fic: talking shit again
Title: talking shit again
Pairing: Chris/Zach
Length: ~400
Summary this is how the break-up goes
Notes: Written as comment!fic for 1297 ages ago, but her journal seems to have been deleted *sad sad face* so I am reposting here. Original prompt: red wine and ambien, you're talking shit again. Here, have the only Chris/Zach I've written ever!
It's the same old song.
But with a different meaning since you've been gone, his brain on iTunes finishes the lyric as his thumb finishes the single digit speed dial on his cell phone. #2 because #1 is voicemail and he's left it there at #2 because what would he replace it with.
Zach answers. He always does. "You're drinking again."
"Not even a 'hello'?"
He hears the sigh and he can picture Zach pinching the bridge of his nose - the patiently-exasperated gesture he only gets over the phone anymore.
"What do you want, Chris?"
"Why didn't it work, Z," he states, doesn't ask. This is always the purpose, this is always what he wants. To pull apart the fall-apart and piece it back together, reverse engineer the mutual self-destruction. Okay, maybe less mutual and more just self. But he needs to know. He never can figure it out.
"You know the answer to that."
That might be true. In the middle of the day, sunny and clean and bright, that just might be true. But the sun is down and the stars are muted by the city and there's a mostly-empty bottle of The Prisoner on the table to attest to his current lack of clarity.
"No, I really don't." He traces the faint lines of a man in shackles on the label of a bottle of wine. It's a good blended red - smoky and complex and kind of sad ("A wine cannot be sad, Pine." "Can, too. Sadness is a flavor.") - but that's not why he bought it.
Zach sighs again. Thirty seconds are filled only by breathing. A small click and a zip and he knows Zach has lit up a cigarette, is now sitting out on his balcony in the dark.
"I loved you."
"That was never the problem."
"I know."
"So fuck me anyway," Zach finishes the thought and it's as bitter to Chris' ear as it ever was across his tongue.
"That was never the problem."
"What do you want, Chris. You know I can't stand this protracted post-mortem limbo shit."
"Yeah, and I'm handling it so very well myself."
"Point granted."
"You're right though, about the shit part. It's shit. This is shit."
"It is what it is."
"That's shit, too. Pure zen taoist bullshit."
"I'm hanging up now."
"Fine, fine."
"Goodnight, Chris."
"Goodnight, Zach," he says to emptiness.
Pairing: Chris/Zach
Length: ~400
Summary this is how the break-up goes
Notes: Written as comment!fic for 1297 ages ago, but her journal seems to have been deleted *sad sad face* so I am reposting here. Original prompt: red wine and ambien, you're talking shit again. Here, have the only Chris/Zach I've written ever!
It's the same old song.
But with a different meaning since you've been gone, his brain on iTunes finishes the lyric as his thumb finishes the single digit speed dial on his cell phone. #2 because #1 is voicemail and he's left it there at #2 because what would he replace it with.
Zach answers. He always does. "You're drinking again."
"Not even a 'hello'?"
He hears the sigh and he can picture Zach pinching the bridge of his nose - the patiently-exasperated gesture he only gets over the phone anymore.
"What do you want, Chris?"
"Why didn't it work, Z," he states, doesn't ask. This is always the purpose, this is always what he wants. To pull apart the fall-apart and piece it back together, reverse engineer the mutual self-destruction. Okay, maybe less mutual and more just self. But he needs to know. He never can figure it out.
"You know the answer to that."
That might be true. In the middle of the day, sunny and clean and bright, that just might be true. But the sun is down and the stars are muted by the city and there's a mostly-empty bottle of The Prisoner on the table to attest to his current lack of clarity.
"No, I really don't." He traces the faint lines of a man in shackles on the label of a bottle of wine. It's a good blended red - smoky and complex and kind of sad ("A wine cannot be sad, Pine." "Can, too. Sadness is a flavor.") - but that's not why he bought it.
Zach sighs again. Thirty seconds are filled only by breathing. A small click and a zip and he knows Zach has lit up a cigarette, is now sitting out on his balcony in the dark.
"I loved you."
"That was never the problem."
"I know."
"So fuck me anyway," Zach finishes the thought and it's as bitter to Chris' ear as it ever was across his tongue.
"That was never the problem."
"What do you want, Chris. You know I can't stand this protracted post-mortem limbo shit."
"Yeah, and I'm handling it so very well myself."
"Point granted."
"You're right though, about the shit part. It's shit. This is shit."
"It is what it is."
"That's shit, too. Pure zen taoist bullshit."
"I'm hanging up now."
"Fine, fine."
"Goodnight, Chris."
"Goodnight, Zach," he says to emptiness.