Notes— Expect lots of bad language and bitterness? This week has not been a good one.
Can't Stop Now
It's not the same, he sighs, closes his eyes. It's not the same at night.
You look up into the night sky canvas. Stars wink, dangling off constellations like fragile promises on a thread. Sirens wail (an emergency) and you can almost see, almost feel, the harsh silhouettes ripping through the night sky; the wheels spinning —pulsating, gunned by clockwork mechanics cleverly crammed in motors —and the stillframe curves of sweat. Your fingers itch. Tricks. It's always the tricks. And the sirens again.
It's still the same damn sky, only darker.
But you don't say anything.
He wouldn't understand.
You used to sputter blood in your mouth, fresh liquid pennies, splattering all over the asphalt. Red. Metallic.
Ugly.
But that was then, you tell yourself. That was then, and you're different now.
You stand up again.
All those endless hours driving off the same damn wall to chisel that one trick —the exact split degree over the amount of pressure against natural gravity —feel for that distinct stall of steadying and balancing in the motors for maximum impact
—wait for that click
—and you push off hard and spin.
Close your eyes.
You pour yourself into your trick, until your trick becomes you.
Every pulse, throbbing.
Surging.
The wind against your body.
A stall —soaring, almost. You take it in, that nostalgic forever feeling, and rush it.
A bump and you fumble—
After all, every trick, you've learned, is meaningless unless it's practiced and perfected, down to the pulse. Half-assed attempts didn't get anywhere.
("You have to be in tune with your trick and you have to be your trick... show them what you got —and most importantly, don't you dare hold back."
oh you've held back so much, too—
break them all, darling.)
You get up and push your glasses back. Steady yourself again.
A breath.
Another fresh cut.
Numb.
The sun dips and black drenches the sky. The moon tips into a crescent smirk.
Your wheels scratch at the wall again, a faint echo. You lose yourself —comatose, senseless —slow. It doesn't take long. And now you can't feel anything anymore. Daze. You sit against the wall and look up at the clockwork spin stars. And the Storm riders.
And that sky.
And then close your eyes so you don't have to see it all.
You drop your gaze.
The sound of sirens.
..what the fuck.
He passes by you in the hallway. Stops.
Reaches for your arm.
The amber in his eyes —his fingers flutter over the blunt angry red —a tease. Butterfly touch. Blood floods to your cheeks.
Hold your breath.
Slow.
Warm.
Delicate.
You wax.
His mouth slopes into a frown. What happened to you?
Reality; and you drop your gaze to the scar.
Another fresh cut from another trick. Insignificant —just another little nothing, in the long run —and all you wanted to do was be stronger. And besides, you never really felt it, anyways. You weren't supposed to feel it. It isn't supposed to matter.
You laugh it off, draw your arm back (and feel cold again. You missed the warmth of his touch) A second flashes, and you wonder what it would be like if he knew, if he really knew. What would happen then.
You turn away.
It's nothing, you say; smile and laugh. It's nothing.
He wouldn't understand.
She's punctuated by every step. Slow. Sensual. Seductive. Her mouth is like sugar and summer days —and it lifts, inviting. She leans forward and tugs at his arm. Urgent.
Words you are too far away to hear.
Something stops and reanimates the color in his eyes anew and he throws his head back and laughs.
Magnetic.
Her mouth falls over his.
Your nerves shatter.
(..i'd rather not lose control)
You break her. Her scream shatters the horizon.
You sit on the swing seat and grasp at the chains. Swing, swing. But it's enough for you. You watch him fly all over the park.
Finally, he drops into the empty seat next to you, the wheels on his blades still spinning.
The glitter in his eyes doesn't fade. I can't believe I used to live without Air Treks, he says, laughing.
The look in his eyes.
You smile.
Tricks. It's always the tricks. You dangle on a thread and pray to god the wind blows the right way —and the feeling of soaring after the split second falter of the stall. Mechanics clicking and spinning in sync with every pulse. And then you melt into your trick —and you become a part of your trick. Heartbeat, rhythm, and existence all rolled into one.
Something else entirely.
You itch for your blades.
He sways lightly in the wind. I could be like this forever, he says, lazy.
Yeah, you say. Yeah.
And eyes meet.
You feel like infinity.
Infinity doesn't last long.
He finds out about what you did to her.
What the fuck, he says. He swears again, like he can't express it any other way. What the fuck. I can't do this.
Your eyes are blank.
Why the hell did you have to do that, he bites. What the fuck.
You run your tongue over your teeth. You never wanted it to come down to this.
It's not about you, you finally say. You wouldn't understand.
He looks at you like he wants to break you. Shatter. Your heart shatters.
You wouldn't understand, you wouldn't understand, he repeats, mouth twisting, eyes hard. Why the fuck does everyone think I won't ever understand anything.
You don't say anything.
He wouldn't understand.
Fuck, he sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. Let's do this. You and me. I can't take this.
And what he didn't say: I need to break you.
You look at him —the look in his eyes —and break.
His wheels start to spin.
You remember every trick you ever ran. All those endless hours driving up against that same goddamn wall. And all the scars. All those goddamn scars and all those goddamn fake smiles (—"oh it's nothing. nothing nothing nothing at all" ...and please don't worry about me. I liked. I wanted you to worry) and you remember every story carved forever under every scream. You feel every scar you inflict, and if you didn't, all you had to do was run fingers over your flesh. It was the reminder —your road. Like you wanted ribbons of raw skin coiling around your body. As if you had a choice.
As if.
He wouldn't understand.
You didn't want it to be him.
But.
The motors in your wheels click.
Pulsate.
Your blood rushes, hot and adamantium.
Fine. Fine, you say. Fine. Close your eyes. You don't understand, you say. You wouldn't understand. Your pulse surges until you feel every insignificant nerve flare. You can feel all your ugly scars screaming it out and —hunger. You can almost taste it. You can almost map out where they would be on him.
You needed to.
Fine, you say again, carnivore. Fine.
Savage.
Feral.
Ruthless.
Someone else entirely.
You lift your gaze, bitter. Cold. And —break me.
You push your glasses back. Break me, you repeat.
Something shatters in his eyes. He steps back. Hesitates.
You close your eyes and kick up against the wall.
..and let it go.
(and, god, i've been holding back and keeping it all to myself, because i was so goddamn scared it'd come down to this and it did and you still don't understand. you wouldn't understand. but fuck, now you're making me choose —fine. fine. i'll show you what a trick really is. and pay attention – i want you to feel every ugly scar.)
(...fuck, i need you to feel every scar.)
(...just give up. please.)
(...i never wanted it to be like this.)
He screams it out but you're already too damn gone—and no one can hear you now anyways. You fall hard once and you break
like glass. Pretty little fragments —your lips slope, "I can break you too" like you needed to prove it. But fuck, you did need to prove it. You had enough and it's just all too much and you just can't take it anymore and it all boils up, comes right back around and you can feel every nerve shattering straining screaming and
("You and me. I can't take this.")
Another fresh cut.
Thorns.
You close your eyes.
(he laughs, smirks, "one day, we'll fly together, I promise. Hell, I'll even carry you up with me"
but you always say meaningless stuff like that, you little liar. One of us has to give up. Remember when we were all small and young and little and at the top of that building that summer morning? It's like that. We were just standing at the top and the view was so nice up there but then you went and jumped without me, because you wanted something more, and I was so scared that you were going to break and die. But then the wind picked you up so that you wouldn't break and
And you fucking soared.
And the look on your face. God. I never even had a chance, did I.)
You kick up again, callous.
His voice is faint, but still there. A harsh pathetic little echo ringing in your ears.
Ringo... Ringo.
The next cut rips over your heart.
..i loved you.