This is something I wrote quite a while ago.
Everything belongs to CP Coulter.
Present Day:
The streets were harsh at night. Lights shone out, inviting wanderers in to their friendly stores. Partygoers roamed the streets, loudly laughing as they stumbled into inanimate objects. A cool breeze strolled down the streets, cold enough to make goosebumps emerge on bare flesh.
A man walked alone, a lumping trench coat covering his hunched shoulders. His head was lowered, eyes downcast as he ignored the shouts and rumbles of the passing traffic. A lock of brown hair fell into his eyes, blocking his vision somewhat. Brushing it away, he looked up and locked eyes with a woman walking towards him. Her eyes widened, and she instantly grabbed the upper arm of the child walking beside her. Before she left his vision, he saw the flash of disgust flicker over her features.
Julian was always too good at reading expressions.
The sound of a pumping beat reached his ears. The club was in full swing, bouncers guarding the doors, letting only the elite in.
Memories flashed through his head; Patrick challenging him to a drinking contest, the girls cheering and shrieking as they downed shot after shot, Clark being the saint he was and making sure they got home safe. Those days were long gone now. Julian wouldn't be allowed back in, no matter how prestigious his name had been.
He walked on.
Pulling the coat around him tighter, he ambled along the path avoiding contact with people walking past. He looked in the shop windows, eyeing things that he had enough money to buy, but too much discrimination against himself to bother. Watches, clothes, laptops, and televisions all jumped out to him, begging to be bought. Yellow signs burst out, screaming about sales to lure in unsuspecting customers. Julian's eyes glazed over, then focused again, and he caught sight of his reflection. He flinched, tearing his eyes away from the glass. As they always did, the memories caught up with him, hijacking his vision and controlling his senses.
A blast of heat hit him, followed almost instantly by a colossal boom that rocked the building from the core. Julian was thrown off his feet, slamming into a burning wall. He saw nothing; his vision blacking out, unconsciousness taking over.
He woke later. He didn't know whether it was seconds, minutes, or hours later. Smoke filled his lungs as he gasped for air. He could hear the cries of friends, all of them facing the horrors he was. Because of him. Because he was too weak, too hopeless to do anything. His fault.
He could hear the crackle and pop as the roof above them blistered and splintered from the fire. The air was cloudy, filled with the poisonous fumes the fires had emitted. He needed to get out, needed to apologize to Logan, to his friends. He needed to say he was sorry. But sorry wouldn't be enough if someone passed away. Sorry wouldn't bring a life back.
Though everything hurt, Julian tugged himself up to a crawling position. A tongue of fire was melting his blazer, the heat intensifying every second. Julian ignored it, and began crawling to where he thought was a fire exit.
He was sidetracked when he heard a pitiful cry of "Jules!"
He swung his body around, and began shuffling towards the noise, straining his ears for another sound. As if by magic, a head of blond hair appeared from behind the cloud of smoke.
"Jules, it's on me."
Without a second thought, Julian grabbed the board of burning timber and hoisted it off Logan. Yanking him by the shoulder into a sitting position, the two began to crawl their way towards the fire exit.
The building was falling apart. Timber rained down, accompanied with sparks that flashed towards them, threatening to sting and burn their exposed flesh. The escape was close. Julian could taste the little fresh air that had filtered through the window.
He shoved Logan up through the window; the blond's leg still weak after being crushed. As Logan tumbled through the gap onto the fire escape waiting below, Julian heard a loud creaking above him, much louder than the ones before.
And then the roof was collapsing in on him, shunting his head down to the floor and snapping his back down onto his knees. He felt the crack of bones; the pressure too much to be withheld. He felt the heat searing his skin, imprinting itself, destined to be remembered for a generation to come.
Julian shook his head. He saw those memories enough in his dreams, they didn't need to invade his waking hours as well. Even so, he didn't look at his reflection again. He already knew the monster he would see.
3 years ago:
"Mr. Larson, how do you think this will impact on your career?"
A storm of flashing lights.
"I – uh. That is undetermined at this present stage."
Present day:
"I'm home."
Silence greets him like an old friend. He knew no one would be home. It's always the same. But Julian wishes that one time it would be different, that someone would rush out from the kitchen and enthral him in a hug.
It never happens.
The apartment, though expensive, holds no real attachment to him. It's just a place to sleep in. The curtains, sofas, beds, paintings are all dull; objects that have no real value to him.
Julian feels so alone.
2 years ago:
"Julian, how are you?"
There's a slight pause before the voice carries on without waiting for an answer. Julian knows she doesn't care for one.
"I see you haven't starred in anything lately. Got anything in the horizon?"
The voice is light, with a slight edge to it.
"No, mom. People don't want to hire me now I've… changed."
There's some protesting, but it's short lived. The conversation ends quickly when Julian slams the phone down in mock anger. He hasn't felt true anger in a while now. Only regret, guilt, and remorse.
3 years, 4 months ago:
Julian chucks a handful of dirt in. There's no polite way to do it. He hears the patter as it rains down on top of the shiny coffin, and suddenly he can't see anymore. His eyes sting and he turns away, unable to face what he has done. Because of course it's his fault..
Murmurs surround him, and Julian knows they are probably talking about him. About his face, his body, the fact that he is breathing.
Julian wants to leave so badly, but how can he when he has to say "Sorry for killing your son."
The actor does what he has always done. He runs. Because he's weak.
Present Day:
Five minutes later and Julian has a steaming cup of macaroni and cheese fresh from the microwave. The television is on, and Julian can't help but think of what could've been as he sees the famous faces flash over the screen. He was one of those faces years ago. Until it was stolen away from him by his own mistakes.
Julian is in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection when the door creaks.
Julian doesn't hear it; he's too busy examining his face at every angle.
It still hasn't changed. A long scar that was once a burn covers the left side of his face, melding with the curve of his lips. Flecks of red mark the smooth skin on the right side. It's like that all over his body. The rips and tears coat his arms, blemishes that conjure memories of falling roofs and wicked tongues of fire. His torso is a picture of the guilt that has been consuming him ever since that fateful day.
Julian Larson is no longer considered one of the beautiful people on the planet.
This is his daily routine. It's demoralising and self-hating, but Julian can't stop it.
A pair of arms twine around his waist, and he flinches.
"Stop this. Come to bed."
Julian obeys the strong pair of arms that guide him towards the soft bed.
His eyes are downcast, staring at his feet, but he notices things seem a little brighter, not so dull.
The pair slip into the bed, the other man flicking the light switch off.
A cool hand trails down Julian's face, tracing the scar that is the source of so many memories and insecurities.
"Jules, you are beautiful. You are beyond beautiful. You are stunning, handsome, striking, and attractive. I love you. Now sleep."
Julian breathes a sigh of relief. This is his medication. This is the time when Julian feels beautiful for the first time in years; here with Logan pressed up against his back, his warm arms wrapped around him.
This was what he lived for.
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