FIC: Colorless. (1/1)
Title: Colorless.
Fandom: Real People / 30 Seconds to Mars.
Pairings: Jared/Shannon, Shannon/Tomo, Jared/Tomo
Prompt: Table 2; #30 - Lies. (for 100_situations)
Word Count: 726.
Rating: R (for subject matter).
Warnings: character death, hardcore angst, depression, slash, implied slash. This is not at all a happy fic.
Summary: From some things, there is no recovery. Just two shells, holding to each other and waiting for the storm to take them too
Author's Notes: I swear, this is so not a reflection of my mood or state of mind! It just occurred to me the other day that there are certain themes or subjects that get repeated, and this is one that I haven't seen portrayed from a different angle, so I gave myself the challenge to do so. Yes, there are a few parts that are a bit vague but I think if you read between the lines it's clear enough what happened. I was trying to capture mood and state of mind rather than lots of details.
And I do so love hearing from you guys, even if it's just a few words showing that you took a few minutes to give my piece a read. Every little comment really does make a difference, at least for this writer. :]
In his world, it was always raining.
He would always blame himself. Voices constantly told him not to, there was no way that it was his fault. They lied. Vicious lies similar to the ones he used to tell, the ones he used to believe.
Clouds lived in eyes of stagnant grey. They weighed down his heart and his being, but without the weight he would have drifted, faded away. They blocked out the light and sheltered him from joy and happiness because those were two emotions he could no longer handle, no longer deserved. He brought this upon himself. This was his fault, his and his alone, and there was nothing anyone could tell him that would convince him otherwise.
The soft tinkle of the doorbell resonated like distant thunder, the pitter-patter of raindrops on a childhood roof. He never answered it.
His mind drifted to another level of his personal Hell. Memories were equal parts faded and clear, the worst in sharp focus and the best just out of reach.
Air pulled at him, harsh against his skin like sandpaper as it tried to blind him. It was a rag doll that met the ground, but a rag doll that felt the pain of a thousand hot needles ripping it apart. Misty arms enveloped him desperately, briefly breaking the soundless vacuum of pain until the next wave hit. The first time it faded in and out between flashes of nothingness but by now every detail was clear.
Solid and liquid warmth covering him, almost as if trying to erase the pain that took away his ability to breathe, to exist. Slow bursts of air near his face that he took in desperately, all he was able to do. A muted beat akin to a mother's heartbeat all he could hear, swore he could feel as it lulled and unknowingly held off shock, held his focus with the warmth he couldn't sense was fading as the nothingness claimed him.
Something textured grazed his skin.
A blink and he recognized fingertips brushing away stale tears, the raindrops that constantly tried to drown him. Sometimes he wondered why his head stayed above the water at all.
Dimly arms were felt around him, moving him. His mind knew the routine.
His minimal weight barely caused the mattress to dip and his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling as the layers were taken off him. There was never a pull or a painful tug or the slightest scratch from nails; they were always so careful. Only when the shadow came over him would his eyes move, taking a moment to find equally cloudy twin hazels. The color was close, but would never match.
Once he wondered how he was able to feel anything. Now, he didn't question. It was the only time they had a flicker of feeling alive.
It was agonizingly slow, but from the memories that haunted them. The name that echoed brokenly in the room was the same, always the same, and when he turned his head his mind still fooled him into believing his smell lingered on the pillows. Arms would envelop him as they moved, shifted, but never separated.
Breath would again graze his cheek, breath that was always warm to match the beat that never stopped against his back. Sometimes it staggered with silent sobs, and those were the only times he felt the pain of selfishness.
Sleep rarely came before the sunrise. There were no curtains to block the light, to keep it from creeping across the carpet and eventually glinting off metal that would never again be polished or slicked with sweat. It beat only in his mind, repeating the last rhythm it had played. Over and over until it blended with the heartbeat against his back and with his own. Combined with the glint off the cane that had never been touched it would sting his eyes until he was forced to close them.
Wetness drying on his shoulder would remind him of what he now knew had been blood running across his skin, and approaching sleep which made their twin beats fade would spark the memory of that beat seemingly steady but slowing against his broken back.
Every morning his brother died again.
And every morning his last thought before falling asleep was that it should have been him.
Fandom: Real People / 30 Seconds to Mars.
Pairings: Jared/Shannon, Shannon/Tomo, Jared/Tomo
Prompt: Table 2; #30 - Lies. (for 100_situations)
Word Count: 726.
Rating: R (for subject matter).
Warnings: character death, hardcore angst, depression, slash, implied slash. This is not at all a happy fic.
Summary: From some things, there is no recovery. Just two shells, holding to each other and waiting for the storm to take them too
Author's Notes: I swear, this is so not a reflection of my mood or state of mind! It just occurred to me the other day that there are certain themes or subjects that get repeated, and this is one that I haven't seen portrayed from a different angle, so I gave myself the challenge to do so. Yes, there are a few parts that are a bit vague but I think if you read between the lines it's clear enough what happened. I was trying to capture mood and state of mind rather than lots of details.
And I do so love hearing from you guys, even if it's just a few words showing that you took a few minutes to give my piece a read. Every little comment really does make a difference, at least for this writer. :]
In his world, it was always raining.
He would always blame himself. Voices constantly told him not to, there was no way that it was his fault. They lied. Vicious lies similar to the ones he used to tell, the ones he used to believe.
Clouds lived in eyes of stagnant grey. They weighed down his heart and his being, but without the weight he would have drifted, faded away. They blocked out the light and sheltered him from joy and happiness because those were two emotions he could no longer handle, no longer deserved. He brought this upon himself. This was his fault, his and his alone, and there was nothing anyone could tell him that would convince him otherwise.
The soft tinkle of the doorbell resonated like distant thunder, the pitter-patter of raindrops on a childhood roof. He never answered it.
His mind drifted to another level of his personal Hell. Memories were equal parts faded and clear, the worst in sharp focus and the best just out of reach.
Air pulled at him, harsh against his skin like sandpaper as it tried to blind him. It was a rag doll that met the ground, but a rag doll that felt the pain of a thousand hot needles ripping it apart. Misty arms enveloped him desperately, briefly breaking the soundless vacuum of pain until the next wave hit. The first time it faded in and out between flashes of nothingness but by now every detail was clear.
Solid and liquid warmth covering him, almost as if trying to erase the pain that took away his ability to breathe, to exist. Slow bursts of air near his face that he took in desperately, all he was able to do. A muted beat akin to a mother's heartbeat all he could hear, swore he could feel as it lulled and unknowingly held off shock, held his focus with the warmth he couldn't sense was fading as the nothingness claimed him.
Something textured grazed his skin.
A blink and he recognized fingertips brushing away stale tears, the raindrops that constantly tried to drown him. Sometimes he wondered why his head stayed above the water at all.
Dimly arms were felt around him, moving him. His mind knew the routine.
His minimal weight barely caused the mattress to dip and his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling as the layers were taken off him. There was never a pull or a painful tug or the slightest scratch from nails; they were always so careful. Only when the shadow came over him would his eyes move, taking a moment to find equally cloudy twin hazels. The color was close, but would never match.
Once he wondered how he was able to feel anything. Now, he didn't question. It was the only time they had a flicker of feeling alive.
It was agonizingly slow, but from the memories that haunted them. The name that echoed brokenly in the room was the same, always the same, and when he turned his head his mind still fooled him into believing his smell lingered on the pillows. Arms would envelop him as they moved, shifted, but never separated.
Breath would again graze his cheek, breath that was always warm to match the beat that never stopped against his back. Sometimes it staggered with silent sobs, and those were the only times he felt the pain of selfishness.
Sleep rarely came before the sunrise. There were no curtains to block the light, to keep it from creeping across the carpet and eventually glinting off metal that would never again be polished or slicked with sweat. It beat only in his mind, repeating the last rhythm it had played. Over and over until it blended with the heartbeat against his back and with his own. Combined with the glint off the cane that had never been touched it would sting his eyes until he was forced to close them.
Wetness drying on his shoulder would remind him of what he now knew had been blood running across his skin, and approaching sleep which made their twin beats fade would spark the memory of that beat seemingly steady but slowing against his broken back.
Every morning his brother died again.
And every morning his last thought before falling asleep was that it should have been him.