The tea that's brewed too strong
447 words. Gabe/William. Inspired by Emilie Autumn's Photographic Memory. I'm not so happy about this one. :/
“Gabe?”
No. Just a dream.
William closes his eyes and shifts under the sheets he should have changed at least a week ago. He can’t bring himself to get rid of the smell, as bad as it is. So he waits. He should have gotten out of bed nine hours ago, but clutching the phone in his hands next to his head is more important. When he gets the call, at least the voice will be where it belongs; it’s better than nothing.
Behind the closed curtains the sun sets, and the call still hasn’t come. He tries to leave a message, but the inbox is full. That one is his fault, but it means Gabe hasn’t checked his messages yet.
Breathe in. Ignore it. Wait.
--
Another day. It’s hard to tell. Minutes, hours, days. Weeks get tangled on the apartment floor as he kicks through them on his way to the bathroom; only the ticking of the wall clock lets William know time hasn’t stopped. He’s going in circles, and the only thing that changes are the food, diminishing, and the crossed out days on the calendar, accumulating. The rest is all the same.
William is doing his best to keep everything perfectly still in the moment after Gabe just left. He likes to think he’s still there, frozen mid-step on the other side of the flimsy door, and he’s going to realize his mistake; he’s going to turn on his heels and come back through that door. Any moment now.
Monday, says the calendar. It’s telling William to be patient.
--
William’s sitting on the bed, white noise in his head. No words, no music, no sleep for days. Gabe will be mad when he comes back. In the back of his throat, William knows Gabe will be fucking mad, and tell him again to get treatment, to stop calling him every time they’re apart, to get a shower, to get his shit together or to pack it up and leave.
He can’t breathe. He closes his eyes and reminds himself that Gabe is not going to kick him out just like that. He doesn’t understand William, but at least William hasn’t reached the limits of his patience yet. He answered his calls three days ago and told him that everything is fine. The tour is doing great, his voice isn’t too bad, the fans are awesome. Miss you. Love you. Bye. Click, dead line. A rush of relief on William’s part, shot down half a second later by the thought that Gabe is most likely aware of the mess William is right now.
William sighs. One day, Gabe is going to get sick of this.
“Gabe?”
No. Just a dream.
William closes his eyes and shifts under the sheets he should have changed at least a week ago. He can’t bring himself to get rid of the smell, as bad as it is. So he waits. He should have gotten out of bed nine hours ago, but clutching the phone in his hands next to his head is more important. When he gets the call, at least the voice will be where it belongs; it’s better than nothing.
Behind the closed curtains the sun sets, and the call still hasn’t come. He tries to leave a message, but the inbox is full. That one is his fault, but it means Gabe hasn’t checked his messages yet.
Breathe in. Ignore it. Wait.
--
Another day. It’s hard to tell. Minutes, hours, days. Weeks get tangled on the apartment floor as he kicks through them on his way to the bathroom; only the ticking of the wall clock lets William know time hasn’t stopped. He’s going in circles, and the only thing that changes are the food, diminishing, and the crossed out days on the calendar, accumulating. The rest is all the same.
William is doing his best to keep everything perfectly still in the moment after Gabe just left. He likes to think he’s still there, frozen mid-step on the other side of the flimsy door, and he’s going to realize his mistake; he’s going to turn on his heels and come back through that door. Any moment now.
Monday, says the calendar. It’s telling William to be patient.
--
William’s sitting on the bed, white noise in his head. No words, no music, no sleep for days. Gabe will be mad when he comes back. In the back of his throat, William knows Gabe will be fucking mad, and tell him again to get treatment, to stop calling him every time they’re apart, to get a shower, to get his shit together or to pack it up and leave.
He can’t breathe. He closes his eyes and reminds himself that Gabe is not going to kick him out just like that. He doesn’t understand William, but at least William hasn’t reached the limits of his patience yet. He answered his calls three days ago and told him that everything is fine. The tour is doing great, his voice isn’t too bad, the fans are awesome. Miss you. Love you. Bye. Click, dead line. A rush of relief on William’s part, shot down half a second later by the thought that Gabe is most likely aware of the mess William is right now.
William sighs. One day, Gabe is going to get sick of this.