(no subject)
[Clean Up Your Eyes.]
Title: Clean Up Your Eyes.
Author: stickyhips___.
Fandom: Maxïmo Park.
Pairing: Paul Smith/Lukas Wooller.
Disclaimer: Talking shit.
Rating: G.
Word Count: 369.
Summary: Clean up your eyes and I'll dance alone with you in daylight
Notes: Angsty, first slashfic I've written in ages, well I wrote it ages ago and forgot where I was going with it so I just sort of.. concluded it. Title's taken from the Dykeenies' song. It's not that thrilling, just thought I should try and get back into the habit.
We lie dormant in the single bed we’ve always shared, and never felt the need to replace with a more accommodating one. Paul’s face is devoid of expression, yet vaguely twisted in disturbance and melancholy. I’m dog tired, weighed down with fatigue’s intervention, yet I’m restless and held awake by these thoughts. Body hair tickles my skin. The silence feels awkward. I’m not asleep, but I’m feigning it. Whether he has sensed this or otherwise is ultimately irrelevant.
My eyes flutter open.
He’s pretending too, I know.
I expect him to mirror me. He doesn’t; numb from the incessant agony, detachment has overcome him. I’ve witnessed this growth with dread and reluctance.
His eyelashes twitch momentarily, in a blink and you’ll miss it sort of instant. A solitary tear, weighty for all its substance, seeps out from the corner of his eye, his bruised mind. A shuddery ache rips through me. I’m helpless in it all. Reflexes act before I can logically process thought; I kiss his temple softly where the lone tear met its crossroads, without certainty of its intent or direction.
A little… or a lot like the man who shed it.
Bitter saltwater remains on my lips.
“I’m too tired to cry,” he croaks, consumed entirely in his exhaustion and fury at himself for feeling so low. I take his arms in my hands. My skinny fingers journey over the skin: rough, scabbed and wounded, dirty with the excrement of suffering.
Our fingers intertwine, and his bottom lip begins to quiver. I watch him fight it, losing the constant battle to bottle it up. He is on the verge of losing it; both he and I know that.
I cling to his back, holding him to me as he silently sobs. Hot tears, hot fuss flows down my torso like a cascading waterfall, down through the dip in my chest.
“You’ll get through this,” I tell him.
I hold him closer, waiting patiently for his weeping to cease, for a glimmer of hope to greet me. He squeezes my hip, and I bury my head in the crook of his neck, consuming the scent of his beautiful, albeit unwashed hair. We’re tight.
“Clean up your eyes.”
::Kat:: xx ♥
Title: Clean Up Your Eyes.
Author: stickyhips___.
Fandom: Maxïmo Park.
Pairing: Paul Smith/Lukas Wooller.
Disclaimer: Talking shit.
Rating: G.
Word Count: 369.
Summary: Clean up your eyes and I'll dance alone with you in daylight
Notes: Angsty, first slashfic I've written in ages, well I wrote it ages ago and forgot where I was going with it so I just sort of.. concluded it. Title's taken from the Dykeenies' song. It's not that thrilling, just thought I should try and get back into the habit.
We lie dormant in the single bed we’ve always shared, and never felt the need to replace with a more accommodating one. Paul’s face is devoid of expression, yet vaguely twisted in disturbance and melancholy. I’m dog tired, weighed down with fatigue’s intervention, yet I’m restless and held awake by these thoughts. Body hair tickles my skin. The silence feels awkward. I’m not asleep, but I’m feigning it. Whether he has sensed this or otherwise is ultimately irrelevant.
My eyes flutter open.
He’s pretending too, I know.
I expect him to mirror me. He doesn’t; numb from the incessant agony, detachment has overcome him. I’ve witnessed this growth with dread and reluctance.
His eyelashes twitch momentarily, in a blink and you’ll miss it sort of instant. A solitary tear, weighty for all its substance, seeps out from the corner of his eye, his bruised mind. A shuddery ache rips through me. I’m helpless in it all. Reflexes act before I can logically process thought; I kiss his temple softly where the lone tear met its crossroads, without certainty of its intent or direction.
A little… or a lot like the man who shed it.
Bitter saltwater remains on my lips.
“I’m too tired to cry,” he croaks, consumed entirely in his exhaustion and fury at himself for feeling so low. I take his arms in my hands. My skinny fingers journey over the skin: rough, scabbed and wounded, dirty with the excrement of suffering.
Our fingers intertwine, and his bottom lip begins to quiver. I watch him fight it, losing the constant battle to bottle it up. He is on the verge of losing it; both he and I know that.
I cling to his back, holding him to me as he silently sobs. Hot tears, hot fuss flows down my torso like a cascading waterfall, down through the dip in my chest.
“You’ll get through this,” I tell him.
I hold him closer, waiting patiently for his weeping to cease, for a glimmer of hope to greet me. He squeezes my hip, and I bury my head in the crook of his neck, consuming the scent of his beautiful, albeit unwashed hair. We’re tight.
“Clean up your eyes.”
::Kat:: xx ♥