slashfic25 prompt #6: Fall
Gerard/Bert
Standalone
PG
written May 2006
Notes: Inspired by the line: "We'll fall apart, just like the leaves changing colour" from It's Not A Fashion Statement ... by MCR.
The dry leaves crunched under his feet, the heels of his shiny dress shoes grinding the crisp auburn fragments to powder as he walked. His breathing was slow and even, despite the brisk pace he maintained. The cool early night air chilled every inch of exposed skin, numbing it, making the flesh feel thick and impenetrable. He nestled his chin into the scarf around his neck and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, craving warmth and feeling.
He had never felt so alone. He'd never wanted to be so alone.
Autumn had always been his favourite time of the year; the artist in him saw the beauty of the falling leaves, in their warm, vivid tones of red, orange, gold and brown. The writer in him loved the metaphor of such beauty heralding death, the leaves at their most intense before the life finally left them. The lover in him saw the way the season mirrored his own relationship; fading, falling, breaking, but no less beautiful for that.
Bittersweet. Hollow. Cracking. Like the leaves beneath his feet.
Was it Walter Pater, the British art critic, who said life needed to be lived with the same intensity? He said a true artist needed to burn with a hard, gem-like flame -- and life's duration didn't matter. Why inch along for a hundred years in fear and regret, when you could live for fifty and treat every moment like a jewel? Why paint twenty average still lives when you could produce one masterpiece?
We are burning, he thought as he walked on, and darkness began to cloak the tree-lined avenue. We burnt too hard, and we've just about burnt out. But it was good, so good ... too good. If we felt less, cared less, would we have lasted longer?
Would I have wanted it this much?
Gerard wanted to cry, but tears just wouldn't cut it. Tears were for little kids and old ladies, for dead canaries and romantic movies. Tears wouldn't do justice to this feeling. Cliched reactions couldn't do justice to this feeling. He felt sick to his stomach and the sobs welled up in his throat, but he swallowed them down harshly, feeling them lodge in his chest along with the heartbreak.
You deserve more than tears, he thought. We deserve more than tears.
This was monumental, epic, like some kind of ancient tragedy, and Gerard wanted an equally significant farewell. Dido farewelling Aeneas, maybe? He remembered the story well; destiny came between them and the gods tore them apart, sending him to Italy. She burnt everything he left behind on a funeral pyre, barring his sword, then climbed up onto the flames and pushed the weapon into her chest, right through the heart. But it was not her time to die, and she lingered, bleeding, suffering, burning, until the gods took pity on her ...
Gerard didn't want to kill himself, but he knew part of his soul would die when they parted. It was inevitable.
It's cold, and I may be healthy, but I bleed and suffer and burn too.
"I'm sorry," he said out loud, listening to his hoarse voice echoing through the black spaces between the trees. I hope you can hear me.
***
Bert stood on the balcony, a cigarette clamped between his middle and index fingers, watching the lone figure wander through the trees. He sighed and closed his eyes briefly, painful regrets surging under his skin and making him wince.
If I'd tried harder ...
If I'd said sorry ...
If I'd said "I love you" a little more often ...
If I'd been there ...
If I'd noticed ...
He watched the figure stop, shoulders slumped, and saw him sigh. Bert shook his head, hot tears pricking his eyes, and dropped the cigarette, crushing it quickly with his foot before leaping off the balcony and running towards the trees. Towards him.
It's never too late, he thought.
One of his shoelaces was undone and it made him falter, but he didn't stop running. Bert didn't care if he tripped and rolled headlong towards Gerard -- it wasn't important, as long as he got there. As long as he could brush the tears from that soft white skin and smile and feel those warm arms around his shoulders again. Then everything would be fine. He knew it.
"Gee!" he called out as he approached, and the dark, hunched figure turned around.
"What is it?" he said tiredly as Bert stumbled through the carpet of fallen leaves, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, chest rising and falling heavily from the exercise.
"I love you."
Gerard's mouth formed a faint smile. "I know. But it doesn't change anything."
"Yes it does!" Bert pulled one of Gerard's hands out of his coat pocket and clasped it tightly. "It does. It changes everything."
The older man shook his head sadly, feeling a twinge of pain as he saw Bert's pleading, hopeful expression. Like a child trying to avoid a punishment, he thought.
Who are you trying to persuade?
"No," he said as gently as he could. "It's over."
And, squeezing Bert's hand one more time, Gerard released it and headed back to the house. A gust of wind blew straight into his eyes, freeing the tears trapped inside, and he let them run down his cheeks, hoping they'd take some of the agony with them.
Bert watched him walk away, fighting the urge to scream and pull hanks of hair from his head, the scalp attached and bleeding. He wasn't sure what hurt more -- knowing that Gerard was leaving, or knowing that Gerard was right. In the end, he mused, it didn't matter. He was still hurting. Gerard was hurting. They were still in love, but that meant nothing. It wasn't meant to last forever.
He never lied. He never promised me forever, Bert thought, crouching down to scoop a handful of dry leaves from the ground. He stared at them for a moment before curling his hand into a fist, crushing them, feeling the sharp points digging into his flesh.
When he opened his hand and let them flutter to the ground like diseased desert snowflakes, Bert let his tears fall too.
Standalone
PG
written May 2006
Notes: Inspired by the line: "We'll fall apart, just like the leaves changing colour" from It's Not A Fashion Statement ... by MCR.
The dry leaves crunched under his feet, the heels of his shiny dress shoes grinding the crisp auburn fragments to powder as he walked. His breathing was slow and even, despite the brisk pace he maintained. The cool early night air chilled every inch of exposed skin, numbing it, making the flesh feel thick and impenetrable. He nestled his chin into the scarf around his neck and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, craving warmth and feeling.
He had never felt so alone. He'd never wanted to be so alone.
Autumn had always been his favourite time of the year; the artist in him saw the beauty of the falling leaves, in their warm, vivid tones of red, orange, gold and brown. The writer in him loved the metaphor of such beauty heralding death, the leaves at their most intense before the life finally left them. The lover in him saw the way the season mirrored his own relationship; fading, falling, breaking, but no less beautiful for that.
Bittersweet. Hollow. Cracking. Like the leaves beneath his feet.
Was it Walter Pater, the British art critic, who said life needed to be lived with the same intensity? He said a true artist needed to burn with a hard, gem-like flame -- and life's duration didn't matter. Why inch along for a hundred years in fear and regret, when you could live for fifty and treat every moment like a jewel? Why paint twenty average still lives when you could produce one masterpiece?
We are burning, he thought as he walked on, and darkness began to cloak the tree-lined avenue. We burnt too hard, and we've just about burnt out. But it was good, so good ... too good. If we felt less, cared less, would we have lasted longer?
Would I have wanted it this much?
Gerard wanted to cry, but tears just wouldn't cut it. Tears were for little kids and old ladies, for dead canaries and romantic movies. Tears wouldn't do justice to this feeling. Cliched reactions couldn't do justice to this feeling. He felt sick to his stomach and the sobs welled up in his throat, but he swallowed them down harshly, feeling them lodge in his chest along with the heartbreak.
You deserve more than tears, he thought. We deserve more than tears.
This was monumental, epic, like some kind of ancient tragedy, and Gerard wanted an equally significant farewell. Dido farewelling Aeneas, maybe? He remembered the story well; destiny came between them and the gods tore them apart, sending him to Italy. She burnt everything he left behind on a funeral pyre, barring his sword, then climbed up onto the flames and pushed the weapon into her chest, right through the heart. But it was not her time to die, and she lingered, bleeding, suffering, burning, until the gods took pity on her ...
Gerard didn't want to kill himself, but he knew part of his soul would die when they parted. It was inevitable.
It's cold, and I may be healthy, but I bleed and suffer and burn too.
"I'm sorry," he said out loud, listening to his hoarse voice echoing through the black spaces between the trees. I hope you can hear me.
***
Bert stood on the balcony, a cigarette clamped between his middle and index fingers, watching the lone figure wander through the trees. He sighed and closed his eyes briefly, painful regrets surging under his skin and making him wince.
If I'd tried harder ...
If I'd said sorry ...
If I'd said "I love you" a little more often ...
If I'd been there ...
If I'd noticed ...
He watched the figure stop, shoulders slumped, and saw him sigh. Bert shook his head, hot tears pricking his eyes, and dropped the cigarette, crushing it quickly with his foot before leaping off the balcony and running towards the trees. Towards him.
It's never too late, he thought.
One of his shoelaces was undone and it made him falter, but he didn't stop running. Bert didn't care if he tripped and rolled headlong towards Gerard -- it wasn't important, as long as he got there. As long as he could brush the tears from that soft white skin and smile and feel those warm arms around his shoulders again. Then everything would be fine. He knew it.
"Gee!" he called out as he approached, and the dark, hunched figure turned around.
"What is it?" he said tiredly as Bert stumbled through the carpet of fallen leaves, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, chest rising and falling heavily from the exercise.
"I love you."
Gerard's mouth formed a faint smile. "I know. But it doesn't change anything."
"Yes it does!" Bert pulled one of Gerard's hands out of his coat pocket and clasped it tightly. "It does. It changes everything."
The older man shook his head sadly, feeling a twinge of pain as he saw Bert's pleading, hopeful expression. Like a child trying to avoid a punishment, he thought.
Who are you trying to persuade?
"No," he said as gently as he could. "It's over."
And, squeezing Bert's hand one more time, Gerard released it and headed back to the house. A gust of wind blew straight into his eyes, freeing the tears trapped inside, and he let them run down his cheeks, hoping they'd take some of the agony with them.
Bert watched him walk away, fighting the urge to scream and pull hanks of hair from his head, the scalp attached and bleeding. He wasn't sure what hurt more -- knowing that Gerard was leaving, or knowing that Gerard was right. In the end, he mused, it didn't matter. He was still hurting. Gerard was hurting. They were still in love, but that meant nothing. It wasn't meant to last forever.
He never lied. He never promised me forever, Bert thought, crouching down to scoop a handful of dry leaves from the ground. He stared at them for a moment before curling his hand into a fist, crushing them, feeling the sharp points digging into his flesh.
When he opened his hand and let them flutter to the ground like diseased desert snowflakes, Bert let his tears fall too.