the solar system || johnlock ||

jupiter

It is chaos and catastrophe, and we are hooked on an endless spiral, down, down, into an empty gaseous heart.

It is a proper mess; our feelings strewn across a table in a dated diner, as our once–airtight connection bleeds onto the checkered tablecloth.

It is no secret to my own self that I am far gone. Of all the people in the world, John is the only one in mine.

It is a secret as unruly and unkempt as his shaggy blond hair. It is what I imagine to be scratched into my own skin, scrawled onto my twisted grins; this shovel digs dimples into my cheeks as my coffin is measured.

For a moment, he is afraid. Afraid he overstepped; afraid of loss; afraid of fragility.

His fingers drum nervous beats into the table as his eyelids hood his irises from view. And then he looks back up at me, with such violence, that I cannot help but accept the tentative, calloused fingers that entwine with my own across the flickering flame of a dying candle.

It is a secret I will not unchain unless John does it too, because that is what becomes of incendiary things. They do not shatter silently on carpeted floor.

I may choose to keep the words to myself, reserve them for a time beyond stars that I connect for myself.

And it is just a secret under lock and key until then; the secret of a curious speck that got caught up in orbit.

There are enough saints to bring order to the universe, so here. Make the chaos of this curious speck count.

"Sherlock," he says.

He intones. He whispers. He rasps. He could be screaming it and I wouldn't hear a thing over the static in my own ears.

"Sherlock."

I kiss him like it is the first time.

I kiss him like it is the last time.

There is no difference at all.

$∆L

make my messes matter
make this chaos count