I'm sorry, so sorry, this is the most incoherent ridiculous thing I've ever written but it was the most druken writing process of my life (I hadn't drunk. It was one of those times you feel possesed... never mind) And well, it is sexual, in a dark, slightly sick way so I'm sorry, so incredibly sorry
I promise it's not too explicit.
Inspired byvthis wonderful song which immediately reminded me of R: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GzKFEx-wsJo
I don't know about the interpretation. I still don't know if this is an actual experience of R's or a hallucination. I just... wrote it.
Now allow me to hide behind my barricade.
Your nails are short, bitten, the sound they produce against the glass of your bottle is clear, way too clear for that haze and you appreciate the clarity, it’s a lovely change, very lovely indeed even though for a while you’d like it to die slowly and fade away and blur like everything does.
It’s funny. Funny how it blurs gradually in front your very eyes and suddenly everything becomes a mirror of yourself, blurry and dark and smoky, maybe it is the drink or maybe the smoke coming out of your mouth slowly, producing small circles of calm surrender and sweet oppression which separate you from the world and separate the world from your cigarette. Your cigarette is noble, silent, wise and you see it perish before you, ash dying on the ashtray, some of it falling on the greasy wood and getting trapped in the woodworm holes, and that’s a good way to perish, existing dead in your solitude and keeping your dignity, you’re jealous oh so fuckin’ jealous.
You wish there were more nails to bite but there fuckin’ aren't except from those in your stomach or in whatever guts, melting in that burning hell of body heat and hydrochloric acid but you’re not feeling sorry for them at all because they’ve found their hell and you’re stuck in the middle no matter how hard you try to slide in those damned cauldrons, some Diabolic fire would be good for you, definitely good for health, spice up that numb mind a little bit, give you a bit of a shock, cause you to wake up covered in sweat and scream silently until your throat gets ripped in two.
You want to thank the cigarette. It is very kind of it to be so bloody helpful to set you on fire, even though poor thing is not succeeding. It’s good for your health, you know it, everything is. Everything prevents you from dying and maybe that’s good enough because then you’d have to deal with your shit for real this time.
And clink, because the bottle is hitting on your crooked front teeth and it’s such a cruel tease, the motherfuckin’ thing, the sound is so tempting and the scent orgasmic, your nostrils open widely to welcome it and your tongue needs to ravish the sleek, filthy glass in a caring foreplay before allowing its juices to fill your mouth but they are, they already are and you sigh greedily, alcohol is your friend. It knows where you come from and where you’re heading too, it’s your counsellor and your therapist and it’s an expensive ruthless bastard but you love it and it loves you, it’s so caring every night, putting you to bed and tucking you to sleep and you nod sheepishly and promise you’ll be good, so good, you’ll promise you’ll forget, you’ll promise to return and allow it to help you. It knows oblivion, they’re acquainted and you’re up for becoming the victim of some matchmaking, you might have the honour of finally meeting the lady and you have to make a good impression so you keep drinking and you keep smoking and your fingers flirt with the woodworm while your wrist breaks until it’ll turn red and be full of ants, your heavy chin resting on it. And you’re unshaven and it’s scratchy but it’s fine, your wrist is the continuation of the nails which means it will soon find its way to some acid.
And clink because the bottles have found each other and cruelly abandoned you. No that’s a lie, they have invited you but you can’t because you’re drunk in something else and mixing drinks is not good for your health, Joly knows that even though he frequently does that. And you’re drunk in the most merciless kind of drink, the one surrounded by gold locks and smoky eyes that still burn with the fire which has caused the smoke in first place, and those marble cheeks painted with a faint flush of wine, the sickest flush in the liveliest shade of lifelessness a statue possesses.
Oh get drunk. Get so much drunk, it’s fine, really, it’s bloody alright. You’ll never get well, you’ll never sober up, you’ll only spend minutes of oasis thinking you’ve succeeded but you’re doomed to fail. It’s your thing, failing is what you’re good at so you drink again, and cheers to ya me hearties, raise your glass and drink up from those red wet half open lips before they press together in horrible frustration or fully open to manipulate your thoughts and confiscate your breath because hell, he survives on your own breathing material and you’re more than willing to provide him with what you don’t need, it’s him you need and him you hate. It’s him you drink and what you drink you always love and you always despise, in what you drink you only believe.
He’s leaning over that table and even though the room is dark you can see the shadows, every shadow, and those lips which are a shadow yet a red one, a bright red shadow and definition of a still alive revolution, a tongue moisturizing them in the middle of a pneumatic frenzy. Still alive. Still alive. Say it again. On that second it’s still alive and he’s still alive, for yourself you can’t tell anymore because you don’t know whether you’ve ever really lived, and in all honest for himself you can’t tell either because you don’t know whether he’s not died yet and whether he ever existed, men like him do not exist like that, it’s not that simple and if they do, it doesn’t take long for a shadow to take their place, a shadow so strong and fierce and defined and alive that it overdoes their words and scents and breaths. Still alive. See, on that second everything’s alive and everything’s willing to die. You know how to die, you’ve done it before and you do it again and again, you die a little every time your dizzy eyes set upon that golden halo and you laugh, it sounds horrible and sick and you love it, you love it when you laugh because it disturbs him and it makes him shudder, oh of course you know he shudders, of course you know when that cord pulsates on his damp throat, you know when that fair eyelash trembles, you know the slight flare of that nostril, you know the practised steps of the dance of every gold lock, you’re the fuckin’ understudy. You know the lyrics and the words and every movement yet you’re never brave enough to sit up and say “Me” because it’s never you and it’s never about you. It always is about the stuff you drink and you drink him, oh God you drink, how you’d long to drink every single drop of salty sweat and intoxicating wet breath but the blood… oh no you wouldn’t dare touch the blood, it’s so precious, so sacred, it belongs to the people as he says but are you one of them? You’re an outsider. Spectator of the show, comfortable and safe on your barseat, punished to never take the part.
He turns his head from Combeferre and Feuilly, you know they’ve been discussing about changing the world but the world seems to have stopped and you really are okay with it, because his lips are half open in a heart wrecking expression of confusion, so innocent yet intrepid, and for a selfish moment you loathe and treasure with all the strength of your being and whatnot, you embrace him in your mind and make him your own because you can, because in your mind you can, and your mind feels sinful enough, full of sweet hubris towards the God you enjoy mocking. For a moment Combeferre and Feuilly and Courfeyrac disappear and he turns that head and the crook on that throat stretches, and the hollow between the collarbones allows the lucky molecules of air to linger between the soft skin and savour the friction.
You don’t know whether you’re awake or dreaming anymore but there’s a saxophone and the piano and you know as a matter of fact that Combeferre plays good piano and there isn’t a saxophone in the bar but then again it can all be a CD or the radio or an ancient gramophone, that's how it sounds like, blurry, like in a film noire, or it could be the fuckin’ alcohol but it’s gracefully intoxicating and you raise your glass at him, you raise and raise until fingers wrap around your bony wrist.
The sigh that escapes your mouth quickly decides to turn into a hoarse, long moan, or to moan itself, you don’t know, everything wants to moan because all of a sudden he’s behind you and his fingertips are touching the sweaty wrinkle on the nape of your neck, and then that small hollow on the top of your spine, before a breath leans forward and lower and brushes on your skin which welcomes it as the most dangerous and tempting of salvations, because it is and it isn’t, you never expected it, you never dared yet you expected it during your whole life and before it.
But you hesitate and your eyes are full of solid smoke as you stare at me, breath hitched, lips still wet with wine and half open in confusion, and glorious hands pull away, every delicate, strong finger after the other, wrapping and curling slowly and clenching into the most indecisive of fists and I laugh, God how I love it when I laugh and how I hate it when I laugh but it’s alright, really, I understand my darling. Leave. Cheers darling. You should leave, go away, don’t look back, there’s still time. Cheers and begone. Adieu, mon amour. I can handle. You’re leaving me in capable hands, believe me. It’s not Combeferre, or Jehan, or Éponine, but my absinthe is quite experienced, it knows how to help me sober up, it’s done it before, really believe me, I’ll survive, and if I don’t, then don’t look back, don’t drink yourself, don’t disgrace those sacred veins of yours, the people, oh the people need your sobriety and you’re already drunk in them. Hush, my love and cheers.
You don’t. You don’t leave. Only your hands leave your sides to rest on the crooks of my curled shoulders and then make their way slowly to my own fingers, touching lower and lower, on my arms, my elbows and my wrists, and our palms are pressed together, yours warm, almost sweaty and mine cold, always cold like the glass of the bottle.
And clink. We touch. Clink. Our fingers entangle. Slowly. One finger, then another. You don’t seem to mind that mine are callused and smeared with pencil because they fit surprisingly well in your own, see that? They fit so well yet I still don’t know how to do with them, it’s the whiskey in my brain which takes the decisions and I can’t, I simply can’t, and the apartment is sleazy around us, the walls are peeling and I’m suffocating in the middle of them, I’m entrapped and waiting for them to squeeze all the oxygen out of my body but you’re fast enough and you breathe your life inside me, pressing your Godly lips on my sinful own, and you, my innocent darling, embrace that sin so gracefully and before I know it and before you know it we’re one, between the damp, greasy, sweaty sheets, your hand is on my chest and your breath behind my ear, we’re alone and it’s raining outside and your tongue trails wet lines on my lobe and I moan and for once it’s not the alcohol that moans, because I’m so drunk in you I’ll never sober up or I’ll die and you know that, are you taking advantage of me? You’re not. You never would, you’d never take advantage of anyone, that’s what you are, that’s what you do, why are you doing this to me?
Your voice is hoarse in my ear, your breath is warm and intoxicating and your fingertips travel on my sides, sending shivers down my spine, rest on that sensitive post on my abdomen as your lips are pressed on the point of my pulse on my throat and I’m drowning, I’m drowning deeper and deeper and I’ll never swim up and float because my whole body is shivering and everything is a haze of smoke and alcohol and I don’t know what is wrong is right or what is me and what is you because we are the same, needy, breathless, sweaty and trembling. And I get to taste you, those wonderful hipbones, those glorious thighs, the sweet shoulders and every single finger in my mouth and out, my tongue has the privilege of tasting some of your glory and it tastes better than any drink even though I’m desperately trying to drink you, to drink all of you and have you inside me.
Those stunning golden locks are waving before my very eyes and then they disappear between my legs, I feel your teeth on my flesh and I moan, my head is spinning and my muscles are tensing, your eyes full of clear home are staring innocently at me, fingers and tongues and teeth on my hips and thighs, on the back of my knee your tongue makes my short hair wet and I shudder and sigh but you’re not touching me, you don’t dare relieve me, you’re killing me softly and enjoying the process. Your hands leave my body and I scream and I tense and I can’t think anymore because I need your skin on mine, but soon it’s your tongue which finds its way and all the blood leaves my body and all the air and the wine try to fill my head but they can’t, there’s no space because it’s all about you, about this murderous innocence, the pure freedom in your heart and the wicked prison awaiting for me in your hands.
Sweat is covering us despite the rain outside, the rain that waters my shamelessly dry body with desire and I beg for your compassion but that’s not a word you’re familiar with, because compassion demands equality and you want us to be equals but we aren’t, I wouldn’t try to fool myself, I feel my heart bowing painfully, masochistically at your sight, your touch, your every chaste kiss. It’s struggle against the world, the struggle of our legs and our sheets.
Clink, our teeth meet together and we’re greedy for breath but there is no air between us, only each other, and wine and cigarettes and blood and sweat and revolution and your tongue trails a long distance from my nape to the small of my back, just to remind me that I can’t live with you and I can’t live without you and I whimper at the feeling of your tongue there, always your tongue and never your fingers, your fingers are too busy wrapping tightly around my thighs until I could sob and beg to be released and to never be but you don’t allow me, you’re holding me too tight to allow me to slip and drown into oblivion again, desperation is not permitted even though you bring me so close to it everytime.
But I do. I beg. I can’t do otherwise because the world around me is turning and I need you now more than I ever did and I can’t afford to wait, I can’t afford for the world to turn with us, the world needs to stop, to be stuck in a tight bottle of rum, like those with the miniature pirate ships or with the messages and in your eyes there is a message right now, a message I can’t read as you kiss my shoulder and stare at me one last time before offering me the salvation I seek and make everything to turn black and red and white as I weep, you’re panting in my ear and I can’t, I can’t, and at the same time I never could more, because with you I always can even when my wings are broken and my bottle is empty and my head is full.
Inside me you feel like heaven, the filthiest, darkest heaven. The words you’re whispering in my ear, your breath on my neck, your hands on my chest, against my racing heart which doesn’t know if it’s alive again or if it’s dreaming in the most blessed death with you, is the most sacred, glorious hell.
I don’t know if it’s real. I don’t know if it’s us. I don’t know where we are. All I know is that there’s some piano on the background. And a saxophone. There was some absinthe. There is you. There is me. Is that us? Hold me and fuck me the harder you can, the slower you can, hold me and never let me go, my darling. Drink with me but keep inside me, I need you to breathe, drink with me, I’ll be dead when we part but we never have to. Drink up, my darling. Cheers to you. Believe in me because I don’t know if I can. Say you believe in me because I’ve already been betrayed once, by my drink. Don’t say you love me, you don’t need to. Let me say it.
I love you, my love. Do you hear me? I don't know anything else but that. I love your revolution, I love that it will be the death of me. I love how you breathe and how you stare and how I die and relive when I drink some of you, your sweat and your glance. I love you, my darling.