testdog65 (testdog65) wrote in qaf_challenges, @ 2007-04-14 17:13:00 |
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Original poster: _alicesprings
Title: The Parting of Regularity
Written By: _kiden
Timeline: Post-1.22
Rating: mature
What if: Justin dreamt while in the coma.
Author's Notes: If it wasn't for my brilliant beta, silent_seas, this story would be... not a story at all. She didn't just make it better, she made it. In fact, she is practically a co-author, and I am forever grateful for it.
Justin's bed is cold and hard, and he closes his eyes against the throbbing, unbearable pressure in his head. The pain shoots across his forehead, and he does not cry (because he's much stronger than that, he tells himself).
His mother knocks, knocks, knocks from the other side of the door. It sounds brutal, echoing off the walls and into his body, shaking him. He chokes, whimpers, twists his hands around in the sheets and forces out, "Just leave me alone."
He has to close his mouth against the rising of bile, that bitter taste of death sliding up his throat, and when his mother opens his bedroom door (just a bit), the light that falls through is too bright. The pain explodes and blossoms, spreading behind his eyes.
She says, "Justin, wake up."
The light pours in from the hall, yellow and intrusive in the dark of his room, climbing up the side of his bed and crawling under his skin. His mother is on the threshold, framed in white and blue. "Justin, please."
Her voice is a ghost, hollow and still too loud, moving through his mind. She cries, "No, no. Please, God. No nono, get up! Justin!"
And then there is nothing.
...
If Daphne notices anything different, she doesn't mention it.
They walk together down Liberty Avenue, close enough to collide but not daring to. She is warm comfort next to him, smiling with too-big teeth and cheerful eyes, and Justin loves her. He loves her for being everything he doesn't want to be (because he just can't, anymore). She is optimism and hope and touch, ready to hug him when he loses control or guide him when he breaks his stride.
So he says, "If we could be like this forever, Daph, I would. Just you and me."
Daphne wraps a single delicate finger around the pull string of his hoodie, tugs on it gently, and laughs.
...
Brian's apartment building is the Empire State Building. It's the Sears Tower or Taipei 101.
It's impossibly big and intimidating, and Justin feels like he could climb the stairs without reaching the top. He's in some optical illusion; he's doomed to walk forever on the same endless staircase, never resting. So he doesn't even try.
...
Justin is at work when the pain comes back. His hands are steady on the coffee pot, on the pitcher of water, on the Pink Plate Specials. He is solid, real, every bone and muscle and ligament doing its job and doing it well, and then--
(Someone says: - rhythm is erratic, we need to shock him or -.)
Debbie's hands are at his back, fingers pressing into his spine and shoulder blades. She's saying things like oh, fuck and what the hell happened, endearments that are sunshine and honey and other words that really mean love, the kind that Justin hates and desperately craves.
He says, "I'm fine, Debbie. Really." But the hurt is mutating and growing, gnawing from the inside to the soft shell of his skin.
And he can't remember.
(Clear.)
Another wave of it comes, and every part of him freezes - legs bent, fingers misshapen and clawed, white-knuckled and rigid. Then again, and again. Justin bucks under the force of it, there on the diner floor, the fire starting at his heart and spreading to the points of his fingers. It's the opposite of death, every molecule too alive, thrumming with too much energy.
Debbie's voice is in his ear (but it's wrong, not the right time, because she's laughing, laughing, fracturing into a shriek of delight) and she says, "If we could be like this forever, Justin, I would. Just you and me."
He falls asleep.
...
Justin says, "If we could be like this forever, Daph, I would. You're my best friend, you know that, right?"
Daphne wraps a single delicate finger around the pull string of his hoodie, tugs on it gently, and laughs. Her giggle is contagious, and Justin smiles wide and honest, and everything is okay with Daphne looking at him like this in the late summer sun. It's more than okay; it's perfect.
She draws him towards her (by those strings of his hoodie), shy and serene, and kisses him open-mouthed. Her lips taste like strawberry gloss, and her tongue, smart and eager in his mouth, is bubblegum innocence, sugar and spice and pink bicycles with steamers and training wheels.
He says no, pushes her shoulders hard. This isn't right, stop it.
Daphne pulls away from him, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and says, "They're all waiting for you, Justin. They're crying and holding each other's hands, even Brian is worried. And here you are, out here with me, and you are so selfish sometimes that I absolutely hate you."
She narrows her eyes and clenches her hands into fists. "You think you are so grown up, but you're not. That's why he doesn't come in, because you are just this stupid kid."
"What are you - ?"
"It's always about you, isn't it," she screams. "Your art, your boyfriend, your homophobic dad who—boo hoo—hates you so much. The world doesn't revolve around you, Justin, so just wake up."
...
Justin opens his eyes.
Brian says, "I thought you were dead. It's three in the fucking afternoon."
Justin sits up, scratches behind his ear, yawns loudly, and answers, "I thought I was too, for a minute there." He reaches out and hooks his fingers inside the belt loops of Brian's jeans, yanking him forward onto the bed until he's between Justin's spread legs. "I just had the most completely fucked dream, ever."
"Is wittle sunshine, twaumatized?"
"Yes," Justin says with a grin. "I might need therapy. Extensive, intense, sweaty therapy. Preferably the kind that involves lubrication and my legs draped over your shoulders."
"What other kind of therapy is there?" Brian asks, his eyes sparking and his hand sliding down Justin's stomach, teasing. Justin shrugs and rolls his eyes, Brian's hand wraps around him at the same moment that their lips come together, and yes, there it is. Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails. Whiskey and cigarettes, and whatever the hell the opposite of bubblegum is.
Brian breaks their kiss and buries his face in the hollow of Justin's shoulder. He whispers, "I never asked you for anything." He wraps his arms around Justin almost too tightly, and Justin lets his arms fall away from Brian, dead weight on the sheets. It's suddenly so very cold.
Brian says, a strange laugh crawling out of him, "I never fucking asked you for one thing, not my whole life. I don't even know if you're even fucking listening. But I'm asking for this. Please --"
He's crying against Justin, tears sliding down Justin's skin and soaking into the sheets. He says, "Please, God, just this one thing. Help him. I -"
Justin thinks, Say it. Please.
"I need him," Brian breathes. "I need him. Help him get up."
Against Justin's pale, trembling lips, Brian murmurs, "Please, God, Justin, wake up."
...
"I didn't mean any of that," Daphne says, crying. "I'm so sorry."
The sun is setting. Liberty Avenue is only shades of orange and red, blurring around the edges, and Justin says, "Yes, you did. And you weren't completely wrong, about some things at least."
Daphne laughs, watery and muffled, and asks, "Ready?"
And Justin means to answer, but he's already gone.
...
Please, God, Justin, wake up.
"Yeah, okay," Justin says to a room that is dark and empty.
Then a nurse comes, and a doctor, and they smile and pat his arm and keep saying thing like how it's a miracle he's awake at all, and how lucky he is. They say they're going to call his mother, run some tests, they're going to --
His head hurts terribly, and he has no idea why he's here, but it's okay, because he is awake and breathing on his own and absolutely not dead.
There's a window by the door, big and dark. Maybe it's a trick of the hardly-there lights or the painkillers or the substantial head wound, but Justin knows the shape and size of the handprints on the glass.
He figures he might not be doing so badly, considering.