RPS: Forget About Saturdays

Jan 15, 2006 12:05


Title: Forget About Saturdays (sequel to, 'Days')

Pairing: Ewan/Hayden

Rating: PG-13 (for swearing and stuff)

Disclaimer: I don't own this.

Summary: Ewan's POV about their relationship.

A/N: This is an answer for all those who requested for Ewan's POV. I hope you like it, and I apologise for the delay in posting.



Mondays.

They’re like the most fucked up days in the entire week. Waking up at three in the morning to the sound of a brat screaming bloody murder isn’t how the perfect life is supposed to turn out.

No, it’s not a perfect life when the new addition’s wailing because the blanket fell off; the milk’s too cold; the diaper needs changing; he doesn’t like that mush compared to the other mush even though they look and taste the same; he feels neglected…well, you kind of get the picture…

I barely sit down to read the morning paper when I’m jumping to my feet to pull Esther off Clara when they’re fighting over some blond doll. My left ear is permanently deaf from Eve’s frustrated complaints.

Where’s the bloody “give me a fucking break” button on the remote?

I sneaked out of the backdoor to smoke some cigs, ignoring Eve’s screams that Jude - that bloody fucker - is on the phone. Jude can go and torture some other poor soul about his affairs. I don’t need him to tell me his problems. I’ve got enough in my own hands. Sell it to the press. Steer up some hype. Just stay away.

Hey, if you’re listening, we haven’t named the wailing babe, yet.

I’m not particularly concerned, really.

The smoke tastes kind of nice in my mouth.

It tastes a bit like you.

Wednesdays rush by like nobody’s business. It is as if the moment you’re not looking or just turning around, something new is happening - a new face, someone shoving a crappy script into your face, almost swallowing a mike…it’s just…chaos.

So, when a really tall, lanky guy stumbles over his own feet, it is supposed to be kind of normal - perfectly natural.

He drops straight into my arms, feeling surprisingly light as if he’s actually one of those anorexic girls on magazine covers, and all this time, I’m wondering if he got lost or anything. George would freak out if he found a stranger in the midst.

He catches his balance and pulls himself upright just when his weight begins to feel kind of nice in my arms, and looks at me with those huge, clear eyes of his, looking nervous and really embarrassed.

“Er…um…sorry…I’m kind of clumsy,” he stammered, scratching his head. “Um…well…I’m Hayden, by the way.”

Hayden.

The name stuck. Everything slowed down.

Wednesdays became a little different.

Normally, I spend Friday nights in some pub or with Jude just acting like the two asses we are. It’s a habit. They’re not supposed to change. Things like that are supposed to stay the same until we’re all old geezers with saliva drooping off our chins. God couldn’t change how our Fridays are spent.

No, it took a pretty man, ten years my junior to do it.

It took one kiss to make me linger in the park like a homeless with a can of shitty beer in my hand.

Jude would have called me a hopeless case - a man who had dropped to become a lovesick teenager.

I just say it’s…

Well, I don’t really know what to say…

Anyway, I’m supposed to be drunk by now and unable to think straight.

I’m not.

Bloody beer.

No, I’m singing “Your Song” at the top of my voice all the while I’m thinking about you.

I’m so fucking pathetic sometimes.

I can’t really remember Sundays.

They’re days I spend running around with Eve and the kids, or getting cooped up with some director over some movie on a perfectly nice afternoon. At night, I’m trying to beat the twenty-six (or was it twenty-eight?) cans of beer drunk in a single sitting record without a single concern about the huge hangover I’ll have.

Now I spend mornings lying lazily on the couch, flipping through a photo album, and laughing at my old antics. It’s a nice day. I remember the stupid hat I wore once, or the time I got cake shoved down my back.

Then the page turns to a single photo of two men and a sunset.

Some friendly guy helped us take the photo. I still remember the warmth of the sunlight on my skin, and the rustle of our clothes in the wind. Your smile and your laughter were infectious.

But, in the photo…

You look sad, Hayden, as if you knew all along.

I guess you did. You always had more common sense than me, anyway.

You wanted me to call you. I know. I got the letter.

I can’t Hayden.

I can’t hear your voice again.

Tuesdays are…Tuesdays are…fuck, I don’t know what Tuesdays are. Tuesdays are indefinable.  There’s no real schedule for Tuesdays. The rule of the day is to go with the flow.

But, then, sometimes, a moment comes along that leaves you breathless, wipes away rational thoughts, and stops time.

Standing outside of a café in the rain does that some times.

It might have been romantic in some way with a crappy coffee in hand that has been forgotten.

There’s just you and me.

And we’re kissing in the rain, forgetting about how wet it is, or how cold we’re going to be later.

There’s just your lips and touch.

And there’s the taste of your tears.

Thursdays used to be a good day of the week. I liked Thursdays. Thursdays were the days with the most pleasant memories - the first time I tasted ice-cream, the first time Esther called me ‘Dad’…you know, all those little moments.

It’s so fucking amazing how one thing can make Thursdays go all sour.

You hate me, and I don’t blame you. Nothing can make it right. Another kiss isn’t going to make the world any better, or undo any damage.

Maybe, it was a mistake kissing you at the first place. I don’t know. It’s in the past now.

So, why does it feel as if something terrible had just happened?

I tried to ignore the anguish on your face, and the silent, unspoken pain you had as you took back the ring and letter you gave me. I watched as you tore apart your confession of love for me. The scraps of paper fell like falling stars, except there’s no great explosion of fire or any beauty at all.

You slammed the door in my face, and it felt like the end. It was the end of any hope of an ‘us’.

Oh God, Hayden, I’m so sorry.

I walked down the stairs, slipping my hands into the pockets of my coat. It’s fucking cold outside when it’s winter. I walk a little further to hail a cab all the while my right hand gripped something in my pocket.

I took it out, half-wondering if you could see me right now.

It’s a piece of paper hastily torn from a notebook with a messy handwriting. I kept it for months, wondering, pondering if I should have ever handed it to you.

All my truths, all my confessions, all that I knew were right…

…all on a piece of paper.

It was because of a Saturday that couldn’t be wiped from memory. It was because of a Saturday of hidden intentions, and senseless actions.

It was because of…

There’s no point to that now, is there?

A yellow cab slams to a stop and the driver pokes his head out to shout at me to get in.

I stare at him for a moment, not really sure of what to do.

Then I let go. I let it all go.

The paper flew for several meters before landing in the middle of the road, and being swept up by another gust of wind.

It is like watching a memory being swept away.

I climbed into the cab, barely speaking except for the destination.

If only I could I say it, Hayden…if only I could…

It’s too late now.

Gods, Hayden, I love you.

END
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