xemoxomegax
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Cry - Part One
Title: Cry - The Beginning.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Vam. Suggested Jonna/Ville, Missy/Bam.
Summary: After the accident Bam doesn't know how to cry. Maybe his angel will have to teach him.
Disclaimer: I don't own this, and it's really not true. -Pokes Ville- Looooook, living... -bitten- AND SHARP O.O
Authors note: I had a mild mental breakdown last night... so, mixed with an idea I already had, a notepad, a pen, and lots and lots of tears. Dedicated to mah honey, she knows who she is =)This is about five parts, and it's all written out already, so it won't get in the way of One Or The Other.
Have you ever cried so much that it hurt? Actually physically hurt? Tears burning your eyes like acid, sliding down your cheeks too quickly, sobs sticking in your throat like week old custard, stopping the breaths from reaching your already heaving lungs. Though you don’t care. Oxygen isn’t exactly top on your list of priorities at that moment.
Somehow you think that the physical pain making your very bones shudder and shake should somehow block out the emotional pain. What are emotions really? Chemical changes setting off tiny triggers in your brain, releasing hormones through your body. It’s just biology. Just thoughts. Nothing more.
Only wimps and wusses feel emotional agony. People not strong enough to block it away. So how come it’s still there? Niggling and gnawing with teeth so sharp even pain burning through your body can’t muffle it.
It’s like everything’s on a 10 watt amp while the pain’s blasting away at top volume on 100. Like going to a Cradle of Filth concert with a hangover.
Everything’s too loud and boisterous and painful, and all you want is peace. Sweet, calming, blissful peace.
Even though peace was the son of a bitch that caused all this. Rest in peace for the dead, only pain for the alive.
Bam Margera had never cried like that. Not once. He had a good life. Fuck, he had a great life. And one day during this great life, in his great town, driving in his great car, he was with his great friend. But for once the previously so descriptive word of ‘great’ didn’t even begin to cover it.
Green eyes… brown hair…
Gorgeous?
Pale skin, tall and slim and lithe…
Sexy?
Feminine features but so clearly a man… strong jaw… ever so lickable throat…
Beautiful?
Foreign, funny, hilarious, talented, gifted…
Too good to be true?
Intelligent, kind, loyal, loving, gothic, brilliant…
Perfection?
Bam’s…
Ville Valo?
Bam turned his head as he heard a familiar click, a frown falling across his lips as he watched his friend lean forward, hair falling into his eyes as he rummaged through the glove compartment.
“Willa, put your seatbelt back on,” he ordered, turning his attention back to the road, watching the landscape of a West Chester summer rush past.
“Darling, you’re such a hypocrite… you haven’t got yours on,” the Finn pouted in reply, giving up on his search for nicotine and leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “And anyway, I wanna hug…” he sniffled, leaning in and resting his head on the skaters shoulder, slipping an arm around him, sighing softly in contentment as Bam’s hand came up, stroking through his hair.
“Please, baby? Just put your belt on for me?” he whispered, flicking on his indicators as he prepared to turn a corner.
“Put yours on?” Ville questioned, looking up at him with wide eyes, accent thick, vibrating through Bam’s body.
“Okay,” he smiled a little, slowing as the singer pulled away from him with a kiss to his cheek, pulling his belt on and buckling it, just as he missed the turning.
Bam Margera didn’t cry. Didn’t cry when he woke up to a whole new world of pain and confusion and disorientation. Sharp lights and a bright ache stung him all over, and he almost couldn’t look. It was too white and too colourful, too cold and too hot, too blurred and too damn clear.
But that wasn’t why he couldn’t open his eyes. Pure blinding fear weighed down heavy upon him, crushing him down into the too hard hospital mattress. Something was wrong. And he was right.
He didn’t cry when his tearful mother had to break it to him. Didn’t cry at the dreadful clichés his friend would have laughed at. Ville wouldn’t have wanted ‘he passed out’. He would have wanted something dramatic, theatrical, beautiful. Something like him. Something to represent him and his life rather than some foolish attempt to soften the blow.
It was like tying a ribbon to a gun to make the bullet pass easier through your skull.
Maybe that’s why he screamed. Screamed he his own mother to shut up and leave. Screamed for the drip to be taken from his arm. And when he didn’t get what he wanted he ripped it out himself.
Bam Margera always got what he wanted. Always. Except now. Because no matter how much he begged and pleaded in his own head and heart for the Finn to walk through the door, laughing and pointing to a camera hidden somewhere ridiculous, kissing him on the head and taking him out for brewskies, it never happened. You only get Punk’d once.
Willing for his friend was like willing for the tears he knew would never come. Pointless. Just as pointless and stupid as all the films and songs and stories he had ever seen or heard about grief and pain and sorrow. They were all wrong. So wrong.
Instead of shouting and sobbing like a banshee as his heart was ripped out, there was nothing.
Once, what felt like so long ago, he had wanted for nothing. Now he had it, he would do anything for it to go away.
Numb. Calm. Serene. So many things he had never before had without the aid of drugs or sleep now possessed him. He briefly thought it might be sleep. A dream. A nightmare. But dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. He would never believe his own head, his own imagination would create something as sick, as twisted, as…disgusting.
Because that’s what it was. Disgusting. Unfair.
Why? Ville was young and beautiful and talented and perfect and just… Ville… just his God. He was engaged. He was going to have children. And no matter how much Bam thought that was the wrong decision, it was still a future. A beautiful future for a beautiful man.
He was right next to him. In the very next seat.
Why couldn’t I have died instead? Why couldn’t I have died as well?
He could ask a thousand questions and receive a thousand silences in reply as he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing with all he was that the tears would come.
When did he stop getting what he wanted?
Maybe he didn’t love Ville that much after all… if he couldn’t even cry over his death…
But instead of the expected tears and anguish there was just a sweet, sweet peace. As though the part of him that was supposed to feel died along with his friend. Poured out over his dashboard to mingle silently with blood and glass.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Comments and constructive critism are just damn sexeh =)
Rating: R.
Pairing: Vam. Suggested Jonna/Ville, Missy/Bam.
Summary: After the accident Bam doesn't know how to cry. Maybe his angel will have to teach him.
Disclaimer: I don't own this, and it's really not true. -Pokes Ville- Looooook, living... -bitten- AND SHARP O.O
Authors note: I had a mild mental breakdown last night... so, mixed with an idea I already had, a notepad, a pen, and lots and lots of tears. Dedicated to mah honey, she knows who she is =)This is about five parts, and it's all written out already, so it won't get in the way of One Or The Other.
Have you ever cried so much that it hurt? Actually physically hurt? Tears burning your eyes like acid, sliding down your cheeks too quickly, sobs sticking in your throat like week old custard, stopping the breaths from reaching your already heaving lungs. Though you don’t care. Oxygen isn’t exactly top on your list of priorities at that moment.
Somehow you think that the physical pain making your very bones shudder and shake should somehow block out the emotional pain. What are emotions really? Chemical changes setting off tiny triggers in your brain, releasing hormones through your body. It’s just biology. Just thoughts. Nothing more.
Only wimps and wusses feel emotional agony. People not strong enough to block it away. So how come it’s still there? Niggling and gnawing with teeth so sharp even pain burning through your body can’t muffle it.
It’s like everything’s on a 10 watt amp while the pain’s blasting away at top volume on 100. Like going to a Cradle of Filth concert with a hangover.
Everything’s too loud and boisterous and painful, and all you want is peace. Sweet, calming, blissful peace.
Even though peace was the son of a bitch that caused all this. Rest in peace for the dead, only pain for the alive.
Bam Margera had never cried like that. Not once. He had a good life. Fuck, he had a great life. And one day during this great life, in his great town, driving in his great car, he was with his great friend. But for once the previously so descriptive word of ‘great’ didn’t even begin to cover it.
Green eyes… brown hair…
Gorgeous?
Pale skin, tall and slim and lithe…
Sexy?
Feminine features but so clearly a man… strong jaw… ever so lickable throat…
Beautiful?
Foreign, funny, hilarious, talented, gifted…
Too good to be true?
Intelligent, kind, loyal, loving, gothic, brilliant…
Perfection?
Bam’s…
Ville Valo?
Bam turned his head as he heard a familiar click, a frown falling across his lips as he watched his friend lean forward, hair falling into his eyes as he rummaged through the glove compartment.
“Willa, put your seatbelt back on,” he ordered, turning his attention back to the road, watching the landscape of a West Chester summer rush past.
“Darling, you’re such a hypocrite… you haven’t got yours on,” the Finn pouted in reply, giving up on his search for nicotine and leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “And anyway, I wanna hug…” he sniffled, leaning in and resting his head on the skaters shoulder, slipping an arm around him, sighing softly in contentment as Bam’s hand came up, stroking through his hair.
“Please, baby? Just put your belt on for me?” he whispered, flicking on his indicators as he prepared to turn a corner.
“Put yours on?” Ville questioned, looking up at him with wide eyes, accent thick, vibrating through Bam’s body.
“Okay,” he smiled a little, slowing as the singer pulled away from him with a kiss to his cheek, pulling his belt on and buckling it, just as he missed the turning.
Bam Margera didn’t cry. Didn’t cry when he woke up to a whole new world of pain and confusion and disorientation. Sharp lights and a bright ache stung him all over, and he almost couldn’t look. It was too white and too colourful, too cold and too hot, too blurred and too damn clear.
But that wasn’t why he couldn’t open his eyes. Pure blinding fear weighed down heavy upon him, crushing him down into the too hard hospital mattress. Something was wrong. And he was right.
He didn’t cry when his tearful mother had to break it to him. Didn’t cry at the dreadful clichés his friend would have laughed at. Ville wouldn’t have wanted ‘he passed out’. He would have wanted something dramatic, theatrical, beautiful. Something like him. Something to represent him and his life rather than some foolish attempt to soften the blow.
It was like tying a ribbon to a gun to make the bullet pass easier through your skull.
Maybe that’s why he screamed. Screamed he his own mother to shut up and leave. Screamed for the drip to be taken from his arm. And when he didn’t get what he wanted he ripped it out himself.
Bam Margera always got what he wanted. Always. Except now. Because no matter how much he begged and pleaded in his own head and heart for the Finn to walk through the door, laughing and pointing to a camera hidden somewhere ridiculous, kissing him on the head and taking him out for brewskies, it never happened. You only get Punk’d once.
Willing for his friend was like willing for the tears he knew would never come. Pointless. Just as pointless and stupid as all the films and songs and stories he had ever seen or heard about grief and pain and sorrow. They were all wrong. So wrong.
Instead of shouting and sobbing like a banshee as his heart was ripped out, there was nothing.
Once, what felt like so long ago, he had wanted for nothing. Now he had it, he would do anything for it to go away.
Numb. Calm. Serene. So many things he had never before had without the aid of drugs or sleep now possessed him. He briefly thought it might be sleep. A dream. A nightmare. But dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. He would never believe his own head, his own imagination would create something as sick, as twisted, as…disgusting.
Because that’s what it was. Disgusting. Unfair.
Why? Ville was young and beautiful and talented and perfect and just… Ville… just his God. He was engaged. He was going to have children. And no matter how much Bam thought that was the wrong decision, it was still a future. A beautiful future for a beautiful man.
He was right next to him. In the very next seat.
Why couldn’t I have died instead? Why couldn’t I have died as well?
He could ask a thousand questions and receive a thousand silences in reply as he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing with all he was that the tears would come.
When did he stop getting what he wanted?
Maybe he didn’t love Ville that much after all… if he couldn’t even cry over his death…
But instead of the expected tears and anguish there was just a sweet, sweet peace. As though the part of him that was supposed to feel died along with his friend. Poured out over his dashboard to mingle silently with blood and glass.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Comments and constructive critism are just damn sexeh =)