MMOM Day 21 Fic: To Be Gone
Title: To Be Gone
Author: turtlebaby_02
Fandom: White Collar
Written For: MMOM 2013
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: P/E/N
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 1207
Summary: Sometimes it takes leaving for you to realize what you've left behind.
Truth is, sometimes, after dinner when they're all sitting around doing the things they do; Peter with the game on and a file in his lap, Elizabeth pretending to answer emails between YouTube videos that make her snort into her hand, and himself, sketchbook in hand - he feels claustrophobic. The rooms are absolutely permeated in love and commitment and he hates that the image his hand creates isn't Elizabeth's smile or that startled look Peter gets when his pen falls, jerking him awake.
He's been drawing scenes of open, of different, of a type of freedom he thought he didn't want. He loves them, he does. He's where he wants to be. But sometimes the bed made for two feels far too small for three and he finds himself clinging to the edge wondering when he'll fall.
And sometimes he finds himself utterly overwhelmed by the way Peter seems to know he's flailing and tucks an arm over his chest in his sleep and subconsciously tries to anchor him down. Sometimes when Elizabeth lifted her head off the pillow and watched as he sklinked out of the room his heart ached with the desire to want to stay there with them.
He'd found what he wanted. And it really was - a home and family and acceptance, completely. But he was losing the urge to run before the con dissolved and he found himself just a piece to a puzzle that didn't quite fit.
He hasn't started this with the intention of leaving. He'd started with the intention of happiness and love and together. He'd never have asked their hearts, they weren't treasures to steal, if he'd had any intention of hurting them.
And he was hurting them. He felt the pain of his rejection when he excused himself from their bed. He felt like an invader when he'd stop in the doorway and look back to see them moving together, without him. He couldn't see the hole he left, once he was gone, so he always left. If he stayed and they had to see the gap he was creating, then in their most vulnerable moments, he was afraid seeing that hurt.
And if either of them noticed he spent longer in the shower, because he's a man and the need is biological, instead of in their bed; nobody mentioned it. Nobody wanted to be the one ton point out that he was drifting and didn't even know of he wanted to find his way back.
So after a night of fake smiles and forces conversation, a night he spent capturing the beauty of a far away place he ached to see again; when he eased in beside them long after lights out and he found Peter awake and staring at the ceiling and the other man's words burned as he reached over and clasped Neal's hand. "We're going to miss you."
He felt the truth in them, the pain and the ache in them, but he couldn't find it in him to voice a fake denial. "I know. I'm sorry." And when he rolled away and laid facing out into the dark room, Peter didn't reach for him, didn't pull him in or say another word.
Sleep was a long time coming and when he opened his eyes, they were both gone, having slipped out and went about their lives while he teetered on the edge of a dream.
Tears burned as he packed a bag and then two. They fell in earnest as he booked a flight and fingered photos on the wall. And when the taxi honked out front and he locked the door behind him, he slipped the key into his pocket, instead of under the door like he planned. Getting I had been hard. Letting go was agony.
He kept his phone and couldn't stop himself from checking for texts or calls. He criticized himself for it, why should they contact him? He's the one who left. He rented an apartment with a view of the foreign skyline and he savored it, spending too much time soaking up the feeling of this, the excitement of new.
All the while aching for that bed too small for three.
For the first week he was disappointed when he woke up alone. The second, he missed arms around him when he went to sleep. The third he tries in vain to replicate the way Elizabeth made pancakes and almost had a meltdown because they just didn't taste the same. By the end of the first month he was calling their names as he fisted his cock, something he hadn't done in months.
He missed them, so much. Everywhere he went he saw beauty that was tainted because it wasn't Elizabeth's smile. Men on their phones just around the corner al sounded like Peter and his heartrate rocketed at least twice a day because he was sure, he was absolutely sure, that he'd be there when he rounded the corner.
By the end of week six he tormented himself daily because they hadn't called; but hadn't he all but begged to be set free? Week eight and he had their key in his pocket as he walked aimlessly around this place that didn't feel like home, that never would. His fingers always touching, tracing, wearing the metal down one thumb stroke at a time and his had an illogical fear that one day it would disappear altogether.
He had t heard their voices in two months. Two months and he was finding it hard to remember to breathe. And he got angry because of they loved him, if he meant to them even half of the promises they made, shouldn't they miss him? Shouldn't they miss him and need him and ache like he does?
And he opened the phone he charged every night and hasn't used since he left. He pressed the keys in anger and with hurt and disgust in his heart. He typed out a text full of those feelings and then deleted the whole thing with a broken sob. The only thing that mattered was one question, six words. So when he did break the silence and sent a text a it read was "Why don't you miss me, too?" And then he watched as his aim was true and it flipped through the air before disappearing into the river.
Two months and a week and there was a knock on his door. And rapping that turned into a pounding that sounded frantic.
He pulled open the door and Peter caught him as he crumpled. He was rumpled and smelled of airports and sweat and Neal was sure he'd never understood beauty until now. And he knew he'd never heard it before when Peter's voice touched his ear. "We do, Neal. Come home."
He nodded and tucked himself close and pulled that worn key from his pocket. "I don't think I ever figured out how to leave."
It would be a long road back, they'd trusted, he'd taken. But now he knew that what he needed was also what he wanted and that it was something he could still have. And that was the best first step he'd ever taken.
And no, from the bottom of my heart I don't know why I can only write angsty feels. I don't know, ok? :( I think it's because my RL is full of angsty feels, atm. Rats. I'll try for dirty again tomorrow.
.
Author: turtlebaby_02
Fandom: White Collar
Written For: MMOM 2013
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: P/E/N
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 1207
Summary: Sometimes it takes leaving for you to realize what you've left behind.
Truth is, sometimes, after dinner when they're all sitting around doing the things they do; Peter with the game on and a file in his lap, Elizabeth pretending to answer emails between YouTube videos that make her snort into her hand, and himself, sketchbook in hand - he feels claustrophobic. The rooms are absolutely permeated in love and commitment and he hates that the image his hand creates isn't Elizabeth's smile or that startled look Peter gets when his pen falls, jerking him awake.
He's been drawing scenes of open, of different, of a type of freedom he thought he didn't want. He loves them, he does. He's where he wants to be. But sometimes the bed made for two feels far too small for three and he finds himself clinging to the edge wondering when he'll fall.
And sometimes he finds himself utterly overwhelmed by the way Peter seems to know he's flailing and tucks an arm over his chest in his sleep and subconsciously tries to anchor him down. Sometimes when Elizabeth lifted her head off the pillow and watched as he sklinked out of the room his heart ached with the desire to want to stay there with them.
He'd found what he wanted. And it really was - a home and family and acceptance, completely. But he was losing the urge to run before the con dissolved and he found himself just a piece to a puzzle that didn't quite fit.
He hasn't started this with the intention of leaving. He'd started with the intention of happiness and love and together. He'd never have asked their hearts, they weren't treasures to steal, if he'd had any intention of hurting them.
And he was hurting them. He felt the pain of his rejection when he excused himself from their bed. He felt like an invader when he'd stop in the doorway and look back to see them moving together, without him. He couldn't see the hole he left, once he was gone, so he always left. If he stayed and they had to see the gap he was creating, then in their most vulnerable moments, he was afraid seeing that hurt.
And if either of them noticed he spent longer in the shower, because he's a man and the need is biological, instead of in their bed; nobody mentioned it. Nobody wanted to be the one ton point out that he was drifting and didn't even know of he wanted to find his way back.
So after a night of fake smiles and forces conversation, a night he spent capturing the beauty of a far away place he ached to see again; when he eased in beside them long after lights out and he found Peter awake and staring at the ceiling and the other man's words burned as he reached over and clasped Neal's hand. "We're going to miss you."
He felt the truth in them, the pain and the ache in them, but he couldn't find it in him to voice a fake denial. "I know. I'm sorry." And when he rolled away and laid facing out into the dark room, Peter didn't reach for him, didn't pull him in or say another word.
Sleep was a long time coming and when he opened his eyes, they were both gone, having slipped out and went about their lives while he teetered on the edge of a dream.
Tears burned as he packed a bag and then two. They fell in earnest as he booked a flight and fingered photos on the wall. And when the taxi honked out front and he locked the door behind him, he slipped the key into his pocket, instead of under the door like he planned. Getting I had been hard. Letting go was agony.
He kept his phone and couldn't stop himself from checking for texts or calls. He criticized himself for it, why should they contact him? He's the one who left. He rented an apartment with a view of the foreign skyline and he savored it, spending too much time soaking up the feeling of this, the excitement of new.
All the while aching for that bed too small for three.
For the first week he was disappointed when he woke up alone. The second, he missed arms around him when he went to sleep. The third he tries in vain to replicate the way Elizabeth made pancakes and almost had a meltdown because they just didn't taste the same. By the end of the first month he was calling their names as he fisted his cock, something he hadn't done in months.
He missed them, so much. Everywhere he went he saw beauty that was tainted because it wasn't Elizabeth's smile. Men on their phones just around the corner al sounded like Peter and his heartrate rocketed at least twice a day because he was sure, he was absolutely sure, that he'd be there when he rounded the corner.
By the end of week six he tormented himself daily because they hadn't called; but hadn't he all but begged to be set free? Week eight and he had their key in his pocket as he walked aimlessly around this place that didn't feel like home, that never would. His fingers always touching, tracing, wearing the metal down one thumb stroke at a time and his had an illogical fear that one day it would disappear altogether.
He had t heard their voices in two months. Two months and he was finding it hard to remember to breathe. And he got angry because of they loved him, if he meant to them even half of the promises they made, shouldn't they miss him? Shouldn't they miss him and need him and ache like he does?
And he opened the phone he charged every night and hasn't used since he left. He pressed the keys in anger and with hurt and disgust in his heart. He typed out a text full of those feelings and then deleted the whole thing with a broken sob. The only thing that mattered was one question, six words. So when he did break the silence and sent a text a it read was "Why don't you miss me, too?" And then he watched as his aim was true and it flipped through the air before disappearing into the river.
Two months and a week and there was a knock on his door. And rapping that turned into a pounding that sounded frantic.
He pulled open the door and Peter caught him as he crumpled. He was rumpled and smelled of airports and sweat and Neal was sure he'd never understood beauty until now. And he knew he'd never heard it before when Peter's voice touched his ear. "We do, Neal. Come home."
He nodded and tucked himself close and pulled that worn key from his pocket. "I don't think I ever figured out how to leave."
It would be a long road back, they'd trusted, he'd taken. But now he knew that what he needed was also what he wanted and that it was something he could still have. And that was the best first step he'd ever taken.
And no, from the bottom of my heart I don't know why I can only write angsty feels. I don't know, ok? :( I think it's because my RL is full of angsty feels, atm. Rats. I'll try for dirty again tomorrow.
.