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[ ◐ ] ;;            "You always say that when you fuck up, Daniel. You only say it when you fuck up, when you know that I should leave." Ciaran didn't have the strength to hold himself together and snap at the same time    his voice fell in a broken whisper; nearly cracking on the sound of his name.          He wanted to step forward, he wanted to thread his fingers into his stupid fucking hair and pull it; he wanted to mold their mouths together and grip his lower lip between his teeth and pull it; he wanted to reach into his chest, wrap his hands around his still beating heart and pull it right out. He wanted it to be his and it wasn't. No matter how many times Daniel said those words, Ciaran knew: Truth be told, he was never his.                       "I'm a fucking idiot," he repeated, louder now; stepping backwards even though Daniel didn't step forward. "I'm a bloody fuckin' idiot because I love you and I let myself believe that was enough; I let myself think that love was the same thing as trust and I trusted you. I trusted you and I never should have."

             His lower lip quivered, he eyes tearing up. “Ciaran.. I wanted you.. and at the time, y-you didn’t ——- You didn’t want me..” He wanted to take the step forward, reach out for him, and just hold him in his arms but he knows the other would step back. “I-I fucking regret what I did, Ciaran.. P-please don’t think that I don’t love you, because I do. I’m so fucking in love with you and the thought of not having you rips me in fucking two. Please don’t leave me, d-don’t let me go..” The tears were real, slowly falling from his eyes and making trails down his cheeks as he stared down at the boy that honestly would always have his heart.

             ”It meant nothing while you mean everything. Don’t do this thing that I know your going to say. Don’t say those words or anything close to them, because I know you want me just as much as I want you and it won’t change. There is a part of you that will always be mine, just like there are pieces of me that are yours and only yours. I want it to be all of me, but I haven’t been all of anyone’s for a long long fucking time and it’s fucking scary watching myself fall.. I-I don’t fall. B-but I want to fall for you.. I am, and hard. Just don’t leave me like I know you want to.”

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[ ◐ ] ;;            "Yeah, yup. We weren't really together, were we.                    Because you were with him. Always with him      "          Ciaran swallowed hard, trying to prevent the break in his voice, the burn behind his eyes. He will not break down. He will not be weak in the face of someone who doesn't deserve him. Funny, that for such a shit person he always ends up with someone who treats him worse than he deserves. "      I'm an idiot for coming back because you didn't leave him for me. You didn't leave him at all."

             He dropped the mic, eyes wide, hands starting to shake. “W-we were broken up.. I-I mean we weren’t even—- I-I didn’t…” 

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[ ◐ ] ;;            "You fucked him. Again.                             You fucked him again."

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[ ◐ ] ;;             He's still riding a high;      wiping at his nose and sniffling at the burn. He sees red when he pulls his hand away. Not because there's blood on blade in his hand; not even because there's crimson dripping down the side of his shirt where the tear is.                  He sees red     because his eyes catch sight of Quinton. The blacks fade in and out and everything flutters around in a rosy shade of light pink for a moment before the rest of the colours come back into focus. Red. Crimson red. Blood red.                                                                         The static is still there. The static is still there and the little hiss of a breath sounds somewhere in the back of his mind and it whispers with the chill that still clings to the air outside at the same time that Quinton speaks his name. And it says,                                Harreh.

   Quinton’s around, he’s everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. He’s been cloudy lately, not quiet sure where he is or where he stands with everyone. So cloudy that he always walked off the bridge a few nights ago, a bottle of Jack in one hand. Being okay isn’t the half of it, and if he wanted to worry his boys he’d tell them. But Ace has already been so different since the stabbing and Ciaran’s been flaky as of late. It’s not ideal, but it’s them and that’s all Quinton can ask for in his life. 

    He’s been out. Getting a few things, spending time with Trenton, talking about everything. Trying to get his life a little bit better before heading home again

     With a small sigh he makes his way up the stairs and into the apartment. It’s quiet, he know Ace was going out today with some friends and as far as he was concerned Ciaran was supposed to have been staying home. “Anyone home…?” He calls out, setting his cup of coffee down, taking a glance around his apartment. After walking further in he sees it before he sees him and he stops dead. “Ciaran…”

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having feelings for someone is stupid and it hurts and you should never have them ever.

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[ ◐ ] ;;             He's not in an awful mood     it's just that the lights at the super market can flickering and Xander had refused to answer his phone calls and he may or may not have almost pulled the switch blade on a man walking home because he was preaching on the sidewalk. So maybe he wasn't in the best mood but it     it could be worse, okay.                            Ciaran tries to reason with himself; pulls the knife out of his pocket and runs his thumb carefully over the blade with a sigh.                            There's a lot of static upstairs. A lot of angry static. He does his best to ignore it, slides down against the side of the wall and stares at the opposite side of it. Ace is out with Cash, something about a couple of high school mates in town. He doesn't know where Quinton is      they static gets louder.

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:: king and lionhear        of monsters and men ; 

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Christmas Drabbles for Alex:

Seeing Red

[ ◐ ] ;;             Ciaran remembers with perfect clarity the first time he died. His world is a combination of light and dark. Constantly shifting shadows from shades of white to black      a monopoly of monochromatic greys. Almost always cool, chilled, cold with lack of colour.                         Until them.                         He has a bit of trouble recalling the second because he's                         currently living through it  right now      but he can still see                         the first. He can see the flecks of brilliant gold: Flames                         around deep, dark blacks, glossy with the glimmer of heat.                         Ciaran burned once. He was different back then.                         He was Harry.                          Harry was Delicate. He can still see, with stunning preciseness, who he used to be. It's reflected back to him by two new pairs with similar flecks of golden fire. One shades of amber much softer than the last; one crystal clear rings in every shade of blue. There's something extraordinary that makes this different, though.                         Harry was delicate.                         The burning made him that way.                         Ciaran feels delicate for them.                         Delicate curiosity for the Question and the Answer.                         Not because of them.                         He is still delicate now      delicately binding them together                         with such a fragile hold that he supposes it should be much,                         much easier to break than it is. But it isn't     he supposes,                         also, that a whole is much harder to fracture than a fraction                         of it of one. He watches them now ( memorizes the way they fold themselves together so effortlessly that unless you know them well enough it becomes difficult to tell who is who ) in a way that will be one day become a memory instead of an observation. A simply moment in a time where it was okay to be delicate.                         He was so used to being strong.                         Some times that's all he knew how to be. Ace folds himself up small enough to mold into the curve of the other's side with a book lazily held in his hands as if it were just an extension of him. Quinton threads a hand through his hair with the most natural moments as if Ace is more feline than human.                         He watches it all through rose coloured glasses and absurd                         fondness. Warmth seeps into his skin with a rise of goose-                         bumps. They are Unbearably     Beautifully Warm.                         Without him. And then they aren't. Both turn their attention to where he's hovering in the door way. Expectant. Ciaran remembers again, that he's important. They don't function quite properly without all of the pieces. He is one third of a whole.                         His world was everything in black, white;                          monochromatic days of constant grey, then.  One hand tangles into the folds of Ace's jumper while he starts to read sweetly allowed, and Quinton's hand folds into the spaces of his other.                         His world is his boys.     ��                   And Ciaran sees red.                         Much better this time.

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the one ship that will always make me cry and get upset enough to walk out of my room, is the punk ass bitches thread. [nods] it will never fail.

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[ ◐ ] ;;             "Says the peasant."

       "You’re a dumb fuck."

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[ ◐ ] ;;             His fingers curl into the front of Daniel's shirt like a subtle life line. His grip is gentle but the importance is there. It's always there. Ciaran never lit the match with intent to start a fire but he was constantly burning. Especially now. As pulls his boy closer, close enough that their noses brush and the warmth of Daniel's breath touches his mouth, he says for the second time,                        "Don't forget that."                        And flicks off the light.

                      Three words.

          Those three words seemed to mean more to them than anything else in the human language. Saying those three words, agreeing or disagreeing with it, would always end up deciding their fate. It was a right, a need, in a way. To Daniel, those words were better than, ‘still love me?’.

           His mouth opened, breathing everything in, eyes down at the floor as he took the final step forward, kicking the door closed, and slowly letting the aroma of Ciaran that he had sucked in, out slowly. His eyes were stinging, body trembling as he stared down at him. Now he just needed to say it, he took the step, now the words just have to come into play, to decide their fate.

                               ”Always.”