This Is How You Stay [1/1]
This Is How You Stay - [1/1] by all_tattooed
Frank/Gerard [R - adult themes, physical abuse]
RPS. Don't know. Don't own. No harm intended.
~744 words.
Special thanks to crossbow01 for beta and suggestions. ♥
Con-crit welcome. Comments are nice.
Because there are some things that won’t let you go...
...can’t let you go. Some things you won’t let go, you can’t let go.
He won’t let you go, and you can’t let yourself go.
Like the call of your name when he walks through the door, austere, needy, and there you go, all stumbling limbs and light breaths, because he’s home and you were lonely. He’s home and you can’t even recognise how much lonelier you feel.
And it wouldn’t be so easy for him to tread all over you if you knew how to pick yourself up, but you’re living lower than his hips, and you’ve probably seen the soles of his shoes more often than you’ve seen his eyes. Though, just like the reasoning for the bruises around your wrists, you don’t see it the way you should. The way everyone else does. The way he does.
Because you love him. You love him more than he even knows, so it hurts when he laughs, it hurts when he cries, because when he cries he’s sorry for hurting you, but you’re only hurting because he is.
You hurt because you love him, more than he even knows.
When he says you’re the most precious thing he owns, you miss the implication entirely, because his lips are softer than his knuckles, and you could kiss him forever, hold him forever. If forever even exists, and you hope it does.
And the nights are dazzling when stars litter the sky, when the backdrop swirls black and blue into your irises until you can feel them dilate along with a warm swell inside your chest. Leant against the balcony ledge, fingers intertwined, and lips at your neck, he whispers to you, pretends to you, and you just breathe it in.
It’s moments like that you want to frame, want to box up and hand to him at Christmas time; pieces of you, or at least, the pieces that are left, the pieces that won’t give up, with stars in your eyes and it feels like you’re still falling, feels like you haven’t already landed and are completely broken.
You’re used to the cold that is often his side of the bed, and over time you’ve learnt to keep your knees tucked to your chest so your feet don’t slip over what sometimes feels like ice coating the space he’s supposed to fill. And when you wake and he’s there, as if he had been all along, you feel guilty for thinking there’s anywhere else he would rather be, because he holds you close, steals your warmth, and tells you how much he loves mornings with you, another implication that turns transparent the second it spills from his mouth.
But it hasn’t always been this way, and really, you’re not even sure what this way is exactly. Still, regardless of change, be it for better or worse, this relationship is hanging by the strings that have you resembling a puppet. Hooked under the skin of your elbows, pushing your head down, eyes cast to the floor, and then there’s beads of blood, thick and dark, dropping to your feet, sliding between your toes, and your eyes are so blurred you don’t get a chance to anticipate it coming again. And his words that tumble around the room when you’ve fallen to your knees, begging him don’t, please, are so callous you forget why you’re even here. Forget why you keep doing this.
With the same old stained washcloth, you clean up, gliding a finger gently over the scars on your cheeks, split at the curve of your lip, contusions across your chest, and if it didn’t hurt, you’d see what he does: art. Spoiling something beautiful. Painting with his bare hands. He’d probably hang you on the wall if he could.
And the thing is, the thing that holds you down, keeps you from running out the door, is when his arms wrap around you, when he stares back at your discoloured reflection, chin rested on your shoulder and lips slowly travelling to your neck. His breath’s always hot, like the single tear that glides over your collarbone, down to the flame of hope inked above your heart, and when he tells you he’s so sorry, that he’s sorry and he loves you, you assure him that it’s okay, it’ll be okay, because you love him, too, and then he whispers, “More than you even know.”
Frank/Gerard [R - adult themes, physical abuse]
RPS. Don't know. Don't own. No harm intended.
~744 words.
Special thanks to crossbow01 for beta and suggestions. ♥
Con-crit welcome. Comments are nice.
Because there are some things that won’t let you go...
...can’t let you go. Some things you won’t let go, you can’t let go.
He won’t let you go, and you can’t let yourself go.
Like the call of your name when he walks through the door, austere, needy, and there you go, all stumbling limbs and light breaths, because he’s home and you were lonely. He’s home and you can’t even recognise how much lonelier you feel.
And it wouldn’t be so easy for him to tread all over you if you knew how to pick yourself up, but you’re living lower than his hips, and you’ve probably seen the soles of his shoes more often than you’ve seen his eyes. Though, just like the reasoning for the bruises around your wrists, you don’t see it the way you should. The way everyone else does. The way he does.
Because you love him. You love him more than he even knows, so it hurts when he laughs, it hurts when he cries, because when he cries he’s sorry for hurting you, but you’re only hurting because he is.
You hurt because you love him, more than he even knows.
When he says you’re the most precious thing he owns, you miss the implication entirely, because his lips are softer than his knuckles, and you could kiss him forever, hold him forever. If forever even exists, and you hope it does.
And the nights are dazzling when stars litter the sky, when the backdrop swirls black and blue into your irises until you can feel them dilate along with a warm swell inside your chest. Leant against the balcony ledge, fingers intertwined, and lips at your neck, he whispers to you, pretends to you, and you just breathe it in.
It’s moments like that you want to frame, want to box up and hand to him at Christmas time; pieces of you, or at least, the pieces that are left, the pieces that won’t give up, with stars in your eyes and it feels like you’re still falling, feels like you haven’t already landed and are completely broken.
You’re used to the cold that is often his side of the bed, and over time you’ve learnt to keep your knees tucked to your chest so your feet don’t slip over what sometimes feels like ice coating the space he’s supposed to fill. And when you wake and he’s there, as if he had been all along, you feel guilty for thinking there’s anywhere else he would rather be, because he holds you close, steals your warmth, and tells you how much he loves mornings with you, another implication that turns transparent the second it spills from his mouth.
But it hasn’t always been this way, and really, you’re not even sure what this way is exactly. Still, regardless of change, be it for better or worse, this relationship is hanging by the strings that have you resembling a puppet. Hooked under the skin of your elbows, pushing your head down, eyes cast to the floor, and then there’s beads of blood, thick and dark, dropping to your feet, sliding between your toes, and your eyes are so blurred you don’t get a chance to anticipate it coming again. And his words that tumble around the room when you’ve fallen to your knees, begging him don’t, please, are so callous you forget why you’re even here. Forget why you keep doing this.
With the same old stained washcloth, you clean up, gliding a finger gently over the scars on your cheeks, split at the curve of your lip, contusions across your chest, and if it didn’t hurt, you’d see what he does: art. Spoiling something beautiful. Painting with his bare hands. He’d probably hang you on the wall if he could.
And the thing is, the thing that holds you down, keeps you from running out the door, is when his arms wrap around you, when he stares back at your discoloured reflection, chin rested on your shoulder and lips slowly travelling to your neck. His breath’s always hot, like the single tear that glides over your collarbone, down to the flame of hope inked above your heart, and when he tells you he’s so sorry, that he’s sorry and he loves you, you assure him that it’s okay, it’ll be okay, because you love him, too, and then he whispers, “More than you even know.”