(c)Bemoan (PG-13)

by **rock and/or roll** Sun 26 Oct 2008, 8:30 am

Title: Bemoan
Rating: PG-13
Author: Me (currently Sam Sparro)
Status: One-shot/Complete
Pairings: Sam Sparro/Mika
Summary: An intoxicated night, faded memories and regrets.

Warnings: some sexual references

Bemoan.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t venture back to that place. In a rueful attempt to quash all the memories that had been made there, and forget the figure with the quirky smile. The dull iron of the ancient bridge was silver in the misleading haze that night. Cracked sidewalks were red carpets and broken street lamps, brightly shining stars. The night forever young and the youthful high in spirits.

But the mask of night had worn away with the coming of sunrise. Every defect etched into the sidewalk was stark and brilliantly obvious to the naked gaze and the tepid air was devoid of laughter; the incessant peals and natural smiles faded with the gradual taint of time.

Sam’s feet crunched along the sandwich of gravel, bitumen and dirt, small puffs of beige arising with each measured step. Air he wasn’t even aware he was breathing in siphoned out as small streams of pre-used gas; warm against his palate and the confines of his nose, the only source of heat in the dull and chilly morning atmosphere. Breath condensed in front of his face, ghostly as it merged into the soft light of the sun peeking over the streets. Poles shone a dirty metallic.

It was early. Too early for life to be crawling the pavement, eerie as a ghost town. But Sam pressed on, the solitude providing an escape, with no noisy inhabitants to break his fragile thought pattern. If he could only backtrack, revisit the boy with the smile, the hands, the hair. In the wires of his brain, an image of a curled strand of brown hair on a faded blue pillow came to life, so vivid he knew it could only be a memory. It left his insides tingly.

A small ebony bird greeted the great orb flooding light and shade across the dismal surroundings. Sam shielded his eyes with a splayed palm, tinted glasses helping to some extent, and trudged on, the mess of curly hair still playing on his disorderly mind. It belonged to a man, that much he was certain, a fairly attractive man if his alcohol affected brain hadn’t deceived him. With each step he took, another puzzle piece fitted into place. Tan skin, a well sculptured body, kind hands. Pretty words. Pretty slurred words, but that was to be expected when alcohol was introduced into the equation. There was the stinging sensation of bitterness in his mouth, but was it from the curly-haired man or his lips? A stumble, a fall, laughter, an embrace, a kiss...

“Y-you’re really hot,” the curly-haired man slurred.

Sam just grinned, small teeth pinching at his lip as his eyes crinkled skyward. The substance running throughout his system made him elated, all emotions multiplied. And the notion that the drink was projecting such pretty words out of the other man’s lips escaped his head. Such pretty words couldn’t be lies.

“No, really, like insanely hot.” The mass of curled hair moved closer, and he found himself nose to nose with the other man. He hiccupped, still smiling pleasantly as he reached for Sam’s eager hand.

Fingers dug into thighs, balling fistfuls of denim, grappling with troublesome zippers and shoving desperately at unwanted clothing.

Sam wracked his brains as he came to a crossroads. Left or right. They both appeared damn near indistinguishable, neat little matchbox homes with the occasional sore thumb sticking out, oak trees standing ancient and strong and plain street signs. A small children's swing with its green paint weathered and metal rusted stood abandoned on the weed-riddled lawn of a house nearby, and his eyes lingered on it thoughtfully, mind whirring as a recollection flashed across his vision. Left.

With a sure foot, he stepped out onto the abrasive pavement and carried on swiftly, fully mindful of the sun that seemed to be racing him as it climbed into the early morning sky.

The matchbox houses passed him by, clovers and vine-like weeds occasionally brushing gently against his naked calf, making it itch. The sky came to life, a flamboyant sapphire blue as the golden sphere claimed the heavens. And Sam’s exposed legs began to feel the warmth of morning as sunbeams smiled down at him. A perfect day for a not-so-perfect situation.

A familiar surge crept up within him as he came across a particular house, not at all visibly different from the other neat matchboxes, but it called out to him, drawing him in. Without considering his plan of action, he strode up the poorly cleared garden path and stood for a good two minutes in front of the sophisticated timber door, mind a speeding subway train. It was with an immense quantity of pumping up his confidence that he forced his hand to reach for the doorbell and push. An orchestra of chiming bells vibrated throughout the house and Sam waited, teeth once again pinching at his bottom lip. His hands found his pockets in an attempt to stem the small shakes that had overwhelmed them.

The entire place reeked of hazy memories. Feet stumbling over carpeted stairs with glossy banisters. Soft bodies being shoved into the walls of the short hallway. A dimly-lit bedroom, rumpled sheets, arduous moans.

Jogging feet sounded, and not a minute later, the door opened. Sam held his breath. Curly-haired man stood on the other side, so close, just a reach of the arm away, but still seeming so far. His eyebrow quirked, eyes familiar with the colourfully clothed man on his doorstep, but his mind at a loss of where and when to place him.

“Hi?” He opened the door a little wider, just a little, to fully take in his visitor. Voice clearer, more succinct, elegant.

“Hi...uh, Mika isn’t it?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, squinting, as he attempted to put a name to the face. There was definitely something familiar about the face in front of him; tan skin, short shaggy brunette hair and a bit of facial hair. Suddenly the images fit as a light bulb popped up atop his head.

“Hey, I know who you are,” he said enthusiastically. “Sam Sparro, right?”

Sam nodded slowly and let out a long breath, smiling in relief. He was about to open his mouth and let out about how pleased he was that Mika remembered their intimate encounter when the other man beat him to it and shattered the calm atmosphere.

“I’ve seen you singing in one of the old cafes around here...must have been a few weeks ago. You have talent, man. I really enjoyed it. Like...how many octaves can your voice handle?”

“Uh, three,” Sam responded distractedly.

His teeth pinched his lip, much much harder this time as he mentally berated himself for even contemplating venturing out here. The sun was suddenly too hot against his bare legs and clothed body, making him feel sweaty and sticky. And his calves itched more prominently from their long gone contact with the grasses and weeds. It was harder to meet Mika’s eyes, fully aware that he knew an intimate secret that had been forgone from the curly-haired man’s memory. He wanted out, he wanted to curse himself under his own bitter breath for wishing, he wanted to blink back anguished tears. His journey from point A to B, hopeful and anxious, had come to a dead end. What a waste.

“So, what brings you to my humble abode?”

Sam almost snorted at the irony. But all sarcastic thinking aside, he’d reached the nail-biting climax in his little escapade. Literally. His pinky found its way into his mouth and he bit daintily at the end of it, feeling it become flimsy between his teeth.

“I was hoping you’d remember for one...” he muttered, finger forming a much appreciated barricade between himself and his estranged bedfellow.

“Remember...?” The curls shook as he moved his head, eyes once again narrowed and questioning.

Sam sighed, removing the saliva slicked finger from his mouth, silently wondering whether it was better to deliver the blow slow and painfully drawn out, or if he should throw it up like an excess of Vodka. Punches created tender bruises, but vomit promised messy clean-ups.

‘About...about a week ago, I’d say...we, uh, you know...” Mika’s perplexed expression stared back at him. “...slept together.”

A shocked glare, a stammer of “I-I’m not gay” and a flurried slam of the elegant timber later, and Sam was left on his lonesome. Face to face with a closed door and the reality of a trying and long journey home. His previous feelings of apprehension were nothing compared to the crushing feeling of melancholy that wrenched at his gut.

As his feet were about to move his saddened form over the front garden and back onto the pavement, the sound of a clothed back sliding down the wood could be heard from the other side of the door. He halted, one foot still on the scruffy welcome mat, listening intently.

“How...just...what happened?” came the weak voice, trembling with the frail movement of lips.

Sam knelt on the mat, knees awkward, and an expression to match taking over his face. A gargantuan and pregnant pause met Mika’s question, left hanging in the air. Whether or not the man was merely verbalising his bewildered thoughts, or was waiting on edge for an answer wasn’t entirely clear, but Sam reserved it as his duty to deliver. After all, he’d let loose the forgotten information; it was all he could do to stick around and explain.

“A week ago,” Sam said, exhaling slowly through his nose. “It was at one of those loud clubs, and we’d had a fair amount to drink between the two of us.”

“Let me guess.” Mika’s voice was sardonic as it filtered through the cracks between the door and its frame. “We had a drunken one-nighter and now you’ve come here to beg for a relationship?”

All Sam could do was blink.

“I’m sorry if you got your hopes up, but I don’t swing that way...ever, okay? This was obviously just an intoxicated misunderstanding...” Pause. “Do you flirt like a girl, Sam? Is that it? Do you moan like one?”

Sam gritted his teeth as he tried to keep from losing all composure. All fond recollections of loving embraces and touches had morphed into an animalistic battle for domination over the other, an aggressive and meaningless fight.

“I’m obviously man enough to take the initiative to be responsible for the mistakes I make,” he bit back. “And don’t think for one miniscule moment that I’m going to waste any more precious time on a snarky bitch like yourself. I actually have some respect for myself, believe it or not.”

He clambered up, brushing away the fibres from the mat that clung to his shorts, brushing away all visual and material reminders that could be associated with this place. If only memories were as easily disposed of.

“And by the way...you were terrible.”

Without a second glance at the elegant timber and no regard for the exclamations of protest, Sam stepped out onto the garden path and made his way towards the pavement. A smug smirk played across his face as he stepped, head held high and victorious. But it was only a matter of time before he fell victim to the resurfacing feelings of melancholy as he was faced with that long lonesome trek back home.

What a waste.