mascara

bruiseoftheyear @ 2004-01-25T17:43:00

2004-01-25T22:11:45Z

It's been over a month WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!(*@)

Mmmkay, this is my newest bit, likely won't get finished, written mostly just for the hell of it.

Title : [untitled]
Fandom : Korn/Deftones [for now]
Rating : PG-13 [for now]
Summary : Jonathan Davis applies for a new job, and is handed a whole new life...

"The job should be easy enough." David said, tossing the paper across the table into Jon's unawaiting cereal bowl. The milk splashed on his black tee shirt, soaking in after a second or two, invisible except for the smell. "All I know is that you can't keep bumming money off me. Says better than minimum wage, and that's all that matters."

"That's also about all it says, apparently." Jonathan lifted the half-soaked paper out of the bowl, reading as quickly as he could, attempting to stop the milk from eating the rest of the text. "Action-packed job, 21+, over minimum wage, flexible hours. People skills needed." He looked up from the paper, arching an eyebrow and narrowing an eye at David. "About as clear as to what the job entails as mud. Explain to me again why this is the job."

"Better than minimum wage. I'll chip in to buy you a suit for the interview." David offered, half-smiling.

"Your money is the only type of funding I've got," Jonathan reminded him, "you'd pay for the whole thing anyway."

"See my point?" David asked, rolling his eyes and placing his bowl in the sink, turning on the water to let it soak. "Three months sans job isn't a good track record, Jon. Give it a shot."

---------

A week later, Jonathan Davis was poised at the front of a clean, respectable-looking office desk, the room filled with young-to-middle-aged men working at a bevy of tables and desk, answering numerous phones and typing on a myriad of computers. He should have expected this, being as that this particular office filled the whole first floor of a huge building downtown, but this didn't seem very "action-packed" to him.

"Mr. Davis, you may head on back to the interviewing room," a comely woman, 30-something, stood up from her position behind the desk, and motioned, "straight down this aisle, turn a right at the end, and the room will be the last on the left. Good luck, sir, and someone will be there to assist you."

Jonathan walked quickly down the path, eyes flitting to various computer screens, noting that everyone doing work was male, not a female in sight except for the secretary. His curiosity was now piqued, and he figured after the interview he'd inquire about the possible sexism at this particular... whatever you would call this place.

He turned the corner, finding himself in a darker-toned hallway, doors made of what looked to be some sort of dark gray glass. The lettering on each of the doors was white, denoting each particular "department" in the corridor. Internal Affairs. Exterior Information. Payroll. Equipment. Each door also had some sort of lock on it, a keypad and card slot above the handle. Jonathan was nearly ready to leave; something about this place was far too eerie to put his finger on, but he couldn't exactly place his apprehension. Reaching the last door on the left [Personnel], he turned the handle, which opened the door sans password or card entry, and stepped inside.

The room was empty, save for a table and four metal chairs, and there was a man standing in the back corner. He looked to be about 30, which put him younger than Jonathan, but definitely more officially-primed, stocky but not necessarily overweight, of some sort of foreign descent. Jonathan guessed either Mexican or Indian, but he wasn't sure. He was donning a suit similar to Jonathan's, with sunglasses covering his eyes. The man uncrossed his arms, walking over to Jonathan, and offered his hand.

"Moreno." He said, shaking Jonathan's hand, nodding as Jonathan replied with a meek 'Jonathan'. "It'd be Davis, around here. There are no first names, save with your partner." Jonathan raised an eyebrow, confused already.

"Not a very apt one, but that can change..." Moreno muttered under his breath before addressing Jonathan, "Take a seat." He did so, and Moreno sat across from him, placing his hands in front of him across the stainless steel. "You have no more options, Davis. You're in."

"Excuse me?" Jonathan asked. This Moreno character wasn't easing his mind or his worry about money problems, and to top it all off, he'd just met him two minutes ago.

"You're in here, Davis, no other options. You've got the job, and you can't quit." Moreno said simply, which cleared up fuck-all in Jonathan's mind.

"I've got the job?"

"A check's been sent to the place you listed in your application as home, it should tide you over until we get a mission."

"Mission?" He asked, feeling dazed and confused. Was this some sort of joke? A test? Moreno sighed.

"Rookies don't know, should have learned that with fucking Cheng..." He muttered, shaking his head and taking his sunglasses off before running his hand through his hair. "Look, Davis, it's been a while since I've done this, so I've gotta cut to the chase early cause I've got a coffee break in thirty. You've got the job. Tomorrow morning is training, God knows when we'll be in the field, and wear your normal gear. No suits and shit. You can't get another job. I'm not letting you in on anything else because I need caffeine like half these bums need a dime bag." His eyes met Jonathan's, and he found himself nodding.

"Can you at least tell me what the hell I'll be doing here?" Jonathan asked, and Moreno just smiled.

"Whatever comes in, Davis. Wear your street getup tomorrow, and I'll take you through basic training, let you know all the little details. But right now, I need coffee. If Katrina asks, I gave you the full run-through and you got it, right?" Moreno told him, brown-black eyes glimmering under the fluorescent bulbs from above.

"Okay..." Jonathan trailed off, still confused, but feeling like he could trust this guy. Whoever he really was. But then again, it couldn't be too dangerous; all the employees were working on computers in what appeared to be a stable environment.

Moreno showed him the door, and gave him a pat on the back.

"I think this will work out well, Davis. Be here at 9."

----------

The next day, he stood at the same spot as the previous, dressed in a tee-shirt over a long-sleeved, with dirty-looking jeans. He smiled hesitantly at the woman behind the counter, Katrina, as Moreno had called her, and she smiled back.

"Nice to meet you, Davis." She said, outstretching her arm to shake his hand. "Moreno's in the same room you met him in yesterday. Your coffee break is at..." She flipped through a date book on the table, and smiled. "2:55. You get an hour, so Richards can inform his newest. Keeps going through 'em like there's no tomorrow. We're thinking about letting him go, but I think we've all grown a bit attached." She smiled politely, like gossipers do when they realized that there's the possibility that others heard them. "Like I said, same room. Have a nice day."

Jonathan walked away, confused, but somewhat enlightened. Richards was another guy here who kept going through guys? It made little sense, but it had something to do with the job, so he figured he'd take the information at face value. Moreno had some explaining to do.

He found the Personnel room without difficulty, except this time around the room had some additions. It seemed bigger, not by much, but enough to house a long countertop, with a mini-fridge and freezer underneath. A man was scrounging around in the cupboards that had magically appeared in the wall about the counter, and three were lounging at the table. Moreno was in the corner where he'd been the previous day, and Jonathan smiled at the familiar face.

"Davis." Moreno said in a voice that was definitely more relaxed than the previous day's. He was dressed in a large hoodie and baggy jeans, as everyday as Jonathan was. "You're here on time. Good, we've got a small mission that arose this morning, perfect for training. Follow me." He strode out the door, and into a larger room, filled with cupboards on all the walls. Equipment.

"You get a gun. Glock. Don't shoot unless you need to." Moreno pressed some numbers into a keypad on one of the cupboards, opened it, and retrieved a large handgun from a holder with the nametag 'Davis' over the top of it. "Self-defense, mainly." He handed the gun to Jonathan, who looked at it with surprise.

"Mine?" He asked dumbly.

"Yours." Moreno replied. "You put it back in the cupboard at the end of the day." Looking around and seeing no one, he continued, "password's 6531. You touch no one else's gun. Yours, and yours only."

"O... kay?" Jonathan said, still very confused, but going along with what Moreno was saying. A gun for office work? What the fuck was this place?

"You tell no one about your job. You have no business card. You work in an office, nine to five, and when your wife asks why you've been out late, you went to the bar with some buddies. I can vouch." Moreno handed him a holster and smirked. "Welcome to S-A-W-T-S-D-N's Los Angeles branch, Jon." Shocked that Moreno had called him by his first name, but also curious as to the acronym, Jonathan spoke in a long tangle of questions.

"What's that stand for? What's your first name? What am I doing here? Minimum wage for doing what?" He asked, somewhat flustered at the information that was being revealed at such a slow speed.

"SAWTSDN stands for Secret Association Working To Stop Drugs Nationwide. The first name is Chino. You're here because we selected you. And you're getting paid over minimum wage to put your life on the line every single minute you're alive from the time you were selected."

Jonathan's eyes grew large, and Chino smiled.

"Welcome to your new job, Jonathan Davis. Welcome to the first fucking day of your new life."

---------

Per usual, feedback = appreciated.

w3rd.

bruiseoftheyear @ 2003-12-15T20:41:00

2003-12-16T01:11:49Z

For Crystal, cause she gave me the prompt.

Title: Sign
Rating: PG as of right now
Fandom : Deftones
Prompt : 'Chino and speed limit signs'

He hadn't been paying attention to the road. Thinking, thinking, thinking, as Chino Moreno always did.

Abe smirked to himself in spite of the situation.

"You are one ignorant sonuvabitch, you know that, right?" His hand gently closed over the prone man's. "You weren't watching, they said. Said you were probably speeding on top of it all. You of all people." He shook his head, partially to clear the tears. "Ever since you became a father. Always so fucking mindful, you know? Made sure everything was good. You didn't want anything to happen to you, that they would be insecure in any way." He sniffled, wiping the back of his other hand across his eye. "You're a fuckin' case, Moreno. When you get better, I'mma kick your ass for this. No one's ever made me cry like this before."

A nurse popped her head in the doorway.

"Mr. Cunningham? I think it's best if you leave. What with all of this afternoon's chaos, I'm sure you could use some rest."

He shrugged, standing up rather shakily, staring at Chino for another moment before turning to the nurse.

"He's going to make it, right?" Nibbled his lip nervously, not really wanting to hear the answer. The nurse looked somewhat pained.

"I'm not quite sure what to tell you. There's a chance he might, but from what I understand, he was going entirely too fast. Thrown through the windshield to top it all off. No seatbelt." She looked at the figure on the bed. "I'm really not sure what I'm supposed to tell you. I don't want to get your hopes up." She smiled as a comforting gesture, and turned back out the door. Abe bit his lip harder, and turned back to Chino.

"You get better, fucker." He said simply, feeling that if it were possible at this point, Chino would have heard him.

-------

3 am. Rather, 3 oh 1 am, exactly three days to the minute he heard.

People had likely thought he'd gone insane-- heck, he was beginning to think it himself. After all, he was sitting on his roof in 50 degree weather, smoking a fucking joint while he had tears running down his cheeks.

He'd gotten the call from Abe, three days ago.

"Steph! Chino's fuckin... accident... Room 96, floor 4... downtown... just get there." and the line had gone dead. This wasn't the first time this had happened, Chino getting hurt at random, but Abe had never been this fucking panicked.

When he first saw Chino laid out on that sterile bed, he'd nearly thrown up. Reminded of his own mortality, he'd stumbled into the hallway, wiping violently at his eyes with the back of his hand, praying for the memories to go.

Ice on the roads coming back from Washington going down the narrow road fast faster lights screeching breaking glass blood everywhere--

Stephen inhaled deeply, wishing the weed would sink into his system quicker. He'd been in the exact same place as Chino had been, although years and years before, near death on a hospital bed after a violent wreck. He didn't want to think of the impending recovery-- that is, if there would be one. He looked fucking horrible, and he sensed that if they took out the breathing tube, he wouldn't be able to hold his own for five minutes.

It was his own weakness that had caught him this time around, he supposed. It was the fact that he knew exactly what the feeling of imminent death was like. It was the fact that he wasn't entirely sure if Chino could handle it. It was the fact that if something happened to Chino, he'd surely break down completely. It was the fact that he just couldn't get over the situation.

He had to put in into perspective. Chino Moreno, as a whole, was one of the strongest people he knew. Chino wasn't going to let a few thousand pounds of metal and a collision with a large rock formation--

He should be dead. He should have been dead the minute he hit, but no, he hit it from the front, took the hit on his chest, snapped six ribs and fell.

Brushing his hands over his now-closed eyelids with a sigh, Steph took another drag on the joint and stared at the stars overhead.

---------

The halls were always crowded.

The thing is about hospitals, Abe pondered, is the fact that they're full of emotion. Everything seems so much more overbearing when you're in matte walls with reflective floors and someone leaning over you telling you when you're going to die.

Or when part of you is going to live.

Every single emotion, anger and fear and love, all rolled up into one sanitary package - a hospital.

Abe swore to himself that he was going to spit on the grave of whoever had the thought of putting newborn babies and emergency victims in the same building.

Every single time he went to visit Chino, he had to pass the maternity floor. Happy fathers and their happy previous offspring bouncing on and off with such glee that Abe could barely stand not to scream "how can you be so fucking happy?" at them, their innocence, their naïve outlooks.

In theory, he should have been so fucking relieved that he was here. He should be happy like those fathers and kids, happy for the mere fact that Chino was still breathing and not six feet under. He should be happy that he scored that parking spot right next to the elevator. Should be happy that the nurses didn't care when he came to see Chino anymore. Happy that he got to see Chino, period.

He should be happy for a lot of things, he wondered, but the fragility of the situation toned all those little instances too far down that all he could do was smirk for half a second and move on.

"Hey Chino." He murmured quietly when entering room 96, a forced smile working its way onto his face when the nurse emptying the trashcan gave him a warm smile.

"He's doing better, not by much, but he's making progress. Slow and steady wins the race." She said cheerfully, patting Chino's hand before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

"I should deck that bitch." He muttered, loud enough so that if Chino were conscious, he would be able to hear and snicker along. With a sigh, he plopped himself down in the plastic-backed chair next to Chino's bed, and grabbed his hand.

"You're cold, dude." Abe said, rubbing Chino's ring finger with his thumb in a vague attempt to warm him, more to distract himself from the fact that he wasn't going to get a reply. He might not, ever, if Chino didn't hurry his ass up and recover.

There was a knock at the door a moment later, and in a relieved tone, Abe yelled 'come on in', happy for breathing, speaking company.

Chi stepped in, looking like he hadn't slept for a week, clothes disheveled and smelling vaguely of sweat, smoke and liquor. Abe stood up, giving him a sad smile before embracing him, patting his back and hoping to God he'd stay for longer than a few minutes, as Steph did before making an excuse and leaving again.

"Celeste hasn't brought the kids around yet, has she?" He asked after an awkward pause in which they both stared at Chino's prone figure, breathing in and out in time with the beeping of the many machines surrounding his bed.

"I'm thinking she's wanting to protect them, at least for a while." Abe replied morosely, taking note that there was no ring on Chino's finger - nor had there been in his personal effects.

"I see her tact, definitely." Chi walked over to the bed, lip curled under his top teeth, taking Chino's hand in his. "I can barely take to see him this way, y'know?"

"Yeah." Abe said, sighing and sitting down in the chair, patting the sterile white sheets that resembled a thin layer of snow on the mountain that was Chino.

"You wanna go get breakfast or some shit like that?" Chi asked after another awkward moment of staring.

"Sure, why not." Getting up from the chair, Abe followed Chi out the door, but not before gently touching the place where Chino's wedding ring should have been.

--------

Per usual, I want feedback. Like now, yo.

bruiseoftheyear @ 2003-12-01T22:39:00

2003-12-02T03:10:48Z

taproot, prompt form goldie/psycho 'spit and razorblades'

Mike is always the cute one.

Mike is always the polite one, the one who is so clean-cut it's disgusting and revolting to Steven. He calls Steven's mom 'Mrs. Richards', smiles at the cameras, always stops to talk with fans. He's a perfectly constructed puzzle that only he himself knows how to put perfectly together. Lets everyone see his pretty side, hiding the ugliness away, buried somewhere deep in his skin.

Mike is always the masochist. The one who lets the spikes dig into his neck, wrists, ankles, begging for more the entire while. Steven just smirks at him, watching from the foot of whatever surface they're using tonight, just watching, waiting for him carefully-pieced together façade to crack. That's all he needs, just one, and he'll have enough leverage to pry it open.

Mike is like a Rubik's cube. so many different sides. Steven learns this later than he should, after one particular session, after which Mike's wrists are so raw he can't stand to let them touch anything, so he's lying there with his arms up in the air, Steven laying beside him. He says 'thank you', in this voice that's so fucking familiar that Steven can't place it at first - until he remembers that he's been expecting something else. This is stereotypical Mike, back in three-D surround sound, making the situation seem that much more overexagerated, and that much more fake.

Mike is like winter. He's crisp at first, a little careless with his words, but never once slipping with his stately façade. After a while, he's ignorable. He slips cleverly into the wallpaper, leaving behind a crisp aftertaste that's distinctly him - something that makes everyone want more. But the thing is, Mike won't let them have any.

Mike is like no one else Steven has ever had before. He's in the bathroom for hours upon end, razorblade in hand, making sure every curve of his outer shell is how it should be. So vain. But the thing is, it's all tossed out the window when they're acting like they're in love, like it should be. Mike smiles at Steven when he rubs his knuckles against tour-grown stubble, nibbles his lip whilst smirking when he presses his palms flat against his chest, usually prerequisite to 'making love', the euphemism that perfect-Mike uses.

One time when they're out just walking, Mike spits on the ground and declares that he's no longer going to be so high-maintenance. No more shaving, he says, no more eyebrow upkeep, no more gel in the hair, no more nice and soft anything. I'm a changing man, he declares.

But when he locks eyes with Steven in the mirror behind him the next morning, all he can do is look away.

Mike is never one to admit he hasn't got any willpower.

wake me up inside.

2003-11-04T22:36:25Z

deftones; prerequisite to 'In December, Abe...'

He woke up alone.

As always, in theory, always alone; he hadn’t pulled himself out of bed for a week now except for when nature called and when the fucking phone decided to ring, he wasn’t used to answering it, no, Chino had always been the social…

Chino.

He rolled over to the other side of the bed, grasping the pillow between his thinning fingers and inhaling, deep. It smelled like wax and sweat and love and everything that embodied Chino, but he wasn’t fucking there.

Ring. Ring ring fucking ring again.

“Shut up.” He murmured vaguely to the hunk of plastic on the other side of the room, but, as always, he pulled himself up, planting his feet on the floor.

The carpet was barely affected by his movement, he no longer left any sort of imprint on it, unlike the times when he’d been gently pushed back on to the bed, and he could trace their synchronized footsteps in the morning-

“Hello?” He said, unwilling to give whoever it was half a blip of emotion; pleading with them, really, to go deeper than what his words said.

“Abe, I can tell you haven’t eaten.” Chi’s voice broke through the vague underlying static that Abe had truly grown used to, the awkward pauses, awkward breaths, awkward everything since he’d-

“Are you going to wake up, or are you going to simply exist until you die?” Chi asked after more silence from Abe, who was too busy tracing his ribs with his fingertips to pay attention to the voice of his long-time friend.

“I dunno.” He murmured into the receiver, tired even though he’d just spent hours sleeping.

“Look, you know this isn’t how he’d want you to be.” He replied to the monotonous phrase, “He wouldn’t want you to become a shell of yourself, and you damn well know that.”

“He wouldn’t fucking care, he loved me for who I was.” Abe spat in reply, tired of the phonecalls, tired of the sympathy.

“It’s been four months, Abe, and the only time any of us see you is when we force ourselves to drop by and make sure you’re alive once every week or so. To a point, you’re wallowing in your own damned self-pity; you act like this isn’t hard on us at all. God knows Stef didn’t stop downing straight bottles of liquor until two weeks after, but he’s finally come to terms with it.”

The words didn’t hit Abe, he was too busy staring at the door, staring out into the hallway, watching, waiting-

“Abe, wake up. If only for our sake, would you just wake up?”

It was at that moment that he realized that Chino wasn’t coming through the door, not now, not ever.

“I loved him, Chi.” He started speaking like he was about to go on one of his post-funeral three-hour rambles about how much the man meant to him, how he only breathed for him- “But I could use a night of bar-hopping.”

With a smile, Chi replied softly, “Okay, Abe. We’ll go bar-hopping.”

like he is.

2003-11-04T00:52:01Z

for james; chino moreno/daryl palumbo

When the tour was over, so was the affair. Chino cupped Daryl's face in his hand, brushed his cheekbone with his thumb, gave him a soft smile and a "I'll see you around".

Daryl didn't know Beck was watching the scene unfold. Honestly, to him it was like a b-romance movie. Perfectly rehearsed, not an awkward movement. Just like every time before that, when they would just exist together, and it was perfect.

But, of course, the ultimate cinimatic clichè - the situation wasn't perfect for Beck.

And even though Daryl swore up and down that it was just for the tour, when he sees the picture, he's disgusted.

And when Daryl's bent over the porcelian toilet bowl later, Beck's hand resting on the small of his back, he knows he can't blame Chino for this.

But he does anyway.

bruiseoftheyear @ 2003-11-03T20:19:00

2003-11-04T00:23:00Z

once again for crystal, orginially posted on greatestjournal; conor oberst/chris carrabba

conor is like light. chris tries and tries and oh how he tries, but he can't quite catch him.

smirk, smirk. sellout, respectable musician. whiny bitch, intellectual fucker.

the question is, really, conor drawls, which of us belongs to which? is it me, or you, possesing said titles, said emotions, said fucking expressions.

i don't know, chris replies in a voice that conor can barely hear through the ear-deep static, maybe we're both both.

[i'm guilt-tripping myself about not finishing chino + speed limit signs. when i get the other computer back, however, maybe i'll stop. heh.]

their own beat.

2003-11-02T22:08:26Z

chris carraba/conor oberst

Conor grabs Chris' hand, placing it on his hip as he's heading towards the kitchen, and stops him right then and there. The words left unsaid tap their tongues, but Conor holds his and lets Chris to the talking.

"Didn't you just bitch about wanting food?" Chris snaps, a little too sharp and a little too quickly; the hand that's been placed on his nape squeezes just so; the hand that’s free wraps around to the small of his back--

"Shhh." Conor whispers, and Chris watches as his eyelashes flutter and their hips collide and they just stand and sway.

less talk
more dancing
if i could pull off this sick conversation
one more night
i surely would

bruiseoftheyear @ 2003-10-18T22:56:00

2003-10-19T02:30:29Z

For the Golden Girl, because I love her.

Title: Breathe
Rating: PG-13ish
Fandom: Taproot
Summary: "I think he needs a Midol smoothie."

"No." He said, pacing in front of his bandmate. "No fucking way." His eyes were saying that there was more, but his words weren't.

"It's the next best song on the CD." Steven offered, attempting to changing Mike's mind.

"You know why the fuck I won't let it." He said turning his back to Ste on purpose. "You know what happened with Mine."

"That was different. We had something for that. And besides, it's not like fucking fangirls are thinking that far ahead." Mike turned around, glaring at him.

"I'll fucking quit the band. You should know why the fuck I won't let that song out. I didn't even want to fucking record it, you know that much, you stupid shit." He was yelling now, and he almost looked scared. Steven swallowed.

"So what, we co-wrote it. So what, it's about us. What the fuck's wrong, Mike?" The guitarist turned around, glaring at him.

"The European tour before Welcome, Steven. Do you remember that? Think twice, and re-read the words." He headed out the doorway of the back room, slamming the door, and leaving Steven alone to think.

-------

"I think he needs a Midol smoothie." Phil said listlessly, flipping through a magazine. "That's the third time this week."

"Who, Mike? Ste was banging shit up last night in the room. They just need to deck each other and get it over with. It's like they're ten again." Jarrod added, looking at Mike's bunk. "Hey, jerkface, you didn't break anything, did you?" He called at the guitarist, who pushed open his curtain and proceeded to flip his bandmate off.

Phil rolled his eyes. "Stereotypical bullshit, indeed."

-------

Steven was curled up in a ball on the couch in the lounge, re-reading that tattered paper. The one in which he'd scrawled out the choruses and Mike had added in hints throughout.

European tour.

Breathe.

European tour.

Breathe.

Something was missing. Nothing had happened on the European tour. Reserved kisses between Mike and himself, but nothing else.

He'd lost something. A hint had been dropped, and it'd been swept under the rug.

Steven kept thinking, gnawing on his lip, over-analyzing every single word on the page.

--------

"What the FUCK is your problem?" He finally yelled the second the door snapped shut behind the guitarist.

"You should fucking remember." Mike replied coldly, dropping his suitcase on the floor at the foot of the dresser. "I'm not fucking putting my name on that song, so you're going to have to deal."

"You know I normally wouldn't mind you being an asshole. But over a fucking song, Mike? Something we both wrote together?"

"You can't take a fucking hint, can you?" Mike replied, turning his back so that he was staring at the mirror over the dresser, watching him from the reflection. "Does the name Chino fucking Moreno mean anything to you?" Steven narrowed his eyes.

"It means the dude that was our drug dealer in Europe." He said curtly.

"And he gave you a hell of a good time, didn't he." Mike said in a dull tone, staring at him from in the mirror. It took Steven's mind a few seconds to catch up.

"What exactly are you accusing me of?" Ste asked slowly, still trying to decode the words. Was he...?

"You can't say you honestly don't remember." Mike replied, mocking him with every damned syllable. "Sounded like you were having the time of your lives." He bowed his head slightly, not watching him through the plate of glass. "You two were wasted out of your heads, but you've gotta remember how loud you were calling his name. I was laying on the other fucking bed. You either didn't realize I was awake, or didn't care, because it didn't stop him from fucking you."

Steven's jaw dropped, and his memory jogged just slightly.

But it was enough to make him not want to meet Mike's eyes.

"I..." He trailed off, gulping.

"Oh, but it's okay, we'll release the fucking song that you co-wrote about it without even knowing, eh Steve?"

"I... fuck, why couldn't you have just told me?" He asked, still shocked by this new revelation.

"Think about it, Ste. The words. Then try again." Mike said, voice somewhat breathy with his anger. It only took a few seconds before Steven was on his feet, irate at the situation.

"You were going to use it for blackmail! You son of a bitch!" He yelled.

"Now you see why?" Mike asked, lifting his head. His eyes were glassy. "You see why I don't want it released?"

"No one would think of it that way except you." Steven scoffed, "But I can't believe you wouldn't just flat out and tell me. And have me co-write a fucking song about your being able to use it for blackmail! For fuck's sake, Mike!"

"I wanted to let you know how I fucking felt! I thought you'd remember! I thought you could take a fucking hint!" He spewed, annoyed. "Then I twisted the words, hoping you'd get it then, but you're obviously way too dense to think of anything but what you want to remember, eh?"

"You think I'd remember it?" He hissed, getting in Mike's face.

"From the way you were acting, you would. After all, wouldn't a blowjob from a rockstar be worth cataloguing?" Mike said plainly, locking eyes with him. Steven licked his lower lip, deciding to let that aspect pass until they weren't screaming at each other in a shitty hotel room.

"Why don't you want to release it?" He asked, brows furrowing in slight confusion.

"It was a stupid fucking attempt, Ste. Something for me to try to get you to wake up, and now look. We're fucking falling apart worse than ever." He snarled, just the tiniest bit pissed off; more aggravated at Steven for not understanding why, but he wouldn't classify that as rage.

"Mike, you could have just..." He trailed off a bit before picking up again, "fuckin... said..." He was at a loss.

"No, I couldn't have." Mike replied, sitting down on the bed, and pressing his palms into his eyes, "Do you think you would have believed me, had I said it in any other way?"

Steven sighed, running his hand through his hair, not meeting Mike's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mike, I can't be perfect. I couldn't even fucking remember that night, what the fuck do you expect me to say?"

Mike smirked.

"I was thinking somewhere along the lines of 'you aren't any better, you fucking bastard'." His eyes held something far too devious in their depths. "Something like, 'didn't you have him, too?'."

Steven looked at Mike like he'd never seen him before.

"Wondering if this will be my very first time to win..." Mike said softly, closing his eyes and smiling, "And not to lose."

---------

bruiseoftheyear @ 2003-10-18T16:32:00

2003-10-18T20:06:04Z

Oh, damn, I'm back again.

Rockstars as CSIs. Yaaay.

Title: Savory
Rating: PG thusfar, no doubt higher coming up.
Fandom: In order of appearance, Taproot, The Distillers, Avril Lavigne, Korn, Slipknot, AFI, Limp Bizkit. Still to come: Deftones, Staind, System of a Down.
Summary: The LA nightshift gets two cases that become one, and change their personal views forever.
Author's Notes: Yes, ladies and gents, I really Am That Cool.
Disclaimer: I own nooothing.

"So, Richards, what are we dealing with here?" Brody Armstrong's voice flowed into my ear as she somehow appeared behind me, in a way like that of a cat. Her dark hair was slicked back as usual, and she looked relatively amused.

"It's a dead body, Brody." I informed her, getting up from my squat on the ground and turning towards her. "They all are, really."

"Oh, but they all have histories." Said another voice, approaching from the other side. Avril Lavigne kneeled over the body, touching the jawline with her gloved fingers, in something that resembled an affectionate gesture. "Poor girl, looks like she sold herself for a living." Her eyes coursed down the body, looking at the low-cut, tight, revealing attire that the young woman was dressed in.

"It isn't our place, Avril," I explained, picking my kit up off the ground, "To feel sympathy for the victim or their occupation. It's our place to collect and process everything."

"Steve, quit being a hardass." Brody said with a smirk, punching my shoulder gently. "We all connect with one of our victims sometime in our lives. Quit being so rigid. Loosen up."

Avril got up from her squat, and scanned the premises with her eyes. "Where are Sam and Dave tonight, Richards?" She asked, turning her gaze back to me. I shrugged.

"Breaking and entering. Somewhere over in a residential area on the other side of town." I snapped, annoyed she was asking. We all knew she had a little something for Davey, but he wasn't interested. In all honesty, I had an inkling he was gay. But that was solely against the point.

"I was just wondering..." She trailed off, looking a little sheepish. Avril was young. A CSI Two, to be exact, with just over 75 cases under her belt. She had a little ways to go, still, but she would make an excellent Three-- so long as she kept her emotions to herself.

"I know you were. But you need to keep your mind to the case. Jonathan?" I yelped, and the head coroner strode over with his assistant, Joey.

"She okay to take?" He asked, and I nodded in reply, rubbing my hand over my forehead unconsciously as they lifted the body into the nearby bag. Young women always got to me, I'll admit. The fact they're so easily preyed on, so little protection over all...

"Sickening." I murmured, and Brody gave me a look.

"Are you okay, boss?" She asked, placing her singular ungloved hand on my shoulder. It was a simple comforting gesture, of course, nothing major or significant. Brody was always the motherly one of the night shift, it was natural behavior for her to act like she was.

"I'm fine. Avril, take pictures of the treads that are down there, near the end of the alley." I motioned, and swept my hand outwards. "Then go to the end of the street. I want good, clear shots." I turned to Brody, and smiled. "We've got the actual dump spot."

"I'm ready when you are." She said with a smirk, and pulled out her camera.

---------

"So, breaking and entering." Sam Rivers said, for what had to be the third time that hour, as he and Davey Havok drove out into the countryside. He severely disliked being with the older man, who was the most eccentric of the night shift.

"Sam, if you have nothing to contribute to my current train of thought, could you please shut your mouth?"

"He pulled you out of bed again, didn't he?" Sam asked, with a bemused smile.

"Bite me." Davey grumbled, turning his eyes back to the road.

A few moments of awkward silence later, Sam turned on the CD player to see what was on. His eardrums met a blasting punk-esque beat. He grimaced, and turned it down.

"Road's Ferrywhether, right?" Davey asked, chewing on the side of his lip as he looked out the window.

"515, yes indeed." Sam said with a nod. "And it would likely help you to be nice."

The police car pulled into the driveway in front of them, which was surprisingly already occupied by a PD vehicle, and the two uniforms went to the door, knocking on it.

"If it's just a breaking and entering... why are there more cops here?" Davey asked aloud to Sam, who grabbed his kit from the backseat and shrugged.

"I'm not sure." Sam replied, looking apprehensive as they walked side-by-side up to the door.

"Hey, Borland, wanna inform us of what's going on?" Davey queried Wes, who was at the door with the two uniforms, "We thought this was just a breaking and entering?"

"Turns out, after the couple called, they figured out their daughter wasn't in her bedroom. Her window was knocked out, and she was no where to be found. First two uniforms on the scene reported signs of struggle in the girl's room, but nothing saying she couldn't have just snuck out earlier." He shrugged, tipping his glasses evenly, and motioning for them to go in, "I'm going to have a chat with the parents, get a list of enemies, all that. I'll come to you if I find out anything useful." Davey rolled his eyes, heading in, whilst Sam offered Borland a soft smile before following his co-worker in.

----------

Feedback would rock.

bruiseoftheyear @ 2003-08-18T13:41:00

2003-08-18T17:17:06Z

OH LOOK IT'S ME AGAIN.

Incubus drabble. Written after their set at Lollapalooza, as I sat on the lawn waiting for Audioslave. True story.

He leans forward in front of you, reaching to grab his bottle of precious hairgel. Your eyes narrow as you count the bones in his spine, and as he rises, you ask him the question you'd been meaning to ask but had constantly been distracted from.

"Are you eating, Brandon?"

He offers a weak smile and a shrug.

"I guess it just slipped my mind." Said with nonchalance.

For some reason, you don't feel the need to delve any further, as Ben enters the room. You think you know what's with the both of them, what's replaced your bassist, his partner. Brandon smiles at him, he smiles back, and there's fresh secrets hidden in those smiles. As he walks toward the newest addition in the band, Brandon pulls his shirt sleeve down to cover the 4 raised scars on his arms that mean betrayal and spell out one name.

Dirk.

What is it with the lack of feedback, yo? Didn't make this thing just to sit here... or did I? *ponderponderponder*

♥

bruiseoftheyear @ 2003-08-11T15:43:00

2003-08-11T19:18:02Z

Be damned [damned!] if I haven't abandoned this place. Seriously, I need some motivation to kick this shit back into gear. Only three journals, and I can't even take care of them. Whew.

Whee, new drabble. Salutes to ze lovely James. No fandom in particular, but there's three that I've been thinking about far (far!) too much as of late that it could fit. Name which pairing you think of when reading it in a comment below. I'm interested in seeing your opinions or something like that.

And it's that first touch, the one that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, a tiny prickle that shoots down your spine light lightning through a tree. Pure electricity with just one touch. Fuck the wimpy 'static', this is volts. Just one touch!

He smiles, stopping next to you. No idea what he's just done. He's doused in sweat-- water, of course, conducts electricity insanely well-- and looks reminiscent of a God.

"You look tense." Spoken in that quiet voice that makes you want to melt right into the tile.

Oh, you have no idea.

Gonna be throwing a new layout on here when I feel like budging.

♥
G [who has become the equivalent of a bump on a log. ribbet.]

bruiseoftheyear @ 2003-08-08T15:53:00

2003-08-08T19:28:17Z

Epic from myself an ladyinsomnia

Loveletter
Chapter 1
Sam Rivers [Limp Bizkit]/Chino Moreno [Deftones]/Jerry Horton [Papa Roach]
Author's Note: We win. I [G] wrote the letter bits, as well as the very beginning and the very end. Kittie wrote the rest. Muaha.
Disclaimer: We don't own 'em.

The envelope had been sitting in the desk drawer, untouched since it'd been first opened and read. The house was now nearly empty, the love that once resided in it, gone, and now? All that was left was the faint echo of "but I do love you" through the halls.

Sam Rivers sat on the bottom step of the staircase, head resting in his hands. A single tear worked its way down his cheek, and he felt soon he was going to break from the inside out.

The phone call had changed it all, really, Jerry had picked it up, and the stupid fucker on the other end suddenly poured out everything he would have said to Sam. After the call was finished, the cord had been ripped out of the wall by an overly angry Jerry. Words had been spewed back and forth in the front hallway, and, with a slam, Jerry had left Sam, for the first and, most likely, last time.

But the stupid fucker on the other line hadn't given a name. Sam knew, though. Jerry didn't, but Sam did.

And now, the envelope was being resurrected. Nothing had changed about it, the scrawl was still the same, the stamp still just slightly off the edge of the upper right corner. It was postmarked Detroit, and he'd always wondered what significance it had, if any. Probably none, but he always liked to ponder the little things.

Slowly reaching into the envelope, Sam pulled out five stapled sheets of paper, folded over three times to fit into the business-sized pouch. They'd gotten rain on them at one point, some of the words blurred in perfect little dots with slight ripples on the end.

Come to think of it, it might not have been rain.

Sam slowly unfolded the packet, sat himself down on the nearby black leather sofa, and began reading it like he'd never seen it before.

"Dear Sam-

I know it's been a long time-- and if you want to quit reading at anytime, you can go ahead and throw this into the fireplace-- but I have some stuff to say. I can't bring myself to tell it to your face, so I figured a letter would work out better..."

--------

"When I first saw you, I knew you were different than the rest. It wasn't that you were young, not that you just didn't fit with them, but something... something made me single you out. No one really "knew" of either of our bands, and we were doing some tour in shitty clubs across the country. Hell, we hadn't even met before we were thrown onto one bus, all 9 of us together. Do you remember when we first met, after that first show? I'd seen you backstage before our set, and I decided to approach you..."

***

"What the Hell kind of name for a band is 'Limp Bizkit'?" was the first thought Chino had when he found out the name of the band he and his bandmates were going to tour with.

He pondered it for days actually. The guys in Korn had mentioned this band a few times when he'd hang out with them and nothing had ever really clicked in his head. Maybe he should've paid more attention to Fieldy's drunken ramblings. He probably missed some valid details.

He wondered if what type of music they played. Would it be something actually worthy to listen to? Or the same "original" stuff that the labels all ate up?

'Looks like all those questions would soon be answered', Chino mused, as he stepped up the stairs onto the crappy bus which would be the home to himself and his band mates and this Limp Bizkit band for the next few weeks. 'If they're anything like Stef, this is going to be Hell on wheels'.

He had a seat on a couch at the front of the bus, folding his arms across his chest in almost a holier than thou-like fashion. He heard voices floating from the back of the bus and figured it was the other band. Abe had entered the room and was attempting to break through the ignoring fog which Chino currently had his mind in, something about not being stubborn like always and just going meet them. Something about them being 'okay guys'...

Finally, he sighed and gave in, lifting himself from his slouced position on the couch and heading towards the back of the bus, passing the cramped bunk area where their coffin like beds stacked one on top of each other like books and hid behind dark, thin curtains. As he entered the room, he found four guys present, two currently in an argument while the other three were obviously ignoring them, or at least trying to.

"I'm getting that bunk, Wes." One of the arguing two said, and it was apparent that he'd made that statement several times already, judging by the way the other guy, "Wes" Chino was assuming, rolled his eyes.

"And what makes you so special that you get to have that bunk above any of us, Fred?" The other guy, Wes asked, bemused, folding his arms across his chest.

"Because I'm the fucking singer." Fred retorted, his face getting more irritated.

"Like I asked, what makes you so special? This isn't Nine Inch Nails, Fred. We're not your hired band while you get all the glory and special treatment. I claimed the bunk first, fucking deal with it." Wes said back, his voice remaining calm and amused while Fred's was slower getting louder.

Chino looked around, not knowing what to think of the argument going on. What a childish thing to fight about. He was already beginning to dread touring with these guys just from this first impression...

He looked over at the other three, and at the same time, one of them, a short, stout guy with only a slight stubble of hair on his head, looked over at the door and noticed him. He smiled apologetically. "Hey. You must be Chino." He said and stood up, holding his hand out for Chino to shake. "I'm John."

Chino nodded, taking John's hand and shaking it, all while his eyes drifted again over to Fred and Wes, still arguing. He heard John chuckle lightly and turned his gaze back to the man before him. "Yeah, sorry about those two. Don't mind them. They fight about anything and everything." John said lowly, shaking his head and shrugging at the same time. "We're use to it."

Wonderful. Two hotheads in a band they were touring with. Like it wasn't bad enough that he and Stef hit heads about anything, now there was another two who did the same thing...

Now that he thought about it, the guys in Korn had mentioned this Fred guy a lot. Something about how he was a cool guy, but a bit on the temporamental side. A bit on the tantrum throwing side. A bit on the hot head side. Korn was very accurate. He'd have to ask them next time he spoke to one of them how on Earth they put up with this Fred guy.

As for Wes? Chino observed the long black hair which hung just passed his shoulder, looking messy and wrangly like the clothing he wore. Loose shirt with numerous holes in them and his thumbs poked through a hole in the cuff of both sleeves, where black nails shined from the light. He wore oversized cut-off shorts with numerous loose threads hanging from them and holes much like his shirt, numerous chains and strings hanging from the pockets and belt loops. His socks were mismatching and his shoes looked two seconds from falling apart.

The appearance of this man screamed 'eccentric'. Though Chino preferred 'weirdo'.

He was liking this whole tour less and less by the second. Unless something changed his attitude towards this band. The guy who'd introduced himself, John, wasn't being much help in changing Chino's mind about wanting to turn around and bail the bus and tour.

"Anyways, so that's Fred and Wes. And that's Lee-" John continued on, oblivious of Chino's thoughts, and pointed to the man who'd been sitting beside him, flipping through a magazine, a lit joint in between his lips. Chino had remembered hearing that the DJ from House of Pain was in this group. Why, he had no idea. "-and the lump over there, ignoring us all, is Sam." John finished, pointing to a darkened corner of the room, where, to Chino's surprise, another man sat, headphones covering his ears and staring out the window at... well, the parking lot.

Chino's eyes stayed on the young man. He looked to be between the age of 17 and 19, looking a lot younger than the rest of the band, and there was just something about the way he was sitting there, slouched, a slight pout on his lips, staring away in that aloof way that Chino found interesting.

This was the difference needed for Chino to change his mind...

*

Hours later, Chino walked off stage sweaty and tired, his t-shirt clinging to his chest and his chest heaving for air. His throat ached from the screaming he'd done for the hour long set, but he'd been satisified with the response the crowd had given his band. He could still hear the cheers echoing off the walls of the dingy club as he followed his band mates to their closet of a dressing room and it made him think that maybe this tour wasn't such a bad idea...

Okay, so the fans response wasn't the only reason he was now thinking that.

As he headed towards their dressing room, he passed Limp Bizkit's dressing room and he took a quick glance into it, seeing the deftones tour mates seated around the room, laughing and having a few beers. And there, in the back of the room, he spotted the Sam kid, leaning back in a chair, an acoustic guitar in his arms, strumming a quiet melody on the strings. He stood out in this picture, looking almost out of place amongst his rowdy and loud band mates and Chino began to wonder why on Earth this kid was in this band in the first place.

After showering, he decided to join Chi and Abe, who were going to hang out with Limp Bizkit to get to know them, and, in Chi's words, "get high with Lethal". He followed the two into the room, sitting off to the side and observing the behavior of Limp Bizkits members. Fred was definetly the loud one of the group, in desperate need to be the center of attention, and Chino couldn't deny that the guys personality didn't rub right with him. Wes was more quiet when not arguing with Fred, and he sat near Chino, chuckling at anything and making snide little remarks which made Chino think he was an okay guy.

Lethal was obviously well ahead of the others as far as partying was concerned; his slurred speech and chinky eyes gave him away; but he seemed okay. As did John, who was right in the mix of things as well, not that much different from the rest of the group.

And then there was Sam. It kept Chino's attention how distant Sam kept himself from his band mates, even sitting away from them. It was obvious he kept to himself, preferring solitude over a whole crowd of people, to an extent which Chino could relate. He couldn't decipher what exactly it was that kept drawing his attention to the kid, only that it kept happening and that he wanted to talk to him.

Would the kid talk back? He didn't look very sociable.

Only one way to find out.

He slowly stood from his seat, heading towards the other side of the room, leaving the loud bunch behind him and having a seat on a worn out chair near where Sam was seated, still strumming away on the acoustic guitar. Chino recognized the song as Nirvana's 'All Apologies'.

Sam appeared absorbed in his playing, his eyes gazing at his fingers gently scrolling over the strings on the neck of the acoustic, bringing forth the melody of the song. He didn't look up from his playing when Chino had sat down and he began to wonder if maybe Sam hadn't noticed the company.

So he decided to speak on his own accord.

"So are you a big Nirvana fan?"

The music stopped. Eyes slowly rolled over to his direction, taking a quick glance over him. It was hard to decipher a reaction from him, as there was no indication for Chino to roll with; no "Oh. what do you want?" or "Hey, you must be Chino!" in his eyes, which Chino discovered were a sharp, clear hazel color. There was just a simple acknowledgement of his presence. So the kid wasn't overly friendly or sociable. Neither was he.

Sam shrugged slightly and brought his fingers back to the strings, strumming another tune softly and spoke over the melody. "Yeah, I guess. I grew up on that shit. Ever since grade school." And then he continued to play the meoldy on the guitar.

Grade school? He was in grade school when Nirvana came out? This kid *was* young...

"So which of them sent you to convince me to stop being so anti-social?" His voice spoke again, over the music he was playing so carefully.

Chino wasn't sure what exactly he was being asked. "What?"

Sam's eyes raised from the guitar again and an eyebrow raised as well. "Which of my band mates told you to come talk to me?" He rephrased, his voice still low, and his hands still strumming the melody of the song. Chino recognized the song as well, but couldn't put a title to it.

"None. I came here on my own decision. Got a problem with that?" He asked, hoping it didn't come out wrong. He didn't mean it as challenging. He only asked that because it actually did seem as the kid didn't believe someone would voluntarily come talk to him.

Sam merely shrugged and continued with the tune. "I guess there is a first for everything." He mumbled, so lightly that Chino was almost positive that he'd heard wrong, then, he continued. "They just usually do that. Nag me that I don't socialize enough, that I'm too much of a loner and no one likes a loner. So I assumed that's what one of them did."

Chino chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "Well, there's nothing wrong with being a loner. If you prefer to be alone and away from the crowd, whats wrong with that?"

Sam stopped playing for a second, looking up at Chino and a light grin crept onto his face. He continued playing the song, while talking over it once again, his voice still low like the song he was playing. "Well good, maybe you can convince them of that."

The kid had sarcasm and wit. Chino liked that.

As well, the difference between Sam and his bandmates astounded him. They were slowly getting louder across the room, laughing and joking and swearing up a storm, yet Sam sat back here, in serene, quiet solitude, and enjoying it just as much as Chino was sure the other four guys from Limp Bizkit were enjoying the partying they were doing behind him.

It was like complete opposites.

Everything Chino was discovering about this kid was intriguing him more and more...

Intriguing him in ways he'd never experienced before...

Nor could he comprehend...

---------

The young man slammed the car door closed after securing himself inside. He ran a tired hand through his hair. He didn't look a day over 25, but felt at least 50. His age fell closer to the former, and that fact depressed him ever-so-slightly.

He was chasing a dream here, heading back to that all-too-familiar place where he knew the love of his life would be.

Whether he'd be waiting for him or not was another story. He might be out, or had left or.. the possibilities were endless.

He slowly turned the key in the ignition, hoping that he would forgive him...

FEEDBACK!

Enter Zone R

2003-06-20T17:26:01Z

Wow, kids, it's been a loooong time since this has seen the light of day. I dug it up out of my archives for your reading pleasure-- and I'm positive you'll love it.

In addition, there are two endings to this. I'll post both, one after the second-to-last chapter, one after that. You can decide which you like best.

Title: Enter Zone R
Fandom: KoRn
Warnings: Language, violence.
Disclaimer: Oh, I wish, I wish, I wish...

A wisp of purple hair fluttered in the breeze.

She was the only one out on her porch on this cold winter day. It seemed she was out of place in this town of conformity. A CD player lay by her side, a very old disc inside. She was old-fashioned-- what with these MP3 players and such being the newest technology. The band who had produced the disc wasn't even spoken of anymore.

Oh, but they had been front-page news only a few weeks back.

The young girl watched the police break into the house across the street. They weren't going to like what they found in there.

"Such a pity." She muttered under her breath.

------

"Mr. Welch? Mr. Silveria? Mr. Davis? Is anyone home?" The officer pointed his flashlight into the dark room. The beam hit a pair of shoes a few feet off the ground. As he slowly pointed it up, he felt like regurgitating everything he had eaten in the past month and a half.

The five bodies were hanging from the ceiling, the identities indecipherable because of their mangled state. Blood stained the floor permanently, an eerie marker of the crime that had been committed.

The first had darker skin-- from what was left of it-- that seemed to be branded with many tattoos.

The second seemed to have had been muscular at one point in time, his muscles well-toned in their crimson glory.

The center one had long, dark hair, which was hanging limply in front of what had been his face.

The cop looked away, turning off the flashlight. He looked to the men in the threshold, who had disgusted looks upon their faces. The faint sound of throwing up could be heard from outside.

"This is them. Get the stretchers."

A brown-haired, middle-aged woman gently placed a hand on the purple-haired's shoulder.

"They're never going to find out who did it. Trust me. Let's go."

With one last look back at the brick palace, the teen followed her mother inside.

------

Feedback, please. I wrote this last year, but I'm thinking about re-writing bits of it.

Love,
G

Losing you.

2003-06-11T19:04:52Z

For anyone who hasn't read it already, this is the one blink thing that I'm somewhat proud of (I was 12 was I wrote it.. ages ago, man. trippy.

Losing You

A/N: Another Blink fic… I actually thought it was good…

D/C: I'm usin' the lyrics to Losing my Religion by REM. So sue me if you must. I don't own the lyrics. Wish I did, though.

---------

**The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes**

The sky is gray.

How ironic.

The sky reminds me of the color of your eyes. A dull blue-gray, usually closed, as if you're meditating.

Sometimes, when you're happy, the blue-gray has a bright luster.

Recently, however, your eyes have not been that lustrous.

**Life is bigger
It's bigger than you
And you are not me**

Lately, you've been acting like you know it all.

As if you know me.

As if you *are* me.

You've got that cocky air about you.

I look up, hoping no one around here notices me.

**That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight**

**Flashback**

"Tom, just… just… stop it." You pushed me away, as if I had some kind of disease. It was just the pre-show kiss…

"Trav…"

"Just get onstage."

**Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it**

"I fell in love, with the girl at the rock show…" I glanced back at you as Mark was singing.

Preoccupied with your precise drumming, as always.

As if you noticed my eyes upon you, you looked up.

The distance was there in your eyes.

**Oh no I've said too much
I haven't said enough**

The after-show was extremely dull, as always.

You led me to the bus, where you sat me down.

"This isn't going to work, Tom. I'm sorry."

**I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try**

**End Flashback**

I don't even know where I'm going.

Just anywhere to be away from you.

I hear the footsteps running behind me, of people trying to get out of the rain.

The gray sky is sending it in torrents.

It's quite futile for these people to be running from the rain-- it's still going to splatter them.

**Every whisper
Of every waking hour I'm
Choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you**

I watched you hook up with girl after girl for a week, my heart breaking with each hook up and break up.

I was waiting for the day that you'd come back, tell me that you loved me…

But that day never came.

Or it hasn't yet, anyway.

**Like a hurt lost and blinded fool
Oh no I've said too much**

I'm waiting for you or Mark to come find me.

I bet neither of you will in the near future.

Here I am, wandering the streets of London, all alone, in the rain.

I glance up at the blue-gray of the sky.

It looks far away.

Like the distance in your eyes.

**Consider this
The hint of the century**

I'm waiting for the day you're going to realize how much I love you…

And I'm waiting for you to come rescue me from the rain.

**The slip that brought me
To my knees failed
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around
Now I've said too much**

I hear a distinct set of footsteps behind me.

I can tell that the person is most likely lightweight, due to the lack of echo in the steps.

"Tom!"

Oh no.

It's you.

**I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try**

You run in front of me, immobilizing me with a huge hug.

There are tears in your eyes.

"I'm so fucking sorry…"

Your eyes are like the sky, crying tears down upon me.

**But that was just a dream
That was just a dream**

"I love you, Tom." I've already gone numb, by the combination of you hugging me and the cold dampness of the clothing that is clinging to me.

You kiss me, our lips meeting gently in the freezing coldness of London.

I've been waiting for this.

**But that was just a dream
That was just a dream**

----
End
----

First entry-- drabble.

2003-06-10T18:03:10Z

Rating: PG ish
Fandom: Deftones
Pairing: Chino/? (you insert the other character...)
Prompt: Clocks

It's an unwelcome wake up, as most are, and Chino's still sleeping like a baby. If you didn't love him so much... But the position, the moist sheets, the one arm of his that's still wrapped around your waist.. it's the difference between a wake-up or a sleep-in.

You realize a notebook is between the two of you. You snatch it, and read the first page.

'I love him so much. Every minute with is another euphoric experience. I don't want to watch the time pass anymore. Forever'

You never realized before that there weren't any clocks in the room.

It worked som much better when it was 175 words. *sigh* Feedback, please?

Welcome.

2003-05-18T17:23:27Z

You've stumbled onto the writing journal of blackstarguitar. Enjoy the... stuff.

Exactly.