Title: The Price Of Falling
Author: phobosgirl (phobosgirl@hotmail.com)
Date: 7/1/05
Author's Notes: unbeta'd. Thanks SO much to everyone on my f-list who helped me figure out how to change the font size of italisized text!! MWAH!
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, CowLip does, and I want no fight with them!
Complete: yes

The Price Of Falling

"It's awful quiet here since love fell asleep."

He's been gone for two days and three nights and you still lay awake in the silence, waiting for the sound of his key in the door. The darkness would cover you, if he did come in right now. It would cover the way you stare blankly at the exposed ceiling beams, ribbons of smoke curling around your hand from the glowing tip of your cigarette (everything is falling apart).

Nothing make sense anymore. Your friends, the people you once called your family, have all taken on a bewildering array of behaviors and attitudes that nonplus you (you'd get it if you weren't so fucked up, if your life wasn't so fucked up) and now they all regard you as if you're from another world.

And they probably hate you, too. For his benefit, they could easily hate you, and they've probably forgotten (like he did, he forgot everything, and now you aren't enough anymore) how you fucked (loved) him back to health, paid for his school, saved the city for his Sunshine smile, let him go when he needed to find himself, took him back when the world failed him.

A long, hot ash falls to your stomach, reminding you that you're holding fire (he was fire, he burned with and for and through you) so you brush at yourself carelessly, stub the thing out in the ashtray, and resume your staring. There's not much left to do now, because the space where your chest used to be has caved in and no one has noticed (no one cares) and the pit that's left in its wake aches and throbs like a bad tooth.

You recall the night you met (beautiful, he was so very), the way you fucked him, the tiny sounds he made in the back of his throat that grew and grew until they filled your cold loft with music that settled into you and became a thing you needed. He'd adored you then, his young face looking at (frightening) you with such hope, such longing, and you twisted at the end of a rope he clenched in his fists and denied it even to yourself.

He'd left you for a while, though he didn't choose to, his eyes fatally closed, his face ashen, his ears deaf to pleas that he wake up (god, no, please don't die), and when he did wake up (thankyouthankyouthankyou ) he was yours again. You held him loosely, believing that a tighter grip on him would strangle you, held him so loosely that he slipped away again (he always will).

How many times had he bounced in and out of your life? Would you ever be what he needed? (no, never) How could he be so miserable when you were so (happy) satisfied with what you had? But there are other things for you to turn to, other accomplishments, other people (but not Mikey), other satisfactions in your life (without him?) and you'll just have to make do with them.

Gus, for one. You'd made a promise to yourself (too little, too late) that you'd spend more time with him, be there for him as he grew up, get to know him and let him get to know you (better off without you) and the hours you spend with him have become important to you.

Lindsay would still be there (she's moving on) if you needed her, but why would you? Ok, maybe a little, maybe you need her in some of the same ways you used to, but that isn't enough to build a life on. So there's Kinnetik and Babylon (Brandon, fuck), both of which you pulled from thin air and turned into vital, successful ventures. You're good at that when it comes to business, you've always been (prove the old man wrong, fuck you, Jack).

And so what if it isn't (him) everything you need, that's what you have your dick for, right? You can work, see your son and fuck. What more could a man want out of life? So Justin fucking Taylor doesn't get it (is he thinking of me right now?). His (my) loss.

You want to think of something better, something besides this fucking self-pity shit and Brandon's face comes to mind, his smirk and his arrogance (you, ten years ago, oldoldold) and you know without a doubt that you'll win his little contest. The ten hottest guys in Pittsburgh, how easy could that be (how could the list be complete without Justin at the top?)? It's (he's) making you hard just thinking about it, all that prime ass just waiting to be fucked.

Your hand wanders south and now you're thinking better thoughts for sure, and when you run your fingers lightly up the underside of your dick, you're not thinking about Justin (his talented tongue) or why he left (wasted opportunities), you're thinking about the next hot, tight hole you'll sink into. And as you begin stroking in earnest, and bolts of pleasure begin to twitch through your body, (his hands, soft, strong) you get off a little on the power game it'll be to fuck the shit out of Brandon when you win.

You figure that when he does creep into your thoughts (Justin!), it's only natural because he's been the hottest piece of ass you've had in a long time (god, more, Justin) so you don't let it fuck with your head. You just keep moving your fist up and down, up and down, until your breath comes in short, grunting pants, filling the darkness around you (those eyes, god, Justin, when we fucked).

When you feel your balls tightening (christ, want you, where are you?) and a quiet moan escapes through your tightly compressed lips, when the muscle memory of his dick sliding down your throat grabs you and won't let go (fuck, Justin, so good), your neck arches on the pillow and your face scrunches. You're so close and it isn't because you love him (yes, please, Justin) or need him. You don't, you fucking won't (so afraid, no!). You just want a tight ass to unload in (liar) and his happened to be available for so long.

Your orgasm slams into you, harder than it should have for a half-assed handjob, and you pretend, as your heart squeezes and your head explodes, that it wasn't Justin's name (yesyesyesohgodyes) you whispered into the empty bedroom.

You don't even bother to clean up (his pink tongue, licking your clean), you just roll over towards his side of the bed, think how lucky you are to have all this space to yourself (lonely, god, Justin), gather his pillow to your chest and close your eyes, hoping for a heavy, dreamless sleep.