#MY HANDSOME MANSOME | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dwobbitfromtheshire · 10 months

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No, because Steve and Chrissy becoming best friends while pining after Eddie would be so funny, especially if they think that they both can't have him. They're also pining after each other. So, they're hanging out when they, uh, get a little drunk. Eddie was a little late to Steve’s and walked into the kitchen to find them sitting at the island with their backs to him. They were leaning against each other and swaying on their stools.

"Oh, Eddie, I love you so . . .," Chrissy sung.

"Eddie, please, write just one line," Steve also sang.

For drunk people, they sang pretty well together, Eddie mused as he folded his arms and leaned against the doorway. He watched them sing with a fond smile on his face.

"Now, all I do is wait for you. . .," Chrissy giggled.

"Eddie, since you've been gone!" Steve sang loudly.

"Eddie, my love, I'm sinking fast!" Chrissy laughed, leaning her head back against Steve’s, throwing her arms up in the air.

"The very next day might be my last," Steve’s face grew somber and he frowned.

"Please, Eddie, don't make me wait too long," Chrissy sang softly and leaned her forehead against his.

"Eddie, my love. . .," they sang together.

"You're cute," Steve laughed.

"No, you're cute," Chrissy laughed.

"You know, who else is cute?" Steve asked.

"Eddie," they sighed together.

"You know, what would be really good?" Chrissy slurred.

"What?" Steve whispered.

"If we were all, like, together as a, you know, throuple," Chrissy said. "S'funny word."

"That would be weird, wouldn't it?" Steve asked and giggled.

"S'not at all," she replied.

"He could be in the middle, s'like an Edweird sandwich," Steve slurred and nearly slipped off the stool.

"You called him Edweird!" She said, nearly giggling herself off the stool.

"Edweird Mansome cause his last name rhymes with handsome!" Steve sang.

"No, silly! It's Munson!" Chrissy laughed.

Eddie stuffed his fist against his mouth to stop himself from laughing. What the fuck? Oh, yeah, he was officially head over heels for these two drunk dorks. He decided to make himself known.

"I think it's a splendid idea that we're all together," Eddie said, and they both screamed.

"Eddie! You scared Stevie!" Chrissy exclaimed. "Eddie! Where'd you come from?"

"His mommy's tummy, duh, you, uh, need the sexxy talk s'again, Chrispy," Steve slurred.

"We should definitely talk about this when we're all sober," Eddie laughed.

"Do you think he heard us sing about him?" Steve whispered.

"I did and it was the cutest fucking thing that I've ever seen," Eddie replied.

"He thinks we're cute," Chrissy giggled.

They both leaned heavily against his chest and wrapped their arms around him. Eddie's cheeks turned pink, and he buried his face into their hair.

"Mmm, Eddie," Steve and Chrissy sighed together, giggling.

"Yeah, we need to sober you guys the fuck up."

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adventurelesshero · 5 years

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He Couldn’t tell her the worst thing he’s ever done...

He couldn’t tell her the worst thing he’s ever done…

So instead, he gave her the box.

“What’s this,” she asked, with a laugh to add levity to the situation.

He couldn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he looked to the box and nodded. “Open it,” he said. Then added, “please.” He added this plea in hopes of softening the blow that was sure to come.

Her fearful smile faded and she did as he requested.

She opened the small, plastic storage box, or rather, the small, plastic drawer. It was innocuous little thing. A white box the size of a singe desk drawer, but unlike a desk drawer it was stand alone, separate and on it’s own. They had lugged it from place to place over the years. She had never wondered about it’s contents nor been curious about what lay within. To her, it was just a thing they carried around; an artifact of his life that he needed.

Now, opening it, she found it worrisome that she had never peeked inside. All these years together and she never considered what might be hidden within. She slid the drawer open. For a brief moment, her fears were pacified. She had expected some horrors, but was momentarily relieved to find…letters.

For that moment, her heart hoped to be pacified and slowed to comfort. But understanding brought a deeper dread.

“Read them,” he said. Then added again, “Please.” This time his plea contained such sadness. In all her years of knowing him, she understood this please to be one of resignation. He was giving up any chance of hope at softening a blow.

She swallowed. It was a deep, dry swallow that hurt. She knew tears were choked in that swallow, though she did not yet know why. For now, fear…maybe looming anger drove her. She did not speak, but did as he asked.

Her motivation to move forward and read the letters had gone beyond his asking, or “allowing” her to do so, but rather because she had an obligation to herself to do so. Had she come across these letters on her own…or no. Had she been a less honest person and made herself dig into his belongings, she would have read them without his asking.

But again, no. She was not the sort to do such a thing. She never even considered such a thing; rifling through his belongings! But they had been together so long. Married for several years now, in fact. Was not all that was his, hers as well? What, if anything, had she ever withheld from him?

But now her fingers had done all as she had these thoughts. The first letter was in her hands. No addressee, no return address, and no postage. Only his name written in an unfamiliar hand.

She looked to him for a moment, hoping some waring of what was to come would be broadcast in his eyes; eyes she could read like no other in the world had come to understand. But his gaze was cast downward, at the box. All she could gleam from them was some sadness. Regret?

She opened the envelope and pulled out the single, thrice folded page of paper. It still held jagged edges of paper teeth all along the left side. Torn from a spiral notebook, she thought. But this barely registered. She began,

“You. You’ve hurt me today, you know?”

She looked up to her husband. Still, his eyes were cast downward. He was resigned to some sadness he could not yet apologize for. She had some idea of what she was in for. She continued to read,

“Yesterday you told me you were leaving *town name*. And not just *town name*, but the *state*. And not just for one state over, but across the country. I’ve known that you’ve held this in your heart for some years now. We talked about going together.

What I didn’t know is that you’d be going without me. What I didn’t want to believe, is that you’d be going with someone else.

I don’t know what else to say in this letter. I sat here for a long while trying to think of the perfect good bye, but the truth is, I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know if I should tell you ‘Good luck, I’ll always love you’ or ‘Fuck off and die.’

I settled on, ‘So long.’ Signed, *ex-girlfriend*”

She took a sudden involuntary inhalation and realized she had been holding her breath while reading the letter. She looked up and found her husband was now looking at her. His eyes were framed beneath wrinkled, upward canted brows. She knew immediately his eyes said, “Sorry.”

She was ready to smile. She was ready to calm him and assuage his fears. This reflexive, loving instinct passed. She realized this was merely the tip of the iceberg. This letter contained no damning evidence; nothing he should be fearful of. She knew, more was to come.

Without a word, he leaned forward and grabbed a letter from the messy stack in that innocuous, plastic box. He pulled it out without even searching, from beneath several other letters, and held it up to her. She could almost picture him as a pan-handler on the street, holding up his hat, begging for money. But in place of a hat was a letter. In place of the desire for money to eat, was a craving for apology.

She felt the welling in her throat again. Nervousness? Looming anger? She swallowed, an audible dry gulp. Though it did not signify cowardice or fear, but rather the frustration with what bullshit was sure to ensue.

She took the letter. This one was addressed to their home out of state. No return address. The stamp was of Marilyn Monroe, his onetime favorite actress, or rather, celebrity. She dreaded what lay within, but she reserved her feeling for later. No sense in reacting until she knew what to react to.

“*Him*,

Lovely, *him*! I know you are homesick but you shouldn’t write such sweet words! You are with *her* now. You are there with her and should make the best of it. I think of those songs you introduced me to that say, you should love the one you are with. I don’t ever remember them ever saying, pine for the one you had! Silly!

But if we are being honest, I miss you to.”

The typo broke her from what she was reading. She found she was breathing this time, but it was a quickening pace. She looked up and noticed he had once again cowered his gaze downward, though this time much lower. He looked at his hands. She thought he did it subconsciously. She knew his hands were to blame for being the instruments that wrote to his ex. He knew they crafted such careful words as to seem uninterested with her, but not wholly uninterested with her.

She again swallowed, knowing full well it was anger welling up inside her. She continued to read,

“But if I’ve learned anything about you over the years, it’s that you have a need to know. You like to pursue a thread until you’ve totally unwound the thing! I’m sure it’s not all as bad as you make it out to be over there, but…

If it is. Well… *smiley face*”

At this she felt the searing anger within her become something molten; a hot bead of glowing fire in her chest. But she read on,

“Kidding! You upturned your life for her goober! Quit being a sissy pants and give it your all. She’s lucky to have a handsome mansome like you! I know I thought so!

Love you always, *ex*”

She read that last bit more than once. She could not derive the meaning. No. That’s a lie. She was lying to herself. She could decipher what that letter meant. She had played the same sorts of games prior to meeting her husband. This was a cautious, emissary of a letter. In her head she knew how to decipher it all. “I know you. I know you aren’t happy. But I want you to say it. I still think you are sexy. I still want you. You have to say it.” That’s what this letter was! That’s why his hands found it so deftly in that stack of letters. He had read over this time and time again and come to the same conclusion she had, though without her woman’s wit.

“It’s that damn letter,” he suddenly said, sullenly.

She broke from the enraging words writ on paper and locked on his stupid, sad face. She knew where he was going. She needed nothing more from this night. She knew. She knew!

And yet she wanted to know more than she knew. “What about the fucking letter? What the fuck is this?!”

To his credit, he did not answer. She wanted him to say something. It did not matter what it was; the meaning of life, or the funniest joke in history. It would not matter. She was ready to counter with hate filled insults, frustration-venting rants, and half-sobbed tellings of years wasted together.

To her credit, she did not do any of this. Instead, she swallowed heavy again, as he reached forward, dug up another letter, and held it out to her. She snatched it from his hand without looking down at it. Her eyes seared fire into his soul, if he had one. But the challenge went uncontested. He looked away again, this time casting his gaze so low that his chest nearly supported the weight of his stupid head.

The sight of him, so defeated and fightless, momentarily filled her with pity. Here, this man that she had loved unconditionally, had now presented conditions which would test that notion. She swallowed, again, this time uncertain of what she held at bay. Anger? Saddness? Fear?

This letter she held seemed different than those that had come before. Surely it would answer for all.

And so it did, in such a horrible fashion. The address listed was familiar, but so slightly off. It was addressed to the neighbor, their current neighbor’s home. But the name, it was listed as *his first initial*. No return address. No postage.

Her thoughts came like a flood, She addressed it to our neighbor? Our neighbor HERE? At our home? And no postage? The dumb bitch dropped this off in person?!

But these thoughts were like a deafening rumble in her ears. She did not say them, nor did she show anything further than the rage she already wore, like a heavy winter coat in a stuffy room, after your toe has been smashed…by a hammer, and…No. Actually, she was quite pissed. No metaphor would suffice.

She opened the envelope. Within lay the letter that read as such:

“’My moon,

The night sky could not obfuscate our love. Though you shine only for a moment in time, I never cease to love you so. I long for the world to cease it’s turning so that I may gaze upon your face for eternity.’

I never get tired of reading that. Your sweet words kept me close. Even though we keep our love obfuscated, as you put it, in the shadows, I always know that one day the world will stop and we can be together. When you tell me you love me I know it is true. When I am away from you I think of you. When…when…when? When will we be together?

I actually don’t worry about this. I know I ask it, but it’s like asking…like asking, when will the world stop turning? I don’t know when, but I know that it will. In the meantime, let’s enjoy the passings we share, as my world and you, the moon, lock together for one brief moment.

-Love you, always *ex*”

She reached the last words and did not go back to reread any more. This said it all. This revealed all. This letter, a piece of paper had managed to shatter all. Everything they had established together. All the memories she though they held as one, dependent, supporting unit; it was a façade. The him that she thought she knew had shattered. The smiles, kisses, hugs…the effort through tough times, and support through difficult life moments, what had they meant? What kind of actor had she married. What kind of lying, coward, weak…

“She,” he said now. His eyes were now focusing somewhere in the middle, between the ground and her eyes, but a thousand miles away. “She passed away this weekend. Saturday.”

She was stricken. She stopped breathing with anger for a moment. She did not know how to respond. It was all too much information, all at once. The word “verklempt” came to mind. When the fuck did anyone ever use that word?

Suddenly it all came to her; the night they met, the first night they made love, the first time she said she loved him and he reciprocated without hesitation. The day she told him she was moving away and this was goodbye, but he chose to follow her. The years living together, some good, some bad, before he finally proposed.

The day they married. His sweet words in those vows that brought them both to tears.

She remembered his growing lethargy and homesickness. She remembered giving up her job for what she believed might be a better life in the hometown of her husband. She remembered the struggle to not accept the blame he lay upon her for upending his life. This was easy to remember, as it had been recent.

And now, he met her eyes, his welling with tears. What was he seeking? Empathy? Forgiveness?

Who gives a shit, she thought. “Who gives a shit,” she said.

His red, watery eyes widened. Not a single tear rolled from them.

She did not know if this would be the worst thing she would ever do, but she had not trouble telling him, “Get your shit, and get the fuck out of our house.”

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