Current mood:	weird
Current music:	"Lemonade" - Tsunami Bomb

Title: Ever and a Day [3/4]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bert/Quinn
Summary: Bert goes away to rehab, and comes home to find that with sobriety comes awareness.
POV: Second-Person [Bert]
Notes: This is gonna be one chapter longer than I originally planned. Sorry for taking so long. ♥

One.

Two.

Ever and a Day


Light.


When your eyes finally reopen, brilliant rays of gold light shine in your eyes, a groan escaping your lips. You don’t bother to check what time it is—it doesn’t seem all that significant, really. With another soft noise of annoyance, you sit up slowly, unsuccessfully attempting to run your fingers through your tangled hair. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you stretch, careful to ignore the blatantly vacant spot beside you.


It only takes a minute for the memories of the previous night to flood your mind. You think you hear birds chirping merrily outside, and you somewhat nastily murmur, “Fucking birds should choke.” Hesitating for a moment, you rise from the bed, the floor cold beneath your bare feet. Shivering slightly, you wrap your arms around yourself, gradually sauntering into the living room.


You’re almost surprised at the emptiness that greets you. Part of you expects to hear the clatter of silverware from the kitchen, his voice loud and welcoming to your ears. A bitter smile plays at your lips—you never used to eat breakfast before he began scolding you daily for being “too fucking skinny”. Smirking childishly, you pass by the kitchen, plopping on the floor in front of the TV instead (for, unconsciously, you’ve avoided the couch).


Despite the fact that it’s completely irrational, you almost wish he’d scold you again, forcing a plate of toast into your hands. You almost wish he’d smile and giggle at the way you pout, teasing you affectionately. And you almost, almost, wish that he’d walk through the door and pull you into his arms, saying that yesterday never happened.


But you don’t.


Ignoring the sick, nauseous feeling in your growling stomach, you hug your knees to your chest, sighing softly. The stillness is driving you insane, as is the distant, painfully cliché tick of the clock. You silently debate on whether or not it’d be a good idea to rip the damned thing off the wall—what use do you have for it anyway? It’s only a reminder of the hours, minutes, seconds that he’s been gone.


You don’t need a reminder.


But life ignores your request for a moment of obscurity, and the shrill brrriiiing of the phone echoes obnoxiously in the stillness. Mechanically, you make your way over to the phone, and a second later, a hoarse voice that you recognize as your own murmurs, “Hello?”


“Bert? It’s me.”


Jepha. An odd mix of dread, relief, and anger fills you as you register the familiar drawl. Soft static hums in your ear as you ponder how to reply, toying idly with the smooth, curling phone cord. After what seems like an eternity, you finally trust yourself to speak.


“What do you want?”


In your mind, you can see a clear picture of his puzzled expression, the same sort that passes over his handsome features when you attempt to explain why you hate techno. You can hear the quiet sound of his breathing as he searches for the right words, the exhaustion in his voice as he silently decides, Fuck it.


“... Dude, look, Quinn’s over here, and—”


“Yeah? Does he have his head in your goddamn lap?”


“Bert, come on, can’t you just—”


“No.”


His sigh is loud, too loud in your ears, and to you, it’s a sound of defeat. Automatically, you know that he’s bracing himself for a long argument, but you know there won’t be one. You know where you stand, and it’s not up for discussion. He’s wasting his precious time if he thinks he can change your mind. The word betrayal ghosts through your mind as he continues his weak coaxing.


“He’s been crying all night, man...”


“Do you really think I give a fuck?”


“Bert, please, he’s a wreck—”


Something in you is wearing thin; you can feel it. Already, that familiar surge of anger is coiling dangerously inside of you, something like a deadly time bomb. With each of his gentle, pleading words, you feel your grip on self-control slipping. After a moment or two, you’ve lost it all, and your voice is low and cold as you interrupt him.


“Listen, Jepha. I don’t know what fucking planet you’re from, but here on Earth, when you find your boyfriend about to fuck your friend, there’s not much to talk about.”


Silence is his only reply.


“Tell Quinn to come right over,” you snarl, “I’d love to ask him if he gets off on being a fucking slut.” The irrational part of you feels guilty for saying these words, meekly whispering Blasphemy. Swiftly, you squelch any trace of it, repulsed by your own disloyalty. Minutes after your 'request', there is no reply, just as you expected.


“Oh, and Jeph?”


Apprehensively, he answers with an almost inaudible, “Yeah?”


Smiling sardonically, you hiss, “Next time, fuck around at your place.”


Without another word, you slam the phone back down onto the cradle, stalking away from it with the beginnings of hysteria caressing your insides. Like you said, there’s not much to talk about. This is the only thought in your mind as you step back into the bedroom, making a beeline for the closet. Yanking the doors open, you carelessly toss a worse-for-wear suitcase onto the bed, followed by armfuls of clothes still with the hangers.


Heading for the dresser next, you find that your smile has grown broader, a choked sob forcing its way out of you. There is no sound save your harsh breathing and the quiet thump of clothes as they form a pile. Letting a breathless laugh escape your lips, you gradually sink to your knees. Feeling the carpeted floor scrape mercilessly against your skin, his words purr faintly in your head.


It meant nothing.


You couldn’t agree more.