slashfic25 prompt #4: Through
Gerard/Bert
Standalone
R (swearing)
written June 2005
Notes: For slashfic25 prompt 4: Through.
You only miss him when you close your eyes.
It doesn't have to be silent for you to feel it; you don't need a lack of distraction for the images and memories to appear. They're always there, even if you can push them to the periphery most of the time. He's always there, and sometimes you wish he wasn't. Sometimes you wish you could rid yourself of him forever -- go through some kind of exorcism, strip him away from your bones, where he seems to have planted himself like a cancer. The sweetest, most beautiful cancer, lulling you as it kills you.
It usually happens when you're pissed off, and it doesn't matter why. You'll sigh, pressing the heels of your hands over your eyes as your bandmates' voices assault your ears from every direction. Sometimes they're angry, sometimes complaining, sometimes amused. But your eyes always stay closed and you frown, trying to block them out, because they're not the voices you want to hear.
They're not the one you want to hear. And then you miss him.
It's so easy to picture him sitting beside you, his hand on your back, long white fingers splayed protectively, as if he's trying to take all your pain and frustration into himself. It's so easy to close your eyes and imagine the warmth of his body next to you, the breath tickling your neck when he laughs. God, how you want to hear his laugh. How you want to see that dopey smile which never fails to draw a smile from your reluctant lips. How you want to see those perfect cheekbones, those sparkling eyes -- just one more time. You want to wrap his fingers in your own and squeeze gently, just to let yourself know he's really there.
You want to tell him everything, even if there's nothing to tell and there's no reason to open your mouth -- but you want to know he's there, if you need him. It's the opportunity you crave, knowing you have the chance to pull all the stupid, tumbled words out of your brain and throw them towards his ears, freeing yourself from their torment and knowing he'd understand.
Because the words torment him too.
And there are the other things you miss, when you close your eyes and let yourself think about it. You miss the weight of his arm around your waist as you sleep, you miss the heat of his lips pressed against your skin. You miss the little moans he makes in the back of his throat when you kiss him. You miss running your fingers through his damp, silky black hair when he rests his head on your chest after sex. And God, how you miss the sex ...
You miss everything about him. The stupid laugh, the insecurity, the temper that holds out for so long, then explodes without warning. You miss being the one to comfort him when he's down, you miss laughing at his fucked up jokes, you miss apologising when you've pissed him off.
You miss knowing him, and you miss being known. You miss the knowledge that comes with a love like his; the way he treasures the flaws more than anything else, the experiences that make you who you are, everything that has given you the strength to be here today. You miss feeling as though someone's always got your back, because even if he doesn't agree with you, he'll still be there. He'll still support you, because you're you, and he loves you.
Or at least, he used to.
That's the most painful piece of knowledge, the moment when you realise you can't wind back the clock, you can't pull those hateful words out of the air and swallow them, pretending they'd never been said. You can't smooth away the lines of hurt on his face with a few kisses and soft touches. You can't rescue yourself with a smile. At that moment, your love turns sour and runs through you like a knife.
You love him, but he's gone. And he's not coming back, but you can't blame him for that.
It's time to open your eyes and stop missing him, to stop wishing you could change the past, but you don't want to. Sometimes, you think you could hide away from everything and live in your head quite happily; creating a world where he still loves you and you're not as much of an asshole as you really are. A world where the obstacles you face draw you together, rather than pulling you apart.
For a second, you think you're going to cry.
You realise the other voices have gone -- they've left you alone in the studio, thinking you need to calm down. But it's the last thing you need. You need to be distracted, you need noise and lights and laughter ... and anything, anything to remove him from your mind, or you'll sit here and brood and cry, then head for the nearest liquor store.
In a few years, you'll be the sad bastard slumped against the bar, drinking to numb the pain of a lost love. And that's such a fucking cliche, you can't stand it, but it's the truth. In losing him, you've become a cliche.
"Bert?"
You shake your head briefly and open your eyes. It's unnaturally bright; your eyes must have been closed for a while. You blink a few times until your sight adjusts, and you see Branden standing in front of you.
"You okay, man?"
You swallow the lump in your throat before answering hoarsely. You've been lying so much lately that the words almost sound natural coming from your lips.
"Yeah -- yeah, I'm fine."
Standalone
R (swearing)
written June 2005
Notes: For slashfic25 prompt 4: Through.
You only miss him when you close your eyes.
It doesn't have to be silent for you to feel it; you don't need a lack of distraction for the images and memories to appear. They're always there, even if you can push them to the periphery most of the time. He's always there, and sometimes you wish he wasn't. Sometimes you wish you could rid yourself of him forever -- go through some kind of exorcism, strip him away from your bones, where he seems to have planted himself like a cancer. The sweetest, most beautiful cancer, lulling you as it kills you.
It usually happens when you're pissed off, and it doesn't matter why. You'll sigh, pressing the heels of your hands over your eyes as your bandmates' voices assault your ears from every direction. Sometimes they're angry, sometimes complaining, sometimes amused. But your eyes always stay closed and you frown, trying to block them out, because they're not the voices you want to hear.
They're not the one you want to hear. And then you miss him.
It's so easy to picture him sitting beside you, his hand on your back, long white fingers splayed protectively, as if he's trying to take all your pain and frustration into himself. It's so easy to close your eyes and imagine the warmth of his body next to you, the breath tickling your neck when he laughs. God, how you want to hear his laugh. How you want to see that dopey smile which never fails to draw a smile from your reluctant lips. How you want to see those perfect cheekbones, those sparkling eyes -- just one more time. You want to wrap his fingers in your own and squeeze gently, just to let yourself know he's really there.
You want to tell him everything, even if there's nothing to tell and there's no reason to open your mouth -- but you want to know he's there, if you need him. It's the opportunity you crave, knowing you have the chance to pull all the stupid, tumbled words out of your brain and throw them towards his ears, freeing yourself from their torment and knowing he'd understand.
Because the words torment him too.
And there are the other things you miss, when you close your eyes and let yourself think about it. You miss the weight of his arm around your waist as you sleep, you miss the heat of his lips pressed against your skin. You miss the little moans he makes in the back of his throat when you kiss him. You miss running your fingers through his damp, silky black hair when he rests his head on your chest after sex. And God, how you miss the sex ...
You miss everything about him. The stupid laugh, the insecurity, the temper that holds out for so long, then explodes without warning. You miss being the one to comfort him when he's down, you miss laughing at his fucked up jokes, you miss apologising when you've pissed him off.
You miss knowing him, and you miss being known. You miss the knowledge that comes with a love like his; the way he treasures the flaws more than anything else, the experiences that make you who you are, everything that has given you the strength to be here today. You miss feeling as though someone's always got your back, because even if he doesn't agree with you, he'll still be there. He'll still support you, because you're you, and he loves you.
Or at least, he used to.
That's the most painful piece of knowledge, the moment when you realise you can't wind back the clock, you can't pull those hateful words out of the air and swallow them, pretending they'd never been said. You can't smooth away the lines of hurt on his face with a few kisses and soft touches. You can't rescue yourself with a smile. At that moment, your love turns sour and runs through you like a knife.
You love him, but he's gone. And he's not coming back, but you can't blame him for that.
It's time to open your eyes and stop missing him, to stop wishing you could change the past, but you don't want to. Sometimes, you think you could hide away from everything and live in your head quite happily; creating a world where he still loves you and you're not as much of an asshole as you really are. A world where the obstacles you face draw you together, rather than pulling you apart.
For a second, you think you're going to cry.
You realise the other voices have gone -- they've left you alone in the studio, thinking you need to calm down. But it's the last thing you need. You need to be distracted, you need noise and lights and laughter ... and anything, anything to remove him from your mind, or you'll sit here and brood and cry, then head for the nearest liquor store.
In a few years, you'll be the sad bastard slumped against the bar, drinking to numb the pain of a lost love. And that's such a fucking cliche, you can't stand it, but it's the truth. In losing him, you've become a cliche.
"Bert?"
You shake your head briefly and open your eyes. It's unnaturally bright; your eyes must have been closed for a while. You blink a few times until your sight adjusts, and you see Branden standing in front of you.
"You okay, man?"
You swallow the lump in your throat before answering hoarsely. You've been lying so much lately that the words almost sound natural coming from your lips.
"Yeah -- yeah, I'm fine."