xRubySohox (xrubysohox) wrote in dki_bitchez,
xRubySohox
xrubysohox
dki_bitchez

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Title: Dark Abyss
Pairing: Lint/Jesse (Operation Ivy)
Note(s): It's really fucking weird. No names given, you choose who's who. It's short. The important note is the really fucking weird note, though.
Dedication: To Alexis. Because I love her. You deserve better sweets :P



On the outside, they were free. Free in all the ways a person can be. Their words were their standing point on political affairs. Their music was a statement. Their clothing was their trademark. Free.

Or so they thought.

On the inside, they were trapped. Suffocating within themselves. Drowning in their self-pity. It was pathetic, in a sense, because no matter how much they struggled to break free or how many gasps of air they took, they were dying. Slowly. Maybe not technically, maybe not in the way depressed poets write about, but they were slowly dying. And the worst part of it all was the fact that they could do absolutely nothing about it.

They’d prefer to blame everyone else, the incepting world that surrounded them, the close minded assholes who owned Porches and Mustangs- the ones that used twenty dollar bills to buy a three dollar soda from a fast food restaurant. They’d blame it on the current president, the governor of their state, the CEO of the most successful business in the tri-county area. They’d blame it on the rock stars and movie gods who, for approximately an hour and a half, ruled the world as their movie made debut showings in Hollywood and New York City. They’d blame their entrapment on people who set examples- writers who only write about inexperienced bullshit and use large words to cover up what they really mean to say, a façade of words. Hell, they’d blame their best friend if their best friend weren’t the other.

Maybe it was the situation they were in. Maybe it was the fucked up logic they contained when put together. Maybe it was the 80s. Or maybe, just maybe, it was just each other.

No one knew the extent of their relationship, the chemical bond that had formed within days of knowing each other. Why should they know? How could they know? Everything was hidden. Hidden beneath the trademark clothing, layered under their music, scattered throughout their words. Everything was hidden or the world was hidden from them.

The chemical bond between the two grew with intensity. It ran through their veins, leaked from their pores, escaped through their mouths as harsh but hushed breaths were panted out from the back seat of a car or in the guest bedroom of a random burn out’s apartment. Tongues mingled together, almost fusing as one due to the desperate need of one another. And although they didn’t think about it much, the fear of the two of them dying, dying together, the idea was still set in the back of their minds, haunting and taunting them.

Well, haunting and taunting in one mind, at least.

And while things on the outside appeared stronger, the weaker the two became. The need, the absolute demand was unbearable; it strengthened their outer image and made their skin tougher, but on the inside, it stung. It stung worse than any penetration to skin could ever inspire. It was because everything was hidden, everything was closed, tucked away into the far corners of their minds- the most dangerous place to be. And as they slowed broke, together of course, the pieces were unattainable. After a while, they’d be broken, like a porcelain doll, cracked and fragile but still elegant and beautiful.

In a strange way, it worked. In their outlandish, uncanny, weird minds, it worked. The two of them were broken, but they were broken together. Two broken minds, two broken souls, two broken spirits. But two intact hearts.

Affection between the two was indistinguishable, to everyone else, at least. They didn’t hold hands. They didn’t exchange loving glances. Everything was neutral until everyone was gone, until the lights were low, until their sight was slightly blurred, and until their voices were locked within one another where they belonged.

At night, one or the other would lay awake, the body of their best friend draped over their chest. He would be scared to move, scared to talk, scared to think because when a broken soul thinks, he’s alone. Stuck in his own head, stuck with abstractions of what has happened and what might happen. Alone in his mind, alone in the dark where there is nothing to see but where everything happens. He’d touch the body draped over his chest, fingertips sliding across his spine, knowing where every indent lays or where every scar tissue is upraised. His fingers would burn, smolder as if the skin beneath them was lava, glowing in the dark abyss. His eyes would play tricks on him; the skin he was touching would illuminate, sparkle like amethyst while his own skin would be dull and somber.

The sun would rise, peeking through the curtains or blinds of a small cramped room. Every room would be the same- a mattress laying on the ground, a night-stand taller than the bed, an alarm clock set at the wrong time. But they didn’t care. They never did. Because when lying together, it didn’t matter if there was a mattress beneath them or not. It didn’t matter if the night-stand was taller than the bed. And it obviously didn’t matter what time it was because when together, time stalls. It pauses, secludes itself from the rest of the world and waits for the two to be content and perfect because when that feeling of perfection finally comes, time lapses and falls apart, and suddenly it matters what time it is and if there’s mattress shorter than a night-stand laying on the ground. Everything matters when everything is perfect.

But one night, when one of them is laying awake with a body draped over their chest, their mind wanders. It disappears into everything and nothing all at once. And it hits him.

Everything is not perfect.

It scares him. It scares him into moving, talking, and thinking, but all in his mind of course. And his mind would assure him that if he did this, things would be perfect. But only this time, in this perfection, everything wouldn’t matter. In fact, nothing at all would matter, because everything was perfect. And in that same outlandish, uncanny, weird mind, it all made sense.

So he moved. He slid the body that was on top of him slowly off, resting it on statically charged blankets and flattened pillows. And after he made sure the other man was sound asleep, mistaking the blankets and pillows for a warm and comforting body, he talked.

He didn’t talk loudly, and he didn’t say a lot, but in the darkness where nothing is seen but everything happens, he talked. He said his goodbye.

And after the moving and the talking was said and done, he was ready for things to be perfect. For both of them to be free in all the ways a person can be free- on both the outside and the in. So he took his final steps of entrapment, shut the door behind him, and they were finally free.

Or so he thought.
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