Title: You Remember What It's Like

Author: Sinloi

Rating: R

Pairings: Walt/Jesse

Length: 756

Warnings: Future!Fic, AU, Slash, Angst, Sex, and Tragedy.

Special thanks to my beta readishmael, without whom this story would pretty much be unreadable.

It goes like this-Jesse is crouched down, bent double and bleeding. His gun is beside him on the floor, cooling and empty. Everywhere is red. Jesse tries to wipe it away but it only smears, demented fingerprint portraits of the damned, and he's painting them all over. Walt applies pressure to the wound, does his best to block out the sound of screaming, and

Jesse walked away from him in the middle of an argument. It was something stupid, really, not life threatening or even constructive for business and-upon later reflection-he won't even remember what it was. But at the moment, at that precise instant, it made him so angry that all he could think to do was reach out his hands and

When they fucked it was only an extension of their rage. In those moments, Jesse's mouth was more violent than his hands, while Walter bled out brutality from both sources. Enjoyment was like an afterthought, and pleasure could be sacrificed in order to stilt the other's own satisfaction. But still their frenzied bodies met, slick slide and pounding

Inside his head, coming from somewhere in the back of his skull. He's bled out so much he's sticking to the floor, and Mr. White whispers words of consolation as one would read an instruction manual. Jesse tries not to cry because he's already tear-stained and torn open, no need for more exposure. But he's dying, isn't he? He's fucking dying in the middle of an empty warehouse in the goddamn desert and

No one could hear him yelling. Mr. White rolled his eyes like every word ground out through Jesse's clenched teeth was counterproductive, and the two of them stayed like that for what felt like forever. Walt's fists were lowered, but Jesse's lip was still split. He gave back what he received, though, and the broken glasses couldn't be repaired this time. Hopefully the bruises would take even longer to heal. Really, there was no need

For what they were doing. It hurt so much more than it helped. Mr. White fucked like he was stealing something. Maybe he was trying to, but whatever it was would've been freely given... Ripped up from inside himself maybe, caught kicking and screaming and not without a fight, but Jesse would have relented, currents bash against the rocks and even they'll wear down, eventually. Pressure built somewhere within him; gratification, yes, but not without its cost. Jesse opened his mouth to scream and

There is only silence, after. Jesse isn't a terribly heavy burden to hold, but Walt sags with the empty weight of him. He hasn't quite caught up with the rest of the world. He's still stuck somewhere in five minutes ago whispering placating nonsense to deaf ears. He's still held back in a long passed hour pressing a soaked-through cloth to a no longer weeping wound. He's still in yesterday when they were fighting each other and not the world, when Jesse was still

Alive but only just. Or at least it felt that way. His back was probably forever damaged. Walt understood, but could only partially forgive Jesse his rage. It was his right to be mad, the guilt had whispered from where it slept inside of him, but Walt knew only two things when their fight was done; he had neither won nor lost, and that stricken part of him, greedy and yearning for control, could not let the quiet rest between them without his own resolve. He'd known where Jesse's real weaknesses lay, and the first kiss was like another punch, but it hit its mark so much

Better in the aftermath, when only the tick-tick-tick of the clock made any sound at all. Walt lay parallel to his partner in a messy unattended bed, and neither of them shifted nearer or away. When Walter was almost passing into sleep, Jesse turned to him, bleary eyed and broken, and bastard, you did this. But he didn't say a word. Their eyes met-in that they didn't meet at all, but the awareness was there, one was still looking and one was still looking back. Walt's fingers shifted of their own volition, a quick swipe across a stubbly chin, and back to the cool sheets beside him. Jesse chuckled voicelessly, and closed his eyes. Not done forever, but done for now. He would be busy in the morning, with dirty dealings and cartel complications, and room for pettiness would be gone. Tonight he would sleep and tomorrow

It goes like this.

A/N: So, I posted this on every available LJ comm a long while ago. I was doing all my posts from a smart phone at the time, but now I have proper internet. FF.N has it's share of problems, but it still makes a good archive to post in. This will also, eventually, get posted to AO3.

The title comes from a song by Bobby Johnson, it was created for the Wristcutters soundtrack. I don't know how well this site responds to html (haven't posted on anything other than lj in a looong while) so a link may or may not come later. Depends whether I remember or not, honestly. Concrit is very welcome. You can slaughter me with your cruel words, I don't mind. : )

As for how the style of this fic came about, I can honestly say I don't know. I don't dislike it, but I realize that it can look off putting. Hopefully, someone will have like this. :)