Title: Cement (In My Veins)
Author: Miroslav
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: 063. "Early Morning Blues and Greens"
Disclaimer: I could say something funny, but...can't think of anything, just know I'm a college student without a car (but I do have a job, go figure, as a pharmacy technician at the conglomerate otherwise known as Giant), and therefore not the owner of CSI.
Warnings: Unadulterated angst
Pairings: Greg Sanders/David Hodges
Summary: It's funny, the things you grow accustomed to, and how everything breaks down when those things are suddenly out of your reach.
Spoiler: None
A/N: This is the first part of a three-chaptered story.
(Sleep is dear to me, but more to be of stone.)
It's funny, David muses, the things one grows accustomed to. Like how he wakes up each morning and is momentarily lost, certain that this isn't his bed because there is no lanky form draped over him, no sleepy grin and kiss that tastes of morning breath. Like how he goes to take a shower, certain this isn't his bathroom because there is no neon-green toothbrush, no half-dozen hair products cluttering his sink. Like how he sits down at the table, certain this isn't his kitchen because there is no Blue Hawaiian in the coffeemaker, no half-finished bowl of Lucky Charms on the counter. Like how he dresses in his uniform of lab coat blue, certain this isn't his apartment, because there is no Metallica T-shirt in the dresser, no pair of Converse All-Stars in the closet.
It has only been a week since he packed up Greg's things and left them outside the door for the other man to pick up, and yet the feeling of dereliction has not waned in the slightest. It's as though there is a ghost in his apartment, one that flickers at the corner of his vision and appears on the back of his eyelids whenever he closes his eyes, a specter with spiky hair and a trademark goofy smile, which is ridiculous, really, because Greg isn't dead, their relationship is.
When David moves, he feels weighed down now, as though someone has removed all the white and red blood cells and filled his veins with cement instead. Each step, each hand gesture feels sluggish, each smirk or smile on his face unnatural. It seems like he should be made of stone, somehow, rather than flesh and blood, because maybe if he were made of stone, he would not feel exhausted despite eight, nine, ten hours of sleep. Maybe he would not feel anything at all.
People are beginning to notice at work. There have been two incidents this week where someone's come in after he fell asleep at his microscope; he's already been given a 'motherly talk' from Catherine about how he needs to get more sleep (he had to resist the urge to snap that there are so many hours in the day and that ten, twelve hours of sleep ought to be enough -- instead, he had nodded and ducked his head and promised to get to bed earlier, like a good little boy, and then popped a couple of caffeine pills in a vain attempt to stay awake). Each glance at himself in the mirror shows the shadows under his eyes deepening, and soon David suspects they will swallow up his face. He can't force himself to care all that much. Every second is a struggle to move his encumbered arms and legs and to stir his lethargic mind to think of anything other than how weary he feels.
But still, it's funny, the things one gets used to. That first time, when he had awoken to Greg draped over him, snoring softly, David hadn't thought that Greg would stay that night, and the next, and the next, until one day he had woken up and seen the neon-green toothbrush, the half-dozen hair products, the Conserve All-Stars, and realized that all his coffee was now Blue Hawaiian and his pantry was stocked with Lucky Charms, and understood that Greg was here to stay. And Greg had stayed, up until last week, when David had packed the other man's things and shoved them out into the hall, and Greg had slid his key under the door and left for good.
David just hadn't thought, hadn't realized that he'd become dependant on their daily routine. Without Greg, his apartment seems empty and unwelcoming, his waking hours superficial and wearying. Without him, reality has turned flat and insipid, and David longs to be made of stone, if just to stop from feeling so damn tired all the time.
It's really funny (in a sad, pathetic, feels-like-a-punch-to-the-stomach sort of a way), the things one grows accustomed to.
Early Morning Blues and Greens by the Monkees
A distant night bird mocks the sun. My steaming coffee warms my face I feel the moments hurry on And I will drink my coffee slow
I wake as I have always done,
To freshly scented sycamore
And cold bare feet on hardwood floor.
I'm disappointed in the taste.
But there's a peace the early brings
The morning world of growing things.
It was today, it's died away,
And now it is forever gone.
And I will watch my shadow grow
And disappear in firelight
And sleep alone again tonight.