It's Not A Habit [1/?]
anonymous
March 29 2009, 04:52:52 UTC
Francis Bonnefoy, France, Ecstasy.
August 5th, 1995. Bayonne, France.
Francis is six days into a fifteen day rave located in a military site near the beach and he couldn't be happier as he greets the sunrise with arms wide open. This rave with its pulsing of freedom and music and camaraderie away from all the labor strikes and bullshit and worry is just what he needs.
Suddenly the world starts to spin in front of him and he lands on his back on the sand, a stupid grin on his face. He spreads his arms and legs back and forth to make angels before sitting up and wiping the sweat from his brow. Someone passes him a water bottle and he drinks like a dying man.
It's the ecstasy, he realizes. The ecstasy is making me thirsty just like it's making everyone else thirsty. We're all connected by this experience that will never be the same again. This is true fraternité.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Francis turns towards the sound of someone speaking and realizes that Arthur is sitting right next to him on the sand, basking in the sun like some over-sized lizard as he holds a bottle of water in his own hand. He laughs at the thought before realizing he's said it out loud.
Arthur looks over and laughs with him. "Lizard, huh? Yes, well, I suppose we're all just lizards right now. We certainly look like them."
Francis looks out among the crowd of his fellow ravers, his eyes taking in the sweaty, exhausted bliss on their faces, their rumpled clothes and technicolor pacifiers, and couldn't agree more. He turns to Arthur to tell him this, but finds the man cuddling up against his side instead. Which is perfectly okay right now.
Yup, perfectly okay. And the arm he's wrapping around Arthur's waist? Why, that's okay too.
February 5th, 1996. Lyon, France.
People ask Francis constantly about his new habit of constantly chewing gum and mention how odd it was since he used to complain that it was such an ugly habit. He smiles and waves them off by saying that his dentist was the one who suggested such a thing and who was he to question a professional?
In truth, Francis chews gum to hide the fact that his jaw feels like it's made of rubber, his teeth won't stop grinding, and he's afraid that he'll soon end up with dentures. Fortunately, no one but Arthur knows this and the words "Madchester" and "Bayonne" keep him from talking.
Unfortunately, that's not the only problem on his plate right now. No matter how hard he tries and no matter how many late night raves he goes to, he has to deal with run-ins from the cops, bad E--seriously, the shit that comes in the clubs these days is awful and he's constantly mixing it with amphetamine that makes him jumpy and fluttery and paranoid, not warm and touchy-feely and one with the world and pot that slows him down to a snail's pace--that takes hours and handfuls just for a little bliss, the constant tedium that comes from being a country and dealing with overly testosterone fueled philistines like America, and, worst of all, there's this overwhelming despair hanging over him.
It's as if I'll die if this keeps going on, he says to himself one evening as he gets dressed for a night rave. The thought hangs in the silence of his apartment before sinking, leaden, into Francis' belly. He runs over to the nearest mirror and stares at the reflection of his face, stunned.
A scared, pale, and gaunt face stares back at him. The long nights of dancing and the constant chase of better highs, better E, better everything because doesn't perfection deserve better have exacted a harsh toll on him.
He panics, screams, and the last thing he can remember before blacking out is the vision of his reflection shattering into millions of tiny little pieces.
Author's notes: *cries* Oh god, this sucks so bad. I tried to put too much of the technical aspect of ecstasy addiction into the story to make up for my shortcomings when it came to Francis' characterization, but it failed. BAWW.
Credit where credit is due: All technical aspects of ecstasy addiction and details of rave scenes, especially the 95 rave at Bayonne, were culled from Generation Ecstasy by Simon Reynolds.
Title of this story is a lyric from I'm Not An Addict by K's Choice.
August 5th, 1995. Bayonne, France.
Francis is six days into a fifteen day rave located in a military site near the beach and he couldn't be happier as he greets the sunrise with arms wide open. This rave with its pulsing of freedom and music and camaraderie away from all the labor strikes and bullshit and worry is just what he needs.
Suddenly the world starts to spin in front of him and he lands on his back on the sand, a stupid grin on his face. He spreads his arms and legs back and forth to make angels before sitting up and wiping the sweat from his brow. Someone passes him a water bottle and he drinks like a dying man.
It's the ecstasy, he realizes. The ecstasy is making me thirsty just like it's making everyone else thirsty. We're all connected by this experience that will never be the same again. This is true fraternité.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Francis turns towards the sound of someone speaking and realizes that Arthur is sitting right next to him on the sand, basking in the sun like some over-sized lizard as he holds a bottle of water in his own hand. He laughs at the thought before realizing he's said it out loud.
Arthur looks over and laughs with him. "Lizard, huh? Yes, well, I suppose we're all just lizards right now. We certainly look like them."
Francis looks out among the crowd of his fellow ravers, his eyes taking in the sweaty, exhausted bliss on their faces, their rumpled clothes and technicolor pacifiers, and couldn't agree more. He turns to Arthur to tell him this, but finds the man cuddling up against his side instead. Which is perfectly okay right now.
Yup, perfectly okay. And the arm he's wrapping around Arthur's waist? Why, that's okay too.
February 5th, 1996. Lyon, France.
People ask Francis constantly about his new habit of constantly chewing gum and mention how odd it was since he used to complain that it was such an ugly habit. He smiles and waves them off by saying that his dentist was the one who suggested such a thing and who was he to question a professional?
In truth, Francis chews gum to hide the fact that his jaw feels like it's made of rubber, his teeth won't stop grinding, and he's afraid that he'll soon end up with dentures. Fortunately, no one but Arthur knows this and the words "Madchester" and "Bayonne" keep him from talking.
Unfortunately, that's not the only problem on his plate right now. No matter how hard he tries and no matter how many late night raves he goes to, he has to deal with run-ins from the cops, bad E--seriously, the shit that comes in the clubs these days is awful and he's constantly mixing it with amphetamine that makes him jumpy and fluttery and paranoid, not warm and touchy-feely and one with the world and pot that slows him down to a snail's pace--that takes hours and handfuls just for a little bliss, the constant tedium that comes from being a country and dealing with overly testosterone fueled philistines like America, and, worst of all, there's this overwhelming despair hanging over him.
It's as if I'll die if this keeps going on, he says to himself one evening as he gets dressed for a night rave. The thought hangs in the silence of his apartment before sinking, leaden, into Francis' belly. He runs over to the nearest mirror and stares at the reflection of his face, stunned.
A scared, pale, and gaunt face stares back at him. The long nights of dancing and the constant chase of better highs, better E, better everything because doesn't perfection deserve better have exacted a harsh toll on him.
He panics, screams, and the last thing he can remember before blacking out is the vision of his reflection shattering into millions of tiny little pieces.
Author's notes: *cries* Oh god, this sucks so bad. I tried to put too much of the technical aspect of ecstasy addiction into the story to make up for my shortcomings when it came to Francis' characterization, but it failed. BAWW.
Credit where credit is due: All technical aspects of ecstasy addiction and details of rave scenes, especially the 95 rave at Bayonne, were culled from Generation Ecstasy by Simon Reynolds.
Title of this story is a lyric from I'm Not An Addict by K's Choice.
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It's so, so good, anon. Don't second-guess yourself for a second. This is all I could want from this prompt and more.
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Also, random thought. Latvia and meth, y/n? It would explain his canon habit of twitching all the time.
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Any and every drug, any and every nation, anon. You're doing wonderfully.
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