Where the Light Exists
Just A Wasted Moment, Caught In Time
"Uhnnn..."
"Fuck, Gerard," Bert swore, softly, ironically, worriedly. "If any of your guys see you like this, in my bunk, no less, I'd be in hell before the sun rises."
Dark-lashed eyes fluttered open, perplexedly, their owner seeing through nothing but dark cobwebs and alcohol-laced hazes.
"You're supposed to be sober, fuckhead," Bert gritted his teeth with sudden annoyance. If he lowered them to his bottom lip he would have instantly drawn blood. "And all I do is fuck that up. I fuck you up, fuckhole. You're not supposed to let me fuck you. You're supposed to fucking stay away from me."
Gerard whimpered softly, head lolling from side to side, stringy black hair falling across his face as he struggled to get up, and promptly failed.
"You have to go! Fuck, get up!" Bert wrapped his fingers deftly around Gerard's wrist and grabbed him upwards, but Gerard groaned loudly and yanked his arm back from Bert's grasp, shattering on the sheets again.
Bert's brow knitted together in concern, all hints of mild fury gone from his expression. "What's wrong?"
Gerard opens his eyes and Bert literally loses catches his breath at what he sees - such brilliant hazel, rising dangerously with tears.
He lifts his hand up, twisting it to an angle, to reveal angry bruising on his wrist.
"Ow," he moans simply, looking up at Bert through his curtain of black hair with those glimmering golds.
"Shitfuckdamn," the expletives leave Bert's mouth in a string, gaze unwavering on the bruising. "Did I do that?"
The next movement is Gerard's tiny sliver of a nod or head shake, like he couldn't tell them apart or what they were for, and he pressed lightly on the mark with a fingertip and hissed as pain illuminated the early morning darkness.
Bert sits back down next to him, a white sheet around his waist because he chose the best time to be so modest, and takes the abused wrist in a firm and gentle hold, raising it up for a closer inspection.
"ShitfuckDAMN," he says again, with more conviction, and Bert gets a coiling sensation in his stomach, like something bad was going to happen and maybe something will, because all he does is hurt the man he loved, the man he fucks, the man he still loves and probably always will, and everybody else wants him to lose anyway, but all he can think about is how the bruises look kind of pretty, all purple and yellow and black and red like a polluted rainbow or sunset-colored shit, and how he knows he's sorry for this, for all of this.
He knows, too, that he can't make it all okay.
He lifts Gerard's wrist (like a canvas, that's it, a pale white canvas some fucking psycho kid ruined with broken crayons; he was a fucktard, even then) to his lips and presses his mouth fleetingly against the throbbing flesh, anesthesia for two seconds before it's gone.
He closes his eyes but opens them slightly, enough to stare at Gerard through blurred slits, and thinks he looks like an angel - a naked, smeared, wounded, dirty drunk hangover angel - but an angel none the less, with the forgotten light of bygone stars shining through the blinds and onto a shaft of his cheekbone, with the half none smile on a face half covered with unwashed hair.
Bert smiles, if it can be called that, a bit on the dopey side, the kind you'd do when you're in love, and also a bit apologetically, ruefully, because he knows the kisses wouldn't make everything all right, wouldn't stop all the noise of mistakes and faults and recklessness and the future from coming between them, but at least for a while, for the moment that a kiss can last, everything was a bit better than they were before.
"Fuck, Gerard," Bert swore, softly, ironically, worriedly. "If any of your guys see you like this, in my bunk, no less, I'd be in hell before the sun rises."
Dark-lashed eyes fluttered open, perplexedly, their owner seeing through nothing but dark cobwebs and alcohol-laced hazes.
"You're supposed to be sober, fuckhead," Bert gritted his teeth with sudden annoyance. If he lowered them to his bottom lip he would have instantly drawn blood. "And all I do is fuck that up. I fuck you up, fuckhole. You're not supposed to let me fuck you. You're supposed to fucking stay away from me."
Gerard whimpered softly, head lolling from side to side, stringy black hair falling across his face as he struggled to get up, and promptly failed.
"You have to go! Fuck, get up!" Bert wrapped his fingers deftly around Gerard's wrist and grabbed him upwards, but Gerard groaned loudly and yanked his arm back from Bert's grasp, shattering on the sheets again.
Bert's brow knitted together in concern, all hints of mild fury gone from his expression. "What's wrong?"
Gerard opens his eyes and Bert literally loses catches his breath at what he sees - such brilliant hazel, rising dangerously with tears.
He lifts his hand up, twisting it to an angle, to reveal angry bruising on his wrist.
"Ow," he moans simply, looking up at Bert through his curtain of black hair with those glimmering golds.
"Shitfuckdamn," the expletives leave Bert's mouth in a string, gaze unwavering on the bruising. "Did I do that?"
The next movement is Gerard's tiny sliver of a nod or head shake, like he couldn't tell them apart or what they were for, and he pressed lightly on the mark with a fingertip and hissed as pain illuminated the early morning darkness.
Bert sits back down next to him, a white sheet around his waist because he chose the best time to be so modest, and takes the abused wrist in a firm and gentle hold, raising it up for a closer inspection.
"ShitfuckDAMN," he says again, with more conviction, and Bert gets a coiling sensation in his stomach, like something bad was going to happen and maybe something will, because all he does is hurt the man he loved, the man he fucks, the man he still loves and probably always will, and everybody else wants him to lose anyway, but all he can think about is how the bruises look kind of pretty, all purple and yellow and black and red like a polluted rainbow or sunset-colored shit, and how he knows he's sorry for this, for all of this.
He knows, too, that he can't make it all okay.
He lifts Gerard's wrist (like a canvas, that's it, a pale white canvas some fucking psycho kid ruined with broken crayons; he was a fucktard, even then) to his lips and presses his mouth fleetingly against the throbbing flesh, anesthesia for two seconds before it's gone.
He closes his eyes but opens them slightly, enough to stare at Gerard through blurred slits, and thinks he looks like an angel - a naked, smeared, wounded, dirty drunk hangover angel - but an angel none the less, with the forgotten light of bygone stars shining through the blinds and onto a shaft of his cheekbone, with the half none smile on a face half covered with unwashed hair.
Bert smiles, if it can be called that, a bit on the dopey side, the kind you'd do when you're in love, and also a bit apologetically, ruefully, because he knows the kisses wouldn't make everything all right, wouldn't stop all the noise of mistakes and faults and recklessness and the future from coming between them, but at least for a while, for the moment that a kiss can last, everything was a bit better than they were before.
♠ ♠ ♠
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