Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m slash, language.
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman)/ Scott Levy (Raven)
Summary: Raven has reluctantly accepted an invitation to join his rival for the holidays.
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Quotations from "To M--" by Edgar Allen Poe used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter Five
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Quite probably the stupidest decision I ever made was accepting Jim Fullington's invitation to spend the holidays with him. At his place. Alone. Which is the last place I ever wanted to be, completely at the mercy of whatever fancy may strike him. And he's a man of many unusual tastes, if the talk I hear around the locker room is any indication.
And I put myself here.
Oh sure, I could blame it on my own incredibly stupid and irrational obsession with him. How every time I think of him, something in my stomach flutters involuntarily like a moth dashing itself against a light. How every time I hear him speak my name, I wish I could die on the spot so that would be the last sound I'd ever hear in this world. How the one thing I really want from him, I can safely say I'll never have.
Love. Real love.
// O! I care not that my earthly lot
Hath little of Earth in it,
That years of love have been forgot
In the fever of a minute: \\
I know what love is. It's a give and take relationship. It's a sharing of souls, a combining of dreams, a merging of two selves into one entity. And it's something he knows nothing about. I can tell by what little time we've spent together. The way he talks about past interests with a dismissive air, like nothing matters more to him than a carton of cigarettes. The man is a pig. That much is clear to me. And I have no desire to spend the rest of my days with someone who has no more concern for me than he does his next drink. No, scratch that. He's obviously an alcoholic, which means he DOES care about his next drink.
Fuck, I'm getting off track again. Get with the program, Levy. Let's rationalize this.
Were I ever to be so foolish as to even attempt any kind of partnership with him beyond the one we currently have, I'd simply run head-on into the brick wall of his stubbornness. His need to always have things go his way, to be the one in control, calling the shots. And that's something I just can't take. If I'm going to be involved, I'd damn well better have some say in what happens. None of his cocky, arrogant "you'll take it because I said so" bullshit.
// I heed not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you meddle with my fate
Who am a passer by. \\
I keep telling myself that I didn't ask for this kind of attention from him. I didn't ask for his imposition, his opinions, or his outwardly innocent offer of friendship. But if I want to be really honest with myself, I'd have to admit that I did. Not by my own words, mind you, but by my actions. I always managed to put myself in his way, push his buttons, make damn sure he remembered every encounter we had, either in the ring or backstage.
And everything seems to be going according to whatever plan fate has in store for me. Because I'm now on my way to his house. Shack. Apartment. Whatever the hell he calls home in this godforsaken city. It's probably some rat-infested, filthy, housing project right on the banks of the Delaware River. Wonder if I should've asked him if I needed a tetanus shot first. Oh, but that would be rude. God forbid I offend the man, right?
And I don't know what the fuck he thinks we're going to eat. Cheap bastard probably ordered a pizza or has a pot pie in the oven. Or if he's feeling particularly generous, maybe it'll be macaroni and cheese or fish sticks. Now THERE'S a nice, traditional holiday meal. The moron probably hasn't cooked a real meal in... well, his entire life, I'd guess. Why learn to cook when you can snap up Ramen noodles at four for a dollar at the local supermarket?
// It is not that my founts of bliss
Are gushing- strange! with tears-
Or that the thrill of a single kiss
Hath palsied many years- \\
When did I get to be such a cynical bastard? I didn't used to be this hateful and bitter. I guess one too many failed relationships will do that to you. And really, what do I honestly want out of this night? A new beginning? A chance to start over without any of the condescending scorn I've shown him? And would one simple kiss be too much to ask? Will my pride even allow me to ask for that which I know I don't deserve?
Hell, he'd probably laugh right in my face and be right in doing so. Not that I think I'd ever manage to work up the nerve to do anything so bold, brash, and completely out of character. He's obviously intrigued by what little of me I've allowed him to see, so why should I try to change his perceptions of who I am? Or maybe, and this is a stretch, maybe he sees something else when he looks at me with those piercing eyes of his. Something I possibly don't even see inside myself. Something worth taking a chance on.
Or maybe he's just looking for an easy fuck.
// 'Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs
Which have wither'd as they rose
Lie dead on my heart-strings
With the weight of an age of snows. \\
Well, there it is. At least it doesn't look like a slum. Not exactly up to Philadelphia Society's standards, perhaps, but definitely not the hovel I was expecting. The architecture is a bit more suited to my own taste, I think. The gargoyles are a nice touch, too. Hmm, the area really isn't that bad. It might not be a bad neighborhood to move to, should I ever tire of the commute from Jersey...
What the fuck am I thinking? I'm not moving. And I'm certainly not moving closer TO him. Seeing him at work is enough. Well, that and the occasional after-work socialization if tonight goes well. VERY occasional. No need to long for something that can't be. Doesn't matter. His actual apartment will probably be more like what I was expecting, dusty and unkempt, much like him.
The moment of truth would appear to be upon me. I could walk away right now or press the doorbell. Either way, the decision is wholly mine. God, I don't want to do this. And yet, I somehow HAVE to do this.
"Yeah, I'm downstairs. You wanna buzz me in or something? Thanks."
And once again, I'm proven wrong. I guess that 'everyman' persona of his is a bit more lucrative than I'd originally guessed. I mean, this place is nothing fancy, but it's really not that different from my own humble residence.
And once again, I'm at yet another point of no return. Hmm, I wonder if he grasps the irony of living in apartment 237. Probably not. I doubt he's read anything more challenging than the latest stories in Penthouse Forum. Well, enough stalling. The next few moments will define my future interaction with this man.
// Not that the grass- O! may it thrive!
On my grave is growing or grown-
But that, while I am dead yet alive
I cannot be, you see, alone. \\
No, no, no. You are NOT going to make the first move. A passionate kiss is NOT a way to greet someone you've been telling yourself over and over again that you hate. You will NOT do this, Levy. No fucking way. Say hello. Insult him. Punch him. Do something. Anything. Just do NOT kiss him.
My God, what have I done?
Character/s: Jim Fullington (Sandman)/ Scott Levy (Raven)
Summary: Raven has reluctantly accepted an invitation to join his rival for the holidays.
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Quotations from "To M--" by Edgar Allen Poe used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter Five
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Quite probably the stupidest decision I ever made was accepting Jim Fullington's invitation to spend the holidays with him. At his place. Alone. Which is the last place I ever wanted to be, completely at the mercy of whatever fancy may strike him. And he's a man of many unusual tastes, if the talk I hear around the locker room is any indication.
And I put myself here.
Oh sure, I could blame it on my own incredibly stupid and irrational obsession with him. How every time I think of him, something in my stomach flutters involuntarily like a moth dashing itself against a light. How every time I hear him speak my name, I wish I could die on the spot so that would be the last sound I'd ever hear in this world. How the one thing I really want from him, I can safely say I'll never have.
Love. Real love.
// O! I care not that my earthly lot
Hath little of Earth in it,
That years of love have been forgot
In the fever of a minute: \\
I know what love is. It's a give and take relationship. It's a sharing of souls, a combining of dreams, a merging of two selves into one entity. And it's something he knows nothing about. I can tell by what little time we've spent together. The way he talks about past interests with a dismissive air, like nothing matters more to him than a carton of cigarettes. The man is a pig. That much is clear to me. And I have no desire to spend the rest of my days with someone who has no more concern for me than he does his next drink. No, scratch that. He's obviously an alcoholic, which means he DOES care about his next drink.
Fuck, I'm getting off track again. Get with the program, Levy. Let's rationalize this.
Were I ever to be so foolish as to even attempt any kind of partnership with him beyond the one we currently have, I'd simply run head-on into the brick wall of his stubbornness. His need to always have things go his way, to be the one in control, calling the shots. And that's something I just can't take. If I'm going to be involved, I'd damn well better have some say in what happens. None of his cocky, arrogant "you'll take it because I said so" bullshit.
// I heed not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you meddle with my fate
Who am a passer by. \\
I keep telling myself that I didn't ask for this kind of attention from him. I didn't ask for his imposition, his opinions, or his outwardly innocent offer of friendship. But if I want to be really honest with myself, I'd have to admit that I did. Not by my own words, mind you, but by my actions. I always managed to put myself in his way, push his buttons, make damn sure he remembered every encounter we had, either in the ring or backstage.
And everything seems to be going according to whatever plan fate has in store for me. Because I'm now on my way to his house. Shack. Apartment. Whatever the hell he calls home in this godforsaken city. It's probably some rat-infested, filthy, housing project right on the banks of the Delaware River. Wonder if I should've asked him if I needed a tetanus shot first. Oh, but that would be rude. God forbid I offend the man, right?
And I don't know what the fuck he thinks we're going to eat. Cheap bastard probably ordered a pizza or has a pot pie in the oven. Or if he's feeling particularly generous, maybe it'll be macaroni and cheese or fish sticks. Now THERE'S a nice, traditional holiday meal. The moron probably hasn't cooked a real meal in... well, his entire life, I'd guess. Why learn to cook when you can snap up Ramen noodles at four for a dollar at the local supermarket?
// It is not that my founts of bliss
Are gushing- strange! with tears-
Or that the thrill of a single kiss
Hath palsied many years- \\
When did I get to be such a cynical bastard? I didn't used to be this hateful and bitter. I guess one too many failed relationships will do that to you. And really, what do I honestly want out of this night? A new beginning? A chance to start over without any of the condescending scorn I've shown him? And would one simple kiss be too much to ask? Will my pride even allow me to ask for that which I know I don't deserve?
Hell, he'd probably laugh right in my face and be right in doing so. Not that I think I'd ever manage to work up the nerve to do anything so bold, brash, and completely out of character. He's obviously intrigued by what little of me I've allowed him to see, so why should I try to change his perceptions of who I am? Or maybe, and this is a stretch, maybe he sees something else when he looks at me with those piercing eyes of his. Something I possibly don't even see inside myself. Something worth taking a chance on.
Or maybe he's just looking for an easy fuck.
// 'Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs
Which have wither'd as they rose
Lie dead on my heart-strings
With the weight of an age of snows. \\
Well, there it is. At least it doesn't look like a slum. Not exactly up to Philadelphia Society's standards, perhaps, but definitely not the hovel I was expecting. The architecture is a bit more suited to my own taste, I think. The gargoyles are a nice touch, too. Hmm, the area really isn't that bad. It might not be a bad neighborhood to move to, should I ever tire of the commute from Jersey...
What the fuck am I thinking? I'm not moving. And I'm certainly not moving closer TO him. Seeing him at work is enough. Well, that and the occasional after-work socialization if tonight goes well. VERY occasional. No need to long for something that can't be. Doesn't matter. His actual apartment will probably be more like what I was expecting, dusty and unkempt, much like him.
The moment of truth would appear to be upon me. I could walk away right now or press the doorbell. Either way, the decision is wholly mine. God, I don't want to do this. And yet, I somehow HAVE to do this.
"Yeah, I'm downstairs. You wanna buzz me in or something? Thanks."
And once again, I'm proven wrong. I guess that 'everyman' persona of his is a bit more lucrative than I'd originally guessed. I mean, this place is nothing fancy, but it's really not that different from my own humble residence.
And once again, I'm at yet another point of no return. Hmm, I wonder if he grasps the irony of living in apartment 237. Probably not. I doubt he's read anything more challenging than the latest stories in Penthouse Forum. Well, enough stalling. The next few moments will define my future interaction with this man.
// Not that the grass- O! may it thrive!
On my grave is growing or grown-
But that, while I am dead yet alive
I cannot be, you see, alone. \\
No, no, no. You are NOT going to make the first move. A passionate kiss is NOT a way to greet someone you've been telling yourself over and over again that you hate. You will NOT do this, Levy. No fucking way. Say hello. Insult him. Punch him. Do something. Anything. Just do NOT kiss him.
My God, what have I done?