The way his collar falls: (an interlude of 5am's)
Title: The way his collar falls: (an interlude of 5am's)
Author:
loveliesfamous
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: I wish.
Summary: ("How many people do you think have done it on this bed?" he was sure he laughed, "I...Pete. What? Why does it matter?" "Just wondering, 'Trick. You know. How may kisses I'm stealing in my sleep.")
Author Notes: It's five in the morning. My way of combatting insomnia seems to be by writing about it, at the minute. I apologise if it makes no sense. To all the heavy hearts that can't quite make it ♥
His back ached and his shoulders felt heavy. A hollow pulse echoing behind his eyes. They weren't moving, but even as he shifted to hide his head behind the blankets, the scrape of asphalt against the tires shuddered through the framework of the slim (yet understandably shoddy) motel bed.
And he missed staring out sleep against the underside of Patrick's bunk. Or tracing sheep in the contours of ink that had gathered there -- ("It's a tally of words" he said, almost smiling, dropping to a disappointed look at the worry that met his eyes) -- even the stir of smoke as they hit a gas station for the second time in as many minutes. While they were "sleeping". And sneaking apart.
He hid his head in his hands and if he shut his eyes real tight he could almost pretend he wasn't awake. If it wasn't for the gaps tracing shadows through his fingers. He'd love to believe himself, one day, just to see what if felt like to have faith. He was running himself in circles (and he knew it) getting nothing but a headache and another long night watching the clock stick everytime he looked away. His heart - untied - in his shoes. And his head running along loose threads.
Everyday is like a Sunday. Everyday is silent and grey. He contemplated turning the lamp on. Watching shadows kiss against the backwall, hiding around cracks, if only to distract himself from the pinpricks pulling taut against his face. Desperately awake. Desperately. His ears hit the wind as the floorboards creeked and he could swear - god, he hoped this was going somewhere this time -- he could almost swear that was the sound of socked feet shuffling around him. Socked feet, dry shoes, his ears perked up and he drew his breathing into silence. (Just to make sure, to make sure. Veins creeping across the carpet.
He became all too aware of his fingers gripping at the lamp switch when the noise dwindled to a purr of popping lightbulbs. Off. On. Off. Off. Wait. On. On. ON. ON. His hands were tingling. And his fingers were numb. He bit his lip and listened as a shaky breath tangled with the air just above a kiss. And he turned. And turned. The blankets hanging half overboard, hard nails pressing into an even harder mattress. Catching a flicker of the curtains swaying with the breeze from the not quite tight enough windows. His chest tightened. His fists tightened. Digging his face into the pillow -- ("How many people do you think have done it on this bed?" he was sure he laughed, "I...Pete. What? Why does it matter?" "Just wondering, 'Trick. You know. How may kisses I'm stealing in my sleep") -- and counting the spots of light trickling down the worn red cotton. Trashy, like cheap motels, like cheap romance in every room. And they wouldn't stop swaying. Footfalls hit the edge of the bed, again, he was sure. He was absolutely positive. Blurring shadows into shadows and a bit blot of ink clutching eyes from the dark.
The window was open. The window was open. He echoed himself, plodding over ghosts of couples and lonely hearts and suicide cases. The window was open. His eyes clinging to awake. Curtains clinging to the railing. The window had to be open.
The bed still felt hard under him as the blankets were tugged up under his chin. Shaking his head and yanking the plug from the clock out of the wall. Still screaming the same time. So this was what desperate felt like.
"Patrick. Patrick." his voice curving around the bloodshot eyes, around the unresponsive ears. The deep breathing lulling him away as his palms pressed against that glass, fingers tugging ferociously, clawing at the gaps. The curtains just wouldn't stop moving and it was keeping him awake. "Patrick."
"I was going to wait until you stopped humming Morrissey before I said anything. But. Are you sure you're okay?"
He turned his head, sharp and dismissive and everything he didn't mean to be. There was a bed and there was breathing. And a pulse. A pulse right in the bed beside him. He wondered why his knuckles didn't ache and why the light echoing through the curtains was green, and not red. He was covered in words and they were all falling from him at once.
"I think this is the part where you're supposed to save me."
Author:
loveliesfamousRating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: I wish.
Summary: ("How many people do you think have done it on this bed?" he was sure he laughed, "I...Pete. What? Why does it matter?" "Just wondering, 'Trick. You know. How may kisses I'm stealing in my sleep.")
Author Notes: It's five in the morning. My way of combatting insomnia seems to be by writing about it, at the minute. I apologise if it makes no sense. To all the heavy hearts that can't quite make it ♥
His back ached and his shoulders felt heavy. A hollow pulse echoing behind his eyes. They weren't moving, but even as he shifted to hide his head behind the blankets, the scrape of asphalt against the tires shuddered through the framework of the slim (yet understandably shoddy) motel bed.
And he missed staring out sleep against the underside of Patrick's bunk. Or tracing sheep in the contours of ink that had gathered there -- ("It's a tally of words" he said, almost smiling, dropping to a disappointed look at the worry that met his eyes) -- even the stir of smoke as they hit a gas station for the second time in as many minutes. While they were "sleeping". And sneaking apart.
He hid his head in his hands and if he shut his eyes real tight he could almost pretend he wasn't awake. If it wasn't for the gaps tracing shadows through his fingers. He'd love to believe himself, one day, just to see what if felt like to have faith. He was running himself in circles (and he knew it) getting nothing but a headache and another long night watching the clock stick everytime he looked away. His heart - untied - in his shoes. And his head running along loose threads.
Everyday is like a Sunday. Everyday is silent and grey. He contemplated turning the lamp on. Watching shadows kiss against the backwall, hiding around cracks, if only to distract himself from the pinpricks pulling taut against his face. Desperately awake. Desperately. His ears hit the wind as the floorboards creeked and he could swear - god, he hoped this was going somewhere this time -- he could almost swear that was the sound of socked feet shuffling around him. Socked feet, dry shoes, his ears perked up and he drew his breathing into silence. (Just to make sure, to make sure. Veins creeping across the carpet.
He became all too aware of his fingers gripping at the lamp switch when the noise dwindled to a purr of popping lightbulbs. Off. On. Off. Off. Wait. On. On. ON. ON. His hands were tingling. And his fingers were numb. He bit his lip and listened as a shaky breath tangled with the air just above a kiss. And he turned. And turned. The blankets hanging half overboard, hard nails pressing into an even harder mattress. Catching a flicker of the curtains swaying with the breeze from the not quite tight enough windows. His chest tightened. His fists tightened. Digging his face into the pillow -- ("How many people do you think have done it on this bed?" he was sure he laughed, "I...Pete. What? Why does it matter?" "Just wondering, 'Trick. You know. How may kisses I'm stealing in my sleep") -- and counting the spots of light trickling down the worn red cotton. Trashy, like cheap motels, like cheap romance in every room. And they wouldn't stop swaying. Footfalls hit the edge of the bed, again, he was sure. He was absolutely positive. Blurring shadows into shadows and a bit blot of ink clutching eyes from the dark.
The window was open. The window was open. He echoed himself, plodding over ghosts of couples and lonely hearts and suicide cases. The window was open. His eyes clinging to awake. Curtains clinging to the railing. The window had to be open.
The bed still felt hard under him as the blankets were tugged up under his chin. Shaking his head and yanking the plug from the clock out of the wall. Still screaming the same time. So this was what desperate felt like.
"Patrick. Patrick." his voice curving around the bloodshot eyes, around the unresponsive ears. The deep breathing lulling him away as his palms pressed against that glass, fingers tugging ferociously, clawing at the gaps. The curtains just wouldn't stop moving and it was keeping him awake. "Patrick."
"I was going to wait until you stopped humming Morrissey before I said anything. But. Are you sure you're okay?"
He turned his head, sharp and dismissive and everything he didn't mean to be. There was a bed and there was breathing. And a pulse. A pulse right in the bed beside him. He wondered why his knuckles didn't ache and why the light echoing through the curtains was green, and not red. He was covered in words and they were all falling from him at once.
"I think this is the part where you're supposed to save me."