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chineseinkTitle: The Fifth Requiem
Fandom: Original
Pairing: n/a - implied slash
Rating: PG-13
Claimer: Mine, yeah.
Swimming in yourself.
The Fifth Requiem
--a death in 500 words
i
He liked swimming without his clothes on because it was the closest to freedom that he could get. He didn’t believe in the “freedom” that society defined—in the end, that freedom was nothing more than the ability to choose. His freedom, in cool water slick against his skin and the burning of his lungs, was something more elemental: basic and primal and instinctive. He saw the world through a haze of blue and when he touched himself he pretended it was someone else. It was better that way, his own personal freedom, and far more seductive; like flying, almost.
ii
He liked kissing other boys because it wasn’t freedom, wasn’t the choice to be different, but instead was something that grounded him. This was who he was: someone who grew his hair out past his eyes, listened to music too loudly, worked hard in school to spite those who said he couldn’t succeed, and kissed other boys. Sex was nothing to him but animal mating. Spirituality, what was it but a feeling, an idea as vague and remote as freedom? He far preferred the solidity of kissing, the surety of tongues and lips and ragged breath. It was beautiful; real.
iii
He liked having all eyes on him because with every gesture, every word, he defined himself. No person was anything except for what others saw him as, and he was no exception. But he crafted smiles and shaped words and created a masterpiece that was him, as seen by the world. Eyes would linger and he’d deliver, and he loved the feeling because it was like swimming and kissing, only better. The idea of control was so heady that just thinking about it could make him hard and then he’d laugh and come into his hands, wracked with shivers, pleased.
iv
He liked also telling lies, a habit which his acting was only an extension of, and he treasured that ability as he carefully chose his truths and his past and present and future. He liked the belief he saw in others’ eyes, belief in something intangible and nonexistent, something that bled over his soul like red ink, staining him impure. It made him chortle when he was by himself and lent a smug glint to his eyes when he bothered to look at the deceived world, which it only perceived as self-confidence and it was only another lie, another life.
v
He liked, most of all, death, for it give him the wings of a beginning but the gravity of an end. And it was the ultimate control, to decide when to cross that line into utmost, unimaginable perfection. He thought about it daily, constantly, with headphones on, during lunch, on the subway back home, while kissing his best friend, at night in bed— Freedom and captivity, darkness unfurling slowly in his soul, lazily, like the best lover; he thought about it and wanted it and wanted it and his eyes glazed over when he took it. Smiling as he went.
--
Started/Finished: 05.23.05
Edited: 08.15.05
Fandom: Original
Pairing: n/a - implied slash
Rating: PG-13
Claimer: Mine, yeah.
Swimming in yourself.
The Fifth Requiem
--a death in 500 words
i
He liked swimming without his clothes on because it was the closest to freedom that he could get. He didn’t believe in the “freedom” that society defined—in the end, that freedom was nothing more than the ability to choose. His freedom, in cool water slick against his skin and the burning of his lungs, was something more elemental: basic and primal and instinctive. He saw the world through a haze of blue and when he touched himself he pretended it was someone else. It was better that way, his own personal freedom, and far more seductive; like flying, almost.
ii
He liked kissing other boys because it wasn’t freedom, wasn’t the choice to be different, but instead was something that grounded him. This was who he was: someone who grew his hair out past his eyes, listened to music too loudly, worked hard in school to spite those who said he couldn’t succeed, and kissed other boys. Sex was nothing to him but animal mating. Spirituality, what was it but a feeling, an idea as vague and remote as freedom? He far preferred the solidity of kissing, the surety of tongues and lips and ragged breath. It was beautiful; real.
iii
He liked having all eyes on him because with every gesture, every word, he defined himself. No person was anything except for what others saw him as, and he was no exception. But he crafted smiles and shaped words and created a masterpiece that was him, as seen by the world. Eyes would linger and he’d deliver, and he loved the feeling because it was like swimming and kissing, only better. The idea of control was so heady that just thinking about it could make him hard and then he’d laugh and come into his hands, wracked with shivers, pleased.
iv
He liked also telling lies, a habit which his acting was only an extension of, and he treasured that ability as he carefully chose his truths and his past and present and future. He liked the belief he saw in others’ eyes, belief in something intangible and nonexistent, something that bled over his soul like red ink, staining him impure. It made him chortle when he was by himself and lent a smug glint to his eyes when he bothered to look at the deceived world, which it only perceived as self-confidence and it was only another lie, another life.
v
He liked, most of all, death, for it give him the wings of a beginning but the gravity of an end. And it was the ultimate control, to decide when to cross that line into utmost, unimaginable perfection. He thought about it daily, constantly, with headphones on, during lunch, on the subway back home, while kissing his best friend, at night in bed— Freedom and captivity, darkness unfurling slowly in his soul, lazily, like the best lover; he thought about it and wanted it and wanted it and his eyes glazed over when he took it. Smiling as he went.
--
Started/Finished: 05.23.05
Edited: 08.15.05
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