decadent_david: (Skeptical)
[personal profile] decadent_david
David: *returning from an evening out, stifling back my anger at an unsuccessful attempt to replenish my finances. I'd barely made it out of Mssr. Devoir's home before he and his family entered. They were not supposed to be home for another day. And now, I must come up with a new plan, while trying to live on the small amount of money left to me. This is not how the evening should have gone, and I am decidedly angry* Ah. Craig. You are home this evening. *sullenly tromps to the wardrobe to hang up my coat, wishing he was not here, I am not good company and I wish merely to be able to slam things around, burn off some anger*

Craig: *brooding quietly myself, sitting on the windowsill with a kretek in one hand and a short glass of whiskey resting along the sill beside me. Michael's been, strange. And I think I'm being followed, watched lately but it doesn't seem like the spanish polizei. It seems like something else and it has been bothering me to no end. As well I do not understand what happened between Harry and I, and that disturbs me even more. He seems...distant, and I wonder what will become of us.* It is my home, afterall. *getting up from the sill, moving to the table with cigarette still in hand, setting the glass on a table nearby*

David: *that it is. His home. Not mine, I have no home. But I do pay half the rent here, does that not count for something? He's more arrogant than I had thought. how often should I count on returning here to be met by that attitude.* Yes, it is your home. I'll leave you to it, then. *opening the panel in the wall, I toss my bag and toolkit inside and let them drop with a thud to the floor. Closing the panel again, I turn to go get my coat and leave again, but notice Craig's drink* Might you have more of that? If need be, I'll pay for the drink, I know it's not included in my rent.

Craig: *eyes, pushing the drink towards David* You can have it, you look like you need it more than I do. *Vaguely irritated at how you seem to be almost sulking, I take another long drag from the cigarette and put it out on the window sill, then flicking it out into the street.* Bad night. *more of a statement than a question*

David: *snatches the drink quicker than I mean to, not feeling very subtle right now* Damn bad night. People should be where they say they will be, not change their plans at the last minute, inconvenient as hell. *downs the drink, slams the glass on the table and debates whether I really want to go out again, takes up pacing while I try to think* I need to get drunk or.. *cuts off saying 'find a rentboy' remembering that's out of the question tonight* ... just get drunk, I think. *eyes snap up to meet yours, anger hard to suppress* I can buy a bottle downstairs, right?

Craig: *Catching that look in your eyes quicker than you think, I know that look very well and I feel a rising anger spark suddenly in me.* Get drunk or -what-, David. *Stepping closer, eyes holding yours, nostrils flaring.* Get drunk or -what-. Find someone to be your whore? Is that it? I can see that need on you, wanting to take someone, a rent-boy? Is that it? *staring, anger flaring up even harder now, burning brightly, the drink forgotten* You only want to use them to get what you need like they all do... do you know what it's like to sell you body, David? To sell a part of your soul? Do you -know-? I -do-. At least while you're living here do not speak of them like they are a peice of meat. *grinding out my words*

David: *whipping around to fully stare at you, wanting to slap your face but stopping my hand halfway raised, slowly forming my hand into a fist* Do I know what it's like to sell my body? Yes, in a way I do. I frankly don't expect you to understand, but I've had parts of my soul shredded by a rentboy. *steps closer, eyes growing hard and cold, and I shove you with one arm, watching you bump against the wall* I do not think of them as meat, far from it. *snapping out words now, my tongue finally loosing* How dare you judge me? You do not know my motives or how I think! You barely know me at all. *out of words, merely staring at you, daring you to say something, anything, give me an excuse to either leave or lash out physically, leaning on the balls of my feet, tension and anger rising by the second*

Craig: *seizing your wrist, holding it tightly* Your answer is that? To wish to hit me? *eyes going just as cold* I've had my soul and body shredded by countless dozens who wanted to break my body and make it theirs, their property. I still have scars to prove it on both body and soul. And my life! I've had my soul shredded love, by... *too many inward memories, I shake my head trying to stop them from clouding over everything* I think I know you. Do you know what I see? I see a man who only does what he wants and takes what he wants, because he doesn't seem to know what else to do. That's all I see! If there's anything else in there, then dammit show me!

David: *glaring at your hold on my wrist, jerking back my arm but not breaking your grip* You judge me on what you see. You of all people should know there's more to a man than ever shows on the surface. Do you want to know what I see? A man so proud of his scars he no longer remembers the body beneath them. A man so obsessed with how he's been used that he's blind to any good left in anyone. *shoving my arm against the wall next to your head, your grip still on my wrist* You see me as a reflection of everyone who hurt you. Tell me what I've done to deserve your hatred. *grabs you by the hair with my free hand* And how dare you accuse me of taking what I want, after what you did with me in the theatre? You saw something you wanted, and you took it from me. *leaning in to stare inches from your eyes, breath coming hard now* Did you get all you wanted? Is that why you're angry at me? Didn't I let you use me enough?

Craig: When it's been your life for the past nine years, it's hard to give up. *flatly, staring at you, silent as you finish.* Use you? *Silent for another long moment. Finally without a word, breaking free and moving to the door. I would rather be wandering the streets than here right now. Anywhere.*

David: Oh, no, you don't. *runs across the room and cuts between you and the door* This isn't over. You leave me here alone and you'll come home to a wrecked apartment, I swear. *taking a deep breath, exhaling slowly, trying to calm myself, but still shaking with anger* You wouldn't be leaving if I weren't close to the mark. You're accustomed to being used. I can understand that. I do think you used me, you saw something nice and just took what you desired. *grabs your wrist much as you had grabbed mine* I did not stop you. I used you too, Craig. No one in this world is perfect, least of all me.

Exhausted and numb, neither man could say another word, and the room fell into an uneasy quiet. David thought again of that bottle he had been going to buy downstairs, and decided the idea was still a good one. He let go of Craig’s arm, and noticed the red marks where he had gripped him more tightly than he had realized. This is ridiculous, David thought, why the hell are we fighting? Our quarrels are not with each other, are they? Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t, right now I really don’t care to think about it any more. I would just like a drink. I would like to be drunk, he admitted to himself. Quietly, he reached a hand upwards, watching Craig’s face to be sure he did not strike out or flinch. But David merely adjusted Craig’s lopsided collar, pushed out of shape by their struggles. He turned to grasp the handle of the door, pulling it open as he spoke quietly, voice reflecting no emotions now… “I would still like that bottle. Join me if you like.” Not waiting for a reply, David went down the stairs and took a seat at a corner table swathed in shadows. He wished not to think any more this evening, and even more importantly, wished not to feel. He ordered a bottle of wine, considered changing the order to absinthe but did not, and waited to see if Craig would join him.

It was nearly a half hour later when Craig did arrive, nodding curtly at David and taking a seat, stubbing out a cigarette in the ashtray as he settled in. David wondered why it had taken Craig so long to come downstairs, but those who keep secrets themselves are not always prone to inquiries. More drink was ordered, and the talk turned to the mild weather they had experienced this week, the newer actors in the theatre troupe, speculations about the two men in the far corner booth, and just about any other topic they could dredge up that did not venture close to speaking of what had just happened upstairs. Denial makes a drink go down more quickly, but the desired effect was slow in coming. Impatient, David had replaced his wine with absinthe, seeking more numbness. He had tried it once before, to good effect. Craig had been drinking enough by this time that he did not think twice about taking the glass when David offered some to him. David had no way of knowing that Craig’s reaction to absinthe was usually a strong one, either sending him spiraling into a dark quiet depression, or else taking him to the limits of his sanity.



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August 2003

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