Entry #21 - "Purple Lines"
Title: Purple Lines
Written By: mclachlan
Timeline: Episode 218
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Angst
Genre: AU, Angst, Romance
Purple Lines
"Romantic".
The door slides shut with a thud of finality, and you wrap your fingers delicately around a flute of wine, lifting it up in a toast to the dark, recognizing the beginning of the end.
You fucking idiot.
You take a small sip, rolling the wine over your tongue, and swallow hard. Your throat constricts and you cough around the commotion there, liquid spattering over your hand. The wine blends in with the darkness in the loft, barely discernable despite the faint shine of the glass, and you take another sip of the defeat that hangs in the night.
When are you gonna learn?
The picnic spread out around you is an odd silhouette against the expensive hardwood floors. A tumor. You drain the rest of your drink and lower the glass, skin grazing the crusty tops of the crackers. The air smells of the candles, smoky and charred. You fall back against the cushions and stare up at the ceiling, crumbling a saltine between your fingers.
You won't see Ethan again. The CD in your Discman will be thrown away, and all traces of him will be erased. If there's one thing you've promised yourself from day one, it's that you will never cheat. The person you're with will always be enough, will always have all of your love. And you, yourself, will always be enough, will always have love.
And if not… you'll leave.
Rolling over onto your side, you clench your jaw and inhale shakily through your nose against the stinging in your eyes. Leave? You could never imagine a life without Brian Kinney… but it seems, these days, you're living one. You live in Brian Kinney's home, sleep in Brian Kinney's bed, eat Brian Kinney's food, and are fucked by Brian Kinney's cock. But you don't have Brian Kinney.
When are you gonna learn?
You heave yourself to your feet and take slow steps to where your Discman rests on the computer table, headphones draped over the keyboard. Your fingers find the latch and pop it open, removing the CD. It falls into the trash next to your foot, CD cover following.
You slump into the computer chair and exhale, hands dangling between your legs. You can still feel the sharpness of Vermont air in your nose, that piercing scent of the snow and the burn from the wind. And even though it hurts, you can feel the loneliness left over from the nights you slept in that big hotel bed… alone. You swivel around in the chair until you can look out the window.
Brian's out there, somewhere. Getting high. Getting off. Getting… away from you.
You pushed him too hard. Too far.
The skyline is a vague painting on a black canvas. It should be so simple… but when those purple lines cross with oranges and greens and blues the image is lost. The message is lost.
You're losing him. No, that's not quite right. You never had him. A small, tired smile curls your lips. He never loved you. It was all in your head.
When are you gonna learn?
That's your problem. You never learn. How can you expect to receive love from a man who runs -- emotionally and physically -- away from you when you use the word 'romantic'?
Your laughter, bitter and fragile, rings through the empty spaces of the loft, expanding and disappearing into the acoustics. Your eyes leave the window and fall back to the picnic, swathed in shadow and so very innocuous. The tears come, and your lips tremble around a sob, teeth grinding.
You're on your feet again, and you move quietly until you come to a stop before that parody of your… Christ, your hopes and dreams, spread out on a small blanket. So small. Your knees hit the floor and you bring your arm across the glasses, the plates and bowls in one great sweep. Ceramic breaks, glass shatters and skids. Pain flares on your skin, nicks from the sharp edges of broken things. You keep slamming your hands into everything until it's a dark mess.
"Fuck you, Brian Kinney," rattles past your teeth on a high breath.
You drag yourself, drained and dazed, to the couch and collapse, the leather cool against you. You're pretty sure you're bleeding all over it… you rub your arms and smear it against the white in case you're not. You would've tried for the bed, but you're not sure you could've made it. Even if you did, you wouldn't want to lie there… on those twisted sheets, caked with the dried sweat of this morning's fuck. The mockery of your "relationship".
You're not going to wait for 3am to roll around. You don't care anymore.
When are you gonna learn?
-------------------
At 2:49am, you open the loft door and pause before entering. It's dark, all the lights off. Something's wrong, you know this. You knew it the minute you left here for Babylon, when you left Justin to his pathetic little picnic. A sour taste fills your mouth, crackling along the inside of your jaw, and you concede the point that you hadn't--
Fuck what you did or didn't do. He can't keep pushing you like this.
He has to keep pushing you like this. Because no one else will.
As soon as you think it, something -- you can only identify it as guilt -- wracks you, and you swallow, closing your eyes as the taste in your mouth becomes more vivid. It makes you nauseous. Suddenly, you long for the days when you would feel nothing of this sort. When you'd come home from Babylon, sucked and sated, and collapse into bed to sleep off your high. The guilt intensifies and you know you'd never forgive yourself if you went back to that life.
Sighing, you enter the loft and slide the door shut as quietly as you can. The floor boards huff under your shoes, echoing. You make your way to your bedroom where you're sure Justin is sleeping and something hisses beneath your feet. Stopping, you lift your left foot and hear something that sounds suspiciously like glass shards falling back to the floor. A frown frames your lips and you nudge out with the tip of your shoe and move broken bowls and candle sticks and-- oh, for fuck's sake… As if your day can't get any fucking worse, what with Ben in the hospital and Justin's little--
You storm to the other side of the room and hit the lights to survey the damage. It's all over the fucking floor, the remnants of Justin's little picnic. Everything's either broken or crushed. You're going to be picking this shit up for weeks; you can only imagine the hidden glass shards under your furniture or in the cracks in the floor, waiting for your bare feet to descend.
"Fucking little drama queen," you mutter, the anger in you churning. A glance into the bedroom shows he's not there, sleeping. So, he left you to clean up the mess. Well, fuck that.
"Welcome home."
The voice startles you, makes you jump a little. You turn to look at the couch where he is, curled on his side, staring at the coffee table, mouth closed and relaxed. He doesn't look at you… and that frightens you for some reason.
"What the fuck is this?" You demand, gesturing wildly to the mess on the floor. He doesn't look at you.
"It's nothing," Justin murmurs quietly, and that says so much more than shouting it ever could. Your heart pounds. "It's nothing. I'll clean it up in a little while."
He doesn't look at you. Why won't he look at you?
"What, not going to draw comparisons between me and your little piece of ass on the side? About how he must do picnics and shit?" You know there's someone else. You just… know.
Justin's brow furrows and you can see it from where you stand. He seems confused, but then he smiles and bites out a chuckle. "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Brian. There is no 'piece of ass on the side'. But there could've been. There should've been." He laughs again. "Christ, what does that say about me? The Stepford wife, waiting at home with picnics and romance while the love of his life goes out and fucks his way through the East coast."
"You know who I am," you say, and it sounds so weak and pathetic to your ears. You can't seem to get enough air into your lungs. A wave of dizziness hits you. "You know I'm not going to change."
He gives a sad smile and closes his eyes. "Yeah. How could I forget?"
"Justin--"
"I don't want to do this anymore."
The world tilts violently on its axis and you're almost certain you've hit the ground hard. Justin slowly sits up, head low and shoulders slumped.
"I can't do this," he whispers, and he sounds so lost. On the verge of tears. "I'm too tired. And -- God, I'm just in the way." He finally lifts his eyes to look at you, and you exhale sharply at what you see. Something terrible and wild and… shattered. "You don't love me, Brian. It has to go two ways or there's nothing."
If you were honest with yourself, you'd know the vice in your chest squeezing your heart has nothing to do with the half a tablet of E you took at Babylon.
Tell him, your mind urges. Tell him about what you think of at night, how you believe that this is all just a dream. That he might be still in a coma and you living nothing but a fantasy. Tell him the way he makes you feel terrifies you and liberates you and envelopes you. Tell him… You can't do it without him.
"It's your call," is what comes out, and he draws in a shaky, shocked breath, covering his mouth with a hand. His arm is cut in several different places, skin smeared with dried blood. You stop yourself when you get ready to demand answers for it. He nods twice.
"And that's it."
"You're the one who 'doesn't want to do this anymore'. Don't sound so surprised, Sunshine. I told you, this is me."
Justin nods again and his hand lowers from his lips. He turns a piercing stare upon you and you fight the urge to step back, away from it. "No apologies. No regrets. Tell me, then… since you're always so honest… Did you feel anything when I was in Vermont?"
Shut up, Justin.
"Would you feel sad if I left you? Anything? Remorse? Sorrow? Anger? Hurt?"
Don't do this to me.
Do it. Push me., your mind begs. Because no one else will but you.
"Brian."
Ask it.
"Do you love me?"
You close your eyes and try to calm the drumbeat of your heart, try to quell the roaring in your ears. Any second now your body will shatter, just like the wine glasses on hardwood floors. The silence grows and you open your eyes at Justin's soft, trembling sigh.
"And there we have it."
No.
He tries to smile, but it looks like a grimace. "I guess… I saw this coming."
No no no no no!
He presses the heels of his hands to his face and whimpers. "I'm sorry."
No, don't…
"I can't keep up with you, Brian. You push me away one minute and pull me close the next, and I… I can't do that anymore. I know words don't matter to you… but… they do to me."
He's leaving you. Because you fucked up and you're fucked up and why are you so shocked? It was bound to happen sooner or later. Fuck, it was only months ago that you wished this would've happened. But… now… you don't want it to happen.
"I can't live as… the guy you fuck more than once because he took a bat to the head and you feel guilty, so you keep him around because he's a convenient piece of ass."
Is that what he thinks you think of him? Is that how he sees himself? Tired and useless?
TELL him.
Justin pauses for a long moment, regarding you with glossy eyes, waiting for you to deny it. Your face burns, and you don't know how to say what you need to. He once again takes your silence as confirmation and the tears begin to fall. You can only imagine the things running through his mind now… the possibilities running through your own make you sick.
Don't let him leave.
Rising up from the couch, he moves quietly to where his coat is draped over a counter stool, wrapping it up in his arms. His footsteps, which once dogged yours, grow fainter as he walks away from you.
Don't let him walk out that door.
The door slides open slowly and stops not even half-way. Your back is to him. You can't bring yourself to watch.
"Thanks."
You almost don't hear it, it's so soft. Your heart stops.
"For… for everything you've done for me, I guess. You didn't have to, but I appreciate it."
Push me.
"I guess… I'll see you a-around…"
Your nails dig into your palms, agonizing crescent moons branding the skin. Something hot travels down your cheek and you clench your teeth, tightening your jaw. If you were any more taut, your muscles would probably snap.
"I lo…" He doesn't finish it, the language leaving him
Push…
and you fall.
"Stop." It's hoarse and thick and barely recognizable to you, but it's in the form of your own voice. "Stop."
You finally turn around and open your arms wide, incredulous and scared and hoping against all hopes you can say what you need to. What you have to.
Because he can't leave you. Not… not again. Not ever.
"You want the words?" You demand, and you sound like the faggot of your nightmares, all cracked words and desperation. "You want to know how fucking broken you've made me? How this-- whatever the fuck you call it -- love is destroying everything there is of me?"
His eyes are huge and spilling over, hand still on the door. He looks terrified.
"You make me want shit I shouldn't. Waking up to you. Having dinner with you. Laughing and doing stupid things like watching Leno and Yellow Submarine when I should be at Babylon, fucking someone or getting wasted. Everything I knew… and you fucked it all up!"
He takes a step back inside, visibly shaking.
"You made me fucking love you," you snarl, falling falling falling.
He sways in shock and relief and a myriad of other emotions, mouth open and gaze bright.
Just one more second…
Say it.
"You don't get to leave."
And you hit.
Justin's in your arms before you can draw another breath, and you sink to your knees, clutching at him, holding him as tightly as you possibly can as he both laughs and cries into your shoulder, whispering fervent apologies and thanks, all of which you don't deserve. But you're a selfish prick and you'll take them anyhow.
You kiss his temple, feel the pull of skin where the scar deviates from the rest of the smooth flesh, and take his right hand into yours, holding it between you. You murmur back to him, answer all of his fervent apologies and thanks in a ragged voice, and you repeat yourself. Over and over. As many times as he needs to hear it.
He squeezes your hand, fingers tangling, and you feel alive.
Written By: mclachlan
Timeline: Episode 218
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Angst
Genre: AU, Angst, Romance
Purple Lines
"Romantic".
The door slides shut with a thud of finality, and you wrap your fingers delicately around a flute of wine, lifting it up in a toast to the dark, recognizing the beginning of the end.
You fucking idiot.
You take a small sip, rolling the wine over your tongue, and swallow hard. Your throat constricts and you cough around the commotion there, liquid spattering over your hand. The wine blends in with the darkness in the loft, barely discernable despite the faint shine of the glass, and you take another sip of the defeat that hangs in the night.
When are you gonna learn?
The picnic spread out around you is an odd silhouette against the expensive hardwood floors. A tumor. You drain the rest of your drink and lower the glass, skin grazing the crusty tops of the crackers. The air smells of the candles, smoky and charred. You fall back against the cushions and stare up at the ceiling, crumbling a saltine between your fingers.
You won't see Ethan again. The CD in your Discman will be thrown away, and all traces of him will be erased. If there's one thing you've promised yourself from day one, it's that you will never cheat. The person you're with will always be enough, will always have all of your love. And you, yourself, will always be enough, will always have love.
And if not… you'll leave.
Rolling over onto your side, you clench your jaw and inhale shakily through your nose against the stinging in your eyes. Leave? You could never imagine a life without Brian Kinney… but it seems, these days, you're living one. You live in Brian Kinney's home, sleep in Brian Kinney's bed, eat Brian Kinney's food, and are fucked by Brian Kinney's cock. But you don't have Brian Kinney.
When are you gonna learn?
You heave yourself to your feet and take slow steps to where your Discman rests on the computer table, headphones draped over the keyboard. Your fingers find the latch and pop it open, removing the CD. It falls into the trash next to your foot, CD cover following.
You slump into the computer chair and exhale, hands dangling between your legs. You can still feel the sharpness of Vermont air in your nose, that piercing scent of the snow and the burn from the wind. And even though it hurts, you can feel the loneliness left over from the nights you slept in that big hotel bed… alone. You swivel around in the chair until you can look out the window.
Brian's out there, somewhere. Getting high. Getting off. Getting… away from you.
You pushed him too hard. Too far.
The skyline is a vague painting on a black canvas. It should be so simple… but when those purple lines cross with oranges and greens and blues the image is lost. The message is lost.
You're losing him. No, that's not quite right. You never had him. A small, tired smile curls your lips. He never loved you. It was all in your head.
When are you gonna learn?
That's your problem. You never learn. How can you expect to receive love from a man who runs -- emotionally and physically -- away from you when you use the word 'romantic'?
Your laughter, bitter and fragile, rings through the empty spaces of the loft, expanding and disappearing into the acoustics. Your eyes leave the window and fall back to the picnic, swathed in shadow and so very innocuous. The tears come, and your lips tremble around a sob, teeth grinding.
You're on your feet again, and you move quietly until you come to a stop before that parody of your… Christ, your hopes and dreams, spread out on a small blanket. So small. Your knees hit the floor and you bring your arm across the glasses, the plates and bowls in one great sweep. Ceramic breaks, glass shatters and skids. Pain flares on your skin, nicks from the sharp edges of broken things. You keep slamming your hands into everything until it's a dark mess.
"Fuck you, Brian Kinney," rattles past your teeth on a high breath.
You drag yourself, drained and dazed, to the couch and collapse, the leather cool against you. You're pretty sure you're bleeding all over it… you rub your arms and smear it against the white in case you're not. You would've tried for the bed, but you're not sure you could've made it. Even if you did, you wouldn't want to lie there… on those twisted sheets, caked with the dried sweat of this morning's fuck. The mockery of your "relationship".
You're not going to wait for 3am to roll around. You don't care anymore.
When are you gonna learn?
-------------------
At 2:49am, you open the loft door and pause before entering. It's dark, all the lights off. Something's wrong, you know this. You knew it the minute you left here for Babylon, when you left Justin to his pathetic little picnic. A sour taste fills your mouth, crackling along the inside of your jaw, and you concede the point that you hadn't--
Fuck what you did or didn't do. He can't keep pushing you like this.
He has to keep pushing you like this. Because no one else will.
As soon as you think it, something -- you can only identify it as guilt -- wracks you, and you swallow, closing your eyes as the taste in your mouth becomes more vivid. It makes you nauseous. Suddenly, you long for the days when you would feel nothing of this sort. When you'd come home from Babylon, sucked and sated, and collapse into bed to sleep off your high. The guilt intensifies and you know you'd never forgive yourself if you went back to that life.
Sighing, you enter the loft and slide the door shut as quietly as you can. The floor boards huff under your shoes, echoing. You make your way to your bedroom where you're sure Justin is sleeping and something hisses beneath your feet. Stopping, you lift your left foot and hear something that sounds suspiciously like glass shards falling back to the floor. A frown frames your lips and you nudge out with the tip of your shoe and move broken bowls and candle sticks and-- oh, for fuck's sake… As if your day can't get any fucking worse, what with Ben in the hospital and Justin's little--
You storm to the other side of the room and hit the lights to survey the damage. It's all over the fucking floor, the remnants of Justin's little picnic. Everything's either broken or crushed. You're going to be picking this shit up for weeks; you can only imagine the hidden glass shards under your furniture or in the cracks in the floor, waiting for your bare feet to descend.
"Fucking little drama queen," you mutter, the anger in you churning. A glance into the bedroom shows he's not there, sleeping. So, he left you to clean up the mess. Well, fuck that.
"Welcome home."
The voice startles you, makes you jump a little. You turn to look at the couch where he is, curled on his side, staring at the coffee table, mouth closed and relaxed. He doesn't look at you… and that frightens you for some reason.
"What the fuck is this?" You demand, gesturing wildly to the mess on the floor. He doesn't look at you.
"It's nothing," Justin murmurs quietly, and that says so much more than shouting it ever could. Your heart pounds. "It's nothing. I'll clean it up in a little while."
He doesn't look at you. Why won't he look at you?
"What, not going to draw comparisons between me and your little piece of ass on the side? About how he must do picnics and shit?" You know there's someone else. You just… know.
Justin's brow furrows and you can see it from where you stand. He seems confused, but then he smiles and bites out a chuckle. "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Brian. There is no 'piece of ass on the side'. But there could've been. There should've been." He laughs again. "Christ, what does that say about me? The Stepford wife, waiting at home with picnics and romance while the love of his life goes out and fucks his way through the East coast."
"You know who I am," you say, and it sounds so weak and pathetic to your ears. You can't seem to get enough air into your lungs. A wave of dizziness hits you. "You know I'm not going to change."
He gives a sad smile and closes his eyes. "Yeah. How could I forget?"
"Justin--"
"I don't want to do this anymore."
The world tilts violently on its axis and you're almost certain you've hit the ground hard. Justin slowly sits up, head low and shoulders slumped.
"I can't do this," he whispers, and he sounds so lost. On the verge of tears. "I'm too tired. And -- God, I'm just in the way." He finally lifts his eyes to look at you, and you exhale sharply at what you see. Something terrible and wild and… shattered. "You don't love me, Brian. It has to go two ways or there's nothing."
If you were honest with yourself, you'd know the vice in your chest squeezing your heart has nothing to do with the half a tablet of E you took at Babylon.
Tell him, your mind urges. Tell him about what you think of at night, how you believe that this is all just a dream. That he might be still in a coma and you living nothing but a fantasy. Tell him the way he makes you feel terrifies you and liberates you and envelopes you. Tell him… You can't do it without him.
"It's your call," is what comes out, and he draws in a shaky, shocked breath, covering his mouth with a hand. His arm is cut in several different places, skin smeared with dried blood. You stop yourself when you get ready to demand answers for it. He nods twice.
"And that's it."
"You're the one who 'doesn't want to do this anymore'. Don't sound so surprised, Sunshine. I told you, this is me."
Justin nods again and his hand lowers from his lips. He turns a piercing stare upon you and you fight the urge to step back, away from it. "No apologies. No regrets. Tell me, then… since you're always so honest… Did you feel anything when I was in Vermont?"
Shut up, Justin.
"Would you feel sad if I left you? Anything? Remorse? Sorrow? Anger? Hurt?"
Don't do this to me.
Do it. Push me., your mind begs. Because no one else will but you.
"Brian."
Ask it.
"Do you love me?"
You close your eyes and try to calm the drumbeat of your heart, try to quell the roaring in your ears. Any second now your body will shatter, just like the wine glasses on hardwood floors. The silence grows and you open your eyes at Justin's soft, trembling sigh.
"And there we have it."
No.
He tries to smile, but it looks like a grimace. "I guess… I saw this coming."
No no no no no!
He presses the heels of his hands to his face and whimpers. "I'm sorry."
No, don't…
"I can't keep up with you, Brian. You push me away one minute and pull me close the next, and I… I can't do that anymore. I know words don't matter to you… but… they do to me."
He's leaving you. Because you fucked up and you're fucked up and why are you so shocked? It was bound to happen sooner or later. Fuck, it was only months ago that you wished this would've happened. But… now… you don't want it to happen.
"I can't live as… the guy you fuck more than once because he took a bat to the head and you feel guilty, so you keep him around because he's a convenient piece of ass."
Is that what he thinks you think of him? Is that how he sees himself? Tired and useless?
TELL him.
Justin pauses for a long moment, regarding you with glossy eyes, waiting for you to deny it. Your face burns, and you don't know how to say what you need to. He once again takes your silence as confirmation and the tears begin to fall. You can only imagine the things running through his mind now… the possibilities running through your own make you sick.
Don't let him leave.
Rising up from the couch, he moves quietly to where his coat is draped over a counter stool, wrapping it up in his arms. His footsteps, which once dogged yours, grow fainter as he walks away from you.
Don't let him walk out that door.
The door slides open slowly and stops not even half-way. Your back is to him. You can't bring yourself to watch.
"Thanks."
You almost don't hear it, it's so soft. Your heart stops.
"For… for everything you've done for me, I guess. You didn't have to, but I appreciate it."
Push me.
"I guess… I'll see you a-around…"
Your nails dig into your palms, agonizing crescent moons branding the skin. Something hot travels down your cheek and you clench your teeth, tightening your jaw. If you were any more taut, your muscles would probably snap.
"I lo…" He doesn't finish it, the language leaving him
Push…
and you fall.
"Stop." It's hoarse and thick and barely recognizable to you, but it's in the form of your own voice. "Stop."
You finally turn around and open your arms wide, incredulous and scared and hoping against all hopes you can say what you need to. What you have to.
Because he can't leave you. Not… not again. Not ever.
"You want the words?" You demand, and you sound like the faggot of your nightmares, all cracked words and desperation. "You want to know how fucking broken you've made me? How this-- whatever the fuck you call it -- love is destroying everything there is of me?"
His eyes are huge and spilling over, hand still on the door. He looks terrified.
"You make me want shit I shouldn't. Waking up to you. Having dinner with you. Laughing and doing stupid things like watching Leno and Yellow Submarine when I should be at Babylon, fucking someone or getting wasted. Everything I knew… and you fucked it all up!"
He takes a step back inside, visibly shaking.
"You made me fucking love you," you snarl, falling falling falling.
He sways in shock and relief and a myriad of other emotions, mouth open and gaze bright.
Just one more second…
Say it.
"You don't get to leave."
And you hit.
Justin's in your arms before you can draw another breath, and you sink to your knees, clutching at him, holding him as tightly as you possibly can as he both laughs and cries into your shoulder, whispering fervent apologies and thanks, all of which you don't deserve. But you're a selfish prick and you'll take them anyhow.
You kiss his temple, feel the pull of skin where the scar deviates from the rest of the smooth flesh, and take his right hand into yours, holding it between you. You murmur back to him, answer all of his fervent apologies and thanks in a ragged voice, and you repeat yourself. Over and over. As many times as he needs to hear it.
He squeezes your hand, fingers tangling, and you feel alive.