I was watching the news when I got the idea and I didn't want to write it at first, but then I remembered reading this kind of stuffs so I guess why not.
Reviews are always welcome.
I still don't own Shameless.
He woke up on the ground, trying to figure out what happened. He remembered sitting in a truck, listening to the operation briefing as they were transported to the new site. He remembered the sound of explosion, so loud that he thought he would die at that moment. He guessed he didn't.
He lay, floundering in pain, unable to see clearly from all the dust and confused by the indistinct sounds around him. He lay, panting heavily in the dry air, and feeling blood seeping out from his body. He struggled to get up, but failed miserably. He crawled, dragging himself to the nearest wall, and sat up against the stained concrete.
He saw blood leaking through his combat trousers, falling to the floor and getting mixed with dirt. Tears started to form in his eyes. He realized he might not go back. His brother was right. Joining the army was stupid, probably the stupidest thing he'd ever done. He might not get to see his family again. He remembered his sister telling him not to come. He didn't listen. He needed to get out. The only one that could have stopped him wanted nothing to do with him.
Done is done. You're nothing but a warm mouth to me.
Those words still clung to his memory, haunting him until this day. He only saw him once after he broke it off, the night he got home before he went to war. Somehow, they both ended up in the dugouts. He remembered those blank blue eyes glancing at him in the dark. That was how he hid his emotions. He remembered staring back, fixing him with a glare full of distress and agony, so much that he felt pain in his eyes, hoping he would say something.
He didn't.
"What fucking world do I live in?" He muttered to himself. Of course, the asshole didn't say anything. Why would he? He was just a warm mouth.
He still remembered his face, his expression when he said those words, and the expression he saw the night before he left. He still saw them every time he closed his eyes, after so many years, he still couldn't let go.
Those eyes, looking at him blankly with an empty gaze, still flickered behind his eyelids. He thought he could sense something, screaming in silence, struggling to get out. He wanted to know what it was. Was it the same pain and sadness he felt? Was it hatred and resentment? Or was it something else? Something that was suppressed so deeply inside that it couldn't rise up to the surface.
He wondered what it'd be like if his father didn't walk in on them that day, whether they would still be together. Things were great back then. He started to open up more and more, sharing beer with him, listening to him and commenting back ever so often, trying to get along with his brother, joking about sex with him, and eying him sometimes when he thought he wasn't looking.
He knew how it felt, having him around, talking to him, fucking him senseless, and cuddling him when he was too tired to kick him off the bed. He missed the way he rubbed his thumb on his bottom lip, the way he smirked at him, the way he moaned and bit into him as he came, the way he told him to fuck off, which was his way of showing affection. He missed all that. He missed him. He must see that face again, feel that warm body, hear that voice, and look into those eyes.
"Fuck you," he knew the asshole wouldn't hear him but he felt the need to say it anyway. Part of him knew he wasn't just a warm mouth, but the denying bastard was too much of a coward to even say anything on that matter. He knew he would give up everything to be with him, all his hopes and dreams, if only he would ask.
But he didn't.
Sometimes he blamed himself for what happened back then, for being sloppy, for letting him leave, for not going after him. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he just told the asshole to cut the crap and then fucking kissed him. He blamed himself for that, for not fighting for what they had. He always thought that one day when he finally found the nerve, he would go and tell him how he felt, how much he wanted to be with him, how much he loved him.
His life was so fucked up. Even though he was dying, the only thing in his mind was the ex-con, what he would do if he didn't go back. He didn't want to think about that, he knew exactly what he would do. He must survive, or it wouldn't be just him. Summoning every bit of strength that was left in his body, he heaved himself off the floor again. He managed to get on his feet but as he took a step forward, gravity mercilessly pulled him back down to face the earth.
He wanted to go back. He needed to go back. He remembered the expression, the gaze he saw that night. That self-loathing dickhead wouldn't forgive him. He wouldn't let him go, not alone anyway. He blamed himself for not realizing it sooner, for not speaking his mind when he got the chance, for letting those lies fool him. He felt light-headed, his vision blurry. His own body was betraying him. He was struggling just to breathe.
He had to go back. He had to see the fucker again. He had to tell him he loved him. He thought as his tears poured down, washing the dirt that was stained with his own blood. He must go back.
He didn't.
And he blamed himself for that.