A/N: So, I've been away for a while. :| But, for some reason, I've started reading MbN fic, and got into it again, and this has been brewing in my head for a few days now. So, welcome to my first official addition to the fandom. :D
Hopefully, this piece speaks for itself and isn't out of character. Whatever is between them, I still wouldn't call it love. And if you're expecting to find romance and candles and shit, you are so in the wrong place. Don't worry, though; I'm sure it's out there somewhere. Constructive criticism is always welcome, flames will be promptly ignored, and if you are offended by two guys kissing then you probably shouldn't read this, let alone watch a movie with such heavy homoerotic subtext. Just putting that out there.
Minimally self-edited, full of emotional fuckery and all that fun stuff. Enjoy!
Summary: --For a moment, he loses everything inside himself to the sound of the waves crashing like hushed but violent words against his skin.-- R/J. In desperation, no one is truly alone.
hush
It's dark out. The sky is lit up with stars, and Richard is sitting outside near the edge of the bluff, smoking a cigarette. He's sitting alone, but he's used to it, so that's okay. Even when it's not.
See, he's not one of those people who will come right out and say that he's alone, and if he does, he's not gonna say it like it's a bad thing. Like all those whiny assholes who trip over their own crocodile tears bawling that they're 'all alone in a crowded room'. Even if it's true.
Because, sure, a lot of the time, Richard feels like he's screaming at the top of his fucking lungs. But it's not like no one hears him, 'cause fuck if he'll be ignored. No, they hear; they just don't give a shit. So he screams as loud as he can, just to be a dick about it.
He leans over and flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette. It spirals down until the wind catches it, dashing it against the side of the cliff. The glowing ember moves lazily through the atmosphere, and he takes another long drag, lets the acrid smoke fill his lungs to bursting.
"Hey." The voice behind him is soft and monotone. For a moment, he is still. For a moment, he loses everything inside himself to the sound of the waves crashing like hushed but violent words against his skin.
The dying, burnt filter tumbles end over end from his fingers. Finds its way to death at the mercy of the sea, and all he says is, "Thought you were asleep." Smoke curls out of his mouth with the words, and he turns to watch the darkness creep closer in the form of a young man who stops just inches from the edge.
"I was." It feels like there's more to it than that, more to those simple words. But Justin never says anything he doesn't mean, even if he only means it for the moment. He's very precise that way, and sometimes Richard wants to punch him in the face until he bleeds, just to get him to stop calculating and thinking and actually feel.
"I could push you off, ya know," he says, and feels like he actually could. Justin's a depressed, morbid little fuck- a genius with no friends- and only his mother would miss him. Teenagers commit suicide every day.
"You won't." Cocksucker sounds so god-damned sure of himself.
"Fuck you, 'I won't'." But he won't. Can't. Even the monster that hides beneath his human skin can only bring itself to lightly caress the back of the dark-haired boy's leg through his jeans, and every brief moment of contact is like a small betrayal. Of what, he's not sure. He's not that fucking smart, right? But he knows shit. He knows things he can't put into words.
When Justin turns to face him, he feels his smile like the radiant warmth of the sun. He cringes quickly, and then it's gone. But the wanting lingers, like a snake coiled round his heart.
"What's bothering you, Richard?" In his mind he can see the way Justin's lips curve around his name. Fingers twitch. He strikes out, grabs Justin's wrist tightly and pulls him down. The younger man lets loose a surprised cry, and there's a thump when his back hits the ground. Before he can say a word, let alone try to move, Richard has straddled his hips.
"Oh, idunno," Richard says, entirely too calm about this, "a lot of shit. Mostly bitching to myself about how I want my daddy to love me." His bottom lip curls into a moronic imitation of a pout, and the tip of his left forefinger comes up to trace the path of a non-existent tear down his cheek. Justin bats his right hand away from where his fingers have traversed the contours of his cheek and begun the journey down his jaw line.
"Get off of me." Justin's voice is cold as it's ever been, with an edge to it.
Richard grins like a hyena about to tear into flesh. The convoluted, broken mess inside him skitters up his throat in a rampage of need, a sickly, blind thing that longs for daylight. If Justin's voice is a knife poised to slice a throat, Richard's voice is a bullet exploding from the barrel of a gun. He leans in until they are breathing the same stagnant air.
"Shut your pretty. fucking. mouth." Every word is punctuated by Richard's hand around Justin's delicate throat, squeezing as he pushes downward. He wants to watch the pretty boy struggle beneath him, eyelashes fluttering against the cool night breeze, fighting for every breath Richard allows him to take. He wants Justin to feel like he's drowning, wants to feel like they are choking on each other. He presses a gentle kiss to Justin's reddened cheek, loosens his grip and hears the ragged gasp against his ear. When he moves to hover over Justin's face, he sees those blue-green eyes staring up at him, a glint of understanding peeking through the fear.
When Richard speaks again, his lips move against his friend's in a morbid parody of a kiss. "I want to be so far inside of you that you won't be able to tell where I end and you begin." Justin's eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and Richard holds his gaze. Squeezes his neck once again, for good measure. "I want to fuck you 'til you bleed." He can feel something stir within him, a reaction to his own words and the moan Justin lets seep through his abused windpipe. "Because we're so fucking close, Jus. So fucking close, and you can crawl under my skin and never come out." He says it like a plea to a heathen god, and he doesn't even care that his eyes are damp with unshed tears because Justin is writhing beneath him and oh shit he could stay here like this until he withers away into a husk of brittle skin and bone.
Justin levers himself up on his elbows, pushing against Richard's twitching fingers, coughing and sputtering. And suddenly Richard's hand gives and he lets go, and their mouths mash together in a painful union of skin and teeth. And blood, Richard realizes, as his lip splits from the impact. But right now he's too out of himself to feel even the throbbing twinge of pleasure-pain that should be cracking down his spine. All he can feel is the burning wrench of his innards like twisted metal, and all he can hear is the slick wet 'pop' when they break for air, and it's like they're breathing as one person because suddenly they are.
When the kissing wanes into small, bruised caresses and finally stops, everything is still. Everything is silent. Richard doesn't want to move, doesn't want to give this up, but he knows it's gone. It's always like this, always over too soon. Mostly because he wants it to be. But Justin's not some easy-spread slut that he doesn't want to see in the morning, and that hurts.
He rolls off onto the rocky dirt. Their hands tangle together between them unexpectedly. Justin's voice floats on the ocean air, washing over Richard's face with the smell of salt and sweat. "I want that, too."