writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia

yabamena

Blaise was a very private person and always had been. If fact, one of the things that drove Draco mad about him was how much he didn't know about him; the tall, dark, often cruel Zabini kept very much tightly under wraps. Over the years Draco had learned a few things about Blaise: his taste for wine, his disdain for anything he deemed beneath him, his quick mind, and his incredible patience.

( I believe in a cruel God )

yabamena

JD had stopped celebrating Christmas years ago. When the holiday season meant either wheeling and dealing with administration at Salem Academy to stay there during the holidays rather than go back to the boys' home in Jersey, after a while, the holiday started losing meaning. When you had no family, no loved ones, what was the point of it? Certainly not the religious aspect -- he'd given up on that even longer ago. So now though he'd been an adult out of the system and out of Salem for a few years, Christmas was just another highly irritating day to him.

( All I want )

yabamena

New Year's Eve in New York City wasn't about fancy restaurants, champagne on rooftops, or cramming into Times Square to freeze among a million other people to watch the glitzy ball drop. At least, it wasn't like that for Chien. To him it was rum and cokes until midnight, affordable champagne at midnight, and dancing with Mo until they collapsed, but only after that sweet kiss that made him tingle even more than the bubbles did.

( New Year's in New York City )

yabamena

It wasn't often that Lunatox members got any time off. They were still a rookie group after all and that meant every minute of their day was scheduled for something, whether it be practice, performance, variety show or sleep. So when their manager told them, only two days after Christmas, that the were given the day off to spend at a shopping mall, and were give an allowance, KC could only stare in pleased surprise.

( O Christmas Tree )

yabamena

Christmas was one of the things Corvus struggled to remember. It came to him in scents: pine, peppermint, apple-cinnamon, burning logs, sugar cookies, and roasted chestnuts. It was flashes of memory: torn paper, laughter, screams of delight, falling snow -- though sometimes he remembered rain and warmer skies instead -- and faces he could never quite focus on. Christmas was feelings he clung to: warmth, love, cheer -- things he hadn't had in too many years to count.

( Christmas memories )

yabamena

Years of not having someone he cared for, of never being in an actual relationship, of never even considering love a possibility meant Aksel still wasn't used to giving gifts. He still had difficulty expressing the intense positive emotions he felt about Han and he found it even harder to put those feelings into words.
( Not unlike a fairy tale )

No one sees the tender moments between them. No one sees when, with nimble fingers, Tahir braids Sadiq's hair, the long length of red down the left side of his face clearly marking his royalty. No one sees how those fingers thread through the rest of his hair before and after, as Sadiq's lids slip to half-mast.

No one sees when Sadiq returns the favor, gently tugging at Tahir's hair as he weaves his fingers through it before he duplicates the same braid he wears in his own. They don't see the princes reclining in the fading light, after the sun's gone down and the fiery explosion of colors and light of sunset have given way to the bruise-purple hue of night in the desert. They don't see Tahir's fingers play on Sadiq's skin or Sadiq's quick fierce smile full of sharp teeth when those fingers stray.

Most of all, no one sees how the princes of Maradesh, the Sadist and the Terror, exchange lingering looks, ones full of secrets, hidden messages, and all the love no one expects either to be capable of.

No one sees the tender moments between them, and they prefer it that way.

Their fights are spectacular.

Her voice starts out smooth and slow like warm honey on sweet bread, hot from the oven. It rises, sharpens, tightens and coils like a snake, pierced and poised and ready to strike. It reaches fever pitches, intense and lashing, cutting like a blade tied to the end of a whip: unnecessarily sharp.

His starts out even, cool, and then deepens in intensity. It grows colder, distant, detached and removed even as he burns with suppressed anger. It softens, quiets, freezes, and with anyone but her, turns mocking and cruel. With her, it's guarded even until the height of emotion, when it's ripped open and laid bare.

Their fights are spectacular and they are frequent.

They go to war weekly, years of repressed emotions spilling out of them both. They fight, they leave, and always, they come back. They're dysfunctional, but they're each others'.

Their fights are specular and the make-up sex after each one is even more so.

Her voice still starts slow and smooth like honey and still works up to a fever pitch. It breaks on a high note when she clings to him, riding him hard, red nails digging into his skin, red lipstick smeared everywhere, imprinted like tattoos.

He is still ripped open and is laid bare before her, over her, under her, whether he's pinned her down or she's pinned him, with hips and hands and vicious bites. They mark each other, they own each other, and in their way, they love each other.

Their fights are spectacular and neither of them keep score. Margot knows and JD knows - when they fight, they both lose. When they make up, they both win.

( It all changed when Chase showed up. )

There was something special about the first Christmas together. It wasn't just a tree. It was their tree. It wasn't just decorating the house, it was decorating their home. It wasn't just Christmas, it was Christmas together.

Now that all the company parties, the quodpot galas, the fashionable extravaganzas and all the it parties were over - at least until New Year's - it was just Marco and Lela home from midnight mass curled up around each other in their bed in the wee hours of Christmas morning. Tomorrow (really later today) they'd be visiting Lela's family for lunch and Marco's for dinner, and bringing home so many leftovers, Lela wouldn't have to cook the rest of the week, except just for some variety.

But later was still hours away and when Lela's fingers danced over Marco's chest and his buried themselves in her hair, sleep was hours away too. They only had a few more of those hours to be alone together and sleep wasn't highest on their list.

Before she drifted off wrapped in Marco's arms, her long legs tangled in his, Lela knew that this was her favorite Christmas yet, because it was theirs.