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monaboyd Mar. 13th, 2004 06:00 pm)Whooo. Well. This is the 1st fic in an arc I'm slowly working on and it's kind of experimental, so bear with me here.
Also the title comes from the Manic Street Preachers song of the same name (Yet another under-rated band that needs more recognition!) which is a pretty weird, sad, apathetic type of song that seemed to fit with what I was writing, so hey presto! On with the fic.
Disclaimers: Lies from my alternative reality. Don't own the song either.
Warnings: Angst, detailed description of depressive mental states.
Pairing: Semi Dom/Billeh
Archiving/feedback: yes on both counts. Let me know about archiving.
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monaboyd and x-posted to fellow_shippers
“Sometimes I just stay in bed
And think about the day
When I can retire, forgetting everything
I'll forget everything ”- Manic Street Preachers.
Dominic lay sprawled on the bed, his bed-sheets almost kicked off and hanging precariously on the far right corner.
Only a bit of them covered his waist and leg. It didn’t matter to him, even though the morning was cold and he was shirtless.
His skin was pebbled, but he barely felt the cold touch him.
In fact, he didn’t notice anything except the way that the morning light made patterns on the ceiling.
He kept his eyes glued on them, even though they weren’t anything spectacular.
Bars, lines, a half-moon of white light, which occasionally had a tinge of colour at the edges.
He had seen prettier things before.
But the pretty things made him think. And then the thoughts would all come flooding out, and tangle in his head and follow a nonsense pattern that would make him think the end was so fucken close he could touch it.
And that would make him even more pained and sad and he didn’t understand why.
So he kept his eyes on the patterns and kept his mind white and blank.
The phone had rang at least three times already that morning, and he had let it ring.
He had heard his friends all leave messages, and his eyes remained trained on the ceiling.
His eyes felt like they were on fire. He honestly felt like digging his eyes out of his skull if it would help the burning sensation.
He shuddered at the mental image and instead closed his eyes.
It helped.
But then his chest got all heavy and tight, as if his heart was being torn apart from the inside and was crushing his chest in an effort to get out.
He took a couple of deep breaths, hoping that maybe *this* time it would help to push that pain away.
Dom knew it had failed when the tears began to prickle insistently at his eyelids; each prickle feeling like a dozen little needles stabbing the soft flesh.
His mind had gone from the pure white to the deepest black, and already, he could hear the snatches of the monologue starting up. Frayed and stranded, but quickly weaving and tying themselves together to make the impenetrable net of madness his mind seemed to find normal nowadays.
He felt it all building up inside of him and all rational thought simply shut down at that point.
“Nononono..comeon..nononono...”
He sat up and shoved the heels of his hands against his eyes in a childish effort to push his tears back.
The pain and pressure seemed to be doing the job until he released his eyes and a flood of tears followed right after.
They trickled down his face, down his chest and all he could think about was how they felt heavy and sticky like blood and how it didn’t hurt to cry.
Even though he soon found himself kneeling on his bed, with his face buried in the crisp white pillow case, weeping as if his heart was splintered and broken beyond repair; the thought kept running through his head.
“It doesn’t hurt.”
It was like a mantra almost, keeping him from drowning in all the confusion and stilted cacophony of tangled thoughts and emotions.
It was as if it was shielding a core part of his being from being damaged any further.
He didn’t think much about it until the crying stopped.
One minute he was crying, the next he wasn’t.
Just like that.
Like the tripped wire in his brain had been pulled taut again and everything was running like it should.
He sat up and wiped his hand across his face, feeling only slight moisture on his fingertips as he did.
He looked at his fingers and couldn’t help letting a choky, slightly unhinged laugh escape.
“Dom? Dommie? Christ man! Dominic!”
He heard Billy; he wasn’t sure if he really heard him though or if he was just hearing the monologue breaking apart again and the fragments and loose threads were whispering with his friend voice in his mind.
He couldn’t respond to him though. It all felt as surreal as a Degas painting. Everything underwater and he couldn’t respond. Couldn’t summon up the proper words or emotions.
He watched as Billy made his way to the bed, kneel down in front of him and talk to him.
He hears his lips move, but there are no words.
His mind was working. But the emotions have been shut off.
It’s not until he found himself breathing in the fresh, citrusy scent of Billy’s and felt his arms around him that he realized he wasn’t truly alone.
He heard Billy say something. Felt him grab his scratched up, cold arm and trap it between their bodies to warm it up. Felt Billy hug him so tightly that it was almost painful.
And still he’s locked up.
End.
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