#i hope this is fitting. tryna let go of my crazy wild expectations for myself and just be cool

[visceravalentines]

exit music (for a film)

Would it hurt to pretend while bleeding out in a parking lot that it could've been different? That there was another way? Some fairy tale ending?

-Tags by @upwardsdescensum

He feels the first shot, but not the second, or the third.

The third one's the bitch, the one that knocks him flat. He barely registers the impact of his skull on the pavement. There's no pain, just a general awareness. A system-wide panic signal.

He thinks to himself, this is it, motherfucker.

He feels heat in his chest like water soaking through clothes. Like when you're eight years old and you piss the bed and you don't tell Ma because she'll whoop your ass. The carpet in his room is older than he is, worn and grimy. He can feel it, under his neck, under his arms. Sees the popcorn ceiling stained tobacco brown from the hurricane when he was ten.

"Why're you on the floor?"

The sound of Randy's voice in his bedroom catches him off guard. He rolls his head to the side and there he is, sitting on the edge of his bed, real as can be. Looking at him without a lick of fear, without reproach. Just looking at him.

"I like it down here," Benson says, and it's sort of true. He's slept in this spot more nights than he can count, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. He crosses his arms behind his head. "Super comfortable."

Randy scoffs, rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. Benson likes it when he smiles. "You're a dumbass."

Now that's funny. Benson laughs, delighted, and something tears in his chest. Something spills. "Watch your mouth, choir boy."

Randy gives him this look, this conspiratorial little sideways glance that reminds Benson of being in sixth grade and lighting up a Winston around the corner at recess.

He leans forward, whispers. "You're a dumbass."

Benson feels a swell of pride and affection and something seeping into his lungs. "You're a fucking spitfire, huh? World better watch out."

Randy leans back on his hands, kicks his heel against the bedframe. "Are you gonna show me that song or what?"

Benson looks down the length of his arm. His hand is resting on the shitty little boombox he saved up for when he was fifteen. "Oh. Yeah." He fumbles for the play button, fingers slippery. He can't remember what CD he's got loaded until it starts up.

That there, that's not me

Oh. Yeah. Fucking Radiohead.

I go where I please

It's kind of a bummer song and he can't remember why he wanted to show it to Randy, but he looks at him and the guy's got his head tilted back, and he's not really looking at the ceiling, he's not really looking anywhere, he's just listening. Like, actually listening.

I walk through walls, I float down the Liffey

Benson's eyes follow the line of his throat up to the plush of his lips and he swallows hard. His tongue tastes like pennies. Makes him think of the fight he picked on his last day of high school junior year, how long the blood stayed in the concrete of the sidewalk.

Randy looks at him with those eyes, blue as the ocean. He's only been there once, drove himself the day he got the Chrysler. Went alone. Felt so impossibly small, like maybe none of it mattered after all. Like maybe he was stupid for thinking it did.

I'm not here, this isn't happening

"This is nice," Benson says, and it comes out choked and wet. He's always wanted to do this. Sit and share music with someone. Anyone. The fact that it's Randy here, in his room, on his bed--too fucking good to be true.

"You sure you don't want to come sit by me?" Randy asks.

Of course he does. Of course he does, but he knows that's not an option. "Nah. I'm alright."

I'm not here, I'm not here

Randy furrows his brow. "Want me to come sit by you?"

"No, you stay there." Benson rests his hand on his chest and the weight of it surprises him. "You're perfect right there. You're perfect."

A blush creeps up Randy's cheeks. "I'm not...perfect."

Benson smiles, thinks about the day Randy started at the restaurant. How the last thing he wanted to do that Saturday was train some newbie shithead and how instead, this pretty blonde fawn of a boy followed at his heels and did everything right the first time.

"Yeah, you are."

Something starts to burn, deep in the center of his chest, like someone putting out a cigarette on his diaphragm. He looks up at the ceiling and it's black, cottony and starless.

In a little while, I'll be gone

"You like the song?" There's a tremor, a desperate edge to his voice that scares him. He's so sick and tired of being scared. He's so sick and tired.

He glances over at Randy and he looks...resigned. Regretful. He smiles, though, nods. "Yeah, Benson. I like the song."

The whites of his eyes are tinged red. No, blue. No, red. Benson hopes he isn't crying. He hates seeing him cry.

"You're gonna be okay," he says, a little too forcefully. "Yeah?"

Randy nods again. "I think so."

The moment's already passed

The burning is getting worse. Breathing aches, feels like drowning. He digs his nails into his palms. "You fucking better be."

Randy folds those knobby fingers in his lap, leans forward. "I'll do my best, Benson. I promise."

He smiles sadly, and Benson believes him.

Yeah, it's gone, and I'm not here

The carpet disappears. The asphalt underneath him is still warm from the sun. The ocean sloshes in his chest and now he feels it, now it hurts like he thought it would. The sky is black and cottony. Starless. The bed is gone, Randy is gone. He can still hear the song, though.

This isn't happening

He thought it'd be faster. Seems like it's taken years. But it's coming, now, after all this fucking time, the heat fading fast to a hollow, stinging cold, and then to nothing. His fingers and toes go first, hands and feet, and so on. He's got one good breath left. One more. And then it's over.

I'm not here, I'm not here

Fuck, he's relieved and he wishes he wasn't. Wishes he was anywhere but here. Anyone but himself.

He catches a glimpse of him in his periphery at the last second. Sitting on the curb like a kid left at the Winn-Dixie, all elbows and knees. He's crying, dammit. Benson supposes he can't blame him this time, because he's crying too. It's fucking tragic, all of it, the whole fucking thing.

Strobe lights and blown speakers

But it's okay, really. Randy's gonna be okay. He promised. Benson trusts him. He did what he could, he really tried. And maybe this, at least, he managed to succeed at.

Fireworks and hurricanes

The last breath hurts the worst.

I'm not here, this isn't happening

He holds Randy's name on his tongue for good luck. For safekeeping. For the hell of it. And he lets all the rest of it go.

I'm not here, I'm not here

The exhale is euphoric.