Brothers Bloom: "End Scene" (Stephen/Bloom, PG-13)
Title: End Scene
Author: airspaniel
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Stephen/Bloom
Word Count: 739
Warnings: spoilers for the entire film, implications of incest, death
Notes: I've been thinking of this for about a year and a half, kept in a loose connection of notes and sentences in my writing folder, and I think I put them together in the right order today. For cerebel, always.
It should have been harder than that, Stephen thinks. In a distant part of his mind, he’s almost disappointed. Really, really, he thought it would take a lot more.
He drags the chair from the wings, unexpectedly heavy, and sets it down center stage. God, isn’t this just appropriate? An old vaudeville joke springs immediately to mind, or maybe it’s just a perversion thereof; the punchline echoing in his ears as if he’d said it out loud.
I’ve heard of dying onstage, but this is ridiculous.
Stephen can’t help but laugh a little, even though it hurts like hell; makes his guts clench up and twist against themselves. Maybe this is what guilt feels like. Isn’t that what people have always said? He honestly doesn’t know.
He can still see it, which isn’t that impressive, really, since it hasn’t been that long, but it’s a pretty sight regardless: Bloom’s silhouette, framed by white light, walking out of the dilapidated theatre; reassured, in love, loving him. And Bloom does love him. He said so.
He said so, and he means it.
Fuck. He’s got, what? Ten minutes left? He can’t feel his legs below the knees. His arms, though he can move them, are ice cold, hands already losing their dexterity as he tucks the card, the Queen of Hearts, into his sleeve.
It’s poetic. Nicely symbolic. Bloom’s card. It was a setup all along.
He’s cold. Getting colder by the second, and oh, he remembers… Remembers the beach in Argentina, the sweaty heat of Dubai, the way Bloom…
The way Bloom held him after he’d been shot. When it was certain he would die, the bright red of food coloring and motor oil spreading across the dove white of his button down, his breath coming in gasps that had less to do with theatrics and more to do with the way he was being held; close, as if there would never be another moment, another chance for him to lay his plans out, to try and give his brother everything he ever wanted.
Remembers Prague; not the last time, but the last last time. When it was just the brothers.
Last time I was in Prague I was in love.
What was she like?
Pale skin, long feet…
And maybe society wouldn’t have approved. Fuck society. And yeah, maybe it was even the wrong thing to do. But Stephen is never, never going to regret the way Bloom shivered apart under his hands. Never going to feel bad about the strangled cry out of Bloom’s throat, and he put it there; he drove him to it with his lips his teeth and his tongue; his hands, always just a little quicker, a little slicker than his brother’s.
Never going to remember the blissed-out, beautiful look in Bloom’s eyes with anything less than pure wonder. Anything less than perfect love.
For the next - fuck - eight minutes or so, anyway.
He’s never thought too much about Heaven, never thought about the hereafter; far more concerned with the here and now and the real. Didn’t think much about God, but on the rare occasions he did, he felt sure that the big man upstairs appreciated a man like himself. A man who took care of his loved ones first, himself second, and always gave everyone he met exactly what they wanted.
Stephen’s breath rasps out of his body. He’s about to find out what lies beyond, who’s the man behind the curtain, the secret behind the greatest magic trick in the universe.
He’s scared. He’s so scared. He wishes he hadn’t sent Bloom away, hadn’t watched him go, had been just a little more selfish so he wouldn’t have to do this alone, Christ please, not alone.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and it calms him, though he knows it might well be his last. The Queen of Hearts is still up his sleeve, and he can’t feel it, but he knows the lady’s there.
Not so alone after all.
Seconds now. Disjointed images, flickers of memory flash in his head; a kaleidoscope of cons. Bloom laughing. Bloom holding back tears. Bloom furious, bright and beautiful. Bloom leaving.
I love you.
Bloom gone.
A thick drop of blood drips across the Queen's face; falls to the stage floor with a quiet and sickening splash that almost echoes in the empty space.
There's no one left to hear it.
Author: airspaniel
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Stephen/Bloom
Word Count: 739
Warnings: spoilers for the entire film, implications of incest, death
Notes: I've been thinking of this for about a year and a half, kept in a loose connection of notes and sentences in my writing folder, and I think I put them together in the right order today. For cerebel, always.
It should have been harder than that, Stephen thinks. In a distant part of his mind, he’s almost disappointed. Really, really, he thought it would take a lot more.
He drags the chair from the wings, unexpectedly heavy, and sets it down center stage. God, isn’t this just appropriate? An old vaudeville joke springs immediately to mind, or maybe it’s just a perversion thereof; the punchline echoing in his ears as if he’d said it out loud.
I’ve heard of dying onstage, but this is ridiculous.
Stephen can’t help but laugh a little, even though it hurts like hell; makes his guts clench up and twist against themselves. Maybe this is what guilt feels like. Isn’t that what people have always said? He honestly doesn’t know.
He can still see it, which isn’t that impressive, really, since it hasn’t been that long, but it’s a pretty sight regardless: Bloom’s silhouette, framed by white light, walking out of the dilapidated theatre; reassured, in love, loving him. And Bloom does love him. He said so.
He said so, and he means it.
Fuck. He’s got, what? Ten minutes left? He can’t feel his legs below the knees. His arms, though he can move them, are ice cold, hands already losing their dexterity as he tucks the card, the Queen of Hearts, into his sleeve.
It’s poetic. Nicely symbolic. Bloom’s card. It was a setup all along.
He’s cold. Getting colder by the second, and oh, he remembers… Remembers the beach in Argentina, the sweaty heat of Dubai, the way Bloom…
The way Bloom held him after he’d been shot. When it was certain he would die, the bright red of food coloring and motor oil spreading across the dove white of his button down, his breath coming in gasps that had less to do with theatrics and more to do with the way he was being held; close, as if there would never be another moment, another chance for him to lay his plans out, to try and give his brother everything he ever wanted.
Remembers Prague; not the last time, but the last last time. When it was just the brothers.
Last time I was in Prague I was in love.
What was she like?
Pale skin, long feet…
And maybe society wouldn’t have approved. Fuck society. And yeah, maybe it was even the wrong thing to do. But Stephen is never, never going to regret the way Bloom shivered apart under his hands. Never going to feel bad about the strangled cry out of Bloom’s throat, and he put it there; he drove him to it with his lips his teeth and his tongue; his hands, always just a little quicker, a little slicker than his brother’s.
Never going to remember the blissed-out, beautiful look in Bloom’s eyes with anything less than pure wonder. Anything less than perfect love.
For the next - fuck - eight minutes or so, anyway.
He’s never thought too much about Heaven, never thought about the hereafter; far more concerned with the here and now and the real. Didn’t think much about God, but on the rare occasions he did, he felt sure that the big man upstairs appreciated a man like himself. A man who took care of his loved ones first, himself second, and always gave everyone he met exactly what they wanted.
Stephen’s breath rasps out of his body. He’s about to find out what lies beyond, who’s the man behind the curtain, the secret behind the greatest magic trick in the universe.
He’s scared. He’s so scared. He wishes he hadn’t sent Bloom away, hadn’t watched him go, had been just a little more selfish so he wouldn’t have to do this alone, Christ please, not alone.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and it calms him, though he knows it might well be his last. The Queen of Hearts is still up his sleeve, and he can’t feel it, but he knows the lady’s there.
Not so alone after all.
Seconds now. Disjointed images, flickers of memory flash in his head; a kaleidoscope of cons. Bloom laughing. Bloom holding back tears. Bloom furious, bright and beautiful. Bloom leaving.
I love you.
Bloom gone.
A thick drop of blood drips across the Queen's face; falls to the stage floor with a quiet and sickening splash that almost echoes in the empty space.
There's no one left to hear it.