt to hold himself upright, and maybe just to make sure that there was an actual shoulder there he could rest his forehead on and murmur the words 'she's gone' with a sigh of relief.
Morning:
They've come a long way, from lying in bed alone struggling to find sleep to giggling over breakfast in bed.
Story:
"Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent."
Upset:
"Michael- Michael, Michael, stop- stop - it's OK... it's OK."
Cheat:
"We're not having this toilet seat argument again."
Grief:
There were people he'd wanted to grieve for when they died, but he felt nothing, and there were people he shouldn't have grieved for, but he felt helpless.
Failure:
"I'm going back to the Deck."
Present:
It's not ideal, where they were at right now, but, all things considered, they've made it through the storms and done pretty well for themselves.
Sex:
He wasn't supposed to kill the mood with "just... bend over and think of England" but they couldn't keep going when they were in fits of laughter.
Happy:
"Stay just a little while longer."
| #01 - Injury | #02 - Underestimate | #03 - Cute | #04 - Forgive | #05 - Gossip |
| #06 - Lazy | #07 - Home | #08 - Pain | #09 - Bed | #10 - Trust |
| #11 - Answer | #12 - Complete | #13 - Queasy | #14 - Unexpected | #15 - Finally |
| #16 - Lover | #17 - Morning | #18 - Story | #19 - Upset | #20 - Cheat |
| #21 - Grief | #22 - Failure | #23 - Present | #24 - Sex | #25 - Happy |
Injury:
Michael Brennan's concert pianist career ended before it'd even started, dreams shattered like the broken bones in his fingers.
Underestimate:
"I'll teach you how to use a knife, and then no one will hurt you anymore," she promised.
Cute:
"No, don't - he's not so bad... really."
Forgive:
Rest in peace, Medea Gaspar.
Gossip:
He spends an awful lot of time over at the Clubs...
Lazy:
Ice on the car, snow blocking the door, cold afternoon tea on the table, last week's Copenhagen Post on the floor, half-naked men on the couch.
Home:
A garish mansion on a sizeable estate, the pinnacle of opulence, abandoned and steadily declining into a state of disrepair.
Pain:
It's not the feel of the edge of a knife cutting deep into flesh, or the rope digging into his skin, but knowing what's coming next, and thinking that no one cares if he doesn't make it out alive this time.
Bed:
Two bodies, one creased blanket, no middle-of-the-night screaming.
Trust:
The conversation isn't immediately shut down even though Lasse's opening statement was "Can we... talk about your nightmares?"
Answer:
It's never really too late to just... go, you know?
Complete:
The cadence hangs in the air until the foot slowly eases off the pedal.
Queasy:
"I'm pregnant," she said to him softly, but she's not afraid of having a baby as much as she's afraid of not really knowing who the baby's father really is, or where he comes from, or what happened to his family, or why he has all those scars.
Unexpected:
"Julien... is still talking to me."
Finally:
"This is my boyfriend."
Lover:
"Lasse," he greeted softly as he stumbled into the Dane's flat, after having temporarily come to terms with his internalised homophobia over too many drinks, grasping and creasing Lasse's shirt to hold himself upright, and maybe just to make sure that there was an actual shoulder there he could rest his forehead on and murmur the words 'she's gone' with a sigh of relief.
Morning:
They've come a long way, from lying in bed alone struggling to find sleep to giggling over breakfast in bed.
Story:
"Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent."
Upset:
"Michael- Michael, Michael, stop- stop - it's OK... it's OK."
Cheat:
"We're not having this toilet seat argument again."
Grief:
There were people he'd wanted to grieve for when they died, but he felt nothing, and there were people he shouldn't have grieved for, but he felt helpless.
Failure:
"I'm going back to the Deck."
Present:
It's not ideal, where they were at right now, but, all things considered, they've made it through the storms and done pretty well for themselves.
Sex:
He wasn't supposed to kill the mood with "just... bend over and think of England" but they couldn't keep going when they were in fits of laughter.
Happy:
"Stay just a little while longer."
