When It Happens, You Feel No Pain

1

When It Happens, You Feel No Pain

Hiddenbehindthebook

Summary:

"But it's these moments, let me tell you: when it's one am and you lay pleasing yourself, and as you're about to reach your climax, your fingers search desperately in the sheets, scrambling for the warmth and comfort of another's hand, but it remains empty.

It is in these moments that we feel so, utterly alone."

Notes:

Sooooooo I know I said I would update Who We Were, but I got a little sidetracked with this idea, and This Is The Fear is on random updates...

Long story short, I'm starting a new project! WWW and TITF are NOT over and will be continued soon (hopefully).

Please enjoy a lil' bit of Scomiche!

(Also, first chapter's a little PG-13 but it mellows out soon)

 

     What an asshole, he thought, violently pulling Kirstie's car from its parking spot. She was still in there and he was a little tipsy, but he was so angry. He wasn't opposed to one night stands; quite the opposite, really. But god, you don't just DO that.

He blew on his now sweaty bangs, getting them out of his face. His night was going fine. Attractive men and alcohol, the perfect combination. But no. Mister "Ramone" just had to make a guest appearance. He could picture him now.

"Hey, handsome," he'd said, scanning him up and down while he shifted uncomfortably. "What's your name?"

"Mitch," he said, resting against the bar and fixing his hair. He dropped his gaze to his shoes when he met aggressive eyes. "And you?"

Here's where things went downhill.

"Ramone," he slurred, rolling the "r" softly. He walked forwards, pressing him against the bar with his body. "But you can call me daddy,"

Ramone stumbled back when Mitch pushed him off of him, but quickly recovered and stepped right back to where he had been, pressing himself against Mitch's leg. You see, that was a bit too forward, even for somebody like himself. He liked confident, but he did NOT like abraisive. And most definitely not from this douchebag.

"Hey, babe, buy me dinner first." he tried to laugh it off, struggling against the taller man, who was currently rocking his body against Mitch's. Nobody even looked twice at them. This was a club. "Okay, off. Now. I have standards, and apparently you don't fit them."

"Whores don't get standards," he whispered in his ear, harshly, pinning his arms behind him.

"We're done here," he spoke angrily, ripping himself from Ramone's embrace and pushing himself over and behind the bar.

Ramone snarled. Yes, SNARLED at him, but stalked off to find some new prey. Mitch was fuming, to say the least. The bartender (who he'd expected to yell at him) reached a hand to help him off of the ground. He had warm brown eyes and his long brown hair touched his shoulders. He looked concerned.

"Are you okay? Sorry man, I didn't realize you wanted help," he scrambled. The man searched his face for any sign of emotion, but found only anger.

"I'm fine, sorry for the trouble. If you could-" he motioned to the bar door, silently asking him to open it, "I'll just be on my way."

And with that, he had stormed from the club, and now, as he walks through the door into his apartment, the anger he had felt begins to turn to sadness as it usually does.

No boy, no friends, no liquor. A night successfully ruined.

He could go find another boy, perhaps.

It's so much easier to just stay here and take care of myself, though.

But it's these moments, let me tell you: when it's one am and you lay pleasing yourself, and as you're about to reach your climax, your fingers search desperately in the sheets, scrambling for the warmth and comfort of another's hand, and it remains empty.

It is in these moments that we feel so, utterly alone.

And then they invented places like clubs.

And now we seek comfort in the bottom of a glass, and warmth in aggressive hands.