The Heart’s Affliction
Happy Birthday, @prodigyofprinxetoncollege / @whatisitlikeinyourfunnylilbrains !!!!
They corral them all up in this classroom silence, low murmurs and the occasional hushed chiding breaking up the sentence of monotony that their individual afflictions have apparently earned them. They wallow in their labels as though they are comfort blankets that swaddle them gently and keep them safe. No one here is any different from the other. They’ve all been fucked over, fucked up, or just plain fucked by someone they once loved, and while the guilty parties are, for the most part, likely running free, these poor bastards pay for the cost of someone else’s sins every single day.
Yes, they are pathetic. Rejects of a society they could never fit into. Nothing like Alexander. Nothing like Aaron. No... they are another story, altogether. They could change the world, if only the world would allow it. But the world is afraid. Society is afraid. They claim to save their lives by taking them away. Alexander has too much to accomplish to be trapped in this prison.
He’s counting seconds, now. They took away the clock. They took away the loud “tick-tock” of the old, practical decoration. What they don’t know, however, is that Alex has his own, internal clock. It ticks away constantly, eating down the minutes and hours and days until he is a free man again. He misses not a count. Death or liberation are all that he lives for. That... and Aaron Burr.
Who is outside. He is separated from Alex, as he has been so often in the past following a stint of “bad behavior.” Only, this time, Aaron is not alone. He is with the man whom Alex blames for his imprisonment, and, if Alex knows Aaron at all, the other man is apologizing to the one who put him here. It makes him ill, but there is little he can do.
Aaron is probably asking for forgiveness for a crime he never committed. He is probably blaming himself and begging this other man to take him back. And, God, Alex hopes the man refuses. God, he hopes Aaron comes back to him.
“Alexander? Please stop breaking the crayons. You aren’t the only one who wants to use them.” Alex pauses, his hands slowing to a stop as he hesitantly considers the broken bits of wax between his fingers. They don’t allow him any pencils or pens. They don’t trust him not to jam them directly into his ugly blue veins.
“Fuck off.” He glances up toward where the clock once was, annoyed when he is reminded of its corroded absence.
“How long until visiting hours are over?”
“Five minutes.” The woman sighs, clearly exasperated both by Alexander’s innate hostility, as well as his remarkable and alarming preoccupation with time. In fact, he had been one of the deciding factors in the choice to do away with the generic and tarnished timepiece that once hung, encaged, upon the tiled wall.
“Think you can manage to refrain from acts of delinquency until then?”
Alex snaps another crayon in two - no one uses Mango Tango all that much, anyway - expression chillingly neutral as he stares back up at the nurse.
“Have it your way. Don’t think I won’t be mentioning this to the doctor.” She shakes her head, dark curls swaying to and fro from the action, before stepping away to look after one of the other numerous crazies locked up in their glorified cage.
“Aaron’s a big boy. He can handle himself.”
“Did I fucking ask you, Jim?” He doesn’t bother looking up from where his gaze has fallen, dark eyes focused on the pale light of the late afternoon, clawing hideously at the dull silver grates that mar the view of the outside world.
“Hm... that’s right. Pedophiles like you probably don’t like being reminded that their victim isn’t really a kid.”
“I’m not fucking with you today, Jimmy. Take a seat.” No. What would Aaron say? Be patient, Alexander. Let it go.
“Of course you aren’t. I’m a legal adult.” Goddammit. Alex finally looks over at that man with his shit-eating grin, and he immediately regrets it.
“Shut your fucking mouth.” He and Jim got along most days. What was it the guy had? Dissociative identity disorder? Hell, maybe this wasn’t even the real Jim he was talking to. Did that mean that the rules didn’t apply? That this wasn’t someone Aaron considered a friend?
“I mean...” And now Jim - or whichever personality this is - is close. Too close. Leaning down and speaking into Alex’s ear like he’s done it a million times before. If that alone weren’t enough to set Alex off, what he says certainly is.
“...how hard did your daddy have to fuck you to leave you this fucking broken?”
None of Aaron’s warnings work this time. The phantom words fade and die, crashing forgotten to the ground alongside the discarded bits of colored wax that fall when Alex rises, chair toppling over as his too-pale outstretched fingers find Jim’s throat. He pushes him hard into the nearest wall, previously dull eyes now bright with a storm of emotion, heart pounding in his ears when he pushes words through gritted teeth.
“I told you to shut your fucking mouth.” Fingers squeeze harder, he gains a slight thrill of satisfaction from the panicked look in Jim’s eyes.
“Fucking asshole.” Just as he hears the faint sound of the doors buzzing in the distance - the visitors are being directed out of the building - he feels strong hands gripping his arms... another set upon his torso...
The orderlies are pulling him off of Jim, and though he resists, a sharp kick to one of his pressure-points earns the other man his freedom. Alex turns, instead, to fight the men that now hold him. His sharp tongue is dulled by undiluted rage, utterances of annoyance and protest amounting to little more than angry grunts.
It doesn’t take long until he feels the familiar bite of a needle, some drug administered by some nimble nurse, and he is falling limp, his last thoughts, naturally, of Aaron, before he falls into his chemically-induced stupor.
Three days. They don’t allow him clocks or windows or even wake-up-calls, but Alexander is certain it has been three days since he has been locked away. Three days since he has last touched Aaron’s pleasantly warm body, or heard his delicate and alluring voice.
They drag him out of the dim room. They speak to him. They instruct him. What they say, he isn’t quite sure. Partially because he doesn’t give a shit, but mostly due to the way the drugs they’ve pumped into him have slowed his mind. It feels like a harsh high, like being helplessly, terrifyingly inebriated, and even as Alex wants to fight the hands supporting him, even as he longs for the strength to run, he is focused upon Aaron. He is terrified that Aaron has left him.
He is praying that he did.
Somehow, he makes it to his bed. Did they leave him here? He isn’t sure. But the door is opening, and then there is the silence of hesitation, the soft sounds of the doorknob twisting, the only noise permeating the still air. One of Aaron’s nervous little ticks.
“Hey...” Alex hates how tired he sounds, loathes how difficult it is just to push himself upright, to blink his heavy lids until he manages to focus on the timid man in the doorframe.
“Hey... it’s okay. C’mere.” He takes a deep breath, as though the stuffy hospital air can cleanse him of the unnatural substances that they pumped into his veins. He is about to say Aaron’s name, lips soft as he gathers the breath needed to speak, when the younger practically rushes him, closing the distance quickly, but keeping a minimal space between them, hesitant as always.
“How’d it go?” Alex whispers the question, head low as he struggles against the fatigue they’ve forced upon him in a quest for compliance.
“What?” Aaron sounds confused, and, more alarmingly, frightened, and Alex attempts a smile, shaking his head and reaching out to tug lightly at the hem of Aaron’s hospital-issued top.
“John.” His voice is even fainter, fingers shaking as they twist carefully into the pale fabric.
“Oh... oh.” Aaron makes a sound that might be akin to laughter, but he is always so quiet and careful, and Alex can never be entirely certain.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?” There might be a trace of bitterness in Alex’s tone, but he’s looking up at Aaron with pleading eyes, fingers holding tight onto the shirt as though it is his lifeline. And, in all honesty, it just might be.
“He doesn’t want you to run away with him? Adopt babies with him? Did you tell him you were sorry? You don’t need to be sorry, Aaron. He should be sorry.”
“Alexander...” Aaron’s voice is so soft... so gentle. Alex immediately regrets his words, but he only grips onto Aaron’s shirt harder, willing him to stay.
“He thinks... he hopes that we can work things out. Once I’m recovered, of course.”
Fuck. Right. Of course he does. Aaron is a fucking God among men, and anyone would be insane to let him go. Crazier than anyone in this fucked up circus.
“Recovered...” Alex repeats that word. He hates that word. He hates that Aaron believes he’s sick. That he’s diseased... or worse - that he is a disease. That is what society tells him, and that is what he believes. And Alexander will stop at nothing to prove otherwise.
“You aren’t sick, Aaron.” He tugs a little on the fabric. Not enough to pull Aaron forward, but enough to keep him near.
“This world is sick. You, Aaron, are the fucking remedy. You are what everyone should be. Good. Pure. True.” He twists his fingers a little more with every word, but really, he’s just focused on sitting upright - focused on breathing until it doesn't feel like a chore.
“Alex...” Aaron makes that sound again, something like laughter, before bowing his head, shoulders slightly slumped when he shakes his head gently.
“Hey...” Alex is whispering again, bowing his own head and searching for Aaron’s gorgeous eyes, needing that connection more than he needs air.
“I think he’s right.” He swallows down hard, nodding when Aaron looks up at him, confused and curious.
“Maybe you should work things out. I mean... I think you’ll get out of here soon... but me...” No... Alex was going to be there for much longer. He couldn’t seem to curb his thirst for violence, however hard he tried, and that was going to keep him the hospital’s little pet project for far longer than he cared to admit.
“I thought you’d be gone...” The words slip out before he can stop them, and Alex finally loosens his grip. He hates himself for needing another person this badly, but, goddammit, he needs Aaron. He needs him more than the meds or the doctors or the fucking therapy. Aaron is the only reason he gives a single fuck about living right now, and he doesn’t know what will happen if he loses him to someone else.
“But I’m not.” Alex’s empty hand has hardly reached his lap before Aaron’s fingers are reaching for it, threading through his own loosely, with a tenderness that matches that lovely voice of his.
“I’m here.” Alex looks up, meets Aaron’s eyes, and immediately feels more confident - more complete.
“And I’m sleepy.” This time, the laugh is evident, Aaron’s eyes bright and smile shy as he pushes a little closer into Alex’s space.
“I haven’t slept much... felt too empty in here...” He’s looking down bashfully, and Alex wants to pull him close and kiss him. Instead, he squeezes the hand he now holds, and he pushes himself back onto his own bed, giving Aaron a gentle tug forward.
“Every space is full when you’re in it, Aaron. C’mere.” He tugs again and Aaron comes willingly, finding his place at Alex’s side with far less care than usual, clearly longing for the connection they’d been deprived of for so long.
“No more fighting, okay?” Aaron’s voice is already muffled as he buries his face into Alex’s chest, but the words are clear, and they hurt, but only as much as it hurts for Alex to deliver the lie that follows.
“No more fighting.” He pushes a careful kiss to the top of Aaron’s head and he pulls him closer, and he knows, as sure as he knows that he will fight again tomorrow, that this, whatever it is between them, will end in disaster. And, most importantly, he knows that he really doesn’t fucking care. He would trade a lifetime of sanity for a moment of this crazy, fucked up, unshakeable love. Every time. Without a second thought.
