Snow (sweptawaybayou) wrote,
Snow
sweptawaybayou

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I Fall to Pieces ... each time I see you again.

I Fall to Pieces

By Snow

Christian Kane/David Boreanaz
NC/17
For hurry_sundown
A roadhouse, a seedy motel, Wild Turkey and Chris/?
Not exactly what I had planned, but ...
Thank you for the prompt, baby

Beta by ely_jan

Not mine.
No harm.
No foul.




I fall to pieces,
Each time I see you again.

I fall to pieces.
How can I be just your friend?



Another cigarette and another inhale. His lungs burn, his throat scratches. He picked up the glass in front of him and swallowed the cheap bourbon. It dulled the pain, but doesn’t kill the hurt. Country music twangs from the jukebox, two couples dance the two-step in the small area not filled with tables and chairs. Chris watched as one man’s hand slid down from the small of his partner’s back to cup her denim clad ass and returned to the gray of the ashes in the black plastic in front of him.

Five days on the road and he can’t get far enough away from the pain.

He took another drag even though it hurt.

"She’s pregnant? Again? I thought you said you never touched her.”

“I don’t. I do. Sometimes. Fuck, Chris, we sleep together. It happens.”

“Bullshit.”


Blood boiled. Felt like his hair was standing on end. Felt like his skin was on fire. Felt like he was dying.

"I read the interviews. Ice cream. Those perfect breasts. Family. Home. Do you say it all to keep me in my place?”

“No, Chris, Jesus. It’s all PR. It’s nothing. I don’t love her.”

“Yeah. Whatever. It’s all PR and she’s pregnant again and I’m nothing but peanut butter, David.”

“What?”

“I hope you fucking choke on it.”


And he left. Doors slamming. Almost breaking his key as he shoved it in the ignition of his truck. He didn’t drive home. He just drove. Through the city and to the interstate and gone. Wind in his hair, music thumping through the stereo system. Stopping only for gas and smokes, once to drink in a bar until he woke up cramped in the front seat. His shirt reeked of vomit and Chris tore it off. Bought a T-shirt at the next Stuckey’s he passed and just. Kept. Going.

Half way across the country before he stopped again. Neon sign shining bright in the middle of nowhere. Semis in the parking lot and a tiny motel beside it with a blinking ‘VA AN Y' that buzzed with bugs that fly into the light to die.

Alabama? Arkansas? Tennessee? Kansas?

It didn’t matter.

It wasn’t home and he wasn’t here and it wasn’t anywhere anyone would give a shit if he stood at the bar and drank until he passed out. He lit another cigarette before the one he was smoking was finished and nodded to the bartender to fill his glass again. Smoke in his eyes and that had to be what hurt the most. It had to be.

You want me to act like we’ve never kissed
You want me to forget, pretend we’ve never met
And I’ve tried and I’ve tried but I haven’t yet …


A week in Nashville. Last month. A showcase, two hundred fan girls and three music executives that held his future in their hands and if one more person shouted out ‘We love you, Lindsey', he was going to fucking throw his microphone stand into the crowd. But he didn’t. He smiled and he danced and he controlled his temper. He sang and he signed autographs afterwards and he waited in his motel room for the phone call that never came. He watched the sun come up and drank until he fell asleep.

"I just don’t want my son to be an only child. He needs a brother or a sister. He needs a family.”

Chris shook his head, long hair falling over his face. His fingers tightened around the glass until he was afraid he’d break it and he slammed the alcohol down and asked for another and another and another.

Time only adds to the flame.
You tell me to find someone else to love.
Someone who’ll love me, too, the way you used to do,
But each time I go out with someone new …


Steve was there for him, even if he always tried to pretend he didn’t know exactly what was going on. Jensen called him up for drinks and a party. J. August left a message on his cell phone, asking if he wanted to go to lunch. Alexis called and fumbled through an apology, as if it was his fault. News traveled fast in Hollywood and everyone wanted to hold Chris’ hand like he was an infant. Like he was a baby. Like he was drowning in the pain and they all wanted to jump in and save him. From what, for what?

Fuck that.

Someone who’ll love me too, the way you used to do.

As if it were that easy.

Have lunch. Have a couple drinks. Cry on my shoulder and get on with your life. No one wants to see you with tears in your eyes. No one wants to talk to you when all you can talk about is the person that you’ve lost. Move on. Move forward. Get over it. On and on and on.

Each time someone speaks your name.

And they all do. All the time. New movie, new show. Renewed for another season and what the fuck are you doing, Chris? Still grabbing for that magic ring? Still playing the bad boy in movies and fucking Play Station games? Still scrambling for your dinner? Always and forever? Where is your stunningly beautiful Bunny wife? Where is your perfect blond child? What have you done lately?

Chris walked to the motel. His boot heels grinding in the gravel. A bottle in a paper bag in his hand. He rented a room, unlocked the door and didn’t even grimace at the fake Russell print bolted to the wall or the orange carpet, the swag lampshades, stale smoke in the air. The wagon wheel bedspread. Nothing mattered. He filled a plastic cup and sat on the edge of the bed. Held it up and toasted the impending birth with a silent nod.

He leaned back, his hand dipped into his jeans. Opened them as if on automatic pilot. Grabbed his cock and pulled on it, twisted it, stroked himself. He didn’t have to be alone. Thirty thousand fan-girls and boys and he was jerking off with Wild Turkey in his cup and Patsy Cline echoing in his ears.

Remembering the last time David had touched him, taken him. Bent him back and spread his legs and fucked into him as if it meant something. As if the world was ending, come on their chests and hot kisses that stole his breath.

A condom in the trash and laughter in the dark.

Life would go on. Days would keep passing. The calendar would not stop because Christian Kane had a broken heart.

He fell asleep, holding the cup on his chest. His fingers wrapped around his cock, drying come on his shirt. The lamp still on and a cigarette smoldered in the ashtray.

You walk by and I fall to pieces.



~Fin

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