(no subject)

It would be easier if it were his own flat.


Adam keeps telling himself that. Maybe if he keeps telling himself that, he'll start to believe it.

If it were his own flat, there would be friends over. There would be a mess on the bedroom floor, and dirty plates in the sink. His games would be by the telly, and Brian would be on the couch, and the book that he brought home, the nice one, would have a place in a stack of his ratty paperbacks and comics. He would feel at home, if it were his flat.

That's what he tells himself.

If it were his flat, he wouldn't spend his days pacing the floors and his nights staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come. He wouldn't take every chance he had to go back to the bar, or the bookshop, or anywhere.

If it were his flat, he'd pick up the phone and call somebody. He'd call Lucy, if he could. He could think about calling Lucy, if there were phones in Milliways. And if it were his own flat. He wouldn't spend his time wandering the hallway past her door, willing himself to knock. He'd have Lucy over all the time, if it were his flat.

That's what he tells himself.

And then he looks around the flat that's become his home, smiling at the paintings on the walls, and tries to ignore the voice that tells him that maybe its him that doesn't belong. The voice that tells him about life and love and hate and forgiveness, and that sometimes the best thing is just to let go - if only he'd listen. But he doesn't.

Because it would be better if it were his own flat. That's what he tells himself.