Confessing (1/1)
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noelleleitheficTitle: Confessing
Author: noelleleithe
Pairing: Luke/Noah
Rating: PG
Word Count ~810
Summary: Noah tells Luke what happened.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything here except my own words. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: This is how I work out vague-but-angsty spoiler information. No real spoilers, though, just speculation. I also seem to have developed a liking for Tortured!Luke. Go figure.
~~~~
Noah can't seem to figure out what to do with his hands. He looks skittish, uncertain, like the shy boy he'd been in the early days of their relationship, not the confident man who's been sharing Luke's life.
Guilt has regressed him.
Luke can't speak. After everything that's happened in his life, he never thought he'd see a day when anything could render him so totally incapable of forming words. But Noah confessing the truth, the words stuttered and torn, has sucked all the air from Luke's lungs.
Images are flooding Luke's brain. Things he doesn't want to see, couldn't have imagined before this moment, but that will never, ever leave.
Kissing. Noah. Kissing.
Mason.
Luke's going to throw up. He can feel the gorge rising, but he can't seem to move. He gags, and Noah takes a half-step toward him, starts to raise a hand. It's enough to drive Luke's body into action. Spinning on his heel, he drops to his knees and bends in half, retching, spitting, splotches of sick hitting the hardwood floor in front of him. A trash can appears, hastily shoved in front of him, and he has just enough presence of mind to grab for it, managing to direct the next heave into the can. And the one after that.
A warm hand touches his back, and Luke flinches. The hand is gone abruptly, but he can still feel body heat next to him. He gags again. The heat moves away. He hears sounds, but he's not really aware of anything beyond the waves of nausea rolling over him.
A hand comes into view, setting an open bottle of water onto the floor next to the trash can. Something cold touches the back of his neck and he flinches again before feeling a tiny, tiny sense of relief as the cool washcloth settles against his skin. The nausea subsides a little, and he closes his mouth and just breathes through his nose, slowly, as deeply as he can manage.
Ever the boy scout, Noah.
Luke shudders. How could ... what ... he doesn't understand. It's got to be a nightmare, right? He'll wake up soon, warm and snug in their bed with Noah spooned up behind him, and he'll be shaky but the dream will fade in the face of reality. Right?
You can wake up any time now, he thinks.
It doesn't work.
"Luke?"
The voice is small, trembling, and a little too close for Luke's comfort. He shakes his head hard, once, then scrambles for the can again, afraid the sudden movement is going to bring forth another round of heaves. It doesn't, but it's a close call.
The voice comes again. "God, Luke," Noah says. "God. I --"
"Don't," Luke rasps out. "I can't, just. Don't."
Silence falls. Feet shift, scraping against the floor. Footsteps move away, then return, and a towel drops to cover the splatter. Luke doesn't move, even though his aching knees are finally beginning to make themselves heard.
Footsteps again. A door opens. Water runs, briefly. More footsteps. The hand again, setting down a hand towel next to him and placing a toothbrush on top of it. Blue gel gleams up at Luke, the cool mint he prefers to use, not Noah's simple white paste. His stomach roils again at the thought, his tongue remembering the taste of Noah's mouth.
Never the same. Never.
With a shaky hand, he picks up the toothbrush and scrubs at his teeth halfheartedly, scraping away the sick and the memories. He spits into the can, scrubs again, spits. Wipes his hand across his mouth, and drops the toothbrush into the can.
The hand comes back, fingers splaying out across the floor, supporting Noah's weight as he lowers himself to sit a foot away. Luke waits for his stomach to object, but it seems to have settled. He still can't look up, though, and he's not at all sure he can stand to listen, even if it's probably better to just get it over with. Rip off the whole bandage at once and bleed out.
"I wish I could explain it, Luke," Noah says. "I don't know, I can't." He stops. "It was stupid, and it was wrong, and it made me feel like a complete ass, and I know none of that makes any difference right now. I could sit here and say I'm sorry a hundred times, but I don't think either of us would feel any better. I don't know if you're ever going to believe it. But I can't, Luke, I can't lose you--"
He breaks off on a sob, but Luke feels nothing. Nothing but the hard, cold floor under his legs, the heavy dampness of the cloth still lying on his neck, and the empty spot in his chest, where his heart used to be.
Author: noelleleithe
Pairing: Luke/Noah
Rating: PG
Word Count ~810
Summary: Noah tells Luke what happened.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything here except my own words. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: This is how I work out vague-but-angsty spoiler information. No real spoilers, though, just speculation. I also seem to have developed a liking for Tortured!Luke. Go figure.
~~~~
Noah can't seem to figure out what to do with his hands. He looks skittish, uncertain, like the shy boy he'd been in the early days of their relationship, not the confident man who's been sharing Luke's life.
Guilt has regressed him.
Luke can't speak. After everything that's happened in his life, he never thought he'd see a day when anything could render him so totally incapable of forming words. But Noah confessing the truth, the words stuttered and torn, has sucked all the air from Luke's lungs.
Images are flooding Luke's brain. Things he doesn't want to see, couldn't have imagined before this moment, but that will never, ever leave.
Kissing. Noah. Kissing.
Mason.
Luke's going to throw up. He can feel the gorge rising, but he can't seem to move. He gags, and Noah takes a half-step toward him, starts to raise a hand. It's enough to drive Luke's body into action. Spinning on his heel, he drops to his knees and bends in half, retching, spitting, splotches of sick hitting the hardwood floor in front of him. A trash can appears, hastily shoved in front of him, and he has just enough presence of mind to grab for it, managing to direct the next heave into the can. And the one after that.
A warm hand touches his back, and Luke flinches. The hand is gone abruptly, but he can still feel body heat next to him. He gags again. The heat moves away. He hears sounds, but he's not really aware of anything beyond the waves of nausea rolling over him.
A hand comes into view, setting an open bottle of water onto the floor next to the trash can. Something cold touches the back of his neck and he flinches again before feeling a tiny, tiny sense of relief as the cool washcloth settles against his skin. The nausea subsides a little, and he closes his mouth and just breathes through his nose, slowly, as deeply as he can manage.
Ever the boy scout, Noah.
Luke shudders. How could ... what ... he doesn't understand. It's got to be a nightmare, right? He'll wake up soon, warm and snug in their bed with Noah spooned up behind him, and he'll be shaky but the dream will fade in the face of reality. Right?
You can wake up any time now, he thinks.
It doesn't work.
"Luke?"
The voice is small, trembling, and a little too close for Luke's comfort. He shakes his head hard, once, then scrambles for the can again, afraid the sudden movement is going to bring forth another round of heaves. It doesn't, but it's a close call.
The voice comes again. "God, Luke," Noah says. "God. I --"
"Don't," Luke rasps out. "I can't, just. Don't."
Silence falls. Feet shift, scraping against the floor. Footsteps move away, then return, and a towel drops to cover the splatter. Luke doesn't move, even though his aching knees are finally beginning to make themselves heard.
Footsteps again. A door opens. Water runs, briefly. More footsteps. The hand again, setting down a hand towel next to him and placing a toothbrush on top of it. Blue gel gleams up at Luke, the cool mint he prefers to use, not Noah's simple white paste. His stomach roils again at the thought, his tongue remembering the taste of Noah's mouth.
Never the same. Never.
With a shaky hand, he picks up the toothbrush and scrubs at his teeth halfheartedly, scraping away the sick and the memories. He spits into the can, scrubs again, spits. Wipes his hand across his mouth, and drops the toothbrush into the can.
The hand comes back, fingers splaying out across the floor, supporting Noah's weight as he lowers himself to sit a foot away. Luke waits for his stomach to object, but it seems to have settled. He still can't look up, though, and he's not at all sure he can stand to listen, even if it's probably better to just get it over with. Rip off the whole bandage at once and bleed out.
"I wish I could explain it, Luke," Noah says. "I don't know, I can't." He stops. "It was stupid, and it was wrong, and it made me feel like a complete ass, and I know none of that makes any difference right now. I could sit here and say I'm sorry a hundred times, but I don't think either of us would feel any better. I don't know if you're ever going to believe it. But I can't, Luke, I can't lose you--"
He breaks off on a sob, but Luke feels nothing. Nothing but the hard, cold floor under his legs, the heavy dampness of the cloth still lying on his neck, and the empty spot in his chest, where his heart used to be.
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