house of cards
house of cards
(569 words) // (tom/mike, tom/william)
for jun 09 07 at
we_are_cities.
quiet, assuming fic for
theworshipper, who asked for tom/mike, and i wrote this.
Tom doesn’t take his camera everywhere. He doesn’t. He just always has it when he needs it, somehow. When the skyline’s looking like hope, or when they’re almost done laying down keyboard in the studio, he’s always got it in his bag, ready to be yanked out.
He has it enough so that he can piece together some sort of timeline when he looks back.
Mike complained at first, when Tom got his new camera, said he’d go blind from the constant flash. Said something about being camera-shy, and they leaned against each other as they laughed. Later, Mike stood with his shoulder against Tom’s, watching him pull the wet prints out, clothes-pin them to a thin cord.
I didn’t know you were so good at this, Mike confessed, fingers itching like he wanted a cigarette.
Tom opened his mouth to tell him about chemical fires, but Mike tangled his trembles in Tom’s hair instead, pulling him down. Tom forgot about everything he’d developed, remembering the dry taste on Mike’s tongue instead.
Tom isn’t taking pictures of Empires like he did before. If it all happens again, he doesn’t want to be able to watch the fall in still images, clutching desperately at something far-gone and rational. He doesn’t want to sift through rectangles of his life and leave them water-stained.
That thing that people always say when something goes bad, the whole I wouldn’t have changed a thing, Tom says it when he gets asked. Says he’d do it all he same way. He thinks he’s conserving his pride or something, but it’s all bullshit.
Of course he’d change something, not everything, but something.
Tommy? Bill’s tired, too tired, if he’s talking in questions. Tommy, why don’t you ever take pictures of me?
Tom laughs, goes to show Bill that he’s wrong, but Bill stills him, holding Tom in place by his shoulders. No, no, not like that. Why don’t you take any of me?
And Tom freezes a little; he hopes Bill’s too exhausted to notice. Then again, he never thought Bill’d notice that he never showed anyone photos of Bill’s face: only his back, his long body, his fingers.
Bill’s fingers are shaking where he’s trying to press Tom into his seat, keep him there. Tom can’t say what’s in his head. He can’t ramble on about how beauty photographed is never the same, and how he can’t do that to Bill. Never could.
He takes Bill fingers instead, holds them together between his palms, trying to warm them. He breathes on them lightly, and Bill’s breath hitches when his fingertips touch Tom’s mouth.
Tom has In Rainbows on semi-permanent repeat; he feels old for remembering Pablo Honey. He’s sitting on his living room floor, enjoying expensive speakers and leaning back against a cheap couch. The sixth time through (but only the second with his eyes closed), his thumb moves down his address book without his mind. He almost lets it happen, because it seems wrong to not discuss a new album. He sets his phone back on the coffee table.
At 4:52am, the fourth time through with his eyes closed, Tom sends out: fall off the table, and get swept under.
Hours later, hundreds of miles away, Mike sends back: denial denial
Minutes later, wishing it was inches and not miles, Bill replies: i just want to be your lover, no matter how it ends.
(569 words) // (tom/mike, tom/william)
for jun 09 07 at
we_are_cities.
quiet, assuming fic for
theworshipper, who asked for tom/mike, and i wrote this.
Tom doesn’t take his camera everywhere. He doesn’t. He just always has it when he needs it, somehow. When the skyline’s looking like hope, or when they’re almost done laying down keyboard in the studio, he’s always got it in his bag, ready to be yanked out.
He has it enough so that he can piece together some sort of timeline when he looks back.
Mike complained at first, when Tom got his new camera, said he’d go blind from the constant flash. Said something about being camera-shy, and they leaned against each other as they laughed. Later, Mike stood with his shoulder against Tom’s, watching him pull the wet prints out, clothes-pin them to a thin cord.
I didn’t know you were so good at this, Mike confessed, fingers itching like he wanted a cigarette.
Tom opened his mouth to tell him about chemical fires, but Mike tangled his trembles in Tom’s hair instead, pulling him down. Tom forgot about everything he’d developed, remembering the dry taste on Mike’s tongue instead.
Tom isn’t taking pictures of Empires like he did before. If it all happens again, he doesn’t want to be able to watch the fall in still images, clutching desperately at something far-gone and rational. He doesn’t want to sift through rectangles of his life and leave them water-stained.
That thing that people always say when something goes bad, the whole I wouldn’t have changed a thing, Tom says it when he gets asked. Says he’d do it all he same way. He thinks he’s conserving his pride or something, but it’s all bullshit.
Of course he’d change something, not everything, but something.
Tommy? Bill’s tired, too tired, if he’s talking in questions. Tommy, why don’t you ever take pictures of me?
Tom laughs, goes to show Bill that he’s wrong, but Bill stills him, holding Tom in place by his shoulders. No, no, not like that. Why don’t you take any of me?
And Tom freezes a little; he hopes Bill’s too exhausted to notice. Then again, he never thought Bill’d notice that he never showed anyone photos of Bill’s face: only his back, his long body, his fingers.
Bill’s fingers are shaking where he’s trying to press Tom into his seat, keep him there. Tom can’t say what’s in his head. He can’t ramble on about how beauty photographed is never the same, and how he can’t do that to Bill. Never could.
He takes Bill fingers instead, holds them together between his palms, trying to warm them. He breathes on them lightly, and Bill’s breath hitches when his fingertips touch Tom’s mouth.
Tom has In Rainbows on semi-permanent repeat; he feels old for remembering Pablo Honey. He’s sitting on his living room floor, enjoying expensive speakers and leaning back against a cheap couch. The sixth time through (but only the second with his eyes closed), his thumb moves down his address book without his mind. He almost lets it happen, because it seems wrong to not discuss a new album. He sets his phone back on the coffee table.
At 4:52am, the fourth time through with his eyes closed, Tom sends out: fall off the table, and get swept under.
Hours later, hundreds of miles away, Mike sends back: denial denial
Minutes later, wishing it was inches and not miles, Bill replies: i just want to be your lover, no matter how it ends.