This is what happens when I pull an all nighter. Standalone/one shot/what ever you call it. The ticking from the clock is driving him insane/sane. This fic is dedicated to my sleepy eyes and bla...
He stared aimlessly at the white-washed wall in front of him with the image of a clock burned into his mind. The red second hand ticked rhythmically with the tapping of his pen on his notepad that had various sizes of scribbles and scratches over lines and verses that were just jumbled words from his indecisive mind. He exhaled loudly and slumped back into the studio chair, faded black strands of hair falling into his eyes, reminding him of how badly he was due for another haircut. He continued to tap his pencil against the notepad, still in time with the tick, but still nothing came to him but big walls of blank, or big walls of her. Either one wasn't going to increase production. He sighed again, shutting his eyes tightly.
Tap. Tick. Tap. Tick. Tap. Tick. Tap. Tick.
The more time passed, the more he realized he wasn't going to be even close to even having a simple verse by the end of the night as he promised. Aggravated with himself, he shot open his eyes and threw the pen at the blank wall in front of him, watching it hit and mark a small grey mark before it fell lifeless on the floor. Tossing the notepad to the side, he grabbed the iBook that sat plugged into the wall and pulled it into his lap. He ran his finger over the pad, and the screen lit up with life.
He pulled up his AIM, but minimized the away message, for he knew that there was going to be a bunch of IM's from random people all over the world, stating the same three things,
A) Cheer up. We love you.
B) I love you, and want to thank you for everything, you're amazing, etcetera...
C) Why don't you ever reply?
And as much as he loved to be praised the last thing he wanted was some sympathy. He browsed through the small list of buddies that were online, but she wasn't. Another sigh, and he went to sign off and get back to drawing blanks, but the familiar sign on rang through the speakers, making his eyes dart to who it was.
He couldn't help but smile.
But then quickly frown.
Double clicking her name, a blank box came up. His fingers pounded on the keys and wrote a simple greeting and a how are you but his pinky laid poised over the enter button. The cursor blinked, and blinked, and blinked again. He bit his lip and inwardly cursed himself for being such a coward. His finger moved over to the backspace and deleted his message, then watched the cursor blink, the slow tick from the internal clock starting up again.
C'mon, saying Hi won't kill you.
He said to himself.
He typed a Hi, but deleted it, thinking it sounded too cheesy, so typed a Hey, but that didn't sound too good either.
So he sat, back at square one, staring at a white blank box, with the cursor blinking rhythmically with the tick until she put up an away message.
He sighed with relief, using it as an excuse of why he couldn't say a simple hello. Pressing the info button on her box, her away message popped up.
He says: "and i still love you more than anyone else ever will. bring them on. im not scared. our love is real"
She says: /"Well, go back to what it meant back then."/
He re-read it over a few times, not sure whether to smile or frown at the fact she had been reading his blogs. Those were him exposed, flawed, and vulnerable, if you could decipher the tongue and cheek lines to get him there. He felt a slight blush, knowing that she knew how who, what, when, where, and how those words were written better than anyone else.
He shut her box, embarrassed and pulled up a blank window, directing it to his blog. He punched in his password and opened another blank box and stared at the cursor blink, mocking the ticking in his head until enough words that made sense compiled into a sentence, which from there, his fingers pounded away, spurting his thoughts into words for everyone to see, but for only two people to understand.
I miss you is never a great way to start a letter, but this isn't really a letter. It's more of a note regarding our existence. So I guess I can start this off by saying it.
I miss you.
I've been staring at second hands ticking in full circles, mocking the time elapsing from the last time our hips crashed to the next time I will get to push you up against a wall again. Until then I'll just sit here and obsess over obsession [you], and wake/sleep to the sound of your laugh that has left a strong indent in my mind.
I've seen many moons, but the ones I cherish most are the ones that set in your eyes.
It's times like these where I look for my guts to say hello, but then I remember, I left them with you. We're the new face of failure, but it's a take it or leave it kind of situation.
Ex-friends or lovers, that's the only way trUSt can be rebuilt. But we seemed to manage our way to the middle of the two. Somewhere between the awkward space between the O and the R.. But it doesn't matter which one the second hand will let us fall into. I'm still always going fall back
No one likes a crybaby. But I am the king, so I have every right to this.
Our love IS real. Even if it means we have to move forward to bring back what it meant back then.
This distance is going to be the beginning/end of me.
But I only wish of waking up next to you.
He didn't even bother re-reading it as he scrolled back up to the subject box. Clicking, he typed in a quick title, and posted.
He let in a cool breath, and felt the weight on his shoulders slowly become less and less. Logging out of the computer, he set it back onto the table and picked up his notepad from the floor, flipping to a clean page before crossing the room and picking up the pencil he had thrown.
As he took a seat and placed his pen, ready to write, he felt a vibrate from his back pocket. Pulling out his beat up Sidekick, the screen indicated there was a new text message. With slick maneuvering he flipped open the phone with one hand and opened the message that read;
I'm sorry will be waiting for you when you come home.- J
A smile spread across his face. The real genuine kind that are only seen by a rare few. He set the phone aside the laptop, and went back to his notepad. He scribbled down a few words, before exhaling from holding his breath he wasn't so sure he has holding for. His hands reached up and brushed hair from his eyes so he could read the words that were now spurting from the ink of his pen.
Last year's wishes
Are this year's apologies
Every last time I come home
I take my last chance
To burn a bridge or two
I only keep myself this sick in the head
Cause I know how the words get you
His foot tapped lightly on the ground, with the ticking in his head, chorusing with a new beat he found within the words. The end of his pen found his mouth, as he thought of lines to begin a chorus.
The second hand ticked, counting down how many minutes left until he could have her against a wall again, whispering sweet nothings, and welcomed each tick with a warm smile knowing he was one tick less closer to going home.
And every line beamed against his face, the ticking, the taping, and the beat all chorusing together in one harmony as he finished the words of the chorus.
Me and you
Setting, in our honeymoon
If I woke up next to you
If I woke up next to you.
It's always funny how second hands are sometimes dreaded, sometimes anticipated, but always forgotten in the minutes that turn to hours.
The universe works in weird ways. Especially with time.