#90 [home], chris/nate [foo fighters]
title: home [#90]
author: ikobe
pairing: chris/nate [foo fighters[
w+r: swearing, implied sexual acts.
summary: self-harm is the real world.
When you're in these shoes, when you live this life, self-harm isn't slashing your wrists, cutting your arms and legs up. Self-harm is the real world. Self harm is coming down.
You get off touring and you can't sleep and you go crazy from waking up in the same bed every morning, even if you've been dreaming of waking up under those sheets for the last three months. You start to hear everything properly again, once the constant ringing in your ears finally dies down and everything is just pure silence, and it's fucking terrifying. Your hands feel empty unless there's wood in them, and when those little nips and cuts and grazes from copper and vinyl and concrete heal up on the palms of your hands, everything feels numb. You don't have the buzzing in your hands and your ears and your head. It's quiet enough to hear your pulse at night and it's beating so slowly to how it did three nights ago you wonder if you're dead.
It's all you wanted to come off tour, and now you don't feel like you fit in with the universe.
It's nothing to do with the fact I haven't seen my bassist in four days and it's killing me. I convinced myself after the first two nights of lying on my back wide awake at stupid-o'-clock in the morning that it was just because I'd shared a bus with him for the last god knows how many years, it was always hard to be away from someone I'd spent that much time with. He said we'd hang out on our downtime, if I wanted. I said I'd be alright, it was only a month, joked that I could use a break from seeing him every waking moment.
Have I not mentioned we slept together every night? We were on-tour lovers. We are on-tour lovers. Because if anything it makes the hours (and there are so fucking many of them) on the road something like bearable. Knowing that when you drop, when the adrenaline's finally starting to let you see more than a few feet in front of you... knowing when you sit down for the first time of the night you're going to get those hands on your shoulders, that mouth on the back of your neck... the first night I got back I waited to hear his voice. Some nights he never spoke, though, just moved to sit behind me, and I cannot describe how... how loved he made me feel.
I fell asleep a little after sun-up; woke up a couple hours later, still not used to sleeping normal hours, ended up crying myself back after noticing a scar on the back of my hand he'd left me with weeks ago. It's the kind of scar that stays even when you get your tan back after being in northern Europe in the winter. Make a fist and all those veins in your hand creep under it like it's permanent.
You spend three months wishing you were home and then you realise you were there all along.
author: ikobe
pairing: chris/nate [foo fighters[
w+r: swearing, implied sexual acts.
summary: self-harm is the real world.
When you're in these shoes, when you live this life, self-harm isn't slashing your wrists, cutting your arms and legs up. Self-harm is the real world. Self harm is coming down.
You get off touring and you can't sleep and you go crazy from waking up in the same bed every morning, even if you've been dreaming of waking up under those sheets for the last three months. You start to hear everything properly again, once the constant ringing in your ears finally dies down and everything is just pure silence, and it's fucking terrifying. Your hands feel empty unless there's wood in them, and when those little nips and cuts and grazes from copper and vinyl and concrete heal up on the palms of your hands, everything feels numb. You don't have the buzzing in your hands and your ears and your head. It's quiet enough to hear your pulse at night and it's beating so slowly to how it did three nights ago you wonder if you're dead.
It's all you wanted to come off tour, and now you don't feel like you fit in with the universe.
It's nothing to do with the fact I haven't seen my bassist in four days and it's killing me. I convinced myself after the first two nights of lying on my back wide awake at stupid-o'-clock in the morning that it was just because I'd shared a bus with him for the last god knows how many years, it was always hard to be away from someone I'd spent that much time with. He said we'd hang out on our downtime, if I wanted. I said I'd be alright, it was only a month, joked that I could use a break from seeing him every waking moment.
Have I not mentioned we slept together every night? We were on-tour lovers. We are on-tour lovers. Because if anything it makes the hours (and there are so fucking many of them) on the road something like bearable. Knowing that when you drop, when the adrenaline's finally starting to let you see more than a few feet in front of you... knowing when you sit down for the first time of the night you're going to get those hands on your shoulders, that mouth on the back of your neck... the first night I got back I waited to hear his voice. Some nights he never spoke, though, just moved to sit behind me, and I cannot describe how... how loved he made me feel.
I fell asleep a little after sun-up; woke up a couple hours later, still not used to sleeping normal hours, ended up crying myself back after noticing a scar on the back of my hand he'd left me with weeks ago. It's the kind of scar that stays even when you get your tan back after being in northern Europe in the winter. Make a fist and all those veins in your hand creep under it like it's permanent.
You spend three months wishing you were home and then you realise you were there all along.