[Maybe Luke can watch him try to climb an escalator. Or take up curling. Hey, it’s hard to empathise with your boyfriend when he turns up thirty years older with a squarer jaw, temporary flippers and a new username.
Short amount of time he mouths in disbelief. America, how do decades even work for you?] Er, yeah, that short amount of time is only six times longer than I’ve been alive.
[And he’s pretty sure even normal people would balk at America’s description. But once he realises exactly what historical event he’s talking about, the grin spreads across his face and he throws himself down in a burst of impressed, nerdy giddiness, tugging America until he’s propped on Luke’s stomach.
Luke’s turning his body into an extreme turtle obstacle course.]
Your statue sounds awesome. [As if he’s listening to a recounting of a small birthday party instead of the building of one of the most iconic images in the world.] Don’t assume I know what Lady Liberty is just because you have her. It might be a really obscure reference for me.
[He tries to come up with something teasing to do, and winds up waggling his finger in front of America’s face to see if he’s as excited by movement as real turtles are.
The excitement of hearing history recounted by someone who was there, even if it’s a really bizarro version of documented events, settles into a broken empathy. It is sad, no matter how he tells it. The sort of sadness that can’t be logically solved. If America was normal he might slide an arm around his shoulders, or kiss his temple and listen with contemplative silence. He still doesn’t know how to touch a turtle, so he settles for a palm over his shell, thumb brushing the nape of his skinny neck.]
I don’t think I know that yet.
[He doesn’t know if he can remember things like that. With the way his memory works, the past can be a raw, constant wound, or something he has to put out of his mind entirely. Learning to live with it sounds impossible, and when he tries to put himself in America’s shoes, he can only picture himself filled with unbearably extreme emotion.
If anyone had asked Luke, he would wish for America to forget about him entirely. It’s not fair, he would argue, to ask someone to hold onto a dead past for that long.
Even if he can’t recognise America’s mental state, his cosy description of grief is nice. If you can term these things nice. Ending up as a sweet story in America’s chest is a good ending, and far from young, it makes him sound like an old grandma.]
Shame you couldn’t forget me. Bet it’s hard finding a partner who can live up to my memory.
action
Short amount of time he mouths in disbelief. America, how do decades even work for you?] Er, yeah, that short amount of time is only six times longer than I’ve been alive.
[And he’s pretty sure even normal people would balk at America’s description. But once he realises exactly what historical event he’s talking about, the grin spreads across his face and he throws himself down in a burst of impressed, nerdy giddiness, tugging America until he’s propped on Luke’s stomach.
Luke’s turning his body into an extreme turtle obstacle course.]
Your statue sounds awesome. [As if he’s listening to a recounting of a small birthday party instead of the building of one of the most iconic images in the world.] Don’t assume I know what Lady Liberty is just because you have her. It might be a really obscure reference for me.
[He tries to come up with something teasing to do, and winds up waggling his finger in front of America’s face to see if he’s as excited by movement as real turtles are.
The excitement of hearing history recounted by someone who was there, even if it’s a really bizarro version of documented events, settles into a broken empathy. It is sad, no matter how he tells it. The sort of sadness that can’t be logically solved. If America was normal he might slide an arm around his shoulders, or kiss his temple and listen with contemplative silence. He still doesn’t know how to touch a turtle, so he settles for a palm over his shell, thumb brushing the nape of his skinny neck.]
I don’t think I know that yet.
[He doesn’t know if he can remember things like that. With the way his memory works, the past can be a raw, constant wound, or something he has to put out of his mind entirely. Learning to live with it sounds impossible, and when he tries to put himself in America’s shoes, he can only picture himself filled with unbearably extreme emotion.
If anyone had asked Luke, he would wish for America to forget about him entirely. It’s not fair, he would argue, to ask someone to hold onto a dead past for that long.
Even if he can’t recognise America’s mental state, his cosy description of grief is nice. If you can term these things nice. Ending up as a sweet story in America’s chest is a good ending, and far from young, it makes him sound like an old grandma.]
Shame you couldn’t forget me. Bet it’s hard finding a partner who can live up to my memory.