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Zs hands are shaking
hes not sure why -- everything has gone perfectly fine. he got the cake out, he did the grunt work, hes done so good. and yet, this twisting, gnawing feeling won't leave him. its near midnight, now, and against all better odds, hes sitting down on the closed toliet lid, hands clenched in his lap as his teeth gnaw themselves to the gums
theres something silver in his wake. shiny, metalitc, a friend of a foe -- something he really shouldn't be having.
rain taps patterns against the window. moe's been complaining about a faulty wire for eons now, too long for him to ignore. he knows she'll be angry -- worse then regect. at least regect hits him. at least he makes him know what he's done wrong again. moe, well... the emotional toll weighs heavy. too big, too vast, too wallowing and deep. it crushes him -- forever will, and how can he be such a bully to place that onto her?
he slits. he always does
its not a ceremonial event. hes done this enough times to do this without it cutting up his airway and choking him outta his mind -- done it too much for it to be a bother. simply, its relief. reprive from the impulse; from the emotional current swirling like a hurricane in through his veins.
blood dots against the tissue. not pressed -- held. not too deep.
not enough.
Z shoves the thought away. shoves everything away. he gets up, wipes the blood from his wrist and bandages it with leftovers from three months ago. he tugs his sleeve until it wraps snug around his fingers, and looks at himself in the mirror.
theres been no change. maybe a bit more paler. his cheeks are still hollow, and when he pinches at his eye his chest yawns the same death rattle. his eyes look tired. not unusual. it should be worse, he thinks, because then at least he'd have proper guilt. at least then he'd feel proper pain. a reliable sense of something carves its way into his lungs, until it feels like they're being crushed from the inside out. tears prick at the corner of his eyes. Z turns, shuts the bathroom door, and sinks.
regects up against the counter when he wakes
he's always been somewhat of an early bird. Z finds anguish for that. he gives him a small smile before slipping back into that mask of decite. they talk about the weather. about whether or not moe wants to go to another concert; whether they have the money for that. Z votes yes; Regect votes yes; there is no argument. the only one is the leaking tap in the bathroom and moes makeup getting everywhere in the trash. z doesn't comment. doesn't think he could
regect greets moe as she steps downstairs. she's beautiful -- this elegent, larger-then-life beauty. her hairs all mused and tossled, and she smiles when regect presses his shoulder into hers, asking about pancakes, about milk and what type of coffee. she honks a good morning to Z. he barely hears it through the glow
they sit. they eat. they go out for a boat ride -- somewhere down town.
no matter how higb the sun rises, no matter how much they laugh and his stomach bellows -- the wraith is there. unyeilding against his stomach. untouchable. at one point, the mass presses against his lungs so great z has to excuse humself to rid it into the toilet. the bile does nothing -- only empowers. managable, at least. he's able to get through dinner without puking. lets himself be led up, up. lets himself be pulled into arms and legs and a tangle of good thoughts and bashful lust.
regect and moe are gentle to him.
that soothes the ache. if only.
they end with kisses.
moe is laying between them, damp rag thrown onto her chest to wash down the sweat. regects laying like a starfish, all confidence and pride, his legs wrung like tentacles as he touches him and her. zs far more subdued. his nakeness is much more less; and neither have said a word to that. moe's shoulder against his ribs is a comforting thing against everything else. regects rambles are another sunbeam.
"--that was nice."
z glances over. regects grinning at him. "right, z? was that nice for you too, buddy?"
"don't call me that," he mumbles, voice taut "you sound... awful"
"awful is my middle name"
regect laughs. z stays eerily still. its a joke, of course it is, but for now all he can see is the mess building and building and building.
moe shifts. her eyes flicker to him, then to regect, giving him a nudge of the shoulder and a pointed hand. regect gives her a nudge as if to say 'really?', before he quietens and settles.
z looks at them for a moment longer. the weight of them -- the feeling of their body -- something like guilt and anger wrangles up inside his throat. why can't that have been them? not in this way, of course, but still. why couldn't have they had sunshine? why couldn't they have been nicer to the world? the sickness bunches up into his throat like vomit. he has to turn to his side to keep the emotions from bubbling into tears
moes sprawled hand against his shoulder
"i'm fine"
a nudge
z pauses. bites his lip. his eyes gloss over -- bordering but never quite there.
after all, moe and regect -- they have been everything to him. more then the world itself. so what if they've had hiccups? so what if they've been so sick they can't stand each other sometimes? so what if he misses them? so what if the world is cruel and crumbling and so, so awful? so what if regect is mean -- so what if he is too? they are kind. they are warm. they are more then anybody like him should deserve -- should even have the pleasure of looking at, let alone date
and moe... she has been so gentle. she has been so kind. how could he bare to burdern them with the responsiblitiy that is this sickness? how could he ever allow that to happen? he cannot let them see this rot; he cannot let them feel guilty. so, he swallows, and pushes the sick down until its square against his ribs
"i'm fine," he mutters. his voice is taut. he finds her hand and rests his against it "really, moe. i'm okay"
another still. he can feel regects eyes on him. then, her fingers dip into his, and she squeezes briefly before letting her arm drape across his middle. z lets ber. shes always been clingy after this -- always a needy thing. regect, too, but in a way thats different; avoidant. z settles into it. he has to. he has no choice but
much later, he slips out of their grasp, walks into the bathroom, and slits his wrists
its not a big thing. never is. his own lungs have transformed themselves into claws and teeth -- biting into his flesh as if desperate for some release. blood drips down into the sink. the feeling of his arm opening for the world to see has him feeling, almost, a bit giddy
he should get worse, maybe. rid of this monster. this diease. carve the name onto his thigh and start digging into the middle. maybe regect will see and decide that for all his torement, he shall do more. when his guts are layed out onto the kitchen, and his blood as been puked from his mouth, and he his breathing so shallow he thinks he might really die, maybe regect will see, then. see this diease, and thank himself for clarity lest he also get infected
maybe that won't be the case, though. lets not get irrational. this is all some sort of.. chemical imbalance, right? dominos can't fall all on their own. z -- this bubbling emotion, rigid and unyeilding, carving and carving still -- it has been built up over months. whether that was becuase of his death, or whether that was because of something else, nobody will ever know. not even he. but it had to have started somewhere, right? this can't be on him. it just can't be
but it has to
it has to have
nobody can do no wrong. only good people exist. z is the monster here. a fucked up thing that deserves to bleed and kill and die. he deserves to die
he slashes again. fat. again. stryo. again and again and again until his fingers are sticky and his arm is shaking. he doesn't stop. his body hitches and jumps and sobs. its wailing, and yet he's trying so desperatly to keep it quiet -- can't wake them, can't let them see. the pressure behind his eyes and the pressure inside his throat is overwhelming. it presses until it feels as if he might die
maybe he really will
no. not tonight. not today
his arm is shaking -- and it stills. calm overtakes everything else. he has overworked himself so much he has become numb. his eyes pull back, just until theyre barely sitting against his skull, and he watches as his hands no longer become his own. alientation. he watches as he clenches his hands together, and takes stock around the room, as if this is the first time he's ever seen it
you're okay, he hears himself say. you are okay.
he watches as he cleans himself, pulls down his sleeve, and walks back to bed. the two people -- moe and regect -- his friends -- his partners - he watches as they sleep. he crawls into bed, settles against moe's hold, and closes his eyes
he will be fine
he will be okay
he has to be. there is no other way