The White Lies.

Fingers gripping bed sheets, salt-water dropping from skin, skin melting away from bone, bones cracking and twisting, bearing the heart. Heart beating fast fast fast. Blood quivering, God, oh God, oh God, I’m breathing hard, begging him for something, but I’m not sure what. And there’s a grin on his face, fucking ecstasy across his lips, and I let out another moan. He’s gripping my shoulders, God, oh God oh God, I can see stars behind my eyes, and I’m afraid he might make me burst because he’s gripping so hard, but I just don’t care.

And then he’s lying next to me, and I’m curling into his chest, and he’s pulling away, getting dressed. I’m biting my lip, asking him why. But he doesn’t answer, just walks out the door silently, leaving me to break.

“D-do you m-miss him?” the stutter brings me out of my trance; he’s curled into the bed. I keep my fists clenched – they look like china porcelain, so white. I want to reach out and punch him, right square in the fucking jaw, watch the blood fall from his lips, I want to destroy his fucking face; how could he ask that. My boyfriend. Mine. Mine mine mine mine.

“Do y-you think w-we were s-stupid?” he asks, shivering, and pulling the blanket up further. Stupid. Stupid, we were stupid, he was stupid, I want to claw his face off so I don’t have to see those fucking sad eyes anymore. It wasn’t his boyfriend, he doesn’t get to fucking mourn. He laughs. “G-God, I m-mean, we b-believed him.” The lies.

“Shut up!” I shriek, whirling around. He melds into the bed even more and whimpers, tears falling off his face. “Just. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. He wasn’t even your boyfriend.”

And he looks like he’s caught in the headlights, stuck, can’t move; he looks like a fucking truck is about to barrel into him, fire’s about to smolder him. “B-but, I loved him too!” he shrieks, getting hysterical. “H-he loved me t-too.”

Lies.

And all of the sudden I break, I’m breaking, skin is pulling away from the bone, bearing it as they all crack and shatter, and my organs are shriveling up with hatred and bitterness; confusion. And I lunge forward, grabbing him, wrapping my fingers around his neck. “No. no no no no no no no.” It is a mantra, convincing me of what I want to believe, and not the truth. I watch him turn blue, carbon dioxide spreading through his veins slowly.

And he laughs. It sounds horrible; nails scraping against a chalkboard, making ears bleed dangerously. I let go, hands trembling, and back up. Back back back; into the wall. I slide down, sobs choking me. “Nooooo,” I moan, clutching my sides.

“Jeph, who was that?” he turns, and smiles, kissing my lips. His eyes are shining with lies, I can practically hear them screaming at me not to believe him. His fingers run down my arms, chills following; his grin only grows wider.

“It was nobody.”

“I didn’t believe him. Not for one. Fucking. Second,” I hiss out, glancing up at him. His own are glazed over with fear and hatred. Just as much confusion. I can see his heart through them. It’s shriveled with as much hate. As many lies.

We are alike – so fucking alike, and I hate it. I hate it so much. I want to murder him, fucking watch him die slowly, so I don’t have to feel like it’s all his fault anymore. But it is, it is his fault, it will always be his fault.

It’s all such denial, such aggressive hatred, it’s like we’re dancing around each other, snakes, trying to kill the other, and we keep pulling back as the enemy is about to strike. Taunting, grinning, teasing, smirking. “I-it’s your fault,” I sob. “Oh my God, it’s all your fault!” The smirk fades from his face like I’ve just stabbed him, or something, and his eyes glaze over.

“I-“

“Y-you w-wanted him to come get you,” I let it tumble from my mouth delicately, hit the ground with a soft noise. We are rolling dice here; it is all dangerous territory. We are so fucked over, fucked up. “and he went.”

“Jeph, where are you going?” He smiles, kissing my lips, running a finger down my cheek.

“I need to pick a friend up, okay? I’ll be right back, promise. Okay?” His eyes are telling me to trust him, and I’m nodding, all the sudden, letting my thoughts go, and he kisses me again, and he leaves, and I sit there waiting.

“You can’t fucking b-blame this on m-me!” he shouts. “I c-can’t help what happens on the fucking r-road.” He’s stuttering because he knows I’m right, he’s stuttering and shaking, because he knows that there’s no denying this. I have him on this, I win just this one thing.

And his lips are moving a million miles an hour, still trying to deny that one accusation, but I can’t fucking hear him, because there’s a rushing sound and a pain in my head, and I’m trying to move, but my body won’t let me even though my mind’s telling it too. It just won’t fucking let me.

And then he notices something’s wrong. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He’s by my side, trying to help pull me up, and I’m whimpering, Jeph’s vision is burning my retinas painfully, and I’m trying to get rid of it. I begin to think clawing my eyes out might be the only way.

“P-please be okay,” he stutters. “P-please.”

“Did you fuck him?” I ask, even though my head might explode. “Really, answer, did you fuck him?” He contemplates all that I’m asking and my current condition – I can see the wheels turning in his head slowly, clicking things together. His stupid topaz eyes are shining with tears as he shakes his head.

“N-no.”

“Did he-“

“No!” he cries. “No. P-please stop.”

“Wasn’t I enough?” I ask, running my fingertips along his arms bravely. “He needed you too? He had to love you too? What’s so special about you? Show me.”

“Stop it,” he mumbles, pulling his arm away. I glower at him, I pull him back, and he growls.

“Show me!” I plead, “What’s so fucking special about you; what I can’t give him; show me.” He shudders away from my touch, eyes closing.

“I never fucked him, I swear to god,” he whispers.

“Then what did you do?” I ask him blankly. He opens his eyes and gives a painful smile, one that cracks along the edges and bleeds.

“I listened. You were always so busy fighting; I listened.” I pull away from him all the sudden, my stomach churning, vomit rising.

“Oh God,” I panic, gripping onto the sheets. “Oh God, oh God, oh Gooood.” And he just sits there, just fucking sits there listening to my cries, and watching my sick spatter against the sheets when the salt water gets to be too much.

I’m drowning drowning, dying, the pain has to end sometime, right? But it won’t; I have too many regrets, and he has too many regrets; and we’re just so fucked up beyond belief it’s no longer funny anymore. “I n-never listened,” I choke, the alkaline acidic taste settling on my tongue thickly, making me want to vomit again. “He w-wanted me to listen.”

He trembles. “H-he loved you more.”

But it’s so fucked up because he didn’t; he didn’t love me any fucking more, because he loved someone who would listen, he loved someone who would shut the fuck up and listen. And I never did, never could.

“D-did it hurt?” I ask him, burying my face into the pillow. I think I’m suffocating myself; I want to suffocate myself. My lips are trembling, my eyes are burning, and my head’s exploding, but I ignore it anyways. I wait for his answer. All there is, instead, is a bunch of mute blank silence, where all you can hear is his empty breathing and my attempt to stop breath; but instead I just keep having to bring my head from the cotton pillow and take in huge gulps of bitter oxygen. “When I told you, did it hurt?”

Silence silence silence; I bite my lip until it bleeds and stings. When finally he replies. “I wanted to kill you,” he says angrily. “I wanted to punch you until your face was deformed, stab you; anything.” I’m not surprised, not even hurt. Not when I felt the same thing.

So fucking alike, can’t you see?

“Me, too,” I whisper. “I hate you so bad,” I laugh. “So bad. Because, because…”

“Because it’s my fault,” he states. His face glows in the moonlight, and I can see the tears that fall down carefully. They make nearly intricate designs, like they’re the paint and his face is the canvas. And even though I hate him so much, I can see what Jeph saw in him, the looks, the understanding personality, the body that’s so seemingly perfect; he’s Gerard: The Perfect Boy. And I am Bert: The Messed Up Lover who Lost it All. There’s not a bone in his body that isn’t beautiful and delicate. Or complete. Broken; I can see he’s just as broken.

He comes over, his breath caressing my earlobe, his eyes closed, his fingers gripping the soft inner part of my wrist so tightly I’m afraid there will be bruises in the morning. “Because it’s my fault. Mine mine mine mine mine.” And I pull back.

And I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know it’s so fucked, so disgusting, so repulsive, and I don’t care, because all the sudden, I feel like I might be whole again anyways, because his lips are against mine, and his fingers are pulling through my hair, and my arms are around his neck, and we’re moving together at a ludicrously slow pace. And then his lips are off mine. “I’m not going to fuck you just because you hate me.”

“Then fuck me because you hate me.” His lips are back on mine, and his shirt is coming off, and so are his jeans, and then so are mine; I’m not sure why, it’s not sinking in, I don’t even know who he is anymore. Just that we’re screwed, so screwed; so disgusting.

Bodies moving slick with sweat, eyes clouding over with hate and lust, hurt and anger, mind numbing, painful thrusts, and I don’t mind, I simply can’t care right now, because I need to feel something, I need to be okay for once. I need him out of my mind, out from under my skin. Like he’s a fucking demon that needs to be exorcised and this is the only way – that only way. However disgusting and betraying.

And later, he’s lying there staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t say anything, not really, but I hear the one word escape his lips before he can catch it, and it runs into the air fleetingly. “Why?” But I’m not entirely sure what he’s questioning.

“He won’t go away,” I whimper, instead. “Ever. I can hear his voice, and he’s bugging me, just so bad.”

“He’s dead,” he chokes out hoarsely.

“But he’s still here, Ger. He’s not getting out of my mind!” He sits up and stares at me, topaz eyes glinting in the moonlight with anger and confusion.

“Shut up about him,” he whispers softly. “Just stop talking about him. That’s so fucking ridiculous.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” I shriek, brittle fingers threading into the soaked sheets, lungs starting to feel like they might burst. He just fucking blinks. “H-he just stays there; won’t go away.”

Behind him, I can see the moon slipping down underneath the buildings, and the pink of morning sky rising up in the west, mixing together with the grey colour. His silhouette is painted against the wall still, tiredly sagging. I try to breath through my nose more.

“Shut up, please,” he begs with me. “I don’t want to hear about him anymore tonight. Ever. I fucked you, isn’t that enough?”

Enough? Enough? Insert knife in throat.

“Make it go away,” I plead with him. “I don’t care how, just make it go away.” I can feel the sweat seeping through my pores again, my breathing slack off even more, and my fingers tremble again. He growls and rolls over onto me.

“What? Fuck you again?” he spits. “Is that what you want? You pretend I’m him, don’t you, Bert. You pretend it’s his pretty little face instead of mine,” his hands curl around my wrists, tightening tightening tightening bruising slowly. His lips curl upwards. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“N-no! You’re not even close, not even fucking close to him; how can I pretend that?” I hiss.

“Things are easier when you’re insane,” he retorts. I push him off me and he lands on the ground with a soft thud, the floor vibrating, bed creaking. I close my eyes.

“I’m not insane.”

“Aren’t you?” he questions rhetorically. “Really? Because telling me about this, letting me fuck you, letting me touch those exact same lips he’s touched; that sounds insane to me.”

“Shut up!” I shriek. “God, please, shut up, I’m not fucking insane.”

He shuts up, though, and sits up on the floor, leaning against the whitewashed walls that dirt stained. His eyes slip closed, and his head falls back against it, knees coming up to his chest. He’s still shirtless, his pale skin glowing. “W-we’re both i-insane,” he chokes out through tears. “Abso-fucking-lutely i-insane. We believed him.”

And this time, this time, I don’t deny it. Because he’s right, and he knows it. He knows that we’re stupid and insane and disgusting and in denial. The image of Jeph begins to burn my retinas again, as salt water fills them. “You never fucked him?” I question softly. He laughs.

“As much as I hate you, I wouldn’t do that. It wasn’t cheating; he never cheated.”

We both know he’s lying. We both know that he’s a fucking liar, just like Jeph was, we both know that if Jeph hadn’t lied we wouldn’t be here right now, with everything lost. We both know the bed wouldn’t reek of sex and vomit, and we wouldn’t be stuttering over who loved him more.

Lies are always easier. Denial is always easier. It’s always fucking easier to sin sin sin. “Y-you should go,” I tell him softly.

“Okay,” he says simply. The t-shirt goes on, and the door opens as he steps out. He stops just short, once more. “He didn’t,” he repeats.

Always easier.

The levee breaks and the tears flood the bed as I cry myself to sleep. So fucking messed up. So fucking insane, so fucking dried out and held in and screwed over, because that’s what he’s done to me.

“I love you,” a soft fleeting whisper, his hands cupping my face, his lips over mine again.

“I love you too.

The little white lies.