Then I’m Alone Again
Oct. 15th, 2003 11:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amfiguree[American Idol] [Clay Aiken/Ryan Seacrest] [NC-17-ish. Dark themes (kinda) and angst.]
Then I'm Alone Again
“Does it hurt?”
He knew. He knew, and he didn’t give a fucking damn. His voice was cold – so cold and impersonal that Clay shuddered, and had to look away, the harsh sunlight glinting and then fading against his face, swallowed by the dark. He didn’t have to look; he knew what he’d find in Ryan’s eyes – icy blue and cold and empty.
Something Clay had become familiar with without meaning to.
“Does it?” Ryan’s voice hardened, cool steel melting against the burning apathy in his tone. Firm, and raw, and blank.
Yes, he wanted to say, Yes, it hurts, you fucking bastard.
And then, Stop fucking doing this to me!
Except Clay knew it wasn’t Ryan. Because his own voice was hollow and his eyes were vacant and he felt so fucking drained when he shook his head – he’d learnt so much from Ryan. Learnt everything he didn’t want to know; mistakes that he couldn’t erase.
So he’d changed. Not a fucking toy, Ryan. Not something you can play with. Not fucking innocent anymore. Clay’s silent laughter was acidic, rancorous and angry, and it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth that he swallowed down, with morbid satisfaction.
“No.”
His voice was quiet, and hoarse, and brimming with barely concealed exhaustion. Apathy had always been so difficult. So wearing. And he’d learnt to wear it, steel in his eyes, when things had gotten too complex to change. He’d learnt well.
They’d shared a look, earlier. And it had been hard, and bitter, and deceiving. All the unspoken emotion that would never be released – and they both knew. Knew what they could, and couldn’t have. Fierce and callous, long and hard and testing. It had only set in stone what they both had consciously already known.
Clay swallowed again, acrimoniously. “No.”
Ryan let his gaze drop, entire frame tense, rigid and unforgiving. Distant. But there was no spark of emotion, no slither of reaction, and so Clay’s hopes dimmed and faded, like the sunlight long vanished from the room.
And then Ryan looked up again, and his eyes were still cold. Stormy. “Liar.”
And Clay wished he was just that much better at this. So he didn’t have to lie. But he wasn’t. So he pressed his lips in a tight, thin line, and feigned indifference, face set in nonchalance. Dispassion. Monotony.
Except it wasn’t. He wasn’t.
Ryan turned and left the room.
-fin-
Then I'm Alone Again
“Does it hurt?”
He knew. He knew, and he didn’t give a fucking damn. His voice was cold – so cold and impersonal that Clay shuddered, and had to look away, the harsh sunlight glinting and then fading against his face, swallowed by the dark. He didn’t have to look; he knew what he’d find in Ryan’s eyes – icy blue and cold and empty.
Something Clay had become familiar with without meaning to.
“Does it?” Ryan’s voice hardened, cool steel melting against the burning apathy in his tone. Firm, and raw, and blank.
Yes, he wanted to say, Yes, it hurts, you fucking bastard.
And then, Stop fucking doing this to me!
Except Clay knew it wasn’t Ryan. Because his own voice was hollow and his eyes were vacant and he felt so fucking drained when he shook his head – he’d learnt so much from Ryan. Learnt everything he didn’t want to know; mistakes that he couldn’t erase.
So he’d changed. Not a fucking toy, Ryan. Not something you can play with. Not fucking innocent anymore. Clay’s silent laughter was acidic, rancorous and angry, and it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth that he swallowed down, with morbid satisfaction.
“No.”
His voice was quiet, and hoarse, and brimming with barely concealed exhaustion. Apathy had always been so difficult. So wearing. And he’d learnt to wear it, steel in his eyes, when things had gotten too complex to change. He’d learnt well.
They’d shared a look, earlier. And it had been hard, and bitter, and deceiving. All the unspoken emotion that would never be released – and they both knew. Knew what they could, and couldn’t have. Fierce and callous, long and hard and testing. It had only set in stone what they both had consciously already known.
Clay swallowed again, acrimoniously. “No.”
Ryan let his gaze drop, entire frame tense, rigid and unforgiving. Distant. But there was no spark of emotion, no slither of reaction, and so Clay’s hopes dimmed and faded, like the sunlight long vanished from the room.
And then Ryan looked up again, and his eyes were still cold. Stormy. “Liar.”
And Clay wished he was just that much better at this. So he didn’t have to lie. But he wasn’t. So he pressed his lips in a tight, thin line, and feigned indifference, face set in nonchalance. Dispassion. Monotony.
Except it wasn’t. He wasn’t.
Ryan turned and left the room.
-fin-
