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What he’s missing is more burning, more rotten rubbish reduced to ashes beneath his feet, a mockery of kneeling. What he’s missing is blood-red soaked into worn sneakers, strings loosely tied, and a tense grip on his wrist, drawing him back into another rough kiss. He’s just missing until there’s arms tight around him, teeth tugging at the ruined cartilage of his ear and threatening to tear free another chunk of flesh; to mash it between molars, sweetened by the toughness, until all that’s left is battered meat.
But who the hell knows the last time he’d been held so tightly, not loved but needed, craved, the same way he’d begun to believe was impossible. Who knows what it means that it’s only happening now rather than ten years earlier—that the missing piece shows up with bloody fists and not scraped knees, the end result his cause not any other.
That he begins to feel only when there’s that singed shock associated with the pleasure, initial discomfort before it morphs into something sweeter than his honey’s sweet tooth could even begin to conjure up; syrupy, slow. Is that what love’s like? Everything at a reduced speed, blurry around the edges—melting as he considers it, but not burning?
If that’s what it is. But the ache’s still there regardless of the warmth that colors him half-whole. He still sees tiny, grubby hands clawing at others with mismatched coloring, tough-textured skin in the beginning stages of rot. He still hears the weakness in the wobble of his words, the shaky shoes he inhabits, not yet suitable for his feet. But that awful churning might get thrown away briefly in exchange for a horrible caress. Those sweet, dangerous fingers that comb through greasy curls.
When he can press the dead meat of his cheek against that shoulder and rub with feeling, craving nothing more than the warmth associated with scratchy skin. Why can’t we just stay together in this moment forever? No more movement, stagnant, but life’s not like that and you claim there’s beauty in it. Without you, there’d be none of it.
What he wants more than life itself is you. Nothing has ever consumed him this seamlessly—a previous instance of interest turned into fervid steps toward need alone. Anything else had been ephemeral, and he should have held guilt, but all he could focus on was how some murderous misanthrope had become capable of what others could only deny him.
This arcane history had never been picked apart by anyone else, so how can you call it ‘obvious?’ Everything you do is so effortless. But he can’t even call it that when he sees how hard you try. It’s the first time he’s ever wanted to stand beside someone.
The surprising part is that you let him. Everyone else is so stuck on crushing what skitters beneath their feet, hopping to avoid and destroy in the same screech. They’d bury an apple in his back.
But the stench of unbecoming to you is not only familiar but lovable and tantalizing. You aren’t horrified at what you find. All you can do is ask for more. When will you have enough of these leftovers? It’s been weeks now, but you continue to pick at them.
The fridge is so close to being cleaned out. You can finally have something else now—so why is it that you pull him closer? Cling to me and never let go. You have to promise it’s always me.
He can’t handle being left behind, so you really have to mean it. You have to mean life or death, though there’s no ring or priest. It’s basically the same thing, so don’t you fucking dare say otherwise. There’s no life for me without you.
So tell me right now:
What are you?
Exhaustion completely clouds his line of sight ‘til all he is, is fuzzy edges of creamy brown walls, warm lighting, and hands that hold him in place despite his frequent swaying. God, he’s fucking tired. Sleep slurs its way out of his mouth, like the same way your drug of choice turns you into a drooly, drifting mess with the blanket it wraps around you. I wish my eyes could focus on you like this forever, and I hate eye contact. When you look at me like this, I feel like I’m turning into nothing but the mush people wish I’d be. It’s worse when I’m tired and drunk and all I want is to be buried in this sweltering heat. I want you to hold me forever. Never leave me either, okay?
An egg-sandwich. No, salad. No, a chicken sandwich. Actually, how do you even remember how it goes? The crazy part is thinking that he could ever forget anything about you. I could if only I didn’t dedicate all my words to you to begin with; I already knew this—I wanted to have all of you.
You promise I make you wanna dig a wire deep into the skin of some nobody? That’s so specifically you, y’know. Who else would say some shit like that? Alright, then. Yes, he’s fucking embarrassed; I’m wound up, too.
Stop laughing—how’s it even funny?! I should’ve turned around, I shouldn’t have even left to begin with. Whenever you’re not with him, when he’s not with you , he spends every instance thinking of the next time you’ll meet again. It’s funny considering the pain is partially self-inflicted. That’s what you get for having such an ego.
It was supposed to be a joke, so I don’t know why you’re holding onto this idea so tightly, but you can’t abandon it now. I almost always crave it, kitty.
He’s still an impatient piece of shit. Snot-nosed brat on the interior, though he’ll keep cool about it otherwise. It’s a month and an half, but it feels like forever. January, February, March. December. But then again, it’s been twenty-some years too long for him to have only met you now and you’ve both made it this far. The destruction of this current reality and the creation of something more beautiful is right on the horizon. You promised to come with him, so he’s holding you to it.
It’s fine, I think. Let’s no longer question what occurs in another timeline, because the current is still alive and well. I know I want you forever.