?

Log in

 
 
14 May 2008 @ 11:41 pm
RPS Ficlet: Close  
And this is our special present for lady_bluefairy. Happy birthday girl! We love you! ♥ We wanted to give you pure schmoop, but of course we couldn't resist and had to throw in some angst... *insert innocent looks here* Sorry 'bout that. LOL

Hopefully everyone else will enjoy, too. :)

Title: Close
Authors: titheniel & fallonblackdays
Word Count: 4407
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: unbetaed
Summary: Fourteen days spent across the ocean didn't really help.



Close

Fourteen days. Fourteen whole days spent as far as he could get, out of the fucking Country, across the fucking ocean.

Fourteen whole days spent with two of his best friends in one of his favorite cities in the world, enjoying himself and playing for crowds that were more than enthusiastic (maybe, sometimes, even a little too much).

Fourteen days after which he should feel more at peace, more relaxed, ready to just turn the page and go on.

Instead, as he walks into his very empty house after having just landed in L.A., he possibly feels even more crushed than when he has left.

It's the gaping hole in the pit of his stomach, it's his breath itching at night, it's the unshed tears stinging at his eyelids. He should have known that fourteen days spent in England wouldn't erase that. He should have known that nothing would erase that.
Which is how he finds himself slumped on the couch not two hours later, a bottle of Jack in his semi-slack hand. Not to numb, not to forget, but to be reminded that no matter what he does, that emptiness isn't leaving anytime soon.

'I know I'll love again someday.'
He mutters the words, slurring them a little, his knuckles whitening around the glassy neck of the bottle. Bullshit. He doesn't want to love again. As pathetic, crazy and masochistic as it sounds, falling out of love with Christian Kane isn't an option that he finds appealing. It doesn't matter that he's lost it all already, that's he's lost him. Steve just wants to hang onto his love for a little while longer.

Just a little bit.

He takes another long swig, not even feeling the whiskey burning down his throat, and he knows that's the signal that he should stop drinking, right now. He promptly ignores it.

Chris didn’t come to take away his stuff. Figures he’s busy, doing something – Steve doesn’t think the word ‘someone’, he really doesn’t. The boxes are piled neatly in a corner of the kitchen, all of their life together stocked and packed, ready to be taken to the dumper.

Steve takes another gulp and finds out the bottle’s empty. Raising on shaky legs he goes to the bar cabinet, knocking against the coffee table and upturning a stack of unread mail as he goes. There’s no more whiskey, but he finds a bottle of Cuervo, unopened. It was a house warming gift from Jensen, and Chris didn’t want to open it.

“We’ll keep it for a special occasion,” he’d said.

Well, what more deserving occasion than this pity party set for one, Steve thinks as the tequila slides easily down the same path the JD had followed.

One hour later, things are fuzzy and he can hardly hear himself think anymore. He rolls onto his feet, tries to stand, and ends up falling on his side onto the carpet.

He doesn't move from there. What for? There's a weak flicker of awareness in the back of his head that tells him that this is really taking it too far, but he shushes it quickly. He blinks dazedly, the beige fringes of the carpet just this close to his eyes.

Chris had bought that for him when Steve bought his house. He should probably pack it with the rest of Chris' stuff.

It’s some time later when he hears – or well, he thinks he hears the key turning into the door. Which is ridiculous because Jensen’s back in Vancouver and the only other person that has the house’s keys is not likely to show up.

“I don’t want these… you can keep them…”

“Just take ‘em and go.”

“Steve, seriously – ”

“I don’t want
anything from you.”

Steve buries his face in the carpet. The door had slammed shut back then, the boxes left untouched in the kitchen. He didn’t think it would hurt that much.

“I hate you,” he murmurs into the thick fibers of the carpet. “I hate you so bad.”

But it's not true and he knows it; and that knowledge burns more than the pain itself. He groans loudly, a sound halfway between a moan and a sob deep in his throat.

Jensen would kick his ass if he saw what state he's in right now. But luckily, Jensen's not there. He curls up in a tight ball and moans again, pitiful sounds that he's glad he's drunk enough that he won't remember them tomorrow.

“Jesus.”
He stiffens, blinking several times and struggling to bring his surroundings into focus. The voice… He’s so fucked up. He shouldn’t have mixed alcohol. Now Chris’ voice isn’t just inside his head, he's hearing it all around him, echoing strangely in the half-empty room.

“Go away,” he whispers miserably, trying, and failing, to roll onto his back.

"Jesus, Steve... What did you do?" It's the soft kind of concern that used to be in Chris' voice back when they still were all right, back when Chris cared, back when Chris loved him.

Steve can't stand it right now.
"Fuck you..." he mutters. "Go away... Y're not real... Lemme be."

“Up you get now, c’mon.”

Steve blinks up at the ceiling, hating when Chris’ face swims in front of him.

Fuck. If Jensen finds out that he’s being hallucinating, he’s going to send him to straightjackets and comfy padded walls.

“Go away,” he slurs, raising one sluggish arm to aim a weak punch at Chris’ face. His hair is straight now, longer. His mind must be updating the time they’ve been apart.

“I hate you, you hear me? I hate you –” He sobs and turns his head to the side, hating that he’s drunk so much that he can’t even move properly to drag himself to bed and sleep it off.

"I know." Is Chris' voice breaking? His mind is delusional, just like himself; Chris wouldn't care. "I know. You have every right to."

Steve blinks again, fixes the blurry, dream-like face of his mind's trick with the kind of open desperation he hasn't allowed himself to show the real Chris.
"Fuck you..." he croaks, his own voice cracking ominously. "FUCK YOU!" It's that roar that he hasn't released in months. "FUCK YOU, CHRISTIAN!"

He lunges for the hazy blur that is supposed to be Chris’ face but of course his knuckles don’t come in contact with anything. Of course they don’t. It’s not like Chris is really there with him.

Steve falls back to the floor, his head slamming into the carpeting, little stars erupting in front of his eyes, adding noise to the already distorted shape of Chris’ face.
“Pathetic,” he mumbles, feeling tears spring to his eyes, sliding unbidden down his cheeks. “So pathetic. You hear me? You threw it all away. We could’ve been good. I wouldn’t have asked. I’d have done what you – what you –” he breaks off, sniffles, rubs at his face with his sleeve, too roughly. It hurts, but then again what’s new?

“What did you want?” Chris’ voice is soft, almost tantalizing in his ear. Steve wishes so bad that it was true.

“I want- I wanted –" He hiccups, trying his damnest to bring Chris into sharper focus. He’s always so beautiful, even when he’s intent on ripping Steve’s heart out. "You," he finally spits out, choking on his own breath. "You... Goddamn you... I didn't want our music... or... or big gigs... or... clapping crowds..." He knows he's not making sense, but who cares? None's there to hear. "You. I just wanted you... I hate you..."

It's like there's a hot blade twisting around in his chest. It hurts. So bad.
"I hate you..."
He groans as his stomach twists itself upside down, and he coughs up some bile on the carpet; the beige colored carpet that Chris gave him, so long ago.
"I love you..."

The voice in his head is silent now. He sobs a little, temples throbbing as he fights to stand on wobbly hands and knees and get on the cold floor, not a few inches away.
He slips a bit, hands sweaty and clammy, and he imagines he can feel Chris’ strong arms pressed around his chest, the warmth of Chris’ body seeping through the layers of clothing.

Steve wants to laugh, God, he’s so fucked in the head it’s almost funny, but exhaustion and booze win him over and he’s suddenly pulled under.

+++

He doesn't know how much time has passed when he wakes up next. Actually, waking up is too strong a word. It's like something died in his mouth; or maybe he has. Died. He groans, temples thumping and stomach rocking.

He doesn't remember it being this hot when he has made it back to his house the night, and he tosses his head around a little. His temple doesn't connect with either the rough carpet or the hard floor, but with something soft and fluffy that after a few moments of doubts Steve recognizes as his pillow.

He pries his eyes open with difficulty, blinking to bring some focus back to them. It doesn't entirely work, as things are quite blurry. But then again, there's not much to see, as the room is bathed in darkness. Has he made it to bed? How?

Steve struggles to a half-sitting position, trying to gauge his surroundings. He smells like whiskey and tequila, but there’s a hint of aftershave lingering about the room that he would recognize anywhere.

Christ. The hallucination. Had he been so drunk that he’d gone and sniff at Chris’ old t-shirts, those he’d hidden from Chris when he’d packed so he would always have a bit of him with him?

He contemplates killing himself, but his bladder is way past exploding point, and he needs to piss first. He can decide how he wants to end his miserable life later. When his head has stopped throbbing.

He stumbles around to the bathroom, bouncing off the walls of the room a couple of times. He has no idea how he manages to take a leak without actually passing out.

When he stumbles back out, he crashes against a strong chest, painfully solid for its unreality, Chris' arms enveloping him to keep him upright. Steve groans, his stomach tightening in despair. Why does he have to be haunted even in his state of semi-awareness?

"Leave me be..." His voice creaks ominously. "Please... just... just go away..."

Fingers weave through his hair, pulling it back and away from his face, tilting his head up until all he can see is blue. Chris’ scent is thick and almost intoxicating. He must have sniffled the bottle of aftershave directly before passing out. There’s no other explanation.

“I’ll go, I swear I won’t bother you again,” Chris’ voice sounds so soft, caressing. “I gotta make sure you don’t die first.”

“I’ve died already,” Steve slurs, trying to fight the hallucination off him. “And this is hell.”

"Steve..." It's that whisper. That broken, terrified, desperate whisper. It slices at him like a knife, making his heart skip several precious beats. He can feel his eyes widening, his breath catching in his throat.

Steve pulls back so hastily that he falls, his back hitting the wall with a solid thud. Christ. "You... you're..."

It's real.

It's Chris; the actual Chris, in flesh and bone and piercing blue eyes. Steve knows this as surely as he knows his own name, and it suddenly becomes too much. He lets himself slide down the wall, tears forming back in his eyes at record speed as he buries his fingers through his own hair.

He doesn't know whether to be relieved that he's not going crazy or... Or what? He doesn't know how Chris actually being there makes him feel. He doesn't know anything anymore, he hasn't known for a while.

Chris kneels down in front of him, chewing on his bottom lip, hands hovering above Steve’s shoulders as if he’s afraid he’d fall over and crack his head. He hates the mist that covers his eyes and he wants to wipe it away, but moving would require effort, and it would emphasize the fact that he’s shaking.

Not moving is good.

“Steve,” Chris whispers again, and Steve has never hated him as much as he hates him now, looking like a lost kid and making Steve feel like he’s the one that fucked up.

“Leave.”

"Steve-"

"Leave." Steve says it as if he's spitting venom, and he's suddenly so tired that he wishes he could indeed pass out. He looks away, unable to stand even the glimpse of Chris' features that he can see through the semi-darkness. "Lemme be. You've done enough."

There’s a beat of silence, then Chris’ hands curl over Steve’s shoulders and he yanks him up and forward. Steve stumbles, grapples for support and ends up slamming his fists into Chris’ chest with a frustrated cry.

“Just go!” He yells, but his body feels like lead, and even if he wanted to hit Chris he couldn’t have forced his limbs to cooperate. Steve struggles weakly as he’s dragged back to the bed, and when he flops down on it he curls up on one side, facing away from Chris.

“Steve,” Chris begins for the third time, and Steve suddenly feels his stomach roll sharply, too sharply.

He barely has time to lean over the edge of the mattress before bile and alcohol make their appearance, Steve moaning low as he chokes and retches.

The fact that Chris is there, watching him, seeing him in this state makes his chest burn. There's a few sobs tearing from his throat between one gasp and the next.

“C’mere,” Chris’ voice comes from somewhere on his right, and Steve recoils from the tentative touch of Chris’ hands over his back. He hears him sigh. “You’re gonna land in your puke if you’re not careful.”

Chris is tired, weary, almost as weary as Steve feels. And suddenly humiliation adds up to pain, inadequacy mixes with shame.

He doesn’t say anything, lets Chris push him back into the covers. Chris walks into the bathroom to retrieve a mop and cleans up after him, the layer of tension thick and palpable in the room like an noxious cloud.

Steve swallows. It's like he has razors in his throat. "Your..." He breaks off, tries again. "Your stuff is in the kitchen..." God, it hurts like it's the first day.

Chris’ shoulders stiffen for a moment, but he goes on cleaning as if he hasn’t heard him. He disappears in the bathroom for a few instants, then gets back with a glass of water and two pills propped up on his palm.

“Drink this down,” Chris says quietly. The bed dips under his weight, making Steve’s chest constrict with the familiarity of it all.

He rolls his head and stares down at Chris' hand, the guitar calluses over the palm making him ache. He sighs, even the small movement bringing him pain.

"Can't you just... go?" It's a whisper that he barely catches himself, and it sounds so pleading that Steve wants to throw up again at this pathetic shell of himself that he has become somewhere along the way.

“Alright,” Chris says in a whisper. “I’m going.”

Again. Steve’s heart creaks a bit more and he looks down in his lap, his hands trembling as he clutches at the sheets. Always leaving. That’s what he wanted though, isn’t it? He wanted Chris to leave him alone.

He's about to say something stupid. He can feel the words pressing against his lips. He swallows to keep them down, and ends up choking again, coughing harshly. He curls up in a tight ball and bites down on the corner of the pillow as he hears Chris' steps fade away out of the bedroom.

But he still can't keep the raw cry that escapes him.

Stay, please, stay, stay, stay, lie, tell me you love me, don’t go, don’t leave me again, stay, please stay….

“Christ, are you okay?” Hands on his face, over his shoulders. He’s pulled back, away from his hiding place, and Chris’ eyes are on him again.

Steve shakes his head. “Why are you here?” he croaks, voice raspy and abused.

“I wanted to talk,” Chris answers, his infamous bluntness cropping back up. “Didn’t think I’d find-” he breaks off, and Steve looks away.

"What?" he chokes. "Didn't think you'd find me like this?" He chuckles, a hollow sound that burns his throat.
He looks back up at Chris, glad that his sight is still blurry, or he'd never have the courage. "Welcome to my latest five months," he spits, tears starting to roll down his face. "How were yours?"

Chris looks away, too, but Steve thinks he’s lost his dignity way before this confrontation, so he cannot find it in himself to care.

“I know you don’t believe me,” Chris says quietly. “But I never wanted for things to go down the way they did.”

"But they did," Steve says, sounding bitter and empty at the same time and quite not himself. "So what do you want from me now? Why didn't you just take your stuff and go and leave me on that fuckin' carpet?" He grips Chris' bicep, hard, the first touch he allows himself. "Why, Christian?"

Chris stares at him, long and hard, and for a minute it’s like there’s no air left in the room, it’s cackling with electricity. Then Chris drives forward, grasps the back of Steve’s neck and pulls, hard. Steve blanches, but Chris stops with their faces one inch apart.

“I never stopped loving you,” Chris says, voice low and even. “Never.”

Steve sucks in a breath, stares at him as if he's lost his mind, his heart stuck in his throat as it races. "You..."
He can feel himself shattering; whether it's with pain, hurt, despair, hope... he doesn't know.
"You broke me," he chokes out after what feels like an eternity to the both of them. "Don't... don't try to mend me now... don't... don't play with me..."

“I’m not playing,” Chris whispers, his voice creaking. “I – Christ,” he huffs out a breath, and Steve doesn’t even dare to think about what does it mean. Chris is looking unsure, almost hesitant, and it doesn’t suit him.

“I’m sorry,” Chris murmurs, dragging his eyes back on Steve. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I’m – I’m so fucking sorry.”

"Do you-" Steve's voice cracks again, and he hates it. "Let's say... let's say that you are... and that I believe you..." He licks his parched lips. "Do you really think 'sorry' could ever cover it?" 'You left. You left me, Christian. You broke me.' Steve leans back against the pillow, feeling suddenly drained of everything, even that small something that he thought he had left.

“No,” Chris says, voice barely above a murmur. “No. Not for a moment.” He sighs and looks down on the bed, where their hands could be brushing if Steve just inched his fingers a little bit to the left.
“But I gotta start somewhere.”

Steve looks back up, the mess of his emotions written all over his face. “You can’t just wake up one morning and decide that you want a takeback,” he whispers, fingers clutching the sheets, trying to edge away from Chris’ own.

"Steve-"

"No." Steve cuts Chris off again for the umpteenth time. "No." His voice is barely a whisper, but it echoes like a gunshot in the still room. "I never thought that our music taking different directions would mean we had to do the same... But you didn't get that." He pauses, stare at Chris with no accusation, just a quiet begging to make him understand, even after all these months. "Did you?"

"I fucked up," Chris admits, his voice queit. "And I'm - sorry, it took me so long to figure out how." Eyes downcast, he fiddles for a moment with his bracelet. "I've been a dick."

Steve sniffles, and he's past caring about what a fool of himself he's making. "Why did you leave?" he asks, brokenly, like that first day when he asked Chris pretty much the same question; 'Why are you leaving?' "Why?"

Chris hesitates. "You didn't want what I wanted," he says, voice halting a little. "And I thought - I thought in the end we'd just keep on fighting as we'd been doing and - I didn't want that. I couldn't handle it."

"I just wanted you!" Steve is yelling again, hoarse and raw and desperate before his voice drops back down to a whisper. "Didn't you want me?"

Chris stifles back a laughter. "I always wanted you. I wanted you all for myself. I wasn't - I know I wasn't the easiest person to be with." Chris' voice has changed, and if Steve didn't know better, he'd say it's tinged with self disgust. Chris rakes one hand through his hair, lets out a frustrated sigh. "This has to be the hardest thing I've ever done," he mutters.

Steve looks uncomprehendingly at him. Chris' eyes are clear, sparkling as they always have been. It's not fair, Steve thinks dumbly. Not fair. He sniffles again, and his hand moves on its own accord, covering the minimal distance that separates it from Chris', squeezing his fingers in a white-knuckled grip.

He stares into Chris' eyes, begging him to do that hardest thing, whatever it is, whether it'll make him or break him again.

"I -" Chris stops, takes another deep breath. "I was wrong. I shouldn't have listened and I should've stick with you."

Steve stops to hope, feels it grow from the pit of his stomach up to his chest. He wants to give in to it, but he doesn't know if he can. "I sitll love you..."

Chris doesn't look up. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't."

"I wanted to quit," Steve admits. "I tried to quit you... but... I can't... and London... every single thing in London would remind me... all the times we went there..."

Chris gives a short bark of laughter, and it sounds almost broken. "The London Eye."

The sob that suddenly erupts from Steve's throat then startles them both. "Yeah... the... the London Eye... you hate heights... you clung to my shirt with one hand for the whole trip..."

Chris nods and tightens his fingers around Steve's. "I know I have loads of making up to do," he mumbles, still not looking at him.

"Are you willing to?" 'Please don't lie... please... say yes... say... please...'

"Do I get to?"

Steve doesn't say anything. He lets out a sound (another sob, a cry, laughter... he doesn't know) and slumps forward, tentatively, as if in slow motion, his forehead hitting Chris' collarbone. He doesn't move then, he doesn't dare to. He just stays there, breathing as if he has just run a marathon, his sweaty, clammy fingers slipping into Chris' grasp.

“I’ll read this as a yes,” Chris murmurs, stroking his back.

Steve nods frantically, feeling suddenly crushed with the enormity of it all. He sags further against Chris, head spinning. "God..."

Chris chuckles, and next thing Steve knows there are warm lips pressing against the side of his head. "You need to shower."

"I... you... please don't leave again." The whispered begging is out of Steve's mouth before he can even register thinking it.

"I'm not going anywhere now," Chris promises, wrapping his other arm around his back. "Not going anywhere."

"I couldn't take it if you ... please..." He's not making sense and he knows it. And he doesn't care.

His body has long since stopped responding to him that night, and his mind has decided to follow its lead, words and syllables rolling off his tongue, alive, self-willing things.

Chris' hold on him tightens, Chris' fingers finding their way under his chin and tilting it up to meet his eyes. "I can't promise you I'm going to be perfect," he whispers, a bit uncomfortably. "But I'm not going away this time."

"I don't want you to be perfect," Steve murmurs, losing himself in Chris' eyes. God, how has he missed this. "I just want you to be close."

Chris attempts a small smile. "I can do close."

'Can you?'Steve thnks, but he doesn't voice it. He wants to believe that Chris can. He burrows closer and let his eyes fall shut. "Okay."

"Okay," Chris repeats, holding him across his heart. He doesn't move to pull away, he just lets Steve relish in the contact for as long as he wants to.

"You know, I can't remember ever drinkin' this much," Steve murmurs after long minutes. "The things you do to me, Christian..." It's meant as a joke, but Steve cuddles in closer as he says it.

"I'm sorry," Chris' voice is warm, honey-thick and soothing as it rolls over him. He's easily molded back in a lying position, Chris' chest pressing against his back, Chris' arms wound around his waist, keeping him tucked into his side.

Steve entwines their fingers together again, his lids drooping as everything swims. He doesn't quite know how he feels, he just knows that Chris' warmth pressed up against him, the fact that this is actually real, is really all that matters.

"The album..." he mumbles, exhaustion making him slur his words all over again. "... 's... 's all about you..."

"Is that supposed to reassure me or to make me feel like a dick?"

"'s supposed... to tell ya... I love you... always have... even after you went away... and..." Steve shifts, presses closer against Chris. "That song's lying... I never thanked God you got away... ever."

He can hear Chris sigh, his warm breath ruffling the hair at the back of his head. "I - do, too. Love you. And - it'll take some time for you to believe me again. But I do."

"It'll take some time," Steve admits. "In the meanwhile... stay close."

"I can do close," Chris repeats, tightening his hold. He tucks one leg around Steve's, closing the little space that was left between the two of them. "Can you give me time?"

Steve exhales shakily. There's no space for air between their bodies, and yet it feels like it's the first time in ages that he can draw a breath. "All the time we need."


END

 
 
feeling: blahblah
singing along to : Steve Carlson - The One That Got Away
 
 
 
Sonia: KANE | Chris&Steve | whispersfallonblackdays on May 15th, 2008 06:50 pm (UTC)
Awww! Thank you so much! ♥
deluweildeluweil on May 15th, 2008 07:38 pm (UTC)
No no, Thank you!
I needed that:)