Author: Chauni

Email: ChauniMaxwell@mechpilot.com

Website: http://oocities.com/asukalangley2nd/

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Skids or Cyanide, or anything from Boy Meets Boy. They were created and made by the extremely talented Sandra, who's website can be found here: http://boymeetsboy.keenspace.com/ Go! Look! Now! You know you want to!

Warnings: Cya's POV, Journal Style, Currently not beta'd, Angst, Fluff, Cya/Skids, Skids/?



Sacrifice to Inhibitions



Viernes, 1998

I don't know why I let it linger, like some romanticized version of the fated old gangster movies Kiss of Death, but I let it go on, with the taste of his mouth mingling in mine. It was odd, to kiss him, my best friend, especially since I was supposed to be "the straight one", but that flew right out the window, along with my normal reserves on this matter.
The music was some living serpent slipping through my veins to battle with the almost tentative way he kissed me, and I remembered now why I love music so much. The rhythm took root in me like some demon heartbeat and pounded through my head, resonating between my ears, ignored and worshipped all at once. I could feel the innocent way his fingers found my waist, at the way he seemed almost afraid to dance with my tongue.
He seemed just like me.
I broke away, breathless and damn near blushing. Oh wait, shit, I was blushing; my cheeks normally didn't feel like I had a hundred-and-four fever, you know.
His eyes reminded me of a puppy's, all sad and beseeching, and I saw the mirrored flush in his cheeks as well. Filling my lungs with a strengthening breath, I shrugged and cocked my head to the side, even as I concentrated on the music and the way it took control. Dominating, strong...all the things I couldn't be right now.
"What's that look for? You know I just did that so no one else would try anything with me. Shibby it was, but, you know you’re just my friend, right?"
But, when it came down to it, was I really worried someone coming up to me...or you?

Sabado, 2000

I'm alone now, sitting in my room and writing in this damn journal. I have papercuts on a couple of my fingers, and now some of the words are obscured with my crimson, circular prints.
At first, I forgot where I got this journal from, but after about a half an hour of thinking about it I realize Harley gave it to me. That was of course, before I plastered the damn thing with stickers, from band names to cool slogans that caught my eye, and it's so bad now that I can't remember the color of the cover, though some nagging back though is telling me it was green.
Rasputin once made the comment that he'd just looove to see the shit I plan on writing in this. Sometimes, that guy knows how to get on every last nerve know to man...and then start on me.
Half the time, I don't even know what I'm gonna write until the ink is already drying on the paper. When I'm really thinking, I wonder what his journal looks like, but I figure it's probably written in glitter gel pens and is half covered in little, half-colored sketches of animals or something.
I need to stop thinking of him, you know, need to forget about these feelings before they tear me apart and leave me gaping for the world to laugh at. I don't know when it all began, but it needs to stop, now. He's my friend, my best friend, my enticingly amigo de bonito.
Damnit! Stupid non-eraserable pen!

Sometime in the vast 2001,

I don't know what day it is, but to tell the truth, I don't really care either. It's all one seemingly long blur for me, all white noise and petty bullshit, until he comes around again, driving it all away with his childish smile and glittering wide eyes. I don't know when I became this dependent, but it really needs to stop, and soon, before I go loco.
He's just my friend damnit! That's all he and I can ever be!
How many times do I fucking have to say it before I honestly believe it?

Lunes, 2002,

I haven't seen him in three weeks.
It's so odd the way it hurts so much more when you swear someone off, and then...
It's like he's in my blood, rolling around and laughing like a little lunatic, smiling in that way he does that can make even El Diablo take pity and leave his clean ass alone. Dios, he's so pure, so innocent...reminds me of a three year old sometimes, with wide eyes and this smile that....
He's...
Someone to protect and shelter with all that I am and ever could be.
I hate him sometimes, hate him for making me feel this way, but I know, know...
I'd never give this up, never give this feeling, him, up, not for the fucking world.

Dominigo, 2002

It's not about gender, not about what is or isn't between someone's legs, isn't about how my hand can slid down his chest and not have it hit a bump.
I'm in love with Skids, not with a "boy" or something that society (damn bunch of hypocritical bastards) see. Just his soul, his purity and the heat he forces my unwilling core to feel.
I'm in love with Skids! You hear that? Yeah, I, Cyanide, am in love with my best friend! And I don't care what any of you say about it, hear me!
I think...I think I can finally tell him today. I think I can do it, finally. No more hiding, no more pretending; it's reached the climax.
It's my turn, and I will not back down!

Martes, 2002...

Saw him today, captured in someone else's arms...
In someone else's eyes...
The image is painted over my mind a thousand times over, a thousand different angles, like a bored photographer trying to get the perfect shot. His cheeks were all scarlet in the merciless sunlight and his hat was hanging onto his hair with the last leg it could manage. He was kissing him, kissing the other guy with a passion...
I never thought him capable of that look. He shouldn't have been able to make that expression! It took away...
A piece of him I thought he was.
I had stood there with those words, "Skids, do you think we can go somewhere and talk?", dripping from my parted lips like the alcohol I want so bad right now, and they were out before I could stop them.
He broke away from...that...and stared at me with those large, childlike eyes, having reverted back to the kid caught in the cookie jar, guilty as sin and just as beautiful. The flush was still high in his cheeks, even as he turned his head to the side, eyes finding the chipped sidewalk beneath him surprisingly interesting.
"Didn't mean to interrupt," I replied, shattering the uncomfortable silence, all the while fighting to keep my voice completely casual. I think I failed miserably. "Just forget about it. I'll see ya later, Skids!"
I remember hearing him call my name as I turned around and strutted my ass out of there, hands curled into white-knuckled fists inside my pockets, but I wouldn't look back; I refused to look back. It's over, the entire thing.
I lost.
Plain and simple.
I think I might let Rasputin read this now; I don't think he'd be cruel enough to laugh at my dream.
But then again...I'm keeping this sacred bout of hope solely for me. This is my treasure, my little adventure on the self-discovery bullshit train ride.
Bye, Skids. It was nice while it lasted.



The End