title: PAUSE
author: asher
a/n: This is very...strange...and it's the first thing I've
written in a long time. Be gentle.
So, does this classify as depressing as you wanted, Crary? I tried. Most likely failed, but what can you do. At least it's been purged, right?
For Killraven, whose answer to one of gw500's challenges inspired this in part and to Crary for helping me realize that sometimes you just have to write something crappy to get to the good stuff.
.. . ..
You know it because there is complete silence. Because there isn't anyone else in the room. The visible shudder of whispered mourning, bed sheets wrapped around the arm of a couch, the folds and pockets of denim in jeans so faded slipping off a chair.
There are remnants of a paused meal on the table.
Plastic cups, their ridged bodies red and thick, empty of liquid: out of place beside silver spoons and forks, white ceramic plates whose designs don't quite match. An afterthought of withered fern leaves mixed with a tossed handful of shriveled baby's breath. Brown, death-stained carnations in the trashcan. The rotting smell of water inside the glass vase.
You know it because there aren't dishes in the sink. Because there aren't burnt saucepans and ruined pasta in the refrigerator. Because there isn't a metal thermos filled to the brim with spiked jasmine tea or a half-empty bottle of rough tasting vodka.
The lights are turned on. All of them.
The kitchen's studio track lights illuminate in neat alignment. All of the light heads turned to face the same direction, tilted at the same angle, shimmering in undaunting white. The floor lamp in the living room touches the ceiling with its dim, two out of three light bulbs burned out. The opening of the laundry room door brings in the aggravating blind of fluorescent tubes hanging from twin chains above the dryer. There is a steady glow from beneath the bathroom door.
You know it because the doors are closed. Because the curtains are appropriately shut, the blinds turned to the left, leaving their long vertical curve facing the window. Because the ugly, mean beta fish in the tank atop the corner table is gone. The oversized, round fish bowl drained of water, a 'buried treasure!' sign entrenched in the pink and orange pebbles.
You step onto a black and white square of tile. Dragging your feet across the welcome rug, leaving a footprint of newly cut grass, of potting soil that had spread itself onto the pavement, trailing out of potted plants brimming with color. The sound of your gun angry against the counter of the kitchen island. The sharpness of your keys and the insistent pound in your ears, the jarring silence broken by the air conditioner starting up again.
It's obvious.
To you as you remove oversized aviator glasses from your face, when you can see your reflection on smooth, polished surfaces of objects that had been lovingly coated in dust long-forgotten. Stupid jean jacket with the ripped satin of the interior draped just inside the empty hanger-crowded closet.
You know it.
You must know it now. It's been staring at you in the face, glinting off the head of your watch, off the surface of every metal appliance and picture frame. It's been telling you repeatedly, rushing to you with the story from the computer screen. Sent to you in varied and rushed messages from the few concerned friends you have.
You know it.
Sitting down hesitantly. Wary of whatever it is that's driving you to forget that you have the graveyard shift tonight. Running that clichéd hand through your tousled hair.
Your nerves are frayed, split and tucked away into different compartments. Your work, your work, your work.
You reach for the remote sitting on your coffee table, turn on the television. The flat little panel that flickers in response across from you.
And so there you sit.
On the sofa. Watching bad syndicated programming. Soaking it in. Soaking it in.
And you know it because you can't hear his usual groan as you click to the music channel. As your brand of disjointed beats and three-chord guitar rifts flows across you.
And you close your eyes, lean into the pillows, lean into the inviting chill.
You know he's gone and left you.
Left you with nothing more than the clean apartment filled with only yourself.
Still.
You observe and say little.
Your gentlemen caller,
Well he's been calling on another
He loves his forbidden fruit
And as it dribbles down his chin
He cries
"Baby, I've been drinking with some friends.
Now how about a little kiss?"
Bad boy
Rub his nose in it
Oh, what a mess
And he's playing dumb
I'm not looking for a lover
All those lovers are liars
I'd never lie to you
You say you want to get even
Yeah, you want to get your bad man good
Well? Are you in the mood?
You bad boy
Does it feel good, being bad?
And it's getting worse
But in the morning
On the sober dawn of Sunday
You're not sure what you have done
Who told you love was fleeting
Sometimes men can be so misleading
To take what they need from you
Whatever you needed to make you feel
Like you've been the one behind the wheel
The sun rises just over that hill
The worst is over
Whatever I said to make you think
That love's the religion of the week
This morning we love like weaklings
The worst is over
The worst is over
The worst is over
---a gentleman caller, cursive
.. . ..
A/N: If you're wondering about the pairing, the person who is being described, who's the protaganist is Trowa and the person who left was Duo. Sad, isn't it? :[