[After his
series of conversations and updates, all under the moniker of an idiot, alcoholic author, Lin snapped the spine of the journal closed, his legs cramping in the bland, white-person-skin-"peach" chair he'd stuffed himself in some hours earlier. He dumped the little, gold-edged book atop the small stand next to him, where it had a touch too much inertia driving it and
pinged against the ceramic of a potted plant—fake, blanched white, bc God forbid the room had a palette other than Pale Goth Southwest. (Lin identified the plant as
Phalaenopsis, Moth Orchid. And wow, did his brain not appreciate his insistence on sifting through the archives to come to that conclusion. But, he'd had like, eight hours, alone, with no phone or computer or anything, so, you know. w/e.)
It was 2001, a year Lin actually remembered, and that was enough to tide him over for a good long while. Eventually, despite asking Max to fetch one for him, he went out and bought the cheapest CD player he could find with a fresh splay of Real American Money. Foam headphones and a thrifted CD (JLo), and he was happy.
Secondhand, too-loose jeans and a faded t-shirt boasting the Rainforest Cafe, he listened to "Love Don't Cost a Thing," idling in Daniel's hospital room. The nurses had suggested he move to the waiting room, but he'd suggested they fuck off and leave him alone, bc fuck that. He was happy where he was. Daniel was still out cold beneath his thin blankets, strung up as he was to machines that beeped and hissed, but the boy had promised to stay. So he did.
He hummed along to the song as he forgot the journal and painted his nails a Tyrian purple atop a Kleenex.]
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