Hello world, this is my first Elephant fanfic. I recently watched the movie and I decided that it's beautifully amazing, and most certainly it deserves more than just three fanfics. This is a second person, 'you' being Alex, and focuses on his relationship with Eric to a certain extent. There is some slash here, don't like it don't read. This is a oneshot, and is slightly AU, and un-beta'd. The alternative title is Martyr.
Disclaimer: I do not own Elephant or its characters, they belong to their respective owners.
You have always been very good with words. You're charming, intelligent, and persistent if you have to be. You sugarcoat your voice to the point that people don't notice when you're talking about disasters about to happen. Your essays flow brilliantly, and your short stories are always very creative, but very fake.
When you don't feel the need to speak, you just plaster a sincere-looking smile on your face. When your teachers confront you, you give them an innocent, childlike grin. They don't bother you anymore. When your parents yell at you for using their credit card to order things online, you look down, smile ashamedly, and offer such a sincere sorry that they're taken aback.
And if all else fails, if your words don't reach people, at least they always reach yourself. You play the piano to be able to communicate, let go, say all the words you've always wanted to say. The emotions you normally bottle up inside of yourself run wild, and you feel like you're actually opening your mouth to scream and scream and scream everything that is wrong with you. And then you feel at peace. Words are yours to toy with; you don't even need words to express yourself.
Eric has never been good with words. He knows little about disguising his hatred, swallowing his belligerence. He's dim and he fails almost every test his teachers throw at him. His essays are fragmented and his writing lacks grammar, punctuation, and evidence. He never finishes his stories. His anger gets the better of him before he does.
Eric can never lie to people with smiles. He always seems stiff, insecure, and as if he's hiding something. Which he is. He doesn't get along with the teachers. He doesn't get along with his parents. And that's why he spends many of his nights at your house, living the life he wish he had.
He's like you, actually. Very much like you. But the only difference is that he's got no means by which to free his pent-up emotions. He's much too awkward and clumsy to play an instrument, and he's got absolutely no artistic skill. Patience is not one of his virtues.
So you're actually quite surprised when he walks in while you're showering. And you can see it in his eyes, his frosty blue eyes, that he's finally found his way to communicate. Speaking softly, he says he's never been kissed. You kiss him. He kisses back. His lips are soft and succulent beneath your own, and you move, press harder, become more desperate. You need this. You claim kisses from him again and again. Soon the both of you have fallen to your anger, fury, passion, and lust. You're biting onto his neck like a savage, his hands are rapidly rubbing the length of your cock. His moans mix with yours, and such a simple, one syllable sound conveys everything Eric has always failed to convey. Your wet, slick bodies are so close that they blur and are one.
Afterwards, you lie awake in your bed. You know that you and Eric didn't fuck each other like animals because you two were queer, or because the both of you had been secretly in love with each other all along. You know that there is no such thing as love. It was because Eric had needed some sort of release. You needed it too. Mutually beneficial, you tell yourself.
And as you fall asleep for the last time in your life, you realize that maybe, just maybe, Eric was actually quite good with words. He had just always been holding himself back. Let yourself go, Eric, you think, Just let yourself go.
When you wake in the morning and come into the kitchen, Eric is already eating breakfast. Both of you are suited up and ready. Your weapons are in the duffel bag you place on the kitchen floor. You don't bother to try and talk to him, and he remains silent as well. You know things have gone beyond the two of you now. Your life, as well as Eric's, is significantly unimportant. You now could care less about your partner in crime.
Because you're going to shoot and ravage and kill and kill and kill. Because you're going to put the ultimate plan into action and write your words all over the memories of the silly people who live in this town. You'll get your revenge against your classmates. Their blood will write your words on the school's walls. You WILL be remembered. You WILL. YOU WILL. You WILL be a martyr for your cause.
Eric follows silently as you make your way out the door. Your breakfast lies uneaten on the kitchen table.
I was five and he was six
We rode on horses made of sticks
He wore black and I wore white
He would always win the fight
How was it? The lyrics at the end aren't mine, they're from the song Shot You Down, by The Audio Bullys. Drop reviews/critiques, people. ^-^