hesitant

he always watches you with the promise of something behind his eyes, darker and more guarded than you’ve known them to be for months. more often than not, there’s nothing to hide from you - nothing he can hide from you, at the end of it all. you’ve always been smarter than most people give you credit for. 

your work requires precision, a delicate hand that dances and barely touches the hints of danger but that embraces it when it brushes your skin, and he watches you with a steady and approving gaze, the way you work so carefully to connect everything, to give you enough time to get out and go, go, go. not once has he questioned what you do. never has he tried to insist he knows better than you. he knows the people he works with better than either of you know yourselves. 

it’s interesting, in a way, how one man can feel so pivotal, so singularly important, that you think you’d do just about anything for him, if he asked. he could ask you to bring him the stars in the sky and all the oceans on the earth, and you’d find a way to do it. you don’t doubt that she would, either. 

maybe it could be said that you’re something akin to being a disciple, of sorts, except that you never read the bible and she never cared enough to, and he's the only one from the three of you with a catholic family and it shows. lying’s a sin, so he never does. murder’s a sin, so he finds a justification that sounds bullshit to you and her both, but what is there to argue about?

(homosexuality is a sin, the bible says, and you know that one, you know l eviticus 18:22 like you know the palms of your own hands, but you’ve got no reason to care. he's the one that can still hardly accept the fact he isn’t straight, even at thirty-eight years old. he doesn’t tell you or her that he has a problem with it, though, just works through it himself. all alone, as ever.)