Dying To Reach You; Anthony Green/Craig Owens
Title: Dying To Reach You
Pairing: Anthony Green/Craig Owens
Rating: Like, a soft R
Summary: Craig doesn't know what will happen to these occasions.
Disclaimer: This is a work of (im)pure imaginative fiction.
Warnings: None.
When Anthony says "I'm getting married," each letter that makes up the words feels intertwined with thorns. It's a mean, pricking joke that jabs at Craig's heart.
Though, he doesn't show it.
He says, "Oh. Oh, yeah."
After that, it's hard to touch. It's hard to be the second best, the sin. It's even harder to know about it. It's not easy to close his eyes and let Anthony drip word after sung word against his ear. Not easy to enjoy it anymore. Craig, he can tolerate it enough because it's Anthony. Singing. Singing for him, for Craig. At the very least, it feels a little right.
The engagement, the announcement, it's not really a surprise. Anthony doesn't scream it. He doesn't fill the words with bitterness. It's not even really announced. Just said. He's got one foot tucked under his leg. A guitar resting on his thigh. Fiddling with it. He strums out something and adjusts the sound. Head tilted. Glasses forcing a glare. He just says it. Like he's trying to decide on a new song title.
"I'm getting married."
"Oh. Oh, yeah."
Days after the non-announcement, when Anthony is shaving, face covered in white foam, Craig breaks. Why now, he's not sure. Why it takes Anthony to be shirtless with a shaving cream Santa Claus beard, humming something reminiscent of Simon and Garfunkel's "Me and Julio Down By The School Yard", Craig doesn't know.
But he'll do anything to keep that forever himself and not have to share it with somebody else. Illegally.
Craig's shoulder is going numb against the bathroom door frame. Chipped sky blue paint collecting on his Smiths t-shirt, along the neck. His eyes are tearing up from all the blinking he's missing out on right now. Staring at Anthony.
He says -- as Anthony is mid-stroke, up his neck -- Craig says, "What am I supposed to do after This."
It's not a question. It's not, because there isn't an answer he wants to hear. Accept. Craig doesn't want to except Anthony's disability in the physical form of a rented tuxedo and new cologne.
Anthony's eyes cast themselves against the sink. Tapping his razor on the ceramic. He sighs. It's not loaded, just empty. Like he knows no answer is going to be the right one. When he looks up, Craig's eyes are huge and hopeful.
Santa Claus beard and all, Craig shrugs his numb shoulder off of the door and shuffles into Anthony's personal space. Craig considers this personal space, so close like this because Anthony isn't his anymore.
"Craig, I don't --"
Craig just nods, his nose burning from the shaving cream. With an all new hesitation, he curls his fingers along the hair on the back of Anthony's neck. Relaxing the muscles. Making this all right. Even though it won't be. Can't be.
"I know," Craig says. "I don't know what to tell me, either." He surveys the closeness, the moment, ducks his head. "This is still okay, right?"
Anthony nods, mouth tight, eyes hard and dark. When he does things like that, it messes Craig up. Drops his stomach. Pulls his heart open. It's all an ache.
"We should -- we should," Craig says. "Please."
And that's not a question either. Because they both know the answer to that one. Craig's pleas for Anthony never go unanswered.
Times like this, when everything has blurred edges and dim lighting, when Anthony is so careful and slow in his movement, nothing can go wrong. Nothing feels wrong or second best. Or sinned.
It's hard to keep his mind side tracked on the non-announcement or anything else for that matter when Anthony tells him to start singing so he can fall asleep.
The occasions when Anthony twists Craig's hair in his fingers and whispers, "Sing me anything. I'm so tired," are rare but meaningful. He's never tired. Anthony's never tired. Anthony gets stressed and scared. Too eager. Those are the times when he ask Craig to whisper word after sung word against his ear.
Craig doesn't know what will happen to these occasions. If she's a good singer. If he'll need to stay at his parent's house. If Anthony will ever speak to him again without obliging to his pleas and begging.
"C'mon, Owens, anything," Anthony grumbles. He tugs his fingers through Craig's hair to add to his impatient insistence.
He really should have seen this coming. He's known about Her. She's known about him, but not all that he and Anthony do or did together.
She doesn't know that a lot of what Anthony writes never gets put into a song, because most of that is put in a journal that he reads to Craig sometimes. When wine is involved. Or if there isn't anything on TV. She doesn't know that Anthony wakes up in the middle of the night and stares out the window. Undresses Craig just to feel his skin. She doesn't know these things, because these are things kept between just the two of them.
Like a promise.
Or a vow. Unspoken but binding nonetheless.
For an entire week, Anthony plays nothing but Bright Eyes. It's kind of out of his realm of song choice for something so exciting to be happening to him. The non-announcement. He's been out with Her every night. A few times she would come back and Craig would have to stay in the guest room which seconds as his room when nights like this occur.
And he listened to them.
And got sick.
But Bright Eyes. Conor Oberst's quivering voice reverberating its way around the walls. It's a little depressing. Craig knocks.
Anthony's writing in the journal he reads to Craig sometimes.
"Hey."
"Craig."
Craig doesn't know what's going to happen to that spark in Anthony's eyes after The Day. He tries not to think about it, curls around Anthony. He still smells like the pomegranate and wild orchid smell of the same soap they used last night. Anthony, he hasn't shaved all week. Craig runs his knuckles along Anthony's cheek and jaw.
"Hey," he whispers when Anthony smiles.
Anthony nods, pen stilled against the paper.
"What're you writing?"
"Nothing, really. If it turns out to be important, I'll read it later." He kisses the top of Craig's head and lingers, nose pressed there. "Does my hair smell like that?"
"Hm, like what?"
"Like really strong flowers or something?"
"Yeah. What, why?"
Anthony shrugs. "I don't think it smells as good on me, is all."
Anthony presses light kisses on Craig's nose and then his eyelids and his mouth. He says, "We're -- me and her -- we're kind of arguing. It's not something I want to talk about. Just. I just wanted you to know. Okay?"
"Oh. Oh, yeah."
Anthony swears. "I'm getting married."
Craig tenses and holds Anthony tighter.
"Yeah. I know."
Pairing: Anthony Green/Craig Owens
Rating: Like, a soft R
Summary: Craig doesn't know what will happen to these occasions.
Disclaimer: This is a work of (im)pure imaginative fiction.
Warnings: None.
When Anthony says "I'm getting married," each letter that makes up the words feels intertwined with thorns. It's a mean, pricking joke that jabs at Craig's heart.
Though, he doesn't show it.
He says, "Oh. Oh, yeah."
After that, it's hard to touch. It's hard to be the second best, the sin. It's even harder to know about it. It's not easy to close his eyes and let Anthony drip word after sung word against his ear. Not easy to enjoy it anymore. Craig, he can tolerate it enough because it's Anthony. Singing. Singing for him, for Craig. At the very least, it feels a little right.
The engagement, the announcement, it's not really a surprise. Anthony doesn't scream it. He doesn't fill the words with bitterness. It's not even really announced. Just said. He's got one foot tucked under his leg. A guitar resting on his thigh. Fiddling with it. He strums out something and adjusts the sound. Head tilted. Glasses forcing a glare. He just says it. Like he's trying to decide on a new song title.
"I'm getting married."
"Oh. Oh, yeah."
Days after the non-announcement, when Anthony is shaving, face covered in white foam, Craig breaks. Why now, he's not sure. Why it takes Anthony to be shirtless with a shaving cream Santa Claus beard, humming something reminiscent of Simon and Garfunkel's "Me and Julio Down By The School Yard", Craig doesn't know.
But he'll do anything to keep that forever himself and not have to share it with somebody else. Illegally.
Craig's shoulder is going numb against the bathroom door frame. Chipped sky blue paint collecting on his Smiths t-shirt, along the neck. His eyes are tearing up from all the blinking he's missing out on right now. Staring at Anthony.
He says -- as Anthony is mid-stroke, up his neck -- Craig says, "What am I supposed to do after This."
It's not a question. It's not, because there isn't an answer he wants to hear. Accept. Craig doesn't want to except Anthony's disability in the physical form of a rented tuxedo and new cologne.
Anthony's eyes cast themselves against the sink. Tapping his razor on the ceramic. He sighs. It's not loaded, just empty. Like he knows no answer is going to be the right one. When he looks up, Craig's eyes are huge and hopeful.
Santa Claus beard and all, Craig shrugs his numb shoulder off of the door and shuffles into Anthony's personal space. Craig considers this personal space, so close like this because Anthony isn't his anymore.
"Craig, I don't --"
Craig just nods, his nose burning from the shaving cream. With an all new hesitation, he curls his fingers along the hair on the back of Anthony's neck. Relaxing the muscles. Making this all right. Even though it won't be. Can't be.
"I know," Craig says. "I don't know what to tell me, either." He surveys the closeness, the moment, ducks his head. "This is still okay, right?"
Anthony nods, mouth tight, eyes hard and dark. When he does things like that, it messes Craig up. Drops his stomach. Pulls his heart open. It's all an ache.
"We should -- we should," Craig says. "Please."
And that's not a question either. Because they both know the answer to that one. Craig's pleas for Anthony never go unanswered.
Times like this, when everything has blurred edges and dim lighting, when Anthony is so careful and slow in his movement, nothing can go wrong. Nothing feels wrong or second best. Or sinned.
It's hard to keep his mind side tracked on the non-announcement or anything else for that matter when Anthony tells him to start singing so he can fall asleep.
The occasions when Anthony twists Craig's hair in his fingers and whispers, "Sing me anything. I'm so tired," are rare but meaningful. He's never tired. Anthony's never tired. Anthony gets stressed and scared. Too eager. Those are the times when he ask Craig to whisper word after sung word against his ear.
Craig doesn't know what will happen to these occasions. If she's a good singer. If he'll need to stay at his parent's house. If Anthony will ever speak to him again without obliging to his pleas and begging.
"C'mon, Owens, anything," Anthony grumbles. He tugs his fingers through Craig's hair to add to his impatient insistence.
He really should have seen this coming. He's known about Her. She's known about him, but not all that he and Anthony do or did together.
She doesn't know that a lot of what Anthony writes never gets put into a song, because most of that is put in a journal that he reads to Craig sometimes. When wine is involved. Or if there isn't anything on TV. She doesn't know that Anthony wakes up in the middle of the night and stares out the window. Undresses Craig just to feel his skin. She doesn't know these things, because these are things kept between just the two of them.
Like a promise.
Or a vow. Unspoken but binding nonetheless.
For an entire week, Anthony plays nothing but Bright Eyes. It's kind of out of his realm of song choice for something so exciting to be happening to him. The non-announcement. He's been out with Her every night. A few times she would come back and Craig would have to stay in the guest room which seconds as his room when nights like this occur.
And he listened to them.
And got sick.
But Bright Eyes. Conor Oberst's quivering voice reverberating its way around the walls. It's a little depressing. Craig knocks.
Anthony's writing in the journal he reads to Craig sometimes.
"Hey."
"Craig."
Craig doesn't know what's going to happen to that spark in Anthony's eyes after The Day. He tries not to think about it, curls around Anthony. He still smells like the pomegranate and wild orchid smell of the same soap they used last night. Anthony, he hasn't shaved all week. Craig runs his knuckles along Anthony's cheek and jaw.
"Hey," he whispers when Anthony smiles.
Anthony nods, pen stilled against the paper.
"What're you writing?"
"Nothing, really. If it turns out to be important, I'll read it later." He kisses the top of Craig's head and lingers, nose pressed there. "Does my hair smell like that?"
"Hm, like what?"
"Like really strong flowers or something?"
"Yeah. What, why?"
Anthony shrugs. "I don't think it smells as good on me, is all."
Anthony presses light kisses on Craig's nose and then his eyelids and his mouth. He says, "We're -- me and her -- we're kind of arguing. It's not something I want to talk about. Just. I just wanted you to know. Okay?"
"Oh. Oh, yeah."
Anthony swears. "I'm getting married."
Craig tenses and holds Anthony tighter.
"Yeah. I know."