Disclaimer: I do not own a single thing of digimon and do not claim to be either. I simply borrow the characters for my own sadistic pleasures, and it is just as kinky as it sounds. Yeah.

A/N: Well, it was quite some time ago since I last posted anything… you can't do anything but stating that. Who knows if this is good, because it only describes feelings, more or less, and all in all it is rather abstract. Coolness.

Please read!

Ice Age By: Ilyawen

Your clothes are somewhere on the messy floor and your breathing is down my neck. Please, get dressed again. I'm not myself today.

Of course I do not tell you that. There is an invisible wall between us, Taichi. I think you noticed that quite a while ago. You are not that daft. Perhaps you are trying to fill the empty void with touches of skin and kisses… but I think you noticed that it does not work all that well quite a while ago too.

To tell you the truth, I do not really mind the wall. Or rather, I would not protest if it suddenly had gone away but thing is that I know what it would take to make it do exactly that. It is there because of me. It is the ice inside of me, almost as if I am sleeping with my eyes open, my mouth talking, even laughing, and my hands holding yours just as everything should be.

I wish I could be that simple. You seem simple, however, I would never want to be you. Never would I want to be together with someone like myself. That is the only reason.
The ice is spreading. If I do not stay passive it might get out of control, and another ice age is the last thing both of us wish for. Who knows what would happen then. My wrists are something I would never show to anybody ever again.

Doctor Phil was just on again. I swear he is the devil in a very bad disguise. Talking about solving problems and helping people. All he ever does is to talk with mothers who either are depressed and overweight or feed their babies too much so that they are the overweight ones. The beg deal seems to be just about that, "be thin as a toothpick, be happy." The opposite problem appears not to exist to them. No one would ever dream of people who actually needs to gain weight.
The narrow-mindedness of American society.

My feelings are those of nothing. I have to remain passive. The ice has become me, and I would be nothing without it. What if, well, if the ice broke, me being made of it. On the other hand I have heard that it is better to be gone than to be nothing. There is a slight difference, you see.

But how could the ice ever break anyway? I don't want you to see all the marks on my back. I don't want you to ask me if you can touch my skin. I don't want you to see my body when it's daylight. I don't even want you to smile when I say I'm ugly.

I don't want anything, or so it seems. Maybe I just don't want to know what it is I want… I don't know. Who cares? I will not bother to find out if no one else makes me.
And sorry. It sounds childish.

It just cannot o further down now… I would not be able to take that. The hardest thing might just be to ask for help, because that means you admit you have a problem. Problems you cannot handle by yourself means that you are weak. Weakness is nothing one would want to have as a trait.

But one also has to remember that denial is often solely a symptom.

So, please get away from me. I still don't want you to see.
The sun is too bright today. It is even too hot outside. None of us have the energy to move away from the shade under our tree. The green, lush grass is cool to the touch. But do not touch me. Don't look.

I shift away from your hands when they linger just a little too long at the buttons of my shirt, a blunt twinge of bad conscience hits me as I see the hurt in your eyes. At least you have put your clothes back on. It does not matter, Taichi, we would have never gotten any closer anyway.
The blunt twinge is growing into a lump in my chest. It is just a bit too big to fit in properly. Tearing my eyes from you I bite the insides of my cheeks. It hurts.

Your t-shirt has slid down over your shoulder, being too large for you. My own sweater has long sleeves.

Tell me how to break the ice?

Your skin is sunburned as every summer. This year it is almost extreme. The colour of an Indian. It suits you, like most things. Obviously not sensing my gaze upon you, you roll over on your back, looking up at the leaves of the tree.

How could we ever break the ice?

It is silent, save the soft rustling of the leaves you stair at.

Maybe it is so that the only one who could break the ice is me. And I am not ready to.

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