diary ♕ jarbyn

ten

☆

corbyn's desperate now, clinging to anything but the little spark of hope that's growing inside him. he doesn't want to build up hope, not now, not when he can't afford to. he'll only get more and more attached, fall more and more in love, and then find out that it wasn't what he thought. jack's straight, and corbyn needs to find out the proper explanation for this, the explanation that won't slowly kill him like this love for jack is.
there's more, though. in the margin, next to corbyn's name, jack's doodled a little heart... a heart! what's corbyn meant to make of that?!, he had also written:

if it hurts this much / then it must be love

you me at six.

they'd been to a concert a few weeks before that, hadn't they? corbyn checks the date again – october 9th. yes, corbyn remembers jack lusting over g-eazy throughout the entire show and laughing at him, thinking he was joking because jack was straight, wasn't he.
except maybe he wasn't.
no, he was. definitely. this might have been some odd experiment or something, bicuriosity. there is an explanation, corbyn knows there is, he just can't think of it.
you mean you can't spin it, the growing, manifested spark of hope says, and corbyn shuts his eyes as if it'll block out the voice in his head. is he going crazy? he's having arguments with himself and half-pretending one voice is external.

"found anything interesting?" jack says, and corbyn nods calmly before jumping in shock – jack says. jack's meant to be asleep. "my dreams about knitting needles, perhaps? maybe you can help me explain them."
corbyn looks up to see jack gazing down at him, arms folded. but if corbyn isn't crazy he sees a brief flicker of panic pass through the warm brown eyes.

"something else," corbyn murmurs, locking his gaze with jack's, and he doesn't even know what he's doing anymore.
"you have no fucking right," jack hisses, eyes ablaze. "you have no fucking right to go through my private possessions."
"i know," corbyn says, because he does. he knew the risks he was taking, and now he's going to face the consequences. he wishes he'd never listened to that devil.
"give that to me," jack growls, and corbyn snaps the book shut, passing it up to jack without a word. jack snatches it off him and cradles it close to his chest, close to his heart.
"go to bed," jack says, and his voice is cold and harsh, like all the glaciers in the world are closing in on corbyn.

corbyn doesn't even nod or acknowledge that jack had said anything, the sinking feeling in his stomach outweighing any remnants of happiness he'd had from the diary entry. that concludes his pathetic crush on jack, then. maybe he should pack his stuff tonight – they have direct flights from los angles to texas, right?

he can feel jack's gaze on him as he gets up and walks to his room, a burning glare that sears through his flesh and pierces his soul.

nothing unusual, then.

☆
wc; 518
next chapter is the end (,: