0.1 cavil "I'm sick of this." "What? ... What?" "You heard me. I'm sick of this. Stop it." "Choutarou..." "I can't believe you -- what the hell are you doing? I told you to stop." "You're overreacting. It's nothing. Here, see--" "I told you --" "FuckshitOW! Ohtori, what the fuck was that for?!" "Don't touch me like that -- don't -- I hate that!" "For bloody ... You never cared before! What the hell is your problem now?! Fine! Fuck it, I'm leaving!" The door slammed open and shut again, startling the boy who lurked in the next room. The raised voices had drawn him, and though the conversation seemed strange and one that he should not eavesdrop upon, he continued to listen until the very end. When the door opened, he was still leaning against the shelf beside it, and his head lifted, measuring eyes staring down the older boy who was exiting the locker room. "The hell do you want?" Shishido asked. His voice was rough, and his eyes were hard beneath the band of his cap, asking for a retort, looking for an opening, an excuse to start trouble. Hiyoshi sidestepped the question easily, not replying as he brushed past the senior; he cared not for sweat and bruises, for the wrinkle between drawn-together brows or the taint of blood on parted lips. The doorknob was cold beneath his hand, and Shishido's snarl was ignored as he slipped into the regular's locker room and closed the door behind him. His third step slid, and as he caught his balance, he looked down. His shoe was caught on the sleeve of a uniform shirt, and it was easy enough to deduce the owner when he turned his gaze towards the row of computers against the far wall. Pale skin stretched across broad shoulders; the monitor in front of Ohtori was dark, and the way the other junior was leaning forward suggested that he was supporting his head with his hands, elbows propped upon the table before him. Ohtori didn't seem to notice him as he approached, as one foot was placed in front of the other in precise steps that ended when he hit the back of the chair the other junior sat in. His fingers closed on the back of the chair, clenching tightly so that he would not let go. "Put your shirt on," he said, eyes tracing thin red welts that scraped across a pale back from left shoulder to right hip. Ohtori shrugged, rolling his shoulders, still looking down at the keyboard before him, not acknowledging him with anything more than that simple motion. Hiyoshi had patience, however. "Class starts in ten minutes. Have you had lunch yet?" He did not like wasting his words. "I'm not hungry," Ohtori replied, and his voice was low, uncharacteristically petulant. A moment of silence curled in upon itself in the empty room, and then he spoke again. "You heard, didn't you?" "Yes," Hiyoshi responded, seeing no reason to lie. Feelings should not be saved by harmless fiction presented as fact. "I didn't mean to hit him. I just -- I don't like it when he does that. I didn't want to -- not here -- it hurt, anyway." Slight shame, embarrassment at being caught doing something he should not have been doing. "I don't mind the rest, but sometimes he's too rough." "He's Shishido," Hiyoshi said, and those words held all that they needed to; his hand betrayed him, loosening its grip on molded plastic to touch pale skin, tracing over carelessly-left marks, light wounds that did not belong. His fingers were spaced perfectly to fit into the long scratches left by another's nails, and Ohtori was not the only one to shudder when he pulled his hand away as though burned. *
0.2 taradiddle He pressed his face into cloth and breathed in the scent of sweat and deodorant and the faint lingering traces of the shampoo Ohtori had used when bathing the evening before, and then exhaled. The warmth of the broad back his cheek was pressed against was comforting, and he did not feel like pulling away just yet. His hands shifted across the stomach of the other boy, disappeared into folds of thin fabric, leaving creases in the freshly-pressed button-down shirt. Still he did not speak, and this was not unusual, but it was also an irritation to the boy whose back he was curled against, whose breath rose and fell beneath his needy fingertips. "You still don't believe me, do you?" Ohtori's voice was soft, annoyance coloring his tone as he locked broad hands around wrists that his grasp easily spanned. Thumbs brushed lightly over knuckles, sought to give reassurance, and were rewarded only with a tightening of fingers in his shirt that threatened to pop his buttons free by force. Hiyoshi mumbled into the taller boy's back, his words lost into shirt and skin; the damp warmth of his breath and tongue left a darkened circle on the fabric that disappeared as it dried. When Ohtori asked for clarification, he pulled his face away, glaring up at tousled hair through narrowed eyes. "It was a very stupid excuse for being late." That was all Hiyoshi had to say, it seemed, and Ohtori responded with an exasperated grumble, releasing his hold upon thin wrists and twisting in Hiyoshi's arms, wanting to face the boy whose gaze was averted as he pulled his arms back in and around himself, crossing them over his chest. He reached forward, giving a squeeze to hands whose hold had been broken by his moving, and then up to touch one tanned cheek before its owner jerked away. "I was telling the truth!" he snapped, frustration tightly held escaping in his tone. Eyes met his for a moment, hard and brittle before breaking contact; Hiyoshi's gaze shifted downward, followed by fingers that traced the edges of his collar, lingered across the dark shadow of a fading bruise that was nearly hidden beneath crisp ironed white. An argument in a darkened room: accusations and unclothed bodies, fear metal-sharp on their tongues, the unseen presence of a third party who had no business in leaving marks of possession. "It had nothing to do with that," Ohtori murmured, disconcerted. The fingers curved inside his collar, twisting; the tightened circle of cloth constricted his breath, but he did not protest. "When are you going to start trusting me?" Ohtori asked, cupping Hiyoshi's face in his hands, forcing him to meet his eyes. The indrawn hiss of breath when he kept Hiyoshi from pulling away again spoke of temper and fire contained. "This has nothing to do with him," Ohtori repeated, changing his words as he leaned in so that his forehead was pressed against the other teen's, so that he could stare him in the eye from up close, their breath overlapping. Hiyoshi closed his eyes, and Ohtori pulled his hands away with a sound of soft disgust. "You're not going to start sulking on me, are you?" He was rewarded with opened eyes; a mute glare was all the answer he received, before Hiyoshi leaned in and kissed him. The soft contact lasted all of three seconds before sharp teeth fastened in his lower lip and drew blood, and Hiyoshi pulled away, standing up while Ohtori cursed and watched him stalk out. *
0.3 pachyderm Life has a long, long nose. "You're not thinking of really turning this in, are you?" The thinly-veiled scorn in Shishido's voice cut deeper than expected; Ohtori winced, looking down at the paper and the tearing the sheet loose from his notebook, crumpling it up into a careless ball and tossing it at the wastebin. His throw fell short, and he sighed as he looked back at his homework assignment. He should have asked Hiyoshi to help him with the writing assignment; though his 'tutor' would still have expressed disdain for his work, at least it would not have been the spoken sort. He was starting to think that he preferred silent contempt to outright mockery. "You're not helping, Shishido-san." "Sorry. It's a stupid assignment, what the hell does your teacher expect? What do elephants have to do with life, anyway?" Capable hands brushed schoolwork and books aside, cleared more space on the bed; Shishido fell backwards, pillowing his head on crossed arms so that he could stare up at the unadorned ceiling of the room. "It's supposed to be a metaphor." Ohtori mumbled, feeling self-conscious at the implied criticism of that question. He looked away when he realized he was staring at the crescent of tanned skin exposed between the bottom of Shishido's T-shirt and the top of his shorts. "It's stupid." The words made him cringe; he focused his eyes on a poster neatly framed and hung on his wall as he soothed away pricks of indignation. It wasn't that stupid, he hadn't had to say that much. "Aw, shit. Choutarou, I didn't mean that." Too late, Shishido realized that he'd managed to offend the younger boy. He sat up, scratching his head uncomfortably, using the excuse of mangled hat-hair to look away. "Yes, you did, don't lie." Ohtori offered a half-hearted smile, letting himself be warmed by the fact that Shishido had noticed and seemed embarrassed now. "You're right. It is kinda stupid." It had been the best he'd been able to think up on short notice, though. He should stick to tennis, not to writing. "Now you're the one who's lying." A hand approached his face, and he stared cross-eyed at it before Shishido flicked his forehead hard. "Don't hold back." His wince faded as he rubbed the stinging spot between his eyes; the smile that lit up his face was real. "It's an essay, not tennis." He couldn't aim a serve at the piece of paper and expect it to write his answers for him, could he? "So what?" Shishido leaned closer to him on the bed; their knees touched, warm skin brushing against warm skin. "You should write like you play. Don't hold back. Put all your feeling into it. You could've told me to shut up, you know. You don't have to agree with everything I say just 'cause I'm a senpai." "But Shishido-san--" His protest was covered by a callused hand, and a sharp grin under thin brows. "You don't need my approval to go after a serve to your part of the court, do you?" No, he didn't. But this wasn't tennis! He tried to speak again, but Shishido's hand still prevented him; the older boy braced his weight with a hand on Ohtori's thigh as he leaned in, breath ghosting against his knuckles over Ohtori's lips. Warm eyes met, heat startling from only three inches apart; Shishido's voice was gentle and rough when he spoke again. "You don't need my approval for anything. Don't hold back, Choutarou." When he lowered his hand, Ohtori didn't. *
0.4 disingenuous The yell that ricocheted from the walls of the small apartment was one that bespoke of outrage and betrayal, as was the fist that slammed into drywall. Later, when emotion cooled and thoughts ceased to careen about violently, the task of patching the wall would be undertaken. In the now, the only important thing was that he had been tricked, and he wasn't going to stand for that. Not this time; too many times he'd been forgiving, too many times he'd overlooked mistakes and foolery and downright meanness. Not this time. "You said that no one called. You said that no one came over. You told me that he never contacted the apartment." Ohtori's voice was flat, his expression tight and as devoid of anger as he could make it. "So?" The face turned up to meet his was one of complete disregard for the gravity of the situation, and Ohtori could not believe that he'd been so easily taken in by the appearance of nonchalant innocence. He wanted to reach forward, smack that indifferent expression away from his best friend's face. He never hit anyone if he could help it, though, and certainly not a friend, so instead his fury expressed itself in hissed sibilants as he fought not to let his voice rise too high in volume. "Why didn't you tell me he came here, Wakashi? Why didn't you tell me he called while I was gone? I asked you to call me if he did, you were supposed to tell me, you lied to me!" "I'm not your answering service or message board." The remark came over Hiyoshi's shoulder as he turned, moved across the room towards the kitchen area. His socks slid on the linoleum as he approached the refrigerator, opened it to remove a carton of juice. "Don't turn your back on me!" Five long steps, and the carton spun across the linoleum, liquid splashing in a golden arc before it came to a stop, a growing pool obscuring the pattern on the floor. Ohtori did not look at the mess he had created when he'd knocked it from Hiyoshi's grasp. Hiyoshi looked from the hand that held his wrist too tightly up to the face that was too close to his, and he smiled, a baring of teeth. "You're better off without him." "I love him, you idiot." The growl held traces of hurt, of anger. Ohtori could not believe that his roommate had been able to so calmly, easily ignore his words and actions, reply to his questions with falsehoods. It had been such a simple request, and Hiyoshi had so easily pushed it aside. "I know," Hiyoshi replied calmly, and he looked away from Ohtori, focused instead on the growing puddle on the floor as he pulled his hand free from fingers whose grip became powerless. He crossed the kitchen in damp socks, removing the mop from its corner, and then returned to begin to clean the mess, strips of stained and dingy cloth soaking up the wasted liquid, not looking up as Ohtori turned and walked away. He didn't care. Neither of them drank orange juice, anyway. *
0.5 riparian "This isn't about forgiveness." The words were mild, but the way his eyes tracked Hiyoshi's path across the balcony belied that. "It was never about that." Another circle, another pause to look down at the river far below them. Hiyoshi turned again, began his pacing anew. He could measure the balcony in his own footsteps; ten to move the entire length, three to reach the railing from the door. He did not look back over his shoulder, at the speaker who stood just beyond the closed screen. Ohtori hated it when he forgot to close the door. It didn't happen often; the first time had been purely an accident, and the sharp words and annoyance in the gaze fixed upon his reclining form on the sofa had startled him. The third time it happened, he decided that it was a privilege he held. Ohtori went out of his way to contain his temper, disliked raising his voice in anger, preferred to retain his polite manner with most whom he interacted with. Hiyoshi was privileged, he had thought, to be able to hear irritation in his roommate's voice, to know what things bothered him and annoyed him. It was a sign that they were close, that he knew what Ohtori disliked as well as what he liked. "I never asked for your forgiveness." "Of course you didn't." A low, rough laugh accompanied the words. "Does he know, Hiyoshi?" He whipped around from his position, staring hard at the other man. "Does he know what?" Hiyoshi asked, and his voice was light and innocent, uncaring. They both knew the lie for what it was, and he turned away, stared down. Rushing gray water, too far away to be heard. The breeze carried a cold bite to it; there was something in the water, and he leaned against the rail, tried to make out what it was before it could be swept away. "Looking for bodies?" The words were a whisper, warm breath harsh against his ear. He hadn't heard the screen door open, hadn't heard the approach, and when his back was blocked from the wind, he did not appreciate the gesture. Warm lips brushing against his ear, a hand next to his upon the rail; he shuddered, and did not look back at the one who encroached upon his personal space. "You're looking in the wrong place. Does he know, Hiyoshi?" "Does he know what?" A hand touching his hip, the barest light caress before a strong arm encircled his waist. A mouth hungry upon his neck; his eyes closed as the voice gave him answer, words rushing in a torrent as bitter and cold as the river below them. "You always wanted him, but you were always too fucking scared to make a move. You're interfering. He doesn't want you like that. He'll never touch you like that." "Are you trying to convince me, or convince yourself?" Bodies in the water. Hiyoshi pushed back from the railing, broke free of the hold, found the breeze cool upon the damp spot on his neck. He did not reach up to touch it, despite the way it ached. "Close the screen door." *
0.6 irascible Blood tasted like nothing. Some claimed that it was sweet, or bitter, or had a salty, coppery tang; Shishido didn't taste anything when he bled, thin warm liquid on his tongue. He licked his lips, worried at the cut on the inside of his left cheek where flesh had been driven into teeth. More damage could have been done. He did not feel grateful, however, that Hiyoshi had ended the fight before he'd gotten a chance to really satisfy himself. "This needs to stop." His lover's words were firm and held no space for contradiction; the hand that dabbed at the cut above his left eyebrow was gentle. He winced, but did not complain at the stinging disinfectant. "The asshole was asking for it," Shishido complained flatly, eyes closing as a small bandage was applied. When he opened them again, Ohtori was smiling at him. "What's so damn funny?" "Ah." The chuckle that followed was slightly self-conscious. "I was just thinking of junior high school. You used to wear a bandage then, in the same spot." Shishido was silent as the other young man's fingers traced the edge of the adhesive strip. "I forgot," he said after a second or two. "It was a long time ago." That was true; the years had passed too quickly, until they were at the place they occupied now. "I can barely see the scar anymore. It's almost completely faded." Hands took his shoulders, pulled him across the bed and into Ohtori's lap as the taller boy fell backwards, ignoring the small medical kit as its contents were scattered across the sheets. "Shishido-san." A short, barked laugh escaped his lips as he looked down into a face that had grown far too familiar and beloved over the years, settled his weight on top of a body that he knew as intimately as his own now. "Choutarou." It was an affectionate admonition; the younger boy had taken years to start using his given name, even in private moments. "I'm sorry about the fight." "You're lucky Hiyoshi was there to keep you from getting hurt worse," Ohtori murmured, hands raising to cup cheeks before sliding up into bound hair, pulling the elastic band loose so that dark hair could fall over his hands, so that he could pull his fingers through the long strands that framed Shishido's face and pooled on his chest in gleaming coils. "He's a regular knight in shining armor on a white horse, all right," Shishido grumbled, and then winced as Ohtori pinched his cheek. "I didn't need any help from him." "You pick too many fights. I hate that. What if you really get hurt, Ryou?" A lock of hair, pulled tight in closed fingers. Ohtori had never expressed a preference for his hair being long or short, but he'd buried his fingers in chin-length strands during their first kiss and that was reason enough to grow it out fully. "Hiyoshi will just have to rescue me again." He smirked then, and lowered himself so that he could kiss lips that could not resist him, so that he could fit himself between splayed legs and swallow Ohtori's gasp. *
0.7 defalcation "It tickles." The words were not quite a complaint, and they were not taken as one, for the touch did not stop, continued in its tracery over skin and muscle. He stared down at the fingers that moved in small, damp patterns across his stomach. Words drawn upon flesh; he tried to decipher their meaning, but he could not read the strokes upside down. Higher; his thin t-shirt was pushed up to his clavicles, and the heat in the room was enough that the air hitting his skin was not a shock. More words that meant nothing; when callus brushed across his nipple, he drew in his breath as though he'd been stung. "He didn't come." Ohtori's words held the essence of dejection, of rejection. "He didn't come, Wakashi. I waited and waited." A shifting of weight on his leg and side; Ohtori was heavy, too heavy to lay upon him, and it was uncomfortable, but he did not protest when the taller boy stretched up to lick a drop of sweat away from his brow. "Did you really think he would?" Breath quickened, and Hiyoshi closed his eyes. The room was too hot, but it was summer and he could excuse the flush that crept down from his face to his neck easily. Lips ghosted over his cheek, felt cool against burning skin, moved to his neck. Soft velvet and the wet slide of a tongue that tasted the line of his jaw. "He said he would." The murmur was almost petulant, a hot rush of air into his ear before teeth fastened onto cartilage, a gentle nip released so that they could graze the sensitive skin just behind his ear, drawing a moan that was held caged in his mouth; he would not break his rule. "He promised," Ohtori said when Hiyoshi did not reply, and the bite he placed then was not gentle, causing eyes to fly open and stare blindly at the ceiling above them, breath to halt in a moment of gasping sensation that was not quite pain. "Did he really?" More questioning, and Hiyoshi wasn't surprised by the way fingers indented the skin at his side, pressure that was not painful but warned him not to inquire too deeply. He sighed, an exhalation of breath that sounded too tired in the humid air; Ohtori slid down again, resting his head upon Hiyoshi's chest. The hold eased, and Hiyoshi felt the gentlest brush of lashes across his skin when eyes blinked; fingers moved again, restless circles drawn over and over. Sweat-damp curls clung close, and Hiyoshi felt filthy, somehow, and he let himself both revel in and be disgusted by the way Ohtori's skin adhered to his, sweat-salt and oil mixed in the heat. "Can I sleep here?" The whisper was one that held defeat, and Hiyoshi sighed again, moving an arm that screamed for circulation and begged for stillness while pinpricks bit into his fingertips; Ohtori's hair felt thin and fine, delicate as that of a child beneath his touch. "If you want," he said, and he closed his eyes on the wind chime gleaming in the afternoon sun. *
0.8 nebulous When he closed the door, he realized that the light was on. This didn't bother him -- it wasn't unusual for Ohtori to leave a lamp on when he was out late, it wasn't an odd thing to do by any stretch of the imagination. It didn't take so long to pull off his shoes, one hand braced against the wall to retain his balance, and neatly set them in the short row. When he did so, he noted that the row was longer; the worn pair of black running shoes wasn't an unfamiliar addition, but he scowled anyway. He stepped up into the main living area, crossed the room to the kitchen; the soft shuffling of his socks as they slid across the cool floor with each step was a comforting sound. He opened the refrigerator, blinked at the automatic light and found the carton he wanted; it was nearly empty, and he didn't bother with a glass, feeling only a little guilty that he was breaking Ohtori's rule as he took a swallow straight from the carton. "It's almost three." The voice startled him, but he didn't choke, simply turned to face the speaker with carton in hand. Silver hair dully caught the light from the lamp on the small end table as his roommate stood from the chair he'd been sitting in, long limbs curled up. He set the carton down on the counter as Ohtori approached. "I got back late," he said, and the unnecessary words stuck in his throat. He coughed gently. Ohtori should be asleep right now. He should be in his own bed. "You got back late," Ohtori repeated after him, and leaned against the tile counter, features disapproving in the shadows. He stared at Hiyoshi, and it did not take long to grow uncomfortable beneath his gaze. "Was it a good date?" "It was all right." His murmur was noncommittal, and he shifted his weight from leg to leg, looking away from Ohtori, down the hall. "He'll get cold." The reminder of the third person in their living space did not make Ohtori flinch; his lips were pressed together in a hard line. He hadn't approved of Hiyoshi's nights out since they'd begun. "This isn't right, Wakashi. You shouldn't lead them on. They're nice girls." A soft, half-amused noise was his reply to that. He didn't care if they were nice girls. It didn't really matter. "They offer, I take them up on it. So what?" It was never as good as he hoped it would be, but his expectations were falling lower as time went by, and the disappointment not as great. He'd learned to accept it. "You should be more careful. More considerate. You'll hurt people if you use them like that." Disapproval was thick in Ohtori's voice as he approached his roommate, as he crossed his arms over his chest. "They're sluts and they ask for it." Hiyoshi expected the half-hiss of indrawn breath, the way Ohtori's hand tightened upon the edge of the tiles. "It doesn't matter. I get what I want." "Is that really what you want?" The question faltered in the air and died. "I don't want you to do this anymore." It was not quite a demand; Hiyoshi closed his eyes, and his soft laugh was silent, but not unnoticed. Soft slide-shuffle of socks across cheap linoleum. "It's not funny, Wakashi," Ohtori murmured, and his fingers brushed those of his friend, held on tight when Hiyoshi tried to pull away. Dark eyes stared deep into a face that remained closed to him; Hiyoshi kept his secrets close. "I don't like it." "It's not your concern," Hiyoshi said, and he looked to the side, looked down the darkened hallway towards a room that held soft breath and warm skin. "No. I guess not." Ohtori's words were short and clipped; he pulled away, expression growing blank and carefully shuttered. Ohtori released his hand, and Hiyoshi stared up at his best friend's face again, sought out the answer he knew he wouldn't find there. The warmth in those eyes wasn't meant for him. "He'll get cold," Hiyoshi said, and this time his words were gentle. The lips that brushed across his cheek were warm; Hiyoshi flinched, and he could not read the words on the side of the milk carton as Ohtori drained the last drop. *
0.9 roseate The clothes in his arms were still slightly damp; he grumbled softly to himself, but continued in his hurried unclipping of each garment. Every so often, he hazarded a glance at the sky, and then his actions moved more quickly. A soft curse left his lips when he dropped a clothespin. He left it laying on the concrete floor of the balcony; it was more important to hurry the clothing inside before the storm hit. "I still don't think it's going to rain." The amused voice that cut through his pessimism was not ignored, but he did not respond, either, piling another pair of jeans into the hamper. The forecast was quite certain, and the dark clouds that gathered at the edge of the skyline informed him that inclement weather was fast approaching. He was almost done, and he could relax then, but the undershirt he tossed on top of the growing pile tumbled from the top onto his feet, and he grimaced as pristine white quickly soaked up the remnants of whatever had been spilled earlier. Grape juice; he'd told Ohtori to mop up the accidental spill. He'd have to take the laundry in and then return for the rest. "Have you hung the towels up yet?" he asked as he bent over, calling back through the screen door while he picked up the plastic tub. "I like them where they are." The amused reply made him grumble quietly, muttered words beneath his breath that were not meant to be heard. "Ohtori," he said as he turned and moved the requisite three steps necessary to reach the door, squinting at the darkness within the apartment. The screen worked a bit too well at times; he couldn't tell if his roommate had hung up the towels to finish drying as he'd requested or not. He unsteadily balanced the basket on his hip, keeping a firm hold with one arm while he manipulated the door handle with the other, sliding it open so that he could step into the apartment. He would dump the basket on the bed; that would serve Ohtori right, if the damp soaked into his bedsheets. He'd told him to hang up the towels. His first thought, when his eyes focused in the darkness and he was able to make out pale skin and hair against paler white, was that Ohtori really hadn't hung up the damn towels. His second thought was somewhat less coherent, and he didn't know how long he'd stood in the doorway to the balcony, lips parted in surprise, before Ohtori's voice cut through the sudden silence. "Close the screen door, Wakashi." The chiding note was softened by warm amusement, and Hiyoshi fumbled blindly, not paying attention to the hand which found the door by merest luck and slid it closed with a sharp click. The smile trained upon him from over a shoulder held the slightest hint of smugness; his eyes were caught by the smooth expanse of skin and muscle, traced from calves up to thighs, from buttocks to a broad back and crossed arms as Ohtori levered himself up just enough to look at him, tilting his head back. He swallowed, and only just managed to catch the basket before it fell to the floor. Caught off-guard; the young man before him was too easily able to do so, taking advantage of each opportunity. How long had Ohtori been laying there, lounging upon the pile of towels spread across the bed like a contented cat, clad in no more than said feline would wear in his position? "I told you to hang those up," Hiyoshi said, words soft as he approached the bed. The chuckle which answered his grumble was one he couldn't ignore. "I like them where they are. It's not going to rain." A shifting on the mattress, a ripple of tensed muscle beneath skin, and then strong hands were upon his arm as Ohtori sat up, pulling him down onto the bed; cloth against skin, fingers in his hair and lips upon his that took as easily as they gave. When he pulled away, he realized that the knees of his sweatpants were cool, and he knew without looking that they were growing dark with moisture. "Maybe they can stay there a little longer," he conceded. *
1.0 incipient Go, stop, stop, don't go. He spends the early hours watching red lights shift to green through the slats of blinds which hide his darkened room from the world, swaddled like a child protecting himself from nightmares in unwashed bedsheets stained with semen. The room is cold, but the chill feels good to him, a reminder that this is reality and not merely an uncomfortable recurring dream, a reminder of the way his chest heaves when he hears words of love spoken in heated whispers escape from the room next door; it is a dull ache, a pain he can easily ignore. Repression is the main tenet of his religion; he has no need for the physical reminder of his heartbeat and existence which sex creates. Raised voices cause his mindless staring to stop; he looks away from the window, listens to the unspoiled spaces of a conversation that demands that its participants do not speak in words. He has no experience in translating these tongues. He opens his mouth, and he feels his vocal cords grow taught, no sound escaping, frozen. The thought amuses him in a strange way: he is frozen, the water in his body turning him into a statue. A human popsicle, a gigantic man-shaped ice cube melting on the tongue. He is drowning in the water that trickles down the back of his throat. Hushed whispers; he moves his lips in mimicry of speech in the darkness, and he thinks that he might appear to be crazy to someone watching him. Hiding in his closet, perhaps, an unknown entity that smirks at him before crossing the room. He reacts with bewilderment to the touch, jerks away from the unseen presence. It moves with him as he shakes his head in rejection, stands in his defeat to retreat across the room; he stumbles over the tangle of bedsheets dragged with him and falls into the pile of dirty clothing which has accumulated over the last week. His nose is caught by the scent of stale sweat, and he does not need ears to hear the derogatory chanted rhymes used to taunt clumsy children in the schoolyard. A memory of laughter and words whose alliteration will follow him throughout junior and senior high to express itself in literature papers that leap with an unfettered torrent of words never used to defend himself in years past. The reminder propels him to his feet, turning to face the intruder and finding only a wall covered in a patchwork of papers covered in scrawled pen and marker, held together with ligatures of tape. A murmur from the not-quite-open door; his fumbling has drawn the attention of the living, and his reassurances are made in a curt answer which does not tremble on the air. There is the flash of a vague smile before the door is closed with a soft clicking noise that pulls at the stitches of an unseen wound. Rot has set in; the only remedy for gangrene is to cut away the dead parts, the nurse informs him with a smile and a pat from an unhesitating hand upon tousled, fine hair. The fingers which slip down his sweat-damp brow are pleasant, cool, and dry; their path along his smooth cheek makes him close his eyes. When they touch his lips they carry the scent of the lotion he had 'borrowed' from his mother as a teenager, until the day he forgot to lock the bathroom door and his older brother caught him in the act of masturbation. His eyes open with the shame of memory, and he is greeted only by the green light flashing through his blinds, changing to yellow, to red again. The color of fury, reflected in the glass of a window that exists to hold disappointment in its panes, reflected in a face which holds no blame for his thoughts, no anger for his actions, and reaches out to him with burned fingertips that knock against the glass, cold. The red light shifts to green.
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