Lighter groaned, rubbing at his face. “That affection stuff is so much better than sex.” He mumbled, shivering softly at the memory of soft touches and warm cuddles. “God I want it so badly I’m afraid I’ll hurl myself off a building if I have to have another one-night-stand.”
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“Yeah, I swear none of the people I sleep with have ever even heard of a fucking hug,” Cyrus murmured in agreement.
Cyrus received his glass of whiskey, and before he knew it, he was drinking much more quickly than he intended.
His face contorted into a pained expression. “Not even those I sleep with. No one who deals with me knows what a hug is. They know how to hit, and how to hit hard.” He traced the shape of a bruise on his cheek before downing another glass of some mixed alcohol drink he had ordered. “Not even Marx is gentle with me.”
“Yeah…” Cyrus trailed off, “I cant say I know exactly how you feel but… yeah…”
He rolled up his sleeves to show off a few wounds and bruises. One of the bruises was distinctly hand-shaped, like someone had grabbed him and not let go. Well, that’s exactly what had happened. It was nothing to sneeze at either. Cyrus was a big guy. He wasn’t exactly easy to toss around.
Lighter was hesitant at first, but he soon dropped the heavy jacket he wore, revealing the bruises, hickeys, cuts, and in some places burns that littered his arms and neck. “Guess we live somewhat similar lives, huh?” He murmured, glaring as he felt the bartenders eyes on him.
“I guess so,” Cyrus sighed, “As unfortunate as the situation is, I feel some sort of solidarity with you.”
He rolled his sleeves back down.
“And the thing is, it’s not even the physical part that hurts the most.”
He shrugged the jacket back on, pulling its collar just so that he hid the ugly markings. “The emotional stuff is harder to deal with.”
‘It’s your fault your mother died. Your medications cost us a fortune.’
‘Shut the hell up and let me do my work’
‘No one else will love you like I do… so relax, let me have my fun.’
‘Bastard of a child’
The words constantly echoed in his mind, leaving him drooping and quite depressed. “I don’t understand why my life has to be made harder already.”
“Yeah… For me, it’s my old man. Bastard berates me for things I can’t help,” Cyrus murmured, “And that all started before the physical stuff…”
He was oversharing. Oh god. What if this guy was just spying on him, waiting for him to slip up. Yet his tongue felt loose- he was getting too relaxed.
Cyrus ordered even more to drink.
“Oh lord don’t get me started on fathers. Mine blames me for the death of my mother!” He snarled, baring his teeth to the counter. “He uses me as a punching bag while my brother gets off scot free because he’s has potential.’ Fuck that. He’s lazy and rotten and any potential he had died with his pride.”
Cyrus frowned.
“Oh… I see.”
He fell quiet, contemplating whether to say more on the matter.
“My family… my family’s broken too… Still not sure whether my father killed my mom or not. Sister’s in cahoots with him. He drove my brother to suicide. Sometimes I wish I just had the courage to end it and face what’s next…”
Cyrus swirled his drink around distractedly. He was much less angry, and more melancholy.
It was starting to become more obvious that Lighter was drunk off his ass. He downed another glass, making a face when it burned on its way down. At this point he was an open book about his life. He’d spill anything asked of him.
“To end it…” his face contorted as he rubbed at his arms through his sleeves. “The burning and cutting makes you feel alive. My fire reminds me I’m living still. Skin burns so strangely… almost melts like goo when it gets hot enough.” He snickered at the morbid thought. “And as for ending it, I’ve almost done it a few times. I’d want to free fall before I die, jumping from a building would be perfect. There’s something so serene standing up there with one foot over the edge, letting the wind cool your fears and doubts.”
Cyrus shook his head.
"I don't think I could do it to myself, but if… I wouldn't mind if…"
He trailed off softly.
"I don't know. Somewhere inside is the scratching of hope at the back of my mind… Maybe I'll get out of it…"
Lighter stared at Cyrus with bleary eyes for a long time. There was something warm and understanding behind the cold front he usually put up. “We all hope we’ll get out it. Maybe we will…” he pushed away his empty glass, deciding he shouldn’t have anymore as the world was beginning to spin.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to escape…? We could change our names, dye our hair, get a fake passport and move to Europe.” He seemed to relax some, lowering himself onto the counter. “Why don’t we just run away?”
"Mmm… Cyrus sighed, silently musing for a few moments.
He was still too conscious, too sad. He took another drink, and another… He was a big guy. It usually took a lot.
"Could we?" he asked, a slight tone of hope in his voice.
Lighter flashed a cheeky grin. “You could. I’m sure we could fake a death.” He snickered lightly, stretching out his legs under the bar. “Me? No. Marx would hunt me down. He’s already told me if I try to run away again he’d chain me to the bed. I don’t doubt him. He would do such a thing.”
"I could probably take that little bitch in a fight," Cyrus muttered, holding his glass to his lips, "Then again… there are a lot of people I could've fought but haven't."
How many drinks had that been? 6? 7? Maybe more at this point. He didn't particularly care.
“Tch. You’d lose. He’s a sadistic psychopath.” Lighter slurred, rubbing at his side. “I’ve never been one for the rough sex, you know. I like the more intimate slow kind. Marx, he enjoys inflicting pain. He bites…” a shudder ran through the smaller male’s shoulders. “And when he fights he aims to maim first. He won’t kill you until you’re begging for death.”
"Disgusting…"
Cyrus tried to put down his glass, but it tilted a bit, and he sloshed some of the whiskey onto the table.
"Shit!"
He tried to hold eye contact with Lighter. "I wonder how he'd like being roughed up like he does to you."
“Bastard would get whats coming to him.” He snickered at the mess, swiping a rag from the other side of the bar and attempting to wipe up the mess. “I’d love to see his face when the tables are turned.” But you’re too scared to do anything.
"Who am I kidding? I can't even face my own father…" Cyrus said.
He fumbled for his glass and finished what he had.
"Mm… should I get another one?" he asked, not sure whether to continue drinking or not, "On the one hand, I'd still like to be able to talk to you like this. On the other- well… getting more wasted doesn't sound so bad."
Lighter nodded gently, he understood the powerless feeling.
“Maybe. If you’d like to keep talking and get drunk I have more bottles at my apartment.” He offered, looking more for company than anything else. He quite liked talking with Cyrus, he decided. Cyrus understood and didn’t push away.
"Oh, sure. If that's alright," Cyrus said.
He pulled out his wallet and gave some cash to the bartender as he passed by.
"I quite appreciate the company," he continued.
Lighter grinned, helping pay for the drinks. He nodded to the bar tender and stumbled to his feet. “‘S not too far.” He hummed, trying hard to hide the happiness that came with having someone to talk to. “I do too. Company is nice.”
“Alright, let’s go then,” Cyrus agreed.
He got up and clumsily pushed his chair aside.
He stumbled forwards.
“Hah. I feel nauseous as hell. Think I took it a little too-“ He hiccuped. “A little too fast.”
Lighter snickered again, wrapping his arm around Cyrus’s neck as well as he could with the height difference. “I feel great!” He slurred, giving the other a playful wink. “My world is spinning.”