Fanfiction, Oneshots, And Random Shit ( Basically An Idea Dump)

'I Love You'- a boyf riends fic

Michael stumbles through the dark, his body feeling as though it weighed a ton and his legs feeling as though they were made of lead. His head pounds and his ears ring and his vision swims in and out of focus, switching from a fuzzy grey blur of distorted images one second and a dizzying kaleidoscope of multi-coloured patches the other. His chest burns, as though someone had tied a rope to one of his ribs and had yanked exceptionally hard.

He tries to resist the tugging, but apparently the person– Or whatever that's pulling on this invisible rope– had other ideas. After a particularly painful jerk of the road that left his third left rib feeling as though it was on fire, he lurches forward, gasping in pain. He manages to stagger a few steps before he grasps the cold metal of a wrought-iron fence of a house that belonged to someone who he didn't know and leans heavily on it. He squints at the house, trying to focus on it. Something about it seems familiar.

Maybe I've been here before, it's just the house I don't recognise– A jarring spike of pain lances through his brain, shattering his train of thought. Part of him ('A slightly delirious part,' he mumbles to himself, a feverish assurance to himself that, surely the rest of his brain was sane) feels saddened by this.

Now that particular train's never gonna reach the terminus, he thinks madly.

He holds fast to the wrought-iron fence, as if it was the only thing that's keeping him tethered to the real world in the fast-flowing currents of delirium. What's... happening? What's going on in my head? Why is this happening? Answerless questions barrage him like vengeful hail from the heavens. Drunkenly he flings a listless arm out towards the sky and shouts, 'I'm atheist, stupid! Stop punishing me!'

Bad move.

Not only does the sky ignore him, the action also brings with it a wave of overwhelming nausea. He resists the urge to throw up onto the pavement as it seized him. He retches, he dry-heaves, he chokes out an apology to God. But he does not throw up. He tries to walk a little bit more, before the nausea arrests him again. He bashes his head against the fence. It hurts. His clammy hands grasp a metal bar, and he holds on. He retches again, and lets out a little sob, a hand on his throat. It was as if something– or someone, the lump in his oesophagus felt so large it could be a person– was trying to force its way up his digestive tract.

He looks up in an effort not to vomit. The moon stares back impassively, its stony face unyielding in its dull glow, coating the luxurious, sprawling mansion ('So that's what the fence was surrounding,' he murmurs softly) in a sheen of liquid silver. Outside the mansion is the gravel path on which he is currently struggling to keep from up-ending the contents of his stomach. He wobbles, the pebbles crunching under his unsteady feet. Beyond that is an empty expense of land that seems to go on and on for miles–

Wait. He blinks, and takes his glasses off to rub at his eyes. He slams them back on to his face and looks again. The land is... decidedly not empty. Dense rows of wheat crops populate the once empty lot of land. He blinks again. The plants are still there.

'Yep, not empty,' He croaks.

If he squinted, he could see the silvery tops of trees lining the end of the field. He smiles a little bit. They look like spiderwebs, he thinks, soft and spun like smooth silk. Or maybe dust. Or icing sugar. Yes, icing sugar, that's it. Satisfied, he nods to himself.

'Icing sugar,' he says aloud. His skin's tingling, as if someone's sticking little pins all over him, like he was a model at a supernatural fitting. It feels uncomfortable and it hurts in some places (he begs to the transcendent tailor to stop sticking pins in his scrotum because it feels weird), but he doesn't care.