Now we're getting to familiar territory. A companion piece mostly to Xantippe. R&R, as always.





Vulgus

Those with mirrorlike hearts
do not depend on fragrance and color:
they behold Beauty in the moment.
They've cracked open the shell of knowledge
and raised the banner
of the eye of certainty.
Thought is gone in a flash of light.

-Rumi, Mathnawi I, 3492-3494




The guy doesn't want to have sex with him.

Okay, Schuldig says, fine with me; what do you want, then?

The guy wants to find a chick, wants to get a room, wants to bring him and the chick up to the room with him.

Okay, Schuldig says, fine with me, and he watches the guy look around the room, half-interested in what kind of chick catches his eye. Mostly he's like any other guy, he's looking at her ass, at her breasts, a little at the way she moves and also at how much skin she's showing. He's acting like he's some sort of connoisseur of the female half of the world, too, like there isn't anyone better than he is at picking out a fine piece of meat for a real good night. But he lets a couple of the most interested pass him by and this is the only part about the entire process that puzzles Schuldig. It seems as if he's looking for someone in particular, through the sweat and the loud music. Probably, he's looking for someone who looks like someone in particular. Sometimes, people can be really damn specific about what it is the chick they're going to fuck look likes, compulsions and obsessive behavior and all that factoring it. So this guy must be really crazy because he passes a couple of real hot bitches down and finally starts flirting with this one girl whose OK, Schuldig guesses, but not so great. He watches the guy flirt with her, watches her blush for a moment, and then they both move towards the door. That's Schuldig's cue to follow, so he does.

He moves past the other bodies in the club and ignores it when someone reaches out and grabs his ass, or knocks into him with a clumsy elbow. He's got his eyes set on one prize and one prize only and he's feeling particularly stubborn tonight. He tugs on his jacket and he follows the two out into the night, hails a taxi behind theirs, cheats his cabby of a tip, follows the two into the hotel which is trying really damn hard to be pleasant and it isn't, and goes on up the stairs while they take the elevator. Schuldig doesn't trust elevators in places like this. They have the tendency to break or be dirty in a fucked up, unpleasant way. And walking isn't to hard, because the guy got them a room on the second floor, anyway.

2F. Schuldig gets in unnoticed, right behind them, and locks the door for the guy as he starts to kiss the girl and undress her from the waist down first. He's a weird guy, this asshole, and Schuldig amuses himself by unzipping his pants and putting his hand around the start of his intense and sudden erection, sitting on a chair in a dark corner, across the room from the bed. So maybe the guy's some sort of closeted homosexual, Schuldig thinks to himself as he fondles himself absently, or maybe he just has some screwed up kinks. Whatever it is he has a nice ass, and the girl has a nice ass, too. So long as Schuldig isn't looking too much at her face - and right now, he isn't looking too much at her face - he doesn't really have a problem, not with any of this. The guy has weird taste, so what? Schuldig has weird taste, too, and it's better than the headache that comes with staying at a club all night. There are too many people there anyway, too many people drunk off their asses, thinking all sorts of stupid and incoherent nonsense. It leaves Schuldig with a hangover that takes more than a cup of coffee to get rid of.

All he has to do now is sit back, relax, and watch them fuck for a bit. He gets the feeling he'll get told when he's needed.

The chick has to be a little drunk because she's being really loud and really vulgar and he laughs to himself a little. She's young, too, with this high-pitched squealing voice that's abrasive but expressive. It makes the guy feel good, Schuldig can tell, that she likes it. He buries his face in her breasts and she's saying intensely stupid things, the sort of things you only ever say during a one night stand because you don't want to be reminded of such inane bullshit.

"Oh yeah oh fuck yeah oh Jesus," she says, and he's agreeing without talking at all because he knows he's being watched and he's a little self-conscious, words muffled against her breasts. "Fuck me like that oh like that oh shit shit shit." It's ridiculous, but Schuldig enjoys the ridiculous, people in a pantomime of sex. Pornos get it all wrong, they fuck up the intrinsic nature of sex which is that it looks sort of stupid with regular people, that sweat is gross and that people make stupid, stupid faces when they orgasm. Schuldig doesn't watch that fucking porno shit, he watches people, real people look stupid when they're having sex. Plus, people can't think of witty shit to say when they're fucking, they just grasp onto a couple of words and say them, over and over, while the bed shakes. And that's comical too, and hardly any director in the entire damn world is man enough to admit he's stupid during sex, too. No, he has to make it manly and feminine and soft and hard. He has to write a script for it, rather than telling his actors, 'OK, go at it like animals,' and see what happens from there. Truth would happen from there, really, hideous and funny, but people aren't interested in the truth: they like big tits and big dicks and sweat that looks golden rather than just plain soggy.

The thing is, as Schuldig's watching, the guy isn't going to call him over and he's just going to sit there touching himself all night while the guy gets some, it looks like. Only Schuldig can pout in a situation like this and he does, though he doesn't stop watching. People are naturally funny. People are naturally clumsy, naturally awkward. Schuldig himself was never awkward, and hardly is now, with inhuman grace and impossible beauty. So he watches this with a weird attraction, because he knows he looks good when he has sex. He looks better than this, anyway. He doesn't look comical, he looks cheap, just like a porn flick. And it's the kind of thing everyone wants, to look fresh out of a magazine, pristine and hot fucking gorgeous even while they're being screwed up the ass, but it leaves you with this hunger for the usual. And that's the nature of man, Schuldig knows that much. You want what you aren't, you want what you don't have. It's why the radiator was invented, the air conditioner, plastic surgery.

It's like watching a car crash, watching people have sex. It's like watch roadkill, it's like watching a building blow up, it's like watching someone die. You're building up towards the climax, the ending, and there's tension in the air and the words are coming faster, now. The girl is loud, he wants to shoot her. He wants to shoot a lot of things: it's an impulse. I'm pissed off, I'm going to shoot you. He has no qualms with that kind of thinking and if he had his gun - but he doesn't have his gun - he do that, he'd shoot her and he'd try, with all the blood, to get in on the humanness of it. God knows why he'd want to, he hates people, especially people like this and the way they just stop thinking altogether sometimes. Other times, what they are thinking makes him want to see to it that they stop thinking. He contradicts himself too much, maybe that's his ultimate problem.

He listens to them both orgasm with a disinterested invasion of privacy, and pulls his hands out of his pants with a sigh. Not enough to get him going. Not enough to get him turned on. He sits there for a while, listening to the chick fall asleep and listening to the guy hold himself up above her in silence. He's listening to the chick breathe, and Schuldig's listening to him listen. It's kind of interesting; he's kind of amused.

And then the guy says, "Well, you wanna do anything?"

"I don't think you want to fuck me right now," Schuldig says. The guy pulls himself up, moves the chick gently aside, sits on the edge of the bed and fishes around in his jeans for a pack of cigarettes, his lighter. He lights up.

"Want a cigarette, then?" the guy asks. He runs his fingers through honey-blond hair, a color that looks bruised and gray in the dark room. Things look bruised and gray in the darkness; Schuldig looks pale, and dark around the eyes. He shrugs, and zips up his pants, and goes to sit on the floor by the guy, who lights him a cigarette, puts it between his lips.

They smoke in silence. Schuldig puts his cigarette out on the bedframe. The guy puts it out on the bedpost.

"So," Schuldig says, "do you want a blowjob, maybe?" He can pull saying things like that off because his voice pretends easily like it doesn't mean anything. The guy feels at ease with him saying things, bluntly, like that.

"Yeah," he says, lighting another cigarette compulsively, "okay." So Schuldig moves between his legs and presses a bite to the inside of the guy's thigh, and he says,

"Who did you want her to look like?"

"Huh?" the guy asks, caught of guard.

"The chick you fucked tonight," Schuldig explains, "who did you want her to look like?"

"I didn't want her to look like anyone," the guy says quickly.

"Don't lie to me. I've got your dick next to my fucking mouth, don't lie to me." Schuldig says it like a joke but the guy understand that it's really not, and he swallows, looking up at the ceiling. The paint is peeling; cracks run like veins above his head.

"Okay," the guy says, "Asuka, her name was Asuka."

"So she's dead," Schuldig assumes, and then he licks the guys thigh, just to feel him shiver, before he bites it again.

"Yeah," the guy says.

"Was she your wife, or something?" The guy is working up quite an erection, now; Schuldig likes this, because he's obviously distressed at the conversation topic, distressed there's conversation at all, but he also likes talking about it, likes talking about it a whole lot. Schuldig looks up at him from underneath long, dark eyelashes, green eyes slits in the darkness. Schuldig starts to touch him, to cup his balls and tease him a little.

"Not my wife," the guy explains carefully, almost offhand, "just a girlfriend. Just this chick I worked with. Asuka." He lets out a hiss of smoke-filled breath, and takes another, long drag on his cigarette. For a while he doesn't say anything and Schuldig's too busy blowing on his cock to ask him anymore questions. Then, the guy speaks again. "I didn't even want to get involved, you know, but she was real fucking convincing sometimes."

"Yeah?" Schuldig asks, and then takes the guy into his mouth. He's irrational. He does shit like that without any warning. The guy's breathing hitches, Schuldig feels him stop thinking for a second, feels his muscles tense to push forward into his mouth. He looks stupid, a crease in his forehead, his lips slightly parted and a thin stream of smoke pouring out. Schuldig's eyes grin.

"Y-yeah," the guy says hoarsely, "yeah, she just, sort of, kept at it, and normally I'm the one doing the chasing." He tangles the fingers of his free hand in Schuldig's hair, jerking at his head a little, asking him for more. It isn't too polite a request but Schuldig doesn't give a shit about that. He isn't much a one for politeness, himself. "But I kind of got fond of her, you know, people get…attached, like that, I couldn't. Say no, after a while." Schuldig pulled his mouth away, took in a deep breath of air.

"Was the sex good?" he asks. He leans back in before the answer, takes the guy's erection into his mouth again, quelling his gag reflex. The guy bucks forward, thrusting into his mouth, into his throat. Schuldig lets him.

"Shit," the guy says, "shit, yes, the sex was good, the sex was real good, she was real good." Schuldig rakes his teeth along the bottom of the guy's cock, pulling his mouth off again, leaving him panting and desperate. "Shit, put your mouth back on me."

"Did you love her?" Schuldig asks.

"Yes," the guy says, "yes, fucking put your mouth back on me."

"I bet you said 'please' when you were talking to her," Schuldig says, and then he obeys, letting the guy fuck his mouth all he wants: he's not holding his hips back anymore. The guy thrusts clumsily deep and deeper and deeper until he jerks back and Schuldig turns his head away, and he comes into his own hand. After that, there's only the sound of the guy breathing shallowly, trying to come back to himself.

"Why the fuck do you say things like that," the guy says. His green eyes are a hell of a lot more sober now, a hell of lot sadder than they are, at most times.

"Because you're a fucking idiot," Schuldig replies, taking another one of the guy's cigarettes. They smoke the same cigarettes, he notices, cheap unfiltered shit. "You're a fucking drunk idiot who wants a mouth to fuck and hands on your dick and an ear to listen to your soppy sad shit. Gotta be someone here to punish you for it."

"Thanks," the guy says.

"Yeah, no problem," Schuldig says, waving his hand in dismissal. "You want another fucking cigarette?"

"They're my cigarettes," the guy points out.

"Okay, fine, do you want me to fucking light one for you?" Schuldig asks. He's already lit his own and it's burning his throat, which is a little raw. Stupid careless fuck. One of these days he's going to get that guy's cock inside his ass and show him what the hell a real fuck is, because what a real fuck isn't is some stupid bitch, who's dead 'cause of him, crying out, "I love you I love you" while she orgasms in the back of his head, every time he screws someone.

"Yeah, okay," the guy says, and Schuldig lights him a cigarette, putting it between his lips.

"You're one sorry asshole," he tells him, ruffling the guy's hair, mostly to annoy him.

"I know, Schuldig."

"Don't ever fucking touch my hair again."

"Right, because you really don't like it when people throw you around, right?" The guy runs one finger over his bottom lip, bruised, the thin line of a cut running across it.

"Shut the fuck up. Don't touch my fucking mouth."

"Okay, Schuldig," the guy acquiesces.

"I'm fucking out of here. I'll fucking see you around, Yohji." Schuldig leaves and Yohji gets up and moves after him and stands there by the door for a while. Then, he locks it. The chick in his bed makes some sort of tired noise and he wants to get in next to her and have her hold him, touch his hair. Instead, he searches around the place for his pants and his socks and gets dressed in silence. What the fuck is he going to do, waking up next to someone in the Goddamn morning?

Outside, people are beginning to realize how late it is: it's so late, it's almost early. They hail cabs, they go home with people they barely know, they go home with old lovers, they go home alone. A broken street lamp blinks on and off, applauding the denouement of some unheard song.