Actions

Work Header

That Is The Question

Work Text:

The bar was dimly lit, a shabby venture that was only kept in business because of it’s cheap booze and willingness to accept fake IDs. Skull stared into his glass and ignored the curious eyes of the bartender, which kept landing on his glowing facade. He was used to it. In the phone he might have belonged, but in the real world he was even more of an outcast. “To be, or not to be?” he muttered into his now empty glass, more out of habit than anything else. The words sounded hollow, as though his mind was already made up.
Skull moved his gaze from the table in order to order another drink. He noticed a blonde man wearing an expensive looking green coat moving towards him. He instinctively braced himself for the usual onslaught of questions regarding his appearance. Instead, the handsome young man locked his green eyes with Skull’s equally green orbs and sat down next to him. He was clearly already drunk.
“Hey do we look alike?” the man’s gaze moved from Skull’s orbs down to his radioactive feet. It lingered there.
“Yeah we do. that’s weird.” it was not until he had pointed it out that skull realized it was true. When you took away skull’s strange, floppy ears and the bioluminescint glow of his bones, it was like looking in a mirror.
“Hey…. i’m hot, you’re hot, let’s make out!”
For Skull, who was used to timid glances and scared children, being called “hot” was entirely new. He was overwhelmed by the possibility of kindness, let alone attraction. He sat there, too stunned to do anything.The man had presumably taken this as a yes, and he began to make out with Skull.
When they parted, the man stood and offered his hand.
“Anatole,” he said.
“Skull,” Skull offered in return.
“Enchanted. Look, you’re hot so let’s go to the club, eh?” Anatole offered, his gaze once again returning to Skull’s feet.
Skull was dizzy with passion and perhaps a bit of alcohol. Right now, he would follow this man anywhere.

Anatole took Skull’s hand as they walked out into the cold night air towards the club. He babbled incessantly about himself, his sister and his best friend Dolokhov. He didn’t ask Skull anything about himself, which was a relief to Skull. He didn’t have to explain anything — Anatole liked him for who he was.
When they got to the club, Skull fit right in among the wild lights, yet he still hung at the outskirts of the crowd. When he turned his back to take it all in, Anatole had run off.
He probably wants to hang out with Dolokhov instead of me, Skull thought. He was beginning to slip back into that melancolly state in which he had begun the evening. Even in this crowd, amongst the lights and the bass, he still felt isolated. “To be or not to be,” he repeated again.
“What was that?” Anatole reappeared from behind Skull.
“Hamlet,” Skull responded instinctively, hardly registering who asked the question.
“Sounds delicious.” Anatole met Skull’s gaze.
“Why do you look so bummed? It’s not becoming. I would know, since we have the same face. Did you spill your drink?” He asked, not bothering to register that Skull was not even holding a glass.
“No, it’s just that i don’t belong anywhere and i’m a societal outcast.” Anatole did not know what the word societal meant, but he nodded sagely.
“You, mon cher, belong with me. Why else would we look so similar?” Anatole said while staring directly at Skull’s feet. Skull wished he had put shoes on, but at least the words were nice.
“Come now, let’s get you some ecstasy. It always makes me feel better.”


Skull was lost in the sauce: high out of his mind, several shots of vodka in, constantly losing sight of Aatole and being swept up in a rush of joy when their hands met again. He could see it now, a future in the place of the giant blank he had pictured only hours before: years upon years of this, of this glorious, bright hedonism, of waking up beside his own face, of the wonderful brainlessness that Anatole seemed to possess. As Anotole pressed his lips against Skull’s for the hundredth time that night, Skull made a decision. He spoke two words, not a question, a declarative: “To Be.”