Author: sitaloire PM
It's not easy loving a rock star who's forgotten all about you.Rated: Fiction M - English - Angst/Romance - Words: 857 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 6 - Published: 05-11-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2171461
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Today, Jory was on the couch. Yesterday it had been the bed; the day before, the kitchen table, but some things always remained the same. Always the same pictures spread before him—on his lap, on the covers, on the table top—and always the same moments frozen in time. Even the same tears, coursing down the same cheeks.
A white finger traced the line of the glossy cheek depicted on the photo. Touched the lips, sought to tuck a strand of plastic-looking blue hair behind an untouchable ear. Jory could remember what he was seeing—having A.J. there, being happy… remote as it seemed at this moment.
Once A.J. had been there for weeks on end. He'd gone shopping with him, gone for dinner with him, stretched beneath him and made loud, pleasured sounds for him. Then he'd left on his first concert tour. Jory had waited, patiently, until his bizarrely-haired lover had run through the front door again. He could still remember A.J.'s excited shrieking.
A week later, he'd had to leave again. A press tour, this time. Again Jory had waited. The next time A.J. returned, the enthusiasm was the same, but he could only stay five days. Jory waited. That time, three weeks stretched into two months, and he didn't hear a word from A.J.
Finally, he'd come again. That visit set the routine for the next, and the next, and each one after that. A.J. would come through the door, hug him tightly, and say all the words Jory wanted to hear. He'd run around and look at all that was new, tell Jory he was still beautiful, and play with the cat he'd cheerfully named 'Pikamew.' They'd have dinner, and A.J. would allow Jory to have him just once—quickly—but then he'd had to go again. 'I'm so sorry, baby, but there's a press conference.'
And that was how it went, stretching out over months and months. But then, he hadn't come home at all. And when Jory read in the paper that A.J. Leightonwas in town, he could only assume that A.J. had grown tired of being tied down to a little blonde nobody. Or maybe he'd forgotten him entirely, the way he'd forgotten his clothes. The way he'd forgotten his music equipment. The way he'd forgotten to take the essence of himself from this apartment. All of that remained here, perhaps purposefully, and it mocked Jory with all of its inanimate strength.
Jory wasn't unhappy, here without him. He missed him…of course he missed him… but there was nothing he could do. He'd always known he was lucky to have A.J. But somewhere along the way, he'd gotten careless. He'd let him slip through the fingers he now kept so busy running down body after body. And now he went on, keeping up a happy face for the new one—who Jory's sister referred to as 'A.J. 2.0—' and his friends. He only cried in private, when he was listlessly sitting around and staring at these snapshots they'd taken in happier times. They were pictures of him and A.J., the other's brilliance far outshining the mere smile Jory invariably offered. Pictures of him fucking A.J. The first time, the last time. Sometimes, he confused which was which. But he looked for the pictures where A.J. turned his face away, and he knew.
Today, Jory was on the couch. Yesterday it had been the bed; the day before, the kitchen table, but some things always remained the same. Always the same pictures spread before him—on his lap, on the covers, on the table top—and always the same moments frozen in time. And even always the same tears, coursing down the same cheeks. The cheeks A.J. had once covered in black lip gloss-coated kisses. The ones that now were cold. And his eyes, his ordinary blue eyes which A.J. used to tell him were beautiful, could see the fuzzy outline of an empty sedative bottle. Jory hadn't been unhappy, there without him. Just alone, and unwilling to live.
Today, he was floating. Yesterday it had been Heaven; the day before, Hell, but some things always remained the same. Always he watched over the blue-haired boy who sat—on the couch, on the bed, at the kitchen table—, looking down at the pictures spread before him. And there were the same old tears, coursing down the same cheeks, and suddenly there was the pill bottle, different, and yet the same. And there was A.J., coming back to him again, ready to burst through the apartment door for just one more try.
And there was A.J. and Jory, together again.