Status: Hiatus. I'm so busy :/
"Love is Like A Glass Door..."
Love is a Losing Game
Connor's POV
Grey light filtered through the windowpanes as my headache swells violently and fades. One hand grasps the sheets, curling into a limp fist, while the other combs through my hair tiredly.
I did not want to think.
I did not want to exist.
I have crawled to the lowest, darkest depth, barely clinging on and barely able to comprehend or even care of all that's happened to me the past two weeks. I don't even remember large chunks at a time. I feel a sluggish need to climb back up and return to reality, but, it seems nearly impossible. I like it better just blended in this state of non-existence and existence, not quite all here but in-between, where I can't even attempt to retrospectively examine all of my troubles.
I extend an arm out towards my left to the bedside table, fumbling around for my glasses. It smells different here, wherever I am. Different, but good. Like a very faint scent of AXE and Febreze on the comforter and pillows, the way a bachelor's apartment should smell. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I messily slip on my glasses and force myself to sit upright. It was then that I realize that I was completely naked. Or more like still completely naked.
I hear in the distance a shower tap being turned off, and a moment later someone pads into the room that I am in, water dripping off from them and falling onto the worn, off-white carpet with muffled plops. Rivers of warm water streak down from his hair down across his face and down his arms and chest, disappearing down into the fluffy white towel. He removes the towel from his waist to wipe his face and dry his wavy, black hair. I feel a blush coming on and fall back onto the bed.
"You're a little shier in the morning, huh?" the guy- uh, Eric- teased as he flipped on the floor lamp close to the window. I make a little noise that's something between an incoherent mumble and a moan. "Not a morning person, then?" I shake my head with some effort. The result is a brief but lethal pang of a migraine, lingering still. I feel sick in all kinds of ways, and the yellowish light emanating from the lamp is way too bright. I press a pillow to my eyes and rub my temples.
"I'm...a bit... hungover from last night," I finally manage, my eyes squeezed tight in agitation.
Eric slipped on a pair of briefs and plopped onto the queen-sized bed adorned in throw pillows and a tangled royal blue comforter as he dried off his toes. "Naturally. I'm feeling for some greasy food, as any generically hungover guy would," he mused in a faded Irish lilt. I mumbled a syllable in agreement. "Your clothes are on the armchair next to the window," he said as he searched his drawers for something to wear.
After some time I crawl out of the bed and to the plush chair, searching first for my underwear. The back of my eyeballs are sore, and so is the entire left side of my brain. I feel ready to topple over from exhaustion. "You... don't look so well," Eric frowned as he pulled a polo over his head.
"I feel like unbelievable crap," I groan. He held my jaw in his hands carefully, studying my red eyes with concern.
"You look like unbelievable crap," he commented dryly. "That's not surprising, considering the amount of vodka you drank. I never knew someone as tiny as you could drink that much."
"I'm not tiny," I insist with a weak smile, "I'm... I'm fun-sized. There's a difference."
He smiled. "Take a couple of painkillers, if you like. Oh," he said, wrinkling his nose in a way that painfully reminded me of Kevin. "Brush your teeth. Your breath smells like a donkey's rear end." I smiled slightly while tugging on my black skater jeans. As soon as I finished getting dressed, leaving Eric to make the bed, I walk off to the general direction of the bathroom, murmuring thoughtfully 'Love is a Losing Game' by Amy Winehouse.
Over futile odds
And laughed at by the gods
And now the final frame
Love is a losing game
Love is a losing game, and even if I gambled away everything I had to play, it was worth it to image, to dream of winning. Or at least I think so.
Grey light filtered through the windowpanes as my headache swells violently and fades. One hand grasps the sheets, curling into a limp fist, while the other combs through my hair tiredly.
I did not want to think.
I did not want to exist.
I have crawled to the lowest, darkest depth, barely clinging on and barely able to comprehend or even care of all that's happened to me the past two weeks. I don't even remember large chunks at a time. I feel a sluggish need to climb back up and return to reality, but, it seems nearly impossible. I like it better just blended in this state of non-existence and existence, not quite all here but in-between, where I can't even attempt to retrospectively examine all of my troubles.
I extend an arm out towards my left to the bedside table, fumbling around for my glasses. It smells different here, wherever I am. Different, but good. Like a very faint scent of AXE and Febreze on the comforter and pillows, the way a bachelor's apartment should smell. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I messily slip on my glasses and force myself to sit upright. It was then that I realize that I was completely naked. Or more like still completely naked.
I hear in the distance a shower tap being turned off, and a moment later someone pads into the room that I am in, water dripping off from them and falling onto the worn, off-white carpet with muffled plops. Rivers of warm water streak down from his hair down across his face and down his arms and chest, disappearing down into the fluffy white towel. He removes the towel from his waist to wipe his face and dry his wavy, black hair. I feel a blush coming on and fall back onto the bed.
"You're a little shier in the morning, huh?" the guy- uh, Eric- teased as he flipped on the floor lamp close to the window. I make a little noise that's something between an incoherent mumble and a moan. "Not a morning person, then?" I shake my head with some effort. The result is a brief but lethal pang of a migraine, lingering still. I feel sick in all kinds of ways, and the yellowish light emanating from the lamp is way too bright. I press a pillow to my eyes and rub my temples.
"I'm...a bit... hungover from last night," I finally manage, my eyes squeezed tight in agitation.
Eric slipped on a pair of briefs and plopped onto the queen-sized bed adorned in throw pillows and a tangled royal blue comforter as he dried off his toes. "Naturally. I'm feeling for some greasy food, as any generically hungover guy would," he mused in a faded Irish lilt. I mumbled a syllable in agreement. "Your clothes are on the armchair next to the window," he said as he searched his drawers for something to wear.
After some time I crawl out of the bed and to the plush chair, searching first for my underwear. The back of my eyeballs are sore, and so is the entire left side of my brain. I feel ready to topple over from exhaustion. "You... don't look so well," Eric frowned as he pulled a polo over his head.
"I feel like unbelievable crap," I groan. He held my jaw in his hands carefully, studying my red eyes with concern.
"You look like unbelievable crap," he commented dryly. "That's not surprising, considering the amount of vodka you drank. I never knew someone as tiny as you could drink that much."
"I'm not tiny," I insist with a weak smile, "I'm... I'm fun-sized. There's a difference."
He smiled. "Take a couple of painkillers, if you like. Oh," he said, wrinkling his nose in a way that painfully reminded me of Kevin. "Brush your teeth. Your breath smells like a donkey's rear end." I smiled slightly while tugging on my black skater jeans. As soon as I finished getting dressed, leaving Eric to make the bed, I walk off to the general direction of the bathroom, murmuring thoughtfully 'Love is a Losing Game' by Amy Winehouse.
Over futile odds
And laughed at by the gods
And now the final frame
Love is a losing game
Love is a losing game, and even if I gambled away everything I had to play, it was worth it to image, to dream of winning. Or at least I think so.
♠ ♠ ♠
I just got finished reading this amazing one-shot.And now I realize just how awful my stories are.
I mean, really. Crap on a platter. Thanks to all that have hung in there and are still waiting to read something decent. I don't blame those that have unsubscribed xD.
Oh, and as of today, I'm 14 years old :)
I'm sorry I haven't been updating. But we just finished our EOGs and algebra/integrated exams. I passed with flying colors, and I'M GOING TO HIGH SCHOOL, MAN!
four more days of middle school :)