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fellowshippers2005-05-01 09:35 pm
cloudlessclimes.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-05-01 09:35 pm
Cumulonimbus
Title: Cumulonimbus
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cloudlessclimes
Rated: PG-13ish, language, innuendo, implied violence
Pairing: BB/EW
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one
Summary: Elijah offers comfort to Billy. Comfort is not always comfortable.
Feedback: Is a rare and wonderful thing and makes life worth living.
Notes: For the ever lovelybooshgal33. I asked if anyone wanted a fic written. Joey wanted Billijah and rain. I am so so so sorry it came out this depressing. I really wanted to write you something fluffy and fun. But I've never written Billy before. And in general I find that extremely funny people also have a lot of sadness inside of them. So, um, I hope you like it anyway.
ETA: OK, Joey assures me this isn't complete junk so that's a relief. Also, written whilst listening to the song Mona Lisa by Guster. Someone wanted to know the lyrics so
in the morning you look up
Fake a smile and you sigh
Don’t fear the future
In the years to come you’ll learn
I used to sit and watch the pouring rain
I used to wish to be back home again
I hadn’t the strength then
I hadn’t the chance to reveal it
But it’s all in your hands
When do we begin?
Although you’re so sad
Discover things never had
It makes you wonder
A life alone you’ll learn
You’ll learn
When do we begin?
"I used to sit and watch the pouring rain..."
Billy sits and smokes. He thinks maybe he should get up. Go back inside. But he can’t. Can’t face the bedroom and its white sheets and blank walls. Can’t face who he left there. What they did there. So, instead, Billy sits and smokes. The cold concrete of the front stoop seeps into his jeans, numbs his ass. Numb. Yeah. That’s good. That suits, he thinks.
He could cry. Probably should. Then maybe the hot, barbed sorrow threatening to close his throat would go away. And he could breathe. He should cry. But he can’t. So, he takes a deep drag and forces it out through his nose. He leans back against the doorframe, the metal digging into his naked back. Billy turns his face to the sky and squints. The sky is the dye-bled gray of dryer lint. He watches the watery sunlight leech away as storm clouds smother the horizon. He can’t cry so maybe the sky will do it for him.
The smell of ozone mixes with the acrid scent of tobacco. Sheet lightening briefly swaths the day in a preternatural yellow haze. Fat drops of rainwater splatter against the pavement, and clatter against the metal roof. A soothing music for the jangle and pop of Billy’s shattered peace. He watches the rain batter the neat rows of delicate early spring flowers planted along the weeping tiles.
"It’s OK, Bills," Elijah mumbles sleepily from the murky depths of the house’s interior.
Taking one long last drag, Billy hides his sigh around a nicotine-laced exhalation. He stubs out his cigarette against the bricks before turning to face Elijah.
OK? How could this possibly be OK?
Elijah’s not Dom.
And Billy’s not Orlando.
Each is keenly, painfully, aware that he is not the other’s heart's desire. Could never be.
Billy tilts his head and studies the younger man. Young. So very young. He forgets that sometimes. Only remembers when he feels so old. He feels a bone deep tired, the weariness of too many years gone by. His guts roil, and Billy clamps his lips shut against the words that want to disgorge themselves. What could he say? There are no words for this. No apology could be enough. And Billy’s not sure he’s sorry. The liquid slide of the rain against the window casts shadows like molten metal across the birch-sapling paleness of Elijah’s skin. In the blur of storm and oncoming evening it is difficult to tell the rain splatter reflections from the bruises.
He’d tried to press and stretch Elijah into something, someone, he could never be; would never be. He'd molded flesh to conform to the contours of Billy’s memory. He’d raised welts and wounds in his futile efforts to find out if the secret something that made his blood sing with want for Dominic maybe lived deep inside Elijah, too. And Elijah said nothing. No cries of pain. No protest, or refusal. Just quiet acceptance. He would be whatever Billy wanted him to be. But he would never be who Billy wanted.
But fucking Elijah wasn’t like being fucked by Dom. How stupid to even try. Even more stupid to believe time would erase the craving, soothe their hurt. Billy feels bile rise in his throat as he watches a scarlet serpent of blood slowly trickling from the corner of Elijah’s lips. His mouth, his beautiful perfect mouth; so wrong and so opposite and so strange. Billy had tried to bite away the perfect, carve it into the familiar. He'd tried to silence Elijah’s voice and replace it with the timbre and tone of one which would never again speak his name in love or lust or tenderness.
Billy startles and twitches at the slight weight of Elijah’s hand on his shoulder. "It’s OK," Elijah says again in a low, uncertain voice, making it perfectly clear it isn’t OK at all. "Come back to bed."
Billy stands and turns, closing the door behind him. It’s not OK but it’s all they have. They both cling to it, too afraid to let go. They will hang on too tightly, with both hands. Hold on to it until it is crushed to dust and scatters on the wind. Billy runs a cold hand along the knifeblade rise of Elijah’s ribs. His smile offers the promise of false hope and it fails to reach his eyes. He stares blankly at the bare walls and wraps the two of them in the wrinkled white sheets.
"It will be OK." Billy speaks comfort into the uncomfortable silence. The smell of sweat and sex and sadness mixes in the closeness of the room.
And they lie there listening to the rain.
"...I used to wish to be back home again."
Author:
cloudlessclimes Rated: PG-13ish, language, innuendo, implied violence
Pairing: BB/EW
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one
Summary: Elijah offers comfort to Billy. Comfort is not always comfortable.
Feedback: Is a rare and wonderful thing and makes life worth living.
Notes: For the ever lovely
booshgal33. I asked if anyone wanted a fic written. Joey wanted Billijah and rain. I am so so so sorry it came out this depressing. I really wanted to write you something fluffy and fun. But I've never written Billy before. And in general I find that extremely funny people also have a lot of sadness inside of them. So, um, I hope you like it anyway. ETA: OK, Joey assures me this isn't complete junk so that's a relief. Also, written whilst listening to the song Mona Lisa by Guster. Someone wanted to know the lyrics so
in the morning you look up
Fake a smile and you sigh
Don’t fear the future
In the years to come you’ll learn
I used to sit and watch the pouring rain
I used to wish to be back home again
I hadn’t the strength then
I hadn’t the chance to reveal it
But it’s all in your hands
When do we begin?
Although you’re so sad
Discover things never had
It makes you wonder
A life alone you’ll learn
You’ll learn
When do we begin?
"I used to sit and watch the pouring rain..."
Billy sits and smokes. He thinks maybe he should get up. Go back inside. But he can’t. Can’t face the bedroom and its white sheets and blank walls. Can’t face who he left there. What they did there. So, instead, Billy sits and smokes. The cold concrete of the front stoop seeps into his jeans, numbs his ass. Numb. Yeah. That’s good. That suits, he thinks.
He could cry. Probably should. Then maybe the hot, barbed sorrow threatening to close his throat would go away. And he could breathe. He should cry. But he can’t. So, he takes a deep drag and forces it out through his nose. He leans back against the doorframe, the metal digging into his naked back. Billy turns his face to the sky and squints. The sky is the dye-bled gray of dryer lint. He watches the watery sunlight leech away as storm clouds smother the horizon. He can’t cry so maybe the sky will do it for him.
The smell of ozone mixes with the acrid scent of tobacco. Sheet lightening briefly swaths the day in a preternatural yellow haze. Fat drops of rainwater splatter against the pavement, and clatter against the metal roof. A soothing music for the jangle and pop of Billy’s shattered peace. He watches the rain batter the neat rows of delicate early spring flowers planted along the weeping tiles.
"It’s OK, Bills," Elijah mumbles sleepily from the murky depths of the house’s interior.
Taking one long last drag, Billy hides his sigh around a nicotine-laced exhalation. He stubs out his cigarette against the bricks before turning to face Elijah.
OK? How could this possibly be OK?
Elijah’s not Dom.
And Billy’s not Orlando.
Each is keenly, painfully, aware that he is not the other’s heart's desire. Could never be.
Billy tilts his head and studies the younger man. Young. So very young. He forgets that sometimes. Only remembers when he feels so old. He feels a bone deep tired, the weariness of too many years gone by. His guts roil, and Billy clamps his lips shut against the words that want to disgorge themselves. What could he say? There are no words for this. No apology could be enough. And Billy’s not sure he’s sorry. The liquid slide of the rain against the window casts shadows like molten metal across the birch-sapling paleness of Elijah’s skin. In the blur of storm and oncoming evening it is difficult to tell the rain splatter reflections from the bruises.
He’d tried to press and stretch Elijah into something, someone, he could never be; would never be. He'd molded flesh to conform to the contours of Billy’s memory. He’d raised welts and wounds in his futile efforts to find out if the secret something that made his blood sing with want for Dominic maybe lived deep inside Elijah, too. And Elijah said nothing. No cries of pain. No protest, or refusal. Just quiet acceptance. He would be whatever Billy wanted him to be. But he would never be who Billy wanted.
But fucking Elijah wasn’t like being fucked by Dom. How stupid to even try. Even more stupid to believe time would erase the craving, soothe their hurt. Billy feels bile rise in his throat as he watches a scarlet serpent of blood slowly trickling from the corner of Elijah’s lips. His mouth, his beautiful perfect mouth; so wrong and so opposite and so strange. Billy had tried to bite away the perfect, carve it into the familiar. He'd tried to silence Elijah’s voice and replace it with the timbre and tone of one which would never again speak his name in love or lust or tenderness.
Billy startles and twitches at the slight weight of Elijah’s hand on his shoulder. "It’s OK," Elijah says again in a low, uncertain voice, making it perfectly clear it isn’t OK at all. "Come back to bed."
Billy stands and turns, closing the door behind him. It’s not OK but it’s all they have. They both cling to it, too afraid to let go. They will hang on too tightly, with both hands. Hold on to it until it is crushed to dust and scatters on the wind. Billy runs a cold hand along the knifeblade rise of Elijah’s ribs. His smile offers the promise of false hope and it fails to reach his eyes. He stares blankly at the bare walls and wraps the two of them in the wrinkled white sheets.
"It will be OK." Billy speaks comfort into the uncomfortable silence. The smell of sweat and sex and sadness mixes in the closeness of the room.
And they lie there listening to the rain.
"...I used to wish to be back home again."
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