Title: Reminiscence and Heartache In No Particular Order
Author: foxxcub
Fandom: Lost
Rating: PG-13
Summary: exactly what the title says
A/N: I think I've completely ruined my reputation, but we'll see.
These damn flashbacks are gonna be the end of me, I swear.
And now for something completely different...
I
He hadn’t called, hadn’t alerted anyone to his surprise visit home that
weekend from school. It was nearly two in the morning when he punched the
code into the security panel and shoved the back door open with his duffel
bag. The house was dark, quiet, but there were cars in the driveway, so it
wasn’t empty.
He started to throw his keys on the kitchen counter when he heard a muffled
sigh from the living room. He froze, knowing instantly, knowing he should
haul his ass upstairs and ignore it, knowing he had no business looking…
Boone had to look, because he’d never sleep if he didn’t.
So he stood in the doorway facing the back of the couch, watching the way
her hair fell over the armrest and tangled in her hands, her skin bright
silver against the shadow moving over her and making her pant and do that
little sigh.
”Oh, yeah…”
Breathy, higher-pitched, in that tone he’d imagined saying his name ever
since he first heard it months ago behind her closed bedroom door.
Boone swallowed hard. She was close, he could tell by the way she gritted
her teeth intermittently between moans; she never made much sound when she
came, only sighed again and giggled faintly. Sometimes she even said the
guy’s name.
But she wasn’t there yet. He waited until the heat in his cheeks and the
hollowing in his gut became too much before he threw his keys—hard—on the
small end table by the couch.
They broke apart as if stung, gasping.
“Hey, Shannon.” He hoped she could see his smirk.
Her hand shook slightly as she swiped at her mouth. “Boone. Nice of you to
call.” She didn’t look at him, only tucked her hair behind her ears and
crossed her arms over her chest. Closing herself off.
“Thought it’d be a surprise. Guess I was right, huh?”
“It’s two in the fucking morning, asswipe.”
“I didn’t have anything better to do.”
He knew damn well she’d never introduce whoever it was beside her. But he
didn’t move, just stood there and made her squirm and ignored the hard-on in
his jeans.
“’kay, well, goodnight.”
“Where’s Mom? Asleep?”
“No, Bermuda. Good. Night.” Finally, she looked up and glared him in
the old familiar way of hers. But he didn’t want her gaze that night, not
when it was bright and fiery and heated and not for him.
His heart stuttered as he laughed. “Fine. Whatever. It’s not like you don’t
have a bed upstairs, y’know.”
She flung a throw pillow at his head. “Get out of here, freak!”
And so he did, shaking his head and acting the part of the exasperated older
brother. He went upstairs, returned to his old room, his old bed. When he
shut the door and minutes later heard the soft giggle drift upward, he
stripped and crawled beneath the sheets.
He licked his palm and returned to his old habits.
II
Thomas would always talk in his sleep. She’d wake up in the middle of night
to him babbling on and on about sushi and thunderstorms.
He’d always wake her. And she’d always soothe him back beneath the surface
of unconsciousness, rubbing her hands along his arms and whispering words of
nothing. Claire would mention it in the morning and he’d laugh, but never
apologize.
When Charlie sleeps, he hums. They’re never words, just soft sounds that
vibrate from the back of his throat and surface faintly into the air.
She wakes sometimes, but it’s only to watch him and the way his lips barely
part as he sighs. He’ll chew his lip sometimes, wrinkle his brow, but never
quite comes to. The bits of incoherent song fade in and out and she loves it
best when the corner of his mouth lifts up a fraction.
Claire never has to soothe him. And Charlie never has to apologize.
III
Kate first kissed Tom when she was thirteen. They’d laid beneath their tree
on their backs, staring up through the branches and into the stars, naming
off constellations.
Tom had just started to point out planets when she leaned over him and asked
to kiss him, because they never had before and she’d always wondered why.
Hand-holding was just contact, a touch of affection. She wanted to know
more.
He blinked at her and smiled slowly, shyly. “Okay. Sure.”
It was soft and chaste, their mouths never parting. But she remembered it
all, from the smooth warmth of his lips to the way his hand slid over her
shoulder, holding them steady. Several seconds went by the time they broke
apart, and even in the dark Kate knew his cheeks were pink.
They laughed, ducking their heads, and then Kate had whispered, “Thanks.”
Tom smiled and shrugged. “It was your idea.”
More than their kiss, Kate remembered resting her head on his chest, over
his heart, and his strong, steady heartbeat lulling her to sleep.
IV
When Jack finally told Sara he loved her, his eyes had been closed. She was
naked and warm and alive in the bed beside him, strumming her fingers
lightly over his cheek and whispering the words my hero over and over
again. She said other things, too, but all he could ever hear was that
single phrase and her awed gratitude and innocent affection. He could feel
her leg slide against his bare skin, keeping her close to him, and he’d
sighed into his pillow and let the words come out, knowing that they were
true on some level.
She’d cried silent tears that dripped onto his chin as she pressed her palms
into his chest and kissed him deeply, thanking him her body and with those
words. He opened his mouth to her, and when she crawled over him and took
him inside her, he’d kept his eyes closed and told himself this was all he
ever wanted.
V
He was barely old enough to drive, but not old enough to handle words of
affection from the opposite sex. His first time lasted all of three minutes,
and it still left him drained, exhausted, yet full of the glowing sensation
of accomplishment one only feels at the passing of virginity. He stretched,
flexed his muscles, and then she said it, right into his ear.
“I love you, James.”
He stared up at her bedroom ceiling and let his heart pound for a moment,
shell-shocked and irritated and absolutely terrified. She couldn’t, it
wasn’t possible. He hadn’t done anything. Besides, girls all cheated and
lied, anyway--it wasn’t worth it in the end. He wanted to believe her, but
knew in twenty-four hours she’d be over it, and over him.
So he rolled away from her. “Thanks.” He started to pull his jeans and
boxers back on, glancing at the clock on the far wall. Her daddy would be
home in a half hour.
He waited for her to protest, to demand a different response. Instead, he
heard her sigh, the sound faintly sad and regretful. It made his chest
tighten, and not out of pity for her.
Her door clicked quietly behind him and he never looked back.
