Here Comes The
Sun
(A Response to the
Abbey Road Fanfic
Challenge)
By: TommyGirl
I've always hated February because it has no aroma. It's the shortest month and yet it somehow manages to stick around like the ex-boyfriend with a penchant for stalking. It doesn't matter if you're stuck in twenty feet of snow in Buffalo or lost in the hills of muscle men infested California. February is evil, a black grimy slab of ice. The bleakness of the month can permeate anything. It overrides the desire to accomplish and fills a usually determined person with lassitude. In literature the month always represents death, famine, and every other conceivable tribulation. If that's not enough, there's the fact that Valentine's Day falls right in the middle of the month and nothing screams danger like a scorned lover or lack of one entirely.
Not that I have to worry about that. Lance never falters in his devotion for me-undeservingly so-and if my good fortune ever evaporates, well, my job supplies me with plenty of opportunity. Though I'm not sure many people would put up with my array of shit quite the way Lance does. My depressive coma blossoms in the grayness of winter and only ends with the return of sunshine. It's not something many are equipped to handle, but Lance has adapted to the way I live.
It surprises me when I awake on one of our lazy Sunday mornings to find the bed empty next to me, free any evidence that the area has been slept in at all. I wonder if he has tired of my repellent ways, remembering a recent spat where Lance announced (quite dramatically, proving his acting lessons were paying off), "While I'm sure this ennui is great for your art, Jayce, as your boyfriend I feel the need to point out that it drives me fucking crazy." He rubbed the bridge of his nose-one of those angry-teacher-or-parent-trying-not-to-throttle-the-child movements-and added quietly, "You suck sometimes." I cringed because he reeked of the cold and imminent rain swirling around in the air.
This morning, I recoil against the pattern of the bedspread because there is no smell. The room is without a trace of cohabitants-no aftershave escaping from the bathroom or lasting scent of Pert Shampoo that Lance insists on using because he can buy it cheap at the drugstore.
I creep along the wooden floor and blink at the shadows of light sneaking through the closed blinds. I ignore the impulse to snap the shade open. I'm afraid that I'll be forced to endure another lengthy gaze at the icicles that remain from the last cold front. My sinuses clog at the very notion. Instead I rest my eyes on the easel located in the inlet off the master bedroom. I grimace at the green pastures and bright blue sky. I need to stop playing Jimmy Buffet when I paint. I end up channeling a poorly executed Monet and the only emotion it evokes is the inclination to stab one's eyes out with a rusty knife.
I run my fingers over the canvas as if that will magically correct the error of my ways and make out the faint sounds of the Beatles escaping from downstairs. I take a few steps in its direction and readjust the picture frames that clutter the hallway as I move--Lance's ingenious idea to record our life journey through snapshots. Most of the photographs are of the two of us embarking on some inane endeavor. Like the time we decided to learn Tai Chi (Lance sprained his ankle and I hit my head on the coffee table-but we were centered when it occurred) or, my favorite, the class on existentialism to prove that we were more than pretty faces.
God, what were we thinking?
"A slice of heaven in two floors, Jayce," Lance had commented after our initial walk-through of the house. He was so passionate about the place that I found myself overlooking the cracked walls, splintering woodwork, and lack of light. He smiled and the only clear thought I had in that moment was not that I could live here, but that I wanted to live here with him.
With our boyband days behind us, barely a footnote in the pop culture encyclopedia, Lance and I decided to become as pretentious as possible. Not purposefully, of course, but it was one of those things that just happened as we distanced ourselves from our former lives. We bought a house in the woods ("This looks like the Unabomber's cabin, guys," Chris had observed with a worried glance in our direction before scurrying back to his car.) and filled the guest room with volumes of books that everyone has heard of, but few actually read. Lance took up home repair while I wallowed in the lane of uncertainty. I started several projects but could never commit myself to anything long enough to see it through. I was too worried about time and the fall of darkness.
Living so close to nature further underscored the deadening atmosphere of winter and I craved light. I thrived on bright colors and flowers in bloom. It inspired me to greatness. My best writing was done under the searing heat of a June afternoon. Spring was my savior, with the crisp whiff of wind as it patted the temples of my face on a walk or the potent fragrance of crocuses adorning the path to our house.
I tiptoe down the stairs, allowing the warmth of the beige carpeting to engulf my bare feet, and watch Lance from the landing. He's hard at work on his day's chores. It's like dancing to him, every motion with its corresponding position that requires an internal rhythm. I've never understood how he can work so hard when the environment around us is sparse of life.
Coffee and chlorine coalesce in the foyer. The pungent odor fills my nasal passage. It's an intense reaction, like the moment when you bite into a lemon or the sensation of a razor blade running over the skin. I hop down the last few steps and hum along to the melody. Lance doesn't even glance in my direction. He swabs his rag against the base of the wall and says, "Good morning, sunshine."
I yawn and scratch the top of my head. One of the highlights of living with Lance is moments like this, watching him undertake the simplest of tasks with such passion. He brings it to everything he does. He's completely functional 365 days a year and he tries so hard to wear off on me, but I'm incapable of change. I study his form and there are so many things I wish I could articulate as the remnants of early morning expunge themselves from our abode. I want to tell him how much I admire him, how much he gives to me…how much I love him.
Words aren't my forté in the midst of winter and I emit the stench of regret.
I have this thing about smells. All smells, no matter how slight. Lance often tells this humiliating story that involves me, the beach, and the discovery of someone else's vomit to emphasize the strength of my olfactory abilities. In his mind, there is a direct correlation between my urge to gag on the smell of bleach as he removes the mold from the base of our kitchen walls and my creative side. It's a superpower equivalent to Spidey Sense or x-ray vision, except I'm not nearly as strong as he thinks I am and I will never look good in tights.
"I didn't mean to wake you, but I should've known," Lance pauses to concentrate on a particularly nasty patch of green before continuing. "You've always been sensitive to odors, JC," he states this fact in a disconnected tone as if I were an experiment gone awry. Lance's shoulders tense as he reaches for his Carpe Millennium mug (I don't think I've ever carpeed anything) and gulps down the last of his breakfast. He squeezes the remnants of water from his rag-still not looking at me although I feel like he sees right through me-and uses the side of his arm to push his bandana back into proper position on his head. He grins at me and adds, "You know, I was thinking…"
I smile, "I never pictured you for the thinking type."
Lance ignores me, "You'd make a great sommelier if music every falls through."
"I thought I was a light-weight drinker."
"You are, babe. It doesn't mean you wouldn't be perfect for the job," he replies. He stands himself up and looks me over with an appraising stare. Lance reaches out and attempts to tame the stray hairs on my head going in every direction before chucking my chin. He says, "You need to shave. When we decided to move out here, I didn't expect you to turn into Grizzly Adams."
Lance walks past me to the kitchen and is immediately engulfed in light. He's an experiment in dark and light, nothing more than a silhouette that resembles an angel, as he washes his hands. He talks to me as he scrubs away the unpleasant aroma, "It's time to snap out of this, JC. It's gone on long enough. There is a difference between a funk and breakdown…and you're starting to border on the latter." We've had this conversation before. I know that we have though I can't recall when and I'm momentarily unsure why I would need this lecture now. He holds his hands under the tap, water spilling over the sides, and concludes his thought, "The sky is clearing up and the birds are back in full force. Spring is almost here."
I shrug and change the subject, "Did you take a look at my latest foray into artistic revulsion?"
He nods, still washing his hands, which I imagine have begun to prune, and replies, "Ode to Spring one thousand and two."
I move closer to him, but stop myself from going the distance. "That is now the official title. Much better than my first choice."
Lance leans against the counter and reaches for a towel. His eyes rest on mine and I'm overpowered by the desire to do something with my day. He doesn't budge. I'm going to have to work for this. He asks, "Which was?"
"Hideous Disgrace."
He smirks. I can't decide if it's because of what I said or if he has caught onto the lack of oxygen in my lungs. There is something incredibly sensual about watching your lover dry his hands. It can't be explained rationally, it simply is. He splashes the remaining drops of water in my face and replies, "I don't know, babe. I think it has a certain élan to it."
Something in the moment shifts. There is a mischievous gleam in his eyes that I can't place. He inches closer to me and I reckon the skies have completely cleared and all is well with the world. The melancholy lifts from my chest and I can visualize it fluttering away for the time being. His hands find their way to the nape of my neck and linger there for what feels like ages, but is nothing more than mere seconds. His fingers entangle themselves in my hair and as he pulls me to him, he points out, "The sun fought to come out today."
"Did you doubt that it would?"
"Not me," he answers quickly. His lips touch mine for a brief second, barely leaving an imprint, and he says, "But it's been awhile since we last saw it."
"Feels like years," I agree. I roll my eyes and rest my forehead against his. All is right with the world at the moment. There is no need for words when actions express things so much better. I caress his cheek, but say it anyway, "It's alright now."
feedback & requests for me not to write JC/Lance ever again