Fic - 4 am Your Time
Title: 4 am Your Time
Author: rainbowcobweb
Pairing: Monaboyd
Genre: Angst. Angsty angst angst.
Rating: PG-13 for some fruity language and themes
Word Count: 953
Summary: "...You talk about everything but what you want to talk about; how you love me, miss me, want to hold me and kiss me and wake up next to me and every other sodding cliché in the book. You’re sitting there, sick with longing, a half empty bottle of scotch at your side, and you feel like the loneliest man on earth."
Feedback: Oh God yes please. If you really really like it, feel free to friend me. :)
Disclaimer: I do not claim to know/own Billy Boyd or Dominic Monaghan. This is purely a work of fiction.
A/N: Fic dedication to Jack William Boyd - many congratulations to Billy and Dom Ali! This is my first piece of RPS that I've posted and I'm quite nervous, but I'm actually really proud of this, considering it was written at half two in the morning. And also, I have a quick suggestion - would anyone be interested in making a sort of encyclopaedia of Billy and Dom, that is, if there wasn't one already? A sort of factfile of, well, facts about the guys - stuff like "Billy hates cinnamon" and "Dom's eyes are bluey-grey". I think it'd be really helpful to have a point of reference, so if anyone wants to work on one, let me know by commenting in my journal or on the end of this fic and we'll give it a shot! :)
You still want me, don’t you? I can hear it in your voice over the phone as you talk to me at 4 am your time and you’re drunk, just drunk enough to call me, aren’t you? You’re sitting there in your front room on your settee, toeing the carpet idly as she sleeps on in your bedroom, oblivious to your longing for someone who certainly isn’t her.
You talk about everything but what you want to talk about; how you love me, miss me, want to hold me and kiss me and wake up next to me and every other sodding cliché in the book. You’re sitting there, sick with longing, a half empty bottle of scotch at your side, and you feel like the loneliest man on earth.
Instead you discuss the weather (how bad it is where you are), the impending doom of Christmas (she wants to get a tree) and tell the amusing tale of the broken down train (how you were stuck in a tunnel for hours). I can see your face. You’re dying to say something but can’t form the words, and I’m such a sick fucker, but I love it.
I’m actually enjoying hearing you die inside. I’m making m’self a drink and having a bit of a dance to the radio in my kitchen as you sit in the dark in one of my shirts that makes her want to sob every time she sees it - swigging scotch from the bottle like some old tramp and all the while tearing your heart out.
I listen and make the right noises - ‘mms’ and ‘yeahs’ and ‘oh gods’ that you know mean I’m not listening but you plough on anyway, ignoring that, ignoring me, ignoring what you want to say, want to be, want to do. You’re just talking.
It’s me you want. Not her, your bonnie Scottish lass with kind eyes and a good heart. No, you want me - chipped nail polish, t-shirts with ties, the smirk, the lies, the deceit. You want the thrill of the secrecy. You want to be dominated again. You want to be owned, violated, possessed with such passion that you forget who you are.
I really am sick. You’ve just managed to whisper that you miss me, perhaps the scotch has kicked in, and I’m here, I can see myself in my reflection in the window, and I’m bloody bent over, shrieking with silent laughter and having trouble holding onto the phone. You miss me? Life’s hard, love. Get used to it.
But the thing, the single thing I hate most about you is that you could do it. You could leave her and come out here, but you won’t. You’re Fulfilling Your Duty. Doing What’s Right. Fuck you. No one would care. No one but you.
You’ve stopped making sense. You’re blathering on about how you’ve painted your kitchen - to be honest, I don’t give a shit - and now, now you’re saying sorry. What for? I ask, and you say "for leaving."
My face contorts into a thing previously seen on the walls of Notre Dame, but I’m more ugly than any bloody gargoyle. I’m ugly inside. I was enjoying how pathetic, vulnerable, miserable you were - fucking loving it, and now you’ve tipped the scales. You have no idea, but you’re holding the power.
I mumble something noncommittal but you’re off, slack jawed, uninhibited; you love me, miss me, want to hold me and kiss me and wake up next to me and every other sodding cliché in the book. I can hear you crying, and instead of managing sarcasm, indifference or even being able to laugh at you, I break a little, just round the edges.
"I’m so sorry, so sorry, I love you, I’m sorry…" and it’s then, then that I want to hit you, hurt you, hate you. I’m trembling as I screech "Fuck you!" down the phone, slam down the receiver and keep yelling it, the two words repeatedly reverberating off the walls of my kitchen.
I take small pleasure in knowing that I’ve just broken your heart.
I shudder and quiet, and wrap my arms about myself, staring blankly at my pin board. The one that takes up an entire wall.
You’re there and I’m there, but we’re not, because that was the old us - young and free and happy, together, and we don’t exist anymore.
Yeah, I hope you’re crying. I hope you’re drinking yourself into fucking oblivion and I hope you have to answer awkward questions in the morning about why you’re passed out on the sofa in my shirt with an empty bottle of scotch next to you, the earpiece to the phone resting on your shoulder and tear tracks running miserably down your face. I hope she finds out and I hope she leaves you so you can find out what it’s like to be so fucking lonely.
But I’d just like to let you know - I’m not sorry. I don’t regret a thing. I’d do it all again tomorrow and let you break my heart for the second time round. I’d do it all so differently, though. So, so differently.
And who knows, maybe, after you’d realised and called me and left her, we could have got our acts together and done what we should have done years ago - got ourselves a nice little house, become that eccentric couple and loved each other, held each other, kissed each other, woken up together and every other sodding cliché in the book.
Unfortunately, life’s a bitch and hasn’t given us that shining opportunity, so I’m going to sit here and drink myself unconscious.
Fuck you, Billy. You’re the one that left.