1: Modernist Society

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god, this is the most nervous i've been to post something in a while. i just really want this to be perfect, you know? but perfections are nonexistent, and that's kinda great.

anyway so, massive thank you to nmlittle_ for being great and amazing and a frog. (follow her on tumblr at ' sherlockedinmeta '. you're welcome.)

anyway, i guess it's kinda important for you to watch the video above, since this is semi based on that. also, please tell me if i get anything majorly wrong. i'm a little new to this.

right, enjoy, and watch out for: drugs, sex, and general angst.

When William Beckett looked in the mirror this morning, the guy he saw just wasn't him. And he still wasn't sure how he got to the current point in time.

He'd woken up that morning with an overdose of déjà vu. Empty pill bottles lay scattered across his bedside cabinet, his cloudy mind fighting to regain any idea of how many he'd taken last night. It could be anything from none to the contents of a local pharmacy; his pulse quickened as the realisation spread that the second option was much more likely. Or maybe the drugs weren't out of his system yet, and the rise in heartbeat was only a chemical defect.

Only a chemical defect.

His mother would have hated to see him thinking like that. Good thing he'd cut communication with them over two years previous.

The drugs had been going on for about two years now.

But it wasn't anything like he'd expected: he'd taken drugs to break himself, and now he couldn't stop for fear of losing himself completely. Many people were shocked to find out why he'd started, but it was simple: two years ago, he hadn't wanted to be anymore, which was a high contrast to the many people swallowing to, in fact, be. In all honesty, his first account of popping pills was a measly suicide attempt. He should've known he wasn't taking enough of the right stuff to rid himself of the world, and as soon as he came around, he took the dosage again. Things continued until he increased the amount and severity. And he was still being.

It was days like that morning when he truly became aware of himself. When he was wrapped up in bedsheets and another man's legs, hot breaths beating down onto the smooth planes of his neck. He lay there for a moment, trying to convince himself that this was real. Trying to convince himself it wasn't just another one-night stand.

He became enthralled in things like this.

He loved telling lies, almost as much as he loved seeing the recipient's naïve reactions. Including his own; there was something oddly satisfying about pulling one over on himself. The feeling was almost as addictive as the pills strewn over his wooden floor. He assumed the guy behind him had knocked the bottles over as they'd clambered into his threadbare bed - at least he hadn't taken them all. Maybe he'd be able to put the scattered pills back in their bottle, retake them later. Anything to lessen his debt.

He took a deep breath as he pushed the stranger's arms away, struggling up onto his feet. William had always thought his feet were badly shaped, and he supposed that it did nothing to aid his balance. He swayed slightly, and maybe, if he had remembered the stranger's name, he would have called it out. Bounced it around the bedroom walls a few times, just like he was sure it had last night. He wondered if it would feel foreign on his tongue, or soft on his lips. Maybe it would leave a bitter taste in the side of his mouth.

Whatever it would leave, there was no way of finding out. He glanced the tall stranger over and left the crime scene as fast as possible. Lanky legs dragged themselves to a small en suite, muscles screaming in protest.

He liked to call it an en suite, but his apartment only actually had two rooms. But two rooms was plenty of space for the sweat of a man who was barely even there.

The image of the man swamped by his bed sheets floated around William's subconscious, drowning any productive thoughts that drifted across. He remembered the tight knots of dark hair that fell across a bronzed forehead, evidence of styling products prevalent. Maybe he'd slept with a conceited twat - would any humble man treat his hair to such luxuries? His eyes fell across the many gels and mousses set out his own bathroom counter.

He smeared a trail of toothpaste across his worn toothbrush, sticking the thing in his mouth as he wandered back to the door frame. He peered out at the stranger taking space in his apartment, curiosity rising. Most of his partners left early in the morning, hushed alarms waking them after just a few hours of sleep. But not this man: this one was different.

The man in question stirred, sending long hair whipping back into William's face as he reeled into the bathroom. No way was he ready for confrontation. He pulled the old toothbrush away from his mouth, throwing it into the sink as he grabbed a loose pill on the edge of falling to the floor. It would've been so easy for him to be arrested - a cop wouldn't even have to open his eyes to see over ten different degrees of drug right in front of him. The thought of a grimy prison cell made him shudder, and he pushed the pill into his mouth without a second thought. It had become a complex second nature by that point.

He always took pills - never smoked, injected, or absorbed. He could count pills, feel as though he was in control of what he was taking. But what's the point in counting if the number becomes lost only moments later? Counting becomes a pointless coping tact.

Although counting was a mental way to cope, his body had other ideas. He bent over the toilet seat before he'd even swallowed the pill down - what a waste, it was a fine set of powder. It was the disturbed cocktail from the night before that was leaving him in this state.

He sat against the wall once his limbs detached themselves from the basin, a bundle of shakes and suppressed grins. Maybe this was why he'd been given 'sadist' as a nickname, but he couldn't help if he found something beautiful about the way his body destroyed itself, could he? There was just something so sickeningly beautiful about watching your own destruction, the paper peeling off the sides of your mind like a painting captured by a modernist.

He laughed to himself, the sound bouncing around the tiled bathroom.

And then, suddenly, a grand total of two things happened: William threw up again, and the stranger in his rose. It wasn't the best first impression to make, and William knew that first impressions counted. His innocent, do-good impression was still sticking with his band's manager. If it wasn't for the first impression sticking, his band would have dropped months ago. That band was all he had going.

As the stranger stumbled in, William pulled back to catch his breath, and the stranger took his turn to bend double over the stained plastic seat. The owner of the small apartment found himself more ashamed over the cleanliness he practiced than the fact he was emptying his stomach at eight in the morning. After all, the stranger was joining him in his activities.

They took orderly turns, rotating between leaning forward and back against the cold wall and somewhat mocking civilized society. Neither of them said a word. William noticed the man beside him's veins stood out of his arms when he tensed, and he wondered whether he used the prominent veins to his advantage. He soon decided that no one in such good shape could inject themselves - it seemed the most he did was smoke and damage his liver with drink. It would take a few years before the guy's beer belly caught up with him.

When they were both finally against the wall, William watched their hot breaths dissipate into pants. After a few minutes, an unfamiliar rasp broke the silence, "I'm not always like this, promise. Must've been food poi -"

"This is the usual for me. You don't gotta prove anything, we all get a little fucked up sometimes."

The stranger was more of an intruder, sat on the bathroom floor in graying white boxers and sweaty hair. He pushed his hair away from his face, "Gabe."

"William," he glanced Gabe over again, eyes a little more adjusted to the bright light and able to take in the way skin over Gabe's waist and chest stretched over defined muscles and bones. He looked as though he owed that to being fit, and William's skinny hips were anything but that. He self consciously ran bony fingertips over the sharp bones.

They sat in silence, hearts beating in time to the clock sat atop William's dresser.

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