But It Isn't Insane On Paper
I suck.
New LJ layout, and I wrote something.
It's not fanfiction, but it's not a song! And all I've been able to write is lyrics, so I'm pretty happy with myself. So um, slash. Original characters and all that, and um, it totally didn't turn out the way I planned (I accidentally gave one of my characters AIDS)
Original Fiction
word count: 650
Steam is slowly escaping beneath the bathroom door, and Matthew is watching it with a hypnotic gaze. After a few minutes there is a loud crash, and the door opens. Harley shuffles out of the room, but lingers, propped up against the doorframe. The scent of cigarettes clings to him (menthol cigarettes when he speaks, due to the peppermint gum that rarely leaves his mouth), despite the fact that he's clearly just showered.
Sometimes Matthew thinks he smells sex in there too, something barbaric and fast. He can close his eyes and see the women, usually blonde, always on top. Matthew knows it's not true; he's only smelling what he thinks should be there. He's simply completing the picture.
Harley has HIV. Well, it has probably progressed to AIDS by now, but no one has ever admitted it. It remains HIV. Everything sounds safe that way.
Even pale and sickly, Harley can turn heads, on the rare occasion that he leaves the apartment.
He had been a child star when he was younger, big and famous, with girls lining up to be fucked by him and then thrown away. And it's the same story that you've heard on every Whatever Happened To... programme out there. He discovered fame and he discovered drugs.
Matthew doesn't know where exactly Harley got the HIV. Somewhere between a needle and a girl, he thinks.
An amused snort sounds from across the room, and Matthew's eyes snap into focus. The towel around Harley's hips has slid lower, revealing one sharp and prominent hipbone. His wet dark brown hair falls over his eyes, stopping just below his jaw, and he looks like a bad goth model, and yeah, Matthew thinks, he could still make it.
Harley is charismatic and confident and he's always going to find somebody to fall in love with him. He's a fucking fallen angel, and somehow he thinks he has found his other half in Matthew, who is awkward and paranoid, and who didn't have a drop of alcohol until he was twenty-two and who still gets sick after one beer.
"You look tired," Harley remarks in monotone, and Matthew wonders how the Hell he had been such a good actor.
"It was Thursday yesterday," Matthew responds. In contrast, his voice is tight and strained. Harley gives a sympathetic smile, and gazes upwards. Their upstairs neighbours are a young newlywed couple who don't speak English very well. Every Thursday night, like clockwork, they argue, in high screeching tones in some foreign language that sounds vaguely like Spanish.
The conversation is over, and it's always like this: emotionless, non-personal small talk. Harley slipped up once, and he laughed. It was sharp and forced, and he's not quite sure why he did it, but it ruined Matthew. Matthew spent weeks avoiding Harley and Harley had nowhere to go when the nightmares got too bad. There's something about that sick dependency that you could almost call love.
Mostly, Matthew is a pretty normal guy. His neighbours keep him up at night, and he takes the bus to work every day. He listens to his iPod, to block out other peoples' conversations, and he orders a coffee from the cafe across the street from his office.
He doesn't chat with his co-workers. In fact, he spends his lunch break in the bathroom hiding away from them and pretending he can't hear the echo of laughter slip through the door. It's like the way he pretends he'll get the fridge fixed on Monday, and someday he'll meet a nice girl and maybe fall in love with her. It's a lot like the way he pretends he's not happy to go back to his decrepid little apartment with his scarred and diseased room mate.
How could he be happy when he's able to hide away from the world, with a body tucked neatly around his?
New LJ layout, and I wrote something.
It's not fanfiction, but it's not a song! And all I've been able to write is lyrics, so I'm pretty happy with myself. So um, slash. Original characters and all that, and um, it totally didn't turn out the way I planned (I accidentally gave one of my characters AIDS)
Original Fiction
word count: 650
Steam is slowly escaping beneath the bathroom door, and Matthew is watching it with a hypnotic gaze. After a few minutes there is a loud crash, and the door opens. Harley shuffles out of the room, but lingers, propped up against the doorframe. The scent of cigarettes clings to him (menthol cigarettes when he speaks, due to the peppermint gum that rarely leaves his mouth), despite the fact that he's clearly just showered.
Sometimes Matthew thinks he smells sex in there too, something barbaric and fast. He can close his eyes and see the women, usually blonde, always on top. Matthew knows it's not true; he's only smelling what he thinks should be there. He's simply completing the picture.
Harley has HIV. Well, it has probably progressed to AIDS by now, but no one has ever admitted it. It remains HIV. Everything sounds safe that way.
Even pale and sickly, Harley can turn heads, on the rare occasion that he leaves the apartment.
He had been a child star when he was younger, big and famous, with girls lining up to be fucked by him and then thrown away. And it's the same story that you've heard on every Whatever Happened To... programme out there. He discovered fame and he discovered drugs.
Matthew doesn't know where exactly Harley got the HIV. Somewhere between a needle and a girl, he thinks.
An amused snort sounds from across the room, and Matthew's eyes snap into focus. The towel around Harley's hips has slid lower, revealing one sharp and prominent hipbone. His wet dark brown hair falls over his eyes, stopping just below his jaw, and he looks like a bad goth model, and yeah, Matthew thinks, he could still make it.
Harley is charismatic and confident and he's always going to find somebody to fall in love with him. He's a fucking fallen angel, and somehow he thinks he has found his other half in Matthew, who is awkward and paranoid, and who didn't have a drop of alcohol until he was twenty-two and who still gets sick after one beer.
"You look tired," Harley remarks in monotone, and Matthew wonders how the Hell he had been such a good actor.
"It was Thursday yesterday," Matthew responds. In contrast, his voice is tight and strained. Harley gives a sympathetic smile, and gazes upwards. Their upstairs neighbours are a young newlywed couple who don't speak English very well. Every Thursday night, like clockwork, they argue, in high screeching tones in some foreign language that sounds vaguely like Spanish.
The conversation is over, and it's always like this: emotionless, non-personal small talk. Harley slipped up once, and he laughed. It was sharp and forced, and he's not quite sure why he did it, but it ruined Matthew. Matthew spent weeks avoiding Harley and Harley had nowhere to go when the nightmares got too bad. There's something about that sick dependency that you could almost call love.
Mostly, Matthew is a pretty normal guy. His neighbours keep him up at night, and he takes the bus to work every day. He listens to his iPod, to block out other peoples' conversations, and he orders a coffee from the cafe across the street from his office.
He doesn't chat with his co-workers. In fact, he spends his lunch break in the bathroom hiding away from them and pretending he can't hear the echo of laughter slip through the door. It's like the way he pretends he'll get the fridge fixed on Monday, and someday he'll meet a nice girl and maybe fall in love with her. It's a lot like the way he pretends he's not happy to go back to his decrepid little apartment with his scarred and diseased room mate.
How could he be happy when he's able to hide away from the world, with a body tucked neatly around his?