A sequel to Geek of the Week
We do not own these puppets.
Feedback welcome, but not necessary.
I think I love Treize.
I didn’t know it was possible for fallen petals to shape back into bloom. But he beckons with every wave of his hand, each breath that rises and falls from his chest, and I no longer want to tug against the reins.
So when the snow hits the frosty pane with every intention of obscuring my view of the outside world, it no longer matters. He sits, hunched over Una Vez Más, shirt unbuttoned, waves of blue undulating as he squints at the miniscule text.
"Did you know," he says, nibbling anxiously at the edge of a chocolate chip cookie my mother made for another one of our ‘late night study sessions’, "that this is a lovely country to be sick in, but a terrible one to die in?"
I turn towards him, reclining against the large pillows he uses to prop my hips with when we have sex. It smells like him, smells like something thick and musky and definitely masculine. Cologne, maybe, something not too heavy but still sweet.
"Why do you say that?"
"My Uncle Hamilton died last night." I reach out to comfort him; Treize shrugs in the manner of distant relatives. How can he understand? He should cherish his family; at Thanksgiving and Christmas it was always my mother and I cutting the turkey, cutting the chicken, opening the presents.
"He was in a lot of pain," he admits, staring into space.
"Could they have given him something?"
Treize looks up sharply. "You mean like doctor-assisted suicide? They eventually put Kevorkian on the chair for that." I say nothing. "Aunt Maria had to shut off the ventilator. Would you be able to do it?"
"You mean, kill him. No, I don’t think I could kill another person." One aristocratic eyebrow raises high above the sky.
"Circumstances make the man, choices break the man." Then he shrugs, refusing to say anymore, and pretends to study a page of Spanish vocabulary. Knowing my lover--my lover! The word still seems foreign, after all this time--as I do, if I were to quiz him on the material, he would be hopelessly lost. "Treize..."
He utters a little growl, short and sexy the way that tells me that there’s something he doesn’t quite want to discuss yet, that he isn’t comfortable with. In a strange manner, it hurts, it makes me jealous to know that there’s some issue that takes his attention away from me. I should be used to it; no one ever had time for me before Mount Kisco. He’s spoiled me, made me greedy for a casual word or tone of affection.
He lies next to me, one hand twisting my bangs so I have to raise my head from the pillows, lest I lose a few thousands strands. "Let’s not talk about it right now," he suggests, and that ends the conversation.
I hate and I love Treize. I hate the way he makes me feel vulnerable, like the geek that I never really left in elementary school. But I know that he’ll never do anything to hurt me, and there’s something absurdly comforting in his tender touches.
Most of all, I hate the way he stares at my body, the little flick of his tongue over his lips. It’s just a gesture of possessiveness, of desire, but at the same time, it represents everything that I strive not to be. Like he wants me because he believes I *am* a thing, I can be taken, I can be absolutely possessed. Even if I can, that’s not all there is to me.
But his hands are wandering over my body, stroking lightly and teasing until the canopy overhead falls in a slow sprinkle of green leaves. His hips meld like soft butter into mine; I feel whole, I feel di-vi-ded. So I close my eyes and let the river sweep me upstream.
And yet, that single question only breaches the surface of the issue. I run my fingers over his stray wispy bangs at the peak of his forehead, revel in the feel of peach soft flesh beneath my callused palms. Could I do it? Would I be able to nonchalantly reach out with impersonal intentions and simply end his life?
Those eyes, like jewels, like sleepy clouds on a fine summer’s day, would I be able to stand seeing them die and disease, lose their spark? Would I stand for watching my lover slowly disintegrate, slowly become a shell, an empty husk of a formidable man?
I do not know.
So I suppose, in the end, it will be the weakness of my own soul, not the aging of his body, that determines the answer. Maybe if I say it enough times... I will not be the weak one. I will not be the weak one.
I will not be the weak one.
Whoa....I have no idea where this came from. Blame him! *points wildly*
Bee: I’m no him! ^_~
Ariana
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