Entry tags:

oneshot, original

The Martian

The Martian

by: Mushroom
Author's Notes: For him.





Earth to Tony. Woo-hoo. Earth to Tony.

Wha—

A laugh. An arm circles around his waist from behind, palms flat and warm on his chest. In the corner of his eyes he can see a hazy purple-red, and several random spirals that define the gnawing in his temples.

You’re thinking again.

Well, excuse me. I am a normal, functioning human being. It’s natural for me to think.

Paul taps his chin thoughtfully. I dunno. Animals think, too. They even dream and stuff. My dog dreams a lot. She whines in her sleep. And anyway, I meant you were thinking deep again. He lifts an arm and places a hand on Tony’s forehead, trying to feel. You’re making me worry.

Tony looks at him fondly. Paul is like a little boy sometimes, caring, sometimes too caring, always looking out for others. He’s the type who would pick up stray animals and take them home—he owns six cats in his apartment unit, and they are all plump and sophisticated. Animals reciprocate, he once said firmly. They always give you what you deserve.

What’re you thinking of, he whispers.

Father. And Tony says Father as if it were a sharp blade, scalding to the touch.

No words, for communication is faulty. Distance is a major factor, so Tony leans back. It is received.




When Paul slides inside Tony, Tony thinks. Yes.

Oh, says Paul, panting above him. Eyes blink, mouths water, and they both laugh loudly, like crazy men. This thing between us, Paul announces, is the best thing ever. Then Tony feels the ache again, so he hugs his lover tight and they exchange saliva for three minutes, then some wonderful sex.

The next day Tony heads home and stares at the man named Father, reads his lips that tell him all the things he’s aware of: being a failure, a loser, all that shit…so he storms up the stairs but his Father catches him and hold on, hold on, CUT—next scene Tony sports a bloody lip, and the grin on the other man’s face looks totally nasty.

Tony vomits all over the place. There is vomit in his hair, clothes, and notes. The vomit tastes like the man’s knuckles.

Think about the sex, he reminds himself. And the pain, the wonderful pain just for him, like a scab you can’t stop touching.

He rides the jeepney going to school, and feels uncomfortable. Classes are the same; their teacher walks out and he turns around and his classmates laugh and jeer. Primary topic is the March Causing All the Traffic; fuck those men with their tall stilettos and high-altitude voices. Tony thinks, ah. Theirs is a different language.


He writes his findings in a little notebook wrapped with brown paper. Paul has his own, and they compare notes.


At night Tony likes looking out the window while Paul snores beside him. There are no stars this evening, only a gray sheet of dreariness.

Tony closes his eyes and dreams of traveling towards a crimson world. It is a convenient one. There is water when he is thirsty, and the sky is decorated with millions of blinking lightbulbs. Sometimes they fall towards the ground and the broken pieces threaten to pierce him, but he is surprisingly invulnerable.

His lover is there in his dream. They link hands while touring, taking pictures and cracking jokes.

Tony opens his eyes, wakes Paul up, and tells him everything.

Wouldn’t it be nice, Tony wonders.

The other man agrees.




It is Tony’s fifth day in his bedroom. Still, he can feel Paul breathe against his neck, and it assures him that yes, he is alive, somehow. The obligatory Father is outside, the stains of nausea are left on the carpet, but he has an escape plan. Tony’s heart beats fast, desperate to burst out and fly up, way up, until it reaches its destination, a world anew—he knows he will succeed because he has to. All he needs is a rocket ship; it has been built many years ago, by kings and emperors, bards and knights, and it is the only ride home.