Haaaaaaaaaaaaaappy Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirthdaaaaaayyyyy my dear Shaaaaaaaaaaaaan!!!!!!!!!

The song described in the story is Hybrid Theory's "And One", it's awesome, please listen to it while you read and you'll have a better idea of the atmosphere! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdnsPp6wNx0&;feature=fvw (sorry for the Spanish subtitles XD)

Of gangstas and hangovers

It’s so late at night.

Truth to be told, it’s so early in the morning.

You don’t even know what time it is, but it’s not like you want to know. Not like you care at all.

For what you can assume, the sun is already on its climb up to the piece of sky that is above you. A matter of an hour, probably, and orange stripes will lighten this godforsaken hell of a place.

But, seriously, is the sun your main deal right now?

Of course not. Your self-conscience is actually pushing you in marveling about your – apparently – incredible strength. Where do you find even the smallest drop of want in your brain to take another step forward? You’ve been jumping and moving your body in front of a huge crowd of drooling fans two hours long only three hours ago. Then, you’ve been ‘partying’. Because you needed to celebrate, right? You always need to celebrate: everything. You wouldn’t be surprised if you even celebrated the fact that you have nothing to celebrate.

It’s not about the reason; it’s about the way you do it. Vodka is your favorite.

Liquids get the shape of the recipient that contains them, don’t they? So, they can easily fill the holes you are covered of. Metaphorically, it’s obvious.

Alcohol is liquid…can it reach your soul? Destroy it, that surely can do. But it’s not like your soul isn’t already destroyed. When you reach the bottom, you can’t get worse, right? So, you may well reach it soon. If you haven’t already.

You say alcohol makes you stronger. That’s why you’re still awake. You don’t need to sleep: you don’t have a valid reason. Not that you have something to be awake for, either; by now it’s simply become a habit. Alcohol, to you, is like some kind of druggy coffee. Like horses’ drugs: when you drug them to improve their abilities, you have to make them run until the effects of the medicine fade. You mustn’t make them stop, because if they stop they’ll get sick. Poison will kill them if they don’t dispose of it.

You’re not a horse, but you feel like you have to move to make that drug inside you weaken. You don’t even know why you keep devastating yourself like this. You know that, sooner or later, sleep will plan to catch you up and your stomach will melt into shit. Painful, messed shit will throb inside your belly, making you curse and swear in all the ways you know, or even making you invent brand new words to offend the ache more. You swear, every single freaking time, that you’ll quit, that is insane to actually want and wait to go through this every fucking time, but you can’t help. You don’t even know anymore if you keep doing this because you’re too wretched, or if it’s actually this that makes you so. But you don’t care. Gangstas never care about things like this. Gangstas belong to this.

Gangsta. They often call you so, but you feel nothing like 50Cent in you. You are famous for your crisp voice, your bold behavior and your piercing rhymes, but it’s not like you hang around with huge golden chains hanging down your neck. Anyhow, your rap is rough and provocative and everyone loves it. Their masochistic being is slightly amusing as they cheer like mad when you call them ‘motherfuckers’.

Your dark body is completely covered; huge dark denims and an extremely long black hoodie are enough not to let any centimeter of your tan skin be exposed. When you’re on stage, you like to tempt your fans by showing them inches of your flesh here and there, still without undressing at all, making them wonder and dream about your mysterious form. But now it’s drizzling and you’re alone. You don’t have anyone to tempt, so you can focus yourself on just walking…towards nowhere.

You don’t even know how, suddenly, you find your nose inches right in front of the red bricked wall of a lane. Some time ago you were in the backstage of your last concert; how long has it been since then? The crimson rough material drips with bothering raindrops as you look at it like a dumb. And you probably are. No one ever knows what will hangover bring the next time.

A faint noise makes you turn to your right; there are rubbish skips tied – well, no, not so ‘tied’ – in a line of three. That smells like crap, truly. Your corneas take a while to return your brain an image that isn’t all blurry with the effects of your earlier celebration; you hate this part of dizziness, not being able to discern your surrounding, but you’re glad when, times by times, you can feel yourself free from all feelings and elevated from all senses’ responsibilities.

Gradually, your sight adjusts to the previous noise’s font: he is leaning up against the bloody wall, just inches from the garbage, almost as like that’s his home and he’s just hanging outside to smoke his cigarette. You can’t locate the paper tube anywhere between his ashen fingers nor his thin lips, though, so it’s quite hard to muse out the reason of his careless resting, with arms and head and back and all, against a wet surface, doing nothing but staring: at the ground, earlier; at your feet, now.

“Where should I start…disjointed heart…”

Alcohol – or idiocy – would make you turn again, eager to find the source of this sound.

“I’ve got no commitment to my own flesh and blood…”

My stupid gangsta, can’t you understand that’s him? He’s the one that’s murmuring the familiar chant like a sweet lullaby, his eyes never leaving your brand new shoes, his lips leisurely growing in a grin. He knows who you are.

“Left all alone…far from my home…”

And, oh yes, you know him too – quite a joke of fate that you now found him. His voice is low and delicate, almost feminine. I’m sorry – arousingly feminine. His hips sway from side to side as he approaches. And I’m already opening my bets about the time you’ll get trapped into them again.

“No one to hear me, to heal my ill heart…”

He’s now inches far from you, beaming like a joker as he sings his sensually slow song, that you have immediately recognized. You used to sing it together, back in ancient times. Memories still haunt you every now and then. Now, no exception.

+

The flow was measured and calm as the wicked song took a break. You were standing by the slim black trestle, your mic in your hand as you waited for your turn to come. He was just there, beside you, his polished-to-perfection lipring teasing your eyes as it shone with every movement one of you two made.

“Breaking a part of my heart to find release…” You started breathing deeply into the microphone, trying to sound as excited as possible while you rapped the quick lines. “Taking you out of my blood to bring me peace…” The recorder printed large sound-waves on the computer’s once-blank screen as you took as big intakes of air as you could; your anxious wheezing had to be well audible; it was part of the game. “Breaking a part of my heart to find release…taking you out of my blood to bring me peace…” Your angry pleading was nothing more than a heated whisper, your concentration seriously threatened by his body heat, right next to you.

He was watching intently at you, patiently waiting for his turn to come. Fake-blond short curls shot in every direction from his snowy head as he kept bouncing in time to the beat. No one had ever been able to assume what he was thinking; no one ever understood that his eyes, his stare’s direction, were answering for him.

A breaking sound gave you the signal; it was time to be angrier. You wasted no time, indeed, and shouted the same words as earlier, but with much more fury. This was what had to be felt this time.

“Breaking a part of my heart to find release!”

The wrath of the moment, the beat, his presence, plain instinct or whatever, pushed you in gripping tightly the front of his sky-blue t-shirt, surely without even realizing the others’ presence outside.

“BREAK!” He screamed into his own microphone, letting himself get drawn by your pull as he reciprocated the heated cry.

“Taking you out of my blood to bring me peace!” You shouted back, by now fully holding his dark stare as like your words were exactly directed to each other. And who knows…

“ME!” He retorted with the same rage, getting closer to your face in an implicit act of challenge.

“Breaking a part of my heart to find release!” The words now flowed from your lips mechanically, your brain fuzzy and feverishly boiling as your fingers squeezed the thin fabric of his top, your eyes incredibly dark and large as your brows pressed together.

“TOO!”

“Taking you out of my blood to bring me peace!”

Your cheeks were heated and his neck was squeezed tight by his own breath, revealing his large pulsing vein, as you two now screamed at one another, simultaneously, testing each other’s resistance. Your lips almost touched as you poured your voice into each other’s mouth. Your mates, from the other side of the glass, couldn’t understand much of what was going on in the recording cabinet. Or they just didn’t care, as long as the final product sounded cool.

As the reverberation of the song suddenly stopped, you pushed him off you, determined in not letting your defenses down when the music shelter broke. As he was thrown away, he didn’t break eye-contact with you, nor did you. You could push him away and avoid physical touches, but your eyes were too weak to fight the urge to have him in them.

+

You used to be a couple – they say artistically –, long time ago. He filled you; you enveloped him. You two formed a world of your own together, so you were perfect for the artistic aims. The song, that he has now stopped to hum, was his favorite, back then. You hated it, and you hate it even more now: too much passion. You hate passion: it’s a too strong feeling, and you hate when something is stronger than you. That’s why you hate him; he’s too much like passion. You can’t stand the way he affects you.

Those days, you two were so young. Now, you can see, his hair is darker and his silver lipring has faded away, seemingly leaving no track of his previous existence. You wonder if there really is nothing below his lower lip that can make you remember about the jewelry article…but, hey, why do you care?!

His jaw is still naked, snowy white and free as you recall it from back then. You used to get hypnotized by the contracting muscle that worked within there.

Your own jaw used to be bare as well; but now you’ve grown up, and the lower part of your face is covered in gloomy beard, flaunting wisdom. Does some beard make you more mature, when you keep wandering, while drunk, through deserted lanes, at dawn?

He seems to be reading your mind as his long, slender fingers caress their way to your chin; you grab his hand as soon as it brushes your features. Your grip is tight, rough, merciless.

His stare would want to be unaffected, but his pupils are dilated and his breathing has increased. Oh, how you like to see people succumb to you. You love to be the one in control. Even if, now, you’ll have to admit that you aren’t in control. You, yourself, are succumbing to your instinct, your abominable desire. Of him.

He smiles wider as he becomes conscious that your hand, whose first intent was to reject him, is now keeping his limb pressed to the angle of your hard jawbone.

Actually, the image of him was clearer when he was over there, alongside the wall. Now, as he is breathing over you, your eyes are made of melting butter, your head spinning back and forth as his visage duplicate and halves. Thank God. Who knows what effects would he have done to a sober you.

An alluring chuckle graces his dark lips as he cuts your innate barricade of reluctance with his ogle, your grip loosening on his wrist.

“Happy birthday.” He tunes, and for a moment you think about the option of laughing, making it out as a not-so-clever joke to kill the mood after decades of missing. You recall some fans shouting ‘happy birthday for tomorrow’ in your direction as you exited the stage, not so long ago in the night. And the sun is about to rise. So, today is ‘tomorrow’. Happy birthday to you, then.

You feel his glacial fingers dragging pressure over your clothed shoulders; you twitch at the warm breeze that cuddles your left ear as he purrs about a present he’s going to give you.

You like presents only when they’re something that you know you’d appreciate. You use to tell people what they’ll have to give you when they want to make you a present. You hate surprises, because they always are something useless. What kind of a present could he have for you?

Something incredibly hot and moist marks its wet path along the outer side of your shell, and you really have no idea of what it could be, since your senses are dry, due to the hangover. You no longer register the sight of his dark eyes in front of you, and instead get to know that he’s leaning his head over the left side of your face. Some seconds pass until you’re sure it’s his tongue that is stroking you.

He’s not as patient as earlier by the time his damp lips find their way to your arid ones, not bothering to linger in common foreplays as he baths your closed tissues with the frantic massage of his burning muscle. I’ll admit that it’s not your fault if you’re so weak. Alcohol does that, it kills your neurons and it mists up your sanity, and by now all that you can do is give up to his sensual invite. Your mouth parts to his incredibly quick tongue, terribly hungry as it sneaks alongside your own one in a game of recognition. Oh how you’ve missed this.

Breathing doesn’t represent an issue for the two of you; he smokes a lot, so his lungs are used to being hurt, and you are drunk, so you don’t feel as much pain as you would while sober. You breath into each other’s dancing mouths and your noses inhale each other’s breath.

But, wait. Gangstas are not weak. They’re not gay.

You’re not weak. You’re not gay.

You try to pull away as soon as you realize it, but he seems determined in not ending the deal right here, right now. He follows your lips with every step back you take, never breaking contact. Your eyes open, getting quite a while to become useful again; his eyelids are still closed. Still so excitingly, hotly closed.

You’re scared about the way the single image of his closed eyes results so arousing to you, without even counting that you’re actually already fully aroused by your ongoing mouth-hug. Your backing attempt endlessly fails against the wall opposite to the one he was leaning to, only minutes ago.

You’re not gay.

But now you’re trapped, his sweltering body in front of you, the dripping bricked wall behind, the needles of drizzling rain by now forgotten by both of you as he keeps you captive.

You feel his fingers’ pressure upon an area that, stimulated, makes you moan, with not as much shame as you would have thought, into his mouth. His gestures are fluid and quick as he begins to free yourself from the hindering cloth that separes your flesh from his own. You’re constricted to ponder the situation now, before it will be too late.

+ You’re not gay.

+ But he’s trapping you.

+ You’re drunk. So you’re weak.

+ But it’s not your fault.

+ You can’t enjoy this.

+ But you do.

+ And he has got a present.

Your mouth has by now lost all sensibilities as your kiss goes on, insanely on and on. His hand works little as the offending material doesn’t bother your actions anymore. He uncovers his own treasure, magically seeming immune to the hard weather, and finally lets your lips part with a wet smack, an almost invisible trail of moisture still connecting you as he crawls his legs around your waist, ready to finally take what he wants. Even if it’s you the one who takes him.

So, happy birthday, my dear gangsta.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Long fingers ran from key to key with incredible speed as words quickly appeared on the virtual white page of a laptop’s screen. A beautiful young woman had her eyes fixed on the lines she kept creating, her green eyes wide open as her work took form.

“Shan, are you down there?” Came a male voice from upstairs, distracting her from the half-written page as she heard faint footsteps, which announced her husband’s approaching.

“Yeah, Rob, I’m in the living room.”

She didn’t really need to say so as the figure of a tall, strong and good-looking man soon appeared in front of her curled form on the red leather couch.

He kissed the top of her blond head as she grinned lovingly to him, the laptop on her knees now trapped between the two lovers’ bodies. “Happy birthday, hun.” The quite-long-haired man whispered, kissing her again, this time on her lips, as she chuckled thanks. “You woke up early this morning. What are you doing here?” He tried to take a look at her writing work, but she closed the laptop with a single shove of her ringed hand, blushing madly.

“It’s nothing”, she whispered, kissing her husband again in hope to distract him from the page she was writing. “Want to make me a yummy breakfast on my birthday, huh? I’d be sooooooo grateful. And you know what I mean…” She purred into his ear, dragging a finger across his strong chest as he immediately took the signal and flew to the kitchen.

The beautiful woman, successful singer and secretly writer, opened her laptop again, reading the last line of her work.

So, happy birthday, my dear gangsta.

She smiled with amusement and took out a freshly-taken picture from the pocket of her denims. There were two men kissing heatedly in a half-lighted lane. The darker of the two wore large clothes, while the other had a punk-looking outfit, his hair soaked and curly.

She had taken the photo the previous night, as she went out with an Italian friend. They had squeaked and drooled over that picture – and those gorgeous bodies – all the way back to their respective homes, and the event had left an incredible inspiration in the today-celebrating woman.

She saved the changes and turned of the computer as she rose from the couch, feeling a little cold in the February’s atmosphere. She couldn’t wait for her friend to read what she had taken out of that single scene…and she could bet the Italian girl was doing the same, right at that moment.

She padded her way, with socked feet, to the kitchen, sweet smell and loving caresses immediately greeting her.

The End.

©this story is under its author's copyright. Everyone who steals commits a crime.

Ok, I’m sorry, I wrote it in a hurry and couldn’t seem to concentrate ‘cause I couldn’t wait to post it. These days have been particularly difficult and my inspiration got lost! I’m sorry I hurried a bit in the kiss part and interrupted the description right then, but I can’t write proper slash scenes yet. The last part, I don’t know…I wanted to write it to make it a bit more personal to Shan :) I hope it was at least readable! >.<