Midnight Garden
by Kye
Chapter 11
-------------------
I hate feeling sorry for myself. It's worse than only feeling whatever made you sorry. It's slimy, dirty, worthless, disgusting. You can't always stop it, either. Sometimes things happen that eat away at a person until self- pity is the most solid thing he has to hold on to. It's not their fault. It just happens-- to some people more than others.
Oh, like, I dunno, me, for example? At that very moment? Brad left me, thinking I was back to beddy-bye, when really I was sinking into wallowing quality depression.
Stop it, I told myself. As if there weren't enough people talking to me already. The voices were a constant buzz in my head, like standing in the middle of a swarm of very large bees. They hurt about as much. Ack. More self-pity. More whinging.
But then, I kind of had the right to it. I mean, here am I, just your average telepathic murderer, and I can't get through the day without something going horribly wrong. Let's see-- torture-by-midget, a whiny, stuck-up boss, a bigger boss who wants us dead, and a super-powerful lackey thereof who's screwed with my brain, hence the hundreds of people, talking ALL AT ONCE in my head.
Aw, screw it. I'll whine if I DAMN WELL PLEASE.
So I was about to sink into an oblivious mope when Farfarello showed up. He was quiet, so quiet I didn't hear him. I didn't even notice him until he was standing right next to me.
"You didn't tell," he said accusingly, meeting my eyes unblinkingly. There was nothing like a nutso glaring at you to cure Sorry for Self Syndrome.
"I guess not," I said. There was a long pause, and I thought fleetingly that the conversation might be over, and I could sleep off my beer now.
"Why not?" Farf said. Oh, fine, then-- ask a hard question. I hid under my pillow like I had with Brad.
"Bekush I dodiddud go 'way." There was silence from the other side of the pillow. Then, without warning, it was tugged away from me. I twisted around to see Farfarello, who held the pillow lightly by one hand. He turned his head slightly to one side, thoughtful.
"You could have told me. I don't make it loud." I was about to protest, until I realized that he was right. When Brad had been here, his thoughts had been louder than anyone's. When he had left, it had been the difference between a tornado and a rainstorm. Farfarello didn't change that an inch. Actually, that wasn't right-- he made it...~quieter~.
"You're right. You don't." A wave of tiredness mixed with hangover overtook me, and I shut my eyes with a sigh. I don't like sighs. They're teenager- ish. But I sighed anyway, because it seemed the thing to do.
Apparently I wasn't the only one who thought things needed doing.
Farfarello sat all of the sudden on the edge of my bed-- I could tell because of the way it sagged in where he settled. I was pressing the base of my hand against my forehead, trying to push out the pain; Farf's hand touched mine, and pulled it to my shoulder. Then I felt his breath against my forehead, and gently, so that I hardly felt it, hardly believed it, his lips touched my skin.
I opened my eyes, and he pulled back. His hand, though, stayed on mine. He looked at me. Oh, but that was an expression that would be hard to forget. It was like the trademark lazy-dangerous, but with a hint of something else, something I didn't understand at all. I opened my mouth to say something (I don't know what), shut it again with a snap, and opened it again. I must have looked like a beached flounder.
"Farf? What exactly...?"
"I told you, I don't want you to hurt," he said, as if that explained everything. Voices aside, my mind was a mess. It wasn't sure whether to be creeped out or pissed off or what, exactly. And while my head didn't particularly like what Farfarello had done, the rest of me didn't exactly dislike it.
"Don't confuse me when I've got a hangover," I told him weakly. He held my hand more tightly.
"Sh. Sleep," he commanded, and then, bewilderingly, "You make it worse." I started to ask what he meant, but when he'd mentioned sleep, it had done something to me. I felt the world slow...down...and my eyes started...to close, and I tried to say 'what the hell are you talking about, farf?' but
it
was
all
dark.
-----------------------------------
A.N.: Did it work? Is this too bad? I know it's short, but, hey, it's a one- event chapter. I'd say a kiss is enough to get its own, especially considering the relationship thus far.
Rika: only a SEMI-kiss!! What the heck was that about, huh? Is that all the action I get in this story?!
kye: O__o since when are you a yaoist, ri-chan?? ARG! IT'S TOO MUCH TO TAKE!! My OWN muse! Dear little Rika! All grown up and wanting to go explicit!! *starts bawling*
Rika: Kye-chan...0_0;; Oh, well, be as weird as you want. I got a fluffy chappie all for meself!
Marc: Uh, no. The angst was mine.
Rika: But love won out! Fluff will always triumph!
Marc: You sound like Amelia from Slayers.
Rika: O.o!... Shutting up now.
Kye: *keeps bawling*
by Kye
Chapter 11
-------------------
I hate feeling sorry for myself. It's worse than only feeling whatever made you sorry. It's slimy, dirty, worthless, disgusting. You can't always stop it, either. Sometimes things happen that eat away at a person until self- pity is the most solid thing he has to hold on to. It's not their fault. It just happens-- to some people more than others.
Oh, like, I dunno, me, for example? At that very moment? Brad left me, thinking I was back to beddy-bye, when really I was sinking into wallowing quality depression.
Stop it, I told myself. As if there weren't enough people talking to me already. The voices were a constant buzz in my head, like standing in the middle of a swarm of very large bees. They hurt about as much. Ack. More self-pity. More whinging.
But then, I kind of had the right to it. I mean, here am I, just your average telepathic murderer, and I can't get through the day without something going horribly wrong. Let's see-- torture-by-midget, a whiny, stuck-up boss, a bigger boss who wants us dead, and a super-powerful lackey thereof who's screwed with my brain, hence the hundreds of people, talking ALL AT ONCE in my head.
Aw, screw it. I'll whine if I DAMN WELL PLEASE.
So I was about to sink into an oblivious mope when Farfarello showed up. He was quiet, so quiet I didn't hear him. I didn't even notice him until he was standing right next to me.
"You didn't tell," he said accusingly, meeting my eyes unblinkingly. There was nothing like a nutso glaring at you to cure Sorry for Self Syndrome.
"I guess not," I said. There was a long pause, and I thought fleetingly that the conversation might be over, and I could sleep off my beer now.
"Why not?" Farf said. Oh, fine, then-- ask a hard question. I hid under my pillow like I had with Brad.
"Bekush I dodiddud go 'way." There was silence from the other side of the pillow. Then, without warning, it was tugged away from me. I twisted around to see Farfarello, who held the pillow lightly by one hand. He turned his head slightly to one side, thoughtful.
"You could have told me. I don't make it loud." I was about to protest, until I realized that he was right. When Brad had been here, his thoughts had been louder than anyone's. When he had left, it had been the difference between a tornado and a rainstorm. Farfarello didn't change that an inch. Actually, that wasn't right-- he made it...~quieter~.
"You're right. You don't." A wave of tiredness mixed with hangover overtook me, and I shut my eyes with a sigh. I don't like sighs. They're teenager- ish. But I sighed anyway, because it seemed the thing to do.
Apparently I wasn't the only one who thought things needed doing.
Farfarello sat all of the sudden on the edge of my bed-- I could tell because of the way it sagged in where he settled. I was pressing the base of my hand against my forehead, trying to push out the pain; Farf's hand touched mine, and pulled it to my shoulder. Then I felt his breath against my forehead, and gently, so that I hardly felt it, hardly believed it, his lips touched my skin.
I opened my eyes, and he pulled back. His hand, though, stayed on mine. He looked at me. Oh, but that was an expression that would be hard to forget. It was like the trademark lazy-dangerous, but with a hint of something else, something I didn't understand at all. I opened my mouth to say something (I don't know what), shut it again with a snap, and opened it again. I must have looked like a beached flounder.
"Farf? What exactly...?"
"I told you, I don't want you to hurt," he said, as if that explained everything. Voices aside, my mind was a mess. It wasn't sure whether to be creeped out or pissed off or what, exactly. And while my head didn't particularly like what Farfarello had done, the rest of me didn't exactly dislike it.
"Don't confuse me when I've got a hangover," I told him weakly. He held my hand more tightly.
"Sh. Sleep," he commanded, and then, bewilderingly, "You make it worse." I started to ask what he meant, but when he'd mentioned sleep, it had done something to me. I felt the world slow...down...and my eyes started...to close, and I tried to say 'what the hell are you talking about, farf?' but
it
was
all
dark.
-----------------------------------
A.N.: Did it work? Is this too bad? I know it's short, but, hey, it's a one- event chapter. I'd say a kiss is enough to get its own, especially considering the relationship thus far.
Rika: only a SEMI-kiss!! What the heck was that about, huh? Is that all the action I get in this story?!
kye: O__o since when are you a yaoist, ri-chan?? ARG! IT'S TOO MUCH TO TAKE!! My OWN muse! Dear little Rika! All grown up and wanting to go explicit!! *starts bawling*
Rika: Kye-chan...0_0;; Oh, well, be as weird as you want. I got a fluffy chappie all for meself!
Marc: Uh, no. The angst was mine.
Rika: But love won out! Fluff will always triumph!
Marc: You sound like Amelia from Slayers.
Rika: O.o!... Shutting up now.
Kye: *keeps bawling*