Author: Quai-Dian (Isilme)
Fandom: Foo Fighters RPS
Pairing: Dave Grohl/Taylor Hawkins
Rating: R (for graphic violence)
Summary: Dave has moved on. Taylor has not.
Archive Permissions: Archive anywhere as long as my email address is on it (email@example.com)
Disclaimer: I don't know them. I don't own them. This is all my imagination. No harm intended.
Warnings: Character death.
Notes: Based on the song by the same name by Better Than Ezra.
It was dusk, still warm, too nice an evening. Too pretty. Just like she was. Too beautiful. Too perfect. Too many things. Too female, too feminine, too caring and charming and lovely. She was good to him, good for him, good in bed, good in the kitchen, good on his arm, like a pretty new doll with porcelain skin and silk hair and moist, pink lips. The way she kissed him was sweet but passionate in just the right way. She held his hand, fingers laced through his gently, not clinging, but defining her property. He belonged to her.
He was supposed to belong to him. He'd promised at least a hundred forevers, spilled his blood and his tears and trembling words on his lips, unending nevers. I'll never leave you... I'll never love anyone else like I love you... We'll never be apart... A million lies. And one cold, harsh truth that nearly killed him. She was the truth, the reality, the wicked cliché that brought his world crashing down, the Armageddon of their love.
He'd staggered. Breathless, he thought he'd been shot as much pain as he felt. And he cried for hours without stopping. He'd drank, almost immediately went out and got drugs, got high, got sick, and sobbed as he vomited liquor and bile and blood. He thought about suicide. He thought about shooting too much heroin or taking too many pills. He thought about throwing himself off a bridge or out of a window or into traffic. He thought of the sweet stickiness of his blood that blade or bullet could rend. He even entertained the idea of revenge, jealousy, finding someone better, giving his heart away, asking whoever she was to be his bride in bitter envy.
He did none of those things. Instead he locked himself away for weeks, going out for food when hunger finally drove him to it. He wouldn't see friends. He wouldn't talk to anyone on the phone. Never answered his door. Turned off his cell phone, his computer, his answering machine. Cut himself off completely. And, alone, made one mistake that changed everything.
He listened to their song. One night he turned it on in the dark, listened over and over and wept. Cried until his eyes were dry and his throat hurt. And in his agony his erected his plan. Born of desperation and bitter sadness and insanity. He would take the lyrics literally and make good on a promise that the other probably didn't even remember was really ever made.
It was dusk, still warm, too nice an evening. Quiet. And the house was empty. Empty save one, the lover, the dear friend, the colleague. The victim.
Taylor still had a key. After all, he was still a friend, a band mate, if no longer a spouse. But then the marriage was never legal, the union nothing more than a promise bound in blood. There'd been no divorce, just a walking away. A goodbye. One word that broke a million and one promises like a pane of glass. But Taylor was still a brother. Taylor had a key.
Dave was playing guitar, an acoustic, writing something, probably for future use. For the band's next session. Or a love song for the succubus that stole his soul away. It was too perfect, too nice. Too good to be his last. Too bad. Too late.
Taylor shocked him, but was so casual and nonchalant that he simply stopped playing and looked up, completely speechless, barely breathing. He put the guitar down, stood, approached but kept his distance. Said nothing. A tear leaked down Taylor's face and Dave didn't think before pulling him into an embrace. Didn't hesitate in whispering to him, stroking his hair, saying three forbidden words.
I love you.
Taylor moved smoothly, pulling away and drawing the knife before Dave even thought to react, pressing the blade up under his chin against his throat and lacing his fingers through longish brunet hair, holding tightly but almost tenderly. Dave half swallowed. Taylor cried.
"I still love you."
"I'm not. I didn't stop. I love you both."
"You never loved me."
"I did. I do. So much."
"Fuck you! Fuck you! I hate you! You promised me! You said forever!"
"You changed. Fuck you. You. You changed. You promised..."
"I still love you."
"No. You don't."
Taylor heard the sound of Dave's voice die and gurgle before he even registered the blood. He watched brown eyes go wide, fingers pulling the knife away, so much blood. Bubbles as he breathed and coughed and begged. Taylor dropped the weapon, gathered the dying body in his arms and took him to bed. He whispered soothing words and Dave struggled to live even as he bled to death, wiped blood from his lips and cradled him, cried.
"I love you, my baby. My baby. It will all be over soon. Soon, it'll all be okay soon. Soon, baby. Don't cry. I love you. You can never love anyone. You have to love me now. You love me now. You will always love me. You love me. You love me..."
Hours, Taylor didn't know how many, hours and finally Dave's blood had gone cold, his skin turning blue, his eyes open and staring but not seeing. Taylor got the knife, sat in the bed and cut off all his hair, being slow, meticulous, cut it all away. Then undressed him, careful not to rip his clothes or hurt him, kissing his skin, loving him. Then he wrapped Dave in a blanket, to keep him warm, and put him in the passenger seat of his car, buckling his seatbelt before he got in himself. He caught a glimpse of his face in the rear view mirror, blood spattering his cheeks marred with the tracks of his tears, staining his hair. And his hands on the steering wheel, slippery with Dave's life, red all up his arms, soaked through his t-shirt, dark spots on his shorts. He looked away and drove.
He drove for miles, calmly, talking to Dave as if they were on their way to dinner. It got dark, Taylor turned on the radio and sang, joked, reached over from time to time to stroke his hand over Dave's head. Some time into the early morning he stopped, drove into the middle of an empty field and got out of the car. He pulled Dave out and carried him away from the car, laid him on the wild grass and pulled off his bloody t-shirt, stripped off his shorts and his underwear, wrapped himself in the blanket with Dave, naked bodies pressed together in the night, Taylor's warmth being bled away by Dave's unliving cold.
Taylor began to cry, pressing his face into the crook of Dave's neck he wailed, screamed at Dave for leaving him, for hurting him, for breaking his promise and his heart. He sat up and shook Dave, who responded limply, eyes still wide, still staring. Taylor stood and released his pain in a gut wrenching cry, no words, just hurt bellowing forth, animalistic, raw. And he stumbled to his knees and shouted at the heavens, told the unhearing, empty night sky that he was the one. The only one. The last person that Dave ever loved.
He cried that Dave was the last one he'd ever love.
In the folds of the blanket he'd tucked a gun. He pulled it free, trembling, and leaned down to press a hard, last kiss to Dave's dead mouth. Then he closed his eyes and lifted his face to heaven, bringing the gun slowly, smoothly up to his temple. He fitted his finger over the trigger, drew back the hammer with his thumb and ended his hell.
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