Love & Feeling (1/3)
Title: Love & Feeling (1/3)
Author: darkshining
Pairing: belldom
Rating: PG-13
WARNINGS: alcohol
Summary: A few months later.
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse and the events here are pure fiction.
Author's Note: This is a continuation to Love Is Blindness, just because I really loved that AU. I wasn't planning on making this a series... well, it's messy. Hope you enjoy it anyway, reviews are welcome :D also, if anyone is interested, I'm actually writing something for that other series I have and, since I have four days off school [bless], I might post soon :p
The man behind the thick glasses examined my work, his lips pursing and head shaking in disapproval as he continued staring at it. I predicted every word he would blurt out before he did.
"This is really awful, mister Bellamy." he handed my work back to me. I had painted one of my most heartfelt pieces, the colors worked so well in my eyes and it had “me” written all over it. Maybe that was the issue. "Are you failing my class on purpose? Giving me these hideous pieces?"
"You can be sure I'm not." I answered in a low voice. I wasn't interested in talking to him any longer than strictly necessary. I also didn't mind him bashing my work; I knew the quality of it. I certainly didn’t need him to tell me about it.
"This class..." he dramatically removed his glasses and rubbed his temple with his index finger. "...is not about your Avant-garde. Please, improve your classical techniques. I really don't want to see you another semester." He was right, though. I hadn’t put any ‘classical’ thought in that piece; it was more of a Picasso than a Delacroix. Not that I mind, though.
I smiled sarcastically at him and turned on my heels to walk away. I could say I hated him as much as he hated me, since day one. I had done nothing in particular to him, except my questioning. I don’t think he expected us to question his theory, but how am I supposed to stay quiet facing those antique values? Maybe he hated how I was interrupted him, or how I loved to make my own versions of the Romantics and Classics. I didn’t really mind to know why he hated me.
This particular work I had now in my hands was like nothing I had ever done before, as it translated a complete new feeling for me. The colors and shapes that flowed to the paper marked what has been haunting me for the last months: emptiness. I've felt rejection, hate, love, fury, shame... but never the complete lack of something, even if I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly. But that something was stolen from me, that night in the dark. Maybe a little piece that was ripped apart from my soul and given to him, with absolutely no turning backs.
--
"What do you mean 'love you'?" I asked as he made his way to our bathroom. Light finally found its place in our room and I could
see the aftermath of our sex. The clothes were on the floor, all together in one single coincidental pile. All the papers once in my bed were also on the floor, all the words I wrote facing up, and my sheets were rumpled. I was suddenly aware of the sticky substance in
my chest and a deep wave of shame hit me.
"I mean that I love you." his voice came louder than the flow of water coming from the sink. I couldn't dare to say anything as I waited for him to continue his words, words I needed so badly. The sink stopped flowing the bathroom light went out. “It feels awful
to say that.” He chuckled. He didn’t move anymore, he stood by the bathroom door in the same dark we were.
“Why do you say it then?” the beautiful feeling that had swept me off my feet suddenly left me and I was thrown in the hard floor of reality again. We couldn’t love each other. We couldn’t fuck. We shouldn’t even talk anymore.
“Because it feels nice to say it at all. But to you..." He sighed and started walking. At some point, I hoped he would hop in my bed and kiss me, make me feel like the world outside didn’t exist; hopes that were soon demolished when I heard him climbing on his own bed. “I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t gather any words to translate what I felt in that moment, especially because I couldn’t figure out what I was feeling. The fact that my love for that man was corresponded was equally joyful and painful. I couldn't love him, I could never worship that man in the way he deserves, with every bit of my love. I would give anything to be able to hold his hand, look into his eyes and surrender myself completely to him.
--
I got my room after good minutes of walking, and tried to get my eyes once again used to the foreign furniture that was there now. No longer the bed sheets I knew, the paintings I adored and the smell I often loved to capture. That place was now the furthest away from comfortable since Dominic moved out. A week after what happened, he told me he wouldn't be able to cope with his feelings after what we did. I had screamed at him, asking him why he did all that in the first place. He whispered something back at me, shyly and ashamed. I never understood those last words, and I didn’t get the chance to ask before he left.
"Hey, Matthew." said the man sitting on the clean desk, that should be filled with a rainbow of inks and some work in progress from my personal artist. But it was now filled with thick books that had numbers all over them, speaking in one of the languages I would never quite understand. This new roommate was an engineer, studying hard to get all the money and glory he probably deserved. I would hardly see him without a book glued to his face.
"Hey, Frank." I dropped my bag on my bed and followed it, creating a loud thump with my impact. As I was now living with this new individual, I came to learn new things about him with the time, such as his cleaning habits. No more were my papers all spread out everywhere, my sheets were always neat on my bed and I wouldn't dare to do it otherwise. It pissed me off and, most of the times, made me miss Dominic even more.
"Are you going to stay in tonight?" he asked, turning slightly on his chair to face me. "I have lots of studying to do and I'll probably need the lights on until late night. You mind?" That sounded like a dumb request for some seconds, but then I remembered how awful it was to sleep with those annoying lights on.
"Well..." I looked outside the window and saw the sun almost completely set, the moon already greeting the sky and gifting us with stars. Around this time, probably seven o'clock, the pubs opened and were filled with all kinds of people, especially on a Friday night. "I'll go out, I guess. Looks like a good night."
He nodded and smiled, burying himself in Math again. I got up and changed my clothes quickly, wearing the classic black pants, a blood red shirt with sleeves rolled up and warm leather jacket above it. I grabbed my keys, my money and left without saying anything. No words towards that stranger were actually needed.
--
"Another beer, Christopher?" I said when he got up, clearly looking for another pint. Chris and Tom, two of my dearest colleagues and friends, had promptly accepted my invitation to go down to the Irish pub near the house they shared. They knew me well enough to don't question my actions or the urgency in my words.
"Yes, Bellamy, another beer. Fuck off." we laughed while he finally got his hands around another massive quantity of alcohol, while Tom and I had already closed for the night. He drank almost the whole content of the glass in one gulp, leaving us to stare only.
"How are you, Matt?" Tom asked while Chris was busy with drinking. This was a least blunt way of asking 'why did you drag us here', and I accepted it.
"Oh, troubles... I'm having a hard time with mister Dent's class. He fucking hates me." I tapped my fingers on the table, trying to not look too nervous about getting to the root of the problem. "Also Dominic moved out. There's this weird bookworm living there now."
"What? Why did Dominic move out?" Chris asked after finally ending his beloved beer. The two didn't know much about Dominic beyond what I told them, and they obviously didn't know about my feelings for him. We are friends, of course, but even friendships have boundaries of acceptance. To keep appearances, I often told them about some imaginary girl I had shagged the night before, how great it was. I always sold my stories.
"Oh..." I hesitated for a while, trying to come up with another one to sell. "He said he needed some space. I didn't really get it either." I laughed and shrugged, as I was not able to come up with anything better than that.
"Well, let the kid then. He's probably going through his own stuff." Tom said, putting an end to that conversation. The night went on without much consistency in conversations, as it usually happened. We chatted more, eventually drank some more beer, smoked probably hundreds of cigarettes and bashed on our teachers. It was always a good night with them, and I managed to hide my problems in the back of my mind for a while.
“You sure you don’t want to stay here? It’s late.” Chris said, when we decided to head home. It was around 3a.m. and my own room in the small student dorm was quite far. But I felt like needed my familiar surrounding that night. We stopped in front of their house and Tom opened the door, looking at me with an invitation in his eyes.
“Not today, mates. But thank you anyway.” We shook hands and said our goodbyes. I walked on the mildly lit street, completely alone with my own thoughts. The jacket I thought would keep me warm was failing in its purpose against the cold wind that blew that night. Soon, a burning cigarette found a way to my lips, pointlessly trying to warm me up. Half hour of wondering around and I finally found an almost decent bar to get in. The place had low lights and soft jazz on, drunken men almost filled the counter only and, behind that, a man cleaned the used beer mugs.
“Oi, mate!” the bartender greeted me. I gave him a half smile and a nod, making my way to the counter. The only place left was between a tough looking dark haired man that was too concentrated on his beer to notice me, and another bloke that was probably too pissed for his own good, his face down and glued to the counter. He was either sleeping or had passed out; it didn’t really matter, either way.
“I’ll have a beer, please.” He quickly poured me a full pint of the golden liquid that was promptly consumed. I rested the mug and my two elbows on the counter, running my fingers through my dark hair and using my hand as support for my forehead. I didn’t feel like drinking more, but I also didn’t feel like going to my dorm anymore. I remembered that I would enter that place and there wouldn’t be a mass of blonde hair in the bed next to mine, or that beautiful body sprawled across his sheets. There wasn’t anything that attracted me on that conglomerate of furniture.
“Matthew?” a voice called my name in an alcoholic tone. It came from the man that was apparently unconscious beside me underneath blonde locks.
“Yes?” I answered, looking at the man through my fingers, not actually moving one inch. The next movements happened to fast for my mind to compute them. When I got to my senses again, my nose was filled with the scent I knew and missed so much. We had fallen to the floor, his arms tangled tightly around my neck. His hair caressed my skin while I felt him burying his nose on the crook of my neck, inhaling my own scent. The top of his head was close to my lips and his whole body was draped over me. I didn’t get why or even what happened, but my arms were soon wrapped around Dominic; I closed my eyes and pulled him as close as I could, letting that moment become solid on my memories. His body had become my source of heat and happiness, in that dirty floor of an unknown bar, with people probably starring at us.
“I missed you so much.” I heard him saying in the lower volume that he could.
“I missed you too, Dominic.”
Author: darkshining
Pairing: belldom
Rating: PG-13
WARNINGS: alcohol
Summary: A few months later.
Disclaimer: I don't own Muse and the events here are pure fiction.
Author's Note: This is a continuation to Love Is Blindness, just because I really loved that AU. I wasn't planning on making this a series... well, it's messy. Hope you enjoy it anyway, reviews are welcome :D also, if anyone is interested, I'm actually writing something for that other series I have and, since I have four days off school [bless], I might post soon :p
The man behind the thick glasses examined my work, his lips pursing and head shaking in disapproval as he continued staring at it. I predicted every word he would blurt out before he did.
"This is really awful, mister Bellamy." he handed my work back to me. I had painted one of my most heartfelt pieces, the colors worked so well in my eyes and it had “me” written all over it. Maybe that was the issue. "Are you failing my class on purpose? Giving me these hideous pieces?"
"You can be sure I'm not." I answered in a low voice. I wasn't interested in talking to him any longer than strictly necessary. I also didn't mind him bashing my work; I knew the quality of it. I certainly didn’t need him to tell me about it.
"This class..." he dramatically removed his glasses and rubbed his temple with his index finger. "...is not about your Avant-garde. Please, improve your classical techniques. I really don't want to see you another semester." He was right, though. I hadn’t put any ‘classical’ thought in that piece; it was more of a Picasso than a Delacroix. Not that I mind, though.
I smiled sarcastically at him and turned on my heels to walk away. I could say I hated him as much as he hated me, since day one. I had done nothing in particular to him, except my questioning. I don’t think he expected us to question his theory, but how am I supposed to stay quiet facing those antique values? Maybe he hated how I was interrupted him, or how I loved to make my own versions of the Romantics and Classics. I didn’t really mind to know why he hated me.
This particular work I had now in my hands was like nothing I had ever done before, as it translated a complete new feeling for me. The colors and shapes that flowed to the paper marked what has been haunting me for the last months: emptiness. I've felt rejection, hate, love, fury, shame... but never the complete lack of something, even if I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly. But that something was stolen from me, that night in the dark. Maybe a little piece that was ripped apart from my soul and given to him, with absolutely no turning backs.
--
"What do you mean 'love you'?" I asked as he made his way to our bathroom. Light finally found its place in our room and I could
see the aftermath of our sex. The clothes were on the floor, all together in one single coincidental pile. All the papers once in my bed were also on the floor, all the words I wrote facing up, and my sheets were rumpled. I was suddenly aware of the sticky substance in
my chest and a deep wave of shame hit me.
"I mean that I love you." his voice came louder than the flow of water coming from the sink. I couldn't dare to say anything as I waited for him to continue his words, words I needed so badly. The sink stopped flowing the bathroom light went out. “It feels awful
to say that.” He chuckled. He didn’t move anymore, he stood by the bathroom door in the same dark we were.
“Why do you say it then?” the beautiful feeling that had swept me off my feet suddenly left me and I was thrown in the hard floor of reality again. We couldn’t love each other. We couldn’t fuck. We shouldn’t even talk anymore.
“Because it feels nice to say it at all. But to you..." He sighed and started walking. At some point, I hoped he would hop in my bed and kiss me, make me feel like the world outside didn’t exist; hopes that were soon demolished when I heard him climbing on his own bed. “I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t gather any words to translate what I felt in that moment, especially because I couldn’t figure out what I was feeling. The fact that my love for that man was corresponded was equally joyful and painful. I couldn't love him, I could never worship that man in the way he deserves, with every bit of my love. I would give anything to be able to hold his hand, look into his eyes and surrender myself completely to him.
--
I got my room after good minutes of walking, and tried to get my eyes once again used to the foreign furniture that was there now. No longer the bed sheets I knew, the paintings I adored and the smell I often loved to capture. That place was now the furthest away from comfortable since Dominic moved out. A week after what happened, he told me he wouldn't be able to cope with his feelings after what we did. I had screamed at him, asking him why he did all that in the first place. He whispered something back at me, shyly and ashamed. I never understood those last words, and I didn’t get the chance to ask before he left.
"Hey, Matthew." said the man sitting on the clean desk, that should be filled with a rainbow of inks and some work in progress from my personal artist. But it was now filled with thick books that had numbers all over them, speaking in one of the languages I would never quite understand. This new roommate was an engineer, studying hard to get all the money and glory he probably deserved. I would hardly see him without a book glued to his face.
"Hey, Frank." I dropped my bag on my bed and followed it, creating a loud thump with my impact. As I was now living with this new individual, I came to learn new things about him with the time, such as his cleaning habits. No more were my papers all spread out everywhere, my sheets were always neat on my bed and I wouldn't dare to do it otherwise. It pissed me off and, most of the times, made me miss Dominic even more.
"Are you going to stay in tonight?" he asked, turning slightly on his chair to face me. "I have lots of studying to do and I'll probably need the lights on until late night. You mind?" That sounded like a dumb request for some seconds, but then I remembered how awful it was to sleep with those annoying lights on.
"Well..." I looked outside the window and saw the sun almost completely set, the moon already greeting the sky and gifting us with stars. Around this time, probably seven o'clock, the pubs opened and were filled with all kinds of people, especially on a Friday night. "I'll go out, I guess. Looks like a good night."
He nodded and smiled, burying himself in Math again. I got up and changed my clothes quickly, wearing the classic black pants, a blood red shirt with sleeves rolled up and warm leather jacket above it. I grabbed my keys, my money and left without saying anything. No words towards that stranger were actually needed.
--
"Another beer, Christopher?" I said when he got up, clearly looking for another pint. Chris and Tom, two of my dearest colleagues and friends, had promptly accepted my invitation to go down to the Irish pub near the house they shared. They knew me well enough to don't question my actions or the urgency in my words.
"Yes, Bellamy, another beer. Fuck off." we laughed while he finally got his hands around another massive quantity of alcohol, while Tom and I had already closed for the night. He drank almost the whole content of the glass in one gulp, leaving us to stare only.
"How are you, Matt?" Tom asked while Chris was busy with drinking. This was a least blunt way of asking 'why did you drag us here', and I accepted it.
"Oh, troubles... I'm having a hard time with mister Dent's class. He fucking hates me." I tapped my fingers on the table, trying to not look too nervous about getting to the root of the problem. "Also Dominic moved out. There's this weird bookworm living there now."
"What? Why did Dominic move out?" Chris asked after finally ending his beloved beer. The two didn't know much about Dominic beyond what I told them, and they obviously didn't know about my feelings for him. We are friends, of course, but even friendships have boundaries of acceptance. To keep appearances, I often told them about some imaginary girl I had shagged the night before, how great it was. I always sold my stories.
"Oh..." I hesitated for a while, trying to come up with another one to sell. "He said he needed some space. I didn't really get it either." I laughed and shrugged, as I was not able to come up with anything better than that.
"Well, let the kid then. He's probably going through his own stuff." Tom said, putting an end to that conversation. The night went on without much consistency in conversations, as it usually happened. We chatted more, eventually drank some more beer, smoked probably hundreds of cigarettes and bashed on our teachers. It was always a good night with them, and I managed to hide my problems in the back of my mind for a while.
“You sure you don’t want to stay here? It’s late.” Chris said, when we decided to head home. It was around 3a.m. and my own room in the small student dorm was quite far. But I felt like needed my familiar surrounding that night. We stopped in front of their house and Tom opened the door, looking at me with an invitation in his eyes.
“Not today, mates. But thank you anyway.” We shook hands and said our goodbyes. I walked on the mildly lit street, completely alone with my own thoughts. The jacket I thought would keep me warm was failing in its purpose against the cold wind that blew that night. Soon, a burning cigarette found a way to my lips, pointlessly trying to warm me up. Half hour of wondering around and I finally found an almost decent bar to get in. The place had low lights and soft jazz on, drunken men almost filled the counter only and, behind that, a man cleaned the used beer mugs.
“Oi, mate!” the bartender greeted me. I gave him a half smile and a nod, making my way to the counter. The only place left was between a tough looking dark haired man that was too concentrated on his beer to notice me, and another bloke that was probably too pissed for his own good, his face down and glued to the counter. He was either sleeping or had passed out; it didn’t really matter, either way.
“I’ll have a beer, please.” He quickly poured me a full pint of the golden liquid that was promptly consumed. I rested the mug and my two elbows on the counter, running my fingers through my dark hair and using my hand as support for my forehead. I didn’t feel like drinking more, but I also didn’t feel like going to my dorm anymore. I remembered that I would enter that place and there wouldn’t be a mass of blonde hair in the bed next to mine, or that beautiful body sprawled across his sheets. There wasn’t anything that attracted me on that conglomerate of furniture.
“Matthew?” a voice called my name in an alcoholic tone. It came from the man that was apparently unconscious beside me underneath blonde locks.
“Yes?” I answered, looking at the man through my fingers, not actually moving one inch. The next movements happened to fast for my mind to compute them. When I got to my senses again, my nose was filled with the scent I knew and missed so much. We had fallen to the floor, his arms tangled tightly around my neck. His hair caressed my skin while I felt him burying his nose on the crook of my neck, inhaling my own scent. The top of his head was close to my lips and his whole body was draped over me. I didn’t get why or even what happened, but my arms were soon wrapped around Dominic; I closed my eyes and pulled him as close as I could, letting that moment become solid on my memories. His body had become my source of heat and happiness, in that dirty floor of an unknown bar, with people probably starring at us.
“I missed you so much.” I heard him saying in the lower volume that he could.
“I missed you too, Dominic.”