fear of exposure, post-shame, brandon and sissy.
Title: fear of exposure
Author: keatsandyeats
Pairing/Characters: brandon, sissy
Rating: PG-13
Warnings some sexual imagery l o l
Premise: the art of coping post-film (trying to avoid spoilers!!)
Notes: inspired by dangeronshow's prompt here, but obviously a half-assed attempt.
It’s silent in his apartment, cold.
The slick stroke of sex that once lined the walls, the bed sheets, the insides of cupboards - it’s gone, lost now.
Sissy shivers.
Brandon closes the door with a swift push and pauses, this is not home anymore.
~
She sips from the orange juice carton; he clenches but he says nothing.
She knows the nothing means something and, quietly, she takes a glass from the cupboard.
He relaxes, she smiles.
~
Sissy curls up on the sofa in front of Chaplin and the disconnect of black and white; her eyes flutter as she fights sleep, but she succumbs, hopelessly afraid of dreaming.
While she sleeps, Brandon strokes the lid of the laptop he purchased after she-
He stops, twists his wrist and strokes his veins, wondering how anyone could-
~
In the night, he sits by her side; he’s silent, unmoving, but he’s there. Her breathing becomes a distraction, and he counts the fragments before each new breath, desperately afraid of thinking of anything else.
~
‘Brandon,’ she slurs in the moment between sleep and awakening. He gently touches her wrist to let her know he’s there.
The scars rise under his thumb, reminding him they are there, too.
~
A string of strange bodies haunt him; he sees them on the subway, crossing the street, in the blur of a speeding cab. He feels the slip, but he holds on tight.
She’s waiting for him, she needs him more. So much more.
~
The slip returns and his dick is wet with the thrill of a twenty dollar blow job someplace dark (he can’t remember the where or when - or even the who). He wanted to fuck - fuck until it all disappeared - but he thought of the orange juice carton as he came, and when he looked down, her wrists were scarred because he let it happen.
He let it happen.
~
‘I saw him today.’
She’s sat, now, by the window, legs curled under her, cigarette in hand. He marches over and extinguishes it in an empty glass.
‘You know I-’
‘It didn’t hurt,’ she says, standing. ‘I’m okay now, Brandon.’
She wraps her arms around his neck and he’s left paralysed; he knows she’s not okay, he knows he’s not okay. He thinks of the dark place and he relents, resting his hands on her back, his grip tightening with each breath.
He means it.
~
He wonders if she will ever feel happiness again - whatever ‘happiness’ is - but really feel it, not just in the flickering disconnect of black and white and orange; he wonders, too, if he will ever feel happiness again, unburdened by the carnal sins that sing him to sleep and pinch him awake.
~
She comes home late that night with only one earring and a grin, ‘I feel like pancakes.’
Author: keatsandyeats
Pairing/Characters: brandon, sissy
Rating: PG-13
Warnings some sexual imagery l o l
Premise: the art of coping post-film (trying to avoid spoilers!!)
Notes: inspired by dangeronshow's prompt here, but obviously a half-assed attempt.
It’s silent in his apartment, cold.
The slick stroke of sex that once lined the walls, the bed sheets, the insides of cupboards - it’s gone, lost now.
Sissy shivers.
Brandon closes the door with a swift push and pauses, this is not home anymore.
~
She sips from the orange juice carton; he clenches but he says nothing.
She knows the nothing means something and, quietly, she takes a glass from the cupboard.
He relaxes, she smiles.
~
Sissy curls up on the sofa in front of Chaplin and the disconnect of black and white; her eyes flutter as she fights sleep, but she succumbs, hopelessly afraid of dreaming.
While she sleeps, Brandon strokes the lid of the laptop he purchased after she-
He stops, twists his wrist and strokes his veins, wondering how anyone could-
~
In the night, he sits by her side; he’s silent, unmoving, but he’s there. Her breathing becomes a distraction, and he counts the fragments before each new breath, desperately afraid of thinking of anything else.
~
‘Brandon,’ she slurs in the moment between sleep and awakening. He gently touches her wrist to let her know he’s there.
The scars rise under his thumb, reminding him they are there, too.
~
A string of strange bodies haunt him; he sees them on the subway, crossing the street, in the blur of a speeding cab. He feels the slip, but he holds on tight.
She’s waiting for him, she needs him more. So much more.
~
The slip returns and his dick is wet with the thrill of a twenty dollar blow job someplace dark (he can’t remember the where or when - or even the who). He wanted to fuck - fuck until it all disappeared - but he thought of the orange juice carton as he came, and when he looked down, her wrists were scarred because he let it happen.
He let it happen.
~
‘I saw him today.’
She’s sat, now, by the window, legs curled under her, cigarette in hand. He marches over and extinguishes it in an empty glass.
‘You know I-’
‘It didn’t hurt,’ she says, standing. ‘I’m okay now, Brandon.’
She wraps her arms around his neck and he’s left paralysed; he knows she’s not okay, he knows he’s not okay. He thinks of the dark place and he relents, resting his hands on her back, his grip tightening with each breath.
He means it.
~
He wonders if she will ever feel happiness again - whatever ‘happiness’ is - but really feel it, not just in the flickering disconnect of black and white and orange; he wonders, too, if he will ever feel happiness again, unburdened by the carnal sins that sing him to sleep and pinch him awake.
~
She comes home late that night with only one earring and a grin, ‘I feel like pancakes.’