[FIC] When Darkness Falls
Aug. 21st, 2006 04:28 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
makingamochrie.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
wl_fanfictionAs the title suggests, this is a rather dark piece, but it won't be dark all the time. It does, however, involve alcoholism, implied domestic violence, and some other nasty stuff, and in the beginning, Ryan doesn't come off looking very good. But fear not! He'll get better as the story goes along. I don't want to rag on the poor guy so much. So please, don't let that put you off, ok?
TITLE: When Darkness Falls
AUTHOR: Makingamochrie
PAIRING: Well, none yet. You'll see why.
RATING: I'm going to say R for this part simply because of the subject matter.
DISCLAIMER: FICTION. AU, as well. No wives. I don't own them, please don't sue me. It's FICTION.
SUMMARY: The All-Stars band together to take a University tour across the country to aid the victims of Katrina. Stuff happens. The end.
Ryan looked at the letter sitting on his table, his head cupped in his hand. That it had come from his agent was a bit of a surprise. That Drew hadn’t called him first to let him know was a bigger one.
He let his eyes scan over the lines of text, not really seeing them, and then down the column of names of the people he’d be expected to perform with—hell, spend his life with—for five weeks. His gaze stopped at the very bottom and remained there, frozen. “No,” he whispered into the silence of his empty house. “No. Not now. I can’t…. No.”
Lifting his head, his eyes reflexively sought out and found the half empty bottle of scotch sitting on the kitchen counter collecting dust, as it had for the past three months since he’d decided to go dry. Not once in all those months, not even when he was shaking so badly with the DTs that he thought he’d die did he want a drink as badly as he did now.
C’mon, that relentlessly needling voice that always sounded so logical said in his head, just one. Nobody needs to know about it. You’re all alone here, and it’s not like anybody’s going to come around sniffing your breath, for God’s sake! Take it. It’ll help you think. It’ll help you deal with this. And boy, do you need to deal.
When reason returned, he found himself in the kitchen with the opened bottle held to his lips, having no memory of even leaving the couch, let alone the rest of it. A look of absolute horror crossed over his handsome features, and his hand opened, dropping the bottle to shatter against the slate tiled floor and all over his shoes. The stench was almost overwhelming, and he ran to the bathroom just in time as the dry heaves knotted his belly, leaving him breathless and weak.
”What the hell is wrong with me?” he pleaded when his muscles finally loosened enough for him to slide to the ground in a heap. But he knew. He knew well. He was an alcoholic; had always been one, would always be one. And his drinking had finally spun out of control, ruining friendships, career opportunities, love….his life.
Yes, he’d quit, and he hoped that was forever, but you never knew, did you? And that alone scared the almighty fuck out of him.
He shook his head, refusing to allow the tears the luxury of falling. There’d been too damn many of them already.
Keeping his mind a deliberate and total blank, he rose from the floor, washed his hands, and went back to the kitchen, where he took a mop, bucket and broom from the closet and cleaned up the mess he’d made. It wasn’t a great loss anyway. He’d kept that bottle, his last bottle, around as both a challenge and a crutch, the way some ex-cigarette smokers would keep a pack laying around, just in case. He supposed he considered it a bit of a victory that he managed to stop himself before giving in and drinking. Because it wouldn’t have been one sip. Oh no. He’d have drained the bottle dry, then gone out to the local liquor store and gotten another, and another, until it was over.
Would that be such a bad thing? he wondered, not for the first time. Some days, it sounded like the perfect thing. Today was shaping up to be one of those days, and it wasn’t even noon yet.
Spraying some air freshener to cover the smell of the spilled liquor, he stowed his cleaning supplies back in the closet and wandered toward the couch. The letter on the table seemed to gain substance and weight as he approached it. He slumped down onto the couch, eyeing the view outside his windows, the wallpaper, the dustbunny floating across the hardwood floors, anything to avoid looking down at that single innocuous sheet of paper, triple folded, laying on the table before him.
But, like a person whose eyes can’t help but be drawn back to the bloody accident on the highway, he found himself looking down at the damnable letter and, in particular, the one name at the very bottom.
Fuck.
It all sounded fine, in principle. A five week tour to benefit the victims of Katrina. They’d be traveling by train in deference to his fear of flying, and their venues would be Universities across the country. He actually liked playing in front of university crowds, usually. The kids were always up for a laugh, and for a break in their studies. And if the crowd wasn’t too drunk, or too rowdy, he’d always found himself enjoying his job immensely. And to do it to help others, well, that was something, too, he supposed.
They’d end up in New Orleans and the Mississippi Gulf Coast, pitching in as they could with Habitat for Humanity and building houses. He found that part strangely appealing. Doing something with his hands, his sweat, something that was tangible and could be touched and seen, well, that was a good thing. A good goal to have. And God knows, he needed goals right now, goals that didn’t involve getting through the next minute, the next hour, the next day, the next week, without having a drink. For him, that was a shitty goal, because it had no end. Ever.
He needed something he could see, could touch, could grab onto and say “See? Look! This is what I did!” Actually creating something instead of destroying it. That would be nice for a change.
He suspected that was the same for most in his position, but right now, he couldn’t have cared less about those others. It was too hard caring about himself.
He also didn’t mind traveling by private train. With Drew’s money backing most of it, it was bound to be luxurious, if stuffed to the brim with all kinds of liquor. Well, that would be a temptation, but maybe he was at the point where he could handle it. Drew knew of his decision to go dry, of course, and he was pretty sure his friend had told the others, so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Sure, they tended to rag on one another on stage, but off it, they were all pretty respectful in dealing with everyone’s multitude of quirks. His would be no different, he was sure.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He thought maybe he could handle the liquor, the parties, even the looks of veiled sympathy—or even contempt—in the eyes of the people he used to call his friends.
What would be bad, what would be the worst thing of all, would be….
“Colin,” he breathed, eyes still glued to that last name in the column.
Colin, the man he’d shared his life with for fifteen years. The man he’d loved—still loved—with an intensity that made his entire body ache with longing. The man he’d betrayed. The man who’d stayed by his side even as all of his other friends—even Drew—had finally thrown up their hands and left, unable to handle his unstable personality any longer. The man who’d tried, and tried, and tried to help him, year after year after year. The man he’d banished from his life in a night of drunken violence that he’d never stop paying for with shards of his own tattered soul.
It had been three years, almost to the day, and he still could call to mind with vivid clarity the look in Colin’s bottomless dark eyes when he finally walked away, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, his shirt hanging about him in tatters, fluttering with every step he took away from their house, away from the man who’d done this to him. From him.
His stomach rebelled again, but he rode the cramps through with gritted teeth and steely determination. The tears stung his eyes, and this time he let them fall, watching as they hit the last in the column of names, making it grow fuzzy and indistinct as the liquid bled through the paper and onto the table beneath.
Three years, and absolutely no contact of any kind between them. Oh, Ryan had wanted to. He’d wanted to run to Colin, to drop down on his knees and beg for forgiveness as he’d done so many times before.
But there are some things that just can’t be forgiven, and that’s what kept him away. That, and his own damnable pride.
He knew, now, that Colin was better off without him, finally able to concentrate on his own career without having to clean up after the messes, personally and professionally, that Ryan had left in his wake. Without having to answer the million and one three o’clock in the morning phone calls from a bar, or a party, or, in a couple of memorable instances, even jail, begging for help, for a ride, for bail money. For a shoulder to cry on, strong arms to hold him, even a warm body in the night to take out his frustrations through sex. He couldn’t, wouldn’t call what they’d done those past few years ‘making love’. There was very little love involved, at least from his end.
There had been from Colin, though. He’d given everything Ryan had asked, and more, until there was simply nothing left to give, and even then, he kept on giving, even at the expense of his own career, his own health, his own life. Until….
Ryan looked down at his hand, his huge hand, thinking he could still see blood on the backs of his knuckles. Colin’s blood.
A line of catechism stole through his mind. “…blood which shall be shed for you, and for all men, so that your sins may be forgiven….”
His jaws clenched even as his fists did, wanting to lash out, at someone, at something, if only to lessen the pain in his heart and in his head. Instead, he looked back down at the letter, wondering if he could cope with anything anymore.
End it, then, another part of his mind piped up. Who would know? Who would care? There’s no one left. No one at all. You made sure of that.
And oh, it was tempting. So very damn tempting. He could do it, too. Easily. Painlessly. His doctor had prescribed some sedatives to get him through the worst of the withdrawal, and he’d used them sparingly. The bottle was almost full. His stomach was completely empty. Tip a few of them back, hell he wouldn’t even need liquor to wash them down with, and simply…go to sleep.
He didn’t particularly believe in either Heaven or Hell, but if he was wrong and wound up in the latter, so what? Nothing Satan could think up could possibly be worse than what he was going through now.
But he wouldn’t do it. Not yet, anyway. Because he’d made himself a promise, one he intended to keep. He wouldn’t let himself die until he’d met Colin face to face and apologized. For everything. All of it.
Colin’s forgiveness, or more likely the lack thereof, wouldn’t be an issue. Ryan needed him to know, more than anything else, that he was sorry. And that this time, he meant it.
His decision made, he picked up a heavy silver plated pen and scrawled his signature across the line on the bottom of the letter. Then he picked up the phone and, after considering for a long moment, dialed Drew’s cell number from memory. He was dumped into voicemail, but that was fine. After the cheerful message finished and the beep sounded, he said, “Drew, this is Ryan. I’m in.”
Then he hung up, put the phone down, and waited for night to fall.
*******
To be continued....
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Date: 2006-08-21 10:58 pm (UTC)Ahem. I loved the way you wrote Alcoholic style Ryan; all the way he went through and how he treated Colin. I really felt for him there!
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Date: 2006-08-21 11:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-21 11:20 pm (UTC)Sorry if I'm confusing you. Like I said, I like to read my ideas from other people . . . ^.^
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Date: 2006-08-23 01:03 pm (UTC)A look of absolute horror crossed over his handsome features, and his hand opened, dropping the bottle to shatter against the slate tiled floor and all over his shoes -- When you first told me about this, I didn't realize I'd feel so sympathetic toward Ryan, but I, oddly enough, wanted to cuddle him from the very first line.
anything to avoid looking down at that single innocuous sheet of paper, triple folded, laying on the table before him. -- I really like this line.
that he’d never stop paying for with shards of his own tattered soul. -- Aw. This one, too, though it does make me want to go "pets emo!Ryan* ^_^
Without having to answer the million and one three o’clock in the morning phone calls from a bar, or a party, or, in a couple of memorable instances, even jail, begging for help, for a ride, for bail money. -- I love this sentence to tiny bits and pieces. You can imagine so much of their life with so few words.
And I know there are more lines I'd comment on if I was more awake, but I'm not. ^_^ I really liked that, though. Very nice. But now I'm going off to attempt to sleep for a bit more. I shall return... eventually.
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Date: 2006-08-23 02:24 pm (UTC)You're actually kinda supposed to feel at least somewhat sympathetic toward Ryan. Because he's really trying. He's horrified, terrified, and trying hard as hell to get his life back together.
As you'll see in the chapter after next (to be posted tomorrow) Colin's bearing his own crosses on the whole thing as well. He's not a saint, either.
As always, the story lies somewhere down the middle.
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Date: 2006-08-23 03:12 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2006-10-07 12:15 am (UTC)Oooooh. The return of angry-as-hell-Ryan-only-now-he's-guilty-as-hell is gonna be fascinating.
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Date: 2006-10-07 12:20 am (UTC)