Hot one! From the starship over Venus to the sun!

[greedy fly]

It was like a cyclone had dipped down from a maliciously-blackened sky and caused mass anarchy and riots in his kitchen. But, that was the way Gin usually lived, in a state of disarray and disorder. Seven hovered over the stove for his venus boy, and made him a fancy meal only to dip the noodles and dispersed shrimp over paper plates, antique Merlot reddening the interior of styrofoam cups.

The former glam star pranced in the kitchen completely naked, fresh from slumber at almost two o'clock in the afternoon, vanilla-skinned, and freckle-splotched. He crashed into a seat after looming behind the culinary artist (with prism eyes and a heart-shredding smile) and they ate together in a tranquil silence; Seven eventually relenting and spilling into his lap, Gin dousing his skin with kisses and feeding him pronged bites.

The wildchild and leader of his own self-proclaimed sexual revolution had scabs burning on the slabs of his forearms, healing to nothing but a maroon, pinprickle fanbase. There was no drug in this world better than a devil in angel skin with trigger-itchy fingers and a mouth that tasted like ambrosia when it was warped in ajar groans.

[greedy fly]

Goodbye love
Didn't know what time it was the lights were low oh how
I leaned back on my radio oh oh
Some cat was layin' down some rock 'n' roll 'lotta soul, he said
Then the loud sound did seem to fade a ade
Came back like a slow voice on a wave of phase ha hase
That weren't no D.J. that was hazy cosmic jive

There's a starman waiting in the sky
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds
There's a starman waiting in the sky
He's told us not to blow it
Cause he knows it's all worthwhile
He told me:
Let the children lose it
Let the children use it
Let all the children boogie

I had to phone someone so I picked on you ho ho
Hey, that's far out so you heard him too! o o
Switch on the TV we may pick him up on channel two
Look out your window I can see his light a ight
If we can sparkle he may land tonight a ight
Don't tell your poppa or he'll get us locked up in fright

There's a starman waiting in the sky
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds
There's a starman waiting in the sky
He's told us not to blow it
Cause he knows it's all worthwhile
He told me:
Let the children lose it
Let the children use it
Let all the children boogie

-- bowie.

[greedy fly]

It was a strenuous thing. His fingers flexed, his heart raced. As though he were suffering through withdrawal, Gin stared at the notebook open on his mattress. It was about twelve feet away, because he was cradling himself in his doorway, completely naked, contemplating.

There was a pen just staring at him, sprawled diagnolly across the clean sheet. Like some sort of prowling panther he dipped onto his hands-and-knees and shifted across the room, his shoulderblades quirking through mole-flecked, vanilla flesh. Then, he pounced it, and wrote the first song he'd written in four years.

[greedy fly]

That night his thick platforms collided with the pavement in echoing rage, his fists lurid-white in wrought tension. Platnum hair with overgrown dark roots fled and whipped over his shoulder, his eyes piercing into vague, little slits. It wasn't until he slammed into his apartment that he felt numb, and disjointed. He threw himself face-first on his dirty mattress upstairs, the lamplight and ceiling fan glaring down at him. He cried like he did when he was a little boy, screaming boisterously into his pillow, throwing a tantrum. He thrashed his legs and arms, kicking the protesting springs angrily until it disintegrated into a self-pity fest where he squeezed the sheets in frustration, and shrieked the same thing over and over again:

What did I do wrong? Oh God, what did I do?


He retraced his steps. Every day he'd visited Seven in prison religiously, worshipping him, devout in his faith, refusing to derail from their iron-wrought, passionate love even if they'd been apart for months. Gin helped him bury that body, and he'd be there to intercept him in his arms when he was back.

But now, Seven was turning cold shoulders, he was shrouding his wrists in bruise bracelets like his father and brother oftentimes did, and the sheer memory of it was repulsive, nauseating--- horrible. Finally, sleep came over him. He'd expended too much emotional energy on Seven and drifted off into a gray, dreamless sleep. The only things that haunted his mind were little ghosts that managed to seep through the crevices. And they told him to kill himself, because the only thing he lived for was gone.

[greedy fly]

Life had been lonely for the venus boy. He acted like he was stigmatized from society; hibernating in the sallow walls of his bedroom, or strung out in his kitchen, trying to fatten himself up with alcohol, but his metabolism was much too high. If he was sober, it was for a thirty second hangover headache which Advil promptly quelled. Cheap, sleazy porn, stringy hair, sporadic showers, and bathtime rubber ducky blues -- Gin Shock was dead inside, and it was beginning to show on the outside. All he wanted was for Seven to come back to his senses and say he loved him again, so they could be youthful and frolick along doing the most moronic things. Instead, he laid slung across his sofa, with ancient David Bowie sifting through the bruise-blackened walls --- Rock N' Roll Suicide. His scrawny, pale arm was positioned like a pillow behind his dandelion skull, his eyes deadbeat and crudely peeling over the cracked ceiling. A bottle of Jack was tucked right next to his ribcage, and every now and again, he'd take swigs.

Seven had been wandering aimlessly since his release from prison, afterall, he had no where to go, and hadn't a single friend in the world besides Gin. He adored him more than he'd admitted at the time; for reasons he would explain to him when the time was right. He stumbled down the streets without any general direction; except for in the back of his mind, he was trully going to Gin's townhome. Wearing salvation armies finest worn jeans and a t-shirt that was logoless and barren. His own clothing had been too filthy to carry on, and so he disposed of them in a trashcan a few days ago. He hadn't shaved in God knows how long. He found himself on that familer porch, standing beneath the awning with both hands resting at his side. For what seemed like a very long time, he lingered without knocking, and then he did. Using more strength that was required, practically attempting to break his door down. Or--rather--making it sound like he was. He knew Gin, and he knew he was either hung over, or passed out drunk.

The knocking didn't penetrate his hearing for the longest time. All of his mental barriers were up-- he was depressed, and when depressed he usually retired to a whole different reality. His leather pants were unbuckled, cradling his too-skinny abdomen dangerously low. While his vision rotted and rusted on the ceiling, he finally began to stir, lackadaisically taking a zombified stroll past the doorway and up his stairway. He didn't answer the door. Ambling into his room, he let his knees crumble on the window sill, and his image could be made out, peering through the blurry glass with an almost curious expression smudged across his face. He was trying to make out just who was there. When he spotted Seven, he felt his heart sink, and that was when his fingers fringed the neutral, battered curtain to tug it shut into obscurity.

Seven's knocking hadn't relented in volume or speed, so much that the brunt of his fist hurt from doing it so rapidly. Stepping back several feet, he rolled the crystaline gaze of blue to focus on that window, raising his voice to a volume that would wake every neighbor in the streets. Pausing in his scream, he noticed the curtain part away..he pointed his finger back up to the window. "You think you can just bloody shut me out! FUCK YOU!" One would think those were departing words, but he lowered his body like a line backer and pulled a running start at the door. He could feel the hinges creaking, but it still wouldn't open. So then he tried kicking it with the balls of his feet. "I'm going to BREAK DOWN this FUCKING door..and you're going to listen to me!" Backing up, he tried another running tackle, throwing beanpole frame onto the door. With all of his anger the door broke, and he collasped with it. A loud thud along with a groan erupted from the downstairs, Seven reaching to cradle his right shoulder that had sucessfully opened the door..well, sorta.

Gin's chin began to boyishly tremble, his lower lip becoming juicy with the gloss of his tongue and anticipating waterwork salt-taffy tears. When they came, he stood away from his window, and took an almost comical cock of his head to intercept another slosh of liquor. Still shaking his head, he suddenly heard the splatter of loud noises which caused his almost asleep heart to palpitate in his chest. "What the ---" Rushing out of the bedroom after letting his bottle stray from his side to settle on the bureau, he rushed to mount his staircase, and at the very top, peaking stair, he braced his hand on the railing and stared down at the boy who broke down his door. Wide-eyed, Gin used the reverse of his wrist to smudge away the glow of his tears. "What the --what the fuck, Seven!"

He was resting ontop of the door with cracks running up the length, and spilnters littering the part of the floor the door resided ontop of. Groaning, he reached down to check to make sure everything was still in place, including his twig and two berries. Sighing, that familer voice rung out, and he was compelled to crawl from ontop of the door, and to the foot of the staircase where he could better view Gin; the whole point of coming here had been to see him. Clearing his throat, thick lashes fell several times before he decided to answer. "I needed to see you." The ragged breathing jolting his body slowly began to concede to some kind of normalcy. He was kneeling at the foot of the stairs, unknowing if Gin wanted to see him or not. "I needed to tell you that everything I said in the bar was bullshit. I'm in love with you as much as I was when i went in. I'm sorry about the door." For once since his departure he was thinking clearly, off the medication they had forcefully administered, and everything else he had pumped into his body since.

Completely electroshock-frazzled, his emotions frayed from the socket, his body on the verge of earthquaking, he stared at the door incredulously. Ripping fingers through unctuous vines of hair, he just crackled out a bemused, lunatic chuckle. "Jesus Christ. I don't have the money to ---FIX THAT. JESUS CHRIST!" Nearly lunging for the rail, he started to thrash down the staircase, his knees bobbing up and down, his belt jangling wildly. Then he halted and stared at Seven on the bottom stair hilt. "Seven....what you said..." Trying to pacify himself, he sucked down a deep breath, extinguishing the fire encrusted in his heartcage. "Killed me." The evidence was written all over his face; lilac bruised, sunken eyes, submerged cheekbones, a tear-streaked canvas.

"I'll pay for it..Don't worry." How? He'd get a job and give him the money, doing anything; he didn't really care anymore. He hadn't written a word in months, and seemed doomed never to get published. He'd given up on writing entirely, and didn't even seem to care. Thrusting his gaze to the side when he began to descend the stairs, until he said the words that broke his heart; more so than it had already been. Both arms entangled his les like fines, pushing his face into the top of his thighs to keep the tears streaming down his face from showing. "But..It wasn't me. I swear to fucking god it wasn't me. Please...Please don't hate me. I love you so much, Gin. Don't leave me alone, Please don't. It'll just be like being back in prison." He couldn't control it now, he was sobbing into his legs, and he had a death grip on them; just incase Gin trully despised him.

The way he looked so pathetic gave him another sharp puncture wound to a swollen heart (it was the only thing that still bred life inside of him.) His mouth wired into a pouted grimace, sagging at either side. "Don't cry..." Sniffled out as he began to waltz closer to the broken and bruised boy. The alcoholic stepped over the monstrous debris to dwindle to a haunch-laden pose beside him, crouching so that a hand could warm up to his spine, slicing up and down the bent plane. "I'm not mad at ya, Seven..." he blatantly lied. "I love ya, I do..." Nuzzling his nose into the side of his cheek (he was so easily forgiven) he buried his hair and features right into him, right into the hollows of his skin. "Don't be upset, don't...don't worry about the door." Everyone knew that Mr. Shock was a frugal, but closet millionaire.

The tears had created hot rivers down the length of his cheeks, swelling precious blue eyes into something of genuine discontent. And the rest of his body was shaking, and vibrating with the extent of his sorrow. He had never been so trully sorry over anything, and so scared that something, like love, would be taken way from him, due to a fault of his own. Almost flinching when Gin touched him; afterall, he hadn't been touched in months. Though, when he was given the opportunity, both of his arms encircled that fallen rockstar, still quavering, and still crying. "I can't make up for what I said, I know that." Seven was as innocent and vunerable at this point, than he had ever been in his entire life. He buried his head into the man's shoulder, trying to hide the tears; even though he was sobbing like a maniac. He was more scared of Gin leaving him, than the electric chair.

His arms encircled him in return in a makeshift lover's bow, knotting tightly to try and placate the sobs that kept rattling through his body, but he couldn't. "Where have you been all this time, huh? Where the fuck have you been staying, man?" Tears soaked the milkpoured cap of his shoulder, which only made him bow his head like a holy man on the verge of suicide. "Baby..." He was trying not to overreact now -- he wouldn't admit how much he wanted to just fucking die, how worthless and used he felt. Now, he was nothing but a cherished ragdoll, working to suffocate and dote on his baby. "Don't worry about it..don't..." Tangled, scraggly strands of hair twirled a veiled blindfold in front of his clouded vision, impairing it even more through the tears. "Don't.."

He wanted to tackle him with kisses more than anything; but felt, with what he had done to him, that would have been painfully out of line. And who knows, maybe Gin had moved on from all of his bullshit by now. He pulled away from his bare shoulder, a deep breath filling his lungs to subside the painful intakes of air, since he'd been so upset, so loathing of himself. "In the park, right around your house." He tucked those bleached strands behind Gin's ear, and then slowly pryed himself away from the embrace, both hands sliding into the depths of his pockets, sniffling. Rapidly he turned, wiping away at the tears with balled up fists, drying his face that was red and splotchy from the heated rivulets. He'd never cried like that before in his life. He was so in love with Gin and couldn't properly express it. He was moving over to the door, and propping it up in place, at least..making it look like some kind of door. Not only had he screwed up, fucked up their relationship, he'd ruined a part of his home as well. "I wanted to be close to you, I guess." He didn't mention he'd also done it so he would be able to watch him.

".. in the park? You slept..you--home--you had nowhere to go? Homeless ..?" Gin had once lived like a street rat, but that had been when he was a teenager, and preferred the lifestyle to home. But envisaging Seven living that way tore his chest and tissue open. "Why didn't you..." Muttering now with a rupturing sob crashing through his system. "Just come over? I would've fucking been so happy. Really." Inquisitively keeping his gaze tacked onto him as he migrated back to the sun-streaming door, he stood up, brushing door-shrapnel from his thighs, sauntering behind him to place a hand on his shoulder. "Seven, stop." His lips bloomed next to the curve of his ear, his unbuckled belt denting his lower spine. "Say that you love me, just say it, and then everything will be alright."

[greedy fly]

Oh, welcome to the rock n' roll holocaust,
where glitz and glamour is staged like blitzkriegs,
we're all swollen-bellied kings
burning our high school promise rings
with tears in pinhole ducts
We're struggling in the afterglow,
But I swear, everyone once cared about us
We were punk rock, fire and flare
Strangling our own necks with microphone cords and without a care
It wasn't a crime to be underground and to be the living dead
heroin traintracks and bloodied crowns of lead
we were bathed in neon lights and stood with our chins high
smothered in grease, and bellowing kerosene into groupie's thighs
Oh, welcome to the rock n' roll holocaust
where once upon a time every one once was
we were heroes and tragedies in tiny green vials
we were mythical and mysteries and had to breathe through nausea to smile
Now, here we are, and everyone has forgot about us
We live in the gutters and talk through chattering teeth about the rock n' roll holocaust

[greedy fly]

Strutting down the empty street, hands buried in his pockets. Cloud-blotted sun booming and wet. Heatstroke. Love. Dead love. Leather jacket. He doesn't care. He doesn't care that it's hot outside at 5:18 PM, kissing the humid sky with his peroxide-lashed forehead, weaving through bustling rush hour sidewalk traffic. Making a sharp turn down a dismal alley, he moistens his buckled boot and pantleg with a murky puddle. He reaches up to jangle a fire escape, but his fingers stretch out wide and they cannot reach. So instead, he just shrugs it off, blows off some steam (from his cigarette; it is his flashlight through the world) and walks into a stranger. Their chests collide, they both grunt apologetically, they step by one another. He looks over his shoulder, checking him out. Then he moves on. Widowed. He feels widowed.

Another man, another lover, they're all dead to him.

[greedy fly]

He cackled, with his trademark tongue stab at the air like a child with an oversized taffy. Stumbling sloppily away from the alleyway wall, yanking up the tab of his zipper on his vintage leather pants, and buckling his belt, Gin drunkenly swept his shoulder against the brick to merge back into the street. They wouldn't let him piss in the bar because he incited more chaos.

Tonight, he thought it'd be a good idea to do a few shots---with no intention of paying the tabs, and to hop over the bar, and tell the bartender to give him a blowjob. Things didn't always work in Shock's favor, especially when he was a walking trainwreck in platforms.

Pulling drags from his cigarette, half-lidded with his eyeliner whiplashing out on his cheeks like raccoon ink stains. The four am city skyline was eerily star studded, the planted trees staining broken sidewalks varnished with dew and turning burnt shades of autumn. He smiled at absolutely nothing, snickering underneath the currents of his breath and blowing away wisps of tangled peroxide-slick hair.

He didn't even hear the blare of the sirens before they dwindled down to nothing when the officer pulled adjacent with the curb. Nor did he hear the shout and quickly-pacing footsteps. He was in his own little dreamworld--

thinking about Jason Stride, and Seven .. his brother---fuck him. Fuck him, I'll find you motherfucker, I will chop your dick off--

His cheek nailed against a wall, and his arms were being wrenched at the bottom of his spine. At the peak of the officer's scrolling speech, he bellowed whimsically that he wanted to twist his arms harder in a masochistic slur, squinting against a shop window.

Of course, he had scabby tracks decorating his arm like a warped Christmas tree, and he picked up prostitutes nightly, but ... leave it up to Gin Shock to get arrested for indecent exposure.

[greedy fly]

It must've been forty degrees outside, thanks to the fact that winter decided to bald the trees premature. But Gin was dressed in a t-shirt, markered in scabby, maroon trackmarks, and quaking beneath a quilt of pale goosebumps. Oh, after a promenade with himself out in the rain. Whiskey was his oven, caustically eating away at his throat as he threw back another. Solomon was zoning out beside him. The bar was dank, the neon glow was no good for their hangovers, and neither was the lull of the baseball game playing overhead. They were both chainsmoking, sharing an ashtray, consumed in their own thoughts.

Gin's hair was pulled back in a rubberband, a decent fraction of it stray and bleach-burnt ragged, and Solomon huddled inside his gray sweatshirt, shadowed underneath his drawstring hood. He was chasing tequila with tangy Red Stripe, his eyes blazing with the glory of getting smashed. His tolerance was high, so his tabs ran even higher. The ex rock star's fingernails gnawed like dirty talons, flaking the scabs at his forearms, grotesquely opening old wounds and turning on the nozzle of a new bloodflow. The need for a fix was throbbing in his ear drums -- mental asylum percussion.

" .. Just... twenty fuckin' dollars, Sol ... for a fix ..for.."

"No," his only friend bitterly replied, stubbornly swathed in his weary lids.

"Fuck Sol. I always set you up with your ... your shit.. whut the fuck?"

"Don't make me find Seven and tell him what you're fucking up to. Now, knock it off, Shock. Shut the fuck'. Drink."

Whimpering, the burnt-out spaceage tyrant just slipped lower. He wanted to disappear underneath the bar. He felt like the scum of the earth -- he could melt into a toxic, radioactive puddle, and everyone would just be afraid to step in his nuclear ooze. That was what he was picturing, anyway.

"Why are you so bitter, Sol?" He scratched himself again, until he noticed the blood caking beneath his sawed-down nails.

"Because I'm watching everyone waste away around me."

[greedy fly]

Perched in a deadbeat slouch on the examination table, with his denim-smothered legs suspended overboard, scissoring impatiently back-and-forth, Gin watched the snail-tick of the wall clock. Seven acted as though there was no time to spare with a petty's doctor appointment, and drove the boy (who he used to kiss on a daily basis) and his chalk-white skin and fermenting bones to the E.R. His cheekbones were concave and ghastly, lacquered with humid sweat despite the winter temperatures. His attention span was detached completely, judging by his paralyzed trance and downcasted mouth. Corpse-clammy hands wrung over one-another in his lap, his lips parting into a dumbfounded gape when the doctor edged inside, his eyes scrolling over a clipboard. "Mr. Shock, what seems to be the problem?" No health insurance--splendid, and Shock obviously wasn't his real last name. The retired rock star just stabbed a jagged shoulder, shuffling his leather jacket. "I got the flu." The doctor, a tired, balding middle-aged man with oval-shaped spectacles, and a humorously short stature dented his tongue in his cheek, restraining any sarcastic comments. "And how long have you had this flu?" Gin rolled his eyes back to contemplate, his kneecap jogging up and down. " ... bout two months."

Seven was standing off to the side of the examination table; not worried in the slightest bit about the job he'd practically had to suck dick to get, oddly calm that he hadn't showed up without notice. The paper he hadn't bothered to read was tossed in the hazardous trashcan. Where needles and other chemicals were supposed to go, but they could deal with one current events section. When the portly doctor came though the door, clearing his throat in a signal for Seven to move aside. Pretending not to notice, his attention turning to Gin. Reaching out, his fingertips descended onto his boney wrist; dancing up the scars and tracing the marks permanently indented in his veins. When asked what his relationship was with the patient, he again didn't answer; providing a sardonic show by lifting the rockstars wrist to his mouth--and pressing a kiss to the chalky surface. "My brother." He said sarcastically, the pompous brit becoming even more so; in the protective fashion--since the doctor was looking down on his Gin. So if the doctor was going to be an asshole, so was he--and Seven guarenteed that he was better.

The doctor forged this amiable, crooked smile at Gin's reply, and blatantly ignored Seven as best as he could. He abandoned the clipboard, and shuffled across the room to shift through a jar of tongue depressers. Mr. Shock remained fairly unresponsive, though he perked a little when Seven's mouth grazed his wrist, and his touch flirted over his leather jacket along pinprick, plum scabs. His jaw dropped obediently for the stick to weigh on his tongue, as he boyishly hummed listening to the doctor grunt and mutter under his breath. "Okay, I'm going to need you to take your jacket off, Gin." With a sigh, he plucked away at the sleeves of his coat, shedding it limply behind him as the doctor ditched the wooden depresser in a recycling bin, unraveling the blood pressure gauge. Just before he swathed his upper arm in velcro, he cynically noted the trackmarks with a half-eclipse of his lashes, and began pumping his fist, which only caused the diminished veins to jump to the mainstream.

The purpose of Seven being here was to provide emotional support, but Gin seemed to be dealing with things pretty fine on his own. The unveiling of his trackmarks was brought on with a grimace, looking away to the blindng white floor. Reflecting florescent light enough to make him squint to avoid getting a migrane. Planting his palms on the padded table, he pushed himself to be sitting right beside Gin; pressing another kiss elsewhere--this time on his temple. "I think I might be sick too," He smirked, this viced the doctors attention enough to roll his eyes. "I think you better examine me." He nudged Gin with his elbow, but felt the need to elaborate even more--since he was one of the more slow people. "..Naked." It was meant more to make Gin laugh, and make the doctor uncomfortable than in actual seriousness.

Normally this would've incited a riot of obnoxious snickers from the rude venus boy, but he just weakly forcefed him a smile that was so far from authentic. The doctor withdrew, and flashed Seven a sidewhipping glare. "And Mr. Shock...." He threw the equipment aside, and tapped into silence with a stethoscope, his jawline cinched tight in tension. "Could you please take off your shirt? And sir," he was referring to Seven. "If you could please ...just step aside for a moment? Thanks." Asshole. For some reason Gin seemed tentative, and darted a watery stare to Seven, as though he were asking for permission. The hyperactive twitch of his legs was abruptly murdered right there, as black-chipped fingertips reluctantly stitched along the hem of his vintage t-shirt.

"No, sir." The word sir was drawn out for sardonic emphasis, locking eyes with the doctor as if they were playing a game of wits. To see who was more intelligent; who would break first. At least, the game was present in Seven's swirling mind. "I'm fine right here." He extended a hand across Gin's shoulders, the width of his palm smoothing down the back of his platnium head. The corners of his full mouth wrought with a gentle smile, looking towards his counterpart and nodding his head. Seven even took over gripping the hem of his shirt; and attempted to draw it over his head. The flimsy material was carefully and neatly folded, and pressed into the top of his lap. "So are you going to putz around or are you actually going to do something?" He asked of the doctor, in a pompous tone straight from Britain that demanded something--always demanding.

"Sir, I really could do without your attitude, I'm sure your brother here doesn't appreciate it," snapped the doctor, with his emphasis crammed through gritted teeth. Gin's hooded stare switchbladed between both battling forces hovering over him, as he bloomed his undernourished arms overhead, letting Seven peel away at his t-shirt to drip over the examination table. Just as soon as the doctor ambled forward, bracing the stethoscope, he braked, his jaw going lax. He pushed the instrument to sit like a necklace, and adhesively aligned his hands together as though he were in mid-prayer. He nudged his distraught mouth against his fingers, and just bowed his chin, examining Gin as though he had the plague with a cool span of his stare. They were sporadic and small, but there were constellations of bruise-colored lesions dispersed all over his emaciated chest and ribcage-jabbing torso. The doctor just sighed, his hands falling away. "Have you ever been tested, Gin?"