Marvel characters. Archive: Well, none of the people on my list are archivists, so that's not really a problem, is it? *g* I'm in debt to Mel, the Title Queen. ------------------------------------------------ DALI IN THE EVENING By Lise ~*~ Did you know that, when I was in fifth form, one of the boys at school painted half a bathroom stall with his own shite? He was high on magic mushrooms. He got expelled the next day, but the bathroom smelled for weeks afterwards. Our janitor was never very dedicated, and did you know that the smell of pine cleaner mixed with human waste is worse than shite itself? Covering up a smell with another smell is always worse, mate. I can tell that's what you're trying to do, but that beer isn't strong enough. And the drink I just bought yeh ain't even close to the cologne that'll wipe his taste out of your nose. Gods help me, I tried, boy. If this were a more cultured crowd, we could try and take this slow, pretend that we're not really smelling the same hair on the pillow after all these months. That we're not going to be wondering, secretly, whether LeBeau left all these whiffs over someone else's body too. He's a nice one, Drake is. LeBeau was stupid to let him go. I could bury my metaphorical nose in that stupid looking teeshirt, and I just *know* it's his. Somewhere, deep down, I can inhale all of him into my system and flush it out again in the air that -- Okay, so Drake wouldn't ever touch a shirt like that, and my cock probably remembers wiping LeBeau off with it after a blowjob one time, but my nose in his shoulders -- why the shoulders, always, Pete? -- and getting to absorb a little piece of him. I wonder if we do really take in molecules of all our shags, like osmosis? Do I touch a little like LeBeau? Did I ever kiss like Kitty? Will I be hesitant, once or twice, and someone will notice that I'm Drake? Maybe I'll pick up those adorable dimples instead of his hesitation, and LeBeau will recognize them like I know that shirt, inside and out. And like I know that body, inside and out, and probably Drake does too. Let's introduce him to my insides and out, and then we'll be one big happy family. We'll know each other's pheremones, too. ~*~ If I had antlers, now, I'd be in high heaven. Here I am, rutting like it's the most natural thing in the world, and I can see where Drake's had the hands of other people on him. Some blokes, they get through life without seeing who they're shagging. They get by with their eyes closed and never staring down into those eyes and knowing what things change within them. I'm on the bottom, you're thinking. I'm bent over, facing the bedspread, you're thinking, so I can't see into the eyes on my back. It's not eyes, really. It's more... I can see Drake's smell. If I'd met the lad in a bathroom stall, this would smell right. If I'd passed him a note written on a piece of toilet paper, and sat on the toilet with a nervous gut, waiting for him to write back how old he was or what position he liked, or whose shirt he was wearing, this would smell right. He whispers -- god, is this guy for real? -- "This is me." I grin. I have to. Some things you don't decide for yourself, you just... do. Like the first time you find yourself picking up the one that's bad for you, or the time you hang up the phone when you're in love just to prove a point. Or the day you have a cup of coffee and don't drink it. His hands are gripped around my waist. We make a pretty picture. I almost bought a stupid poster in the market yesterday, one of those weird twisted psychotic painters from the century where they all did cocaine and called it sophisticated. All those aristocrats, snorting up so that they'd create, so that they'd burn and make those masterpieces. I wish I had, so that Drake would be staring up into those bug-eyes and a print that no one really understands, even though they all want to. He's speeding up the rhythm. I grunt, and force himself in, so that I burn too. He thinks that he's going to go home again, and have a secret over LeBeau. He thinks that we're going to ignore this one night as two lonely men. He thinks that his ex isn't going to recognize the wary smell he's currently tasting in my mouth and swallowing down into himself. Let's just go home, lad, get to it, and we'll both sniff out familliar territory. ~*~ I think he whispered, right when I touched his face, 'Picture this', but maybe that's just in my own head. I surely don't remember, looking out the window at the morning sunshine. What a piece of work God is. His hand's in this, I'm sure, making it sunshine just a little. It's like those melting clocks out there all over again, or the parade of grotesque people, that all like to smile. I sip my coffee, and point out the donuts gruffly. We like to joke around. I'm not lying, since this truth is stranger than any cokehead's dream -- it's God's dream. I recognise what a canvas not-quite-white sheets make, and He's made sure to take our chemicals and wind them into the threads so tightly I'm never going to wash it out. I'll be smelling Bobby Drake missing Remy LeBeau fucking me, long after God forgets. It's affirmed when he tells me he doesn't smoke. Of course you don't, Drake. And when your hand itches whenever LeBeau lights one, and you stare away quickly, so he doesn't see your need.... you're just trying to communicate with him. You don't want that smoke any more than I want your cum, but we're both on the catching end, second hand. But you haven't absorbed enough nicotine from the two of us, through semen and sweat, to want to try it, have you. And yet, maybe you'll know, and see, when LeBeau looks at you and then looks away, in that damned easy going way of his. I know you're not a stalker, luv. I know exactly what you are. I can smell it. He doesn't ask 'Did I touch like Remy?' but I know he wants to know. Just like, when he goes home wearing the mark of a cheating man, my old shirt, LeBeau will see with his nose just exactly what's underneath. He thought that a shirt would be proof that he'd absorbed us. Mate, the only thing you don't see painted here is the fingerprints on your body, and the pheremones you'll never wash off. But I can. It's something I picked up from LeBeau. fin