1. A point where lines intersect A sob escapes him all of a sudden, too loud in the vast silence of the night.
She doesn't hear him, though; she never does. If I still had a heart, it would
be breaking inside me now. Even dead, I feel myself splintering, wishing I could
go to him and put my arm around him, comfort him, cry with him. But I can't.
Ghosts don't touch. Ghosts don't cry.
A long time passes before he raises his head and looks at me. The room is still
dark, shadows whispering at every corner; yet I can see the dull gleaming in his
eyes, tears clinging to them, spiking his eyelashes and making them glisten and
tremble as he wipes them away. The look on his face tells me he wants me to come
closer, but before I even move he is getting up, long limbs straightening and
reaching towards me. He's beside me in an instant; I listen for the catch in his
breath, the hesitation in his soul...but they never come.
I come apart a little more then, sad and elated at the same time: finally, he
has grown accostumed to my presence.
"Why, Alex?" he asks brokenly, his voice a mere whisper. "Why do you keep coming
back?"
I lower my gaze from his for a moment, too lost for words. When I was alive,
that tone would always make me shiver.
"Why do you ?" I counter at last.
He just nods, understanding it all too well. His hand glides up as if in slow
motion, his fingers extending towards my lips until they hover near, oh so, so
near... I long for the contact, yearn for his warmth...but it cannot be. Never
again.
I am dead. Starlight passes through me, shadows don't conceal me. I have no
substance. And he...he has too much. He's my anchor, my mirror, the echo of
every breath I ever took, the well that has swallowed every breath I will never
take again. He is the fuel that made me burn. I am the fire that's consuming him
whole.
This is the way it's always been between us, beauty and tragedy intertwined;
like us, they're one and the same.
He stares at me, long and hard, his hand still inches from my lips. "Is there no
way...?"
I stare back. He knows the answer to that, and still he asks. Every single damn
time.
Hope is a terrible thing.
I pierce him with my gaze. He sighs, starts to turn away; I resign myself,
knowing I'll leave as soon as he exits the room. Until the next time he needs
me.
"No."
The word is abrupt, and the determination I hear in it sounds much too fierce to
be contained in such a short statment. But before I can understand what's
happening he's turning back to me, stepping closer, closer, wrapping his arms
around me and pulling me to him, into him...and reality is splitting,
sundering, and somehow I find myself...
...I find myself inside him. Literally. Wearing his body as if it were my own.
Dizziness hits me like a hammer. Mulder's knees buckle, giving way under
him—under me. We fall down, pain lancing through his body as he lands in a heap
on the cold, hard floor. His lungs draw a shuddering breath, and I can taste it;
I laugh aloud, startled, and the unexpectedness of it in turn startles the both
of us. We laugh again, this time in delight.
We lie still for a while, each of us trying to familiarize himself with this
merging, this being that is neither me nor him, our thoughts meeting and
retreating in tentative waves. I feel the heaviness of his limbs, the rush of
his blood, the rhythm of his heart; I feel , and the sensations are so
overwhelming I almost panic. But Mulder is there, he's here, with me, and I
surrender the last vestiges of my resistance with nothing more than a sigh.
Mulder's hands start moving then, pulling his tee-shirt up, touching his
stomach, his chest. I feel the heat of his skin radiating underneath his finger
pads; it's strange, and wonderful, and frightening...we are touching ourselves,
touching each other, touching... The intimacy of it is so profound as to make
every other touch in each of our remembered lives seem flat in comparison, a
mockery, a lie. And now truth is pouring out of us, into us, and Mulder shudders
and I cry out as his roving hands close around his cock, his balls, pumping,
caressing, silk and steel and liquid fire, and it's so good, so fucking good...
We whisper, we moan, and it's both of our voices in the same strain; both of us
arching up off the floor in ecstatic gasps, both of us writhing as we make love,
love, oh, Love...
It's both of us chocking as one of Mulder's hands grips his throat, breath
failing, orgasm near, and yes, it's just like death, so much like it, the same,
the same; and I can feel myself start to float away from him, and I try to stay,
he tries to hold me, but I'm going fast, and I can't, and he can't, can't stay,
can't breathe, can't, can't...
And with my—his?—our last breath I plead, "Come with me..."
And he does.
Intersection
by Marcia Elena
Noun: Intersection:
2. A place where one street or road crosses another
3. A point or set of points common to two or more geometric configurations
4. The set of elements common to two or more sets
5. A representation of common ground between theories or phenomena
6. The act of joining by causing your path to intersect your target's path
I stand in the dark and watch him cry. He doesn't make a sound, and neither do
I. His shoulders shake, slightly at first, then more violently as his grief
deepens.
