There’s a growing tendency I’ve seen in some online spaces to treat misanthropy as if it were a mental illness, a form of self-harm or even some kind of disguised bigotry. I want to push back on this idea because not only is it wrong, it erases history, flattens a lot of nuance, and ends up pathologizing people for having legitimate perspectives on humanity.
Misanthropy is not a clinical diagnosis. It is not automatically self-harm. It is not “nazism in disguise.” At its simplest, misanthropy is distrust of, dislike of, or skepticism toward humanity as a whole. That doesn’t mean it’s always wise or constructive, but it is a recognizable philosophical stance with a history stretching back to ancient Greece and beyond.
Even though the word misanthropy comes from the Greek misanthrōpos, the philosophy behind it is far older and far wider. Misanthropic themes run through humanity’s own myths and stories across cultures: flood epics where gods wipe out humans for being noisy and cruel, laments about the futility of human striving, creation cycles where humanity is destroyed and remade for its failings. Their own gods are often the first misanthropes. This isn’t new, and it certainly isn’t “white.” It’s a recurring human recognition: that humans are often the worst danger to themselves and their world.
In fact, many people became misanthropic directly because of fascism and its atrocities. To imply or claim that misanthropy is “nazi-coded” ignores genocide survivors, dissidents, and disillusioned thinkers who turned to misanthropy precisely as a response to horrors committed by human beings.
Part of the problem lies in the persistent belief that humans are inherently good. But humans are not inherently anything. They are animals – capable of cooperation, beauty, and care, and just as capable of cruelty, destruction, and atrocity.
Violence is not unique to the human animal. Chimpanzees wage brutal wars, dolphins infamously rape, insects enslave one another. But humans wield unique technology and scale. A raccoon cannot drop a nuclear bomb. Humans did, twice, on civilians. And then they justified it.
If we can learn anything from history (Hiroshima, the Holocaust, colonialism, ecological collapse-) it is that humans cannot be placed in a category of inherent goodness. And yet if we look at the helpers, the healers, the creators, we also see that humanity cannot be placed in a category of inherent evil. The truth is both simpler and more uncomfortable: humans are animals, subject to variables of circumstance, trauma, power, and choice.
Critics of misanthropy often conflate thought with action. But disliking, distrusting, or feeling alienated from humanity does not automatically translate into harming humans. In fact, misanthropy is often tied to conflict avoidance, refusing to engage with society because it feels unsafe or unworthy of trust.
When people frame misanthropy as a sort of “wrong-think,” they’re actually echoing the logic of fascism itself. Fascism thrives on the idea that there are “correct” and “incorrect” ways to think, that dissenting beliefs must be stamped out in the name of purity and unity. Policing misanthropy as though it were inherently dangerous is not liberatory, it is authoritarian.
And the irony runs even deeper: many who accuse misanthropy of being “western” or “white supremacist” reveal their own ignorance in doing so, because “Western civilization,” “Western invention,” and similar frameworks are themselves white supremacist categories. They were constructed to erase other histories, philosophies, and critiques of humanity. To claim that misanthropy is uniquely fascist or uniquely Western is not only historically inaccurate, in unwittingly reproduces the very hierarchies it pretends to resist.
It is also worth noting: people can hold thoughts they do not act on. This includes mean, violent, and even bigoted thoughts. Living in a society saturated with racism, sexism, ableism, and so forth means biased thoughts will occur. The moral difference lies in whether a person chooses to act on them. Anti-racism isn’t about never having a single racist thought; it’s about choosing resistance instead of complicity.
So when someone says “I hate humans” that is not the same as committing violence against humans. Condemning the thought itself as immoral or dangerous totally collapses this distinction, and worse, it bullies people into delusional “purity” rather than honest self-reflection.
Is misanthropy destructive for the self? Maybe. But whether a belief harms the person holding it is entirely that individual’s business. You do not get to declare that someone’s worldview is self-harm because it does not match your own coping mechanisms. For some, misanthropy is protective. It’s a way to name the danger they have lived through and a tool for their survival. To rip that away in the name of “healing” is to make them more vulnerable, not less. While you might drown trying to breathe underwater, the fish does not need to be “rescued” from the river.
Misanthropy also does not mean separating humans from nature. Quite the opposite. My stance is this: humans are animals, but they are my least favorite kind. They are the most dangerous animal, and the only one who has convinced themselves they stand above the rest of nature.
It’s not just white supremacy that led to our current ecological crisis, though white supremacy magnifies it. It’s anthropocentrism: a belief held across many cultures that the world exists for humanity’s consumption. This view has led to conquest, exploitation, and the devastation we see today.
Misanthropy is not inherently a pathology, nor is it inherently a danger. It is one way of grappling with the reality of humanity: an animal capable of both horror and beauty, but never free from the capacity for either.
I do not have to like humans. Nobody does. What matters is what you do with that perspective. Whether you use it to justify harm, or whether you use it to create distance, clarity, or even compassion in your own way.
Rejecting compulsory love of humanity is not the same thing as rejecting morality. That is projection, not Truth.
Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia
Character(s): Spinner/Dabi
Other tag(s): NSFW, Sudden Heat, Alpha!Spinner, Omega!Dabi, Pack dynamics
Word count: 1,304
A/N: Listen, the only reason this came to be was that I was H word and wanted to write omega dabi eue so enjoy the smut
He had to be escorted from the meeting when his heat suddenly spiked enough for even the betas to notice, which was embarrassing, and had promptly sent Twice back- refusing his offered assistance before shutting his door and curling up on his bed. He sat there struggling with his thoughts before he started to sluggishly pull together the messy nest of items he had, trying to surround himself.
His clothes are stripped off and tossed away as he curls up, tucking his knees against his chest as he reaches down between his legs to shove his fingers into himself. Slick oozed from between his fingers as he started desperately pleasuring himself in the silence of his room. Quickly, soft quiet whimpers started filling the room as he slowly lost his senses to the lackluster pleasure he was giving himself.
He doesn't know how long it's been, but he's soaked through his nest and his fingers are slightly pruned when his door opens. His head snaps up to glare, vision hazy and swimming as he growls faintly at the shape entering his room.
"Oh shut up." Comes to the grumbled response as whoever entered closed his door behind them. It takes him a moment to pick up their scent, but recognizes the cut grass and ocean salt behind the annoyance. "Shuichi..."
"Yeah. Tomura messaged me and said you had gone into heat." The lizard huffed, ignoring the grumbles coming from Dabi as he invaded his nest fearlessly. "You know you're supposed to call me."
"Don't need it."
"Yes, you do. Idiot."
"Fuck off."
"Not til I help you."
Dabi grumbled, curling his fingers into himself and huffing a little tiny whine of resistance at the other's insistence.
"I'm pack Alpha for a reason, idiot. It's my job to help you. Now stop being a miserable brat and relax already." He says sternly, running his hand down Dabi's back as he starts releasing calming, reassuring pheromones to aid the stubborn and needy omega.
His cooler touch felt so nice against his constantly burning skin. Touya sadly couldn't hold out much longer- as much as he hated needing to rely on others for help, Spinner was right. He whined pathetically and squirmed to slowly unfold himself. He swats at him a little with his slick-covered hands before rolling onto his back and giving the lizard a scowled pout. "I hate this."
"I know. I know you do, but this will be a lot better. Come on." Shuichi carefully maneuvered himself into the nest and between his trembling thighs, letting the heated skin rest on his cooler scales. "How long have you been at it?"
"I'm not going to break. I can take you." He huffs, shifting a bit to get more comfortable as he shifts to press closer to the other.
"That's not what I asked."
"I don't know. fucking christ- Just fuck me Shuichi." He snaps, lifting his hips as if to make a point. "Or do you want me to present for you?" He says sarcastically.
Spinner frowns and rolls his eyes, having to remind himself that Dabi was always difficult. Even at the start of his heat cycle. Needy and stubborn. He refuses to take the bait and just pushes down his own pants and helps both of his lengths out of their confines. He ignores the keening noise that comes from Touya who's watching avidly as Spinner positions himself- teasingly rutting against his slick cunt to cover himself and make penetration easier. He only coats one of his cocks to start- whether or not Dabi could take him didn't matter, Spinner wasn't going to risk hurting him.
"Fuck- Just get on with it." Touya snaps, tossing his head back into his bed, whining as he tries to roll his hips against the Alpha's cock. "Please."
And there it was. The neediness was starting to outweigh the omega's stubbornness. "I'll take care of you, don't worry." Shuichi shifts, guiding his lower length into Touya with a quiet groan. He was always so fucking hot- mostly because of his quirk. They mixed so well though- Soothing over the omega's heat with his cooler body temperature as he slid all the way in, his other cock sliding against the small concave of Touya's hip.
"Oh fuuuck." Touya whimpers, gasping softly as Shuichi doesn't waste any more time after that, thrusting into the soft emptiness clinging around him. He shifts to lean over him, folding the omega's legs up to his chest again as he slams into him- soft gasps and keening moans filter over the slick slapping of skin against skin. With the new position, Shuich has full advantage of watching Touya unravel under him. The sounds of their fucking echoed through the empty sparse room, egging both of them on as Dabi trembled and Spinner did his best to focus on filling the needy cunt squeezing his cock like it never wanted to let go.
They didn't have to wait very long before Touya's body was bowing as much as it could, a strangled cry of pleasure being torn from the omega as slick and cum gushed between them. Shuichi doesn't say anything as he repositions himself, pulling out carefully from the clenching walls trying to suck him back in. Touya whimpers "Nooo." before Shuichi can shush him gently and reassure him. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise." He coos, reaching down to hold both of his cocks together this time. "I've got you." He says breathlessly before he's carefully forcing both of his cocks into the oversensitive omega. "FUCK!" Touya cries, panting raggedly as he's stretched over both of his Alpha's lengths- the pleasure burning through him. "Fuck- Fuck- fuck- Please- God- Fuck me." He pleads, uselessly as Spinner carefully slid the entirety of both his cocks into him.
"There we go." Spinner reassures him. "You're taking me so nicely. Don't worry, I'm going to knot you, Omega. You're going to look so pretty on my knots. I know you can take them." He praises him, watching Touya melt and sob through the stimulation, lost in the pleasure overcoming his thoughts. The panting turned into endless gasping moans as Shuichi started thrusting into him with slow, proper strokes. Slick, wet noises blended well with both of their moans, though Touya filled the air more thoroughly with his loud noisy cries of pleasure. "Please, please, please, fuck- please." The desperate whining pleas were more than enough to edge his instincts along, causing him to slam into him more brutal than before. It doesn't take very long as he feels both the bases of his cocks starting to swell. "Here we go- Just what you wanted, pretty thing. You're going to take both my knots so well. Such a good omega."
Touya was a mess of fuzzy instincts, desperate to be knotted and filled and coddled by his alpha. As much as Dabi liked to deny the needs he had as an omega, he did appreciate Spinner putting up with his bullshit and helping him regardless. He was a good pack alpha. Not that he'd ever say that out loud. Eventually, he feels the double knots swell and lock in, stretching him full and tight around both of his cocks. Shuichi rocked against him gently, grinding his hips in tight circles as he stuffed Dabi full and started carefully letting the omega relax and unbend from the folded position he had him. Touya vaguely hears his coos of positive affirmations as he carefully crowds him into his nest and helps him cool down and relax as they stay locked together for a few hours.
Eventually, Touya dozes off under him and Spinner's able to pull his phone out to reassure the rest of the pack that Dabi was taken care of and that everything was okay.
Walking down the same lanes, I remember each n every window pane, with numerous faces staring blankly at my soul. Inside the houses made of anxiety, guilt and unfulfilled desires reside the ghost of memories.Ghosts which haunt me, reminding me of pain each n every man has ever given me, some of deep that my body flinches. Dreams projecting realities, sleepless nights of turning n tossing,I search for a fire torch to burn those lanes forever.
But greater far was the host of Morgoth than any scouts had told, and none but Túrin defended by his dwarf-mask could withstand the approach of Glaurung; and the Elves were driven back and pressed by the Orcs into the field of Tumhalad, between Ginglith and Narog, and there they were penned.
anything that can go wrong will go wrong. eliott just learns it the hardest way possible.
or, kind of an expansion of hold you here my loveliest friend
alt er love advent calender, day 18
(for my dearest mtea @bluronyourradar, this is the thing which i was writing for you. i tore my heart in half while writing this hehe hope you enjoy reading this. part two coming soon i promise :-))
The thing about giving your heart to your best friend is, you never actually see it happening. You don’t see it coming. It just happens. Maybe at the speed of tar moving over the road. Maybe at the way the sunlight fades behind the darkness of the night. Maybe in the blink of an eye. But it happens.
You see, they’re always there. You find their smile punctuated by the way they look at you, and their words sweet like honey and heart as warm as a stream of water on a hot day. The fluttering of their hands over your skin and in your stomach burning like the crackling fire you’d have stood in front of, smoke from the ashes mixing with the tears in your eyes as you’d have turned away. They’re always there, so you don’t see.
(Maybe sometimes you do. Amidst fleeting glances and stopping heartbeat and sometimes, concrete as the sky and bottomless as the ground beneath your feet. You don’t.)
And it’s the best thing, those short moments where you don’t have to worry about someone else having a hold of your heart, twisting it to their desires. It’s the best thing about giving your heart to your best friend. Because you’re as blissful as you can be around them. Because you’ve always felt this welcoming warmth radiating from them which envelops your bones and makes a home for you inside itself, stopping you from stepping out of it into the unbidden cold, which is sharp and sinks itself over you.
And when your best friend gives their heart to you, you take it without any questions asked. You hold it close to the space where yours used to be. You spend your nights dancing through the grass and your days lifting the feeling slowly settling in your head, blurring your thoughts and fading every sense of reality. You hold on to their heart tighter than your own, and maybe that’s the first mistake you make.
Because then your grip on your own heart starts to loosen. Till a time comes that it completely shifts away from you. Because your brain is busy protecting your best friend’s heart and forgets the part of itself which you have given away.
And because. Because you let yourself. So there comes a time when your best friend hands your heart back to you. They hand it back, warmed and loved and wrapped in a curtain which makes it to look like it hasn’t been used before. They hand it back, a delicate bundle of fibers and beats mixing into one.
And you’ve spent so much time in cutting all the nerves and vessels tying you to that beating flesh. You’ve spent so much of yourself living without that part of you. And when you get your heart back, despite of your wishes, you don’t know what to do with it. You place it beck inside your chest, behind that cage tightening against the walls, hoping it would find its place back. But it sits there, a foreign and estranged piece of you; a displaced swing finding its equilibrium again; a stretched elastic held against its wishes to recoil.
Because you know if you let it go it would return to them in a heartbeat.
And that’s another thing about giving your heart to your best friend. The first time it happens, you don’t realize it. But the second time, when your heart literally crawls out of your chest, and walks away from you and back to your best friend. It rips your skin in the way, leaves your hands frozen, unable to stop the process, as you watch it run away from you.
And you watch, realizing that it will never be yours if you stop it now. So you watch. And you let it go.
And with it comes the realization that the thing beating inside you was never meant to stay there and hide. That even after they return your heart to you under the guise of doubts and ache, it’s ready to turn away in a second. That no matter the layers you put over it and the pain you go through to cover the fierceness with which it is beginning to tear itself from you; it won’t work. And there comes a time where you’re left to collect the pieces of your skin and the fibers your heart has left in its trail.
And that’s the worst thing about giving your heart to your best friend, you see. The realization, the feeling, the fucking knife which keeps on twisting in your chest and you keep screaming for it to stop, just stop. But the blood seeps away and the wound gets deeper and you find yourself filling it with the dust in your lungs and the shivers in your hands. But it fills your mouth with iron and your legs become studded with lead when you realize – you realize that no matter what, your heart will never be yours to keep after that.
Lucas’s mother owns a candy shop. When he hugs Eliott his hair smells of butterscotch and banana, all combined into one. It’s peculiar, but the thought fades into the back of his head when Lucas nuzzles his face into his chest, and as his hands squeeze the space above Eliott’s hips in a frantic cry of help.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, muffling a laugh behind the wild mess on Lucas’s head which needs to be toned down desperately – but Eliott isn’t complaining. “What is it this time?”
Lucas separates himself from Eliott, his lips puffed in a pout and eyes filled with a look of great disgrace as he grimaces. “Blueberry and basil! Like would you believe that?” He shudders effectively, his eyes going wide as he looks at Eliott. “It tastes terrible.”
Eliott shakes his head, “Terrible as in sriracha and peanut butter or terrible as in terrible?”
“Terrible!” Lucas throws his hands up as he starts walking into the shop. Eliott follows him. “Like how you’d expect someone's locker to smell like after months of dirty clothes accumulating there.”
Eliott shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips, “That’s oddly specific, and besides, I don’t think it’s that bad. I mean, you said the same thing about orange and tarragon and it ended up tasting bloody amazing!”
“I knew you would say that,” The small rainbow embroidered at the left side of Lucas’s olive green sweater catches Eliott’s eyes when he turns around to frown at him. Eliott has half a mind to remove the piece of lint and fraying thread from it, like they used to do before. Pieces of wool caught on Lucas’s hair, eyelash on Eliott’s cheek. Dirt smeared on Lucas’s face, and charcoal on Eliott’s fingers.
He has half a mind to fall back into the circle he barely made out of alive, and blow away the lint for it to catch something somewhere else. But he stops himself.
They don’t do it anymore.
“What makes you think so?”
Eliott’s first memory of Lucas is from the same spot Eliott’s standing on with the two jars of Ali’s homemade orange marmalade. Lucas’s eyes are a shade of an orchestral blue which he finds tainting the memory, and there’s a troubled smile blooming over his features a minute later when he hears another pair of footsteps coming closer.
“Eliott, is that you, dear? Please help me in letting this devil know he’s wrong. You’re the only one who can help me right now.”
Lucas lets out a wounded groan, his eyes widening as he whispers, “That.” Eliott smothers his laugh when Lucas starts to rush in the opposite direction to the resounding footsteps.
“I don’t work here and you never saw me.”
Ali nears into Eliott’s view just as her son disappears behind a display of colorful candies wrapped in pretty ribbons. Eliott, even when he was stumbling about his footing around Lucas, had always been awed by the intricate knots and the curves Ali has placed in the ribbons. When she approaches him, her eyes soften into a blue much like Lucas’s, but still on a different side of the spectrum.
“Lucas’s being a diva again,” she tells him, holding out a wooden spoon dipped in a questionable mixture in a purple bowl. It smells strongly of sugar and home, an exact opposite of what Lucas had so graciously – and wrongly – described. Ali holds out the mixture for him to taste, and he does so, dipping in a figure in the velvety warmth gathered on the tip of the spoon and bringing it to his mouth.
“It…actually, it tastes so good.”
He knows Lucas is hiding behind the shelves somewhere. Before, when it used to be as simple as Eliott using his fingers to do the counting on, or the stars simply dotting the sky without meaning anything, Ali would have Eliott and Lucas spending hours in her little kitchen, having them as the testers of whatever she would have made. It started out as a rush of a breeze for Eliott quickly picking up space before transforming into this pleasant routine he hasn’t departed from yet.
(Despite letting go of the person it all started out with.)
Ali’s smile brings Eliott into a cocoon of familiarity, “Tell this brainless idiot hiding here somewhere. I swear God really messed up when he gave Lucas those taste buds.” She shakes her head and Eliott laughs.
“Please stop talking about me like I’m not here,” He hears a muffled voice, one coming from directly behind him. Lucas emerges, licking around an orange colored candy which Eliott is absolutely sure isn’t meant for eating by him at all. His suspicion is confirmed when Ali gives her son a disapproving look, which he absolutely dodges when his eyes start burning brighter.
“And you please stop stealing the stuff I made which you previously rejected with those abominable taste buds of yours.” Ali bites back and Lucas turns a faux-offended face towards her. It’s familiar. It’s warm. It burns.
“I’ll have you know my taste buds are anything but that; very high in demand too. Tell her Eliott!” Eliott is more shocked on the mention of his name than the suffocating feeling the simple request brings as his lungs almost collapse on themselves. Lucas is unaware of the weight his words had on Eliott, as he struggles to keep his breathing even and heart forcibly inside his chest. There’s something very primal about this feeling – the one of tightness in his lungs and restlessness in his legs – something which takes him back to the very first time he’d seen Lucas a decade ago – right here in this candy shop with butterscotch in his smile and sugar in his hair, gripping Eliott in a saccharine tanginess bound to hold him for the rest of his life.
Lucas says something, and Ali threatens to catapult the bowl of the gooey mixture over his head. Eliott watches, silent, when Lucas shakes his head – all faux annoyed – as his mother stands rolling her eyes at her bratty son.
“Anyways,” Lucas says, looping his arm through Eliott’s at a place where a familiar burn seeps through the material of his shirt. “Since all of your attempts of stealing Eliott from me have considerably failed, can you let us go now?”
Eliott makes a sound of indignation in his throat. As if –
“As if you need any permission from me.”
Ali hasn’t even completed the sentence, and Eliott is being forcefully dragged towards the door. He’s always been amazed by the strength Lucas holds, now even more so when he finds himself just near the door between shouting a goodbye to Ali and taking his next breath.
“Hey,” Eliott starts when they’re outside. He’s resisting the pull Eliott has on him. It’s somewhere around the sun beginning to set behind the clouds. “Slow down, will you?”
Lucas looks at him, eyes narrowed as if he’s seriously judging Eliott, “Yann will have my head on a plate if we do.”
And Eliott would like to know where that we in this conversation came from. But before he does…..”And we can’t have that now?”
Lucas grins, “You know we can’t.”
Lucas Lallemant is a tide –
He’s a force which keeps on moving forward, carving shorelines and curved shapes in places Eliott finds hard to keep up with. He’s high when the moon comes, rising on his toes to offer Eliott a hit of the blunt curled in his fingers, sometimes snug between his lips. Sometimes he rushes away. Sometimes he crashes against Eliott – but then he slips out of the gaps between Eliott’s fingers, through the cracks in his skin – and settles somewhere hidden, alien, and then Eliott has to crawl – follow the trajectory he would have carved, only to find him crashing against his walls with a rhythm impossible for Eliott to match, to get hold of.
He’s a force which keeps on giving – to shores, to coasts. To the moss gathered on stone wearing with time and tide – with him. He gives – he gives till Eliott finds himself surrounded in every pore, every grain that is Lucas. He comes like this: little ripples on the surface of Eliott’s skin setting in motion
And that’s when he takes. The sand which lines the edges and the plants covering the base, tearing away their roots, dissolving them into smithereens much like Eliott’s heart in his hands and the blood in his mouth from biting his tongue too hard as it escapes; his heart among the waves melting on the floor and rising upwards, higher, faster. Till the blue of him surrounds Eliott in a lightning contrast against the warmth of his hands, resting, curling in his chest and plunging him into once deep then hallow darkness as he rises.
And when the ebb comes – Eliott drowns in it.
Idriss takes him by the lapel of his jacket onto the balcony once they’ve reached Yann’s flat.
“Hey,” he says, his voice weighted by the bass which beats under his feet. Lucas gets swarmed into the crowd, one part of it taking him, another forming a barrier for Eliott to reach him.
“How have you been?”
It doesn’t register in his brain; the grave being which holds Idriss's words together for Eliott. He hums out a non-committal response, which does little wonders to ease Idriss off of his case.
“Eliott,” the end syllable of his name catches on a sigh as it comes out of Idriss’s mouth. But he wonders. It’s his name, isn’t it? Then why does it feel so foreign when Idriss says it; like the Eliott in his name and the Eliott that he is are two completely different beings.
Outside it’s cold, but still there is a feeling of warmth – all nebulous and out of place. Eliott doesn’t know what it means, just that he isn’t used to feeling this way.
“What is it?” His voice feels hollowed, and it must have been a trick of light, but he sees Idriss flinch.
“You stood up,” his voice sounds equally grave, “again.”
Eliott has to grasp behind the lines to understand what he means. “The date,” Idriss complies, when he sees the lost look on his face.
Eliott stills for a moment. He was supposed to go on a date. But, did he want to.
“Idriss,” Eliott sighs, turning around and putting all of his weight on the railing, hoping it would swallow the thing weighing him down like mercury. “I don’t want to be set up on dates. You know that.”
Idriss doesn’t speak for a moment. But then, “You can’t keep doing this to yourself Eliott,” He lands a hand on his shoulder, “you can’t.”
Eliott stays quiet, he doesn’t know what to say. What is it he’s doing, exactly? “Forget it-,” He says, at length, “- just leave me on my own. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Eliott feels it, inside him, the feling holding him getting impregnated with lead and rust when Idriss replies, “But did you – with Lucas?”
What?
Idriss reads his confusion. “Did you talk with Lucas about the reason why he didn’t want to be with you anymore?” Eliott bites his tongue and something other than physical pain fills his senses at the soft reminder of what went down mere three weeks ago.
“No,” His voice sounds scratchy, like it has taken him a great strength to get the simple word out. “Lucas doesn’t owe me an explanation. Besides, you can stop feeling for someone you thought you liked, no?”
The air is still and Eliott feels desolate from the domain outside his mind. He almost doesn’t register Idriss and his quiet, “But can you?” Almost.
There, something burns in his eyes and his chest and his throat feels awfully familiar to a thorny stem Eliott has grasped in his hands. There, outside, as leaves begin to fall and Idriss lets out a small whisper of comfort, that Eliott feels overwhelmingly small and separate from the significant part of the universe holding Lucas and the currents of waves rising from his touch.
Just tell him, Idriss says and when he leaves Eliott chants a mantra of too late too late too late in the havoc of his mind. And then Lucas comes, like a tide. He looks up at Eliott with fire behind the blue in his eyes and water raising it up instead of dimming it out. He takes away Eliott’s heart, yet again, the space in his chest feeling like a hollow piece of log left to be accumulated as moss on stagnant water and dew on drooping leaves.
And when he leaves, he robs Eliott off of his breath like a flood does one of his belongings, leaving him wrecked and floating uncertainly in the sea of the world.
He makes a mistake one day.
They are on the roof of Eliott’s building. Lucas’s hands are covered in gold which glitters in his soul and the stars above. His tongue tastes of mulberry and wine when Eliott licks in his mouth. His lips bleed soft kisses into the place Eliott’s neck meets his jaw. His eyes are dusty asteroids which circle into Eliott’s orbit with a force which knocks him of gravity and his breath when they close with laughter as Eliott finds the particularly ticklish spot on his neck.
I’ve been waiting for this, Lucas says, his voice light and warm and so, so soft. Eliott feels a cloud of smoke in his lungs. Me too.
He makes a mistake that day. He falls.
But then he’s standing next to the fire which Idriss and Yann created using plastic wrappers and leaves they found lying around. Lucas is a comet, the, his cold hands gripping Eliott’s as the fire pricks his eyes and the smoke in his lungs becomes a relic from before.
I can’t do this Eliott, He chokes, his voice heavy and sad and laden with so much hurt that Eliott has to take a step back. We’re – we will be better as friends. I’m sorry I just can’t.
So Eliott swallows around the charred cage in his chest doing little to keep his heart still. Okay, he whispers. Lucas’s red-rimmed eyes curving into a sad, watery smile burn like a star in Eliott’s gut.
He makes a mistake one day. He doesn’t stop falling.
November comes, and Eliott finds himself shifting between cold winds ruffling his hair and tinging his cheeks with a cold he feels in his bones. It takes him skipping rocks among dirt and catching falling leaves in the palm of his hand. It takes him to Lucas, nestled between the shelves in his mother’s shop, eyes wide and engulfing warmth as sugar and syrup drips from his mouth and stains Eliott’s shirt in a stubborn red.
Eliott sees Lucas, sees him coming for his heart, and the pang which rises inside his chest feels sound in the void which grows around him. It becomes foreign, the security the pain brings him. But he drowns in the cold warmth encompassing him when Lucas smiles and asks him about another constellation, or when he brings Eliott’s coffee from the shop on the curb – when they talk, and their once, five month relationship becomes a fleeting whisper; a puddle after rain gone when the sun came up.
They don’t mention it, and neither their friends. Somewhere between that, Idriss takes the hint and stops trying to get Eliott to go on dates. His heart grows accustomed to having Lucas’s hold over it, and the thorns growing in his throat shrivel. They don’t fall like Eliott thought they would, and sometimes it happens that Eliott feels them digging into his windpipe, swallowing his voice when he sees Lucas from across the room. Or when his eyes glisten like gold and honey all combined into one.
He keeps taking Eliott apart, piece by piece, but Eliott grows familiar to the feeling making a home inside him. And when Lucas holds his hand and points to a falling star much like Eliott looking for a place in the universe, it doesn’t hurt.
Except when it does.
There’s a hole in his jacket.
Eliott finds it the noon he’s inside the video store he worked at. He must have gotten it when he’s jacket got stuck in his neighbor’s fence, and in his haste, he must have pulled it, hard.
Lucas finds it funny for whatever reason when Eliott delivers him the news with sadness. His laugh rings through the speaker of Eliott’s phone. “You and that jacket, I swear.”
“It’s my favorite,” Eliott says, hoping his tone would convey his feelings to Lucas, “It’s been with me through thick and thin.”
“Yeah I know,” Lucas sounds solemn, “We’ll make it right,” Eliott believes him.
“But listen,” Lucas pauses, then begins again, “the reason I called you – I wanted to ask you something.”
Eliott holds on the phone, “Yes?”
“Sarah let me off with two passes for this art exhibition tonight. I wanted to know if you – if you’d go with me?”
Eliott’s chest gives a resounding ache which travels like water through his body, chilling his fingertips so much he can barely feel the phone held in them. The thing is – they don’t do this anymore; this just Lucas and him alone thing. He hasn’t done anything like this in such a long time that he forgot what being with Lucas – just Lucas – is like.
And he can't wait to remember. So. “Yeah,” he breathes out, “of course I’ll go.” With you.
“Perfect,” Lucas’s voice hold quiet happiness, something Eliott is sure is so fragile he’d break it if he takes another breath.
So he holds it, deep inside his lungs when Lucas says, “I’ll be at the store at 6:30. We’ll walk together.”
And he holds in when he says goodbye, a promise tethering on the edge of something so strange yet so comforting at the same time. His lungs burn, and his chest caves in.
But Eliott gets to work.
Evening drags November to a cold, scruffy end. He can’t feel his hands when he accounts the last of the sales into the computer. It hits close to six when he finishes, and decides to spend the rest of the time till Lucas’s arrival sorting out the DVDs left on the counter.
It’s between that, one moment picking up the assortment and the other spent looking over his phone lying on the side as it lights up with a notification, that there’s the sound of someone closing the door behind them.
Eliott whips around, heart in his throat at the prospect of seeing Lucas, but the person standing in front of him takes him by surprise.
“Hi Eliott.”
Lucille’s smile is warmer; her hair is shorter, blonder. Eliott takes a hard minute to reply.
Lucille,” He’s sure his tone doesn’t do justice to the feeling she brings inside him. It’s been long – a long time since he last saw her. And that too ended on partial good terms.
But still he tries his best to smile.
“How have you been?” He asks, awkwardly placing the DVDs from where he picked them up. Lucille shrugs her shoulder, and a small laugh leaves her lips.
“Good, I’m good.” She says. Eliott nods, then, and tries to shake off the uncomfortable tension settling around him and over his shoulders. Lucille comes to his rescue, thankfully.
She points to the array of movies behind him, craning her neck to the side as she speaks, “I – I needed a recommendation, actually.”
Huh. “The movies. I – I kinda need one for uhm- this date night. My girlfriend- uh, Sophie is into screenwriting and stuff, so I want to do something to impress her.”
Eliott turns his neck sideways, “And I’m the only one you can come to for that?”
Lucille smiles sheepishly, “You know you are.”
He laughs, bright, and turns to sift through the movies he pretty much knows her girlfriend will surely appreciate. He’s always loved doing this, rec-ing stuff when asked – whether it be movies or artists or funny enough, dubstep artists to listen to.
(The credit for the last one goes mainly to Lucas, and Eliott feels proud to share that at least he’s helped him get into the kind of music he himself loves. Even when the insults Lucas throws after listening to the music are worth keeping in a jar and remembering for later.)
Lucille takes the movies he picks out.
“How are you and Lucas?”
Her tone carries an infinite amount of casualness which Eliott is sure she isn’t faking. But it makes him still – you and Lucas in a sentence together. They don’t go like that. Never have.
“We uh – we’re not together anymore.” He says, voice low and taut as he rings her up. “Uh- yeah. We broke up.”
Lucille is silent. Then, “Oh. I’m sorry.”
He stays silent. When he’s done with her items, she takes it from him without a word. I’m sorry. It’s funny how many times he’s heard that.
“Um- Thank you,” She’s quiet, soft. Eliott smiles, as terse as that may be. “I’m happy to see you, Eliott.”
“Yeah, uh, I’m happy too.” He admits, because he is. Because she’s familiar. Because he knows her.
Lucille smiles, as she clutches the items to her chest, “If – If you’re free some time, I’d like for you to Sophie. She uh - knows about us, and I’m sure you both will like each other.”
“You’re sure?” He teases, and she slaps him lightly on his arm; familiar. Rolling her eyes, she bites back, “Yeah, idiot.” Eliott laughs; it’s warm.
“I’d love to meet her,” is what he settles on, and it’s what which has Lucille brightening up further. “Great,” she says, and leaves Eliott not before rising up on her toes and giving him a half-awkward, full warm hug which Eliott gladly accepts.
When she leaves, it becomes a game of watching the hands on the clock move. It’s fifteen minutes over the time Lucas and him and decided. But still Eliott sees no sign of him. He’s worried. There’s no text or call from him either, and Eliott knows he could do so too, but it doesn’t guarantee him not sounding desperate.
Five minutes to seven and he gives up, closing the store and walking out into the clear night sky. He spots a couple of uncluttered, adrift stars he doesn’t know yet. Cold air nips at his skin, eyes search for the sign of the familiar boy walking towards him. But he finds nothing.
He sighs, then, and starts walking in the direction of his apartment. Maybe something came up. Maybe Lucas is okay. Maybe he forgot. Maybe maybe maybe.
It’s then that the phone in his holed jacket rings, bringing him back to the now. He hustles to take it out, and as Lucas’s name blinds his eyes, his heart returns with a hopeful tingle in his chest.
His breath fogs in the dark as he whispers, “Hello?”
“Eliott,” Lucas’s voice feels distant, like they’re the same poles of a magnet and the field between them is just pushing them away.
“Lucas, are you alright?” It hurts, that it’s the first thing which comes to his mind. That something happened to Lucas – with Lucas, and he wasn’t able to make it to him. He hates it. He hates it.
“Yeah uh – I got held up. I’m sorry I couldn’t- can’t make it. I just – I didn’t – couldn’t find time to call you sooner. I’m so sorry I -.”
Eliott cuts Lucas off, “It’s alright,” his heart beats on the floor. His legs remain frozen on the sidewalk. It’s not Lucas’s fault if he found something more important than Eliott. He doesn’t owe him anything, anyway.
Eliott doesn’t hear the rest which follows. There’s something – someone on the phone behind Lucas, someone who calls Lucas – “You’re coming back Lu?” Eliott hears the voice.
Then he hears Lucas, loud and clear, “Yeah, baby, you go ahead. I’ll be with you in a second.”
Baby. Lucas only ever called Eliott that. He feels something twist inside him as his lungs burn with a ferocity which leaves him aching all over. His fingers go numb, and his feet drag painfully on the gravel.
Lucas seems to be talking, and Eliott only catches the end through the static in his head.
“I gotta go. But I – I promise I’ll make it up to you, Eli. Okay?”
Eliott purses his lips, doesn’t fight his hear combusting as a layer of heavy rust settles over it, preventing it from moving back to Lucas as he lies motionless there, on the concrete, forging stars from its dying matter.
Okay. Eliott whispers when Lucas hangs up. Then he releases his breath and starts walking.
