I was in the mood for a one-shot and a song fic soooooo... HERE YOU GO.

I'll give you this much: There is NO T&J in this story though it does borderline T&J. It's ALL Tommy; lovely, lovely Tommy. 100 percent POV and very... off. Enjoy... (PS: The letter-ish bits are in bold.) And I'm trying this little present tense thing cuz... I want the challenge.

Own nothing but Tim and I share him with 4 lovely chicks. BACK THE FUCK AWAY. Haha...

Mad World / Gary Jules

All around me are familiar faces; worn out places, worn out faces.
Bright and early for the daily races; going nowhere, going nowhere

Tommy untangles himself soundlessly from Sadie, slipping off to the far side of the room. He pauses for a moment in front of the antique mahogany writer's desk, pauses as the incessant need to run from where he now stays for the time being grows more impressionable for the simple week has turned into a month long debacle.

Bright sunlight pours through the sad excuse for draperies, the hustle and bustle of Milan already underway and turning the empire cobble streets to a faint click-clack that seems to be stuck on repeat. He looks around his 4-star surroundings, his treat to the girl who slept with him yet again the previous night. He cocks his head to take upon the weight of her non-red hair and once presumably pale skin. He squints, thinking that if he tries hard enough, she'll metamorphose into something far beyond his grasp and on too high of a pretty pedestal to tamper with.

Their tears are filling up their glasses; no expression, no expression.
Hide my head I wanna drown my sorrow; no tomorrow, no tomorrow.

Before sitting down to the task he must undertake lest it kill him any further, he backtracks to his suit case, rummaging around for his coveted mp3 player. He slips in one of the ear buds, pops his neck, and crisscrosses to the mini-bar set up just for him against a long, plain, tackily painted wall. He pours himself a drink, Hennessey – no ice, and returns to the shrine of Venus. He picks up the feathery, neon pink pen once used to convey songs of excitement and exuberant happiness that must now take down every word and utterance he's been dying to write since day one.

Dear Jude...

He takes a slow sip from his morning liquor, trying to figure out how to word what he has to say. The deep tawny liquid seeps slowly throughout his chest and abdomen as he shoots back another mouthful, the heat catching in his throat and causing him to groan slightly to its burn. He places the cut crystal glass on the edge of the desk, still mulling over the torturous words that are threatening to mutilate him to shreds.

How are you, girl? How is touring? I hope everything is how you wanted it to be. Things are okay here, really. I have to honest with you, though...

He leans in closer to the table, hiding his words from the invisible onlookers that dare catch a glimpse and whisper their findings to those who need not know.

I wish I could have gone on tour with you. Italy is great, but it's the same thing every time. I wish I could have seen you the first time you played a sold-out club. I wish I could have seen the happiness once you finished your first set. Girl, I wish I could see you.

He picks up the glass and shoots back the rest of the contents before going and returning with another dose of medicine. He gulps half of it, looking behind him and staring through Sadie's back. She isn't here... She is.

He returns to the opus so falteringly began, thinking too hard once again. The words within him are tiny demons dancing along the length of his fingers, into his wrists, and up his arms. They overtake his shoulders and roll down the length of his spine. The minions of his thoughts, they take their sweet time trickling down the back of his thighs and over his calves just to settle in the soles of his feet. They itch with desire.

It's hard being so far apart sometimes. Sometimes I wonder if I can just catch you on your next stop. Do you want to see me? I'll do it. I swear to you. I'll leave as soon as you tell me its ok for me to come.

God I miss you.

And I find it kind of funny; I find it kind of sad.
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.

He lifts his face from the stark parchment, remembering briefly the innuendo she'd thrown down on the table as she innocently sipped her latte. It murdered him then just as it murders him now. He's so many miles from the sun, trying to recreate and reenact the still frames tied down in the pure trappings of his heart strings. They pluck a tiny song, breathing in arias the saddest, most delightful story of any Italian operetta on a broken phonograph.

I keep dreaming, Jude. I keep having this dream that you are here with me and asleep with me and dreaming with me. You're inside this cold sleigh bed I lay awake in every night and I can't do anything but watch you. But I find that I am then up, and I was just dreaming. It kills me when I realize it's all been a dream. Is it bad that I want to live that dream every time I wake up? Why must it always be a dream?

He again rests his plastic quill, swirling the Hennessey in cyclonic swishes. He wonders when the last time was that he was really sober. He muses over the tune in his ears, maybe October. October, before he ruined the only chance he had to make things right. October, when time presented itself on royal service pieces and told him to speak the unthinkable. October, oceanic October, with its dark recesses and rain drenched puppies on abandoned doorsteps.

I find it hard to tell you; I find it hard to take.
When people run in circles... It's a very, very mad world, mad world.

I don't mean to sound so crazy, girl. I really don't, but it's such a crazy place out here. It's too crazy even for me and I've done it all before. And I am running around in the same circles counting down the days when we are together once again.

Children waiting for the day they feel good; happy birthday, happy birthday.
And I feel the way that every child should; sit and listen, sit and listen.

Furiously he scribbles and scratches, trying to make it sound as perfect as it does when he rehearses it in his daily shower. It is turning maddening.

I'm sorry that I'm such an idiot. I'm sorry that I'm still the scared kid I was and I still pay attention to what people say. I'll forever be sorry for being who I am with you. You're the glory while I burn in my infamy. You're the emerald city sprung from my grains of jagged sand. You are the good that I want to repent to. Please listen, Jude. Listen even if you will laugh at the madman.

He wonders if she is within everything he loves – the sex in his coffee, the renewal in steam showers, the perfect song that plays at the perfect moment on his iPod. He wonders if she would frown upon the lavish hotel room and think he was weird for rewarding temper tantrums with over priced accommodations. He can't keep his wandering wonderings at bay. He can't keep from spilling out anything and everything that comes to mind.

Went to school and I was very nervous; no one knew me, no one knew me.
Hello teacher, tell me - what's my lesson?
Look right through me, look right through me.

He wishes Jude would skillfully teach him how to be what she needs. He'd sit so diligently in her classroom and he'd work so hard to be what was best. He wants to fill composition books and stenography pads with notes of her chalk outlined words of wisdom. Every day a new course for the emotionally deficit.

The plush chair grows hard against his body. The light breeze from the street below turns sour and stale. When will he be able to return to his home? How long must he make a mockery of the things he still considers sacred?

The itching intensifies with a vengeance; pen to paper, he wages on.

I have to tell you how I feel once and for all and if I scare you or this isn't what you want now, don't mention it. Look past and look through it and we can go our separate ways.

And I find it kind of funny; I find it kind of sad.
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.
I find it hard to tell you; I find it hard to take.
When people run in circles... It's a very, very mad world, mad world.
Enlarging your world, mad world

I love you. You're everything to me. You are what my tomorrows are built on and what I crave for at 2 am. I love you and I'll tell you a million times. I'll love you forever. I love you.

He signs his name and rereads his passionate outcry. He deftly licks envelopes and searches for stamps and addresses to 2-star hotel rooms that are just as enchanting to the bright eyed dreamers as the one he pays for today. He feels triumphant and almost giddy, finally being able to say what he couldn't before it was too late. He feels the mad world lift from his shoulders and wants to do everything he can. He presses the letter tightly to his chest and imagines the look on the girl's face when she reads his declaration of independence.

Sadie stirs from the bed, sleepily calling out to him. Realization waxes while idealization wanes. He looks down at the envelope he so carefully handles, sighing at the mounting truths. She chatters like the black birds on the telephone wires and doesn't bother to pull sheets to cover her bare breasts. She asks what he's doing up so early, mentions she's cold, and stretches her arms over her head exposing even more of her tanned skin.

He turns his back, kissing the corner of the letter, and ceremoniously walks to the fireplace and sits on its marbled banks. The flick of a button causes the whoosh and roar of the methane fire. He watches the flames dance, sickened and down struck. He looks to Sadie then down to his precious manifesto. He shakes his head, closes his eyes, and resentfully pushes the note deep within the ashes. Atlas shrugs and Tommy returns to being his mad understudy; he waits for yet another morning where he will try once again.

Somewhere, he hears someone scream in cold blood but all he can do is convincingly smile.

"Get up; I'll order breakfast."