Why one shouldn' t listen to so much Deathcab for Cutie - [Pre-SH, Narrative]
It was starting to weigh hard on him and Warren hated it. He was seventeen years old. Another month and he'd be eightteen, an adult, and yet he felt like little more than a scared little kid, abandoned and alone. Liz was gone. Jean-Paul was living his own life. Warren had two choices and he hated both of them. Curl up in bed and let life pass him by or move on.
The second option brought the pain back, fresh and clear. He hadn't ever looked for something like what he had with JP and then it fell in his lap and it had never been perfect, he knew that, but it had been his. Theirs.
He missed his leather in the night, the way it felt like armor around him. He wondered if Jean-Paul had come back and found it, or it he'd moved on and wasn't thinking of him. He wondered if he was safe and well. He wondered if he was alive. The last was the hardest, wanting to stay away, to not chase him down and yet wondering if he would ever know if anything happened to the man he loved. Was he lying somewhere, rubber tubing tied around his arm and enough shit in his veins to preserve that youthful beauty for all eternity?
Shaking off those thoughts, not think about that. Alcohol wasn't helping. The pounding music of the club, the voices, the smoke, the tragedy and comedy and pain. None of it was doing a damn thing; it was like he was dead inside.
Warren didn't remember much that led to that point. How he'd ended up in the hallway to the bathroom with some kid in too much eyeliner and enough black and sterling to keep Topics in business for the next year. He had a name. Aaron, or Eric or something like that. He was older than Warren, he was pretty sure, and yet he looked all of sixteen kneeling like that, sucking the pyrokinetic off. Warren stared down at him, seeing it like he was outside of himself. Watching it all and yet it was about as real as a movie, nothing but images and yet he couldn't seem to feel any of it.
Except for his ears.
Running his fingers through the kid's coal dyed hair, tracing a single fingertip over the tip of his ear. Smooth, round and delicate. Wrong.
Pulling away, shoving his dick back in his pants with a growl and a muttered sorry. Pushing out a back door, not giving a fuck at the loud squeal of the fire alarm that triggered with the door. Not giving a damn about anything but getting the fuck out of there, getting away. He kept walking until he felt weak, until the sky was pale grey and the East was lit up with the next day. Collapsing on a park bench, legs shaking and his breath coming in hard, smokey puffs though he hadn't lit a cigarette. And there he sat for hours, watching the world come to life as the sun lit up the city of Montreal and feeling nothing inside but an empty ache. He was hollow within, filled with smoke and pollution and memories and that was all he could think of then. The memories.
The second option brought the pain back, fresh and clear. He hadn't ever looked for something like what he had with JP and then it fell in his lap and it had never been perfect, he knew that, but it had been his. Theirs.
He missed his leather in the night, the way it felt like armor around him. He wondered if Jean-Paul had come back and found it, or it he'd moved on and wasn't thinking of him. He wondered if he was safe and well. He wondered if he was alive. The last was the hardest, wanting to stay away, to not chase him down and yet wondering if he would ever know if anything happened to the man he loved. Was he lying somewhere, rubber tubing tied around his arm and enough shit in his veins to preserve that youthful beauty for all eternity?
Shaking off those thoughts, not think about that. Alcohol wasn't helping. The pounding music of the club, the voices, the smoke, the tragedy and comedy and pain. None of it was doing a damn thing; it was like he was dead inside.
Warren didn't remember much that led to that point. How he'd ended up in the hallway to the bathroom with some kid in too much eyeliner and enough black and sterling to keep Topics in business for the next year. He had a name. Aaron, or Eric or something like that. He was older than Warren, he was pretty sure, and yet he looked all of sixteen kneeling like that, sucking the pyrokinetic off. Warren stared down at him, seeing it like he was outside of himself. Watching it all and yet it was about as real as a movie, nothing but images and yet he couldn't seem to feel any of it.
Except for his ears.
Running his fingers through the kid's coal dyed hair, tracing a single fingertip over the tip of his ear. Smooth, round and delicate. Wrong.
Pulling away, shoving his dick back in his pants with a growl and a muttered sorry. Pushing out a back door, not giving a fuck at the loud squeal of the fire alarm that triggered with the door. Not giving a damn about anything but getting the fuck out of there, getting away. He kept walking until he felt weak, until the sky was pale grey and the East was lit up with the next day. Collapsing on a park bench, legs shaking and his breath coming in hard, smokey puffs though he hadn't lit a cigarette. And there he sat for hours, watching the world come to life as the sun lit up the city of Montreal and feeling nothing inside but an empty ache. He was hollow within, filled with smoke and pollution and memories and that was all he could think of then. The memories.