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I think this will be my back up Rolling Stones fiction journal or something.
“Keith,”
They were on the bed. The linen sheets strewn out like a battlefield. Mick stared at Keith, his blue eyes watching his sinewy body. He bit the bottom of his plush lips and reached out a firm, but hesitant hand. He softly ran his hand through the black, oil slick mane. He patted it then cringed his hand away.
He felt sick. Like spitting. Crying. The whole situation that now was painted on the canvas before them gave their foreboding fate.
“Keith.” His voice was cracked, a hesitant hue painted in its plans. It was barely audible, softly as it was called out. It was then to dissipate into the humid air around their thin bodies.
He wanted to reach and hold Keith. To bury his face n those dark locks. To assure to Keith that everything would be alright.
A mirror sat on the dresser behind them. It stood behind them, an obvious judger in the room. It gazed back the image of a pale boy. Aggressive androgyny burning into him. A boy with a bloody mouth of lipstick. Red painted onto those lips. The whores choice of color. It reverently mocked him, spreading visible, yet invisible toothy grins at him, knowing what will come and go with the two.
He saw another boy. A gangly boy. A strung out junkie with petals of bruises caressing his gangly limbs. A boy who played with him, laughed with him. Tracks were scattered throughout his skin. He looked like a mess. A strange pang shot through his chest.
Dry, cracked trails of salty water had leaked down his face. Raccoon masks had pooled under his blue eyes which were smeared red with anger and frustration.
“Sorry,” he lowly whispered, a sullen concept gracing his voice, “for… everything.”
He leaned down and kissed the younger boy. He hoped to be able to get a rise, some type of emotion, but nothing. Keith only mumbled unintelligible words. He lied too still, too still to be alive. He would put a hand to his mouth, feeling his fingers graze Keith’s thin lips. He breathed soft, just too soft for his likes.
“I.. love you,” came Keith’s slurred stained words. They were slow, and soft.
Mick curled into himself closer, scared and afraid. He looked at him, a sad appearance forming on his cupid lips. “I know you do.”
The low filtering lights hummed in excitement. They knew what would be happening sooner later. It was inevitable and it was becoming harder and harder to avoid. The ash trey lied off to the side, lined with the abused bodies of cigarettes of past. Like an addiction, a chain. It would prove to be so much for his soul.
“Everything. I wish I could help you,” he said softly, a hand twining through Keith’s hair. “I want you to be there. To be healthy. I want to grow old with you, watch the sunrise.”
A heavy sigh into nothingness. “For that, I am truly sorry.”
Currently listening to "Let It Bleed" by The Rolling Stones.
