A Drabble Fic in Three Parts, but somehow still a oneshot
Fic #21+22+23/50 for my fanfic50 table
Prompts: 018. Regret / 013. Want / 031. Passion & “Only the Young” song prompt over at promptmesomeqaf
Title: Only the Young: A Drabble Fic in Three Parts
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Characters: Brian/Justin
Timeframe: post-513
Genre: Romance?
Rating: R
Word Count: 5 x 100
Summary: Forty is something you never thought you would see.
Disclaimer: Cowlip owns, I don't. Though I'd be the better mom. Just sayin'.
Notes: I kind of forgot about this one and don’t know what this is anymore? But um, well. Still postworthy, I hope. :D Title and subtitles are from Brandon Flowers’ Only the Young, a wonderful and inspiring song.
Baby you can start again. Laughing in the open air;
have yourself another dream. Tonight. Baby we can start again.
Only the young can break away, break away.'>
Only the Young: A Drabble Fic in Three Parts
by sakesushimaki
I. Have Yourself Another Dream
Forty is something you never thought you would see.
You should feel worse about it, hate this day, be in Armageddon mood, but it’s actually bearable. You’ve been wondering what to get yourself, browsing through luxury catalogues, car dealerships, travel agency brochures, even fucking Amazon. You wonder what the fuck it is you want that you don’t already have.
You have a hunch that you know the answer. It’s what creeps up at night, cold, dark, heavy of silence and regret and lost chances.
It’s something you can’t exactly click onto your wish list or put into the shopping cart.
II. Maybe We Can Start Again
You gave up after a year of trying.
It was a year full of fighting and reuniting, of hoping and longing. The strain almost broke you. It wasn’t that much better after, but you tried to keep with time’s supposed healing powers.
But forty has already made you wiser.
You go online and book a flight. You email Ted, give him a heads-up. You call his mother, ask for his address, and try not to think about all that your ignorance implies.
Five years have taught you that, in your case, time is as powerful as a Mickey Mouse band-aid.
III. Only the Young Can Break Away
His boyfriend opens the door, but that’s okay; you came prepared.
When the guy steps aside and he moves into your line of vision, you have to laugh, surprising everyone including yourself. It is funny, in a way. It’s fucking hilarious even, in a ironic way, how he stands there, paint-splattered and shaggy haired, and in every way you envisioned him in the past four years.
He doesn’t look half as surprised as you had expected he would. Maybe he knows you, still knows you, too well. Knew that some day, you would be back for him. Only him, ever.
+
Massimo is on his way out, you learn, but during the second and last look you will ever grant the guy, you see that he doesn’t seem very keen on leaving. Not now, anyway.
After the door falls closed and the guy’s muttered protests fade out, you don’t waste any time. You’ve wasted enough. A group of tiny green blotches on his cheek is what keeps you steady as you tell him - everything.
As it turns out, the words he always wanted to hear are the exact words you needed to tell him now.
You’re fucking forty. It’s about time.
+
You lie next to him an hour later, feeling your every cell still trying to soak him up.
His phone rings on the nightstand and when he clicks the call off after a quick glance, you don’t have to ask who it was. You try to banish the question in your eyes before you look at him again.
“He’s no one,” he tells you, question obviously not banished. “Not now, anyway.”
And strangely, that’s all you need.
You put him into your shopping cart, rip off that Mickey Mouse band-aid and let the wound gape.
You’re only forty. It’ll heal.
Prompts: 018. Regret / 013. Want / 031. Passion & “Only the Young” song prompt over at promptmesomeqaf
Title: Only the Young: A Drabble Fic in Three Parts
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Characters: Brian/Justin
Timeframe: post-513
Genre: Romance?
Rating: R
Word Count: 5 x 100
Summary: Forty is something you never thought you would see.
Disclaimer: Cowlip owns, I don't. Though I'd be the better mom. Just sayin'.
Notes: I kind of forgot about this one and don’t know what this is anymore? But um, well. Still postworthy, I hope. :D Title and subtitles are from Brandon Flowers’ Only the Young, a wonderful and inspiring song.
Baby you can start again. Laughing in the open air;
have yourself another dream. Tonight. Baby we can start again.
Only the young can break away, break away.'>
Only the Young: A Drabble Fic in Three Parts
by sakesushimaki
I. Have Yourself Another Dream
Forty is something you never thought you would see.
You should feel worse about it, hate this day, be in Armageddon mood, but it’s actually bearable. You’ve been wondering what to get yourself, browsing through luxury catalogues, car dealerships, travel agency brochures, even fucking Amazon. You wonder what the fuck it is you want that you don’t already have.
You have a hunch that you know the answer. It’s what creeps up at night, cold, dark, heavy of silence and regret and lost chances.
It’s something you can’t exactly click onto your wish list or put into the shopping cart.
II. Maybe We Can Start Again
You gave up after a year of trying.
It was a year full of fighting and reuniting, of hoping and longing. The strain almost broke you. It wasn’t that much better after, but you tried to keep with time’s supposed healing powers.
But forty has already made you wiser.
You go online and book a flight. You email Ted, give him a heads-up. You call his mother, ask for his address, and try not to think about all that your ignorance implies.
Five years have taught you that, in your case, time is as powerful as a Mickey Mouse band-aid.
III. Only the Young Can Break Away
His boyfriend opens the door, but that’s okay; you came prepared.
When the guy steps aside and he moves into your line of vision, you have to laugh, surprising everyone including yourself. It is funny, in a way. It’s fucking hilarious even, in a ironic way, how he stands there, paint-splattered and shaggy haired, and in every way you envisioned him in the past four years.
He doesn’t look half as surprised as you had expected he would. Maybe he knows you, still knows you, too well. Knew that some day, you would be back for him. Only him, ever.
+
Massimo is on his way out, you learn, but during the second and last look you will ever grant the guy, you see that he doesn’t seem very keen on leaving. Not now, anyway.
After the door falls closed and the guy’s muttered protests fade out, you don’t waste any time. You’ve wasted enough. A group of tiny green blotches on his cheek is what keeps you steady as you tell him - everything.
As it turns out, the words he always wanted to hear are the exact words you needed to tell him now.
You’re fucking forty. It’s about time.
+
You lie next to him an hour later, feeling your every cell still trying to soak him up.
His phone rings on the nightstand and when he clicks the call off after a quick glance, you don’t have to ask who it was. You try to banish the question in your eyes before you look at him again.
“He’s no one,” he tells you, question obviously not banished. “Not now, anyway.”
And strangely, that’s all you need.
You put him into your shopping cart, rip off that Mickey Mouse band-aid and let the wound gape.
You’re only forty. It’ll heal.