sealed lids or accountants are people too
When Ted was little, he'd lay on his back, on the top bunk of his sister’s bunk bed - the one she nagged at her mother about for months but only got when she blinked slowly at her father, trying to make Bambi-eyes with the small dark sunken ones she had - when she had girl friends over. If he lay real still, close, close, close to the wall letting his cheek touch the torn wallpaper, occasionally holding his breath, he could almost disappear. He listened to them talking about who was going out with who, and who was going to marry who when they'd grow up. He listened intently, letting their words slip under his skin and bury themselves into his stomach. He never dreamed about what his marriage would look like, or who he would grow old with, which is why he let their words sink into him, and burn into his memory. Just because he didn't have the feelings, didn't mean he couldn’t have the words. When Ted was little, he'd lay on his back, on the top bunk of his sister’s bunk bed - the one she nagged at her mother about for months but only got when she blinked slowly at her father, trying to make Bambi-eyes with the small dark sunken ones she had - when she had girl friends over. If he lay real still, close, close, close to the wall letting his cheek touch the torn wallpaper, occasionally holding his breath, he could almost disappear. He listened to them talking about who was going out with who, and who was going to marry who when they'd grow up. He listened intently, letting their words slip under his skin and bury themselves into his stomach. He never dreamed about what his marriage would look like, or who he would grow old with, which is why he let their words sink into him, and burn into his memory. Just because he didn't have the feelings, didn't mean he couldn’t have the words.***
In college, Ted would sit in his dorm room, back hunched over, fingers flittingly working over the pages of his books. The other side of the room was filled with magazines (Ted guessed there was a small stack of hetero porn under the bed) and empty soda and beer (even though they're not actually allowed to have alcohol in the building) cans. There was always a green jersey on the bed and always two pairs of sneakers in the most perfect places to stumble over. Ted would look at the other side of the room only when his roommate was gone - which was surprisingly often - memorizing the position of the magazine stacks and the prints on the abandoned green jerseys.
Even know he even remembers what the sneakers looked like, how one pair had yellow soles with a bright pink piece of gum stuck underneath.
He never looked at the other side of the room when his roommate was there. If someone asked him, Ted would say that Brad (and that was such a devastatingly appropriate one syllable name for the gorgeous lost boy who actually lived with him for a year) hated him and broke his heart. In his mind, the way Brad would smile at him and toss him a stick of that bright pink gum was enough for Ted to fall in love with him each time he showed his face in 'their' room. Ted would never say that he didn't actually make a move on Brad - part of him thinks everyone knows he didn't anyway - but he still remembers lying in bed half turned on and half grossed out as Brad went at it with some random freshman girl with too much mascara, too high heels and too short skirt for Ted to feel comfortable looking at in the morning as they stumbled out of the room. He didn't have to toss his heart out for it to be broken.
***
He never did start imagining himself growing old with someone or getting married. Not after Linds’ and Mel's wedding, not after Ben and Michael grew into one domestic unit. Not even after the stud of Liberty Avenue proposed to his twink and wedding plans were underway (part of him thought they would actually go through with it, and that Pittsburgh would collapse onto itself and sink into the earth the moment the mismatched pair said "I do"). Emmett would say that 'old' is far away as he'd examine the lines in his own face and decide to stop smiling for a week (and of course, failing miserably. Besides, giving head must be more wrinkle inducing than smiling so the whole project was doomed anyway). Ted pretends never to listen to what Brian says, but he knows most of is true, and as he laughs uneasily at Brian's joke about being two legs and one arm in the grave already he still believes him. The growing old part of his life is already over and done with, and he did it alone.
He doesn't try plastic surgery again, because he's okay with the way he is. He doesn't particularly like seeing the dark shadows under his eyes that won't disappear even though he's cut back on booze and caffeine. And he doesn't like that some of the interns at Kinnetik speak louder when they want him to listen and don't bother whispering when they don't want him to. He doesn't have to console himself with the positive aspects of being considered old (like not having to lift a single box when Blake moved in with him, like knowing which interns deserve a raise and which should get the boot, like Blake kissing even the faintest of lines on his face before falling asleep with his head on Ted's chest, as if he was listening to the beating heart beneath the flesh).
He doesn't count hushed girl whispers, or sticks of gum landing on his bed, or how many 'no's or 'yes's he gets on a given week. He doesn't count the lines on his face, or coffee cups at the diner, he doesn't memorize all of Emmett's weekend fucks and sucks or Brian's absences from Pittsburgh or Justin's presences in Pittsburgh. He counts the opera CDs that Blake likes to listen to the most and the glasses of wine it takes for Blake's cheeks to turn red. He counts tickets to the opera and stolen kisses and gropings while in the very front of the theater.
Blake says that you can lean on someone, but you shouldn't let yourself fall into them. He wouldn't let himself fall back on Ted when he first tried to help him, and he wouldn't let Ted fall back on him when the roles where reversed. He smiles his sad smile, the one that that makes him look like he's lost everything except whatever he happens to be holding on to at the moment (which nowadays always seems to be the lapel of Ted's jacket, or Ted's hand, or Ted's cheek or...), he says that you can never really save the birds with broken wings. The bones heal but the dependence doesn't go away. Ted listens, and he knows that Blake's right.
Ted doesn't tell him that you don't have to save the bird with the broken wing for it to save you.
***
In college, Ted would sit in his dorm room, back hunched over, fingers flittingly working over the pages of his books. The other side of the room was filled with magazines (Ted guessed there was a small stack of hetero porn under the bed) and empty soda and beer (even though they're not actually allowed to have alcohol in the building) cans. There was always a green jersey on the bed and always two pairs of sneakers in the most perfect places to stumble over. Ted would look at the other side of the room only when his roommate was gone - which was surprisingly often - memorizing the position of the magazine stacks and the prints on the abandoned green jerseys.
Even know he even remembers what the sneakers looked like, how one pair had yellow soles with a bright pink piece of gum stuck underneath.
He never looked at the other side of the room when his roommate was there. If someone asked him, Ted would say that Brad (and that was such a devastatingly appropriate one syllable name for the gorgeous lost boy who actually lived with him for a year) hated him and broke his heart. In his mind, the way Brad would smile at him and toss him a stick of that bright pink gum was enough for Ted to fall in love with him each time he showed his face in 'their' room. Ted would never say that he didn't actually make a move on Brad - part of him thinks everyone knows he didn't anyway - but he still remembers lying in bed half turned on and half grossed out as Brad went at it with some random freshman girl with too much mascara, too high heels and too short skirt for Ted to feel comfortable looking at in the morning as they stumbled out of the room. He didn't have to toss his heart out for it to be broken.
***
He never did start imagining himself growing old with someone or getting married. Not after Linds’ and Mel's wedding, not after Ben and Michael grew into one domestic unit. Not even after the stud of Liberty Avenue proposed to his twink and wedding plans were underway (part of him thought they would actually go through with it, and that Pittsburgh would collapse onto itself and sink into the earth the moment the mismatched pair said "I do"). Emmett would say that 'old' is far away as he'd examine the lines in his own face and decide to stop smiling for a week (and of course, failing miserably. Besides, giving head must be more wrinkle inducing than smiling so the whole project was doomed anyway). Ted pretends never to listen to what Brian says, but he knows most of is true, and as he laughs uneasily at Brian's joke about being two legs and one arm in the grave already he still believes him. The growing old part of his life is already over and done with, and he did it alone.
He doesn't try plastic surgery again, because he's okay with the way he is. He doesn't particularly like seeing the dark shadows under his eyes that won't disappear even though he's cut back on booze and caffeine. And he doesn't like that some of the interns at Kinnetik speak louder when they want him to listen and don't bother whispering when they don't want him to. He doesn't have to console himself with the positive aspects of being considered old (like not having to lift a single box when Blake moved in with him, like knowing which interns deserve a raise and which should get the boot, like Blake kissing even the faintest of lines on his face before falling asleep with his head on Ted's chest, as if he was listening to the beating heart beneath the flesh).
He doesn't count hushed girl whispers, or sticks of gum landing on his bed, or how many 'no's or 'yes's he gets on a given week. He doesn't count the lines on his face, or coffee cups at the diner, he doesn't memorize all of Emmett's weekend fucks and sucks or Brian's absences from Pittsburgh or Justin's presences in Pittsburgh. He counts the opera CDs that Blake likes to listen to the most and the glasses of wine it takes for Blake's cheeks to turn red. He counts tickets to the opera and stolen kisses and gropings while in the very front of the theater.
Blake says that you can lean on someone, but you shouldn't let yourself fall into them. He wouldn't let himself fall back on Ted when he first tried to help him, and he wouldn't let Ted fall back on him when the roles where reversed. He smiles his sad smile, the one that that makes him look like he's lost everything except whatever he happens to be holding on to at the moment (which nowadays always seems to be the lapel of Ted's jacket, or Ted's hand, or Ted's cheek or...), he says that you can never really save the birds with broken wings. The bones heal but the dependence doesn't go away. Ted listens, and he knows that Blake's right.
Ted doesn't tell him that you don't have to save the bird with the broken wing for it to save you.