rareslash | this is infatuations best kept secret

title: mad world
author: shannon
fandom: donnie darko
pairing: frank/donnie
rating: r
warnings: slash
disclaimer: pishaw, you know they're mine.

Frank meets you outside of Cunningham’s house, the yellow light from the fire flickering in the dead cold plastic eyes of his bunny suit, shadowing the grotesque lines of the mask even further. Reminds you of those monsters you were afraid of when you were a little kid, clinging to Mommy’s leg, screaming and crying and gasping out in heavy breaths. Before you know it, you’re smiling again, smiling when the ashes from the fire smudge your cheeks and sprinkle into your hair like little pieces of sand, gritty and black and you want to cut it all off, okay, just once, just now, shave your head, alright, just so you can’t get it dirty like this. You’re smiling and Frank stays immaculately clean.

Smiling is the only way to prevent the gag reflex. You’ve heard that before. Somewhere. Maybe in one of your textbooks, littered on your floor like garbage, lying half open and sometimes only half read, pages dog-eared and torn out, words highlighted, scratched out, your own comments with your own pen in there, your scratchy handwriting obliterating the page. You’re smiling here, now, with this house, Jim Cunningham’s house, burning down to the ground, and Frank says, “Good.”

You say, “Take it off.” Meaning the mask, of course, the mask bright and shiny and slick with perspiration from the moist air, the firelight flickering over the planes and curves and lines. From the artist’s perspective, it’s a piece of fucking crap.

Frank understands you, and removes it with precision, up, over his head, so it’s his hair blowing lightly in the wind, his tear of blood shining so bright. You’re not scared. That gaping hole there, right where Frank’s eye used to be, that hole of scar tissue and blood vessels and, just, his eye socket blown apart to itty bitty pieces, and you’re staring straight at it without shame, staring right at it, going, “Did it hurt?” But, of course it hurt, you think, of course, because his fucking eye’s gone, all gone. All gone.

You’re still smiling when Frank leans forward to kiss you. And you’re still smiling, your mouth cupped against his, tongue feuding for space against the tips of his molars, your lips pressed so hard, Frank’s fingers touching the back of your skull, the costume’s hairy bunny fingers, and you’re falling deeper.

You have to obey him, he saved your life.

Frank says, “Sorry.” Biting your lip, sucking your mouth into his, moving faster, falling deeper, deeper, he says, “Sorry, so sorry.”

You pull back only to say, “Shut the fuck up,” unzipping your hoodie, pushing it back over your shoulders, letting it flutter to the ground like a butterfly without wings, soft and supple, Frank’s fingers sliding under your T-shirt to grip and clutch and touch your stomach and back, the skin, touch touch touch. The costume is warm from the space around you, the October’s dry air added to the heat from the flames, crackling like it’s a nice, cozy fireplace you’re not fucking kissing in the middle of the fucking street in front of a house that’s burning down to the ground.

Frank moves his lips to your collarbone and you suck in the heat, the atmosphere around you, with panting breaths, your nails biting and clawing in Frank’s hair.

Blowing hot air on your skin, his lips peppering your muscle ridges with kisses, Frank says, “Sorry,” again, but this time you understand. An image flashes in your mind of Gretchen sleeping on the high-backed chairs of the theatre, old-fashioned and uncomfortable, bowl of popcorn in her lap and Evil Dead blaring on in the background. This time you know why he’s holding you so fragile, as if you might break, but tearing you apart little by little, tearing and tearing, because it’s so easy to do if he just grips a piece of your skin and pulls. You moaning and mewing with Frank sucking on your chin and earlobe and corner of your mouth, he’s tearing you apart, but it’s not like you can fight back, not like you can do anything about it, get away or fight or something, so you just pull up a chair and watch.

You have to obey him, he saved your life.

You’re smiling still, when Frank tells you he’s sorry, mouth attached to yours, his hands cupping your ears, his forehead pressed tight to your own, you’re still smiling. And you’re still smiling when Frank whispers to you how many days you have left, how many minutes to enjoy on this earth, how many seconds you get to breath, you get to panic. How many seconds you get to think about those kisses and the way Frank would say, “Sorry, sorry,” into your mouth.

Smiling prevents the gag reflex. You’ve heard that somewhere.