Title: He Went Away
Author: J'Kitty
Fandom: Askewniverse
Feedback: jabinkle@unity.ncsu.edu if you read this from an archive, 
otherwise just slam me on the list! ;)
Pairing: Jay/Bob
Rating: PG, for language and sheer angst
Disclaimer: Prophets=Kevin's. Story=Mine.
Archive: Just lemme know.
Type: Not a songfic, but in response to a piece of poetry (which I'm 
sticking at the end), and listening to some kinda strange sad music.
Summary: Falling is love is hard on the knees, but falling out of love is 
harder on the heart.
Notes: This is a sad, sad fic, at least to me. Definately not as dark as 
some of the ones hitting the list lately, but full of despair and 
melancholy. Not planning on making a series out of it, but I may, 
depending on what kind of response it receives, and if I can come up with 
more. ;)

Also, this is kinda partially based on my bad habit of wandering off away 
from thought. I've done this while driving before, and haven't been able 
to remember turning or stopping for lights and things... Poor Bob.



It was quiet in the apartment. It was nearly midnight. No lights were 
on. A single candle burned in the middle of dining table, and it reflected 
the sorrows of its tender. The apartment was empty, save for one broken 
soul in the corner. He sat at the dining table, smoking and lost in 
thought. A great deal can be discerned of a person by the manner in which 
they smoke, and this soul was no exception. He pulled each puff from the 
cigarette as though it were a revelation. He was deep in thought.

His trench coat was draped haphazardly over an adjoining chair. His hat 
had been pulled off, and tossed into the corner. So he sat, pulling smoke 
into his lungs, his eyes empty and far away.

He was thinking of Jay.

It hurt him. He had told Jay that he loved him, and Jay had said that he 
loved him. They were _in love_, for Christ's sake. It was a long-term 
bond. At least it was to one of them. The other half was out 'til all 
hours of the night, partying with abandon, looking for new highs, and 
sleeping with girls. Talking to them, sleeping with them, caressing them.

Yes, he was jealous. He would admit it, he had admitted as much to 
Jay. And Jay had brushed it off. Said he only like a bit now and then, 
"for the feeling". For the feeling. He didn't feel enough with the person 
he loved. And he felt lonlier and emptier than when Jay hadn't known. He 
was home by himself nearly every night now, because Jay always wanted to party.

And he couldn't bear the thick wash of sorrow and melancholy that covered 
him whenever Jay started talking to the girls. So he stayed home, lit the 
candles, and smoked. His mind was far from where his body 
resided. Sometimes, he put on lonely, fell music, and drank. And he 
didn't remember anything. Sometimes, he didn't even remember Jay coming home.

And sometimes Jay didn't come home.

The sorrow rode him as a rider does a horse, every time he saw Jay, it 
ripped at him. And though he loved the boy, he couldn't live with not 
being able to breath. Having to wear a condom because his partner 
couldn't... no, wouldn't be monogamous. It had been building for a while.

In the beginning, he had thought that Jay was trying to adjust to the fact 
that he loved a guy. Trying to reaffirm to himself that he wasn't gay, or 
less manly. Then, he had thought that Jay was simply trying to appear 
straight for the sake of customers not giving up on them. Then he realized 
it was him.

And he sat with this sadness, and great empty eyes, watching the flame 
dance on the table. He pulled the final drag from his cigarette, and 
picked up the bottle of vodka. It stung his throat on the way down, and it 
was welcome and sweet. And he drank until he couldn't remember who or 
where he was. And then he slept for a while, head pillowed on the oaken 
table, one hand clutched around the nearly empty bottle.

When he awoke in the morning, the candle was out. All the wax had melted, 
and the little flame had died. The bottle was still in his hand. He 
figured Jay hadn't come home. He'd be in bed if Jay had come home. He 
rubbed his eyes, and rubbed his head, and walked into the kitchen. There 
was a note on the fridge. Jay had been home last night. Left a note to 
tell him that he hadn't wanted to wake him, but that he wouldn't be in 
tonight either.

Unbidden, his mind intoned, _"On a yellow paper with green lines, he wrote 
a poem..."

Something inside him broke. At least he had known that Jay had cared, when 
he woke up from his coma in his own bed, knowing that Jay had pulled him 
from the table. Cared that he existed and was comfortable, at least. But 
now... Jay didn't care. Jay didn't care at all. He sat on the floor, and 
stared at the note. He thought about crying, but such deep sorrow couldn't 
be released by so petty a thing as a tear. His eyes went empty, and he 
went away from the room.

He could remember the night he'd told Jay that he loved him. Jay had been 
ecstatic. He'd loved Bob too, he had said. And he had been so fragile and 
delicate in his love. Like stained glass, lovely and shining. And Bob had 
loved him. Even before that, Bob had loved him, and still did, and Jay 
didn't love Bob at all. He had had a crush, or a spate of curiosity, and 
had taken Bob's heart and returned it with hot leaden sorrow.

The note was still in his hand, and he was in his room. So small that he 
hadn't noticed it as a postscript, "PS: If you're gonna drink all the 
booze, buy more, you tubby bitch." And he sat the note on his dresser, and 
stared at it.

He could remember when Jay had brought home a bottle of wine. Cheap stuff, 
and bad tasting, but Jay didn't know the difference, and Bob had guzzled it 
as though it had been from the best vineyards in France. It had been such 
a happy time. And Jay had smiled, delighted with himself, and with 
Bob. And they had both been in love.

A leather bag was in his hand. He had clothes in there. A couple of 
books, his extra money. A couple of bags of chips, a pack of smokes. This 
time while he was away, he had packed. It seemed like a sign. He had to 
leave a note. He wasn't sure he could write in this state.

_"That's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem..."_

He shook his head, couldn't think that. Not right now. He grabbed a pen 
and a piece of paper. He wasn't sure what to say. How do you fit months 
worth of pain and utter sorrow onto a rectangle eight inches by eleven and 
a half? He closed his eyes against the tears, and tried not to remember.

He wrote simply, "Bye."

At the bottom, in tiny print, he wrote, "PS: If you're gonna drink all my 
love, next time buy it from someone else." And he tacked it to the fridge, 
and laid the marker down. Most of the things in the apartment were his... 
but he didn't feel inclined to take them. Or the apartment itself. It had 
too much of Jay within it. Instead, he hung his keys from the magnet 
holding the note, locked the door from the inside, and walked away from the 
apartment.

And the road swept him off.
~~~

Untitled Poem, by Anonymous (doing a little bit of searching, I turned up 
several versions of this poem. However, this one comes from Stephen 
Chbosky's "The Perks of Being a Wallflower", which is the version I 
originally read.)

>Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
>he wrote a poem
>And he called it "Chops"
>because that was the name of his dog
>And that's what it was all about
>And his teacher gave him an A
>and a gold star
>And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
>and read it to his aunts
>That was the year Father Tracy
>took all the kids to the zoo
>And he let them sing on the bus
>And his little sister was born
>with tiny toenails and no hair
>And his mother and father kissed a lot
>And the girl around the corner sent him a
>Valentine signed with a row of X's
>and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
>And his father always tucked him in bed at night
>And was always there to do it
>
>Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
>he wrote a poem
>And he called it "Autumn"
>because that was the name of the season
>And that's what it was all about
>And his teacher gave him an A
>and asked him to write more clearly
>And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
>because of its new paint
>And the kids told him
>that Father Tracy smoked cigars
>And left butts on the pews
>And sometimes they would burn holes
>That was the year his sister got glasses
>with thick lenses and black frames
>And the girl around the corner laughed
>when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
>And the kids told him why
>his mother and father kissed a lot
>And his father never tucked him in bed at night
>And his father got mad
>when he cried for him to do it.
>
>Once on a paper torn from his notebook
>he wrote a poem
>And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
>because that was the question about his girl
>And that's what it was all about
>And his professor gave him an A
>and a strange steady look
>And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
>because he never showed her
>That was the year that Father Tracy died
>And he forgot how the end
>of the Apostle's Creed went
>And he caught his sister
>making out on the back porch
>And his mother and father never kissed
>or even talked
>And the girl around the corner
>wore too much makeup
>That made him cough when he kissed her
>but he kissed her anyway
>because that was the thing to do
>And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed
>his father snoring soundly
>
>That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
>he tried another poem
>And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
>Because that's what it was really all about
>And he gave himself an A
>and a slash on each damned wrist
>And he hung it on the bathroom door
>because this time he didn't think
>he could reach the kitchen.

(on the web, this is cited as being the suicide poem of a 15 year 
old... however, part of it mentions a professor reading a poem, which 
infers college, which doesn't exactly back this up...)

J'Kitty
There's your trouble...