| Everything You Want |
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Trash. . . . what could a Blondie want . . . Scum. . . . with that . . . Filth. . . . that . . . Mongrel. He knows what they say about him. He hears it every day. When he's not focusing on something with all his concentration, it demands his attention. Strips away his pride. Shows him the truth of what he has sunk to be. Mongrels can never live in luxury. Mongrels can never have a purpose to life. Mongrels can never work a normal job for normal pay. Mongrels can never be anything but second-class. Not even citizens. He knows that. He knows. But he also knows that here he can have it. All of it. He can live in luxury. He can have a purpose to life. He might not have a normal job, and he might not have normal pay, but he can have more than a mongrel should. But he will still be nothing but second-class. He will never be a citizen. He will never be one of them. He will never get more than he is given. He will never be more than scum. Unless you were fed it All mongrels have left is their pride. So what is he doing here? Voluntarily going back to the place that stripped him of the only thing he could call his own. . . . If he's honest, he knows there are other places he could go. Other things he could do. He could leave Tanagura - it's difficult, but not impossible. But. . . . Something in him demands he returns. Because Guy was right, he has lost his pride, and deep down he knows this is his punishment for that. But things deep down don't often reach the surface, and so he wonders why he came back, even as he sits in his Master's home. He closes his eyes and tries to remember when he didn't feel like this. When the world was simple. Guy! Guy, hurry up! He knows it only seemed simple when he was young. The only place he got freedom after that was riding the wind on his bike. Come on, we're gonna be late! Don't you want to get a bike of your own? And even then. . . . Riki, you idiot, you fell off. Where's the great, graceful Riki the Dark now? He knows something always got thrown in the path. And the skid marks Bison was simple. Bison was family. With Bison, he was nothing but a mongrel. Nothing but scum. Nothing but another face in the crowd. With Bison, he knew his place. He had his pride. Everything he knew, everything he held dear, it was all somehow tied up in Bison. He had a home, with people he could trust. People he could care about. No more. No more. He stares into the distance, cigarette burning unnoticed, dreaming of his old life. Dreading his new. Knowing, knowing, that he can never go back. That was what kept the fire burning before; the hope that one day he could go back. . . . He can't go back. Never again. Not without his pride. Not without his shame. If only he could stop wanting. . . . Wanting him the way he does. Loving another the way he does. Two doors before him, one shut and barred. Listen and wait for the Echoes of angels who won't return What he doesn't know is which he would chose, should they both be open to him. He remembers the old times with Guy. He was almost happy then, with a place to belong, and there were days that he could forget that he would never be more than a mongrel. Guy had been his safe port. His light at the end of the tunnel, so utterly convinced that if he could just get back to Bison, get back to Guy, get back home that everything would be all right. As long as Guy could accept what he'd been. . . . And when he got back, nothing was the same. Fool of him to think it would be. How could it be? Guy was what he wanted. Not what he needed. It's in his blood now. His hands, his mouth, his body. It's an addiction, frightening and fierce. But that's not all of why he came back. Iason. That you wish you could be The Blondie is his superior in every way. Physique, intellect, breeding and manners. He is what everyone wants to be. If he is honest with himself, he knows that his supposed hatred for the man stems from his intense jealousy. The Blondie has had everything given to him on a gold platter. Everything. Respect . . . wealth . . . power. And he is just a mongrel. But despite all of that, despite everything that burns inside him with jealous hatred of this man who owns him, something keeps him fascinated. Something whispers inside him, an insidious little voice that speaks things he doesn't want to listen to. He chose you. He could have anything and everything, and he chose you. But. . . . In the end, that didn't mean anything. "You are my pet." At exactly the right time He stares out over the city landscape, and closes his eyes. His Master does everything right. Says everything right. And lies through his teeth when he does it. But. . . . And you don't know why He doesn't want the 'right thing'. He doesn't want the 'right words', which remind him of how low he has sunk. What's 'right' by the world is what's 'wrong' by him and he wants to be lied to - he wants to go home, and be told that everything is all right, that nothing has changed. He waited with Bison. He waited for Guy to push him on what had happened. Half the time he waited for Guy to make him confess so he could finally tell someone of the whole ordeal, tell them of what he had gone through - tell them of the addiction he felt. . . . And be told it was all right. That it didn't matter. That he was still Riki, Riki the Dark, not Riki the Pet. To put you together And half the time, he'd been waiting for Guy to make him confess everything to him, and be rejected. It was easy to see which was right. It was easy to see the way the world worked. It was easy to see that there was nothing more for a mongrel like him but pride. Then there wasn't even that. Wound to discover He. . . . He'd wanted so much. There were things he wanted Iason to say, and things he wanted Guy to say. It seemed like being a mongrel hadn't really taught him anything. Don't want anything. Don't need anything. Don't expect anything. Because you won't get it. He supposed he knew his place now, with Iason. It was demeaning. It was degrading. It was humiliating. It insulted his pride and everything that was him. But. . . . It was an addiction. To Iason. He needed his pride. It was all he had left. But he'd left that where he'd left Guy. Guy . . . was just like him. Just like the him that had been, that is. He didn't bow to anyone. He didn't bend over for anyone. He had his pride, and he kept it well. He was a mongrel, but somehow still more of a noble than the ones born for it. That you wish you could be "You are my pet and nothing more. Remember it." He was fooling himself if he thought he saw something in Iason's face which gave the lie to that. Fooling himself. For all Iason had broken the rules with him, there were some lines he didn't - couldn't - cross. Still. . . . At exactly the right time He wanted the wrong things. That was part of his torment. That he wanted what he shouldn't. Not Guy. Guy was expected of him. It was an addiction. He should want Guy. Hair, hands, eyes, mouth. . . . He should. . . . But he didn't. And you don't know why He wanted Guy to accept him. Wanted him to forgive him so he could regain his pride, his tattered dignity, draw it around himself like a cloak, a protective barrier. But Guy had stripped his soul bare to harsh winds. Guy had been disgusted. And watch it unwind He hadn't been able to stop him. You were my last safe port. He hadn't wanted to stop him. I was fooling myself before. Iason had all of him. He had decided it, and it had become so. And there was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing he wanted to do about it. With all of your time He expected it. He would be taken care of here. He would be fed, and sometimes clothed, and more often unclothed. His every need would be attended to. He would never be free again. And he would not care, because he was broken. It had only been a matter of time, really. Looking back, he saw where he might have altered his direction. A thousand missed chances. A thousand turns not taken. A thousand regrets. And looking forward, he could not see a way to hide. Into the highway Past the places where you might have turned It was anger. He was here because of anger. Anger with Guy. Anger with the world. Anger with Iason. But mostly. . . . Anger with himself. He could never go back. But you still hide away The anger of angels who won't return He wasn't sure he wanted to. Iason was almost a dream. Wealth. Power. An obsessive interest in him. But. . . . There was always a catch. He didn't want Iason to want him. He didn't want to be a Pet. He didn't want to be a slave. He didn't want to be a mongrel. He wanted. . . . What everyone wanted, really. He wanted to be equal. That you wish you could be How amused Iason would be if he knew that. He could almost hear him now. "You were born to your place in life. You will never be more than a mongrel, never be more than my Pet." At exactly the right time He didn't want Iason. He didn't think Iason wanted him, either. Not him as a person. But him as an ideal. . . . An ideal of freedom. Mongrels were expected to do certain things, to be a certain way, but they never had to. Unlike Blondies. Unlike the people society accepted. Unlike Pets. But it didn't matter why Iason wanted him. It never mattered, except that he wanted Iason and he didn't want Iason and . . . and. . . . And he didn't know. Iason wasn't supposed to want him. But then Iason never did keep to the rules. He supposed it was what they both wanted. Freedom. Iason was a Blondie. Iason was Jupiter's favourite. Iason could do whatever the fuck he liked and never suffer recriminations because of it. Except he couldn't, could he. Iason had a freedom he - Riki - would never have. But then he had a freedom that Iason would never have. The grass is always greener. That you wish you could be He supposed that was the reason why he needed Iason. Then he supposed he didn't need a reason at all. The Blondie was in his blood, now. Every night he was gone he dreamed of Iason, of Iason's hands and lips and mouth and tongue and cock. Burned for it, for him. At exactly the right time But he could never tell him that. His pride was gone, but he could never tell him that. After all, it wouldn't be right. And I don't know why Why had he come back? Why Was he wrong to have come here? Was he wrong to have come back? But where else could he go? Bison turned their backs on him. Guy turned his back on him. But. . . . It had been him who'd given up the last of his pride. Him. Nobody else. Just him. So here he was. He didn't know what he wanted. He didn't know why he'd come back. He didn't even know who he was any more. But. . . . Iason. |
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