[OneShot] Dance With Our Hearts On Fire [Gaspard Ulliel]
Only me? How unfortunate.
It started out as a simple crush, on a small, broken boy. He was so misunderstood, so lost, so broken, so trembling and scared; I wanted to fix him, wanted to heal him, wanted to restore him and bring colour to that beautiful pale face. His distance is what drew me closer to him, whether he wanted it or not. At such a young age as we were, I didn't understand that those feelings I had harboured were so strong and profound. Quite the contrary; I had no idea I even fancied him. My "crush" as we'll call it, seemed to me as an obsession, a deep care that ran throughout my soul and I couldn't control it, nor contain it. I never once hid the fact that I was so deeply infatuated with Gaspard. I suppose I constantly annoyed him with it, actually.
We were so young. Even now, as my black heels clack dangerously loud against the cobblestone streets of this god forsaken city, I constantly wonder if we did the right thing, if he did the right thing, if I did the right thing. I knew, in the moment that Gaspard outstretched his hand and proposed me the world - for my assistance, of course, that I was getting into something that was way over my head. I was agreeing to things I was nowhere near ready for, and neither was he. But we were young. And I was in love. To me, it was the chance to be forever close to him, as close as I could get, and I'd have been damned if I was going to pass up such a chance. Gaspard was my world, and had been since the day I met him so long ago.
I'm not sure when my feelings escalated. All I remember is waking up one day, and realising that I honestly did not care what Gaspard did. I didn't care if he killed one person; hell, I didn't care if he killed thousands. I guess in my mind, it was justified, in some sick, proverbial way. The sad, broken little boy that I used to watch from my bedroom, that I used to stare at secretly between bushes and shrubs; how could the world do him such wrongs? I may not have known what caused him to be so despondent, but it ate me away, piece by miserable piece, as every day passed and I still hadn't restored him. He was still so miserable, so scared, so lonely, so beautiful.
My cold, practically frostbitten fingers glossed over the brick walls as I passed each abandoned store. My long trenchcoat drug across the dirty, mud ridden streets and collected the scum as I walked. The paperboy hat I had futilely slipped over my hair to save it from falling hail, was sloshed and useless. My hair was too long to be kempt in such a small hat anyway. I felt a smile grace my face. Gaspard liked for my hair to be long. That's why I refused to cut it. A trim, every now and then. So it didn't get ridiculously long. I chuckled bitterly at myself, shaking my head and kicking a puddle of water. It splashed on my legs, chilling me to the bone. But I did not shiver. I was used to cold.
I don't exactly remember when I started labeling myself as sick. I am, really. I suppose that I might have always known, and that I didn't notice because I am so used to it. I find it absolutely alluring how dimented Gaspard is, how he loves to watch his victims die, how he never once shows remorse for the death he's inflicted, the pain he's caused, the crime he's both stopped and started. He doesn't care how anyone else feels about his murders, he just does them. And it's so obnoxiously wonderful, his lust for the blade of steel. I've found myself often dreaming of that blade on my skin. I find it scary how I want him to touch me so bad that I resort to bloodlust just to calm my mind. I guess I know that somewhere, deep inside, Gaspard does care for me - possibly more than I know. Will he ever show me just how much he cares? Probably not.
But do I care? No. I'm content with just being as close as I am to him. I'm his confidante, his trusted friend (if you can call me that), the person that he always comes back to, because he's still the same insecure, frail little boy that I remember. He knows that I'll always be here, and that gives me condolence when I comfort him at night. I never get to touch him as I want to, but maybe one day.
My eyes roam the dark before they catch his tall, gorgeous frame. He's preparing for another kill, I know. But not tonight. Because tonight is my night. As my feet pick up speed, and my trenchcoat starts to flow due to the increase in wind speed, I realise that I'm endangering my safety by being so reckless, daring and bold. So brash. So spontaneous. I'm taking a chance, which I don't normally do. Or do I? Did I take a chance, by accepting Gaspard into my life? Have I been a risktaker all along, by standing by him for these past twenty-something years, when I knew what he was capable of and what he's done? Maybe I'm so daring that this is considered safe. Who knows.
My hand reaches out and grips his upper arm tightly. His eyes flick to my face indignantly, and then suspicious. I can tell he's confused as to why I'm here, but he doesn't open his mouth to ask. Maybe he knows how much I understand him. I have no time to spare, because my plan is fragil, and now that the first step is complete, I need to keep moving, in fear of the destruction of my carefully constructed plan. I tug at his arm, and surprisingly, he comes willingly. I tug him towards the car sitting elusively in the dark across the street. This part I thought would be difficult, since I thought he would ask for an explanation as to why I'm detouring him from his moment of power. But he doesn't. He remains quiet and wondering, as I drag him towards the car. I flick the door open with little care, shoving him at the door and pushing urgently. He gets the idea, and climbs into the backseat, still without question or words at all.
I clamber in after him, shutting the door behind me. The adrenalin as caught up with me, and I can't stop myself anymore. Without waiting for him to open his mouth and speak - as I'm sure he's about to do - I toss off my cap and trenchcoat, vaguely aware of them landing haphazardly in the front passenger's seat. I swing my legs around so my knees are digging into the seat on either side of Gaspard's hips, sitting myself down onto his lap and pressing my hands tightly next to his unnerved face. I stare into this cold, shining eyes, remaining unmoving for the briefest - yet they felt like the longest - of moments. When he made no attempt to move, I leaned forward and brushed my lips over his. They were velvety soft, as I had imagined. They tasted slightly metallic, yet I could easily taste a delicious sugary substance, like a sugar cookie. I pulled away slightly, remained quiet, and waited. After about a minute - I wasn't counting, really, I was just waiting for him to attack me or worse, kill me - I heard Gaspard chuckle. His chuckle escalated into a soft laugh, and he shook his head.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Gaspard was quicker. He leaned up and connected our lips with more passion then I had dared to put into my kiss. I was taken by surprise, and he made quick use of my shock by prying open my lips and slipping inside. My hands slipped from the cushions of the backseat to his neck, squeezing lightly. My mind whirled in a clouded heat, but my heart fluttered strong and undeterred. Gaspard's hands rested atop my hips, and I finally managed to smile into our passionate liplock.
I may not be able to heal what is broken.
But I figure that I'm doing a damn good job with picking up the pieces.
It started out as a simple crush, on a small, broken boy. He was so misunderstood, so lost, so broken, so trembling and scared; I wanted to fix him, wanted to heal him, wanted to restore him and bring colour to that beautiful pale face. His distance is what drew me closer to him, whether he wanted it or not. At such a young age as we were, I didn't understand that those feelings I had harboured were so strong and profound. Quite the contrary; I had no idea I even fancied him. My "crush" as we'll call it, seemed to me as an obsession, a deep care that ran throughout my soul and I couldn't control it, nor contain it. I never once hid the fact that I was so deeply infatuated with Gaspard. I suppose I constantly annoyed him with it, actually.
We were so young. Even now, as my black heels clack dangerously loud against the cobblestone streets of this god forsaken city, I constantly wonder if we did the right thing, if he did the right thing, if I did the right thing. I knew, in the moment that Gaspard outstretched his hand and proposed me the world - for my assistance, of course, that I was getting into something that was way over my head. I was agreeing to things I was nowhere near ready for, and neither was he. But we were young. And I was in love. To me, it was the chance to be forever close to him, as close as I could get, and I'd have been damned if I was going to pass up such a chance. Gaspard was my world, and had been since the day I met him so long ago.
I'm not sure when my feelings escalated. All I remember is waking up one day, and realising that I honestly did not care what Gaspard did. I didn't care if he killed one person; hell, I didn't care if he killed thousands. I guess in my mind, it was justified, in some sick, proverbial way. The sad, broken little boy that I used to watch from my bedroom, that I used to stare at secretly between bushes and shrubs; how could the world do him such wrongs? I may not have known what caused him to be so despondent, but it ate me away, piece by miserable piece, as every day passed and I still hadn't restored him. He was still so miserable, so scared, so lonely, so beautiful.
My cold, practically frostbitten fingers glossed over the brick walls as I passed each abandoned store. My long trenchcoat drug across the dirty, mud ridden streets and collected the scum as I walked. The paperboy hat I had futilely slipped over my hair to save it from falling hail, was sloshed and useless. My hair was too long to be kempt in such a small hat anyway. I felt a smile grace my face. Gaspard liked for my hair to be long. That's why I refused to cut it. A trim, every now and then. So it didn't get ridiculously long. I chuckled bitterly at myself, shaking my head and kicking a puddle of water. It splashed on my legs, chilling me to the bone. But I did not shiver. I was used to cold.
I don't exactly remember when I started labeling myself as sick. I am, really. I suppose that I might have always known, and that I didn't notice because I am so used to it. I find it absolutely alluring how dimented Gaspard is, how he loves to watch his victims die, how he never once shows remorse for the death he's inflicted, the pain he's caused, the crime he's both stopped and started. He doesn't care how anyone else feels about his murders, he just does them. And it's so obnoxiously wonderful, his lust for the blade of steel. I've found myself often dreaming of that blade on my skin. I find it scary how I want him to touch me so bad that I resort to bloodlust just to calm my mind. I guess I know that somewhere, deep inside, Gaspard does care for me - possibly more than I know. Will he ever show me just how much he cares? Probably not.
But do I care? No. I'm content with just being as close as I am to him. I'm his confidante, his trusted friend (if you can call me that), the person that he always comes back to, because he's still the same insecure, frail little boy that I remember. He knows that I'll always be here, and that gives me condolence when I comfort him at night. I never get to touch him as I want to, but maybe one day.
My eyes roam the dark before they catch his tall, gorgeous frame. He's preparing for another kill, I know. But not tonight. Because tonight is my night. As my feet pick up speed, and my trenchcoat starts to flow due to the increase in wind speed, I realise that I'm endangering my safety by being so reckless, daring and bold. So brash. So spontaneous. I'm taking a chance, which I don't normally do. Or do I? Did I take a chance, by accepting Gaspard into my life? Have I been a risktaker all along, by standing by him for these past twenty-something years, when I knew what he was capable of and what he's done? Maybe I'm so daring that this is considered safe. Who knows.
My hand reaches out and grips his upper arm tightly. His eyes flick to my face indignantly, and then suspicious. I can tell he's confused as to why I'm here, but he doesn't open his mouth to ask. Maybe he knows how much I understand him. I have no time to spare, because my plan is fragil, and now that the first step is complete, I need to keep moving, in fear of the destruction of my carefully constructed plan. I tug at his arm, and surprisingly, he comes willingly. I tug him towards the car sitting elusively in the dark across the street. This part I thought would be difficult, since I thought he would ask for an explanation as to why I'm detouring him from his moment of power. But he doesn't. He remains quiet and wondering, as I drag him towards the car. I flick the door open with little care, shoving him at the door and pushing urgently. He gets the idea, and climbs into the backseat, still without question or words at all.
I clamber in after him, shutting the door behind me. The adrenalin as caught up with me, and I can't stop myself anymore. Without waiting for him to open his mouth and speak - as I'm sure he's about to do - I toss off my cap and trenchcoat, vaguely aware of them landing haphazardly in the front passenger's seat. I swing my legs around so my knees are digging into the seat on either side of Gaspard's hips, sitting myself down onto his lap and pressing my hands tightly next to his unnerved face. I stare into this cold, shining eyes, remaining unmoving for the briefest - yet they felt like the longest - of moments. When he made no attempt to move, I leaned forward and brushed my lips over his. They were velvety soft, as I had imagined. They tasted slightly metallic, yet I could easily taste a delicious sugary substance, like a sugar cookie. I pulled away slightly, remained quiet, and waited. After about a minute - I wasn't counting, really, I was just waiting for him to attack me or worse, kill me - I heard Gaspard chuckle. His chuckle escalated into a soft laugh, and he shook his head.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Gaspard was quicker. He leaned up and connected our lips with more passion then I had dared to put into my kiss. I was taken by surprise, and he made quick use of my shock by prying open my lips and slipping inside. My hands slipped from the cushions of the backseat to his neck, squeezing lightly. My mind whirled in a clouded heat, but my heart fluttered strong and undeterred. Gaspard's hands rested atop my hips, and I finally managed to smile into our passionate liplock.
I may not be able to heal what is broken.
But I figure that I'm doing a damn good job with picking up the pieces.