Friends Eat Friends

Josh often pretends the year so far has been a dream. One of the movies he's written, a movie his father has written. It makes the days feel glossier, gives them a polish and coat of shine, and when it's all over, when prom has come and gone and graduation is done and the summer is here, the ones who have been hurt will climb up from their graves, peeling latex and wiping fake blood from their bodies with a smile.

He's familiar with the term Hell. Intimately acquainted with the feelings that come along for the ride. Josh has seen Hell, in the form of his sister's being scared of him, in the form of broken CDs and red hand towels, in the form of Chris crying behind the bleachers with hand shape bruises around his neck. And now. He's seen it in the form of ghostly whispers, blackened wet walls and shrill shrieking as he had stumbled through the mines, dizzy and drunk.

Josh isn't sure which he would've preferred. The monsters that scaled the walls, blind and clever in their soft mimics. Or the thing that sat in wait in the dark with the voice of a father, wise and ancient like damp oak nestled deep in the forest. It didn't feel like anything good, didn't feel like anything soft and whole and pure and it's tendrils had burn when they slid along Josh's subconscious.

Josh was weak.

He didn't want to die. It told him he wouldn't if he eats, if he's quiets and listens and follows the lofty sound that sang through the mines. It kept telling him about how long it's waited, told him of famine and hunger and bitter cold. And now it's all he feels. The mountain had buried it's dead, dreary, misery deep inside him.

"You shouldn't be here." It's unfortunate that Marion is the second. Josh can't remember the first but he does remember the sounds of a baby crying and he prays and prays until the voice inside quiets him with a reassuring no. But Marion is here, relatively plastered and smiling and he's made friends with Buck, the bartender.

Josh doesn't remember coming to Lexington but he doesn't remember much of anything anymore. He doesn't feel anything beyond a constant hunger that can't be cured by normal means. The voice tells him what to eat. He doesn't want to eat anything.

"Buy me one?"

"You got it, Mr. President." Marion chuckles, grasping Josh's shoulder with a slow rub. He settles beside him, waving over Buck with two fingers. Josh doesn't know what he's ordering but Buck supplies with a rueful smile and tells them to keep it tight lipped. Josh guesses this is the benefits of small towns. He takes the glass set in front of him, downs it with a quick flick of his wrist.

The drink barely burns, sliding down his throat easily with a light buzz. His mind says its scotch but it tastes like air, everything tastes like air and Marion is pressing into his space with a dazed smile, rambling on and on about baseball and how much he misses Jess. It's still not satisfied, whatever awful dark thing resides inside him.

The rest is a blur. He's holding Marion's hand, holding it as the baseball ace leads him deep into the woods with childlike laughs and Marion keeps talking and talking about nonsense that Josh can't process because that old voice is back, slipping tiny impressions into his mind until he's aching and starving. Marion's blood sounds like plucked harp strings. It's a beautiful sound.

"Can I kiss ya?" Marion inquires, hand still in Josh's and he's leaning forward before Josh even answers. Josh wishes it was Chris. He lets Marion in, lets him press their bodies close and fill his mouth with kisses that feel like ash. Josh figures it's kindness that blesses Marion with being drunk.

He barely registers that Josh has ripped out his tongue until he's staggering back and choking, nails clawing at bloodied lips. Josh squeezes his eyes shut, body aching and preening and he's crying, crying as his limbs move without him, as his hands dig into the soft parts of Marion's body. Josh knows what insides look like, knows how they feel in his hands and how they taste like milk and honey and sing.

Josh can't remember the first one, but he remembers Marion, remembers trying to drown himself in the river afterwards because the voice is calling him good and perfect but it's not enough, it's not enough. Marion wasn't enough.

Josh lies atop of the water, staring up into the white moon until the voice settles deep inside him with a sigh. Josh doesn't pray, doesn't believe in God, but maybe he will now. He's seen Hell and it's shaped like him.

Josh can't die, won't die when blades barely cut into his skin and he feels so heavy and dense and the voice laughs when he panics, laughs, deep and dark and it churns his insides like scrapes of velvet. Marion wasn't enough and Josh knows what he looks like bloodied and hollow and empty, filled up with Josh's hungry sobs.

Josh wishes he died. But he's forced to live. Live and listen to the way the people around him sound. Beth and Hannah sound like two different versions of a clarinet, Sam is a xylophone. Mike's veins sing like a bassoon. It's hard to focus, hard to breathe and keep in control but it's like walking into a meat factory and you're starving.

Josh happens to run into Peterson when he barely has a shred of self control left. He's panting and wheezing and she has a light strapped to her forehead and exercise clothes on. She touches his face, speaks mangled tongue that he can't understand because all he hears, all he understands is the steel drum pounding under her skin.

Josh doesn't drag her as deep as Marion dragged him, but it's far enough that only the smell would tell people where she is. He panics halfway through, hands twisted in her abdomen and she's warm beneath him, eyes vacant as they stare up through the trees. The voice tells him to finish but Josh resists, he resists and cries as he shakily presses away from the body. He staggers back, running for the road and he's screaming.

It's unfortunate, the voice tells him, when he stumbles out into the road and it's Chris' car that slams to a halt before him. It's Chris who sits in the driver's seat, trembling and shaking and Josh can smell his fear (it's over ripe peaches in the sun). The voice wants it, wants the sweet taste between Josh's teeth.

"Josh?"

No. No. No. No. Josh's mind screams and he runs. Runs and runs and runs and the voice's laugh rumbles through him, deep and evil. But Chris has seen him, Chris has- Josh goes back to the road when he doesn't find Chris at home, when he's more himself. The other is curled up against the front of the car, face slack with sleep, phone gripped tightly in one hand. He takes him home, deletes the call log and listens to Chris sleep from a safe distance until he can drag himself home.

The teachers are worried when Peterson doesn't come to school. But he doesn't think about that when Chris actually comes to the art room when Josh asks. He can't pay attention to anything because he wants to kiss the boy who stares at him like he's something marvelous. Like he's not a monster.

But he was.

His guilt gnaws deeper than the hunger ever could and he fights it, fights and fights and it's so hard. His medication sometimes helps but it only makes the voice angry, only gives him awful nightmares where everything is red and blood and the faces of his friends. The voice tells him that he can resist but it will never be enough and that he will suffer through this as others before him had until he returns to the mountain and is consumed by it. The voice tells him that it's patient. It's waited a long time, waited through blizzards and settlers and the mountain is dead. It will wait him out.

"You okay?"

Josh forces himself to look up from his sketchbook, folding it closed out of habit. Shreds of paper fall into his lap, bits of broken lead following. Chris is staring at him from the floor, pencil in hand, two books laid out before him along with a notebook that has illegible writing in it.

Josh looks around taking in the easy colors of Chris' room. It smells like Pine Sol and a cucumber spritz, like loss and icky sadness. Josh almost laughs because Chris' feelings almost smell like his own but Josh's is darker, is more thickly coated and dry like old newspaper.

"Josh?"

Josh can smell worry, worry and something akin to adoration. He shifts on Chris' bed, setting the sketchbook down. Josh runs a hand through his hair.

"Just tired."

"You can take a nap, ya know." Chris smiles.

Josh snorts. "Take one with me."

"Dude, I have a book report. Not all of us are super smart, ok?"

Josh rolls his eyes, forcing a smile and stretches out on the bed. There are no smooth swirls in the ceiling like in his room. It's splattered lazy creases. The bed dips, the quiet movement of the sketchbook being set somewhere else, and Chris lays beside him, also staring up at the ceiling.

"I miss my mom." Chris says after a beat.

Josh turns to him. Chris doesn't look at him, glasses pressed close to his eyes. They glisten and shine under the light.

"How are things with your dad?"

"Fine." Chris answers quickly.

Josh grabs his hand. "Cochise."

"I don't want to talk about that. He comes home, talks to me, makes sure I eat and keeps his distance. That's all I want. That's all I need from him."

"Chris-"

"I miss my mom. I'm worried about you."

Josh almost frowns. "Why?"

"I don't want to lose anyone else." Chris whispers softly. "My mom killed herself, Josh. I almost lost you in middle school. You've been different. I don't know what to do or how to help."

"Just do what you're doing, Cochise."

Chris turns to him. "Is that enough?"

"Yeah." But it feels like a lie. It probably is.

Josh shrinks away from Chris' stare. He looks away, staring back up at the ceiling. Chris rolls onto his side. The voice inside his mind purrs in delight, awake and attentive, and Chris is so close, too close. He ignores the tune of the beating heart beside him, how delightful and full it sounds like it's meant for him.

"Josh?"

Josh forces himself to look, to mirror Chris' posture because Chris is already worried. He can feel his self control slipping. Josh tucks an arm under his head, touching Chris' face lightly. He watches the eyes slide close, the restless face Chris wears. Josh leans in, cradling his face gently as their mouths meet.

Chris grasps the hand on his face, shifting forward until he's bent over Josh. He's getting better, the awkward fumbling now a steady match to whatever rhythm Josh creates. It's nice, cute, lovely even considering the war inside him. The voice is awake, awake and vibrating and pulsing.

Josh's nails dig into Chris' shoulder, sitting up on his elbows as he pushes Chris back. He climbs over him, fumbling with the buttons of the shirt he's wearing. Chris sighs beneath him, practically preening under the slow, burning touches. He arches up, wanting and beautiful and every vein rings like a violin string.

Josh drowns in the sound, holding Chris down by the hips and he's lavishing longing bites into his skin until he aches. Josh takes off Chris' glasses, tossing them absently behind him. He latches onto Chris' Adam's apple, relishing in the way it bobs. There are hands in his hair, fingers woven tightly. It's perfect, Chris is perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect enough to-

Josh shakes the thought, skin prickling with disgust and he backs off. His chest is heaving, unsteady breath after breath falling from his lips. Chris lies there, flushed, covered in darkened burgundy bruises. His lips are puffy, red and dry.

Josh watches a tongue dart out to wet them. He sits back on Chris' knees. His body feels empty. He feels empty. The voice whispers to him. Josh ignores it, ignores the push. He just wants to kiss Chris. Josh pulls off the shirt he's wearing, the fluttery tune ringing in his head. Chris sits up, grasping at Josh's thighs and he drags him closer. Josh feels his shoulders, the soft, fleshy skin.

"We can stop." Chris whispers.

"Do you want to?" Josh asks, kissing the corner of his mouth. Chris shakes his head.

"Say it."

"I don't want to stop." Chris says.

Josh smiles despite himself. He kisses Chris softly, easing him back down onto the bed. The voice whispers along his spine, crawling along in old tongues and voices. It feels like there's a hand on his shoulder, the thick woodsy smell of the mines flooding his senses.

"Josh, we don't have to do anything."

Josh shakes his head, trying to focus, trying to shift away from the gnawing feeling inside him. Chris is in his space, smoothing away tiny quivers with his thumb. Josh exhales shakily, shying away from the gentle touch but Chris only pulls him closer, warm and soft and filled with a sweet melody.

The voice quiets. Josh breathes.

"Can I kiss you?"

Chris nods so Josh does, tasting and pushing until they're back on the bed. He leans up, taking the waistband of Chris' sweats in his hands. Josh waits for the impatient exhale before he divulges Chris of them, followed shortly by a pair of Deadpool boxers. He feels a laugh in his throat, one that doesn't escape so he locks it away.

--

Josh dips back down, claiming Chris' mouth in a searing kiss. He shudders when the other's hand reaches for the front of his jeans, shaky and hesitant and it only takes Josh's hips grinding into his palm for Chris to take action. He fumbles with the zipper, the sound resting loudly in the room.

Josh licks his lips, pressing their foreheads together as he knees Chris' legs farther apart. Chris' grip on his arm is tight, focused and panting when Josh wraps a hand around his dick. Chris groans, biting back a tremble. Josh kisses him, steadily moving his hand.

"F-fuck." Chris whimpers. His eyes are closed, mouth slack and open. Josh can only stare, can only stare and watch as Chris holds back moans and breathes curses into his palms. Josh releases him, enjoying the shuddering 'shit' that falls from Chris' lips. Josh hoists his bag on the bed, feeling around in the front pocket for a small bottle.

"You just carry lube around?" Chris snorts out a laugh. Josh pours it into his hand with an eye roll, unable to stop the smile that spreads across his face. He settles between Chris' legs.

"Imagine if I didn't carry lube."

"I have some." Chris counters quickly, squinting as Josh pushes up his leg. "I-In my desk."

Josh raises an eyebrow. "You do?"

"Ye... Yes." Chris hisses, fisting the sheets underneath him as Josh slowly inserts a finger.

"Fuck your fingers?"

Chris nods, falling back onto the bed. Josh pulls him closer by the hip, squeezing at the skin, and he slides another one in, flexing and twisting and Josh has to settle down as he watches Chris. He has to quiet the voice underneath his skin.

"What do you think about?"

"Dude... Fucking seriously?"

Josh stills his movements. "Come on, Cochise. Tell me."

Chris' face darkens. "Joooosh."

"I can wait." He says patiently, fingers twitching. Chris rubs his face embarrassed. He raspberries.

"You. I think about you, okay? And sometimes Shia LaBeouf."

Josh braces himself over Chris, one hand propped above his shoulder as the other works him open. Chris reaches for him. Josh concedes, sighing softly when Chris kisses him hungrily. He has three fingers inside, deeply stroking the nestled bundle.

"Shia LaBeouf? Really?"

"Shut the fuck up, Josh." Chris laughs, punching him weakly.

"Can I give you a handjob?" Josh asks, sucking on Chris' bottom lip. His answer is a frantic nod.

"Say it."

"Fuckin' seriously, bro? You have a fist inside me." Chris whines.

"Come on, Cochise. Say it." Josh smirks, enjoying the way Chris' shakes beneath him, eyes blown wide and desperate.

"Put your hand on my dick, man."

"Anything for you, Cochise." Josh purrs. He's impressed with how level his head is, how focused and alert and present he is. The voice is quiet. It's just Chris. Just Chris.

"We can stop." Chris whispers hoarsely. He's aching and hard. Josh settles between his legs, hand wrapped around the base of Chris' dick, fingers still buried deep inside.

"'m gonna last like two seconds."

"That's the idea." Josh snorts, flicking his wrist as he pumps. The muffled garble he receives in return makes his pants feel tight, eyes flicking up to watch Chris' head fall back.

"Mmf.. F-fucking, God."

Josh hums at the thought. He slides his fingers out, pushing the suffocating denim down his thighs. Chris bucks up into him. Josh tilts forward, pressing his clothed erection into the crease of Chris' ass.

"Why don't you just fuck me, man?"

"Jesus Christ, Chris, shut up." Josh hisses, grinding into the heat. He wants to be in his right mind for that. Chris claws at his shoulder, back arching with a wheezing noise when Josh squeezes.

"You're this worked up over a hand job? You can't handle my dick right now."

Chris punches him weakly. "Shut up, asshole."

"It's cute. Makes waiting a real fucking treat, Cochise." Josh kisses him, grinding up against Chris while his hand moves and twists and pumps. He should've pulled his dick out, should've just fucked him until he was limping but Josh figures this is better, watching Chris shudder and twitch as he humps him.

Chris comes without much of a warning, stilling against Josh's hurried movements until he sighs softly, come pulsing through his dick onto his stomach and Josh's hand. He stares dreamily up at Josh, lips parted in a weird awe. It's a look he's never seen before. Josh has seen blissed out; he's seen glowing smiles and shifty eyes as the high settles down. But Chris is lying here, smiling dumbly with this lost expression. It completely distracts Josh from his own orgasm, hips stuttering and he's coming in his boxers with a dumbfounded look.

--

"Wanna go to prom with me?" Chris asks and Josh's eyes narrow at him, lips curled back to speak. He can't find words. Instead Josh laughs, feeling weird and unsure and a bit happy.

"Yeah, okay, man." Josh nods.

Chris grins stupidly and Josh wants to kiss him so he does. Josh realizes prom is months away, which in turn felt like light years. He wonders if he'll last until prom, if this budding woodsy voice will let him. But he'd like to go with Chris. He'd like to go anywhere with him.

They use sanitary wipes to clean themselves, Chris shaking his head furiously at the idea of leaving the room to take a shower ("It'll be seperate showers, Chris. Unless you wanna-" "I'm regaining feeling in my legs, can you not?" "Just sayin'. This is gross, bro.") because he was embarrassed and didn't know if his dad was home.

Josh wears one of Chris' hoodies, scratching at the faded letters written on the front. Chris blushes when he notices. It's cute. It sets butterflies loose in Josh's stomach and he feels normal, normal as he can be when there's a voice ringing in his ear, louder this time because there is no distraction, there is no constant fight to keep focused.

"Can I stay over?"

Chris' head pokes out from his closet, half dressed in a pair of low hanging dark sweatpants. He smooths out the shirt he wears.

"Why are you even asking?"

Josh shrugs. "Dunno. Nervous."

Chris nods, cheeks still warmed red. "Yeah, man. You can stay."

Josh won't stay beyond Chris falling asleep beside him. He doesn't trust himself, barely trusts himself now with the sleeping boy curled into his side. Chris' glasses are still on, crooked. Josh sets them on the table, sliding his arms around the pliant body beneath him and listens to the quiet beat of Chris' heart.

He leaves when the voice tells him that Chris will only taste sweeter when he's hollowed out.