Author: Limited Edition PM
A famous singer finds a boy lying in the snow, covered by blood. Soon he discovers his feelings for him. But...this is no fairy tale. Stand alone sequel to Angel dreams. slash, shounenaiRated: Fiction M - English - Tragedy/Angst - Chapters: 9 - Words: 10,658 - Reviews: 36 - Favs: 27 - Follows: 4 - Updated: 11-20-05 - Published: 11-12-05 - Status: Complete - id: 2047456
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Someone pointed out errors I've missed in my editing, so here's version um...1000 XD
This story means quite a lot to me...
"That's a secret," I winked, wanting him to ask further, playing with him.
"Aww c'mon," he played along, "It's about some princess...you've locked her up, just for yourself. Locked her in from the rest of the world," he analyzed the rather obvious facts of the song.
His words saddened me and I couldn't help it. I wondered what he was thinking, saying that, even though I knew his assumption was innocent. He was wrong in a sense, but still he didn't know how right he was. My lonely princess, locked up in a tower of madness.He was lying on his back on the white kitchen floor when I got back home, his legs bent slightly at the knees to avoid contact with the cold ceramic. His free hand was limply lying palm up beside his head, his fingers bent in a natural position. He looked like he was floating in a far away endless ocean.
Cigarette smoke with a vague scent of chocolate had filled the whole apartment indicating him smoking more carelessly these days. I knew he'd been smoking cigarettes one after the other now. The cigarettes with magical filters that made his lips taste sweet, effectively hiding the lethal poison. The lips I'd never dare to taste.
I leaned over the counter to the kitchen listening to the background music from the fridge. I watched him in silence as he put the cigarette to his dry lips with trembling fingers and then let smoke rise from his mouth and coil up to the ugly white ceiling that crumpled the illusion I had of him in the endless ocean.
Of course he didn't notice me and continued staring up, the cruel light of the lamp reflecting itself in his honey colored eyes. His eyes weren't the windows to his soul; they were just observant machines, sucking in the world around him when he decided not to stare. But when he didn't stare those eyes moved very fast, sucked everything in, and everything reflected on them, decorating them with a thousand colors. Or just made them pitch-black. And now the whites of those eyes were bloodshot from the heavy curtain of smoke around him, digging itself into his eyes, making them burn. And he didn't bother to shut it out, didn't bother to blink. Those eyes were wet anyway. Those eyes were always wet.
Ashes fell down on his chest. He wore at least two thick knitted shirts that covered his underwears, but still he shivered. His legs shivered like some new born bird would. I knew he didn't like putting anything on his legs and so he never did, no matter how much he froze. Even though people stared at him, giving him strange looks, he didn't care. Sometimes I wished I could be like that too, but I found that I just couldn't. But that was why I was so successful in what I'd chosen to do, was it not? I gave people what they wanted. I gave people something to dream about, something to aspire to, something they hoped they could be but they knew they could never become. Because that was what the whole essence of being famous was about. I gave them all this, but I kept something for myself and that was my music. It was the only thing I didn't let anyone take away from me, therefore I never let anyone influence it. I never wanted to let anyone take away my music, or him because those were the only things I cared about, those were the only things I granted myself.
I closed in on him, kneeling beside him and hearing what his moving lips were whispering. He didn't see me, he only continued staring past my head, my head that was covering the light, my head that was being reflected in his wet eyes as a silhouette. I touched his hand, gently taking the cigarette away and putting it out against the ash-covered floor. His hand stretched out for it unconsciously. Then he saw me, coming to his senses. I took the outstretched hand and helped him up, kicking some of the ash away. He coughed, and slowly walked to the sink, filling a glass of water, swallowing some pills. He smiled faintly at me as if to say hello.
"You okay?" I touched his light brown hair, the sunshine hair.
"Was it fun today?"
"Yeah, sure, always is. I'm so tired though. But I've got a break now, for two days," I said, laughing hollowly. I received a faint smile in return. "You wanna do something?"
"Yeah...yeah, sure, why not? I'm bored..."
I knew it wasn't sure at all. You never knew how he would be in the next second. I tried searching in his eyes for his feelings without him noticing. I tried to see if he'd taken any drugs. How did I dare to leave him alone? His thighs were covered in cigarette burns and scars. His arms still bleeding a little from fresh cuts. "Let's bandage you."
Silence. It took a while for him to process what I'd said. There was a slow response; "No, it's okay, it's not much." His eyelids half covered his eyes, like they did when he didn't smile. When he smiled those eyes would glitter, those eyes would take in the light and reflect them, making you feel as if he was giving you that light. As if he was giving you the world.
I took out the necessary items and took his limp hand, leading him to the couch in the living room I'd walked across earlier and took care of his wounds. I knew he liked to do this and I knew he wouldn't stop no matter how much I chastised him. He didn't do this to die, he did this to live. He cut himself and watched as the demons left him with his blood, dripping down, dripping down, him staring at it as if in trance. And then another cut on that pale scarred flesh, watching the blood drip down, the demons whispering their last words for a short time before coming back again, making him want to let them out
He reached past me to the remote control on the table, turning on the television because he couldn't stand silence, because that was when the demons had the best chance at making themselves heard.
How I wanted to make it all better, but I couldn't. How I wanted to rewrite the story of his life,erase it all, even if it meant I would never find him lying in the snow wearing nothing but a thin white laced gown and big black boots, his naked pale shoulders glowing against the bleak snow, never seen the blood stains on the snow that had melted from their warmth, never seen the blood stains on the gown from his arms and legs and from being raped.