Scenario: Late nights while rooming with Val at a college dorm; shonen ai

A Figment of Eliot

He doesn't know I do this, which in some senses, makes it all the more fun. Secrecy, sneaking, the adrenaline rush as he rolls over and gets tangled in sheets and blankets like mummy wraps around his legs, and hoping that he doesn't wake up...wake up and see me like this.

His handwriting is horrible, with usually three letters out of every paragraph or stanza always tripping me up while reading, though I won't tell him. I've always noticed, though, that the truly great authors always had very hard to read handwriting, almost indecipherable.

I bet you didn't know I liked some of the famous modernist writing, did you? Have you ever read "The Waste Land"? A poem utterly about the downfall of civilization, concerning sex, war, and industrialization. How could someone not like that?

Anyway, that has nothing to do with where I am right now, which is in my bed, using a nice combination of moon and flashlight to scribble down every single word from his notebook to mine. I can't write, not like him, and I think one day...one day he'll destroy this book or keep it from me forever.

I want mementos.

Not because I care! Not because I ...

Just something to hold over his head, if he ever tries to leave, or double-cross me, or...

Just something to help me-er, him remember what it was like for these few fleeting seconds when the stars all lined up and I saw him really smile.

Finally done, and my hand is cramping a bit from writing so fast. He's stirring in the bed that's a few feet from mine, with his hair unbound, hair that's strewn out on his plain and boring pillow and caught up in the silver moonlight making it sparkle like the sea on some tropical, Equator day. He's curled up tight...wonder if he's thinking of me.

I hate him for what he's done to me, how he's made me feel. I hate him for making me vulnerable and human. I hate him...

I hate him for making me love him.

I know how this will end. Call me cynical if you want to; I like to think of it as realistic. So, I'll prolong the torture and the ecstasy for as long as I can, since it's the only thing I can really do, all the while tightening my hold on the leash and notching the collar once more.

His notebook is back on the floor beside his bed, and I'm curled up in my self-bought violet satin sheets. For a moment, I was so close to him, I could taste his breath on my lips, and I almost wanted him to wake up at stare at me with those golden eyes, groggy, tired, mine, like all of him.

Mine...but it brings no comfort.

So now, now, I'm just preparing for the inevitable, for the day I'm just a figment in an Eliot poem while I curl up tighter in my cold bed. He's the last thing I see before I go to sleep and will be the first I see when I wake up, but it's all a moot point really; in the end, heh, in the end, it's all overlaid on a backdrop of possession and obsession that I'll never admit to, at least...not on my end.

I'll burn one day while touching the sun, and I think he will too, as he's dragged behind me on that unforgiving piece of leather. I'll break him, snap him right in two, if I haven't already.

So, where has all the joy gone?

I used to enjoy clipping his little cherub wings, used to revel in the fact that he was mine to play with, control at my little whim, and used to cherish those moments when he was torn between the jealous white-hot rage he felt for me, and that needing confining love, watching as it waged war in his eyes. And now...and now...

Damn, I hate him.

The End