Aftermath
I'm happy that I finally filled out a kink meme prompt after going so long without doing so. I've just been so busy with other writing projects and being sick and work and all that, that I haven't been able to write as much as I'd like. But oh well, no big deal. Hopefully I'll be able to fill more prompts again soon.
Anyway, this fic is about Snob recovering from the events of To Boldly Flee. I went the angst route because it led to hurt/comfort and some Snob/Phelous, which I haven't written in a while. I still love them though, so I'd like to imagine Phelous helping Snob recover from all the stuff that went down when Critic did (poor Critic). So here's some angst that leads to hurt/comfort and a happy ending, because I love happy endings! :)
Does it really matter?
After everything they’d been through, the hardships, the heartache, betrayal, loss…
After everything they’d given, after everything they’d learned…
In the end, what had it amounted to?
These were among the many thoughts he found wafting through his gin-soaked mind on cold, desolate nights as he took stock of his life. If ranting about a thirty-year old Italian exploitation movie that no one other than he knew anything about before crawling into a bottle until he blacked out could be called a life.
He knew he should be grateful to have even that outlet. He may have appeared to be merely ranting about camera angles and day-for-night shots, but really he was screaming about the injustice of it all, grieving in his own way for a life that never would be, people that never were meant to stay.
Luke was already gone. Maybe he hadn’t really been there in the first place. If he were honest, it hadn’t ever made sense to him, to either of them. Who would give up on fair and balanced views of films, on unadulterated joy upon viewing a new movie and an innocence few possessed after leaving childhood, to embrace cynicism and smut and disgust, not just for the entertainment industry as a whole, but for the audiences either too stupid or too unwilling to recognize brilliance when it flashed on-screen before their eyes?
Maybe it had been the work of fate or that Plot Hole, that fucking Plot Hole that had taken everything and left behind the empty husks of dreams and memories that were already (thankfully) starting to fade. Whatever the cause, the spell had been broken, and Luke had returned to his world of hope and smiles, while he remained in the dark, where it was familiar, with nothing but the tattered pages of a half-written script to verify that yes, at some point in time, he’d tried to amount to something.
Tried and failed.
He could only look back on those memories and laugh, a bitter sound that echoed through his empty house and rattled the bottles lined so neatly along his coffee table.
How could he have ever thought he could make a movie? He wasn’t talented. Anyone could put on a suit and scream about horrible films for half an hour, even if it did end up costing them everything, but it had taken him five executives laughing him out of their offices and his Kickstarter ending with less than half the necessary funds raised to make him understand what he’d always feared.
No one wanted to see the themes of sensuality and exploitation against the backdrop of the Civil War.
He had nothing new, nothing beautiful, nothing of value to offer.
The others left as well, though most of them had also never really been there. The side-effects of being assimilated into robotic-humans and small girls with pink hair, rebuilding houses, rebuilding lives were all more pressing concerns than a lost voice searching for validation and approval of a script he couldn’t even bring himself to look at now.
He’d never been particularly close to most of them, but he’d thought…
He’d hoped after everything they’d shared together, after everything they’d lost on that ridiculous voyage…
That fucking voyage. What had been the point? Had they really done anything of worth? Anything that would be remembered as more than the foolish flights of fancy from a lonely man-child with delusions of grandeur?
That damned Critic had made their lives miserable in more ways than he could count. He’d sent them on dangerous quest after dangerous quest, cost lives and peace of mind, and then, worst of all…
He’d left without saying goodbye.
Fuck Critic for making everything so fucking difficult.
Alcohol never made him lonely, never made him ache for something he couldn’t describe when coherent, yet yearned for desperately when he was lost in a haze of Vodka.
The only one who still managed to appear when he was feeling his lowest was Phelous. They’d always shared something, some connection built from a love of bashing terrible horror movies and mocking things, people, any soul that happened across their field of vision when they were together. Usually their shared loathing of life culminated in sweaty fuck-sessions that left them momentarily satisfied if overall wanting, before returning to their own lives until the next such encounter came to pass.
Now that connection was something Phelous used to drag Snob into a shower when he was covered in sweat and vomit and various others bodily secretions before he’d tuck him into bed and make sure he didn’t choke to death during the night.
A part of him hated Phelous for keeping him alive. He’d been given his chance to play the hero, to save the captive and pilot the ship. He didn’t fall asleep with words of a script no one wanted to read dancing before his eyes, cold, mocking laughter echoing in his head.
The more human part of him clawed the Canadian’s clothes off each time, and fucked him until they’d both collapsed into panting, sweaty piles of flesh, too exhausted to remember anything more substantial than their names.
If he could manage it, he’d never remember anything again. What good were the memories if they couldn’t help him change anything.
He’d never make a movie.
He’d never be a success, admired, praised, loved.
He’d never get to say goodbye…
“What was the point? Does it even matter?” He closed his eyes and stared into the pitch-black of his bedroom. “Do I… even matter?”
And somewhere beyond the reaches of space, where time ends and light is born, a familiar face smiled softly, sadly down upon him and gave a slight nod of his head.
Outside his window, a sudden burst of fireworks made him sit up in aggravated surprise, but his anger melted away once he realized the golden bursts outside his window were spelling out words. Words that made his heart beat so quickly he would have worried he was having a massive coronary if he weren’t so focused on grabbing his glasses to make sure he was reading them correctly.
You’ve always mattered. You deserve so much more but all I can say is I’m sorry and goodbye.
“Holy fucking mother of God. Critic, I… I’ve always wanted to…”
“Mmm,” Phelous moaned, turning over a little to wrap an arm around Snob’s midsection and pull him back down against his chest. “What are you muttering about now, Snob?” Phelous peered at him with dark, slightly amused eyes, which, added to this grievous interruption, only served to irritate him profusely.
“Nothing. Fuck, let go of me.” Phelous complied and made to get out of the bed completely. “Wait.” Phelous looked back at him, more patiently than he knew he’d deserved. “If I don’t… if something happens… shit, just… goodbye, okay?”
Phelous raised an eyebrow at him before shrugging. “Goodbye, Snob. But I’m just going to the bathroom you know. I’ll be right back.”
“Fuck you, Phelous.” He turned around, pretending not to care if anyone were ever coming to see him again, and waited until he was alone to peer back out the window.
The sky was its usual inky mass, no trace of any fireworks, of any message ever having existed.
But he knew what he’d seen. He knew it had been real.
Phelous climbed back into bed minutes later and was surprised when he was pulled into an iron embrace. Phelous knew enough to keep quiet, slowly wrapping his arms around Snob instead, and waited until he heard soft snores to smile a little and brush a few errant strands from his forehead.
It was the first time he heard only silence as he drifted into unconsciousness since they’d returned from space, and though he saw words flashing before Snob’s eyes once more, this time they glittered bright gold.
Anyway, this fic is about Snob recovering from the events of To Boldly Flee. I went the angst route because it led to hurt/comfort and some Snob/Phelous, which I haven't written in a while. I still love them though, so I'd like to imagine Phelous helping Snob recover from all the stuff that went down when Critic did (poor Critic). So here's some angst that leads to hurt/comfort and a happy ending, because I love happy endings! :)
Does it really matter?
After everything they’d been through, the hardships, the heartache, betrayal, loss…
After everything they’d given, after everything they’d learned…
In the end, what had it amounted to?
These were among the many thoughts he found wafting through his gin-soaked mind on cold, desolate nights as he took stock of his life. If ranting about a thirty-year old Italian exploitation movie that no one other than he knew anything about before crawling into a bottle until he blacked out could be called a life.
He knew he should be grateful to have even that outlet. He may have appeared to be merely ranting about camera angles and day-for-night shots, but really he was screaming about the injustice of it all, grieving in his own way for a life that never would be, people that never were meant to stay.
Luke was already gone. Maybe he hadn’t really been there in the first place. If he were honest, it hadn’t ever made sense to him, to either of them. Who would give up on fair and balanced views of films, on unadulterated joy upon viewing a new movie and an innocence few possessed after leaving childhood, to embrace cynicism and smut and disgust, not just for the entertainment industry as a whole, but for the audiences either too stupid or too unwilling to recognize brilliance when it flashed on-screen before their eyes?
Maybe it had been the work of fate or that Plot Hole, that fucking Plot Hole that had taken everything and left behind the empty husks of dreams and memories that were already (thankfully) starting to fade. Whatever the cause, the spell had been broken, and Luke had returned to his world of hope and smiles, while he remained in the dark, where it was familiar, with nothing but the tattered pages of a half-written script to verify that yes, at some point in time, he’d tried to amount to something.
Tried and failed.
He could only look back on those memories and laugh, a bitter sound that echoed through his empty house and rattled the bottles lined so neatly along his coffee table.
How could he have ever thought he could make a movie? He wasn’t talented. Anyone could put on a suit and scream about horrible films for half an hour, even if it did end up costing them everything, but it had taken him five executives laughing him out of their offices and his Kickstarter ending with less than half the necessary funds raised to make him understand what he’d always feared.
No one wanted to see the themes of sensuality and exploitation against the backdrop of the Civil War.
He had nothing new, nothing beautiful, nothing of value to offer.
The others left as well, though most of them had also never really been there. The side-effects of being assimilated into robotic-humans and small girls with pink hair, rebuilding houses, rebuilding lives were all more pressing concerns than a lost voice searching for validation and approval of a script he couldn’t even bring himself to look at now.
He’d never been particularly close to most of them, but he’d thought…
He’d hoped after everything they’d shared together, after everything they’d lost on that ridiculous voyage…
That fucking voyage. What had been the point? Had they really done anything of worth? Anything that would be remembered as more than the foolish flights of fancy from a lonely man-child with delusions of grandeur?
That damned Critic had made their lives miserable in more ways than he could count. He’d sent them on dangerous quest after dangerous quest, cost lives and peace of mind, and then, worst of all…
He’d left without saying goodbye.
Fuck Critic for making everything so fucking difficult.
Alcohol never made him lonely, never made him ache for something he couldn’t describe when coherent, yet yearned for desperately when he was lost in a haze of Vodka.
The only one who still managed to appear when he was feeling his lowest was Phelous. They’d always shared something, some connection built from a love of bashing terrible horror movies and mocking things, people, any soul that happened across their field of vision when they were together. Usually their shared loathing of life culminated in sweaty fuck-sessions that left them momentarily satisfied if overall wanting, before returning to their own lives until the next such encounter came to pass.
Now that connection was something Phelous used to drag Snob into a shower when he was covered in sweat and vomit and various others bodily secretions before he’d tuck him into bed and make sure he didn’t choke to death during the night.
A part of him hated Phelous for keeping him alive. He’d been given his chance to play the hero, to save the captive and pilot the ship. He didn’t fall asleep with words of a script no one wanted to read dancing before his eyes, cold, mocking laughter echoing in his head.
The more human part of him clawed the Canadian’s clothes off each time, and fucked him until they’d both collapsed into panting, sweaty piles of flesh, too exhausted to remember anything more substantial than their names.
If he could manage it, he’d never remember anything again. What good were the memories if they couldn’t help him change anything.
He’d never make a movie.
He’d never be a success, admired, praised, loved.
He’d never get to say goodbye…
“What was the point? Does it even matter?” He closed his eyes and stared into the pitch-black of his bedroom. “Do I… even matter?”
And somewhere beyond the reaches of space, where time ends and light is born, a familiar face smiled softly, sadly down upon him and gave a slight nod of his head.
Outside his window, a sudden burst of fireworks made him sit up in aggravated surprise, but his anger melted away once he realized the golden bursts outside his window were spelling out words. Words that made his heart beat so quickly he would have worried he was having a massive coronary if he weren’t so focused on grabbing his glasses to make sure he was reading them correctly.
You’ve always mattered. You deserve so much more but all I can say is I’m sorry and goodbye.
“Holy fucking mother of God. Critic, I… I’ve always wanted to…”
“Mmm,” Phelous moaned, turning over a little to wrap an arm around Snob’s midsection and pull him back down against his chest. “What are you muttering about now, Snob?” Phelous peered at him with dark, slightly amused eyes, which, added to this grievous interruption, only served to irritate him profusely.
“Nothing. Fuck, let go of me.” Phelous complied and made to get out of the bed completely. “Wait.” Phelous looked back at him, more patiently than he knew he’d deserved. “If I don’t… if something happens… shit, just… goodbye, okay?”
Phelous raised an eyebrow at him before shrugging. “Goodbye, Snob. But I’m just going to the bathroom you know. I’ll be right back.”
“Fuck you, Phelous.” He turned around, pretending not to care if anyone were ever coming to see him again, and waited until he was alone to peer back out the window.
The sky was its usual inky mass, no trace of any fireworks, of any message ever having existed.
But he knew what he’d seen. He knew it had been real.
Phelous climbed back into bed minutes later and was surprised when he was pulled into an iron embrace. Phelous knew enough to keep quiet, slowly wrapping his arms around Snob instead, and waited until he heard soft snores to smile a little and brush a few errant strands from his forehead.
It was the first time he heard only silence as he drifted into unconsciousness since they’d returned from space, and though he saw words flashing before Snob’s eyes once more, this time they glittered bright gold.