diary ♕ jarbyn

two

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the thought pierces the protective layers of his consciousness, attacking him where it hurts the most. he doesn't think he would be able to cope if jack hates him.

he doesn't know what he's done, for starters. he casts his mind back days, weeks, months, but he can't think of anything. maybe it was just one too many of the annoying little things he does that ended up snapping jack, causing this rift that's slowly growing between them.

or maybe jack's just having trouble sleeping, his subconscious suggests. the paranoid part of his conscious scoffs at that. as if.
corbyn wonders idly whether he should confront jack about this. he half wants to know what's going on – he doesn't know how much longer he can stand it being like this, and it's only been fifteen days – but the other half of him doesn't want to hear the truth, hear that jack wants to get rid of him.
he should talk to jack about it. after all, when have problems ever been solved by bottling them up or pretending they're not there? if corbyn lets these bad thoughts and worries manifest and grow, he'll drive himself crazy. and if jack doesn't hate him yet, he certainly will then.

no, he's going to talk to jack.

corbyn pushes himself off the sofa decisively, not bothering to turn off the TV before he marches out of the room and up the stairs, turning right and bursting into jack's bedroom.
he stops in his tracks, mouth open as he's about to demand an explanation and throw an accusation at jack. what he sees isn't what he was expecting though – jack, curled up on his bed, still in his clothes, nose tucked into the covers. corbyn might be melting a little bit. all the hard thoughts he had about confrontation dissolve and disintegrate, leaving nothing but corbyn's heart exposed for jack to shred.

he's about to back out of the room quietly, tiptoe back down the stairs, when he notices a book on jack's bedside table. well, he says notices – he knows that book's there, it's always there – but he has never been allowed to read it or even touch it. it's the book that contains all the dreams that have ever ran through jack's mind, the wild fantasies and the nightmares that keep him up to the small hours of the morning. he should probably respect the fact that there's a reason jack doesn't want him to see all his dreams – fuck, if corbyn kept a dream diary, he sure as hell wouldn't want jack to read it.

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wc;435