Drabble - The Cottage
Okay. Please don't hate me for this one. ^_^
Short drabble on Noah, Luke, and Ameera, taking place right after Luke moves into the cottage and then moves right back out.
Honey and I have dubbed this the "Smutless Smut Fic", because when I initially considered the idea, it was very smutty, but when I went to write it, it did not come out that way. ^_^ Also, it was literally four in the morning when I wrote this, so I didn't have the energy to fight the direction it was going. ^_^
And, I'd like to say, for the record, I do not condone cheating of any kind in a relationship, least of all the boys'. ^_^
Pairings: Luke/Noah/Ameera, Soft R for some relatively graphic images.
I could no longer eat at my kitchen table.
I climbed out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, my feet feeling as though I had thirty-pound weights attached to my ankles. The door only closed halfway behind me and I made no move to change it; just walked to the toilet and stood in front of the crystal white bowl.
Images. Hot, hard, frenzied movements. The darkness of the room clouding my vision. The morally reprehensible act I was willingly partaking in making no sense to my brilliantly logical brain, but providing me no hindrance regardless.
I moved over to the sink, toilet forgotten. Slowly, I twisted the knob for cold water, then bent and cupped my hand under the cool liquid. A few splashes on my face did nothing to wash away the disgust that coated me like molasses.
The living room was empty, sunlight streaming through the front window. The kitchen was still tidy, as it had been the night previous, and the blanket over the couch was still folded neatly against the backrest.
My eyes hit the table across the room, and immediately I wanted to purge my insides, cleanse every fiber, but there was nothing left. Not a trace of what I had done lingered. My last remaining shred of human decency had been torn from me last night. Or rather, I had senselessly thrown it away.
I sat down on the couch, the sunlight hitting my bare chest. I bent forward and put my forehead in my hand, sunlight now burning into my back. Images everywhere.
His presence, warm and comforting next to me on the bed. His giant smile stretching from ear to ear as he examined my groceries, bought for him. The way his shirt rippled innocently down his back, that honey-wheat colored hair screaming for my fingertips to burrow into the soft locks.
The front door opened and she returned; her footsteps were light against the carpet of the living room. The door to our bedroom closed without so much as a whisper of her voice. If she hated me, I deserved it. I hated myself.
Her body splayed out in front of me, her clothes billowing across the dark wood. No resistance, no hesitation, just a staggering need of want but can’t have. But not with her. Not ever with her.
My head spun; droplets of sweat beaded and ran down my back, soaking into the waistband of my dark pajama pants. He was so effortless, everything about him was so easy to accept and care for. He was light and airy and I bathed in his glory. And now it was gone.
Emotionally wound-up and physically dissatisfied, I had completely shamed myself. I was lower on the totem pole of humanity than my father, because in one false moment, I had allowed myself to become what he’d always wanted me to be. I became it with no authentic feelings behind the actions. I was an unforgivable, pitiable, hollow shell of a man.
Images. Hot, hard, pulsating breathing. Nails digging into my forearms, wood creaking beneath the weight of my hands. Sweat slicking from forehead to toes, heavy moaning breaking into the dark. Closing my eyes against the sight of her. Wishing I was somewhere else and yet continuing until I had emptied all my frustrations and integrity deep inside of her. The table had been the backdrop of my infidelity, and I walked away from it with no full comprehension of what I had done. Caught up in a moment that had now destroyed my life, the life I had struggled so hard to build, to finally accomplish and believe in.
The soft knock sounded on the front door then, and I lifted my head from my hand. I didn’t move as the door opened, and his beautiful face came into view. That loving smile he always wore stabbed me from the doorway, stretching glamorously across his face. It was soon quickly marred by an expression of confusion and sympathy, as my guilt was as subtle as a speeding train losing its grip on the track and sailing over a bridge into a ravine.
“Are you okay?” Luke’s voice was soft, worried.
I didn’t answer. He didn’t want me to truthfully reply, of that I was certain.
He sat down next to me on the couch, in his usual distance as we had agreed on. We stewed in silence for a few minutes. Then Luke said,
“Whatever it is, Noah, you can tell me.”
Still didn’t answer; didn’t even look at him at first, then raised my gaze to his.
He looked me square in the eye and said reassuringly, “You can tell me.”
And I braced myself for the impact, for I was the lone occupant on that runaway train, careening face-first into a miserable ditch that held nothing but pain, rejection, and eventual death of heart, body, and soul.
~G