Everything Erased
Title: Everything Erased
Pairing: Matt Sanders & Zack Baker Avenged Sevenfold
Rating: R
Summary: World War III has effectively turned the world into a waste land of rubble, leaving small, isolated groups of survivors. Struggling, Matt comes to his own conclusions about the sanctity of human life.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All events, characters, names, and places featured here are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual person(s), living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Author's Note: Entry for a7xchallenges. Character death. Listened to Kevin Devine on repeat while writing. I hate character death.
Apocalypse and Armageddon are dramatic words.
Too dramatic for Matt Sanders, who always thought of himself as stoic. There's some kind of nobility in that. Matt's got some dignity left and if he were to write his own eulogy, it would probably be an ode to pride and dignity. He'd want something in there about ascetics and sobriety.
It's kind of a fucked lesson to learn, one of the harder ones Matt supposes, but one of those things that feel important. It's one of those things that, once you have it, it's yours.
Zack had died. It had been fast and final in the form of a bullet. It had happened too fast for anyone to stop it and it had come out of anxiety and fear, nerves on high and hungry kids with guns. It was just like that. One minute, he was alive. The next, he was dead. There was nothing else to say about it. Matt can't even think of a good eulogy for someone like Zack.
Matt is surprised when Brian lowers himself to his knees in the freshly turned dirt. His head bowed with his palms together. Matt's even more surprised when he finds himself grabbing Brian by the back of his shirt.
Surprised, because he throws Brian across the clearing, so he skids his palms and ass over the gravel. Brian has long legs and high cheek bones; his face looks gaunt when his jaw hangs loose and his eyes look black through the dusk and haze.
“There's no fuckin' God,” Matt says, harder and much louder than he'd meant. He grasps for composure, sucking the smoking air in and out of his lungs fast so his broad shoulders roll. His stance is tense and his shadow looms across Brian's legs and angry face.
“Fuck you, dude,” Brian snaps. His thin lower lip is split and his hair is dirty. His palms are bloody when he stands and his boots crunch the gravel.
“Guys?” Jimmy is hunkered down over his nap sack. He's pale and dirty, using his knuckles to swipe the blood off his forehead like sweat. Jimmy pulls a canteen out and takes a drink with the water leaving clean streaks down the sides of his neck. “Look,” he says, nodding.
For a moment, Matt thinks he's talking about the broken city scape in the distance. The sky is pressing down, rose and orange. The air is burning and full of fumes. It's getting harder to breathe and Brian is crossing the clearing to retrieve his own nap sack, anxious for higher ground. Breathable air. Away from the plot of fresh turned, broken dirt.
Matt hates Brian now, in this second, though his face is blank again and he only stands there, bruised with his hands swollen and cracked, lines of blood running between chunks of skin like lava through rock.
He hadn't cried.
Jimmy had, for a long time. He'd wrapped his lanky arms around his awkward knees and cried against one of the dead tree trunks, hyperventilating on the smoke. He'd sobbed and cried, held himself and lamented this stupid, personal tragedy. How many people had he killed? Matt had seen him take life. Matt had seen him do it, no remorse, no second thought. But Jimmy had cried and cried over this, as if he'd expected only the bad guys to die.
As if there was justice in a world of chaos and disorder.
As if he thought he was doing the right thing.
Matt had dug the grave alone, using a chunk of granite rock and his bare hands. He hadn't cried. The sun had rolled across the sky behind the orange smoked clouds. They'd wasted a day and Matt had wasted a lot of energy, but he still dug. His hands had bled. Two nails had ripped off and the dirt embedded itself beneath his skin. He hadn't cried. He just dug. His shoulders had ached. His breath became ragged.
His hands bled. His shadow grew longer across the gravel. The sweat poured down his face like tears.
Jimmy nods again while screwing the cap back on his canteen. Matt follows Jimmy's eyes and sees it now. Brian wanders back across the clearing, still petulant.
The three of them stand in a weak circle around the small, bright green sprout. It's just a little plant, struggling to grow between the cracked rocks and dry dirt. Brian puts his hands on his hips and looks around- there's nothing alive for miles. It's all dead; black and twisted and smoked down.
"Guess mother earth will survive," Brian says, the tone like he's making a joke, but it's not funny.
"We won't," Jimmy says, his tone reasonable, but it's not the sort of thing you want to hear.
Matt only stares at the small plant for a long time. Brian walks away first and Jimmy follows after a moment, touching Matt's arm briefly in a weak gesture of attempted comfort.
Matt had fucked Zack on the pine needles. It had been rough but close, their mouths connected with tongue, teeth, spit, their shirts shoved up their chests. Their hips had smacked together with a sense of urgency. The pine needles had stuck to Zack's lower back and thighs. The needles dug into Matt's palms.
They had moved together, fast, uneven, desperate. Zack's cheeks had flushed and his brow had creased between his dilated eyes, his swollen mouth parted. Matt remembers thinking he was going to crush the smaller man. He remembers thinking, maybe the war won't destroy everything and...
Zacky had arched when he hit orgasm, his heels digging against the ground and his back lifting, bringing Matt's cock incredibly deep. Matt had pushed his hips in deep, digging forward, his knees sinking into the needles.
Afterwards, they had laid on the forest floor for a long time. There were explosions in the distance and Zacky had held Matt close. “I wish I could be strong like you,” he'd whispered, his mouth warm against Matt's ear.
“Are you scared?” Matt had asked.
“No. I'm not scared to die.”
“You won't die.”
“Everyone dies, Matt.”
“You won't. I wouldn't let anyone hurt you.”
“I know.”
“Zack?”
“Yeah?”
He hadn't said it. He'd wanted to. Matt had wanted to express his love. He hadn't. He was stoic. Instead, he had offered a quiet good night and let Zack press closer to him.
Matt leaves the grave unmarked. He steps hard on the sprout, grinding the toe of his boot down. It leaves a smear of green against the gravel. Matt kicks dust and rock on top of it before turning to follow the other two men.
Pairing: Matt Sanders & Zack Baker Avenged Sevenfold
Rating: R
Summary: World War III has effectively turned the world into a waste land of rubble, leaving small, isolated groups of survivors. Struggling, Matt comes to his own conclusions about the sanctity of human life.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All events, characters, names, and places featured here are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual person(s), living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Author's Note: Entry for a7xchallenges. Character death. Listened to Kevin Devine on repeat while writing. I hate character death.
Apocalypse and Armageddon are dramatic words.
Too dramatic for Matt Sanders, who always thought of himself as stoic. There's some kind of nobility in that. Matt's got some dignity left and if he were to write his own eulogy, it would probably be an ode to pride and dignity. He'd want something in there about ascetics and sobriety.
It's kind of a fucked lesson to learn, one of the harder ones Matt supposes, but one of those things that feel important. It's one of those things that, once you have it, it's yours.
Zack had died. It had been fast and final in the form of a bullet. It had happened too fast for anyone to stop it and it had come out of anxiety and fear, nerves on high and hungry kids with guns. It was just like that. One minute, he was alive. The next, he was dead. There was nothing else to say about it. Matt can't even think of a good eulogy for someone like Zack.
Matt is surprised when Brian lowers himself to his knees in the freshly turned dirt. His head bowed with his palms together. Matt's even more surprised when he finds himself grabbing Brian by the back of his shirt.
Surprised, because he throws Brian across the clearing, so he skids his palms and ass over the gravel. Brian has long legs and high cheek bones; his face looks gaunt when his jaw hangs loose and his eyes look black through the dusk and haze.
“There's no fuckin' God,” Matt says, harder and much louder than he'd meant. He grasps for composure, sucking the smoking air in and out of his lungs fast so his broad shoulders roll. His stance is tense and his shadow looms across Brian's legs and angry face.
“Fuck you, dude,” Brian snaps. His thin lower lip is split and his hair is dirty. His palms are bloody when he stands and his boots crunch the gravel.
“Guys?” Jimmy is hunkered down over his nap sack. He's pale and dirty, using his knuckles to swipe the blood off his forehead like sweat. Jimmy pulls a canteen out and takes a drink with the water leaving clean streaks down the sides of his neck. “Look,” he says, nodding.
For a moment, Matt thinks he's talking about the broken city scape in the distance. The sky is pressing down, rose and orange. The air is burning and full of fumes. It's getting harder to breathe and Brian is crossing the clearing to retrieve his own nap sack, anxious for higher ground. Breathable air. Away from the plot of fresh turned, broken dirt.
Matt hates Brian now, in this second, though his face is blank again and he only stands there, bruised with his hands swollen and cracked, lines of blood running between chunks of skin like lava through rock.
He hadn't cried.
Jimmy had, for a long time. He'd wrapped his lanky arms around his awkward knees and cried against one of the dead tree trunks, hyperventilating on the smoke. He'd sobbed and cried, held himself and lamented this stupid, personal tragedy. How many people had he killed? Matt had seen him take life. Matt had seen him do it, no remorse, no second thought. But Jimmy had cried and cried over this, as if he'd expected only the bad guys to die.
As if there was justice in a world of chaos and disorder.
As if he thought he was doing the right thing.
Matt had dug the grave alone, using a chunk of granite rock and his bare hands. He hadn't cried. The sun had rolled across the sky behind the orange smoked clouds. They'd wasted a day and Matt had wasted a lot of energy, but he still dug. His hands had bled. Two nails had ripped off and the dirt embedded itself beneath his skin. He hadn't cried. He just dug. His shoulders had ached. His breath became ragged.
His hands bled. His shadow grew longer across the gravel. The sweat poured down his face like tears.
Jimmy nods again while screwing the cap back on his canteen. Matt follows Jimmy's eyes and sees it now. Brian wanders back across the clearing, still petulant.
The three of them stand in a weak circle around the small, bright green sprout. It's just a little plant, struggling to grow between the cracked rocks and dry dirt. Brian puts his hands on his hips and looks around- there's nothing alive for miles. It's all dead; black and twisted and smoked down.
"Guess mother earth will survive," Brian says, the tone like he's making a joke, but it's not funny.
"We won't," Jimmy says, his tone reasonable, but it's not the sort of thing you want to hear.
Matt only stares at the small plant for a long time. Brian walks away first and Jimmy follows after a moment, touching Matt's arm briefly in a weak gesture of attempted comfort.
Matt had fucked Zack on the pine needles. It had been rough but close, their mouths connected with tongue, teeth, spit, their shirts shoved up their chests. Their hips had smacked together with a sense of urgency. The pine needles had stuck to Zack's lower back and thighs. The needles dug into Matt's palms.
They had moved together, fast, uneven, desperate. Zack's cheeks had flushed and his brow had creased between his dilated eyes, his swollen mouth parted. Matt remembers thinking he was going to crush the smaller man. He remembers thinking, maybe the war won't destroy everything and...
Zacky had arched when he hit orgasm, his heels digging against the ground and his back lifting, bringing Matt's cock incredibly deep. Matt had pushed his hips in deep, digging forward, his knees sinking into the needles.
Afterwards, they had laid on the forest floor for a long time. There were explosions in the distance and Zacky had held Matt close. “I wish I could be strong like you,” he'd whispered, his mouth warm against Matt's ear.
“Are you scared?” Matt had asked.
“No. I'm not scared to die.”
“You won't die.”
“Everyone dies, Matt.”
“You won't. I wouldn't let anyone hurt you.”
“I know.”
“Zack?”
“Yeah?”
He hadn't said it. He'd wanted to. Matt had wanted to express his love. He hadn't. He was stoic. Instead, he had offered a quiet good night and let Zack press closer to him.
Matt leaves the grave unmarked. He steps hard on the sprout, grinding the toe of his boot down. It leaves a smear of green against the gravel. Matt kicks dust and rock on top of it before turning to follow the other two men.