God, this is insanity. This has to stop, pure and simple. I don't even want to know the consequences, the fucking implications. I've never been addicted to anything before.
It started off in dreams. I'd dream of his smooth paleness, so different from the burned-up, half-gone corpse that hovers in the corners of rooms. Oh, I dreamt of him every night. I dreamt of him drinking coffee at the round little table in that god-forsaken room, I dreamt of him sitting outside under the grand old willow tree in the backyard. I dreamt the texture of his lips against mine. Jonah came alive for me, at night. Only in my dreams did he live again. This turned into a kind of obsession...homebound and cancer ridden, I created the sound of his laughter. I imagined his smile, crinkling his eyes; I imagined the sound of his tears, I saw his tear-streaked face as a vision from the beyond. I would say his name to myself, under my breath. Jonah. Jo-nah. Two syllables that were slowly becoming my only meaningful strand of consciousness. As my body withered away, as the demons of the house became more and more unrestrained, as Jonah's fearful gaze from his charred face locked on mine from across the room, I was mentally escaping into my own kind of heaven: the only one with Jonah in it. I thought that I heard you laughing, I thought that I heard you sing.
He was timid, at first. I lured him with tenderness, understanding. I knew what he needed (fire, to unbind the spirits) and I knew how it needed to be done. But I had a condition. I think, deep down, he already knew. As if I could imagine the exact pitch of his laughter by myself. I wanted to know him. Actually know him, as a person, someone who had lived and breathed like I. And, he agreed. Instead of hovering on the edges, needing help but too afraid to ask, he stepped into the white-bright-light of my microscope. By the end of my first month in the house, we were inseparable. And the longer I knew him, the more fleshed out he became. It wasn't long before the pale, raven-haired boy I knew from dreams alone was standing in front of me. He left his corpse behind,and he was mine. He was at my side, always.
Rough nights, trouble sleeping. He climbed into my bed and into my head. Since we were both dead (or halfway at least), the two of us lived in memory. He showed me his life as if it was a movie. It was blurry, and faded, but God, was it precious. I lived in the humid summers of his childhood, saw him and his pale limbs stretched out across bright green grass. I helped him carry his suitcase up the steps of the Aickman house for the first time. I held him that night, after, I watched the blood and tears run down his face, the imprint of Aickman's fucked-up therapy marring his beautiful face. I committed his every word to memory. And in return, he lived my life as well. We melded and molded into each other, and I remember the exact moment I realized he was my everything.
This is also how he found out. He was in (on) my mind one night, languidly flipping the pages of my brain when he stumbled across my dreams of him. He saw himself as I saw him, neon blue eyes half lidded and pale skin stretched taut and willing under my hands. He was so angry at first...his tears fells from his eyes and fizzled in the air, defying gravity. He was so, so fucking scared, and I couldn't blame him. I had lived his life, and I knew. The only touch he had ever received, he had tried so hard to forget. I lost him for a while after that.
But we both knew we couldn't be apart.. I awoke one morning to his cold, cold frame next to mine. Instead of opening his mind, he opened his heart. His love for me was dwarfed by only one thing; my love for him. It's been months, and we know we are near the end.
I bend my head to him, my nose brushes the delicate shell of his ear, and I watch the goosebumps rise on his soft, downy arms as I growl possessively into it. My vision swims, I'm drunk on the heady little sounds he's making as I take him, over and over, and over was a long time coming, we both know. And God above, how he keeps me alive. His skin is so fucking cold, pale, like a marble statue. I'm so chemo-ridden and burning up from the inside out, I'm surprised our skin doesn't sizzle. I know how badly he wants the fire. I change my angle and his head tilts back, his neck a beautiful arch. It takes all of my self control not to imagine the airy ectoplasm floating from it. The high whine that escapes that velvet mouth of him is loud enough, I worry someone might hear him. But unless Popescue is around (God damn I hope not), his song belongs only to me. He wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my neck, and he just loses it. He whispers in a broken voice:
"I've never felt so alive."
Me neither, my love.
When all was said and done and the house was burning down, I walked away with his hand in mine and everything by my side.
Unapologetic smut, I know. Leave a review and make my day, bonus points if you can tell me the song lyrics I snuck in there.