So this was what all those sappy songwriters and poets had meant when they said love hurt.

He'd never believed in any of that sentimental rubbish, let alone thought he would fall for it. Jonathan had admired that no-nonsense quality about him. They'd never said those overrated three words. They had a practical relationship – they liked to spend time in each other's company, so they did.

Maybe if he had been more sentimental it would have worked out.

He'd never thought he'd felt anything particular at the time. Now it was too late to save, he felt it all. Every last stupidly sentimental drop.

There was an irony.

He'd never put much stock in the term 'love', didn't think anything he felt could qualify.

Apparently it did.

Jonathan had cheated on him.

He hadn't thought he could feel something as petty as jealousy, either.

Apparently he could.

Whilst Jonathan had cheated on him he hadn't said anything. Told himself it was nothing – he still got to see Jonathan a lot. What did it matter? Why should it bother him?

But it did.

And then Jonathan had split up with him.

Well, fuck. They hadn't even acknowledged that they were 'together'.

Apparently you don't need to acknowledge sentimentality for it to be there.

The moment Jonathan had told him it was over – well that was the exact moment he had realised, absolutely, known, powerfully, suddenly, what 'it' was.

There was an irony.

He couldn't let it go. Couldn't stop thinking about him. Couldn't tell if it was because he didn't want to stop thinking about him.

He loathed the pathetic, emotional type. He would never consider what he then did as stalking.

Even if it was.

He couldn't do the same things with Jonathan as he used to. Jonathan treated him differently when they did meet. Said they couldn't do those other things they used to because that would be cheating on his new boyfriend.

Well, fuck.

He hated it. He couldn't let it go. It wasn't fair. All the good times they could have had – what gave Jonathan the right to just cut all that possibility off without even consulting him?

Fuck sentimentality.

He wanted to be close to Jonathan, and he couldn't. He wanted to forget him, and he couldn't. Talking to him with this odd awkwardness was nowhere near enough. How dare a person have so much control over his thoughts and feelings. Jonathan was making a fool of him. He didn't think he'd ever be able to move on whilst they both lived, and he hated himself for it. And Jonathan.

And so here they were.


"What do you want, Tony?"

The sound of his own name in that voice made him flinch, and then made him angry. Nothing and no one should affect him like this.

"I've had enough, Jonathan."

"Enough of what?" He looked genuinely confused.

The shadow from the bridge overhead cast an unearthly shadow over his face. Yes, they were on a bank beneath a bridge. They had used to meet up there before. It was a nice place for a secluded picnic.

Fuck sentimentality.

Everything he felt now, too late. Irrelevant. Only a burden to himself, and he couldn't get rid of them. He wanted. Wanted what he would never stoop to ask for. Let alone even think the word 'needed'.

He didn't want this attachment. He had to get rid of it. And there was no other way.

The knife looked oddly dull in the gloom.

"Tony, what the fuck?" There was fear in his eyes now.

Anger-hatred-despair-possessiveness-frustration-fear-attraction-disgust-pain-affection-confusion. It was a blur.

All feelings would go unrealised, meaningless. He'd never had them before, he could have sworn, and now they had finally forced him to succumb to them they had no worth, no purpose. Bottled feelings he couldn't empty or ignore. Bastard.

"Tony –"

"Shut up."

One lurch. Straight in the chest.

Jonathan made a single soft sound like a drowning hiccup.

The knife scraped bone as it passed between ribs. Soft yet firm fleshy resistence jerked over the blade, jolting at the hilt.

It was over.

The body slumped awkwardly at the knees and waist, the shoulders and neck drooping, finally falling over completely to one side. Blood began to soak into the fabric closest the wound. Glassy eyes stared into nothing.

Well, fuck.

He rolled the body into the water, along with the knife. Maybe now he could have that one last sentimentality to rid himself of the rest – closure.

Fuck sentimentality.

The darkness seemed depressed and oppressive.

He wondered if Jonathan had ever heard of pathetic fallacy.

It should have been raining.

A/N: Essentially a writing experiment. Not my favourite piece.