GHOST -- PG
Posted here at kissontheneck for archival purposes... originally posted at david_squared and the Cookleta Index of Greatness is linked there, not here (so comments can be enjoyed).
[title] NEED: "Ghost" [1/3]
[author] fieryrogue
[pairing] Cookleta
[rating] PG (maybe not even, but it's not all sunshine and rainbows, so...)
[word count] 778
[summary] Someone's seeing things.
[disclaimer] Surely, I have nothing to do with either of these fine young men, no matter how much I wish I did.
[warnings] Angst, heart-breaking sorrow, pinpricks to the heart. All that good stuff.
[author's notes] Written for david_squared's Challenge #4, Prompt #2, which is the quote, "I love you, not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you." ~Roy Croft. If you are familiar with the song "Ghost" by the Indigo Girls, you may get an extra tingle out of this. If you're not, I highly recommend it, HERE. And if everyone's on their best behavior (and wants it as well), you'll get a sequel/flip side to this. But only if you eat all your vegetables.
GHOST
You sit down at the piano and you can almost see his hands tracing the keys. Moving like you've never seen hands move before, effortlessly like they always knew what to do.
Like breathing.
Hands that caressed that piano with the same gentleness he'd use to touch your arm, hold your chin, grab your hand. Hands that would always brush your temple, touch your lips, and produce the worst handwriting you had ever seen in your life.
You remember when the piano came into the apartment. The movers thought you were kidding when you said you needed to get a baby grand piano to the loft apartment at the top of this building. Indeed, it wasn't easy. The movers joked (or maybe they were serious!) that they hoped you never planned to move it again.
No, you told them, you didn't.
You thought about that the day he left, too. When he walked out and didn't come back. He'd never not come back before.
You're sitting at one end of the bench, like you always did when he was there. He'd play your favorite piano piece, "Moonlight Sonata", and you'd watch his face as he'd close his eyes, bow his head. It was like you could see his soul pouring out onto the keys. You could almost swear you could see it now.
But now the keys are dusty, the sheet music still on the floor where you swept it off in anger, shouting. It was new music, pencil marks filling the margins in his delicate scrawl, notes smeared as left-handed writing often is. You on the other hand, you haven't written anything in so long. You're not even sure you ever have, the feeling of disconnection is so great.
You haven't slept properly since he's been gone, which has been... six weeks? Six months? More? You haven't any concept of time anymore, not when each second of it is equally agonizing, day or night. There's a pillow and blanket on your couch; they've been there as long. You haven't slept in your own bed, because he's somehow still there.
In fact, you can't believe all the places he can be, all at the same time. At the piano writing, in the kitchen making a sandwich, in your bed sleeping like an angel. On the subway, you see his reflection in the glass as the lights dance past you. Standing out on the balcony early in the morning, his breath crosses your neck. Down at the Chinese restaurant the next block over, his smile pushes little creases into his eyes as he fumbles with his chopsticks.
You waited a long time. That's how it worked, after all. The waiting. He'd call, or you'd call, or you'd talk to mutual friends, or he'd just walk in the door, or be waiting for you when you got home. But no one had called this time. You wanted to so badly, but just couldn't. You'd fucked it up for the last time.
His voice rings in your ears, both "I love you" and "I hate you." Even in anger, it was like a sonata. Even without the gentle laugh, it rang with sweet measure. Everything about him radiated in the magical intangibility of music. Maybe that was why you loved him so much -- it was like your heart was standing in front of you and you just had to reach out and grab it. And now you realize that's exactly what this feeling is -- your heart is completely missing.
There's a sound in the apartment, a creak. You look up, past the trashed kitchen, past the mounting mail on the table. What was that? It was so quiet these days that to hear a sound was almost terrifying. You squint further into the darkened room. There, just passing through your peripheral vision -- a movement. Wasn't it? Even though that doesn't make sense, you hope...
"David?" The word breezes out of your mouth on its own, it's like someone else said it on your behalf. You wait. Your heart pounds. It's quiet.
"David?" This time it's too quiet for even you to hear. Your voice is raspy from disuse, and there's something caught in your throat anyway.
You look back down in front of you, feeling foolish. And then... the uncontrollable anguish. Your eyes close. Your elbows crash into the keys of the piano, your hands catching your face. What they can't catch, however, are the rushing tears. They can't catch his voice which lingers, and they can't catch his shadow, lurking just out of your sight. They can't catch the breaking pieces of your heart, falling into oblivion.
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>>> GO TO: Part Two: "Gravity" >>>
========
[title] NEED: "Ghost" [1/3]
[author] fieryrogue
[pairing] Cookleta
[rating] PG (maybe not even, but it's not all sunshine and rainbows, so...)
[word count] 778
[summary] Someone's seeing things.
[disclaimer] Surely, I have nothing to do with either of these fine young men, no matter how much I wish I did.
[warnings] Angst, heart-breaking sorrow, pinpricks to the heart. All that good stuff.
[author's notes] Written for david_squared's Challenge #4, Prompt #2, which is the quote, "I love you, not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you." ~Roy Croft. If you are familiar with the song "Ghost" by the Indigo Girls, you may get an extra tingle out of this. If you're not, I highly recommend it, HERE. And if everyone's on their best behavior (and wants it as well), you'll get a sequel/flip side to this. But only if you eat all your vegetables.
GHOST
You sit down at the piano and you can almost see his hands tracing the keys. Moving like you've never seen hands move before, effortlessly like they always knew what to do.
Like breathing.
Hands that caressed that piano with the same gentleness he'd use to touch your arm, hold your chin, grab your hand. Hands that would always brush your temple, touch your lips, and produce the worst handwriting you had ever seen in your life.
You remember when the piano came into the apartment. The movers thought you were kidding when you said you needed to get a baby grand piano to the loft apartment at the top of this building. Indeed, it wasn't easy. The movers joked (or maybe they were serious!) that they hoped you never planned to move it again.
No, you told them, you didn't.
You thought about that the day he left, too. When he walked out and didn't come back. He'd never not come back before.
You're sitting at one end of the bench, like you always did when he was there. He'd play your favorite piano piece, "Moonlight Sonata", and you'd watch his face as he'd close his eyes, bow his head. It was like you could see his soul pouring out onto the keys. You could almost swear you could see it now.
But now the keys are dusty, the sheet music still on the floor where you swept it off in anger, shouting. It was new music, pencil marks filling the margins in his delicate scrawl, notes smeared as left-handed writing often is. You on the other hand, you haven't written anything in so long. You're not even sure you ever have, the feeling of disconnection is so great.
You haven't slept properly since he's been gone, which has been... six weeks? Six months? More? You haven't any concept of time anymore, not when each second of it is equally agonizing, day or night. There's a pillow and blanket on your couch; they've been there as long. You haven't slept in your own bed, because he's somehow still there.
In fact, you can't believe all the places he can be, all at the same time. At the piano writing, in the kitchen making a sandwich, in your bed sleeping like an angel. On the subway, you see his reflection in the glass as the lights dance past you. Standing out on the balcony early in the morning, his breath crosses your neck. Down at the Chinese restaurant the next block over, his smile pushes little creases into his eyes as he fumbles with his chopsticks.
You waited a long time. That's how it worked, after all. The waiting. He'd call, or you'd call, or you'd talk to mutual friends, or he'd just walk in the door, or be waiting for you when you got home. But no one had called this time. You wanted to so badly, but just couldn't. You'd fucked it up for the last time.
His voice rings in your ears, both "I love you" and "I hate you." Even in anger, it was like a sonata. Even without the gentle laugh, it rang with sweet measure. Everything about him radiated in the magical intangibility of music. Maybe that was why you loved him so much -- it was like your heart was standing in front of you and you just had to reach out and grab it. And now you realize that's exactly what this feeling is -- your heart is completely missing.
There's a sound in the apartment, a creak. You look up, past the trashed kitchen, past the mounting mail on the table. What was that? It was so quiet these days that to hear a sound was almost terrifying. You squint further into the darkened room. There, just passing through your peripheral vision -- a movement. Wasn't it? Even though that doesn't make sense, you hope...
"David?" The word breezes out of your mouth on its own, it's like someone else said it on your behalf. You wait. Your heart pounds. It's quiet.
"David?" This time it's too quiet for even you to hear. Your voice is raspy from disuse, and there's something caught in your throat anyway.
You look back down in front of you, feeling foolish. And then... the uncontrollable anguish. Your eyes close. Your elbows crash into the keys of the piano, your hands catching your face. What they can't catch, however, are the rushing tears. They can't catch his voice which lingers, and they can't catch his shadow, lurking just out of your sight. They can't catch the breaking pieces of your heart, falling into oblivion.
========
>>> GO TO: Part Two: "Gravity" >>>
========