(no subject)
Title: Inviolata (Sequentia).
Pairing: Gerard Way/Matt Skiba.
Rating: R.
Summary: Reflections on bus routes and little fireworks. For fanfic100 challenge Square.
Disclaimer: Don't own; no disrespect intended.
My story is remorse. Here. When I was nineteen and alone, alone in inexplicable, creative fashions, I would ride the city bus for days: start on number 19, take it all the way to Broadway (three hours), switch, ride to Evanston (two), downtown (half), etc., upwards and backwards from a Monday to a Thursday--no showers, no food, stolen half-empty water bottles. I read Dickens and Melville until the pages loosened and played carpet in the aisles. This was art.
Gerard was Godly and clean on a Midwestern tour, where he confessed he did the same thing at the same age. His route, he said, was a square around the city. I said I’d like to see it, but he showed me something else.
Now we sleep in boxes on the street just for its terrible romance. Gerard and me, Chicago, New Jersey, occasionally. We starve ourselves for sex. Sex is better on low fuel. It’s a dirty habit; I have diseases. They explode softly under my skin during intimacy, like favorite little fireworks.
We share good conversation when we decide to eat in diners, churches, kindly strippers’ kitchens. We talk about the wars. I’ve got this insatiable interest in Ulysses S. Grant and the end of the Civil War, so he humors me in that, slipping into a historian’s tone without even meaning to. His real passion is for Classics. Epics. God-governed wars of dust and music that color in the pages of his black-and-white sweet head like comic books or punk. Once he asked me to call him Orpheus, but ssh, nobody knows.
Nobody knows much. Fear is thick enough for our closest friends to write off our chemistry, which runs clear as water through magnifying tubes, as a joke. A creepy joke from the Satanist and the vampire. Whatever, you guys, is their mantra.
Mine is remorse.
Pairing: Gerard Way/Matt Skiba.
Rating: R.
Summary: Reflections on bus routes and little fireworks. For fanfic100 challenge Square.
Disclaimer: Don't own; no disrespect intended.
My story is remorse. Here. When I was nineteen and alone, alone in inexplicable, creative fashions, I would ride the city bus for days: start on number 19, take it all the way to Broadway (three hours), switch, ride to Evanston (two), downtown (half), etc., upwards and backwards from a Monday to a Thursday--no showers, no food, stolen half-empty water bottles. I read Dickens and Melville until the pages loosened and played carpet in the aisles. This was art.
Gerard was Godly and clean on a Midwestern tour, where he confessed he did the same thing at the same age. His route, he said, was a square around the city. I said I’d like to see it, but he showed me something else.
Now we sleep in boxes on the street just for its terrible romance. Gerard and me, Chicago, New Jersey, occasionally. We starve ourselves for sex. Sex is better on low fuel. It’s a dirty habit; I have diseases. They explode softly under my skin during intimacy, like favorite little fireworks.
We share good conversation when we decide to eat in diners, churches, kindly strippers’ kitchens. We talk about the wars. I’ve got this insatiable interest in Ulysses S. Grant and the end of the Civil War, so he humors me in that, slipping into a historian’s tone without even meaning to. His real passion is for Classics. Epics. God-governed wars of dust and music that color in the pages of his black-and-white sweet head like comic books or punk. Once he asked me to call him Orpheus, but ssh, nobody knows.
Nobody knows much. Fear is thick enough for our closest friends to write off our chemistry, which runs clear as water through magnifying tubes, as a joke. A creepy joke from the Satanist and the vampire. Whatever, you guys, is their mantra.
Mine is remorse.