Tortured Melody
This one made me cry.
*iz stupid*
So. The confirmation went well :) Thanks for all the well-wishes! You guys redefine epic.
However, I had such a serious writer's block and couldn't write at all yesterday.
Thank god sexyscholar helped clear my head. THANKS, BB.
The title of this part comes from snowmore, and is partly inspired by Super Junior's It's you.
1. All he knows.
2. Tremble.
3. Shatter.
4. Games.
5. Bad Habits.
6. Listen.
Rated R.
I hear water running in the bathroom.
I stand at the doorway of our bedroom and watch your silhouette morph from one incomprehensible shape to another.
My jacket slips from my fingers, and I loosen my tie.
I undo my watch strap and toss the accessory mindlessly onto the bed.
I slide the bathroom door open.
Hot mist greets me, your hand poised over the shampoo bottle.
A beat.
I step forward into the haze of hot water and let it shower over my fully clothed self.
You look uncertain, but not afraid.
Never afraid.
You ask no questions.
I close my eyes, the way I shut my heart down earlier.
Your nimble fingers start unbuttoning my shirt as I stand motionless; rooted to the ground, cemented within this house, embedded inside of you.
My shirt sticks to me, sucking on to my skin, flat against my back, around my elbows, against my chest. It plasters itself onto me like a hug, a cling; like arms around me.
You peel it away effortlessly and it doesn’t hurt as bad as I thought it would. The noise it makes when it separates itself from my skin is hollow and wet and warm, but it doesn’t hurt.
Not physically, at least.
The shirt falls with a sick squelching sound against the floor.
I don’t touch you.
My hands are impossibly still.
Almost as if you realize the truth of the matter - the broken man I am, more broken that I have ever been - you unbuckle my belt, pulling it out easily from the rings of loops.
My jeans are heavy, and they glue themselves against the curve of my ass, wrapped tight onto the length of my legs.
Patiently, you push them down, peeling them away from my skin, until I am left with nothing but my underwear on.
There’s something unspeakable that whispers in the way you look at the cotton material.
You reach out pass my shoulder and take the shampoo bottle.
You turn away from me.
Momentarily, I am stunned.
I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my briefs and, meticulously almost, slide it down my legs.
I step out of it, and mould myself against the hard of your back, the soft of your skin.
I bury my nose against the nape of your neck, breathing wetly against you.
I don’t reach out around you. I press my palms against the sides of your hips, tentative.
A heartbeat.
You turn around and hold me.
The freedom I feel in your embrace is laced with something razor-sharp.
…
One week is seven days too long.
I don’t reply messages but I keep them. I relish the hurt. It reminds me how wanted I am.
It reminds me of how much of a bastard I am.
You don’t question my distracted behaviour.
We stop having sex.
These nights, I find myself wrapped around your back.
I don’t ask why you are always looking out, looking away, looking past.
Our eyes hardly meet.
But during the sliver of instances that they do, time freezes and chills my bones.
…
Two weeks are fourteen nights too slow.
My phone is less congested now. My email account misses that familiar smiley face.
I am holding strong.
Last night you hold me in your arms for the first time in what feels like forever.
I am careful not to break.
…
We go out on a date.
It feels honest.
I begin to notice the little details about you that I’ve overlooked, that I’ve airbrushed aside because my eyes were busy wandering over the intricacies of another face, another body.
Your dark hair is getting too long, but the way you tie it loosely in that unprofessional ponytail is endearing.
Your grey eyes are a lot brighter than I remembered.
I link my hand with yours as we walk, shoulder to shoulder, home.
When I pull you in for a kiss, your mouth is pliant.
That night, sex comes along easy.
…
Three weeks and I am almost convinced that I’m clean.
My addiction appears to have erased itself from my life.
And then, a text message.
I said your name during sex with Noah.
I am surprised by how good I feel.
…
You are at the window.
Again.
I expect to see cigarette smoke twirling a halo around your head but your hands are empty.
I step up to you, turning you around.
Your eyes are tired, heavy and dark.
I caress your cheek.
Your eyes are bright, too bright.
Your lip quivers, and I finally understand that you’re crying.
Wordlessly, you get down on one knee, and take my hand in yours.
Your mouth is pursed into a broken smile as you remove the ring from my finger.
…
That night you drive to Katie’s.
I press pillows over my ears.
Your tortured melody rings unbearably loud.
*iz stupid*
So. The confirmation went well :) Thanks for all the well-wishes! You guys redefine epic.
However, I had such a serious writer's block and couldn't write at all yesterday.
Thank god sexyscholar helped clear my head. THANKS, BB.
The title of this part comes from snowmore, and is partly inspired by Super Junior's It's you.
1. All he knows.
2. Tremble.
3. Shatter.
4. Games.
5. Bad Habits.
6. Listen.
Rated R.
I hear water running in the bathroom.
I stand at the doorway of our bedroom and watch your silhouette morph from one incomprehensible shape to another.
My jacket slips from my fingers, and I loosen my tie.
I undo my watch strap and toss the accessory mindlessly onto the bed.
I slide the bathroom door open.
Hot mist greets me, your hand poised over the shampoo bottle.
A beat.
I step forward into the haze of hot water and let it shower over my fully clothed self.
You look uncertain, but not afraid.
Never afraid.
You ask no questions.
I close my eyes, the way I shut my heart down earlier.
Your nimble fingers start unbuttoning my shirt as I stand motionless; rooted to the ground, cemented within this house, embedded inside of you.
My shirt sticks to me, sucking on to my skin, flat against my back, around my elbows, against my chest. It plasters itself onto me like a hug, a cling; like arms around me.
You peel it away effortlessly and it doesn’t hurt as bad as I thought it would. The noise it makes when it separates itself from my skin is hollow and wet and warm, but it doesn’t hurt.
Not physically, at least.
The shirt falls with a sick squelching sound against the floor.
I don’t touch you.
My hands are impossibly still.
Almost as if you realize the truth of the matter - the broken man I am, more broken that I have ever been - you unbuckle my belt, pulling it out easily from the rings of loops.
My jeans are heavy, and they glue themselves against the curve of my ass, wrapped tight onto the length of my legs.
Patiently, you push them down, peeling them away from my skin, until I am left with nothing but my underwear on.
There’s something unspeakable that whispers in the way you look at the cotton material.
You reach out pass my shoulder and take the shampoo bottle.
You turn away from me.
Momentarily, I am stunned.
I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my briefs and, meticulously almost, slide it down my legs.
I step out of it, and mould myself against the hard of your back, the soft of your skin.
I bury my nose against the nape of your neck, breathing wetly against you.
I don’t reach out around you. I press my palms against the sides of your hips, tentative.
A heartbeat.
You turn around and hold me.
The freedom I feel in your embrace is laced with something razor-sharp.
…
One week is seven days too long.
I don’t reply messages but I keep them. I relish the hurt. It reminds me how wanted I am.
It reminds me of how much of a bastard I am.
You don’t question my distracted behaviour.
We stop having sex.
These nights, I find myself wrapped around your back.
I don’t ask why you are always looking out, looking away, looking past.
Our eyes hardly meet.
But during the sliver of instances that they do, time freezes and chills my bones.
…
Two weeks are fourteen nights too slow.
My phone is less congested now. My email account misses that familiar smiley face.
I am holding strong.
Last night you hold me in your arms for the first time in what feels like forever.
I am careful not to break.
…
We go out on a date.
It feels honest.
I begin to notice the little details about you that I’ve overlooked, that I’ve airbrushed aside because my eyes were busy wandering over the intricacies of another face, another body.
Your dark hair is getting too long, but the way you tie it loosely in that unprofessional ponytail is endearing.
Your grey eyes are a lot brighter than I remembered.
I link my hand with yours as we walk, shoulder to shoulder, home.
When I pull you in for a kiss, your mouth is pliant.
That night, sex comes along easy.
…
Three weeks and I am almost convinced that I’m clean.
My addiction appears to have erased itself from my life.
And then, a text message.
I said your name during sex with Noah.
I am surprised by how good I feel.
…
You are at the window.
Again.
I expect to see cigarette smoke twirling a halo around your head but your hands are empty.
I step up to you, turning you around.
Your eyes are tired, heavy and dark.
I caress your cheek.
Your eyes are bright, too bright.
Your lip quivers, and I finally understand that you’re crying.
Wordlessly, you get down on one knee, and take my hand in yours.
Your mouth is pursed into a broken smile as you remove the ring from my finger.
…
That night you drive to Katie’s.
I press pillows over my ears.
Your tortured melody rings unbearably loud.