I miss Don and Syler together and in love. Does anybody else feel this way? I simply cannot wait for the two to be reunited again, I wait as impatiently as all of you for that day to come. Please do forgive the time I was away from you guys, and read this chapter and maybe drop me a review. It can only help.
Don dropped his keys into the bowl beside his door, his head hung low so that it almost brushed his chest; and his neck tight from the tension of the day he had had. He gave himself a moment, standing in his doorway, rubbing his hand roughly over his nape. Squeezing until it was almost painful, but at least when he let go some of the tightly wound muscles let their coils out. He lent an ear to the rest of the apartment, everything was quiet and the sound or lack thereof, made his stomach turn.
He wasn't exactly sure why he was doing this to himself, waiting for her that is. He knew that she wasn't going to just show up. Whatever had happened was enough to drive her from the city, with little to no explanation. He loved her, but she wasn't a doormat, and she knew that. She hadn't told him. He would want answers from her. Which it didn't seem at this point in time she was willing to give.
Toeing out of his shoes, he kicked the softly underneath the table that he had dropped his keys onto, and with sluggish movements he slid his jacket from his shoulders, and loosened the tie around his neck. Padding to his kitchen, he opened his fridge and peered inside, wondering idly why he even bothered. He knew there was nothing in there for him; his eyes strayed to the trash can beside his counter, which was overflowing with the various take out boxes that he had managed to collect in the last month. He sighed, and opened several drawers inside his fridge; he eyed the small container of corned beef he had purchased a month ago.
Syler had been bugging him about making her his Ruben for weeks; he had finally decided to give in to her pleas. Now it just sat on the shelf and mocked him, the lid was sucked in slightly and he knew it was going bad. But he couldn't bring himself to throw it out; he couldn't bring himself to throw anything out actually. It was some kind of twisted belief that if anything in his apartment changed from when she had left, it would make her leaving real in a way that it wasn't presently.
Presently, there was the idea that she would return from Montana. That she would show up on his doorstep, he would envelope her in his arms, and everything with his world would be righted once more. Everything else wasn't important; there wasn't anything that could happen that would be so detrimental, so long as she was there with him; but if he threw out the things that reminded him of her, which, conveniently enough, was everything in his apartment. Then it would mean that at least part of him was preparing for what his life might be like if she never did come back.
With that painful thought sitting at the forefront of his mind he closed the door to his fridge, and didn't even glance at the fan of take-out menus on his counter, deciding that he wasn't particularly hungry anymore. He let his feet carry him slowly down the short hallway that led to his bedroom. Don forced himself to ignore his dresser, which held two neatly folded piles of her clothes, and single shoe. All of which she had left her when she went back to Montana, the simple thought gave him pause.
She had gone back to Montana.
Against his better judgment he moved towards the pile of clothes, and let his hand rest on top of the shirt he had purposely left at the top. Her favorite shirt, boasting of her love for Reece's Peanut Butter Cups, and at least ten years old; it was so thin in some places you could see straight through, not that you would find Don complaining. At least, as long as she wasn't trying to wear it out anywhere. He was by no means a jealous man, or even particularly prudish. But there were some things he preferred that he be the only one to see.
He sat down slowly on the edge of his bed, his thighs burning as he did. One of the only activities he had found to occupy his time, was the sandbag in the very far corner of his gym. He had relented after two weeks without her, and let Danny drag him out of his apartment. As he had stood looking out at all the equipment, and ignoring the fact that Danny was hovering around him, waiting for him to decide what to do. When he had seen it, nestled well away from most of the other equipment, and in the only corner of the whole building that didn't seem to have mirrors, it hung stoic and tall. He had nodded towards it, and Danny glanced between his friend and the bag, but finally he moved to the weight rack some ten feet from it.
He let out every ounce of aggression that he had worked up every day for two weeks. Poured it out, until there was a small puddle of sweat gathering at his feet, and the tape he had wrapped quickly over his knuckles was split. Danny had coughed quietly beside him, and Don had realized that he had split the two of his knuckles.
He hadn't skipped a day since. Staying longer each time he went, letting the stinging pain in his forearms exhaust him. So that by the time he was spent, his anger had dulled. Never disappearing completely, but at least he could sleep now. He glanced at his pillows wondering if perhaps sleep was the key now, the sun was still high, but maybe he could still catch a few hours. Then he looked to his bathroom, he had showered at the gym, but still he looked at it; trying to decide if it would take up enough time that he could eat and pass out.
After a moment, he let the hand fall that had been rubbing over his tired biceps fall back to his side, and he moved to his bathroom, already setting his mind towards the direction of his night. Danny had a rare night off from daddy duty or so he had told Don, claiming that his mother had wanted to see the boys and Lindsay, but had specifically requested a girls night. So he had asked him to come out; Don was still debating, he knew that Danny was just trying to be there for him, get him out of the house, get his mind off of Syler. He loved the man like a brother, but he didn't think he could muster the energy. Everything reminded him of her; and being outside of his house would be exhausting. Pretending like his whole world wasn't falling apart.
No, he wouldn't go out. He had just set in his mind that what he needed was a hot shower, takeout, and a beer, and to not have to brandish his five o'clock shadow on the unsuspecting citizens of New York. Hopefully the shower could unwind enough to get some sleep. He caught sight of himself unexpectedly in his mirror and grimaced. He had taken to avoiding his own reflection over the last week. Since he had pushed away from the sand bag heavily, and glanced trying to spot a clock. There he had seen himself, red faced and covered in sweat. There was blood on the bag behind him, but he paid little attention to it. Now that he could see the broken look in his own eyes, that were ringed with red from fighting back the urge to let what felt startlingly like grief overwhelm him.
Dark circles etched into his face, hollowing out his whole face. Though he had done little else but work in the sun since Syler had left, he still found that he looked paler than he had in a long time. He felt a headache starting in his temple, and he left his reflection alone, moving to start his shower; and pointedly avoided noticing the stool. He had shoved it angrily into the corner when he found out she had left.
Pushed it away from its perfect place in between his sink and his wall, hoping that if it wasn't there that he wouldn't see it; but it was too visible, he was simply too aware of its presence; in the same way that he was simply too aware of her lack of presence. He tried to direct his thoughts away from her but the last month and a half had proven that it wouldn't happen. But still, he could only try.
Roughly he opened the door to his shower and moved his hand to the knob, staring at it intensely as it was the only way he wouldn't look at her shampoo. It sat on the shelf next to his, and underneath it was her conditioner, and her body wash. His hand tightened on his knob, and he let out a tired sigh, forcing his whole body to relax. His eyes closed, he told himself that everything was going to be okay, that everything would work out, all they needed was time.
A distant ring broke his thoughts, and he turned to stare at his open bathroom door as he tried to work out what was happening. Two rings in, and everything connected; then suddenly, he was running. Towards the home phone that was laying useless on his coffee table, where he had slammed it roughly the night before; though only after it had sat in its cradle taunting him with its continued silence.
Three rings in, and he was rounding his bedroom door, four rings and he knocked it off the coffee table; five rings and he stared down at the Bozeman area code in disbelief. He couldn't work out how to breathe as he lifted the phone to his ear.
There was only silence on the other line, and a slow release of breath, though he wasn't sure which end of the call it had come from, "Sy?" His voice was weak, and he covered his mouth with his hand to try and suppress the sob of relief when he heard an answering noise come from across the country to reach his ears.
"Friad' not." Came the deep rumbling voice of Jethro Monroe.
It is happening! Stay tuned for the continuation of this briefly heartbreaking tale. Don't forget to review when you're done, and let me know what you're feeling.