Pure White

Desire is Death

"Shall I read you a beautiful sonnet?"


Pure White:

Desire is Death


He feels, every time, as if under a spell of narcotic. Everything seems foggy. Every thought too hazy to be formed into something coherent. In his somnolent mind, treading the line between the realm of waking and slumbering, his vision, so clouded like the smoke that will soon rise from the very tip of his cigarette, seems to be able to focus clearly on one thing:

A face, so deceptively angelic, so pleasing to the eyes with eyes the mesmerizing color of molten amber; with nose perfectly upturned matching the creature's arrogance; with lips so delicate yet so strong the impact those words they are able to speak.

It's ironic how the picture imprints now so vividly in his mind whereas he has spent years staring at the man's blurry photo.

"You don't seem well." The words, to him, are like drowned out whispers and he keeps staring at the no-longer-blurry face as a pale hand comes up to cover his own larger one, helping him hold the cigarette in place. Then orange colored flame lights up, igniting the end of his little stick of cancer.

He takes a deep drag, feeling again that familiar smoke that somehow connects him to the presence of his numbing sense. And yet, as he blows the puff out; the gray smoke veiling again the vividness of the face he has become so addicted to look at, he frowns and squints his eyes.

"Is it too dark?" inquire those enticing lips from behind the lingering veil of smoke. "Shall I draw back the curtains?"

The thin frame moves, receding away. Yet, even in his foggy state of mind, he is still quick. His arm shoots out, snatching that slim wrist, promptly dragging the figure closer to him.

Against his chest. Into his arms.

"Stay." He whispers. And the pale creature seems to listen and oblige.

And sometimes…that is all that he wants.

This place cannot be heaven. It cannot be heaven because heaven cannot be so dark. And yet, he has no wish to ask either that there is always light. True, he prefers that there is enough light in the room so he can see that beautiful face but he would not ask for the room to be completely bright.

He remembers being in a room where there is no darkness.

Three years. It has been three years since his first fall into the abyss where he can only keep staring and staring, wanting nothing but to shed light and judgment on the unsolved mystery that he could not then unveil. Darkness obscures the truth. Yet, sometimes, if you want to get a hold of truth, you need first to dive into the darkness.

A fool he was. To think that. For when all the darkness disappeared, the truth displayed there became so blatant. You then became a prisoner of your own nervous system.

No - there were no rats. No cage of starving rats ready to latch at his very face when their cage was let open. There was no other prisoner, no other victim that he could give up - if he would ever give one up - instead of him.

He had only himself to sacrifice.

Only him and the truth that he has spent so many years seeking being played again and again before his eyes. The plastination process of Sasayama Mitsuru - being skinned and cut open - as he was slowly being turned into a specimen. Alive. The Plastination process took time and he had to watch - his eyes being forced open to watch - as Toma Kozaburo delightfully studied his innards, pondering which piece should be put where to complete his art. The man's scream kept ringing over and over in his ears, haunting him even more than those nightmares he never ceased having.

Again and again and again Sasayama kept screaming. Again and again and again he struggled, trying to get away from the chair that he was tied with. Away from the light. Away from the truth.

He no longer has those nightmares now.

He surrenders. It is easier to surrender now when he stares at that angelic face smiling at him in the dim light. The only one thing so beautiful, so serene and alive aside from the faces of a dead man and his sadistic murderer. And he clings onto that one image despite all the hatred that should have burst.

If this pale creature ever tells him 2+2 =5, he would easily believe him. And he needs him, needs this beautiful creature - the former enemy that he wanted nothing more than to crush.

"Stay." He whispers. It always feels better when he cannot think straight. Because he will know all that he wants is him.

And sometimes…just being close is not enough.

How many times have they been doing this?

Many and many and many. Too many it has become countless. He watches as Kougami's cigarette becomes lifeless as the other crushes it in his hand. And he smiles welcomingly as the other man's lips touch his, warm tongue soon delving into his mouth, bringing the taste of that old cigarette he smoked.

Desire is indeed interesting.

Makishima Shogo has been wondering about the root of human's will - how to create the thing called desire. Is it possible that desire can be artificial? Or if the desire is genuine, what twists and bends such desire to the will of another's and to what extent is such twisted desire worth?

And he keeps testing it, vaguely hoping if there would be something worth calling a splendor. This desire manifested from twisted hatred and obsession - for he would never call it 'love'.

And so they keep dancing. He doesn't refuse as Kougami keeps touching and wanting and bucking wildly into him.

If there's something that he loves, it's a game called life.

Sometimes, in between those throngs of passion, in a frenzy of moaning and thrashing and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, he thinks he can almost feel it. That missing piece of puzzle he has been searching for.


"Yes. Like that… Don't stop. Keep pounding into me." His breath is heavy and he doesn't care to stop his moans from sounding; they resound in the room, echoing again and again like the sound of music.


His nails dig hard into the other man's skin, leaving his own marks that will remain more than just some bruises. And it is that name that drives the other man wild.

"Show me…your desire."

Like a carnivore without control.

The sex turns animalistic and it happens over and over and over again - the sound they make swallowing the little noise from the device in the background. There is no need anymore to play the Plastination clip over and over. The room is dark and while the projection device is still on, it plays nothing.

"Makishima…" His name escapes the other's man lips as their dance comes to an end and the after glow that follows leaves the man delusional. "…Shogo."

For he keeps whispering his first name.


And those strong arms wound themselves around him in a ridiculously intimate embrace.

Morning comes and golden eyes look amusedly down at dark ones that sleepily open. Angelic face, mysterious smile and enticing lips. It is the same every morning. The white angel is reading him a book.

"Shall I read you a beautiful sonnet?"

He closes his eyes then reopen them again, gazing up at nothing but that face - bathed in soft morning light. Those thin lips offer him a smile and the pale creature's voice sounds as he listens.


"My love is as a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease,

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

Th'uncertain sickly appetite to please.

My reason, the physician to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

Hath left me, and I, desperate, now approve

Desire is death, which physic did except.

Past cure I am, now reason is past care,

And frantic mad with evermore unrest;

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,

At random from the truth vainly express:

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night."


A/N: [1] The room without darkness, the rat cage and 2+2=5 refer back to Orwell's 1984

[2] The ending sonnet is W. Shakespeare's sonnet 147

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