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monaboyd Feb. 11th, 2004 02:16 am)
sequin-tears.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Feb. 11th, 2004 02:16 am)Title: Breaking
Author: sequin_tears
Pairing: Billy/Dom
Rating: PG I think.. there's a few bad words.
Summary: Dom doesn't know why his heart won't break.
Disclaimer: To my knowledge, complete and utter fiction.
A/N: First time posting a story, so any helpful feedback would be really appreciated. Or you can ignore me, that works too.
If his heart is breaking, why it is his stomach bothering him like this? It's as if all his insides are huddling together looking for comfort, twisting and looping around each other, pulling taut in a mock embrace. But his heart just keeps on beating like it always has as the small blue piece of paper slips from his grasp and flutters to the floor.
Dear Dom,
I know I'm being a fucking coward doing it this way, but I know I wouldn't go through with it if I had to face you.
He gropes around in the dark, picks up the closest object and hurls it as hard as he can. He barely registers the loud crash, the cracking of his window. All he hears is the gentle tinkling of the leftover shards as they fall gracefully to the ground in a flourish of swirling reflections, shattering into tinier pieces of themselves on impact. He thinks his heart should be breaking like that, should be cutting him up inside with its sharp, jagged edges. All he gets is nausea, and it’s not nearly as satisfying.
I wanted to have the right words, the right way to say goodbye, but it's all bullshit 'cause leaving isn't right. But it was only ever a short visit, we both knew that, yeah?
The tile is cold against his sweaty skin and he clings to it, moulding his sticky flesh to the temporary relief. He purged himself of his huddled insides, flushed them into rotten sewers, but his heart just keeps on beating. Stupid, fucking traitorous heart. Didn't it know it was supposed to be grieving? Didn't it hear the rest of him falling to pieces, tangling up inside? It's regular rhythm is maddening and he clutches at the flesh surrounding it, willing it to acknowledge what is going on. He claws at his slippery skin, bent on showing his heart how it is wrong and stupid and worthless.
What happened was perfect and amazing and nothing will change that. But I have to be grown up and settle and... us.. we're not that. Our lives are in different countries with different people and a holiday here and there can't change that. It can't.
He can't remember falling asleep, but it feels as though he's just woken up. The tile is a white blur in front of his eyes and his not-quite-alert ears pick up an irregular rhythm and his (possibly) sleep addled brain slowly realises that the sound isn’t him. The gentle thumping rhythm evolves into thumping plus muttering voices, and finally hands clutching at his damp flesh.
"Christ, Dom," soft, American muttering and someone else. Someone taller, voice too tall, too far away to distinguish. They'll try to take care of him, try to put him back together, but how can they fix something that won't break?
You can hate me if you want to, but fuck, I don't want you to.
He stares at the hole where the window used to be. There are voices in the background, lengthy pauses, footsteps and hushed voices again. All muted for his benefit. He tries to hear the world outside, the things that exist outside of this fucked up mess, but the hole sucks it all up and spits the silence back at him. All he can do is listen to the thudding inside his chest and wonder where the world went.
I love you Dominic.
I'm sorry.
Billy.
When the phone rings, one of the voices silences it quickly and the footsteps approach him.
"Dom," a hand on his shoulder, smells like smoke and sweat. "Dom, it's Billy, he wants to talk to you.." but Dom can't hear the rest because suddenly the voice is.. real. Elijah, holding the phone with Billy on the other end because Billy is not here, because it's real. Because Billy left. And there is crappy country music coming from the house next door and there are cars passing on the street, there is yelling and rain, sirens and leaves rustling and it swirls around his head in an overwhelming cacophony of sound. The world presses in on him from all sides and drowns out the sound of his heartbeat. He hears Billy's voice, small and tinny, saying his name from far, far away and he thinks his heart has discovered how to break.
Author: sequin_tears
Pairing: Billy/Dom
Rating: PG I think.. there's a few bad words.
Summary: Dom doesn't know why his heart won't break.
Disclaimer: To my knowledge, complete and utter fiction.
A/N: First time posting a story, so any helpful feedback would be really appreciated. Or you can ignore me, that works too.
If his heart is breaking, why it is his stomach bothering him like this? It's as if all his insides are huddling together looking for comfort, twisting and looping around each other, pulling taut in a mock embrace. But his heart just keeps on beating like it always has as the small blue piece of paper slips from his grasp and flutters to the floor.
Dear Dom,
I know I'm being a fucking coward doing it this way, but I know I wouldn't go through with it if I had to face you.
He gropes around in the dark, picks up the closest object and hurls it as hard as he can. He barely registers the loud crash, the cracking of his window. All he hears is the gentle tinkling of the leftover shards as they fall gracefully to the ground in a flourish of swirling reflections, shattering into tinier pieces of themselves on impact. He thinks his heart should be breaking like that, should be cutting him up inside with its sharp, jagged edges. All he gets is nausea, and it’s not nearly as satisfying.
I wanted to have the right words, the right way to say goodbye, but it's all bullshit 'cause leaving isn't right. But it was only ever a short visit, we both knew that, yeah?
The tile is cold against his sweaty skin and he clings to it, moulding his sticky flesh to the temporary relief. He purged himself of his huddled insides, flushed them into rotten sewers, but his heart just keeps on beating. Stupid, fucking traitorous heart. Didn't it know it was supposed to be grieving? Didn't it hear the rest of him falling to pieces, tangling up inside? It's regular rhythm is maddening and he clutches at the flesh surrounding it, willing it to acknowledge what is going on. He claws at his slippery skin, bent on showing his heart how it is wrong and stupid and worthless.
What happened was perfect and amazing and nothing will change that. But I have to be grown up and settle and... us.. we're not that. Our lives are in different countries with different people and a holiday here and there can't change that. It can't.
He can't remember falling asleep, but it feels as though he's just woken up. The tile is a white blur in front of his eyes and his not-quite-alert ears pick up an irregular rhythm and his (possibly) sleep addled brain slowly realises that the sound isn’t him. The gentle thumping rhythm evolves into thumping plus muttering voices, and finally hands clutching at his damp flesh.
"Christ, Dom," soft, American muttering and someone else. Someone taller, voice too tall, too far away to distinguish. They'll try to take care of him, try to put him back together, but how can they fix something that won't break?
You can hate me if you want to, but fuck, I don't want you to.
He stares at the hole where the window used to be. There are voices in the background, lengthy pauses, footsteps and hushed voices again. All muted for his benefit. He tries to hear the world outside, the things that exist outside of this fucked up mess, but the hole sucks it all up and spits the silence back at him. All he can do is listen to the thudding inside his chest and wonder where the world went.
I love you Dominic.
I'm sorry.
Billy.
When the phone rings, one of the voices silences it quickly and the footsteps approach him.
"Dom," a hand on his shoulder, smells like smoke and sweat. "Dom, it's Billy, he wants to talk to you.." but Dom can't hear the rest because suddenly the voice is.. real. Elijah, holding the phone with Billy on the other end because Billy is not here, because it's real. Because Billy left. And there is crappy country music coming from the house next door and there are cars passing on the street, there is yelling and rain, sirens and leaves rustling and it swirls around his head in an overwhelming cacophony of sound. The world presses in on him from all sides and drowns out the sound of his heartbeat. He hears Billy's voice, small and tinny, saying his name from far, far away and he thinks his heart has discovered how to break.
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