I haven't yet unpacked my clothes since I arrived at Lucien's apartment, because first I was criticizing both the exterior and the interior of the place, and then I was practically losing my mind in a pit of irrationality, and finally I settled down for a dinner of spaghetti rings that was far from virtuoso in the culinary field thanks to Lucien's absence of time spent on writing manuscripts that he always trashes and slanders for being inadequate when they're probably the most beautiful set of words I've ever read in my life -- though he won't allow me to read them anyway, so it seems that all is strange in this man and his apartment.

But now that the roaring impulsivity of our evening has sputtered into a gradual death tinted by quietness and fading laughs, and after a few hours of sitting on the couch and discussing things that no one else would think of discussing, I noticed that the light is retreating from the skies to make way for melanoid waves of fire whom humans constantly adore within the blades of grass surrounding their tender heads, and it's time to rest, as today has been very strenuous to say the least, and I can feel the purple rising from underneath my aging skin whom I have tortured with sleep deprivation and no apologies, but I figure that I can't sustain restlessness forever, and this day has taught me that sleep is a wondrous activity for writers who know nothing of it.

This excursion that doctors claim is extremely beneficial to my declining health is a motive to unload the items I shifted from the basement and into Lucien's apartment, and I chiefly scour the fabric laden contents for my toothbrush buried in a plastic bag to preserve it against the ineffective laundry job I often do to pass the time when I'm starved of inspiration for something to write, because although I have millions of people flooding my inbox with comments, laziness is much more of a friend than they will ever be.

I search for a while before stumbling across the toothbrush finally, and I find that the forest of bristles who previously stood straight up in proudness is partially battered by the pressure of the rest of my clothes and the glass cat that I should consider placing on Lucien's dresser for him to discover with a smile printed on his angelic face as he realizes what the familiarly unfamiliar object is, but my toothbrush is nothing special compared to what I'm now witnessing in Lucien's bathroom, with his utensils looking as though they had recently emerged from war with fatal injuries as they bleed out into the sink yet never die, because Lucien always has enough morphine and enough medicine to sustain them, rotating through their battalion on a specific schedule so that each one is properly tended to, so that each one maintains a life in unison with him, and it's somewhat deranged, but it's all the way Lucien Carr, a man whom I trust for being so erratic, because that erraticness leads him to great feats.

I cautiously pad into the cesspool that is Lucien's bathroom, though it reeks of excessive cleaning to replace the horrid sights with the horrid smells that admittedly aren't as treacherous as what my eyes are beholding currently, and that's what he's going for. To be fair, he didn't anticipate that he would be receiving a new roommate, considering he brought this about solely on an aspect of his spontaneous character that may or may not have actually been a fruitful decision, for I now have a friend and a place to stay that isn't the dingy hole called a basement to many but called a home to me, but I was in that trance when I stepped into his apartment long enough for him to hastily repair the wretched state of his bathroom. I wouldn't mind, because I was thoroughly convinced that I didn't even possess a mind in that abrupt flow of confusion that almost knocked me into every item scattered across the apartment, but I assume that Lucien was as scared of what was happening as I was, so I presume he's not to blame for neglecting his bathroom.

Nevertheless, this is the only water closet in the entire flat, and it's not like I'm asking the neighbors if I can utilize theirs, because that's both creepy and incompatible with my awkward nature, and if I were to ask them anyway, I could be sure that there would be a feud between us for the remainder of my residency here, which I don't know the length of, primarily with the impulse that sparked this out of faltering origins, but if we're writers like we claim to be, then we act solely on that impulse no matter where it guides us, so it might be a while before I escape the leering gaze of the neighbors, though I'll most likely just stay inside to resolve all potential conflicts antecedent to when they escalate.

However, none of that vendetta business will occur if I simply use Lucien's bathroom, but how can I do that when there are unkempt toothbrushes practically everywhere? With the agility that old antique store owner says I retain inside this frail body of mine, and that old antique store owner happens to be one of my best friends, so I'll try just for him. Scooping in a great deal of energy, I leap onto a clean spot upon the alabaster tile where the toothbrushes dare not to enter, and my own toothbrush is nearly catapulted from my hand with the impact, but I ground it at the last moment, my breath jittering from it all.

I ready myself to brush my teeth, but I'm stopped prematurely by a concerned Lucien clad in a flannel and a tank top rushing into the bathroom, swinging around the threshold with most of his body sheathed in the mystery of the blue and white partition, and he jumps from jagged breaths like I do, both ushered into this state by the actions of each other. "What was that, Allen?"

Electing to ignore the question to redirect Lucien's focus to the atrocity called his water closet, I point towards the general space with convoluted gestures. "Do you see the wreck that is your bathroom?"

Lucien glances down at the mess upon the tile, bewilderment burrowed in the creases of his brow. "Why are there toothbrushes all over the floor?"

Does he seriously not know where these came from? It's his bathroom, not the bathroom of some straight boy who insists that this place is his because straight boys feel entitled to everything. He's definitely not straight, and shouldn't he be aware of where the toothbrushes originated from? Are they even his? Does he collect the saliva and bacteria from his family members or forgetful sleepover guests? Will I be next?

Despite every fear undulating inside of my mindset, I roll my eyes to opt for sarcasm. "I've been asking myself the same question."

A sigh sheets Lucien's esophagus, completely clueless about what this could be, until a burst of sunlight from his eyes contrasts violently with the dark of the night, and he grips an idea. "There's a cat who's been visiting my apartment for some reason. I don't know if it's a stray or hates sticking to one place, but sometimes it jumps through the window and knocks things over."

I glimpse the window to whom Lucien is referring, which he's conveniently left open to prove his point, the curtains waving their elongated fingers with the wind of the New Jersey city streets that is permitted to coast into the apartment because of Lucien's mistake of opening it and sustaining it like that.

Why has Lucien never thought of calling an animal shelter for the cat? He can't be sure whether or not the cat is a stray, but if he calls the animal police, then the owners may step forward and revise their parenting skills. On the contrary, Lucien is cold to the public -- not in an arrogant way, just in a way that prefers not being sociable when it isn't necessary -- so calling the animal services is off the table, and it's not like my stuttering self could call them, either, so I guess the cat is doomed to our hectic writing sessions and peculiar screaming for the sake of one of Lucien's philosophy lessons.

But the cat is the least of our problems, as the bathroom is irreparably dirty, and the cat isn't even here right now, so we'll deal with it when it actually is. For now, I devise a plan to brush my teeth while Lucien watches from the doorway, and that plan is to freeze myself in this position of safety and stretch far enough to spit into the sink, and I succeed with that through Lucien's amused expression that I wish he would cut out.

Next comes the most difficult part of choosing the sleeping arrangements, as there's only one queen sized bed, which is adequate for either one or two people, and Lucien may kick me out of it to sleep on the floor.

My companion notices my uncomfortableness about the arrangements, and it's not so much that I'm worried about sleeping with Lucien, rather that I'm worried about his responses to sleeping with me. Should I have toted a sleeping bag to his apartment? Because I don't have one, and I assume Lucien doesn't have one, either, but he's not the type of person to sleep on the floor or force anyone to sleep on the floor. That, or he's a homoerotic metaphysicist who will willingly invite me into the bed as if he's a child only seeking a bedtime story from a comforting person.

"Don't be shy, Allen," Lucien chuckles, ambling into the side of the bed closest to the unsealed window, which leads me to believe that he wants to be snatched by something other than his mind, and he bends the covers over his plaid boxer cloaked body as he waits for me to do the same, and I eventually consent, though with wearied limbs and trembling apprehension. "Just don't hog the blanket, okay?" Lucien clarifies, then crashing into the pillow and never returning from his slumber, and I simply cannot express how cherubic he looks in this moment, so to cherish it I curl into the covers and drift away by his side.

Until the night enacts its alternate plan.

Drifting away hasn't been as mundane as I had once suspected, but at least I eventually wind up in the clouds of dreaming at around midnight, when Lucien is already rolled in the bundle named untouchable slumber, because he had no worries about sleeping with a stranger, as his motto is that life is wasted on caution and that sleeping with a stranger will only bring more fervor to his existence and broaden his palette of the opportunities he's experienced in only twenty-four years, and certainly he's experienced many more opportunities than someone twice his age because of the way he chooses to live, and sleeping with a stranger is part of it.

However, I am reserved in the indestructible chains of paranoia, and their rules have been whirring through my head all across the slate of night until I finally shove gags against their mouths bearing thin knives for teeth, and they are silenced in order for me to grab the sailboat of rest and ride it towards the burning horizon, but when I reach that burning horizon, I am snapped awake by the early morning gliding through the window and stretching my lids open with their intangible tools, and the sailboat has flung itself as far away as it can go, so there's no returning to it, and I'm adapting to the harsh reality of a messy apartment and a luckier guy than me still sleeping by my side.

And despite Lucien receiving more sleep than I did, he's still tucked faithfully into the striking sheets of the queen bed, a low purr swimming in his throat, quiet enough to resemble the cat who is now perched on the ledge of his window like it often is (and I'm electing to leave it alone, because who knows what kinds of diseases it carries, even if I sound like a suburban mom?), and in this state of repose, Lucien is more of an angel than he usually is, his golden locks streaming everywhere they shouldn't be, his ocean eyes only blocked by skin because they'd blind us all if they were to be free, his lips curling each other to shape a ring of invisible smoke from the cigarettes he unhealthily cleaves to, and I could observe him like this forever.

But bringing up the word of forever is its automatic self-destruct button, and soon Lucien's repose is shaken. It begins with a flinch and a whimper, then a hurricane in his lungs, drowning him and propelling so much force through his trachea that it threatens resignation. Through all of this, I watch in horror, with no idea of what to do and how to fix it beyond waking him up, so that's what I try to do, even though it's likely the wrong protocol for this situation.

I shake him lightly at first, but my actions are swallowed by Lucien's, so I then move on to rougher affirmations, and finally he snaps awake like a bolt of lightning cracking in the sky and splitting the atmosphere in half, waking it with the succeeding thunder.

His eyes are threatening in a way that I've never before encountered. He is angry, a tiger ready to strike, but also completely inundated by terror, as if he's the prey as well. He doesn't seem to recognize me at first, merely staring into my eyes to figure out who I am, but then he suddenly tosses his entire weight onto me. If I were worried for my life, I might interpret this as a murder attempt, but as a friend I interpret it as an embrace required in order to calm down and latch onto something secure in reality to replace the fictitious material of his dream -- or, judging from how Lucien reacted to it, his nightmare.

"Ginsy" is the word that flows out on the current of his heavy breathing as he settles into my secure embrace.

"Lucien, what the hell?" I'm trying not to be harsh or insensitive with him but I'm so confused as to what just happened, and in a way I'm slightly traumatized, too.

"It doesn't matter. I just..." Lucien tightens his grip on me, though his trembling does not cease. "Thank you for being here, Allen."

"We can't keep having panic attacks like this. It's only been half a day," I joke in an attempt to lighten the mood and Lucien laughs slightly into the muffler of my shirt, but with an air of melancholy, as if he, too, is attempting to lighten the mood but cannot shake the memories of what has recently transpired.

I feel Lucien smile against my shoulder, a relief to both of us. "You always knew living with me would be an adventure, Ginsy."  

~~~~~

A/N: that typical "there's only one bed" trope..,,,, I've sunk to its level

romanticism: art is an emotional experience centered around an appreciation for aesthetics

~Da[n]k[meme]ota