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Fic #06/50 for my fanfic50 table
Prompt: 012. Lose
Title: Your Average Byronic Hero
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Characters: Brian/Justin
Timeframe: post-513
Genre: Angst, POV
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~700
Summary: Brian recapitulates.
Disclaimer: Cowlip owns, I don't.
Your Average Byronic Hero
by sakesushimaki
Everyone expected it to be you who would make the cut.
Sometimes you wonder if they know you at all.
In the end, of course, it is him who decides for the both of you. Him who makes the call. Him who says he can’t go on this way.
In the end, it isn’t enough. Other factors, some of which uncalculated, have interfered with the equation.
In the end, ironically, the only time he’d make it out of that rotten city in four months is to dump you one last time.
He said he would come to talk in person. You told him he shouldn’t. It wasn’t necessary, you explained. What a stupid word. You didn’t want to see him, you told him then.
Want not, can not - where’s the difference?
You know he will come anyway.
The ugly grimace on your face startles you as it reflects on the polished silver of the liquor cart and you quickly turn away. The shapes of the trees appear blurry through the rain sliding down the window glass.
Over the faintly crackling line he said that you shouldn’t shut down. That you should talk to him, tell him how you feel, but that he needs to do this in person. He tells you that you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. That you shouldn’t deal the way you always do.
He claims to be onto you, but sometimes, he has no clue.
Sometimes, he’s oblivious to the big difference between you two. It’s not about pain management. It’s about implications.
The difference is that he can do better, find someone else. The difference is that you can’t. You’re wise enough to know that there’s no one out there who could fill that place. No one you would let.
The difference is that you’re the one left behind.
So you concluded anyway. After his babble, it was all that was left to do. You confirmed that it’s over and hung up. He didn’t try to reach you again, so you knew it was final.
And now he wants to come reiterate that? Thanks, but no, thanks.
Besides, you’re away on business for a week anyway. And Cynthia will lose all her benefits if she dares telling anybody differently.
You spat shit at Mikey, hurt him, just to make sure he’d leave you alone for a couple of days. Your friendship never found back completely into the comfort level you used to have, and you hate the fact that your bitching fits into the unstable 25-year-old club boy persona image of you that he still likes to entertain occasionally. Maybe you should send him a picture of you standing here, staring out of the giant heating-nightmare windows, between scattered and covered pieces of furniture.
You meant to sell this monstrosity right after he left, you really did. But then you realized that the market wasn’t good for selling - no matter what the fucking realtor said.
You meant to tell him about the house, about your keeping it. You tried, several times, but then you realized that it would make things harder on him. So you kept it to yourself.
A problem shared is a problem halved? Only some complete egoist could’ve come up with that.
No, Justin has to be free. He’s earned that.
Maybe now that it is over, you could actually tell him. Maybe, in a couple of years, when he’s reduced his visits to Pittsburgh to once a year around Christmas, someone would bring the subject of the house up. You would make light of it, change the topic casually, inwardly relieved that it is out.
You would then make an attempt at seeming honest when asking after his boyfriend, who will be an amazing person, with a great track record, and whom you will hate all the same.
At least he’d leave the perfect boyfriend in New York, not wanting to mix his new world with what he left behind. At least you wouldn’t get to know the guy’s face - couldn’t see him before you when you found yourself imagining him touching Justin, loving him. At least you wouldn’t toss and turn in bed, wondering if Justin gave back the same affection.
For now, though, you walk this empty house, not even bothering turning the lights on.
You knock the content of the tumbler back, appreciating the burn chasing down your insides.
No, love has never been enough.
Not yours, anyway.
Prompt: 012. Lose
Title: Your Average Byronic Hero
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Characters: Brian/Justin
Timeframe: post-513
Genre: Angst, POV
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~700
Summary: Brian recapitulates.
Disclaimer: Cowlip owns, I don't.
Your Average Byronic Hero
by sakesushimaki
Everyone expected it to be you who would make the cut.
Sometimes you wonder if they know you at all.
In the end, of course, it is him who decides for the both of you. Him who makes the call. Him who says he can’t go on this way.
In the end, it isn’t enough. Other factors, some of which uncalculated, have interfered with the equation.
In the end, ironically, the only time he’d make it out of that rotten city in four months is to dump you one last time.
He said he would come to talk in person. You told him he shouldn’t. It wasn’t necessary, you explained. What a stupid word. You didn’t want to see him, you told him then.
Want not, can not - where’s the difference?
You know he will come anyway.
The ugly grimace on your face startles you as it reflects on the polished silver of the liquor cart and you quickly turn away. The shapes of the trees appear blurry through the rain sliding down the window glass.
Over the faintly crackling line he said that you shouldn’t shut down. That you should talk to him, tell him how you feel, but that he needs to do this in person. He tells you that you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. That you shouldn’t deal the way you always do.
He claims to be onto you, but sometimes, he has no clue.
Sometimes, he’s oblivious to the big difference between you two. It’s not about pain management. It’s about implications.
The difference is that he can do better, find someone else. The difference is that you can’t. You’re wise enough to know that there’s no one out there who could fill that place. No one you would let.
The difference is that you’re the one left behind.
So you concluded anyway. After his babble, it was all that was left to do. You confirmed that it’s over and hung up. He didn’t try to reach you again, so you knew it was final.
And now he wants to come reiterate that? Thanks, but no, thanks.
Besides, you’re away on business for a week anyway. And Cynthia will lose all her benefits if she dares telling anybody differently.
You spat shit at Mikey, hurt him, just to make sure he’d leave you alone for a couple of days. Your friendship never found back completely into the comfort level you used to have, and you hate the fact that your bitching fits into the unstable 25-year-old club boy persona image of you that he still likes to entertain occasionally. Maybe you should send him a picture of you standing here, staring out of the giant heating-nightmare windows, between scattered and covered pieces of furniture.
You meant to sell this monstrosity right after he left, you really did. But then you realized that the market wasn’t good for selling - no matter what the fucking realtor said.
You meant to tell him about the house, about your keeping it. You tried, several times, but then you realized that it would make things harder on him. So you kept it to yourself.
A problem shared is a problem halved? Only some complete egoist could’ve come up with that.
No, Justin has to be free. He’s earned that.
Maybe now that it is over, you could actually tell him. Maybe, in a couple of years, when he’s reduced his visits to Pittsburgh to once a year around Christmas, someone would bring the subject of the house up. You would make light of it, change the topic casually, inwardly relieved that it is out.
You would then make an attempt at seeming honest when asking after his boyfriend, who will be an amazing person, with a great track record, and whom you will hate all the same.
At least he’d leave the perfect boyfriend in New York, not wanting to mix his new world with what he left behind. At least you wouldn’t get to know the guy’s face - couldn’t see him before you when you found yourself imagining him touching Justin, loving him. At least you wouldn’t toss and turn in bed, wondering if Justin gave back the same affection.
For now, though, you walk this empty house, not even bothering turning the lights on.
You knock the content of the tumbler back, appreciating the burn chasing down your insides.
No, love has never been enough.
Not yours, anyway.