Broken Hearts and Fierce Regrets

[glorfinniel.livejournal.com]

Title: Broken Hearts and Fierce Regrets

Author: glorfinniel

Rating: PG-13/R - swearing

Pairing: Monaboyd, obviously :P

Warning: Uncertain ending, possible death fic.

A/N: This is a the result of a plot bunny that was bugging me for AGES.  For more info, read this entry...yes, that is my own idea.  (Disclaimer: I don't own that video.  No, I don't.  And this never happened to our lads either and I hope it never does) Oh, and as usual, mistakes are my own!  (And one more thing, before I finally let you get on with the story - i'm not sure why it's got that title.  Just seemed to fit in my opinon.)

*

He’s mad at you, furious even, and you’ve never seen him act this way before.  He runs blindly through the crowd of photographers, (who are desperate to capture the tension between the pair of you) heedless of their calls and protests.  He’s swearing, pushing them away, pushing you away when you rush to his side, after he’s been smacked sharply on the back of the head by a bloody camera.  

 

He storms ahead, shouts at you.  His eyes are blazing with anger, a rage that he’s been keeping inside for far too long.

 

The pair of you have left the mob of cameramen behind now (oh, you made sure of that) but he still doesn’t slow down.  He’s almost running when your room finally comes into sight and as the door closes behind the two of you he really lets you have it.  Previous yelling has turned to almost incoherent, hysterical screaming, his accent so thick that even you can’t understand what he’s saying.

 

He’s so angry now that he’s beginning to scare you.  He’s never like this, never.  He continues with his hateful words and fierce demeanour whilst you step back and take it all in, trying hard not to simply run away. 

 

But wait.  Why should you be accepting all this?  Why should you let him say such things and not say anything in your defence? 

 

You debate this in your mind as he continues to accuse, hate, condemn.  You listen a little longer, waiting for him to calm and realise his mistakes.  You don’t retaliate when he punches at your chest, pushes you away.  After all, it’s because of what you did that he’s like this in the first place.

 

Isn’t it? 

 

A new feeling surges up in you, filling your mind, your heart.  You see red, you hear nothing but the rushing in your ears.  Fuck it.  You pick up the nearest thing at hand and throw it as hard as you can at the wall behind him.  The vase shatters loudly, stopping his words, and the contents (water, flowers and all) are now scattered across the floor at his feet.

 

He looks at you then, really looks at you, so that his gaze is piercing and you can’t help but stare at the floor with shame.  You hear his footsteps as he walks away and heads for the bathroom.

 

Cursing out loud, you throw yourself onto the sofa, pull your jumper off over your head.  Bugger it.  Sod this.  You hope that bang on the head is hurting him.

 

*

 

You must be sitting there for no more than a couple of minutes when something in the air changes suddenly.  The previous tension has been lifted unexpectedly and now dread, heavy and stifling, takes its place.

 

Immediately, without a second thought, you call his name.  There’s no reply of course, and you hadn’t really expected there to be one, but you stand up and walk to the closed door in spite of this.

 

Knocking lightly you try again and then open it when silence answers.  You don’t care anymore about this being an invasion of one’s privacy because something doesn’t feel right; something is wrong. 

 

The feeling’s even worse in the bathroom.  The humidity mixes with your dread and catches in your throat.  Your breath hitches, your heartbeat quickens.

 

And then you see him.

 

All in one moment regret, fear and despair overwhelm you.  You nearly swoon but for the panic that orders you to do otherwise.  He’s under the water, deathly pale.  He’s still.  Silent.

 

And the water is tinted red with his blood.

 

You scream his name this time and a wail of anguish escapes your mouth as you jump into the water, scrabbling frantically at wet, unresponsive limbs.  He keeps slipping from your fingers and sinking back underneath the surface until, in sheer desperation, you pull out the plug and grab him with such force you fear his bones may break. 

 

His head feels heavy and keeps falling to the side, scaring you all the more.  His beautiful eyes are closed, his mouth hanging open, perfect lips tinted blue.  Your love for him is suddenly so fierce it hurts and, wait...yes, that was your heart you just felt.

 

It’s ripped itself in half.

 

END