She said, "It's not that I don't love you anymore..."

It's something so hard to explain

2006-02-27T00:38:50Z

Title: Portions for Foxes
Rating: PG
Summary: A girl at a bar and a stranger buys her a drink. It’s a night that encompasses everything and nothing.
Author’s Note: This is a flushed out version of a dream I once had. Obviously not real.
Dedication: Emma (echoelf) for her love for Vodka and Cranberry Juice. Laila (inpurity) for listening to the dream in the first place and commentating throughout the entire writing progress.

Portions for Foxes

Depression
1) The condition of feeling sad or despondent.
2) Psychology. A psychiatric disorder characterized by an inability to concentrate, insomnia, loss of appetite, anhedonia, feelings of extreme sadness, guilt, helplessness and hopelessness, and thoughts of death. Also called clinical depression.

It’s late.

The New York streets are quiet. Cars fly by but their tires don’t squeal. There’s no rush at this time of night.

I slink to the bar, hair down in front of my face to guard myself from any looks. I need to protect myself. I crouch in the stool, sitting still. I stare at the gnarled wood, tracing nonsense patterns. My heart hurts, everything hurts.

I sink lower, hiding in the shadow. I rest my head on my hand, but it droops lower. My stomach rolls and my heart palpates with an ache.

There’s too many things I want to say, but it’s always at night when these bouts come. It’s so late, and there’s no one to occupy my time. There’s nothing I can distract myself with. I came here with some intention, forgetting that alcohol doesn’t make it better.

A stranger slides out the stool besides me. I don’t look up, too involved in the imperfect wood of the gorged bar to acknowledge anyone’s presence.

“Drink?”

I respond without thinking, despite knowing better, “Yeah, okay.” I’m sober now, a couple drinks won’t hurt. Well, it couldn’t possibly hurt me more.

“Preference?”

I exhale quickly, my disdain for the world coming out in one moment. “As long as it’s not rum, I could care less.”

Self-pity is an enthralling thing. It is something that is solely mine, an ephemeral thing that erodes my insides and everything that I once believed was true. Truth is a prickly thing.

The stranger hasn’t left, and he hasn’t said a word. His quiet nature is reassuring.

I finally look up.

He’s a broken man, sallow and pale.

He nods, his fringe hiding his eyes and all that intelligence.

“Is vodka okay?”

“Yeah, just not straight up. I only resort to that when my taste buds have eroded to nothing.”

He smiles, and it shoots an arrow aimed straight for my heart.

“Cranberry and vodka,” I respond.

Emma likes the stuff, I remember. I trust her tastes and this is a good time as any to get drunk. If there is anyone who can understand the urge to drink yourself stupid, it’s him.

He’s enthralling; my self-pity can’t compete, not with this man. He’s the perfect stranger, removed from my life and his. The bartender sets my drink in front of me. I finger the glass rim.

“I don’t know why I’m here. You know, being underage and all.”

He nods, his eyes shrouded by a hazy veil.

“I’m not sure what I’m running from. This place, this moment... why do I do this to myself? I’m ******, by the way.”

I slip my finger around the glass, bringing it to my lips. I sip the toxic drink, letting it enter my bloodstream and wreck havoc on reality.

“I never believed in love.” I laugh at my own stupidity, a sound that doesn’t make its way past my lips. “I doubted its existence even when I was in love.”

I stare at the bottles of alcohol on the self behind the bar, continuing with my monologue.

“How can something so beautiful be this sharp? I’ve been in love, twice. I’m lucky in that respect. Some individuals don’t even get to encounter it once.”

I fiddle with the glass. I search for something else to say.

“It’s nights like these that are begging to tear me apart.”

He responds, “That sounds like a song lyric.” He talks so softly that it feels like a whisper, a caress.

“It is. It’s from one of my favorite bands.”

I take another sip. The liquid seeps into my muddled brain, doing nothing to make anything clearer or to lessen any of the pain.

“I’m in a hole, earthen walls on all sides. I’m trapped, and I can’t get out. Despite all that, I keep digging myself deeper, sinking further into what those other people call depression. I hate that word.”

He signals the bartender, ordering me another drink. I stare at my empty cup, not remembering when those sips turned into pained swallows. The bartender is quick to supply the poison.

I turn back to him, his features so distinctive in my mind. His words aren’t slurred. He carries himself with a silent grace. I take my second serving, tipping the glass back quickly. There’s a sudden wash of disgust that overwhelms my taste buds. The cranberry juice does nothing to mask the taste of the vodka.

I don’t think he’s even had a sip.

“There's blood in my mouth 'cause I've been biting my tongue all week,” I quote. More song lyrics, because their words are more honest.

I can’t stop myself, because his words are painfully steeped into my life. “I believe that lovers should be tied together and drown in their arrogance.”

He raises an eyebrow, and I can see his surprise.

I laugh, a bit shrilly as I reply, "What, did you think a girl like me wouldn't know who you are? You are a god to girls like me."

He only nods.

He’s hardly fazed, not uncomfortable being recognized. At least not in this moment.

The world is moving beneath me. The world wavers and dances. I catch myself before I fall off the stool. It suddenly takes too much effort to sit up.

He gets to his feet, not a waver in his step. He offers me his hand, and I reluctantly place my hand in his as he helps me get to my feet. He throws down some bills, and I’m holding onto his arm.

I’m not that drunk.

The streetlamps cast yellow light. We walk, and he signals a cab.

The yellow taxi slows and stops. I grasp the door handle, releasing his arm and him of any obligation.

I get in.

He slides in next to me.

“10th and Broadway, please.”

The cabbie’s radio plays some jazz, something soulful.

The city passes my window in a blur and I slump against my door, away from him.

It’s my turn to be observed, his eyes skate over my figure without judgment. He takes in my dark hair and the dark smudges around my eyes. My jeans ride low and I’m wearing a hoodie. The jacket isn’t meant to shield me from the weather.

The cab slows, my destination looming over me. The cabbie turns around, waiting for his fare and for my companion and me to get out.

I turn to my him, “I would invite you in, but I have room mates.”

I don’t say that I wouldn’t know what to do if he did come in. That is implied.

I move to leave, but he interrupts.

“Would you like to come home with me?”

I turn my head. My body faces the door, ready to go through those metal doors and walk through the dormitory lobby and take the elevator fifteen flights. Instead, I nod and relax against the seat.

I turn towards to him, staring at him without shame. He meets my gaze with emotions and detachments that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

“You’re everything that they say you are and nothing at the same time.”

“I’m just me.”

Everyone has expectations.

I watch him for the rest of the ride.

He pays as we get out. I take a deep breath, the air’s sweet, something that it can be only at this time of night.

I follow him.

He guides me into his living room. I bypass the couch to sit on the floor. The carpet is thick, and I thread my fingers through the fabric. I slouch against the front of the sofa. It supports my back, and I lean against it.

I’ve spent this night leaning and discarding baggage.

“Would you like some water?”

“Yes.”

I watch him walk away.

He returns; the tall glass in his hand filled with New York tap water to hydrate my dry mouth and to stop the nausea.

“Music?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He handles his record player with care, his pale fingers placing the needle carefully on the black vinyl. The music fills the air with a song about desperation.

I stare at him, because he’s beautiful and broken.

My self-consciousness makes this entire episode awkward. I can’t make anyone at ease, let alone myself.

He sits next to me, and we listen to the notes filling the room. My hand grazes his, and I move away. The touch is innocent, but I can’t bare it.

His eyes ask me if I would like to move this to the bedroom, but I can’t. I’m tempted, but I don’t.

He retrieves extra blankets and a pillow and places them beside me. He straightens up, giving me a soft smile before he moves toward his bedroom door.

“Lie down with me.”

The question comes out like a statement.

He does so without questions or superfluous words.

He tucks my body against his, his breath ghosting over the back of my neck. His encircles me in his arms. The hold is light, giving me the freedom to pull away or to snuggle closer.

I do neither.

I stay exactly as I am.

I wake the next morning, disoriented and unsure. The setting isn’t familiar. I blink and freeze when I realize I’m not alone. I inch away slowly and turn my head. He’s still sleeping and his features are at peace.

I smile.

I inch further away, getting up slowly. There’s no hangover, there never is. I grab my discarded jacket, watching him for a moment longer.

I toy with the idea of leaving him my number, but it’s tacky and lame.

Since this will be my only chance to be this close to his beauty, I study him. I trace over the curves and lines with my eyes. I note the ragged edge of his shirt cuff. I desperately want to brush his hair out of his face, but I don’t.

I come over to him, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you.”

I move to get up, fixing this moment and the night before to a place where it can’t be forgotten.

A low and quiet voice whispers, “You’re welcome.

I turn, and he’s awake.

He sits up slowly, leaning against the couch in the same manner as the night before.

“Were you just going to leave?”

I blush, fumbling for words. “I was going to leave my number.”

We both know I’m lying.

I bite my lower lip, moving back towards him. I take a sharpie out of my purse and take his hand. I push back that ragged cuff, exposing his pale forearm. I scribble my cell number, and he doesn’t protest. I smile, capping the marker. I can’t bring myself to let go of his arm and when I do drop it, his hand lands on my leg.

I don’t move.

We stare at each other and time passes.

He knows so much about me since there’s nothing easier than baring your soul to a stranger.

I lean forward, and he makes no movements towards me. I swallow my fear and pride and kiss him.

He kisses me back.

It’s bittersweet.

The very things that make him who he is, those things transfers into me. It’s sad and delicate. It’s passionate and wonderful, but it aches. My body aches.

He makes me ache.

I know in that moment, I will love him. I will love him, and he will write songs about this night.

But there’s isn’t anything to cling to. He will come find me when he is around and I will continue to nail pegs into my hands and feet. This is my cross to bear, and I’m willing.

Author’s Note: Lyrics from Brand New, Rilo Kiley, and Bright Eyes respectively.

Lonely Update: YEAH for Jesse!

2005-12-13T02:38:43Z

Title: Lonely: A State of Mind
Bands: Brand New, Taking Back Sunday, Straylight Run
Rating: R
Summary: Frozen with inaction and drowning them with alcohol, was never how Jesse saw himself. But too bad it’s the closest thing to the truth these days. Last days of tour, a bar, grocery shopping, kitchen clocks, and Adam.
Disclaimer: Not real, not even close to reality.
Author’s Note: I realize my last update was a very, very long time ago. Umm, sorry?

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2

Chapter 3: There’s No Use Cleaning This Mess

Every action has an equal and violent reaction.

I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore.

My friends don’t recognize me either.

I was never taught to take the easy way out. As a child and than as an adolescent, I chose to suffer while I worked for what I desperately desired. It’s true that I had an easier life than most; no abandonment, no rampant drug use on my part, or any lingering episodes of depression. I had a happy and pleasant childhood, a childhood that did little to prepare me for anything but a life inside a protective bubble.

What I want now is to find the easy way out, something I never would have allowed myself to do in a different state. I guess the easy solution would be to take some time off... possibly even permanently, reside in my room until all this pain melts away. Hide inside glass bottles, listening to the tic-tock of the kitchen clock. Actually, no. The kitten clock with its swaying black tail and its huge eyes would be the first thing to go. I’m not a violent man, never to let anger control my action or my words. But then again, there are exceptions to every rule and why can’t this clock be it? Take a worn wooden baseball bat to its sashaying eyes; I don’t need reminders of a different life. If I’m to forget John Nolan and our relationship, all remnants of that life has to go. That clock, an indulgence in bad taste and affection, will be the first thing to be put away, destroyed.

My sister had her own unique way of coping. Well, it was what I considered her way of coping, because she didn’t go on ice-cream binges like those weepy girls on TV or have violent fits like the scary ones with dark lipstick and black eye-liner. Kerry went through a ritual and it never altered, never once. Every time her and her boyfriend broke up; she would wander around the house with glassy eyes and a runny nose, putting away all reminders of any Greg, Eric, Brian, or Steve. In went the pink teddy bear with its red boxers and white paws, a pair of silver hoops with dangling jewels, a mixed CD of their songs, an empty box of chocolates in the shape of an oval with a golden ribbon, and most remarkably, pristine letters, painstakingly kept in perfect condition even with six curious and nosy siblings snooping around. Every item, carefully or carelessly, dropped into an unmarked brown box she always seemed to have for these occasions. Every gift and every promise sealed inside with shiny duct tape and dropped into the back of her closet like her winter clothes in the beginning of every summer.

I want to put away the past, place it in a box. It goes without saying that I’ll need a bigger box than Kerry has ever used, will ever use. Then again, she was young then, so much easier for her to bounce back. Besides, none of her boyfriends were ever fixtures in her life. They walked in as love interests, stuck around as boyfriends, and left as exes. A simple cycle; hello, what’s up, good-bye. There never was any prolonged attachment, nothing like John and me. He’s been a part of my life as far back as I can remember.

But John’s not in my life anymore.

He’s not mine anymore.

Everything’s changed.

None of the guys can look me in the face.

Vin barely speaks to me, not after he walked in on me fucking some groupie. He opened the door, stared for a moment, and then closed the door. He never brought it up, but I know that’s all he sees when he looks at me. Brian and Garrett avoid me the best they can.

I’ve heard their whispered conversations. The tour bus is not a great place to hold a private discussion, especially if the subject of said discussion is sitting just a couple feet away. I picked up the habit of putting on my ear-muff like headphones for privacy. I rarely have music playing, so I hear muffled noises rather than a thumping beat, but it’s surprising how crisp words become when you’re the one being talked about.

If they only knew.

They speculate over my mental state and my current lifestyle.

Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll.

Well, mostly just the sex.

Not that it matters.

The tour’s almost over. It’s been a blur of faces, colorful lights, and disapproving looks. I spent any and all of my free time praying that I’m struck blind so I don’t have to see John with her.

I've never been so happy at the end of a tour. As often as I wish it to be over, there is nothing I really love more than performing for others, people who can understand and sympathize with my plight. My songs are cutouts from a diary that I never wrote down. The words never made it onto lined-pages. The words I sing are words I’m afraid to write down in a diary. It would make everything too real. If I sing away my sorrows, I can force myself to forget that I'm the only one with the pain.

***

I’m home again, and I can’t think of a lonelier place to be. The house is dark and empty, the sink retaining soapy water and dirty dishes that I have yet to bother with. I can’t even remember the last time I ate, so I really don’t want to think about how long those dishes have been there. I sigh, brushing at my eyes ready to catch any stray tears... except there aren’t any. There’s really nothing there. I can’t cry; I can’t feel much of anything. My life is crumbling, and I can’t bring myself to care.

The chair is uncomfortable, and it’s digging into my back in all the wrong ways. I fucking hate these chairs, they’re so fucking uncomfortable and yet, I’ve been sitting in this one for the past three hours. Three hours of my mind drifting about how much I hate this fucking chair.

I keep time with the aid of the kitten clock. Each sashay of its eyes and tail tell me that I’ve wasted another second of my life. It’s getting dark and all over the neighborhood, parents are tucking their children into bed. It’s a kiss on the forehead and then it’s lights out.

I grab a jacket and take one last survey of the house. I kick over a chair, feeling marginally better as I leave the kitchen and walk out the front door. I lock the door behind me, a slight pang rises in my chest. It goes ignored.

My feet know the way, each step taking me further away from morality and salvation. I’m leading myself toward debauchery, and that’s the least of it. I’m going to hell, but I’ve passed the point of caring.

The roles are starting to blur, and I’m not sure who I am anymore. I’m a package sold to the highest bidder. My secrets are for sale. My body and my heart are reasonably priced. My love and devotion are agreed upon the scribblings of a pen. I can be anything you want; devoted and sweet, teeth and smiles, blood and nails, lies and talk.

I don’t feel anymore. Aching isn’t a feeling, it’s the lack of sensation. My heart pumps blood because it has to. I used to take better care of myself. I never used to pollute my blood stream with ethanol, but I can barely go through the day without it.

The ache is easily explained. The cause has a name.

The effect isn’t so simple, or perhaps it is. It is the simple degradation of a man, a man being torn apart from outside forces and inner hatred.

John could probably say that more eloquently, but he no longer cares about such a man.

I’m talking about myself in the third person. My sanity is flimsy at best, and I wonder what it’s going to take for the final plunge. Sanity has done nothing for me. Logic has betrayed me.

My thoughts overwhelm me, the words barraging the inside of my head with too much thought. Each thought acts like a needle. It tears at nerves and refuses to stop. It demands attention, something that I’m not willing to do.

My legs keep walking, bypassing a subway station. The thought of standing still in an enclosed space with strangers makes me cringe. I can’t afford to be stagnant, not when my thoughts are running and my heart is racing. I still my steps and come to a stop. I bring my hand to my face, watching it shake in a way that is imperceptible to anyone but me. I stare at the grooves at the tips of my fingers blend and blur together.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I shake my head and break into a run. My inner demons are nipping at my heels and the sidewalk crumbles from beneath me. The ground starts to crack and I’m so close to falling through the gaps. Earthen walls would incarcerate me as the fall places pressure against my chest. I can’t outrun my problems, because the problem is me.

The streetlamp passes in a blur, I reach out and let the black metal graze my fingertips. My heart thumps harshly in my chest, rushing blood to all the right organs. The destination hasn’t changed, the path has. The keys in my front pocket dig into flesh, and it’s a welcome distraction.

I run and I keep running.

My breath is ragged and my chest threatens to explode, but I can’t be sure if it’s because of the sudden bout of exercise or something else. Either way, I collapse. I fall onto my knees, my hands bracing my fall. The world is spinning. The ground is whole again. There are no giant cracks to catch me unawares and swallow me whole.

A jagged rock embeds itself into the fleshy part of my palm. I dig my hand harder against the ground. The rock rips and nestles against my skin. I pant for breath, taking my time as I steady my breathing. I can feel the rock against my palm with even the slightest movement. I focus on the sting instead of my erratic heartbeat and the convulsions in my chest.

When my heart rate slows down to an acceptable rate, I roll back onto my feet. Standing up is too much so I sit on the dirty ground. I turn my hand over, the indent from the rock is clear. Blood wells back into the imprint so it’s no longer ghastly white. I watch as sensation returns to that one spot.

The rock rests innocently on the ground. The edges don’t appear to be as serrated as they felt. I pick it up gently, rolling it between my fingers.

I get to my feet, brushing away dust and grime. I mean to drop the rock on the ground, but I don’t. I slip it into my jacket pocket. I’m perspiring slightly from my impromptu attempt at being a track star. I shoulder off my jacket and cradle it in the crook of my arm. I walk the last couple of blocks to the bar as if nothing happened.

I run a hand through my hair, giving it the desired half-crumpled just had sex look.

Even though I just barely escaped falling apart, I realize that my looks and charm and persona are things I need to protect. I need to fill these over-confident shoes. I’m the best at what I do, and I’m the man that you wish you could be. I nurse my façade of nonchalance. It’s only when I feel ready and veneer cold, do I enter.

The lights are low and noise filters through the large room. I head straight to the bar. I settle on a stool, my eyes scanning the patrons. This bar doesn’t have a name or tacky lights beckoning people inside. It’s small and unassuming, hiding between two large buildings. I wandered in accidentally some months ago. I doubt anyone but the hometown kids know this place exists. There are pockets of girls, their dyed heads bent toward each other as if they’re in a football huddle. Their drunken laughter tinkers through the air like globes of silver mercury. One girl swings her arm up and smacks her friend next to her. They fall into giggles, and I am confirmed in my suspicions that this place never cards. The girl holding her face in pain and confusion is barely seventeen, if that.

The bartender glides toward me. He’s new. I don’t recognize his dark hair or his bare arms. I’m used to James with his colorful tattoos and even more colorful hair. I immediately feel a rush of resentment toward this new guy. His movements are fluid and almost majestic. He does indeed glide.

The bile in my throat starts to abate the closer he gets. I’ve always liked James and how he never asked questions, but this boy is beautiful. His green eyes flicker with recognition that I can’t seem to escape. I will always be Jesse Lacey, lead singer of Brand New. I take it stride. It’ll only help me towards my mean.

He smiles softly. It’s attractive, so incredibly attractive. I lean forward on my stool, the keys reminding me of their presence once again. I increase the degree of the angle, the key continuing to stab its blunt end into the soft tissue of my upper thigh.

James must have told him about me, because the boy doesn’t speak. He hands me a beer, opening the bottle with a pop. I smile. I spray my fingers on the counter before turning in my seat so my back is toward him. His eyes feel like lasers on my back. I can feel him tracing the lines of my shoulders and taking note of the small wrinkles of my shirt. I sling the jacket over the back of the stool beside me. This serves two purposes. It will deter anyone from sitting there, and it makes me appear aloof. I need aloof. I hide behind aloof.

I drink silently.

There are patches of darkness in the corners. My eyes linger in one particular place. I can make out the outline of two individuals, their arms pulling and tugging. The heads are pressed close together and their bodies seem to meld into one. I hear a gasp and a swallow, feel fingers pushing under toward bare skin. They are oblivious to those around them, unaware of the dim lighting or the soft music.

The bar caters to the reckless.

The patrons are young and they mill around aimlessly. The newer ones cling to their friends, shooting wary glances at anyone who gets too close. This particular bar has what seems to be a dance floor, except no dancing ever takes place. It reminds me of parties that take place backstage. People walking around, getting drunk and getting laid. Maybe that’s why I like it so much. When I’m on tour, I can’t wait to get home and reminisce about quiet nights and a good book. When I’m home, I come here to pretend I’m in No Where, America.

The irony strikes me as something quite hilarious.

I roll the beer bottle in my hand, my attention focused on the couple in the corner. I’m a voyeur, spying on private moments. I study the tilt of her head, the soft sounds he’s making, the misshapen state of their clothes; I let it all linger in my mind. I revel in their intimacy and their licentiousness.

“Hi.”

The bar spins and I’m thrown back into my stool, away from the couple and their familiarity. I blink as the two blend into the background and I can no longer hear their small sounds. I turn, facing the intruder. She is pretty, one of the girls that I’d observed earlier. She was locked in the group with the drunken antics. I appease her with a cold smile; she’s too dumb to flinch.

She’s easy game. I could crush her with a word. She’s such a fragile, pretty thing. She’s the ringleader of that little group of girls. It probably took her twenty minutes to pull up the nerve to even come over, let alone speak to me. I bite down against the sarcasm and cynicism. It’d hurt more if I regarded her as worthless rather than annoying.

I let my eyes scan over her body. She’s wearing tight black pants, and it rides low on her hips. There’s some silver glittery thing around her waist that she’s using for a belt. I recognize it. One of my sisters has the same one, only in gold. The belt consists of sequins sewn on some stretchy material with a clasp that you clip. I can see a long stretch of skin from her lower hip to just above her bellybutton. She’s advertising, that’s obvious. My eyes continue upwards, and she shivers. Her shirt is shiny and it refracts bits of light. It clings to her body in ways that should be illegal. I can appreciate beauty when I see it. My eyes follow the curve of her tanned neck and meet her gaze.

She’s practically salivating. Her hand digs into the counter, and she’s trying to exercise self-control. I haven’t responded to her greeting yet she’s ready to believe that I’ll take her hand and lead her away from this place and take her home. Her friends are watching, she and I both know it. They’re waiting anxiously for my next move and wishing they’d gone up to me instead.

I smile, cruel and cold. Her eyes widen, because even she can feel the chill, the utter lack of feeling.

I roll my eyes and turn away. Her heart and ego shatter on the ground. It mingles with the dirt and grime. I don’t need to turn around to see the devastation written all over her face. The loud screech of her chair being pushed away from the bar is enough. Her stool falls to the ground with her dignity, and then she’s gone.

I take another sip, letting her pain warm me through.

The bartender returns under the premise of wiping down the bar. I catch his eye again, and normally, I would stay longer looking for someone to share my bed. But it’s different tonight, there’s something missing, a gape in my life that I can’t quite fill and the void seems to grow larger with each moment.

I snort. Well, duh. John.

I let my eyes linger on his face longer than necessary. I don’t need to make a move, he will do it for me. I still don’t know his name, but he whispers that he’s getting off in less than an hour. I doubt the validity of his statement, but I’m not one to argue. I can always drink until then, and if someone else catches my attention in the meantime, even better.

Time passes without any acknowledgement from me or from the other patrons.

I tap my fingers against my arm as I trade in my beer for something stronger. I signal the bartender and he abandons all others to attend to me. It’s a feeling of power to know that I’m wanted. He lines a shot on the bar but he adds another when I give him a disbelieving look. What a good boy.

I guess I will be taking him home tonight.

Seconds seem to pass slower after that.

Later that night, all I can remember is the taste of alcohol on my tongue and the feel of another’s body pressed against mine. It wasn’t what I needed, but necessity isn’t so important anymore.

***

I make a face, blinking away sleep. I pull the covers over my head. I haven’t slept well in a long time, and I will not allow sunlight ruin it for me.

“Wake up, Jesse.”

Go away. I do not want to wake up. Waking up is evil.

“Jesse Thomas Lacey, get your ass out of bed right now!”

I’m either hallucinating or Jamie’s really in my room right now.

I lower the sheets past my eyes and I can see my sister’s figure outlined against the window. The light refracts around her. Her hands are on her hips and even though I can’t see her face, I know she’s scowling at me. I really shouldn’t have given her the key to my place. The only upside to her being here right now is that she didn’t come over three nights ago. She does not need to see some stranger sharing my bed with me.

“What?”

Jamie sighs, pushing the curtains open further and letting more sunlight flood the room. She opens the window with a heave and wanders over to me. She stands by the side of my bed, arms crossed and looking annoyed.

“There is a pile of dirty dishes in your sink, which makes no sense since your fridge only has mustard and beer, and to top it all off, all the chairs in the kitchen are overturned.”

“So?” I wish I knew where she is going with this.

She sighs, dropping her arms to her side. “You can’t live like this. Move!”

“Do you know what time it is?” I scowl, because it’s too early for moving. I just want to sleep. Eating is not absolutely necessary, and a couple more hours of not eating will not kill me.

Jamie looks down at her wristwatch, making sense of the numbers and hands. “It’s exactly 12:23 in the afternoon. Get out of bed, I’m taking you grocery shopping.”

Grocery shopping? She must be kidding. I realize that it’s no longer morning and I’ll even concede to the waking up part, but actually leaving my house. No, not a chance. Groceries are not important, take-out exists for a reason.

She keeps scowling, foot tapping on the floor to a steady beat. She’s doing nothing but making my headache worse. The pounding in my head starts to match the rhythm of her foot meeting the floor in an aggravating manner. And to think that I liked Jamie.

I sigh, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around me. I give her an unhappy look, and she dares to give me a soft smile. I need to have a word with my parents about their breeding habits.

“If you’re not careful, you’re going to become emaciated.”

I raise an eyebrow, pulling the sheet away from my body to look at the pudge around my middle. I shoot her a cold glare, eyes narrowed and lips in a thin line. This Lacey will never have to worry about being underweight. It’s not really pudge anymore, but there is no chance of ribs sticking out or anything.

She sighs, rolling her eyes upward. She crosses her arms and strikes a stiff pose. “Jesse, you are going grocery shopping and that’s that.”

I narrow my eyes, vehement and clear as I respond, “No, I will not.”

***

I hunch over the half-full shopping cart. I eye the contents, wondering if Jamie seriously expects him to eat that dodgy looking cereal. It apparently cures cancer and stops heart disease but I have a distinct feeling that the cereal itself will likely kill me. Foods have taste; cardboard is not an acceptable taste for cereal.

I take a quick survey to make sure Jamie is nowhere near me. I cannot have her spot me putting that damn cereal back. That woman would buy three more boxes out of spite. She is an evil and horrible woman, I am sure of it. She is a wicked, wicked woman with the scariest glare in the fucking world.

I wheel the cart around the brightly lit supermarket, ignoring the chatter. I lost Jamie two aisles ago when she went into the feminine products section. I may be gay, but shit, no. No no no.

Jamie’s been doing her shopping more than helping me as she insisted earlier. Her insisting has lost quite bit of its validity since there’s flour in my cart. Flour. Flour is for baking, I do not bake. Baking requires measurement and patience, on second thought... who the hell is that flour for? Jamie sure as hell does not bake either.

I didn’t pick out a single goddamn thing in this cart and I’m pretty sure that Pearly Opal nail polish isn’t for me. I give the cart a parting glance as I walk away. There must be a bench around here somewhere.

I slip my hands into my pockets, and walk down aisle 6. This aisle seems to be wholly dedicated to making some kind of pasta. There are pre-made sauces of every variety and various shaped pastas. I watch a woman ask her children if they prefer bowties or shells and pick accordingly. I never realized that grocery shopping was so democratic.

Black Olive spaghetti sauce, interesting yes, but again, dodgy. I am unclear with my new obsession with the word, but considering that this is my internal monologue, it’s fine. The sauce doesn’t look appetizing at all and I wonder who in the world would purchase such a disgusting concoction.

“Ahem.”

I turn around quickly, shoulders hunched slightly in a protective gesture. I am expecting the worst and by worst, I mean Jamie.

I blink, shoulders relaxing again as I straighten to my normal height.

“You’re in the way, Jesse.”

I sputter, glaring. My right hand curls into a fist on instinct. I sneer automatically, eyes narrowed into slits.

Adam holds the plastic green basket. I take a quick inventory and it appears that he’s buying things for dinner which I find odd since Adam never had an affinity for cooking. His hair is longer than I remember but he’s still the same skinny fuck that I knew way back when. His bangs hide most of his face and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

He’s wearing that ridiculous striped shirt. He’s had that shirt for years. It’s ragged at the sleeves, holes around the both wrists and one on his left side. The red and grey are faded beyond recognition and he looks like he picked it off the floor of his bedroom when he got dressed.

He watches me evenly and I want nothing more than to scream at him.

Instead, I hand him the disgusting sauce.

“Adam, I hope you choke on it.”

I walk away, my anger still simmering under my skin.

Adam and I never got along. I disregarded his existence the moment we met. Our personalities didn’t mesh well nor did we really attempt to make it work. He was in John’s band and I was John’s best friend. We were connected through John and it was because of John that I started to resent the one and only Adam Lazzara.

Best friends mean best friends forever.

That’s hardly possible when said best friend gets himself a new one. Adam had this ability, still does, of drawing people in. He makes you love him and I hated him for it. He took John away from me when they went on tour. They would share those little secrets and it always bothered me. Of course, he was bastard but that’s beside the point. His melodramatic tendencies grated on my every nerve.

More than anything else, we never got along. I disliked him on principle mostly. He took John and that was clearly unacceptable then events escalated.

He hurt John’s little sister, and then any bit of hatred was cemented.

I sigh, kicking at the floor.

Jamie has to be done shopping soon.

I sulk, not amused by life. I don’t want to be here anymore than I want to be anywhere else. I scowl; angry at Adam, angry at John, angry at Jamie. I’m far too irrational to just pick one person. There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing and I don’t appreciate the interference. Jamie was sent here, sent to check up on me and I won’t play along anymore.

I steady myself, arms straight at my sides as I actively seek Jamie. I walk past the junk food aisle with its shelves of fried chips and cheesy snacks. I walk past the drinks aisle without a second glance, looking for Jamie’s dark head. I make it to the milk and diary aisle and our cart is beside her. She checks the expiration date for a carton of 2% milk.

“Jesse, don’t even start. You’re pissed off and but your friends are worried.” Her voice is soft and eyes are still on the carton of milk. She then places the carton in the cart and rests her weight on the shopping cart.

I level her a steady glaze, “What the hell is that supposed to mean? It’s fine that I’m pissed off? Well, isn’t that fucking great!” The volume of my voice slowly starts to escalate as I continue, my eyes clouding with rage. “If it’s so fucking fine with everyone, why are you here?!” The sheer force of my words makes my ears ring.

Jamie’s eyes are large, her lips parted in shock. She expected sarcasm and cynicism, but never an emotionally charged outburst. Her eyes cloud with an emotion that I cannot name and she lifts her chin.

I wait for a retort, just begging for a chance to continue this. I want to rip something apart; I want this emotional outburst to destroy all the things that have been slowly drowning me in a sea of barriers and emotional distance.

Something glass shatters to my right and I turn my head to look. Black Olive sauce mars the cleanliness of the floor and my eyes move from the spilled mess to Adam’s dark brown eyes. A dark glint shimmers in his eyes and my hysteria abates immediately. I turn away from the other boy, taking a deep breath as I do. Adam will not get a free show if I can help it. I will not break down in front of him.

I carefully build up all the facades and barricades. I let my face relax to a guilty look with the right amount of contrition. I can do this. I can pretend that everything is fine and that I’m better now. I can do this. I can mislead with the best of them and I need to do it now.

Adam hasn’t moved from his spot. He’s still watching me and he doesn’t seem concerned about the mess he’s made. He has no sense of propriety, I’m sure of it. It’s rude to stare and a part of me wants to snap at him, something about a picture lasting longer.

I move my gaze away from Adam and back to my sister. I need her to forgive me so we can never talk about this again.

I sigh softly, moving a sheepish hand through my hair. She’s still watching me and her expression changes slightly. She looks over to Adam, her eyes flickering.

“Come on, Jesse.”

She wheels the cart down to the register and I nod. She places a reassuring hand on my arm, her gesture of forgiveness. She doesn’t speak anymore, not wanting to make a scene. She wants to believe that I’m fine more than anything else. She’ll take what she can get and I’ll do my best to deliver the appropriate performance.

Unfinished.

2005-08-18T05:55:31Z

This is unfinished, and it will probably stay that way. That is why it's being posted. The point of view came out all wrong, and I'm too lazy to re-write it properly. Attach a GIANT "Would HAVE been" before the synopsis description as well as pairing.

Synopsis: Jesus comments, CSI marathons, kitchen scissors, supposed psychic powers, and an emergency hospital visit. In other words, a perfectly normal day in the life of one Adam Lazzara.
Pairing: Adam/his hair, Adam/CSI, Adam/ebay, Adam/bread.

Unfinished and Very Untitled

“Adam, it needs to go. There is no reason for you to have that... that... THING anymore.”

Adam clutches desperately to his long hair, his fingers tangled at the ends as he shakes his head. He whimpers in protest, but there is no use in it. Angel, his room mate, is bigger and stronger. Angel could easily snap his body in two with only his psychic powers.

He is positive that Angel does indeed possess such powers, because there is no way that Angel managed to program the VCR to record the World Series of Poker without some otherworldly help. That fucking VCR is out to get him, Adam is sure of it.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Adam wails in protest as Angel advances. He mentally calculates the bout of inhuman strength and intelligence that he will need to defend himself. He will not allow this to happen, no.

Just as Adam is about to jump and crawl through Angel’s legs, Angel’s hand grabs him by the scruff his neck, and Adam can only whimper. Adam can only hope for mercy and some compassion, but Angel isn’t having any of it.

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous. Don’t give me those eyes, Lazzara, I am immune to your charms. I am not Fred.”

Adam chooses to ignore Angel’s delusion about him and Fred. Instead, he digs his heels into the floor in the hopes that they will somehow catch something and deter Angel from abusing him any further. He looks at the floor desperately but there isn’t so much as a stray sneaker to help him now, just the bare wooden floor. Someone really hates him up there.

“You can’t make me do thiiiiisssss,” Adam drags out the last word, both of his hands wrapped around Angel’s wrist. Angel’s dragging him by the collar of his shirt now, and Adam’s not sure what’s worse. Massive bruising on his neck or a stretched and misshapen shirt... on second thought, the stretched shirt is soooo much worse, no competition.

Angel rolls his eyes skyward, not bothering to answer as Adam tries to grab onto the couch in a last bid of freedom. Adam clutches onto the upholstery with all his might. Angel grabs him around the waist and tries to wretch him off the couch.

“ADAM LAZZARA! LET GO OF THE FUCKING SOFA!”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

From an outsider’s point of view, the comedy in this situation is clear. This could be a comical situation, it could be. Really comical, guaranteed to win America’s funniest home videos, hands down. Adam would even be laughing if Angel wasn’t trying to rip him off the couch.

Adam holds on for dear life, but the cushion is starting to slip. It’s starting to slip, and he’s almost positive that Angel is using his psychic powers to make his fingers lose their grip.

“STOP CHEATING! NO PSYCHIC POWERS!”

Angel grabs Adam by the waistband of his pants and threatens to pull.

Adam has two options. He could keep holding onto the sofa and be pantsed or he can grab his jeans now and preserve his modesty and dignity.

Fuck the pants.

“Adam, you do realize you’re not wearing underwear, right?

Adam snaps his head back and that’s all the distraction Angel needs to pull Adam off the piece of furniture. Angel continues to drag him away to the other side of the room where a chair is waiting. A small table is nearby with something shiny, metal and plastic.

“Fucker, I am so wearing underwear.”

“Sit.”

“No,” Adam crosses his arms and shoots Angel a defiant glare. So what if Angel is barring his way to freedom or the fact that Angel is now reaching for the kitchen scissors on the table. He will not show fear.

Will. Not. Show. Fear.

“Adam, I am asking nicely... sit down.”

Adam shakes his head and pouts like the preschooler that Angel knows he is. Angel needs to try a different tactic; brute strength will not make Adam sit still. No, he will have to be sneaky, sneaky and diabolical.

“Remember the old days, Adam?” Angel questions. Adam’s stance softens a little, willing to hear Angel out since Angel’s voice has softened just a little and also because the other boy is no longer reaching for sharp metal instruments. Angel continues, “Remember when you didn’t resemble the Christian savior and all those scene kids worshipped you? Hmmm?”

Adam pouts and responds, “But I can get discounts at Christian book stores.”

“You’ve never set foot inside a Christian book store, and you know it. I refuse to let you look like Christ anymore. All you need is a pair of loafers and a white robe, and you could be mistaken for Jesus.”

“It’d be a cheap Halloween outfit.”

“ADAM!”

“I don’t want a haircut!” Adam continues to pout and he looks away. This argument is over. There is nothing in this world that will convince him to lose the hair. So he looks like Christ, if Christ had bad dye-job, but that’s totally and utterly beside the point. It’s his head; he is capable of choosing what style sits on top of it.

Angel has no choice. He needs to pull out the big guns. If there ever was a moment when he needed it the most, this is it.

“You would be hotter than Jesse Lacey if you shaved your head.”

Adam’s head snaps back. Angel can see the gears working in his head, the cobwebs slowly clearing as Adam takes his time to fully digest the meaning of his words. There is nothing that Adam wants more than to be greater than Jesse at something, anything will do. Even something as small and trivial as aesthetics.

“Okay.”

Angel just nods. The scissors won’t do anymore, but he can’t have Adam run away while he’s getting the electric shaver. He does not put it past Adam to turn tail and run without him standing there as a reminder of the soon hotness that Adam will embody.

Besides, he needs to cut some of that pink hair to be able to shave it.

So shaving Adam’s head wasn’t the original plan, but it’s probably a better idea anyway. Adam does not need a scene haircut; he’s much too old for that bullshit. Scene points and myspace, bah.

Angel combs through Adam’s long hair with his fingers, not having thought too far ahead since he forgot to place a brush on the table. But then again, before this is over, Adam won’t have much need for a brush, so it doesn’t matter. Angel pulls some hair taunt at the top of Adam’s head, a place clearly visible so that if Adam changed his mind, he would have to get a haircut of some kind anyway, unless he didn’t mind walking around with a chunk of his hair missing.

Angel makes the first cut, a quick movement of his fingers and it’s over.

Adam whimpers when the pink strands hit the floor. He shuts his eyes and hums. He refuses to think, and he hums to keep himself distracted. His hands grip the wooden armrest with all the strength he can muster.

Angel holds back a snort, because he recognizes the tune. He doesn’t do more than shake his head though, because unlike Adam, he’s not stupid.

Quiet snips fill the air. Soft strands even fall into Adam’s lap, and he doesn’t notice, not even when the snipping stops. He doesn’t notice Angel sneak away and come back with the electric shaver. He doesn’t notice Angel plugging in the contraption, but he sure as hell notices when there is a buzzing in the air and something vibrating near his scalp.

“Don’t you dare move! I’ve got the beard cutter thing on it so you won’t be completely bald, so stop it.”

Hotter than Jesse Lacey.

Right.

Dear god, what has he gotten himself into?

Happy thoughts. Bunnies. Rainbows. Glitter. Pink. Jesse getting run over rampaging girls... make that deer. Yes, very happy thought.

So he’s a bad person who thoroughly enjoys the idea of Jesse getting crushed under the unforgiving hoofs of a horde of angry mammals. What-the-fuck-ever.

Angel steps back and surveys his work. Not bad, definitely not bad. Could be better, but it isn’t worse than the look Adam was sporting earlier so it’s a definite improvement.

“Wait right here, I’m getting a camera.”

Adam leans over, picking up loose pink strands and letting them run through his fingers. Months of effort, gone.

Angel has Adam pose with his no longer attached locks for the quick photo. Angel seems pleased so Adam surmises it can’t be that bad. If it all works out, he’ll be hotter than Jesse.

...

Oh, fucking horrors.

END OF WRITTEN PART!

Bits of conversation that didn't get a chance to make it into the fic.

Banter Banter Banter

“Why are you on the floor?”

“I fell, duh.”

“Well, move. You are blocking the stairwell.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t...”

“Can’t.”

“You really hurt yourself this time, didn’t you?”

“No... OWWWWWWWWWWW! Don’t touch me.”

“I just poked your leg.”

“No, you fucking kicked me!”

“It was a love tap.”

“Die, vermin!”

“I could easily kill you in this situation.”

“You wouldn’t. You said so yourself, I look hot now.”

“No, you look like a cancer patient.”

“... You wound me on purpose.”

Sigh, “Let me call the hospital...”

“Okay.”

“If I still had my hair, it could have cushioned some of the head trauma.”

“You are not going to make me feel guilty about you not looking like a Jesus impersonator, even if it is at the cost of your pretty head.”

“Hah, I always knew you thought I was pretty.”

“...”

Shaun gets no love... none.

2005-07-28T05:43:19Z

Title: Mistaken for Passing Ships
Pairing: John/Michelle
Band: Straylight Run and Brand New (Jesse makes an appearance)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: HIGH SCHOOL FIC! First day of Spring Break and John’s sitting on the couch in his living room listening/eavesdropping on Michelle and Shaun. Seemed like he would be in for a dull evening, without even Jesse to entertain him, but when his parents aren’t there to supervise... well, things happen. Sex and alcohol things.
Disclaimer: I doubt John Nolan put the moves on his sister while he was a senior in high school, but then again, he was with 1985, so who fucking knows?
Dedication: Melinda, you know there’s a shout-out to you in this.
Author’s Note: A lot of plot with sex thrown in. More plot then sex. PLOT-DRIVEN! Plot > sex. I really don’t know how to make that clearer.

Mistaken for Passing Ships

This is NOT how John imagined he’d be spending his first day of Spring Break.

Never in his wildest imagination or in his lowest throes of self-pity did he think that he would spend his first day of Spring Break at home, listening to the soft murmurs of Michelle and Shaun tip-toeing around their supposed relationship. God, could he be more pathetic?

The door to Michelle’s room is ajar and despite the fact that the two inside of the room are speaking in quiet tones, each word flows and reaches John’s ears. But he doesn’t need to eavesdrop on the conversation to know that Shaun hangs on every word that his little sister says. Nor does he need glasses to see that Michelle has her sophomore sights on a certain best friend of his. Of course, none of this means that said best friend has any clue or cares.

John looks over at the wall, the clock gleaming as it informs him that it’s exactly 6:32 in the evening. His parents should be coming home any minute now. The sounds of the car pulling up into the driveway will catapult Michelle and Shaun out of her room and into the living room. It’s comical to watch the two practically fly down the stairs and try to look normal while flushed and panting for measured breathes. The pink color in Michelle’s cheeks only serve to make it appear like the two were doing things they weren’t supposed to, not partaking in a private conversation for the millionth time this school year.

He figures Michelle and Shaun are dating, dating as much as any two sixteen-year-olds can. From what he can garner, they haven’t done more than share some chaste kisses. Michelle is a good little Christian girl, after all.

He should be a good little Christian boy, but...

The porn was really his downfall with God.

Damn the porn.

Well, he can’t place all the blame on the porn. He can’t forget the astronomical amounts of cheap alcohol he consumes on the weekends. Okay, some on the weekdays, too. The alcohol, he blames on Jesse, Jesse and his fake I.D.

6:40 and no sign of the parental units, strange. His parents should have at least called by now. They worry too much, but at least they’re consistent. It’s soothing, something he can always rely on.

“Hey, John?”

John lifts his head off the couch, a fraction of an inch, so he can see Michelle at the top of the stairs.

“What?”

Michelle ambles down a couple of steps, and he can see her socked feet and the bottom of her dark jeans. She sits down on one of the higher steps as she sets her elbow on her bent knees and cups her face, “You think Shaun could stay the night?”

“Wha?” John sits up quickly, eyebrows raised in question. He couldn’t have heard her right? There just wasn’t any way that his God-fearing sister would ask his permission to have a boy stay over. Besides, how would he have any say in that?

Michelle shrugs, an innocent uplift of her shoulders as she looks at him. She brings her legs closer, a self-conscious gesture left over from her days as a kid. She seems to realize that he’s about to say no, but she doesn’t take it back. She’s strong, strong in the fragile sense. John often compares her to the ballerina figurines on her dresser, porcelain and beautiful, but untouchable.

Shaun peeks out from behind Michelle. John’s never seen a more nervous person. John bites back a laugh, because he has a feeling that laughing will break Shaun’s ego beyond repair.

“Uhh, why are you asking me?”

Michelle’s response is soft but condescending, “Because Mom and Dad are over at Aunt Beth’s place for the rest of the night, and they left you in charge.”

“What?!”

Michelle sighs, enunciating every word so that her brother won’t miss anything, “She told us at breakfast. I was eating cereal and you were... well, you were staring at yours. She told us that she won’t be here tonight and neither would Dad. She told you that you were in charge and that it was okay to have some friends over, but not to make too much of a mess.”

John opens his mouth to respond, because he sure as hell doesn’t remember this conversation. He’s not even sure if he had breakfast this morning.

Michelle barrels on, not allowing John to speak, “If you get to have Jesse over and drink to oblivion, I think it’s only fair that Shaun gets to stay and keep me company...”

She trails off, because as great as her argument may be, her parents would not approve. John could easily send Shaun home, and she’ll be stuck in her room as Jesse and John drink and watch movies. It just isn’t fair.

John’s half-tempted to ask Michelle if she could invite someone else, someone female. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Shaun, it’s just... it’s his little sister. She should NOT have boys over at sixteen. No. Bad.

God, when the hell did he become such a hypocrite?

“Fine, Shaun can stay. But you guys don’t have to stay in your room.”

What John really means is that Shaun and Michelle are not allowed to hide out in Michelle’s room under any condition. If that means he has to share the pizza and beer, so be it. He will not answer to Mama Nolan’s angry huffing tomorrow.

Michelle shrugs, happy enough with the answer. She doesn’t want Shaun to get any ideas anyway. She likes the kid, but she’s got her eyes on someone older... someone with blue eyes and curly hair.

Michelle and Shaun return to her room, and John bites his tongue. Despite the fact he made it crystal clear that they NOT do that, they are. He really needs to be more intimidating and forceful about these things. He better not regret this tomorrow.

John swings his legs off the couch and calls Jesse, informing his best friend of the empty house. He can practically see the gleam in Jesse’s eyes as Jesse tells John that he’ll be right over. John calls the nearest pizza place, ordering his usual pepperoni and shouts up the stairs to ask what Michelle and her devoted boyfriend want.

It’s only after he gets off the phone that he realizes that he could have easily gotten Jesse to pick up the pies, but it’s too late now.

He scratches at the stubble on his face as he climbs the stairs. He presses his ear against Michelle’s closed door to determine whether or not he has to kill Shaun, but all he can hear is some song that Michelle danced to for recital that past winter. He figures they’re not doing anything naughty, but he wonders if he should make sure. No one makes out to Tchaikovsky, do they?

“Oh, JONATHON!”

How Jesse got here so fast, John will never know. He just hopes the other boy didn’t break too many speeding laws on his way over.

Hah.

Yeah, right.

John peeks down the stairs, waving. Jesse smiles, and it’s one of those devilish ones, the one that means that John will end up covering for Jesse’s ass. It’s that exact smile that led them to have matching broken arms back when he was twelve. “Oh, it’s not dangerous,” his fucking ass.

Back then, that smile meant that John was probably risking his limbs, now it means Jesse doesn’t have orange juice in those brown paper bags. Jesse’s a bad influence on him, most definitely. So what if he introduced Jesse to porn, porn isn’t as bad as alcohol...

“Just set all that crap on the kitchen counter, and don’t fucking get started without me. I’m just going to get... yeah.”

John almost said “freshened up.” That would have been humiliating and not to mention, stupid. He’s only going to pop into the bathroom for a quick shave and then change into a different shirt, nothing worth announcing. And it’s definitely not freshening up. Only girls freshen up.

And they only do it for dates.

He can hear Shaun’s heavier footsteps follow Michelle’s softer ones down the stairs, and John smiles in triumph. So in the end, he didn’t need to be intimidating. No, all he needs is Jesse Lacey to lure his sister and Shaun out of the bedroom. God, he’s good.

He shaves quickly, managing not to slice off his face or bleed all over the counter. Not even a nick to speak of. John’s getting better at this. He rubs at the irritated skin on his jaw and resists the urge to rush downstairs and find out what exactly is making Michelle use her flirtatious laugh. He can easily see her in the kitchen, probably perched on the stool by the counter, head tilted back with her hair down as she laughs.

She inherited the musical laugh, and he got the guffaw. There really is no justice in genetic coding, none.

John swaps his shirt for a cleaner one, one he hadn’t slept in. He’s not preening for anyone in particular, it just seems like he should. Michelle in her fitted jeans and dainty sweater, Shaun in his loose pants and oversized shirt, and Jesse in his trendy jeans and geek chic.

No need to be the ugly duckling.

He slips the cleaner shirt on.

“Jonathon, what the hell...”

John lifts his head as Jesse enters his room without invitation. Jesse’s right hand is wrapped around a beer bottle, and he settles himself on the bed with a plop. There’s a slight splash of the amber liquid on his sheets, and Jesse gives John an apologetic look that’s anything but.

“What? You were taking too long.”

“You do realize that you left Michelle and her little boyfriend unsupervised, right? I mean, what purpose do you serve if you can’t even keep an eye on them?

Jesse returns John’s mini tirade with a flippant movement of his beer bottle. “Please, innocent Michelle? Who are you kidding? Her chastity belt is MORE than secure, no worries.”

Jesse starts to laugh, placing his free hand over his face as he gives John a goofy smile. “Hmm, I think I’m tipppsy.”

“Yeah, it’s obvious that you started without me, fucker. Let’s go.”

It’s easy enough to follow the sounds of the television. It’s an infomercial for some miracle face-cream. John makes a mental note to talk to Michelle about her fixation with her skin. The thousands of little pots and squirt bottles of lotion attest to the fact that she’s a little obsessed.

“Pizza here yet?”

John stops momentarily on the stairs, because Shaun’s watching the infomercial on skin care and not Michelle. Before John has a chance to embarrass himself and Shaun, Michelle’s hand darts up in the air in front of the couch. Michelle’s sitting on the floor, out of John’s field of vision, her eyes fixated on the screen as she nibbles on her Veggie Lover’s pizza.

Jesse bypasses John for the kitchen, and he assumes that’s where the pizza is. His assumption is confirmed when Jesse groans in frustration.

“Pepperoni, again! What the hell is wrong with you, Jonathon? There are other toppings for pizza!”

~~~~~~~~

John teeters back and forth from the living room to the kitchen, laughing hysterically as he goes. Shaun drinks sparsely though he takes an extra-long gulp when Michelle flirts with Jesse, and savagely bites into his slice of pizza when Michelle stares at the spot Jesse had occupied moments ago as if it held the secrets of the universe.

Michelle blinks, wetting her lips with her tongue as she tries to make out the conversation taking place in the kitchen between John and Jesse. The steady buzzing in her ear demonstrates just how utterly smashed she is. She tried to get up earlier, but that led to a very un-ladylike fall on her face. No one saw but Shaun, so it’s almost as if it never happened.

She rubs her eyes and her limbs are heavier than they were this morning, but she perks up the moment that Jesse and John re-enter her vision.

“I’ll have you know, Jona-thon. My lava flows just fi-ine.” Jesse’s words are punctuated with hiccups, his arms are thrown around John’s waist as they both stumble back over to the other two, falling into two separate piles of limbs and spilled beer.

“My volcano flows with molten lava. Such a pow-powerful eruption. Hell, you’ve seen it.”

Jesse pulls himself into a sitting position, despite the fact he’s in the middle of a giggling fit. He smiles at Michelle, seemingly seeing her for the first time. “Hey, Michelle, wannna touch my vol-cano?”

“You son of a bitch!” Shaun moves quickly, his steps steady. He pulls his fist back, and Jesse never stood a chance. Shaun’s fist meets Jesse’s eye with a sickening crack and the older boy’s out like a light. John and Michelle sputter as Shaun grabs his sweatshirt and storms out.

“Oh, Mama Lacey is NOT going to like this.”

~~~~~~~~

“I am soooo drunk. So fucking drunk.”

“Glad you can tell, brother dear.” Michelle’s words are slurred and disjointed, her long body stretched out on the floor with her head in John’s lap. There’s barely any beer left, but neither are sober enough to realize.

John lifts his bottle to his lips and scowls when nothing but two tiny drops fall on his tongue. He lifts the bottle to his eyes, closing one eye so he can peer down the neck of the bottle. He gives it a shake, trying to tempt any last bits of the alcohol from the sides to the bottom.

“Ow, motherfuck.”

Michelle laughs, turning her head so that some of the sound is muffled by John’s pants. John just rubs indignantly at his eye. He’s got no one to blame but himself. No one convinced him to jab himself in the eye with the lip of the beer bottle. But who would have thought it’d hurt so much?

Michelle reaches up to pat John’s face, but her depth-perception’s off so she only ends up smacking him the jaw. John whimpers in pain and protest.

“I’m not laughing... I swear.”

Michelle does her best to suppress her giggles, moving to sit up. It becomes clear that the giggles won’t stop on its own so she claps her hand over her mouth and bites down on her lower lip.

John moans at the utter humiliation of it all.

A beer bottle to the eye AND a smack to the jaw, God’s definitely punishing him right now.

John glowers at Michelle to the best of his ability with one eye squinted and a hand covering his jaw. He probably looks ridiculous, but he’s in a great amount of pain.

“Oh, stop whining, you big baby. Here, let me look at it.”

She leans forward, prying John’s hand off his jaw and leans over for a closer look. She no longer has ability to stay upright, so she only falls into John, foreheads colliding.

“Ow, ow, ow. Okay, stop trying to help. You’re only assaulting me further.”

John’s moan of pain is followed by Michelle’s. They both clutch at their foreheads with two hands, their actions serving as mirror images. John starts to laugh first, head rolling onto Michelle’s shoulder. Michelle tries to fight the giggles, but it’s contagious.

Everything’s just so hilarious.

Jesse’s lavish praise about his volcano is beyond words. John feels bad for his best friend, because not only will Jesse have a hangover, but he’ll have a pretty black eye. But it’s still funny.

John breathes in deeply. Michelle smells like that honey perfume that she likes so much and shampoo. Her shampoo comes in a clear plastic bottle with pears on it. She’s the only one in the house who doesn’t use the shampoo/conditioner combo, even his mother uses the shampoo/condition that he does.

John mentally makes a note to clean up the mess before their parents arrive tomorrow.

“Shelly?”

Michelle blinks her eyes, a yawn preventing her from answering right away. “Yeah?”

“What time are the par-rents coming hooome?”

Michelle closes one eye, alternating them as she thinks. “Well, they won’t get here ‘til the afternoon.” She pauses, laughing as she continues, “Hah, I wouldn’t have told you about Aunt Be-th being sick otherwise. You, Johnnathoon Nolan, are a bad, bad boy.”

John takes a moment to let her words sink in, trying his best not to get distracted by the combined scents of pear and honey. “But you said that Mom told ME about Aunt Beth, didn’t you?” He meant that to be a declarative sentence and not a question, and he definitely did NOT mean for it to come out so... confused and lost.

Michelle laughs, it’s the same musical one John heard from the bathroom earlier that evening. “Of course she did, but she didn’t realize you couldn’t hear her. You were all... ‘Hurr hurr, morning, hurr hurr.’ You can barely dress yourself that early in the mor-ning, let alone, comprehend Engl-ish.”

John understands her despite the slur and choppy delivery. He’s not sure if he should be ashamed or proud of his ability to understand drunkards. Well, mostly Jesse.

“Hey, wait a minute right there, I do not hurr.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Michelle pats John’s thigh in a placating gesture.

John stares down at Michelle’s hand, making out the dark red nail polish, classy, not trashy. Her hand’s still resting on his thigh. He can also feel her body heat, too. He can feel it radiate through her sweater and jeans. What she’s doing wearing a sweater in April; he won’t attempt to figure out.

She feels nice, safe. She smells so good and if he just... Oh, his thoughts should NOT be straying there. God knows Shaun’s thoughts do though, enough for the both of them, he’s sure.

“Shelly?”

“Yeah?”

“Truth or dare?”

Michelle pulls away from John, moving far enough away to scrutinize his face. She seems to be appeased with whatever she finds, because she moves back against him and makes herself comfortable again.

“Truth.”

John should have known. She never liked playing this game with him or anyone. But whenever Michelle did play, she only chose Truth, never dare. She wasn’t one to take unnecessary risks.

“How far have you and Shaun gone?”

The question sends Michelle halfway across the room, her back pressed up against the couch and her lips in a firm line.

“I don’t have to tell you.”

This is a potentially dangerous conversation, but unlike his sister, John’s all about unnecessary risks.

“It’s truth or dare, and you picked truth. You do remember the pre-mise of the game, correct?”

If looks could kill, John’s limbs would be severed from his body and his heart wretched out of his chest. Thankfully, looks can’t kill and Shaun’s not here to kill him for Michelle. John has no doubt that Shaun would do whatever Michelle asks him to, murder being the least of it.

Michelle crosses her arms over her chest, an angry puff of air exiting her mouth. Her lips twist as she mocks John’s tone and asks, “How far have you and Elizabeth gone?”

She coats her former best friend’s name with acid and venom, her stance defiant, even if she’s tilting over to one side.

“You know, she wasn’t very good at all. Jesse’s a better kisser than her, even when he’s comp-letely and utterly trashed.”

Michelle swats at an errant strand of her dark hair, voice stiff, “That’s really fucking sad... wait, WHAT!” Her arms fall to her side, her body no longer exuding anger and murderous rage, but shock. Her voice is soft when she adds, “You kissed Jesse?”

John shrugs, laughing a little as he slides down towards the floor so that the back of his neck hits the top of the cushion on the couch perpendicular to Michelle. He smirks, one knee bent and the other straight out in front of him, “What, jealous?”

Michelle gapes at her brother, not knowing what to say at all. John’s in no rush for her to speak, she’ll get her wits back soon enough. She’s kinda attractive gaping at him like that.

Stop it, Jonathon.

His conscience has Jesse’s voice. He knows he’s doomed now. How the hell is he supposed to be a good little Christian boy when Jesse Lacey is the voice of his subconscious and thus dictates his morals? He might as well sign his own affidavit sending him straight to hell.

“You kiss my best friend and then you kiss yours? What, you go around kissing everyone?”

Anger and shock seem to steady Michelle’s speech. John makes a quick note.

John looks over at Jesse’s prone body at the far side of the room where he and Michelle dragged him after Shaun lost his temper. Jesse looks peaceful, even snoring softly. If it wasn’t for the darkening flesh around Jesse’s eye, John would have thought Jesse had blacked out from alcohol consumption. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and surely not the last.

It takes him longer to bring up the image of Elizabeth or Liz or whatever. John really hadn’t been thinking when he kissed Liz. If he had, he would have realized that no good could come out of it.

Michelle inhales and exhales sharply, slouching in her place, “You’re a slut.”

John laughs, unable to hold back. He’s never been called a slut before, and it’s funny. Slut implies that he gets around, and the Lord knows that’s not true.

“I’m not a slut, I’m just a... Hmmm, I’m an opporTUNist.”

“Opportunist, my fucking ass.”

John smiles, moving over to Michelle slowly. He crawls over, hands up in the air as a gesture of peace. “Who taught you curse like that, young lady?”

Michelle sighs, allowing John to sit beside her. She turns her head towards him and looks at him as if the answer should be obvious.

“Yeah, I really should talk to Jesse about that. Teaching you bad habits.”

Michelle swats at him, but it isn’t to harm, but a playful gesture. She’s still obviously drunk, because she wouldn’t have forgiven him so quickly otherwise. She leans into him, and John moves an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to his body.

John shifts so Michelle can tuck her knees against him. Her breathing is soft, and he can feel the passing of air across the opening of his shirt, near his neck, every time she breathes out.

“So... good kisser?”

Michelle’s hand moves in aimless circles on John’s chest as she waits for a response.

“I’ve gotten no complaints.”

She snorts, and pinches his chest. He jumps a little and his hand immediately goes to rub at the stinging spot.

“Smart-ass. I didn’t mean you, I meant Jesse.”

John drums the fingers of his right hand, the one around Michelle, on her shoulder. He leans toward her even as his left hand rubs at his chest. The only thing Michelle seems to be good at tonight is hurting him.

“I’m a much better kisser than Jesse.”

Luckily for John, Michelle doesn’t hit him for that comment. She just laughs, curling in closer. She doesn’t seem to mind their close proximity, despite their usual relationship of “Live, and let live.” John stays out of Michelle’s way, and Michelle stays out of his. They are merely passing ships, hats tipping in acknowledgment at passing but nothing more. It’s not like he really knows anything about her.

John moves his hand slowly, letting his fingers trail over the tendon in the junction of her neck. He twines a lock of curly hair in his fingers, twisting it. He tugs lightly on her hair to get Michelle’s attention. She looks up at him, their faces a lot closer that propriety dictates.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” John murmurs the words, soft and directly into the skin of Michelle’s cheek. If he moves his head a little bit lower and a bit off to the side, he would be kissing her. He can’t get over just how good she smells.

Michelle’s response is breathy, “Oh, okay.”

“Okay?” She’s not resisting, and John’s brain is on overload. Alcohol and sexual attraction should never mix. He will have to write a letter to Heineken about this.

“Yeah.”

John leans forward, his lips pressing against Michelle’s. It’s a soft press of the lips, innocent. Well, it’s as innocent as a kiss can be, shared between siblings. Michelle parts her lips beneath him, and he doesn’t need a second invitation. His tongue enters her mouth and he can taste beer and pizza, and he can’t think of anything better.

He pulls her into his lap, hands spanning against her lower waist. His legs are open; Michelle sits on her haunches between them. John’s hands start to wander, and Michelle does nothing to stop him. She responds with breathy noises and if she doesn’t stop that soon, he won’t be responsible for his actions.

He slides his hand up the hem of her sweater. The sweater is soft but not as soft as her skin. He’s starting to understand her obsession with skin care, because she feels heavenly. Her skin glides beneath his fingertips, and she’s still making those noises, exhaling softly. He never knew that breathing could be so sexy.

She’s wearing too much. Hell, he’s wearing too much. Michelle seems to agree on the second account, her hands pulling at the bottom hem of his shirt. She pulls upwards. John forcibly removes his hands from her body long enough so she can pull the offending material off.

She wraps her arms around John, pulling him towards her as she places hot, wet kisses against his jaw. She drags her tongue along the outline of his jaw, and he swallows sharply. His sister, his LITTLE sister, should not be so good at this. Should not be able to make his skin heat up and make his pants so tight.

John tilts his face, giving Michelle full access to his neck.

He’s greeted with the sight of Jesse’s body. He jumps a little, pushing Michelle off of him. No, no. Jesse’s still in the room, he can’t do this here. They can’t do this here.

Michelle glares at him from the floor. Her hands still braced behind her, from where they broke her fall. Her sweater is rumpled high around her chest. Her hair’s in disarray and her sweater is twisted around about her, but she still manages to look threatening.

When she gets to her feet, John wonders if he should fear for his life. Her eyes flicker to Jesse in the corner and then back to him. She grabs his hand, and John doesn’t stop her. He silently follows her up the stairs. He trips three stairs up from the bottom, so he grabs a hold of the banister, something that Michelle thought to do from the get go.

He slowly follows Michelle up the stairs, her steps wavering from time to time. It occurs to him that if Michelle falls, he’s going down right along with her. He silently prays that she manages to stay on her feet, because the idea of breaking his fall with his skull is not appealing.

They reach the top of the stairs with no injuries, and John sends up a silent thanks. It’s one less injury that he’ll have to deal with tomorrow.

Michelle is leading him to her room.

That won’t do.

John tugs on her arm, leading her past her room and the bathroom. John pushes the door of his room open with his foot, closing it behind Michelle.

Time for conversation and sane thoughts have long past.

Her sweater’s the first to go. The black sweater falls to into an artful pile beside the door.

His hands reach for Michelle’s bare skin and he nearly suffers heart failure when he sees the white bra she’s wearing underneath. There is lace detail on the thing, for crying out loud. He’s going to die, he knows it. He’s going to drop to the floor any moment now.

Michelle pulls him for a kiss before any more thoughts of death can pass into his brain.

John grabs at her, pulling at her and their teeth bump. There is no finesse in this, no suave gestures. Their foreheads bump again, and they hold back a stifled and embarrassed laugh. They smile, easing away from the awkwardness as they fall into John’s bed together.

Michelle balls the shirt that John changed out of earlier into a ball and discards it to one side. Her eyes light up, and John can’t help but think how sexy she is.

She pulls him towards her, her hand running down the side of John’s face. He pats himself on the back for thinking to shave tonight. It seemed stupid at the moment, but my god, he was just thinking ahead. Of course, never in his wildest anything would he have envisioned Michelle in his bed, half-naked. He may be a corrupt and filthy Christian, but he never once had ill thoughts about his sister.

Well, almost never.

He did try to run Michelle over with his tricycle when he was four, but that hardly counts.

Michelle reaches out towards him, and John shifts on top of her. He presses his face into the crook of her neck and inhales. He’s overwhelmed by that same pear and honey scent.

“You smell so good.” There, he finally said it.

Michelle just smiles, pulling him down for a more kisses. She parts her mouth for him again, and it’s perfect. Her tongue is insistent against his, and he’s more than happy to oblige. She places a playful nip on his bottom lip, and he groans in response.

John pants lightly, lifting his head to look down at Michelle. Her hair fans out around her, making her seem ethereal. He lowers his head to kiss down on her neck. His hands skim over the fabric of Michelle’s bra. That thing couldn’t be sexier if it tried. It isn’t revealing, but the lace mesh over the white fabric is so sensual. It’s classy, classy and sexy, just like her nail polish.

He’s thinking about nail polish...

John opens his eyes to look at Michelle, and she’s looking at him through hooded eyes. There is so much lust... and affection. She reaches down to rest her hand on his head, but only ends up smacking him again.

“Oh...” John rubs at his head, blinking to make the world stop moving. “Uhhh, what just happened? What was I doing?

Michelle tilts her head against the pillow, sighing, “You, sir, were about to go down on me.”

“Oh, okay... wait what?”

John narrows his eyes, trying to concentrate. She rolls her eyes upward, pulling his face towards hers. All these head injuries are starting to take a toll if he can’t remember something as specific and sexual as that.

“Kiss me, you dipshit.”

Michelle’s demanding, but who is he to argue?

John explores Michelle’s mouth with leisure. He maps out the hollow spaces and brushes her tongue with his. He lies on his side, pulling Michelle onto her side. His hands move down her back, fingers brushing against her bra clasp. He tries to pull at one end, trying to envision what it looks like, but the only bras he’s seen are in lingerie catalogs and in the dark.

He fumbles aimlessly, though managing NOT to snap the elastic against Michelle’s back. If nothing else, at least he didn’t make that rookie mistake. However, that doesn’t stop Michelle from pushing him away by pressing her hand to his chest. She sits upright, an amused look on her face. She moves one arm around to her back and unclips... one-handed.

“Oooh, talented.”

John props himself up on his bent elbow, his eyes glittering.

Michelle takes her time sliding each strap down her shoulders, and he knows she’s doing this on purpose. He feels like Pavlov’s dogs, well, the drooling part anyway. There’s no bell to speak of.

She smiles, knowing what effect she’s having on him. She’s seen that look before, though mostly only in the movies.

“You’re such a loser sometimes.” She flings her bra over her shoulder, sitting topless on John’s bed with a smile.

“Hey... I take offense to that.” John tries to hold onto that resentful feeling but his brain is refusing to cooperate. His mind is full of those “hurr hurrs” that Michelle so graciously pointed out earlier.

“You can take as much offense as you’d like, just don’t stop kissing me.”

John tentatively reaches forward, his hand pulling lightly at her wrists. Michelle is half-naked. Half-naked is Michelle. It’s times like these he wishes he wasn’t such a fucking... boy. It’s those teenage hormones running amok without his permission.

Michelle fits perfectly beneath him, her hands resting on his sides. Her fingers tease his skin with soft touches.

John mouths the skin against her neck, his hands wandering over her body. Michelle gasps and arches beneath him. He trails his fingers down the middle of her chest, no long obstructed with material. His hands follow the curves of her breasts. They’re small, but anything more than a handful is a waste anyway.

His lips follow the same path as his fingers, tongue swiping against pale skin from time to time. Michelle moans every time, and the sound is purely erotic. His hands map out the curve of her stomach and shimmy over the arch of her hips.

John tugs at Michelle’s belt loop, asking for permission.

“Don’t tell me I have to do this for you, too. You may not wear a bra, but you sure as hell put on and take off your own pants... don’t you?” Her smile does nothing to hide her amusement.

“You’re sass-ssing me. Never sass a man who’s about to go down on you, as you so elo-quently put it.” The nerve, the sheer nerve.

John’s through asking for permission, the nerve of women. God!

He hooks two fingers in the waist of her jeans, using his thumb and forefinger to pop the button clasp. He slowly pulls down the zipper, her navy underwear peeking out at him. Michelle’s underwear is striped with navy and white. It makes him think of nautical patterns, and he’s back to passing ships again.

Passing ships do not know much about each other. Passing ships do not have drunken sex together. Passing ships do not engage, even if they’re related. ESPECIALLY if they’re related.

Michelle slides her jeans off first, scissor-kicking them away. Her hands reach up to undo John’s pants before he can even finish his thoughts about ships. What he’s doing thinking about ships at a time like this... why is he thinking about ships at a time like this?

John kicks off his pants on instinct, his brain’s unable to understand that kicking off his pants really means... well, no pants.

His eyes graze down her body. Michelle is wearing nothing but her underpants and her socks. He watches silently as Michelle toes her them off, the yellow and grey socks fall over the side of the bed, joining his pants. Michelle’s only in her underwear... wow, that was quick.

“So, I’m practically naked.”

John nods, dumbfounded, “Yeah.”

This is Michelle’s cue to make a smart-aleck comment. John can practically hear it ringing in his ears.

“You feel nice.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a... oh.” John gives Michelle a sheepish smile, and he laughs. His boxers are tented and if he didn’t have a practically naked girl underneath him, he’d be embarrassed. Ignore the fact that the practically naked girl is his sister, and everything is just peachy.

He’s much too drunk to make rational decisions. The fact that he’s in bed with his sister makes that abundantly clear.

John hisses when the elastic of his boxers catch the head of his penis. It doesn’t hurt him so much, as it does surprise him. His boxers are soon gone. Michelle murmurs an apology, her hands moving to do the same for herself. John stops her, slowing bringing her arms over her head. He brings one hand to slip her underwear past her small hips. There is only the slightest flare to them.

He’s never seen someone so beautiful.

She laughs, tugging John down by the back of his neck.

“I said that out loud, didn’t I?

Michelle laughs, nodding, “Yes, yes you did.”

John takes a moment to admire her. There is something innately beautiful about her, the slope of her cheeks and the shape of her mouth. “You’re beautiful.”

“You said that already.”

“Still true.”

John wouldn’t have guessed that Michelle possessed so much strength in her lithe frame. She attacks his lips with her own. The kiss is fierce and passionate; it robs him of the air in his lungs. He’s not the instigator anymore, not when she wraps her hand around his hard-on. His eyes widen and his head’s starting to spin. He won’t last; there’s no chance in hell.

She uses light pressure, her palm warm. She strokes him, letting her pinky drag over the sensitive skin underneath the head.

John shuffles away, extricating himself from Michelle. If she keeps doing that, he’s going to unload his volcano all over his stomach and her hand.

He raises a shaky limb, holding up his pointer finger, “Just one, just one second.”

Michelle watches him through her eyelashes, her eyes hooded as she traces patterns on John’s hips. He lets out a strangled breath and hits her hand away. She takes it all in stride, not once commenting on John’s flushed face or his shaky hands.

The hand farthest away from Michelle is searching aimlessly under the bed. He moves his hand over the dusty floor, his hand coming in contact with discarded clothing, a shoe, and a textbook, but no foil. He groans in frustration, giving up finesse and any shred of dignity. He hangs his head off the mattress, eyes adjusting to the dark as he tries to spot the black foil. He sees something glitter behind a tan shirt.

“AH HAH!”

John holds up the long line of condoms in the air, triumphant. The perforated edges sparkle silver against the otherwise black foil. Michelle can make out the brand. Figures, John’s a Trojan man.

She smirks, “What? Intending to use all those right now?”

John sits on his haunches, all youthful exuberance lost as he gives his sister a guarded look.

“You’re being sassy again.”

Her shrug is innocent, but her smirk isn’t. She’s going break a lot of hearts with that look. He knows it. One day, adolescent boys will be screaming marriage proposals to her. They’d be shouting because Shaun wouldn’t let any guy within ten feet of her.

Her eyes hold the same devilish glint as Jesse’s when the other boy’s about to get the two of them in trouble.

John really likes that glint.

He tears a condom off the strip, chucking the rest under his bed. He’s only had sex a handful of times before. They didn’t mean very much. Well, all but that one time with Jesse. But did mutual hand-jobs even count?

He uses both hands to tear at the package, but he stops half-way. He looks up at Michelle’s face, and she’s all dewy-eyed and fresh-faced. She looks so innocent and delicate. She’s never looked more like her ballerina figurines than she does right now.

This is his last chance to not do this.

“John, I want this... YOU want this.”

He wonders if she can read his mind. She always says the right things, but...

Michelle takes the partially open package out of his hands, tearing it open the rest of the way. She pulls out the rolled-up condom from the package, pushing John onto his back. She pinches the reservoir tip as she rolls the latex condom down his penis with her other hand.

John’s breath hitches from that small touch.

Oh, he’s in trouble. He needs to NOT cum the moment he’s inside her, that’s really all he needs to accomplish. He begs God for that small favor. John’s invoked the Lord’s name many times tonight, once more can’t hurt.

Michelle pulls in a shaky breath, obviously nervous, but her face is etched with determination. She straddles John’s hips, her eyes speaking volumes as she slowly lowers herself onto him. Her face is screwed with concentration and John clenches the bed sheets. His hands shake. He bites down on his lip, forcing his eyes to stay open. This is a sight he can’t miss.

She rides him slowly, her hands pressed hard against him as she lifts herself up and lowers herself again. Her eyes are shut in concentration, her thighs shaking with effort. She starts to rock back and forth, her mouth opening to form an O. Her head falls back, spine arching as she rides him.

She’s so tight. Tight and hot. She feels so good, and John’s starting to perspire from the effort NOT to cum. John had assumed that Michelle and Shaun had done nothing but kiss, but that can’t be true. She can’t be this good without practice. Either she’s done a lot more than he was led to believe or she’s blessed with natural talent.

Unnatural natural talent.

Unnatural and unfathomable talent.

“Oh, oh fuck.”

John will learn to speak fluidly one day. He swears it. One day, one day in the future, he will not inject words like oh, huh, and eh into his sentences.

He shudders, mouth falling open. His eyes close against his will and his limbs jerk around helplessly, and he falls back onto the bed with an unflattering oomph.

His heart rate starts to slow. He blearily opens his eyes. Michelle is sitting stock still, still perched in his lap and with his now softening penis inside her. She slowly opens her eyes, swallowing. Her limbs are unsteady, even worse than his. She gets off him slowly. He reaches for the bedside table, grabbing a couple tissues to wrap the condom in. He balls the mess in his hand and shoots for the garbage; he doesn’t even look to make sure it goes it.

He pulls Michelle into his arms, feeling relaxed and sated.

The alcohol and the endorphins are finally catching up with him.

The last thing he remembers seeing is Michelle’s smile before falling asleep.

~~~~~~~~

“Mmmm.”

John opens his eyes, rubbing away at the crust. He blinks, confused. He’s in his bed, naked. He never sleeps naked. There’s a strict rule in the house that forbids him from doing this exact thing. Mama Nolan insists upon the rule, she saw more than she’d planned one Saturday morning when she came in to tidy up. He rues that day still. Not only can he not sleep naked, he has to clean his own room.

Stupid hot nights.

His room’s neater than he remembers it being. First off, his clothes from last night are sitting, FOLDED, on his desk chair. He never folds. He hates folding. He can’t think of anything more stupid and meaningless than folding clothes. At least Jesse gets PAID to fold clothes. No money, no folding, that’s John’s motto.

“Sooooo much drunker than I thought.”

The throbbing in his head is excruciating, and he wants nothing more than to hide under his covers. But he needs to clean up before his parents get home. If nothing else, there is a mess downstairs. Jesse is also downstairs. Jesse’s probably still passed out, and John thinks that’s a good thing. Jesse’s going to be in so much pain when he becomes conscious.

He sits up, letting his head fall into his open hands as he moans in distress. He’s never drinking again. Never. Not another drop of alcohol will touch his lips.

John swings his legs over the side of his full-size bed. Every limb in his body protests, but there is cleaning to be done. UP!

Nothing happens. He’s still sitting on the bed, cradling his head. He needs more motivation.

He sighs, nothing short of the house catching on fire will compel him to move anywhere.

The sound of a car pulling up the driveway works, too.

John launches himself off the bed, pulling on clothes as he goes. Forget boxers, he needs pants. He pulls on a pair of shorts, pulling on a shirt as quickly as he can. The shirt’s on inside out, but there’s no time to change. He catapults down the stairs, nearing cracking his head open on the front door at the bottom of the stairs. He pants, turning around, ready to assess the damage... but there is none.

There’s no trace of beer bottles or greasy paper towels. Did he dream up the ENTIRE night? That doesn’t seem plausible, hardly likely. The hangover throbbing in his head tells him he was at least drinking, if nothing else. He moves over to the far wall, pulling the blanket away from the lump on the floor.

John slowly peels away the quilted pink blanket and a pair of beat-up Adidas peek out from underneath. He lets out a sigh of relief. He didn’t imagine Jesse coming over, that’s a good start.

He surveys the living room again, and it’s immaculate. It’s cleaner now than it was yesterday morning.

He wanders into the kitchen, scratching his head. The car in the driveway is all but forgotten, nothing but a false alarm. The kitchen smells like coffee. Michelle is sitting at the table, her hands folded around her favorite cup. Her hair is still damp from the shower and the scent of pear is almost overwhelming. She’s steadily avoids his eyes, and he knows that he didn’t dream it.

John spots her nearly empty breakfast bowl. He reaches into the cabinet, pulling out a bowl of his own. He pulls out the cereal next, not concentrating on the pouring, but on Michelle.

He needs to ask, so he does.

“Do you regret it?”

Michelle brings the cup to her lips and takes a long sip. The silence hangs, and the tension is starting to accumulate. John waits patiently. He leans against the counter, carefully folding down the plastic bag for the cereal before closing the box-top. He then shoves the cereal box into the back of the cabinet.

“We were drunk.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Michelle peers into her coffee, face grim. Her mouth is set in a hard line, and John’s reminded of their game. He’s never going to play Truth or Dare again, either.

Her shoulders are rigid, and John’s starting to think that there will forever be tension between them.

But she sighs, shoulders slumping as she responds, “No.”

She can’t see John’s smile, but she hears his retort.

“It was good, wasn’t it?”

For a moment, Michelle just stares dumbfounded, mouth gaping. Then she laughs and admonishes with a loud, “JOHN!” The short word manages to hold all her indignation, amusement, and humor. They’re back to normal again.

Jesse announces his arrival with a groan. He looks like utter shit, and John ventures a guess that Jesse feels like shit as well. Jesse’s face is crumpled and he looks like someone took him out back and pummeled him with a bat. The bruise on his eye, very manly.

“Never drinking again.” Jesse doesn’t so much say the words, as he does spit them out.

Michelle smirks, ignoring her hangover, “What, you mean until next week?”

Jesse shoots her a resentful glare, “So much pain. Did someone drop the couch on me?”

John shakes his head, biting back any stray remarks, “Nope, Shaun punched you for asking Michelle to touch your volcano.”

Jesse groans loudly, sounding and looking pitiful as he wails, “NEVER DRINKING AGAIN!”

He plops into a chair, face hitting the kitchen table with a dull thud. Michelle and John wince at the sound, both jerking back. Jesse continues to make pitiful noises, and nothing remains of the tension that filled the room just minutes before. It’s disappeared into the house, finding somewhere else to dwell, somewhere other than the kitchen with its bright lights and cereal bowls.

Michelle smiles softly, cheeks burning when she sees that John’s shirt is on inside out.

“Alcohol is the devil,” Jesse’s words are slightly muffled by his arms and the table, but John hears him.

John raises a skeptical eyebrow, “I thought Porn was the devil.” He’s being difficult on purpose, he realizes, but it’s fun to rile up Jesse the morning after a binge session.

The speed at which Jesse lifts his head is enough to give him whiplash. His eyes are blue slits, words barbed and sharp, “You’re the fucking devil, shut the fuck up!”

It would have been intimidating if Jesse hadn’t immediately dropped his head back onto the table with a groan.

Michelle and John share a glance. They look away quickly, both holding back laughs. Jesse’s being temperamental, and there’s really no knowing what he’ll do. It’s best not to poke at this particular dragon.

John catches Michelle’s eye again. He tests the waters with a small smile, and she slowly returns it.

He doesn’t regret what happened, and she said it herself that she didn’t either. However, that doesn’t mean that it can happen again.

Jesse snarls at Michelle, growling with teeth bared. Michelle ignores the fact that her life’s in danger and pokes the older boy again with her cereal spoon. Her cheeks are pink and glowing, and John knows nothing has changed.

He will always take unnecessary risks.

If Michelle isn’t a risk, he doesn’t know what is.

Tom/Mark.

2005-07-23T02:34:22Z

Title: Sailor Moon: Serena and Darian
Bands: Blink 182
Rating: PG
Summary: A story about Tom and Mark... and Sailor Moon.
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened.
Author’s Note: So I watched a lot of Sailor Moon as a little girl. Sue me. Humor and angst in one go. Wooohoooo. I tried to write in sex, but it wouldn’t comply. I am ashamed of the rating, but better luck next time, right?

Sailor Moon: Serena and Darian

In the silence of the room, each tick of the clock has every semblance to a gong. Each sound grates on each and every one of my nerves. It rips at my nerve endings like rusted nails over exposed human flesh. This staying up late and staring up toward my ceiling – it’s a new thing for me. I don’t know the term for one who’s the antithesis of an insomniac, but whatever it’s called, that’s who I am.

I’m one of the luckier ones. I can fall asleep anywhere and at any time I feel is appropriate. Kind of pathetic, really.

Strange gray shadows play across the flat plane of my pale ceiling. I’ve never properly looked at it before. It’s dark in my room, but not pitch black so there’s a hazy kind of feel. It’s similar to that feeling you get when you’re on the edge of slumber, your senses dulled to almost nothing as you drift away. Except I’m not tired or sleepy or exhausted, I’m completely and utterly awake.

It’s too dark to check the time, the clock on the far wall is completely low tech, no glow in the dark numbers or arms here. Just simple gold reflective hands that point at plain black numbers. It fits the room in its starkness and simple elegance. Nothing grand or ornate, just a simple clock in a plastic black casing. I’m not even sure where I got it or who I got it from.

I would never buy anything as practical as a clock.

Frightening model of scary elephant, yes.

Clock, no.

I turn in my bed, resting on my side. I rest some of my weight on my arm and I know it’s going to fall asleep on me, but I don’t care at the moment. I rub my cheek against the cotton, the scent of laundry clinging to each strand making my nose twitch in appreciation. The smell of fresh laundry, mmmmhm.

I feel strangely content in my moment of relaxation with the freshly laundered pillowcase. I feel like curling up… and BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF IT, BECAUSE I CAN’T FUCKING FALL ASLEEP!

AHHHHHHHH!

I bare my teeth and growl, clutching at the soft cotton as I bite the edge of the pillowcase.

Then I immediately flop back on the soft, wonderful pillow, avoiding the damp spot where I attacked it with my teeth.

“Stupid, damn pillow.”

I curl my fist at one of the corners, grabbing a fistful as I start to beat it against the adjoining wall. I figure if I get out any and all aggravation I may have against innocent sleep/bed related things, real and/or imaginary, I might be able to succumb to wondrous darkness.

This isn’t working.

I flop back onto the mattress, barely managing to remain on the damn thing. Why did I get such a tiny bed? I mean really, it’s miniscule.

The blankets are bunched and the comforter is taking up most of the room, and I have only a sliver of the mattress to curl up on. My body is twisted into a crescent moon shape, and I get this strong urge to do some Sailor Moon impersonations. But no one’s here to see them, and what would be the point in that?

What I never understood was why Sailor Moon threw her tiara at the monster/bad guys. I don’t know about anyone else, but I don’t see how anyone could be afraid of a tiara thingie.

RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! It’s a... tiara?!

Right, I’m suuuuuuure. I can just imagine quaking in my boots, sooooo scared now.

HYAH!

I do a nifty ninja hand-chopping motion against the blanket, accidentally kicking the wall in my enthusiasm. This is ridiculous, by the time I wear myself out, it’ll be time to drag my ass out of bed. I can just see it now. Travis, all huffy and pissed off, yelling at me for being a lazy bum as he glowers and stuff. Yes, stuff. Got a problem, it’s... ummm. Three in the morning? Sure, three in the morning sounds about right. Too late/early for my brain to function according to nature’s laws.

Anyway, Travis glowering.

For a skinny man, he can be downright scary.

Maybe Mark can sing me to sleep. But that requires me to get up, walk into Mark’s room, WAKE Mark. You would think that GETTING off this poor excuse of a mattress would be the hardest part, but noooo. To WAKE Mark, you need a high power hose, a megaphone, and possibly an elephant or rhino. Why an elephant or rhino you ask? An elephant could shake him mercilessly with its trunk, and it’d just be funny to watch the rhino stab Mark awake... and dead. Well, maybe not so much the rhino...

“THOMAS MATTHEW DELONGE! IF YOU DON’T STOP KICKING THE WALL, I’M GOING TO RIP YOUR BALLS OFF AND HANG IT FROM THE CEILING!”

Hang it from the ceiling?!

I inch underneath the covers, pulling the thick blanket over my body even if it’s close to 60 degrees and too hot for such a bulky thing. Mark just threatened my manhood, my ability to have children. I have every right to be worried. I cuddle closer to the wall, forgetting that MARK is on the other side and nearly piss all over myself when a fist bangs on the wall my forehead is up against.

My head slams against the hard wall, and I definitely damaged my brain just now. A hard wall, not a soft or even a medium-hard wall. No, it’s an extra hard wall. Oh look, stars.

“I’m not fucking joking, Thomas. Death... DEATH! Do you hear me?”

Does he have to shout? I mean, I can hear him. If he’s not careful, Travis is going to storm in there and hang HIS balls from the ceiling. No one messes with Travis, not even his wife. Travis is NOT a morning person, so grumpy. He’s a little zombie until he’s pumped full of caffeine and sugar, disguised as a creamy morning drink commonly known as coffee.

I edge underneath the blanket, managing to get my feet beneath all that fluffiness when Mark’s head appears in the doorway, followed by the rest of him.

“What you doing, I was being quiet?” I question him slowly, enunciating each and every word since Mark’s rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He should be curled up on his bed, all content... and sleeping. Sleep, what an elusive mistress. I see it now; she’s been cheating on me with Mark, that bitch. Whether that bitch is Mark or Sleep, I haven’t yet decided. To be on the safe side, they can both be classified as bitches.

Damn them, bitches!

Fuck it, I will fight for my lady.

“You bastard, how could you do this to me?”

Mark blinks, halted momentarily by my question before rolling his eyes and coming toward me. He pushes me further into the direction of the wall, the blanket acting as a barrier and barricade.

What is this man doing? He steals my woman and he wants to cuddle on MY bed? Is he stupid or something?

“Tom, if you don’t move over, I’m going to drag you off the bed and keep the whole thing to myself.”

I must be hearing him wrong. He has his OWN bed, in his OWN room. All warm and snuggly just for him. Why must he insist on sleeping on MY mattress, the dumb, stupid... idiotic...

“TOOOOOOMMMMM!”

“Fine!” I glare at him, pulling the blanket out from the wedged position and bringing it up and over our bodies so both of our adult bodies can fit on the miniscule mattress. Mark cuddles against me, and I’m reminded of a different time. I’m reminded of a time when this wasn’t so weird or out of the ordinary, not that it is now.
I remember nights when he rubbed my chest, not as a joke, but as a way of comfort and something else. My arms used to encircle his body every night, fall asleep to his soft breathes. It was such a common thing until her.

A man has to grow up and settle down... and I did.

Settling down spelled the end of any more cuddling sessions between Mark and me. The sex went away just as quickly.

No grudges, of course, that just wouldn’t be us. It’s nice, isn’t it? Living in a past of soft touches and casual affection. Nice, if he wasn’t hogging the entire mattress for himself.

“Shove off, Mark. MOVE THE FUCK OVER!” I swat at his arm, mostly because he’s thisclose to falling asleep and I’m still very much awake.

I move to hit him again, but he grabs my wrist. It’s a springing action, his hands rendering mine immobile. I pout, sighing like a child.

“I can’t sleep. That means you can’t either.”

He keeps a steady grip on my wrist, I struggle for a couple moments, but it’s pointless. It wouldn’t make a difference if he let go or not, so I just settle against him.

He pulls me closer, our arms folding between our two bodies as I inhale. His breath ruffles the side of my head and this isn’t what I wanted. This is intimate and personal. I don’t do intimate and personal.

I close my eyes as I fight back flashbacks and menacing words.

It’s not regret.

“You just miss your wife, Tom.”

Yeah, that’s it.

MarkTom.

TomMark.

Mark Mark Mark Mark.

I pull back just enough to be able to see his face. He looks 19 again, back when he was mine. Back when we’d sneak away for stolen kisses and hurried touches. Back when the word “responsibility” had no meaning. Back when lines didn’t crease his forehead, nothing weighing down his mind.

I wonder if he remembers.

I thumb the line of his jaw, my eyes never leaving his face. I don’t do it to be cruel or to make him remember. I do it because I want to, because I’m impulsive, and because reason and logic were never my forte.

His eyes scrunch together, his grip on my wrist tightening.

I could lean forward two inches, and I’d be able to kiss him.

How the hell did my thoughts go from tiaras to this?

I trace over the soft lines of his jaw, eyes still fixed on his face. He hasn’t opened his eyes, and I don’t think he will. He figures I’ll stop if I’m faced with the reality of his eyes. Maybe he’s right.

I’m not one to take chances, at least not these kinds of chances. Ask me to risk life and limb, and I won’t even think to argue. Walking across a main street in the busiest city in the world, blindfolded, sure. Kissing Mark when it’s something the both of us want, surely not.

I lean forward, resting my head in the crook of his neck and purr. Yes, purr. Cats purr because they’re content, and I’m purring because I’m content. Besides, no one takes a person seriously when he or she purrs. Purring lets me get away with this, with this closeness.

Breathes hitch and there’s no turning back. If I do this, I’m condemning both Mark and me. No silly anecdotes will be enough to erase the mistake, our actions.

If I ever had doubts that insomnia led people to do things out of character, I take it back right now...

I pull my wrists from his grasp, and he doesn’t put up a fight. I knew he wouldn’t. No fight left in him to deny me of what I want, let it be my comforter or just plain him. Because that is what I want. Mark Hoppus, laid out bare before me whispering and whimpering my name. He best be quiet, because Travis isn’t too keen on losing sleep.

I dart out my tongue, licking the skin beneath his ear.

Maybe there’s still time to do what’s right. Right, but what’s right? Not cheating on my wife is right, but who cares? “Til death do us part,” my love.

I kiss his jaw line, and it trembles. He’s trembling before me, and we haven’t even started.

“Darian wouldn’t shake, didn’t shake. You’re my Darian, aren’t you?”

The soft words do what I wish. Mark laughs, the sound muffled by my shoulder but it isn’t hard to tell he’s amused. I just compared him to Darian, thus making me Serena. Ah, Sailor Moon, where would I be without you?

He smiles, a bit calmer than before. I tell people that Mark is the more responsible one, the one with the level head on his shoulders but it’s a lie. Despite all the pranks I pull, and the silly words that spill from my lips, when it really matters, it’s always me. Yes, it’s strange, and hardly believable, but it’s true.

He says that I think too much, am too responsible when I shouldn’t have to be.

Eventually, he and I would have realized that we wouldn’t last. Maybe.

Or we would still be together without wives and false pretenses, maybe I panicked instead. Maybe it wasn’t so much responsibility. I don’t understand my life and people hardly believe me when I tell them I’m married. I see people exchange glances with their friends, disbelieving that I could live up to the title of husband.

My life, an “if else” statement.

Mark pulls my hair, demanding my attention.

We can drag this out, ignore the low hum of desire.

Mark runs his thumb over my arm, a gentle caress. There’s nothing sexual about it, not even a little bit. It’s an action one would use to soothe a frightened child whose eyes are so big that they take up most of his face. It’s hard to deny that I don’t feel like such a child, but there’s no mirror to prove it either way.

“Heh,” the word, or more accurately, the sound, leaves my mouth in an embarrassing tone.

This is all so wrong.

I inch closer, wrapping my limbs around him, sleep and heat forgotten.

I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat, hurried and steady. I want this. I really, truly want this. I want this more than I can put words to. I want this to be more than a mistake. I want this to be something that isn’t an indulgence, but... the norm.

If I have to wait for it, I will.

I plan to.

Serena waited for Darian.

I can wait for Mark.

And me.

Unfinished business and documents to be signed.

ORIGINAL! Matt.Brian

2005-04-04T02:14:12Z

Title: Fulfilling Societal Demands
Rating: PG
Summary: It is not all about solitude and self-hatred. No, there is always someone else, someone who struggles to make the hatred calm and abide. There is another boy, another boy whose name is not important but is anyway. His name is Matt, the other boy. The boy who is set on saving the world and the sanity of the one with dark eyes, the one called Brian.
Author’s Note: ORIGINAL CHARACTERS!

Fulfilling Societal Demands

He is what he made himself to be.

He closes his eyes and pretends that he does not need the reassurance. He pretends that he can lie in bed without yearning for the warmth of another body. His sheets are frozen, chilled from his own touch. Colors muddle together and his dark eyes screen the darker emotions of his heart. He wants to wreck and ravage the world and the illusions. He wants to pull on the spindly thread holding his world together. He wants to destroy the façade of perfection and remoteness. He wants to lie bare and fragile, to let others be aware of his flaws. He wants them, all of them, to stop throwing sharpened stones at his cracking world. Self-destruction, in the form of self-loathing, is ticking anyway. Anymore and it would be redundant.

Give and take clichés.

There’s another boy in the program. It is not all about solitude and self-hatred. No, there is always someone else, someone who struggles to make the hatred calm and abide. There is another boy, another boy whose name is not important but is anyway. His name is Matt, the other boy. The boy who is set on saving the world and the sanity of the one with dark eyes, the one called Brian.

Boys can take each other for granted, it is allowed. Friendship is different and so is love.

They grew up together, went to college, and went on differing paths that only led to the same conclusion.

Brian writes, his jagged words flowing over sheets in his apartment. The paper is 8 by 10 and the font is barely legible, much too small to be comprehended without straining the reader’s sight. The papers are in disarray, page one shuffled between page thirty-three and page fifty-two. He is the failed novelist, living on cigarettes and bitter coffee. He nearly set his bed on fire once. One stray cigarette and his angry words would have fueled the fire. There is a reason Manhattan has fire-safe cigarettes. Though he still hates the fact that his cigarettes burn out if he does not smoke them fast enough.

He does not tell anyone that he dumped his horde of seconal down the drain the morning after. He knows that if the cigarette had not burned out moments after falling from his lips in his sleep, he would died in the fire. Died. The drugs would have shielded him from feeling the fire mutilating his skin and filling his lungs with black smoke. He is mortal now, more than ever. Mortal because he knows he is.

Matt knows all of this of course. Matt knows about the fire, the pills. Seconal dulls the mind and Brian’s responses. Brian’s an insomniac, his head racing too fast for most situations. His mind darts from one situation to the next. The pills make him a different person. Orange pills are hard to hide, even harder when one’s in a rush to hide their existence. The toilet water with its faint pumpkin color and the stray pill, proudly emblazoned with small letters, settled into place by the raised tile on the bathroom floor, does not help. Matt’s fingers brushed away at the grout, before sending the one last pill into non-existence.

Matt is a buffer, keeping the others where they belong. The others are nothing more than an audience, indulging in the view of the slow deterioration of a soul, Brian’s. The boy is breaking, forgetting lines and cracking. Matt sits by the stage with the script in hand, feeding Brian the forgotten words. But Matt can only do so much.

Matt guides Brian home, Matt gathering his friend’s body into his arms as he tugs and pulls him up the stairs. The elevator is always broken on cold nights, lines freezing or something of that sort. Either way, Matt’s breath comes out in gasps, wispy smoke exiting his mouth in pants. Brian wants to forget and waste away, and Matt’s intent on slowing down the process.

There is hardly any room to maneuver in the apartment, stacks of books and mismanaged manuscripts forming hurdles and towers on an otherwise flat surface. It is an obstacle course. Around the slanted end table, over a knocked over garbage pail, and past the kitchen, hardly used.

Matt guides the other man to his bed, sighing softly. The role he plays comes with no glamorous benefits or any recognition. Brian does not even understand nor appreciate the sacrifices that Matt makes on a daily bases. Talent and drive is not enough to make a life successful. Life is a series of lucky events, strung together haphazardly.

Unless you are Matt.

Dependable, reliable, perfect Matt. Always taken for granted and never taken to the dance, he is the boy that never was recognized. Even Fate took a turn writing in harsh circumstances and scratching out hope.

The world is set against him, determined to make sure that the boy gets no glory. That is what Matt gets for befriending Brian and thinking it enough to be Brian’s true confidant, even if it meant slinking into the other boy’s shadow.

Drunken, late night revelries seemed so important at seventeen. Twenties, thirties, neither would make a difference. Age is nothing compared to the slow decay of dreams and expectations.

Potential.

Matt always had potential.

Brian always had drive.

Neither had much luck.

Brian nurses daily migraines with a liquid cure, something he rarely used to indulge in. Alcohol belongs at frat parties and at cocktail hour, not in a tumbler at three in the morning, being enjoyed alone. This is not life; it is not even death.

Brian is stuck in the in-between. Slowly unraveling with his composure barely intact. He wishes for someone to see his flaws, to be allowed the privilege of being imperfect but society will not grant it. They shove him on a pedestal and bow at his feet, not looking hard enough. Society continues to sing praises while individuals continue to sling stones.

Brian keeps failing, but it does not seem to matter.

He is sheathed in a polymer that resists stains and reality. He is stuck inside his clear cage, struggling to succeed, struggling to fail. Struggling to do something, be someone other than this part. He hates the lines forced into his mouth without consent.

All Brian can do now is lie limp in Matt’s arms as his best friend grunts with exertion, pulling his body along. Matt pauses for a moment so he can catch his breath. Matt is not aware of anything except for the pain in his lower back caused by hefting Brian’s body up too many stairs.

Matt lifts Brian one more time and places him carefully in his bed. Matt slides to the floor, his limbs tired and heavy from all the physical exercise. More than anything, he just wants to crawl into a ball on the floor but someone needs to undress Brian. Someone needs to unlace Brian’s shoes, unbuckle his pants, unbutton his shirt, and so many other things.

More than anything, Matt needs to save Brian.

Mostly from Brian’s own self-loathing and sometimes, the world’s pressures.

Because it is different for boys.

Different still for the men that these boys grew into.

Friendship and love, not necessarily in that order, because need can easily be replaced with want.

Too long for Drabble, too short for Ficlet

2005-03-24T02:41:51Z

Inspiration: Taking Back Sunday - Your Own Disaster
Word Count: 326

Forget me, it’s that simple.

It’s easy to issue commands when you’re not the one following such an order. Easy for him to say that I don’t know what I’m missing. Everyone knows what I’m missing. There are people who can write pages and pages on exactly what I’m missing. He thinks he’s so hard to figure out, so wrapped up in mystery.

He might as well have got up in the morning and dressed in saran wrap, considering just how transparent the rest of his life is.

No, it’s not simple to forget to you. Nothing is that simple.

He can continue to wear his heart on his sleeve, let others mistake it for sincerity. Let his big eyes and his seemingly simplistic and truthful words be taken in through the pores and infest the hearts of all those he talks to. The words are a disease, a raging, multiplying, and deadly infection. It kills from the inside out, rotting out brains and wills. It bends people at the core, letting them believe anything he says is true.

He is a compulsive liar with the flair for the dramatic.

His words against mine, thrown off the walls of large rooms with carelessness. Each word then examined so that our thinly veiled barbs are stretched under a bright light, a metal scalpel making the first cut. The meanings and the true reasons are clear to anyone who bothers to look, anyone who bothers to dissect the truth from its flimsy cover. Easy for them to know why those insults were said in the first place, easy for them to know. Few shake their heads at the sheer tragedy of it all.

Their words, not mine.

So obvious, they say.

Come and shrug me off your shoulders.

It’s an infatuation that festers like the disease he spreads.

Because they all know.

They know that it’s him I’m missing.

Hey, lush, have fun. It’s the weekend. Hey, lush, have fun.

You know I hate the predictable

2004-10-04T00:27:36Z

With All Good Intentions

Neat rows of perfectly formed letters string together on the immaculate sheet of white-lined paper. It’s pristine in its perfection. Not one crease dares to mar the clean surface. Block-like, black letters forms the words that will deliver his last message. He takes painstaking efforts to make it his masterpiece, his one last gift to the world that never appreciated him.

He lovingly traces the soft grooves with the tips of his fingertips, his eyes clear and emotionless. His eyes stray to the desktop, the desktop he never once really looked at. He took everything for granted. Not once did he study the darker patterns ingrained in the faux wood. He closes his eyes, sending a short prayer out into the world, not necessarily to God. Just plaintive words out into the universe, almost as if everyone he once cared about will understand.

“I did it, because they said I shouldn’t.”

He gives his room one last cursory look, taking in everything from the dusty red desk lamp to his collection of mismatched CDs. He eyes his unmade bed, his schoolbooks scattered in the corner of his spacious room. His mess seems so orderly now. His latest copy of Alternative Press lies open to page 57 with the latest article of his new favorite band. Orderly chaos with his mindset as the eye.

He never noticed the sporadic stains that caused his folder to discolor in places, his folder of important documents. It won’t mean much tomorrow morning.

“I willed it, because I had faith.”

He’s a statistic, always has been. He wasn’t special, never will be. He’s somehow all right with that. People once expected great things, but people are also blind.

Fair-weather, he would say.

He hunkers down to his knees, pulling out the metal tin. It once housed chocolate chip cookies, but it holds something more sinister now that the cookies have been eaten.

He carefully lifts the top, the metallic sound jarring to his sensitive ears. There’s no harmony of crickets or Classical Rock filtering through his window tonight. Tonight, he’s left alone with his thoughts and his utter sense of detachment.

Eyebrows scrunch together, his surprise causing the tin to clatter noiselessly to the ground onto the cheap carpet.

A single hand-written note flutters from the upturned box.

“He won’t, because I wouldn’t let him.”

The weight that should have been... nothing but a velvet pouch with plain garden rocks.

He smiles, because suicide is so clichéd.

Artistic slice

2004-08-30T17:11:25Z

Title: ****
Bands: Brand New, Taking Back Sunday, Straylight Run
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Character analysis weaved into a plot. Beautiful, Crazy, and Charcoal... three elements found in three different individuals intertwined.
Disclaimer: I only own the words, not the people.
Author’s Note: Style change, major or minor, depends on how you look at it.

****

Jesse Lacey’s beautiful, so beautiful you would swear he’s not real. A product of some overactive and lonely imagination, maybe. Some dream that you’re afraid to wake from because that would mean letting this image fade away from your mind. No longer are blue eyes piercing into the soul and raking icy fingers over the heart, no... it’s worse, everything is cold, colder than his glare.

He’s a siren song, so alluring from a distance but if you get too close, you’re bound to be dashed on the reefs of his cold indifference. His voice pulls you in, despite your best efforts to jump overboard and let the wooden vessel meet its fate alone. Even as he sidesteps relationships and solid answers, you’re pulled in... nothing more than a piece of metal attuned to the magnet that is Jesse Lacey.

The rare smiles that he bestows on those around him, the girls that swoon at the simple attention... it’s the evidence of his pull, his promise of perfection.

He’s the man that all moms want for their straight daughters and for their gay sons. Flaws so entrenched in perfection, glazed under the cerulean of his eyes, the cupid bow arrow of his lips. Each syrupy word, though doused in cynicism, holds that soft edge of mystery and enticement.

No one needs to tell Jesse anything. He just knows. He brushes off comments, good and bad, like stray pieces of lint clinging unwanted to his sport jacket. He’s immaculate in his appearance and manners and with him, it’s all about appearances. Always the need for control, the need to control his environment to accommodate HIS wants and needs. He’s the man that always seeks the not too hot, not too cold... but just right. And others will do anything so he can have “just right”.

Jesse knows he’s beautiful, knows he could ask for the stars, the moon, and immortality and there will always be individuals, individuals in the majority, that will jump to do his bidding. He can have anything he asks for, your heart, your dreams... your sacrifice. To be with him, is to sacrifice. It’s to sacrifice the warmth of another’s touch, the whisper of a soft kiss, the trail of calloused fingers stroking flesh. He doesn’t offer any promises, not when he’s made of polished glass put on a pedestal under the guise of a shimmering diamond.

He’s a man who takes advantage of the first impression, his smooth voice and dark eyes hiding the cynicism of his jaded heart. His cherubic face hides the malice of his insecurity, his resentment against the world for making him into this... thing. This being who plays the part flawlessly, so flawlessly that sometimes, even he forgets it’s an act. He has to be strong, unflappable in any torrential storm so he can be that mark of strength and beauty, nothing more than a figurehead.

He’s important to those around him, but not so important at the same time.

It’s a delicate line he treads. People worship him and adore him, but they’ll never understand or love him. He’s made sure of it with the way he sidesteps long time commitments and even fleeting friendships. Always guarded against infiltration, pulling people close enough to be admired but never close enough to actually get to know him.

He’s the card of death, his blazing sword of redemption and truth leaving no room for false promises and contention. There is no content, just hate or love. No graying shadows, there’s no room for that in his mind. All or nothing, everything or the fleeting ashes of what was.

So intelligent in his moves, like a well thought out gambit, each move carefully planned. Bishop to E-4, check mate.

He plays to win, what he wins exactly is something only he knows. What he gains by pushing everyone into the mud is known only to him, and possibly will ONLY be known to him.

It’s a feeling of euphoria when Jesse places his hand on your lower back. He doesn’t do anything else but that, a small touch. He’ll have a beer in the other hand, pretending to listen to the conversation he’s just intruded on as he rests his fingers on your body. It’s disorienting, it’s the shock of ice that burns you hot. You blink to make sure it’s real.

Most times, it isn’t.

He’ll take you and break you.

Chaste kisses on your neck as you whimper in defeat. You’re to be another one of Jesse’s indiscretions, another face that he’ll forget the morning after. He traces his fingers over your ribs as he pulls the shirt off, slowly and carefully. He’ll kiss your shoulder blade with a sense of duty as he peels your jeans away.

His clothes follow, each article falling to the ground around you as he leads you to the bed. He’ll kiss you, but you know you can be anyone else and it wouldn’t matter.

But sometimes, appearances call for a second lead, someone to share his pedestal with. And if you’re lucky, you might be exactly what he’s looking for.

----------------------------------

Nothing about Adam Lazzara is cold, all heat and passion. He burns with the essence of life; he’s the angel of light, giving hope and love. He’s the epitome of contradiction. He’s sexual and chaste, crazy and sane, sinner and saint. He’s the dark of the loneliest night stirred with the sunbursts of the brightest star. His smile hides nothing, rays of everything a person could want.

His skin is soft and delicate, supple to touch. No pale skin except for the palms of his hands and the pads of his feet, all brown skin and sinewy muscle.

He’s the fire that boils over, unable to be contained in any safety circle. He runs wild, too fast. He ignites all in his path, but it isn’t a destructive kind of a force. He makes your own spark known, and you know that this is what living is all about. He knows how to live.

Adam’s a living, breathing sensation.

In his arms, moans are loud and long. You arch and bend, begging for deeper and harder. He complies, always ready to please. He doesn’t know enough to be insecure. He doesn’t feel shame. He is who he is, and he won’t change.

He’ll never hide anything, every flitting emotion so easily read on his face. He’s an open book read by passing strangers and tossed aside. Those passing strangers never take the time to look past the childish love for everything, not understanding that beneath all that, there’s a man, a man who could make living all worth it.

He’ll kiss your wrists at four in the morning while you sleep, a habit he’s acquired that you never knew about until that one night when he nipped playfully to see if you’re awake. You pretended you weren’t as he bathed the soft blue veins with his tongue as his hips rolled into yours with tempered desire.

You lay in bed, sweaty and sated, contented with the idea of not waking up for at least a week, all energy expended.

But that night, you couldn’t court the elusive mistress known as slumber, no matter how hard you tried. You lay still, his breathing slowing down beside you, but you stayed awake, though tired. Some time later, much later, you wearily woke to Adam’s feather soft kisses on your wrist.

“What are you doing?” you asked, weary.

He looked unsure for a minute before placing another soft kiss before answering, “Hmm, you never woke up before.”

After that, you shunned the elusive mistress, content on finding new ways to keep both eyes closed without ever succumbing to her.

But there’s a jealousy that will always go with Whirlwind Adam.

He draws people in, and it’s true, many walk back away, but just as many stay. Who wouldn’t want to part of the constantly moving and changing atmosphere that only Adam can make? Each day by his side is a surprise, something to look forward to. Routine’s a word that has no meaning, not here.

Anything from waking up to see Adam running around in his underwear with a megaphone to his lips as he screams out military style marching steps at 8:30 in the morning to see him trying to emblazon a yellow unicorn on a violently purple shirt. It’s all a part of being in his life, so wonderfully delicious.

There’s no steady flow of thought or life.

One day, you may wake up with less of a role in his life, but he’d never push you away purposely.

People grow and change, that’s how life goes. It’d be his mentality if he ever took time to sit down and think about it. Why waste precious seconds analyzing something you’re not meant to understand and even if you did, how would you change it?

You’d never understand him, and that’s all part of the allure.

Except jealousy’s an evil thing.

You’ll spend hours trying to put all the puzzle pieces together, trying to find a way to keep Adam forever, to keep that burning bit of fire with you, someone to hold and desire and love. Someone who could actually love you back. Someone you could call your own, with no one else to intrude. So intent on finding the secret to keeping him beside you.

Hours spent examining the swirl of colors on cardboard as you try to match the curved edges together and as soon as you finish one part, you find pieces you’ve overlooked. Pieces that look identical in color and shade and you know you missed something important and extravagant.

It’d be so much easier if you could just take a step back and accept that maybe, you’re not MEANT to understand.

----------------------------------

Obsessive. Obsessive. Obsessive.

I’ve always been this way, combing every detail for any slight fluctuation that could lead me awry.

Always obsessive.

Softly smiling, it’s so easy. No one would expect anything; no one expects that I’m just as capable of breaking hearts and lying like everyone else.

Capable of playing one individual against another.

Capable of falling in love and lust, sometimes at the same time.

So perfectly capable.

I’ll be the biggest dork you’ve ever met and the sweetest boy. I could sweep you off your feet with a bouquet in hand as I kiss your lips. I could trace your soft scars with my words as I try to erase your past. I could be the boy you never thought you wanted.

It’s easier than you think.

Easy to fall for both sides of the coin, lying and deceiving. Lying in Jesse’s embrace at night... Adam, the next.

So easy.

Fingers flying over skin as I have to decide from two perfect slices.

Appearance or what actually is.

Easy to play the game and lie through my teeth; and in this case, just as easy to choose.

Jess or Adam.

Adam or Jess.

The decision was made the first time we kissed.

It was always **** from the start.

Christina/Tony Scenarios Edited

2004-08-14T17:44:52Z

Title: Scenarios
Pairing: Christina Aguilara/Tony Lovato (That means het)
Author’s Note: These were written sometime last year as accompanying pieces/background to Sex, Pride, and Denial. They have been edited to catch minor typos and such.

Scenario One

Blue eyes stare back at her, the eyes positively glittering as he lies on top of her in her stretch limo. A smirk crossing his features as he quickly works his fingers under the collar of her expensive dress, mouth sucking at the skin of her shoulders. Her staccota gasps break the sexual tension inside the confining space as she digs her nails into the back of his neck.

"You probably shouldn't be here... What are you doing here?" Her words come out soft, holding no weight as she tears at his vintage t-shirt, pulling it over his head as he strains to unhook the clasps on her dress.

A gutteral growl passes through the air as he looks up at her and replies, "Don't act like you're not excited to see me. The whole ripping off my clothes thing, kinda giving you away."

She licks her red lips, nodding as her hands reach for his belt. Her hands hook over the buckle as she pulls him further on top of her, restraining his movement, knowing he'll never be able to unclasp all those small buttons at her bodice. "Don't even fucking bother. Those things are impossible."

She reaches down, pulling his hands away. She lifts her hips enough so that his weight shifts, forcing him to transfer his weight to his arms as she hitches up her dress and grabs the waist of her fishnets and pulls down, her fingers catching her studded g-string as well. "See, easier this way."

Scenario Two

She throws his slender body against the metallic coolness of her tour bus, her red nails grabbing onto the grass green of his shirt as she pulls his face to hers. Her teeth sinks into his plush lips, her hips positioned over his as she grinds upwards.

"Fuck, missed you... missed you."

She smiles, loving the way his words are disjointed and rushed. He wants her; he wants her like he's wanted no one else, and she knows it. He stares at her as if he wants to devour her whole, almost immediately tonguing his lip ring in anticipation. He knows and understands the game; he's hers to play with and in the process, get off. Unlike everyone else, she's not his to bend to his will. Here, in this particular plane of reality, he's the pawn.

She grips each of his wider wrists in her hands as she leans up to suck at the small expanses of pale skin, mostly masked under splashes of inked color, peeking up from his shirt. Her tongue bathes his neck, her hands keeping his at his sides, no matter how much they want to roam. She doesn't need to apply much pressure to keep them stationary; he knows better.

She applies pressure to her lips as she kisses up the line of his neck, his short pants making her blood sizzle with heat. She lightly nips at his jaw, nuzzling her nose into his soft skin.

"Don't your friends ever ask you where you disappear to, Tony? You disappear for days and what? They don't ask questions?"

He makes soft noises in the back of his throat. He tries to swallow his need away, making another attempt at coherent words. She stops her ministrations to watch him struggle, watching his eyes dart under closed eyes. She removes one hand from his wrist to stroke his face, rubbing her thumb over that lip ring. How one loop of metal could be so hot, she would never understand.

Scenario Three

She stretches her limbs, almost cat-like, her head falling back onto his shoulder as she gazes at the TV in silence as he channel surfs beside her. She absently fingers the hem of his faded black shirt, leaning forward to rest her head on his chest, able to hear the steady thump thump of his heartbeat. A smile forms at the ease of it all, the sneaking around the two indulged in and yet... for months, they’ve been having their secret rendezvous and now here he was... in her hotel room watching TV with her after a busy day on her part.

He growls in frustration, wondering how one could have a million and two channels of cable and yet still not find anything appropriate to watch.

“This is bullshit, absolute bullshit.”

She giggles softly, her hand spanning his flat stomach over the thin material of his shirt as she nods in assent, “Of course, bullshit. Absolute bullshit.”

She doesn’t need to look up to see the pout forming on his perfect lips; she already knows. She can feel his shoulder dipping as he sulks, most likely staring at her head in childish anger. She traces over the muscles of his stomach to appease him a little, loving the way the strong muscles become taunt for attention as she lightly scrapes her nails over the fabric.

“Don’t be petulant. If you’re good, I might let you...”

She trails off, refusing to meet his eyes as she traces her pointer finger over the metal of his button clasp as she notices the growing tent in his pants. She smirks, watching it grow even faster under her intense gaze, hearing the soft gulp from above her. She slowly moves to rest her face at the crook of his neck.

“But you have to be good...”

Scenario Four

Heaven's Tattoos and Piercings

She frowns, licking at her plump lips as she contemplates her next course of action. Her eyes roam to the right, falling on her bleach blonde companion, immediately regretting her hasty decision to bring him along. Crap, I don't know if I can do this... I'm allergic to pain to pain in all forms, dammit! She lightly taps her hands on her sides as she continues to cast him side-long glances not wanting to appear like the chicken shit she is...

She bites down on her lip, the sharp kick of pain serving to help her focus, her actions belying her earlier thoughts. She likes pain, she likes the way it can make all other sensations on her body seem alive. When teeth sink into the pale of her neck as she comes; it’s just that much better with that kick than without.

A steady hand rests on the small of her back giving her a gentle push forward.

“Come on, I know you want to. You said so yourself, you wanted to get it pierced... here’s your chance.”

He tries not to smirk as he speaks, acutely aware that if she does go get this done, it’ll be just as good for him if not better. He licks his bottom lip at the mere though of pulling at the hoop once it’s healed, his mind running free with images upon images of teeth and metal colliding.

He urges her forward, her smaller body complying with his silent request as she takes step after step, soon standing in front of the tattoo parlor with yet another apprehensive look as she open the door. The bell tinkers as they move inside.

She takes a deep breath, shooting him a final side-long glance as she speaks up to the punked-out girl behind the counter.

“I’d like to get my nipple pierced.”

Scenario Five

Her small fists shake with the force of her bottled rage, forcing another fake smile of contentment as she refrains from grabbing the gleaming award standing on his desk and slam him over the head with it. She can almost see the blood gush from the wound as she pounds at his head, the stupid shit having the nerve to tell her what to do. She isn’t seventeen anymore, dammit.

“Your brash words and anger isn’t doing you any good, Christina. You really should tone it down and just do the cutesy genie bit, okay?”

He has the gall to pause, as if her answer would deter him from his doomed train of thoughts, a violent image of burning wreckage flashing in her mind as imaginary rails derail, the steel crumbling like cardboard in her mind as it crushes from the sheer stupidity of his audacity. She’s glad once more for choosing a long sleeved jacket that covers her shaking fists, hiding the imprints that her sharp nails are making into the fleshy skin of her palm as she barely controls her fury.

It’s MY career, my life. I’m the one breaking my back, ruining any and all chances of a normal semblance of a life to sing some POPPY CRAP?! I did not work all the fucking time, lose practically all my REAL friends so I could live a LIE!

She throws him another sweet smile, using her pearly enamel as a weapon to disorient the man behind the giant desk with more power over her career in his left pinkie than she had in her entire body.

He casually dismisses her with the wave of his hand. His eyes linger on her face, his eyes only seeing her as giant dollar signs and not a person. That shouldn’t surprise her or anyone else. She’s nothing more than a commodity, a packaged product to be marketed and sold to the overly hormonal youth of America.

She storms her way out of the office, holding back tears of pure rage as she pulls out her cell phone as if it’s some deadly weapon to be contended with, dialing his number from memory, knowing that he’s waiting for her. She flings open the last pair of glass doors to step into the bright sun and the light air breezing past her.

“GET ME NOW!”

The sheer volume of the command rockets around the empty parking lot, her hands still shaking at the unfairness of it all. She finally knows what she wants. She doesn’t want to be another pretty Barbie doll lost among the see of blondes with their fake bodies, who wants that? She always thought she was so fucking different from them all, so different from Britney... when in reality, she wasn’t.

She tries to take reassuring breathes, trying to calm her shot nerves. The world’s coming in and out of focus as her anger starts to boil over the sides as she glares from side to side looking for the pale blue Cadillac she knows should be arriving at any moment. She stares at her cell phone, not realizing until that moment how much the stupid pink color represents everything she hates about her career. The pink, the blonde, the genie... it all traps her into a predetermined role.

She lets out a guttural scream, the sound reverberating around the lot, making it sound louder than it is. Her small hand wraps around the plastic contraption, and she hurls it with all her might. Her chest heaves as she watches the plastic of the phone crack and splinter, the sharp shards flying up at her face. She brings her arm up, guarding her face just in time not to have the sharp plastic nick her face. Blood starts to trickle from the small cut on the back of her hand, and all she can do is stomp on the already broken pieces.

“I’M ALL GROWN UP! I KNOW WHAT I WANT!”

The silence seems so much louder now than it did just a couple minutes ago. The wind blows across her heated face, doing nothing to quell her still raging temper. She wants to pummel her fists onto the nearest surface. She wants to cry, because really... isn’t it her life?

She can hear the sounds of mocking laughter rising into the forefront of her mind. As ridiculous as it sounds, the pink plastic is haunting her. It’s a part of her life that she desperately wants to cut and bury, but it still remains like an old stain on soft fabric. She drags her short nails over the denim of her sleeves, wishing she could make herself bleed, wishing she wasn’t Christina Aguilera anymore.

She traces her steps, no longer standing on the curb but leaning against a lamppost with downcast eyes. Her anger is starting to flee from her broken body. You win. I lose. Isn’t that how it always works?

She feels the soft rumble of the approaching car engine before she sees the pale exterior of the Cadillac. The window on the passenger side rolls down as Tony leans over to the side so he’s able to see the small blonde through the frame.

“Get in, we’re going to burn all your clothes and dye your hair.”

No unicorns and butterflies here

2004-08-10T04:11:27Z

Title: Perverse Obsession
Pairings: Adam/Michelle (Though more Adam centric)
Rating: R, just for dark themes
Summary: Fight Club inspired. Adam’s deranged and intent on knowing what it feels like to have the power to do anything.
Disclaimer: Moron.
Dedication: inpurity for getting me the book that this screwed up little ditty is inspired from.

Perverse Obsession

Michelle’s shaking with fury, her long brown hair in complete disarray as she cries. She’s crying mascara, eyeliner, and tears. She’s standing in the doorway of my room, her hands shaking, her big doe eyes big and glassy. Her hands tremble at her sides, and she’s fighting for her composure.

I push off Miranda, Bethany, Beatrice, or whatever the hell her name is off my body and motion for her to get out.

One time thing, she understands.

One moment in time when I went out of my way to destroy the best and really, the only thing I had in life to live for. Maybe it was an obsession, to hold an idea so close to my heart. But it’s hard to explain, though it isn’t. Only when you have nothing to lose can you do anything.

Right now, I’m about to lose everything.

The girl barrels right past Michelle, bumping her curvaceous body against Michelle’s rail thin one. Michelle’s insecure as every other girl I’ve known. She hates her tiny hips, the way her right rib juts out awkwardly against the skin of her stomach. She hates the flawed curve of her hips, all sharp and straight. She hates her muddy brown hair, the way the curly strands flow down her back.

She hates that she’s tall, almost boyish in her figure.

Really, no womanly curves.

Nameless, however, is ALL curves. She’s a goddess really, with full hips and full lips. She’s got an attitude to match her sultry look, the kind of woman that most man can’t handle, with bark and bite. She’s going to give me the freedom I need.

I tuck the bed sheet around my waist, letting the thin fabric cover the lower half of my body. I can still remember what it feels like to be inside her, all tight and warm. I’ll be sure to look back on it as an exquisite sacrifice.

I reach over to the bedside table, grabbing a cigarette out of the nearly empty carton, lighting it with ease with a flick of my thumb. It’s one of those cheap Bic lighters, the ones you can purchase for 99 cents, tops. The plastic’s see-through and purple. Definitely worth my 99 cents.

“What.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

As if cheating on my girlfriend isn’t horrendous, isn’t breaking ties. Act as if I just didn’t break her heart, and pretend I didn’t bring every single one of her insecurities to life.

I inhale carcinogens, feeling my lungs blacken from the thick smoke. Seven bucks a pack for twenty cigarettes. The most expensive suicide I can come up with. I should have just bought a cheap razor, but really, such dramatics are only fit for bloody bathtubs and 14-year-old girls.

Inhale.

Michelle still hasn’t moved, though tears are traveling down her face mixed in with the black of her makeup. Her large eyes look even bigger and a knife twists in my gut, not because I’m sorry that I made her cry, but because I’ll hit bottom harder if she looks like that.

Nervous tension springs from my fingers. She’s just staring as her heart crumbles. She’s not the type of girl to throw things or to overreact. No, she’s the type of girl to run to her big brother bitching about her scumbag boyfriend.

Exhale.

She’s running out the door, her car keys in hand. I don’t have to guess where she’s headed, it’s a simple puzzle.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Repeat.

I’m on my sixth cigarette when I hear a car door bang shut.

I’m still sitting on the mattress, the sheet tucked around my thin hips. The smell of sex and debauchery still lingers on my body and in the air. I can practically hear his teeth grind with anger. I hear a plaintive voice, running after him.

Now, that, I’m surprised about. Though I know I shouldn’t be.

If you find John, Jesse isn’t too far behind.

John Nolan and Jesse Lacey, so interminably entangled and entwined in each other, their entire lives consisting of each other. Fights and make-ups as they scream with clenched fists and black eyes. They love each other so much, they can let fists fly, with angry words following. Angry, biting words that burn more than any flakes of lye on wet skin. Each time, they go back to their corners, nursing their respective wounds, vowing never again.

But you see, they’re practically one.

Jesse feels John’s pain.

John feels Jesse’s.

It’s easier to just cut to the chase and hurt each other.

Loud voices rise up and slide in through my open apartment window, and Jesse’s calling John a lunatic who needs to control his temper. I hear a dull thud and more cursing, and John’s high pitched scream.

They’re attracting a crowd, and I’m waiting for my fall.

I eye the carton of smokes, bringing another one to my lips. I hear pushing and shoving up the stairs, but maybe it’s my mind supplying me with the image and sounds rather than me actually being able to hear them.

Jesse’s holding him back, ordering him back to sanity as John rages on about how he’s going to kill me.

I light up the slender cylinder, inhaling sharply.

John and Jesse could never hit bottom, never. They could only hit bottom if the other disappeared forever, their reliance and dependence on the other borders on obsession and need. There’s nothing worse than two heterosexual men completely in love with each other.

I’m slowly dying, but so is everyone else I know.

I just speed up the process with cigarettes.

The self-mutilation’s just for kicks.

I finally see the pair as Jesse wretches the wooden baseball bat out of John’s hands, flinging it out the front door as John shoves Jesse and advances on me.

“You fucking son of a bitch. You miserable bastard. I’m going to fucking beat the shit out you, you fucking whore.”

Jesse isn’t even looking at me, and truthfully, he never has. He never liked me or even deemed me worthy of his hate; all I got was his indifference. Jesse wasn’t even bothered when John started spending more and more time with me. He just couldn’t bring himself to care.

Even now as he grabs at John’s shirt and tries to tackle John’s skinny ass to the carpet, it isn’t because Jesse’s worried for my safety or even remotely cares that Michelle’s feelings are hurt. He just doesn’t want his pretty best friend to end up in jail getting butt-raped by large inmates.

Jesse’s got every reason to worry, if this wasn’t what I wanted.

God, it must suck to have your life-mate, your fucking soul mate to be a man when you’re about straight as an arrow. I almost pity the two, no, I do pity the two. They’ll never know what it feels like to really lose everything. They’re so attached, so perfect in their little lives.

The cigarette’s burning the tips of my fingers and I let it, hold on to the pain as long as I can before relinquishing into it as I stub it out on the cheap ashtray, already overflowing with butts.

“Let me at that miserable, cheating, SON OF A FUCKING BITCH! Let me go, you fucking twat! Let me go.”

John’s voice is shrill and it’s starting to resonate deep into the recesses of my brain as I move to my feet, swinging my legs over the side of the low mattress. The sheet bunches at my right waist as I wrap the sheet around my hips, the material long enough that it can wrap around me several times.

I use the cockiest voice I have in my repertoire, “Do you fucking WANT something, Nolan?”

His brown eyes are liquid fire, and Jesse’s grasp on his shirt’s flimsy at best. I’m standing in the doorway to my room with hickies down my neck and chest with a sheet around my waist, I’m practically begging to be kicked the shit out of. I must be insane.

“Why the fuck... you miserable... Why the hell did you break my fucking sister’s heart? WHY!”

John’s face is going purple, the veins pulsing straight out of his neck as he clenches his fight and tries to throw off Jesse’s grip. The other boy lets him go for moment, only to wrap his arms around John’s waist.

That’s probably going to be as much physical contact those two are going to share.

Fuckers.

I smirk, schooling my features into an immaculate apathetic mask, staring John straight in the eye. “I wanted to destroy something beautiful.” I snicker, my words being more than enough to feed the anger and rage threatening to boil over.

Jesse’s knocked away as John tackles me straight to the ground. Even in his state, he’s thinking ahead, closing the bedroom door and locking it before pouncing on me again.

His fingers wrap around my neck, trying to choke the life out of me. He throws some well-aimed punches directly into my gut and into my face. I double over with the pain and it’s no secret that despite the fact that John’s a scrawny twig, he packs a mean right hook.

What he’s experiencing is a complete and total power trip, and I let him.

He beats my body black and blue, so thorough in his work that moving tomorrow will be a painful experience, breathing something of a painful chore.

Jesse slams his fists against the door, demanding entrance but it’s only background music, nothing compared to this, hitting bottom.

My best friend in the whole world, the man I look up to and admire is beating the shit out of me because I broke his baby sister’s heart.

Well, goddamn.

Who knew?

I’m coughing blood as John gets up, his glasses fogged by the sheer heat emanating from his body. As he gets to his feet, he stops to kick me a few times, just to make his message crystal.

“Don’t you ever, EVER fucking come near me or my sister. I will fucking KILL you, Adam, I swear to GOD! I swear.”

John turns, opening the door at the exact moment that Jesse lifts his hand ready to slam his fists down on the now open door. Jesse’s mouth drops when he sees me bloody and twitching.

It’s only then Jesse Lacey deems me worthy of actual recognition. He sees me for the first time since we first met and he measured me out, looking through the ingredients and thought to himself, “Trash” and ignored me. He sees me now, mangled with the once white sheet splattered with speckles of blood as I cough. The sheets riding low and I’m sure he can see some of my pubes, but hey, it’s art. He should be savoring it.

Jesse’s hand comes down softly as John grabs him and leaves, kicking the door shut with so much force, the door rattles in its frame.

John calls Eddie the next day to say he’s quitting the band, because I’m a skirt chasing, son of a bitch who deserved to be beaten with a lamp. That’s when it finally happened.

In one clean sweep, I severed all ties to my best friend, the man I held closest to my heart, using his love for his family against him so I could know what it felt like, to feel that power course through me. Eddie, Mark, and the rest of the guys couldn’t even look me in the eye. They were disgusted with my behavior, my lack of apology.

I wore each bruise with pride as I spiraled into darkness, further and further into a pit of my own making.

The band, basically the very thing that gives my life meaning, is in complete and total jeopardy. John leaves and Shaun decides that I’m too much of a moron to carry the band on my own; he says his short and curt toodlaloos and leaves as well.

For two glorious weeks, I have nothing.

No friends, no confidants, no job, no future.

That was rock bottom.

It was then, I could do anything.

Treehouse Series makes a COMEBACK

2004-08-10T04:07:07Z

Title: Marriage to What Exactly?
Pairings: Adam/Jesse/John?
Rating: PG-13
Summary: So we bypassed the kissing in the treehouse, the so-called love line... and it goes “Than comes marriage.” Dude, I’m too young to get married. But hey... I can talk on the phone and rant. A lot.
Disclaimer: J'espère que vous mourez péniblement.
Author’s Note: There should only be ONE more part to this, but since I haven’t written it, that’s apt to change. Don’t expect too much of this cutesy fluff from me. You all know I’m an angst whore at heart.

K-I-S-S-I-N-G
First Comes... Complications?

Marriage to What Exactly?

Weekends, best things in the world. Three-day weekends, a gift from God that must never be wasted. Ever. It must be worshipped and used wisely, like sleeping in late and plotting ways to annoy all five of my sisters with Cody, the only other boy in the family. My parents were very busy… Ugh, mental image so not needed of parents copulating. That’s so... ewwwwwww. (What, so I’m still four, what do you want from me?)

Three-day weekends mean nights spent in John’s basement with his dad’s old vinyls and pizza. It means staying up late, drinking too many caffeinated beverages and eating potato chips with sour cream dip. (Mmmhm, my fave!) It means re-watching all our favorite movies with the lights low on the floor. It means a lot of things... don’t know if they apply anymore.

Adam kissed me in the tree house on Wednesday. Wednesday was two days ago, one less day than our three-day weekend. Three minus two = one. Simple math, very simple. (It means today is Friday... idiot. Tomorrow = Saturday, got it? Good.)

I’m trying not to think about it.

I figure if I ignore the whole “John kissed Jesse” thing, it’ll go away.

Still ignoring.

What kissing? What is this... kissing?

John? Bench? Park? Huh?

Oooh, butterflies...

Butterflies are pretty; I like the yellow ones best. They look like they’re carved out of soft butter, all insubstantial and delicate. They’re fragile things, butterflies. It’d be so easy to crush one in your palm of your hand, even if you didn’t mean to. It’s not like they have very long life spans to begin with, so it helps to be gentle.

Uh uh uh... butterflies...

IT’S NOT WORKING!

What the fuck? What is going on? Really, somebody please tell me what the fuck is up? FUCK FUCK FUCK!

I’ve lived my entire life very quietly and safely. No weird emotions getting in the way of my academic success. John, the best friend, acting as a buffer to everyone else. Adam, the boy who moved into a house three blocks away who wasn’t quite right in the head. The boy who would make mud pies than dare Cody to eat it. I’ve always liked Adam, but he was always too unruly for me.

I want to be left alone with my books and pencils, but never with a calculator. Calculators make you dumb. Don’t believe me? I bet when you were in the third grade, you could do 77-59 in your head without going into cardiac arrest. Now at seventeen, you can barely do mental math. Can’t do it, can you? The answer, by the way, is 18.

I stand firm in my belief to shun calculators, graphing and scientific alike.

However, if by embracing the stupidity that comes hand in hand with calculators, I can have the simple “Hey, John... punch on shoulder” friendship again, well.,. Calculators are cool, man!

John kissed me on Thursday, exactly one day ago. One day ago, he decided that kissing me was a course of action he was going to take. For exactly 24 hours, I’ve been staring at the phone. I’ve been staring at the plastic electronic with contradictory emotions. If he calls, we can talk or not talk about it... but there’d be some kind of contact. If he doesn’t call, well, I get to wallow in my thoughts for just a little bit longer so that when we DO talk, I’ll have something prepared. I have a feeling any lull in the conversation’s going to transform into that tense, smothering gap. John and I have known each other too long to have one of those, much too long and much too well. (‘Well’, fools... not ‘good’!)

There’s a hairline fracture on the side of the handset from the time Rory dropped the handset. Rory is usually the least clumsy of the Lacey clan, but even she gets flustered. (Maybe I forgot to mention Rory is dating Mr. Wonderful AKA egotistical son of a bitch soccer captain. She calls him... ‘Blake’. I call him ‘a skirt chasing hound dog’. )

Anyway, Blake called Rory to ask her out and she was so shocked he wanted to talk to her, she dropped the phone. I don’t know how Assface could ever merit such abuse of the telephoney, but women are strange and foreign creatures. (Telephoney is now a word. WHAT NOW, BITCH?!)

I give my sisters so much more credit than they deserve, obviously. Soccer captains are so overrated, even if they have sandy blonde hair and green eyes... and tower over me at 6’3. That’s unnatural! He’s not allowed to be 17 and 6’3. I haven’t broken 6 yet. My life is so extremely pathetic. From the way it’s looking, I shall be a short freak forever (but with Adam, so it all balances out).

Oh.

Well, there’s the problem.

Adam Lazzara or John Nolan?

Let’s see, could someone please rephrase the question?

No one’s asked me to answer aforementioned question, but then again, I haven’t seen John or any member of the Nolan clan, as of yesterday afternoon. (I’ve seen Adam, okay. My bed’s much more comfortable than any tree house. Yes, even one made of ‘wood’.)

I never knew electronics could mock. I didn’t know electronics could do anything but be... well, electronics. I never knew the family phone was so vicious and it sounds so much like Kerry, my oldest sister. Then again, Kerry spends the most time on the phone so that makes sense, in that whole... ‘the phone is copying my sister’s voice patterns and word choices’ kind of way.

Am I starting to make LESS sense than usual?

It must be all the kissing. That explains why Rory’s gotten all giggly and unfocused. Ugh, no no no no! EWWWW! RORY IS KISSING ASSFACE!

Oh, poor mind... poor, poor mind.

Need therapy. Needs lots and lots of therapy. Will send giant bill to “I have my head so far up my ass, it’s surprising I can see” guy AKA Blake. If I started to call him ‘Blake’ instead of my thousand or so nicknames for him, it’d be less confusing for everyone. However, I doubt anyone doubts the identity of whomever I’m speaking of when I use the term; that dimwitted, idiotic, caveman Neanderthal that’s dating my FAVORITE sister. I mean, there’s no one in this world who can mistake Rory for Kerry, Carly, Jamey, or Haley. (My parents like that Y ending, don’t they? How does Jesse fit into this... even Cody, has the Y thing. Baa baaaaaaaaa... Baa baa black sheep, I am.)

The hair on the back of my neck’s standing on end, and a chill travels down the length of my spine. I will never be able to close my eyes again. Rory and Assface... together... with each other... kissing... touching...

AHHH!

AHHHHHHH!

AHHHHHHHHHHHH!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

AH!

I feel dirty. That’s so completely wrong. Mr. “I’m too cool for you, you lesser mortal, you” is dating Rory... MY RORY! This has to be illegal, and if it isn’t, it should be. I’m going to hunt down my Street Law teacher and ask. He will help me get this into the books.

No Assface shall ever legally be able to date a Lacey clan. No ifs, ands, or buts.

There, with that law in the books, my sisters... would never date.

All of them have atrocious taste in guys, ATROCIOUS! It’s a wonder my parents let them out of the house with their choices. At first glance, they all seem respectable, but I know better. Under all that gelled hair and white teeth, there lies a dog. I’m referring to ALL of their choice and just not Rory’s... Ahem.

AHHHHH!

I clutch at my chest, willing my knees to become solid again as the phone rings shrilly. I stare at it in wonder, the sandy color blending with the faux wooden surface so there’s a light patch of color against the darkly tinted wood. There’s something I’m supposed to do when a phone rings, I’m sure of it. Why the hell am I staring at the phone anyway, I must have better things to do.

“JESSE, ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE, YOU INCOMPETANT IDIOT!”

That would be Kerry.

How I love her...

“Hello?”

I hear the line rattling on the other end, probably because whoever is on the other end is switching hands. I stare at the dried and pressed flower hanging on the wall in its pale yellow frame as I wait for a response. Whoever it is, he or she is awfully quiet. I inch closer to the coffee table that the phone’s on, stooping a little before deciding my legs cramping would not be pleasurable... I plop down on the cold floor.

“Umm, hello, anyone there?”

This is creepy. It’s like those slasher flicks with the hot girl all scared and nervous and all panting-like, and all she can hear is the steady breathing of the person on the other end. And then she starts to panic and scream and cry for no reason at all, except for some eerie phone call in the middle of the night coincidently following some nightmare where some psycho chases her with a steak knife. I mean, that’s not weird at all.

“Jesse?”

Right, this is why I was staring at the phone all forlornly before. (We’re going to ignore that ‘forlornly’ probably isn’t a word to focus on the fact that John’s voice is reminiscent of a mouse, and I’m ready to hyperventilate.)

“Yeah?”

My voice squeaks highly, mirroring John’s high-pitched voice, and I let out a loose laugh. This could be comical, really. I mean, sure, it’s a normal thing to have your best friend just kiss you out of the blue after thinking he hates you.

Okay, maybe only in my world is that normal.

The doorbell rings, but I ignore it because I’m talking to John and this is important. This is years of friendship on the line, whoever’s at the door can just wait.

“I didn’t really... you know, mean to... do what I... you know?” John’s stammering on the other line as I try to make sense of what he assumes is some kind of human communication. I’m not following too well, but I’m guessing he means that he didn’t mean to kiss me. Which I already discerned, maybe. (Shut up, you. I can say whatever the fuck I want. If I say that I wasn’t running scenarios of John being all naked, then I wasn’t. Good, I’m glad we got that cleared up.)

I hear Kerry stomping down the stairs, ducking as she flings a hardcover book at my head, but I’m already used to the abuse. It’s all about dodging the projectiles.

I practically drop down on all fours, the phone still on my ear thanks to years of practice and one sharp corner of the Dictionary for Children embedding itself into my skull. I learned rather quickly to just duck or run for cover whenever Kerry was concerned.

“Fucking moron, answer the door, you miserable...”

This is when I block her out, right before she starts using four letter words like they’re about to go out of style.

“Bad time,” John asks, though he already knows. The kid was the unlucky recipient to a rollerskate to the noggin when he spoke too loud after a fresh breakup from one of her little boy toys.

I hunker on the floor as I nod, knowing that I don’t need a verbal response. (Come on, John practically lives here and knows that the Lacey women are insane and not meant to be trifled with. Please reference back to my rollerskate comment and/or Rory dating Assface. Any woman who can take on the empty shell of a human being definitely has some unearthly power.)

“I’m sorry, Jesse. I don’t even know what I was thinking. I just... you know...”

Damn, he was doing so well, too. Had two complete sentences that passed coherence and then he had to revert into stammering/mumbling/stuttering territory. I just remain silent, pulling at my bottom lip as I try to allow some measure of hope infiltrate through my muddled body.

There’s hope yet for salvaging out friendship.

“I overreacted. Okay, it’s just... Adam always seems to get everyone’s attention and everything he wants, and I didn’t want him to take you from me.”

I open my mouth to reassure him, but as I look up, Adam’s staring at me. His smile’s innocent as he mouths something I can’t understand, I can’t read lips. My hand moves on its own accord, dropping the phone back into its cradle. I smile deviously at the younger boy, pushing Adam lightly up the stairs and into my room.

We’re studying, you see.

I’m helping him with his vocabulary.

Ahem.

No fics, maybe later tonight

2004-08-10T01:06:23Z

I'm currently doing a massive rewrite for the following fics:

1) Only Fools Lie to Themselves: Chapters 1 and 2
2) Sharp Crescents Marking Skin
3) Used Fluff (Couldn’t Call It Forever... and Maybe There’s a Chance)
4) Drifting Blonde
5) Dashed, Five Years on the Mark
6) Smut Bunny Time!

As of right now, those fics are Private until they've been rewritten.

Lonely has FINALLY been updated

2004-07-23T23:07:22Z

Title: Lonely: A State of Mind
Bands: Brand New, Taking Back Sunday, Straylight Run
Rating: R
Summary: From the afterparty to the aftershow, mix in some pain and voila.
Disclaimer: Questo non è mai successo, scemo che non sei altro.
Author’s Note: Insanely long...

Prologue
Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Green Bottles and Yellow Lights Bloom

The surrounding walls and floor throb along with the pulsing bass line streaming through the speakers. I stumble through the dim area, a green bottle in my hand, the amber liquid sloshing over the sides as I side-step one particular couple, sucking face near the floor. I brace myself against one dingy wall, the atmosphere backstage having changed from a slow thrum of excitement from before the show to a fevered pitch of hormones after.

Colored lights spin on a swivel base, filling the small floor with flashes of red, blue, yellow, green, and violet. I try to discern shapes from the moving mass; I can vaguely make out the gyrating forms of random people I don’t even know. I see one of our roadies, Ben, with his arms around some blonde girl, her head tipped back against his shoulder. Even from the distance, I have a gut feeling that she’s too young to be holding that red plastic cup and much to young to have some 22-year-old grab at her chest.

A warm breath invades my ear, a body pressing against my back as a cool hand rests on my shoulder. I can feel one calloused thumb at the back of my throat, “Don’t you ever wonder what goes inside their heads to make them want to do that?”

Vin points to three blonde girls, perched upon a table, the same table the guys and I used to eat our lunches off this afternoon. They’re all wearing matching outfits, tight shirts that show off rounded stomachs and short skirts over tight leggings or in one case, fishnets. Some like myself, watch from a distance, their eyebrows raised at the show, more perturbed than turned on. I lean towards Vin, turning my face slightly so I’m speaking into the crook of his neck, allowing him to hear me over the roar of the rambunctious crowd and over the hooting and hollering of some of the younger boys shaking dollar bills in the air, as if this was some cheap strip club.

“You think that’s even legal?”

I will never get used to these after-parties. The music’s too loud, the girls are too shallow, and there’s just too many people. I spend every single party skulking in the corner avoiding starry-eyed girls and fighting off the advancements of the groupies with their tongue studs and too dark eye makeup.

“Vin, I’m the last person to ask... girls kinda scare me.”

Vin’s chest rumbles with laughter, his amber bottle of beer tilted dangerously to the side as he remarks, “You’re a complete nitwit. Girls scare me... idiot.”

“I said, ‘kinda’...”

The words meant to redeem me do exactly the opposite. Vin laughs harder and attracts the attention of some nearby kids with their short scene haircuts; the girls with their flipped hairdos and the boys with that floppy “I just got out of bed, ran a hand through my hair but in actuality spent over 45 minutes in front of the mirror” style.

Every single boy I’ve seen in the crowd today has that same exact precision, measured to a science but made to look mussed.

Hell, I have it too.

I move a hand up to roughly drag my fingers through clumps of dried gel and weighed down locks. I pull on stiff tufts of molded shapes to leave my hand sticky and my hair in an erratic state. I remember days when I used to spend countless minutes getting each strand of hair to perfection. If I flipped my hair right there, would John like it?

Pathetic, isn’t it?

There’s a good idea, why don’t I just reminisce about John, the asshole, some more? That’ll make me feel peachy-keen.

I drag my greasy and sticky palm against the faded material of my jeans, hanging low on my hips with the band of my boxers exposed if it wasn’t for the zipped up hoodie I’m currently wearing. The long material rests just barely below the waistline of my jeans, keeping my starchy boring white boxer-briefs away from public viewing.

With those thoughts, my eyes travel to some random scene kid.

He’s tall and lean, his body very similar to someone else I know. He has the same floppy kind of hair like all the other boys, black and on the longish side. The soft looking strands reach past the tops of his ears, and it’s plastered to his forehead and to the side. Sweat clings to him, making his skin sparkle. There’s perspiration clinging to his upper lip, catching the changing light. The banana yellow of the disco light imbues him with a sallow glow, a sickly kind of fallow, which by definition is unattractive but isn’t.

His tongue snakes out to push the ball of his lip ring, the tiny metal ball that keeps the whole thing together. His eyes are dark from this distance, but up close... who knows? They could be anything: brown, green, blue, chartreuse. Who even knows?

His shoulders are slim and they strain against the olivaceous of his tight shirt. Each curve and muscle strains heavily against the fabric, the sheen of sweat only accentuating the lithe cut of his figure. There’s an odd hollow between the collar of his shirt and the middle of his shoulder, a slight impression, something I’m sure even he, himself, doesn’t notice.

My eyes slide across the curve of his shoulder, his darkly pigmented shirt ending in a slew of tattoos. Well, not a slew exactly, but he isn’t lacking. I’m sure if he wanted, he could work on half-sleeves if not the whole thing. At the moment, it’s just a couple decorating his upper arm, peeking out from underneath his shirt sleeve. I never really understood tattoos; why anyone in his or her sane mind would want to mark him or herself with something he or she probably won’t even want in 30 days. It’s a lifelong commitment, a REAL lifelong commitment that you carry with you at all times. It isn’t like a marriage which can be made null and void by a court order, have it disappear... or at least spell the end of it. Gone, poof.

Though after touring ceaselessly for what seems like eternity and meeting marked artist after marked artist, I’ve learned that each tattoo holds some kind of great significance. I remember two different high tinted voices as they remark just how special their spider web tattoos adorning their elbows are. Creatures strictly from their imagination letting them remember a past that some try to forget, yet are still desperately trying to get back to. Of course, there’s a couple tattoos that are always accompanied by sheepish grins. Those are the tattoos they’ve gained in their high/drunk stupor. Their eyes will glaze over the floor just as the collective group, amassed at that moment, brings up every single asinine, duncical, and oafish thing that individual has ever done.

In other words, great entertainment all around.

Remarkably, most tattoos are products of great thought and planning. Something special and treasured. Good thing too, since high concentrations of alcohol in bloodstreams can lead one to bleed out one’s tattoo. Or that’s what they tell me.

I wonder if this boy put as much thought into his tattoos as Travis (Barker) did.

I can’t discern what each individual pattern or shape is on the boy’s arms, but I can see the fluid colors flow over the otherwise paleness of his skin.

I’m surprised his thin hips can hold up his pants, but from the look and cut, I don’t think he got those tight dirty Dickies from the male section. No, too low cut and tight, most definitely from the girl’s sections. I would bet my Moz guitar on it.

My body moves with the swarm of bodies around me, my feet moving me out of the way of the individuals heading this way and that way. The bottle in my hand has gone tepid, and I can feel more of its contents spill onto my hands as I tilt the bottle out of the way of others.

My eyes just study the boy, all prettied up and...

This kid couldn’t be more scene, if he tried.

Wha...

I suddenly lose all sense of balance as I wobble dangerously on my usually steady feet as some hyperactive idiot charges past me.

I should really pay attention to my surroundings... it’ll help me avoid being trampled to death, wouldn’t it?

I’ve been staring at the same guy for far too long. It’s no secret I’m gay; I never hid the fact from anyone. I just never broadcasted it, that’s all. Christ, the whole place must realize now.

The last thing the record company wants is the mostly female fanbase to know that I’d rather get fucked than to fuck.

“Jesse, you can be as gay as you want... just not in public, okay. No holding hands, no kissing. Understood?”

I should get out of here before someone accuses me of raping the guy with my eyes. I’m not sure if I could be legally charged with that, but it’s better not to take any chances. Besides, I wasn’t undressing him or anything, just thinking about tattoos and that hollow above his collar bone and beside his shoulder.

I wade through masses of mindless people, away from the boy that I mentally dub ‘Scene Kid 2023.’ I try to avoid staring at the floor, but need to if I’m to sidestep broken glass and ripped/flattened plastic cups. Knowing me, I’ll fall on my face because of something as stupid as a plastic cup. It’s in my nature to look out of place anywhere dancing is involved or a prerequisite.

This entire building, this entire party... a whole bunch of sheep.

Sheep.

Hah.

I should just staple the word ‘Sheep’ onto my forehead. Never an idea that wasn’t stolen, never a kiss that wasn’t wasted and forgotten, never a thought free from screening.

I dodge more couples, feeling the urge to retch on their shamelessness, but mostly it’s jealousy. I won’t ever have the freedom to just hook up with random strangers anymore, not that I ever really did, but I’m sure Vin would beat me with his guitar if I went down the groupie route. But really, who’s he to talk or to condemn. Then again, I would beat me if I went down that particular route little less than two months ago. Now, it’s starting to look like an option, if I could just find a boy and not a girl with her fluttering eyelashes.

I pull at my collar, the air is stifling and I can feel perspiration of my own clinging to the back of my neck and God, it’s hot and humid in here. Maybe I can sneak into the dressing room for some air and a cool down. I think there’s an air conditioner in there, albeit it’s on the small side but it’s air conditioning. Beggars can’t be choosers, especially when it comes to climate control.

***

Rough hands press down at my body and my skin stings with the sheer force behind the movement. A thumb hooks harshly under the ridge-like bone of my collar, pushing in so hard I’m afraid of phantom fingerprints on my skin through the material of my shirt. The touches lack that distinct edge of finesse, and ragged nails catch on my smooth skin, and I like it. It brings me back into my mid/late teens, the actions instantly transporting me into the backseat of a cramped car filled with heavy breathing.

Hands blindly reach out for contact, horny and hormonal. Clothes are being tugged out of shape, the fabric of my cotton shirt stretched around the middle as chipped nails grapple with the material. I’m being pushed against the side of a walkway, the narrow strip of wall only spanning the distance between my shoulder blades. The wall digs into my back as my body slides down against it, a hand twisting in my shirt as rough fingers grab at my naked side.

Let’s not lie, it hurts.

The fingers are too rough and suddenly, there’s no room to breathe. His body is no longer hovering over mine as he attacks me with forceful palms and too-strong grips. I can distinctly feel the sharp point of his shoulder as he leans against my own. My balance is skewed and my footing unsure. My weight is balanced against the ridge of the walkway. I gasp in surprise as his hand wraps around the front of my jeans.

He tugs harshly against the circular clasp. My body jerks into his, the bulge of my pants bucking against darkly clad legs. The ridge of the wall is painfully digging into my body, and the pressure exerted against my shoulder makes me feel as if the wall’s going to cleave me into two bloody, quivering pieces. It hurts, it hurts... and I’m still completely turned on.

Two hands suddenly wrap around the cloth around my collar, fisting the worn cotton, using it as leverage as I’m thrown across the dark room. Air exits my lungs in one sharp movement, my body buckling and falling to the floor like a toy. I’ve never been treated violently in my life, sure as hell never been thrown across a room. A couple fistfights here and there but never like this.

Labored breaths catch in my throat as I struggle to my knees.

I barely place one knee to the ground when I’m pulled to my feet by my shirt. A single hand curls around my shoulder, I turn my head to get a better look, I can discern individual hairs on the back of his hand, and his nails are painted with black polish, but it’s more chipped than intact. He lifts me to my feet much more quickly than I’m capable of on my own, and my back harshly meets the vertical surface.

My face contorts in pain at the way my head snaps back against the wall thanks to inertia. I wince again when my head is suddenly pulled back by fingers entwined in my hair. He slams the back of my head against the flat surface, and it must hurt him as much as it hurts me because his knuckles make contact with the wall as well. Once, twice, thrice... the pain is blinding, and it sears the back of my eyes.

I weakly grab at slim wrists, trying my best to resist the violence, pushing against a scrawny chest that obviously holds more strength than from the mere feel and look.

He easily shakes off my weak grip, his hand moving over the bunched material of my shirt. His broad hand moves up my chest, getting caught some by the small buttons but they do nothing to deter his ascent up my body. I can feel goosebumps rising over my skin, partly out of fear and partly out of arousal. I don’t know whether to be ashamed or afraid.

I gurgle from the back of my throat. I’m sinking to the floor as he moves his hand to my collar, and I’m afraid that he’s going to throw me again. Instead, he tilts my head slightly to the side. I recoil and close my eyes, waiting for whatever violence or pain to blossom against my skin. I wait for fists or something... but it never comes.

I start to open my eyes, only to clench them shut again when I feel teeth sinking deeply into the thick muscle at the base of my neck where it meets my shoulder. My mouth opens in a silent cry... it hurts too much to breathe, let alone scream and I think he knows that. I can feel his incisors ripping into my flesh and my body bucks under his in protest, a weak and meek protest.

It hurts, it fucking hurts so much. So much.

I think my body may be going numb because the pain seems so far away, so ephemeral. I feel a nose nudge against my jaw, can feel it following the line of bone with soft words I can’t discern. It still hurts too much to think, everything is a blur. I can’t see shapes or surfaces, just a colorful blend of hues. The colors blend and mix, making a cream of softness that I’m sure I can touch if I could lift my hand.

I’m sliding, I’m half propped up against the wall and gravity’s winning this battle.

He shakes his head, pulling me up as if I weighed about as much as a small bag of feathers, pressing his body against mine. I let out a groan, half out of pain since he’s pressing against bruised flesh and again because his thigh is pressed against my erection. If possible, I’ve become harder and it’s harder to breathe. If I died now, it would be okay... as long as he let me cum first, I just need to cum first.

He chuckles; the sound is grating, rough, and purely sensual. The sound is taunting, dripping in mocking, so cruel in its casual indifference. I feel words on the side of my throat before his tongue moves against the vein in my neck, my body shuddering again. God, what the hell’s wrong with me? Who gets off on pain and being talked down to?

I whimper. I can see how pathetic I am; see how I’m practically begging for contact. My body presses against his as if he was a ray of light in a dark cave and I just a measly piece of flora, begging for some form of nourishment. I need some more. Pain, violence, teeth, tongue... anything. Touch me, touch me... just touch me.

My mouth moves but no words, nothing but plaintive sighs and soft moaning pleas. He knows, he can feel me and I can feel him. I can feel him just below the curving bone of my hip, and I struggle to swallow. This is too much, sensory overload. Too much for me to take in at one time, pain and wetness... his tongue traveling on my neck as his hand digs shapes into my naked side below the white cotton.

I gasp and fight for air as he presses his body harder against mine. It hurts for him to touch my chest and I know with absolute certainty that I’ve broken a rib, at least bruised one, if not more. I can almost picture the swollen muscles of my chest around the pale powdery bone, crushing and reconfiguring itself under his touch. His hand moves over the ridges and I can swear they move, my bones realign and reconfigure to what this man wants... my body is his canvas to paint on.

His fist rolls back, and I instinctively brace for impact. I don’t move or roll away, not that there’s much room for me to do so but it’s my instinct to prepare for the pain but not for me to shy away from it. My brain says “MOVE!” but my body stays, welcoming contact, any contact.

My body practically bends in half, trapping the pressure of the pain as he takes a step back, surveying his work. He speaks again, syllables that run together to make a harmony to the melody of my pain, an added backdrop to the music. Fuck. My insides burn, muscles and tendons I didn’t even know existed screaming for attention, yelling and berating me for the abuse.

I sink to the floor, my knees bent as my forehead falls to rest on the dirty floor. Individual pieces of dirt imprint themselves to my forehead as I try to force my blood to circulate through my body. I turn my head so my cheek is resting on the cool surface instead, and I’m thinking it’ll take less effort for me to just die right now than to continue living. Not enough energy to keep my heart pumping and my lungs expanding and contracting.

I cough, and it’s wet. I know it’s blood, I’m coughing up blood. That’s never a good thing under any circumstance, and this is no exception.

Two strong grips on my waist pull me to my feet and I cough again, scattering particles of blood onto the front of his shirt and my head lolls around on its joint like a pivot. He props me gently against the wall and kisses the side of my neck and I moan softly, the sound’s low and unobtrusive. Will this humiliation ever end, I’m coughing up blood and the only thing I want is for him to let me cum. Fuck, I’d do it myself if I could move.

I want nothing more than for him to slip his hand inside my pants.

After all the violence and blood, I’m still hard and I want him. I want him to defile me from the inside. I want to bleed, and I want to choke on pain because it feels good. I want visible marks on my body, nail treks and bite marks. I want to know what it feels like to get so lost in passion that subtlety and “Are you okay’s?” are never uttered. I want sex with violence.

I want sex, sex like I’ve never had... sex like I never had with John.

***

I open my eyes, the dim light over my head too bright for me to keep them open. I hear voices but they’re vague at best and I keep my eyes closed, hoping that once I open them again, everything will focus itself.

WOAH!

I swat at some guy’s hand as it goes for my pants and sit up quickly, getting a bit of a dizzy spell but I refuse to be violated on the floor of... somewhere.

A hand grabs me by the shoulder and I realize for the first time that I have no shirt on, and this is just getting freakier and freakier.

“Where the hell am I? Who the fuck’s touching me? Why did someone just try to get into my pants? Where the fuck’s my shirt?” I fire the questions like bullets at random, with the mentality that if I turn as I shoot, I have to hit something. Fuck, just realized that some stranger is touching me, a stranger that looks vaguely familiar. “Who the hell are you?!”

My throat feels like a dry, flat sponge. My tongue feels papery and heavy, like a slug without its moisture but there’s some guy I can’t see pressing his hand on my neck, and I have the right to ask some questions.

“Jesse, chill the fuck out. You passed out from what D says is a combination of dehydration and exhaustion.”

I recognize that voice, it holds a tint of annoyance that has only been mastered by two people, and the second person isn’t even plausible so it has to be the lovely Vin.

Wait a sec... “D?”

The guy who’s a stranger, but isn’t, or something like that, smiles softly at me, “Derek, Vin’s insisting on using D.”

Right, Derek.

Nice shirt, Derek.

You’re pretty, Derek.

Have we met before, Derek?

Can I scream your name, Derek?

Can you scream my name, Derek?

“JESSE!”

Fuck, I didn’t mean now. I flinch at the sudden explosion of sound, and I see falling drumsticks again. The screaming isn’t from Derek, it’s from Vin. I move my gaze to him; he’s standing in the doorway of our psuedo-dressing room with his arms crossed. Oh, I remember now. I came in here to get some cool air via the help of the air conditioner and passed out?

I take a quick assessment of my surrounding, and that sounds about right.

Why I have no shirt on or why someone tried to unbuckle my pants, I still don’t know. I could ask, but I have a feeling if I open my mouth one more time, Vin’s going to beat me regardless of what I say.

Derek presses a clear plastic cup into my hands, and I give him a wary look. I might want to chain him to my bed and fuck him senseless, but that does NOT mean I will drink what he offers me.

“Drink it, you fucker. You scared the crap out of us so you’re throwing that shit back.”

Okay, apparently I will be drinking what Derek is giving me.

I take a cursory sniff of the fluid and it kind of smells like fruit, in a cough syrup kind of way, but by the way Vin’s throwing daggers at me with his eyes, it’s advisable for my health to just drink whatever this is. The liquid isn’t thick like cough syrup so I know that they’re not trying to drug me, at least I don’t think so. Looks like I’ll have to trust Vin’s judgment on this.

I place the cup to my lips, stalling for time as Vin drills holes into my body.

Okay, fine... he wins.

I tilt my head back and a disturbingly clear image flashes before my eyes followed by a residual pain that blooms on the bottom of my skull, and I visibly shudder. The awful taste of the drink combined with that phantom pain... what the hell was that?

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and I see more images, snippets and snapshots of hands and blood... and pain. Sickening pain in my ribs, it actually hurts so much that I lose my breath for a moment. I feel a warm hand on my back and suddenly the images are gone, along with the pain.

“What the...” I trail off as Derek feels my forehead, and I move my tongue in my mouth, amazed that it no longer feels like sandpaper and my throat doesn’t feel like it’s the width of a pipe cleaner. Derek, the miracle worker.

As thankful as I am for Derek’s magic touch and skill, why would they let him treat me, if that’s the right word.

“I’m a pre-med student, and Vin found you passed out. I was kind of passing by and from your symptoms, you were dehydrated. The passing out is most likely from exhaustion, or at least that’s what I can inquire from what Vin’s told me.” He smiles again, the same soft smile as before; almost as if he’s afraid I’ll break if he gave me an all-out grin.

Derek and Vin take turns prodding my sides and asking me dumb questions.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” asks Vin. I just stare blankly, because he must be joking. I know how to count; I can even show him my report card from Kindergarten because I aced counting, as well as being the first person in my class to learn how to tie their shoelaces without cheating by using the bunny ears. Deborah, the know it all, didn’t talk to me for a week because of it. I didn’t gloat... much.

“You sure you can make it home in one piece?” Vin’s face flashes with worry, and I internally roll my eyes at his ability to fluctuate from an array of emotions. Agitated to pissed to annoyed to concerned. The guy has no grip on his emotions whatsoever, or is it the other way around? Either way, he doesn’t let his feelings control him; he controls them. I should learn to do that... that and learn not to pass out on the floor of dirty dressing rooms. My dry cleaning bill’s going to be horrendous.

If I could learn to work the dryer in my basement, I would save sooooo much money.

“You heard the doctor, uhh, pre-med student. I’m peachy and perfectly capable of handling an automotive vehicle.” I sneak a glance at Derek, his mouth parting in protest but I silence him with a look, and he just look confused. How do you convey, “Hey, I want to fuck you but if Vin’s breathing down our necks, it’s not going to happen, mmmkay?” without ever saying a word?

Vin’s gaze moves to Derek, waiting for D’s expert opinion. I let my eyes travel from Derek’s gaze to eye his hip, skin-tight pants before letting my eyes roll over every single fiber of the material. I let my eyes rest on the crotch, and I can feel his cheeks burn as I continue to give him a thorough once over. If that didn’t make my intentions obvious, I really don’t know what else to do besides getting a neon sign that reads ‘I WANT TO FUCK YOU!’ and a strobe light for added impact.

Derek’s eyes never leave my face as he slowly nods his assent to Vin. Derek’s technically not lying to Vin, I am perfectly capable of driving a car, I just shouldn’t. Besides, I have no intention of going home, at least not without Derek.

I send Derek one of my best smiles, oozing with charm and sex appeal. I’m not blind, the record execs use me as a sex object (they didn’t have me run my hands down my body for no reason), and it’s about time I use my gifts from the science that’s genetics to good use. I’m not stupid to the effect I have to hormonal teens, girls and guys, alike. What’s the point in cowering in corners... might as well enjoy the spotlight and spin it to my advantage.

Okay, who the fuck is in my body?

I would never ever think to take advantage of my ‘looks’ or of others, as willing as they may be, that’s not me.

But isn’t it about time you did what YOU want?

Maybe it IS time for me to do something for me, and only me.

I want Derek, and I will HAVE Derek.

“I guess if D says you’re okay; I guess you’re okay.”

Uh oh, Vin doesn’t sound convinced in the least. He’s unsure of my delicate condition, and I can practically hear Vin’s command, disguised as an invitation, to accept his ride home and that will just not work well with my plans to seduce hot medic man.

“Look, I’ll walk Jesse to his car and if he appears even slightly sluggish or unfocused, I’ll drive him home myself.”

Nice save, Derek, very nice save.

I shrug for Vin, needing to make this as believable as possible if I’m to be left alone with the gorgeous man that is Derek.

I try not to flinch under his gaze, holding my breath as he stares me down to ascertain the truth. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be able to hold Vin’s iron gaze but a small voice inside me is laughing at how easy it is to do so now. It says that I’ve faced worse but that can’t be right... so I just ignore it and continue giving Vin my slightly annoyed and exasperated look.

Then miraculously, Vin nods and gives his very own consent.

I just fooled Vin, and he’s usually infallible. How the mighty have fallen.

“All right, thanks, D. I’m going to go since it’s practically three in the morning, and I’m all about ready to collapse myself.” Vin turns, walking out but retraces his steps to turn back around and glare at me, “If you ever scare me like that again, I’m going to kill you. Take better care of yourself, you stupid asshole.”

Vin warms my heart with his endearing words, really. What a sweet talker, that one.

“Yeah, fine... buh bye.”

I roll my eyes a final time as Vin leaves. I look around for my shirt, starting to feel self-conscience half naked, but that’s stupid since I plan to be wearing a lot less soon enough if all goes to plan. I spot the shirt on the beat-up couch, pulling it on. I start to button the shirt from the bottom up when I’m assailed with another image. A hand glides over the front of my shirt, the buttons being pushed out of the way. I shudder as an icy chill grips my spine and frosts the edges.

“Hey, you okay?” Derek rushes over, placing a steady hand on my shoulder. My shirt’s only half-closed and I can feel the heat of his hand embalming itself on my skin, and it makes me catch my breath.

“Come on, Jesse, I’ll get you home.”

Derek’s places a hand on my waist, and it sends warm tingles through my body and everything seems far away. I let him guide me out the venue, the cold breeze waking me up from my little trance as Derek asks me where my car is. I guess he’s going to drive me home.

I direct him mechanically, sliding into the passenger seat with my legs tucked into myself as I watch his dimly lit silhouette. He looks so familiar; it’s the way he holds himself up, the curve of his shoulder to the small indent in besides his collar bone. His lipring catches the streetlights, and I wonder how his teachers feel about having a student who looks like a juvenile delinquent? It’s got to be hard to be scene and a wannabe doctor at the same time.

He’s beautiful and I feel like he’s been cut out of my dream, life breathed into him by my own sheer desperation. I reach out slowly, letting my fingers run up his arms, and he shivers.

The car moves to a slow stop, and I only notice because he’s looking back at me. He sucking at the metal ball holding the ring together as he clears his throat. His lips are familiar and they’re rounded; they look so soft and I’m dying to find out for myself.

I lean forward.

I fist my finger in his tight shirt, pulling his body towards me as I pull his bottom lip from beneath his teeth. I nip and savor the taste; it’s a mix of sweat and nervousness. The taste is laced with fear, and I slowly coax more of it from him.

“Come on, house.”

My words are lost in his mouth as I use one hand to reach for the doorknob on the driver’s side. I climb into his lap as I try to work on the door. I push and pull at the handle as I rub my tongue against his. The steering wheel jabs into my back and I could care less.

I finally push the door open, sliding down to the pavement and pulling on Derek’s hand.

He’s frozen and in awe.

I don’t have time for this.

Sex now, weird feeling of awe later.

I grab him by the front of the shirt and drag him to the front door, fighting with the keys momentarily before I kick open the door and kick it closed again.

Any plans of making it to my bedroom are shot to hell.

I push his slimmer figure against the door, and he makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. My fingers thread through his hair as I tilt his head back harshly. With my mouth over his pulse point, I suck greedily. The thump thump beneath my tongue giving me a head rush as my free hand works its way under his shirt.

Derek moans as he attacks my shirt, his fingers clumsy as he fights with the small white buttons before giving up and just tugging the two pieces of fabric free. I gasp at the slight sting of the buttons ricocheting off my chest and onto the floor.

I mumble against his neck as I pull against the hem of his pants, four fingers inside the lower waist of his jeans, pulling at the buckle belt before I pull the clasp free from his Dickies. I bite at Derek’s neck. He’s moaning incoherently as he rubs at my chest, his shaky hands pulling and tugging.

I pull his shirt up around the middle of his chest while his pants pool at his knees. Just as I turn him around, I realize through the layers of my lust that I don’t usually go around with condoms in my pocket like a normal male homo-sapien.

“Motherfucking A,” is the only thing I can think to say as I push off the door and off of Derek.

“Fucking put your pants back on. There is not a single condom on me, and there sure as hell isn’t one in the house.”

Derek turns to face me, holding his pants up with his hands as he looks at me, his gaze steady as he speaks, “So no sex, but that doesn’t mean...”

Before I can blink, his hands are on me, working me through the material of my pants and I let out a shaky gasp. His touch isn’t gentle, despite the events of tonight; he’s not treating me like brittle glass. His hands are hot and warm, and he pushes down roughly, and I buck up.

He walks me backwards and my back hits the side of the staircase. Flat wall from my mid-back down, but my shoulders push against the side of railings. He pulls at the pants, letting them fall past my hips and down my legs as he moves to kneel.

I’m semi-hard as he takes me in his hands. He smirks up at me as he blows cool air from base to tip as I slouch, the square base of one of the wooden railings digging into my left shoulder, and I’m sure it’ll poke a hole through the muscle and bone soon.

He laps at the head, using his tongue to make broad paths across the top. I’m oozing pre-cum and I just don’t have the patience for foreplay. I grab the back of Derek’s head and urge him, not so gently, to take me into his mouth but he doesn’t comply. I may have been ill and sick before, but now... I’m his to play with.

Derek covers his teeth with his lips, taking only the top into his mouth as he sucks hard, the suction is so much that it actually hurts. I can’t remember the last time I received a blowjob so it’s an incredibly intense feeling of heat and suction. I buck up violently, but Derek already took precautions against me choking him to death by placing a firm hand on the flare of my hips.

He pushes my lower body to the wall as he starts to bob his head up and down, faster and faster. All notions of soft and delicate are lost the first time I feel the sharp edge of his teeth scrape under the ridge of my head. I scream at the unexpected sensation, biting down on my lips as he mixes pain and pleasure, though I’m sure it’s all by accident. His lips are over his teeth again as he varies the suction, mostly because his jaw’s getting tired and because it’s close to four in the morning.

He sucks... Really, that’s all that matters.

Really.

Ficlet: 320 words

2004-07-23T05:22:46Z

I dive onto the covers, hugging the covers as the best as I can as I kiss the mattress. Oh, wonderful bed, how I shall never leave you again. I snuggle further into the mattress, ignoring John in the doorway with a perturbed expression on his face.

Really, it should be me that’s all “What the?” I mean, the man is wearing something like a belly shirt and really, no excuse for that... EVER.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Adam? Did you kiss the mattress... Okay, get the fuck off our bed!”

I turn, sticking my tongue out at him before I snuggle back against the sheets, purring, though I am allergic to cats and ignore John’s looks of worry and perplexity.

“Do something useful... get undressed and dance for your horny boyfriend.”

If John looked scared before, he looks downright frightened now.

He’s giving the walls the patented “I’m dating a psycho” look and if I wasn’t so comfortable right here, I’d go over there and jump him. But since making John pay requires getting up, something I’m not prone to as of right now, I’ll just stick my tongue out at him and threaten, “Fine, no sex for you!”

HAH!

That springs him into action, his shirt coming off in a hurry and his shoes flying off in record time.

He growls as he leaps onto the bed and me, tearing at my soft shirt, wrenching the material over my head as my protests are muffled by the fabric. Before I can even blink, my arms are raised over my head and held in his strong grip with him sitting on my hips with a self-gratified grin.

“I think I’m going to fuck myself on you... what are YOU going to do about it?”

Oh.

Adam loses again...

NOT!

I win.

I get sex, and I don’t even have to work for it.

He’s soooooo easy.

Ficlet: 377 words

2004-07-23T05:11:57Z

There’s a dull throbbing on the base of my skull, and it’s getting harder and harder for me to focus. People are dancing when they’re standing still and the walls are shaking. The world is ready to cave into itself, and I won’t be able to do a thing to stop it. I’m hungover, and I can’t even remember where I am. I trip over some passed out fool in the hallway, my hand trailing along the badly wallpapered wall of blue sky and red daises.

I sidestep an upturned plastic cup only to fall face first over a black hoodied individual.

If I had any willpower whatsoever, I would get off the filthy floor and go home.

Well, I would as soon as I figured which direction home was.

The floor doesn’t seem too bad, I mean, if I’m lying still, the world isn’t ready to collapse on my head so that can only be a good thing. The burning pulse in the back of my head is even just a dull kind of ache instead of a crowd of moshers on back of my cerebral cortex.

I fall asleep, who knows for how long and I doubt it matters.

I awake to long fingers massaging my scalp, strong fingers working at the skin. I moan softly, and it sounds more like a contented purr. At the moment, I couldn’t contradict the connotation even if I wanted to, it just feels too good.

The world’s still too hazy and it requires too much mental strength to make everything stop moving so I just let whoever it is, run his or her fingers through my hair, working along the frail bone of my skull.

“You shouldn’t pass out in the middle of a hallway, Nolan.”

If the prospect of rolling my eyes didn’t bring tears to my eyes, I would.

“And you shouldn’t molest sleeping individuals, Lacey.”

He laughs softly, his fingers leaving me be, and I hold back the insane urge to grab at his hands and place them back on my head.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Come on, get up. I’ll drive you home.”

Right, home.

What the hell is a home anyway?

I have a place to live.

I don’t have a home.

Short Standalone (Jesse-oriented)

2004-07-12T04:14:40Z

There are times when he wishes that he never picked up that bass that started this entire mess.

His reputation’s growing and so is his frustration. Different towns, different faces, but the same nonetheless. His own cynical words are starting to become who he is. A part of his persona that grew too big and now robs him of his own identity. He hates the screaming fans, hates them for their devotion.

He’s content on blaming everyone and everything for what he’s become. Hates them all and himself, buried underneath all the darkness and cold. It seems all so cool and now, he’s cool.

He hates being cool.

He hates everyone and everything.

He hates.

The life he’s chosen to live, it controls him. It limits his abilities to love and be twenty-five. This, all of this, it’s the price. The price for the loss of control. He’s become nothing more than words, meaningless lyrics people won’t remember in three years. A mere face in a crowd.

He wants nothing more than to be a face again.

He’s sick of the fame. He just wants to get back all he’s lost. The words he never could express to the one person who cared for him REGARLESS of his growing fame.

Ironic, oh so ironic.

He threw it all away.

Walked away from the one thing that made sense to be a rock star.

A rock star who doesn’t even understand the depth of his own lyrics.

It's only supposed to be... it's just not

2004-06-29T22:47:18Z

Title: Just Sex
Pairings: Jesse/Adam
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It’s never felt good enough to feel right. I mean, it’s just sex. Just... sex.
Disclaimer: Events depicted are not real, just a product of a warped mind.
Dedication: Any and all Jesse/Adam that I will ever write will always be dedicated to the lovely inpurity.
Warning: It's long, and when I say long, I really mean looooooooong. Also, if you're only in it for the sex... look elsewhere.

Just Sex

It’s never good enough to feel right.

His hand tugs at jeans, his nails digging into the flesh of my lower stomach. This isn’t right, this can’t be right. I should stop this... should, but can’t. Don’t want to, feels too good to ever make it stop. His touch, so fucking warm, brings me to insanity and back again.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” My eloquence always leaves me around this time, the only words I can manage to utter are nothing more than ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, and his name. I moan and groan more than what is necessary, and I am promptly embarrassed because I sound like a slut... but I know he enjoys it.

“Fucking... pants... fucking shit.”

He never really had any eloquence to begin with.

Hate him.

Want him.

Fucking want him all the time.

He growls the words into my ear, my back pressed against the wooden door to his apartment. We’re drunk and it’s the only way we can do this. It’s an excuse, tell ourselves that we wouldn’t do this sober, but we’re both lying, at least I am. It’s a lie that keeps the fragile peace of our world together.

I’m breaking a carnal rule of friendship: Thy shall not want/lust/fuck best friend’s sister’s ex-boyfriend and/or best friend’s ex-best friend.

I’ve broken that particular rule too many times to count.

This all means that alcohol’s a good thing. It lets me and him blame the bite marks, the soreness, and the lingering touches to whatever we drank the night before.

Start from across the bar, slowly inching towards each other with every bottle we put away, with every shot we throw back, with every sense of burning running through our veins. It can’t stop... not now, possibly not ever.

“Jesse, these jeans are too fucking tight... motherfucking...”

He bites my neck in retaliation for my supposed tight pants, and I don’t know how he has the right to say anything when his pants are seemingly PAINTED onto his body. I need fucking pliers to pulls his scene jeans off. I didn’t even know companies made guy’s pants that tight.

“Shove off, you fucking asshole. You’re just too much of a fucking lush to work simple buttons.”

It has to be this way. No sweet nothings, just some warped kind of banter to play off the sheer force of sexual tension. Though, thanks to his comment, I’m rethinking this whole ‘wearing pants’ thing. It just makes our lives difficult.

He mumbles something in the crook of my neck, and it’s something I’m not meant to hear, but I do anyway. I try to ignore it, try to ignore the way it burns my insides... I do.

I push him off, glaring at him, hating him for his eyes and his lips... and the way he makes me feel.

I make quick work of the buttons, starting to wriggle out of my jeans, and as much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. These pants are fucking tight. How the fuck did I breathe in them?

“Now who can’t get their fucking pants off?”

Stupid bitch, I’m just not used to the whole ‘clothes suctioned onto my body’ look.

“I’m not as well versed in wearing pants that are three sizes too small, you prima donna.”

Insults work great to break the façade that we want each other, lust, it’s all lust and attraction. Nothing special or deep, just sex. We’re in our twenties and it’s still okay to blame hormones and alcohol, people still buy it. I still buy it, he still buys it... that’s all that matters.

He rolls his eyes, pushing me back against the surface of the door, my pants still unbuckled and hanging off my hips as he grinds against me. His eyes are liquid fire. People who think brown eyes are dull and feckless to turn people into mush, have never looked into Adam Lazzara’s eyes ever.

The man burns with passion, burns with energy of someone who loves life. It blazes through him and he lives too much, too fast, to live for very long. He’s not the type of man who’ll live to see the ripe old age of eighty, not even sixty. I’ll be surprised if he even makes it into his forties.

He’s this generation’s James Dean, destined to live life too fast and die too soon... but he’ll essentially live more than someone who’s lived to see a century roll by. His mortal body can’t keep up with his mind or heart, can’t keep pace and one day, it’ll just give up.

That’ll be the day I stop writing, and it’ll be the day everything ends for me.

My sisters always warned me to never let a man be the center of my life. I ignored it since the advice always came after some messy break-up of theirs and besides, why in the world would I make a man the center of my life anyway? How the tables have turned.

I gasp as he runs his tongue over the vein in my neck. The vein pulsates under his tongue, letting him feel the rush of blood running through me to the time of my accelerating heartbeat. My body letting him know the affect he has on me, letting him know what he means to me in the purely sexual language of need and desire when all he wants is some confirmation I feel. Some confirmation that I’m human, not just in touch but in my heart and mind.

“If you’re not careful, Jesse, you’re going to become something you sorely wish you think you want to be. Your cynicism acting like an acid to keep everyone away and one day, you’ll get what you wish for so much. Solitude, and you’ll be alone.

“Stop thinking, stop thinking,” he whispers into my ear. His hands tell me to forget the world, to just focus on the way he makes me feel. To take what we can before we have to return as characters to a play we both know the outcome to. An outcome that isn’t pretty, but it’s fated.

I grasp his hand, letting my eyes spear through him. I bring his hand between our bodies and let it rest on my erection, pressing his hand down.

“Touch me.”

He complies, like I knew he would, alternating pressure and positions to make my eyes close and for me to sing a different kind of song. It’s a song as old as the secret of life, of desire and passion, destined to end with shards of what once was. It’s the love story that will never be spoken, something hidden in the heart of two who know the end, but desperately wished they didn’t. Always wishing.

His hand works me steadily, knowing just what motion to use, how much pressure, everything. His thigh is between my legs, trapping me against the door, but you can’t trap someone who doesn’t want to be free. His lips rest on the curve of bone coming from my shoulder to form the bowl beneath my neck. He’s all skin and bones, and he’s always so fascinated by how my bones push up against my skin. Following their path with his warm tongue, worshipping me... when in reality, it’s only sex.

I lie, even in my thoughts.

He’s speaking again, but it’s not safe to hear them. Can’t allow myself to listen to the words, soft whispered words. He’ll give up soon enough, and it’ll be easy banter again. Easy.

I’m easy.

I whimper, drowning out his sigh of defeat. I whimper and nuzzle his ear, pleading for something more.

I tug on his shirt, pulling the tight fabric out of shape, which I’m sure he’ll bitch about tomorrow morning but that’s tomorrow, and we’re all about living for now. Now. Someday, we’ll also stop lying but it’s not today, never now. Just someday.

He lifts his arms without argument, his lips still moving against my neck without any sounds. He does that, says what he needs to say into the skin of flesh, almost as if to embed the words into the memory of my skin. I know that if I try hard enough, I can translate their meanings into something comprehensible and after the first time, I didn’t try again.

I pull at the fabric, his arms over his head so I can take it off for him. Both hands yank at the worn cotton and the fabric is just another reminder of how different we’re supposed to be. The shirt’s old and tired and loved. My clothes are new and pressed and dry-clean only. My clothes will never become faded; never will a black shirt ever become gray. Ever.

I throw the shirt into some corner, some far off place as I let both hands trail down his side. Feel each delicate rib pressing out from his sides, and it’s so familiar and foreign. It’s the haze of the alcohol that makes my touch linger, it is.

It is.

The alcohol is the only reason why I’m clutching at his hips as if he’ll run away if I let him go.

Blame it on fermentation found in aging bottles.

Our eyes meet, and I’m twelve all over again. Insecurity and fear, there’s so much in his eyes, much more than I ever wanted to know even if it’s all I want to know. Rules, there’s rules that govern our life. There’s rules to play our part, our audiences need something different, something more. Passion, hate... yes, that’s the part. Play the part, don’t stray from the script.

He lowers his eyes and places his lips on mine, no movement, just a gentle touch.

I kiss him.

I always seem to kiss him first.

He doesn’t need the permission, but it’s the way the game goes.

Rules, always the rules.

I rub my hands on his back, his skin damp with sweat, the same way mine is. My starchy shirt is sticking in patches and the wood is pushing the fabric even closer to my body. I moan into his open mouth, my hips rubbing against his, needing him like I’ve always have.

Hate or love, it’s nothing more than passion, just burning in a specific direction.

He never seems to wear belts anymore, and that’s just one less barrier I have to fight with, so I don’t complain. He sucks in his stomach as I slip four fingers of each hand into the waistband of his jeans, using my thumb to coax the brass button to pull free from its trap.

He exhales and the button’s free and the zipper’s undone.

I place my hands on both sides of his hips, hooking my fingers into his jeans as I pull down. I pull the material past his slim hips, and they fall to his knees. He pulls his lips away from my throat long enough to kick them away, the heat of his body drugging me into a kind of stupor that alcohol can never give me.

Him, only in a pair of gray Gap boxers and faded socks, warm me with his body heat despite all the clothes I have on. I get high off the curve of his hips, the dip in his spine, the softness of his thighs, and the scent of his aftershave.

“Be-bed.”

I nod in agreement, his head thrown back as I suck on his pulse point. I can’t bear to let him go for those mere seconds to walk the couple of feet into his bedroom, and I thank God that his roommate isn’t here to witness this. There’s enough awkward questions the morning after, encountering them now would be overkill. We struggle to move as one, our hips still in contact as he works the buttons on my shirt, and he growls at me for wearing another button-down to the bar when I knew the end product would be having someone take it off, namely him.

“You couldn’t wear a fucking t-shirt, could you, you bastard?”

Mumble a reply, not meant to be coherent as his legs hit the mattress. He falls back, his body sprawled on the sheets. He uses his elbows to crawl up the mattress so the edge of the mattress doesn’t stop at the back of his knees. He continues further up so he can sit up with his back against his wooden headboard, head tilted. The street lamp from outside casts streaks of light across his face. The light is filtered by his half-closed blinds and strips of his body are illuminated.

His bent knees fall open, an invitation. He’s the image of sex, debauched and immoral. If I was a better Christian, I’d fall to my knees and beg for salvation but I’ve given up on God or perhaps, he’s given up on me.

The buttons are open at my collar and that’s all I need. I grab the fabric from the back, my arms over my head as I pull the shirt off easily. I smirk as he scowls. I suck in my stomach before I start to shimmy out of my open jeans, kicking them under the bed. I toe off my shoes and my socks, now wearing less than him.

He swings his knees back and forth like a pendulum, tapping the mattress with his socked feet. Tonight, we have all the time in the world, all the time before the sun rises and we make the most of the simple things. The fact that he can do such trivial things like look goofy or pretend we need to seduce or be seduced.

I crawl over to him, the boxer-briefs uncomfortable but not as bad as those restraining jeans. I open his legs, kissing the inside of his knee as he watches me quietly, his eyes following every movement of my lips on his skin and my hands stroke the inside of his thighs.

I lie down on my stomach, which is not the most comfortable position to be in, so I shift a little. I brace myself on my knees, the tops of my shoulder touching the mattress as I write my name on the inside of his left thigh, my nose nudging his erection.

He’s still, and he’s forgotten how to breathe.

I move to his other thigh, starting on the ‘A’ of his name, before I feel his tremor. He’s fighting to keep still, his eyes still studying me like the Bio notes he never bothered to look at in high school, I’m sure. He’s shaking by the time I’ve finished the ‘M’, and I silently congratulate him for his self-control, because I’m not sure I would have made it myself.

My hands slide up and down his legs, laughing a little how the hair on his legs tickle my fingers. I reach his socked feet, hooking a pinkie into the elastic as I pull them down, exposing his toes. They’re painted black, just like his fingers. However, unlike his fingernails, the paint on his toes aren’t as chipped and there’s more polish than the natural nail peeking through. I congratulate him on the accomplishment, and he kicks me.

We smile softly at each other, and we look away just as quickly.

His socks are disregarded, and I place a kiss the inside of his knee.

This is only about sex; mindless, thoughtless, hormonal sex. Affection is for couples, not for us. There is no ‘us’.

This soft touching isn’t enough, too much room for thought. I place my mouth over the tent of his boxers, my mouth breathing warm air, intense heat, through the gray as he bucks in surprise. I can taste him through the cotton, can taste the slight salt of his sweat and the indescribable taste of his cum. I tongue the cotton once more before I slip a hand beneath the fabric to run a finger up his length.

He’s shaking; he’s trying so hard to be still and in control. It’s a game. He pretends that his skin doesn’t ignite every time I touch him, and I pretend I don’t crave his taste on my tongue.

I only crave him when I breathe.

“Lift your hips.”

He complies and he mutters under his breathe, “What the fuck took you so long?”

The elastic runs down his legs. I fling it off into the general direction of the bedroom door, but it doesn’t matter. His place is littered with discarded clothing as it is. What’s one more pair of boxer-briefs?

He throbs under my gaze, and the muscles on the inside of his thighs twitch. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, nothing special except it’s him.

I nudge his legs further apart, bracing myself as I take the tip in my mouth. I suck gently, and he’s slowly turning boneless right before me. He sighs and makes small noises in the back of his throat, and it’s just one more thing for me to relish and to get high off. He’s my drug, my rabid addiction. Instead of track marks, I have hickeys and sore muscles. Healthier and much more destructive than acid could ever wish to be.

I relax the muscles in the back of my throat, taking him in slowly, my tongue pushing against the little indent beneath the head whenever I can chance it not to mess up my rhythm. I hum a note, kind of like when I warm up my voice before a show. His hands are gripping the sheet so tightly, his knuckles are straining against the thin flesh. He’s still afraid to touch me when I give him head thanks to the first time. I was so shocked by his hand in my hair, I bit into his skin.

Thinking back on it now, teeth are a normal part of what we do, blood and scars, not uncommon. It just wasn’t part of our first time. Since then, he’s very careful when my mouth is anywhere near his dick.

My hand trails up his thigh and he stops me, his touch feather soft on my shoulder. I look up, still with him in my mouth, and he gives me a wry smile.

“It’d be so much easier to tell you stop... if you didn’t look so good like that.”

I’m tempted to bite him again, but if there ever was a patented mood killer, that’s it.

And besides, I want to get laid tonight.

I growl, letting him know my displeasure at the situation. I never knew I could like sucking cock so much. Love the power I have with a man’s cock in my mouth, letting my tongue bring him pleasure. Love the way they shake and tremble and the knowledge that it’s me that’s doing it, it’s addicting.

He pulls me towards him, our faces bumping awkwardly as I rest on my knees, while still between his legs. Why does this feel so good? Why does it have to be so insanely perfect?

But I always wake up with an ache, a crushing guilt, a weight steadily breaking my shoulders and flattening my skin. That’s what you get when you... that’s just what happens.

“I want you to cum inside me.”

His words shatter the silence, which is odd since he spoke mere seconds before. It’s the weight of his words, the meaning behind the superficial. We’ve always been safe. There’s too many things that can go wrong in our lives as it is, a sexually transmitted disease is preventable. He’s asking me to hang up my common sense to share something very intimate, something potentially life threatening.

Can I do it?

I have so much to live for, so much left to do. I have everything I ever wanted as a child and more. I have things I never thought to dream of. I have respect from those around me, status as the frontman for Brand New, and friends. No tag needed to be added to the last one.

There’s so many people in this world who don’t appreciate their greatest gift.

They forget they have someone to share their lives with, their successes and their failures. Someone to hug you at the end of the finish line and someone to dust you off and slap that knee with a band-aid when you fall off course. Someone, whether it be that special somebody or just a plain, but never plain, friend. It’s someone.

Is he worth risking everything for one moment of something close and intimate?

“O-okay.”

It was a rhetorical question anyway.

I lean over his leg to pull open his bedside drawer. The lube’s exactly where I left it; the cap’s still half unscrewed from the last time. The knowledge that there’s been no one else in the past seventeen days gives a boost to my ego. I’m sure his hand got some action, but he likes to go dry when he masturbates. He likes to actually feel the way his fingers rub against his skin, the slight sting of pain.

He’s always been a sucker for pain, self-inflicted and otherwise.

I spin the twist-off cap with a flick of the thumb. The red cap rolls and bounces off the side of the drawer, the sound echoing like a gong in the quiet room. I look up, wondering if he can hear the acceleration of my heartbeat as clearly as I can, but he’s only watching me and licking his lips.

It’s obscene.

The way his tongue wets his lips and the way his eyes devour me, it’s just so dirty.

I love every second of it.

“Don’t use too much... I like it, you know...”

He trails off, his cheeks burning at the implication. It’s not like I don’t know his masochistic streak; I have one of my own. It’s our collective sadistic streak that surprises me, the way I get off on his cries of pain. It’s about how much harder I cum when I know it hurts him, when I know I’m tearing something. It’s about how much harder he gets when he bites into my skin and makes me bleed.

We’re sick people, very sick.

I’ve gone home with bruises.

Blood vessels broken under skin because he hit me, but I don’t blame him.

I hit him first.

Like I said, we’re sick.

I squeeze some of the lube onto my fingers, not as much as usual, which isn’t a lot to begin with, but what Adam wants, he gets. Always.

Well, not always, but it’s in the majority.

I guess you can say he has everything, everything but what he thinks he wants the most.

I shift, bringing my hand back to stretch him, when he grabs my hand and wipes off more of the cool slimy gel. He must have had an even rougher couple of days than I thought. Pain’s his way to forget all that other shit.

I mentally shrug. I don’t need to hear about his days, don’t need to know what he’s done in the past 408 hours. It makes no difference, it doesn’t change anything. If repetition could be made into truth, life would be so much easier. Mantras would work and people would be happier overall, wouldn’t they? If mantras worked, I wouldn’t be here in between his legs. I would be at home, sleeping like every other normal sane person.

Supposedly.

I circle my finger over the ring of muscle. His back is still braced against the headboard, but his body’s slid down a little. He’s holding his legs up and out of the way as I let my thumb dip inside a little, almost causally. He shivers and mews, and he’s never been more beautiful than he is now. His hair’s plastered to his face with sweat; his bottom lip, red and gorged with blood as he bites down; his forearms tensed with pressure from keeping his knees bent and pressed to his chest; and his eyes half-closed... he’s beautiful.

“Jesse... Jesse... stop... stop that. Just...”

I continue to rub my thumb in circles, pushing inside when he says the word ‘Just’, his mouth forming an O of surprise and pleasure.

I smile wickedly. It’s fun to make him lose his train of thought in bed, watching him try to grapple with the power of communication as I innocuously do my best to limit his abilities at lucidity.

He shakes his head frantically, “No, no... don’t, ohhh, wait... oh.”

I withdraw my thumb, pushing two fingers in to stroke him from the inside. He’s purring like a kitten, and he’s still telling me to stop. I pretend I don’t hear him.

“WAIT WAIT!”

His plea is loud and I stop my actions, but it’s by no means innocent. I’m pushing against his prostate and he dissolves into moans of pained pleasure. Too much of a good thing can hurt, and in this case, he’s writhing like a person trying to get out of a straitjacket.

“You... bastard. JUST. SHOVE. IT.”

His teeth are gritted, his body tightening around my fingers and if I just push in, it’s going to hurt me just as much as it hurts him.

“Use the fucking lube if you have to, but I swear to God, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll rape you.”

Is that supposed to be a threat, and if it is, I must have been missing out because I thought threats were threatening by connotation.

“You’re an overbearing prima donna whose reputation precedes you,” I speak softly, my hand withdrawing slowly but not before one last final push against his prostate. I’ve become quite the tease, drawing everything out to the brink of feeling where pain and pleasure becomes one thing. I did learn from the best, but it wasn’t long before the student overcame the master.

I squeeze some more cold, slippery gel onto my hand as he stares me down angrily. He’s ready to pummel me if I don’t fuck him already, and only he can look threatening when he’s about to get his brains fucked out. I brace myself for my touch; it’d be completely mortifying if I came now and instead of inside him. He’d never let me live it down.

I hiss at how cold it really is, my hand apparently isn’t that good of a judge on degrees of temperatures, because that shit is fucking COLD.

I know he’s smirking; I don’t even need to look at him.

I lube myself quickly, my own touch getting me just that little bit harder as I spread his legs. I grab his hips with two sticky hands and pull him farther down the bed. The top of his head is against the headboard and if we stay this way, he’s going to end up with brain damage and he needs to salvage the few brain cells he has left.

I pull him down some more so there’s room for him to brace himself once he lifts his arms. I’m just a considerate one night, but not really, stand. That’s another part of our lie, pretending it’s the last time just like we pretended the time before and the time before that. We’re magnificent liars and cheaters, except the only people we’re lying to are ourselves and the only people we’re cheating are ourselves.

We don’t tell anyone anything, that’s all.

What they don’t know, can’t hurt them.

It can only hurt us, and we can only hurt each other.

Everything else is the whipped cream on top of the cake.

I brace his knees to his chest, my face inches from his smirking face. I want to punch him and devour him whole at the same time. I compromise instead to push inside him. He makes a slick popping sound as I push in, the head overcoming the initial barrier.

His head’s thrown back and his hair fans the pillows and his mouth opens in another O. You’d think he’d be a screamer, but he’s not. He’s quiet and more reserved, all that excess energy used in his normal day to day bouncing around. It’s me that rattles the walls with my moans and screams; it’s me that makes the neighbors’ eyebrows perk up in surprise. It’s quiet, docile, and removed Jesse that makes the picture frames shake from their position on the walls.

I groan as I reach the limit, buried to the hilt. It took us a long time for us to achieve this feat. It always hurt him too much to continue. I only partook in a shallow kind of fucking, while the bastard could bury it to the hilt with me. It wasn’t until the day when he just sat on me, and we both howled in pain that we could make this work. It’s not something I’ll recommend to anyone, but it got the job done.

I push in slowly, establishing a steady rhythm. His eyes are lidded, one arm above his head braced against the headboard as I use his weight pushing steadily against the wall as the thing to push up against. It feels so good; he feels so good. Skin to skin contact and I understand why so many people are risking their health for this.

I understand yet again why I’m risking my sanity.

His body arches and contorts, his face spelling out pleasure and that hint of pain at the way I’m ripping him inside.

Blood’s as effective as any lube, but it’s messy and it usually hurts too much to ever be pleasurable.

Usually, anyway.

A straight man will never understand this. What this dry heat feels like, this pulsating pleasure that no girl can provide. I don’t envy my straight counterparts for another reason. The best kinds of girls are the ones with baggage, and they’ll never trust any man enough to ever let him in. All in all, they’ll always lose; the girls AND the guys.

When you’re gay, there’s a whole new slew of problems but that isn’t one.

It’s usually the first step that’s the hardest to take. It’s not about admitting it to yourself, it’s admitting it to others. It’s about coming to terms that you’re not like everyone else and just because you like your own sex, you’re not damned for eternity or destined to burn in hell. It just means you’re gay, that’s it.

Your greatest potential enemy will always be yourself; no one else could possibly measure up.

I study the bowl at the base of his neck, and I stare at the way his veins pulse like a drum. I let myself believe it beats for me, but then I tell myself to stop being stupid. This is nothing but sex, just sex.

One day, I’ll convince myself he means nothing to me.

I rock my hips; he gasps for air, and he clutches at my shoulder and at the headboard. His nails slide off the polished wood like nothing, his heart hammering like crazy and I can feel it in my skin. Feel what he feels, think what he thinks, taste what he tastes... love what he loves.

This might have been a mistake.

My chest heaves as I grab one bent knee as leverage. I’m getting tired, but this is no time to flop around like a dead fish. I want him to remember this, make this all very memorable. We’re not seventeen anymore; we should have better control over our libidos. You’re supposed to think LESS with your dick as you grow older, somebody obviously lied.

At twenty-five, I think more with my dick than ever.

God gave men both a penis and a brain, but unfortunately not enough blood supply to run both at the same time¹.

I groan, and his heart beats like a trapped butterfly in a cage, the metal wires replaced with bone. I move my hand over his heart, the erratic rhythm something I can come home to...

“Jesse... just... cum the fuck... already.”

His words are minced and curled at the edges, his body is a taunt bow and this is all music. Beautiful music, I can only make with him. Music, I only want to make with him, but denial is strong and I’m not ready to succumb to the truth. The truth isn’t easy, but when has truth ever been easy?

With something akin to his permission, it’s harder to hold back now and I mentally curse the bastard out. How dare he think he has that kind of power over me, the stupid arrogant bastard. He’s not some god, and I’m no lesser mortal. This is all about fair play; in its own special, twisted, warped kind of way.

“Ple-please, Jesse... I need to feel it.”

Bastard, has to ask so nicely.

He croons softly and that’s my undoing. It’s not because he wraps his legs around my waist and pushes me inside him in one thrust or the way his free hand is trailing pink lines down my back, no... it’s his soft, husky bedroom voice that unbinds my resolve and I lurch. Out comes a guttural sound, and I spill inside him. It’s... an experience.

It’s warm and sticky, so different from the lube. It’s double the intensity of everything and his body contracts. He must be so close and the only friction he’s gotten is when my stomach rubs against him. It’s definitely not enough to be satisfying, more maddening.

This is my least favorite part, the moment right after.

This time’s different though.

He’s still hard and he’s panting like a wild animal, and I’m still inside him. I’m starting to go soft, and I’m too tired to move. I realize that if I don’t pull out now, it’ll hurt later because I’ll be overly sensitive and a lot of cursing will occur, but I like the feeling. I feel safe.

I feel perfectly content.

“I’m still hard, you fuck.”

He always knew how to ruin the mood.

“Suck it up, bitch, because I’m not moving.”

“Fuck, you are! You’re a heavy son of a bitch, and you’re going to rip me open... if you haven’t done so already, you inconsiderate bastard.”

Did he forget that he was the one that didn’t want to use a lot of lube or did I just imagine the puppy eyes and the sexual, “Come on, hurt me” demeanor?

Moron.

“Fuck you, you evil ponce.”

“You already have. Aren’t you ready to move into new waters?”

His words are so icy, so damn cold. I look up and I stare into angry brown eyes, eyes full of hurt and something else. We never mean our insults, not really. There’s that underlying footnote that says, “Just kidding,” but this one... this one is frank. It’s an arrow aimed straight for my heart.

“Get the fuck off me.”

He pushes me off of him with both hands on my shoulders, and I roll away without protest. I see my cum dribble onto his sheets, and he moves to cover himself. He’s never done that before, this whole night... it’s been new. We never barebacked, and we never fought like this.

The whole point of the two of us getting involved was to bypass all this relationship nonsense, that perception of what’s normal for society.

“Aren’t you done lying to yourself? Aren’t you fucking done?!”

The sheet’s wrapped around his waist and I notice, perhaps for the first time, just how frail looking he is. He’s sharp angles and fragile skin stretched over bone. I wrote the song about him without even realizing.

Oh, dear God.

“Just how much longer do you want to pretend I don’t love you?”

Not once does he face me, not once.

He’s staring at gray walls, and he doesn’t believe in me. He loves me but he doesn’t believe in me... and I have no one to blame but myself.

“Go, Jesse. Just go. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you, your lies, and mine. I’m just fucking sick of everything. Just... go.”

So... I leave.

But I lied.

It’s always been good enough to make everything else right.

Except it’s too late to make anything right ever again.

¹ Quote by Robin Williams, that brilliant man.

There, your damn second part!

2004-06-21T19:23:59Z

Title: First Comes... Complications?
Pairings: Adam/Jesse/John?
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I don’t remember the little ditty ever going quite like this. I could have sworn the next line was “first comes love...” Damn those teenage girls and their idealized songs!
Disclaimer: Please interject some humorous disclaimer, stating how I don’t own anyone, because owning another person is illegal. Unless he or she freely gives up his or her rights as independents to someone else. However, I don’t see Adam, Jesse, John, Michelle, Mrs. Nolan, or Mrs. Lacey doing any of the above. (But then again, who knows the level of kink involved in their real lives...)
Dedication: To the individuals who care about me despite my best efforts... and to inpurity especially... just because.

K-I-S-S-I-N-G

First Comes... Complications?

I hate when John’s all sulky and angry. I think he’s still mad about that whole ‘kissing Adam in the tree house’ thing. The boy’s much too sensitive for his own good, all pouting and glaring. It’s not nice to be mean to your best friend. It’s actually downright CRUEL! (If John hadn’t hit me so hard with his shoe, I would’ve been able to come up with a better word for ‘cruel’, but noooo... precious brain cells have died and now I’m dumb. SEE! There are millions of synonyms for dumb, and I can’t think of one. Hmph!)

“Joooooohhhhhhnnnnn.” I draw out his name as long as possible, in the hopes that... uhh, that it’d annoy him enough to answer me instead of staring at his brand new shoes. They’re all clean and sparkly, and if I knew coming home with only one shoe warranted a whole new PAIR of shoes, I would’ve done it sooner. Or at least forced John to do it sooner.

I mean really, some kid dropped white-out on the toe of his shoe, and it just ruined the whole shoe. At least that’s what John liked to say to me when he talked about the visual value of his worn black sneakers. Right now, not so much talking.

“Coooooommmmmme oooooooonnnnn. Pleeeeeeeaaaaaassssssse?”

John brings his hand down harshly against the top of the plastic/wooden hybrid picnic table. I fix him with my best puppy dog eyes from my position on the bench, and place my head near his knee since he’s sitting on the actual table part and not on the actual bench part. He’s a rebel, watch out now.

“Stop your damn whining; it’s annoying.”

His gaze flickers over to me, and I know he’s caving. His mouth twitched. When an individual’s mouth twitches, either they’re trying to suppress an all-out grin or their muscles are convulsing in sheer anger/annoyance. For the sake of my physical health -- I really, really hope it’s the first one.

“John, oh John, Johnny Appleseed John... don’t be mad.”

We learned about Johnny Appleseed back in the second grade and the day after that lesson, which was a Saturday, John went around his backyard with a pot on his head and a bag of sunflower seeds pretending he was traveling across the country just like Appleseed. (That whole pot on his head thing is not meant to be weird, the real guy, Appleseed, I mean, did that. Really, I swear. Don’t believe me, look it up.)

Child!John was grabbing fistfuls of brown seeds and scattering them all over his spacious backyard singing some made-up tune about being Appleseed reincarnated... After I walked in on that scene, the name stuck. Really, after something THAT hilarious, there’s absolutely no possibility of the nickname NOT sticking. When we were younger, it embarrassed the fuck out of him, but now... it’s an inside joke for just us two. (It’s not like anyone remembers Johnny Appleseed in high school... probably the key reason why it’s not embarrassing for John anymore.)

John sighs, dragging his eyes away from his brand spanking new shoes for the first time since I found him here sulking. He’s acting as if someone ran over his dog. His mother was, and always will be, very informative about her son’s whereabouts. She was of utmost assistance today when I was seeking Elusive!John. Mrs. Nolan always knows to keep tabs on her son (for my benefit, of course). However, I think it’s really Michelle, his younger sister, that’s the real Eyes and Ears of the all-knowing Mrs. Nolan. Michelle’s quite bright, really bright... for a freshman, anyway.

“Why were you kissing Adam?”

His question is blunt and very to the point, not circuitous at all. (Okay, I admit it. I just wanted to use the word ‘circuitous’.)

“Why’d you hit me?”

What now, bitch? Huh huh? (Insert appropriate head, body, and hand motions for utmost effectiveness.)

It’s a stand-off, and winner takes all. First person to blink or answer the other’s question loses. It’s just a fact of life. Speaking first, in general, counts as a loss. I haven’t lost once, and I don’t plan to tarnish (WHEE!) my immaculate (!!!) record.

“I didn’t hit you that hard.”

(Hahahah, Jesse wins! He conquers ALL! Jesse is the MAN! Do a dance now, that’s right, oh yeah.)

I glower at him, fixing him with an expression generally only reserved for the captain of the soccer team. Mr. “I can curve the ball as easily as most can breathe” thinks it’s funny to run circles around poor Jesse during gym class, literally... while pointing and laughing. However, Jesse gets to feel superior in his knowledge that Mr. Captain can barely spell his own name. Jesse, sure as hell, can’t picture Mr. Dumbass ever spelling ‘punctuation’ correctly, let alone, implementing it correctly (the usage, not the actual word... although, I’m sure that can apply as well). So what if athleticism is worshipped and intelligence shunned, Jesse takes pride in his wide and varied vocabulary. Some may go as far as to say his extensive terminology.

Right, no more speaking in the third person, brain’s obviously deranged and clearly damaged from shoe episode.

Wait a second; did John just SHRUG at me?

Don’t you dare shrug at me, John Nolan! And you most definitely hit me that hard. I saw stars and all that jazz. (Don’t know where that phrase came from, and I refuse to analyze the girliness of it because... hey, I’m GAY!) And besides, that’s not the point. He hit me... with a shoe. He hit me remorselessly (Go Jesse, it’s your birthday!) with a shoe. HE HIT ME WITH A SHOE!

Three times, he hit me with a shoe THREE times.

Who does that?

Answer: John Nolan

“Uh, nooooo! You threw two shoes at me than smacked me on the head with the same shoe... AGAIN! That’s completely inexcusable.”

In retaliation for his violent actions, I lean forward and bite his knee through the fabric of his jeans. (Counter violence with violence, eye for an eye and all that.)

Damn boy doesn’t even give me the satisfaction of a reaction. Huff. He just stares at me as if I’m gone mad. Biting others is NOT an eccentric habit... Adam does it all the time. Okay, not the best argument since Adam is certifiable (BUT SO PRETTY!) and yeah...

Wonder where Adam is, hopefully, not kissing other boys in the tree house. That tree house is mine, biotch! I have marked the boy (and the tree house) as mine, and no one else is allowed to touch him. I should go to the hardware/art supply store and get a rubber stamp that says: MINE! I’ll just adhere the word to his forehead and then any and all jealousy/ownership problems will cease to exist.

MINE MINE MINE!

Yeah... that person with the nose... yeah, him... won’t be getting any funny ideas about kissing Adam. (Hey, when I say “person with the nose” as opposed to “that person... with the hair”, the scope is slightly smaller. First of all, Michael Jackson is ruled out right off the bat... I hope. Child molestation = NOT cool.)

Ahem.

“You, Jesse Lacey, are a freak. I mean, biting people and kissing Adam. That’s... very freak-like thing to do.”

Oh.

Oh, this can’t be good. John can’t be hobophobic. Uhh, wait... homophobic. I wonder if hobophobic means you’re prejudiced against hobos? That’s so mean... Not his or her fault, he or she is a hobo. Wonder if they have to go to a special school to become the best hobo they can be?

PAY ATTENTION!

Right, back to the relevant topic instead of the tantalizing tangent. (Alliteration and a twenty-dollar word, go me!)

Homophobic (not hobophobic) John could be really bad. No, is bad. John’s the best friend, and if said best friend hates me... Well, it goes without saying how atrocious (thirty-dollar word) life would be. Who else could (not ‘would’, dammit) be my Johnny Appleseed? Who’d write songs with me on Sunday mornings?

Who’d get up that early on Sunday mornings?

I’m gaping at him, and I just... woah. Does this mean we can’t be friends, because I want to kiss boys (Adam) and he doesn’t? It’s not my fault he wants to kiss girls. I wouldn’t defriend him for wanting to kiss girls (as disgusting as that thought may be after all those pretty and high-inducing kisses with Adam yesterday) so it doesn’t seem right for John to go about being all... defriendly? Okay, there’s no way that’s a word. Remaining brain cells must be faulty... switching on and off as they please. Mrs. Spencer will not be pleased, not pleased at all.

Not only did I lose brain cells (very important ones), I’m about to lose my best friend!

“John... I just. I don’t.” Okay, time to take breath. Coherence, Jesse, coherence. Time to make cohesive (!) plea to retain valuable friendship with best friend of sixteen years, approximately the same time we’ve both been alive.

No need to panic, John will see the error of his ways, and he won’t be completely aghast with the whole ‘kissing Adam’ incident (because there’s no way it’s going to stop). I would never, ever ask him to change for me... so he shouldn’t ask me to change, right? Acceptance and tolerance and all that. Right? RIGHT?!

“Do you hate me because I’m gay?” My voice cracks, meek and unassertive. Somebody please just write ‘Milquetoast’ on my forehead in turquoise sharpie marker, why don’t you?

“NO, NO!”

John jumps to his feet so fast; he nearly misses the bench and breaks his legs. He quickly finds his center of gravity and stands, towering over my sitting self as he paces back and forth on the green wire bench. He covers the entirety of the bench with a mere two strides, I’m sure he could have snuck in a third if I wasn’t sitting there. Of course, if I wasn’t sitting here, he wouldn’t have a reason to pace.

He scuffs the toe of his shiny shoe when he kicks the underside of the table. From the way he’s grabbing at his hair and rubbing (gripping) at his neck, he’s unable to get whatever it is he wants to say to me, quite right. Not sure if that’s a benign or malignant. Ugh, feel like I’m talking about forms of cancer.

”Hey, class. This is a malignant skin cancer growth, isn’t it disgusting? Notice the way the surgeons had to remove a CHUNK of that woman’s epidermis. This is why you should always wear sunscreen. No one wants a hunk of their skin removed.”

“Now get the fuck out of my class, and go frolic in the sun!”

Health class is such a waste... Wear sunblock and know your CPR. And oh, don’t have sex. Sex is bad, best way to prevent pregnancy is to practice abstinence. Abstinence is number one!

Give me a fucking break.

Fuck abstinence. (HAH! I can’t get pregnant and best of all, neither can Adam! WOOT WOOT!)

In my world, there’re no such things as sexually transmitted diseases. So fuck off, HIV and AIDS... and you other ones!

God, I wish John would stop pacing. Actually, it’s more like he shuffles the two steps then pivots then shuffles again. Shuffle shuffle pivot, shuffle shuffle pivot, shuffle shuffle pivot... it never ends.

“Jesse, it’s... it’s not... AHHHH!”

John grips his short strands in frustration, his loud outcry catching the fleeting interest of individuals passing by.

Yeah, like I understood any of that. Here I am, sitting quite normally at the picnic table, hands folded on the tabletop even, as John paces like a psycho maniac. I knew I should have listened to the other kids when they said John was a freak/loser/weirdo. (Would have prevented future, soon to be present, situation of him calling me a fag or something.)

“Jesse?”

There’s a long pause, John’s no longer grappling for words as he looks down at me. I turn my head and squint at him, trying to see his face clearly. Which is unworkable since the sun’s right behind him, and I don’t want to go blind before twenty-one. Give me five more years with my ability to see, and then I will happily stare into the sun. (You think losing brain cells is bad, try being blind. It gets in the way of absorbing knowledge in school. Don’t know how exactly, but I’m sure it’ll hinder my progression.)

I shade my eyes the best I can with my hands just as John crouches, his weight distributed between the hand resting on the table and his two feet. (‘Distributed’ can count as a big word. Shut up. It totally could count as a big word...)

There’s a high likelihood John has the least expressive face in the world. In most cases, I can get a vague idea what a person is thinking or feeling by their facial expression(s). I know that Michelle’s eyes narrow when she’s fed up with John and/or my antics or the way my mom will huff, and her cheeks will get this angry splotchy color when she’s irritated. With John, he doesn’t react very much. He’s very placid and frankly, just blasé. (Million dollar word! Completely makes up for ‘distributed’.) Blasé’s fine and good when the schoolyard thug is trying to coerce you into giving him your lunch money at seven or being bullied by a certain soccer player with the mentality of “I’m God’s gift to women because I’m All-American and being courted by Division I schools”, but when you’re sixteen and you just found out your best friend likes kissing other boys... well, the best friend would very much like to know if he’s going to end up friendless.

A hint, an inkling... an iota. Anything would be nice, really.

Dammit, what the hell’s up with people staring at me lately?

John’s gawking me as if he can’t bear to tear his eyes away. His eyes rake over every one of my facial features, taking in the crinkle below my eye and my forever-pouting lips. I can’t help it; they just came that way. I can see my reflection in his eyes; can clearly see my form defined in dark brown and the black of his pupil. I’m sure if I wasn’t so disconcerted, I could enjoy the reflection as some kind of art, aesthetically speaking, of course.

Sigh, using ‘aesthetically’ correctly should have brought on a feeling of euphoria (and a feeling of elite mental poweress), but I guess gut-wrenching fear and apprehension does that.

I can see the individual flecks of brown, dark and light intermingling to form this particular shade of ochre. It’s really pretty. Up close, it’s a mosaic but further away, a harmonious medley. I momentarily get distracted by John licking his bottom lip, a gesture of nervousness, if there ever was one.

His legs must be cramping so much right now.

“Don’t hit me.”

What the hell...

John’s hand lifts my jaw before he kisses me tenderly, the kind of kiss you would give to your young soldier husband with your infant child balanced on your hip, moments before that same husband, the man you love, gets shipped off to a war zone. A war zone, miles and oceans away.

Oh.

...

...

Oh.

I blink.

He’s gone.

I can hear the thump thump (but only in my mind) as his new sneakers hit the grass and the pavement so he can rush home to mull over his actions. I never knew John to be impulsive. Every action, thought, word... everything, carefully premeditated and nothing ever done without considerable thought.

I went through sixteen years of my life with only three kisses to lay claim to as of yesterday morning. In the span of two days, add two more kisses (just now and that whole ‘brush’ thing with Adam) and coughsevencough make-out sessions with Adam.

Oh, this... this might complicate things.

Shit.

This is going complicate a fuckload of things.

YAY FOR JESSE/ADAM!

2004-05-30T03:11:39Z

Title: K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Pairings: Jesse/Adam (John’s thrown in here as well)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Adam and Jesse sitting in a tree...
Disclaimer: Pisha, don’t be ridiculous. Not even sure if they even knew each other back then. Didn’t happen. Come on, Jesse’s sixteen and Adam’s fifteen... PLEASE!
Author’s Note: Was only supposed to be a couple paragraphs long to torture notthegnomes, but it quickly got out of hand.

K-I-S-S-I-N-G

I watch Adam apprehensively, who knows what the other boy has in mind. All I know from experience is that Adam will do something only someone stricken with ADD and insanity... and uh, Adam could do. That didn't even make any sense, good thing I didn't say it aloud. That would have made me sound dumb... and Adam's still staring at me as if I’m some kind of really good food.

"Uh, Laz... why are you... looking at me... like... that?"

I shift back uncomfortably, inching away from the scrawnier boy. Probably not the brightest idea to get in this decrepit tree house with Adam. Adam and John built this together as children. I don't know about Adam, but John doesn't know a screw from a nail and that knowledge alone, has my brain telling my legs to jump for my life and land on the safe, safe ground. Possibly even kiss it. Ground doesn’t have that weird habit of shaking and breaking... Death would be bad. Bad death, bad.

A bug scurries across the old wooden-like floor. Wooden-like would be an euphemism (Am so completely deserving of that A+ on the recent vocabulary test). Apparently, thanks to Adam’s infinite knowledge on everything trivial and useless, I know nothing is really wood anymore. ‘Wooden’ tables and ‘wooden’ desks are just blended material made to LOOK like wood, but in actuality, is NOT wood. I mean ‘wooden’ planks, so not really wooden planks. Hybrid planks, of the super variety.

Should hang out with Adam less, mind is becoming one run-on fragment.

That didn’t make any sense either.

Would be able to reflect so much better if Adam would stop staring at me. I finally know what an ice-cream sundae feels like when a three-year-old toddler is staring at it with rapture. Any minute now, Adam’s going to pull out a silver spoon and try to take a scoop out of my shoulder. I really hope he doesn’t; I just got this shirt. I’ve grown rather fond of it in the past... ohh, hour or two. Again, not the smartest idea to wear nice, new clothes into filthy, run-down tree house. A tree house, built back in the late 80’s by a crazy boy and an OC one.

Must. Stop. Thinking. About. Possibility. Of. Death.

“LAZZARA! STOP IT, RIGHT NOW OR I’LL SMACK YOU!”

Oh, I most definitely meant I’d PUNCH him. Now I sound like a fucking girl. Dammit.

“Jesse, you would never slap me. Well, at least I don’t think you would... but I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

He inches closer to me, and that whole apprehensive feeling is all I can think about. What does he mean, ‘we’ll see, won’t we?’ He’s most definitely going to do something idiotic. Or dangerous. Or completely...

Adam pulls me towards him with his hand on my wrist and his lips brush against mine. When I mean brush, I literally mean brush. If I’d blinked, I would have totally missed that right there.

Wait a fucking second, did he just... KISS ME?

Okay, not a kiss, per say... but most definitely something similar to a kiss.

“Laz, did you... didja just...”

“Not technically, I want to make sure you don’t try to kill me.”

Why does he always sound older and saner than me? Why is he speaking in completely coherent sentences when I just used the word, ‘didja’? Didja, is definitely not correct English. Hmm, that sentence probably wasn’t correct, either.

Oh, on that whole kill... thing.

I lift a hand to lightly graze my lips. They don’t feel any different, but... I do. I want him to do that again, without that whole brushing aspect.

My other hand’s still resting in Adam’s grasp, and I like the way his fingers wrap around my wrist. I like the way the black polish looks on his nails, the way he’s bitten them down to nothing. I like the way he’s rubbing his thumb along the ridge of bone... I like it.

“Laz, if you kissed me, you know, for real? I wouldn’t punch you, not even slap you even...”

Smiles are great, but Adam!Smiles are the best. His whole face lets you know he’s happy/pleased/excited/drunk (on life). It’s the way the corners of his eyes crinkle back and all his teeth show and somehow, when he’s smiling, all his bangs manage to fall off his face so I can actually see individual features. He has nice eyes, all brown and deep...

He leans forward; I lean forward... He’s so much prettier up close, all smooth and smelling like cloves and cigarette smoke. (He’s much too young to be smoking so much, should probably make him stop. Yeah, okay, like he’d listen to me.) Our lips touch and for a moment, it’s just that. Our lips are just touching, and it feels nice, kind of like the time when I kissed that girl down the street when I was twelve, uhh, four years ago.

Oh, she definitely didn’t do that thing with her tongue...

Adam bites lightly on my lower lip and licks down the middle of my lip and I gasp in surprise, and oh... He’s stroking my face and his tongue’s in my mouth, and it’s wet and warm and texture-y. I bet texture-y isn’t even a word, maybe I’ll look it up. But later... much, much later. After Adam stops sucking and licking my bottom lip, you know, after my head stops spinning.

I should probably do something with my hands instead of having them on the ‘wooden’ floor, probably going to get bootleg ‘wooden’ splinters. I’m only grasping Adam’s hair so I don’t get splinters, preventive measures, you see... not like I enjoy the feel of it, or feel powerful with my hand fisted in his shortish/longish hair. Not caring about that whole ‘need to make sense’ thing.

When you kiss someone, his or her spit stays in your mouth for over three days.

I slowly suck Adam’s upper lip into my mouth, and it’s... the texture and the feel. It’s warm and pliable, big word right there. Just learned what it meant, really hope I used it correctly. Warm and pliable.

I slide one hand down from the top of his head to rest on the back of his neck, and my fingers are brushing against the collar of his t-shirt. Good kind of brushing, the teasing kind. I lightly trace my fingers over the back of his neck -- that girl did it to me back then, she was quite advanced-- and he has the same reaction as I did. His body shudders and am feeling powerful again.

I shift positions so I’m on my knees facing Adam, and I can feel Adam do the same. I kiss with eyes closed, so I don’ t actually see him, but yeah... on knees, facing each other. He strokes my cheek and his tongue slowly enters my mouth, no propeller-like action, am very grateful. Would hate for my gravestone to read: Death while Kissing.

Embarrassment would know no bounds...

I debate what I’m supposed to do, because I sure as hell never frenched someone before. So I’m a naïve little boy. Bite me.

It was an accident really, a fluke. Again, big word... in the sense of meaning, yes, go honor’s English class!

Back to kissing.

Our tongues meet accidentally, a fluke, if you will. And oh, it’s nice. A really, really nice feeling. Could do this all day... touching his hair and having his tongue touch mine. Not weird, quite pleasurable really... no slapping, punching, or whining involved in the aftermath at all (at least not by me).

“JESSE!”

My head snaps back so fast, I hit Adam’s face with the side of my big, thick head. Good thing Adam’s crazy, because anyone else would be really offended. No, Adam’s just grinning like he’s won the lottery. The kissing was awfully nice...

OW!

I look down at the offending object... it’s a shoe. Someone just threw a shoe at me. Why the hell would anyone throw a shoe at me? I’m a nice guy, kind of a wimp, to be honest. A shoe... someone threw a shoe at me.

Hey... I know this shoe. It has the same garish (again, big word) white-out mark above the graying toe. I, maybe, perhaps, possibly... droppedanopenedbottleofwhite-outonJohn’ssneaker. But it’s only a maybe... gravity’s a tricky thing.

OW! OW! OW!

Dammit, another shoe. Stop throwing things, dammit. Poor head, most definitely won’t be using big words now. Head is injured... Adam can kiss it and make it all better, wonder if he’s up for it now?

“JESSE LACEY, ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF!?”

Oh yeah, that person... with the hair... is calling me.

I stick my head over the ledge, looking down the extraordinary height of 10 feet(ish) to shout back at John, “I COULD HAVE DIED! DEATH BY CHUCKS! YOU ASS!” (Speaking in exclamation points is FUN!)

John has the audacity to roll his eyes at me. Wow, I used the word ‘audacity’. Mrs. Spencer would be so proud; honor’s English is expanding my vocabulary and essentially adding to my life. Uh, yeah. Back to point.

“I could have died, and then you would have been alone. Alone, John, alone.”

Adam tugs on my pant leg, reminding me he’s there, too. As if I could forget. Silly goose, silly and awfully pretty goose. Very pretty... really, really pretty. Attractive, crazy attractive. Hell, just plain crazy. Why am I talking to John when I can be making out with Adam? Answer: Am stupid. No other option. Obviously.

“John, will be down in just one sec... just one sec.”

I pull back, out of John’s view, and bring Adam’s face back to mine. I kiss him as best as I can with my lack of experience. I think back to every smutty/trashy/Fox show I’ve ever seen and try to imitate their kissing technique. Seems to be going well with the sounds Adam’s making.

Adam’s moaning.

Wow... that’s hot.

That kid, with the hair... might be saying/shouting something. Me = busy. Very busy, much too busy to talk now. Must. Make. Adam. Moan. More.

Oh yeah, just... like... that.

Adam’s right hand is spanning the left side of my cheek and now he’s making these gasping, breathy sounds. It’s nice to know that I’m doing that to him. I lick the part of his lip that’s soft and fleshy and guards his teeth, not the part that you would put lip balm on, not that I would know or anything. Five sisters, you know. Not because I borrow/steal their lip balm, never that.

It’s soft and smooth and Adam does this clutch thing with his hand, grabbing the side/front of my shirt, bringing me closer. No complaints from me, a little harder to breathe, but breathing is so completely overrated. Breathing’s so unnecessary compared to kissing Adam, kissing Adam is number one!

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!”

Uh oh...

I open one eye, which proves to be unhelpful since all I can see is one solid wall devoid of windows, doors, or an opening of any kind. The scream definitely came from behind me, which is where the entrance is, which is led up to by planks nailed to the side of the tree... which I’m sure John utilized. (Wow, I’m on a ROLL!)

“We would be kissing.”

Thank you, Adam, for stating the blatantly obvious.

I turn my head a little to see John’s mouth opening and closing as if his jaw muscles are out of control and haywire. I watch, in what seems like slow motion, John pick up one of his shoes (the one with the white-out mark) and hit me on the head, hard. Adam, harder.

Then poof... no more John.

He forgot his other shoe... maybe I should go after him.

But not right now... Kissing Adam seems much more important. Adam’s all soft and pliable, his whole body and not just his lips. I’ll go look for John after the kissing and maybe after I double-check the meaning of pliable.

Another Author’s Note: This is what happens when one’s had a whole bag of Snow Caps and only has one’s own mind and imagination to entertain self with. Oh, and also, don’t forget one’s crusade to save the English language from individuals who cannot seem to comprehend that GOOD is an adjective and WELL is an adverb. USE WORDS CORRECTLY!

Dude... I never fucking update this thing

2004-05-11T02:52:01Z

Title: Honey-brown
Band: Good Charlotte and hints of Mest (Yes, it involves Tony but it’s really a twincest. Now carry_on can read it without gorging out her eyes.)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s the color of denial in Joel’s eyes... and maybe that denial runs deeper than my own selfishness.
Disclaimer: This is called fanFICTION for a reason. That means this never happened to my immediate knowledge and if it did... kudos for the guys and my psychic abilities.

Honey-brown

Joel smiles at her, a soft smile with adoration seeping through every pore of his body. The way he touches her speak of undying affection and respect. He searches for her in crowds, his eyes always scanning the room for her. His eyes light up as soon as he sees her, watching her like she’s the only one in the room. The kind of emotion only found in stories and fairy tales.

But everyone knows that fairy tales don’t exist.

Joel flinches, his face draining of color, turning a paltry shade of white as his fiancé walks into the room. The sudden stiffening of his shoulders as his eyes widen just for that second before the mask falls into place. He’ll turn around, flash the entire room that smile, that smile that’s meant to fool everyone into thinking that the world is a happy place and that as long as everyone can smile, everything will be all right.

I know it won’t be.

He knows, too.

She knows, but she doesn’t care.

Jeanine, someone who’s supposed to there for my brother, but no. She only uses his good nature against him. She seduced him and then warped his mind to the point he expects and desires the mental abuse. I can see it in Joel’s eyes, the varying shades of brown tell me all I need to know. He believes that she’s the best he can have, that he’s lucky to have her, that he WANTS her.

I see the initial fear, and then it fades into a slightly darker color as he reprimands himself for feeling that dread course through him at the very presence of the one he’s supposed to love or in his mind, does love. The color lightens, not by much, but it lightens. Joel’s reminding himself to relax, not to be tense. Then, this is the part that breaks my heart every time. The color changes from a brown to more of a honey, a gold-brown.

Honey-brown: the color of denial.

It’s not love. He can’t fake emotion; no one can. The heart isn’t easily deceived. The mind may be led astray, but one’s heart will always stay true. It’s only a matter of whether or not the individual will do what’s right for them.

Most never notice, because there is no one there to see that they’re lying to themselves.

It’s a good thing Joel’s got me...

Too bad, I won’t say a word.

The color of love, that chocolate brown with the light flecks... well, it isn’t directed at her.

I’m selfish; every human being is selfish. I’m so selfish that the idea of my twin brother being happy with the one he cares about, makes me think of broken glass and falling plaster. If I can’t have who I want, why should he? Why should I have to sacrifice what I want for anyone? Even if it’s for my identical twin brother?

I’ll be damned if I let my so-called best friend take my brother away from me. So what if those two could make each other happier than imaginable? What do I care?

Jeanine, I can take.

Tony, I can’t.

I won’t.

Selfish, selfish, oh so selfish. That’s what I am, and I don’t care. Tony’s not allowed to be the one to bring that sparkle to Joel’s eyes, no, that’s not how it’s supposed to work. Tony’s so goddamn selfish, too. He has me... already has me.

All those nights that we spent in his bunk; limbs entwined, sweat clinging to cotton sheets, labored breathing filling the air... no, that can’t hold a candle to all the nights that Tony and Joel disappear into quiet corners, their heads bent, dark brown mingling with peroxide blonde. Light and dark, meshing as their low whispers fill the small space between them. Joel, the only person who can make Tony speak like a normal human being. Only he can make the usually crude and childish boy/man speak intelligently, only Joel can make Tony want to.

No, why should I care that Tony smiles like the world is suddenly made of chocolate whip cream and littered with ice-cream sundae cherries? I’d rather keep Tony with his bright blue eyes to myself, rather watch him close his eyes when he touches me... something he never used to do.

It’s the little things.

It’s always the little things.

Jeanine always drags Joel away within minutes, her tanned hand pulling Joel’s paler hand away from his peaceful corner, a place he only shares with Tony. Joel always shoots an apologetic look over his shoulder as he’s being hauled away. It’s like clockwork, it never changes. Small hand on the secret looks that the two guys exchange, big hand on the jealous fiancé pulling Joel away, a click and then the big hand signaling my turn to haul Tony away. Two tattooed hands link as I take this opportunity to fill him with liquor and let his slimmer body drape over mine as he seeks out the nearest soft surface to pass out on.

Every night, like clockwork.

As the lights dim, I pull pale colorful hands into my room/bunk/bathroom/closet/whatever. Fingertips, tongues, and lips take turns in worshipping Tony’s body. Hazy blue eyes stare at me for long intervals and close shut, the lids stretched and taunt as he rakes his hands roughly through my hair. Same every night...

He doesn’t love me, never did... never will.

He’ll never love Joel. He’ll never get a chance.

I’ll keep him occupied enough so he doesn’t get any grandiose ideas of seducing my brother, and Jeanine will do her part. She’ll keep Joel under her control with her soft hands and her spiky words doused with honey. I’m not sure what it is exactly that I’m trying to prevent. I care about Tony and his happiness, but I don’t want Joel to go through what I went through... going through.

I’m not disillusioned to think if I stay long enough, Tony will forget Joel.

I’m not exactly sure if I even want that. I just know that Tony can’t be with Joel; it’s not right. It doesn’t feel right, and it’ll never be right.

I won’t allow it. I won’t.

Mom always asks me if I’m happy on the west coast, happy. The answer’s always the same and so is the situation. I’ll be at the wrong house, not mine, with my silver Nextel to my ear. I’ll watch as Joel puts on an apron like some kind of housewife, putting away the groceries as he hums some tune I barely recognize under his breath. My head will rest against the badly wallpapered wall, my eyes watching him as he pulls carton upon carton out of brown paper bags with finesse.

Groceries... and he does it in an apron.

I never did understand his habits.

Maybe Tony’s just in the situation of touching what’s mine.

Joel is mine.

Was mine the moment our single cell separated into two in Mom’s womb. He’s just as explicitly mine as I’m his.

Tony was always prettier, got everything that I always wanted... does he have to steal the one thing that I never really had to share with anyone else?

Before Tony and surely after, Joel will lay a hand on my shoulder and ‘console’ me when some trash inevitably breaks my heart, in this case... Tony. Yeah, my heart. Joel’ll hold me while I do my tough guy act, an act that won’t be real because I have nothing to be sad about. Joel will cut Tony out of his life on principle. He would know Tony’s mere presence would hurt me... you know, if I loved Tony at all, that is.

I miss those nights long ago, before Good Charlotte and Mest. Those nights with the two of us staring up at the discolored ceiling dreaming, dreaming of a brighter future. The twin bed would be too small for the both of us so we’d stretch ourselves over the shabby green carpet, a color so dark it’d look black. Joel hated that carpet, hated how it’d be darker in some patches than others. It was the little things that annoyed him the most.

Don’t even get me started on how paranoid and annoying he would become if I so much as wore his socks.

Yeah, apocalypse now.

OoooOhhh.

Loser.

But nevertheless, my loser.

He’s my best friend and my entire life. There’s nothing that can change that... and I sure as hell won’t let anyone as insignificant as Tony fucking Lovato to ruin it for me.

It’s bad enough Joel forgets I exist when Tony’s in the room.

Give me a fucking break.

Act or no act, Tony’s still a cunt whore. He uses women and men to get what he wants. What’s another broken heart to a mountain of shattered, bloody pieces. I refuse to have anyone else be the recipient of brown with light flecks. That’s been mine since I was 15-years-old.

Mine.

I’m allowed to be selfish. Joel's my twin, my best friend. Mine. He should never be with anyone else, if it hurts, he should be coming to me and no one else. Mine.

Tony doesn’t know the meaning of love. He doesn’t.

All he knows is hurried fucks in darkened rooms, sweat, and blood intermingling.

No, Tony doesn’t know or understand love.

I do.

I know what it feels like to yearn for something only fingertips away.

Joel, don’t you get it... I’m selfish.

I hate it, but you'll sleep alone tonight

2004-02-07T03:08:55Z

Title: Lonely: A State of Mind
Bands: Brand New, Taking Back Sunday, Straylight Run
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I’m bargaining again with the temptress of faith, having nothing to show but resentment.
Disclaimer: Jesse is an asshole, and you couldn’t pay me enough to own him.

Prologue!

Chapter 1: With a Single Word, It Comes Crumbling Down

Light dark, clear fog, iridescent skin. From the way the world shimmers, I know it's true. I can't be alive or awake. Dancing with the man of death, pleading for a way out. I’m bargaining again with the temptress of faith, having nothing to show but resentment.

I urge my body to get out of the cab. I take as long as possible to pay the driver before I open the door and grab the overgrown black case that holds in my future. Without it, I wouldn't have an identity, nothing to differentiate myself from anyone else. My hand wraps around the plastic grip, my knuckles turning pale as I get up. I'm ready to plaster on false happiness for the girls I'm paid to make panic, while I sing.

I can already hear the loud whispers, and I keep wishing that they weren't talking about me.

"Oh my god, it's him. It is, I know because yeah, love him."

When I hear words like that, it makes me question why I'm even here. Why I bother to slit my heart open and let the blood form the words. I sing all the emotions and feelings that I try so hard to hide, mostly in vain. I spill the world's truths and my heartbreak to countless people dealing with the same inner dismay.

Seconds, minutes, hell, it could have been hours before I finally left the safe sanctuary that the yellow painted steel provided me. I step out with the famed easy grace that I supposedly embody, something to be admired but not quite touched. If I didn't know any better, I could say that I was the cold-hearted one and not him.

I gently lift the case out beside me, I take a breath as the first fan approaches me. Her eyes are blue, sparkling with pseudo innocence and clarity, something I used to embrace in my naiveté. Her smile is perfect, her body and sprit something to be worshipped. She is beauty, and she knows it.

I paint what seems to be a dry smile, but from her reaction, it appears genuine. Her perfectly manicured hands with dark black polish lands on my forearm, her seductive smile already making promises. I can be everything that you'll ever need, a youthful body laid out for your stirrings. I can be worshipped or played with, something to bend to your will. You won't need anything but my touch, you can easily forget all your troubles as I make your body into a tool of my wants.

Bitter words to hide the jade of her heart. Her beauty is unparalleled by the faces in the crowd behind her, but her mind is poison to my already doomed existence. I deliberately shift my shoulder, her acidic touch no longer tainting mine.

"It's nice to meet you, but I have to go. If you're around here later, be sure to say hi." My words are even worse than the one's inside her head. They’re so fake, might as well be molded out of cheap plastic. I don't mean them to any extent. The girls behind her, the ones that aren't perfect, the ones that will never get noticed, the ones that will always pine for something that they believe they can't ever have. Those girls are the ones I want to know, the ones I sing for. We're kindred spirits, searching for the glue to put the puzzle of our broken pieces back together again.

We're nothing more than 3D statues, smashed beyond recognition by the people we trusted. In truth, we handed them the bat that reconstructed our faces and our very personalities.

The blonde’s intent never flickers. She believes with all her heart that I will seek her out and make good on her promises, if she only knew.

I offer one more smile before I walk past her with no intent of ever finding her again. She reminds me of someone else, someone I’m trying to cut off, so I can live again. She could only be a copy anyway, he got there first. There will never be a time when I can just forget him, when he left; he took my ability to love with him.

A kindred starts to approach me, the way my mind is processing time; one would think that the nine steps that would take me to the door are miles long. The first thing I notice is her pale skin contrasted with her dark hair. Her brown eyes are light under the sun and black as night in the shadow. She parts her mouth to wet her drying lips. Her nervousness shows like frayed sleeves on an Armani suit, and internally, I appreciate it.

I stop, waiting for her to talk to me. She catches her breath before she speaks, “I love your music; it’s very honest.” She pauses before she continues forward, “Your first CD was okay, but Deja... well, it blew me away. It’s completely different from Your Favorite Weapon and I think you had a lot of guts to put out Deja when your fan base could have rejected it.”

The more this nameless girl speaks; I know without any doubt, she’s smarter than the average person. Either that, or she’s been reading too many music articles on Brand New.

I could have sworn that I’d forgotten how, but guess not. The corners of my lip twitch as I return a smile to match her own. From the way her eyes shimmer, it almost feels like she knows how much the act of smiling really is doing for me. It frees a small part of me. I knew, logically, that my direct happiness didn’t/doesn’t depend on him, but my heart refuses to believe such nonsense.

I want to thank her, want to make her my queen; but before I can, she interrupts me, “I understand,” and she’s gone.

I stand frozen in that spot with that smile plastered on my face for who knows how long. All I know is that I’m smiling... smiling. It doesn’t fade, in the least, when I feel a firm hand on my back and another on my shoulder, guiding me into the venue. I don’t hear anything; I can only feel that one girl’s presence. She almost makes me wish I was straight. Almost.

“Jesse? Dude, snap out of it!”

My body lurches back and forth as I’m being forcibly shaken to and fro. I grab familiar, warm wrists to stop the excessive action.

“Okay, enough of that.” I take a moment to shake my head as I look into light brown eyes. “Really, there is no need for you to treat me like some rag doll, Garrett.”

“Well, if you could have seen yourself, you would have done more than shake the living daylights out of you,” his voice lightly softens, “It’s nice to see you smile, Jesse. We’ve all missed it.”

I forget that no matter how alone I feel... I’m not. I have friends that love me, a family that loves me, and fans... fans like her that love and understand me. I forget how blessed I really am. I forget. I’m blessed, truly blessed. I don’t want to be blinded by heartbreak. I’ve survived them before; I surely will survive it again.

Garrett pats me on the shoulder reassuringly. “Come on, let’s go see what the rest of the guys are up to. I’m sure they’ll be excited to see a non-zombie-like Jesse back.” His tone is teasing with an underlying hint of sadness. I’m sorry, Garrett; I never meant to push you or anyone else away. You guys mean too much to me.

I happily fall in step Garrett as he begins to tell me of his week off.

He talks of time spent with family and friends. He happily recounts the first moment he saw his bed, the run-off and the ecstatic leap into a mountain of pillows and blankets. “For the first time in MONTHS, I didn’t feel like I was being buried alive in some tiny coffin.”

I wish I had a funny anecdote to share, but I spent the total of 7 days in various state of drunkenness. I really didn’t make it anywhere but the bathroom and the kitchen. I don’t think I even made it to the second floor, let alone my bedroom. Yes, I really needed a reminder of that... fantastic.

Garrett’s words start to wash over me in a soothing wave. I really can’t be bothered to distinguish each word from the next, but the effect it has on my suddenly too tired mind is more than welcome. It’s nice.

I fold my arms across my chest as I happily listen to Garrett go on and on. He’s not showing any signs of stopping and that’s okay. Like I said, it’s nice to just hear a human voice that isn’t disgusted with you. The only voice I hear is the one inside my head, reminding me of the loser I am. The one that tells me that I’ll never be enough.

I want to shout.

I don’t need voices in my head to tell me that I don’t measure up. I don’t want to hear the words like a repeated mantra used to break my mind. I don’t want to be broken. I want to pick up the pieces and become whole again. There are too many cracks in the façade. If anyone looks hard enough, they’d be able to see them all.

“I keep forgetting how bad tour food really is. I was tempted to bring Mom with me. She can cook, and I can eat. It’d be the perfect balance.”

I don’t need to respond to that and in plain truth, Garrett doesn’t want an answer. He just wants someone to hear him. People need that. They just need someone who can just listen to them talk, making occasional comments, but mostly, just remaining silent with an affirming nod or two. I’ve learned the art of listening; I just don’t hear a word.

His lips move with easy grace. His actions aren’t measured and calculated like mine. He doesn’t need to worry about the reaffirming nods and the glare of the headlight. Garrett never bothered to care. The man wears fuzzy slippers on stage, for crying out loud. Do you think he cares what anyone thinks?

I follow Garrett obediently; there’s no reason for me not to. I kindly direct his path to a nearby wall so I can slouch into the flat surface. My thoughts are weighing me down, and I could use a little help. His single voice is joined by another, but I don’t take notice. My thoughts are wandering away again. Garrett’s voice seems so far away.

A sweet lullaby...

A hand, a kiss... soft gentle words whispered in the night, all promising forever. I get lost in color and depth, smooth skin and bright smiles. A voice of an angel, a heart of stone... all encased in the body of sensualist. Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, so unkind.

Love smeared by the brush of friendship, blurring lines of reality and perception. Affable touches constantly mistaken for something more. Truth and lies twist to form something else entirely. The emotion is unable to sustain any momentum, falling over itself on its way to the surface. It’s a torture of memories that lap at your sanity, teasing you with the things that were.

Even now; days, weeks, and months after the incident, the mere thought burns through my body setting it off like some kind of inferno. I don’t want to feel this, or even think about it; but it seems that I can’t feel anything at all but this. I’m a masochist when it really comes down to it. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. Maybe, I just like the pain...

The second voice calls to me. The laugh that escapes his upturned lips vibrates through the air consuming everything it its path. It’s power and effect is strong enough to pull me out of my own thoughts, the same thoughts that hold me captive behind its bars.

When I can focus my mind enough... I don’t hear anything.

Brian’s lips move, but no sound comes out. I’m sure he can be heard by everyone but me. Others would be worried, but this is too common of an occurrence for me to waste precious brain cells worrying about. Garrett pouts in aggravation as Brian starts to poke him mercilessly with his drumsticks. I smile softly, but I don’t offer much else as Garrett looks to me for some kind of interference. Brian starts to use Garrett’s body as a human drum kit. It’s a steady beat from what I can guess as Brian taps Garrett’s shoulder, upper arm, sides... anywhere Brian can reach.

Garrett starts to pout in an irritated manner, not enjoying being mistaken for the human doormat that he is. He swats at the wooden sticks as the Brian continues to tap out a rhythm on his body. Brian’s eyes and nose crinkle in amusement, and he’s laughing. Brian’s head is thrown back in a gesture of mirth at Garrett’s fruitless attempts to stop him.

Garrett continues to vainly swat at the sticks before finally managing to grasp one out of Brian’s hands. Garrett’s lips move fast, gritting his teeth often. He’s in his reprimanding mood; I can tell. Garrett narrows his eyes before taking the slim stick and whacking it as hard as he can on Brian’s upper leg. Brian’s mouth opens in horror and pain as he jumps into the air, getting a taste of some bitter revenge being dealt out by the usually withdrawn Garrett.

Garrett attempts to grab at the other stick, obviously not trusting Brian with them. Never mind the fact that Brian has about a billion and two more out back. Then again, there are scary groupie girls out there, so I understand why Brian is so desperate to hold onto those two. I continue to watch the childish display with fading apathy, my body reclining against the wall much like before. The weight doesn’t seem so heavy anymore.

Fifteen minutes later and those two are still at it, grappling for the second stick as Garrett holds the one he’s already won between his teeth. Both of Garrett’s hands are around the second stick, tugging and pulling. Brian grimaces right before he headbutts Garrett in the stomach, causing both of them to lose their equilibrium. They barely manage not to fall to the floor. Garrett, however, seeing the opportunity in the situation, uses Brian’s disorientation to pull the stick from Brian’s hand in triumph only to have Brian snatch the other drumstick out of Garrett’s mouth just as triumphantly.

God, they’re childish.

However, this may be better than Family Guy. I could watch this all day, and from the looks on their two faces... this could possibly go on for that long. On second thought, there’s no Stewie so this might not be so interesting for so long after all. My eyes drift back to the immature pair in front of me just in time to see Brian lose his grip on the saliva-coated stick. It happens in slow motion. The stick starts to spiral out of control, gravity pulling it downwards.

I watch the stick hit the ground in a far off manner, watch it bounce once... twice... then... BOOM!

The world suddenly explodes in surround sound. I cringe inwardly at the massive outburst of noise, from the buzz of the fan to the loud shouting of the tech people as they struggle to communicate their thoughts and instructions to others across the venue. I desperately try to reassess my surroundings. It’s never happened like this before.

I fist my hands as I try not to display any signs of my visible panic. I don’t want anyone to rush over and start fussing over nothing. I can deal with this... I can. Breathe, breathe... MOTHERFUCKING breathe, dammit. In and out, in and out... I gasp for breath, eyes closed shut as the world seems to steady slowly. I pant and gasp for a little bit longer, feeling as if I’d just run a marathon.

My heart doesn’t feel like it’s going to pop out of my chest anymore; always a good sign, I take it. I blink my eyes, a common occurrence when someone goes into shock. It’ll be okay, I’m not going crazy. This is nothing... I’ll be fine.

My breathing slows down, my hands stop shaking enough so I don’t look like some petrified leaf dancing around in the wind. I take another measured breath for good measure, opening my eyes and focusing only to see two identical sets of concerned brown eyes staring back at me.

All I can think is ‘Ooops.’ I was so close to making the two of them believe I’m okay, but I guess not.

Garrett gives me a patented worried look as Brian smiles sheepishly at me.

“Hey, no one expected you get over all of this overnight, right?”

I snort.

Garrett shoves his elbow into Brian’s side at Brian’s tactless words but that’s what being friends is about. It’s about being able to say stupid things without the fear of coming off as a moron. Well, more like the knowledge that any stupid words will be forgiven but not entirely forgotten... how else would it be brought up in future conversations to embarrass the fuck out of the person who had the audacity to say it in the first place?

I push myself off the grungy wall, my shoulders covered with muck that I’d rather not think about at the moment. Garrett and Brian are already back to smiling and joking with each other. I smother a snort as Garrett bites down on Brian’s arm in a last ditch effort to keep the drumsticks in his possession.

“AHHH!” Brian screams in mock agony, more shocked than hurt. His eyes stare in disbelief at Garrett’s innocent face with an incredulous look pinned onto his, “You... you... YOU BIT ME!”

Garrett starts to twiddle his thumbs from his position on the floor as he starts to whistle something along the lines of ‘doo doo la doo.’ I barely hold back a laugh, moving out of the way wisely, as Brian tackles Garrett, making Garrett roll onto his back. Their laughter rings through the small venue. The two start to roll around on the floor grabbing at each other in childish play, having completely forgotten about drumsticks and me.

I gently prod them with my foot. Who knows what their reaction might me... they’re rabid. They might attack me, and I haven’t gotten my immunity shot. How did it go? What was the drat rhyme for the Cootie shot again? I knew it when I was younger.

“Will you two please get a hold of yourselves? I’ve seen seven-year-olds with more maturity than the two of you combined.” I give the two a superior look, which lasts a total of two seconds before the glares set in.

“Mature, my fucking ass. Stupid ass of a man...”

The two start to grumble quietly amongst themselves as they get to their feet, their cheeks flushed with slight embarrassment. Garrett holds out a hand of truce to Brian; Brian shaking it firmly as they dust each other off.

“You done making utter fools of yourself yet?” I question in earnest, a smirk twitching over my lips.

“Har har, Jesse. Christ, you’re so fucking fuuuunnnny,” Garrett exclaims, sticking his tongue at me. “You’re just chock full of humor... overflowing.”

I smile at how easy it really is. I can easily mask all the emotions and just pretend. Pretending is easy. I can pretend. I’ve been pretending for months, half-heartedly, yes... but definitely pretending. I can joke and laugh, and no one will be the wiser.

I reach out, pulling down on Garrett’s ever-present hat, scoffing, “I am, aren’t I? I’m just teeming with merriness.”

Brian laughs at Garrett’s pout, punching the bassist lightly in the shoulder. “Cheer up, ickle Bunnykins.” Brian goes off on a fresh round of laughter, unable to control himself.

“THEY WERE NOT BUNNIES! THEY WERE DOLPHINS!”

Brian and I snort. Who gives a damn if they were bunnies or dolphins? They were cute, fuzzy slippers, and Garrett wore them onstage... enough said.

Garrett pleads with just his eyes, wishing me to stop the mockery of his choice of footwear on stage. Please, not a chance, babycakes. No one made him wear them...

The far door opens and laughter follows. The sound chills my bones. I hear the footsteps approaching and my eyes widen against their will.

Please, no... not now. Come on! What the hell, I don’t need this now. Come later... GO AWAY!

My heart immediately starts to speed up. The small hairs on my arms rise, and I struggle not to broadcast the fact that my lungs are constricting. The week off did more than solidify the fact that I’d be a poor candidate for a drinking buddy; it also relieved me of his presence. I can already feel him; my body screams for him, I don’t know how no one else hears it. Maybe, they do hear the longing and they choose to ignore it for my benefit.

Garrett’s eyes immediately drop my gaze, and he shifts his attention to something off to the side. Brian’s infectious laugh isn’t so infectious anymore. Brian watches the imminent approach and waits for the polite gesture that will make me crumble from the inside. It’s no longer an act done out of friendship but of propriety, an obligation of a pseudo friendship, more for politics than genuine desire.

“Hey, Jesse. Welcome back.” Such simple words... and yet, why does it make my heart constrict so painfully?

I steady my nerves, something I’ve mastered so well, so good at hiding what I’m truly feeling. I force oxygen into my lungs before I turn around and return the proper greeting.

“Hello, John.”

I couldn't help it

2003-12-30T18:33:31Z

Title: Sex, Pride, and Denial
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Tony Lovato/Christina Aguilera
Summary: Tell me the mighty Christina Aguilera wants Tony fucking Lovato inside her. Tell me.
Disclaimer:The setting is real, the situation is not. I doubt that Christina Aguilera even knows who Tony Lovato is and frankly, that’s her loss. Takes place in New York City on 52nd street at a place called Roseland Ballroom, where Mest rocked out in October.
Author’s Notes: Lozzy, consider this your late Christmas present...

Sex, Pride, and Denial

It’s dark, her small, expensive wrist watch tells her the time is now a quarter after eleven and thus the concert should be ending soon. She slips inside the waiting car, giving the driver hurried directions to where she wants to go... slumping back in her seat as the vehicle quickly juts in and out of nearly empty streets, only populated with late night stragglers on this Tuesday night. The scene outside blurred by the car’s sheer speed and the trickle of drizzling rain.

Her small frame sways with the cab, her hand at her chest. Her clear nails playing with the zipper at the bottom of her throat with trepidation. Her hands shake against her accord as she waits inside the small cramped space of the yellow cab. I shouldn’t be here... I shouldn’t be doing this. Her perfect white teeth bite into her fleshy lower lip as her right hand remains frozen over the handle, her breath uneven.

“Ma’m... we’re here.”

Bright blue eyes avert from the scene outside, no longer watching waves of kids exiting the small venue, to face the gentle looking driver. She sub-consciously smoothes her dark strands underneath her equally dark hood, her fidgety hands checking for any stray pieces that dare to peek out. She fingers at where the material of the hood meets her forehead, tugging at the ends as if to make sure no strong gust of wind will suddenly knock it back and reveal her true identity. She manages to offer the driver a quick smile, her clear eyes hidden behind the soft fabric, swiftly handing him some crumpled bills for her fare and opening the door to step out onto the curb. There’s no going back...

Her breath hitches slightly, her nervousness seeping into her body through her pores. Her mind screams, her instincts yelling at her to get back in that cab and crawl back into her W suite and hide under the plush covers. You don’t belong here. Everything from your voice to your low-slung jeans, they scream DIVA! This place, this street, it’s not meant for your eyes. You don’t belong in the dark, dank alleys of 52nd; you belong in the spotlight of the TRL studios where everyone screams your name. You’re Christina Aguilera, not some fucking emo kid!

She shakes her head violently, her thoughts ranting and raving at her, while her body screams for something else... someone else.

Isn’t that why she had snuck out of her penthouse suite, leaving her bodyguards behind as she made her way to Roseland Ballroom where she knew he would be? Isn’t that why the dark hood of her jacket was hiding her hair and her face, so that no one would recognize her? Granted, many of these kids would hardly believe their eyes or even give her a second glance... but it’d be stupid to take any chances. Worse of all, what if someone caught her on camera... this isn’t something she wanted splashed on tabloids for the whole world to see...

She takes a deep breath before slowly walking around the back, ignoring the small pinpricks of precipitation on the exposed flesh of her hands. She maneuvers through the throng of fans waiting by the back, standing on her toes to whisper into the ears of a bored looking security guard. Then positioning herself in the faded light of the streetlamps so he can scrutinize her face, waiting a moment before he motions with just his head that she should step through the double doors leading her backstage. She tugs on her black hood again, lowering it even further when twenty sets of eyes narrow at her, her breath catching. Paparazzi should be the last of her worries, one of these kids might rip her apart – limb from limb.

Swallowing away her anxiety, she walks into the dark venue, managing to catch the loud words of one girl off to the side, “Oh, look... another groupie. Begging for some GC dick.”

More like Mest...

She cringes at her own thoughts. The wooden doors shut behind her, leaving her in semi-darkness. She lets out a small sigh of apprehension as she takes several cautious steps deeper into the venue. Her mind snaps to attention for the second time since her stealthy departure from her posh hotel, sinking into the gray shadows by where she’s standing, second thoughts rumbling through her head. What the hell am I doing? This is going against everything I believe in... He’s just a fucking boy...

Even as she desperately tries to make out some rationale in her psychosis, her eyes seek in vain for the mohawk she can all but feel under her fingers. She spent innumerable nights grabbing onto those strands, screaming in ecstasy. Back when his hair was still bleached blonde... back when she was in control.

Her resolve slowly builds... she could leave. He never has to know that she broke down and came here tonight. He never has to know.

Her eyes frantically shift from side to side, half praying and half hoping that she can make the two feet to the door without being spotted. Maybe the psychotic fans outside are better than this... whatever this is. She’s strong, she’s powerful... she doesn’t need him.

Her small hands land on the door, her eyes still staking out the scene on the off chance that he might appear out of nowhere and prevent her clean break for freedom. As her palm gets ready to push against the raised wood... a hand does appear, seamlessly out of nowhere, to land on her waist. She doesn’t need to turn around to know whose hand it is. Her determination, to go back and escape, melts away like morning dew in the warm mornings of March. The heat from the familiar hands flow through her thin layers of clothing and make her aware of every single nerve in her body. A rush of air passes from her lips as those hands pull her into the shadows away from the double wooden doors, not from the eyes of angry fans but of nosy technicians and other band members.

She gulps nervously, her heart thumping loudly in her chest as she feels his thin body press up against hers from behind. She doesn’t know how he got there or cares, in the slightest.

“Miss me?”

The cool voice raises goosebumps all over her body, the once stifling atmosphere nothing but a memory as her body shudders at his voice. Warm hands hold her by her hips, pushing the dark hoodie up away from her waist as he slips two well-placed thumbs into the waistband of her 300 dollar jeans. This man... he pulls her closer still. The heat from his mouth, his chest... his whole body... it scalds her with burns that she can’t explain.

“Well?”

His voice is so self-assured, so fucking full of himself. She suddenly, vividly, imagines scratching out his pretty blue eyes - scratching at those clear orbs until they’re nothing but a bloody mess. It’s not fair, no matter how you look at it. It’s hardly fair.

This man, this gorgeous blue-eyed man with perfect lips and nimble fingers makes her lose control. He makes her lose herself in his touch completely. She forgets all notions of being independent and strong. All she wants, all she craves... all she can even wrap her mind around is the notion that he be inside her soon.

She pushes down her guilt, her pride... everything... just to stand here in this spot pressed up against him in the darkness of a New York City venue.

She can feel the smirk pressing into the side of her jaw. She can feel the upturned corners of his mouth pressing into the skin of her sensitive neck. She hates his confidence... the deft way he’s unbuttoning her pants or the way her zipper seems to spring apart like magic. His breath moves over the bared skin of her neck and right shoulder. When did her hood fall? Since when were his lips that close...

One calloused hand slips inside her pants, no warning... nothing.

His voice, another drug for her to get high off, pulls her even deeper, “Do you want me?” The sounds are breathy, and low... it closes her throat more efficiently than a gun to the head. Her gift, her voice and her words, choke her with no means to express herself. Only able to nod numbly as she feels a hot trail being left on her body by his burning fingers.

His hand rests just above her panties, the ones she bought just for him. The hot pink panties with the small little bows near the elastic that literally scream ‘Sex Pot.’ She hardly has any control left in this game, but she can at least pretend that he desires her as much as she does. In the darkness, he can’t even see them so they’re useless.

He easily ignores propriety, as he rubs her through the silken material. She knows that he’s smirking at how wet she is. She knows he takes pleasure in her body’s responses. Her cheeks flush red as she tilts her head down, holding back a soft moan as he languidly rubs at her clit, his breath moving over her neck at a steady pace.

He kicks her legs open with his feet, her stance widening as she slides down his body. This is so wrong... so dirty. Not here... not now... He snorts, almost as if he knows what she’s thinking. Her eyes close shut as he pushes the flimsy material aside to push his fingers inside her violently. Her body spasms in a heady mix of pain and pleasure as his thumb works hard circles at her clit, her knees weakening with every twist and push of those long, talented fingers.

She can’t think; she can hardly breathe.

He speaks against her ear, drawing out each vowel and consonant to torment her that much more, “Doesn’t that feel good? Isn’t that why you always come to me... and not your rich record exec boyfriend?”

His words hammer into her, her dazed brain barely able to process the meanings behind them as she pleads with him. Please... don’t do this to me. Don’t use this against me. Please...

She turns her head away, away from his taunting mouth and his too-accurate words. She doesn’t want to admit it; she sure as hell doesn’t want to acknowledge it.

“Come on, Christina. Just say it... you’re hardly in any condition to say it isn’t true.”

He speaks her name like honey, poisonous honey. He draws out her name, a name so common, but on his lips... it’s a little slice of heaven cut out to taste. But it’s a ruse, a clever ruse to trick her... but it’s too late. Her body craves him; he’s her addiction... her small bite of paradise.

She wants to grit her teeth, to scream and pull his hair. She wants to deny it all, she doesn’t need it. He’s nothing... anyone can make her feel this good. Anyone...

He suddenly moves, instantly pulling his fingers from inside her. Leaving her empty and cold... her nerve endings, the ones residing at her fingertips to the ones tingling at her toes, smoke with the memory of what just was, like a flame just extinguished. He carelessly pushes her into the hard wall. Suddenly, she sees his face and body instead of feeling the smooth skin of his cheek or the compact, flowing muscles making up his figure pressing up against her from behind. His blue eyes drill into her as one hand seizes her shoulder and the other her slightly flared hip, the epitome of control.

“Don’t you get it, yet? Are you that blind, Princess?”

His perfect pink lips form the words, leaving her lost for breath... her pants still open and pulled down in the front, never more aware of her vulnerability as she is now. He unzips the hoodie in one motion, letting the two pieces of fabric flap uselessly to her sides. The open sweatshirt shows off a cut-off tee-shirt and inches of orange skin to his eyes. His eyes devour her, from her nipples straining against the material of her stylishly cropped shirt to her pierced naval.

Her chest is heaving... her hands submissively at her sides as she stares at the man in front of her. He’s not that much taller, but his eyes glow with controlled passion. It burns likes dancing flames inside his cerulean eyes as he glares down at her. This is the man who can make her get on her hands and knees and service him in the back alleys of Chicago and in the high-end department stores of Beverly Hills without a care... just because he wanted her to. She doesn’t have a say... she doesn’t really want one, but he doesn’t have to know that.

He smirks, his eyes appearing so much colder than they were just moments ago. His hands dig into her pliable flesh as he speaks softly... deadly, “I want you to beg. I want to hear the words. I want you to tell me... beg me, to be inside you.”

Dammit, a girl has her pride. She may be standing against a dirty wall with her pants hanging down to reveal everything she’s been told to hold dear, but she has her pride. She juts out her chin defiantly, her own blue eyes burning a cold fire. You can’t make me. I’m not some groupie whore who you can command to your whim. She’s lying, but it’s her world of make-believe... denial.

He scoffs, pushing her harder against the wall as he positions his fingers over her waiting body. Lifting one leg slightly as he leans forward, voice coming out with the texture of dry ice, burning her with its sheer frostiness, “You will fucking beg, you always do.”

He plunges two crossed fingers into her wet body, her eyes closing without her command as she mews. His nails are digging harshly into her insides, he’s hurting her. He wants to hurt her, and she can’t help but allow it. All it takes is two crooked fingers and a squeeze of her clit to make her moan. Her body’s turning on her, right into the hands of this man. He controls her, and he knows it.

He snorts, thrusting his hands harder and harder as her legs start to give beneath her like soft clay.

“Beg, come on. I know you want to... You want me to dominate you, you’ve always wanted it. Tell me that my fingers aren’t enough. Tell me the mighty Christina Aguilera wants Tony fucking Lovato inside her. Tell me.”

She thrashes, turning her head off to the side as she holds back her frustration. Her blunt nails dig into the cheap plaster, the same cheap plaster that holds her writhing form up against his sexual assault. She wants to keep her pride; she has yet to sacrifice it to him. My dignity, dammit. No... I won’t... No... It seems weak even in her mind, her pleas leaving her to be replaced with an ache, a need that builds in her lower abdomen.

“I know you want me; I know you think of me. When it’s dark and you’re alone... who do you think of when you close your eyes? Whose name are you suppressing every time you cum? Whose fingers do you imagine as you touch yourself at night? Who?”

A stray gasp escapes her as he rubs harder, moving deeper. Her pride being pushed aside like yesterday’s news as she voices the words that he already knows, “You, Tony... it’s always fucking you.”

He smiles, it’s triumphant and sinister. His features twist as he waits... not to be deterred from what he really wants from her. Not to be so easily distracted from what he’s truly after.

The plaster works its way under her short manicured nails, cutting at the fragile skin underneath as the rest of her pride and her last shred of dignity crumble to nothing more than specks of dust flying in the wind. Her words and her traitorous body betray all that she once stood for, “Tony, I fucking need you. I want you... I want you to fuck... take me.” She gasps, her words cut and ragged around the edges as she continues, “I need you inside... making me scream. I'm fucking yours to abuse... just... please.”

He smirks at her last word, dexterously opening his pants with his free hand. Not even bothering to push his pants down all the way, just enough to pull himself out from the confines of his beige Dickies. However, wasting no time as he pulls down her low-slung pants all the way, letting them pool at her feet, making her feel more like some cheap trick, "You're a slut... MY slut. You'll always beg for me..."

She turns her head away, not letting him see her glassy eyes... not needing him to know that her body isn’t the only thing at stake anymore. Her heart, her once impenetrable heart belongs to him - this cruel, heartless man. Her eyes close as he enters her body in one thrust, her hands moving to his shoulders as she grips down, her only chance to mark him in turn. She suppresses a scream as he tears into her, her eyes focusing on a solitary figure watching them from his or her sanctuary from across the way, provided by darker shadows than the ones shielding her and Tony.

She knows she should feel ashamed, guilty... dirty. But she can’t bring herself to feel one ounce of remorse or regret. Not when he’s hitting all the right spots, not when he pulls up her legs to wrap around his slender waist. Not when his face is buried in her neck, biting down at the tanned skin there. Not when he grips her hips like a vice and laps at her skin as if it provides him with all the sustenance that he could possibly need.

Tony's words rings through her mind, You're a slut... slut... slut... slut...my slut... Her body sings with pleasure against his for the first time that night, and surely not the last... knowing every word to be true.

Drink Me into a Stupor and Erase Me

2003-12-28T00:43:53Z

Billy-oriented... not much else.

On your way down, make sure to say hi.

His shaking fingers follow the shallow indentations left on the paper by the pen. His heart still refuses to believe the words that make up the seemingly endless collection of swirls and lines. The lines are almost silken, written with perfect precision. He can choose to admire the sheet with an aesthetic resolve and not of a broken man. He looks at the cracking paper with removed precision. He could do it.

It's been years.

Years upon years since the night he'd stumbled to his mailbox, barely able to walk upright in his state, retrieving the single letter from the mailbox. He hadn't thought much of it then. He was properly pissed; he had no care in the whole motherfucking world. It's nice sometimes to drink yourself into a stupor just to remind yourself that you shouldn't. Not the world's best reasoning, but did it really matter? It's not like he's touched a drop since.

The morning after... always something to experience. Body sprawled in the tiny bathroom, both hands grabbing the porcelain bowl as he spent the morning and much of the afternoon getting awfully friendly with the toilet. His eyes were bloodshot, yet his make-up hadn't dare smudge. He couldn't even remember why he had been drinking that night, something to do. What loser drinks alone?

Only those who wish to drown miseries with a bottle, do it alone.

Why had he done it? Why had he spent a perfectly good night getting shit-faced when there was absolutely no need? Days off were a blessing from God, and not to be wasted on such frivolous things as drinking. That's what after-parties were for. He hardly drank and his thin body could hardly take it. He had the one of poorest tolerances for alcohol anywhere. A 12-year-old girl could out-drink him. It wasn't something that had been proven in practice, but it was something that was generally believed by those that knew him.

The paper, old and discolored, yet in perfect condition. The two creases the only things marring the otherwise perfect piece of paper. The blue ink just a beautiful abstract piece of art that decorate both sides of the paper in simple elegance. They really weren't words, just mere swirls on paper. Really.

The words mean nothing.

The sender means nothing.

Really.

That next day, the day spent bent over and green. Not a pleasant morning, followed by an even more miserable night.

The moment he had opened that letter, he knew nothing would ever be the same. He just didn’t know to what degree... The crisp white paper had been almost too perfect. The white unmarred by any discoloration, the thin blue lines crossing the paper not wavering in their steadfast coloring or width. Perfect. The letter was just a lot of perfect.

He hadn’t bothered to look at the envelope. He knew it was a personal letter, probably his mom or something, not something to get his boxers into a twist for.

However, the moment he slipped the simple lined paper out of the pristine envelope, he knew. It wasn’t a letter from his mom clinging to old notions about snail mail being worth more in the long run than an e-mail. A letter was tangible, something that could be held in your hand and caressed, something palpable. An e-mail was too easily deleted and forgotten; she never preferred it that way.

His heart had sped up a little.

From the way, the paper seemed to carry this weight; he knew it wasn’t just a simple greeting from his mother. It was something more than that. The letter would change something, something important.

It's an one shot deal... take it or leave it

2003-11-09T19:53:46Z

Title: In All Truth
Band: Mest/Good Charlotte (Tony/Joel)
Summary: If you could read my thoughts, this is what they’d tell you.
Disclaimer: Let’s not be stupid, okay?
Thanks to _sissyneck for cleaning up this mess. Everyone owes her a thanks because this was generally unreadable before she got to it.

In All Truth

I’m sick of awaiting your approval. I hate the lonely, tear-stained nights I spent, waiting for your comforting words or warm embrace. I never knew what I truly had until you were nothing but a cold memory. Your image consumes my thoughts and consumes my nights.

My dreams are filled with images of your affectionate touch... of a life that I was sure would be mine.

It seemed like our relationship was perfection. My love for you was all-consuming and more than anything, it was true and tender. I remember that I spent weeks dreaming of you. All I wanted was to be with you, hold you, and kiss you. I didn’t need more any than that.

I overcame every problem, every obstacle, just so I could be with you. I did anything that I could, just so I could have something that I would normally run away from. I didn’t want this to be just another fling, nothing more than a memory. I wanted this to be worth writing down in the record books.

I can see that we’re very, very different.

Different... you’re the very antithesis of me. I’m loud and flamboyant; you’re not. I’m a fireball of emotion, never afraid to put everything on the line; you’re not. You’re always holding yourself back, only coming out when alcohol is flowing through your system. Listening to your stories, it made me feel closer to you.

Now, after all that we’ve presumably shared, you push me away. What, am I not good enough for you?

I would love to say that your actions don’t affect me. I would love to claim that your indifference isn’t killing me, but it is. It hurts... it hurts so fucking much. You find it so easy to ignore my extended hand; I wish it was just as easy to take your heart-breaking indifference in stride.

I hate the way my heart tightens in my chest for you. I hate how my body craves yours... the way my mind and heart can’t let you go.

If I was issued a choice, a way to erase you completely from my memory, I think I would.

It’s selfish, I know... but then again, it’s not like you care. From your actions and even your simple words, I know I’ve already been deleted from your life. I used to be so important to you, or at least that’s what you said to me. You said that you cared and that I consumed your thoughts.

Were those lies?

I care so much, and it’s slowly killing me.

I can forget you during the day, my thoughts devoted with the actions at hand. There are too many things going on to really allow my mind to wander to the one place that makes me break down into tears. There are so many what ifs; however, I’m through blaming myself for the end. I made mistakes; I admit that. I made some very ugly mistakes.

But I also did something that I never thought I would be capable of; I said that I was sorry. I practically begged for forgiveness, but everyone knows that not everything can have a happy ending. As much as I would have loved for you to accept my heart-felt words, it wasn’t to be.

As much as I hate this feeling, I know that in the end I’ll be stronger for it.

You’re breaking my heart every single second of every single day. You’re breaking my world like no one and nothing else. I hope that you’re proud you can reduce me to such a mess. One day, you’ll mean nothing to me. Of that I’m sure, because I will live my life without you. I’ve done so for many, many years. I love you, but you’re not everything.

I’m not going to swear my undying love, because love is a flame and you’re my oxygen. Without precious oxygen, the flame will smolder and eventually die out. It took me three years for the last flame to die. Who knows how long it will take before the light dies for you.

Maybe, we’ll be able to work it out one day. Maybe, you’ll stop pushing me away and stop being so goddamn full of yourself. Maybe, one day, you’ll stop judging me; but I don’t see it in the near future.

I have my whole life to live. I have numerous opportunities. Opportunities that have already passed by you because you were too busy being a fuck-up. I can choose to ruin my life like you, always doubting myself, always needing the reassurance of others, but I don’t think I will.

Maybe, I don’t need your approval so much anymore.

As much as you hurt me everyday, even without your knowledge, I get stronger... finding ways to numb the hurt, sometimes even overcoming it.

There are new loves to be had. New people to lust desire... someone else to fall in love with. I will never find someone to replace Matt... or you. I’m not looking for a replacement; I’m looking for the real thing. The simple fact that we couldn’t overcome the small speed bump shows me that you weren’t worth the time to begin with.

Does it hurt to know all the thoughts inside my head? I won’t bother to hide behind apathetic words... the same words you offer me. If you don’t want it, just say so. I can move on easier that way. I won’t feel as guilty for falling for Billy. I won’t feel that odd feeling of cheating when I share a moment with him, one that makes my body feel alive.

I was always honest... almost always.

You’re smarter than you think. You were right; I did lose interest. I very much lost interest in you. Why should I hold out for someone who was miles away when guys were falling at my feet? I’m glad I cheated; serves you right for all the hearts you’ve broken... for breaking my own. I can take this as my due punishment for wandering, but truth be told, I don’t care so much anymore.

I always tried to let you in on things that I physically could not show anyone else. I thought I was being open and real. You thought I was being weak and useless. I made a mistake in choosing to reveal myself to you, that much is obvious to me. How could I’ve thought that you were so important and essential to me when you refuse to just accept me as the flawed human being that I am... the same flawed human being that I accepted you as. I didn’t know that asking for some understanding was such a crime.

I’m slowly moving on and moving past the hurt that you’ve marked inside my aching heart. I can function without you now. Days can go by without once thinking of you. I can listen to love songs without your voice immediately popping into my mind. I still have more to overcome before I can ever let you go. That one song... I still can’t listen to it. It will bring me to my knees and make me bawl because each note reminds me of what could have been.

I need to learn to let my past go.

I need to move beyond past mistakes. It’s a lesson that I’ve failed repeatedly in the past. In the trials of life, I’ve failed more than I’ve passed. With every piercing pain that follows, I’m getting a little stronger. My heart will never be the same. There is no chance that I can have that same carefree look on it again, but you’ve brought me something that that cannot be given by expressing love... only by taking it.

One day, my dreams and thoughts won’t be consumed by you.

Until then, I’ll be counting down the second until that day arrives.