All Too Well (a Larry Stylinson Oneshot)

His fingers were long and slim, that of a piano player or an artist.

They wove their way between the creases of an old, almost forgotten, soft, worn shirt in the back of his closet. All he’d wanted was to clean out a bit. This house was full of memories and he was looking for a clean start.

But now he sat with his knees curled to his chest, nestled into the corner of the floor of his small closet. His fingers slipped through and wound tightly into his fist the multicolored fabric, pulled it to his face in an unconscious need to feel the closeness he longed for. He’d turned off the TV long ago but the celebrity gossip news shows and their laughing, their joking, still ran through his mind like whispers in his ear.

Long curls of hair fell in front of his face, and with his left wrist he nudged them back. But his head was bowed and the hair just flopped in front of his eyes again. He closed them, resting his forehead on the fabric and on his knees.

Somehow the weathered fabric still smelled of cologne, still carried with it a faint scent of autumn and the leaves they would rake into huge piles and play in for hours.

What seemed like a different lifetime and a different person other than himself wasn’t all that long ago, said the shirt and its soft embrace. He whimpered slightly and wound his fists tighter into the fabric, and brought it to his eyes. Maybe, if he pushed the fabric into his shut eyes hard enough, he could dam up the tears bubbling to the surface without them falling. The threat of falling apart completely – again – was too real for him to bear as he sat curled up in the corner.

Memories flickered past his clamped-shut eyelids like a film. So many summer days over the course of just a few years, driving too fast down busy roads with their heads hanging out the windows and the laughing screams tearing out of their mouths and into the wind.

So many birthdays where they got too drunk and fell over each other, laughing and groping at each others’ faces, giggling when the other would playfully slap a hand away.

So many playful kisses on cheeks and roses held between teeth, playing games on camera and laughing off the jokes from others. So many nights curled up into each other’s sides, smiling at the fact that cameras couldn’t catch them.

His eyes opened to the light, and through blurry vision he looked over at the computer lying open on his unmade bed. His half.

He remembered too well the joking arguments that ended in tickle fights and kisses on noses, the sloppy, badly-drawn cards full of taped-on flower petals on Valentine’s Days. At some point his eyes squeezed back shut as if he could shut out the memories of lovely, happier times tinged with sadness and longing. He remembered the whispers of ‘tell me your secrets’ and wearing his heart on his sleeve. Remembered the laughing, playfully snarky remarks every time he came home grinning with a new bandaged-up tattoo. Of those hands smacking the sore spot and of the laughter when he would yell and complain.

He remembered those hands running through his hair and tugging on curls, soft laughter in his ear and shivers running down his spine. Those hands winding their fingers through his and holding on tight as if both their lives depended on it.

He remembered falling asleep in the warmth of a never-ending embrace, wrapped in each other’s arms under mountains of blankets on cold nights.

As his eyes opened again to the empty room that lay outside the accordion doors, he sniffled again and cuddled the worn shirt to his face.

The room was so empty. The house was so empty. He was so empty.

One side of the bed stayed neatly made, the sheets tucked in tightly to the mattress. An empty water glass sat on the nightstand with a permanent ring on the wood underneath of it. Half of the room was nearly barren except for the torn-off corners of football posters still stuck to the walls here and there.

The closet was half empty, with only his clothes and this shirt remaining.

He managed to meander his way out of the closet and climbed up onto the bed. He curled the balled-up shirt into the hollow of his neck as he lay on his side on the bed and tugged his laptop towards him.

As he sniffed again and rubbed at his eyes, he clicked the refresh button at the top of the page over and over again, but the same thing always stayed up. No matter how much he cared, how much he cried, how much he loved, it was always the same. He pressed the shirt to his eyes and a choked sob escaped through his lips. It wasn’t enough to block out the pain. He always saw the same thing.

Those same few words from the boy who moved out of the half-empty house with everything he owned long ago, never to return except for the odd ‘hello,’ claiming that none of those memories meant anything.

'Bullshit.'