Howie/Brian: It's Not a Race
I still have twenty fifteen minutes left. So there.
Title: It's Not a Race
Fandom: Backstreet Boys
Characters: Howie/Brian
Prompt: #30: Death
Word Count: 734
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: There's nothing to do when life catches up to you.
Author's Notes: Warning: implied character death. This is set about a month after Brian rejoined the tour after his surgery, I think. I have no idea what the bus situation actually was. I'm saying separate for everyone. ^.^; [I apologize for any extra oddness this may contain; I wrote most of it while... slightly buzzed, shall we say.]
The bus turned into the left lane to pass a slower vehicle ahead of it, and the motion, combined with his still sleepy state from his nap, nearly sent Brian face-first into the small bathroom's doorjam. Thankfully, he managed to avoid the collision, barely noticing his near-miss as he rubbed his eyes and headed back towards his seat.
Suppressing a yawn, he pulled his notebook out of his bag and idly turned a few pages, hoping to clear his head before he got back to songwriting.
He cut off the sigh before it could fully form, reminding himself that both he and Howie needed a break from each other. Getting melancholy because his main inspiration wasn't on the bus with him was... ridiculous.
After a few moments of agitatedly tapping his pen against the notebook, he realized the futility of trying write anything right now. He scoffed at himself as he set the book and pen down in the seat next to his.
The reason he couldn't write wasn't because his inspiration wasn't here with him at this moment. The reason was... everything.
Brian caught himself idly rubbing the still-sore part of his chest, and arrested the movement. He really needed to stop doing that. Not just because it ended up making it even more sore, but because he couldn't deal with the guys' looks when they caught him doing it.
He'd survived the surgery. He was even healthy enough to resume the tour with them.
His heart wasn't going to suddenly stop and kill him.
Gulping, he brought his legs up so he could wrap his arms around his knees. He didn't care if it was childish, or so he told himself as he let his head fall forward. At least it meant he couldn't keep rubbing at his scar.
He didn't need the reminder of the possibility of death lurking just around the corner. Anymore than Howie did.
Sniffling, Brian tried to make his eyes stop watering as her turned his face to look out the window, barely even noticing the slight pain as his cheekbone came to rest against the sharp point of his knee.
Somehow, Caroline's illness was harder to face than his surgery had been.
He'd already thought about this subject more times than he'd care to.
Why would this ever be harder?
But of course it was harder. It didn't matter that Caroline wasn't even his sister. She was Howie's sister, and so he loved her like his own. It helped that, last Christmas, she really had treated him like a brother when he'd visited Howie's family.
He was sure he'd never live down how hard he'd blushed at her teasing.
But this was hard to get through, because, while he could do something about his heart, there wasn't a whole lot they could do about her disease.
No one could do anything.
And Howie was suffering the hardest. Not only could he not do anything to help his sister, he couldn't even be with her right now. She was getting more and more ill, and all Howie could do was talk with her on the phone.
That hurt.
She could die, and Howie wouldn't even know it until someone told him.
It wasn't fair that her bright light could go out, and go unobserved by anyone. It wasn't fair that they were stuck in their "contractual obligations."
Brian would do almost anything if he could just stop the tour and let... and let Howie say goodbye.
The hardest part wasn't that they had no hope. The hardest part was how long ago they'd had to give up hope.
His head was spinning with the speed of everything that had happened recently, and he gave in to his tears, letting them run down onto his jeans.
He'd have plenty of time to clean up once he got where they were going, and he needed to just let go right now. He'd been holding in his feelings for too long.
A few minutes later, he was pretty sure he was done, and turned to pull some Kleenex out of his bag, not even noticing the red blur of the Corvette speeding by his window.
And as he felt the bus swerve wildly and heard the terrifying screech of tires, Brian closed his eyes and thanked God that Howie had decided not to ride on his bus with him today.
[Prompt Table: http://www.livejournal.com/users/evlarin/16325.html]
I know. I'm a horrible person. Please don't hate me too much.
P.S. Apparently, two Zimas are enough to f-up a person who's 115 pounds. *checks* ...Almost two Zimas.
P.P.S. The icon's for everyone who made it through the fic. ^.^; *cuddles you*
P.P.P.S. Two Zimas.
Title: It's Not a Race
Fandom: Backstreet Boys
Characters: Howie/Brian
Prompt: #30: Death
Word Count: 734
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: There's nothing to do when life catches up to you.
Author's Notes: Warning: implied character death. This is set about a month after Brian rejoined the tour after his surgery, I think. I have no idea what the bus situation actually was. I'm saying separate for everyone. ^.^; [I apologize for any extra oddness this may contain; I wrote most of it while... slightly buzzed, shall we say.]
The bus turned into the left lane to pass a slower vehicle ahead of it, and the motion, combined with his still sleepy state from his nap, nearly sent Brian face-first into the small bathroom's doorjam. Thankfully, he managed to avoid the collision, barely noticing his near-miss as he rubbed his eyes and headed back towards his seat.
Suppressing a yawn, he pulled his notebook out of his bag and idly turned a few pages, hoping to clear his head before he got back to songwriting.
He cut off the sigh before it could fully form, reminding himself that both he and Howie needed a break from each other. Getting melancholy because his main inspiration wasn't on the bus with him was... ridiculous.
After a few moments of agitatedly tapping his pen against the notebook, he realized the futility of trying write anything right now. He scoffed at himself as he set the book and pen down in the seat next to his.
The reason he couldn't write wasn't because his inspiration wasn't here with him at this moment. The reason was... everything.
Brian caught himself idly rubbing the still-sore part of his chest, and arrested the movement. He really needed to stop doing that. Not just because it ended up making it even more sore, but because he couldn't deal with the guys' looks when they caught him doing it.
He'd survived the surgery. He was even healthy enough to resume the tour with them.
His heart wasn't going to suddenly stop and kill him.
Gulping, he brought his legs up so he could wrap his arms around his knees. He didn't care if it was childish, or so he told himself as he let his head fall forward. At least it meant he couldn't keep rubbing at his scar.
He didn't need the reminder of the possibility of death lurking just around the corner. Anymore than Howie did.
Sniffling, Brian tried to make his eyes stop watering as her turned his face to look out the window, barely even noticing the slight pain as his cheekbone came to rest against the sharp point of his knee.
Somehow, Caroline's illness was harder to face than his surgery had been.
He'd already thought about this subject more times than he'd care to.
Why would this ever be harder?
But of course it was harder. It didn't matter that Caroline wasn't even his sister. She was Howie's sister, and so he loved her like his own. It helped that, last Christmas, she really had treated him like a brother when he'd visited Howie's family.
He was sure he'd never live down how hard he'd blushed at her teasing.
But this was hard to get through, because, while he could do something about his heart, there wasn't a whole lot they could do about her disease.
No one could do anything.
And Howie was suffering the hardest. Not only could he not do anything to help his sister, he couldn't even be with her right now. She was getting more and more ill, and all Howie could do was talk with her on the phone.
That hurt.
She could die, and Howie wouldn't even know it until someone told him.
It wasn't fair that her bright light could go out, and go unobserved by anyone. It wasn't fair that they were stuck in their "contractual obligations."
Brian would do almost anything if he could just stop the tour and let... and let Howie say goodbye.
The hardest part wasn't that they had no hope. The hardest part was how long ago they'd had to give up hope.
His head was spinning with the speed of everything that had happened recently, and he gave in to his tears, letting them run down onto his jeans.
He'd have plenty of time to clean up once he got where they were going, and he needed to just let go right now. He'd been holding in his feelings for too long.
A few minutes later, he was pretty sure he was done, and turned to pull some Kleenex out of his bag, not even noticing the red blur of the Corvette speeding by his window.
And as he felt the bus swerve wildly and heard the terrifying screech of tires, Brian closed his eyes and thanked God that Howie had decided not to ride on his bus with him today.
[Prompt Table: http://www.livejournal.com/users/evlarin/16325.html]
I know. I'm a horrible person. Please don't hate me too much.
P.S. Apparently, two Zimas are enough to f-up a person who's 115 pounds. *checks* ...Almost two Zimas.
P.P.S. The icon's for everyone who made it through the fic. ^.^; *cuddles you*
P.P.P.S. Two Zimas.