I’m just thinking about the first time we talked one on one. (What was it, a month ago? It feels like it’s been years.) Remember, how after I told you and Cabot that story about the country sheriffs I ran into in the men’s room—that’s bullshit too, by the way, I mean I think it is—how after that you heard me humming to “I Only Wanna Be With You” cause they were playing it on the jukebox and you told me you loved Dusty Springfield and I said me too? Out of all the fucking things to have in common, Larry. I guess it started then, because you hadn’t even bought me those three beers yet and I already felt way out of control, the way you were talking, the way you were smiling at me.
I guess I was kind of just surprised that you noticed me, much less what I was doing or singing or whatever. I’m not used to being seen as my own fucking guy, you know? How cracked is it that I feel more expendable as a cop than I do as a crook?
I wasn’t lying when I said I loved Dusty Springfield. I also wasn’t lying when I said I had tried blow before, or when I said that doing it with you was the most fucking fun I’d ever had doing it at all. Maybe I’ve been more honest with you than I thought. But me and Mr. Orange just started to blend together after a while. Mr. Orange, he’s got way more balls than me. Half a year ago, before this all started, I couldn’t have worked up the nerve to kiss you even if I wasn’t a cop. That’s just not me. That’s not something I’m fucking capable of. Mr. Orange, he could kiss you, he could talk big, he could talk dirty, he could do all kinds of fucking things. He’s supercool. The lines between him and me have been blurred a lot lately, mostly when it comes to you, Larry, but it all started with that first conversation, even if I didn’t wanna admit it yet.
I’m not gonna forget that. I’m not gonna forget a single one of our conversations. Even if I don’t remember every word that got said, I can remember all the times you blinked, the way your mouth and your fingers would play with your cigarettes, the smile under everything you said to me because you’ve always addressed me in this special fucking way that I don’t see you using with anybody else, like you really care that I’m listening and you’re happy to listen back. Like nobody else I’ve ever fucking met.
You, Larry, it’s all you, you doing this to me. Maybe I hate what you do, maybe I don’t as much as I thought, but I love that you love what you do. Not the shooting people part, not in the fucking least, but you don’t seem to get too jacked up on that part either. I love your laugh. Man, do I love your laugh. It’s the most perfect goddamn laugh anyone’s ever had, you sound fucking ecstatic, your smile just takes over your face and makes you even better to look at than you already are. And I love how hands-on you are, too, probably more than you can even glean, how I feel like I’ve stuck a knife in a socket when your hand touches my shoulder. I like how you picked my suit and gave the modifications girl all the measurements, totally in control of that situation, like you know that it’s fucking chivalrous of you to do it, like that wasn’t even a question. But then you turn around and tell me you don’t want to fuck me if I’m married because you don’t want to ruin that for me.
Re: Orange/White: Orange 1st person POV letter [major character death, angst] - FILL 3/?
I guess I was kind of just surprised that you noticed me, much less what I was doing or singing or whatever. I’m not used to being seen as my own fucking guy, you know? How cracked is it that I feel more expendable as a cop than I do as a crook?
I wasn’t lying when I said I loved Dusty Springfield. I also wasn’t lying when I said I had tried blow before, or when I said that doing it with you was the most fucking fun I’d ever had doing it at all. Maybe I’ve been more honest with you than I thought. But me and Mr. Orange just started to blend together after a while. Mr. Orange, he’s got way more balls than me. Half a year ago, before this all started, I couldn’t have worked up the nerve to kiss you even if I wasn’t a cop. That’s just not me. That’s not something I’m fucking capable of. Mr. Orange, he could kiss you, he could talk big, he could talk dirty, he could do all kinds of fucking things. He’s supercool. The lines between him and me have been blurred a lot lately, mostly when it comes to you, Larry, but it all started with that first conversation, even if I didn’t wanna admit it yet.
I’m not gonna forget that. I’m not gonna forget a single one of our conversations. Even if I don’t remember every word that got said, I can remember all the times you blinked, the way your mouth and your fingers would play with your cigarettes, the smile under everything you said to me because you’ve always addressed me in this special fucking way that I don’t see you using with anybody else, like you really care that I’m listening and you’re happy to listen back. Like nobody else I’ve ever fucking met.
You, Larry, it’s all you, you doing this to me. Maybe I hate what you do, maybe I don’t as much as I thought, but I love that you love what you do. Not the shooting people part, not in the fucking least, but you don’t seem to get too jacked up on that part either. I love your laugh. Man, do I love your laugh. It’s the most perfect goddamn laugh anyone’s ever had, you sound fucking ecstatic, your smile just takes over your face and makes you even better to look at than you already are. And I love how hands-on you are, too, probably more than you can even glean, how I feel like I’ve stuck a knife in a socket when your hand touches my shoulder. I like how you picked my suit and gave the modifications girl all the measurements, totally in control of that situation, like you know that it’s fucking chivalrous of you to do it, like that wasn’t even a question. But then you turn around and tell me you don’t want to fuck me if I’m married because you don’t want to ruin that for me.