Chasing Cars

Hello and welcome!  First of all, this story contains gay love. If you aren't okay with it then there's the metaphorical door. Normally I write more dialogue and focus more on keeping the story moving (or just the plot)  than I do descriptions, thoughts or feelings. I decided that through this story I could practice those things. This story (or should I say chapter) is inspired by the song 'Chasing Cars' by Snow Patrol. If you haven't heard it I suggest you give it a listen. I don't plan on writing more on these two individuals than what you see here but if it does well or if I feel it deserves more I will add to it. Happy reading!

- Blue

The tap squeaks shut and the water abruptly stops its descent. The last of the water droplets swirl around in the sink like dancers on ice before disappearing into the dark drain below.  The grey towel comes up to his face, its contents brushing across his face softly and effectively. He savours the feeling of the comfortable blades of fuzz on his face before tossing the towel to the side and looking out the window.

Nothing could be seen outside the window for the wall of blackness blanketed the usual things that could be viewed during the day. The usual being the cloudy vinyl trim of the neighbouring house. Of course, when he peered far enough over the edge of his windowsill he could make out the frostbitten grass that was days away from turning yellow and the occasional squirrel that would race past as if hell was on its heels. 

2:46 am the digital microwave kindly reminds him as he shuffles around to face his empty home. The television projects the littlest amount of light, bathing the bone colour furniture - specifically his couch - in constant changing colours. The speakers softly emit the sounds of a soap opera movie he couldn't remember the name of and frankly, didn't want to.

The sounds of the hushed soap opera and the furnace creaking fill his three-bedroom home, though they tried to push away at the deafening silence; to sweep it under the rug like all his problems, they couldn't. It is far too quiet, the neighbourhood's dog haven given up on barking at the same tree hours ago, and the roads of the outside suburbs lay bare and oh so silent.

He hates it. Hates listening to the sound of a singular pair of lungs filling his desolate house. For if the deafening silence could kill, Blake would already be dead.

He pushes himself up and onto the empty counter space next to his sink and uncomfortably rests his head against one of the porcelain cupboards, mindful of the jutted out black handle he had banged his head upon many times before.

Blake's phone rests on the countertop of the kitchen island, its black face staring upward at the only set of lights on inside the house. It had been placed there as he had made a mad dash for the sink before brutally throwing up his insides. Maybe it occurred from something he ate or from the serious lack thereof.

Blake stares at the phone, hating what he is doing. He wishes he could go back to bed, to fall asleep under the warm silk covers. Yet he couldn't, for Austen always called, and for him... he would wait.

Admittedly he is tired. Tired from last night's call, from his five-kilometre run, the two-hour hockey practice he was almost late for and the hours of digitally designing an advert for toilet paper. Though he doubts he'd sleep with the knowledge that Austen, who residents himself thousands of kilometres away, would call.

2:50 am the microwave promptly reports. Blake would be forced out of his house in three hours to drive to the rink. And another hour from then, he'd be tying up his laces to endure yet another tiring practice. His teammates would slap him on the back ask him how his night went, how'd he slept, what'd he ate before skating off and leaving him be. For the last two, he would have to lie but for the first, if Austen did call - which he always did - he could happily declare that it had been a wonderful night.