Holy hell did I jsut write a fanfic?¿
You told him he had nothing to worry about at all, that the problems we have look worse at night than they do in the morning, always. We wake up warm and confused remembering faintly the reason we kept ourselves up at 4am to sleep in to quarter to noon. As we collect ourselves we start to feel happily stupid for getting so riled up on old “thought traps” that can consume us for whole nights and shit us into late mornings feeling sheepishly gullible for falling into them once again. Happily stupid in the sunlight, a whole day ahead of you with the promise of people you know, classes you can’t be late for, things to get done, sanity. Sanity in the sunlight spaced out by a few hours of dreaming. Everyone gets like that sometimes.
You walk him through the irrationality of it all and he sits somewhat rigidly on the end of your bed, eyes still and unblinking, not looking altogether convinced.
“Cmon, what’s the saner explanation here–that you wandered into town at, what, 3am, murdered a homeless man in cold blood, or that you dreamt you did.“
“It just all seemed so real.” He said almost as a single word spat through the tension in his teeth.
He pulls out a cigarette and you lean over to crack the window. You glance at the alarm clock, 5am. His cigarette is too rain-soaked to light so he moves slowly as he tucks his lighter back in his coat. You notice how much his hands are shaking as he brushes some fallen hair out of his eyes. You draw the shades and get a new look at his face. Covered in a greasy sheen that glinted back the blue cast of the moonlight. Damn, he’s really got himself worked up. He really thinks he something bad. You know Roman, you know he was always a little high-strung, a little lost in his own world and singled out by a weird, antisocial upbringing. So the fact that he would come crying to you at this ungodly hour on a school night wasn’t what was crazy about this situation. After all, you were probably closer to him than anyone at your high school, for all you knew. What made this situation crazy was that look on his face, the quivering tension in his neck, the steel in his eyes making him look almost catatonic. That and the ridiculousness of what he was worried about in the first place–murder. Not just murder, but that he sucked someone’s goddamn blood dry in some semi-conscious dream frenzy. You wouldn’t just not remember something like that. Something like that you either did or didn’t do, not much room for grey area.
He would feel stupid and defensive about this whole episode tomorrow at school. Just a couple hours of sleep and he’ll see this whole thing for as crazy as it is.
“Why don’t you lie down. Take your shoes off at least, I’ll drive you to school tomorrow."
His unresponsiveness was growing eerier each minute he kept it up. You laugh and slide off the bed to undo his shoes. You can already tell you’re going to be laughing this off for a while, and yes, 100% at his expense–he’s too much of a lofty jackass to even try to play good sport. You’re working the knot of his second shoe when you look up at his face, really seeing him head-on in the light of the window clearer than you had earlier when he showed up on your porch, hunched and speaking uncharacteristically quiet, soaked in rain (without a car for some reason?) God he really did look like shit, didn’t he.
It crosses your mind that he may very well be riding out some coked-out panic or ill-fated acid trip. You wonder if he’ll actually be able to sleep at all. It’s too dark to play detective mom and try to gage the size of his pupils. But knowing Roman, you smirk, content with the soundness of this explanation. You’ve partied with him before, you know he can usually handle his shit but nobody was beyond the risk of a cold hard freakout now and again. And Roman being Roman, he was unpredictable. High strung.
"Come lay down. Jeez, you’re shaking. Put it out of your mind and come–”
His mouth was red. Some kind of residue–lipstick? Spot of drool catching the light of the alarm clock? Chocolate for fuck’s sake?
Don’t you go and freak him out. Now just calm the fuck down and don’t try to scare him. You’re the sane one here right now, remember? Is that blood?
“–come… uh lay next to me. This’ll all seem so…so stupid in the morning."
You’re no actress and he’s no idiot. He faces you slowly, turns his eyes up to meet your gaze, sees that little knit in your brow that made you look a little less convinced, not so sure anymore. Where did that little smirk go? Horrible stillness passes through you both. His stare seems to hold you down as he leans his body in toward you. The insane reality of exactly what he had been up to just hours before seemed to fall on both of you with a sick, heavy thud. He looked as scared as you, but Roman’s version of fear and embarrassment often took a complicated route out of his brain that turned it into something closer to anger. It made him pissy, neurotic, a little scary. He moved slowly edging closer, random muscles in his face straining rabidly, eyes still seeming to hold your back firm against the headboard where you sat. They held you there as you watched him drink deep breaths through his nose, pulling in the poison vapor of this would-be dream–a big bad stupid dream is all this should be. Oh god come on–murder?? The ferocity of his breathing, sucking in through the nose, out through the mouth, shook his thin frame and made you think back to some wild nights out when he’d pick you up in his car, comically teen-dream red, and drive you long into the night. And pretty soon you were tapping into his unending supply of coke, his body hunched over the glass table, a snipped straw in one nostril, finger over the other, hair hanging down messing up a couple lines. That deep, loud sucking sound of air through the nose, and his body slamming back against the couch, eyes closed, thick cables in his neck flexing in the rush of the white hot chemical orgasm that turned his face sweaty red. He’d take a slug of whiskey chaser right from the bottle and then look at you, slack jawed, starry eyed, leaning in slowly to eat you whole.
"Don’t move, don’t move..”, he now spoke out of the back of his throat in a way that cracked unsteadily, “Don’t move…stay right where you are,” Moving closer still and breathing thickly through the nose, out the mouth, over and over, now close enough to grace your skin with hot air. You watch a drop of blood fall from his nose and hit the sheets audibly. You really can’t move. Oh my god you really can’t move at all. You throw out a pitiful, groping, Hail-Mary thought that Roman was still the same old stupid, innocent Roman, that he had dreamt this all. That he had staggered to your house, passing through town, in the rain, on some coked-out meltdown. Murder. No way. No fucking way, we were too young, Roman was too rich. This was not a dream and people don’t kill people by sucking their blood.
His face was now inches from yours and shaking beads of sweat and drool onto your lap. What was on and around his mouth was blood. And this was the face of a kid–a man sinking into his first night as a murderer…a cannibal. An actual fucking monster.
He extended a long-fingered hand slowly, slowly up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead and then wraps his fingers, trembling sickly, around your neck. You feel the slickness of the sweat and rain under his thumb as he slides it, ever so gently, up and down, up and down your jugular.
“Now you’re going to tell me how ugly I am, okay?"
Happy halloween fuck you