song flash-fic: I'll Never Let Go
It seems the day that your house burned to the ground
Was the day that you'd always planned to leave anyway
And the vast empire you come through to get here
Makes the world look like pennies in my hand
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you said out loud
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you shouted out
Your words shook me right out of a daydream
I was lost somewhere cold and it looked haunted
I was asking strangers but no one understood me
I was drenched in sweat when your words came to me
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you said out loud
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you shouted out
It was the last highway you would ever travel
The long road from a daughter, wife and son
When the bus stopped a beat from California
Your tired feet they ached over the road
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you said out loud
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you shouted out
(Snow Patrol)
The bus stop at five in the morning was grimy, grey with the coming dawn, tinged with trash and desperation, haunted with escape. He set his backpack down, cradling it between his legs to make sure no one took it and he ran his hands over his face in a pointless attempt to shake himself awake as if he was dreaming.
But the bus ticket out of Boston told him this wasn't a dream. It was long overdue, he knew, but that didn't make it any easier.
They fought all the time. And each time they did, something died a little more, until it was more dead than living between them, things shouted that couldn't be taken back, not with a touch or with a 'sorry' that was emptier than their bookshelves.
But when Patrick pulled his hands away from his face, it wasn't the Greyhound to Los Angeles in front of him but Tay's old battered truck and he blinked again to be sure. Nothing changed.
Then Taylor was standing there, leaning on the sideboard and just looking at him and Patrick couldn't look away if he tried.
"I'll never let go!" Taylor'd shouted one night when a beer bottle crashed against the wall when that was all Patrick had wanted; to be free.
"I'll never - " Taylor had said, advancing, hand up, finger accusatory. "Let go."
Why had Patrick felt so empty and so glad at the same time?
But the sun was coming up and the bus was coming; Patrick could hear it.
"What time's the bus?" Someone asked and Patrick said, "5:40." And it was almost time.
Dying felt like flying, he thought, the words alike for a reason. This was what it was to die, being with Taylor what it was like to be tortuously alive.
He shook his head, but Taylor didn't move, almost like he was etched in stone. The bus ticket had cost ninety-nine dollars and it was all the money Patrick had; working at a bar didn't make anybody rich.
I'll never let go, the words rang through the room, getting caught in between Patrick's ribs. He pushed and pushed and pulled hard enough to undo the distance gained; their sweat smelled like metal, Taylor's skin tasted like promise.
The bus pulled up, blocking the view of the truck and Patrick picked up his backpack, slung it over his shoulders. His feet ached.
He started walking, watching the pavement. He started walking as if the answer waited for him at the door.
But he tossed his backpack into the back of the truck and he looked at Taylor straight on. "I'll never let go," he whispered. "I'll never let go. You said it."
Behind him, the bus pulled away with his last ninety-nine dollars. Taylor's eyes looked like …
hope.
Was the day that you'd always planned to leave anyway
And the vast empire you come through to get here
Makes the world look like pennies in my hand
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you said out loud
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you shouted out
Your words shook me right out of a daydream
I was lost somewhere cold and it looked haunted
I was asking strangers but no one understood me
I was drenched in sweat when your words came to me
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you said out loud
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you shouted out
It was the last highway you would ever travel
The long road from a daughter, wife and son
When the bus stopped a beat from California
Your tired feet they ached over the road
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you said out loud
I'll never let go
I'll never let go you shouted out
(Snow Patrol)
The bus stop at five in the morning was grimy, grey with the coming dawn, tinged with trash and desperation, haunted with escape. He set his backpack down, cradling it between his legs to make sure no one took it and he ran his hands over his face in a pointless attempt to shake himself awake as if he was dreaming.
But the bus ticket out of Boston told him this wasn't a dream. It was long overdue, he knew, but that didn't make it any easier.
They fought all the time. And each time they did, something died a little more, until it was more dead than living between them, things shouted that couldn't be taken back, not with a touch or with a 'sorry' that was emptier than their bookshelves.
But when Patrick pulled his hands away from his face, it wasn't the Greyhound to Los Angeles in front of him but Tay's old battered truck and he blinked again to be sure. Nothing changed.
Then Taylor was standing there, leaning on the sideboard and just looking at him and Patrick couldn't look away if he tried.
"I'll never let go!" Taylor'd shouted one night when a beer bottle crashed against the wall when that was all Patrick had wanted; to be free.
"I'll never - " Taylor had said, advancing, hand up, finger accusatory. "Let go."
Why had Patrick felt so empty and so glad at the same time?
But the sun was coming up and the bus was coming; Patrick could hear it.
"What time's the bus?" Someone asked and Patrick said, "5:40." And it was almost time.
Dying felt like flying, he thought, the words alike for a reason. This was what it was to die, being with Taylor what it was like to be tortuously alive.
He shook his head, but Taylor didn't move, almost like he was etched in stone. The bus ticket had cost ninety-nine dollars and it was all the money Patrick had; working at a bar didn't make anybody rich.
I'll never let go, the words rang through the room, getting caught in between Patrick's ribs. He pushed and pushed and pulled hard enough to undo the distance gained; their sweat smelled like metal, Taylor's skin tasted like promise.
The bus pulled up, blocking the view of the truck and Patrick picked up his backpack, slung it over his shoulders. His feet ached.
He started walking, watching the pavement. He started walking as if the answer waited for him at the door.
But he tossed his backpack into the back of the truck and he looked at Taylor straight on. "I'll never let go," he whispered. "I'll never let go. You said it."
Behind him, the bus pulled away with his last ninety-nine dollars. Taylor's eyes looked like …
hope.