Tomorrow

Disclaimer: English is not my first language. Implicit(?) content.

The Horizon was setting, casting the sky in a deep purple, not unlike the scars marring his skin, near his chest. He sighs, hot puffs of smoke escaping from his lips, painting the night sky in a subtle touch of white as he leans back, head hitting the brick wall. He could jump. It was easy, too easy even. He was on the twentieth floor, instant death was he to make up his mind. He grits his teeth, cigarette slowly falling down, until it disappears entirely from view, down to the abyss the streets now were. 

He slides the door open violently, escaping from the balcony. He couldn't. He couldn’t, though not for the fault of meager attempts. His eyes meet the frozen ones of the man sitting on the couch as he tilts his head back. Humorless laughs leave his sore throat, drowning the room with his deranged gasps as a single tear flew from his eyes, landing on the cold floor. So it was going to be one of those nights, huh? He wasn't complaining though. He had long stopped complaining. 

The man stands up from his seat, walking towards him in a bored manner, taking his sweet time until he stops right in front of him. “You should stop.” He tells him. “Let go.” He drawled, sympathy clear in his voice. His hands shake, pushing out any errand thoughts deep in the back of his head. He would deal with them later. He always had. 

“Stay.” He murmurs. Unwilling to let the other man go just yet. 

“It was my choice. Not yours. You are not to blame. It was a match, I had to.” He says again. Again. And again. And again and again and again, until it drove him crazy. Or… was he already crazy? That wouldn’t be an outrageous assumption. 

“Shut up.” He spits out. Because no matter how much he hears those words, he would never believe them. 

The other man merely sighs, sitting on the bed. “I assume you want to talk about that day.” He says, a distant look in his eyes. “There’s nothing more to talk about. We have had this conversation already. Multiple times at that.”

That dreaded day. “Shut up.” He all but screams, grabbing the man’s shoulder in a vice-like grip. It would leave bruises. He knows it will. The other man bruises easily. Yet, he never gets the opportunity to see it. He has tried. Again and again. Anything, anything at all. But the other man always came back with his milky spotless skin. Not a trace of impurity, not a trace of bruises or teeth marks. Nothing. 

Fat droplets of salty tears fall on the man’s cheeks as he shakily pushes him down on the bed, the man welcoming his touch with open-mouthed kisses. He should stop. This never helped. This only made everything worse. 

“This is not going to help.” The man says. And he knows but too well. They both know. Yet, that had never stopped them. 

As he watches the golden-haired man beneath him, all he could think about was the hot summer days, his hair shining like a beacon amidst the crowd. He could hardly see it wrapped around his finger, pulling on it roughly even though that’s precisely what he’s doing right now. His actions in the present time don’t seem to register in his brain. From experience, it almost never does. “I’m sorry.” He sobs out, tears rolling down his face. He repeats the word like a mantra, like a broken record. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s apologizing for and did not want to think about it. If he apologizes enough, perhaps, just maybe it would make everything right again. Perhaps, just perhaps again, for a moment, he’d be back to the simpler, happier days where time spent with the man didn’t feel like bills of debt falling out his pocket. 

“What are you thinking about?” The man whispers, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“What?” He whispers back.

“You’re thinking about something, aren’t you? What is it? Is it that I’m d–”

“Shut up!!” He gasps out, his grip tightening over the man’s hair unconsciously. “Shut up. Don’t… Don’t say anything. Don’t say it, don’t even think it…” He whispers, feeling the familiar sting of tears tease his eyes. 

The man scoffs, looking up at him, “Come on, it’s not your fault. You know it.”

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t want to dwell on it anymore. He can’t bear the thought of finishing that phrase. Instead, he grabs the lube sitting on the nightstand, squeezing a generous glob onto his fingertips. He looks down, letting his body heat warm it.

He kisses the man's forehead , petting his head as he whispers out words of affection in his ear. Because he hadn’t done that near enough when the man was still within grasp.

 He had thought time boundless, why waste w– No. He cuts himself off, forcing his gaze onto the man beneath him. He couldn’t think about it. He had to shut off his thoughts before he finished that phrase inside his head, he can’t be reminded of  it, not now. Preferably not ever. 

His whole body is trembling, his tears burning with unshed tears as he fights them back, fighting against the urge to throw up. He rests his face at the crook of his neck, taking deep breaths as he tries to fight his lunch back down. He then bites down on the skin viciously, drawing blood. He kisses the wound tenderly, apologetic as the man hisses at the rough treatment. Tasting blood, he scoffs, a cruel irony. In moments like these, he could do the dangerous act of forgetting. Just for a little while, he could pretend like everything was alright. He could lose himself in the sensation, let it overtake him and his thoughts, take him far away from the painful reality.

...

The man pants, turning his head towards him. The moon is now hung high outside the window, shy signs of moonlight peeking into the room from beneath the curtains. The man's eyes were shining with unshed tears, peering from underneath his sweat soaked bangs. As the man opens his mouth, he looks away, way too familiar with this part of the scene. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t ever want to hear it. “You should let me go.” The man says, “It’s been 3 months already.” It has been. It has been 3 months since the flames and the debris, the pieces of car scattered on the concrete, the sleepless nights and the guilt, the agony, and the sorrow. Because he had been the one to kill the man he loved more than anything. More than his own life. Out of reflex, he moves his hand to the man’s chest where no heartbeat could be found. Because of course. He had known. How could there be a heartbeat when the man’s heart was in his own chest? Pumping undeserving blood into the body that should have been the one to perish. He gasps as he breaks into sobs, pained laughter spitting out his throat, falling into hysterics. He was alone in bed. Like he had always been since 3 months ago.