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[personal profile] lady_bug_kay
Title: Every F-ing Morning
Author: ladybugkay
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Rating: R (for language; many instances of the f-bomb, in case in the title didn't give it away)
Word Count: 671
Warnings: Major Character Death (sorry!)
Summary: Sometime in the future, Justin talks to Brian. (post 513)
Disclaimer: Showtime and Cowlip and Russell T. Davies own the characters. I'm just writing for entertainment purposes.
A/N: My first QAF fic. I recently purchased the last season of QAF and have been feeding my post-513 hunger with fic, so I suppose it was inevitable that I turn to writing it. How much do I love this fandom that keeps going years after the show is finished? I found the quotation in a lovely QAF fic by allie-quixotic called "Without You" and this idea popped into my head. Also, I've never written a first-person fanfic before, nor have I written a first-person apostrophic fic, which is what this is, I guess.

Every Fucking Morning

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

-W.S. Merwin, “ Separation”



I hate this, you know. I hate everything about this. I hate that I woke up one morning and remembered you weren’t there, anymore, and that I wake up every morning, and every morning it’s the same. Every fucking morning. I wake up, and I remember you aren’t here, and I don’t know why I forget, anymore. No one should have to find out daily that someone they love is dead, but that’s my fucking life, now. Every fucking morning.


Every night I go to sleep, and I want you. Here. With me. In our bed. In my arms. You’re not here, and I want you to be, and I love you so fucking much I hate you for that. And I go to sleep, and I dream, and whether the dreams are good or bad, they’re always about you. You’re lodged within every moment like some bullet in a fucking spine that the body’s grown around.


And somewhere between sleep and awake, I forget. I forget that you’re gone and that I’ll never find my legs tangled with yours again. I forget that it’s been so long there’s nothing left here that smells like you, anymore. I forget that I keep buying the cologne you used to wear and sprinkling it on the pillows and the sheets, and that it doesn’t fucking help because it never smells quite right. There’s something missing, and it’s you, and it’s all the fucking time, and when I wake up, that hint of you that lives in my head pops up just long enough for me to take a breath, and then your absence slams into me like a semi into a semi-compact.


It’s been so long, and I don’t know why I forget, what trick of my fucked-up, bat-to-the-head brain makes me forget just to remember all over again. It never fucking stops. You never go away. I don’t want you to, but they all keep telling me you will, that you should, that fucking forgetting you is the way to move on. But I don’t want to move on, and I don’t know how many times I have to tell them that before they start to believe me and just leave me the fuck alone.


Do you remember when you used to wake me up with one of those languid blow jobs? The kind that kept me just on the edge of coming until I was practically crying?


Did you know that waking up with you was my favourite fucking thing in the whole goddamned world? Did you know that?


So fuck you for leaving. Fuck you for dying on me, you asshole. You’ve been my whole life for too many goddamned years to count, now, and this death shit was never part of the deal.


I still see you in the corners of the room and on the edges of my sight. I still feel you on the back of my neck and through the ends of my hair. I still hear you behind me and just around the corner. You’re in every fucking stroke of my brush, every smudge of charcoal, every trail of my pencil. You’re not fucking gone, and I wish people would stop telling me that you are. It’s a fucking joke, is what it is.


The funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, except that you’re not around to laugh at it. And things just aren’t that funny without you. They never have been.


And every fucking morning I wake up, and you’re not here, and I remember.


And I hate you, just a little, for that, because I still love you so goddamned much, and I always have. I always will. I live for that moment, that split second in time, between sleep and awake, when I forget. When you’re there. When you’re here, you’re right here beside me, and that’s all I need.


Every fucking morning, just before I remember, I forget, and if that’s all I have, now, I’ll take it.


Every fucking morning.

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February 2012


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