Remember [1/1] Brendon/Spencer
Title: Remember
Pairing: (past) Brendon/Spencer
Author:
synthvirus
Beta:tardcud
Rating: PG
P.O.V.: third, Brendon's
Disclaimer: Never happened, blahblahblah
Summary: It would never be his.
Warnings: Angst.
A/N:tardcud pretty much forced me to post this, so here it is.
I guess it's okay enough, I can't really write anything good anymore.
(Christine suck at titles, FYI.)
Brendon remembered the time he used to be happy. He remembered running around outside while chasing Spencer.
He remembered kissing Spencer, feeling the other mouth melt into his own and holding on as he was afraid of loosing him.
"You won't loose me, Spencer" he had said. "I will never leave you." Which was the truth.
Spencer had left him, an action Brendon never could forgive.
-
He felt like a bride.
However, he was the groom.
It was expected of him to act like one. He didn't want to.
He felt like the bride in an arranged marriage. This was arranged, yes, but his future wife seemed to have picked him out. Hell, he didn't even know her name.
Run.
-
Having sex with her was quite unpleasant. She wasn't ugly, it wasn't that. It was just that she wasn't Spencer. Thinking of him, Brendon remembered he was supposed to be angry.
Also, she was a girl. And girls were gross. His parents could never know.
-
"This is how you hold the rifle," he told his son at seven. He didn't like shooting, but this was expected of him. First it was spending all the day outside teaching his son everything he needed to be a man (which later on would make him get a beautiful bride).
Second it was inside to eat with his wife, son and daughter (why couldn't he rather be inside with his daughter, teaching her the art of music?).
Third and last it was going to bed, trying to act towards his wife as he would've acted towards...
The next day would be the same.
-
He didn't cry.
He couldn't cry.
He wanted to cry.
Bowing down to place flowers on his sons grave was hard. It was hard because he didn't feel.
He wanted to love.
-
"I miss you." That was his normal prayer. He couldn't bring himself to pray like he had learnt to when he was a child. It didn't mean anything to him.
He whispered words into the darkness when his wife - her name still not getting through - had drifted of to sleep from the other side of her very bed.
It would never be his bed.
-
"I miss you," he whispered. The grave in front of him getting soaked with his tears.
I don't hate you anymore.
Pairing: (past) Brendon/Spencer
Author:
synthvirusBeta:
tardcudRating: PG
P.O.V.: third, Brendon's
Disclaimer: Never happened, blahblahblah
Summary: It would never be his.
Warnings: Angst.
A/N:
tardcud pretty much forced me to post this, so here it is.I guess it's okay enough, I can't really write anything good anymore.
(Christine suck at titles, FYI.)
Brendon remembered the time he used to be happy. He remembered running around outside while chasing Spencer.
He remembered kissing Spencer, feeling the other mouth melt into his own and holding on as he was afraid of loosing him.
"You won't loose me, Spencer" he had said. "I will never leave you." Which was the truth.
Spencer had left him, an action Brendon never could forgive.
-
He felt like a bride.
However, he was the groom.
It was expected of him to act like one. He didn't want to.
He felt like the bride in an arranged marriage. This was arranged, yes, but his future wife seemed to have picked him out. Hell, he didn't even know her name.
Run.
-
Having sex with her was quite unpleasant. She wasn't ugly, it wasn't that. It was just that she wasn't Spencer. Thinking of him, Brendon remembered he was supposed to be angry.
Also, she was a girl. And girls were gross. His parents could never know.
-
"This is how you hold the rifle," he told his son at seven. He didn't like shooting, but this was expected of him. First it was spending all the day outside teaching his son everything he needed to be a man (which later on would make him get a beautiful bride).
Second it was inside to eat with his wife, son and daughter (why couldn't he rather be inside with his daughter, teaching her the art of music?).
Third and last it was going to bed, trying to act towards his wife as he would've acted towards...
The next day would be the same.
-
He didn't cry.
He couldn't cry.
He wanted to cry.
Bowing down to place flowers on his sons grave was hard. It was hard because he didn't feel.
He wanted to love.
-
"I miss you." That was his normal prayer. He couldn't bring himself to pray like he had learnt to when he was a child. It didn't mean anything to him.
He whispered words into the darkness when his wife - her name still not getting through - had drifted of to sleep from the other side of her very bed.
It would never be his bed.
-
"I miss you," he whispered. The grave in front of him getting soaked with his tears.
I don't hate you anymore.