PG, m/m
Crazy Eddie's Private Journals: Normal, Illinois
By Tiriel
After a stressful couple of weeks, we're back on the job. Good thing, too. Foster was just about climbing the walls. If I never hear "Eddie, would you quit being such a mother hen? I'm fine" again, it'll be too soon. Fine. Sure. He took a bullet, but he's fine. Whatever. I hate to say it, but maybe we've had a little too much togetherness lately.
Nothing like The Kiss That Didn't Happen has taken place since that night. And if I'm a mother hen, I guess that makes him a rooster, because I'm beginning to think that we're both chicken.
Before I get much further, I should record what happened last time I wrote, when he called out to me. It is, imho, an excellent example of what I have come to call The Chicken Factor at work.
So he said my name. I told him to hang on, quickly closed my journal file, and then said something like "Yeah, what is it?" My heart, meanwhile, sounded in my ears like the bass thumping from a passing car.
There was a suspiciously long pause before he answered. Or maybe it just seemed that way. "I just wanted to thank you again for getting me out of there," he said.
"No problem, man, anytime." And apparently the conversation was over.
So if I'm so certain that we were about to kiss, why haven't I made a move? Ah, but that's the beauty of The Chicken Factor. It works both ways. Not to mention that if he is maybe thinking about me like that, the last thing I want to do is scare him off or crowd him before he's finished figuring things out. Not to mention, above all, the horror of the possibility that I might be wrong.
So, because the powers that be apparently like to see me suffer, our first lead in a couple of weeks takes us into an experiment that's all about sex. This, if nothing else, should be proof for any atheist who happens to read these words someday. Because if there is a God, He or She must be one sick bastard to do that to me--put me in a situation where I have to talk about sex with the object of my own lust. And God only knows what kind of stupid shit I said. I think my brain and my mouth disconnected a couple of times. But who could really blame me?
Anyway, while we've been pretending that everything is normal, pardon the pun, there's been a strangeness to things. A tension. We're sniping at each other maybe more than usual, but with no real bite to it, or we're going along like nothing has changed, even though we both know that something has. How long can we pretend that way? I don't know. But unless something happens to jumpstart one or both of us, overcome The Chicken Factor, so to speak, well, then, I guess we just stay right where we are. So, until next time, dear diary, this is the Mother Hen himself, signing off.
-More later, Eddie