Skyglass: Chapter 5
Moss exploded into our apartment. I beamed at him from my seat in the living room. Moss the exploding drummer! I’d never expected such spirit from him, so his thrilling entrance was quite the pleasant surprise.
He stomped over to me and said, in his most terrifying voice, “You. Rotsucker.”
I gulped back my laugh. He was trying so hard.
“What?” I asked innocently. Hours and hours had passed since I’d deleted his file and he’d stormed out. I was glad to see him–not, of course, because I’d been worried. I was just hungry to know where he’d wondered off to, where he’d found such delectable anger.
He snarled at me for a moment, before he managed to gather his cognitive facilities.
“I didn’t use that VR to jack off to, you know. It meant something. And then you went and pissed all over it and now I have nothing.” He ripped off his hood and headphones and hat, the latter two tremoring with the rage of his clenched grip.
“Um, what?” I decided to play as dumb as he was being–if I was lucky, he’d get even more frustrated and exciting. To my great distaste, however, Moss sagged, and turned so I couldn’t see the breakable, motionless flame of his eyes.
“Don’t you get what you’ve done? Or did your human body not come with empathy?” He was nearly sobbing, too sickening-sweet with grief for even me to choke down. “It’s really gone. I took it to a professional, gave them my rotting money to get it back, hoping–hoping!–but no. NO. It’s gone. For always, and now all I’ve got is this stupid pain.”
“Pain?” I asked, sniggering. “I wish I could vomit all over your so-called pain. But my stomach burns up anything I put in it–which is a problem ’cause it means I can’t piss on your pain, either. You have no right to hurt, to hurt yourself, like you do.”
“I can do whatever I like,” he said petulantly. He leaned weakly against the counter. Oh, the poor babe.
I almost smiled. “Of course you can do whatever you like!” I told him. “And you can look stupid as you do it, too. You take everything so personally. Your parents killed themselves; rot them. Don’t cry over it–”
“They left me.”
“They left nothing. Because when they left you, they lost you. They weren’t thinking of you when they bled themselves out. You had nothing to do with it.
“So someone in your life is gone–two someones, even. And? People die, people go, people disappear. Think of how lucky you are–alive, breathing, an insanely talented drummer, elf-free–”
“I kissed Marko,” Moss said abruptly. He stared at me and wouldn’t look away. “When I left here, I went to his place and kissed him. Three times.”
The corners of his mouth were stiff. He came and sat with me on the couch–on the opposite end, to be true, but still. We were on the same piece of furniture, and it was by his own volition.
I smiled. “Bet he liked that.”
“I guess.”
“Did you want more?”
“NO.”
“Did he try to get more out of you?”
“No.”
I cocked my head and eyed him, candying the moment, before I said anything more. I was surprised he hadn’t stalked off to bed yet.
“So,” I began. “If you got what you wanted, why are you still sitting here so broodingly? What’s the problem?”
“Selfish,” he muttered. And then he did get up and stalk off to his room. I followed after and held open the door before he could shut it.
“What?” he hissed. He was close. His mouth looked pale, like it was filmed in hoarfrost.
“You made him feel good. How is that selfish?” I asked.
“Piss off,” he said, flattening me between the door and the frame.
“He’s the one who got kissed and enjoyed it. You gave him something tasty. That’s not selfish,” I insisted. “Also, you’re squishing me.”
He jerked the door open and I stepped smoothly in. He looked disappointed that the door’s momentum had neglected to introduce my face to the floor. How impudent!
“So?” I pressed him. “You were trying to convince me that kisses are selfish.”
“And I was telling you to piss off.”
“Ah. Well, you see, I’m just not convinced you want me gone.”
“I do,” he said, kicking off his boots–for once–and crawling into bed. I crawled in after him.
“What the ROT?” He scrambled out the other side and backed himself into a corner. I made myself comfortable in the middle of his bed.
“What are you doing? Getting into bed with me? Just piss off, just leave.”
“I only want the truth, sweetling.” This was getting fun.
“You want truth?” His fingers coiled into fists. “Fine. Sweetling. I used him. I kissed him to figure myself out, to figure him out, because everyone says he’s in love with me and I don’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. And why would he love me, anyway? How does that make any rotting sense? How? You should have seen him afterwards–he was just laughing, like he didn’t care.” Moss paused, swallowed. “And none that even matters, because I used him, and–and…” His voice got quiet as a larval moth’s squirming. “That’s the last thing I should do to people I care about.”
“Whatever,” I said. “You did what you did, what you had to do. To be true, I think you should do it again, if you feel the need. I’d recommend sex, though. The more cum, the better.”
Moss bit his lip, and extricated himself from his dank little corner. With all the sludge-motion of the creatures that grow in starship slop-pits, he crossed the room and joined me in bed, sliding down, down, down, until he was completely submerged beneath the covers.
“I’ve never had sex before,” came his muffled voice.
I gaped, and then I pounced. In a single hot second, I had the covers down. I sat myself on his chest and swooped in, tempting and close.
“Oh, you poor, deprived creature,” I said. “Let us change that right this most magical moment.”
Somehow, he managed to wriggle away. He thumped onto the floor and didn’t move. I peered over the edge. “Afraid of fucking, are we?” A toothy smile opened on my face.
“No,” he muttered. “It just sounds…stupid. And wet.”
“No more than kissing,” I said, flicking him hard between his delightful orange eyes.
“Liar,” he said, and dragged himself into a sitting position. He leaned against the bed and wrapped a corner of blanket around himself.
I hung my head down by his shoulder, and murmured, “Why not, sweetling? Why haven’t you fucked anyone? Why haven’t you been fucked?”
He rolled his eyes. “What is this, an interrogation?” His head fell against the mattress. I jerked my own head back, narrowly avoiding getting my nose smashed in.
A long, wandering sigh left him, and he finally gave me an answer. “I don’t know. ’Cause I’m scared? The few times I’ve tried to have sex, I just end up failing. Maybe I don’t care enough.”
I crept my hand down along his covers till I reached his head. When I snarled my fingers into his hair, he didn’t move–he didn’t even twitch.
I sighed, and said, “You’re usually quite boring, you know.” I withdrew my hand. “But tonight, tonight you’re quite talkative and tasty. Why is that?”
The line of his mouth hardened. “Because, in the end, you don’t care. You’re a selfish rotsucker, and that means you aren’t trying to save me. You’re just curious enough to listen. Being honest with you has no consequences.”
Hm. His psychoanalysis was fascinating, but not enough to comment on. “Well,” I said, “you still need some sex in your life. Your ass. Whatever and wherever.”
“What’s the point of trying something new?” he murmured. “I don’t need sex. I like where I’m at–moving, reaching, means not getting. It means homelessness. I like the control I have when I’m still. I’m happy.”
I fell onto my back, gasping through laughs. I was still puking up laughter when he stood, for once towering over me (but only ’cause I was sprawled on his bed).
“At least my happiness doesn’t depend on revenge,” he said, voice quiet and ironically murderous.
I stopped and blinked at him, dead-faced.
I wondered if I should regret telling him all that I had–but no. If he did something stupid, I could always kill him. He was a starving, defenseless flea. It wouldn’t take much to end the guy; he was just about dead by his own hand.
So I said, “Yeah, maybe that’s why I’ve been feeling so nasty and miserable as of late. My headhunt is going wretchedly.”
For a moment, Moss just studied me with his sparking eyes, brilliant as twin pieces of tangerine candy.
“If it’s going badly,” he said slowly, “then I guess he never told you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Moss turned away, his hands disappearing into his sleeves. He scowled at the air.
“Zinn. He’s a needle. He can find anyone, no matter who you’re looking for. Even your father.”
Continued in Chapter 6.
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