Beauty unfold
Disclaimer:This is a work of fiction, not written for profit. I claim no connection with any member of Good Charlotte, their families or friends.The events hereby narrated are absolutely false and are not meant to reflect the person's private life. No harm, misrepresentation, libel, malice or copyright infringement is intended. At no time is this meant to be construed as reality.
Rating:NC17
Pairing:Benjamin/Joel
My eyes are shut.
I am perched on an uncomfortable chair.
I concentrate solely on him.
Above the whirring and the beeping, I can feel him.
I can feel him breathe.
It’s a small, soft sound and with my eyes closed I can picture his lungs pushing gently against his ribcage, inflating and deflating, pumping air through his body, bringing oxygen to every single, blessed, blood vessel, vein, artery. I don’t have to look, it hurts when I do, but I can see him in my head with so much clarity, so much purity, that my eyes can stay blissfully closed, I am full of him anyway.
Full of him.
There is no space left inside of me that is not occupied by him and it is a siege I want never to be broken.
I am possessed by his beauty in the simplest way and the most intricate way at exactly the same time.
I look like him for a start.
Exactly like him.
Down to the fucking fingertips.
Only he is better.
Better.
Better looking, smarter, faster, gentler, funnier, more talented, more generous, more passionate, more intense. More.
I have better ears though.
"Mama!!! Why do my ears stick out and his don’t? Mama? Do something!!!"
That’s about it, my ears I mean. And to be perfectly honest there is nothing wrong with his ears, I love them actually. I trace my fingers around the delicate shell and breathe softly into it, making him shiver, his neck craning a little to bare his pulse to my greedy mouth.
There is no part of his body that I haven’t touched or kissed.
He let me, you see? He let me touch him, kiss him, make love to him, fuck him, own him, caress him.
And I worship him for it.
Because I pray his body with my unholy hands and he let me anyway, merciful and gentle.
He has the softest hands.
How do I know?
Because I let him touch me, kiss me, make love to me, fuck me, own me, caress me.
It wasn’t a hard choice to make, it just happened, because we found out that we simply couldn’t breathe without the other. Because the air in my lungs had to come from his mouth or I would have suffocated. Because the warmth of his skin had to come from my limbs or he would have turned into ice, his blood frozen.
"…kiss me… more…Oh God… more more more… I want you… All of you…"
It’s a matter of complete trust, because I hold his heart in my hands and he lets me, secure in the knowledge that I will always protect him and never hurt him.
It’s a matter of unconditional forgiveness, because when I broke my promise and his trust and I crushed his heart with my careless hands, soaked in alcohol and despair, he took me back. He put me back together, he gave me more and he placed his fragile heart in my hands again.
It’s a matter of absolute belonging, of coming home in his arms, because that is the first and only home I ever had.
Since the beginning
Since matching pink shirts and pressed blue pants at Sunday school.
Since first days at school and threadbare socks hidden under polished new shoes paid with Mum’s three jobs and heartache.
Since screaming and fighting and cursing.
Since"I never wanna see you again, you fucking moron!!!"
Since "I am sorry…"
Since the discovery that my love was made out of his bones, blood, flesh, heart, imagination, smiles, gentle words, scarred memories, stupid pranks and reckless joy.
Since I held him in my arms that first night when we were fifteen and his lips burned a drunken kiss on my neck and then sleepily moved to my mouth with a frightened, hurried clumsiness.
Since forever.
"…Tell me a story…"
"... we met in University…"
"… yes…"
"… I was a junior and you were a sophomore… I studied art and you were majoring in English…"
"… Yes…"
"… And we felt in love and we spent days studying the Italian Renaissance and Shakespeare and nights making love till we were too exhausted even to kiss…"
You see? I am in love with him. It comes as natural as breathing to me.
He is all I know about love and life and beauty.
He is perfection against my tattered soul.
I know what you are thinking, I know you believe that I am just a stupid, grown up boy who still believes in eternal love and all that shit, but you really don’t know him.
You don’t know how his spine curves when I push into him over and over and over and still…it’s not enough and still…it’s not close enough and still…it’s too far away from his core.
You don’t know how the muscles of his shoulder shift when he turns as my voice calls him from the hall after I spent thirty minutes watching him making the perfect sandwich.
You don’t know how the hazel of his eyes blends into cinnamon and then into caramel and then into the darkest chocolate when I sit with him naked and perfect, telling him how much I love him.
You don’t know how his right knee hurts when it rains, you don’t know how he puts my hands over it and whispers "Make it better…"
You don’t know the sound of his voice when he sings just for me… when words are made for my ears only, when the song is just my name rolled on his tongue with the languor of a kiss.
You don’t know.
"Forgive me father for I have sinned…"
"How long since your last confession?... "
"Three years… If I pray long enough, hard enough will HE help him?..."
"Child, God is not like a store card… you can’t just redeem your points…"
"I guess that’s a no then…"
We were raised following the words of God; prayers were part of our lives, Mum thought us even before we could actually talk. So it was, if not natural, almost inevitable for me to go back, to pass the church’s doors and sit on the oak benches and kneel, praying and praying, the grains of the rosary burning fingertips used to the harsh metal of my guitar strings.
And I prayed.
I prayed into the night, till they told me to leave and then I prayed some more sitting on that stupid mustard coloured couch. I prayed to God and Jesus and the Virgin Mary and every single Angel and Saint I could remember the name of.
I prayed for days, drinking too much bitter coffee.
I prayed long nights, breathing the smell of disinfectant and listening to hushed voices.
I prayed till a week ago.
Till mum came back crying some more, telling me that I had to decide, that she couldn’t do it and that it was up to me anyway, because he had me down as his next of kin.
Next of kin.
He is my soul; you can’t get closer than that can you?
He has my blood.
He has my DNA.
He has my face.
He has my love.
He IS my love
And I am losing him.
I have been losing him for the past four months but I couldn’t face it.
How could I?
How could I come to term with the fact that I wasn’t gonna hear his voice ever again?
How could I believe that he was not gonna wake up and smile at me again?
How could I think that I was not going to hold him in my arms again?
I couldn’t.
I can’t.
And still… I have to, because tomorrow morning is in two hours and then it will be done.
Dr. Goldstein and two nurses.
And me.
They need a witness, his next of kin... in case I change my mind…
"…Benjamin there is no other choice… "
"NO."
" Benjamin I don’t want…"
" THEN DON’T! Don’t ask me to do it… no…"
" Benji…"
"Nononononononononononono… When?..."
"… when you feel you are ready…"
" how about never?..."
So I decided.
I signed the papers, I gave my authorisation.
And in two hours he won’t be in my life anymore.
In two hours he will be gone.
In two hours I will be all alone for the first time in twenty-five years.
In two hours.
I open my eyes and he lies there, pale and so thin, a tube through his nose and one deep in his throat. I can’t even kiss him goodbye, my beautiful baby twin.
I can’t even kiss him goodbye.
Goodbye.
Rating:NC17
Pairing:Benjamin/Joel
My eyes are shut.
I am perched on an uncomfortable chair.
I concentrate solely on him.
Above the whirring and the beeping, I can feel him.
I can feel him breathe.
It’s a small, soft sound and with my eyes closed I can picture his lungs pushing gently against his ribcage, inflating and deflating, pumping air through his body, bringing oxygen to every single, blessed, blood vessel, vein, artery. I don’t have to look, it hurts when I do, but I can see him in my head with so much clarity, so much purity, that my eyes can stay blissfully closed, I am full of him anyway.
Full of him.
There is no space left inside of me that is not occupied by him and it is a siege I want never to be broken.
I am possessed by his beauty in the simplest way and the most intricate way at exactly the same time.
I look like him for a start.
Exactly like him.
Down to the fucking fingertips.
Only he is better.
Better.
Better looking, smarter, faster, gentler, funnier, more talented, more generous, more passionate, more intense. More.
I have better ears though.
"Mama!!! Why do my ears stick out and his don’t? Mama? Do something!!!"
That’s about it, my ears I mean. And to be perfectly honest there is nothing wrong with his ears, I love them actually. I trace my fingers around the delicate shell and breathe softly into it, making him shiver, his neck craning a little to bare his pulse to my greedy mouth.
There is no part of his body that I haven’t touched or kissed.
He let me, you see? He let me touch him, kiss him, make love to him, fuck him, own him, caress him.
And I worship him for it.
Because I pray his body with my unholy hands and he let me anyway, merciful and gentle.
He has the softest hands.
How do I know?
Because I let him touch me, kiss me, make love to me, fuck me, own me, caress me.
It wasn’t a hard choice to make, it just happened, because we found out that we simply couldn’t breathe without the other. Because the air in my lungs had to come from his mouth or I would have suffocated. Because the warmth of his skin had to come from my limbs or he would have turned into ice, his blood frozen.
"…kiss me… more…Oh God… more more more… I want you… All of you…"
It’s a matter of complete trust, because I hold his heart in my hands and he lets me, secure in the knowledge that I will always protect him and never hurt him.
It’s a matter of unconditional forgiveness, because when I broke my promise and his trust and I crushed his heart with my careless hands, soaked in alcohol and despair, he took me back. He put me back together, he gave me more and he placed his fragile heart in my hands again.
It’s a matter of absolute belonging, of coming home in his arms, because that is the first and only home I ever had.
Since the beginning
Since matching pink shirts and pressed blue pants at Sunday school.
Since first days at school and threadbare socks hidden under polished new shoes paid with Mum’s three jobs and heartache.
Since screaming and fighting and cursing.
Since"I never wanna see you again, you fucking moron!!!"
Since "I am sorry…"
Since the discovery that my love was made out of his bones, blood, flesh, heart, imagination, smiles, gentle words, scarred memories, stupid pranks and reckless joy.
Since I held him in my arms that first night when we were fifteen and his lips burned a drunken kiss on my neck and then sleepily moved to my mouth with a frightened, hurried clumsiness.
Since forever.
"…Tell me a story…"
"... we met in University…"
"… yes…"
"… I was a junior and you were a sophomore… I studied art and you were majoring in English…"
"… Yes…"
"… And we felt in love and we spent days studying the Italian Renaissance and Shakespeare and nights making love till we were too exhausted even to kiss…"
You see? I am in love with him. It comes as natural as breathing to me.
He is all I know about love and life and beauty.
He is perfection against my tattered soul.
I know what you are thinking, I know you believe that I am just a stupid, grown up boy who still believes in eternal love and all that shit, but you really don’t know him.
You don’t know how his spine curves when I push into him over and over and over and still…it’s not enough and still…it’s not close enough and still…it’s too far away from his core.
You don’t know how the muscles of his shoulder shift when he turns as my voice calls him from the hall after I spent thirty minutes watching him making the perfect sandwich.
You don’t know how the hazel of his eyes blends into cinnamon and then into caramel and then into the darkest chocolate when I sit with him naked and perfect, telling him how much I love him.
You don’t know how his right knee hurts when it rains, you don’t know how he puts my hands over it and whispers "Make it better…"
You don’t know the sound of his voice when he sings just for me… when words are made for my ears only, when the song is just my name rolled on his tongue with the languor of a kiss.
You don’t know.
"Forgive me father for I have sinned…"
"How long since your last confession?... "
"Three years… If I pray long enough, hard enough will HE help him?..."
"Child, God is not like a store card… you can’t just redeem your points…"
"I guess that’s a no then…"
We were raised following the words of God; prayers were part of our lives, Mum thought us even before we could actually talk. So it was, if not natural, almost inevitable for me to go back, to pass the church’s doors and sit on the oak benches and kneel, praying and praying, the grains of the rosary burning fingertips used to the harsh metal of my guitar strings.
And I prayed.
I prayed into the night, till they told me to leave and then I prayed some more sitting on that stupid mustard coloured couch. I prayed to God and Jesus and the Virgin Mary and every single Angel and Saint I could remember the name of.
I prayed for days, drinking too much bitter coffee.
I prayed long nights, breathing the smell of disinfectant and listening to hushed voices.
I prayed till a week ago.
Till mum came back crying some more, telling me that I had to decide, that she couldn’t do it and that it was up to me anyway, because he had me down as his next of kin.
Next of kin.
He is my soul; you can’t get closer than that can you?
He has my blood.
He has my DNA.
He has my face.
He has my love.
He IS my love
And I am losing him.
I have been losing him for the past four months but I couldn’t face it.
How could I?
How could I come to term with the fact that I wasn’t gonna hear his voice ever again?
How could I believe that he was not gonna wake up and smile at me again?
How could I think that I was not going to hold him in my arms again?
I couldn’t.
I can’t.
And still… I have to, because tomorrow morning is in two hours and then it will be done.
Dr. Goldstein and two nurses.
And me.
They need a witness, his next of kin... in case I change my mind…
"…Benjamin there is no other choice… "
"NO."
" Benjamin I don’t want…"
" THEN DON’T! Don’t ask me to do it… no…"
" Benji…"
"Nononononononononononono… When?..."
"… when you feel you are ready…"
" how about never?..."
So I decided.
I signed the papers, I gave my authorisation.
And in two hours he won’t be in my life anymore.
In two hours he will be gone.
In two hours I will be all alone for the first time in twenty-five years.
In two hours.
I open my eyes and he lies there, pale and so thin, a tube through his nose and one deep in his throat. I can’t even kiss him goodbye, my beautiful baby twin.
I can’t even kiss him goodbye.
Goodbye.