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QaF Ficlet: Sense Perception
Sense Perception
Queer as Folk, Brian, Mike
Sans eyes, sans ears, sans anything, but touch.
It can't be an hour yet, but it already smells like horror. It isn't so much a prison as it is a sensory meltdown. Pitch black, siren wail, intense smells of fear and the reaching hands of several dozen men searching for their friends.
A sick parody of Babylon's backroom sans neon and an exit. The first coherent thought Mike has is just one word: Brian, Brian, Brian... It buzzes along his aggravated receptors, pounding in time with the hellicious headache that threatens to debilitate him. Brian fought against their captors in the round up, fiercely, but he was taken all the same, mere seconds after someone had laid hands on Mike and dragged him back.
Determined, he evaded all the reaching pleas in his immediate vicinity and began to crawl. It was slow going in the dark. He picked his way over writhing, shriveling bodies. The heat of so many in cramped quarters makes his head swim. After a while he closes his eyes. They're useless here anyway.
Rapidly, he shuts off the useless input. Siren, screams, whimpers, groping hands all retreat. He moves until he finds a wall. Men have already taken every inch of leaning space, snarling at him has he passes accidentally jarring injuries. He ignores him too. Finally, a hand forms under his that is unmistakably Brian. The fingers closed around his immediately, instant mutual recognition. Mike can't help it, surges forward, burrowing into the rough embrace. Buries his face in familiar neck, inhaling Brian's particular scent. Fills his abused sensors with the comfort of the known.
Must be that Brian feels the same way, burying his nose in Mike's hair, butterfly kisses on brown, closed eyes and lips. Familiar greeting kisses. Mike shifts and over the whine he hears the growl. Feather light touches ghost over well known territory. When they reach the leg his hands come away sticky with warm blood. Stomach surging, he wipes it off onto the floor. Feels useless, not an amazing boy scout, who could make a tourniquet out of thin air or a splint which might be better because he's pretty sure there's a broken bone involved. Thin clubbing shirt not even worth taking off to staunch the blood. It's not likely to absorb water, let alone slow blood flow. Brian jerks Mike's hands away from the injury and puts them on his shoulders as he pulls Mike close again. The unending whine makes conversation impossible, but they communicate as they always have: fingers and lips as pen to skin parchment. When Brian finally passes out, Mike stays pressed up against him, fighting off other men who might jar the broken bone. He is past fear and finds that deep well of numbness that can come to people in dark times.
They stayed huddled together. When Brian was awake they touched, assuring each other of their presence. Later, they will know that it was forty-six hours they spend in what turns out to be a renovated meat locker. Some of the other men had to be institutionalized. Some died of their wounds.
Impossible as it was to believe, they were lucky. Not only to survive, but to stay relatively intact. Still, Brian never heals properly, his limp adding to his cocksure stride.
The day after when the news was running wild with story, blaming terrorist, hate groups or the government. They showed the same reel of footage of the staggering, blinking figures wrapped in Red Cross blankets. But it is the photo that the papers used that Mike hated.
It is them, of course. Mike supporting Brian as they moved out into the harsh, beautiful sun. Brian was looking straight at the camera, disgust plain on his pain drawn face. Mike is looking at Brain, his face somewhere far beyond concern and into panic. The worst part is Brian's leg. The bone is jutting through skin and it makes Mike sick to think of two days spent useless to stop Brian's agony.
They are never quite the same after that. Already friends for life, they come ingrained in each other. Some nights Brian would call him and neither of them would speak, just listen to each other breathe.
Brian tells him once, when they are both drunk, that before Mike found him, he was sure Mike was dead. Mike shivers at what would have happened had their roles been reversed. He the one unable to move, sure that Brian was dead. He doesn't think he would have stayed sane. Brian is, in this again, stronger.
Ben is wonderful and Justin, who has become a force in his own right, takes Brian everywhere until long after he could care for himself. Justin and Ben conspire together, planning events and distractions.
But Mike never stops having the nightmare of searching the room and finding Brian too late. Brian won't go into the backroom any more. He fucks in the alleyways where he can see the stars.
They are aware of each other as they never were before. Mike tests himself on how quickly he can find Brian in a public space. It becomes a well exercised sense until sometimes he thinks he can sense Brian from miles away. Feels his breath and living flesh under his hands at a thought.
Ben tells him about PTSD and the complexities of the human mind and its all reasonable and right, but Mike feels Brian panic one night and calls and talks him down from an easy death. Ben believes after that and Justin calls him when he has to be away for a night.
They live, change, grow old in increments. Slowly people move, faces change and beloved people die. Once more it's just Mikey and Brian. Justin sends long vivid e-mails with more and more introspective paintings attached. Emmett, old fashioned, prefers letters. His penmanship elegant and captures his voice in honeyed nuance.
They live, sleep, but don't fuck . It seems redundant, especially as their hair turned to gray (Brian dyes). It isn't until they finally give up on the Northeast and move to Vegas (Brian would rather be shot then retire to Florida) that Mike realizes they have spent their lives together. Without commitment, without promise or even acknowledgment. They have coupled themselves.
One night while Mike is alone (age couldn't slow Brian down, he still managed to bring home beautiful men in droves), he read about wolves. How they mated for life, choose when they're too young to know any better and stand by that choice until their death.
When Brian comes home, he brushes a kiss and trails a hand over Mike's cheek.
"Ok?"
"Yeah." He smiles and allows himself to be tugged to bed.
And he is.
Queer as Folk, Brian, Mike
Sans eyes, sans ears, sans anything, but touch.
It can't be an hour yet, but it already smells like horror. It isn't so much a prison as it is a sensory meltdown. Pitch black, siren wail, intense smells of fear and the reaching hands of several dozen men searching for their friends.
A sick parody of Babylon's backroom sans neon and an exit. The first coherent thought Mike has is just one word: Brian, Brian, Brian... It buzzes along his aggravated receptors, pounding in time with the hellicious headache that threatens to debilitate him. Brian fought against their captors in the round up, fiercely, but he was taken all the same, mere seconds after someone had laid hands on Mike and dragged him back.
Determined, he evaded all the reaching pleas in his immediate vicinity and began to crawl. It was slow going in the dark. He picked his way over writhing, shriveling bodies. The heat of so many in cramped quarters makes his head swim. After a while he closes his eyes. They're useless here anyway.
Rapidly, he shuts off the useless input. Siren, screams, whimpers, groping hands all retreat. He moves until he finds a wall. Men have already taken every inch of leaning space, snarling at him has he passes accidentally jarring injuries. He ignores him too. Finally, a hand forms under his that is unmistakably Brian. The fingers closed around his immediately, instant mutual recognition. Mike can't help it, surges forward, burrowing into the rough embrace. Buries his face in familiar neck, inhaling Brian's particular scent. Fills his abused sensors with the comfort of the known.
Must be that Brian feels the same way, burying his nose in Mike's hair, butterfly kisses on brown, closed eyes and lips. Familiar greeting kisses. Mike shifts and over the whine he hears the growl. Feather light touches ghost over well known territory. When they reach the leg his hands come away sticky with warm blood. Stomach surging, he wipes it off onto the floor. Feels useless, not an amazing boy scout, who could make a tourniquet out of thin air or a splint which might be better because he's pretty sure there's a broken bone involved. Thin clubbing shirt not even worth taking off to staunch the blood. It's not likely to absorb water, let alone slow blood flow. Brian jerks Mike's hands away from the injury and puts them on his shoulders as he pulls Mike close again. The unending whine makes conversation impossible, but they communicate as they always have: fingers and lips as pen to skin parchment. When Brian finally passes out, Mike stays pressed up against him, fighting off other men who might jar the broken bone. He is past fear and finds that deep well of numbness that can come to people in dark times.
They stayed huddled together. When Brian was awake they touched, assuring each other of their presence. Later, they will know that it was forty-six hours they spend in what turns out to be a renovated meat locker. Some of the other men had to be institutionalized. Some died of their wounds.
Impossible as it was to believe, they were lucky. Not only to survive, but to stay relatively intact. Still, Brian never heals properly, his limp adding to his cocksure stride.
The day after when the news was running wild with story, blaming terrorist, hate groups or the government. They showed the same reel of footage of the staggering, blinking figures wrapped in Red Cross blankets. But it is the photo that the papers used that Mike hated.
It is them, of course. Mike supporting Brian as they moved out into the harsh, beautiful sun. Brian was looking straight at the camera, disgust plain on his pain drawn face. Mike is looking at Brain, his face somewhere far beyond concern and into panic. The worst part is Brian's leg. The bone is jutting through skin and it makes Mike sick to think of two days spent useless to stop Brian's agony.
They are never quite the same after that. Already friends for life, they come ingrained in each other. Some nights Brian would call him and neither of them would speak, just listen to each other breathe.
Brian tells him once, when they are both drunk, that before Mike found him, he was sure Mike was dead. Mike shivers at what would have happened had their roles been reversed. He the one unable to move, sure that Brian was dead. He doesn't think he would have stayed sane. Brian is, in this again, stronger.
Ben is wonderful and Justin, who has become a force in his own right, takes Brian everywhere until long after he could care for himself. Justin and Ben conspire together, planning events and distractions.
But Mike never stops having the nightmare of searching the room and finding Brian too late. Brian won't go into the backroom any more. He fucks in the alleyways where he can see the stars.
They are aware of each other as they never were before. Mike tests himself on how quickly he can find Brian in a public space. It becomes a well exercised sense until sometimes he thinks he can sense Brian from miles away. Feels his breath and living flesh under his hands at a thought.
Ben tells him about PTSD and the complexities of the human mind and its all reasonable and right, but Mike feels Brian panic one night and calls and talks him down from an easy death. Ben believes after that and Justin calls him when he has to be away for a night.
They live, change, grow old in increments. Slowly people move, faces change and beloved people die. Once more it's just Mikey and Brian. Justin sends long vivid e-mails with more and more introspective paintings attached. Emmett, old fashioned, prefers letters. His penmanship elegant and captures his voice in honeyed nuance.
They live, sleep, but don't fuck . It seems redundant, especially as their hair turned to gray (Brian dyes). It isn't until they finally give up on the Northeast and move to Vegas (Brian would rather be shot then retire to Florida) that Mike realizes they have spent their lives together. Without commitment, without promise or even acknowledgment. They have coupled themselves.
One night while Mike is alone (age couldn't slow Brian down, he still managed to bring home beautiful men in droves), he read about wolves. How they mated for life, choose when they're too young to know any better and stand by that choice until their death.
When Brian comes home, he brushes a kiss and trails a hand over Mike's cheek.
"Ok?"
"Yeah." He smiles and allows himself to be tugged to bed.
And he is.