Palpitations
Title: Palpitations
Author: Valour
Disclaimer: I know nothing about these men. This is all fiction. As in not real. Please don't sue, as tuition increases are already on the horizon.
Fandom: Popslash
Summary: Lance, irregular beats, and reactions.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Archive: Just ask.
Author's Notes: Again, this is unbetaed. But I've gone over it quite a few times and agonized over the tense. So, hopefully, I've caught everything. K, I still suck. Sorry. Depressing!muse has me by the head.
Lance is now acutely conscious of his heart. He listens to the slightly unsteady beat all night long. He listens to the rhythm as it builds in his head and drives everything else out. He can feel his pulse consciously now, the thrumming along his veins. He isn’t freaked out, not really. Simply hyper aware; consumed with the push pull of blood. The only thing he can hear at three a.m.
The guys aren’t cracking any jokes about it at all. Lance has the sense that perhaps there will be no jokes, no “broken heart” silliness, for quite a while. If anything Lance seems to be dealing better than anyone else. He does feel like he has palpable proof of his importance in the group. Lou had forced them go onstage without him, yes, but the show had gone poorly and the guilt is still thick in the air. Lance is now as aware of his place in their hearts as he is of the sound of his own. He wonders if his heart shouldn’t be stronger, just through association.
He wonders why the metaphorical and literal are so distinctly separate.
But it isn’t something he can smile about and push to the side. The palpitations cannot be ignored in favor of renewed bonds. Now he has to be careful, pay attention. There are pills in his medicine cabinet. Specific instructions regarding certain illnesses and events. Lance now comes with a warning label, at least in his own mind. Lance isn’t as whole as he’d thought he was. He’s starting to believe he’s not who he thought he was, either. Lance’s last shreds of naiveté are fading fast. Drowned out by the pounding from his arteries. Lost to the sound of his imperfect heart.
This is a chillingly permanent thing.
Author: Valour
Disclaimer: I know nothing about these men. This is all fiction. As in not real. Please don't sue, as tuition increases are already on the horizon.
Fandom: Popslash
Summary: Lance, irregular beats, and reactions.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Archive: Just ask.
Author's Notes: Again, this is unbetaed. But I've gone over it quite a few times and agonized over the tense. So, hopefully, I've caught everything. K, I still suck. Sorry. Depressing!muse has me by the head.
Lance is now acutely conscious of his heart. He listens to the slightly unsteady beat all night long. He listens to the rhythm as it builds in his head and drives everything else out. He can feel his pulse consciously now, the thrumming along his veins. He isn’t freaked out, not really. Simply hyper aware; consumed with the push pull of blood. The only thing he can hear at three a.m.
The guys aren’t cracking any jokes about it at all. Lance has the sense that perhaps there will be no jokes, no “broken heart” silliness, for quite a while. If anything Lance seems to be dealing better than anyone else. He does feel like he has palpable proof of his importance in the group. Lou had forced them go onstage without him, yes, but the show had gone poorly and the guilt is still thick in the air. Lance is now as aware of his place in their hearts as he is of the sound of his own. He wonders if his heart shouldn’t be stronger, just through association.
He wonders why the metaphorical and literal are so distinctly separate.
But it isn’t something he can smile about and push to the side. The palpitations cannot be ignored in favor of renewed bonds. Now he has to be careful, pay attention. There are pills in his medicine cabinet. Specific instructions regarding certain illnesses and events. Lance now comes with a warning label, at least in his own mind. Lance isn’t as whole as he’d thought he was. He’s starting to believe he’s not who he thought he was, either. Lance’s last shreds of naiveté are fading fast. Drowned out by the pounding from his arteries. Lost to the sound of his imperfect heart.
This is a chillingly permanent thing.