Some drabbles for y'all.
Title: We're But Sands in the Hourglass
Rating: R--nothing sexual
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 784--really, really.
Disclaimer: Really? Do you think this is real? Didn't think so.
So, my brain has been drowning in Erik/Charles and it's literally eating me alive. I was reading some absolutely heartbreaking stories (some tears were spilled during that) and it put me in the mood for some angst. So I wrote some drabbles to put that angst and make use of it.
The concrete floor should feel no different to Keith, it's always cold. He smiles, his body protests, not quite yet to the level it needs to be. He's been on this floor for days, Mick's worried, and there's, “how are you, Keith?” and it's placid, small and Keith smiles.
“Recovering addict,” they say, all hush hush-Keith knows what he is.
The food's rotted, he's not interested, and goes back to staring at the wall. A sob, maybe a shaky breath because, “you're not eating again, aren't you?”
Keith doesn't turn his head, only smiles. Fingers ghost around his arm and Keith accepts the warmth. Mick kneels beside him, whispering, voice lilting into a perfect accent. “You need your strength. Do it, at least for me,” a chaste kiss follows. Funny, he doesn't feel it.
As long as he can feel those fingers ghosting across him, it's all he needs.
His monsters stalk him through the dark, the needle, “come back, Keith,” and he wants to. Mick is as real as anything he's ever seen, and he protects him, chasing away his demons.
“Mick says, hi.”
-
There it is again.
“You're beautiful,” Keith's smile. He's upon his bed, lying, staring at him. Mick's used to those glassy doe eyes staring at him, staring through him. He's empty again.
Mick can't say anything.
“Look at me, love,” and Mick can't.
You're not Keith, slides bitterly down Mick's throat. It's hard, he must confess.
Mick withdraws from everything, from Keith, he can't do it.
He just
can't.
-
Keith smiles at the sky, it's very bright, blue, clear. Nellcote's always like, lazing about on the deck, and the patio's too warm. He blinks and cannot feel his body, not surprising because he was wasn't there a moment ago because he favors injecting before the day begins.
Anita scolds him now, needle hanging from her own arm, and Marlon's laughing, laughing, then cries. He's sinking deep, water (his heroin) enveloping him, a cool and warm blanket. He's so very secure.
“This will not last,” he says. It's ominous but it shouldn't be. The breaking of his smile, the weight on his chest, fingers threaded through muses of brown hair, the heat blown on his chest and, my singer smells like cinnamon and cigarettes.
He looks down at his singer on his chest, and, this can never last, passes as he nods out.
-
Mick wonders into the kitchen, he's hungry, has been starving. He doesn't notice it at first but he sees a skillet. It's grimy, unwashed, dirty but Mick stands, stares, regards it. He can hear it, somewhere, a voice saying, “don't bust the crust, or I'll bust you.” Mick suspected it was here for a reason.
His hand is shaking, he's shaking, reaching for the skillet. Keith should be here, grumbling, reaching for the skillet. Mick takes hold of the skillet and he holds it. Keith should be here, muttering how he'll get the vegetables out for Shepard's Pie.
His breath comes out shuttering, he's shaking still, withering in the kitchen. Keith should be here, morning hair more rumpled, breath of stale cigarette and brandy. He should be here, not lying on the bed, not half dead, not with a needle, not without...
...Mick to be there.
He looks away, and to the doorway. He expects a figure there, smiling, rumpling his own bed hair, and, “what time is it?”
Keith's not there.
-
The phone is ringing, ringing and ringing and god, it doesn't stop. It's not that indecently late and-why is he still awake? He needs new goodies for this-and surely it must be important. He laughs, wisps of his voice coming out and it's hoarse from non-usage.
A second ring, brown eyes on the phone. Good, it's stopped ringing and Keith can slip into oblivion alone.
A third ring, an annoyed stare-it must be important to constantly ring like this. It's ringing longer and Keith wants ti to shut the fuck up. No can do, it silently conveys and Keith is irritated. A quick toss of the hand and it's flying off the stand, an object making contact with it before it crashes to the floor. He's satisfied-it shouldn't ring anymore.
There's no ring, but a voice coming through. Keith moves, crawls and drags, himself to the phone and he can hear it, the voice asking, “Keith, I know you're there. Just... please-answer me.... it's all I ask.”
Why? No one likes junkies, and Keith reasons with himself.
No, he'd rather not.
He resists no more, passes into a sleepless rest, all the while Mick waits on the other line.
Rating: R--nothing sexual
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 784--really, really.
Disclaimer: Really? Do you think this is real? Didn't think so.
So, my brain has been drowning in Erik/Charles and it's literally eating me alive. I was reading some absolutely heartbreaking stories (some tears were spilled during that) and it put me in the mood for some angst. So I wrote some drabbles to put that angst and make use of it.
The concrete floor should feel no different to Keith, it's always cold. He smiles, his body protests, not quite yet to the level it needs to be. He's been on this floor for days, Mick's worried, and there's, “how are you, Keith?” and it's placid, small and Keith smiles.
“Recovering addict,” they say, all hush hush-Keith knows what he is.
The food's rotted, he's not interested, and goes back to staring at the wall. A sob, maybe a shaky breath because, “you're not eating again, aren't you?”
Keith doesn't turn his head, only smiles. Fingers ghost around his arm and Keith accepts the warmth. Mick kneels beside him, whispering, voice lilting into a perfect accent. “You need your strength. Do it, at least for me,” a chaste kiss follows. Funny, he doesn't feel it.
As long as he can feel those fingers ghosting across him, it's all he needs.
His monsters stalk him through the dark, the needle, “come back, Keith,” and he wants to. Mick is as real as anything he's ever seen, and he protects him, chasing away his demons.
“Mick says, hi.”
-
There it is again.
“You're beautiful,” Keith's smile. He's upon his bed, lying, staring at him. Mick's used to those glassy doe eyes staring at him, staring through him. He's empty again.
Mick can't say anything.
“Look at me, love,” and Mick can't.
You're not Keith, slides bitterly down Mick's throat. It's hard, he must confess.
Mick withdraws from everything, from Keith, he can't do it.
He just
can't.
-
Keith smiles at the sky, it's very bright, blue, clear. Nellcote's always like, lazing about on the deck, and the patio's too warm. He blinks and cannot feel his body, not surprising because he was wasn't there a moment ago because he favors injecting before the day begins.
Anita scolds him now, needle hanging from her own arm, and Marlon's laughing, laughing, then cries. He's sinking deep, water (his heroin) enveloping him, a cool and warm blanket. He's so very secure.
“This will not last,” he says. It's ominous but it shouldn't be. The breaking of his smile, the weight on his chest, fingers threaded through muses of brown hair, the heat blown on his chest and, my singer smells like cinnamon and cigarettes.
He looks down at his singer on his chest, and, this can never last, passes as he nods out.
-
Mick wonders into the kitchen, he's hungry, has been starving. He doesn't notice it at first but he sees a skillet. It's grimy, unwashed, dirty but Mick stands, stares, regards it. He can hear it, somewhere, a voice saying, “don't bust the crust, or I'll bust you.” Mick suspected it was here for a reason.
His hand is shaking, he's shaking, reaching for the skillet. Keith should be here, grumbling, reaching for the skillet. Mick takes hold of the skillet and he holds it. Keith should be here, muttering how he'll get the vegetables out for Shepard's Pie.
His breath comes out shuttering, he's shaking still, withering in the kitchen. Keith should be here, morning hair more rumpled, breath of stale cigarette and brandy. He should be here, not lying on the bed, not half dead, not with a needle, not without...
...Mick to be there.
He looks away, and to the doorway. He expects a figure there, smiling, rumpling his own bed hair, and, “what time is it?”
Keith's not there.
-
The phone is ringing, ringing and ringing and god, it doesn't stop. It's not that indecently late and-why is he still awake? He needs new goodies for this-and surely it must be important. He laughs, wisps of his voice coming out and it's hoarse from non-usage.
A second ring, brown eyes on the phone. Good, it's stopped ringing and Keith can slip into oblivion alone.
A third ring, an annoyed stare-it must be important to constantly ring like this. It's ringing longer and Keith wants ti to shut the fuck up. No can do, it silently conveys and Keith is irritated. A quick toss of the hand and it's flying off the stand, an object making contact with it before it crashes to the floor. He's satisfied-it shouldn't ring anymore.
There's no ring, but a voice coming through. Keith moves, crawls and drags, himself to the phone and he can hear it, the voice asking, “Keith, I know you're there. Just... please-answer me.... it's all I ask.”
Why? No one likes junkies, and Keith reasons with himself.
No, he'd rather not.
He resists no more, passes into a sleepless rest, all the while Mick waits on the other line.