14 posts tagged “tyler”

"Please, not again!"

Meh.  I don't think this conversation would ever take place, but it popped into my head, so I wrote it out anyway.

So, poor Tyler has been dying, because I gave him cancer.  Well, I finally got around to writing his death.  Originally, I was going to do two versions.  This one, and then something else that wasn't quite as miserable, but the un-miserable one comes out sounding all fake and wrong inside my head, and I can only imagine what it would sound like on the page.  So this is the one that's done so far.  And it may need some tweaks, mainly because I ended up having to write from Al's perspective for a second, and we all know I'm not very good at that, but I think it came out okay.  It is sad, though, because I've purposefully made his life suck slightly worse than mine to make myself feel better.

Tyler sat atop the parking deck, closing his eyes as the sun beat down against him.  He was glad he'd headed south, the winter didn't sound too promising.  Wind stirred locks of blond around his head.

Aaron laid silently, his eyes trained on the small patch of light on the ceiling, listening to the soft drip, drip of the kitchen faucet.  He shifted a little on the moth-eaten sofa and pulled the threadbare sheet up a little.  There was no glass in the window.

I don't remember my mother.  At all.  Not a whiff, not a glance, not a whisper.  Which makes sense, after all, if what my father says is true.  She died giving birth.  

Three days to surgery.

Tyler laid on the couch in his living room, staring out the window, the television droning quietly beside him.  He waited.  Nothing. 

It'd been more than a week since Al had tried to kick down his door to visit.  And outside the incident at work the other day, Tyler hadn't even see Al in almost as long.  Tyler had spent the first few days rationing out his lack of Al visits.  He's busy.  Nessa's probably been arrested.  Sam might have had an attack.  But now, he just worried.  He's distancing himself.  Just in case...  If he stops seeing me now, he can fool himself into thinking that I'm already gone if the surgery goes bad.  He choked, a small whimper escaping him.

"If all of it isn't removed during the surgery, how long do I have?"

"We're very confident about the surgery..."

Tyler's chest constricted.  "Doctor, please.  If it all isn't removed, how long do I have?"

"Depending on how slow or fast it spreads, you could live for years, a lifetime even..."

"Or?"  Tyler had pressed.

"Or... it could be a matter of months.  If we don't get it all, we'll have you in here as soon as you heal for chemotherapy.  And they're making huge strides in treatment options everyday..."

Tyler sat still, then.  "Don't tell anyone.  Not my mother, not my stepfather.  Nobody."

"Well, of course, but your stepfather..."

"Will most likely figure it out on his own."  He pushed himself up.  "Thank you for seeing me."

"Mr. Dreylncourt.... If I may... You're young.  You're healthy.  Whether or not we remove it all, I do believe that you will live a long life."

Tyler forced a small smile to him.  "Well, you know what they say... only the good die young."

Tyler's heart was hammering on his sofa.  He shut his eyes, taking deep breaths.  Everything was arranged, so that his family wouldn't have to worry about anything if things took a turn. 

"And what would you like done with the ashes?"

"I don't care.  Don't let anyone keep them in their house.  That's creepy.  Tell them to dump me in the ocean, or spread me around Al's kitchen."

The man looked alarmed.  "Tyler... would... would you like me to write that?"

"No, of course not.  My mother would faint.  Just tell them to dump me someplace pretty."

What would it feel like to not be able to walk?  Tyler tried to push himself up without the use of his legs.  His arms shook a little.  He frowned at himself.  I haven't gone to a gym since I came back to Ireland.  Of course my upper body strength is shot.  Fuck.

He glanced at the television, and then outside at the dark night, then flopped back down.  He hit the light on the table beside him and curled onto his side.  Tears slipped down his cheeks in the dark.  I'm not gone yet... why does it feel like nobody else knows that?

The warehouse was quiet.  Tyler's desk empty. 

Six days to surgery.

Halfway down the last row of filing cabinets, Tyler was pressed against the cold metal, his hands gripping at the t-shirt of the boy pressed against him.  Those lips pushed against his own, aggressive and demanding.  He yielded.  The lips left him abruptly, traveling downward and giving a gentle shove to his chin before latching onto his neck.  The hand cupping the opposite side of his neck allowed the thumb to travel over Tyler's jaw as a soft moan left him.

John's hand ducked into the front of Ty's pants.

"Ah!" The small cry echoed in the empty warehouse.  Tyler grabbed the wrist.  "No, no... John, we can't..."

"Sure we can," came the breathy reply against his collarbone, "but we do have to lose a little of these clothes..."

"I'm at work," he said in a hushed whisper.

"You're on break." The hand wrapped around Tyler and squeezed gently.

The blond gave a gasp and a soft moan.  "My boss..."

"Isn't allowed to join, but is more than welcome to watch.  Now relax."  He undid Ty's pants and pushed them and his boxers off.  "We have to get you to start going commando..."

"Jo--" The lips pushed against his again.  He melted.

John sucked his lower lip gently and slid his fingers into those blond locks.  "I have to enjoy you while I can... in a week, I won't be able to do anything to you for at least six more..."

Or possibly ever again... Ty added mentally, but didn't bother to say anything.  He smiled a little to John, but wasn't happy.  Lucky for him, John didn't know him well enough to notice.  "All right.."

"Thatta boy."  John kissed him again, undoing the front of Tyler's shirt and sliding his hands over the pale body.

Tyler pulled John's t-shirt off, returning the heated kisses as he fumbled with the younger's belt.  He froze.

"What?"  John murmured as Tyler stopped.  "I'll get it."

"No, I heard something.  The door..."

John shook his head.  "I didn't hear anything.  Besides, you locked it.  You're just nervous."

"But.."

"Shh... If someone came in, wouldn't they call for you?"

Tyler considered, then nodded.

"Well, then, there we go.  Now, I believe we were right about here..." He took Tyler's hands and placed them on his unbuckled belt.

They kissed.  The second pair of pants hit the floor, leaving the Irishman bare as he pushed against Tyler.  He picked Ty up--he weighed nothing--and pushed his back against the cabinets, kissing at his neck again, making certain to leave Tyler with a hickey as he positioned himself at the other's opening.  He started pressing...

BANG! CRASH!

"SONUVABITCH!  OW!  ME TOE!   CHICKENSCRATCHPAD!   DOORBELL -HANGER-TOE-JAM!"

A simultaneous gasp came from Tyler and John, both their heads jerking in the direction of Al's pained yelling.  John pushed closer, not to enter, but to shield his lover.

"Who the bloody 'ell are you?"  John yelled.

Tyler turned scarlet.  "That's my boss, John."  He wiggled a little.  "Put me down.  Lemme get my pants."

Another Tyler dribbly.  Note to anyone that doesn't RP with me: David is Tyler's stepdad, who's a doctor and specializes in cancers.

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"We can operate, but it's dangerous."

David nodded, looking at the x-rays of his stepson's spine.  "How did the tests come back?"

"It's malignant."

"So the operation is necessary?"

"Chemotherapy is still an option..."

"But?"

"To be honest, if it grows at all, the surgery would become entirely necessary and then it would be so dangerous that, in all likelihood, he would never walk again."

David nodded and sighed.  "Thank you, Doctor.  Let me go talk to him."  They shook hands and David made his way to Tyler's room.

Ty looked up when the older man entered, giving a small smile.  "You're giving me your doctor look, David.  Stop it."

David grinned and squeezed the boy's shoulder, sitting beside him.

"That bad?" Tyler tried to look amused, but ended up just looking sad and lonely.

"It'll be all right."

"Don't lie to me, David."

"I have to smudge the odds a little, it's part of my job."  He gave a smile and then sighed and looked away.  After a minute, he spoke to the wall.  "I think your best option is the surgery."

"Will I be able to walk afterwards?"

The doctor hesitated.  "There's no guarantees.  It's right against your spine... you know how dangerous that can be."

"You don't think so?"

"I don't know, Tyler."
  
Tyler looked away.  "I'm not really worried about not walking."

"I know."

The younger man rubbed the bridge of his nose.  "Gods, when it rains, it pours."  He dropped his hand.  "Have them make the appointment, if that's my best bet."

David touched the top of the boy's head affectionately.  "Don't worry, Ty.  You're in very capable hands."

"David?" Tyler looked up as the man started to leave.

"Yes?"

"Lie to mom."

"Only white ones."

"That's all I ask."

So, as a side-effect of moving, I have to sort through and chuck a lot of my stuff... and so a few days ago, I went through all my folders and kinda eliminated and cut down on the massive amount of papers I have EVERYWHERE.  And in the process found some old dribblies and snippets, so here they are.

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"As with every child born to a fae, each of the four elements was flaunted in front of you, to see which one your magic would recognize," the old woman said slowly as Blaine listened.  "The only one you even reacted to was the dirt."

"Really?" the boy smiled excitedly.  "What'd I do to the dirt?"

"You ate it," she said flatly.
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"Your father gave his life to protect those boys!" her mother yelled.

"And I lost my ability to do anything more than parlor tricks, Mother!  Those talismans are EVERYTHING I can do to protect my sons!  Father gave his life to protect his grandsons, both of them!"

"You disgraced your father!  He died humiliated, all because you had to run off and sleep with a human!"

"Father died proudly, doing what he has always done--protecting his family!"

"How can you call that-that thing- family!?  He can't even do magic!"

"He came from my womb; a product of love!  He's my son, and I expect you to treat him exactly as you'd treat Linden!"
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Tell me a story or sing me a son
The sea will capture you long before dawn,
Holding your soul, but don't be alarmed
This is our secret, we'll do you no harm.
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It was always the ocean.  That melodic lapping of the waves against the shore, the tumbling of the wave as gravity breaks the rolling water in on itself, the tiny sounds of the sand shuffling in the aftermath.  The aromatic salt water called to him, hailing the boy from miles away.  He ached for the granules of sand creeping between his toes, still warm from the day's son.  The wash of the tide circling around his ankles, hot and cold mingling to create the temperature that made him one with those waves, causing him to mourn each receding wave as if he were losing a piece of himself--a memory, a sensation, a thought, or a limb.  The wet sand yielding to his steady steps--here there existed no past, no future, it was only now--one step after another, no trace of him left behind.  He felt the moon's pull.  Tugging.  Beckoning.  Urging him along like a childhood friend taking him to a secret place.  The sweet-smelling wind drifting in to wrap those breezy arms around him.  They held him.  Secure. 

Away.  He could stay forever in this place, drifting endlessly on the scents, sounds, and feelings right there on the land's end.

This was a safe place.  It offered nothing, promised nothing, and was nothing but itself.  And still.  It welcomed him.  It took away his history and opened its arms to him.  It held him.  This place was the music to his soul--the gay cries of the sea gulls melding seamlessly with the waves, creating a harmony that ignited every cell of his body.  He was invigorated.  Happy.  Free of every constraint the world had placed on him.  For this moment, he was truly free.
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Tell me a secret
Sing me a song
Describe life to me
It won't take long
Tell me of things
And stuff and those
Don't forget the specifics,
Or the garden hose.
Show me excitement
Let me feel green
And orange and purple
What about cerculean?
Show me the wind
And lightning in clouds
Teach me to laugh
And dance out loud.
Tell me great stories
Of faeries and bears
Windsocks and toadstools
And long winding stairs.
Show me wild animals
And ladies with beards
Make sure that I know
It's okay to be weird.
Tell me you love me
And show me you care,
But most of all...
Just make sure you're there.
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"And later tonight, we'll be hearing from Dan who is on location in New York covering a recent string of abductions.  But right now, we're going to talk to Trisha McMillan, who's covering the latest developments in the James Tyler murder.  Trisha?"

The television flickered to a woman standing outside of a large mansion's gates, the heavy iron chains still holding them closed.

"Thank you, Connie.  As many of our viewers remember, three years ago, these gates were thrown open by police and the state of affairs within shocked the nation."

In the upper left hand corner, they showed the old footage.  Beaten, bruised, some of them missing fingers or ears, nearly fifty boys, aged eight to seventeen, were led out, wrapped in blankets.

"The owner of this house, a Mr. James Tyler was killed.  Police received this disturbing phone call."

She went silent as the recording started to play.

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?"

There was silence on the other end for a moment, and then, a soft, scratchy, and entirely soulless young voice spoke.  "I just killed James Tyler.  I don't know the address here.  It's a big house.  There's a black fence."

"Did you just say you killed him, honey?"

"There are lots of kids here.  They need help.  Ambulances.  Some of them are real hurt."

"What's your name?"

There was another pause.  "Are you sending help?"

"Yes.  The ambulances will be there soon.  I need you to tell me your name and stay on the line with me."

"I can't.  I have to go."  The boy paused again.  "I'm not sorry.  I had to stop him.  Take good care of the boys.  They've been through a lot."

The line went dead and the reporter raised the microphone to her mouth.  "The boy who made the call was never identified.  According to several of the boys that were found inside, he killed himself, but of the bodies found inside, none were fresh enough to have been the caller."
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(Haha, this might look familiar.)

"He's the cutest little boy.  Just makes it that much sadder, doesn't it?"

The blond-haired boy shifted uncomfortably on the stiff Louis XIV-knock off sofa.  His feet swung almost a foot off the floor and wide blue eyes watched the overdressed women whispering about him over the quiet accompaniment of the string quartet.

Blues shifted, stealing a glance at the taller blond man in the crowd.  The older man gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Seconds later, the wide eyes clouded over with crocodile tears and the small boy let out a wail of pain as if he'd been stabbed.  From both hands, red was dripping.  The boy was staring at his hands in absolute horror.

"RICKY!" the tall blond man shoved his way through the gawking crowd.  He knelt in front of the boy, looking worried.  The look flickered for a fraction of a second as he winked at the blue-eyed child.

Ricky gave another wail of horror.

"Someone!  I need towels!"

There was a murmur of reluctance from the crowd, none of them wanting to abandon the spectacle.  But when the man pulled a syringe from the inside pocket of his jacket, several members of the crowd hurried off to find the towels.

The man looked directly into the boy's eyes and was met with unadulturated trust.  Giving the tiniest smile to the screaming child, he jabbed the syringe into his forearm, injecting its contents into the bloodstream.

The screaming was broken by a small sob, then the boy swayed a bid, red eyes closing, and fell forward, his head crashing gently into the older man's shoulder.

Towels were handed to the blond, and, using the cloth as a cover, the man stabbed the palms of the boy while pretending to wipe them off.

"Mr. Johnson, why don't you bring him to the bathroom?" a woman asked, gently touching his shoulder.  "You can both get cleaned up there, and I'll get you some bandages for little Ricky's hands."

"Oh, thank you, Ms. Louse," he gently hoisted the boy up, following the woman and admiring the low-cut bejeweled dress.

"Please, call me Jo Ann," she said, giving a soft smile over her shoulder.  "Is your son going to be all right?"

"I gave him a mild sedative.  It's the only thing that calms him down once the stigmata sets in." He gently laid the boy on the cool counter top.

"I hope you don't think me morbid, but... may I see?  You may not have heard, but I have great interest in Christian mythology."

The man feigned surprise well enough to fool his host, whose eyes were mostly focused on the boy's hands.  "Are you?  Well, I suppose he wouldn't mind..."

(Jumping ahead about five years...)

A cool wind picked up, brushing longish blond locks away from the pale face.  Blue eyes closed and the boy inhaled the wind--he could smell the evergreens and falling leaves.  As it died down, he felt the familiar ache in his hands that always came with the colder air.  The boy looked down at the scars on his palms; long since healed, but he'd never felt the same.  Broken trust was bitter.

"Aaron!" the bark was followed by the familiar stench of whiskey wafting from the back-lit figure at the door to the roof.

"If you ain't gonna jump and put us both outta yer misery, get yer skinny ass down an' get packed!  We're leavin' firs' thing in the mornin'."

Stiff hands clenched into fists and the boy felt hatred rising up into his throat like bile.  He forced it down and hopped off the ledge of the roof, heading towards the door again.  "So soon?  What happened this time?  Get drunk and blow our cover again?"

He saw the fist coming, but wasn't fast enough to avoid it.  The hit landed against the side of his head.  He stumbled, seeing stars, and fell to the roof, skinning his arm.  Blue eyes teared up as he fought to keep from crying in front of his father.

"You think yer so much smarter'n me, boy?" the man reached down and grabbed the front of his son's shirt, the rancid smell of his breath bringing a pathetic whimper from the blue-eyed boy.  "Well, yer not.  Now you watch yer tone and do as yer told or I'll throw ya off the roof myself.  Or, better yet, I'll jus' leave ya on the side of the road somewheres... you wouldn' last one day on your own..."

The maniacal gleam in his father's eye left no doubt in his mind that the threats were not hollow.  He gave a barely audible sniff and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat as he watched his father.

After a long moment when Aaron was certain the older man was seriously weighing the option of throwing the boy from the roof, his heart started beating again.  The man hauled him to his feet and shoved him to the door--he collided roughly with the frame.

"Go pack before I change my mind," the man grumbled.

Aaron, aching and terrified, headed to the stairs, eager to get out of arm's reach of the man.

"Yer new name an' story's on the table!  Get to memorizin'!"

Hate.  Anger.  Disgust.  And... defeat.  As much as he loathed to admit it, the old drunk was right.  He wouldn't last out there on his own.  He was stuck.
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All done.  And you got a bonus poem!  Woo.  There may be more later.