Make My Heart A Better Place - Fletcher/Jones - Standalone
Title: Make My Heart A Better Place
Author: russsel
Part: 1/1
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Fletcher/Jones
Genre: AU, Romance
Summary: Danny receives an unexpected visitor in the middle of the night.
A/N: I'm in writing steroids right now, just so you know. :) I don't know how this came about, really. I just sat down and began writing. I think it's a sensitive issue for a good portion of people out there, so this is sort of my shout out for them. That, even though it may not happen often, you can always find a shoulder to cry on.
Disclaimer: I do not own McFly in any way.
The doorbell rings and your eyes shoot open. At first, you don’t really hear it, and you wonder to yourself if it’s just in your mind, but then it rings again, and you know then that someone really is at your door.
Jumping off your bed, half-awake, you catch a glimpse of the time on the digital clock on your bedside table, and you groan when you realize it’s two in the morning. Who goes to other people’s houses at two in the morning? you ask yourself, but you figure you might as well answer it. You’re already awake.
Groggily, you step out into the living room. It’s dark, you can’t see anything, and you bump your knee on the coffee table. The pain wakes you up, and you shake the sleepiness off and stagger your way to the door. Then the doorbell rings again, and, scratching your head and rubbing your knee at the same time, you say irritably, “Alright, alright, I’m there.”
You turn the knob and fling the door open. You don’t have to look around to see who it is, and you feel your heart drop at the sight illuminated by a nearby streetlamp.
It’s Tom, a rucksack on one hand and a large sport bag slung around a shoulder. He’s looking at you with glassy eyes, and you trace out a network of tears all over his face. You gasp softly when you see a trail traversing a large bruise on his cheek.
“Danny,” he says tearily, doing his best imitation of a statue on your doormat, and you just look at him. You don’t know what to do first. Should you ask first what had happened or should you permit him inside first? He utters a sob, and you place a hand on his shoulder.
“Come in, Tom,” you say concernedly, ushering him inside and, looking around for anyone that may have been following him, you shut the door.
You turn around and see the outline of Tom wiping his cheeks on the sofa, and you stumble around to find the light switch. You flip it on and you squint at the sudden illumination. Getting accustomed to the light, you stride over to Tom’s side and wrap an arm around his shoulder. He lays his head on your shoulder, and without warning, he begins to cry.
It takes him a while to calm down, and you don’t really know what to do in these situations. Someone always has somebody else to pour their problems to, but it’s never you, so you’re slightly scared you might say the wrong thing. But you know you have to do something, and so you do. The only thing you can think of doing. You rub your hands on his arm and pull him closer, kissing him on the top of his head all the while.
“What happened?” you ask when he stops, and he wipes his face with the back of his hand before obliging to answer.
“It’s-it’s Dad,” he sobbed, not really crying but not completely calm as well. You pull him closer. “He-he found a pic-picture of us and he-he confronted me about it.”
He’s crying again and you wait patiently for him to compose himself. You never liked his dad. He doesn’t like the prospect of you being gay after you asked Tom to tell him. He almost threw a fit when he found out his son had a “fag” for a best friend, so it doesn’t come to any surprise that this is the outcome when he finally discovered about your relationship.
“He asked me why-why you were kissing me in the picture,” he said, voice still as cracking and solemn as ever, but you can tell he’s managing. “So I explained and-and he got angry and he yelled at me and started-started beating me up, telling me that he won’t have a-a fag of a son.”
He looks up at you and you look back, brows drawn together.
“I didn’t know what to do, Danny. I didn’t. I didn’t know if I should fight back. He’s my dad for God’s sake! So I let him do it. I just took it without fight-fighting back. Mum was just looking from the doorway, crying behind her hands, but I don’t blame her. I knew she couldn’t do anything about it, too.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, kissing him on the temple. That’s all you can say. You don’t even know if you should say something, more or less what to say exactly. But the look in his eyes tells you he needs confirmation that you’re listening, and he smiles sadly when you apologize again.
“Can I stay here, Danny?” he asks after a few minutes of silence, and you turn back to him. You can’t make him go back to his house; who knows what else his dad might do? So you nod and kiss him again, and you say softly, “Of course.”
You lie on the sofa, arms and legs interlinked, for an hour or two before you hear a soft snoring, and you move your head to see Tom sound asleep. It takes you a while to figure out a way of standing up without waking him, and once you do it, you pick him up, gently so he doesn’t wake up, and you make your way to your room. You don’t want him to sleep on the sofa; he’s a guest. And he needs the comfort of a soft bed more than you right now.
You lay him tenderly on the bed, golden hair fanning out on the pillow when he shifts slightly at the disturbance, and he rolls on his side, his back to you, hands clasped together near his face. He looks like he’s praying. You kiss him one last time on the cheek before you make your way out the door to set his things up.
“Danny?” a voice calls in from the room, and you turn your head to see, from what light spilled into the dark from the living room, Tom sitting up, looking at you longingly. “Please don’t leave me. I need you right now.”
Your heart swells up and you nod with a smile. You begin walking, and you can’t help but feel happy for some reason. You scramble up the bed and lie on your back, and Tom does the same thing the next second. He turns on his side again, but this time you feel his hand reach over to yours, and he grabs your wrists, pulling your arm across his waist. He wants to feel like he’s not alone, and you shift closer, scooping him up in your arm and burying your face on the nape of his neck.
“Sing me something, Danny,” he whispers, and at once, you search in your mind for a song. Finding one, you lace a kiss on his neck, and you begin singing in his ear. He chuckles and pulls you closer, and you enjoy the warmth coming from his body.
After a few minutes, you hear him snoring softly again, but you don’t stop singing; stopping might wake him up, and you know that he needs his rest. So you sing as long as you can, holding out until you’re sure he’s asleep, before you feel your eyes getting heavier, and you manage a yawn before stopping completely. Before your eyes give out, you utter something in his ear, and right before sleep takes you, you hear him say it too. Sighing contentedly and pulling him ever so closer, you sleep with a smile that night.
“I love you.”
Author: russsel
Part: 1/1
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Fletcher/Jones
Genre: AU, Romance
Summary: Danny receives an unexpected visitor in the middle of the night.
A/N: I'm in writing steroids right now, just so you know. :) I don't know how this came about, really. I just sat down and began writing. I think it's a sensitive issue for a good portion of people out there, so this is sort of my shout out for them. That, even though it may not happen often, you can always find a shoulder to cry on.
Disclaimer: I do not own McFly in any way.
The doorbell rings and your eyes shoot open. At first, you don’t really hear it, and you wonder to yourself if it’s just in your mind, but then it rings again, and you know then that someone really is at your door.
Jumping off your bed, half-awake, you catch a glimpse of the time on the digital clock on your bedside table, and you groan when you realize it’s two in the morning. Who goes to other people’s houses at two in the morning? you ask yourself, but you figure you might as well answer it. You’re already awake.
Groggily, you step out into the living room. It’s dark, you can’t see anything, and you bump your knee on the coffee table. The pain wakes you up, and you shake the sleepiness off and stagger your way to the door. Then the doorbell rings again, and, scratching your head and rubbing your knee at the same time, you say irritably, “Alright, alright, I’m there.”
You turn the knob and fling the door open. You don’t have to look around to see who it is, and you feel your heart drop at the sight illuminated by a nearby streetlamp.
It’s Tom, a rucksack on one hand and a large sport bag slung around a shoulder. He’s looking at you with glassy eyes, and you trace out a network of tears all over his face. You gasp softly when you see a trail traversing a large bruise on his cheek.
“Danny,” he says tearily, doing his best imitation of a statue on your doormat, and you just look at him. You don’t know what to do first. Should you ask first what had happened or should you permit him inside first? He utters a sob, and you place a hand on his shoulder.
“Come in, Tom,” you say concernedly, ushering him inside and, looking around for anyone that may have been following him, you shut the door.
You turn around and see the outline of Tom wiping his cheeks on the sofa, and you stumble around to find the light switch. You flip it on and you squint at the sudden illumination. Getting accustomed to the light, you stride over to Tom’s side and wrap an arm around his shoulder. He lays his head on your shoulder, and without warning, he begins to cry.
It takes him a while to calm down, and you don’t really know what to do in these situations. Someone always has somebody else to pour their problems to, but it’s never you, so you’re slightly scared you might say the wrong thing. But you know you have to do something, and so you do. The only thing you can think of doing. You rub your hands on his arm and pull him closer, kissing him on the top of his head all the while.
“What happened?” you ask when he stops, and he wipes his face with the back of his hand before obliging to answer.
“It’s-it’s Dad,” he sobbed, not really crying but not completely calm as well. You pull him closer. “He-he found a pic-picture of us and he-he confronted me about it.”
He’s crying again and you wait patiently for him to compose himself. You never liked his dad. He doesn’t like the prospect of you being gay after you asked Tom to tell him. He almost threw a fit when he found out his son had a “fag” for a best friend, so it doesn’t come to any surprise that this is the outcome when he finally discovered about your relationship.
“He asked me why-why you were kissing me in the picture,” he said, voice still as cracking and solemn as ever, but you can tell he’s managing. “So I explained and-and he got angry and he yelled at me and started-started beating me up, telling me that he won’t have a-a fag of a son.”
He looks up at you and you look back, brows drawn together.
“I didn’t know what to do, Danny. I didn’t. I didn’t know if I should fight back. He’s my dad for God’s sake! So I let him do it. I just took it without fight-fighting back. Mum was just looking from the doorway, crying behind her hands, but I don’t blame her. I knew she couldn’t do anything about it, too.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, kissing him on the temple. That’s all you can say. You don’t even know if you should say something, more or less what to say exactly. But the look in his eyes tells you he needs confirmation that you’re listening, and he smiles sadly when you apologize again.
“Can I stay here, Danny?” he asks after a few minutes of silence, and you turn back to him. You can’t make him go back to his house; who knows what else his dad might do? So you nod and kiss him again, and you say softly, “Of course.”
You lie on the sofa, arms and legs interlinked, for an hour or two before you hear a soft snoring, and you move your head to see Tom sound asleep. It takes you a while to figure out a way of standing up without waking him, and once you do it, you pick him up, gently so he doesn’t wake up, and you make your way to your room. You don’t want him to sleep on the sofa; he’s a guest. And he needs the comfort of a soft bed more than you right now.
You lay him tenderly on the bed, golden hair fanning out on the pillow when he shifts slightly at the disturbance, and he rolls on his side, his back to you, hands clasped together near his face. He looks like he’s praying. You kiss him one last time on the cheek before you make your way out the door to set his things up.
“Danny?” a voice calls in from the room, and you turn your head to see, from what light spilled into the dark from the living room, Tom sitting up, looking at you longingly. “Please don’t leave me. I need you right now.”
Your heart swells up and you nod with a smile. You begin walking, and you can’t help but feel happy for some reason. You scramble up the bed and lie on your back, and Tom does the same thing the next second. He turns on his side again, but this time you feel his hand reach over to yours, and he grabs your wrists, pulling your arm across his waist. He wants to feel like he’s not alone, and you shift closer, scooping him up in your arm and burying your face on the nape of his neck.
“Sing me something, Danny,” he whispers, and at once, you search in your mind for a song. Finding one, you lace a kiss on his neck, and you begin singing in his ear. He chuckles and pulls you closer, and you enjoy the warmth coming from his body.
After a few minutes, you hear him snoring softly again, but you don’t stop singing; stopping might wake him up, and you know that he needs his rest. So you sing as long as you can, holding out until you’re sure he’s asleep, before you feel your eyes getting heavier, and you manage a yawn before stopping completely. Before your eyes give out, you utter something in his ear, and right before sleep takes you, you hear him say it too. Sighing contentedly and pulling him ever so closer, you sleep with a smile that night.
“I love you.”