Fic: Always and Never
Hate me. Just do it. Damn goldenfae for getting this idea in my head. Just, damnit. I said I'd never write this fic. Not one like this. But... I did. Damn. The idea's been eating at me all day, so yeah, I had to. I HAD TO. Blame my brain. *smacks* Anway, here it is. Don't hate me? *is meek* Also: Have tissues. P.S. The title is the name of a song by 'Coheed and Cambria.'
Always and Never
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Rating: PG-13/T for language
Timeframe: 510 AU
Spoilers: 510
Warnings: Eep. Character death... *hides* Don't hate me! *cries* Also, again: have tissues. I teared up and I wrote the damn thing...
Summary: In an instant, the bottom drops out.
Always and Never
1.
Looking back, he'll never be able to tell anyone that he knew, that he just knew, the moment it happened. Because from now on there is no looking back. There is no talking about it.
There is nothing.
2.
For a split second he thinks about not turning around. Turning off the radio and keeping on the road he's on, going to his destination, and not looking back. If no one can tell him anything, it can't be true, right?
But the feeling of his stomach dropping out makes him tell the driver to turn around, to just turn the fucking car around now, and he digs his cell phone out of his pocket, pressing number two repeatedly. One is voicemail. It's crazy, but suddenly that's important. If voicemail wasn't automatically number one, he would be. Slightly hysterically, he feels the overwhelming need to tell him that. To say it, before it's too late.
Because it's not too late.
It can't be.
3.
It is.
It is too late.
Somewhere in his too fucked up brain he knows this. Even as he's rushing inside, after promising his mother he'll find him, he knows he won't. Not the way that they want him to be found, at least.
Ted. Ted's there, with his pathetic whatever-the-hell, and he shakes him hard. Where is he? Have you seen him?
Ted doesn't ask who he means. Doesn't need to. Just shakes his head.
Looking around in the smoke, the haze nearly blinding him, the smoke choking him, and the grime sticking to face already, Brian is pretty sure that this is the end of all things.
4.
He doesn't make it to the hospital.
Jennifer rode with him, and when they arrive, she's past being inconsolable, like she was earlier, before.
She's vacant. Almost dea-
No.
Just, no.
5.
They expect him to be screaming.
He can tell by the wary glances, the tension around him. They expect him to fall apart, to scream and rant and rave about how this just ISN'T FUCKING FAIR!
And it isn't. It's the furthest thing from fair that he can possibly imagine.
Part of him wishes he was screaming.
Part of him wishes for silence. For solace.
The whole of him wishes for anything else.
6.
How far they've come that, after the tragedy of the night, Jennifer clings to him in the waiting room.
What they're waiting for, no one is sure. But no one leaves.
Jennifer clings and shakes and cries, and Brian sits and stares ahead, lost in his memories.
No one says it'll be okay, because they know.
For Brian and Jennifer, it will never be okay again.
7.
There are other families in the waiting room. Other friends. Other loved ones.
Doctors come in and out. To some, their words bring gasps of relief, sobs of happiness.
It makes Brian want to punch something.
To others, the doctors bring misery. Life changing, soul crushing finality.
And that makes Brian want to punch something as well.
But mostly, he just wants to kiss him, and that makes him want to die.
8.
Once, they almost had a discussion on what would happen if either of them were hurt, or, god forbid, worse.
Brian kept interrupting, stopping the flow of speech, halting those kinds of thoughts.
Don't wanna talk about this, he'd muttered against his lips.
And then they'd fucked.
Thinking about it makes Brian ache, and he thinks that he'd give up absolutely anything to be back there, in that place, in that happiness.
Anything at all.
And Brian cries.
9.
The day they say goodbye to him, it's sunny and warm.
Brian can't decide if it's fitting or if the universe is laughing at him.
But he doesn't think about it for long, because he's there, but not really, in a box, and Brian can't think anymore.
Can't think, can't breathe, can't be.
As he squints in the sunshine, Brian thinks that it's a farce, because it will never really be sunny again.
10.
Some days are harder than others, after, but every day is hard.
Reminders are everywhere, and Brian is seriously considering moving somewhere else, just so that he can sleep a whole night without waking up all the time with wet spots on his pillow.
But then he looks at all the memories in this place, and knows he'll never leave. He can't. He won't.
One night, at Woody's with the guys, a blond looks up at him from across the room, and Brian feels a little flutter in his stomach.
He hasn't felt anything like that since-
And he turns and leaves.
"Justin."
Always and Never
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Rating: PG-13/T for language
Timeframe: 510 AU
Spoilers: 510
Warnings: Eep. Character death... *hides* Don't hate me! *cries* Also, again: have tissues. I teared up and I wrote the damn thing...
Summary: In an instant, the bottom drops out.
Always and Never
1.
Looking back, he'll never be able to tell anyone that he knew, that he just knew, the moment it happened. Because from now on there is no looking back. There is no talking about it.
There is nothing.
2.
For a split second he thinks about not turning around. Turning off the radio and keeping on the road he's on, going to his destination, and not looking back. If no one can tell him anything, it can't be true, right?
But the feeling of his stomach dropping out makes him tell the driver to turn around, to just turn the fucking car around now, and he digs his cell phone out of his pocket, pressing number two repeatedly. One is voicemail. It's crazy, but suddenly that's important. If voicemail wasn't automatically number one, he would be. Slightly hysterically, he feels the overwhelming need to tell him that. To say it, before it's too late.
Because it's not too late.
It can't be.
3.
It is.
It is too late.
Somewhere in his too fucked up brain he knows this. Even as he's rushing inside, after promising his mother he'll find him, he knows he won't. Not the way that they want him to be found, at least.
Ted. Ted's there, with his pathetic whatever-the-hell, and he shakes him hard. Where is he? Have you seen him?
Ted doesn't ask who he means. Doesn't need to. Just shakes his head.
Looking around in the smoke, the haze nearly blinding him, the smoke choking him, and the grime sticking to face already, Brian is pretty sure that this is the end of all things.
4.
He doesn't make it to the hospital.
Jennifer rode with him, and when they arrive, she's past being inconsolable, like she was earlier, before.
She's vacant. Almost dea-
No.
Just, no.
5.
They expect him to be screaming.
He can tell by the wary glances, the tension around him. They expect him to fall apart, to scream and rant and rave about how this just ISN'T FUCKING FAIR!
And it isn't. It's the furthest thing from fair that he can possibly imagine.
Part of him wishes he was screaming.
Part of him wishes for silence. For solace.
The whole of him wishes for anything else.
6.
How far they've come that, after the tragedy of the night, Jennifer clings to him in the waiting room.
What they're waiting for, no one is sure. But no one leaves.
Jennifer clings and shakes and cries, and Brian sits and stares ahead, lost in his memories.
No one says it'll be okay, because they know.
For Brian and Jennifer, it will never be okay again.
7.
There are other families in the waiting room. Other friends. Other loved ones.
Doctors come in and out. To some, their words bring gasps of relief, sobs of happiness.
It makes Brian want to punch something.
To others, the doctors bring misery. Life changing, soul crushing finality.
And that makes Brian want to punch something as well.
But mostly, he just wants to kiss him, and that makes him want to die.
8.
Once, they almost had a discussion on what would happen if either of them were hurt, or, god forbid, worse.
Brian kept interrupting, stopping the flow of speech, halting those kinds of thoughts.
Don't wanna talk about this, he'd muttered against his lips.
And then they'd fucked.
Thinking about it makes Brian ache, and he thinks that he'd give up absolutely anything to be back there, in that place, in that happiness.
Anything at all.
And Brian cries.
9.
The day they say goodbye to him, it's sunny and warm.
Brian can't decide if it's fitting or if the universe is laughing at him.
But he doesn't think about it for long, because he's there, but not really, in a box, and Brian can't think anymore.
Can't think, can't breathe, can't be.
As he squints in the sunshine, Brian thinks that it's a farce, because it will never really be sunny again.
10.
Some days are harder than others, after, but every day is hard.
Reminders are everywhere, and Brian is seriously considering moving somewhere else, just so that he can sleep a whole night without waking up all the time with wet spots on his pillow.
But then he looks at all the memories in this place, and knows he'll never leave. He can't. He won't.
One night, at Woody's with the guys, a blond looks up at him from across the room, and Brian feels a little flutter in his stomach.
He hasn't felt anything like that since-
And he turns and leaves.
"Justin."