The Dumbing Down Of Love (Details) Part Eleven
Title: The Dumbing Down Of Love(Details)
Fandom: RPF
Pairing: Pinto
Series Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just love 'em
Warnings: , long-term angst, Zach/OMC
Summary: Part 11 of 11. Zach has a crush on Chris but Chris really doesn't want to know. A lot of angst, UST and crappy decision making follows and eventually, Zach has to make a choice.
Follows the songs from Frou Frou's album, Details - which is my favourite album of all time, just to be melodramatic. The song's aren't in order, I sorted them as needed for the story arc. Normally I don't do songfics but this story just flowed out of the album for me, so I went for it.
The Dumbing Down Of Love is track 11 on the album and the lyrics for all the songs on Details can be found here. If you haven't heard it and you can get your hands (electronic or otherwise) on the album, I thoroughly recommend it.
Download The Dumbing Down Of Love
A/N:Well, here it is - the last chapter. Thank you to everyone who has been reading along the way, especially those of you who took the time to leave comments. You = <3 and you helped to keep this fic going.
May I suggest that you try to listen to The Dumbing Down of Love with this chapter? It's quite possibly the chapter most closely associated with its song and for me, they're both parts of a whole. Plus the song is heart-achingly beautiful.
He stands over the man sprawled on the sheets - his body all tanned skin and sweat.
Well painted passion, he thinks. You rightly expect it. Impersonation. The dumbing down of love. You can see my eyes; you know that I’m pretending. Love is just a false rush of colour, the poisoned scarf that blinds you. I can touch you forever but never feel you. You can reach for me but I wouldn’t bother trying.
The dark body stares up at him, watching his eyes, his face, searching for some emotion, some truth that he always fails to find.
Jaded in anger, he thinks - looking at those dulled-brown eyes. Love underwhelms you. Never rewarded, whichever way you fall - in or out of love. You stroke my face and your hands may be warm but your eyes stay so cold.
Movement turns to stillness as the first cold rush of absence gives way to the mindless heat of lust. Hands on bodies, random grunts of passion, interspersed with the growls of possession and control - all the darker emotions. He feels it, as it starts to build deep in his body - that restless coil of need, twisted with the pain, the pointlessness of experience - and he drives it to the surface, forcing that other man to feel it, as he cannot. They ride together and for a moment, the physical pleasure overwhelms all and there is nothing but this one, bliss-frozen moment.
But those moments never last. The man beneath him is looking away, averting his eyes, though not from a blinding light - he looks away from the darkness, afraid that it will take him too.
Anything past this point of release is unimportant to him, so he rolls off the man with the averted eyes and goes to make himself a drink - something harsh and biting... and pure - not dirty with cola or ice. Ice. Ice melts to water, water runs and suddenly, he’s thinking of tears tracing the soft edges of a face.
He skulls the drink quickly, desperate to shatter the glass on the warmed bricks of an open fire - but he has no fire and perhaps that is lucky - he’s not sure if he could stop at just one glass.
His throat is still burning from the spirits as he goes back into the bedroom to find his clothes. The man is still lying there, sprawled out like a debauched god on the berry-purple sheets of the bed. He’s still not looking at him but he doesn’t need to see his eyes to know that there’s pain in them, the kind of pain that grows not from losing but from never possessing in the first place.
That man senses more than hears the shift of a body around the room - it’s always this way, no talking, no connection. He’s desperate for more but he’s so afraid of losing the little that he has.
He braves the dark and turns towards the shifting footsteps. There he is - all poisoned grace - his hair ungelled and limply falling before his eyes. What does he feel in this moment, he wonders. And how long can he go on like this, before the last chance of rescue crumbles beneath uncounted years of indifference? What if I told him, he thinks, watching as that panther-grace slides clothes over skin. If I tell you - lover alone without love? What will happen?
His form moves towards the door, sparing the shortest of glances towards the bed, looking at feet, chest, arms... never eyes.
Will you listen - lover alone without, oh, without love?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
No, no, I’ll get this he says, dark glasses in place - protection for more than just his eyes.
I want to treat you. You’re still not famous and you haven’t struck it rich.
The gesture should be endearing but it leaves the other man cold. He smiles and he gives but it’s all from the head - he thinks it, he doesn’t feel it - and the man realises that he has never really seen his heart.
You’re underachieving because no one’s receiving. Love just washes over you like a careless breeze - catches your words, ruffles your hair, brings that red blush to your cheeks... Then it passes on, and you’re left alone and untouched. Don’t you want to be touched?
He signs for the bill and grabs his coat from the back of his chair. There’s no flourish, no quirk of the lips, just smiling stone and the man begins to think that this tunnel vision is turning out all wrong, and unconditional love doesn’t work when you only love the lost.
Love, like music, is worthless unless it can break you down, make you cry. The heart has to rip a little if it’s to truly feel and there is no bliss without agony.
He believes that’s when he comes to a decision, as he braves the chill of the early spring night. That man needs to feel, to be made to feel before that last flick of love fades. But not with him - that painted passion needs to be stripped away by someone who knows the masterpiece beneath. And it’s not him, it was never him and the knowledge hurts, even as he concedes that this man was never truly his.
Now, standing at the street corner, he lowers those glasses and lets him see the demand beneath. He wants this body, wants to take it, own it, feel that tiny flick of perfection, as if it’s the last gold-lit ember in a world growing steadily dark. So the man lets himself be dragged home, lets Zach take him one more time before the morning comes and he has to let him go.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Zach keeps staring at the man sitting across from him, wondering if he’s dreaming this or not.
“You know it’s true, Zach.”
As if telling him that would make it any better.
“If that’s true then, if you know the horrors that I’ve been through in past relationships, why would you do this to me now? Why would you leave me?”
The man looks sad, some part of Zach observes, but for the life of him, he can’t understand why. Things have been fine, so why is that look on his face that of a stranger’s?
“Because you need this,” he continues, “you need to see how far you’ve fallen off the track. When I leave... and you feel nothing...” his voice catches and the man’s hands ball into stubborn fists by his sides, “... hopefully then you’ll see.”
“See? See what?”
“That it doesn’t have to be like this - a lover alone without love.”
Zach’s forehead creases in confusion, what does that mean?
The man is getting up now, wearily - as if the effort of moving is too much for him. He holds out a small white envelope to Zach.
“Here, take this. Don’t read it for a week or so, okay? Promise me?”
Zach draws the envelope into his hand, running his thumb absently over its edges.
“Promise me,” the man earnestly demands.
Zach nods, his eyes never leaving the paper.
“Goodbye, Zach. Don’t... don’t let the mask become you face...”
Zach looks up, startled, but the dark wood of the door is already gliding closed with the restless breeze of his passing.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Zach has found the experience of the last few days curiously lacking in emotion. His apartment doesn’t feel empty without the extra body; his bed feels no bigger, his life no smaller. His Iago is, perhaps, a little less intense than before but his work doesn’t truly concern him now - most of his concentration in the past few days has been spent on rolling those last few words around in his head:
“Lover alone without love.”
What use is love? Better to rely on lust and convenience - the last few days are proof of that - he felt, he feels nothing over this break-up and isn’t that better? Relationships without all of the complications?
But some part of Zach, some small flicker of faded feeling whispers to him that no, there’s something very wrong with that. And you’ve fallen so very deep, so very far from the surface that you can barely see the shafts of sunlight playing through the water.
Go home, the voice says, find that envelope. It’s the last throw of the lifesaver and you have to rise to meet it or you’ll never see the play of light on dark again - just the dark, only the dark...
Zach races home and he’s not entirely sure why.
His thumb is under the lip of the envelope, hesitating over that first step. A flick of the fingers and it rips, pulling the tear along the ridge of the paper until Zach can reach in and slide out the small sheet of unlined paper inside.
It’s written in fountain pen ink - typical playwright, can’t help but keep to some of the stereotypes. The words take a little time to come into focus, trapped as they are in the flowing script of royal blue ink.
It’s only a small poem, the same words repeating again and again but one line pulls Zach’s focus and he feels his eyes rivet to the liquid-blue fire.
What will happen?
Lover alone without love.
Will you miss him?
Lover alone without love.
Without love,
Without love...
It doesn’t matter how he knew, just that he did, Zach thinks as he stumbles to a chair, poem clutched in one hand.
’Will you miss him?...’
He sits there for hours as the sun dies in the sky. He doesn't eat, he doesn’t sleep - he just keeps looking at that scrap of paper, letting the words blur together. The sun rises again and light catches him drowsing in the chair. The paper has fallen from his hand but it doesn’t matter - the words are seared across the back of his eyes, etched into the front of his mind.
Thoughts flicker, half formed through his head, each more solid than the last until there is only one choice, one chance, one hope running through his mind.
The phone rings once, twice before he connects.
“...Chris?”
Fandom: RPF
Pairing: Pinto
Series Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just love 'em
Warnings: , long-term angst, Zach/OMC
Summary: Part 11 of 11. Zach has a crush on Chris but Chris really doesn't want to know. A lot of angst, UST and crappy decision making follows and eventually, Zach has to make a choice.
Follows the songs from Frou Frou's album, Details - which is my favourite album of all time, just to be melodramatic. The song's aren't in order, I sorted them as needed for the story arc. Normally I don't do songfics but this story just flowed out of the album for me, so I went for it.
The Dumbing Down Of Love is track 11 on the album and the lyrics for all the songs on Details can be found here. If you haven't heard it and you can get your hands (electronic or otherwise) on the album, I thoroughly recommend it.
Download The Dumbing Down Of Love
A/N:Well, here it is - the last chapter. Thank you to everyone who has been reading along the way, especially those of you who took the time to leave comments. You = <3 and you helped to keep this fic going.
May I suggest that you try to listen to The Dumbing Down of Love with this chapter? It's quite possibly the chapter most closely associated with its song and for me, they're both parts of a whole. Plus the song is heart-achingly beautiful.
He stands over the man sprawled on the sheets - his body all tanned skin and sweat.
Well painted passion, he thinks. You rightly expect it. Impersonation. The dumbing down of love. You can see my eyes; you know that I’m pretending. Love is just a false rush of colour, the poisoned scarf that blinds you. I can touch you forever but never feel you. You can reach for me but I wouldn’t bother trying.
The dark body stares up at him, watching his eyes, his face, searching for some emotion, some truth that he always fails to find.
Jaded in anger, he thinks - looking at those dulled-brown eyes. Love underwhelms you. Never rewarded, whichever way you fall - in or out of love. You stroke my face and your hands may be warm but your eyes stay so cold.
Movement turns to stillness as the first cold rush of absence gives way to the mindless heat of lust. Hands on bodies, random grunts of passion, interspersed with the growls of possession and control - all the darker emotions. He feels it, as it starts to build deep in his body - that restless coil of need, twisted with the pain, the pointlessness of experience - and he drives it to the surface, forcing that other man to feel it, as he cannot. They ride together and for a moment, the physical pleasure overwhelms all and there is nothing but this one, bliss-frozen moment.
But those moments never last. The man beneath him is looking away, averting his eyes, though not from a blinding light - he looks away from the darkness, afraid that it will take him too.
Anything past this point of release is unimportant to him, so he rolls off the man with the averted eyes and goes to make himself a drink - something harsh and biting... and pure - not dirty with cola or ice. Ice. Ice melts to water, water runs and suddenly, he’s thinking of tears tracing the soft edges of a face.
He skulls the drink quickly, desperate to shatter the glass on the warmed bricks of an open fire - but he has no fire and perhaps that is lucky - he’s not sure if he could stop at just one glass.
His throat is still burning from the spirits as he goes back into the bedroom to find his clothes. The man is still lying there, sprawled out like a debauched god on the berry-purple sheets of the bed. He’s still not looking at him but he doesn’t need to see his eyes to know that there’s pain in them, the kind of pain that grows not from losing but from never possessing in the first place.
That man senses more than hears the shift of a body around the room - it’s always this way, no talking, no connection. He’s desperate for more but he’s so afraid of losing the little that he has.
He braves the dark and turns towards the shifting footsteps. There he is - all poisoned grace - his hair ungelled and limply falling before his eyes. What does he feel in this moment, he wonders. And how long can he go on like this, before the last chance of rescue crumbles beneath uncounted years of indifference? What if I told him, he thinks, watching as that panther-grace slides clothes over skin. If I tell you - lover alone without love? What will happen?
His form moves towards the door, sparing the shortest of glances towards the bed, looking at feet, chest, arms... never eyes.
Will you listen - lover alone without, oh, without love?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
No, no, I’ll get this he says, dark glasses in place - protection for more than just his eyes.
I want to treat you. You’re still not famous and you haven’t struck it rich.
The gesture should be endearing but it leaves the other man cold. He smiles and he gives but it’s all from the head - he thinks it, he doesn’t feel it - and the man realises that he has never really seen his heart.
You’re underachieving because no one’s receiving. Love just washes over you like a careless breeze - catches your words, ruffles your hair, brings that red blush to your cheeks... Then it passes on, and you’re left alone and untouched. Don’t you want to be touched?
He signs for the bill and grabs his coat from the back of his chair. There’s no flourish, no quirk of the lips, just smiling stone and the man begins to think that this tunnel vision is turning out all wrong, and unconditional love doesn’t work when you only love the lost.
Love, like music, is worthless unless it can break you down, make you cry. The heart has to rip a little if it’s to truly feel and there is no bliss without agony.
He believes that’s when he comes to a decision, as he braves the chill of the early spring night. That man needs to feel, to be made to feel before that last flick of love fades. But not with him - that painted passion needs to be stripped away by someone who knows the masterpiece beneath. And it’s not him, it was never him and the knowledge hurts, even as he concedes that this man was never truly his.
Now, standing at the street corner, he lowers those glasses and lets him see the demand beneath. He wants this body, wants to take it, own it, feel that tiny flick of perfection, as if it’s the last gold-lit ember in a world growing steadily dark. So the man lets himself be dragged home, lets Zach take him one more time before the morning comes and he has to let him go.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Zach keeps staring at the man sitting across from him, wondering if he’s dreaming this or not.
“You know it’s true, Zach.”
As if telling him that would make it any better.
“If that’s true then, if you know the horrors that I’ve been through in past relationships, why would you do this to me now? Why would you leave me?”
The man looks sad, some part of Zach observes, but for the life of him, he can’t understand why. Things have been fine, so why is that look on his face that of a stranger’s?
“Because you need this,” he continues, “you need to see how far you’ve fallen off the track. When I leave... and you feel nothing...” his voice catches and the man’s hands ball into stubborn fists by his sides, “... hopefully then you’ll see.”
“See? See what?”
“That it doesn’t have to be like this - a lover alone without love.”
Zach’s forehead creases in confusion, what does that mean?
The man is getting up now, wearily - as if the effort of moving is too much for him. He holds out a small white envelope to Zach.
“Here, take this. Don’t read it for a week or so, okay? Promise me?”
Zach draws the envelope into his hand, running his thumb absently over its edges.
“Promise me,” the man earnestly demands.
Zach nods, his eyes never leaving the paper.
“Goodbye, Zach. Don’t... don’t let the mask become you face...”
Zach looks up, startled, but the dark wood of the door is already gliding closed with the restless breeze of his passing.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Zach has found the experience of the last few days curiously lacking in emotion. His apartment doesn’t feel empty without the extra body; his bed feels no bigger, his life no smaller. His Iago is, perhaps, a little less intense than before but his work doesn’t truly concern him now - most of his concentration in the past few days has been spent on rolling those last few words around in his head:
“Lover alone without love.”
What use is love? Better to rely on lust and convenience - the last few days are proof of that - he felt, he feels nothing over this break-up and isn’t that better? Relationships without all of the complications?
But some part of Zach, some small flicker of faded feeling whispers to him that no, there’s something very wrong with that. And you’ve fallen so very deep, so very far from the surface that you can barely see the shafts of sunlight playing through the water.
Go home, the voice says, find that envelope. It’s the last throw of the lifesaver and you have to rise to meet it or you’ll never see the play of light on dark again - just the dark, only the dark...
Zach races home and he’s not entirely sure why.
His thumb is under the lip of the envelope, hesitating over that first step. A flick of the fingers and it rips, pulling the tear along the ridge of the paper until Zach can reach in and slide out the small sheet of unlined paper inside.
It’s written in fountain pen ink - typical playwright, can’t help but keep to some of the stereotypes. The words take a little time to come into focus, trapped as they are in the flowing script of royal blue ink.
It’s only a small poem, the same words repeating again and again but one line pulls Zach’s focus and he feels his eyes rivet to the liquid-blue fire.
What will happen?
Lover alone without love.
Will you miss him?
Lover alone without love.
Without love,
Without love...
It doesn’t matter how he knew, just that he did, Zach thinks as he stumbles to a chair, poem clutched in one hand.
’Will you miss him?...’
He sits there for hours as the sun dies in the sky. He doesn't eat, he doesn’t sleep - he just keeps looking at that scrap of paper, letting the words blur together. The sun rises again and light catches him drowsing in the chair. The paper has fallen from his hand but it doesn’t matter - the words are seared across the back of his eyes, etched into the front of his mind.
Thoughts flicker, half formed through his head, each more solid than the last until there is only one choice, one chance, one hope running through his mind.
The phone rings once, twice before he connects.
“...Chris?”