new almost-fic
A thing. A fragmentary ficlet-ish thing for ds_aprilfools prompt 20: helpless.
Addiction, F/K-ish, PG. Beta-type thanks to omphale23, as usual. 497 words.
Ray's always had trouble concentrating. It helps that he's quick, but his brain tends to jump from topic to topic. It makes quitting smoking hell, although he supposes it must be hell for everybody, or else everybody would do it. But, for him, it's like every twenty seconds during every waking minute his brain says, "Hey! Do you know what would be neat? A cigarette!" And if he manages to squash down that voice, another pipes up, all innocently asking, "Hey! Do you know what would be cool? What if you rolled paper into a tube and filled it with something flammable but not too flammable and--" until he realizes what his brain is doing and shuts it down again. It happens over and over and over, though. A thought like thirst, a want he can't quite pin down that, when he focuses on it, turns out to be something he can't have.
Because he's quitting. For a million reasons, including, in a roundabout way, getting over Stella. Because Stella hated him smoking, so when she dumped him he smoked up a storm. Smoked for every cigarette he couldn't have when he was her husband. Who the fuck was he to care about class or the smell or the expense or his long term survival? His short term was tough enough, thanks very much.
But once he decided that saying 'Fuck Stella' through smoking was just another pathetic way of saying 'Stella, Stella, Stella, I need you' and he realized he couldn't walk up a flight of stairs without needing to catch his breath, much less run down three alleys, jump a fence and catch a purse snatcher without damn near killing himself, he decided to quit. Again.
He'd done it before, how hard could it be?
It's hard. Fucking hard, dull hard, stubborn hard. Not because it's stronger than he is, but because it's more persistent. It can always outlast him.
And, really, one vice he wanted 1500 times a day but couldn't have was plenty. It's pretty damn frustrating to suddenly have two.
But Fraser, insane as it sounds, is just like cigarettes. He's always there, an itch, an urge, a want that seems totally reasonable and an A-100% good idea for that half second before he remembers, every fucking time he remembers, why it isn't.
"Hey," his brain says, "You know what would be neat? Getting Fraser naked and sweaty." And there's that moment of pure yeah! like he's figured out something important and good, before the rest of him says, "Oh, wait. Work, straight, partners, possibly asexual, Vecchio, really embarrassing," and he doesn't.
And then his brain says, "Hey! I could go for some kissing. How about kissing that tall, handsome guy in the red suit?" And he falls for it again, for one exhilarating second, before reality sets in.
It's exhausting, really. He wonders if it's like this for other people, but isn't sure how to ask.
My prompt table.
Addiction, F/K-ish, PG. Beta-type thanks to omphale23, as usual. 497 words.
Ray's always had trouble concentrating. It helps that he's quick, but his brain tends to jump from topic to topic. It makes quitting smoking hell, although he supposes it must be hell for everybody, or else everybody would do it. But, for him, it's like every twenty seconds during every waking minute his brain says, "Hey! Do you know what would be neat? A cigarette!" And if he manages to squash down that voice, another pipes up, all innocently asking, "Hey! Do you know what would be cool? What if you rolled paper into a tube and filled it with something flammable but not too flammable and--" until he realizes what his brain is doing and shuts it down again. It happens over and over and over, though. A thought like thirst, a want he can't quite pin down that, when he focuses on it, turns out to be something he can't have.
Because he's quitting. For a million reasons, including, in a roundabout way, getting over Stella. Because Stella hated him smoking, so when she dumped him he smoked up a storm. Smoked for every cigarette he couldn't have when he was her husband. Who the fuck was he to care about class or the smell or the expense or his long term survival? His short term was tough enough, thanks very much.
But once he decided that saying 'Fuck Stella' through smoking was just another pathetic way of saying 'Stella, Stella, Stella, I need you' and he realized he couldn't walk up a flight of stairs without needing to catch his breath, much less run down three alleys, jump a fence and catch a purse snatcher without damn near killing himself, he decided to quit. Again.
He'd done it before, how hard could it be?
It's hard. Fucking hard, dull hard, stubborn hard. Not because it's stronger than he is, but because it's more persistent. It can always outlast him.
And, really, one vice he wanted 1500 times a day but couldn't have was plenty. It's pretty damn frustrating to suddenly have two.
But Fraser, insane as it sounds, is just like cigarettes. He's always there, an itch, an urge, a want that seems totally reasonable and an A-100% good idea for that half second before he remembers, every fucking time he remembers, why it isn't.
"Hey," his brain says, "You know what would be neat? Getting Fraser naked and sweaty." And there's that moment of pure yeah! like he's figured out something important and good, before the rest of him says, "Oh, wait. Work, straight, partners, possibly asexual, Vecchio, really embarrassing," and he doesn't.
And then his brain says, "Hey! I could go for some kissing. How about kissing that tall, handsome guy in the red suit?" And he falls for it again, for one exhilarating second, before reality sets in.
It's exhausting, really. He wonders if it's like this for other people, but isn't sure how to ask.
My prompt table.