Title: Werewolf!Brad: Chasing The Sun

Fandom: Linkin Park

Pairing: Braz

Rating: R

Status: Standalone

Summary: Only one thing spoiled their life together, and it was the one thing they couldn’t outrun forever…

Werewolf!Brad: Chasing The Sun

He used to wake up in my arms and run his hands across his face. He would glance at me with those huge, tragic eyes. On those mornings, I could feel my heart bleeding.

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

His voice would be soft, a barely audible whisper. I would smile and nod almost imperceptibly. I could feel the sadness hanging in the air between us as I moved to hug him.

“Yes,” I would murmur in response, pressing my lips to his neck. He would pull back a little and stare at the dirt beneath his nails.

“We have to leave.”

*

I got used to the rolling expanse of endless roads, states blurring into one another as we took it in turns to drive. We were always running from something. In the pitch black of midnight, his hair still wet and plastered to his skin, we would make another bid for freedom. Wherever we settled, it was always the same story; within a month, we were running from another home, our bags packed and stuffed into the car. We would pay for rooms at whichever motel we stumbled across first. He would smile at me.

“I’m sorry, Chester,” he would breathe, running his long fingers across my face, across my lips. “I never meant for-”

I would press my fingers to his lips and shake my head in response. “Let’s just – I don’t know, sleep or something.”

*

If I woke up before him, I would sit on the end of the bed, curling my knees up to my chest, resting my chin on my hands. Some days, a cigarette would perch with the careless grace of the long-term smoker between my fingers. Blue smoke wreathed around me, and around him, curling up towards the ceiling fan. The sunlight would hit the dirty window panes and stop at the grimy curtains. By the time it glanced across his ivory skin, it was barely recognisable as daylight. He would stretch and cover his face with his hands, as usual, and then he would peer at me through his fingers.

“How long have you been up?”

“I love to watch you sleep,” I would say. He would smile, his even teeth pearly white against his skin.

“Enjoy it,” he would murmur, moving to wrap his arms around me. His beard tickled my skin as he kissed me gently. I would kiss him back and run my fingers through the tangle of his hair.

“I always enjoy watching you.”

*

We would stand together, arms around one another. He would pull back first and glance around.

“It’ll do,” he would say. I would push my hands deep into my pockets, trying to ignore the rising smell of the apartments we always ended up with. I always comforted myself with the knowledge we would never be in them for long. His footsteps would echo hollowly as he crossed the uncarpeted floor, reverberating through the unfurnished rooms. I could always pinpoint his location, a skill learnt from months and years of doing this.

“It’s-”

His head would appear round the door and he would shake his head sadly. “I-”

“Don’t,” I would murmur, turning to stare down into the grimy streets. I would stare at the suspicious stains and think of all that had been, and how even this was better than what I used to have.

*

He would quote ‘Manhunter’ at me. “Have you ever seen blood in the moonlight? It appears quite black.”

“Brad-”

“If one does what God does enough times, one will become as God is.”

He would worry himself on the mornings he awoke with no recollection of the hours between dusk and daybreak. Over time, he had developed the art of blocking from his mind the things he would not remember. He would run his fingers over the scars on my arms and my neck.

“How is it that it’s never happened to you?”

I would shrug and lower my eyes, trailing my fingers over his, and over the ridged scars.

“I don’t know.”

*

There were the mornings I awoke to the metallic tang of blood on my lips. The shower would make the walls shake as the ancient mechanism shuddered into life. I would sit in silence, searching my body for the source. It was on the days when I could find nothing that I would know it was time to pack again. While the shower rained rust coloured water across his white skin, I would throw our clothes into the holdall that lay against the wall. His eyes would be haunted, desperately blank as they stared at me. He would wrap his arms around me, pressing his damp skin against mine. He always smelt of soap and disinfectant.

“They’ll kill you,” I would say.

“They won’t know,” he’d respond.

And we would leave regardless.

*

The door would grate on its shattered hinges, hanging lopsidedly. I would sit alone in the middle of the bed, staring at the broken remains of the barrier between us and the rest of the world. He would lay low for a day, maybe two. I would sit in silence and watch the door, the rhythmic squeak my lullaby until he reappeared. His spirit flagging, he would wrap his arms around himself. We would find ourselves together in another rundown bathroom. He would stare with absolute disdain at his reflection.

“What did I do to deserve this?” he would whisper, gazing at me in the mirror. I would shrug and run my fingers lightly across his shoulder blades.

“Nothing,” I would respond, blinking back the tears.

All the while the water ran clear, we would be safe. He never let me join him when the water ran red.

*

“Why do you do this?”

“What?”

“Why do you stay?”

I would stare at him and then shrug my shoulders. He would sit on the floor in the furthest corner of the room, staring at me. He would keep the curtains drawn, making sure his skin never touch the incandescent luminescence of the moonlight. His long fingers would tangle in the shock of curls on his head as he bowed his head.

“Was it really so bad for you before? I can’t imagine that this – this could be better than anything.”

I would laugh softly and move to climb off of the bed. He would glance up, his eyes struggling with the silver shadows of the scars he created.

“How could it be worse? I love you.”

*

“How long do you think-”

He would shrug and shake his head. “I don’t know.”

Four years and half the west coast down, it seemed likely that we could go on forever. We couldn’t have imagined that we would run out of time. It seemed unlikely that we would get tired of chasing the sun. We would lie awake together, tangled in one another’s arms, our hearts beating as one. His lips would land, soft against mine. He eyes would bleed their precious tears.

“Why do you stay when all you do is hurt?”

I would shrug and gaze at him. “Why do you let me stay?”

“Because I can’t live without you.”

I would incline my head and smile. “So why do you ask?”

*

There would be weeks when he wouldn’t change at all. And then there were the weeks when were picking up bills for damage at every stop we took. The welts around his neck would become more noticeable again. The bruises down his ribs began to glow in purples and blues, black shading beneath the desecrated, injured marble of his skin.

“How?” I would ask and he would glance at me sidelong, knitting his eyebrows.

“It’s always been the same,” he said. “Concentrate on driving, Ches.”

He would hide himself in loose clothes, cheap clothes that he had no attachment to; clothes he could afford to lose. Clothes he could afford to shred and leave in tatters.

*

Another barren room and another stained mattress; another abandoned building with its suspicious stains; another partial memory and half-life literally sent up in smoke. He would stand in the streets and glance at me. I would glance at him.

“Serial arson’s a crime,” I would say, a half-hearted attempt at a joke. His smile would slip immediately that it appeared on his face.

“They give you life for murder.”

*

Six years. We would be able to run from the inevitable for just six years in total. We pulled into a small motel, and I reached across him to turn the engine off. His hand caught my wrist, his fingers curling around it and digging into my flesh. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“How much do you love me?”

I glanced at him, surprised. Perhaps shocked. “You’re hurting me!”

“Please, Chester, answer the question.”

“More than anything!”

He released my arm and stared out of the window. “It hurts more every time. Every time it happens. We can’t keep doing this. You can’t.”

I booked our room. He stood in the middle of the floor, and I assumed my position on the bed. Overhead, the fan whirred.

“When it happens, just one shot should stop me. Right here.”

He turned and pressed his fingers to the base of his skull. Something heavy thudded on the sheets before me.

“Solid silver, and you’re free…”

*

I know that there is no such thing as freedom. I just keep on running…

Fin

© FyrMaiden 30.08.2004