Not Lying [denying]. Tom/William.{s/a}(527w.)
Title:Not Lying [denying]
Rating:PG
Pairing:Past Tom/William
Summary:
It's not like Tom missed him. He didn't.
Disclaimer:I do not own Thomas Conrad or William Beckett (unfortunately) and this is not how anything went down.
Author Notes: This one was actually written before the first. I was listening to "Gone Forever" by Three Days Grace, and this was the result, originally all written on notebook paper while sitting in the livingroom. Shorty and I can no longer listen to this song without associating it to them.
First time you screamed at me, I should've made you leave.
I hope you're missing me, I hope I made you see.
It's not like Tom missed him. He didn't.
He didn't miss his smell, or his warmth. He didn't miss the angry glares or the brilliant smiles, the sharp hips or the breathy moans, the soft hair or long limbs.
He did not miss William Beckett..
But maybe he thought about him sometimes.
It was hard not to, he told himself, when the whole damn apartment was still dripping of him. Everywhere he looked, everything he touched, it all screamed of him.
His grandmother used to mutter about how "if walls could talk" and he had never really gotten it before now. Every fight, every make up, every time he had beared witness to William's screams or tears, or the good times, the times when they would lay on the floor for hours just talking, the times William couldn't stop giggeling and Tom couldn't help smiling just because.
All of the memory's were flooding back with the force of a tidal wave.
He couldn't breath, he couldn't think, he couldn't not think.
He would kill to have William yelling at him right now. Atleast it would be something.
He never could stand the silent treatment.
But William had made it quite clear that wasn't an option, and Tom didn't blame him. He wasn't angry.
Don't know what's going on, don't know what went wrong
feels like a hundred years, I still can't believe your gone.
So I'll stay up all night with these bloodshot eyes,
while all these walls surround me with the story of our life.
Jon told him it would be okay, offered him the chance to come out with his band and take pictures.
Butch had fought for him when the rest of the band had agreed it was too hard for him to stay.
But Tom couldn't bring himself to fully apprecate it when every partical of his body was hurting (he wasn't about to miss the irony of having felt the same pain with William. but than it had been different, almost pleasent, to love someone so much and so hard it fucking stung).
He wondered if there was a part of William hurting too, and his automatic reaction was to say absolutely not, but he knew that was just bitterness.
I'll stay out all night, get drunk and fucking fight, until the morning comes forget about our life.
After nearly three years, messy ending or not William deserved far more than that.
But William had always deserved far more. Far more than Tom, or anyone could give.
That was the problem in the end, not that William would admit it.
Not that Tom would either, for that matter.
And tonight, alone and cold in places he didn't even know felt tempature, Tom would not pick up his phone. He would not call William's empty apartment, just to hear the bittersweet sound of his voice on the machine.
He did not miss William Beckett.
He just thought about him sometimes.
I tell myself that I don't miss you at all.
Rating:PG
Pairing:Past Tom/William
Summary:
It's not like Tom missed him. He didn't.
Disclaimer:I do not own Thomas Conrad or William Beckett (unfortunately) and this is not how anything went down.
Author Notes: This one was actually written before the first. I was listening to "Gone Forever" by Three Days Grace, and this was the result, originally all written on notebook paper while sitting in the livingroom. Shorty and I can no longer listen to this song without associating it to them.
First time you screamed at me, I should've made you leave.
I hope you're missing me, I hope I made you see.
It's not like Tom missed him. He didn't.
He didn't miss his smell, or his warmth. He didn't miss the angry glares or the brilliant smiles, the sharp hips or the breathy moans, the soft hair or long limbs.
He did not miss William Beckett..
But maybe he thought about him sometimes.
It was hard not to, he told himself, when the whole damn apartment was still dripping of him. Everywhere he looked, everything he touched, it all screamed of him.
His grandmother used to mutter about how "if walls could talk" and he had never really gotten it before now. Every fight, every make up, every time he had beared witness to William's screams or tears, or the good times, the times when they would lay on the floor for hours just talking, the times William couldn't stop giggeling and Tom couldn't help smiling just because.
All of the memory's were flooding back with the force of a tidal wave.
He couldn't breath, he couldn't think, he couldn't not think.
He would kill to have William yelling at him right now. Atleast it would be something.
He never could stand the silent treatment.
But William had made it quite clear that wasn't an option, and Tom didn't blame him. He wasn't angry.
Don't know what's going on, don't know what went wrong
feels like a hundred years, I still can't believe your gone.
So I'll stay up all night with these bloodshot eyes,
while all these walls surround me with the story of our life.
Jon told him it would be okay, offered him the chance to come out with his band and take pictures.
Butch had fought for him when the rest of the band had agreed it was too hard for him to stay.
But Tom couldn't bring himself to fully apprecate it when every partical of his body was hurting (he wasn't about to miss the irony of having felt the same pain with William. but than it had been different, almost pleasent, to love someone so much and so hard it fucking stung).
He wondered if there was a part of William hurting too, and his automatic reaction was to say absolutely not, but he knew that was just bitterness.
I'll stay out all night, get drunk and fucking fight, until the morning comes forget about our life.
After nearly three years, messy ending or not William deserved far more than that.
But William had always deserved far more. Far more than Tom, or anyone could give.
That was the problem in the end, not that William would admit it.
Not that Tom would either, for that matter.
And tonight, alone and cold in places he didn't even know felt tempature, Tom would not pick up his phone. He would not call William's empty apartment, just to hear the bittersweet sound of his voice on the machine.
He did not miss William Beckett.
He just thought about him sometimes.
I tell myself that I don't miss you at all.