#will i ever run out of gas on skwisgaar doomstar angst

[little-murmaider]

@annibal-the-cannibal​ requested Skwisgaar/Toki for the song meme. This turned out really sad, also more than 100 words, whoops sorry!

How, Regina Spektor To hear your voice, to see your face. There’s not one moment I’d erase. You are a guest here now. 

Toki always woke first. Some mornings his impatient shifting would stir Skwisgaar, but he never had trouble sinking back into sleep. But Toki was undeterred. When Skwisgaar finally roused, he always found Toki in the same spot: hovering above him, chin in hand, always with the same, moonstruck expression.  “Why you looks at me likes dat?” Skwisgaar asked once. “You gots some kinds of fetish whats you likes to watch peoples whiles dey asleeps, you weirdo?” Toki snickered as he scooted in closer. “I don’ts likes watching you sleeps. I likes watching you wakes up.”

“Dats still pretty weirds.”

“Ams not!” The morning sun lit Toki from behind, illuminating fibers of his hair in a messy glow. Only when they were this close did Skwisgaar see the faint sweep of freckles running across Toki’s nose, the flecks of green in his eyes. “Most ofs de times, you looks so serious, likes dis,” He hardened his face into an exaggerated scowl. Skwisgaar scoffed. “Buts whens you just wakes up, you opens your eyes real slow and blinks a lot, likes you a little tiny baby deers. It’s cutes.”

“Fuck yous, I ain’ts cutes.”

“Yes you aaaaammmmmms,” Toki cooed.

“No I ain’ts! Devastatingly handsomes, perhaps.”

Toki’s giggles rattled against his sternum as he pressed kisses into his jaw.

“You’re cuuuuuutes, you gots to accept de facts you cuuuuuuutes, you fuck nuggets.”

Skwisgaar guided Toki’s mouth into his own. Their kisses were lax, soft, untethered. After a time Toki pulled away. His smile, toothy and sincere, diminished. His thumb grazed Skwisgaar’s cheekbone.

“You gots to gets up, pals.” “Okays, buts, counteroffer, we just lives in dis beds, forever.”

Toki moved in again; his lips grazed Skwisgaar’s as he spoke.

“Gets up, Skwisgaar.”

His voice deepened, gravelly and tinged with frustration. “Times to gets up, Skwisgaar.”

He clutched Skwisgaar’s shoulders, echoing the demand. With each repetition his actions grew more aggressive, more forceful. His features bled into something opaque. “Toki, whats de fucks–”

“Gets up, Skwisgaar!” He slapped him. His face flickered, for a moment recognizable but then returning to murkiness. Skwisgaar reached for it, seeking something familiar, but his fingers slid through the visage like water.  “Skwisgaar wake the fuck up.” 

Toki’s face snapped into focus, but it wasn’t Toki; it was Nathan. The light in the room was duller. Skwisgaar’s bed seemed suddenly expansive, a vast glimmering tundra that stretched unyielding in all directions. He touched Nathan’s chest, then the empty space beside him.

“Where ams he?” he murmured. Nathan’s tight grip slackened.

“Where’s…” he trailed off. He held the back of his hand to Skwisgaar’s forehead. “You’ve been in here for almost a week. Time to rejoin the living.”

“Buts he was heres.” He ran his hand across the cool sheets for some shred of evidence. Flakes of his skin. Strands of his hair. The bed dipped as Nathan sat. 

“Buddy, nobody’s been in here in four days.”

Despair cratered Skwisgaar. The reality of his dreams dissipated in the light of day. Toki was gone.

Nathan’s grip pulsed against the bend of Skwisgaar’s elbow, a warning, then lifted him to his feet. He allowed himself to be maneuvered into the bathroom.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Nathan said. “You’re starting to look like one of those oil-covered baby ducks in the APSCA commercials.”

The hiss of the shower startled him. The rush of water flowed hot from the first spigot, the second, then the third. Nathan held him beneath the stream, releasing when he was sure he would stand on his own, then walked backwards to the toilet. He kicked down the lid and sat.

“I’m just gonna hang back and make sure you don’t drown, alright? I need you to continue to be alive.”

The water riveted down his spine, his legs, eked between into his toes. Skwisgaar sought constants to anchor him to the present moment. The cold tile against his forehead. The patter of water along his back. The soapy spiral at his feet, slowly circling the drain.