Jun. 9th, 2006

killingsoftly: (doubtful and untrusting)
He wouldn't cry. It was a useless endeavor. Nothing had changed, not really. Warren loved the girl whether he was with her or not. He'd done his best to convince the boy he wasn't a danger to everyone who loved him, and if the parallels cut a little too tightly he wouldn't let it show. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Something.

He wouldn't cry. He'd shed tears over her. Shed tears over her as well. And over him, they'd already fallen, more than he would let anyone know, though Fergus had held him through some of them. He could say they were for something else. Say they were from frustration. Exhaustion. Wanting to go. Needing to go. Needing to stay.

He wouldn't cry. He didn't have it in him. This cold emptiness didn't lend itself to tears. He wanted to be warm again, but he couldn't reach into the warmth, fall into it. Into him. The whiskey just made it worse. Sent him spiraling down until he was as afraid as they had been that the balcony would be too tempting. He didn't need that. He couldn't do that to him.

He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't spend his time drunk. He had other options. Make the pain go away. Make him warm. There were pretty girls. Pretty boys. Two at a time. Three. Brief respite from the cold. And when that wore off, and the loneliness crashed over him again, there was his box.

He wouldn't cry. He needed him to be strong. To be there for him, and he'd never done that for anyone. He felt himself crumbling, unsure what was needed. The white powder hit his system hard and fast. Things weren't so cold and he could focus and he felt the troubles ease off just enough to let him be what he needed to be.

He wouldn't cry. He'd fly instead and try and hold off the crash for as long as possible.


killingsoftly: (Default)

September 2007

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