Ville spent his time in a small town in europe, hiding out. He couldn't be seen. What would they make of it? Years ago he had disappeared. Run off.
The tabloids all over were aware, and after a year people just gave up the search. Which, didn't bother him much then, but now it does. Didn't they
care enough to devote their lives to find him? He was marked as dead. Which in the long run was true. But.. only certain parts of him were dead. His
heart, not beating, but still feeling. If possible. He felt insanity almost daily. He needed to see someone.
Years ago, he had been in love. Un-requited, it's true. He never spoke of his feelings, or who his songs were about. But it all boiled down to one
It has been so long since he felt the knot in his stomach when the man would smile.
So, here he is. In West chester. Hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He came a few days ago. He would have walked right into his house, and demanded
love. Demanded to see colour. But, Bam is alive. And the living sleep during the night.
Plus, Bam was no longer living at home. He had moved out, quit the show. Quit skating. He moved into a small apartment across the town, it was dark
and dingy and Ville often wondered why he had suddenly changed.
He spied on him once. He was flicking a lit cigarette on the ground, and walking towards his apartment. It was dark out, but not so dark that Ville
could come into the main streets and in the open. So he stayed in the shadows and watched him walk up to his apartment. He watched him through the
windows on the side of the building, while he went up the stairs.
If my heart could beat, it would break my chest..
Bam had grown older. He must be 29 now. Older than him, which is odd, becuase he was use to being the older one. The wiser one.
Now he was the dead one.
He was 27 when he died, and he's going to be 27 forever. He whimpers in his sleep, the way he noticed Jussi did when they shared a silk lined coffin
together his first night dead. Now he was walking the streets, spying on a man who probably didn't even remember him. He imagined him tasting of
buttermilk. He wonders what it would be like. To taste him. He can try to imagine the simple things ( things that end ). But he wouldn't be able to
hit it dead on.
But, he could do it. He was made to do it, after all. Because he died pretty. He died becuase he was pretty. And he was going to be #ing pretty until
he was a pile of dust and ash.
It starts as an itch on his palms. Strange, for it to begin there of all places. One would think his gums would itch or his teeth would hurt, the way
they do before the fangs descend. Perhaps there would be a dull ache in the center of his chest where the heart sits, silent and still. Maybe his dick
would just stand up and point due North. But no, it`s in his palms, and it`s always been that way. When he is called his hands begin to sweat, then
they itch, finally they turn an angry red and the skin just peels away. Invariably it makes him wonder if his demon resides somehow in his hands.
The drive to his house is just long enough to ponder upon his stupidity. Why did he keep going back? It wasn't love. It was noting but pain and
blood. Greys and whites. Colourless sex.
He pulls onto the interstate and wonders why the false lights on this side of town always seem to sputter like dying stars. Neon signs with letters
missing ` OTEL! VA NCIES!` By some peculiar design, the exclamation points always work.
When he finds the correct one, he will loosen the grip on the leather steering wheel and wonder for the millionth time how his hands always know
exactly where to go.
Pulls into the darkened lot, the wonder gone with the slam of a door. Turns the key in the lock and steps into the dimly lit room. Flips off the lamp,
strips out of his clothes.
Flicks on the ceiling fan, listens to the motor sputter and start, the whirp whirp twisting the stale air inside the room. Half a dozen cigarettes
half smoked on the bedside table. Blue smoke sucked toward the whir of fan, disincarnate ghosts spinning in the pitch.
And he can shed humanity at the door like snakeskin. Layers and layers of too many skins finally, but the man in the bed only wants one. Wants to peel
away the one closest to the bone, closest to the pit inside; wants to tear it back and let the juices flow from the cracks. Tear it back and swallow
it whole, lick the dribbles of juice from his chin, and choke on the smallest of seeds.
Sheets cool and wrinkled, blanket of red, rough wool. Naked skin beneath them crafted from hail and cotton. Smooth, chilled flesh of cheek and thigh
and chest to quiet angry palms. Kisses with eyes pressed shut and mouth wide open. Here, taste it, taste me from the inside.
Drink here and live forever.
The demon is in every cell, isn`t it? It must be, to keep the corpse walking. To keep it unchanged, unmarred and beautiful despite the passage of so
much time. It animates blood, muscles and sinew; it sits, eternal and merciless in his every pore. The demon regenerates him, it animates him, but it
cannot create. It cannot make him into something which was not present before. Some little seed of anger and rage which had always been thus. Had
always been his.
Snapping bite to lower lip, draw First Bloode.
Grab for a length of hair that is no longer there, a sable braid, a chestnut tail, and growl at its lack. Grab a fistful of short brown locks instead,
and pull...pull the head back and drink the absence of the past.
It`s just blood. Familiar blood, sweet and cool and thick as maple syrup, but just blood. It has no inherent meaning, it changes nothing. It isn`t
sacrament. Oh he wishes it was, wishes it was ritual and holy and full of ancient intent. Wishes the sacrifice would alter some grand design. Wishes
it would soothe his soul and his heart. But all that is soothed here is the Hunger and the burn in his hands. And even that lasts only a moon.
Still, if he breathes deep and swallows fast, he can almost catch it. Almost smell sunshowers and fire on the man beneath him, because Ville has had
only half as much time to acquire the scent of the dead.
He will remember this, much later. He will forget the name of this motel, and the scratch of dirty coverlets on his back, and the sound of the
headboard banging against the wall. But some night, when he conjures the image of fair hair and gray eyes, if he holds his breath and sinks his fangs
into his own tongue, he will smell blue flames and Communion Wafers.
He runs from the hotel, drives as far away as he can. He abandons his car by the motel he is staying at and goes off walking. Clearning his mind.
Erasing away Jussi.
He will keep walking. Keep waiting for the next evening when his palms itch to distraction. Keep the bit of crimson covered broken glass in his pocket
He is running a hand through his hair, a smoke dangling from his lips and his other pale fingers clutching the neck of a brown beer bottle.
He is thrown to the ground as he suddenly bumps into a hard body, too far into the shadowns to recognize his face.
We all come into this world in the same way. Naked. Covered in blood. Screaming.
No one really remembers birth. Which is good, he supposes, because who wants to remember that? The cold, the violence. The feeling of alone-ness
chewing up your cells.
But after, if we are blessed, we aren't alone anymore. After, there are warm blankets and the steady thrumming of a heart. Milk and lullabies. The
safety of being kept, the surety of being held.
He dreamt of Bam. All the memories he previously had of him. The concerts he'd attending with him, including his own (seeing him backstadge, or in
the crowd, singing along.). The nights living he spent wishing he could kiss him, just once. Just to know what it was like. How good it would feel to
run his lips over his, the feel of his hands.
The man he now looked up at. His eyes closed for a moment. Could it be?
Bammie, was here. Infront of him. He stands, mesmorized by the shades of grey that surround him. They seemed to glow more than others. He adored the
way he shined.
As if he was a moon, all on his own. Countless night's Ville had spent under the moonlight, contemplating staking himself. Knowing he could never
love him like this. He might have had a slim chance when he was living, but now. Nothing.
Bam doesn't speak. His words are caught in his throat. His heartbeat is racing a mile a minute. It was Ville. But.. it wasn't. He looked different.
He looked.. paler than normal. He looked sad.
A clentched fist, and a few fought back tears later, Bam looked deep into his eyes.
His voice came out harsh, and almost un-audible.
Ville was entranced by the more grown up version of Bam. His eyes were wiser. He was more mature. Bams eyes drifted closed, he shook his head
slightly. A light pink is in his cheeks, almost like he was blushing.
Ville stood up, almost standing close enough to touch him. He smelt of lonliness. Something Ville knew too well. When he thought of him, closed his
eyes, he was no longer reminded he was dead. He made him feel alive. He cannot blush. He bears none of the imperfections, and wears none of the colors
of man. But he can hollar and he can scream and he can love.
And he can close his eyes. Just like Bam.
He often felt like a monster without insight into the desperations of men who too quickly grow old.
Bam grew old too fast. There was lines under his eyes that Ville would never know of personally, but it made his stomach churn all the same.
"Bammie." Ville smilea slightly, he could hear his heartbeat. It was rapid. Fast.
His eyes were begining to grow watery, his hands shaking and his mouth forming a frown.
Ville stepped more closer to him, his own body would shake if he would let it. He felt the heat on Bams body radiating towards his own.
He felt colder than normal now, and he didn't mind.. becuase Bam was warming him.
His shakey hand was moving, reaching up to his Villes face. The heat coming off him in waves, like sunlight that Ville could never touch. But Bams
heat was touching him.
And soon enough Bams hand was on his neck.. still shaking, still giving off heat. Ville sucks in air, savoring the moment.The glorious touch of
He would definatly give up sunlight for this, if he had it.
Bam placed a hand on his neck, and instantly felt his body temperature go down a few shades. Ville looked like he hadn't eaten in years, slept in
weeks, and smiled in a lifetime.
He hadn't seen Ville in years. Not after he disappeared after that show. It had been so long, and there was so many thing he should tell him, but he
couldn't. Not now at least. He needed to bask in this moment.
"I.. can't believe you're here.."
Ville pushed his neck towards Bam's hand, smelling the cologne on him.
"I.. thought you were dead."
Ville looked up, and for the first time spoke to him.