fic: untitled
fic: untitled
author: inflowers
summary: He was never one for writing.
authors notes: uhhm. yeeah. me again! i actually feel kind of guilty about how much i'm clogging up this comm with my drivel. haha. and yeeeaah. sigh. sorry! i couldn't think of a title to sum this all up. but i kind of like it untitled.
He unlocks the door and walks inside, lost in his own reverie. Locking the door behind him, he momentarily muses on how habitual he's become. He's lived alone for so long now that everything has become routine. A series of events, one following the other that simply allow life to just go on. He lives alone in his small apartment, only ever thinking of Luke and how he left him here. There’s enough money for a house, but he doesn’t feel the need for one. It’s just him, why live in a huge house when he’ll be alone and all the bedrooms will be painfully neglected. He can just see it now. He’d move into a large house - four bedrooms, two bathrooms - and dress them all to the nines just to impress the people whose opinions mean nothing. And then one day, say maybe eight years later, he’d walk into one of the bedrooms only to find the sheets on the bed rotting off due to the moths that got inside through a barely noticeable crack in the wall. Of course, he won’t care since he’ll never have guests over to entertain anyway. Shrugging it off, he’d turn and close the door, leaving the room in its own quiet collapse for another eight years when he’d return and the sheets will have disintegrated, and the once barely noticeable crack will be a gaping hole into the universe. Much like the one Luke left inside him.
No, there’s no need to bother with all of that. His small, two bedroom apartment is enough for him, especially since Luke left. Sometimes he thinks it’s too big, and his loneliness is just echoed through the emptiness.
He walks across the room and turns on a lamp, listening to the gentle click of the switch. It’s the only sound he can hear, and he suddenly realises that the silence encompassing him has become deafening. Placing a CD in the stereo, he softly laughs at how pathetic he’s become. The sound of other pathetic and whining boys with their fathers’ acoustic guitars soothes him, as he returns to his desk. He surveys the mess that has accumulated there, occasionally reading over a sheet of paper or the corner of a medical journal. Every one of his thoughts, scrawled onto useless pieces of paper. The thoughts that will never be anything more than scraps, but the thoughts that just couldn’t stay inside him.
He picks up the glass of scotch sitting next to him, and swirls the liquid in the bottom of the glass. The ice is long melted, and it doesn’t taste good. But he’s not drinking it for the taste, so he doesn’t much care. As the cool alcohol flows down his throat, he puts the glass down and picks up a pen, sitting down and pulling himself close to the desk.
He was never one for writing. Didn’t care much for journals or diaries, and wouldn’t be caught dead writing letters, much less love letters. Short emails and obnoxious text messages were enough, he didn’t need much more. But since Luke, he’s found himself writing more. If only as a way to vent his frustration and his broken heart, however clichéd and unoriginal that may be.
For a few moments, nothing comes out and Reid is left staring at the brilliant whites of paper, waiting for inspiration or anger to strike. For the letters to fall out of him like they have so many times before. He’s drenched, covered in words but they’re all failing him.
It seems like years since I’ve written to you, when really it’s only been a few days. Or weeks. I wouldn’t know, I’ve lost track of time. Not that I often send these letters, not that I really know where you are. I ask sometimes, but everybody brushes me off and I realise that it’s not my place to know where you are. Writing these and keeping them locked away in the depths of me is simply part of my daily routine. I seem to have lost track of almost everything, except of course, you. Nothing I do anymore gets my mind off you. I go to work, I save lives, and I’m grateful - really. That I still get to practice medicine, and that I’m still good at it. But the questions I have about you make everything else seem so much less satisfying, and I find myself angry that I let you get as close as to jeopardise that feeling. Why did you leave? You were everything to me; you’re still everything to me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for not being there for you, for not telling you how much I love you and for just assuming that somehow, someway, you knew. And I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for leaving. But then again, do you even care? Did you ever really love me as much as I loved you.
That’s not a question this time; I don’t need to know the answer. Love is love, and you’ll never replace me as I’ll never replace you. I wouldn’t be able to, though one day I may try.
I’m starting to remember our arguments more. Especially the stupid ones. How we’d argue about cleaning? Well, I’ve gotten used to it. I clean now, quite a lot actually. I vacuum, I mop, I sweep, I dust, and I do the dishes. I can’t stand to see something unclean now, so I feel as though I’m always scrubbing. But maybe I’m just scrubbing to try and erase you. Just a few days ago I was cleaning my bedroom. Cleaning our bedroom, and while I was cleaning under the bed I found something of yours. That notebook, the one you’d write everything in. I couldn’t believe you’d left it here, but as much as I wanted to read it, I never will. Some things are better left unsaid, as they say.
I’d return it if I knew where you are, but sometimes I hold onto it just thinking about how many times you’ve held this book in your hands. How many times you’d held me in your arms after a bad surgery, or just because you wanted to. But it’s all over now, and I find myself hating you for that. How could you do that to me, after all we’d been through? You asshole, how could you leave me?
I don’t mean that.
I’d call you tonight, if I knew your phone number. I’d surprise you. Would it be a good surprise or a bad surprise? It doesn’t matter; I’m sure you’re much too far away for me to touch. Maybe it’s just for the best this way, even if I can’t see that now.
He takes another sip, eyeing over his letter. It’s the shortest one he’s ever written, but there’s something different about this one. This is one of the letters he’s going to send to him. Reaching out to grab an envelope, he slips the letter inside and sticks a stamp on it. He pauses with his pen poised over the bright white exterior of the envelope, not knowing what to write. He scribbles his name unevenly and quickly onto the letter and stands up carefully; positive that if he stands up too quickly the world will fall from underneath him. He grabs a jacket that’s lying on his bed and picks up the letter, walking briskly towards the door. As he opens it and steps out into the freezing cold night, he shudders and remembers the late night walks. Even when Reid protested that it was too cold, Luke would always respond with his usual line of how romantic walking through the cold night was. And he always won.
Reid walks towards the post box at the end of the street, and slips the letter through the opening. As he watches it disappear, he wonders whether Luke will ever read it.
He doubts it, though. Every day he hopes to see a letter from him appear in his mail slot, but it’s never there.
Because Luke never reads his letters. Somehow they get lost between Heaven and Earth.
author: inflowers
summary: He was never one for writing.
authors notes: uhhm. yeeah. me again! i actually feel kind of guilty about how much i'm clogging up this comm with my drivel. haha. and yeeeaah. sigh. sorry! i couldn't think of a title to sum this all up. but i kind of like it untitled.
He unlocks the door and walks inside, lost in his own reverie. Locking the door behind him, he momentarily muses on how habitual he's become. He's lived alone for so long now that everything has become routine. A series of events, one following the other that simply allow life to just go on. He lives alone in his small apartment, only ever thinking of Luke and how he left him here. There’s enough money for a house, but he doesn’t feel the need for one. It’s just him, why live in a huge house when he’ll be alone and all the bedrooms will be painfully neglected. He can just see it now. He’d move into a large house - four bedrooms, two bathrooms - and dress them all to the nines just to impress the people whose opinions mean nothing. And then one day, say maybe eight years later, he’d walk into one of the bedrooms only to find the sheets on the bed rotting off due to the moths that got inside through a barely noticeable crack in the wall. Of course, he won’t care since he’ll never have guests over to entertain anyway. Shrugging it off, he’d turn and close the door, leaving the room in its own quiet collapse for another eight years when he’d return and the sheets will have disintegrated, and the once barely noticeable crack will be a gaping hole into the universe. Much like the one Luke left inside him.
No, there’s no need to bother with all of that. His small, two bedroom apartment is enough for him, especially since Luke left. Sometimes he thinks it’s too big, and his loneliness is just echoed through the emptiness.
He walks across the room and turns on a lamp, listening to the gentle click of the switch. It’s the only sound he can hear, and he suddenly realises that the silence encompassing him has become deafening. Placing a CD in the stereo, he softly laughs at how pathetic he’s become. The sound of other pathetic and whining boys with their fathers’ acoustic guitars soothes him, as he returns to his desk. He surveys the mess that has accumulated there, occasionally reading over a sheet of paper or the corner of a medical journal. Every one of his thoughts, scrawled onto useless pieces of paper. The thoughts that will never be anything more than scraps, but the thoughts that just couldn’t stay inside him.
He picks up the glass of scotch sitting next to him, and swirls the liquid in the bottom of the glass. The ice is long melted, and it doesn’t taste good. But he’s not drinking it for the taste, so he doesn’t much care. As the cool alcohol flows down his throat, he puts the glass down and picks up a pen, sitting down and pulling himself close to the desk.
He was never one for writing. Didn’t care much for journals or diaries, and wouldn’t be caught dead writing letters, much less love letters. Short emails and obnoxious text messages were enough, he didn’t need much more. But since Luke, he’s found himself writing more. If only as a way to vent his frustration and his broken heart, however clichéd and unoriginal that may be.
For a few moments, nothing comes out and Reid is left staring at the brilliant whites of paper, waiting for inspiration or anger to strike. For the letters to fall out of him like they have so many times before. He’s drenched, covered in words but they’re all failing him.
It seems like years since I’ve written to you, when really it’s only been a few days. Or weeks. I wouldn’t know, I’ve lost track of time. Not that I often send these letters, not that I really know where you are. I ask sometimes, but everybody brushes me off and I realise that it’s not my place to know where you are. Writing these and keeping them locked away in the depths of me is simply part of my daily routine. I seem to have lost track of almost everything, except of course, you. Nothing I do anymore gets my mind off you. I go to work, I save lives, and I’m grateful - really. That I still get to practice medicine, and that I’m still good at it. But the questions I have about you make everything else seem so much less satisfying, and I find myself angry that I let you get as close as to jeopardise that feeling. Why did you leave? You were everything to me; you’re still everything to me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for not being there for you, for not telling you how much I love you and for just assuming that somehow, someway, you knew. And I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for leaving. But then again, do you even care? Did you ever really love me as much as I loved you.
That’s not a question this time; I don’t need to know the answer. Love is love, and you’ll never replace me as I’ll never replace you. I wouldn’t be able to, though one day I may try.
I’m starting to remember our arguments more. Especially the stupid ones. How we’d argue about cleaning? Well, I’ve gotten used to it. I clean now, quite a lot actually. I vacuum, I mop, I sweep, I dust, and I do the dishes. I can’t stand to see something unclean now, so I feel as though I’m always scrubbing. But maybe I’m just scrubbing to try and erase you. Just a few days ago I was cleaning my bedroom. Cleaning our bedroom, and while I was cleaning under the bed I found something of yours. That notebook, the one you’d write everything in. I couldn’t believe you’d left it here, but as much as I wanted to read it, I never will. Some things are better left unsaid, as they say.
I’d return it if I knew where you are, but sometimes I hold onto it just thinking about how many times you’ve held this book in your hands. How many times you’d held me in your arms after a bad surgery, or just because you wanted to. But it’s all over now, and I find myself hating you for that. How could you do that to me, after all we’d been through? You asshole, how could you leave me?
I don’t mean that.
I’d call you tonight, if I knew your phone number. I’d surprise you. Would it be a good surprise or a bad surprise? It doesn’t matter; I’m sure you’re much too far away for me to touch. Maybe it’s just for the best this way, even if I can’t see that now.
He takes another sip, eyeing over his letter. It’s the shortest one he’s ever written, but there’s something different about this one. This is one of the letters he’s going to send to him. Reaching out to grab an envelope, he slips the letter inside and sticks a stamp on it. He pauses with his pen poised over the bright white exterior of the envelope, not knowing what to write. He scribbles his name unevenly and quickly onto the letter and stands up carefully; positive that if he stands up too quickly the world will fall from underneath him. He grabs a jacket that’s lying on his bed and picks up the letter, walking briskly towards the door. As he opens it and steps out into the freezing cold night, he shudders and remembers the late night walks. Even when Reid protested that it was too cold, Luke would always respond with his usual line of how romantic walking through the cold night was. And he always won.
Reid walks towards the post box at the end of the street, and slips the letter through the opening. As he watches it disappear, he wonders whether Luke will ever read it.
He doubts it, though. Every day he hopes to see a letter from him appear in his mail slot, but it’s never there.
Because Luke never reads his letters. Somehow they get lost between Heaven and Earth.