Like a Bullet Through a Flock of Doves (SEQUEL)
I highly doubt that this will make very much sense to you if you haven't read Like a Bullet Through a Flock of Doves, so i'll post it too.
Title: Like a Bullet Through a Flock of Doves (SEQUEL)
Author: bageata
Pairing: Bert/Gerard
Rating: POV: Third
Disclaimer: Please dont sue, this is entire fiction all created from the disturbing images in my mind.
Summary: A sequel to the theory of 'Like a Bullet Through a Flock of Doves' written in third person. Bert has another dream after 18 months, and its not something to be happy about.
Like a Bullet Through a Flock of Doves (Do You Believe?)
"Come on, you pussy!" The sounds of the man's laughing friends travelled through the telephone. Bert rolled his eyes, waiting for them to stop before replying into the small device.
"I told you already, I dont drink anymore." He murmured, seeming more interested in the piece of paper in front of him than the shouting and ambient sounds of a bar on the other end of the phone. His elegant fingers kept their grip around his pen, not loose enough for it to slip away, yet not tight enough to bring small pain to his hand. Dark blue ink ran from the tip onto the plain white paper with each careless stroke. After another insult, Bert simply frowned and pulled the phone from his ear, clicking the button labelled END a little harder than he needed to.
Silence.
He placed the cordless phone down on the sleek, wooden table, which smelled slightly like girlled cheese from an earlier encounter, having taught Bert that holding too many things at once can result in certain objects to slide off dinner plates fairly easily. He took in a breath of his clean apartment air, releasing it as a soft sigh. The page in front of him was blank, excluding the few small hearts the man had been tracing in the corners.He felt like he was betraying his life long friend this way, by not remember the things he had said. Unless Gerard didn't want to talk to him anymore? Bert's friends thought he was crazy. But he knew everything Gerard said, was true.
The first dream of Gerard was just to catch his attention. Gerard asked him to stop doing the bad things he was doing in his life, for they wasted things away. Intruiged by the form of communication between life and death, Bert wrote down everything Gerard had told him. Each dream would start on a new piece of paper. His 'dream boy' (as Quinn would nickname him) told Bert everything about life, which was managed to be written on a stretch of three pages. Yet, althought Bert's faith grew with each passing day, the amount of text written for each dream thinned as the weeks went by. Eight, painful weeks. Bert couldn't even write a single word from the night before.
He wanted to sleep so he could see Gerard's beautiful face, but the effects of drowsiness that he was becoming overwhelmed by were only minor. If he took sleeping pills, then it would send him into a trance of sleep without dreams. Gerard would not be seen or heard, and it may have triggered another craving for drugs of the type. He couldn't take that risk. It was because of that one man that Bert stopped drinking, dosing, and sinning in general. The man released a soft sigh, giving up on recounting the last message he could encounter. Most of the time, Bert would just write. He wouldn't even think, but just touch the pen to the paper and let his hand do the work. But that night, he couldn't even bring himself to read the old dreams. Instead, he rested his hands on the table, pushing himself up out of his chair so he could retire to the bedroom, secretly wishing that his sleep would be dreamless. His mind needed a rest.
18 MONTHS LATER
I am worried. I saw you the other day. I saw you, but.. You were still sleeping and dreaming. Did something happen? Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Please tell me it isn't so, my love. Please tell me that you can hear me now, and that you can see me. You were pained, dear. You screamed my name so much. I could see something hurt.
Bert jolted upright, his eyes wide. One hand shakily reached over and fumbled with his lamp, yet the room remained black as the dark of night. He could hear his own breathing, but it was quickly muffled by the ruslting of his bed sheets as he scrambled out of bed. Within moments, Bert had located a robe and slipped it on, moving out into the kitchen. Never. Never had he seen a nightmare of Gerard. His love had gone away for so long, and when he spoke to Bert again, all he possesed was bad new; a fear. He silently walked over to some kitchen drawers, opening each in a rush to find a candle. When he finally held the lit stick of wax in his hand, he walked over and placed it down on the dining table.
Bert sat down and pulled his chair in, using the light of the candle as his guide to find his small diary under the mess of newspapers and unopened envelopes. His hand brushed over the cool leather, and it immediately grabbed for the pull to pull it closer to him, snatching up a pen. Bert didn't even bother to turn to the most recent blank page, but instead just opened it randomly and began to write. He could not forget this one. Gerard had so little to say, but it meant so much. Even if its depth was filled to the rim with pain or fear, it had to be taken into account. After a few moments, Bert sat back and let the pen fall out of his hand, realising what he had written.
Gerard saw hate. He showed me my pain. Why does he hate me? Its like he WANTS me in pain. He always has to show how much better than me he is.
Bert swallowed hard. He never re-read anything he wrote about the dreams. Were they all like this? Maybe he should have paid more attention. He stood up from his chair, walking over to a set of drawers again the wall to his right. The candle was still on the table but he didn't need it. He grabbed the pile of papers at the bottom of the shallow drawer, returning back to the table in a rush. He put the first few papers aside, but the more he skimmed through, the more interested he became. It was at least three AM, but bert was no longer tired. It felt like it was a now or never moment, and he wouldn't get a chance to do this any other time.
Bert frowned, his face turning from curiosity to disappointment. Gerard stopped explaining and confessing to Bert, and soon began telling of how he had been, and what he had been doing.
Disappointment to realisation. Gerard mentioned another. There were other people in Gerard's heaven, because he wanted there to be. He had grown tired of waiting for Bert's death, and wanted fun. He didn't want to talk to Bert anymore, for he had this new man. Bert didn't give a fuck about his name, or how in hell he died. But Gerard wanted him.
Realisation to anger. If this paradise is where wishes come true, then Gerard really did want Bert to suffer. He wanted this man, his lifelong soulmate, to feel pain and hurt. Gerard had stopped caring a long time ago, it seemed. He didn't even use Bert's name anymore. Not even in the first dream. It was always 'dear' or 'my love'.
"Do you even remember my name?!" Bert shouted into nothingness, looking up at the ceiling as if expecting to see his so called, lover, staring back at him. He just stood for a moment, staring upwards at the roof. Bert hadn't even realised that he had changed to a standing stance until he heard his own breathing again, once again the only sound in the building.
"Is any of this real?" He said a lot more quietly, these five words seeming to initiate that he had given up. For good. "I'll give you fucking pain." While these words were whispered, Bert had snatched the candle into his grasp and ran over to the kitchen drawers again. Everything was wrong. Nothing was working the way he wanted it to work. Gerard only wanted him to keep living so he wouldn't have to hang around with him in the afterlife. An eternity was obviously much too long. A drawer was pulled out and cutlery clanged together from the sudden speed of the force. Then he saw it. A long, sharp knife with a clean blade, shining in the candle light. A beautiful silver soon to be drowned in scarlet red.
Bert shut his eyes tightly as he went to grab the knife, although his plan was already failing. The darkness was the cause of this, for as his hand reached out to grab the knife, his fingers skimmed along the blade instead of the handle. The surprising pain caused a yelp, and as he went to cradle his cut hand, the candle slipped from his grip. The wax hit the floor, but the wick hit his foot. His reaction time had been a moment too long, and the young man screamed as he felt the flames from such a small candle, grow so big, sinking into his skin.
This was not how it as supposed to be. Not in Bert's mind, anyway. If anything, he was meant to swipe the knife across his vein to try and end everything quickly. Painlessly. But no, it had to be done how Gerard had seen it. How Gerard wanted it, even if he didn't realise. Screaming of hatred and hopelessness, not a soul to hear until it was too late. Bert didn't really want to die, no. He realised that he didn't want to end it quicker than it should have been, but when this thought had finally sunk in, the flames were already doing their damage. He knew, deep down, he wanted to see Gerard. Through the pleas of help, but one name was clled. He never wanted to push his true love away. Gerard never left. He had always been right by Bert's side. But in the moment of death, his one prayer left was used for forgiveness instead of help, and it was enough.
Title: Like a Bullet Through a Flock of Doves (SEQUEL)
Author: bageata
Pairing: Bert/Gerard
Rating: POV: Third
Disclaimer: Please dont sue, this is entire fiction all created from the disturbing images in my mind.
Summary: A sequel to the theory of 'Like a Bullet Through a Flock of Doves' written in third person. Bert has another dream after 18 months, and its not something to be happy about.
Like a Bullet Through a Flock of Doves (Do You Believe?)
"Come on, you pussy!" The sounds of the man's laughing friends travelled through the telephone. Bert rolled his eyes, waiting for them to stop before replying into the small device.
"I told you already, I dont drink anymore." He murmured, seeming more interested in the piece of paper in front of him than the shouting and ambient sounds of a bar on the other end of the phone. His elegant fingers kept their grip around his pen, not loose enough for it to slip away, yet not tight enough to bring small pain to his hand. Dark blue ink ran from the tip onto the plain white paper with each careless stroke. After another insult, Bert simply frowned and pulled the phone from his ear, clicking the button labelled END a little harder than he needed to.
Silence.
He placed the cordless phone down on the sleek, wooden table, which smelled slightly like girlled cheese from an earlier encounter, having taught Bert that holding too many things at once can result in certain objects to slide off dinner plates fairly easily. He took in a breath of his clean apartment air, releasing it as a soft sigh. The page in front of him was blank, excluding the few small hearts the man had been tracing in the corners.He felt like he was betraying his life long friend this way, by not remember the things he had said. Unless Gerard didn't want to talk to him anymore? Bert's friends thought he was crazy. But he knew everything Gerard said, was true.
The first dream of Gerard was just to catch his attention. Gerard asked him to stop doing the bad things he was doing in his life, for they wasted things away. Intruiged by the form of communication between life and death, Bert wrote down everything Gerard had told him. Each dream would start on a new piece of paper. His 'dream boy' (as Quinn would nickname him) told Bert everything about life, which was managed to be written on a stretch of three pages. Yet, althought Bert's faith grew with each passing day, the amount of text written for each dream thinned as the weeks went by. Eight, painful weeks. Bert couldn't even write a single word from the night before.
He wanted to sleep so he could see Gerard's beautiful face, but the effects of drowsiness that he was becoming overwhelmed by were only minor. If he took sleeping pills, then it would send him into a trance of sleep without dreams. Gerard would not be seen or heard, and it may have triggered another craving for drugs of the type. He couldn't take that risk. It was because of that one man that Bert stopped drinking, dosing, and sinning in general. The man released a soft sigh, giving up on recounting the last message he could encounter. Most of the time, Bert would just write. He wouldn't even think, but just touch the pen to the paper and let his hand do the work. But that night, he couldn't even bring himself to read the old dreams. Instead, he rested his hands on the table, pushing himself up out of his chair so he could retire to the bedroom, secretly wishing that his sleep would be dreamless. His mind needed a rest.
18 MONTHS LATER
I am worried. I saw you the other day. I saw you, but.. You were still sleeping and dreaming. Did something happen? Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Please tell me it isn't so, my love. Please tell me that you can hear me now, and that you can see me. You were pained, dear. You screamed my name so much. I could see something hurt.
Bert jolted upright, his eyes wide. One hand shakily reached over and fumbled with his lamp, yet the room remained black as the dark of night. He could hear his own breathing, but it was quickly muffled by the ruslting of his bed sheets as he scrambled out of bed. Within moments, Bert had located a robe and slipped it on, moving out into the kitchen. Never. Never had he seen a nightmare of Gerard. His love had gone away for so long, and when he spoke to Bert again, all he possesed was bad new; a fear. He silently walked over to some kitchen drawers, opening each in a rush to find a candle. When he finally held the lit stick of wax in his hand, he walked over and placed it down on the dining table.
Bert sat down and pulled his chair in, using the light of the candle as his guide to find his small diary under the mess of newspapers and unopened envelopes. His hand brushed over the cool leather, and it immediately grabbed for the pull to pull it closer to him, snatching up a pen. Bert didn't even bother to turn to the most recent blank page, but instead just opened it randomly and began to write. He could not forget this one. Gerard had so little to say, but it meant so much. Even if its depth was filled to the rim with pain or fear, it had to be taken into account. After a few moments, Bert sat back and let the pen fall out of his hand, realising what he had written.
Gerard saw hate. He showed me my pain. Why does he hate me? Its like he WANTS me in pain. He always has to show how much better than me he is.
Bert swallowed hard. He never re-read anything he wrote about the dreams. Were they all like this? Maybe he should have paid more attention. He stood up from his chair, walking over to a set of drawers again the wall to his right. The candle was still on the table but he didn't need it. He grabbed the pile of papers at the bottom of the shallow drawer, returning back to the table in a rush. He put the first few papers aside, but the more he skimmed through, the more interested he became. It was at least three AM, but bert was no longer tired. It felt like it was a now or never moment, and he wouldn't get a chance to do this any other time.
Bert frowned, his face turning from curiosity to disappointment. Gerard stopped explaining and confessing to Bert, and soon began telling of how he had been, and what he had been doing.
Disappointment to realisation. Gerard mentioned another. There were other people in Gerard's heaven, because he wanted there to be. He had grown tired of waiting for Bert's death, and wanted fun. He didn't want to talk to Bert anymore, for he had this new man. Bert didn't give a fuck about his name, or how in hell he died. But Gerard wanted him.
Realisation to anger. If this paradise is where wishes come true, then Gerard really did want Bert to suffer. He wanted this man, his lifelong soulmate, to feel pain and hurt. Gerard had stopped caring a long time ago, it seemed. He didn't even use Bert's name anymore. Not even in the first dream. It was always 'dear' or 'my love'.
"Do you even remember my name?!" Bert shouted into nothingness, looking up at the ceiling as if expecting to see his so called, lover, staring back at him. He just stood for a moment, staring upwards at the roof. Bert hadn't even realised that he had changed to a standing stance until he heard his own breathing again, once again the only sound in the building.
"Is any of this real?" He said a lot more quietly, these five words seeming to initiate that he had given up. For good. "I'll give you fucking pain." While these words were whispered, Bert had snatched the candle into his grasp and ran over to the kitchen drawers again. Everything was wrong. Nothing was working the way he wanted it to work. Gerard only wanted him to keep living so he wouldn't have to hang around with him in the afterlife. An eternity was obviously much too long. A drawer was pulled out and cutlery clanged together from the sudden speed of the force. Then he saw it. A long, sharp knife with a clean blade, shining in the candle light. A beautiful silver soon to be drowned in scarlet red.
Bert shut his eyes tightly as he went to grab the knife, although his plan was already failing. The darkness was the cause of this, for as his hand reached out to grab the knife, his fingers skimmed along the blade instead of the handle. The surprising pain caused a yelp, and as he went to cradle his cut hand, the candle slipped from his grip. The wax hit the floor, but the wick hit his foot. His reaction time had been a moment too long, and the young man screamed as he felt the flames from such a small candle, grow so big, sinking into his skin.
This was not how it as supposed to be. Not in Bert's mind, anyway. If anything, he was meant to swipe the knife across his vein to try and end everything quickly. Painlessly. But no, it had to be done how Gerard had seen it. How Gerard wanted it, even if he didn't realise. Screaming of hatred and hopelessness, not a soul to hear until it was too late. Bert didn't really want to die, no. He realised that he didn't want to end it quicker than it should have been, but when this thought had finally sunk in, the flames were already doing their damage. He knew, deep down, he wanted to see Gerard. Through the pleas of help, but one name was clled. He never wanted to push his true love away. Gerard never left. He had always been right by Bert's side. But in the moment of death, his one prayer left was used for forgiveness instead of help, and it was enough.