late-night fic: The Bubble
Not even bothering with a title or description, because it's 4 am and I don't even know why I wrote this. If you need a hint as to what it's about, just look at the icon. :P
You don’t know if this is the best or worst thing that’s ever happened to you.
You decided long ago that that sugary feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you’re with a new woman, that sweet and mushy fairy tale, is what constitutes love, that feeling that makes you come over all gooey, and you’ve decided you want that forever, you want it, want to rot yourself inside-out with it.
You’ll never allow yourself to see what’s real, that love is standing before you in a stupid suit and a cocky smile, waiting to turn your world upside-down like real love should. You’re high on that cotton-candy feeling, always hungry for more of it, and you refuse to believe there's anything more filling out there, even when it's staring you in the face.
But then, there are those beautiful, awful moments when something falls away inside you, moments when something surfaces, gasping for air, and you feel it so plainly, that lightness and warmth and just being happy.
And you shove it right back down below the surface, below layers of pain and denial and dirt, because it’s him, he caused that feeling, and he can’t. You like that feeling, and you hate that you like it and you hate that he causes it, because it can’t be him. It can’t be. You decided that nine years ago, and it’s a bit too late to change your mind now, Mosby. Not him. Never him.
You’re the one who put that barrier there in the first place, and you hate yourself for that too. You say he’s your brother, he’s your friend, but not your best friend, never your best friend, because that lets him too close, him with his sharp edges encroaching on the bubble you refuse to let burst. He promises to bust your rut and you want to scream at him Please, don’t! because you’re safe in that bubble, afraid of what lies outside of it, terrified of finally discovering how you’ve been lying to yourself for so long.
So you coexist, and it’s friendly, comfortable even. He’ll joke around about sex, and every time he does you shove down the thoughts of what he tastes like, what it would feel like to run your fingers through his hair, what he looks like naked. You don’t think of what it would be like to make him yours. You won’t think of what it’d be like to be his.
You orbit, you get close, but you never touch, at least nothing but the palms when they smack against one another. You’ll feel that tingle for minutes afterward, that smart contact of skin on skin, no matter how much you try to wave it away.
He’s the only person who’s ever made you feel this alive. The only one you’ve ever pushed yourself for, even a little. The only one who’s ever really broken your heart. And it’s all because you’re such good friends, right?
And then, every once in a while, you’ll just be together, talking about nothing, not even looking at each other, and it’ll shoot through you, make you a live wire, and he sits up straight and you shift in your chair and brown eyes meet blue, and every time, the millisecond before it hits you he’ll say “Strip club?” and you’ll follow a little too eagerly, running away again.
You never let yourself figure out that he feels it too.
You don’t know if this is the best or worst thing that’s ever happened to you.
You decided long ago that that sugary feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you’re with a new woman, that sweet and mushy fairy tale, is what constitutes love, that feeling that makes you come over all gooey, and you’ve decided you want that forever, you want it, want to rot yourself inside-out with it.
You’ll never allow yourself to see what’s real, that love is standing before you in a stupid suit and a cocky smile, waiting to turn your world upside-down like real love should. You’re high on that cotton-candy feeling, always hungry for more of it, and you refuse to believe there's anything more filling out there, even when it's staring you in the face.
But then, there are those beautiful, awful moments when something falls away inside you, moments when something surfaces, gasping for air, and you feel it so plainly, that lightness and warmth and just being happy.
And you shove it right back down below the surface, below layers of pain and denial and dirt, because it’s him, he caused that feeling, and he can’t. You like that feeling, and you hate that you like it and you hate that he causes it, because it can’t be him. It can’t be. You decided that nine years ago, and it’s a bit too late to change your mind now, Mosby. Not him. Never him.
You’re the one who put that barrier there in the first place, and you hate yourself for that too. You say he’s your brother, he’s your friend, but not your best friend, never your best friend, because that lets him too close, him with his sharp edges encroaching on the bubble you refuse to let burst. He promises to bust your rut and you want to scream at him Please, don’t! because you’re safe in that bubble, afraid of what lies outside of it, terrified of finally discovering how you’ve been lying to yourself for so long.
So you coexist, and it’s friendly, comfortable even. He’ll joke around about sex, and every time he does you shove down the thoughts of what he tastes like, what it would feel like to run your fingers through his hair, what he looks like naked. You don’t think of what it would be like to make him yours. You won’t think of what it’d be like to be his.
You orbit, you get close, but you never touch, at least nothing but the palms when they smack against one another. You’ll feel that tingle for minutes afterward, that smart contact of skin on skin, no matter how much you try to wave it away.
He’s the only person who’s ever made you feel this alive. The only one you’ve ever pushed yourself for, even a little. The only one who’s ever really broken your heart. And it’s all because you’re such good friends, right?
And then, every once in a while, you’ll just be together, talking about nothing, not even looking at each other, and it’ll shoot through you, make you a live wire, and he sits up straight and you shift in your chair and brown eyes meet blue, and every time, the millisecond before it hits you he’ll say “Strip club?” and you’ll follow a little too eagerly, running away again.
You never let yourself figure out that he feels it too.