Pairing: Trent Klatt / Brendon Morrison
Disclaimer: This is fiction
Rating: R
Trent's POV
The last drink, that one burns down my throat. I won't
stop with that glass though. The next one may taste better, you never know. I
can't stop with one.
I couldn't stop with raking my fingernails down a
blackboard. If I had the chance, had I one here, to make that noise. I know
that sound sends a shiver up your spine, but I want to drag my fingers across
barbed wire, feel the shudder go up my soul.
I would prefer to be drinking in a bar. Just because
at home it feels to close, like he will step out of the shadows. Even though
this is a house he has never been to, I can feel him around me still.
But, not him, that isn't the way he'd do it. He would
clamber out of the shadows and grin at me, and trip over the coffee table. And
what would he be doing the dark anyway? Everywhere he goes the sun is shining,
and the birds sing; and it was only ever me that brought the rain clouds.
Except maybe, maybe he would be in the dark looking for me, but he has not done
that for a long time.
Why would he? I have pushed him firmly away. Once I
drank him down, like this drink, except he was sweeter. But it was like being
drunk. The earth paused, and we spun around, and fell over against each other.
And the sparks that rose off our bodies, filled the bedroom, and spilled out
the windows to cover the grass around the house with sparklers, and what else?
Fireworks, windmills of love. And they went on and on into, wherever. Eternity.
I didn't care at all; there was enough to go around, to share with the rest of
the world.
I didn't think about it, didn't analyze it, and didn't
even try to understand it. I don't think I even paused for breath. Just barged
in, and took what I wanted, and then. And then what he offered. Then left. But
I can remember it; I have replayed it in my mind, a million times over. If I
could, I would make a spell, conjure him here. At least to apologize.
I'm drunk enough to be maudlin, dammit, but not drunk
enough to start hating and blaming him, not drunk enough by half. But that will
come. I'm not drunk enough to feel anything besides missing him. I'm tied up
tight in his heart, where he wants me there or not, expects me to be there or
not, still, lurking beside him. I'm not drunk enough to make myself numb.
This drink is for him, standing up, to the wind of me
blowing past him out of his life, barely stopping to say goodbye. And this
drink is for never bothering to even, think about his tears let alone dry his
cheeks. And this drink is for him hanging around, hanging tough, and having
hope that took such a long time to die.
I miss him most when I have been drinking. If I'm
drunk enough, and tip my head back, I can close my eyes, and be walking beside
him.
End
