Matte loves Ash. Ash is oh so gay. Matte is not oh so gay; or so he tries to tell himself. Matte is punk, he's cool, he's RIGHT. (yaoi, m/m, slash)
I hate mornings. I hate them in general. No, wait, that's not true. I hate mornings where you have to wake up; where the alarm clock rings persistently and messes things up in your head, crossing your eyes. The only mornings I can stand are the ones where I can sleep in, or the ones where I don't have to wake up because I've been awake all night.
This is a morning when I've slept all I want.
I woke up from the room being too hot; I'd forgotten to open the window last night. It's fucking warm outside. I'm perspiring my armpits blue. Even my cigarette is sweating.
I'm sitting in my cheap, plastic chair that creaks like it's giving labor, my leg resting on the windowsill and my sweating cigarette in an overflowing ashtray beside my elbow on the windowsill.
The sun is shining and it is fucking blinding me. It's so warm, it's not even funny. It's so beautiful.
But I can't say that out loud or let anyone know. That would mean I'm actually enjoying life and Enjoying Life isn't a part of Bashing the Government. I'd have to give up my red star for saying that.
So I'm going to sit here looking like a fucking ordinary guy in my black, fainted mohawk and underwear and being angry because my girlfriend is five minutes late. Even though I'm fucking enjoying smoking my cigarette while looking at the smoke coiling and dissolving as I blew it out; I'm gonna sit and be angry and swear a lot. It doesn't matter that the sky is so blue that it's practically blinding me, and the trees are so green that they make me want to puke or something.
Camilla deliberately knocks on the front door but then she helps herself with it and walks straight in because she knows that I never locked it.
"Hey..." I say, sleepily. My blood pressure is so low that my heart thumps even if I do as much as take a deep breath or something.
"'Ello!" She's beaming a smile at me. I take her hand lazily and swing it as she comes closer.
She told me last night on the phone that we needed to talk. Yeah, she fucking called me at four a.m saying she needs to talk. I tried to tell her nicely that I was asleep and didn't want to hear her bitching and breaking up with me at four in the morning.
Camilla sits herself on my unmade bed, opposite of me, looking nervous. I quite much ignore her existence. I mean, she is a good fuck, but the scenery outside my window is more interesting than her. And when she started all this shit about loving me and wanting to be with me forever and always and...gimme a break, will you?
One can't even fuck without getting a load of crap afterwards.
I cough briefly, not giving up my precious cigarette. I squint at her, my blond eyelashes reflecting the strong sunlight.
Camilla's long red hair is in her face. I hate it when it's hanging in her face. "I'm lesbian," she blurts out. She suddenly loses her calm and gets up, coming over to my gaping form and starts spouting excuses. Well, it's only two steps but whatever. The thing is, she is apologizing, and I just fucking stare at her with my jaw on the plastic-clad floor which, by the way, I need to mop sometime soon. How can she be a lesbian when she's such a good lay?!
Her apologies and explanations are perceived as "bla bla bla, bla bla!!!" in my brain, which is currently running low on sugar and is thinking: "Yeah, if you're lesbian, then I'm fucking gay and fucking in love with my best friend since forever and wanna fuck him in the ass on a lawn."
That was supposed to be sarcastic.
I think that wasn't sarcasm though; that is bloody true.
"I'm Nietzsche," I say. I regret it instantly because it makes me seem so stupid and I can't explain it.
She stops mid-sentence and stares at me with hollow, blue eyes. I can't explain myself. I've got no fucking idea why I just said that, but I know that I couldn't very well say...the other thing.
"I meant....uh...I think I'm like Nietzsche." I'm so fucked up.
Camilla stares a little bit more and sighs, raising her eyebrows. "What are you doing today?" she suddenly asks.
I shrug and put out my cigarette carefully before leaning back comfortably in my chair that gives a loud shriek from my shifting weight and position my leg on the sun-drowned windowsill again. "Gonna go to Mom. She said something last night," I yawn. "Maybe I dreamt," I give her a knowing gaze before looking away to the floor and the sorry mess of a room I have.
"Oh...Thought you'd wanna hang out. See you then." Is she frigging out of her mind?!
I blow out the smoke of my newly-lit cigarette and look down to see it drift pass my dry, chapped lips. I'm feeling dizzy and that feels good. I always get nicotine kicks from my morning cigarettes.
Camilla's hips sway as she struts through the apartment and goes out; I watch her leave in a blur.
It becomes deafeningly quiet for a while and my ears start ringing before the birds remember to chirp again.
I burp loudly and get up, taking off my underwear on my way to the shower. I jump out of them and throw them up in the air with my toe before catching them.
I may not be big on the tidy-thing, but I'm definitely not unhygienic. Actually, I wash my underwear twice in the shower (I don't like it when they get stiff from the soap) every day and hang them in the bathroom to dry. I have set up these wires to hang them on. It looks miserable.
I duck under all the wires and step into the shower cabin, which really isn't a shower cabin; I've just put a shower curtain around the "shower area". It's one of those artsy 50's retro styled cheap IKEA stuff that my mom bought sometime in her last life.
Gathering saliva from deep within my throat with loud noises, I spit all I want into the running water on the floor and proceed to wash myself in the chilly flow.
I remember that it's not such a good idea for me to shower before breakfast. I have this damn tendency to get short of breath and collapse on the floor from low blood pressure. My sister often gets like that when she has her menstruation. It was...a sight.
The sound of the telephone ringing cut through my fantasies of blow jobs and fucking some asses and I'm compelled to let my hand abandon little Nietzsche to walk out and pick up the phone in the hallway. Goosebumps rise on my skin.
"Eeeey! What's up? You comin'? My ass has fallen asleep and I'm stiff like a twig now if you'd excuse me," a perky voice on the other side informs.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way." Like hell I am. My brain weakly pulls at a thought about "just what the fuck is he doing?" from amidst all the smoke in my cranium.
I hang up and walk back into the warm and welcoming fog in the bathroom to proceed in making myself look presentable. Not that I need it or anything.