neon anchors
[marcus lopez arguello x you]
author’s note: I haven’t written anything in like 3249235 years but this show has my heart lately so hERE we ARe.
word count: 576
ao3: here
He was carved from marble.
He wasn’t like the elegant sculptures perfectly crafted from a consecrated quarry with finesse and technique. Nor was he the kind that looked like a portrait with living essence, or a still-life in the flesh. He was not the fluidity of draped clothing and the smoothness of fresh, unblemished skin. He did not resemble the rare transparency of a veil carved into a solid block of stone. He was not ivory or the inlay of precious stones or something to be admired. He was not a masterpiece.
He was carved in hard angles and sharp edges. The kind with chips and gouges that appeared after an accident or by intention, the kind forged from fire and weathering. He was not ivory, he was a crimson wash swirled in cigarette smoke and bruised skin. He did not demand attention like those in the Louvre, or command crowds of people just by looking polished and pretty. He was not flawless. He was not radiant. He was weather-worn and he thrived in shadows, not the light. He was the kind of statue not0 carved from passion, but carved from pain.
Marcus Lopez Arguello was carved by mortal hands, but you … he swore you were carved by the gods themselves. The only sign that any god had ever existed.
Your relationship was far from perfect.
It was empty liquor bottles and crumpled cigarette cartons littered around his feet, loud music clashing with the quiet of your thoughts while you picked your way carefully through piles of smashed glass and bottlenecks separated from the body of the bottle. You avoided puddles of beer and something stronger just to settle yourself at his side. Those nights were glass shards mixed with ashes and alcohol dementia; a hangover promising to rise with the sun.
You realized he reminded you of the Badlands, while he thought you were just like the Grand Canyon during a glorious sunrise.
The next night your hands were stained with his blood cleaning up the mess of his own hands. Crimson soaked bandages are wrapped around ribs and knuckles and other various battered limbs. Fingers carded and curled through tangled hair, glossed over the beginning stages of bruises blooming over his cheekbones and jaws and temples like nocturnal flowers. You kissed his lips where the skin had broken, telling him everything would be fine, he was fine, this was fine.
You only lied half the time.
Lungs were chilled by the cold air sucked into your lungs. Smoke and breath clouded in front of you under the stars, close enough to mix with the warmth of his own. You wondered if the moonlight shining in his eyes would be enough to blind you for the rest of your life. Or maybe you would drown instead because they were so easy to get lost in. They took your breath away.
You feel like the album Disintegration by The Cure: string symphonies coursing through your veins and jump-starting your heart into beating a million miles a second, never stopping, never slowing down, never wanting any moment but this one to keep going on forever and ever and ever. There’s a fire in your veins and you know there’s ice in his.
One is the poison, one is the antidote.
You’re both darkness, but you’re neon anchors for one another in the shadows of King’s Dominion.
