I Loved You.

Smooth, bright, clear. Frank stretches out, appreciating the morning light. He arches his back, head pressing into his pillow, legs and hips and shoulders pressing into the mattress. His fingers run through his hair, carelessly.

[ i ] Gentle, creamy, sweet sunlight. He loved waking up to the best sight in the world, he always welcomed the soft skin against his. He loved waking up in the white sheets, next to the other half of his heart. [ / i ]

His whole house smells of bleach; clean, stinging, and burning in his lungs. His throat burns raw with screams and the scent of fresh bleach from last night as he swallows pointless air, his fingers are dry with an annoying itch. His hands curl as he digs his fingernails sharply and tightly into his palms. The man lets out a low, soft sigh of annoyance.

[ i ] The gentle and familiar scent of coffee and cigarettes and artist's ink flooded his senses, his body moved softly against that of his lover's. A loving smile pushed the skin near his eyes up and he felt himself basking in the warmth. [ / i ]

He rolls over in the soft expanse of the bed, comforted and cooled by the white sheets, their fabric loosly brushing every inch of his nude form.
His shoulders roll backwards, the muscles in his arms flex. He runs through the motions of movement, of lazy shifting and rolling and stretching. He moves with gentle carelessness until he is comfortable.

[ i ] Gentle and airy, the sheets fluttered down around them as Frank's lover meets his eyes, the man beneath him giggling softly, rolling over and pressing his gorgeous body tight against Frank's. [ / i ]

Frank loves the way being clean feels, he loves the way his freshly washed hair falls in sweet curls. He feels so pristine, so clean all over, and he cannot deny the overall feeling of rightness, the sweet perfection that surrounds him. Everything was so clean and he adored it.

[ i ] Honey warm, rolling softly, his lover's soft, pale, beautiful hips rose sweetly against Frank's tattooed form. [ / i ]

Parts of him feel wonderfully spotless, others, sorely so.
He closes his eyes and rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, sucking on it in a weak imitation of a lover's kiss.

[ i ] He tasted so perfect, so gentle. His warm lips pressed down on Frank's lip ring, the cool metal creating a strange contrast, sending a smooth shiver down his spine. They moved like magic together, like two silk cloths falling soft together onto cotton sheets. [ / i ]

He curls his hand into a fist, scratches his palm roughly. His hands hurt- sting like hell. The scratching is only making the stinging worse, he knows, but he needs to find some way to get rid of the dry itch that never seems to leave.
He wants to be clean. Desperately, he wants to be clean.
He feels miserable, disgusting. He can still feel the chemicals of last night's distraction beneath his hands, the bleach and other things turning his skin rough and dry from constant use.

[ i ] Frank was always so gentle, he always treated his lover like he would break, and with good reason. He skimmed his fingers down his lovers skin, and back up his chest. He smiled, laughed, loved him. His lover was perfection in it's most brilliant form, and Frank had chosen him. [ / i ]

Frank is lonely. He doesn't like to admit it but he is deeply, achingly, disgustingly lonely. He misses his lover like he misses alcohol, he misses his lover like he misses the ability to feel any emotion besides cleanliness or the need to clean.

[ i ] Frank kissed the hollow of his lover's neck, the gentle dip of skin between his collar bones. He smiled against his lover's neck, told him that he was beautiful, because he truly was. Frank rolled his lips softly against his lover's body, his teeth slid smoothly across his skin. Frank loved the man with every ounce of his very being, he made sure he knew that. [ / i ]

Frank stretches out further, as loose and unkempt as he can allow himself to be. His head aches, sharp and stabbing. He feels something deep in his mind tighten and roll and fill itself with sadness. His head pounds and constricts his emotions to nothing but dull pain. His skin feels too loose, he feels dirty, quite suddenly. He wants to drown himself and free himself from the dirty world around him.

[ i ] Frank kissed every inch of his lover's skin, every spot. Frank ran his fingers down every ache, traced his tongue across every sore spot, pressed his lips against every bad thought and cured it with the promise that he was beautiful. He cured it with the promise that he was loved, because he knew that one day, he wouldn't be there to heal his pain. [ / i ]

The real relief he needs, though, he knows is half way across the world. The cure to this pain is somewhere off enjoying himself, probably painting or drawing some new masterpiece that says he doesn't care about the troubled soul that left him in the hotel on this same night last year.

[ i ] Frank woke one morning far before his lover did. He worked quickly, placed the roses in a circle, placed the note in the center. He cried. He wished he could just write, "Out for coffee. I'm bringing you some, too, don't worry. I love you. See you soon, sweetheart." But instead, his fingers petted the roses, ran smoothly across the card as closed it, because if he stayed, he would end up killing his lover, just like all the ones before him. [ / i ]

Frank presses both dry, rawly clean hands against his face. He still wants to cry.

[ i ] He had not wanted to write "I'm sorry. I loved you, don't forget that. Don't try to find me. Goodbye." His fingers curled into his palms. Tears stung at his eyes. Nothing made sense. This one was special, couldn't he keep just one? He didn't want to have to kill Gerard, that was why he had to leave. [ / i ]

Gerard liked to drink, said it inspired him to paint, and Frank hasn't gotten drunk since he left.
But he had taken Gerard's cigarettes.
He'd always stolen Gerard's cigarettes.
And Frank, well, he planned on suffocating in the smoke.