#fun fact in the gpi script the scenes are separated/titled (?) like that

[milolovesbmc]

I've pretty much never written anything like this before, but it was actually really fun and here's to hoping it's good because I can't really tell........ Anyways here's some art for it, fic under the cut!! :)

Twenty-eight: Storm

The kids are 28

Sometimes Doug has to sit on the roof.

He sits hunched over with his knees tucked tight between his arms. He covers his eyes with his hands and pressures until there's black spots blocking his vision. He presses on both of them, even though he doesn't have two eyes to feel the pressure on. Pressing his left one, the eye socket, feels especially nice, it makes him feel dizzy.

It's not like when he was eight and fantasized about climbing on the roof. He used to picture himself standing on the very edge, putting his faith in the hands of the statues, hoping the angels would push him off.

It doesn't give him a rush. Sometimes he just needs to breathe and the roof of his house is the only place where he actually can.

Mainly because it's not his house.

He's dating this girl, Elaine.

She moved in two (or was it three?) years ago. He remembers the day she did, it was Monday. Doug took the day off from whatever shitty job he had back then to help her move.

He kind of wishes he hadn't. She barged into his house, with the trunk of her car full of boxes and her hair tied up, claiming as much territory as she liked. He could only step back and watch. He had this feeling, deep in his gut, like something was wrong. Or missing. He wonders if that's how Corey felt.

It wasn't her assertiveness he minded. He liked that she knew what she wanted. He needed to be pushed around and roughed up. But watching her spread her belongings around his place just felt intrusive.

He feels a drop of water fall on his face, and then another. It's starting to rain.

In retrospect, he should've known, the sky had been grey all day. He's wearing a shirt and some sweatpants that will definitely get soaked in a matter of seconds. He still doesn't move from his spot on the roof.

It's times like these Doug wishes he had something to do with his hands, instead of just letting his mind wander. Maybe, Corey was onto something with the whole smoking thing. He used to say it calmed him down. Doug just liked the smell, the way it would cling into his clothes and stay there for what felt like forever.

It's not like he had been enabling Corey's smoking. Doug would go quiet and stare whenever he'd take a cigarette between his fingers. Corey never seemed to care. Somehow it would always end with both of them sitting closer than they were before and Doug blowing smoke out of his mouth.

At some point he had started lighting his best friend's cigarettes for him. Their weird kind of ritual stayed mostly the same, except this time around he was needed. Corey would look at him, holding a cigarette, practically boring his eyes into him, waiting for him to notice. Doug would wait until he got impatient and subtly rolled his eyes before scurrying to give him what he wanted.

Right now he misses the warmth and the weak flame that would light up part of Corey's face. He felt warm to Doug.

His hands were always freshly scrubbed clean, to the point of the skin looking raw. He remembers when Corey first touched him and poked at his wound. The momentary sharp pain when he picked the gravel out of his palms. His hands pressing into Doug's, cold spreading from one's hands to the other's. It was the kind of freezing cold that when stuck to your skin for a while, it almost felt warm.

Every time Corey would touch him, touch his scars and wounds and cuts, it felt ice cold for a minute, and then it was warm. A warmth that would get into his veins and make him feel like everything inside him had been shaken up.

It's raining even more now, it doesn't seem like it's going to stop anytime soon. He's soaked and the water's dripping down his face.

He wipes it off with the back of his hand.

The last time Doug saw him, Corey said he was dating some guy. Some asshole that wrecked his car and didn't even attend his father's funeral. Worst of all, he was living with the guy.

Who's freaked out by a dead body anyways? What a pussy.

It freaks him out, knowing he has settled down, left Doug behind. Corey used to need him. All those years ago.

This guy doesn't care about Corey like he does.

He would do anything he asked him to. He'd light his cigarettes even if it meant breathing the smoke in and feeling it scratch down his throat. He needs it.

Did Corey ever actually need him? Doug's not the only guy with a lighter in his pocket and the willingness to breath in.

He spins the shiny new ring on his finger until it's loose. Then he puts it back on again.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because Doug is getting married, to his girlfriend. He has settled down. He has settled down even more than Corey had. Who cares about what's-his-name and his stupid fear of funerals. He's getting married.

He sent Corey an invitation. A neat white card with both their and Elaine's name on it. Sent the night before, at three in the morning, not before he had emptied two cans of beer and almost half a bottle of pain meds.

It was stupid, Doug doesn't want him to come. He was just bleary from the pills. The last time he saw him, Corey made it clear he didn't care. He didn't care that Doug was in pain and he didn't care to mend his wounds.

He wouldn't have needed to take the pills back then if only he would've helped. He wouldn't need them now. It's like he wants him to be in pain. Wants to watch him suffer and whine and beg, trying to make his way into his hands, or arms, or anything.

The sky rumbles, the rain is pouring down even harder now, and the clouds are a dark grey.

He wants Corey to come to his wedding. Maybe his mere presence will make the pain go away. Maybe if he could have him again, just once. Maybe if he could just feel the warmth reaching out to him. Softening the sharp edges of his aching.

It'd be nothing like the funeral. He'd be good. He just needed one more chance. He could fix everything so that Corey could fix him. If the pain went away he could think clearly for once. Choose the right words to make him stay this time.

Corey came back, he always did. Maybe it was divine intervention, or just plain pity, but he came when Doug called his name. Reluctantly that is, but he came.

Every time he got injured, Corey was just where he needed him to be. Like a guardian angel.

Five years ago Doug walked in to the hospital. He vaguely recalls a nurse rushing to him. Being wrapped around in bandages so tight he felt nice and clean again. Getting pushed into a room.

He knows he sat on the bed staring at nothing for a while, he doesn't know how long it was, for a while he felt nothing. As if he had been watching himself sit from outside his own body. He might've been muttering something.

Until Corey arrived. Suddenly he was pushed back into consciousness and he saw a light, a way out. It didn't matter that said light reeked of alcohol and the mud on his shoes reached up to his knees.

He's abruptly made aware of his surroundings. The roof underneath him and the rain falling aggressively from above him. For a moment he thinks he can hear the sky rumble.

The clouds and the sky are a matching shade of pitch black and he can't make anything out.

For a fraction of a second, staring ahead into the dark, he sees a light. A tiny little flicker in the distance.

This was his way out. Of course. It was obvious now. He just needed to sit in that hospital once more. Corey would come. Corey would find him. Just like he found him five years ago. Someone would call him. Maybe he would just know to look for Doug. It all made sense.

He takes a step towards the edge.

The tiles under his feet are wet and slippery from the rain.

He takes a second one.

There's no angels to push him off this time. They want him to do it. He has to do it. He watches a tree get struck by lightning.

He takes a third step.

Everything around him glows a strange shade of blue.

Another one.

His skin buzzes painfully. He wants to scratch the buzzing off. He doesn't. Both his hands stay on his sides

And he takes another step.

Sweat drips down from his palms. He wipes them off on his shirt to no avail.

And a last one.

Sometimes Doug has to sit on the roof. This time he stands on the very edge.