Almost
Title: Almost
Pairing: William Moseley/Ben Barnes
Rating: PG
Warnings: RPS, bit of angst (naturally).
Summary: You look good, when I open the door. Leather jacket and black jeans and a thin white t-shirt that’s not too tight but clings to your body just right.
William's POV
Like sand in an hourglass, time slips through my hands. And I don’t even try to hold on.
My fingers don’t curl, my fists don’t clench.
And I just sit there, hands open and flat, palms facing the heavens.
I just sit there, and time slips through my hands.
You’re talking and then you’re shouting. Pacing in front of me, pacing behind. You’re muttering and mumbling and cursing and shouting and shouting.
And I just sit there.
What’s wrong with me? you want to know.
Am I even fucking listening? you want to know.
And then you’re out the door.
I have about one minute, before you make it down the stairs, before you leave the building.
About one minute to go after you - probably less.
I just sit there.
And the seconds pass.
And the minute is gone.
And time slips through my hands.
* * *
I’m standing now.
I’m standing by the window, looking for you, finding you, watching you.
Crossing the road, they follow you - hungry reporters with filthy hands and even filthier questions.
Cameras flash as you rush to your car, and you don’t look back at my apartment.
You’re not quick enough, not quick enough at all.
And then they’ve caught you.
You could push past them if you wanted to. There’s only two. One in front, the other to the side. You could still get to your car.
But you don’t even try.
Their mouths move and fingers work on the buttons of their cameras. You frown and I can see you sigh. They’re asking about me - asking about us.
You shake your head and risk a smile. No - I’m sure you’re telling them - we’re not seeing each other. We’re just good friends, is all. Just good friends.
I can’t hear you, but I bet you sound convincing.
Biting your lip, your brow creases and you fold your arms. They’re probably telling you that their ‘sources’ say we’re very close, that our relationship is intimate.
Uncrossing your arms, you sigh again, chest rising and falling.
And then you laugh with a smile of pretty white teeth and warm lips.
The sun catches your soft dark hair and the cameras flash again.
You nod and your lips move once more, and then you get away.
They call after you and there goes those cameras again.
And then you’re gone, driving away in that expensive black car.
* * *
Moving from the window, I take my cell phone from the coffee table and slip it into my pocket.
I wait for you to call.
* * *
One long hour later, I realize you’re not going to call.
Five long hours later, I realize you are deeply upset.
Two days later, I realize something’s wrong.
And so I dial your number.
It rings ten times.
I hang up.
I hit redial.
It rings twelve times.
I hang up.
I hit redial.
It rings fifteen times and then I get your voicemail.
I hang up.
* * *
Ten o’clock at night, I’m reading a book and drinking red wine.
My phone sits quietly on the coffee table.
My phone rings.
Flashing and vibrating and ringing and ringing.
I look at it.
I lift the wine glass to my lips, draining it entirely.
I close the book, and I answer.
You say my name and you sound exhausted.
I called you before, I tell you. Why didn’t you answer? I ask.
I’ve been busy, you say.
Come over, I tell you. Come over and stay the night.
Why? You ask.
The word is cold.
The word hurts.
Because I want you to, I say.
And you don’t answer.
Come over, I say.
And I hang up.
* * *
You look good, when I open the door.
Leather jacket and black jeans and a thin white t-shirt that’s not too tight but clings to your body just right.
You look good.
You look tired.
* * *
I want to take you to bed, but you’ll say no.
I’m sure you’ll say no.
So we sit and talk.
We sit and talk like we haven’t spoken in years.
Half a bottle of wine each, and two cans of beer each, and we’re sitting on the couch and my lips are at your neck.
I want to take you to bed.
You still want to talk.
Will, you say, Will, listen.
I sit back and I look you in the eye.
Why do you want to keep me a secret? you ask.
I look away.
I think I should go home, you say.
No, I tell you, You can’t drive.
Sighing, you say, Will, I’m not embarrassed or ashamed to love you. Keeping everything quiet like this, keeping it all behind closed doors - its not right. Its not healthy. Its not a relationship.
Shifting in my place I say, Its nobody’s business, Ben. Nobody’s business what we do.
You’re not convinced.
You stand and walk to the kitchen.
And you drink two large glasses of water. And then you make yourself a coffee.
What are you doing? I ask.
I’m not staying here tonight, you say. When my head clears, I’m going home.
I want to beg you, but of course I won’t.
I’ll sit with you while you drink your coffee and then I’ll watch you leave.
Pairing: William Moseley/Ben Barnes
Rating: PG
Warnings: RPS, bit of angst (naturally).
Summary: You look good, when I open the door. Leather jacket and black jeans and a thin white t-shirt that’s not too tight but clings to your body just right.
William's POV
Like sand in an hourglass, time slips through my hands. And I don’t even try to hold on.
My fingers don’t curl, my fists don’t clench.
And I just sit there, hands open and flat, palms facing the heavens.
I just sit there, and time slips through my hands.
You’re talking and then you’re shouting. Pacing in front of me, pacing behind. You’re muttering and mumbling and cursing and shouting and shouting.
And I just sit there.
What’s wrong with me? you want to know.
Am I even fucking listening? you want to know.
And then you’re out the door.
I have about one minute, before you make it down the stairs, before you leave the building.
About one minute to go after you - probably less.
I just sit there.
And the seconds pass.
And the minute is gone.
And time slips through my hands.
* * *
I’m standing now.
I’m standing by the window, looking for you, finding you, watching you.
Crossing the road, they follow you - hungry reporters with filthy hands and even filthier questions.
Cameras flash as you rush to your car, and you don’t look back at my apartment.
You’re not quick enough, not quick enough at all.
And then they’ve caught you.
You could push past them if you wanted to. There’s only two. One in front, the other to the side. You could still get to your car.
But you don’t even try.
Their mouths move and fingers work on the buttons of their cameras. You frown and I can see you sigh. They’re asking about me - asking about us.
You shake your head and risk a smile. No - I’m sure you’re telling them - we’re not seeing each other. We’re just good friends, is all. Just good friends.
I can’t hear you, but I bet you sound convincing.
Biting your lip, your brow creases and you fold your arms. They’re probably telling you that their ‘sources’ say we’re very close, that our relationship is intimate.
Uncrossing your arms, you sigh again, chest rising and falling.
And then you laugh with a smile of pretty white teeth and warm lips.
The sun catches your soft dark hair and the cameras flash again.
You nod and your lips move once more, and then you get away.
They call after you and there goes those cameras again.
And then you’re gone, driving away in that expensive black car.
* * *
Moving from the window, I take my cell phone from the coffee table and slip it into my pocket.
I wait for you to call.
* * *
One long hour later, I realize you’re not going to call.
Five long hours later, I realize you are deeply upset.
Two days later, I realize something’s wrong.
And so I dial your number.
It rings ten times.
I hang up.
I hit redial.
It rings twelve times.
I hang up.
I hit redial.
It rings fifteen times and then I get your voicemail.
I hang up.
* * *
Ten o’clock at night, I’m reading a book and drinking red wine.
My phone sits quietly on the coffee table.
My phone rings.
Flashing and vibrating and ringing and ringing.
I look at it.
I lift the wine glass to my lips, draining it entirely.
I close the book, and I answer.
You say my name and you sound exhausted.
I called you before, I tell you. Why didn’t you answer? I ask.
I’ve been busy, you say.
Come over, I tell you. Come over and stay the night.
Why? You ask.
The word is cold.
The word hurts.
Because I want you to, I say.
And you don’t answer.
Come over, I say.
And I hang up.
* * *
You look good, when I open the door.
Leather jacket and black jeans and a thin white t-shirt that’s not too tight but clings to your body just right.
You look good.
You look tired.
* * *
I want to take you to bed, but you’ll say no.
I’m sure you’ll say no.
So we sit and talk.
We sit and talk like we haven’t spoken in years.
Half a bottle of wine each, and two cans of beer each, and we’re sitting on the couch and my lips are at your neck.
I want to take you to bed.
You still want to talk.
Will, you say, Will, listen.
I sit back and I look you in the eye.
Why do you want to keep me a secret? you ask.
I look away.
I think I should go home, you say.
No, I tell you, You can’t drive.
Sighing, you say, Will, I’m not embarrassed or ashamed to love you. Keeping everything quiet like this, keeping it all behind closed doors - its not right. Its not healthy. Its not a relationship.
Shifting in my place I say, Its nobody’s business, Ben. Nobody’s business what we do.
You’re not convinced.
You stand and walk to the kitchen.
And you drink two large glasses of water. And then you make yourself a coffee.
What are you doing? I ask.
I’m not staying here tonight, you say. When my head clears, I’m going home.
I want to beg you, but of course I won’t.
I’ll sit with you while you drink your coffee and then I’ll watch you leave.