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denied_heaven [userpic]
by denied_heaven (denied_heaven)
at August 20th, 2008 (12:47 pm)
thankful

current mood: thankful

For sam.. I don’t have words to express how much you mean to me, honey, how much of an inspiration and a blessing you are to have in my life, how every post you make brightens my day a little more just because of the person that you are that shines out of every word. This isn’t much and I’m sorry for that, my writing seems to have stalled badly over the summer, but there was no way I could let the day pass without giving you something back for everything you give.

Happy Birthday and I hope the day is at least a fraction of what you deserve *hugs you so hard*

Title: Rain Must Fall
Pairing: David/Chris
Rating: R


There are times you really want to hate him, those times when he comes from nowhere and turns your perfectly ordered, perfectly perfect life upside down and inside the fuck out. Want to hate him but hate yourself more. Or you feel like you should.

Those times he goes from your best friend Chris to you hissing out 'Christian' in a low ragged exhale of breath into the shell of his ear, strands of his hair everywhere, damp with sweat and clinging to your dry lips. The times you stretch his name into four or more jagged, raw syllables and bite each one into the sweatslick bronzed skin along the back of his neck as your hips drive in the message even clearer, in short, hard and resounding marks of punctuation.

A glance or touch, at a party, barbecue, a game, when he’s over for dinner, that had meant nothing special a hundred times before suddenly ridden with an inner tension that cloys up the air, stretches time and spins it thin, drawn out achingly slow. A brush, meeting of eyes that had been safe, platonic, even moments ago somehow leading to your hands sliding, gripping, fisting into his hair, his mouth hot against yours, so fucking familiar though its been days, weeks, months, years since you’d tasted him last.

Eight months, two weeks and a handful of days.

You’re pulling him into some dim, empty corner while people chatter and buzz all around you, him pushing you outside underneath the fall of stars you can just barely make out under the too-bright smog-filled amber sky, the rush of a bathroom stall, the cramped urgency of the back seat of a car. Wherever is closest, the pulse of need, danger, making everything brighter, thicker, clearer, as you’re sliding oh so slow, hot, sweet, into the twisting, arching body under yours as he hisses out curses and ‘c’mon, c’mon, fuck’ with his fingers digging bruises into your skin, too blue eyes hot on your own, his teeth bared, hair a fucking mess, beautiful, feral and fucking yours.

For this moment in time, until next time. Yours.

There is no twelve step program for this, for you, and at your most honest with yourself, you don’t want there to be. You’ve both tried, over the span of years that you’ve been caught, tangled up in this mess, this twisted, addictive mess. Months without a word, a glance only to find that that just makes it worse, harder to ignore, harder to pretend.

As painful, damaging and dangerous as this is, you need it, need him, and you always have. You manage as long as you can, denying it, pushing it down where it belongs, but you know one day, some time, you’ll both just glance and it’ll linger, hold, and you’ll be here all over again.

Flaring hot, hungry, kissing and touching as if every moment is stolen and precious because it is, fuck, it is, but its too hot, out of control and dangerous and eventually it dies back down, the rain comes and all that’s left is ash, dirty and grey, clinging to your clothes, skin like a penance, reminder, and that one fucking ember that never really goes out. So you wrap your regrets around you, the ones you insist you should feel, go home and kiss your beautiful wife, haul your son, the fucking love of your life, up onto your hip and let them center you around what’s important, help you breathe once again. And you pretend.

Pretend there aren’t times that when you glance out the dark window of the home you’ve made for yourself, for them, and see your reflection mirrored back, that you resent perfection and the inevitable cleansing drum of the rain.