【 ＦＩＶＥ：ＮＩＮＥ || ʙɪɢ • ᴛɪᴍᴇ • ʀᴜꜱʜ 】

【 𝟾 : 𝟶 𝟶 - ᴅᴀᴍᴀɢᴇ • ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ 】

❝ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱ ꜱʟᴀᴍ, ʜᴀʀꜱʜ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ, ᴡᴇ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ

ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴅᴀʏꜱ, ꜱʜᴜᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ, ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴅᴏᴡɴ

ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ

ᴀʟʟ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ, ᴀʟʟ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ, ᴀʟʟ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ɪꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴜʀɴ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛɪᴍᴇ... ❞

 •·················•·················•

For some ungodly reason, they stay together.

In some vague sense of the word, borne out of pure formality and foolishness. Call it madness, or martyrdom, or just plain sadomasochism. Anything but desperate love—call it anything but love.

James bites his nails to the bone and tries to ignore the creeping irritation even if his white picket-fence façade of sempiternal bliss is grasping at the weathered straws he has to sleep in, the sensation stings and sticks and is far too uncomfortable to pretend to be Sleeping Beauty but he gets used to it. He has to. Meanwhile, Jett makes a nasty force of habit to bring up the battle every petty opportunity he can cherry-pick and strangle dry even when it doesn't present itself, like searching for a poisoned needle to prick his finger on, but he refuses to let their kingdom wash away into everlasting slumber. He just has to. Even when James wearily insists, just one night, please, don't let this be the end.

Every night seems to be the end, another end seems to be their nights.

Outside of the usual overblown washed-out celebrity fakery and unavoidable sick-thrill reality, James and Jett still play their roles down to saran-wrapped perfection, as they should. They fix up their prettiest plastic-injected smiles and shamble stiffly and stonefaced and slippery arm-lengths apart, though they shouldn't. They keep it together long enough and long away just until the lounge lights grow dimmer and the woozy x-punctuated pills subside and elevator doors slide shut with a cheerful ding!

And when the bell rings to signal another knockout round, they unfreeze and fight bleached-tooth and manicured-nail all the way back to the apartment until the living room becomes a treacherous warzone of upturned furniture and broken glass. They pierce their unblemished flesh with blank insults and unprovoked insinuations one moment and end up in their unmade bed the next, fucking without lust and too fucked-up to care about being loved. There's no love left but the ones they don't have to give, and they're both too conceited to care anymore.

Another halted moment to release—too long—the ultimate moment incites another brutal chalk-lined incident, trickling down to chemical-cloyed imperfection. And no more control, with it; only the ones their losing patience have left to spare. It's too late to be selfless now. So instead, they lose themselves in their own personal demons, self-nurse with brand-name vices dragging out the mewling thrill in separate corners. Acknowledging each other's presence becomes another foolish formality. They couldn't do it beyond constricted bedroom walls and compromised headspaces. They don't dare.

The reel rewinds itself, scratched-up frames and the happier parts left on the cutting room floor. James doesn't mean to forget—but Jett lets him. Jett always lets him get away with everything. God, why did he let him? Because he still loves James, or because he never wanted to? It shouldn't hurt this much. He shouldn't have let him. James lets him anyway. The self-inflicted bruises to heal away with a plush kiss rapidly fester into gaping wounds being licked to ripe infection, forming a bittersharp halo of bad blood between crushing lips desperate to breathe in every last drop, blackouts and bandages unraveling just to hold onto something. Even if that something meant caving the damage in deeper to appease their shallow souls.