Characters: Young!Watari/Young!Roger (Let's say their 20's)
Rating: (Light) M
Word Count: 2,091
Warnings: Drug use, excessive hallucinations, yaoi-esque events
A/N: Originally written as a giftfic for V-day. I thought it fit the prompt, so yeah. &hearts Pre-Canon
Reds and blues and vibrant greens caught by the edges of the dying sunlight seemed to appear more alive than when the illumination was full. A particularly vibrant leaf caught the corner of Quillish’s eye and he stilled in his tracks, hooking his arm into Roger’s and pulling the younger boy closer to the source.
“Do you see it?” A lock of sandy blonde hair brushed his eye and Quillish impatiently swatted it away, leaning closer and closer to the giant stipule until his nose nearly touched the tip. It appeared as though he held his breath as he did this; his body tensing and his arm becoming tighter and tighter around the dark-haired boy’s until, with an exasperated sigh, Roger yanked his arm away, clearing his throat as he rested it to the side.
“Of course I see it, Quill. I’m standing here, aren’t I?” And there was a certain lilt to his voice which revealed that he was not half as unimpressed as he pretended to be. His posture, however, spoke in different tones. He now stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of cynicism as he watched the other tentatively reach out to run his fingers over the edge of the plant. “I will admit that this whole thing is a bit avant-garde of you.” A chuckle punctuated this as dark eyes slid over the room, taking in as much as he could without actually moving from his tracks.
The smell in the room was pungent, made even more so by it being a heated, enclosed space. No air was allowed in; each window being a sealed one, set to harvest the sunlight and increase its effects on the plants within.
“What you cannot see is more important.” Quillish turned the leaf slightly, running one, smooth fingertip over the underside. “This particular specimen is autotrophic. It converts inorganic material into organic substances. Essentially…” A pause as he turned to glance at the other boy, his smile widening to the point where Roger was forced to wonder whether or not there was a touch of madness to it. “It is self-sustaining. It creates its own food.”
“What is it?”
“Ah, I’ve yet to name it.” The leaf was released and the older boy fixed his gaze on the younger as he ran the same index that slid along the leaf over his lips. “I suppose that I could base its title on the components it was created from, but what is most important is that it has been bred to possess highly hallucinogenic properties.”
This earned an intrigued tilting of Roger’s head. Yes. Quillish knew that once this particular detail was brought up, it would raise the other’s interest exponentially. Predictable.
“It is only a side effect, of course. Not my original aim for this specimen.”
“ I see.”
“The walls’re melting, Quill.”
“No. You are experiencing a visual hallucination.”
“But…” A small shake of Roger’s head as he continued to stare at the sight before him: rippling and dipping in places, rising in others. The entire scene coming together as though a giant disturbance had manifested itself behind the black glass, pushing and prodding and trying so very hard to emerge into his personal space. “It’s moving. An ocean.”
The floor seemed to come up beneath Quillish and he shifted unsteadily, pressed his hands flat against the dirt… No. There was no dirt. Only thinly-laid cement. And yet it was gritty beneath his hands, itching and just a general bother. “Are there fish in your ocean?” It seemed like a perfectly logical question.
“The light. Is it fish?”
“Quill! Are there fish in the glass!”
“No. No fish in the glass.” And his mouth was numb as he answered; his tongue pressing uncomfortably against the roof. He swallowed once, twice, and though there was a sufficient amount of saliva, it was so dry. Quillish wanted to drink the world. To throw himself into what Roger thought was an ocean (It was decidedly not an ocean. Quillish was convinced that the blackness represented a pathway into space. No matter. Let Roger have his delusions.)
And then the ground tilted beneath the both of them when the younger stood to walk over toward the source of his interest. The closer he drew, the deeper the ocean, until his palms rested flat against the warm glass. (Warm ocean. Tropics. Nothing like England. No, no. This wasn’t right. There were fish in the ocean and fish needed the warmth because their blood…no. That wasn’t right either. Cold-blooded, depending on the species. But if the water was warm, the fish were warm-blooded and that meant that the two of them were somewhere else.) ….. “Where have we gone?”
It was said with such a condescending lilt that Roger curled his lip, prevented himself from turning to look at the other. Pompous bastard. One day, the fish would break from the ocean and consume him and then… then… A dry swallow. And Roger wished the water would trickle from the barrier.
“Don’t…don’t touch it. The doorway. If you open it, we will be sucked in.”
“Rubbish. Water doesn’t consume. It spills over. It is us who will consume the water.”
“Madness.” The breaths from the blonde boy’s chest were shallow; forcing themselves out at a rapid pace. Wait. He knew this. This was hyperventilation. It wasn’t unlike the reaction he had from standing on a high ledge, overlooking the ground below.
“No. You are mad. Come and touch it. It’s warm.” Palms slithered over the glass, moving left, then right, the movement of Roger’s hand catching the edge of his peripheral and creating a stream of beige movement that lingered for less than a second before being absorbed by the blackness. And it melted. Melted, melted, melted until there was nothing left and Roger turned abruptly, fixing his stare on the other.
“You’re breathing too hard, Quill.” It was apparent. Frightening. It made Roger’s breath halt and remain until he had to remind himself to inhale.
“Breathe, Quill. And come touch the water.”
“I don’t want to.”
Because one has to breathe to speak.
“Alright.” Languid steps took Roger to where Quillish was stretched over the floor; limbs sprawled out as though someone had posed him that way in a mockery of a disjointed mannequin. It was a sight, really. “It’s not what you think it is.” A crouch and he was almost level with the other, bringing one, shaking hand up to stroke over what could only be corn silk. It was smooth and cool between his fingers; such a blatant contrast from the surface of the ocean.
“It is. I’ve created it.”
“You’ve created nothing. Only harvested what was already there. Men are not Gods, Quill.”
“Aren’t we?” And this was said with a quirk of a fine, pale brow.
“You taste like the ocean.” The flavor of salt peppered the younger boy’s tongue; burning and perking on his taste buds until he was forced to pull away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. It stung. Stung and lingered, like the prickles of one of the other’s experimental specimens. The plants loomed all around them; some hanging, some standing upright, their thorny stalks mocking and whispering; pompous taunts to which Roger only scoffed.
They didn’t know anything. They were only experiments, after all. Possibly to be destroyed, or harvested as compost for the next batch. Let them laugh. They were playthings.
And Quillish: the puppetmaster, the one who toyed with them daily, plucking a leaf here, stripping a stalk there, he only lay still, wide eyes fixed on the glass as a tentative mouth returned to his throat. The feeling was akin to tiny minnows prodding at his skin; slithering up before disappearing altogether, leaving him gasping and wishing for the water to wash away the sensation; abate everything so he could just slip into an endless sleep where the colors weren’t so loud.
And so his eyes closed.
And there was nothing.
“Where are you?”
But death had color. Perhaps it wasn’t a definitive hue, but Quillish could see the outlines of blues and greys behind his eyelids; melding together and creating new shades until it all became one, flat pigment. How boring.
“What is it like?”
“Bland.” His eyes opened, focused, took in the bright light emitting from the ceiling of the greenhouse and one, decidedly determined Roger slipping down his body. Cloth was tugged, moved to the side, dragged up until Quillish felt as though he were being stripped from the inside out. A hand moved to protest, to halt the other, but fell back onto the gritty cement; fingers splaying over the surface. The prickling was back again. Fingers curled into his palm. “What are you doing?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re dead.”
“Oh…right.” Right. And so there was no need for protest when Quillish felt the fabric of his trousers slip down over his hips, the momentary cold shock of skin coming into contact with air. “Does this mean that we’re forgiven?”
“Years and years.” The last syllable was cut off as Roger’s mouth descended and God, Quillish did taste like the ocean. Life and life and everything that was creation. It was his. It was Quill’s and nothing was going to change that. Not the looming tide just beyond the glass barrier and definitely not the condescending plants.
But they were so quiet, now. Everything was, save for Quill’s labored breathing and his own small sounds. As though everything had silenced for them; for this. And that was fine. “You don’t believe in God, anyway.” The statement was silenced by the flavor on the brunette’s tongue, licking up and up until there was no more and he could only kiss. Because Quill would never let him kiss his mouth, never let him have even a semblance of the flavor of those lips. This would have to do. He took it for everything it was worth, until pressure threatened to rupture the back of his throat and force all of the words to spill out. And so he pulled back. In fear. In respect. In whatever was preventing him from proceeding as he wished. Until a warm hand touched the back of his head, fingers tangling in strands and urging him back down.
Yes. This was better.
“Had you been born a woman, you would have made quite the harlot.” The taunt was relayed with the utmost affection; the corner of Quillish’s mouth curling up slightly at his own words. It didn't matter. He was lost. To everything. The light was glowing too brightly and his eyes slipped shut once more, giving in to the bland pigments and Roger’s mouth on him until he was murmuring, whispering something nearly unintelligible that if paid close attention to, resembled: “…not in front of the plants.”
But it didn’t matter.
Roger had won this round.
“Do you love me?”
“I’m dead, remember?” And Quilish’s smile was positively wicked as the colors began to make sense again; his pants long since fastened and the sensations quickly becoming a memory. The ocean was receding, space was back where it was supposed to be and everything was becoming….rather dull.
“I hate you sometimes, Quill.” The air filled with the faint scent of tobacco, accompanied by tiny wisps of smoke, making their way upwards and dissipating into the thick air.
“No. You hate that you have thusfar failed to justify exactly why we do the things that we do.”
A scoff. “I know why.”
“You’re dead, remember?”
A slight wave of his hand. Partly to dismiss the sentiment and partly to clear the air directly in front of him from that rank. “I need air.” And with that, he pushed himself up, the ground still sinking a bit beneath him. Quillish moved his hand to rest on Roger’s arm, but retracted it as soon as he realized what he was doing. The younger always did have a penchant for taking things for more than what they were presented as.
The sound of the end of Roger’s cigarette hitting the ground seemed to echo through the brunette’s ears, causing a wince as Quill pulled the entrance to the greenhouse open. And then it all came crashing down. There was never any ocean. And space was excuse for man to explain God using scientific means.
The sun was too bright in their eyes.