L'Appel du Vide (Nocebo Effect P3)

I aspire to be a sweater gay

If I doubted heaven before, then I no longer do, as being free of those ghastly jodhpurs, those spawns from the depths of the hell in which I now believe because of a comparison between the two, is the best thing in the world and even beyond the world, for this limited portion of existence is too bland to describe all that I need to describe about those fucking pants, and maybe there truly is a god in this universe who is watching over me and has granted me a reprieve from those tight pants that may or may not make my ass look pretty damn fine but are nevertheless abhorrent in every single way besides that one, and now that I have escaped, there's another destination fresh in my mind.

Normally I would feel sordid and embarrassed to be sorting through my friends' dressers, especially because they're teenage boys with who knows what lurking in the creaking drawers, but Dallon is an innocent kid as far as I can tell, an innocent kid who most likely doesn't stash those magazines the heterosexuals cleave to, and anyway, I need a sweater and some boy shorts to replace the lingering itch of the jodhpurs that Dallon forced me to wear, so even if there is something risky in the drawer, he deserves every event following my discovery of it. Nothing is worse than those goddamn pants. I could've just used jeans, but Dallon enjoys my suffering, so has there ever been a crack in the wall, a loophole, a kindness from a generally kind person?

One of my favorite clothing articles is the versatile model called the sweater, and as I plunder the fabric contents of Dallon's drawers, those sweaters infiltrate in an unbridled abundance, practically dripping from the edge of the mahogany and into my hands desperate to forget the chafing material of the horseback riding pants that were completely unnecessary yet a part of my morning attire, and pressing the sweater to my face, I am so thankful that I have oozed from the iniquitous reign of the jodhpurs.

Dallon is waiting for me in his living room, where he is relaxing without the constraints of the jodhpurs after banishing them a few minutes ago, so I can spend as much time as I need, because it's not like I want to see him since he plagued me with those pants that are intended to be stretchy but are just the fertile mother of ubiquitous rashes.

So when I peel the versatile Deadpool t-shirt from my body grimy with the atmosphere of the stables, it is conducted by the calming speed of a river trickling from its origin towards another destination, which would be the floor in this case and eventually the clothes hamper because I'm a considerate person who cleans up their mess and doesn't push my friends into trouble with their parents, a trouble that they can't avoid by sticking it to the veritable perpetrator. It's soothing to operate at such a velocity where I can take my time and savor the grappling of the red fabric at my fresh skin exposed to the sunlight drizzling beauty over the room, and both the Deadpool t-shirt and the sweater plant goosebumps up and down my arms.

I glance down at the newly donned sweater and notice how fucking adorable it is, how fucking adorable it would be on Dallon, especially, how it doesn't quite fit on me but would fit on him, although he injured me with the mere presence of those jodhpurs on my prickling legs, so I won't allow him the pleasure, even if it sacrifices my pleasure, too.

With that, I proudly display my sweater outside of my companion's bedroom, and I also note that sweater to be helplessly stained by the November theme of leaves and pumpkins but amazing nevertheless, and past the door I strut, all the way into the living room where Dallon anticipates my arrival and ultimately gasps when he spies it.

His focus is chained to me during my entire journey to him, and he eventually utters through stammering diction, "Damn, you look better in that than I ever do."

"I sincerely doubt that, Dallon Weekes," I negate, climbing into his lap crinkled in newspaper drafted by those dwelling in the secrets of his mother tongue who has hidden even me from its complexities and its cursing and its magnificent prose that I will probably never understand, but Dallon does, and he's up to share, which I can deduce from the fact that he has no objection to my robbery of his sweater, rather an attraction to it.

We settle in the chair for seven seconds before I become stunningly aware that classical music is echoing in the background, its source the shining black record player at the other end of the room, crackling and composing and broadcasting the creative work of some of the greatest musical minds in history, though I cannot decipher which ones.

It's beautiful, no doubt, but it's foreign to me, just as everything in this place is foreign to me, 'cause it's France, but this sensation is rather a tantalizing one, where it's teasing my mind on the edge of my skull with the knowledge that it once stored, but Dallon knows basically everything, and he was the one who sat the record player on a table and ordered it to play this song, so he should be able to identify this lovely melody.

"What's this music?"

Dallon, who had been gazing off into the distance and out the window to the front lawn that's tiny from our position, now engages me, offering a devious swatch in his blue jay irises. "Would you like to waltz with me, Brendon Urie?"

"I don't know how."

Someone, through all of those dance classes my mother forced me into with the faith that I would become a suitable husband who can just scrape by at the wedding when the time comes, I have no idea how to waltz. I understand that it's three quarter notes, not the usual four, and I understand that it's widely popular, and I also understand that guys don't often dance with each other, so modifications are in need of an upgrade.

"That's okay. I'll teach you."

I don't want my friend to watch me fail, but I also don't want my friend to think I'm a sea urchin or something, so I reluctantly peel from Dallon's side with my hand still encased in his for one part of the dancing stance to be already completed.

Dallon tugs me closer to him, as narrow as a sheet of window glass and the same child's breath forming shapes upon it, and it is in this clutch that I can truly imbibe how warm he is, how furnaces of love bubble in his core, how they burst through his undershirt and through his button down and through my hands placed delicately upon his shoulder as the woman of this elegant dance, through my own core as well.

Dallon shifts a bit in this position, subtlety correcting it so as to evade implying that I am terrible at dancing. "Just follow me, okay?" He waits for my nod of consent before stepping his feet into gear across the hardwood surface of his living room floor.

I'm too lost in this rhythm to take thorough notes of what's happening, because I'm already so fluid in the home of Dallon's familiar embrace that I've snagged the technique of this waltz, no matter how complex it may seem to others or how complex it actually is but covers my poor form in misconceptions. Both Dallon and the music I still cannot place are my guides, whispering movements into the soles of my feet and transmuting my bones into rubber flexible enough to dance perfectly with the love of my life, bending and breaking, healing and reshaping, loving and losing in every swipe of the body that's first birthed and then abandoned for another that may not be better but is certainly greener, my bones snapping to part themselves for decadence, my heart raging with a passion for the dance of a lover, my body a feather passing through every medium bolted in my path, my smile tipped to the sky of Dallon's eyes as if a cup in search of entirety, an entirety that can be gained from the surplus in Dallon's soul, an entirety that nevertheless cannot bear to steal so brashly from him, even if he wholeheartedly allows it, for he is marvelous and pliable and meshing into my own body here and now in the captivity of a rocking waltz set to music elusive to my ears, and he is an adoration webbed in corporeal bonds and webbed in the bonds of my hands partaking in a dance with him that elucidates how extraordinary of a person he is, if he's even a person at all, if he can sink to such a mortal standard when he is evidently coasting upon the clouds, upon the line where I cannot love, carved adeptly with a smirk because he braved it higher and is willing to teach me how to do the same, how to raise the bar so that he can climb it more and show off his skills in both reaching his goals of infatuation and in casting a heavenly light upon me so that I may properly glimpse his magic, and glimpse his magic I do, all the way from my lips to his.

~~~~~

A/N: that last paragraph was only two sentences lmao I'm a devil

aesthetic: feeling my skin after using a spinbrush on it (but omg it's so heavenly I'm crying)

~Dacosmetics