Every Prophecy Written (Orig, Ben/Luke, PG-13)
Summary: Ben/Luke. First loves and inevitability. Sometimes, knowing things sucks.
AN: So this is kind of Adam Lambert's fault for mentioning Eclipse by Robyn in an interview. Title and basic inspiration from that. Second person. Gratuitous use of the word fuck. Pretty much entirely unedited because I'm tired and wanted to get it up. If you notice anything too terrible, let me know.
It’s kind of like the sun rising, but not really, because nobody really gives a damn about that, not enough to give it a second thought.
So it’s more like a dog taking a shit on the sidewalk, or the final exam at the end of the semester. You know it’s going to happen. It was always going to happen. And it was always going to suck. And just because you knew all of the above, in theory, as a matter of common sense, doesn’t mean you’re anymore prepared for it. Actually, it’s entirely possible that it’s ingrained in the very fibers of your being to be as unprepared as physically possibly. Staying up til five in the morning, falling asleep into your textbook unprepared, even.
Or maybe just making up shitty metaphors in your head to avoid the issue at hand unprepared.
He’s not touching you.
Which is weird, you know, because he’s basically been touching you for the better part of the past two years, longer, even. Even if it was just a hand on your thigh under the lunch table, or fingers grazing the back of your neck and idly twisting at your hair from the seat behind you in pre-calculus.
And he’s sitting on your damn futon, you futon that you’ve done plenty of touching and then some on, with a good five inches between the two of you. And five inches, man. Close enough so that nothing’s blatantly wrong, but also close enough that it only makes sense to close the fucking gap, only he’s fucking not, so what the fuck. It’s deliberate, that’s what the fuck. The bastard knows he’s not touching you, is probably fucking acutely aware of it.
The muscles in his arm are tense. He’s not quite looking at you. And he’s still not touching you.
You’re not touching him either.
Yeah. Like dog shit on the sidewalk. Inevitable. And nobody ever wants to clean it up, either. Kind of like how neither of you wants to speak right now. It’s too messy.
But someone has to say it, so you say it. You could pretend you’re sparing him. Throwing yourself onto the sword, saving him from the responsibility, the actual breaking. You’re not that selfless, though. You just hate the waiting.
You feel the shape of the words in your mouth. I think we should break up. They’re sharper than you expected. Bitter. Your voice doesn’t sound like your own.
He nods, sighs something like relief or sadness or both, and you have to look away. You’re not going to cry, because you don’t do that, but if you were going to cry, this is what it would feel like, tight chest and hollow bones.
He reaches out for your hand, finally, finally. The tips of his fingers are a little colder than the rest of the room, like always. Like always and like never at the same time, because he’s never touched you like this, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.
And there’s something in the graze of his touch that feels final and lingering at the same time. Over but not gone.
That you weren’t prepared for. You feel like maybe you should have known, but it’s not like you’ve done this before, not when it mattered.
You don’t know if it’s better or worse, knowing that it mattered.
You look at him. He manages the requisite half-assed smile of mutual parting bullshit. You swallow back the lump in your throat.
It hurts.
AN: So this is kind of Adam Lambert's fault for mentioning Eclipse by Robyn in an interview. Title and basic inspiration from that. Second person. Gratuitous use of the word fuck. Pretty much entirely unedited because I'm tired and wanted to get it up. If you notice anything too terrible, let me know.
It’s kind of like the sun rising, but not really, because nobody really gives a damn about that, not enough to give it a second thought.
So it’s more like a dog taking a shit on the sidewalk, or the final exam at the end of the semester. You know it’s going to happen. It was always going to happen. And it was always going to suck. And just because you knew all of the above, in theory, as a matter of common sense, doesn’t mean you’re anymore prepared for it. Actually, it’s entirely possible that it’s ingrained in the very fibers of your being to be as unprepared as physically possibly. Staying up til five in the morning, falling asleep into your textbook unprepared, even.
Or maybe just making up shitty metaphors in your head to avoid the issue at hand unprepared.
He’s not touching you.
Which is weird, you know, because he’s basically been touching you for the better part of the past two years, longer, even. Even if it was just a hand on your thigh under the lunch table, or fingers grazing the back of your neck and idly twisting at your hair from the seat behind you in pre-calculus.
And he’s sitting on your damn futon, you futon that you’ve done plenty of touching and then some on, with a good five inches between the two of you. And five inches, man. Close enough so that nothing’s blatantly wrong, but also close enough that it only makes sense to close the fucking gap, only he’s fucking not, so what the fuck. It’s deliberate, that’s what the fuck. The bastard knows he’s not touching you, is probably fucking acutely aware of it.
The muscles in his arm are tense. He’s not quite looking at you. And he’s still not touching you.
You’re not touching him either.
Yeah. Like dog shit on the sidewalk. Inevitable. And nobody ever wants to clean it up, either. Kind of like how neither of you wants to speak right now. It’s too messy.
But someone has to say it, so you say it. You could pretend you’re sparing him. Throwing yourself onto the sword, saving him from the responsibility, the actual breaking. You’re not that selfless, though. You just hate the waiting.
You feel the shape of the words in your mouth. I think we should break up. They’re sharper than you expected. Bitter. Your voice doesn’t sound like your own.
He nods, sighs something like relief or sadness or both, and you have to look away. You’re not going to cry, because you don’t do that, but if you were going to cry, this is what it would feel like, tight chest and hollow bones.
He reaches out for your hand, finally, finally. The tips of his fingers are a little colder than the rest of the room, like always. Like always and like never at the same time, because he’s never touched you like this, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.
And there’s something in the graze of his touch that feels final and lingering at the same time. Over but not gone.
That you weren’t prepared for. You feel like maybe you should have known, but it’s not like you’ve done this before, not when it mattered.
You don’t know if it’s better or worse, knowing that it mattered.
You look at him. He manages the requisite half-assed smile of mutual parting bullshit. You swallow back the lump in your throat.
It hurts.