Current mood:	smuuuuto~!
Current music:	Sukiyo...XDXDXD

Yet another...
EARTH
Author: Mushroom
Seme's POV
Rating: R
Notes: Another problem arises. The "plot" (if you could call it that)actually starts from here. Abuse of italicizations and commas. This was really fun to write, because it's long, and I like it when I don't limit myself.



This is bliss. My consciousness was s l o w l y ebbing away, spiraling into the abyss of passion. Words were lost in the heat; only the sound of buzzing silence, pounding beats, gripping hands eager to claim what was mine. It all started as a brawl, a childish bicker of sorts; eyes told their apologies and skin hungered for skin, for a touch of forgiveness. Memories of our past fight and the popcorn left in the microwave became ancient history and seemed insignificant compared to this. I could not see nor hear anything; I could only feel his closed eyelids as they flickered for seconds, bringing me to the edge. My fingers protected his back from the coldness of the wall, and they roamed up and down, trying to feel, to behold. In a few seconds my lips sought and found his, savored its moisture and syrupy aftertaste, pushing further into his familiar world as if I lived there my entire life. I was kissing him, DAMN, I really was, my mind kept on and on as if it could not believe what was happening, as if we never did it before. It started out swift and fierce at first; I wanted to consume every little detail, but his touch calmed me down and gave me ease. The mere thought and action brought an unruly outbreak of pleasure inside me. He sensed what I was thinking and smiled mockingly amidst the intimate space between us. Afterwards he responded by whispering my name incessantly between my lips, as a hymn sealing the moment, and brushed my hair back with his fingers. My hands left his arched back and tilted his chin to deepen the kiss.

In that moment my mind lost its purpose of keeping me rational as it completely closed down, therefore allowing my body to move on its own and with no conditions. (Damn him, he always reduced my mind into nonsense and SHIT…especially when I touch him there…) There was no dire need to rush things; I had long years ahead of me to analyze and cross the boundaries. Electricity, pulsation, and a whirlpool of overwhelming emotions took hold of my entire being. We opened our eyes at the same time and understood. Clutching my sleeves, he closed his eyes and leaned his head sideways to reveal a smooth neck of sultry appeal. That was it. I leaned forward and pressed my lips on his throat and left a trail of kisses from the bottom of his ear to the deep recesses of his shoulder. My other free hand delved into the skin underneath his shirt, resulting in gasps and fingers boring through my back.

I desired to do several things all the same time, things that if not done now would leave me regretting it forever; I explored and caressed in reckless abandon, my thoughts were running rivers and defied the earth as it soared upwards; I held him tightly, embraced him wholly, felt every stroke, ached for release…

“Comeandlivewithme.” I murmured in one breath, afraid that if once I stopped the world would come tumbling down into a disappointing crash of sanity. My voice was the voice of a beggar, a desperate plead that was entirely not my own. I wanted him so badly. I grasped his arms and pulled him nearer. He gasped.

“…Hmmm?” He was moaning to my every touch, sensitive and losing control.

I stood up straight and nuzzled his hair as he pressed his forehead against my chest. “I said, come live with me.”

***

The man I was embracing just a few seconds ago looked at me as if I was a brat asking a ridiculously immature question. I blinked.

He laughed loudly. His laugh echoed across the room, full of sheer amusement.

“No way! Are you sick in the head?”

My jaw fell. He straightened up his shirt, checked his watch, and started placing his CDs in his back pack like it was a normal thing to do after a snogging session. I stared at him all the while, dumbfounded; my heart was still pounding heavily, breath hitching, shirt untucked, lips twitching in want. After recovering from the shock rage struck me like a bolt of lightning.

“What—Why—stop ignoring me!!!” I yelled. “Why won’t you live with me?!”

“Because I don’t want to.” He said slowly, as if he was conversing with a two-year-old. “Why can’t you understand such a simple explanation?”

“Wha—Why—you—damn—you.” I sputtered. I was actually trembling. Take note, this guy never trembles. Sure, I probably shivered when I accidentally ruined his project but that was because I knew he would hunt me down even in my sleep. But I never trembled at times like this. Who wouldn’t, when we were just enjoying ourselves a while ago until my partner suddenly decided to be a cruel shithead, thus throwing me away like a discarded box of candy wrappers? This wasn’t right. I grabbed his arm and forced him to face me. Strange sadness flashed in his eyes for a split-second before changing into a dull shade of grey.

“I can’t live here. With you.” He stressed.

“Why not?!” I gripped his arms even tighter, making him wince. I knew I was hurting him, but I wanted him to feel the pain that was currently kicking my guts. “It’s not like you’re not used to this place, hell you practically know my kitchen more than I do, I always misplace the saucers and those metal shredders and you’ve been staying here with me all day and night. It could help you with your savings, you know, you don’t have to stay in your musty old boarders, anyways the neighbors are so friggin’ used to seeing you walk in my door like you own this place, because you do own it and I want to own it with you—“

He quietly listened as I ranted on and on about my nosy neighbors, missing socks and virus-inhabited laptop. As soon as my ramblings were reduced to unintelligible mumbles he silently released himself from my now softened grip, slung his back pack on his shoulder, announced that he was tired, and walked out the door.

***

Water splashed on his face as he was brushing his teeth. He gave me a deadly look and I grinned devilishly at him. “You better hurry up or I’m pulling you in.” I called out.

A sigh. “You idiot, stop flooding the floor.”

I turned the handle and watched the water flow endlessly. Once it was full, I jumped in the tub without even thinking of checking the temperature first, slouched ‘till the water reached the bridge of my nose, and wished that I could just drown myself when I couldn’t hear the usual sound of his foot steps on the wet bathroom floor.

***

We both loved cooking since we lived alone. Learning how to cook is essential for those brooding types with no self-enriching salaries. My parents went ballistic and kicked me out of the house when I turned down a law degree for my passion to take photos and waste film, while he pursued his dream of becoming an artist in this advertising company. They weren’t high-paying jobs, but all we wanted was enough money for food, lodgings, and the occasional ride on the rollercoaster together.

Yes, about cooking. We both loved experimenting and taking new risks for another fresh experience, so we ignored the rules of the cookbook and created our own recipes. With enough common sense, basic mathematical skills and lots of patience needed for cleaning up the mess afterwards, we always managed to make a masterpiece. May it be crepes, pasta, turnip stew or odd-looking leafy vegetables, they oftentimes turned out perfect. He would name his “babies” after ridiculously lengthy historical names, and I was always practical and named them after me. My name next to pie, soup, or meatballs.

“Go and prepare your namesake, you ass.” He chuckled. “It’s almost dinnertime.”

Hungry and lonely, I went to the kitchen counter to prepare something simple for lunch. I already thought of another made-up recipe, so I opened the drawers for a can of mushrooms, and some kitchen tools. They weren’t there. I checked everywhere, opened cabinets, set aside plates, and in spite of the huge mess I made I couldn’t find those blasted kitchen utensils. He always knew where things were; he would have known where they were kept.

After one last look at the final drawer I sat down on the floor, frying pan on one hand and wooden spoon on the other.

I ordered Chinese take-out. Their meatballs tasted like garden soil and spit.

***

I turned on the T.V., sat on the couch, watched Sesame Street, and hated the world.

***

My bedroom looked like an ordinary boy’s room; there was my desk with a lamp and a laptop resting peacefully, my really old and battered stereo beside a huge box full of CDs, and a stack of computer-related magazines covering my full-length mirror. I had a mini-refrigerator plugged at one side that contained more food than the big fridge itself. My trusty camera and cell phone were scattered on top of my creased bed, entangled on the white sheets.

But they really weren’t mine. Most of the magazines were purchased by him, the CDs were burned by him, and the bed was creased by him (I admit that I was also behind the mystery of the hurricane-stricken bed, but he made most of the mess, I swear). We shared in everything; possessions, rooms, our bed, and moments. Why couldn’t he stay? Did he secretly hate me? Was he sick of my easygoing attitude and our happy-go-lucky life? Did this room remind him so much of painful memories? Was he just staying here because he pitied me, because I was this dampened spirit who lived alone?

I flopped down on the bed and felt the camera jab my ribs but I didn’t even bother to thrust it somewhere else. I stared at the ceiling. The ceiling stared back and said, He’s not coming back, you pathetic piece of crap. Each time I woke up, I was usually welcomed by the breathtaking sight of his skinny figure, walking around half-naked with a towel on his head and a bowl of cereal on his right hand. He would toss a slipper at my face once I had given him one of my new jokes, sit down on edge of the bed, and put on his socks while I ate the rest of his cereal. It was never like this. I was so used to seeing him and not this brown, speckled and boring ceiling.

I used to love my room. Come to think of it, it really wasn’t so interesting.

***

A tentative knock on the door woke me up a few minutes later. I must have dozed off.

Suddenly the blood rushed through my veins and I sat up, my mind storing countless thoughts. I stared at the door in front of me and held my breath.

“It’s me.”

My first instinct was to rush to the door, fling it open, wrap my arms around his waist, drag him in, forget everything, and devour him. But then I remembered the feeling that stung me when I watched his departing back for the past two weeks. I merely grunted.

“What’s that? Another bunch of guilt CDs?!” I retorted.

I heard him inhale slowly. “I…was…scared.”

A deafening pause.

“Living with you…it seemed so right at that time, even wonderful. But then…it somehow makes everything official, doesn’t it?” He groped for words, and then continued. “I mean…it makes everything different. It’s going to change things. When we’re both living together, it means we have to do stuff together all the time, and I—”

“Just say it; you don’t want to spend more fucking time with me.” I said miserably.

“Damn it, just listen to me, will you?” I could sense his impulsive nature drawing in. “I was frightened, because…maybe someday…maybe someday you’ll grow tired of me…tired of seeing me poking around your house all day. We might fight again and again, and what if this time you won’t forgive me for being so stupid? Besides, even if you…well, even if you like me you dislike some of my interests, you said it so yourself…if we live together you might get mad at me for real, and I can’t handle that, I don’t want to be a nuisance. I realized that it was ill-mannered of me to just go barging in your apartment like, well, like I paid for it…when I didn’t. I want to spend more time with you—but I don’t want to take up all of your time. If I live here I might not help it.”

He took a deep breath. “…I want you all for myself.” he added as an afterthought. “And that’s real shitty of me to be so demanding. I can’t rely on you all the time. I’m content with just coming here to visit once in a while.”

I walked forward and pressed my head on the door. I felt him do the same. “Well, I’m not.”

My cell phone started ringing, but I didn’t care. Nothing was more important than this. Nothing, not even a call from a millionaire saying that he’s dying and he wants to give me all his money. Not even if that millionaire was the father who abandoned me.

“I want you here. Like I said, you own this place too. I don’t care if you eat most of the cereal, I really give it to you on purpose because I know it’s your favorite and you haven’t had a decent breakfast for years. I don’t care if you use my bathroom and walk around starking naked because that’s what I enjoy, honestly.” I heard him laugh. “I don’t care if you insist on playing those—those hellish, noisy, underground rock songs on full blast, or Frank Sinatra on bursting volume, or those language tutorial tapes that drive me mad. My apartment needs you. The kitchen misses you so badly and had a nervous breakdown, my bathroom is an ocean, and my stereo has been neglected for the past several weeks. I hate take-out, it doesn’t compare to your cooking, to ours, and a delivery boy doesn’t really give me happy sensations, if you know what I mean.” I didn't tell him that I was the one who needed him...he wasn't that stupid. I knew that he knew.

“You’re such a loser.” His voice taunted. “You can’t even make it alive without me.”

“You’re right.” I agreed. “It’s a mutual relationship between two different organisms, do you remember? Shit like that.”

He laughed, louder this time. “I'll go get my stuff. See you in a bit.”

It was really weird to make up without using violence. I thought he would punch a hole through the door and we would start using our well-practiced karate techniques, but I was wrong. We weren’t children anymore. He learned how to control his temper, and I used my fast thinking for teases and likely recipes, not insults. I realized his eyes were even better when they were smiling, and I lived for that.

***

Soon he arrived looking weary but extremely pleased. He tossed his backpack and suit case beside my dresser and crawled on the bed to lie down beside me. After our hands found each other we both stared at the ceiling. All of a sudden it looked pretty respectable; maybe it was the effect of the moonlight or my feelings, or maybe I was just hallucinating before out of depression.

“Thanks.” he whispered. He moved closer and the bed creaked.

“See, even the bed misses you.”

We laughed like little kids. It was fun; laughter always bursts your heart open without fatalities. When we finally calmed down, I turned to the other side, noticed something, and said in bewilderment, “All your belongings fit in a back pack?!”

“And suitcase,” he corrected. “My CDs are here, you stole my favorite sweater, and my salad is on the fridge. Everything I own is already here.”

“You didn’t even bring all your other things? What about that really tacky skateboard of yours? The one you bought with your tuition money when we were kids?”

“Like I said, everything special to me is already in this apartment.” he whispered, looking into my eyes. There was depth in what he uttered; hell, there was depth in everything he said, in all his actions, and in all the fruits of his labors. I smiled at him as he entered my embrace.

“I could definitely live here.” He murmured happily, his face buried on my shirt.

I smirked. “Don’t feel too comfortable. You still have to wash the dishes.”

“What?!” He sat up. “Today’s a Saturday…it’s your turn!”

I sat up too. “I’m the master of this house—er, apartment,” I said in a booming voice, “Therefore I make all the rules here. Now go and wash the dishes, and when you’re done give me a really good massage. Wait, there’s more,” I said quickly, when I noticed resentment in his eyes; oh he looked so good sometimes. “Don’t give me just an ordinary massage. I want you to be gentle, smooth, oh yeah, and it doesn’t hurt to be clad in nothing but confidence, sometimes—“

***

He strangled me and when I escaped chased me around the room. In the end nobody washed the dishes; they stayed there and turned green and disgusting. We only remembered that simple task when we emerged from the bedroom three days later.