(he remembers)

[emothy]

Please please please please don't kill me for how much it sucks :/ And if you don't get what fandom I made myself write for you after the first WORD, I will be so disappointed in you!

"I don't have to sell my soul,
He's already in me"
I Wanna Be Adored - The Stone Roses

-

Tom remembers a room. And... That's about it. The colour of the carpet (was it actually carpeted or were there floorboards?), the patterns on the wallpaper, where the furniture was laid out, he doesn't remember anything like that. Oh, but there was a bed, oh yes of course there was a bed. He remembers that for sure. So... A room... And a bed. Nice going there Mr I-Always-Keep-My-Composure.

Though no-one could blame him. In his own (very important) opinion, people should be continually congratulating Tom just for managing to stand next to (close, very close, kind-of sort-of maybe touching) Sergio and not ruining perfectly good camera shots by blocking everyone's view of his skinny, long-haired band mate. They should be giving him medals for not ripping off those horrendous shirts (and not even in the name of fashion, that might be excused...) right in front of everyone, and not caring who was watching. That was how he got the reputation after all, for staying cool under pressure. Survive Serge, survive anything.

The phrase 'Surviving Serge', might lead one to believe Tom was a pinnacle of restraint and chastity, however. But that, that would be what one would refer to as laughable. Behind closed doors he didn't even remember the word restraint, let alone exercise it. Once all eyes were no longer on he and Serge, the rest of the world was forgotten. And everything else if you're remembering to count the room with the bed incident.

Tom remembers a room, and a bed. He doesn't remember the colour of the walls, or what the light looked like, but he remembers these dark, dark eyes coming closer to his, locking to his sight, and long hair curtaining his view so he could only see his own reflection. He remembers this tiny waist in these tiny jeans, feeling some kind of nothing under his fingers. He remembers feeling like no-one else exists in the world, that there is no world to exist within. Tom remembers darkness and depth, twisted smiles and desperate eyes.

Sergio = desperation. It's a fact. Whether it's the desperation in his own eyes you're referencing, the bottomless pits of thought and rhyme and reason, or the desperate kind of feeling you get just from being around him and not able to reach him, to touch him, it all adds up to the same thing. And when he's laid out underneath Tom and his hands are on Tom's face, and shaking, and his eyes are pleading, it's more than a fact. It's a merging.

People said opposites attracted, and Tom acknowledged that it might be true for some people, but for him, the attraction was similarity. Serge understood. He had those ways of knowing everything without words, conveying things without touch. Tom remembers the connection, the similarity, and he remembers so much that everything blurs together and he can't quite distinguish who brought out a knife first. But it doesn't matter anyway; Tom's ideas are Serge's, and Serge's inspirations are Tom's. Mingling blood is sharing life.

Together, they hurt. It's deep, it's dark, it's tragic, and it's haunting. Fingers clutching at straws under moonlit sky. Empty kisses and unspoken words that seem to be communicated through touching skin. Where there is dark there is light, where there is tragedy, there is hope. Together, they soar.