lokiriel

[lokiriel]

“I want to bleed, I want to hurt the way that boys do.”

summary: adrian had been his, for a split second, nothing but his own. The way his hair flushed against his forehead in the mornings. How his hand molded around his coffee cup. His artistic, slender fingers digging into deran’s shoulder blades during one of his attempts at a soothing massage. A black Honda Civic took the man, who held each one of his strings and ripped them from his bones, leaving nothing but a hollow marionette.

pairing: deran cody + adrian dolan

Word count: 1170

He wanted to hurt the way Adrian did, the type of longing sorrow like fish hooks embedded into skin. The sterilizing splash of salt water cast along the breeze, adding smell to the sensory overload he’d been experiencing. If luck were a skill that could be improved on, he’d fight for the knowledge, on one more lucky day with the love of his life.

Yet, to starve himself of the last warmth that had ever enveloped him, it felt as if he’d been stabbed by sewing needles each step further from the last good thing in his life. It had been for family, always. Daren hadn’t met a moment in his life that couldn’t use that expression as its description.

The difference between his brothers and himself was the lack of cruelty, to himself, to others. He couldn’t shade his life away like Craig, dancing with strangers and partying enough to fog your brain from the guilt. He couldn’t shoulder the suffering, suffocating love that comes with strings wrapped around his wrists like Andrew.

He’d always assumed that if he had any similar outcome to one of his brothers, it’d be baz, a slow, lonesome death. The only sound fluttering through the void, a struggling heave as the blood trickled into his bronchial tubes.

Deran shifted his face to fight the path of the wind, to stare at the empty sky. He couldn’t stand here any longer, with the empty parking lot searing into his existence. His eyes darted from the spot where a car had been, the car that took the last thing he had.

Most things in his life weren’t his, not the money, or the jobs, or the men he’d been with. The bar hadn’t even been his; he’d give it up if it meant saving his family. There, that word was again, family. It’s mention tore a hole into his stomach, his gut filling with acid and shifting, tugging strikes of pain through his body.

Adrian had been his, for a split second, nothing but his own. The way his hair flushed against his forehead in the mornings. How his hand molded around his coffee cup. His artistic, slender fingers digging into Deran’s shoulder blades during one of his attempts at a soothing massage. A black Honda Civic took the man, who held each one of his strings and ripped them from his bones, leaving nothing but a hollow marionette.

He had once been a little boy who thought his mother was his savior, the one who’d comfort him, soothe the wounds she would inflict. Now, he knew that you couldn’t save those who had buried themselves too deep; you can’t save the unwilling.

Adrian had tried, his pleading, pastel watercolor blue eyes surrounded by the deep red, consuming the white. If Deran could scream, it’d be filled with the sounds of Adrian's whimper, of the fear he sheltered in those pastel eyes.

His being would always be held in his childhood best friend's hands, the hollow shell he was now, that was Deran Cody, his family's youngest son. He’d go back to the bar and stare into the old flat-screen in the corner, watching Adrian fight for their dreams.

He’d think back to a scrawny eight-year-old, competing in junior surf comps, cursing under his breath as he watched a lanky blond kid float across the water with a special trace of a smile that shone like the sun.

He’d imagine a scene of two teenagers pushing each other into closets, hands eagerly pushing past the boundaries of shirts, their laughs intertwining as he could feel Adrian’s breath flush against his neck. For a moment,

Deran felt the warmth of Belize’s sun on his skin and the grains of sand that shifted under their shared towel. Adrian was fit against his hips; he felt like a puzzle piece that had finally found its home. He felt consumed by their memories, the thought of the other male engulfing him, shredding into his skin and leaving nothing safe in his wake.

His feet scraped against the wooden dock, his duffle bag already cast to the side. Deran’s eyes burned holes into the connecting concrete. His ears busied themselves with the sounds of boat engines, the faint scatter of city bustle.

If he could fade into the sound, disappear amongst the wooden railing his back leaned into. If he could fold himself into a thousand different shapes, he’d be more like what Smurf wanted in her youngest son.

Dearn wished he could return to their beachside home, let his lover wash over him in waves. He could still smell him in the air. The faint scent of surfboard wax, a permanent fixture underneath his nails, and strawberry shampoo. What had happened wasn’t an original experience. He felt lost before, but this loss felt as if an eternity could pass and he’d still be here, on this dock, waiting for him.

A gaping Adrian-sized hole in his consciousness. There hadn’t been a time when he hadn’t felt the strings wrapped around him; it had always been Adrian, no one else. Now he was hollow, a blank page; the watercolors that flashed across his canvas were stripped of their vibrant hue.

He promised himself that he’d leave the small pier, that he’d get into his jeep and drive to the ocean, and let himself be reborn in the salt.

Deran’s body gave in to the exhaustion, telling his bones they just couldn’t hold up any longer, so he slid against the wooden slats and sat on the wooden dock facing the concrete. His hands lay empty in his lap; they were still, a first for Deran, who faced anxiety his entire life.

A single twitch zapped through his left hand ring finger, his thumb rubbed into the calluses, the nail ripping into the thick skin. A feeling of victory washed over him as the smell of copper filled his nose.

If suffering meant a life degraded to anger, Daren would strive for it. He’d rather be angry than what he felt now. He’d looked into his eldest brother's eyes, felt the warmth from their foreheads clasped together. Andrew’s firm hand gripped the back of his neck. The eldest had always fixed his things in a silent sign of familial love. Deran knew this time he couldn’t be put back together; he wondered how that’d scare his older brother.

If scent could be a catalyst for memory, maybe he’d have to move north, shield himself from the saltwater, from the brisk adrenaline he felt as his feet snapped into a standing posture on his board. He’d have to rip anything that reminded him of soft strawberry-tinted hair, the soft stubble that scratched against his hand. He’d gut himself like a car, rid himself of everything except the skin his lover last touched, the only thing that holds him to the memory of it all being real.

He wanted to bleed the way Adrian did, he wanted to hurt the way he had.