(no subject)
Title: This Is The Distance Between Point A and Point B
Author: makemebreak
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 795
Summary: If it happens every day, will there even be a picture left to snap?
Notes: Written for Juliecakes. Why? NO SE!
Disclaimer: Not true and not written for any profit. Title, summary, and cut text from Making Love To The Camera by The Starting Line. Kenny's a creepy, what?
No one ever really acknowledged Tom's superstitions. Black cats, ladders, throwing salt over his shoulder, they were just things Tom did. The only superstition his band ever mocked him for was the one he didn't acknowledge. He'd always refused to believe that photographs stole bits of your soul.
He would argue it until he was only arguing it with himself in the mirror. He didn't like to think they stole bits of your soul. If they were bits willingly given, there was no theft. Tom posed easily in front of cameras, gave bits and pieces of his soul to whoever was behind the viewfinder. It could pass easily through each image and greet the soul looking at it. It was a theory he'd developed alongside a roll of film after smoking with the Butcher.
Slowly, each image developed on the paper. Tom felt the slices of other people's souls pass through him, imagining he could see them rising and floating up from the pictures. Those bits restored his fragmented soul. He was whole after taking pictures.
Tom believed in souls. He believed a soul could only travel as fast as its body could walk and he accepted that as the reason he was constantly tired on tour. There was no way for his soul to travel as fast as his body could with the aid of jet planes. Chicago to Milwaukee to Cleveland to wherever they were off to on tour. His soul couldn't keep up.
There was no energy to even take pictures to replenish him. After Warped Tour, after all the pictures and all the miles traveled, Tom hadn't even had enough soul to get upset when the Butcher gave him the news he was no longer in The Academy Is…. He sat in his apartment and looked at pictures, praying their souls would restore him. His pictures, like him, were hollow shells.
Notebook after notebook was filled with half-hearted attempts to write a soul back into himself, but he'd never really had a way with words. Looking at his camera made him sick. The emptiness reminded him of the way he'd felt when he realized 504Plan was ending. He wondered if it was possible for him to have died without even realizing it. The thought drove him back to his bed, clutching at his sidekick as he waited for Jon to text back.
Rather than a text, a short few lines, a call came. John's picture popped up on the caller ID and Tom felt his next breath come a little easier. Jon didn't say hello or ask how he was, he simply told Tom what his flight and reservation number was, promising to text it again as soon as they hung up.
The thought of boarding another plane had Tom breathing in and out of a paper bag. He just had to make it through one flight. Jon could fix him if he could get to him. One taxi ride later, Tom was at the airport.
Jon met his flight, dressed in flip-flops despite the cold weather in the Pacific Northwest. There was a large security guard who was trying not to be obvious about the fact that he was watching Jon.
They took a cab to the hotel, no one saying anything about how Tom had just appeared in Jon's life again. They both looked different. Jon looked full, happy. Tom looked worn around the edges, about to fray apart completely.
There were no arguments about whose room Tom would stay in, though everyone knew Brendon wanted to protest and keep Tom for himself. He'd loved touring with Tom's band and loved Tom. Everyone wanted to see the blank, vague look gone from his eyes.
Tom set his bag down on the side of the spare bed but took a seat on one side of the desk provided for Jon's use. There was warmth in the room Tom hadn't felt for weeks, months. Jon dropped into the seat on the other side of the desk, producing a bottle of red wine and a glass. "What happened?"
"I. There's nothing left, nothing. It's gone. My soul is gone and I waited for it in the apartment, Jon. I waited and waited and I tried everything. I looked at pictures. I looked at pictures of us but there's no soul left in me. It's. They took it all." Tom's voice shook as he stared through Jon at the wall behind him. Jon's palm rubbed over his for a moment before Jon retrieved something from Tom's bag and pressed it into his hand. Without even looking, Tom knew the familiar ridges of his camera.
Pressing their foreheads together, Jon spoke in a low tone of voice. "Then we'll just have to split mine."
Author: makemebreak
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 795
Summary: If it happens every day, will there even be a picture left to snap?
Notes: Written for Juliecakes. Why? NO SE!
Disclaimer: Not true and not written for any profit. Title, summary, and cut text from Making Love To The Camera by The Starting Line. Kenny's a creepy, what?
No one ever really acknowledged Tom's superstitions. Black cats, ladders, throwing salt over his shoulder, they were just things Tom did. The only superstition his band ever mocked him for was the one he didn't acknowledge. He'd always refused to believe that photographs stole bits of your soul.
He would argue it until he was only arguing it with himself in the mirror. He didn't like to think they stole bits of your soul. If they were bits willingly given, there was no theft. Tom posed easily in front of cameras, gave bits and pieces of his soul to whoever was behind the viewfinder. It could pass easily through each image and greet the soul looking at it. It was a theory he'd developed alongside a roll of film after smoking with the Butcher.
Slowly, each image developed on the paper. Tom felt the slices of other people's souls pass through him, imagining he could see them rising and floating up from the pictures. Those bits restored his fragmented soul. He was whole after taking pictures.
Tom believed in souls. He believed a soul could only travel as fast as its body could walk and he accepted that as the reason he was constantly tired on tour. There was no way for his soul to travel as fast as his body could with the aid of jet planes. Chicago to Milwaukee to Cleveland to wherever they were off to on tour. His soul couldn't keep up.
There was no energy to even take pictures to replenish him. After Warped Tour, after all the pictures and all the miles traveled, Tom hadn't even had enough soul to get upset when the Butcher gave him the news he was no longer in The Academy Is…. He sat in his apartment and looked at pictures, praying their souls would restore him. His pictures, like him, were hollow shells.
Notebook after notebook was filled with half-hearted attempts to write a soul back into himself, but he'd never really had a way with words. Looking at his camera made him sick. The emptiness reminded him of the way he'd felt when he realized 504Plan was ending. He wondered if it was possible for him to have died without even realizing it. The thought drove him back to his bed, clutching at his sidekick as he waited for Jon to text back.
Rather than a text, a short few lines, a call came. John's picture popped up on the caller ID and Tom felt his next breath come a little easier. Jon didn't say hello or ask how he was, he simply told Tom what his flight and reservation number was, promising to text it again as soon as they hung up.
The thought of boarding another plane had Tom breathing in and out of a paper bag. He just had to make it through one flight. Jon could fix him if he could get to him. One taxi ride later, Tom was at the airport.
Jon met his flight, dressed in flip-flops despite the cold weather in the Pacific Northwest. There was a large security guard who was trying not to be obvious about the fact that he was watching Jon.
They took a cab to the hotel, no one saying anything about how Tom had just appeared in Jon's life again. They both looked different. Jon looked full, happy. Tom looked worn around the edges, about to fray apart completely.
There were no arguments about whose room Tom would stay in, though everyone knew Brendon wanted to protest and keep Tom for himself. He'd loved touring with Tom's band and loved Tom. Everyone wanted to see the blank, vague look gone from his eyes.
Tom set his bag down on the side of the spare bed but took a seat on one side of the desk provided for Jon's use. There was warmth in the room Tom hadn't felt for weeks, months. Jon dropped into the seat on the other side of the desk, producing a bottle of red wine and a glass. "What happened?"
"I. There's nothing left, nothing. It's gone. My soul is gone and I waited for it in the apartment, Jon. I waited and waited and I tried everything. I looked at pictures. I looked at pictures of us but there's no soul left in me. It's. They took it all." Tom's voice shook as he stared through Jon at the wall behind him. Jon's palm rubbed over his for a moment before Jon retrieved something from Tom's bag and pressed it into his hand. Without even looking, Tom knew the familiar ridges of his camera.
Pressing their foreheads together, Jon spoke in a low tone of voice. "Then we'll just have to split mine."