Heaven Just Can't Have You [1/1]
Heaven Just Can't Have You [1/1] by all_tattooed
Frank/Gerard [M-15 - dead bodies, disturbia]
RPS. Don't know. Don't own. No harm intended.
~944 words
Summary: Frank steals his boyfriend back.
Thanks to skelterellax for beta'ing. xo
Con-Crit welcome. Comments are nice.
Your muscles are tired, aching, still twisting, and working. There’s a snap on repeat driving through your spine that’s disturbing the flimsy joints with every rushed movement, and it feels like your lower discs are being dislocated, growing arms with steady fists and skinny legs to run and settle in your gut, punch and kick, punch and kick, swirl the sick inside.
The sun is scratching through the sky, burning the back of your neck because you’re not wearing a collar, and you think about that now even though you don’t need to.
Shrug your shoulders because they feel too weak, lift your feet because they’re sinking into the soil, and blow the fringe from your eyes. Your hands are covered in blood and splinters, and there’s dirt stinging the flesh of your ring finger from stumbling when you arrived here and ripped off the nail.
But you’re closer now, you’re nearly there. Nearly there, and it’s thrilling, it’s a relief. It’s making your skin crawl and your lips curve and you want to laugh, you want to cry, but the sun is still rising and the tress are too silent, somehow that’s a reason, it’s your reason and it’ll do.
When the tip of the shovel hits the wood of the box, your bones rattle, and toes wiggle in your shoes. You shift the soil and the sand you threw, then you do it again, and again and again; swearing that your elbows are rusted by now because six foot is too far, swearing that you’re sorry and you love him. You love him and you’re sorry you’re swearing.
The earth is loose and the headstone is slipping, and somewhere within the piles, the flowers are buried next to you. You don’t worry, you can’t worry; he’s there now, right there, and you tell yourself it’ll be okay. You’ll be okay, he’ll be okay, but you’re saying it aloud. Too loud. You’re too loud. You need to stop screaming, you need to stop or someone will hear you, find you, find him ...please don’t find him.
There’s a sparkle in your eyes when the chrome latches catch the light and you can feel the key tapping lightly at your chest, the chain against the graze on your collarbone making you itch. It’s all too much now, too messy and perfect. You need to be quicker or you won’t make it home and changing the bed sheets before you left is a waste if he’s not back there with you.
Shovel aside and down you go, clay staining your jeans and fingernails collecting mud as you scrape at the grave walls. You can’t wait to see, can’t wait to smell, to talk and touch, you want to touch, touch, touch until your skin wears to bone and bone turns to dust.
Rip the key from around your neck, hiss at the woodchips still lodged in your palms, however you’re focused, you’re frantic and have officially lost yourself. The lid isn’t heavy, or maybe you’re just crazy, but now you see his face, his hair, his shoulders, for the first time in almost two weeks and your tears fall to his cheeks and your lips tremble against his, and he’s so cold, so, so cold that you just want to freeze right there with him.
You promise not to hurt him, “I promise I won’t hurt you”, you promise to be gentle, “I promise I’ll be gentle”, you promise you’ll be home soon, “Promise, promise, promise”, then the sun hits his skin and you pray he defrosts.
He needs your help, you know it. He can’t move, he’s tired ...tired, Frankie, I’m tired, and you try so hard that it breaks your heart not to let him fall once you’ve lifted him out. His bones are brittle, his flesh is thin, faded, and his calves are ripping under the black pants you made sure he left in.
Your face is burning and colors twirl in your pupils from the kaleidoscope sun watching you from the sky; seeing what you’re doing, where you’re going, and who you’re with.
Running to the car, your chest hurts, and your breaths are heavy, but his breaths are not at all, which gives you a desperate buzz to drag his body around the decorated headstones and all the way into the backseat.
Now you forget, now you forget. Don’t forget, you shouldn’t panic, you steady yourself, calm your nerves. It’s nearly over and he’s nearly okay. Next, you close the car door, kiss his cheek and close the door, then you open it back up, kiss his cheek again, again. Close the door. Find the keys. They’re in the grave.
You think you’re moving so fast you’re flying, that you’re not touching the ground when you run back to mess you made, grab the keys and run back, but you’re going so slow, you can hardly walk and you’re feet are dragging in the green grass, tearing it up to create tracks.
It takes a second to realise whilst you check up on him through the rear vision mirror that you can’t hold the wheel with your hands practically shredded. He wants you to hurry, you hear him telling you to hurry up, hurry up, go, go, go. You’re sorry, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, and quickly remove your shirt to wrap around your hand.
When you start the car, you look at him again, face placid and pale, lips purple, eyes red. He’s resting, he’s okay. You’re okay. It’ll be okay. You can both go home now, go home to bed, where the sheets are clean and sun can’t see.
Frank/Gerard [M-15 - dead bodies, disturbia]
RPS. Don't know. Don't own. No harm intended.
~944 words
Summary: Frank steals his boyfriend back.
Thanks to skelterellax for beta'ing. xo
Con-Crit welcome. Comments are nice.
Your muscles are tired, aching, still twisting, and working. There’s a snap on repeat driving through your spine that’s disturbing the flimsy joints with every rushed movement, and it feels like your lower discs are being dislocated, growing arms with steady fists and skinny legs to run and settle in your gut, punch and kick, punch and kick, swirl the sick inside.
The sun is scratching through the sky, burning the back of your neck because you’re not wearing a collar, and you think about that now even though you don’t need to.
Shrug your shoulders because they feel too weak, lift your feet because they’re sinking into the soil, and blow the fringe from your eyes. Your hands are covered in blood and splinters, and there’s dirt stinging the flesh of your ring finger from stumbling when you arrived here and ripped off the nail.
But you’re closer now, you’re nearly there. Nearly there, and it’s thrilling, it’s a relief. It’s making your skin crawl and your lips curve and you want to laugh, you want to cry, but the sun is still rising and the tress are too silent, somehow that’s a reason, it’s your reason and it’ll do.
When the tip of the shovel hits the wood of the box, your bones rattle, and toes wiggle in your shoes. You shift the soil and the sand you threw, then you do it again, and again and again; swearing that your elbows are rusted by now because six foot is too far, swearing that you’re sorry and you love him. You love him and you’re sorry you’re swearing.
The earth is loose and the headstone is slipping, and somewhere within the piles, the flowers are buried next to you. You don’t worry, you can’t worry; he’s there now, right there, and you tell yourself it’ll be okay. You’ll be okay, he’ll be okay, but you’re saying it aloud. Too loud. You’re too loud. You need to stop screaming, you need to stop or someone will hear you, find you, find him ...please don’t find him.
There’s a sparkle in your eyes when the chrome latches catch the light and you can feel the key tapping lightly at your chest, the chain against the graze on your collarbone making you itch. It’s all too much now, too messy and perfect. You need to be quicker or you won’t make it home and changing the bed sheets before you left is a waste if he’s not back there with you.
Shovel aside and down you go, clay staining your jeans and fingernails collecting mud as you scrape at the grave walls. You can’t wait to see, can’t wait to smell, to talk and touch, you want to touch, touch, touch until your skin wears to bone and bone turns to dust.
Rip the key from around your neck, hiss at the woodchips still lodged in your palms, however you’re focused, you’re frantic and have officially lost yourself. The lid isn’t heavy, or maybe you’re just crazy, but now you see his face, his hair, his shoulders, for the first time in almost two weeks and your tears fall to his cheeks and your lips tremble against his, and he’s so cold, so, so cold that you just want to freeze right there with him.
You promise not to hurt him, “I promise I won’t hurt you”, you promise to be gentle, “I promise I’ll be gentle”, you promise you’ll be home soon, “Promise, promise, promise”, then the sun hits his skin and you pray he defrosts.
He needs your help, you know it. He can’t move, he’s tired ...tired, Frankie, I’m tired, and you try so hard that it breaks your heart not to let him fall once you’ve lifted him out. His bones are brittle, his flesh is thin, faded, and his calves are ripping under the black pants you made sure he left in.
Your face is burning and colors twirl in your pupils from the kaleidoscope sun watching you from the sky; seeing what you’re doing, where you’re going, and who you’re with.
Running to the car, your chest hurts, and your breaths are heavy, but his breaths are not at all, which gives you a desperate buzz to drag his body around the decorated headstones and all the way into the backseat.
Now you forget, now you forget. Don’t forget, you shouldn’t panic, you steady yourself, calm your nerves. It’s nearly over and he’s nearly okay. Next, you close the car door, kiss his cheek and close the door, then you open it back up, kiss his cheek again, again. Close the door. Find the keys. They’re in the grave.
You think you’re moving so fast you’re flying, that you’re not touching the ground when you run back to mess you made, grab the keys and run back, but you’re going so slow, you can hardly walk and you’re feet are dragging in the green grass, tearing it up to create tracks.
It takes a second to realise whilst you check up on him through the rear vision mirror that you can’t hold the wheel with your hands practically shredded. He wants you to hurry, you hear him telling you to hurry up, hurry up, go, go, go. You’re sorry, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, and quickly remove your shirt to wrap around your hand.
When you start the car, you look at him again, face placid and pale, lips purple, eyes red. He’s resting, he’s okay. You’re okay. It’ll be okay. You can both go home now, go home to bed, where the sheets are clean and sun can’t see.