http://dustyirish2003.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
dustyirish2003.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ficinabottle2005-01-01 03:36 pm
dustyirish2003.livejournal.com) wrote in ficinabottle2005-01-01 03:36 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: Interlude Pt. 5:Dream a Little Dream(9th in Charlie/Hurley series)Charlie/Hurley,Sawyer/Sayid-R
Title: Interlude, Pt. 5: Dream a Little Dream-(9th in Charlie/Hurley series)
Author: Jen
Pairing: Charlie/Hurley, Sawyer/Sayid
Rating: R for language and m/m, some medical squick
Summary: Dreams lead to confusion, realizations, and just plain ol' weirdness
Warnings: None except language and m/m, some medical squick. Tons of angst.
Disclaimer: ABC owns Lost, I'm making absolutely no profit from this insanity
Feedback: Would absolutely adore it : )
A/N: Once again, my apologies for the long delay in this series- I think things are slowly getting back to normal, and there shouldn't be any more gaps as long as this one between chapters. Heaps of thanks to everyone for sticking with me! : ) Charlie's the only one without a dream in this part, but that's only because sapphirewoman wrote it much better than I ever could have (that's your cue to post, dear *g*). Not only does she write kick-ass fics, she's been absolutely indispensable in helping with ideas and giving much needed support. *hugs and endless thanks, my friend! This one's for you- never would've happened without ya.* : ) - Jen
Sawyer wasn't awake and wasn't truly asleep, seemed to be floating someplace in between. He'd dropped a hit of acid once back in his misspent youth, and the effect was much like this. Colors were too bright and *skewed* somehow, just a little bit off from the norm. He felt detached from reality, almost in a dream-like state. Only the unrelenting agony told him that this was all too real.
He forced his thoughts away from the pain, focusing instead on the man sitting beside him. Each time that he drifted back into awareness, Sayid was right there, peering intently at him with those dark, unreadable eyes.
Sayid had kissed him. Un-fuckin'-believable. Sawyer kept trying to convince himself that it had all been a delusion brought on by his injuries and the fever that was now wracking his body, but he knew it had not been his imagination. One moment Sayid had been choking the life out of him and the next he'd appeared to be trying to suck his tongue out of his mouth.
And the feeling it had brought to Sawyer could only be described as beautiful.
Sayid smelled of woodsmoke and spice. But he tasted just as Sawyer had known he would. Like apples.
"Fuckin' piece of fruit.", Sawyer mumbled, startling Sayid quite badly. He'd been deep in his own thoughts and now hurried to tend to his duties.
"Why'd ya have to go an' do that? Couldn't leave well enough 'lone, fuck no.", Sawyer babbled on.
Sayid bathed his forehead with a cool cloth and tried to hush him, thinking that the fever was causing the strange talk. But no; Sawyer was looking straight at him, actually seeing him, despite the pain. These weren't the words of delirium. "Do what, Sawyer?", he asked gently, smiling a little when Sawyer impatiently batted his hand away, refusing to be babied even now.
"Why'd you give me the apple, shithead?", he spit out, a little more clearly.
Understanding finally dawned on Sayid's face. He sighed and spoke quietly. "Because hate will do neither of us any good."
Sawyer managed a weak, wry smirk. "Only hated ya cuz I couldn't let myself do anything else, Abdul. Been through that once, never again, hurt too fuckin' bad.", Sawyer murmured, lost in his own memories, his pain loosening his tongue. Besides, what did it matter now? He wasn't going to live to see the sun come up; if there was ever a time for honesty, this was it. At least he'd have the satisfaction of surprising the shit out of Sayid one more time before he croaked.
"Sawyer, I...", Sayid started, voice cracking, unsure of what he was going to say. It seemed like he had spent a lifetime trying to find reasons to dislike the man lying beside him. Only now, when it was too late, did it seem safe to feel something else.
Sawyer shook his head weakly. "Don't. Don't say nothin'. Talk is cheap, Falafel." Sawyer's voice was flat, indifferent, but his eyes told another story. Sayid saw his own roiling, confused emotions echoed in them. "Hand me a smoke."
Sayid scowled, but pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack in Sawyer's shirt pocket, putting it in his own mouth and lighting it, trying not to choke on the acrid smoke. He put it to Sawyer's lips, holding it for him while he took a drag. Sawyer's face looked almost serene for a moment, then he started hacking wetly, his face turning an alarming shade of purple.
Sayid threw the cigarette to the ground as he bent over Sawyer and tried to soothe him. He was curled into a fetal position, the coughing sending him into unimaginable spasms of pain. Fine droplets of blood sprayed from his lips as he gasped for breath. Without a second thought, Sayid scooted around and took Sawyer's head into his lap, gently smoothing his hair back, finding himself near tears, not even attempting to stop them.
"Shit, always said those things'd kill me.", Sawyer muttered, then passed out again, Sayid's calming fingers still threading through his hair.
Instead of crushing out the cast-off cigarette, Sayid bent and picked it up, smoking it with a trembling hand. It had been a long time since he'd indulged, and the fumes burned unpleasantly in his lungs. But the taste was pure Sawyer, and right now that was exactly what he needed.
*****************************************************************************************
Hurley and Charlie heard the commotion and went to see what was going on, a little frightened of what they might find once they got there.
Hurley took in the odd scene; Sawyer, deathly pale and unmoving, the unnatural shine in Sayid's eyes as he tenderly cradled Sawyer's head in his lap. "Dude, is he..."
Sayid shook his head, but didn't take his eyes off of Sawyer.
"Need us to do anything, Sayid?", Charlie asked quietly.
"No, thank you. We can do nothing but wait now." Sayid's voice was low and defeated.
Hurley felt a kind of helpless anger wash over him. It wasn't right- he didn't exactly like Sawyer, but that didn't mean he wanted him to lie there in agony, drowning in his own blood. Nobody deserved that. Once again, it hit him how easily it could have been Charlie in Sawyer's place, and a sick, fainting feeling overtook him. He put his arm around Charlie and Charlie leaned against him, giving him a reassuring little hug, obviously sensing his distress.
They stood like that, not speaking, for a few minutes till Charlie gently tugged on his hand. "C'mon, mate, we should let them be."
They made their way back into their own room of the cave. Charlie busied himself with nighttime preparations while Hurley just stood still, staring off into space, looking glum and a little bewildered over their current circumstance. He shook his head a little, wincing at the stiffness of his neck, and Charlie came to him.
"You alright, Hurley?" Charlie gazed at his pasty, clammy face with concern and pressed the back of his hand to Hurley's forehead, frowning when it felt a bit warm to him.
"Sure, fine. Just a little tired, man."
Charlie sighed, then dismissed the warmth as only his imagination. "Yeah, it's been a long day.", he said quietly, lying down on a blanket by the fire, mindful of his sore leg. He looked up to Hurley and smiled wanly, patting the bed. "C'mere, mate, let's try to sleep, what do you say?"
Hurley was sleepy, exhausted really, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to doze off. His lower back throbbed dully, probably from hauling Sawyer around, and he was getting the beginnings of a nasty headache. But he smiled back and lay down next to Charlie, a warm glow flowing through his body when Charlie snuggled against him.
"He's going to die, isn't he Charlie?", Hurley asked softly.
Charlie shook his head slowly and spoke in a remarkably assured voice. "Nope. Don't think he is."
Hurley sat up a little in surprise, jostling Charlie. "But...how can you say that?? Dude, he's fucked up. Majorly. He's bleedin' on the inside- even I know nobody can fix that, at least nobody here. How can you say no?"
Charlie smiled slightly. "Because Sayid won't allow it."
Hurley frowned. "Don't think he exactly has any choice in the matter, man. Charlie...he was *holding* him." Out off all the weird shit that had happened over the last 24 hours, this was the thing that was baffling Hurley the most. Seeing mean, cranky Sawyer nestled in a normally stoic, emotionless Sayid's arms had been somewhat like walking in and seeing Mother Teresa shacked up with Rasputin. It just didn't jibe.
Charlie laughed a little at the wonderment in Hurley's voice. "Yeah, you tend to do that sort of thing when you love someone, Hurley."
This time Hurley sat up all the way, knocking Charlie right off in his shock. "Love??", he gasped. "Dude, are you *high*??"
Charlie sat up too, laughing harder when Hurley started sputtering apologies over his slip of the tongue. "Oh man, I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry..."
Even in the dim firelight, Charlie could see him blushing. "Don't worry about it, mate, 'm not that bloody sensitive." He grinned and settled back down in the blankets, pulling Hurley with him, getting cozy again. "And no, 'm not stoned, just stating a fact. Sayid loves him."
"But...how...", Hurley stuttered.
"And you know what?", Charlie asked, elbowing him playfully in the ribs. "Sawyer loves him right back."
Now, that *was* too much- Charlie had to be fucking with him. "Well, of course he does.", Hurley said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "That was perfectly obvious when he was strangling the crap out of him. Nothin' says love like a good clothesline to the neck."
Charlie giggled a little, then sobered. "Yeah, but he does. *They* do. It's just that neither of them can bring themselves to admit it. Sometimes it just hurts too much to be honest."
A lump formed in Hurley's throat. "Yeah. And now they're never gonna get the chance."
Hurley wrapped his arms around Charlie, thanking God that he still had him to hold.
*****************************************************************************************
Sayid jerked upright, covered in sweat, the last remnants of the odd dream he had been having falling away.
No, that was not right; it had not been only a dream. It had also been a memory- although the conversation between himself and Locke had only taken place a few days before, Sayid had somehow managed to completely forget the entire thing until this very moment. It was as if he had been suffering from a very selective sort of amnesia, and only through sleep had the clouds in his mind had finally cleared.
He shook off the strange remembrance and went to Sawyer, laying a hand on his head, cringing as he felt the waves off heat rolling off of him. Sawyer moaned and shifted a little. Then, as Sayid watched in horror, he weakly turned his head to the side and retched. Bright red.
The sight of the blood hit Sayid like a punch to the gut. It all became real in that instant. This was not going to go away; Sawyer wasn't going to wake up tomorrow on the mend, revert back to his old nasty self. He wasn't going to get better. He was going to die, and not in any fairy tale way. He would lie in agony for hours, while the life drained from him. Sayid couldn't watch a dog suffer like that, let alone the man that he, against all odds, had come to deeply care for.
In admitting his feelings to himself, Sayid finally found the courage to do what he had, in his heart, known it would come to all along.
Sawyer had remained unconscious, even through the vomiting, and Sayid wiped the blood from his face tenderly, then bent and kissed his lips, whispering against them. "Forgive me for not doing it sooner, my friend."
Yet even as he positioned the knife to Sawyer's throat, the dream wouldn't let him out of it's grip. His hand shook, Locke's voice ringing in his ear as if the man was standing directly over him. "Don't be a fool Sayid; he has a chance, if you'd only let go of your fear long enough to take it."
Sayid pushed the insistent voice away and steeled himself to make a quick, clean swipe with the blade, but instead found it dropping from his hand, clattering to the ground.
He stumbled from the cave and ran far into the trees, finally making his way to the edge of a steep cliff, Locke's eerie dream-words staying with him the whole while.
'This island is magical. It will give us what we need, if we are only brave enough to make the sacrifice.'
What Sayid was about to do was insanity- dangerous, superstitious nonsense, a notion created in the mind of a traumatized, delusional old man.
And something Sayid suddenly believed with all of his soul.
He unzipped his pack and pulled the two radios from the bottom. He held them over the drop, then closed his eyes and let go. There would be other chances for rescue, hope was not lost. He would find another way. The wind whipped up fiercely, suddenly, as if the island was laughing. Sayid spoke, the words swallowed by the darkness.
"I have done my part. Now give me what is mine."
**************************************************************************************
Long after Charlie had drifted off Hurley was still lying on the precipice of sleep, the aches in his body growing worse, not better as he thought they would with rest. He wished they had settled a little further from the fire; the small room was growing almost unbearably hot. A peacefully sleeping Charlie didn't seem in the least bothered by it, though. Hurley pushed the blanket off of himself and moved away from Charlie a bit, not wanting to let go of him, but desperately needing to cool down.
He'd been contemplating love ever since his and Charlie's discussion, and now his thoughts turned to his mother. Cancer had taken her when Hurley was sixteen, and her death had left a gaping hole in his heart. He had worshipped his mother, had hung on her every word. Especially her final ones- and it was those that haunted him now:
'You and I will never be loved, Hugo darling, not the way the beautiful people are loved. You're only hurting yourself to think otherwise. You must learn to be happy with what you can get, sugar.'
Caroline Reyes' feelings were perfectly understandable: She had been a sad woman, caught in a loveless marriage. Ever since Hurley could remember, his parents had fought like cats and dogs. His father had married his mother only because it had been the right thing to do, not because of any real affection. It had been his stupid, drunk misfortune to knock up a homely, overweight girl. Everybody believed Hurley was having them on when he pointed out his father; the two men were like night and day. Juan Reyes was slender, well-built, suavely handsome even in middle age. He had done what he had considered his duty towards little Hugo, had tried to do father-son things like camping and fishing, but in reality had always seemed surprised and confused by his unpopular, awkward, obese son. It was as if he could never quite understand how his seed had produced such a boy.
Around the age of five, Hurley had begun to realize a much more painful truth- his father was deeply ashamed of him. He began to notice that their outings together always took place where there was no one else around. When they had no choice but to be with other people, such as when they went to restaurants, Juan practiced distancing himself from his family. Hurley would look around at the other parents dining with their children and would see the looks they gave the little ones; tender, amused, sometimes even exasperated. But no matter what mischief the kids got up to, their parents' eyes were always shining with a fierce pride. He'd never once seen that look on his father's face, not even when he'd done 'good son' things like bringing home perfect report cards. After awhile, he'd given up even trying to win his father's affection, knowing it was an impossible undertaking.
Juan was still back in California, and Hurley had often wondered how on earth he might be taking his son's strange disappearance. He was undoubtedly acting properly grieved around others, but Hurley couldn't help but feel that the news of the crash, to his father, must've been somewhat of a blessing.
Thinking on all of this, Hurley finally slipped into sleep, his mother still with him, this time in dreams. She was beckoning to him from her long ago, cold, dingy hospital bed, her body wasted away to nothing, stomach cancer finally achieving what the many radical diets throughout her life could not.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
"Hugo, sweetie, come here and sit with your mom awhile." She might be dead, but her voice was still sweet, bringing to mind bedtime stories, laughter, and the only true happiness a sad little boy had ever known.
Hurley sat beside her on the bed, as he had many times during her long, cruel illness, taking her hand.
She looked up at him gravely. "You remember what I told you right before I left, angel? About love? Seems like you've forgotten, Hugo. That worries me."
"No, I didn't forget, of course I didn't. But...Ma... all that was before Charlie. This is different- he cares about me, I *know* he does.", Hurley told her, smiling at the mere thought despite the circumstances.
She shook her head sadly. "Baby, things aren't always the way they appear. Trust only yourself and you'll never go wrong. You can't count on anyone else in this life. No matter how well you may think you know someone."
"Mama, Charlie would never hurt me. Never! He's good...and nice." In his distress, he'd reverted back to almost childish talk.
"Perhaps he's *too* nice, darling, won't tell you the truth for fear of hurting you. Have you ever considered that?"
"What do you mean, Mama?", Hurley whispered, a cold feeling growing in his gut.
Her eyes shone with tears and she squeezed his hand gently, not answering his question, only speaking another cryptic message. "Sweetheart, don't make him live a lie; I learned that lesson with your father. I kept him from a life of happiness. It damaged both of us, and you, too. Don't make the same mistake that I did, Hugo..."
The dream morphed suddenly, and Hurley was seated in a noisy auditorium filled with people. It was obvious he was at a concert; he could hear the loud squeal of a microphone as a guitar tuned up. He glanced around, noticing with a dull bemusement that he knew everyone in the place. Classmates from over the years surrounded him, old teachers, coaches, acquaintances alive and dead. Hurley saw the dude that ran the comic book shop he used to frequent, the crabby, half-deaf old bat that used to live across the street from them as a boy, even his childhood priest. Oddest of all was his grandma, sitting three rows back, seemingly unfazed by the noise, serenely cross-stitching away. Hurley didn't see him yet, but he knew that Charlie had brought him here, proudly seating him in the front row.
The auditorium was stifling. Hurley was hot as hell, pouring sweat, and he felt strange, disconnected somehow. The squawk of the microphone was making his head throb and his muscles felt watery and weak. But none of that mattered- he was certain that something wonderful was about to happen, something he'd been waiting for his whole life. Something he'd not even dared to dream of till Charlie.
Real music started playing- a hard, catchy rhythm- and Hurley looked excitedly up to the stage. He realized, with a iron certainty that only dreams can bring, that Charlie's band, Driveshaft, were the ones performing tonight. Something seemed a little funky, however- he'd never seen Driveshaft in person, hadn't even heard of them before the island, but he was fairly certain that Locke, Sayid and Sawyer were not band members, as they appeared to be now. Sayid sat behind the drumset, banging away, hair loose and flying around his head. Locke strummed a guitar with abandon, rocking out to the music, really getting into it as an amused Hurley watched in wonder. And Sawyer had apparently taken over backup, was singing into a mic, hips swaying to the rhythm, no sign of the injuries that were, in reality, slowly killing him.
Ah, and there was Charlie, finally, standing center-stage, cradling his bass, belting out lyrics, sculpted naked chest gleaming with sweat, a bronzed god under the spotlight. Hurley had never seen him look so beautiful.
Charlie glanced up from the microphone, his eyes finding Hurley in the crowd. He smiled sweetly, a private, radiant smile, meant just for Hurley.
Hurley's heart was pounding. He was terrified of finally saying it aloud, admitting it. He'd come so close so many times, yet in the end always let the fear overtake him. He thought briefly of his mother's warning, but even that couldn't stop him now. The moment was just too perfect to let pass.
"I love you." He mouthed the words to Charlie, not realizing until he spoke them how very true they were. He loved Charlie with every breath in his body.
The music came to a sudden, jangling stop. Sayid paused in mid-beat, a look of surprise crossing his face, Locke's fingers froze on the guitar strings, and Sawyer stopped singing abruptly and smirked, rolling his eyes. The whole auditorium was dead silent for a moment, then erupted in rafter-shaking, malicious laughter.
Charlie grinned cheekily at Hurley, then shook his head in amusement. "Didja really think I'd give all of this up for *you*? Looked in a mirror lately, mate?"
As Charlie spoke, he was suddenly surrounded by beauty. A gorgeous, flat-bellied Claire appeared at his side, running a hand erotically over his chest, fingertip tracing a bare nipple. Jack stood behind him, one arm wrapped possessively around Charlie's stomach, face nuzzled against his neck, trailing kisses down his sensitive skin. Boone knelt before him, and as Hurley watched, he leaned forward and molded his lips sensuously around Charlie's denim-covered cock. Charlie moaned and his eyes closed in ecstasy, knees buckling. Shannon, on Charlie's other side, put her arms around his shoulders, holding him upright. Just like Hurley had done on the beach, when Charlie had been so sick and weak.
Only difference was, this time Charlie didn't pull away.
Instead, he leaned against Shannon for support as his fingers tangled into Boone's hair and his hips began rocking, pressing him harder against Boone's mouth. Charlie's eyes opened then, burning straight into Hurley's, words falling softly from his lips.
"Don't need you anymore, Hurley. Never really did."
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Hurley jerked awake, sweaty and disoriented, a scream caught in his throat. The true meaning of his mother's words crashed over him, practically drowning him in sorrow.
She had been right all along, and he had been an idiot not to realize it before now. Charlie was so sweet, a good-hearted guy, would never hurt anyone on purpose. He was staying with Hurley out of pity and kindness. And obligation. He thought he owed Hurley a debt, because Hurley had cared for him when he needed it, had been there for him. This was how he was repaying. It was nothing more than that, never had been; Hurley had been deluding himself all along. Charlie had never loved him, never *would* love him.
Hot tears fell from Hurley's eyes as he rose quietly from the blankets. He couldn't have Charlie waking now; he knew he wouldn't be able to go through with it if that happened. And he *had* to go through with it. He cared about Charlie far too much to hold him prisoner. Charlie deserved to be happy, shouldn't be saddled with a burden that he could never love. Even here on the island, there were people who would make much better partners for him. Maybe Claire; she was sweet, and Charlie would make a wonderful daddy for her baby. Or Jack. He was steady and intelligent, would keep Charlie safe, could protect him. And Jack was so handsome; no one would ever make fun of Charlie for being with him.
Hurley quickly gathered a few things together, then scribbled a note and laid it next to the bed. A wave of dizziness washed over him as he bent down, and he realized that the feelings of being strangely weak and feverish had not been just part of the dream. They were real; he was good and sick, felt like he was burning up. All the more reason to leave; the last thing Charlie needed was to catch something from him, he was already so thin and worn out from the withdrawal.
Hurley's thoughts seemed strange, also, kind of like he was floating in his own mind. The effect was something like he got when smoking a joint, detached and murky, but without the pleasant feeling that weed brought. Now, he only felt extremely unwell. And heartbroken.
As he settled the knapsack on his back he had a brief flash of lucidity in which he realized that maybe, just maybe, it was the illness causing all of his paranoia. That maybe if he just laid down in the blankets and went back to sleep, everything would be better in the morning. That he'd wake snuggled in comforting arms as a concerned Charlie gently bathed his fevered brow and whispered that he loved him.
But no; love wasn't meant for guys like him- Ma had been quite adamant about that fact, using her final breath to get the point across. And mothers always knew what was best for their boys. Hurley would've seen it himself long before now if he hadn't been so blinded by foolish fantasies of something that could never be.
'Don't make him live a lie.'
His mother's words echoed in his mind as he watched Charlie curled up in sleep, looking so sweet and innocent, so beautiful. Hurley couldn't resist kneeling down and kissing him one last time, lips brushing against his forehead tenderly.
"I love you, Charlie." Hurley mouthed the words against the darkness, where nobody could see to laugh. Then he got up and walked away.
tbc...
Author: Jen
Pairing: Charlie/Hurley, Sawyer/Sayid
Rating: R for language and m/m, some medical squick
Summary: Dreams lead to confusion, realizations, and just plain ol' weirdness
Warnings: None except language and m/m, some medical squick. Tons of angst.
Disclaimer: ABC owns Lost, I'm making absolutely no profit from this insanity
Feedback: Would absolutely adore it : )
A/N: Once again, my apologies for the long delay in this series- I think things are slowly getting back to normal, and there shouldn't be any more gaps as long as this one between chapters. Heaps of thanks to everyone for sticking with me! : ) Charlie's the only one without a dream in this part, but that's only because sapphirewoman wrote it much better than I ever could have (that's your cue to post, dear *g*). Not only does she write kick-ass fics, she's been absolutely indispensable in helping with ideas and giving much needed support. *hugs and endless thanks, my friend! This one's for you- never would've happened without ya.* : ) - Jen
Sawyer wasn't awake and wasn't truly asleep, seemed to be floating someplace in between. He'd dropped a hit of acid once back in his misspent youth, and the effect was much like this. Colors were too bright and *skewed* somehow, just a little bit off from the norm. He felt detached from reality, almost in a dream-like state. Only the unrelenting agony told him that this was all too real.
He forced his thoughts away from the pain, focusing instead on the man sitting beside him. Each time that he drifted back into awareness, Sayid was right there, peering intently at him with those dark, unreadable eyes.
Sayid had kissed him. Un-fuckin'-believable. Sawyer kept trying to convince himself that it had all been a delusion brought on by his injuries and the fever that was now wracking his body, but he knew it had not been his imagination. One moment Sayid had been choking the life out of him and the next he'd appeared to be trying to suck his tongue out of his mouth.
And the feeling it had brought to Sawyer could only be described as beautiful.
Sayid smelled of woodsmoke and spice. But he tasted just as Sawyer had known he would. Like apples.
"Fuckin' piece of fruit.", Sawyer mumbled, startling Sayid quite badly. He'd been deep in his own thoughts and now hurried to tend to his duties.
"Why'd ya have to go an' do that? Couldn't leave well enough 'lone, fuck no.", Sawyer babbled on.
Sayid bathed his forehead with a cool cloth and tried to hush him, thinking that the fever was causing the strange talk. But no; Sawyer was looking straight at him, actually seeing him, despite the pain. These weren't the words of delirium. "Do what, Sawyer?", he asked gently, smiling a little when Sawyer impatiently batted his hand away, refusing to be babied even now.
"Why'd you give me the apple, shithead?", he spit out, a little more clearly.
Understanding finally dawned on Sayid's face. He sighed and spoke quietly. "Because hate will do neither of us any good."
Sawyer managed a weak, wry smirk. "Only hated ya cuz I couldn't let myself do anything else, Abdul. Been through that once, never again, hurt too fuckin' bad.", Sawyer murmured, lost in his own memories, his pain loosening his tongue. Besides, what did it matter now? He wasn't going to live to see the sun come up; if there was ever a time for honesty, this was it. At least he'd have the satisfaction of surprising the shit out of Sayid one more time before he croaked.
"Sawyer, I...", Sayid started, voice cracking, unsure of what he was going to say. It seemed like he had spent a lifetime trying to find reasons to dislike the man lying beside him. Only now, when it was too late, did it seem safe to feel something else.
Sawyer shook his head weakly. "Don't. Don't say nothin'. Talk is cheap, Falafel." Sawyer's voice was flat, indifferent, but his eyes told another story. Sayid saw his own roiling, confused emotions echoed in them. "Hand me a smoke."
Sayid scowled, but pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack in Sawyer's shirt pocket, putting it in his own mouth and lighting it, trying not to choke on the acrid smoke. He put it to Sawyer's lips, holding it for him while he took a drag. Sawyer's face looked almost serene for a moment, then he started hacking wetly, his face turning an alarming shade of purple.
Sayid threw the cigarette to the ground as he bent over Sawyer and tried to soothe him. He was curled into a fetal position, the coughing sending him into unimaginable spasms of pain. Fine droplets of blood sprayed from his lips as he gasped for breath. Without a second thought, Sayid scooted around and took Sawyer's head into his lap, gently smoothing his hair back, finding himself near tears, not even attempting to stop them.
"Shit, always said those things'd kill me.", Sawyer muttered, then passed out again, Sayid's calming fingers still threading through his hair.
Instead of crushing out the cast-off cigarette, Sayid bent and picked it up, smoking it with a trembling hand. It had been a long time since he'd indulged, and the fumes burned unpleasantly in his lungs. But the taste was pure Sawyer, and right now that was exactly what he needed.
*****************************************************************************************
Hurley and Charlie heard the commotion and went to see what was going on, a little frightened of what they might find once they got there.
Hurley took in the odd scene; Sawyer, deathly pale and unmoving, the unnatural shine in Sayid's eyes as he tenderly cradled Sawyer's head in his lap. "Dude, is he..."
Sayid shook his head, but didn't take his eyes off of Sawyer.
"Need us to do anything, Sayid?", Charlie asked quietly.
"No, thank you. We can do nothing but wait now." Sayid's voice was low and defeated.
Hurley felt a kind of helpless anger wash over him. It wasn't right- he didn't exactly like Sawyer, but that didn't mean he wanted him to lie there in agony, drowning in his own blood. Nobody deserved that. Once again, it hit him how easily it could have been Charlie in Sawyer's place, and a sick, fainting feeling overtook him. He put his arm around Charlie and Charlie leaned against him, giving him a reassuring little hug, obviously sensing his distress.
They stood like that, not speaking, for a few minutes till Charlie gently tugged on his hand. "C'mon, mate, we should let them be."
They made their way back into their own room of the cave. Charlie busied himself with nighttime preparations while Hurley just stood still, staring off into space, looking glum and a little bewildered over their current circumstance. He shook his head a little, wincing at the stiffness of his neck, and Charlie came to him.
"You alright, Hurley?" Charlie gazed at his pasty, clammy face with concern and pressed the back of his hand to Hurley's forehead, frowning when it felt a bit warm to him.
"Sure, fine. Just a little tired, man."
Charlie sighed, then dismissed the warmth as only his imagination. "Yeah, it's been a long day.", he said quietly, lying down on a blanket by the fire, mindful of his sore leg. He looked up to Hurley and smiled wanly, patting the bed. "C'mere, mate, let's try to sleep, what do you say?"
Hurley was sleepy, exhausted really, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to doze off. His lower back throbbed dully, probably from hauling Sawyer around, and he was getting the beginnings of a nasty headache. But he smiled back and lay down next to Charlie, a warm glow flowing through his body when Charlie snuggled against him.
"He's going to die, isn't he Charlie?", Hurley asked softly.
Charlie shook his head slowly and spoke in a remarkably assured voice. "Nope. Don't think he is."
Hurley sat up a little in surprise, jostling Charlie. "But...how can you say that?? Dude, he's fucked up. Majorly. He's bleedin' on the inside- even I know nobody can fix that, at least nobody here. How can you say no?"
Charlie smiled slightly. "Because Sayid won't allow it."
Hurley frowned. "Don't think he exactly has any choice in the matter, man. Charlie...he was *holding* him." Out off all the weird shit that had happened over the last 24 hours, this was the thing that was baffling Hurley the most. Seeing mean, cranky Sawyer nestled in a normally stoic, emotionless Sayid's arms had been somewhat like walking in and seeing Mother Teresa shacked up with Rasputin. It just didn't jibe.
Charlie laughed a little at the wonderment in Hurley's voice. "Yeah, you tend to do that sort of thing when you love someone, Hurley."
This time Hurley sat up all the way, knocking Charlie right off in his shock. "Love??", he gasped. "Dude, are you *high*??"
Charlie sat up too, laughing harder when Hurley started sputtering apologies over his slip of the tongue. "Oh man, I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry..."
Even in the dim firelight, Charlie could see him blushing. "Don't worry about it, mate, 'm not that bloody sensitive." He grinned and settled back down in the blankets, pulling Hurley with him, getting cozy again. "And no, 'm not stoned, just stating a fact. Sayid loves him."
"But...how...", Hurley stuttered.
"And you know what?", Charlie asked, elbowing him playfully in the ribs. "Sawyer loves him right back."
Now, that *was* too much- Charlie had to be fucking with him. "Well, of course he does.", Hurley said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "That was perfectly obvious when he was strangling the crap out of him. Nothin' says love like a good clothesline to the neck."
Charlie giggled a little, then sobered. "Yeah, but he does. *They* do. It's just that neither of them can bring themselves to admit it. Sometimes it just hurts too much to be honest."
A lump formed in Hurley's throat. "Yeah. And now they're never gonna get the chance."
Hurley wrapped his arms around Charlie, thanking God that he still had him to hold.
*****************************************************************************************
Sayid jerked upright, covered in sweat, the last remnants of the odd dream he had been having falling away.
No, that was not right; it had not been only a dream. It had also been a memory- although the conversation between himself and Locke had only taken place a few days before, Sayid had somehow managed to completely forget the entire thing until this very moment. It was as if he had been suffering from a very selective sort of amnesia, and only through sleep had the clouds in his mind had finally cleared.
He shook off the strange remembrance and went to Sawyer, laying a hand on his head, cringing as he felt the waves off heat rolling off of him. Sawyer moaned and shifted a little. Then, as Sayid watched in horror, he weakly turned his head to the side and retched. Bright red.
The sight of the blood hit Sayid like a punch to the gut. It all became real in that instant. This was not going to go away; Sawyer wasn't going to wake up tomorrow on the mend, revert back to his old nasty self. He wasn't going to get better. He was going to die, and not in any fairy tale way. He would lie in agony for hours, while the life drained from him. Sayid couldn't watch a dog suffer like that, let alone the man that he, against all odds, had come to deeply care for.
In admitting his feelings to himself, Sayid finally found the courage to do what he had, in his heart, known it would come to all along.
Sawyer had remained unconscious, even through the vomiting, and Sayid wiped the blood from his face tenderly, then bent and kissed his lips, whispering against them. "Forgive me for not doing it sooner, my friend."
Yet even as he positioned the knife to Sawyer's throat, the dream wouldn't let him out of it's grip. His hand shook, Locke's voice ringing in his ear as if the man was standing directly over him. "Don't be a fool Sayid; he has a chance, if you'd only let go of your fear long enough to take it."
Sayid pushed the insistent voice away and steeled himself to make a quick, clean swipe with the blade, but instead found it dropping from his hand, clattering to the ground.
He stumbled from the cave and ran far into the trees, finally making his way to the edge of a steep cliff, Locke's eerie dream-words staying with him the whole while.
'This island is magical. It will give us what we need, if we are only brave enough to make the sacrifice.'
What Sayid was about to do was insanity- dangerous, superstitious nonsense, a notion created in the mind of a traumatized, delusional old man.
And something Sayid suddenly believed with all of his soul.
He unzipped his pack and pulled the two radios from the bottom. He held them over the drop, then closed his eyes and let go. There would be other chances for rescue, hope was not lost. He would find another way. The wind whipped up fiercely, suddenly, as if the island was laughing. Sayid spoke, the words swallowed by the darkness.
"I have done my part. Now give me what is mine."
**************************************************************************************
Long after Charlie had drifted off Hurley was still lying on the precipice of sleep, the aches in his body growing worse, not better as he thought they would with rest. He wished they had settled a little further from the fire; the small room was growing almost unbearably hot. A peacefully sleeping Charlie didn't seem in the least bothered by it, though. Hurley pushed the blanket off of himself and moved away from Charlie a bit, not wanting to let go of him, but desperately needing to cool down.
He'd been contemplating love ever since his and Charlie's discussion, and now his thoughts turned to his mother. Cancer had taken her when Hurley was sixteen, and her death had left a gaping hole in his heart. He had worshipped his mother, had hung on her every word. Especially her final ones- and it was those that haunted him now:
'You and I will never be loved, Hugo darling, not the way the beautiful people are loved. You're only hurting yourself to think otherwise. You must learn to be happy with what you can get, sugar.'
Caroline Reyes' feelings were perfectly understandable: She had been a sad woman, caught in a loveless marriage. Ever since Hurley could remember, his parents had fought like cats and dogs. His father had married his mother only because it had been the right thing to do, not because of any real affection. It had been his stupid, drunk misfortune to knock up a homely, overweight girl. Everybody believed Hurley was having them on when he pointed out his father; the two men were like night and day. Juan Reyes was slender, well-built, suavely handsome even in middle age. He had done what he had considered his duty towards little Hugo, had tried to do father-son things like camping and fishing, but in reality had always seemed surprised and confused by his unpopular, awkward, obese son. It was as if he could never quite understand how his seed had produced such a boy.
Around the age of five, Hurley had begun to realize a much more painful truth- his father was deeply ashamed of him. He began to notice that their outings together always took place where there was no one else around. When they had no choice but to be with other people, such as when they went to restaurants, Juan practiced distancing himself from his family. Hurley would look around at the other parents dining with their children and would see the looks they gave the little ones; tender, amused, sometimes even exasperated. But no matter what mischief the kids got up to, their parents' eyes were always shining with a fierce pride. He'd never once seen that look on his father's face, not even when he'd done 'good son' things like bringing home perfect report cards. After awhile, he'd given up even trying to win his father's affection, knowing it was an impossible undertaking.
Juan was still back in California, and Hurley had often wondered how on earth he might be taking his son's strange disappearance. He was undoubtedly acting properly grieved around others, but Hurley couldn't help but feel that the news of the crash, to his father, must've been somewhat of a blessing.
Thinking on all of this, Hurley finally slipped into sleep, his mother still with him, this time in dreams. She was beckoning to him from her long ago, cold, dingy hospital bed, her body wasted away to nothing, stomach cancer finally achieving what the many radical diets throughout her life could not.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
"Hugo, sweetie, come here and sit with your mom awhile." She might be dead, but her voice was still sweet, bringing to mind bedtime stories, laughter, and the only true happiness a sad little boy had ever known.
Hurley sat beside her on the bed, as he had many times during her long, cruel illness, taking her hand.
She looked up at him gravely. "You remember what I told you right before I left, angel? About love? Seems like you've forgotten, Hugo. That worries me."
"No, I didn't forget, of course I didn't. But...Ma... all that was before Charlie. This is different- he cares about me, I *know* he does.", Hurley told her, smiling at the mere thought despite the circumstances.
She shook her head sadly. "Baby, things aren't always the way they appear. Trust only yourself and you'll never go wrong. You can't count on anyone else in this life. No matter how well you may think you know someone."
"Mama, Charlie would never hurt me. Never! He's good...and nice." In his distress, he'd reverted back to almost childish talk.
"Perhaps he's *too* nice, darling, won't tell you the truth for fear of hurting you. Have you ever considered that?"
"What do you mean, Mama?", Hurley whispered, a cold feeling growing in his gut.
Her eyes shone with tears and she squeezed his hand gently, not answering his question, only speaking another cryptic message. "Sweetheart, don't make him live a lie; I learned that lesson with your father. I kept him from a life of happiness. It damaged both of us, and you, too. Don't make the same mistake that I did, Hugo..."
The dream morphed suddenly, and Hurley was seated in a noisy auditorium filled with people. It was obvious he was at a concert; he could hear the loud squeal of a microphone as a guitar tuned up. He glanced around, noticing with a dull bemusement that he knew everyone in the place. Classmates from over the years surrounded him, old teachers, coaches, acquaintances alive and dead. Hurley saw the dude that ran the comic book shop he used to frequent, the crabby, half-deaf old bat that used to live across the street from them as a boy, even his childhood priest. Oddest of all was his grandma, sitting three rows back, seemingly unfazed by the noise, serenely cross-stitching away. Hurley didn't see him yet, but he knew that Charlie had brought him here, proudly seating him in the front row.
The auditorium was stifling. Hurley was hot as hell, pouring sweat, and he felt strange, disconnected somehow. The squawk of the microphone was making his head throb and his muscles felt watery and weak. But none of that mattered- he was certain that something wonderful was about to happen, something he'd been waiting for his whole life. Something he'd not even dared to dream of till Charlie.
Real music started playing- a hard, catchy rhythm- and Hurley looked excitedly up to the stage. He realized, with a iron certainty that only dreams can bring, that Charlie's band, Driveshaft, were the ones performing tonight. Something seemed a little funky, however- he'd never seen Driveshaft in person, hadn't even heard of them before the island, but he was fairly certain that Locke, Sayid and Sawyer were not band members, as they appeared to be now. Sayid sat behind the drumset, banging away, hair loose and flying around his head. Locke strummed a guitar with abandon, rocking out to the music, really getting into it as an amused Hurley watched in wonder. And Sawyer had apparently taken over backup, was singing into a mic, hips swaying to the rhythm, no sign of the injuries that were, in reality, slowly killing him.
Ah, and there was Charlie, finally, standing center-stage, cradling his bass, belting out lyrics, sculpted naked chest gleaming with sweat, a bronzed god under the spotlight. Hurley had never seen him look so beautiful.
Charlie glanced up from the microphone, his eyes finding Hurley in the crowd. He smiled sweetly, a private, radiant smile, meant just for Hurley.
Hurley's heart was pounding. He was terrified of finally saying it aloud, admitting it. He'd come so close so many times, yet in the end always let the fear overtake him. He thought briefly of his mother's warning, but even that couldn't stop him now. The moment was just too perfect to let pass.
"I love you." He mouthed the words to Charlie, not realizing until he spoke them how very true they were. He loved Charlie with every breath in his body.
The music came to a sudden, jangling stop. Sayid paused in mid-beat, a look of surprise crossing his face, Locke's fingers froze on the guitar strings, and Sawyer stopped singing abruptly and smirked, rolling his eyes. The whole auditorium was dead silent for a moment, then erupted in rafter-shaking, malicious laughter.
Charlie grinned cheekily at Hurley, then shook his head in amusement. "Didja really think I'd give all of this up for *you*? Looked in a mirror lately, mate?"
As Charlie spoke, he was suddenly surrounded by beauty. A gorgeous, flat-bellied Claire appeared at his side, running a hand erotically over his chest, fingertip tracing a bare nipple. Jack stood behind him, one arm wrapped possessively around Charlie's stomach, face nuzzled against his neck, trailing kisses down his sensitive skin. Boone knelt before him, and as Hurley watched, he leaned forward and molded his lips sensuously around Charlie's denim-covered cock. Charlie moaned and his eyes closed in ecstasy, knees buckling. Shannon, on Charlie's other side, put her arms around his shoulders, holding him upright. Just like Hurley had done on the beach, when Charlie had been so sick and weak.
Only difference was, this time Charlie didn't pull away.
Instead, he leaned against Shannon for support as his fingers tangled into Boone's hair and his hips began rocking, pressing him harder against Boone's mouth. Charlie's eyes opened then, burning straight into Hurley's, words falling softly from his lips.
"Don't need you anymore, Hurley. Never really did."
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Hurley jerked awake, sweaty and disoriented, a scream caught in his throat. The true meaning of his mother's words crashed over him, practically drowning him in sorrow.
She had been right all along, and he had been an idiot not to realize it before now. Charlie was so sweet, a good-hearted guy, would never hurt anyone on purpose. He was staying with Hurley out of pity and kindness. And obligation. He thought he owed Hurley a debt, because Hurley had cared for him when he needed it, had been there for him. This was how he was repaying. It was nothing more than that, never had been; Hurley had been deluding himself all along. Charlie had never loved him, never *would* love him.
Hot tears fell from Hurley's eyes as he rose quietly from the blankets. He couldn't have Charlie waking now; he knew he wouldn't be able to go through with it if that happened. And he *had* to go through with it. He cared about Charlie far too much to hold him prisoner. Charlie deserved to be happy, shouldn't be saddled with a burden that he could never love. Even here on the island, there were people who would make much better partners for him. Maybe Claire; she was sweet, and Charlie would make a wonderful daddy for her baby. Or Jack. He was steady and intelligent, would keep Charlie safe, could protect him. And Jack was so handsome; no one would ever make fun of Charlie for being with him.
Hurley quickly gathered a few things together, then scribbled a note and laid it next to the bed. A wave of dizziness washed over him as he bent down, and he realized that the feelings of being strangely weak and feverish had not been just part of the dream. They were real; he was good and sick, felt like he was burning up. All the more reason to leave; the last thing Charlie needed was to catch something from him, he was already so thin and worn out from the withdrawal.
Hurley's thoughts seemed strange, also, kind of like he was floating in his own mind. The effect was something like he got when smoking a joint, detached and murky, but without the pleasant feeling that weed brought. Now, he only felt extremely unwell. And heartbroken.
As he settled the knapsack on his back he had a brief flash of lucidity in which he realized that maybe, just maybe, it was the illness causing all of his paranoia. That maybe if he just laid down in the blankets and went back to sleep, everything would be better in the morning. That he'd wake snuggled in comforting arms as a concerned Charlie gently bathed his fevered brow and whispered that he loved him.
But no; love wasn't meant for guys like him- Ma had been quite adamant about that fact, using her final breath to get the point across. And mothers always knew what was best for their boys. Hurley would've seen it himself long before now if he hadn't been so blinded by foolish fantasies of something that could never be.
'Don't make him live a lie.'
His mother's words echoed in his mind as he watched Charlie curled up in sleep, looking so sweet and innocent, so beautiful. Hurley couldn't resist kneeling down and kissing him one last time, lips brushing against his forehead tenderly.
"I love you, Charlie." Hurley mouthed the words against the darkness, where nobody could see to laugh. Then he got up and walked away.
tbc...