(no subject)
Title: White out
Rating: R
Fandom: Ultimate X-Men
Notes: Monotone Photograph series
Summary: Angelo gets these headaches
He'd never used to really have headaches before. Well, hang overs, but they didn't count because they were self inflicted. Dark burn of alcohol, and he knew he was poisoning himself. Trying to let himself forget. Slide into the oblivion and wish for peace, refuge from the blinding pain lodged behind his eyes.
It made the world turn white at the edges.
Any light was too bright, and he could just curl up on their bed, Jonothon's worried eyes on him, shaking as he tried not to make a noise. Deep down rattle of his bones making his head hurt worse. He knew he couldn't actually hear his bones shake, in the small lucid corner of his mind.
Just lie there and shake, and try not to fall off the edges of the world into the white. Not throw up. Sometimes, he failed miserably at that, salt burning his eyes as his stomach spasmed and his head hurt worse. Jonothon never seemed to mind. Held his hair out of his eyes and kept the bucket under his chin so he didn't make a mess. Skating the edges of his pain to keep himself together. Not letting his control go completely, just enough to be comfortable. Dragging himself back from the edge where everything went, it hurt more then the headaches did. Had to look normal...as normal as he could get. Which meant no skin sliding and slipping like wax off a candle...
Row upon row of lighted candles, tiny flames flickering in the gentle breeze that was being generated by the ceiling fans. Each one a prayer. A light. Scent of burning, faint but just there. Mixed with incense and wax and dust.
The remembered lights swallowed him whole and Angelo moaned, pulling his pillow over his face and trying to hide in dusty darkness. The soft telepathic hum of Jonothon's concern was buzzing through his brain. Aching and it made his stomach clutch, turn over and try to jump into his throat, gagging on bitterness and god, someone just give him a gun and shoot him. Because this wasn't going to go away, this was not something that was going to stop, this was going to keep happening and he didn't know how much longer he could take it because it fucking hurt. He'd been shot, he'd been beaten so hard that he couldn't move and he'd pissed blood for the next couple of weeks. These headaches, they were killing him.
Slicing him open, oh Dios, from the inside.
Jonothon's hands were always warm, his body heated to an extent that with most people he would have called fever. Just accepted that it was the way Jono was now, the sparkling glittering ribbons of energy wrapped around something a little like a star inside the middle of his chest heating him up from the inside out to the ends of his fingers. In winter, it meant Jono made a bueno cuddlebuddy. Warm. Fucking New York winters, they made his bones ache. He was a Californian boy, he had been born in Los Angeles and he liked it there.
Sometimes he wondered if he should ask Jonothon about London. But then he thought...not. Didn't want to poke at a wound that was probably deep down to where his heart had been. Because Jono...couldn't really go home. He couldn't think of an airplane company that would let him fly. He had the chance to go home, all he had to do was land the right job, one that said take such and such a vehicle from here to Los Angeles. There'd be one. He'd turned down a few to other cities already, because he didn't want to go there, he wanted to go home.
Mama.
"Ungh, Jono...too hot." Pushed Jonothon's hand away, not caring if dark brown eyes registered hurt or not. "Por favor, ese..." Just...wanted to be left alone. Die and curl up and die. Head hurt, stomach aching with acid and he couldn't think properly through this fog. Been shot, been beat, once he'd had a cigarette pushed into the back of his shoulder blade - Jono's curious fingers skating over the round burn scar almost lost in folds of skin, eyes so solemn over the black bandages and wonder that he'd cut off with a wet lick across Jonothon's cheek - and nothing, nothingnothingnothing was coming close to this. Because it was at least once a week, if not more and it was always the same. Dizzying drop of pain from on high. Package of hell in white light and acid sickness.
*They're getting worse,* Jonothon said, sitting back on his heels. Felt his boots tighten across the tops of his feet in protest at the position, likely felt it was too undignified position for a pair of Docs. Wankers. Angelo was almost...white. Ashy gray and sweating, skin not looking...right. There was a difference, he'd learnt now, between comfortably loose and the way the other man looked in the grip of one of these migraines. He got up slowly and went to get another dose of painkiller, strongest stuff they could get without a prescription.
If this wasn't going to help him, maybe Jono would have to see some people about something else. Not H. Maybe a bit of morphine. Opium. Something. Because Angelo was going to break if something didn't give him a bit of relief. Needed to have at least one week, one bloody week without these headaches knocking him down to the ground then kicking him in the ribs. He was losing weight. Slowly, but Jonothon could tell. Wasn't eating as much, and since he didn't eat, it was obvious just how much or how little Ange was eating. Didn't keep all of it down. Ate less, threw more up, equalled weight loss.
Didn't know how to stop it. Never had known. At least this time, it was because Ange couldn't help it. Not because he thought thinner was pretty, that it was more beautiful, stupid fashion mag fascist SHIT! Hated that, hated those pretentious assholes who said this, THIS is beauty and if you are not this, you are worthless. So girls threw up and didn't eat and killed themselves and went under knives and fucked themselves over because they wanted to be worth something. He'd almost, almost, hit Gayle the first time he'd caught her in the loo with her fingers down her throat.
Almost.
But he never had. Even though that had been the most tempting moment, because he fucking hated what she was doing meant. Never laid a finger on her. Loved her, still loved her in some sad sick little twisted part of himself. Because...it was hard to let go, sometimes. Even with something better waiting.
Shook two tablets out of the bottle and got a glass of water before taking it back to Angelo. Watched him swallow the pills greedily, desperate edge in his eyes like the rabbit he'd seen once, screaming. Pressed his fingers to the bandages where his mouth had been and then lightly touched Angelo's forehead, pathetic mimicry of a kiss. Almost smile there for him, rough scraggly goatee framing Angelo's mouth. That mouth. Cynical and bitter and hot and...yeah. Angelo.
"Gracias..."
Tried to smile, knew it didn't really work but trying anyway. Angelo carefully laid back down after swallowing the pills and waiting for the bitter taste on his tongue to go away. Closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. Jonothon was still there, watching and looking worried. Man had more expression with half his face then most people showed with everything they had. Loved it. Although he could go the most curious blank when he wanted to, all Goth and pretentious. I know something you bloody well don't, you wankers and I can hold it in front of you and you'll never see me, nyah nyah nyah.
...yeah, his inner Jono sounded like a child sometimes.
The idea of a miniature Jonothon waggling his tongue and singsonging dirty words to adults made him smile. Because he was certain it had happened. Dirty rough rebel, with just enough class to slip into a Gothly skin of beauty and tragedy.
"Come lie down with me, mano."
Waited for Jonothon to kick off his boots, undoing them just enough to slide his slender somehow sexy feet out of them and get into bed carefully. So careful not to jolt him and make his headache worse, just open arms and a shoulder to lie his aching head against. Closed his eyes and somehow felt better, like he didn't even need the drugs. When minutes ago he had been almost sick to the point of throwing up again at the thought of all that heat that Jonothon was.
Swish-swoosh of Jonothon's flares under his ear, not even close to a heartbeat. Somedays in a fit of morbid fascination, he wondered if Jonothon would make a Geiger chatter and scream. Didn't want to find out. Hey, the cigarettes were probably going to kill him sooner or later anyway. Pushed his face kitten-blindly into the curve of Jonothon's neck and shoulder, smelling latex or whatever it was the bandages were made of and sweat. Masculine and oh so fine.
*Sleep, Ange, mate.*
Mumbled something, felt Jonothon's fingers threading through his hair and let himself sleep. Knowing here he was safe and it was alright to sleep. Because Jono didn't sleep, and he'd be watching. When he was sick, he got paranoid. Ok. He dealt with that. But now...sleep. It was black and it ate away at the white until there was none left and the pain went away. Because here it was the black.
And the white was far away.
Rating: R
Fandom: Ultimate X-Men
Notes: Monotone Photograph series
Summary: Angelo gets these headaches
He'd never used to really have headaches before. Well, hang overs, but they didn't count because they were self inflicted. Dark burn of alcohol, and he knew he was poisoning himself. Trying to let himself forget. Slide into the oblivion and wish for peace, refuge from the blinding pain lodged behind his eyes.
It made the world turn white at the edges.
Any light was too bright, and he could just curl up on their bed, Jonothon's worried eyes on him, shaking as he tried not to make a noise. Deep down rattle of his bones making his head hurt worse. He knew he couldn't actually hear his bones shake, in the small lucid corner of his mind.
Just lie there and shake, and try not to fall off the edges of the world into the white. Not throw up. Sometimes, he failed miserably at that, salt burning his eyes as his stomach spasmed and his head hurt worse. Jonothon never seemed to mind. Held his hair out of his eyes and kept the bucket under his chin so he didn't make a mess. Skating the edges of his pain to keep himself together. Not letting his control go completely, just enough to be comfortable. Dragging himself back from the edge where everything went, it hurt more then the headaches did. Had to look normal...as normal as he could get. Which meant no skin sliding and slipping like wax off a candle...
Row upon row of lighted candles, tiny flames flickering in the gentle breeze that was being generated by the ceiling fans. Each one a prayer. A light. Scent of burning, faint but just there. Mixed with incense and wax and dust.
The remembered lights swallowed him whole and Angelo moaned, pulling his pillow over his face and trying to hide in dusty darkness. The soft telepathic hum of Jonothon's concern was buzzing through his brain. Aching and it made his stomach clutch, turn over and try to jump into his throat, gagging on bitterness and god, someone just give him a gun and shoot him. Because this wasn't going to go away, this was not something that was going to stop, this was going to keep happening and he didn't know how much longer he could take it because it fucking hurt. He'd been shot, he'd been beaten so hard that he couldn't move and he'd pissed blood for the next couple of weeks. These headaches, they were killing him.
Slicing him open, oh Dios, from the inside.
Jonothon's hands were always warm, his body heated to an extent that with most people he would have called fever. Just accepted that it was the way Jono was now, the sparkling glittering ribbons of energy wrapped around something a little like a star inside the middle of his chest heating him up from the inside out to the ends of his fingers. In winter, it meant Jono made a bueno cuddlebuddy. Warm. Fucking New York winters, they made his bones ache. He was a Californian boy, he had been born in Los Angeles and he liked it there.
Sometimes he wondered if he should ask Jonothon about London. But then he thought...not. Didn't want to poke at a wound that was probably deep down to where his heart had been. Because Jono...couldn't really go home. He couldn't think of an airplane company that would let him fly. He had the chance to go home, all he had to do was land the right job, one that said take such and such a vehicle from here to Los Angeles. There'd be one. He'd turned down a few to other cities already, because he didn't want to go there, he wanted to go home.
Mama.
"Ungh, Jono...too hot." Pushed Jonothon's hand away, not caring if dark brown eyes registered hurt or not. "Por favor, ese..." Just...wanted to be left alone. Die and curl up and die. Head hurt, stomach aching with acid and he couldn't think properly through this fog. Been shot, been beat, once he'd had a cigarette pushed into the back of his shoulder blade - Jono's curious fingers skating over the round burn scar almost lost in folds of skin, eyes so solemn over the black bandages and wonder that he'd cut off with a wet lick across Jonothon's cheek - and nothing, nothingnothingnothing was coming close to this. Because it was at least once a week, if not more and it was always the same. Dizzying drop of pain from on high. Package of hell in white light and acid sickness.
*They're getting worse,* Jonothon said, sitting back on his heels. Felt his boots tighten across the tops of his feet in protest at the position, likely felt it was too undignified position for a pair of Docs. Wankers. Angelo was almost...white. Ashy gray and sweating, skin not looking...right. There was a difference, he'd learnt now, between comfortably loose and the way the other man looked in the grip of one of these migraines. He got up slowly and went to get another dose of painkiller, strongest stuff they could get without a prescription.
If this wasn't going to help him, maybe Jono would have to see some people about something else. Not H. Maybe a bit of morphine. Opium. Something. Because Angelo was going to break if something didn't give him a bit of relief. Needed to have at least one week, one bloody week without these headaches knocking him down to the ground then kicking him in the ribs. He was losing weight. Slowly, but Jonothon could tell. Wasn't eating as much, and since he didn't eat, it was obvious just how much or how little Ange was eating. Didn't keep all of it down. Ate less, threw more up, equalled weight loss.
Didn't know how to stop it. Never had known. At least this time, it was because Ange couldn't help it. Not because he thought thinner was pretty, that it was more beautiful, stupid fashion mag fascist SHIT! Hated that, hated those pretentious assholes who said this, THIS is beauty and if you are not this, you are worthless. So girls threw up and didn't eat and killed themselves and went under knives and fucked themselves over because they wanted to be worth something. He'd almost, almost, hit Gayle the first time he'd caught her in the loo with her fingers down her throat.
Almost.
But he never had. Even though that had been the most tempting moment, because he fucking hated what she was doing meant. Never laid a finger on her. Loved her, still loved her in some sad sick little twisted part of himself. Because...it was hard to let go, sometimes. Even with something better waiting.
Shook two tablets out of the bottle and got a glass of water before taking it back to Angelo. Watched him swallow the pills greedily, desperate edge in his eyes like the rabbit he'd seen once, screaming. Pressed his fingers to the bandages where his mouth had been and then lightly touched Angelo's forehead, pathetic mimicry of a kiss. Almost smile there for him, rough scraggly goatee framing Angelo's mouth. That mouth. Cynical and bitter and hot and...yeah. Angelo.
"Gracias..."
Tried to smile, knew it didn't really work but trying anyway. Angelo carefully laid back down after swallowing the pills and waiting for the bitter taste on his tongue to go away. Closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. Jonothon was still there, watching and looking worried. Man had more expression with half his face then most people showed with everything they had. Loved it. Although he could go the most curious blank when he wanted to, all Goth and pretentious. I know something you bloody well don't, you wankers and I can hold it in front of you and you'll never see me, nyah nyah nyah.
...yeah, his inner Jono sounded like a child sometimes.
The idea of a miniature Jonothon waggling his tongue and singsonging dirty words to adults made him smile. Because he was certain it had happened. Dirty rough rebel, with just enough class to slip into a Gothly skin of beauty and tragedy.
"Come lie down with me, mano."
Waited for Jonothon to kick off his boots, undoing them just enough to slide his slender somehow sexy feet out of them and get into bed carefully. So careful not to jolt him and make his headache worse, just open arms and a shoulder to lie his aching head against. Closed his eyes and somehow felt better, like he didn't even need the drugs. When minutes ago he had been almost sick to the point of throwing up again at the thought of all that heat that Jonothon was.
Swish-swoosh of Jonothon's flares under his ear, not even close to a heartbeat. Somedays in a fit of morbid fascination, he wondered if Jonothon would make a Geiger chatter and scream. Didn't want to find out. Hey, the cigarettes were probably going to kill him sooner or later anyway. Pushed his face kitten-blindly into the curve of Jonothon's neck and shoulder, smelling latex or whatever it was the bandages were made of and sweat. Masculine and oh so fine.
*Sleep, Ange, mate.*
Mumbled something, felt Jonothon's fingers threading through his hair and let himself sleep. Knowing here he was safe and it was alright to sleep. Because Jono didn't sleep, and he'd be watching. When he was sick, he got paranoid. Ok. He dealt with that. But now...sleep. It was black and it ate away at the white until there was none left and the pain went away. Because here it was the black.
And the white was far away.