(no subject)
unbeta-ed, probably unfinished, probably just a beginning of something, probably nothing more. twiggy/manson. of mornings, and shadows, and sadness and listening to sigur ros. r-ish for some disturbing images. this is 100% fiction, no statements whatsoever are made.
eight-hundred-eighty-three
It always starts with a morning. The bluish grey concrete wall, the soft wrinkles of sheets underneath his fingers, a shoulder, cold and white and perfect, inches away from his face, the thin filtrations of a cloudy morning, his body arching against the one next to his. Familiar, mellow, friendly. Inseparable. Immutable.
It should always start like this.
And later, coffee, cigarettes and an empty apartment.
He can’t remember waking up so early anymore. He can’t remember the mornings at all. Now it’s more reddish city lights and noise and dark rooms and curtains torn and the sound of snorting coke, in a sofa, of heads hitting the sofa, with a soft thud, napes rubbing the leather, Manson’s nape while Twiggy’s knee is between his legs, the dress slightly over his knee while he rubs a little against Manson’s. His eyes are closed, head thrown back and he doesn’t even notice.
It’s mostly about sadness lately, because this isn’t going anywhere.
When Twiggy’s angry and he packs everything, when he’s angry and he doesn’t smash a thing because destruction is the appetency of joy, of friendship, of them together and he just needs the objects intact, a contrast, stark, to hit Manson in the face, to mock him, to show just what he feels--disgust; a silent disapproval. When he’s angry, it’s useless most of all. It’s just flat and unmoving and even, like his face. Emotionless, indifferent, taking it for granted. Taking him for granted. Twiggy, always there. Twiggy always. At night it’s Twiggy in a corner and he just spits tears out like a broken doll and Manson doesn’t know.
It should be easy, really, really easy and there isn’t anyone to blame, there should be no fuss, and there’s no hate, but the less it has to be hard the more insupportable it is in the end. Inefficient. Insufficient. Inexpressible. Impossible.
When he just sits with his face in his hands, when he runs down the stairs, down the street, away, and the street is empty and he’s alone and dreaming and he sees himself hanging from the ceiling in the kitchen, a puddle of red at his feet--because the strings cut deep--trailing down his neck, he looks at himself and thinks, perfect, this is perfect and what will you do now?
Because there’s this dream--
In the morning the apartment will look bluish grey and empty, just shadows of the objects inside, beside him the place without his shoulder and he will think it looks cold and white and empty, just a mold in the mattress.
The coffee will taste bitter and blue, like ink from a broken pen, and after that his tongue will be blue and stained but there will be no-one to show it to, the veils in the windows will move slowly, undulating back and forth and he will sit down and think there is nothing to think about but the grey of the street and the way the instrument feels under his fingers, cold, shiny, warming ever so slightly under his touch. He will spread his palm flat on its surface and let it stay like that.
He will think of calling someone, anyone, him least of all, him most of all, first of all, but the black telephone will keep on staying in a corner next to the sofa, untouched, quietly by itself and he will give that thought up, eventually. He will not want to hear her. He will not care, but when he left, he would say i love you and goodbye. There must be the proper ears for that though. He will wait.
He will think the strings are cold and unmerciful, and that will be what he wants, for once, once in his life, no mercy, because mercy bites harder, cuts harder than any steel, any chord, any string can; mercy close to pity, close to mockery. He doesn’t need that. And when the time will come, he’ll whisper i love you and goodbye into the phone, to a raspy hello and think his heart will never ever stop breaking. He will cut the chord, twirly and useless on the floor to a phone with no sound. He will smash the bass and it will make black splinters, white splinters, splinters of wood coated with black everywhere till it’s an unrecognizable mass hanging by the strings like some kind of broken creature trapped in the web of a spider. He will drag it thru the rooms by the strings and he will think it’s beautiful and appropriate and when he will let himself go he will feel the strings into his flesh, unmerciful, and he will want to cry if there were air, because it will be perfect, for once, it would be perfect and he will remember his shoulder, probably, and his embrace and moments when he thought he was his and then he will feel no more, no chair underneath, no solid, no empty, no nothing and he will finally give up.
Comfort? There is none. It’s circles and cycles, and things repeating in his mind, his dreams and he just doesn’t know what to do with them when Brian’s shoulder is cold and white and perfect next to him and it’s morning again.
eight-hundred-eighty-three
It always starts with a morning. The bluish grey concrete wall, the soft wrinkles of sheets underneath his fingers, a shoulder, cold and white and perfect, inches away from his face, the thin filtrations of a cloudy morning, his body arching against the one next to his. Familiar, mellow, friendly. Inseparable. Immutable.
It should always start like this.
And later, coffee, cigarettes and an empty apartment.
He can’t remember waking up so early anymore. He can’t remember the mornings at all. Now it’s more reddish city lights and noise and dark rooms and curtains torn and the sound of snorting coke, in a sofa, of heads hitting the sofa, with a soft thud, napes rubbing the leather, Manson’s nape while Twiggy’s knee is between his legs, the dress slightly over his knee while he rubs a little against Manson’s. His eyes are closed, head thrown back and he doesn’t even notice.
It’s mostly about sadness lately, because this isn’t going anywhere.
When Twiggy’s angry and he packs everything, when he’s angry and he doesn’t smash a thing because destruction is the appetency of joy, of friendship, of them together and he just needs the objects intact, a contrast, stark, to hit Manson in the face, to mock him, to show just what he feels--disgust; a silent disapproval. When he’s angry, it’s useless most of all. It’s just flat and unmoving and even, like his face. Emotionless, indifferent, taking it for granted. Taking him for granted. Twiggy, always there. Twiggy always. At night it’s Twiggy in a corner and he just spits tears out like a broken doll and Manson doesn’t know.
It should be easy, really, really easy and there isn’t anyone to blame, there should be no fuss, and there’s no hate, but the less it has to be hard the more insupportable it is in the end. Inefficient. Insufficient. Inexpressible. Impossible.
When he just sits with his face in his hands, when he runs down the stairs, down the street, away, and the street is empty and he’s alone and dreaming and he sees himself hanging from the ceiling in the kitchen, a puddle of red at his feet--because the strings cut deep--trailing down his neck, he looks at himself and thinks, perfect, this is perfect and what will you do now?
Because there’s this dream--
In the morning the apartment will look bluish grey and empty, just shadows of the objects inside, beside him the place without his shoulder and he will think it looks cold and white and empty, just a mold in the mattress.
The coffee will taste bitter and blue, like ink from a broken pen, and after that his tongue will be blue and stained but there will be no-one to show it to, the veils in the windows will move slowly, undulating back and forth and he will sit down and think there is nothing to think about but the grey of the street and the way the instrument feels under his fingers, cold, shiny, warming ever so slightly under his touch. He will spread his palm flat on its surface and let it stay like that.
He will think of calling someone, anyone, him least of all, him most of all, first of all, but the black telephone will keep on staying in a corner next to the sofa, untouched, quietly by itself and he will give that thought up, eventually. He will not want to hear her. He will not care, but when he left, he would say i love you and goodbye. There must be the proper ears for that though. He will wait.
He will think the strings are cold and unmerciful, and that will be what he wants, for once, once in his life, no mercy, because mercy bites harder, cuts harder than any steel, any chord, any string can; mercy close to pity, close to mockery. He doesn’t need that. And when the time will come, he’ll whisper i love you and goodbye into the phone, to a raspy hello and think his heart will never ever stop breaking. He will cut the chord, twirly and useless on the floor to a phone with no sound. He will smash the bass and it will make black splinters, white splinters, splinters of wood coated with black everywhere till it’s an unrecognizable mass hanging by the strings like some kind of broken creature trapped in the web of a spider. He will drag it thru the rooms by the strings and he will think it’s beautiful and appropriate and when he will let himself go he will feel the strings into his flesh, unmerciful, and he will want to cry if there were air, because it will be perfect, for once, it would be perfect and he will remember his shoulder, probably, and his embrace and moments when he thought he was his and then he will feel no more, no chair underneath, no solid, no empty, no nothing and he will finally give up.
Comfort? There is none. It’s circles and cycles, and things repeating in his mind, his dreams and he just doesn’t know what to do with them when Brian’s shoulder is cold and white and perfect next to him and it’s morning again.