Untitled Fic
Title: Untitled
Author: Kali
Rating: PG13 for angst and a couple of swearwords
Pairing: Monaboyd, of sorts.
Genre: Angst
Summary: Short angst ficlet that I can't think of how to summarise
Disclaimer: This never happened, hence the 'fiction' part of 'fanfiction'.
Notes: I don't know where this came from, it just happened. It's also unbeated so if you find any mistakes, please tell me so I can fix it. Feedback is loved.
The whisky burns a hot, sickly trail down his throat. He’s never really liked the shit, he’s always been a beer type of bloke, but it’s all he drinks these days. Malt whisky, good, strong stuff that leaves a bitter aftertaste for hours after the original drink is long gone.
He sits, staring unhappily out the window, the cold, smooth glass tumbler pressed to his forehead. He thinks, absently, that it should be raining, that if this were a movie it would be pouring out, thick, heavy sheets of rain falling from the heavens to soak the city. But it’s not raining, because this isn’t a movie, it’s just life, and so the skies are nothing but a little cloudy. Stars dim and moon hidden, grey clouds sliding slowly across the sky. It should be a more remarkable night, he thinks, there should be some memorable weather to mark this night as special. Well, not special, because special implies something good and this isn’t good, not in the least.
It had been one year. Fifty two weeks. Three hundred and sixty five days. Eight thousand seven hundred and thirty nine hours, exactly. It felt like a lifetime had passed. No, longer, it felt like three lifetimes, like a short eternity. Endless days filled with nothing but whisky and tears and bitter, bitter regret. He told himself, again and again, that he’d been an idiot, a fool, a fucking wanker. His timing had been crap, his words had been pathetic, his actions atrocious… he’d fucked it all up, destroyed the single greatest friendship he’d ever had in the span of thirty seconds. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
He sighs, taking another gulp of his drink and wincing as it burned its way down his throat. He knew he should go to bed. He had… something tomorrow morning that he needed to be awake and alert for. He couldn’t remember exactly what it was, a meeting or an audition or a screen-test… it was all the same, a nonstop loop of events and meetings and auditions and hours of filming when all he wanted to do was go home and curl up with his misery and a bottle of whisky but he couldn’t because he had to keep up appearances so he just smiled and nodded and played the part and wanted for it all to just stop.
Fuck. He’s crying again, fat, wet tears sliding down his cheeks to drip from his chin. He doesn’t bother to wipe them away, there’s no point, just lets the tears fall as he stars out at the unremarkable night and wishes, like always does, that he could change things. Just go back to that moment in time and tell himself, no, don’t do this, don’t fuck it all up. Because then… he wouldn’t alone. He wouldn’t be without the one person he ever really, trule, one hundred per cent, loved. He wouldn’t be without Billy.
Author: Kali
Rating: PG13 for angst and a couple of swearwords
Pairing: Monaboyd, of sorts.
Genre: Angst
Summary: Short angst ficlet that I can't think of how to summarise
Disclaimer: This never happened, hence the 'fiction' part of 'fanfiction'.
Notes: I don't know where this came from, it just happened. It's also unbeated so if you find any mistakes, please tell me so I can fix it. Feedback is loved.
The whisky burns a hot, sickly trail down his throat. He’s never really liked the shit, he’s always been a beer type of bloke, but it’s all he drinks these days. Malt whisky, good, strong stuff that leaves a bitter aftertaste for hours after the original drink is long gone.
He sits, staring unhappily out the window, the cold, smooth glass tumbler pressed to his forehead. He thinks, absently, that it should be raining, that if this were a movie it would be pouring out, thick, heavy sheets of rain falling from the heavens to soak the city. But it’s not raining, because this isn’t a movie, it’s just life, and so the skies are nothing but a little cloudy. Stars dim and moon hidden, grey clouds sliding slowly across the sky. It should be a more remarkable night, he thinks, there should be some memorable weather to mark this night as special. Well, not special, because special implies something good and this isn’t good, not in the least.
It had been one year. Fifty two weeks. Three hundred and sixty five days. Eight thousand seven hundred and thirty nine hours, exactly. It felt like a lifetime had passed. No, longer, it felt like three lifetimes, like a short eternity. Endless days filled with nothing but whisky and tears and bitter, bitter regret. He told himself, again and again, that he’d been an idiot, a fool, a fucking wanker. His timing had been crap, his words had been pathetic, his actions atrocious… he’d fucked it all up, destroyed the single greatest friendship he’d ever had in the span of thirty seconds. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
He sighs, taking another gulp of his drink and wincing as it burned its way down his throat. He knew he should go to bed. He had… something tomorrow morning that he needed to be awake and alert for. He couldn’t remember exactly what it was, a meeting or an audition or a screen-test… it was all the same, a nonstop loop of events and meetings and auditions and hours of filming when all he wanted to do was go home and curl up with his misery and a bottle of whisky but he couldn’t because he had to keep up appearances so he just smiled and nodded and played the part and wanted for it all to just stop.
Fuck. He’s crying again, fat, wet tears sliding down his cheeks to drip from his chin. He doesn’t bother to wipe them away, there’s no point, just lets the tears fall as he stars out at the unremarkable night and wishes, like always does, that he could change things. Just go back to that moment in time and tell himself, no, don’t do this, don’t fuck it all up. Because then… he wouldn’t alone. He wouldn’t be without the one person he ever really, trule, one hundred per cent, loved. He wouldn’t be without Billy.