"My feet don't touch the ground when I’m with you."

his hands ran through his hair, holding his head, like he could stop all the terrible thoughts from spilling out of his skull, cupping water, cupping blood.

یکی از چیزهایی که دوست دارم بخونم غم شخصیت‌هاست. مردی که عشقش با کس دیگه‌ایه و اون کاری به جز نگاه کردن نمی‌تونه انجام بده پس فقط توی قلبش دفن و هر شب تو تاریکی نبش قبرش می‌کنه، می‌بوسش و می‌ذاره سرجاش تا شب بعد که دوباره انجامش بده. و این روند انقدر تکرار می‌شه که یا بهش برسه یا کنار همون عشق دفن شه.

خوندن عشق‌هایی که می‌مونن رو دوست دارم. چه شاد چه غمگین. از اونایی که فقط همون یک نفره و کسی جز اون نیست و نخواهد بود و حتی نیست برای پیدا کردن دوباره‌ی همچین حسی تلاش کنه چون می‌دونه پیدا نمی‌شه.

He wanted so much he felt like he might just split down all his seams and spill out his want everywhere, like blood, like oil; he had become a sickly sweet fistful of fruit, and his need for John was squeezing him so tight his ripened flesh was bursting through those crushing fingers, that inescapable grip of desire.

There was no fighting that. Couldn’t fight the weather, couldn’t fight gravity, hunger, time, entropy; other invulnerable constants; things which had always existed, would always exist; would always push and pull and claw and take and eat until they won, and you lost it all, because you would always lose.

living in fear was nothing new. He’d never not lived in fear; just different amounts of it. Fear of his daddy. Fear of earning enough money to get by once he’d gone. Fear of his mother dying. Fear of the war. Fear of John. Fear of John dying. Fear of John dying. Fear of John dying.

In a way, he had married fear. Only death would part him from it.