Shattered Show


Nov 10, 2003
“Push me, pull me, open your arms to me, but do not distrust me, for I shall astonish you at ever turn, my darling.”

He lay silently, watching the moonlight bouncing from the walls from the skylight in the roof of the loft. It was almost midnight, and he could see the tiny teardrops of snow as they scattered about the slanted window, the white rays bouncing from them, making them look like little diamonds falling from the sky.

It was cold, that night. So cold that he had to pull the blankets up under his chin to save himself from the biting Winter chill that filled the room and iced up the window frames outside. Soft blue fabric brushed his cheeks, and he snuggled deeply into it, cocooning himself in its protective warmth.

He had no dusky body to cling to this cold, Christmas evening.

The young man, Joshua Nicholson, was quite happy to be alone. Or so he’d have you believe. He was quite happy to lie there, silently, counting the stars and the snowdrops as they fell from his sky, making wishes that would never come true on every one that tumbled onto his window-pane. He’d learned to be cynical, over the past couple of years, and to realise that his glass was always half empty. He’d learned to appreciate the smaller things in live, such as the December snow, and the beauty of a clear sky, because his life wasn’t as full as it used to be.

It wasn’t the same…but he was happy, just as well. Or, at least, that’s what he’d convinced himself.

Joshua Nicholson lives alone. He liked the emptiness of his loft, the sparse decorations he had pitted around the place, and the fact that there was no semblance of himself inside; nothing to confuse him, nothing to drag him down. He preferred the simple life, the easy life, because it was safe and comfortable, and there was nothing there to confuse him, again.

He got confused, sometimes, but that was only to be expected.

He lives a quiet life, not fully aware of how reserved he’s become. He couldn’t say that he missed the closeness he had once shared with other human beings, or the happiness he had felt at a warm hug, or a tender smile aimed his way. He couldn’t say he missed those things, because if he allowed himself to admit them, he’d be lost again. He’d only just found himself, only just settled here in this loft, and he doesn’t think he could handle starting over again.

He likes his loft, because his loft is his life, despite the fact that is cold and dark and empty, devoid of a personality. Devoid of a soul. He doesn’t like to think of himself as soulless, because he wants to like the way things are….

He thinks that, perhaps, this Christmas will be different. He bought himself a tree, which he decorated…alone…that evening before he got into bed. It’s winking at him, now, with its tiny white lights flashing ever so delicately in the corner. He thinks it gives his life a little meaning, having something to look at on Christmas Day, rather than just an empty space and the bottom of a bottle of Jack. He thinks that he’ll cope better this year, because his wounds have healed, and his scars are fading, and he’s not feeling quite so detached any more.

He smiles, because he knows he’s getting better, and he’s proud of himself, even if nobody else can be.

He closes his tired, blue eyes and listens closely, because he swears that if he’s quiet enough, he can hear his mother wrapping presents, and his father laughing heartily at the re-runs of Family Ties that always seem to be on at Christmas Time. He swears he can hear his sister on the telephone to her latest fling, telling him that perhaps he’ll have to come pick her up, because she’s too drunk and damaged to walk.

He wonders if they’ll put flowers on his grave this year.

He swears he can hear choirs singing, and laughs out loud when he realises that the sound isn’t coming from his fractured imagination, but from the Church on the corner, where people who still had faith in something were receiving their blessings from God himself.

He hums, gently, along with the carols, because he thinks that, somewhere beneath his vast layers, Joshua Nicholson has some faith, also.

There are a few cards scattered around his place, stuck up on the wall with blu-tac, all to Shy Josh from the HR Department. One of them was from a girl. Ellie. He thinks she has a crush on him, but he doesn’t want to pursue her. He’s happy to be that mysterious, quiet guy from downstairs who doesn’t quite talk to anybody and shakes like a leaf when somebody surprises him. He laughs at how weak he is, but it’s only to be expected. He thinks that Ellie wants to “save” him, but he’s not at liberty to be saved, this time.

He’d like to think that, one day, he will save himself. He hopes that this is true.

The silver and white card is his favourite, he thinks. The one with the elegant angel on the front of it. The handwriting is exquisite, and he likes his fingers to glide over the letters, tracing each and every one of them as if he were touching the Holy Grail.

He likes the words that are written inside.

“Don’t stray too far.”

Some people might think this message cryptic, but Joshua knows exactly what it means.

He has a gift beneath his tree, beautifully wrapped in silver and gold, with shiny ribbons that glisten as the light hits them, like the snowdrops that he holds so dear, now. He wants to call his best friend up, tell her that he wrapped it himself, because she was always so down on him for his lack of effort at Christmas time. He wants to call her up to tell her, but he can’t, because she’s dead.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it.

The gift is addressed to Joshua…and it comes from Will. A gift from himself, because the person he used to be owes himself at least that much.

He’s smiling so hard, now, that he doesn’t even realise that the tears are falling, and if he knew, he’d think that maybe the tears would freeze over, just like his heart has. He hides his sobs in the blankets, but he doesn’t know why, because there is nobody there to hear them.

He doesn’t hear the key as it turns in the lock, because his own tears are louder than thunder. He doesn’t hear the footsteps, because he’s not quite listening to anything, any more. He doesn’t even pull away as the body crawls in beside him, pulling him into its arms, whispering soft words into his ears.

“Shh, now”, it says. Gently. Softly. “Don’t cry.”

The voice is familiar, but it’s from a lifetime before. A lifetime that is now spent and desolate, and buried in a coffin thousands of miles away.

“Don’t leave me alone again”, he pleads, his shaky voice both heartbroken and euphoric at once.

Soft, tanned arms encircle his waist, and cupid-bow lips that he cannot see but feel gently kiss the back of his neck. It feels both hot and cold. Both hard and soft. It feels like everything all at once, and he is overwhelmed.

“I told you I’d come back, Joshua.”

“It’s been so long. So long…”

“I sent you a card”, he says. “See? You have it there on your window frame.”

Joshua’s voice hitches a little, a tiny tickle in his throat, threatening to silence him. He’s sick of the silence, now. He’s sick of the lies that he’s been living. He’s sick of the lonely Christmas-Times, with nothing but a prayer to keep him alive, to know that he’s still loved.

“Sark…”, he whispers, before throwing himself into kisses he thought he would never receive again.
Dec 14, 2002
i like the writing part, good descriptions.
i'm sorry, but despite the good writing, i really don't get it. care to explicate?


Nov 10, 2003
Will is in Witness Protection...he's not Will any more, he's Joshua. New name, new home, new identity - but he's got someone familiar to shack up with. Sark.


Nov 10, 2003
Sark likes Shakespeare, performed in London Theatres that are crammed full of people bursting to get a taste of sonnets in the Winter-time. He likes to take brisk walks around Buckingham Palace, because he thinks that the structure is exquisite, and the attention to detail is second to none.

He’s spent the last six months in Naples, but his heart and soul has been here, in a cold and lonely London loft, thousands of miles away from the warmth of home.

He likes the serenity of Midnight, because all becomes quiet, and he revels in the silence of it all. It gives him time to gather his thoughts; thoughts which, ultimately, lie exclusively with a man he never thought he’d ever lie naked under blue blankets with. A man he never thought he’d spend Christmas-time with, alone, away from the rest of the world.

He likes Will Tippin’s safe-house, because it keeps him safe, too.

Sark likes broken men with broken dreams and broken hearts, because he's never felt more vulnerable than when he's lying in the bed of this vulnerable young soul with a vulnerable heart, and yet the strongest mind he's ever known.

He leans over, runs a gentle hand over a soft chest, watching with intent as it quivers a little from the touch of his fingers. Joshua still shivers when touched, and he doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or not.

"Do you know", Sark whispers, "that you've been in my dreams since the last time we met?"

He moves his fingers down towards skin that responds to even the gentlest of stimulations, and is pleasantly surprised when he receives no adverse reaction. Perhaps his broken winged indulgence was getting better, after all.

"You're lying", the beautiful one smiles, because Joshua Nicholson doesn't realise quite how haunting shattered creatures with anguished eyes and scar-ridden bodies are to Sark.

He dreamed about him every night in Naples, because he willed it that way, and nothing gets in the way of Sark’s unbreakable will.

The young, fair haired man likes candle lit window frames, illuminating the snow, creating an essence of warmth in an otherwise stone-cold box room that his Joshua calls home, now. He likes to watch the flames flicker across the panes, because if he half closes his eyes, they remind him of embers burning in a fireplace so big and so embracing that he could have lay down and slept in it. He can almost see the gigantic ribbons of holly draped over the marble surface…but he has to REALLY close his eyes to see that one, because Josh’s fireplace is but an empty space, a lot like the rest of his life.

It occurs to him that perhaps, just perhaps, he misses his childhood after all. Or maybe that's just the ghost of Christmas Past looming over his shoulder.

He looks down into his arms, and he sees his salvation.

"I never left you, you know. Not while I slept. I never left my Josh."

Joshua shifts a little, his posture becoming as defensive as it could possibly be whilst lying in the arms of his golden haired, darling boy. He still hasn’t forgiven Sark for abandoning him. Not yet. He lowers his gaze to the blankets, and for a moment, it’s hard to see where the blue of his eyes ends and the blue of the warm softness of the comforter begins. He bites his pretty bottom lip and remains silent. His beautiful features twist deep into thought.

He’s contemplating forgiveness.

Two minutes pass before he speaks.

"Were they pleasant dreams?" he asks, so quiet and meek that he can barely be heard.

"The sweetest..."

Sark had never felt love before. He'd often sat up in his bed at night, as a young teenager, speculating how likely it was that he was cursed by God. He spent years contemplating just how empty he was, and just how forsaken he was becoming as the years of his life flew by. Pretty women would come and go, leaving their scars on his old soul, yet none of them touched him. None of them moved him. He’d felt little or no remorse as he’d suffocated three of them in their sleep, the victims of his free-speaking pillow talk and his own incessant paranoia.

Sark thought that perhaps there was one true soul in the world who would burn its brand into him without even realising it. There was one true heart that would make him feel something without saying a word.

Will Tippin had never burned a mark into his soul. He’d watched Will suffer and felt…nothing. If the truth were known, the silly, naïve little reporter had irritated him more than just a little.

Will’s alter-ego, for lack of a better phrase, Joshua Nicholson, however, had claimed him the moment they met. He’d felt the burn in his chest as if the hand of God had finally instilled some kind of soul into his otherwise empty shell.

Josh did that.

Tippin was never shattered, never beautifully broken and vulnerable. Not until he became somebody else - somebody who could lie alone, night after night, and pray silently to be saved from a torment that shouldn't be his. Beg, quietly, to be freed from his self imposed solitude.


"I used to love Chrismas", he smiles, burying his head into soft, brown hair, twisting his fingers into smaller hands. Joshua had beautiful hands...he had Will's hands....and Sark wondered, at one time, how he'd never noticed them before.

“Me too”, Joshua replies, his eyes wandering over to that pitiful tree in the corner. He’d tried so hard to make it homely, but this was not home, and never would or could be. It was a pathetic attempt, but at least he’d tried…

He didn't really believe he'd have company at all.

“Francie used to burn the turkey, before she learned how too cook”, he says, with a wistful smile. “but it was never as cold as it is here.”

“We had proper Russian Christmases when I was a little child. The snow is absolutely fantastic where I come from.”

Sark never used to get animated about his Russian snow stories. Not until now. Nothing ever built him up – until now.

“A Russian Christmas sounds beautiful.”

“ I only wish I could show it to you.”

He knows he never will, because if he and Joshua were ever seen out in public together, then he would be forced to wear eyes on the back of his head, for fear of a stray bullet piercing his skull from point blank range. Nothing could protect him from that, not even this new found love that he didn’t even know he was capable of.

No matter how much his heart lay here, in this bed, he’d always belong to them. The Covenant. He’d always have the enemies he had made.

He turns to his lover, caressing him lightly, pressing into him, and he smiles.

“Let me show you my version of a Russian Christmas.”

It’s 3am, and they make love for the second time since Midnight. Sark is determined to make this a Christmas to remember.


Joshua liked it when Sark bit him. Soft, pink lips trailing his inner thighs, and teeth as white as his mother’s Christmas Pearls nibbling his skin, occasionally drawing blood, leaving a tiny red trail in their wake. When he was alone, Joshua – Will – would close his eyes, twisting his skin between his fingers, trying to imagine the feeling where Sark’s teeth had been, but it never quite felt the same.

Joshua liked it when Sark scratched him, when a face buried itself in his chest, sharp nails digging their way into his back like splinters, giving him bruises that never healed because he didn’t want them to. He liked it when soft pink became hard, when the long shaft of Sark’s penis gently traced his body, trying to find its perfect fit, sending him into waves of ecstasy when it founds its place within him.

He felt himself drift away, lost in the moment, when he felt Sark coming inside of him, leaving warmth and love where he had been nothing but empty, before.

He let himself go into the palm of his own hand when Sark showed him what it was to be at one with another.

What he liked the most, however, was when the would-be killer, the man without heart or soul or conscience, whispered sweet words of wisdom and affection into his ear, where nobody else could steal them from.

He looked out of the window, saw the salmon pinkness of the sky as it tinged the deep blueness of dawn – a blueness that reminded him so much of the boy with the blonde hair, who came to him in his dreams and, ever so occasionally, in his waking hours. Like now – like tonight.

“I love you”, he whispered, and he wasn’t quite sure where the sentiment came from.

“If it was safe for me to love, Will…” Sark whispered..

Not Allison, Not Sydney…

“then I would love you.”

A tiny laugh, barely audible, from beneath those sky blue blankets.

“You called me Will”, the young man said, nestled deeply in his lover’s arms. “You’ve never called me Will before, Sark. It’s always been Joshua…or Tippin.”

Prepare Mr Tippin for the exchange….

“It’s Christmas Day. Nobody should have to pretend on Christmas Day.”

He smiles. “No, they shouldn’t…Julian.”

They lie like that until sunrise, when the icicles on the windows began to weep and to fade, and until the snow on the ground began to glisten and melt, rather than freeze and twinkle. There was no sleep for the wicked – or for the wounded – and so they get not a wink of it, lying happily together, at one with the world, and each other.


“Your sister’s pregnant. Five months. She wants to name the baby William. She already knows it’s a boy.”

A nephew he’d never know – never hold and never cherish. But for Amy, for Amy he was happy. She’d been so good with children, and had always wanted one of her own. He wished he could meet the father, so he could “vet” him, make him pass the “brother” test. Of course, he never would. Never could, because he was dead, and dead brothers cannot ponder the dating choices of their siblings.

“And Mom? How’s Mom? What did the doctors say?”

“The tests went well. She’s in the clear.”

Cancer. Ovarian, Sark had been informed. She’d been under chemo for the past six months, but she was a fighter. She’d fought her way back from much more. So much more…The death of her child, for one. His smile is a wistful one…full of so many mixed emotions.

“I wish I could see them.”

Sark places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it softly. He understands. He understands so fully that it pains him to watch the undeserving young man suffering what he’d suffered so easily himself.

“I know, Will. I know.”

The fair haired man draws beautiful, soft lips in, covers them with his own. Buries his tongue in keep, because he wants to taste the man’s soul, and it takes a kiss as deep as the oceans to do that.

Will…Joshua…he doesn’t quite know where one ends and the other begins, but the man pulls back, places his hands on a tanned, toned chest. Sighs,

“Is it ever going to end?” he asks, because he is staring so far ahead into the future – as far as he can – but all he sees is his past, and it’s so far away from him. So far out of his reach…

“I don’t know."

They make love to music, but it’s nothing compared to the symphony they create as they lock themselves together, two broken beings fused together by their own worlds of pain.


“I brought you a gift”, Sark tells him, brushing a stray strand of soft, dark hair from his forehead. His hair is darker than it used to be, longer, and it’s wavy, now, because he doesn’t use the gel any more. He couldn’t use the gel any more, because he could only buy it in LA, and he didn’t live there any more.

A gift…for him…?

“Julian, I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t…I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Will, you should ALWAYS know I’m coming. You should know that I’d never leave you. Not at Christmas time.”

He pulls out a small manilla envelope with a taffeta ribbon wrapped around it – hands it to Will, who eyes it curiously. He remembers a similar envelope, with a pair of car keys and a map and a name he took months to get used to. He had to admit, the car they gave him was pretty good – A Toyota Celica, British Import - but he did miss the Aqua blue Chevy…with the hula girls on the dashboard.

Unfortunately yes, we’ve all seen that one…

He pulls out the contents of the envelope, and has to bite himself back to stop the tears from falling.

A sonogram – with a name in the corner. Amy Atkinson. A shotgun wedding, perhaps, but Will knew the name. Jonathan Atkinson – Amy’s boss.

“She married Jon?” he asks, sceptically. Amy had never mentioned the potential for inter-office relationships. In fact, she’d frowned upon Will when he’d told her he was sleeping with Jenny. Too much trouble, she had said, and she hadn’t been wrong.

“He’s a good man, Will. Be thankful she chose him, rather than her other potential suitor. He’d have left her high and dry, and he wouldn’t have even paid child support.”

Will reached into the envelope again.

A photograph – his mother and father, sitting on a bench in Central Park, looking as free as the birds in the sky, flying over their heads. His mother, her hair waving over her forehead, no longer hairless and bald from the chemo. His father, his big, strong father, smiling with pride as he places a tender arm around his wife’s thinned shoulders.


A newspaper cut out – in the memorial pages – to “ a son who is no longer with us, but who is forever in our hearts and minds.”

He’s speechless.

“W-where did you get these?”

Sark lowers his eyes, somewhat humbled by the reaction his gift has incited within his beautiful lover. He’s touched beyond belief, and he’s perfect. God, he loved him…from his own limited perception of what love was.

“Don’t underestimate me, Joshua. I can go to extremes for the people I care about.”

“Thank you.”

Sark doesn’t realise what this means to him. What he’s given him. A tiny morsel of his old life, hidden in an envelope where it could be treasured forever.

He’d buy a frame for the sonogram, because that child was his namesake, and he’d love it from afar with his every minute elemental being. William Atkinson – his nephew. A beautiful child, carrying on his name…

“She hopes the baby has your eyes, and she knows you’re looking down on him with love in your heart. That’s what she said.”

“What else did she say?”

“That she loves you and misses you. That you were her little brother, and that her child will always know what a wonderful person his uncle was.”

“You tapped their phone?”

”Yes, I tapped their phone.”

“Thank you.”

Will contemplates this, for a moment. Contemplates Sark invading his family’s privacy, but he can’t be mad at him, because he’s brought a little piece of them home for him – and, if he can’t be near them – he’d like to know that they are safe. He’d like to see them from time to time, even if it’s only on a piece of glossy paper, immortalised in a frame on his bedroom wall.

He slowly pulls Sark close to him, wraps his arms around his neck, holds him tightly. Sark likes to be held almost as much as he does.

Gentle Julian – such a far cry from Mr Sark, who still, ever so occasionally, haunted his nightmares…

“You don’t know how much this means to me, Julian. Really, you don’t.”

Sark murmurs, kisses Will’s collarbone. Traces circles on his back with his elegant, pianists fingers.

“And you don’t know how much THIS means to ME.”

So little affection…so little.

“Give me something to keep with me, Will. Give me yourself, because it’s so f*cking hard. Living like this…so f**king hard.”

He can oblige him, he thinks.

On Christmas Morning, Will gives himself to Sark, and he gives himself completely. There is nothing held back, because they are beyond that, now.


Nov 10, 2003
Sark thought that Rome was the most mesmeric place in the world, once. The buildings entranced him, gave him images of times so long ago and so regal that he would have felt out of place there. He imagined Vatican City, a City built on the love of God, and the faith of a billion people.

A city of Faith. A city of Love. He’d be married there, one day. He’d take his lover, and he’d run with the sun in his hair and the wind in his face, and no metal killing machines pressed into the back of his head.

He’d never made a wish on Christmas Day before, but there was a first for everything. He blew a kiss to the brightening sky before he closed his eyes and fell straight into a dreamless, peaceful sleep.


The sun is pouring in through the window panes by 2pm, but it still looks cold outside. They’re lying in bed, with their arms wrapped around each other, their souls and bodies intertwined, and their pasts but a distant memory away. They haven’t moved from this spot since they last made love, and Sark is still resting inside of Will. Will has given him a piece of his soul to take with him, back to wherever he’s going, because Will longs to be away from this place. A miniscule piece of his spirit escaping with Sark is better than none of his spirit escaping at all.

He’s forgiven Sark for all that he has done to him, because forgiveness is a gift that he has been blessed with.

He leans his head around too look at the face whose breath he feels on the back of his neck. The eyelashes gleam back at him, golden in the sun, but it’s the blue of the eyes that warms him. They’re ice blue, and it is ironic that they strike flashes of passion inside of him. So cold…so hot…so damn bitter beautiful.

“I’m cold”, Will says, quietly. It’s only his body that is cold. His heart is white hot, like embers burning down to cinders.

Sark smiles. It makes Will shiver, a little. Arms wrap tightly around his naked torso, pulling him closer than before, and a guttural sound comes from Sark’s throat. He’s so delightfully protective, so wonderfully possessive of what is his.

“I’ll warm you up”, he growls, sinking his teeth playfully into the other man’s neck. Will laughs, because it tickles, and the sound is music to Sark’s ears.

“You have a beautiful laugh. A beautiful smile”, Sark says, placing heart shaped kisses on Will’s collar bone. “Just beautiful.”

“I’m not beautiful, Sark. You are.”

“You’re fragile. You’re porcelain, Will, and that’s beautiful. You're porcelain against my steel.” He pauses, for emphasis.

“Don’t ever shatter.”

He expects him to give a response, something poignant and poetic, but he just smiles, and that is poetry enough.

He loves Will, because he WAS broken, but he pieced himself back together in some resolute image of what he used to be. The cracks were still there, if you looked closely enough. The ragged edges had cut his skin and formed new cracks where the old ones should have healed. He liked to pretend that he was whole and invincible, and that he'd never been broken before. Sark likes that. He likes that Will can put on a front, for him and for the world, despite the fact that he has been burned and devoured by flames of hot anger and corruption.

"Don't ever, ever shatter so that I can't fix you."

And Will won’t, because Sark needs him in once piece, safe in the tiny corner of the universe that he calls home now. In the hidden place where they can never find him.


Despite what many would believe, Sark doesn’t like what he is. He doesn’t like what circumstance has made him become. He is bitter and confused. He is immoral. He is a serpent in a green, hazy grass, with eyes like slits and a tongue that licks poison into the wounds of those it bites. He is universally hated, but he thinks that it would be impossible to find a person who hates him more than he hates himself.

Will is making Cranberry Sauces in a blue bowl in the kitchen. He found the recipe on the Internet, and has copied it, word for word, measure for measure. He adds a measure of his love to the recipe, for Sark to taste and to devour. Sark will bite back a sob when he swallows it, because it will taste sweet and fulfilling, just like Will himself.

Sark thinks that the love of this one man is worth a thousand hatreds, and it fills him so completely that he no longer feels the burning pain of dislike coursing through his veins.

Hatred is the black and Love is the white, and in Sark’s mind, there is never any gray to play with. He feels both emotions so fully and so wholly that there is no in between. There is either love, or there is hate, and that’s good enough for him.

He will never tell Will how much he loves him, because his love causes only pain and hatred, and he could never have Will hating him again.

“Dinner’s almost ready”, he smiles, peeking out from around the kitchen divide. He’s wearing a navy blue apron, to preserve his best Christmas clothes. He’s got flour all over his hands, and it’s a welcome site compared to the blood Sark could see, invisible, all over his own.

“Would you like me to lay the table?” Sark says, offering his services free of charge, which was a first for a man who had sold his soul, his father, his mother and his life for the good of noone and nobody.

“If you don’t mind”, he says, because he's making a mess, and he doesn't want to make a mess of his precious table.

Anything for you…

Everything looks so beautiful and perfect that it was almost hard to imagine that the table would soon be attended by two fugitives, two men thrown together by a war, or sorts. Two lonely souls who made each other whole, again.

He lays a place for two, with sterling silver knives and forks, and spoons for the dessert Will had got up half an hour earlier to make. He’s quite the little chef, nowadays, whereas before he had lived on TV dinners and take out pizza. He’d had to learn to take care of himself, now that there was nobody else to do it for him. He didn’t like to call for take out, now, and he’ll admit out loud that it is Sark’s fault.

Thirty minutes or less before he’s shot with a tranquilliser and taken half way around the world for a spot of pain and torment before dinner…

“Would you like me to put some music on?”

Sark smiles, nods his head. “That would set the scene, wouldn’t it? Just like the snow has.”

Will chooses Chopin, because he knows Sark finds it mellow and relaxing, and he wants Sark to be mellow and relaxed. He knows that it is a rare occurrence for Sark, to feel at home and in love, so he wants to make it the most enjoyable time possible for him. It’s not often he gets to have his angel faced lover this close, for this length of time, so he needs to build a memory that he can call upon when he’s lying in that bed alone, counting drops of rain on his windows, wishing that they were days spent in his arms, rather than days spent dreaming of his gentle touch.

He’s made a traditional turkey roast, because it reminds him of home. He toys with the idea of calling his mother, to ask her how she makes that delicious sage and onion stuffing he’d always loved as a child, but then he remembers his situation, so he makes the stuffing himself.

It looks the same…but so does he…and he’s more different than anybody could ever imagine.

“This looks amazing, Josh…”, Sark gasps, reverting back to Will’s “new” name, although not quite knowing why. Will doesn’t miss the slip, but doesn’t jump on it the way he wants to. After all, he’s been calling him Sark, rather than Julian, because he can let Sark go so much more easily than he can watch Julian walking away. Perhaps it is the same for Sark. Perhaps Josh is easier to leave than Will is.

“I hope it tastes as good as it looks.”

“I know that YOU do. Let’s just hope the food is the same”


Alcohol is warm and comforting, Sark believes.

They've been driking tequila with lemon and lime, and salt to counteract the bittersweetness of the cool liquid. It's hardly Chateau Pertrus, but it's doing the job. They're beginning to feel like long lost Frat Boys, laughing at the inadequacies of the world. And how inadequate the world was, with its twisted men and its heartless women, and its weeping willow children with nothing to come home to but emptiness and silence.

Sark had been a weeping willow child, but that seemed so far in the past, now, that it had paled into insignificance. Still, put him in a room with his father, and he'd show him that even faded memories can give a grown up child the power to place the fear of God within their tormentors.

Tonight, he would forget about who he was. Tonight, he would strive to be the person he was always meant to be, rather than the person fate turned him into. Like destiny, perhaps, had given him a reprieve, for this one night of his life.

Will is sitting on the floor, cross legged, in his boxer shorts. The central heating, as well as the fire, have kicked in - and the room feels like Malibu in summer time.

They'd drank a bottle of that, too. Malibu, mixed with pineapples and ice cubes. The perfect chaser after a beautiful Christmas Dinner.

Sark had overdosed on cranberries and love, and there's nothing like lovemaking after Christmas Dinner. That, or a brisk walk, but the snow was heavy on the ground, and he didn't have the shoes for hiking in the ice.

Will knocks back another tequila, his blue eyes red and smiling, and kisses him on the forehead.

"SO - you're a secret lover of fashion and poetry. BIG surprise, there"

The kiss moved down to his mouth, now, and tasted like lemons and ecstasy.

"Your turn, Julian. Ask me anything."

He was on a champagne high, tonight.

Sark knew this should be dangerous, this game of truth or dare, but somewhere during the course of the day, he had given up on being careful. He figured he had nothing to lose or gain from it, so he had opened himself up completely, and so had Will. He realised, in that moment, that he didn't know Will at all. He didn't know him, but he loved him. That had to be something special.

"Ok." He tries to think of a question that will incite the biggest reaction from him. "What is your biggest regret?"

"My biggest regret?" Will repeats, his eyes wandering off into the distance. "Ok..."

He's silent for what seems like an eternity. Sark imagines that fifty thousand women have screamed in pleasure, and two hundred thousand children have cried, endless numbers of couples have kissed as man and wife and a million newborn babies have been born, bloodied and yelling, all in the time for it takes for Will to answer.

"My biggest regret was running away."

"From what?"

"From Will. I should never have let him be buried in the ground, because he's still in here."

He places a hand against his heart, showing Sark just where Will Tippin resides. Inside of him. He burns, inside, and wants nothing more than to be freed unto the world, where he can feel normal and overwhelmed and in love, once more. In love with innocence. In love with Sydney Bristow. Perhaps even in love with Sark himself.

Will doesn't want to run, and neither does he.

"I just...don't want this life...this living death."

Sark places a hand on his arm, because he's shaky, now, and it's not from the drink.

"Then don't run any more."


It was supposed to be a four parter, but I’m stuck in work and I can’t finish it all in one go
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