britin1729 (britin1729) wrote in _love_qaf_fic, @ 2010-03-04 18:03:00 |
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He's not sure, for a moment, which one is worse— the lingering crack of a baseball bat, crashing into him and sickening him to the point of feeling bile rise in his throat— or the memories. The amazing, agonizing memories of ecstasy and bliss, pleasure he wasn't sure he'd ever have again.
He'd deny it, if asked, but Brian can still see the vague shadows, the imprint of their bodies between the sheets that first night. He sees, in his mind's eye, Justin's trusting gaze, ready to give himself over to Brian— terrified but absolutely determined. He feels the warmth of Justin's lips, the weight of his legs, the insistence of his arousal, the heat of him as Brian pushes inside. He senses something breaking, something shifting around them and inside them and between them...that instant where his world had turned upside down.
Slowly, Brian undresses, pulling off still-bloodstained clothing, shedding layer after layer until he's wearing nothing but the damn scarf. He touches it, runs his fingers along the smooth, blood-red material. He should take it off. He should throw it out. Burn it. Something. But as he stands there, staring at the bed and trying to muster the strength to pull it from his neck, he realizes he can't. He doesn't want to know why. He doesn't want to know anything. Remember anything. Hear or see or feel any of it at all.
In a few hours, when he wakes up, Brian decides that he'll go back to the hospital, just to check— just in case. He can't take this...this not knowing. It claws at his skin and burns and screams at him until he's ready to die just so he doesn't have to feel this weight pressing down on him, just so he doesn't have to hear the crack of that bat, or see Justin's heartbreakingly beautiful, bloody face in his mind. This is only for a little while, he tries to tell himself. He'll wake up tomorrow morning, go to the hospital, and when they tell him Justin's fine, it'll all be over. He won't have to feel like this anymore; he can go and get drunk and high and get his dick sucked. He can lose himself in pleasure and escape this pain. He can forget.
He's not sure what it will feel like when he no longer thinks of Justin. It hasn't really happened since...well, it hasn't happened for a while. But this— this moving on thing— it will be good for him. For both of them. It will be good for him to pull away now, before this thing gets any deeper. It'll only benefit him, not to be thinking about the way it feels to kiss those beautiful pink lips, or feel them wrapped around his cock...can only be a good thing for him to forget about Justin begging him to fuck him, Justin crying out his name, Justin's face and Justin's ass and Justin's cock and Justin, Justin, Justin.
He wonders when life got so damn complicated. Then he decides he doesn't want to know that either.
Instead he falls into the bed, which suddenly feels far too big, and tries not to think, tries not to remember. But not remembering, not knowing, means not being, and he's just not sure that's possible at the moment. He finds his mind drifting to those nights that Justin would sleep over, and they'd stay up talking and fucking and talking and fucking some more. Justin could never keep his mouth shut during either of those activities.
But memories of Justin laughing, Justin chattering away, Justin moaning beneath him...they're all better than the alternative. If Brian is really moving on— assuming there was ever anything for him to move on from in the first place— he'd rather remember Justin that way. Happy and bright and bursting with sunshine...than cold and still as his life drained out onto cold cement.
Besides, tomorrow, he can forget it all. For now, he allows himself one last night to remember.