Pacing

I've been sitting here reading Speranza's stuff, all of Speranza's work, and trying to avoid thinking about housing and instead concentrate on the here, and the work and the now and Due South and somewhere in the background my subconscious is wielding a hammer and pounding on the back of my brain, and yelling at me:

"You're stressing about this! Worry, goddamn you!"

And so, in the middle of the story (Four Virtues, so I'm almost done - again), I jump up and start pacing. It's good that Russ is out sick, so I don't feel nearly so self conscious as I try to figure out how best to get yet another roommate into this insane little bunch of slashers converging from all over the country and get her lined up and ready to move by September 1st.

The want for this house is just simmering - not quite a full boil, I still haven't seen the place, it's T-minus 5 and a half hours until I do, and I can't call it a done deal until all the details are squared, but simmering, and I know, I know I don't always get what I want, and I've got a Plan B if the place is hideous...

And somewhere behind the ever present musebabble is a small voice telling me it's going to work out fine, I just need to calm down.

Which is really kind of funny, because when I listen to the voice, I can't calm down - I'm excited, and something's happening and it's going to be good and fun and just better than it's been. I don't want to calm down.

<breathe>

But maybe I'll have lunch.

Finishing

Giles/Qui-Gon is one of the most soothing pieces I've written in a while. Methos/Krycek have too much energy between them, snapping fire, where G/Q (and I snicker as I write that) are soft falling mist.

And I'm reaching the end of it, and beginning to wonder one thing.

Who's going to be dumb enough to let me con them into betaing this beast? The plot (no-plot? plotless wonder?) involves tossing two men from radically disparate universes into bed together (and dammit, they had tea first, which was their equivalent of getting drunk together), so I'm not really looking for characterization... but...

Will anybody really read it? I'm sure I can snag a few people just on the weirdness of the pairing alone, after all, that was why I choose to write the silly thing in the first place. I guess it's a good thing I don't write for feedback, 'cause the obscure stuff I choose won't win popularity prizes.

Eyes and Avoidance

I'm avoiding now. Watch me shove this big important THING into a corner, stick my fingers in my ears and chant 'lalalalalalala' until someone smacks me upside the head.

Really.

So instead, I'm going to talk about eyes. I shall wax eloquent.

Just watch me.

It starts with a pair of blue eyes. Crystal blue. Cerulean blue - the blue of a hot, cloudless, summer sky, where the horizons stretch beyond your reach, and the sky presses down and leaves you breathless. I fell in love with those eyes, and I still remember them, thirteen years later.

Or maybe it was just that sweet, memorable first crush, when I squeezed my heart dry just watching him.

I know his hands, too, all these years later: dry, warm hands with long fingers. Artistic hands, and that's not just hyperbole - he was easily the best artist in our class. But his eyes were the most memorable to me.

I couldn't stand up to them then. I wasn't brave enough, me enough to meet his gaze. He kissed my hand for a play, or tried to, and stabbed me (I was Caesar), but I couldn't hold his eyes captive for more than a second. I wasn't that strong.

I am now, but it hardly matters. I haven't seen him since a chance meeting in a mall during high school. He didn't know me. He wouldn't know me now.

L&L have shown me the glory that is 'Nsync. I won't pass judgement on their music - I can't, knowing as little as I do about music in general (though I must admit, they do put me in mind of the 80's music I'm so fond of summoning memories with). When it comes down to it, if any one thing would sway me to the merit of this particular band, it would be Lance's eyes.

They're green. Not the glinting, almost hazel green of Nicholas Lea, but a clear, transparent, new green, premium peridot, a green of summer, a green that conjures the memories of blue eyes and blond hair, and of a face I haven't seen in years.

Now, granted, it's also a lightsaber green, and the green of the crystal and bead earrings I wore to work today, and the peridot and pearl ring my mother gave me a birthday or two ago, but I can work with that. There's nothing wrong with decorative men.

And, that, my sweetlings, is the thought I'm taking to bed with me. Isn't avoidance a wonderful thing?