And These Are the Things I'll Never Say
Sep. 2nd, 2006 01:15 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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wl_fanfictionSeries: And These Are the Things I'll Never Say
Part: 1/4. It Hurts to Be in Love
Summary: This is the first part to a series that I'm writing called And These Are the Things I'll Never Say. Each part will be about a certain couple who could've worked out, should've worked out but, in the end, did not work out. At all. What's written are the things they will never say. Based very loosely on the song "Things I'll Never Say" by Avril Lavigne. And, no, none of these will be connected. Enjoy! ^_^
Written: September 1st-2nd
Pairing: unrequited Chip/Greg
And These Are the Things I'll Never Say
It Hurts to Be in Love
night.
Outside of the hotel window, it was raining. But it wasn't raining heavily; it was the “good” kind of raining, the kind of raining, that, at night, liked to dance the dance of life on the roofs of homes and the windshields of cars. Against the sidewalks and atop the black asphalt; the kind of raining that enjoyed piercing the water of small children's kiddie pools but not to the point of causing ripples that such a small contraption could not handle. The night air that surrounded the “good” raining was warm but not too warm, and the small breezes that were having fun playing with the “good” raining were warm as well but carried with them a certain feel of autumn tightly in the palms of their hands.
“That was... nice,” the man smiled, and Chip Esten wanted to vomit and then run away. He didn't like the man; thought the man to be, for lack of better wording, vile and... unusual. There was a look to his eyes and a feel to his hands that Chip did not find any sort of comfort in, and it made him feel very small and very alone.
And he didn't want to feel alone right now.
“Yeah,” Chip answered some minutes later, digging down deep enough and finding at least some form of a smile to paste against his face. It was forced and forged and small but it was a smile nonetheless. “It really was...” he trailed off, frowning at the man, reaching up one of his hands to rub at the back of his neck. Finally, he gave a sheepish, little laugh and murmured, “I'm sorry, but what's your name again?”
The vile and unusual man smiled. “I don't think I ever told you, so don't worry,” he replied. “But it's Brock.” Chip managed his forced, forged and small smile back and nodded his head. He looked away then, resting his eyes on the door and then on the lock that was supposed to keep them safe from whatever the Hell lurked in California so late at night. There was a table next to the door and, above that, the window that he had opened some while ago because the hotel room had been a little on the chilly side. That, of course, had been before this vile and unsual man, or... Brock, rather... had helped him to warm up a little, and now Chip wasn't feeling very well. “Are you all right, Chip?” The words startled Chip and he jumped a little; whipping his head back around to first frown and then frown deeper at Brock.
Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Chip wondered why the Hell he'd ever gone down to the bar.
And then he remembered it was because he didn't want to feel alone.
Chip sighed. He felt more alone now than he had before.
“Sorry, I'm cool,” he answered, managing that disgusting smile of his yet again, “I'm just... --Outside, 'kay? I want to get some fresh air, if that's all right.”
Now it was Brock's turn to frown, and he was wholeheartedly doing so; his entire lower face seemingly turned downward into one, huge scowl. The vile and unusual man wasn't unattractive, not at all. Chip figured him to be about his height with the same shade of hair as Brad Sherwood's. He was of medium build and must have worked out at least once or twice in his lifetime. However, Chip wasn't sure what color Brock's eyes were. He hadn't really wanted to see. “But the window is opened.”
Chip nodded his head. “Yeah, I can see that, but I want to step outside.” He watched Brock. The need to vomit and then run away was slowly coming back. “I'll just be ten minutes.” Brock continued frowning at Chip, staring at him as he did so. Chip could only stare back until, a second or two later, the vile and unusual man merely shrugged his vile and unusual shoulders and stood up off of the bed to head in the direction of the bathroom.
Chip watched his retreating figure and then sighed loudly.
He hated bars. He hated one night stands.
But, most of all, he really hated Greg Proops.
* * *
It was still raining, and that was all right with Chip. Earlier, after rising out of the bed and finding his clothes, he had hurried outside and as far away from the door to his room as he could manage. Paradise was a bench that sat, old and cold and wet, outside of the main office where you went to either check in or check out at, and the location was, in Chip's head, anything but wonderful. He didn't want to be around people right now, and most of all, he wanted nothing to do with the vile and unusual man called Brock who was more than likely peeing in his toilet or taking a shower with his shampoo and soap. And he was beginning to hate the reason, and the person, who had put him there.
Greg Proops. His boyfriend. Well, his ex-boyfriend.
But, nonetheless, a wound that was still very, very fresh and was still causing him a little too much pain.
They had broken up two days ago and Chip still felt like breaking down and crying all over the floor. He hadn't yet, mostly because he would not allow himself to grow so weak and disgusting, but also for the simple fact of not wanting to show Greg, or Ryan Stiles, just how badly he was hurting. And he was hurting in a very, very weird way, in his opinion. The pain was cold and very, very strong and very deep. Chip had come to learn the hard way that he could not look the pain in the eye or he just wouldn't be able to handle the consequences. And everything was a reminder of something that had once been, but just wasn't anymore for whatever the reason may be and could, and would never, be again. His relationship with Greg had died and Greg had left him behind to bury the body and find the tombstone.
Ryan had left a similar will to Colin Mochrie.
Chip could not, or possibly did not want to, understand any of it.
The rain was slowly starting to leave its “good” image behind and Chip could have sworn he heard a rumble of thunder somewhere not far off in the distance. The sky seemed darker than usual and the sudden realization that he could not pinpoint where the moon was did not help him to feel any better.
“Fuck,” Chip sighed to himself, leaning his forehead forward against his palms, massaging it lightly and vaguely shaking his head back and forth. He hated this. He hated Greg, he hated Ryan, he hated the vile and unusual man who was in his room somewhere and he really, really hated that he could not see the moon.
But most of all, he hated love. And he hated himself for ever falling victim to such an uncouth mistress.
tbc.
Part: 1/4. It Hurts to Be in Love
Summary: This is the first part to a series that I'm writing called And These Are the Things I'll Never Say. Each part will be about a certain couple who could've worked out, should've worked out but, in the end, did not work out. At all. What's written are the things they will never say. Based very loosely on the song "Things I'll Never Say" by Avril Lavigne. And, no, none of these will be connected. Enjoy! ^_^
Written: September 1st-2nd
Pairing: unrequited Chip/Greg
It Hurts to Be in Love
night.
Outside of the hotel window, it was raining. But it wasn't raining heavily; it was the “good” kind of raining, the kind of raining, that, at night, liked to dance the dance of life on the roofs of homes and the windshields of cars. Against the sidewalks and atop the black asphalt; the kind of raining that enjoyed piercing the water of small children's kiddie pools but not to the point of causing ripples that such a small contraption could not handle. The night air that surrounded the “good” raining was warm but not too warm, and the small breezes that were having fun playing with the “good” raining were warm as well but carried with them a certain feel of autumn tightly in the palms of their hands.
“That was... nice,” the man smiled, and Chip Esten wanted to vomit and then run away. He didn't like the man; thought the man to be, for lack of better wording, vile and... unusual. There was a look to his eyes and a feel to his hands that Chip did not find any sort of comfort in, and it made him feel very small and very alone.
And he didn't want to feel alone right now.
“Yeah,” Chip answered some minutes later, digging down deep enough and finding at least some form of a smile to paste against his face. It was forced and forged and small but it was a smile nonetheless. “It really was...” he trailed off, frowning at the man, reaching up one of his hands to rub at the back of his neck. Finally, he gave a sheepish, little laugh and murmured, “I'm sorry, but what's your name again?”
The vile and unusual man smiled. “I don't think I ever told you, so don't worry,” he replied. “But it's Brock.” Chip managed his forced, forged and small smile back and nodded his head. He looked away then, resting his eyes on the door and then on the lock that was supposed to keep them safe from whatever the Hell lurked in California so late at night. There was a table next to the door and, above that, the window that he had opened some while ago because the hotel room had been a little on the chilly side. That, of course, had been before this vile and unsual man, or... Brock, rather... had helped him to warm up a little, and now Chip wasn't feeling very well. “Are you all right, Chip?” The words startled Chip and he jumped a little; whipping his head back around to first frown and then frown deeper at Brock.
Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Chip wondered why the Hell he'd ever gone down to the bar.
And then he remembered it was because he didn't want to feel alone.
Chip sighed. He felt more alone now than he had before.
“Sorry, I'm cool,” he answered, managing that disgusting smile of his yet again, “I'm just... --Outside, 'kay? I want to get some fresh air, if that's all right.”
Now it was Brock's turn to frown, and he was wholeheartedly doing so; his entire lower face seemingly turned downward into one, huge scowl. The vile and unusual man wasn't unattractive, not at all. Chip figured him to be about his height with the same shade of hair as Brad Sherwood's. He was of medium build and must have worked out at least once or twice in his lifetime. However, Chip wasn't sure what color Brock's eyes were. He hadn't really wanted to see. “But the window is opened.”
Chip nodded his head. “Yeah, I can see that, but I want to step outside.” He watched Brock. The need to vomit and then run away was slowly coming back. “I'll just be ten minutes.” Brock continued frowning at Chip, staring at him as he did so. Chip could only stare back until, a second or two later, the vile and unusual man merely shrugged his vile and unusual shoulders and stood up off of the bed to head in the direction of the bathroom.
Chip watched his retreating figure and then sighed loudly.
He hated bars. He hated one night stands.
But, most of all, he really hated Greg Proops.
It was still raining, and that was all right with Chip. Earlier, after rising out of the bed and finding his clothes, he had hurried outside and as far away from the door to his room as he could manage. Paradise was a bench that sat, old and cold and wet, outside of the main office where you went to either check in or check out at, and the location was, in Chip's head, anything but wonderful. He didn't want to be around people right now, and most of all, he wanted nothing to do with the vile and unusual man called Brock who was more than likely peeing in his toilet or taking a shower with his shampoo and soap. And he was beginning to hate the reason, and the person, who had put him there.
Greg Proops. His boyfriend. Well, his ex-boyfriend.
But, nonetheless, a wound that was still very, very fresh and was still causing him a little too much pain.
They had broken up two days ago and Chip still felt like breaking down and crying all over the floor. He hadn't yet, mostly because he would not allow himself to grow so weak and disgusting, but also for the simple fact of not wanting to show Greg, or Ryan Stiles, just how badly he was hurting. And he was hurting in a very, very weird way, in his opinion. The pain was cold and very, very strong and very deep. Chip had come to learn the hard way that he could not look the pain in the eye or he just wouldn't be able to handle the consequences. And everything was a reminder of something that had once been, but just wasn't anymore for whatever the reason may be and could, and would never, be again. His relationship with Greg had died and Greg had left him behind to bury the body and find the tombstone.
Ryan had left a similar will to Colin Mochrie.
Chip could not, or possibly did not want to, understand any of it.
The rain was slowly starting to leave its “good” image behind and Chip could have sworn he heard a rumble of thunder somewhere not far off in the distance. The sky seemed darker than usual and the sudden realization that he could not pinpoint where the moon was did not help him to feel any better.
“Fuck,” Chip sighed to himself, leaning his forehead forward against his palms, massaging it lightly and vaguely shaking his head back and forth. He hated this. He hated Greg, he hated Ryan, he hated the vile and unusual man who was in his room somewhere and he really, really hated that he could not see the moon.
But most of all, he hated love. And he hated himself for ever falling victim to such an uncouth mistress.
tbc.
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