Title: "The Line Of Gold"
Summary: Even when you hate him, it's still love. And there's always that line of gold on his face that makes you want to stay. M/M
A/N: Just a little piece of angsty/romantic slash that appeared virtually out of nowhere.
THE LINE OF GOLD
You steal a kiss from your lover's lips, and there's that smile again, perfectly conspicuous in the corner of the man's mouth. And it's waiting. And it's blooming; and you're happy.
You prop up on your elbows, raise your hand and survey your lover through your spread fingers. Sunbeams glide along your skin, and a web of gold envelops your slim wrist. And the sun sparkles in your lover's eye. The man winces and that draws a laugh from you.
That's what it's like when you love each other.
And when you fight, it's loud. A lot of furniture gets crashed, a lot of plates get broken. Once you even shatter a looking-glass.
"You can't tell me to fuck off just because you think you're bored!" you shout. "You're always bored! You're so full of yourself! I fucking hate you!"
You notice that your fist is bleeding. It suddenly hurts so much, and you can feel the tears form in your eyes, and you don't want to cry, at least not in front of him. He takes you by the hand and leads you to the bathroom. He rips a medical bandage to shreds and works up your wound. He squeezes your hand in his warm hand and kisses your bandaged knuckles. It stings a little. You look away. You hate it that he's so sweet and tender after another Big Bang.
He wraps his arms around you, and for a blissful moment the world consists entirely of his passionate whisper: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
And it's 'say that you love me', and it's a thousand sincere 'I love you's' again, and it's happiness when deep inside you realize it's not perfect. Not nearly perfect at all…
"All right there?" he asks you. You've had too much alcohol at the party your friends arranged for you.
You laugh. The world is swimming before your eyes. You're shaking as you make your way to the bathroom and splash a handful of cool water into your face. Your fair eyes are enormous; your skin so pale, it looks papery white. Your delicate face looks shocked, almost ethereal.
You go back to the living room. You watch the guests disperse like phantoms in a cigarette-smoke-clouded room. Something you see makes you freeze. There's another guy in your lover's arms, and for this moment he's not your lover anymore, but some insatiable, hungry beast. You recall your meeting: it happened the same way, at some friends' party.
Radiating jealousy and bitterness, you lurk in the shadows in the niche between the wall and the cupboard. Your lover's lips trail down that blond bitch's chin, along his neck. His tongue dances over the dimple in the corner of his mouth. The blond youth groans excitedly. Your lover nips at his collarbone, and your face becomes bright-red: you love it when he does that to you.
Does he even know you're here? You were supposed to be away for a few minutes. What the hell was he thinking!? And now he's all over that guy in the most provocative manner.
He strips the blond guy hastily and does all those unimaginable things with his lips and tongue that make you worship him and don't let you leave him for good. And the blondie writhes underneath him, buries his fingers in your lover's hair and thrusts harder into his mouth.
You're so hard that it aches. You arch back against the wall and rub yourself through the rough fabric of your jeans.
You leave before the show is over. He'll probably be wondering where you are… if he even notices you're gone. Back home you grab his bottle of whiskey and drink greedily, though it's too much for your already. Desolation grips you, and you smash the bottle into the wall.
You have to leave him. This isn't the first time. He likes to tease you, to show you your place. This isn't the first time he cheats on you. It's just the first bloody time you were there to witness it. And you must leave him.
The suitcase is packed. You pick up the phone to call some friends. You have nowhere to go; he met you when you wandered from friend to friend because your parents had kicked you out of the house.
'No, sorry, buddy, my folks are in town; it's kinda inappropriate.'
'I won't be home myself, you see. First holiday in six years.'
'Sorry, man, I've a complex family situation…'
You hang up irritably. You're on the verge of tears, feeling betrayed and forlorn. And you know that he'll be home soon.
Indeed, when he comes, you're sitting in the arm-chair in the bedroom, staring at the open suitcase. You feel empty.
"Going somewhere?" he asks casually. You wrinkle your nose: he reeks of alcohol, and you can still see that other guy like a shadow behind him.
"No, I just…" you stutter. "Just wanted to check how much stuff would fit in in case we go somewhere in summer."
He kisses your hair absent-mindedly and goes into the shower. While he's there, you think about how much you hate him, and love him, and need him.
"You're not gonna leave me, are you?" he frowns a few minutes later.
You let him embrace you and lower your head on his wet shoulder. He's scrubbed clean, he smells of water and nothing but himself – the scent of the only real home you've ever known.
"No, 'course not," you whisper.
He's afraid to lose you. He'd never show it because he's not a very emotional type; he'd never have you know how much he'd miss you if you were gone. He hurts you. He humiliates you. He mocks you. But there's always that line of gold mixed with the shade of your fingers on his face that persuades you to stay.
May 7–8, 2007