ᴀᴜɢᴜsᴛɪɴᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ⁞×
[cause you'll go out in style]
⁞
date of breakdown: december 2, 2011
i don't own APH or the Paramore song Fences, from which the title of this fanfiction was taken.
⁞
He begins with the dress. It's systematic, efficient and practiced. Anyone who thinks they know him would laugh, because—Feliks? No, Feliks is none of that. He is flirty smiles and confident struts, all in-your-face and exit stage left—sparkling like no diamond you've ever seen. He can tower in hot pink, six-inch heels and rock a miniskirt as well as anyone without a cock. He can do it, and he can smirk the entire time.
But behind his own four walls, he starts with simple familiarity. The zipper goes down, the fabric slides over skin, and the zipper goes up. He smooths a hand down the front, feeling flat stomach in place of masculine abdominal muscles. Feliks blinks back a flinch.
The mask comes next. He becomes an artist suddenly, painting a layer of primer, then foundation. He changes brushes and dabs methodically with concealer at his face, even if half of the imperfections are tricks of the light. He pulls out a larger brush—it's environmentally friendly, isn't that something?—and dusts weightless, near-white powder over his face. A bit of darker powder contours his face and brings him to the line between beautiful and gaunt.
Intermission—he takes five, five shaky breaths. Inhale for four counts; hold it for four counts; exhale for four counts; hold it for four counts. Four becomes three becomes two becomes one and he holds his breath for a minute before allowing his lungs air. He waits for the world to come back into focus. When it does, he moves onto his eyes. Nothing flashier than a slightly glittery beige today. This is as close to au naturel as he will get. Perhaps the effect is ruined with the heavy black liner, but who cares? He draws the wings as long as he dares, reaching for a sky he cannot touch on his own.
Next, the pink glides on like silk on his lips. Feliks' eyes watch, half-lidded and dead, as he categorizes this exact tint of peachy salmon pink in his mind. It works. Does it work?
The room is cold and his dress is sleeveless; a shudder runs down his torso and down his legs. Whatever he's holding—he can't remember—falls and now there is a sticky, viscous mess slowly spreading on his hardwood floor.
Feliks disregards it in favour of a can of hairspray, thoroughly dousing his hair with it and tousling it as he goes. What next—oh, earrings, bracelets, strappy heels. He slips a sparkling blue hairclip into his hair and it looks like an icy intruder in his otherwise warm look.
He stands up almost ceremonially. After taking the three steps to his full-body mirror, he examines himself. When he tilts his head, the light catches on his shiny lips.
Almost immediately, his face contorts in something like pain and hate. No, it's not right and it doesn't look right. A prickling sensation makes itself known under his eyes and he hisses.
"You fucking drama queen. Are you, like, going to cry? Don't you fish for enough attention? Stop it!"
His gaze shifts down to his angrily shaking chest.
"You're killing me! If you just didn't fucking exist, then I wouldn't be, like—like—feeling right now, would I?" His hands curl into fists subconsciously and he shrieks, "Stop hurting me!"
He blinks furiously because this can't be happening again. The moment he sees his reflection, all is lost.
"Stop wasting your time!"
He claws at the dress with neatly painted, shiny, pink nails until every clean line is frayed and his nails aren't perfect anymore, tearing the dress into shreds of sequined fabric. The bracelets come off next, disappearing into the dark corners of the room.
Feliks manages a hysterical giggle. "How do you like that?"
The earrings fall behind his vanity. "It just never looks right!"
Gasping for air, he continues, "You hopeless fucker! Just cry for attention, but like, no one can hear you!"
His heels are strewn across the floor and he violently pulls at his hair.
Finally, he lets out one last shuddering sigh. "No one wants to hear you." He collapses to the floor, a hand shooting out for balance. A rolling sound follows, breaking the stifling silence.
A ball-point pen. He's struck with the urge to write, to draw—and luckily, there is a huge, perfect canvas.
He begins with his left arm.
stop it.
don't think.
don't feel.
i am not enough.
does this make it better?
racing mind is racing
i am a mess
get me away
from here
By the time he feels anything remotely close to normal, both his arms, a good portion of his legs, and that bit of stomach that was exposed when he ripped the dress are all covered in ink. He reeks of ink.
Somehow he's ended up on his knees, in front of the mirror again. Scraps of his dress litter the floor around him while his shoes lie on either side. He pulls a hand through the puddle of lipgloss on the floor absentmindedly. A glint of light—the hairclip has miraculously stayed in his hair. He caresses it softly, smudging a bit of pink gloss on it. Feliks' tongue darts out to touch the remnants of the lipgloss on his lips, and he can taste his pain.
Sitting in the midst of his own destruction, he smiles.
"Fabulous."
⁞