(no subject)
Here's a continuation of something I wrote last year. Thanksgiving themed, with a dash of slash and a pinch of angst.
Uninvited by Rox
Rating: PG-13 (heh.)
Genres: slash, angst
Notes: First few paragraphs written last Thanksgiving... though I'd flesh it out a bit more for this year. A sequel is on its way (I mean that).
John Linnell rolled onto his back, stretching his arms with a sigh. Blinking away the smoke left after a nightly battle, he squinted and groped to his left. Reality came in to focus when his hand clutched cold sheets.
Elbows met knees, heart hammering. Thanksgiving. John was three blocks away, turkey and Macy's Parade and Greetings From the Flansburghs. He pretended it was okay -- understandable, even -- and Flans had marveled yet again at his lover's capacity for reason. Privately, Flans lamented Sid's cold and inhuman character. To be asked just once to stay...
Linnell stumbled out of bed and lurched to the kitchen. His trusty Coffeemate, set every night to rattle him awake at nine, gave the warmest greeting he expected to receive today. The purist in him smiled at the rich, dark substance. A smaller facet of himself longed for the sweet comfort of a spoon of sugar. Ever the self-preservationist, John turned away with his mug of black.
Shuffling back to his bedroom, he settled in to the arm chair which presided over the bedroom. The worn chintz smelled of Flansburgh. John told himself that he was curling up there because it was the only seat in the room (ignoring the bed and the warped wooden stool by the door). He shut his eyes and couldn't stop his thoughts spiraling back to Before, when there was still an implied future. Now there were only a few stolen nights between tours and a few stolen gropes between sets. "Isn't it great how this never became awkward? We're perfect for each other, you and I."
He remained there for the rest of the holiday, watching the colors mute outside his window. It wasn't that he was upset. It was just what happened. Eventually, his legs began to cramp and he crept towards the phone for a silently thankful meal from white, silver-handled boxes.
General Tso’s chicken, steak on a stick, two egg rolls, and egg drop soup. Sadly, the only Chinese restaurant open and delivering that day wasn’t of the highest quality. This didn’t bother John. The bottle of holiday-sized Jack would take care of any lingering qualms.
He wasn’t much of a drinker. It wasn’t even until recently that he’d discovered how the bottle could warm the space left by Flansburgh. Only when his head began to buzz and his chest to shake apart did he even begin to consider the bottle. It was a last resort. Now that dim evening had descended, he felt that it was time.
Chair to bed (phone) to dresser to chair, new bottle, crack open, drink (deep). Amber honey rush and mm, just a few more and maybe he’ll be able to turn the lights on.
He lost himself in the bottle and the thoughts of what he could have had on this close night if only he’d have ever spoken up. Perhaps if he’d discovered Jack’s powerful voice before? Perhaps... no. He would not call tonight. He would not upset the balance of twenty years and Flansburgh’s pride in his dear Sid’s ability to handle The Situation.
His thoughts continued in that spiraling way that leads you from one realm to another. Now it was the other usual: confusion mixed with angst and a healthy dose of shame that, damn it, he just didn’t want to be... that way. And so he wasn’t. It was just Flansburgh, his best friend, his partner in art. Of course they had... feelings. That was natural. He didn’t feel that way about anyone else. He didn’t even look at others. Yes, all was explainable, all was fine. He just loved Flans.
Loved. Yes. Yesyesyes. Suddenly he was up, pacing the room, trying to outrun the constriction and gasping that came with the thoughts of love. The need would set it, and that was something he didn’t need at the moment. Didn’t need ever. He couldn’t have the need. The love was okay, the love was returned. The scrabbling fingers and lip biting was all him. All him and all secret. Flansburgh didn’t need that, not now that he had Robin.
The knock on the door startled him. He’d forgotten, really, after all that anticipation. He shuffled through the bedroom into the dark hallway and paused at the small wooden table to grab a selection of bills. After glancing briefly through the peephole, he slid back the two bolts and chain and cracked the door.
“Sixteen eighty.” The bored Asian teenager was chewing gum with a fierce determination. John handed the boy the money. A low mumble and the kid was stuffing the money into his pocket with the ghost of a grin.
The plastic bag was dripping red glops of Tso sauce. John exhaled strongly but continued back to the chair. He could always wipe the trail off the floor tomorrow, when things were normal once again. For now, it was food from the cartoon, whiskey from the bottle, and pain from the inside.
Two bites on chicken, one beef (chewed off the stick), half an egg roll, no soup. Three quarters of the bottle. The floor, and maybe... yes, the bed, but then the floor, because it was cooler.
Alone. Alone. Why alone. Why not speak up, why not honest? No, why stay, when he has *her*? Unneeded. Unwanted. The minutes were flying and the spiral was moving faster. Somehow it was two am and somehow there was a broken bottle in his hand and somehow he was dialing and somehow he was done. Quiet. There, on the floor of the apartment, surrounded by glass and grains of rice and pools of red mingling and creating new shades.
Uninvited by Rox
Rating: PG-13 (heh.)
Genres: slash, angst
Notes: First few paragraphs written last Thanksgiving... though I'd flesh it out a bit more for this year. A sequel is on its way (I mean that).
John Linnell rolled onto his back, stretching his arms with a sigh. Blinking away the smoke left after a nightly battle, he squinted and groped to his left. Reality came in to focus when his hand clutched cold sheets.
Elbows met knees, heart hammering. Thanksgiving. John was three blocks away, turkey and Macy's Parade and Greetings From the Flansburghs. He pretended it was okay -- understandable, even -- and Flans had marveled yet again at his lover's capacity for reason. Privately, Flans lamented Sid's cold and inhuman character. To be asked just once to stay...
Linnell stumbled out of bed and lurched to the kitchen. His trusty Coffeemate, set every night to rattle him awake at nine, gave the warmest greeting he expected to receive today. The purist in him smiled at the rich, dark substance. A smaller facet of himself longed for the sweet comfort of a spoon of sugar. Ever the self-preservationist, John turned away with his mug of black.
Shuffling back to his bedroom, he settled in to the arm chair which presided over the bedroom. The worn chintz smelled of Flansburgh. John told himself that he was curling up there because it was the only seat in the room (ignoring the bed and the warped wooden stool by the door). He shut his eyes and couldn't stop his thoughts spiraling back to Before, when there was still an implied future. Now there were only a few stolen nights between tours and a few stolen gropes between sets. "Isn't it great how this never became awkward? We're perfect for each other, you and I."
He remained there for the rest of the holiday, watching the colors mute outside his window. It wasn't that he was upset. It was just what happened. Eventually, his legs began to cramp and he crept towards the phone for a silently thankful meal from white, silver-handled boxes.
General Tso’s chicken, steak on a stick, two egg rolls, and egg drop soup. Sadly, the only Chinese restaurant open and delivering that day wasn’t of the highest quality. This didn’t bother John. The bottle of holiday-sized Jack would take care of any lingering qualms.
He wasn’t much of a drinker. It wasn’t even until recently that he’d discovered how the bottle could warm the space left by Flansburgh. Only when his head began to buzz and his chest to shake apart did he even begin to consider the bottle. It was a last resort. Now that dim evening had descended, he felt that it was time.
Chair to bed (phone) to dresser to chair, new bottle, crack open, drink (deep). Amber honey rush and mm, just a few more and maybe he’ll be able to turn the lights on.
He lost himself in the bottle and the thoughts of what he could have had on this close night if only he’d have ever spoken up. Perhaps if he’d discovered Jack’s powerful voice before? Perhaps... no. He would not call tonight. He would not upset the balance of twenty years and Flansburgh’s pride in his dear Sid’s ability to handle The Situation.
His thoughts continued in that spiraling way that leads you from one realm to another. Now it was the other usual: confusion mixed with angst and a healthy dose of shame that, damn it, he just didn’t want to be... that way. And so he wasn’t. It was just Flansburgh, his best friend, his partner in art. Of course they had... feelings. That was natural. He didn’t feel that way about anyone else. He didn’t even look at others. Yes, all was explainable, all was fine. He just loved Flans.
Loved. Yes. Yesyesyes. Suddenly he was up, pacing the room, trying to outrun the constriction and gasping that came with the thoughts of love. The need would set it, and that was something he didn’t need at the moment. Didn’t need ever. He couldn’t have the need. The love was okay, the love was returned. The scrabbling fingers and lip biting was all him. All him and all secret. Flansburgh didn’t need that, not now that he had Robin.
The knock on the door startled him. He’d forgotten, really, after all that anticipation. He shuffled through the bedroom into the dark hallway and paused at the small wooden table to grab a selection of bills. After glancing briefly through the peephole, he slid back the two bolts and chain and cracked the door.
“Sixteen eighty.” The bored Asian teenager was chewing gum with a fierce determination. John handed the boy the money. A low mumble and the kid was stuffing the money into his pocket with the ghost of a grin.
The plastic bag was dripping red glops of Tso sauce. John exhaled strongly but continued back to the chair. He could always wipe the trail off the floor tomorrow, when things were normal once again. For now, it was food from the cartoon, whiskey from the bottle, and pain from the inside.
Two bites on chicken, one beef (chewed off the stick), half an egg roll, no soup. Three quarters of the bottle. The floor, and maybe... yes, the bed, but then the floor, because it was cooler.
Alone. Alone. Why alone. Why not speak up, why not honest? No, why stay, when he has *her*? Unneeded. Unwanted. The minutes were flying and the spiral was moving faster. Somehow it was two am and somehow there was a broken bottle in his hand and somehow he was dialing and somehow he was done. Quiet. There, on the floor of the apartment, surrounded by glass and grains of rice and pools of red mingling and creating new shades.