Pairing: Brian/Jimmy, Brian/OC, Matt/Jimmy. All suggested.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Summary:But even lying shadows were better than deceiving sins which cut and burnt and creaked at mattress springs with dyed fanatics.
Author's Note: I needed this.
Dedication: For Kia, who unwittingly made me adore Jimmy faaaar too much, and who also happens to be the love of my life ♥
Thick and heavy. Thick and heavy and cold. Like most things in life. Like everything in life.
He could smell the rain in the air, see the drops condensing in the black clouds floating through a grey sky. A universe of monochrome monotone all around him, swirling and suffocating and threatening soaked shirts to soaked backs.
Everything had to be so small here, except those clouds. England, the land of the delicate and the petite and the prim, but those storms were hulking bastards spitting down at him, reflecting like approaching Death in blue eyes.
His whole universe seemed to sway and all sound seemed muffled, the ringing in his ears making even his own voice tinny, a constant slam of hammer to bell, hammer to bell, echoing persistently for an always eternity, like footsteps to gravel and dirt and pavements, because they weren't sidewalks, no, they were pavements here, because everything was so fucking different and complicated here.
They couldn't use the right words. And he wasn't sure who 'they' were. But someone was screwing up along the line and bringing complexity to simplicity. Light to darkness. And that wasn't fair because light hurt bloodshot eyes and tanned washed-out skin and conjured memories of home he didn't want. It shot California and salt-water-skins directly into reality, right before his very mind and he couldn't cope with that, since as long as everything was separate he would be fine.
As long as everything was separate he would be fine.
As long as everything was separate he would be fine.
AS LONG AS EVERYTHING WAS SEPERATE HE WOULD BE FUCKING FINE.
Insanity. Oh God Oh God Oh God he was going insane. More insane. Again. Migraine.
The screaming voices making their bellowing return and going too fast, so fast that everything slow was a blur and everything faster didn't even exist. They pressed their lips to the bleached bone of his scum-coated skull and screamed fucking screamed.
Water. Falling. Around him. Fat drops and thin drops and long drops and short drops but drops all the same. For sure, every single one of them a drop. Combining and joining, forming puddles and trails like snail slime slinking down windows and hands.
He'd never escape. Never ever. Because there were always drops and they would always join and they would always leave puddles, dark and deep and red against fucking PAVEMENTS!
But today, just today the drops were around him. Around around around. Not touching, just there, waiting to seep through out-layers, to stain dark material darker and light material lighter until the flesh could be seen, revealed and bumpy and inked and there, bare, vulnerable and shaking at the ice closing in.
"He didn't --"
He silenced the shadow, because the shadow spoke lies. Shadows always spoke lies because they would never be punished, never be caught and always slipping through hands.
But even lying shadows were better than deceiving sins which cut and burnt and creaked at mattress springs with dyed fanatics.
"I mean it."
This shadow was different to the rest. This one had substance down to persistence. Insistence against resistance. Rhyme rhyme rhyme, lie lie lie... firm, firm, firm, a hand on his arm, hard and there and not a shadow, but flesh and blood and bone, warm to his skin. Warm because one being had a jacket and the other didn't.
"Why can't you ever just let me be right?" he whispered, despair echoing off of screaming voices until they all silenced in shock at a reply never before seen, yet alone heard. He was screaming to nothing but crawling traffic in the same shades his eyes knew and loved because they didn't hurt. Nothing offensive and nothing intriguing. Boredom passing traffic lights and stopping at zebra crossings, flashing indicators and pausing for long, frustrating moments to tug their selves into gear.
Gears. Gears here. Stick-fucking-shift, motherfucker.
"I do. You just never notice. Only notice when you're wrong. When I tell you you're wrong."
"This time I'm not wrong. I saw it with my own eyes."
"You saw nothing."
Images. Just images. Never linked, though, never possessing reason or meaning. Just shots through a too-slow Polaroid, never developing because it's too dark. Or too light? Too dark.
He turned, slowly, his gaze raising, jerky and stained, red and blue that didn't make purple fixing on the black above his head, on the metal holding it in place, on the hand around the handle.
"Since when did you own an umbrella?" he asked, following hand to arm to shoulder to face to eyes. To lips now smirking at him, warm and always there. Always keeping the rain at bay.
"Since when did you give a shit?"
Always using 'er's instead of 're's. Cookies instead of biscuits. Always being home though never being salt-water-skin. A connection too weak to conjure memories, too different to cause pain. A protection that replied in husky words in a husky accent that was just a little too deep, from a stature just a little too high and a little too broad, with hair just a little too short and eyes just a little too light and a soul that was a little too Matt and not enough... him. Lips that were too full and a piercing that was just not meant to be there. Not at all. But there all the same, with arms to strong and a tongue too gentle and lashes too long. Different. Different different different but not screaming and not creaking the wrong springs.
"I saw nothing. He saw nothing. You saw nothing."
"So there was nothing."
"Today didn't happen."
It was just too grey to remember.