The lights have been out for over an hour now.
They've been out because you don't need the attention. You don't need the attention and you sure as fuck don't need the company. Moths and nocturnal predators and such all rushing and creeping towards a dying flame. The lack of visual stimulation throws your thoughts into sharp, clear relief. Just like how that duel, the final one...you know, the one you lost... so dreamlike, contrasts that midnight car ride. That nightmare.
Hallucinogen. Halogen. Howling.
Victory? Was that what you were racing toward? Maybe. Is what either of them had in mind? Obviously not.
Bastards. All of them.
Maybe the duel was the nightmare. The mental/real/not real/far from mattering by this point anyway road trip/ head trip was nicer, right? No landing hard on cold stone, you fucking failure. No scattering green rose petals against a blue sky taunting you. Weakling.
No, your frail little ass had landed on something much softer. Softer than lies, even. White leather interior, to be exact. Stars winking above a curtain of red hair.
You didn't take him up on that offer, though. Might as well have. Might as well have ended up with somebody, anybody, at the end of it all, instead of standing here alone, a pathetic and cast off pawn that wasn't even good at being one in the first place in any other way other than that you were vulnerable and weak. Alone after hours in a kendo room you once foolishly thought was yours with the lights shut off and your katana and shinai already put away, floors swept clean, with nothing left to do but slip one hand down underneath pleated fabric of your hakama.
Dry and rough and so fucking nice, so damn good and fitting, right? Friends aren't/are for the foolish and are never/always for the strong.
You like dwelling on that car ride while you do it. Sickening. Might as well have not bothered flipping the light switch. Just let him stroll in, pausing long enough to rest against the door frame before approaching, his sharp white teeth reaching you before his eyes do, falling to his knees and dipping the tips of his fingers into the waistband...
Heh. Don't flatter yourself. Queer. Give up and imagine it like you know it would be. You, on the ground, hair a mess. Legs spread as wide as a whore's and waiting for pleasure, pain, anything -as long as he's the one giving it you.
Closer, now. At the part when even breathing feels like a fucking choir of angels brushing against your body, a nearly physical pleasure in and of itself. Steady and frantic and throbbing like an engine roaring under streetlights, drifting into the side lane and taking you and him with it.
This isn't what you want and that's why you take it, greedy and hungry, isolated in the dark.
Better warmer faster harder. Your own calluses reminding you that the hand groping your cock isn't female. Isn't small and dark and isn't particularly skilled, either. You dare to imagine that you deserve more. Another body, any body, warm and flush and desiring against you. Shameful, failing, insignificant, closeted excuse for a man you are.
You come in the dark, leaving a growing stain on your hakama that no one, not even you, can see but can definitely feel wet and warm against your inner thigh, because like this it's easy to envision a destination at the end of that road, to dismiss all that blinding daylight and there behind the closed curtain theater of your mind bend others over and rip the hearts off their sleeves for once.
Like this you don't have worry about being woken up -from your dreams or from your nightmares- and having to look at yourself.
Because there isn't anybody here who plans to turn on the light.