They're both fools.

They want so much: They want to take and break and devour. They want it all. They want what the world can't offer, what the many people in their lives don't have. They want to fill that want. They want the inevitable.

But it's still not enough.

Like the fisherman's wife, they tumble as they pass each other by in the hallways; look away when the other's looking, staring down at white Converse and black Vans as opposing figures and strangers who pretend not to know. That split second in which their bodies are lined up side to side seize their throats, and the air morphs into the aftertaste of wine that can't be contained. It's all a cycle that drives them crazy at nights, speechless in the mornings.

Walk. Walk. Walk. Talk the talk. It's futile, and perhaps that's why they're both fools.

Fools without heads, even.

He covers it up so damn well. Just see his stupid fraternity friends and faceless girls strung up behind him in an endless line. How exciting. How hellishly godly. Quarterback of the university's football team—already under million dollar contracts that don't mean shit anymore. Beer after beer, women after women, crushed cigarettes and fights and cars and money and apathy that don't even register, and he's Number 84 and Ibn-La'Ahad at the same time. His routines turn into religion, religion owns him, and he can't find himself bothering to fight against the concept of submission.

Just like him.

Except, he falls first. Malik. Just Malik. Or that nerdy guy who is probably mute and spiteful, sitting there alone in the corner in all of his classes—in all of his years. If there's one thing he learned, Malik Al-Sayf can't lie to save his own life. So maybe that's why he can only hate himself when his eyes automatically cast down when the football team passes by, when those familiar white Converse tap and tap and tap and tap, and then stop. Stop, stop, and go, without a retort to spill out from his mouth after they leave. He can only blame himself for seeking a shadow that most likely doesn't know he exists—just for that moment, at least.

Fools. Just look at them.

Foolery to the most selfless extent that can only be classified as selfish.

Fools, fools, fools. They lie to each other, and they don't even know it.

And even at this time, the Big Bang Theory now turned into an axiom, they push and pull like blind men. They want so much; they transform into furious gluttons that rip off shirts and belts and ties to engorge themselves in hot flesh and sacrilegious demands in voices that can't be tamed. Because one doesn't understand himself, because one abhors himself: because two fools unconsciously changed themselves for each other in the darkness of this abandoned hallway, slamming against walls and abandoned pride. They can't comprehend each other, they can't make each other see why the fuck they're so damn frustrated, they can't answer why simply wanting is never enough to stop these arrangements that poison them, and it isn't as if they gave a shit about reasons.

They utter everything in a word that is too sharp to be blunt:

Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine. Mine.

Mine.

God damn. Just mine.

Definitely too sharp. Too destructive. Too honest. Too foolish.

Clothes slide back on, a cigarette is lighted, and the pairs of Converse and Vans stride away that equidistant point on the floor that held so much want, anger, possession, mutation, and necessity to simply be an expanse of marble. As such, they're fools; they don't look back—because they're scared as hell—to go forward, and they don't say anything—because what are they supposed to say?—to absolve this—this—as nothing. And it's just the bad-boy quarterback doing whatever the hell he wants while a nobody does shit that doesn't really matter.

Rinse and repeat. Over and over and over again.

Fools, fools, fools, fools: They're both fools.

And they want so much to be those fools.