the stage is set. [4/?]
TITLE: The Stage Is Set. [4/?]
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: R/possible NC-17 overall.
POV: Third-ish.
PAIRING: I can’t tell you yet; it’s complicated!
SUMMARY: AU. He met her on a Tuesday. Just an ordinary Tuesday, like any other day of the week, really, except that it wasn’t at all.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own or know them, and I am 200% certain this never happened.
WARNINGS: Het, and it’s central to the plot. Please wait for the slash. =]
A/N: Under the cut, ladies and gents!
paramorefic, paramorefic, paramorefic, paramorefic! XD
///
The first time they have sex, it’s neither of their first times, but it’s their first time. He holds himself above her with his arms braced on either side of her head, and he just watches her, looks at every part of her he can see. He watches her head toss back and forth, her short hair working itself into angles and points and tangles. He watches her ribs hollow and fill out with each short, sharp breath she inhales; he watches the way her small breasts move. In the light filtering in from the window, he sees the faint glisten of scars, scars below her belly button, straight lines in perfect symmetry. She tenses, and he comes.
He lies beside her, his arm slung over her waist, his face buried in the side of her neck. She smells like sex, and sweat, and something creamy and soft. He traces his fingers down the curve of her hip and across the skin of her abdomen, feeling the smooth, flat lines of the scars.
“Why’d you do this?” he whispers into her skin, kisses her jaw. “You’re...why?”
And she just curls her body into his, a smooth leg between his, and kisses his neck.
“Not now,” she says, pleading, almost.
“But, I…”
“No, Brendon, please. Not now. Just…” and she burrows her face into his chest. He sighs, lets the warmth and the weight of his eyelids hit him full force, and drifts, drifts. Just before he lands in a restless dream, he hears her, soft against his skin: “Would you still love me…” and then he’s asleep, darkness and silence, before he hears the rest.
It’s also the last time they have sex.
----------
He wakes up cold and naked. He wakes up to an empty bed, an empty house, empty arms. He doesn’t panic, he breathes, and he picks up the phone. He calls her, just twice; the first time he leaves a message, the second time he doesn’t. He calls the second time, just to hear her breathing.
He searches the house for a note, for any trace of her. The only thing left is the smell on the sheets, soft and lingering.
He goes to the coffee shop, and he waits for her. He asks for her. She never comes, and no one has seen her.
He calls Jon. He’s staring to think he imagined her.
“Get me drunk, please?” is the first thing he says into the phone.
“No hello?” Jon laughs, and Brendon doesn’t. “What happened?” Jon says, after a long, stretching silence.
“She’s gone.”
“Who? What do you mean, she’s gone? She can’t be…gone.”
“She is.” He swallows. “I really think she is.”
----------
When he gets in the door, throwing his bag in the corner, the flashing red light on phone hurts his eyes, blurs in the darkness. He reaches for it, presses it to his ear, hits the button; her voice pulses warm through the receiver.
He jumps, fumbles the phone, presses the callers button four times until the list finally comes up. It’s a payphone number, somewhere in town, but still. A payphone. He curses, slamming his fist down on the hard surface of the table.
He listens to the message again.
There are some things you don’t understand, she says, and I’m sorry, and I love you, and when he’s listened to it for the third time, he’s torn between deleting it, never thinking about her again, and saving it to listen to over and over, just for the melody of her voice, even if it’s only saying goodbye.
Stupid bitch, he thinks, but he doesn’t delete the message. Stupid fucking bitch, you couldn’t even tell me why, and he lets the receiver fall back hard into the cradle, lays down on the floor, and breathes.
----------
Jon comes over around noon, knocks on the door, twists the knob, finds it unlocked.
He’s asleep on the floor next to the phone, cheeks stained with salt, and the red light flashes, flashes, flashes.
----------
When he wakes up, there’s a Post-It note stuck on his forehead, covered in sloppy scrawl: Stopped by, you were sleeping. Didn’t want to wake you. Call me later, to talk if you want. Jon.
He sticks it on the edge of the table from his vantage point on the floor, hoists himself up and stumbles to the door, locking it.
He turns on the stereo, her CD still in it, and he’ll never listen to Sigur Rós again without thinking of her, without thinking of the time she played it for him, because it was beautiful, because it made her feel. And he’ll never have an absence of feeling now, not like he used to have when he heard it, because he didn’t understand the words.
She always used to say it like she made it up herself, “What you don’t understand, you can make mean anything.” Tonight it means a broken heart, a broken head, an empty bed.
The red light on the phone flashes, flashes, flashes, and the rhythm burns his eyes.
He listens again, to the rising-falling meter of her voice, and presses ‘9’, presses ‘9’ for delete.
“Delete,” he says, into the empty air beside his head. “Delete.” He sits down hard on the bed, springs creaking. “Delete.”
A show of hands: Who's theory about her just died? *evil*
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: R/possible NC-17 overall.
POV: Third-ish.
PAIRING: I can’t tell you yet; it’s complicated!
SUMMARY: AU. He met her on a Tuesday. Just an ordinary Tuesday, like any other day of the week, really, except that it wasn’t at all.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own or know them, and I am 200% certain this never happened.
WARNINGS: Het, and it’s central to the plot. Please wait for the slash. =]
A/N: Under the cut, ladies and gents!
paramorefic, paramorefic, paramorefic, paramorefic! XD
///
The first time they have sex, it’s neither of their first times, but it’s their first time. He holds himself above her with his arms braced on either side of her head, and he just watches her, looks at every part of her he can see. He watches her head toss back and forth, her short hair working itself into angles and points and tangles. He watches her ribs hollow and fill out with each short, sharp breath she inhales; he watches the way her small breasts move. In the light filtering in from the window, he sees the faint glisten of scars, scars below her belly button, straight lines in perfect symmetry. She tenses, and he comes.
He lies beside her, his arm slung over her waist, his face buried in the side of her neck. She smells like sex, and sweat, and something creamy and soft. He traces his fingers down the curve of her hip and across the skin of her abdomen, feeling the smooth, flat lines of the scars.
“Why’d you do this?” he whispers into her skin, kisses her jaw. “You’re...why?”
And she just curls her body into his, a smooth leg between his, and kisses his neck.
“Not now,” she says, pleading, almost.
“But, I…”
“No, Brendon, please. Not now. Just…” and she burrows her face into his chest. He sighs, lets the warmth and the weight of his eyelids hit him full force, and drifts, drifts. Just before he lands in a restless dream, he hears her, soft against his skin: “Would you still love me…” and then he’s asleep, darkness and silence, before he hears the rest.
It’s also the last time they have sex.
----------
He wakes up cold and naked. He wakes up to an empty bed, an empty house, empty arms. He doesn’t panic, he breathes, and he picks up the phone. He calls her, just twice; the first time he leaves a message, the second time he doesn’t. He calls the second time, just to hear her breathing.
He searches the house for a note, for any trace of her. The only thing left is the smell on the sheets, soft and lingering.
He goes to the coffee shop, and he waits for her. He asks for her. She never comes, and no one has seen her.
He calls Jon. He’s staring to think he imagined her.
“Get me drunk, please?” is the first thing he says into the phone.
“No hello?” Jon laughs, and Brendon doesn’t. “What happened?” Jon says, after a long, stretching silence.
“She’s gone.”
“Who? What do you mean, she’s gone? She can’t be…gone.”
“She is.” He swallows. “I really think she is.”
----------
When he gets in the door, throwing his bag in the corner, the flashing red light on phone hurts his eyes, blurs in the darkness. He reaches for it, presses it to his ear, hits the button; her voice pulses warm through the receiver.
He jumps, fumbles the phone, presses the callers button four times until the list finally comes up. It’s a payphone number, somewhere in town, but still. A payphone. He curses, slamming his fist down on the hard surface of the table.
He listens to the message again.
There are some things you don’t understand, she says, and I’m sorry, and I love you, and when he’s listened to it for the third time, he’s torn between deleting it, never thinking about her again, and saving it to listen to over and over, just for the melody of her voice, even if it’s only saying goodbye.
Stupid bitch, he thinks, but he doesn’t delete the message. Stupid fucking bitch, you couldn’t even tell me why, and he lets the receiver fall back hard into the cradle, lays down on the floor, and breathes.
----------
Jon comes over around noon, knocks on the door, twists the knob, finds it unlocked.
He’s asleep on the floor next to the phone, cheeks stained with salt, and the red light flashes, flashes, flashes.
----------
When he wakes up, there’s a Post-It note stuck on his forehead, covered in sloppy scrawl: Stopped by, you were sleeping. Didn’t want to wake you. Call me later, to talk if you want. Jon.
He sticks it on the edge of the table from his vantage point on the floor, hoists himself up and stumbles to the door, locking it.
He turns on the stereo, her CD still in it, and he’ll never listen to Sigur Rós again without thinking of her, without thinking of the time she played it for him, because it was beautiful, because it made her feel. And he’ll never have an absence of feeling now, not like he used to have when he heard it, because he didn’t understand the words.
She always used to say it like she made it up herself, “What you don’t understand, you can make mean anything.” Tonight it means a broken heart, a broken head, an empty bed.
The red light on the phone flashes, flashes, flashes, and the rhythm burns his eyes.
He listens again, to the rising-falling meter of her voice, and presses ‘9’, presses ‘9’ for delete.
“Delete,” he says, into the empty air beside his head. “Delete.” He sits down hard on the bed, springs creaking. “Delete.”
A show of hands: Who's theory about her just died? *evil*