All the Brightness That Burns Me (Anders/Tyrol PG-13)
Title: All the Brightness That Burns Me
Pairing: Anders/Tyrol
Rating: PG-13 (mayyybe R)
Warnings: none
Prompt: boots, doorway, need
Summary: They finally find Earth, but Sam expected there to be more.
A/N: Future-fic/some little AU details, beta by super_KC, title from St.Lawrence River by David Usher
this is it
earth
…finally
But there should be more. He expected there to be more. This place isn’t even supposed to frakkin exist.
we’ll never find earth
there’s no such thing
Except, here they are. After years of sacrifices, of betrayals - his own wife executed like some imposter by the people who'd spent their lives loving and trusting her.
This was supposed to be worth all of that. There should be streets paved in gold, rivers of ambrosia. The frakkin gods themselves should be waiting to greet them. Something, anything.
He just needed so badly for this to be worth it.
----
Everything there feels empty: the ground, dirty and dusty and cracking; the sun, beating down in harsh, glinting streaks across everyone and everything. The blinding light is inescapable.
It reminds him of New Caprica and it makes him uneasy. It makes him feel like the enemy; hiding and suspicious, always cautious that he doesn’t give himself away to anyone. It makes him feel alone all the time.
He doesn’t sleep the first week. His bed is too big, the air is too hot - his shirt sticking to his back where the sweat forms between his shoulders - and his head still aches with the ringing of phantom chords.
He lies awake and tries to remember the look in Tyrol’s eyes in that room, back on Galactica that day. Can’t decide if it was fear or acceptance. Relief because somehow he’d always known, or resentment, because now what?
----
The first thing they build after the housing facilities is a bar. He takes initiative and sets up a makeshift pyramid court next. First things first, he laughs to himself. More often than not, though, the court is left empty and abandoned in favor of the crowded room of the bar. He sits far away from the radio and doesn't count how many times the glass is refilled.
It's late when he leaves - eyes heavy and body buzzing. He stumbles through the doorway and earns himself a strong hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
"Woah. Y'alright Sam?" Tyrol's voice is calm and his hand on Sam's shoulder is heavy and warm and doesn't leave. Sam nods and turns to leave without even bothering to ask the Chief why he's there, but the hand on his shoulder tugs him back.
Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's because Tyrol may be the last familiar thing he has, but Sam grabs his collar and pulls him into a shadow behind the building. His hips slide easily against Tyrol's as he presses him into the wall. Sam kisses him, his tongue sliding over Tyrol's and his hand settling at the base of Tyrol's neck.
"Sam," he rasps, finally pulling away. "Frak."
It's been so long since they'd done this - long before this place, when they had the excuse of confusion, of finding out their whole lives had been a lie. He gasps at the feel of Tyrol's cold fingertips when they slip under his shirt, smooth across the small of his back. Sam thinks that excuse could still work, but can't bring himself to care if it doesn't.
As soon as the blurry edges of the alcohol start to wear off, Sam leads the way back to his room, the heavy fall of Tyrol's boots a step behind. They fall into bed with hands pulling at shirts and shoes. Tyrol mouths along the hollow of Sam's throat, fraks him on the tangled, messy sheets.
When it's over, both bodies tired and warm, Tyrol wraps an arm around Sam's middle, lays his head close enough for his breath to brush the hair against Sam's neck. Sam closes his eyes, peace like nothing he’s felt since they first arrived here, and that has to be worth something.
Pairing: Anders/Tyrol
Rating: PG-13 (mayyybe R)
Warnings: none
Prompt: boots, doorway, need
Summary: They finally find Earth, but Sam expected there to be more.
A/N: Future-fic/some little AU details, beta by super_KC, title from St.Lawrence River by David Usher
this is it
earth
…finally
But there should be more. He expected there to be more. This place isn’t even supposed to frakkin exist.
we’ll never find earth
there’s no such thing
Except, here they are. After years of sacrifices, of betrayals - his own wife executed like some imposter by the people who'd spent their lives loving and trusting her.
This was supposed to be worth all of that. There should be streets paved in gold, rivers of ambrosia. The frakkin gods themselves should be waiting to greet them. Something, anything.
He just needed so badly for this to be worth it.
----
Everything there feels empty: the ground, dirty and dusty and cracking; the sun, beating down in harsh, glinting streaks across everyone and everything. The blinding light is inescapable.
It reminds him of New Caprica and it makes him uneasy. It makes him feel like the enemy; hiding and suspicious, always cautious that he doesn’t give himself away to anyone. It makes him feel alone all the time.
He doesn’t sleep the first week. His bed is too big, the air is too hot - his shirt sticking to his back where the sweat forms between his shoulders - and his head still aches with the ringing of phantom chords.
He lies awake and tries to remember the look in Tyrol’s eyes in that room, back on Galactica that day. Can’t decide if it was fear or acceptance. Relief because somehow he’d always known, or resentment, because now what?
----
The first thing they build after the housing facilities is a bar. He takes initiative and sets up a makeshift pyramid court next. First things first, he laughs to himself. More often than not, though, the court is left empty and abandoned in favor of the crowded room of the bar. He sits far away from the radio and doesn't count how many times the glass is refilled.
It's late when he leaves - eyes heavy and body buzzing. He stumbles through the doorway and earns himself a strong hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
"Woah. Y'alright Sam?" Tyrol's voice is calm and his hand on Sam's shoulder is heavy and warm and doesn't leave. Sam nods and turns to leave without even bothering to ask the Chief why he's there, but the hand on his shoulder tugs him back.
Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's because Tyrol may be the last familiar thing he has, but Sam grabs his collar and pulls him into a shadow behind the building. His hips slide easily against Tyrol's as he presses him into the wall. Sam kisses him, his tongue sliding over Tyrol's and his hand settling at the base of Tyrol's neck.
"Sam," he rasps, finally pulling away. "Frak."
It's been so long since they'd done this - long before this place, when they had the excuse of confusion, of finding out their whole lives had been a lie. He gasps at the feel of Tyrol's cold fingertips when they slip under his shirt, smooth across the small of his back. Sam thinks that excuse could still work, but can't bring himself to care if it doesn't.
As soon as the blurry edges of the alcohol start to wear off, Sam leads the way back to his room, the heavy fall of Tyrol's boots a step behind. They fall into bed with hands pulling at shirts and shoes. Tyrol mouths along the hollow of Sam's throat, fraks him on the tangled, messy sheets.
When it's over, both bodies tired and warm, Tyrol wraps an arm around Sam's middle, lays his head close enough for his breath to brush the hair against Sam's neck. Sam closes his eyes, peace like nothing he’s felt since they first arrived here, and that has to be worth something.