Current mood:	embarrassed
Current music:	I So Wanted - Rie Fu

Second Arc: Everyday

NOON
Author: Mushroom
Uke's POV
Rating: Rock Solid R, many disturbing themes.
Summary: Happiness is not forever.
Notes: This deviated from my usual "sex comedy". I was actually apprehensive when it came to updating this portion...because it's very dark. Readers might be shocked by the sudden change of atmosphere, but I had to add a bigger picture into the scene because, as the summary says, happiness is not forever. My characters needed to grow, and they can't grow while just going at it all the time. It's a good thing kikiam advised me to add a short story first before the shade arrives. Oh, and all the books and authors mentioned are REAL, read and researched. XD Complete list

For chescake117 *cries with her*



“You know what, you’re unfair. You sweet-talk Shakespeare. You grope Madeleine L’engle on the spine.”

I laughed inwardly. He was trying to catch my attention again.

“You kiss book covers after you purchase them. You fondle the pages affectionately—you NEVER look at me like the way you look at books—then you make SWEET, HOT love with novels, magazines or any other reading material you can lay your grubby hands on.”

I shrugged nonchalantly and flipped the page I just finished reading. “I can’t help it. Books are my bed partners.” I know it didn’t sound so right, but books make me fall asleep, which I really needed after staying up so late for the past several weeks because of work.

He threw his hands in the air and groaned. “I can’t believe it. I’ve been completely undone by a book—what the hell are you reading anyway?”

“The Supple Body by Sarah Black.”

He smirked. “You know, if you really want to see my supple body so badly, you could just ask.” He unbuttoned his shirt, threw it on my face, and started rummaging through some of the books I purchased from downtown. “Oh look…what the FUCK?! ‘Out in the Open—the Complete Male Pelvis?’ What kind of a HORNY title is that? Oh, this one’s an eye-catcher: Beyond Stretching, followed by Bodywork—What Type of Massage to Get and How to Get the Most of It. This Thomas Claire guy is reading my mind!”

I frowned at him, tried to continue reading, but lost the motivation to continue when the words naked body were etched in my mind in vibrant red ink. He was just so…I don’t know, irresistible when he was complaining. I closed the book when I read the chapter ‘Somatics’, then thought of something. “You know what, you’re just like a book.”

The jerk grinned and jumped beside me, shoving the books I hid under the pillow to other far-flung places I could not reach. “Huh? You mean the ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ thing? Please, you could be better than THAT.”

I shook my head rather happily, and he smiled and held my shoulder. “No…because you’re just so…so comprehensible.” He frowned, so I continued, “I could read your every move.”

“I thought you said I’m always full of surprises.”

I didn’t want to be interrupted, so I pinched his cheeks forcefully and snorted. “Yeah, I can read you. I know when you’re angry, I know when you’re really excited, I know when you’re feeling rather tight and lusty…what with all those stares you give me. I’ve really gotten so used to you.”

“Aaaah…” He rested his head on my shoulder and sighed. I swallowed. He looked torn apart from being happy that I knew him so well and disappointed because I made it seem like he was just like any other regular guy.

“But you know…even if a book is predictable...” I picked up Anne of Avonlea and opened a random page, “…sometimes the way the author writes the piece makes it different, more unique. Because of that…I get hooked ‘till the ending.” I closed my mouth shut and thought of whacking the book on my forehead. What I said was utter crap and pure nonsense, but he was smiling at me so widely that I realized I was wrong; I knew everything about him, yet I still feel shock when he smiles at me with such love and secrecy and other elusive feelings. I predict the times he would kiss me, smother me with the touch of aching lips, but the kisses felt new and tastier the nth time around.

“I’m right,” He said at last, after we executed lip exercises, “You DO make sweet love with books and their authors.” He pointed at himself and I giggled (it was too late for me to realize that I was laughing like a retarded cheerleader). Our eyes met and sent messages to each other, urgent calls like “Please I want you now, pin me down, just, just me push me anyway you want.” and “time to put those Swedish massages to good use.”

We responded to those messages hastily. I was just wearing my bathrobe and he was already half-naked, so everything was convenient…no belts to fumble, tops to be cursed. The heavy sound of the springs echoed inside the room, with lots of groaning and moaning and all those strange noises you make when you and your lover’s hips are locked together. Sweat was accumulating on our lips but we kissed like there was no time left; tongues circled and embraced each other, teeth clacked, cheeks were sucked in, and jaws ached. I felt something wet and sticky brush teasingly on my neck and shoulders, and looked down to see him give open-mouthed kisses on my waist. MY WAIST OF ALL FRIGGIN’ PLACES, damnit…I was very ticklish there. I squirmed and started pounding his back with my fists, writhing in quiet laughter. He stopped and looked back at me, grinning that usual grin of his. Prick.

We barely had time to breathe because he was now moving back and forth, rubbing my thighs and just pushing and ohmygod, the message was received and it was so clear, so good. I was gasping inside his mouth, eager to grasp something but I didn’t know what, wanting desperately to sink my teeth into anything, because my moans were growing louder and louder by the second. He covered my mouth with his hands, not to silence me but to tell me that it was fine…so I bit the edge of his palm and let out a muffled scream. He did not even wince; he encircled his free arm around my waist and held me close as we both came in shuddering gasps.

Silence. My head collapsed on the pillow and he dropped on top of me, licking my cheek. “I thought of something to compare you with, since you called me a book.”

I closed my eyes. “Really…” I prepared myself for an insightful comparison…he was actually the better thinker.

He nodded. “Yeah. For me…you’re like a…a potato.”

I spun my head so abruptly that my chin stabbed his nose. He yelped and was about to complain but thought it wise to keep quiet because I looked like I wanted to murder him. No wait, I DID want to murder him. “A potato. Right. And why is that?”

Now he was the one who was acting like an effing school girl now, giggling helplessly. “Because you’re so brown and boring and…” he scrunched up his face. “…lumpy.”

LUMPY?! What the HECK did LUMPY mean?! That did it. I whacked a pillow at his face and was about to leave when he grasped my arm. “Don’t leave yet…” he gave me a feeble look, and I realized that he was still aroused.

“And why shouldn’t I?!” I said raspily. “Please let go of me, I still have to read ‘Various ways to torture stupid horny bastards.’” Leaving him in an aroused state was the worst torture I could think of. He could hump the mattress for all I care.

“Don’t be so heated up…I said you were like a potato because I just want to peel your outer layer off…then mash you, fry you, bake you…” The friggin’ jerk even managed to think of such nasty thoughts while I was in a bad mood. But it was funny though, so I threw my head back and laughed. After we both shared a heartfelt smile, I flopped down next to him and before I knew it we finally accomplished chapter fifteen of 101 Nights of Grrreat Sex by Laura Corn.

And he was wondering why I loved books.

A few hours later I snuggled close to him while he smoked and read a Pc game manual. Wind rushed through our window and I shivered, moving closer to him. It was cold.

“…I’m scared.” I whispered.

He placed the manual down. “Don’t worry, you won’t get pregnant.” He said seriously.

I poked his ribs, annoyed. He placed his cigarette on the ash tray and turned to face me, nuzzling my hair. “Just kidding. Why?”

“We’re too…happy. I’m not used to it. Before, whenever I feel happiness, I almost immediately lose something so important to me afterwards. Every good thing that has happened in my life turns into something sour or worse. But I can’t help it. I’m just so happy…you make me feel like nothing’s wrong, but all the more it feels so strange and weird and—“

I stopped when I saw his wistful expression. He breathed deeply, hugged me and muttered, “That doesn’t matter. If we’re happy, we’re happy. If some shit tries to take it away from us, then all the better, because I know we can defeat all kinds of shit. Just feel whatever’s happening right now, and accept things as they are. You can do it. You’re my one and only potato.”

I rolled my eyes. “But if you peel potatoes, you need to use a blade to cut through.”

He paused to think for a moment, then hugged me even tighter. “Sssshhh…just sleep.”

A blade that’s sharp enough.

***

“He’s dead. Guess you’re both happy now.”

I learned about the shocking news from a phone call that morning. My roommate (pun intended, as he would say) was still on a graveyard shift so I was left alone in the apartment, cleaning the dust that accumulated beneath his stack of Anne Rice books. He came home, a carton of pizza waiting to be wolfed down on one hand; I allowed myself the indulgence of his kisses, and then he waltzed around the room in a joyous mood. Damn the world; I wanted him to smile. I hated being the bridge of disasters and mourning. I knew I had to tell him, sooner or later.

And I did, before we slept; I knew it was a mistake because sleep would never reach him now; not today, not tomorrow, not for a very long time.

I’m so heartless sometimes. I actually thought that he would grin and say, “Finally, the asshole is gone now…good riddance.” I smiled when I heard the news, knowing fully that the pain his father gave him would diminish permanently. However, when he heard the news from my own mouth, he started laughing hysterically. His face scrunched up in what seemed to be a horrified appearance, completely torn apart from crying or accusing me of giving a really, really bad joke.

“The shithole’s really dead.” He said. His tone was flat and broken.

“I’m sor—“ I started, and I wanted to dig up my own grave for saying something so thoughtless, so impassionate and crude.

“What the hell are YOU feeling sorry for?!” He got up the bed and started pacing restlessly on the floor, running a trembling hand through his hair. I sat up hastily and pulled the blanket closer to my chest…something was very wrong.

“WHY—“ He kicked the chair and I winced. “THE HELL—“ The Anne Rice books scattered on the floor with a noise of ripping paper. “DID HE—“ He stopped, breathing heavily. “—WHY THE HELL…WHY DID HE…DAMN HIM—“ Two strong arms reached towards me and hands gripped my shoulders, giving me pain beyond meaning. “WHY DID HE LEAVE?! I didn’t tell him to, shit—did he think I’d go and cry—that damn asshole, he deserves it, doesn’t he? DOESN’T HE?!!”

I placed my palms on his face, trying to comfort him. However, my hands were cold. This was unfamiliar ground I was treading on, and my hands could do nothing to guide him, not even soothe his trembling body. I could not offer warmth myself for I too was shaking uncontrollably, desperately trying to relieve something out of my control.

“I wanted him to die…” He whispered raucously. His grip tightened, although his arms still shook. The unbearable feeling in my shoulders was now excruciating but I gazed at his tightly shut eyes. “I WANTED HIM TO DIE, DAMN IT! Why did he leave NOW, WHY THE FUCK DID HE HAVE TO DIE?! Tell me, TELL ME!!!” My back was now being knocked on the wall continuously. Tears dripped on the sheet I used to cover myself out of fear. “WHY DID HE LEAVE WHEN I HAVEN’T EVEN SHOWN HIM MYSELF, WHY THE FUCK DID HE HAVE TO DIE WHEN I HAVEN’T EVEN LAUGHED AT HIS FACE YET?! I could have shown him that I could very well be myself without HIS FUCKING ASS TO BE AROUND, that I could reach my dreams and do what I want and DO WHAT IS RIGHT FOR ME! BUT NO, HE JUST HAD TO FRIGGIN’ DIE, He just had to leave, and now I couldn’t mock him like what he did to me, now I can’t DAMN SPIT at him like what he did when I was a child—His spit stank like shit, and I wanted to smear it at his face just so that he could FUCKING TASTE it himself—and the wounds he gave me, I’ll never be able to return the favor now, CAN NEVER HEAR HIM SCREAM! I worked hard for years just to be able to STUFF his STINKIN’ HOLE OF A MOUTH with the cold cash I would be able to save from the work I really wanted for myself, I would have said I don’t need your fucking WEALTH you piece of shit, then HE WOULD GROVEL ON HIS KNEES AND PLEAD LIKE A CHILD, AND I WOULD IGNORE HIM, because I obey him and I want to do whatever he usually did to other people, including me, including those who work for him, including YOU! BEING AN ASSHOLE, that’s what he’s good at, being a BASTARD, and I’m willing to be just like him when he’s not looking for it, because he deserves to see what the devil that he really is!” He took a deep breath. “The fucking bastard died, now I can never have payback, death is his escape; nothing is worth anything now, HE’S DEAD, I WANTED TO KILL HIM, but now he’s DEAD, HE’S DEAD!”

He gave me one last shove, wiped the furious tears from his face and left the bed, leaving me shattered. Once I heard the door slam I hugged my knees and cried, not for the pain I felt but for his hurting. I always knew that he loathed his household, and even if he abandoned it to live with me vile memories kept chasing him like an incurable disease.

A night of contemplation; that was all he needed. Tomorrow he would come back inside, rub my shoulders thoroughly, and tell me softly that he was sorry for hurting me. Tomorrow I would forgive him, accept his kisses eagerly and passionately, and the phone call would be a distant memory; not quite forgotten but somehow set aside.

Tomorrow came, and when I woke up, he was gone. He didn’t eat breakfast, he didn’t go to work, he left no note, nor goodbye. Alone was a word I was quite familiar with; but I was so used to being alone with him that being alone by myself was quite hard to swallow already.

***

When we were young I usually beat him up to relieve the hatred and sadness I felt from my parent’s daily fights and their new families. He would just smile and taunt even more, giving me enough fuel for my anger, and so my punches turned harder and swifter. He stood there, waiting patiently with a smile; and after a few minutes the smile was replaced by a popped lip, a bruised face, and possibly broken bones. And yet he would laugh. He always had time to laugh, whatever the instance. No matter how disdainful it sounded it would always make me calm down slowly, and all thoughts of using my fists would vanish. It was when we decided to live under one roof when I realized why he never fought back, only through sarcastic words and playful whacks. He cared for me too much even if I was such an unpleasant child, and I loved and resented him in return.

That was why I gave up everything I had that night. He tore my clothes apart, threw them on the floor, and once he was above I felt him grind against me, vehemently, fiercely, without tact and care. There was no affection at all; I only felt the coldness of odium, the sound of indifferent grunts and unfulfilled sweat prickling my skin. I bit my lip and tried hard not to scream; I did all I could do to stop the tears that formed on my eyelids from falling. I did not want to taint the moments we were supposed to be enjoying, to deprive him of what he so insatiably craved. Everything was going to be fine, because it was him. Even if the fire was stifled by unrelenting emotions, I told myself to hold on. He needed me more than ever; besides, didn’t I use him enough before? He had every right to do this.

I wanted to show him that I would always be there for him, that if he needed me I was willing to offer him what I had. I caressed his arched back and whispered softly in his ear. Whispers that meant more than just ridiculous, tangible words; rather, something that I meant in every way. Yet—in one swift and violent motion, he grabbed my arm and heaved it aside. And then he continued…every move more brutal than the last.

After he came he dropped sideways on the bed, adjusted his position so that his back faced me, and laid still. That did it. I openly sobbed. There was nothing at all. It was just plain sex. Sex for comfort; to fulfill desires that were never realized in the first place. Gone were the playful nudges, the abrupt punches, the cute one-liners and most importantly, the warmth. After making love we would usually chat before going to sleep. There was no need for a certain topic; we would talk about random things, like the cat’s litter box, the ceiling, or most of the time, ourselves. We laughed. We fought. We would wrestle underneath the covers and as a result get entangled between the sheets. We made love.

He did not give his corny jokes, or his ideals, so there was nothing I could say to him. He yearned for comfort; I could not give it to him…and that was because he did not even accept it. It remained like that for days.

Sex at night, and a morning spent alone.

No note, nor goodbye.

***

The attorney closed his suitcase and adjusted his eyeglasses.

“I don’t need his fucking money.”

I instinctively grabbed his arm before he walked out of the room. “What else is in there? It was the condo unit, am I correct?”

A shake of the head. “No. A condominium. THE condominium.” The attorney stressed the first word with a slight slur.

“I TOLD YOU, I don’t need a—“

The attorney looked at the man beside me in what seemed like pity. “I’ll give you time to think it over, sir. I do not want regrets. There would be much trouble if you refused, and even more paperwork.”

The lawyer left the room, leaving us both with our confused thoughts.

***

I turned the shower on and brooded as millions of droplets cascaded down my skin until they reached the hard, icy floor. I stood there doing nothing, listening only to the sound of pouring water while thinking of him; HIM, yes, it was him all over again. I had been thinking of him way too much that something would tug my heart a few seconds later or so.

He was distraught. I thought of my own parents. If they died, I would definitely mourn for them. Even after all the shit I’ve been through because of the results of their ruthless fighting, I would still feel lonely. I knew that he just wanted to impress his father, to show him that he could be successful if he wanted to even if his father wasn’t there. He kept it all inside, and when all hope was lost, combusted.

I ran my hands through my own hair and raised my chin, allowing the water to pour down my throat. The heavy patter almost felt like tiny knives piercing my skin. I wondered what would happen if they really were knives, and if blood rained from it, but I did not cringe nor step aside. After all, they were nothing compared to the pounding of my heart…

RRRRRRRIIIIIIP!

I jumped, startled. I hastily glanced at the direction of the noise.

The man I had been obsessing about in my thoughts for the past week was standing before me, panting heavily. The sound came from the shower curtain being pushed aside so strongly that it eventually ripped. In half a second I glanced at his knuckles first, then his heaving chest, then finally his eyes.

His eyes were wide open, and they were burning, flicking open and close. Unruly hair covered his eyes—those green orbs I made lame excuses for just to stare at them—crystalline spheres that now gave me a sudden bolt of fear. I shivered as a gust of wind entered the room through the open door. It became a habit of mine to leave the door open whenever I showered because I was so used to waiting for him to take over, or to brush his teeth noisily, or to poke me consistently and take me in his—who was I kidding, anyway—

It took only a moment for me to cry out a scream of shock. I felt hands gripping both my wrists, thus raising my arms as I backed against the wall. I tried to run or push him, but my arms were immovable, and my legs felt so weak that running was not an option. I could not move for I was pressed between the tiled wall and his stronger and taller body. Why did I feel so helpless? Why was I allowing this? Why me?

Why us?

“No—what are you—“ My words were cut off by harsh lips pushed against mine, devouring recklessly, forcing itself inside, pushing and prodding and owning that I couldn’t even come up for air. His tongue drove in and out as I tried to speak but to no avail. I felt weaker and weaker while the water continued to pour endlessly, deafeningly. He traveled lower and lower in fast movements; and as I gasped for air he grabbed the chance and nipped my neck, my shoulders, my chest, my abdomen; biting them, leaving nothing but wounds that even the water could not wash away.

Damn you—damn…I hate it…I hate…an unknown feeling burst within me. He was hurting me and I hated him for it. And yet, I didn’t. It wasn’t him I hated. It was everything that happened, everything that was currently happening; the momentary dull kisses and salivation; nothing but lustful stares that never lasted for long. The detestation he was pouring towards me, I hated it…and I hated myself because now I knew what he felt whenever I beat him up before.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?!” He demanded throatily. “This—“

“I don’t…s-stop…nooo…” I struggled and gasped heavily. “D-don’t…UGH~!!!”

He rammed me down on the floor, undressed, and consumed my lips greedily, making my breathing turn into huge gasps for air. I watched his mouth form a wide grin while I started shouting, telling him to stop; he bit avariciously, marked, gripped my arms and my waist and I couldn’t move at all. I felt like crying because I was helpless; I was not free. I was just a toy. Nothing to him. I writhed and screamed with every thrust, every stroke; I grew blind, bitter and lonely. No part of my body was left untouched, unscarred; I could feel the sting of every force that was driven within me. My legs flailed and kicked the air, and it was rigid and useless…I was useless—

I was alone in that moment of defeat.

Yes, he was there, drowning in his own satisfaction. He was there, but he wasn’t with me; I loved the bastard, and during the years we spent together I learned many things from him. We made our relationship fruitful and productive and most of the time even silly; but I learned so well…

“Love yourself.”

“That’s so cliché.”

“Exactly. But isn’t it true that those often spoken are the most effective?”

“…Easier said than done.”

“Fine. I won’t sleep ‘till you say that you love yourself.”

“I love my cat. I love a blundering idiot who’s right in front of me, asking me to love myself before making love. Love is so overrated, don’t you think?” A stifled snicker.

“Okay, so you ask me for help, and when I give it to you, you laugh at my face.”

“I was expecting a more concrete answer.”

“What’s wrong about loving yourself? I do it everyday.”

“That’s because you’re a stuck-up arse.”

“No, I didn’t mean that I loved ME everyday. I meant you.”

My face softened for a moment. I tried my best to sigh dispassionately. “It’s not working.”

The man beside me gazed at me for a second with gleaming green eyes, and after giving off a grunt buried himself under the covers. “Stop being so evil.” A long and lazy arm draped over my belly, fondling with the buttons of my shirt.

I cleared my throat. “Fine, just so you would stop acting childish. I love myself. I love me. Me, me, I love me. There.”

“With conviction.” He pressed.

I sighed inwardly. “…I can’t...”

“You can’t love yourself because you’re embarrassed? You think it’s awkward?”

“No. I just can’t.”

His arm withdrew. When I closed my eyes, I felt the warmth of his stomach touching mine. But this time, I did not taste his lips. Instead, he dropped his head forward, beside my cheek, and exhaled slowly while I stroked his raven hair. He turned his head sideways; I could feel his moist breath as it tickled my neck.

“I’m going to make you.” He said determinedly. “I’m going to make you love yourself.”

I laughed good-naturedly. “Good luck.”



The jerk succeeded. I began to love myself; maybe not as much as I did to him, or maybe not enough for me to admire myself in the mirror so openly. But I did. He made me happy and because of that I felt special, though I would never admit it to him.

When I loved myself, I began to feel more pain; maybe because I was more conscious of its effects inside me. I realized it hurt, it hurt too much…

Mindful of the spiteful pressure against my thighs, the futile protests of my muscles, of the wounds and gashes and deep cuts he made to my naked body, energy seeped inside me like fire. My hands regained its feeling as it touched the pool of water, sweat and cum, possibly even tears; and it clenched firmly, adding blood to the mixture.

“I SAID STOP!”

My fists made contact with his jaw. Deepening, pushing further, until I saw the look of shock prominent in his face. He fell towards the bathroom floor, splashing water on the wall; and I stood up slowly with unbalanced legs. I felt bruised, engorged and sore, so I steadied myself by clutching on what was left of the torn shower curtain. His head was bowed when I finally had the courage to look at him, and we were both panting heavily as drops of perspiration soaked our faces.

The shower was still on.

He looked up. I saw remorse in his eyes, but it was too late. I saw my own reflection through those inspiring windows; an image of a drenched loser, shuddering and frightened and revolted and in love.

I limped out the door, thinking only of the image of that lost boy and trying desperately not to remember the eyes that reflected them.