Disclaimer: I own nothing. Okay? Nothing but a Thai chicken pizza and a bad case of laryngitis.
Author's Notes: Hahaha! Look! I have notes! Well...this story needs them. Primarily, because I'm not even sure if you'd call it a story. It's almost more like a poem. The narrator is Ken. The "he" mentioned throughout the story...I'm not gonna say. I'm planning to continue this, write a second part, I just want to see who everyone thinks it is before I continue. And no, it's not an ultimatum...I'll still make a sequel even if no one replies. But! Please reply, because I want to see who you think it is! Ahh, and as to whether or not it's yaoi...again. That's more up to the reader.
Another Note: The rating is subjective. If you read this as yaoi, then it needs a PG-13; if you don't, then just a PG. PG at the least because the imagery is...odd. To me anyway.
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Within
I'm in the room again, and there's a clock on the ceiling.
With each breath I take, the clock speeds up.
But every time I look at it, the clock runs backwards.
What kind of clock is this? I wonder, and yet I know the answer.
I have seen this clock before. Every time I am in this room.
And then...he is there.
The hands on the clock are made of bone, and he is by my side.
Who is he? It's the same every time.
You're here, I whisper.
Of course, he replies.
His arms are around my waist, and the clock becomes still.
The room is still. We are locked in a moment.
You won't leave me, I whisper.
Never again, he replies.
His breath feels like ice. But it's okay, because my skin is cold.
I am dead.
Dead to the world, but it's okay. Because he's here with me now.
And the clock made of bone will tick no longer. Not with....him.
His eyes burn into me. I have no defenses. In the room with the clock, we are one.
You are perfect, he whispers.
I am whole, I reply.
The numbers on the clock smear like blood on concrete.
On concrete...
Like blood.
His breath is cold, but his tears are colder. Or are they mine?
His tears. My tears. Our tears. In the room with the clock, the tears run together.
You are going, I whisper.
I am gone, he replies.
And he is. The clock lurches forward. The numbers are clear.
And I am alone, in the room with the clock and the bones, and the memories of tears.
Encounters that never were, in a black black room.
His cold breath is gone, but my skin is not warm. I can still feel his arms.
I can still feel his tears, like blood on concrete.
And I will never be whole again.
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Tada! Now, wasn't that utterly bizarre? I was taking a shower, and this came into my head. Not the idea, but the actual lines. So I consider it special. Feedback would be greatly appreciated.
-k