Strong Heart
Warnings: Hentai / Violence / Psychological / Yaoi
Chapter 23
Grime covered fingers reached towards him, caressing his hair backwards as he sucked in the marijuana drenched air. Everything was so thick suddenly, the scent like heavy droplets of water trickling through his system. Every sense was out of wack, tangled together. Music was dancing before his eyes in grays and purples, Marijuana smoke seemed to trace sensual lines across his skin.
Trunks tumbled to his back, letting resen stained fingers lace back the soft strands of his hair, carressing his scalp when he'd close his eyes. Hands were everywhere, tumbling over the material of his pants, between his thighs; gliding beneath his shirt. Women and men, "friends" from fair weather times before. Ahhh yes, when there was a free drug-reign at Trunks', it was simply amazing the new "friends" and old "acquaintances" he had.
Soft, feminine lips bowed down over him, an LSD soaked sugar cube between a beautiful woman's teeth as he took it into himself. One of a thousand, it seemed, this evening. A punch bowl was nearly overflowing with them, courtesy of his many dealer's compliance. Ahhh yes, one more final roll with happiness.
The thick carpet hugged the back of his head, the side of his face rolling against it as painted finger nails and teeth dug into his neck. Yes, he wanted to breathe the word. Yes, love him. Adore him. Give everything you have to be with him. Fall for the monster with the face of an angel.
The party raged, 80 floors above the ground in the posh, all glass building. His home away from home, an enormous penthouse suit at the very top of the skyscraper. The wind pounded outside, his not-so-keen-at-the-moment-senses feeling the slight nod of the building, the very vague push and sway of the floor. Every footstep vibrated, every breath inhaled was a sexual invitation.
God he loved it.
God how this was his unjaded world, untainted with attachments. How he'd missed it! Pleading everything. Just one wink, one eye-contact was a sexual thrust against his arm or leg. Everything was an invitation to fuck, unhindered all over his floor with as many horny spectators as possible. His begging audience, screaming to witness just a taste of his sexual expertise.
Just to cram his way inside someone, who gives a fuck what they said or what face lingered beneath the tangled hair in his fist. Just to hear their panted breaths, a thousand pleas to go harder, to dig deeper inside tightened tissue. To throw his back in the ecstasy that a borrowed body could provide.
He tossed his face sideways, laughing with delirium as the world spun. Teeth bit into his left nipple, his head thrown backwards as he laughed hysterically. Eyes rolled up in his head as he bawled with it, fingers leaving red marks over his exposed stomach. Gender? What was gender? An orfice is an orfice last time he checked. Blood was blood and screams were screams regardless of what was attached to the genital area.
Hair laid over his face, his nose breathing in scents of lilac and earth. His lids flickered, lashes pulling apart to reveal red-rimmed, blood-shot eyes that stared at the quivering ceiling. He'd smelled that before.
Goten's face flashed before his eyes like a foul taste.
Like swallowing vomit, sour and cruel to the back of his throat. He cringed with it, hurling his body over to his side as he craddled his knees in his arms. Movement around him sent the air carressing his skin like a warm wind, his hair slightly flickering with each tiny rapture through unmoving molecules. His spine ached as fluid was tainted with the drugs he'd more or less crammed into his system without thought. His fingernails throbbed as he wrenched them through the thick carpeting, his chest screaming for air that didn't singe his lungs with more marijuana.
Goten.
How many times had Goten seen him.... just like this? A rolled up ball of intoxication, a violent drug addict hollering for something, anything to carry him through the mess that a hang over could be. The fall from grace that could only be reduced by that which brought you up in the first place. How many times had Goten cradled him through the cold sweating hours of a heroin withdrawl, warm arms wrapped around a shaking form that couldn't even recall what true warmth was. And how many fucking lies? How many!? How many fucking lies had he spat out through pale lips, crying that he'd been drugged, swearing that some sociopathic shit had slipped an unknown substance into his drink---when the truth was always that numb fingertips had grasped the temptation and open lips had gulped it down without any hindrance?
"It's the last time," He'd promised a thousand times.
Yet always, kind brown eyes had followed the nodding of a head. Always the blind faith and always the whispered "I believe you's" that had sent him hurling over a toilet seat. His hair yanked backwards as bloody filth coated the insides, half the reason he'd cut it so short in the first place. Too many mornings awakening with sperm and chunky vomit coating his bangs, he'd insisted, after Goten's abscence, that it be trimmed as short as vanity would allow.
He crawled along the floor, his chin carpet-burned as he clammered forward, collapsing in a helpless mess. Concerned hands gropped unceasingly at his body, obscene fingers clawing along his partially erected shaft. How many times, he wondered, had he fallen, vulnerable in Goten's precense, yet never taken advantage of? How many times had he awoken to the angelic scent and ethereal warmth of his greatest and closest friend, holding him tightly as they awoke over shower tile; the only too often result of an overdose and a chilling cold shower.
But it wasn't always the naive kindness. Even the most heavenly forgiveness knew its limits.
Months into their relationship, he would awaken, crumpled into a ball on soaking wet pavement, Goten's face hardened from emotion as he peeled and wiped away dry seamen from Trunk's cheeks. Yet he wouldn't ask about it later, laying, spooned by Trunks on his side. Dark eyes would stare, unfeeling at the nearest wall, even when Trunks would nuzzle the back of his neck sensually, sober enough to desire the same thing he'd gotten probably three times already that night.
"Come on," Trunks would goad, sweet kisses trailed wetly down Goten's throat. His fingers would move away irritating clothing, tracing kisses over the exposed collarbone. "Give yourself to me Goten. Haven't I waited long enough love?"
Goten had just cringed away from the affection, letting himself mutely be taunted and arroused by Trunks feverishly hot body. Ki warmed fingertips soothed over his side, trickling over his abdomin before venturing downwards as he closed his eyes.
"Share yourself with me," Trunks had breathed, taking the tip of an earlop into his teeth.
"Like you share yourself with everyone?" Goten had spat hotly, swallowing down his anguish. "I swear Trunks..." he'd shaken his head. "With as much 'sharing' as you do, I'm honestly surprised there's enough of you here to be divided out."
That very night Trunks had followed drug after drug with alcohol, sweaping massive amounts of pills down his throat with the chug of a beer. The uppers and downers he'd mixed eventually slammed him with delerium, his so-called "friends" dumping him into his front lawn before hightailing it out the driveway, fearful he'd die and they'd somehow be caught up in it.
Between rolling nausea and mind-sweeping illusions and delirium, he'd found his way into the house, clambering against walls as if he'd never been in the place before. Warmth had hit his face, his nose gushing blood as he face planted into the carpet, front teeth knocked backwards with the jolt. He felt as though he were choking on coppery warmth, the pain nearly forgotten as the hot blood poured out of his mouth and guzzled in his throat. He could recall how isolated his tongue had felt, swimming in teeth and thick crimson, remembering how confused he was, staring down at the puddle of it that gushed everywhere when he'd coughed.
He'd just dug his fingers into the carpet, head held up as he gazed around the blankness, no idea who or where he was. Iron hard fingers came around his shoulders, hoisting him over Goten's lap as he struggled to no avail. He was choking on blood, strings of it dangling from his lips as he nearly vomited it all over Goten who now held him against his chest.
The heart beat beneath his ear was tumultuous, like that of a violently pounded drum against Goten's ribcage. It was rapid and the chest cavity rose and fell aggressively. His hands still slapped against Goten's arms and chest, deliriously trying to free himself from the confusion.
"Why?" He heard whispered through waves of insanity. "Why do you do this?"
Feeble gasps soon became uproarous sobs, salty wetness raining down on his brow as Goten had begun to cry.
"Weren't we...... Weren't we happy?" Panted sobs came from between lips that grazed the top of his head, Trunks' face smashed against the heaving chest. "Weren't we happy once?"
Even now, Trunks buried his face against his arms, craddling his head between his elbows. The carpet grazed his forehead painfully as he dug it against the rough surface, trying to dull the emotional pain by inflicting physical. Concerned hands probed his body, yet he ignored the imploring members, recalling against his wishes the day... before the worst day of his life.
Fingers had wrenched his scalp raw, Goten's hands holding his head up to peer into glazed, enlarged pupils.
"Don't you love us more than this?" He had pleaded, tears puddling on his chin. "Don't you love ME more than this?" He sobbed, pulling Trunks' forehead to his lips. "Weren't we more to you?"
His face was once more smashed against Goten's chest, warm, wet skin of his neck meshing with Trunks' cheek. He seemed to just cry it out for a while, rocking them both back in forth with his sobs.
"Why couldn't I be your addiction Trunks?" He'd cried. "Am I less than a man because you're the only thing that sates me? You're my only drug Trunks. You know I'd die for you. I do every day."
Trunks could only recall being confused, in a world of it in fact. Panted words and the scent of salty tears swirled in colors around his head, his brain feeling as though it were bleeding into his eyes.
"You kill me with my love, Trunks. Everyday," He sobbed, "you kill me inside. You burn every fabric that craves you, yet somehow, I guess I beat on with this stupid idea that maybe..." he'd gasped, looking up. "maybe sometime you'll throw everything else away and need only me to feed this hunger. I die every day for you Trunks. And every day, these drugs make you dance on my grave.
"I keep this fucking dream in my head, thinking that maybe someday you're going to just cast everything else aside and that all your answers, all your hungers, whatever it is you're searching for, you're going to suddenly find in me. You're going to come home one day, look at me, and say 'you know what Goten,' " He'd sniffed, closing his eyes. "You're all I really need. I love you now and I'm going to every day after this. You set me free."
He'd pushed their foreheads together, crying out his exasperations, screaming away his anger and fear.
"But I don't set you free, do I little birdie?" he'd sighed, when all the tears and all the pain was finally just numbed by his crying. "I only keep you caged and clip your wings."
Trunks could now recall even then, that the confusion and waves of insanity had suddenly ebbed; his mind for a second clear of the multiple poisons. Truth and understanding had dawned on him and dull dread and painful acceptance crawled into the pit of his stomach. Despite the warm arms that still held him tightly.... Goten was letting him go.
"I believe we were happy once." Soft lips had whispered against his forehead. "I believe that for a second in time, I was enough for you. But I also believe... " Goten choked up, grimacing before speaking the next words. "I believe that those times are...are gone now. You need to be free Trunks. You need to be free to fly my precious birdie. And me?"
There was a pained silence that seemed to wrap itself around both of them.
"I need to be free of you."
Trunks opened his eyes, glaring at the twisting ceiling above, the dirty hands beneath his shirt, touching him and reaching into his pants. He shuddered as fake fingernails traced the tiny hairs beneath his naval, a wet tongue sliding downwards as he arched his back to it. How could something that felt so good poison him like this? How could so many people, who confessed such undying obsession for him, be as ugly inside as trolls from fairytales, hiding beneath bridges?
Where Goten had never taken advantage of him, had never used his unconcious body for selfish purposes, he glanced from sets of eyes to other sets of eyes, sociopathic detachment meeting him from every one. If he died, would they mourn him? Would they even try to save him? No. His cold, bloated body would be found, stripped of his fine clothes, stripped of any loose cash, stripped of any dignity by the nicrophiliac that gazed hungrily at him from the corner. And they would never look back. They would take his money, his drugs, his every available belonging and they wouldn't look back. Not for an instant.
What was it in a drug that could make even the smoothest skin seem but a plastered mask, smeared over a hideous phantom beneath? What was it in drugs that made wonderful people into monsters, craving rat poisoning and liquid cleansers and doing damn near anything within their means to acquire them?
Yet now, he gazed around at these beautiful, painted-on faces and saw demons creeping beneath shimmering eyelids. The monsters that had cost him everything. The personified addiction, walking around as though they were people. But they weren't. He grit his teeth as sharp plastic skimmed his half-erected cock, the rotten drug addict just smiling in his face as she touched him with no need for permission.
How often had a woman just like this been in his bed only seconds before Goten had arrived? How often had he awoken, feeling the familiar power source within minutes from his home, ushering out a man or woman he hadn't even remembered being with?
Yet they'd never stopped him. They'd known his ......He closed his eyes. They'd been aware that in whatever sense, he loved Goten. That despite his drug-induced whispers of undying affection, Goten was the only one on his mind. Yet constantly, they called to him. Wanting more of whatever chemical sated them. Wanting more of his attention, his body, his money... whatever was the appetizer for the evening.
His eyes flew open with hatred.
They.... had cost him.... EVERYTHING.
He smiled sadistically, throwing his head backwards and arching his spine. His back left the ground, his head lazily falling down as he hoisted his body, levitating into the air. Cries of astonishment and fear raced through the air around him, his mouth laughing softly as he stretched his arms out, slowly twisting in circles as he levitated upwards. The hands had since removed themselves entirely from his body, wide eyes and open mouths staring up at him.
He laughed, reaching the ceiling and throwing his palms against it, gazing downwards at his silent audience. None of them moved, never having seen anything like this before. Heads shook as though trying to free themselves momentarily from the drugs that swore such a thing was possible, even when all other logic screamed otherwise.
"He.... he can fly!" Someone cried out the obvious, pointing up at him.
His cruel laughter made goosebumps on bare arms, his blood shot eyes smiling as he crawled onto his back, sitting on the ceiling and smirking down at them.
"Yes, I can." He whispered menacingly. "In fact, you all can."
Blank stares and confusion met as a response, head turning towards one another in puzzlement. Whispered 'we cans?' filled the silence, eyes and lips parting in excitement.
"If he can fly, I'll bet we can fly too!" A deranged man chanted, riling the other LSD minds into his way of thinking. It was as though logic had elluded them all, their eyes gawking at the impossibility that their sober brains would have only made excuses for.
"That's right," Trunks goaded without conscience, eyes darting to a large, glass window. "Why, I'll bet you could all just fly right out that window.. just like I could."
All heads turned towards the enormous glass window, the night sky and stars tempting them even more so than Trunks' words could ever. Glittering stars spoke promises of super human strength and so they clambered towards it, the deranged man the first to chuck a chair through the thick glass. Wind blew sheets of paper this way and that, nearly strong enough to choke a person with lack of oxygen. Cold gusts wrecked perfect lines of cocaine over broken mirrors, credit cards flying off coffee tables. But even the chilling temperature couldn't stop them as they wandered ever closer to the sky that waited above.
Thin, lined arms, scathed with drug use, spread like wings of angels. Skin stained with patch-work decolorization, red-rimmed eyes reached towards the heavens, leaping, one after the other through the shards of glass. Maybe, Trunks wondered for a second, they knew what they were doing. Maybe belief in something wasn't all it was cracked out to be and what spurned them into freedom was the lack of control over anything else. They plunged to their deaths with smiles of bliss on their tired faces, arms out to the side as their bodies glided all the way to the concrete 80 floors beneath.
Maybe it was the only bit of happiness they'd had in years.
Maybe, as their bodies exploded against rock solid surface, they were more free than any drug had ever set them.
Maybe, Trunks for a second wanted to be with them.
He closed his eyes, alone now amongst a thousand syringes, a million pills and a lifetime supply of thoughts he wanted to purge from his mind. Wind gust like dead fingers through his short hair, his eyes closed tight as he felt the ceiling tilt against his fingers. The overdose was taking its toll, drugs he'd digested all too quickly registering throughout his poisoned system, counteracting with the thousand other things he'd tried to damn near kill himself with. Reality became morbid against his eyelids, blood and fur and tunnels to hell flashing in his mind until he could no longer contain the images, his eyes flashing open to reveal Mirai, glaring upwards at him.
"Mirai," He thought he heard someone breathe. "You're all.... flickery....blurry flickery..."
Oh, it was his own voice.
His hair was torn downwards, Mirai's fingers tangled in the short threads as he gripped it and smashed Trunks against the floor, back first. Carpet and concrete clouded the air, the jolt nearly sending Trunks through two more floors. Horrifying rage covered the beautiful, passive features of Mirai's face, his steely grip dragging Trunks through room after room by his hair. The younger's feet scratched along the ground, screaming in irateness as he half crab-walked backwards, half was hauled like a naughty dog by its collar.
Tile hit his face as he was planted against it, yanked once more over a toilet seat and his entire head dunked into it. Cold, dirty water flooded his mouth and nose, his head shaking back and forth as he screamed in rage at this assault, bubbles from his screaming flying around his face. His head was torn backwards, Trunks gasping for air. Just as he'd nearly grasped the words enough to insult Mirai for this rotten treatment, he was met once more with the bottom of the toilet, nose held against the drain hole. His fingers desperately searched for the flush button, grasping it and holding it down against Mirai's better efforts. He gasped for air in a panic, nearly passing out when toilet water was sucked into his air passages.
Fingers went into his mouth, clogging the back of his throat until he barfed against them, vomit flooding into the refilling toilet bowl. Mirai detestably flicked the sour, chunky liquid off his fingers, smacking Trunks' back as he hurled up God knows what assortment of drugs against the porcelain.
"You're not going to kill yourself Trunks," He warned in a stone-cold voice. "you don't deserve that."
Trunks just continued to gag, dry heaving until Mirai almost wanted to throw-up himself.
"You WILL learn Trunks," He promised in a voice that almost imitated Vegeta's. "Whether you want to or not, you WILL learn."
........................
Drearily, leather shoes clacked over smooth, polished marble, Trunks more or less dragged by Mirai as they stormed through the museum. People hardly paid the least amount of attention, though Trunks was certain he looked like a hung over mess, hair still matted with toilet water Mirai wouldn't let him wash out. He thanked God again that he'd cut it as short as he had, the length ensuring that his vomit didn't coat the already placid locks upon his head. He had to glare at Mirai, as there seemed nothing more to do, his anger paled only by the massive withdrawls he was suffering.
True, Mirai might have saved his life and true, there had been an almost suicidal undertone to his wreckless behavior but now, he simply felt like a child being punished and humiliated, hauled like luggage through the enormous museum. Only hours before had he even sobered up enough to stand, Mirai refusing to match eyes with him as he'd stumbled around the bathroom, trying (without help) to catch his footing.
Now, with no remorse or care to his condition, Mirai trucked them over flights of stairs and through passages he was almost certain they probably weren't even allowed to be in. Children from a highschool crowded around a teacher who was trying, (to probably no avail), to instill within them the necessities of history and its effect on present day. Most of the girls, spotting the two Trunks's grinned and gawked in appreciation, even a few of the boys smiling with approval.
Mirai simply ignored them, dragging Trunks along even as the other hesistated slightly, raising his eyebrow suggestively towards a handsome, jersey-totting student. Young children, probably no older than three or four years, yanked at their mother's skirt, pointing towards the two "twins" and giggling when Mirai finally let a tight smile grace his features.
"Kids seem to love you," Trunks teased, trying to lighten the mood as he saw no way out of this situation. '
Mirai merely gave him a glare, tearing them up four flights of stairs until glancing around before pushing open a "Do Not Enter" door. Trunks was tempted to make a crude comment, wanting to scorn the seemingly "angelic" version of himself, before chancing a look at Mirai's face and deciding against it. The other was on a mission of sorts, holding Trunks' hand as he darted through racks of books and cabinets littered with loose papers.
"Mirai," Trunks attempted to get his attention, as they filtered ultimately too fast through room after room. "Mirai, you're going too fast!"
He was rudely ignored as they passed through door ways that probably hadn't been opened in years, cobwebs and dust choking him as he pulled back from Mirai.
"Mirai!" He cried, yanking his hand away. The other turned on him, as if confused by the reluctance. "Mirai, you're just moving too fast for me. What's the hurry?"
The older man just stared at him, swallowing hard before hanging his head slightly.
"I don't have much time anymore Trunks," He whispered, sweat beading along his forehead as though he were exhausted. "Time, has never been on my side and I'm suffering it now more than ever. This story of ours," He looked deeply into Trunks' eyes. "it's coming to a close much more rapidly than I had anticipated."
Trunks felt a coldness dwelling within his stomach, his head nodding though he admittedly didn't understand.
"I have to show you a few more things before I...." He bit his lower lip. "before I have to go back."
"Go back?!" Trunks cried out, his anger and frustration with the other entirely forgotten. "What do you mean 'go back'? Go back to what? Your timeline?"
Mirai raised his hand against the other's demand, calmly requesting silence.
"Right now, that isn't important Trunks," He breathed quietly. "As I said, there isn't much time and things of this sort can be discussed later. But for now, there's something I need to show you."
Trunks scrunched his face in anger, breathing hard before nodding in agreement as he crossed his arms.
"I've shown you past, I've shown you present and I want to show you future," Mirai began. "I showed you your own past, that was Susan, your own broken personification of life. A tattered, wounded being that was destroyed.. as you were Trunks. Lying in your own pain and unable to register anything but numbness."
Trunks just remained silent, listening for once without recoiling into his own self defense.
"And then I showed you your present," Mirai spoke. "David, a monster isolated from everything. A monster seeking absolution from the world.. something he'd never attain, no matter how he finished off the means of his suffering. David, like you, bowed towards the quick fix. Praying within yourself that by hurting the means of your torment, Goten, you would somehow free yourself of his attachment, his control. But you became a slave to your own desperation, burning yourself as you sought to end the ties that bound you."
Trunks looked away, biting his tongue.
Mirai smiled knowingly, kindly raising a hand to Trunks' shoulder, guiding the other's attention back towards him.
"Now, I want to show you your future," He smiled. "I want to show you that love does exist. That it isn't something you just find in suffering, that it isn't something you obtain through a lifetime of cruelty. That despite its hardships or even obsessive misconceptions... it exists Trunks."
He looked upwards.
"It's in everything." he promised. "it's in every life, every hurt, every breath. It exists in you, whether or not you want it to or not. You told me so many times that love was just a human longing, an endless need for more reason to life. I need to now prove to you that its wrong. I need to show you that true love DOES exist. And so this will be my most powerful example of all."
He walked a few steps further, finding a large, dusty book, lined with a hundred others along a large book case. He filed through the pages with concentration, fingers flooding through thin material on the search for something. Trunks just watched with fascination, eyebrows squinting when Mirai let out an "ah hah!" before pulling out a thin stack of what appeared to be letters, ropped together with an impossibly old rubber band.
The pages were dirty and seemed almost singed or something, fraid along the edges and fragile. Trunks moved behind Mirai's broad back, trying to see what was written, though the ink was stained horribly in places.
"These will be found within a few years from now." Mirai breathed, eyes alight with the discovery. "It's amazing what things can be overlooked and forgotten. Yet, even in time, the message remains the same."
Trunks made a face, crossing his arms again.
"So what are they? What's this whole thing about?" He demanded impatiently.
Mirai just shook his head, eyes still alight with happiness at holding them.
"They're letters," He said, as though it weren't obvious. "Between a husband and a wife."
Trunks rolled his eyes rudely.
"How original," He gripped, taping his foot.
Mirai glanced up at him in shock and disgust, thrusting the frail papers against his chest.
"They were holocaust victims Trunks," he snapped, pushing the letters into the other's hands. "They were seperated into two different concentration camps. Why don't you read them before you pass judgement, brat prince? See what you think you know, concrete all of your own little theories.... but read these, and we'll see whether or not each one of your logical conclusion shatters beneath you."
Trunks glared, grabbing up the letters and crossly sitting upon an old dusty bench before beginning.
Dear Selig,(the first letter wrote)
It has been a month since you were stolen from my hands, the Nazis carrying me kicking and screaming to the train at which time I was flung into a cart like an animal, caged with many of our kind. Jews. There was a time when I was proud of my heritage, looking back through my family years with smiles and laughs. Now? It feels at times as though it were a curse.
Yet our love remains and our three children are doing well I’ve heard. Shahar is tending to his sisters, gathering extra food from me at times and seeing to it that they’re well taken care of. We have been blessed, thus far it seems. Stories are being told that Auschwitz is a terrible camp. I say stories when I mean horror stories, Selig. That men and women are burned from the moment they arrive if not seen as suitable for hard labor.
These rumors poison my will to go on, yet a thought of you is the only immunity towards it. I could not live in a world without you, Selig. Today, as I rubbed my hands raw against the splinting wood of a hacksaw used in labor, I remembered the day we had sat with our legs crossed in the sand, drawing pictures for each other.
We will do that again.
Shayna
........................
Trunks looked up in confusion, goaded on silently by Mirai's eyes, insisting he continue.
My dearest Shayna,
Selig
..............................
Selig,
Shayna
............................
Shayna,
Selig
..................................
Selig,
Shayna
......................
My darling wife,
Selig
.................
Selig,
Shayna
...........................
My love,
Selig
.............................
Selig,
Shayna
Trunks looked up, eyes brimming with tears he hadn't even acknowledged, trying to blink them back.
"Why...." He swallowed, wiping at his eyes with his palm. "Why did she write him a letter when she knew he was gone?"
Mirai looked down at him with something akin to pity, breathing a sigh.
"Because to her he never could die." He whispered. "They killed her the next day."
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