he's living on memories
title: he's living on memories
author: selfdemo
pairing: david/david
genre: angst
rating: pg-13
summary/excerpt: One day it just isn't the same anymore.
A/N: listening at DC's lie at 4 am in the morning did this to my brain. written on my cellphone XD. i seriously didn't want this to be my first post at the comm. so it won't ha!
05/21/09
Tonight is another night.
David sits at the mahogany wicker divan at the den. The art deco lamp shines yellow light on his face, illuminating the dark circles under his eyes, the hallow flesh of his cheeks.
He curls his feet under him, cradling a massive scrapbook on his lap. The edges of the paper are torn from too many visits, the colors fading into white.
He flips the pages, staring at pictures and letters and notes, as if trying to relive the glory days of his young love.
David stops at and old rose colored page that only has a 3R picture glued in the center. It's blurred here and there, a little out of the frame and has nonexistent lighting. In the technical world of photography it's almost a fail but he loves it nonetheless.
Bony fingers traces the contours of their face, flushed and pale against the dark background. And then their lips, curved in smiles.
A surge of overwhelming nostalgia hits him. They were happy, all smiles and laughter and the new bloom of love. But somewhere along the way, things just changed. Everything they had faded into the background of limelight and camera flashes and one too many late nights.
One day it just isn't the same anymore.
Sometimes, David tries to examine every detail, backtracking their steps and every leap they had made. He recalls the midnight conversations and the light banters, deciphering gestures and hugs and kisses in between. Maybe their lies the key to save what's left of their relationship.
He's sullen after that. No matter how hard he tries, he just can't seem to figure it out.
So David waits, in hope that one day the guy he had fallen in love with three years ago would enter the door and peck him in the cheek, telling him I'm back and I'm sorry and I'll never leave again.
Their friends tell him to get out, warns him that you'll wither and die if you don't. Somehow, he knows they're right, knows that at the rate they're going, he'll end up dead and broken.
He's too far-gone, in too deep that sometimes David doubts if he's ever gonna reach him. Sometimes, at the safety of the dark shadows looming on their orange walls, he wonders if leaving him would make things better, if maybe it'll drive some sense into his head.
But David loves him too much that he knows it really doesn't matter anymore.
When the lock on the door opens, he places the scrapbook on the table and walks to the foyer. Waiting, wondering if maybe tonight is the night he's been hoping for, been praying for.
The soft lights of chandelier welcomes Cook's disheveled appearance. There is red outlining his eyes, pale white coloring his cheeks, sickly yellow streaks splotched on his shirt and jeans.
David sort of wants to scream and yell and tell him everything that's welling up inside him, ask him What the hell went wrong? and Why are you doing this to me?. Wants to but doesn't.
He takes a deep shaky breath and helps Cook to his feet.
At least he came home.
David takes comfort in that, at the fact that at the end of the day, he still comes home to him, still lies and sleeps beside him. And even though the smell of sex and alcohol and cheap cologne almost corrode his senses, he gets by pretending that they'll be alright.
author: selfdemo
pairing: david/david
genre: angst
rating: pg-13
summary/excerpt: One day it just isn't the same anymore.
A/N: listening at DC's lie at 4 am in the morning did this to my brain. written on my cellphone XD. i seriously didn't want this to be my first post at the comm. so it won't ha!
05/21/09
Tonight is another night.
David sits at the mahogany wicker divan at the den. The art deco lamp shines yellow light on his face, illuminating the dark circles under his eyes, the hallow flesh of his cheeks.
He curls his feet under him, cradling a massive scrapbook on his lap. The edges of the paper are torn from too many visits, the colors fading into white.
He flips the pages, staring at pictures and letters and notes, as if trying to relive the glory days of his young love.
David stops at and old rose colored page that only has a 3R picture glued in the center. It's blurred here and there, a little out of the frame and has nonexistent lighting. In the technical world of photography it's almost a fail but he loves it nonetheless.
Bony fingers traces the contours of their face, flushed and pale against the dark background. And then their lips, curved in smiles.
A surge of overwhelming nostalgia hits him. They were happy, all smiles and laughter and the new bloom of love. But somewhere along the way, things just changed. Everything they had faded into the background of limelight and camera flashes and one too many late nights.
One day it just isn't the same anymore.
Sometimes, David tries to examine every detail, backtracking their steps and every leap they had made. He recalls the midnight conversations and the light banters, deciphering gestures and hugs and kisses in between. Maybe their lies the key to save what's left of their relationship.
He's sullen after that. No matter how hard he tries, he just can't seem to figure it out.
So David waits, in hope that one day the guy he had fallen in love with three years ago would enter the door and peck him in the cheek, telling him I'm back and I'm sorry and I'll never leave again.
Their friends tell him to get out, warns him that you'll wither and die if you don't. Somehow, he knows they're right, knows that at the rate they're going, he'll end up dead and broken.
He's too far-gone, in too deep that sometimes David doubts if he's ever gonna reach him. Sometimes, at the safety of the dark shadows looming on their orange walls, he wonders if leaving him would make things better, if maybe it'll drive some sense into his head.
But David loves him too much that he knows it really doesn't matter anymore.
When the lock on the door opens, he places the scrapbook on the table and walks to the foyer. Waiting, wondering if maybe tonight is the night he's been hoping for, been praying for.
The soft lights of chandelier welcomes Cook's disheveled appearance. There is red outlining his eyes, pale white coloring his cheeks, sickly yellow streaks splotched on his shirt and jeans.
David sort of wants to scream and yell and tell him everything that's welling up inside him, ask him What the hell went wrong? and Why are you doing this to me?. Wants to but doesn't.
He takes a deep shaky breath and helps Cook to his feet.
At least he came home.
David takes comfort in that, at the fact that at the end of the day, he still comes home to him, still lies and sleeps beside him. And even though the smell of sex and alcohol and cheap cologne almost corrode his senses, he gets by pretending that they'll be alright.