Pairing: Implied Frank/Gerard
Summary: His lips were quivering. If I’d closed my eyes, I could have felt them kissing me.
Disclaimer: For all I know, stuff like this could have happened.
Beta: lemmethink_nooo <33
Author Notes: "Jeg elsker deg" is norwegian for "I love you."
Word Count: 650
Suddenly, he was there. Little punk boy. A few strands of his hair had fallen down over his eyebrows. He would have said it was a mess. I would have said it suited him. Both were true. He had the fresh, vivid color branding his cheeks. His eyes were rimmed with red, but from other reasons than intoxication. They were red because he was crying. The tears flowed over his cheeks, but he didn’t make any attempts at wiping them away. None of his usual eye makeup was there to smudge, only grief.
His lips were quivering. If I’d closed my eyes, I could have felt them kissing me. First on the forehead, barely, almost not touching the skin. Then on the cheekbone, moist, careful, fond. I could have heard his tongue wetting them, felt his hair in my face as he leant in to kiss me by my ear. The sound of his lips tasting me like one tastes wine. Then on my mouth. First, he would have kissed my lower lip, then touched the upper lip with the tip of his tongue. Only delicately, so I would feel insecure. And I would have smelled his fragrance as he was devouring me. He was beautiful.
But I didn’t close my eyes.
He didn’t close his, either. He saw me open the little package of plastic and aluminum with my teeth, and that I poured the contents into the spoon with the bended shaft. I poured the acid over it. He saw that I added two milliliters of water into the mix. Flicked the lighter, held it under the spoon and waited for it to boil.
I saw he was hurting. The beautiful eyes should never have to see this. I could hear the words like one, coherent sob. Words that almost didn’t reach reality. He asked if he didn’t mean more to me that this. Gesticulated. Looked like he would move his feet in my direction, closer, but couldn’t do it.
I saw myself toss it all away and run over to him. Hug him hard and tell him it was all okay. Comfort him, ask for his forgiveness. Tell him that my only valid motivation to live was to wake up beside him. Bury my face in his neck and feel the scent of him. Tuck his hair behind his ear and stroke his cheek. Hear the small sounds, mewls, he doesn’t know he makes before he wakes up. See him turn around and lay his arm around my neck and smile before he opens his eyes. I could hear myself tell him how important and vivid that is to me. The amazing, honest and bottomless eyes that carries the whole eternity of life within them. All the disappointments and concerns. All the sleepless nights one can count in them. The relief that there exists, when he has been worried, and I can tell him everything is okay. I can hear myself tell him that I love him, without lying.
Then, I heard him sob again. Desperately, almost on the verge of hysterical. It was boiling in the spoon. I stirred in it. Dropped a little wad of cotton into it. Filled the syringe. Cooled it in the water. Folded up the sleeve of my shirt, up to my elbow and tightened a rope around my left arm. Kept it tight with my teeth. Poked the vein carefully and flexed the arm. Jabbed a hole into my skin.
“Do I really not mean anything more to you than this?” he shouted.
I got a hit at first attempt, saw the blood mix with what was left of the fluid. I let the rope go with my teeth. My eyelids got heavy, covered my eyes slowly, while I responded with a low, monotonous voice;
It probably doesn’t mean anything, but I’m not sure I heard his footsteps down the hall.