I've barely been allotted any time to recover before Lucien is bouncing all around the apartment with an idea in that buzzing mind of his, and since it is so buzzing and hectic and won't leave him alone, it's his duty to spill the idea with as much fervor as he can before it passes by, cascading into the void of no return.

This time, he's rambling about playing a game of questions, where we ask each other things about our personalities and our hypothetical decisions and our desires and all of that shit that strengthens friendships and eliminates the barriers that maybe some of us want to keep, but if I'm to understand Lucien enough to help him, and if he is to do the same, then this is a perfect activity for that, as our friendship is currently flimsy and childish and built on the foundation of impulse, but this will construct it again like a fortress.

I'm trying to enjoy a nice time in Lucien's cluttered living room, but this child of a man is tugging at me to play the game of questions with him, and I finally relent, sliding off of the chair and onto the floor like a chunk of gelatin who has lost all faith in their life.

"The thing about journalists is that they're always scouring the earth for their next big scoop. So, Allen Ginsberg, what would you like to know about this arrogant hermit living in the hell that is Paterson, New Jersey?" Lucien stares at me for a moment, as if expecting me to say something out of my own volition when all I wish to do is read about ancient civilizations, a book I randomly selected from the piles in Lucien's wobbling bookshelf, and I'm about to tell him to fuck off, but he eventually speaks his own words. "Shall we proceed, Allen Ginsberg?"

Was he searching for my consent? If so, I'll give it to him, but I'd much rather be doing other things. Don't get me wrong -- learning more about Lucien is always interesting; cracking enigmas warrants medals and glory and pride in oneself -- but I'm too tired for this. On the contrary, Lucien is terribly excited about playing this game, so I reply, "Yep, go for it."

Stirred by my approval, Lucien claps his hands together. "Then let's get started with something easy: what's your favorite color? Mine is white, because it's a blend of everything that could ever be."

Typical scholar Lucien Carr, flagrant about what he knows and silent about what he doesn't, and that leads many to believe that he knows everything that there is to know, which I understand is completely incredulous, though others don't, so Lucien is subtly laboring to convert me to their terrain of obliviousness, but all I do is laugh internally at his explanation for something as mundane as his favorite color. Two can play at this game, though, and I'll shake his world with the opposite answer as his.

I endeavor to mask my smile while I spew this philosophical bullshit at a susceptible victim, and I somehow manage it with an inch left to spare. "My favorite color is black, because it proves that even in absence we can create beauty. We can attribute qualities to the void and shun the forces that claim it's impossible. We no longer trip in the ebony, rather utilize it as paint and inspiration, utilize it to dye the fabrics that hug our bodies, utilize it to fill the world with more than ever before."

My companion is silent, a quieted gasp hung against his mouth, and fearing the demise of his reputation, he finally speaks. "Well it seems that we are now rivaling as the echelons of pretentiousness," Lucien admits, teeth churning with the chipped pieces of a smile, and I only smirk to myself.

"Choose one sense to live without," I order, recognizing that this will infuriate Lucien beyond compare and trigger an entire spiel about how he requires all of them to remain pure or some shit, and that's exactly what I receive.

"How can I choose to relinquish a core part of me? How will I view the world in all its entirety?" Lucien's brows clip together as if by a closepin, utterly disgusted by my inquiry. "You're fucking mad, Allen Ginsberg."

I laugh with the pleasure derived from knowing just how Lucien would react to this, and it's quite humorous to see him hectic about a question that he probably won't answer in the end but a question that he'll ponder for days after this until he gives up and says he'll disown them all so he won't have to experience the weight of this topic, a weight that isn't so overwhelming to me.
"I'd remove my taste, because it's not like I go around licking the world."

"Unfaithful swine," Lucien accuses. "Has hedonism taught you nothing? Food is one of the finest points in life, but let's move on from this treachery. What's the wildest thing you've done? For me, it's breaking past all of my barriers to emerge as a god."

Once again, Lucien warps a playful game of questions into an opportunity to share his philosophical motivational speeches with someone who doesn't give a single fuck about them. He might just be fucking with me at this point, to be honest. I roll my eyes before feeding his ego even more. "The wildest thing I've done..." I dunk a finger in the cushion of my lips, pondering the question and then clasping Lucien's gaze with a faint smile seasoning my demeanor. "Meeting you, of course."

Embarrassment rouges Lucien's cheeks, which he endeavors rigorously to shield from me before I notice it, but it's too late for that, as I'm already as proud as Lucien usually is, and he knows this, so he attempts to divert the subject, serving it with a crack in his voice. "What's your best memory? I personally love the time when I rode down the hill and crashed into a stop sign when I was ten." He's frantic, which he usually never is, so it's my time to play him.

"I think we've formed some great memories together." I wink at him, and he responds with a prolonged groan, but I'm not finished yet. I give him an example before quitting. "How does our lunch date from earlier resonate with you?"

"God damn it, Allen! Why do you have to make everything so gay?" Lucien jests, unwittingly tipping back and pouring onto the floor in a supine position in which one would observe the stars swimming through manmade pollution at night, and that's where he stays for a few moments, mollifying the conversation to art. The sun spins in his eyes, reflects off of the ocean waves, as he parts his lips to greet a smile. "But we have formed some great memories, haven't we?" He glances over at me from the same pose, eyes rinsed by a child-like hope.

I nod while my hand inadvertently meanders towards Lucien's hair, weaving in and out of his golden locks as if I'm constructing a cloak to hide us from the world. His lids repose, and he leans into my tender care. The ocean is calm. All the world is soft and holy in us. We say nothing, both relishing the moment of our corporeal bond in shivers and in fluttering heartbeats and in total ease upon the panels of the apartment floor, and now that we're settled in peace, I propose another question.

"If you could break any law, what would it be?" I notice Lucien contemplating this before it's his turn, whereas I already have my answer fresh in my mind. "You're going to say something wild, but my answer is that I'd rather stay away from crime of any sort."

"As if rhyme and meter aren't crimes against humanity," Lucien mutters, then flicking his body back up to reply to my question. "Speaking of rhyme and meter, what if we abandoned them? What if we broke not the law but the parochial minds of those ancient folks rotting in universities? We could start a literary revolution, Allen. Just think about it."

I grow uneasy with each level Lucien's elation ascends, because he is a man of risks, but I am a man of careful planning with each step mapped out for success. We're not compatible when we work together on grand ideas such as these, as the movements are all off. I am just a lowly journalist who calls himself a poet, and I'm not really certain what Lucien is in a literary sense, and we aren't important to anyone. Yes, my blog is popular, and yes, Lucien is absolutely brilliant, but other people possess those bonuses, too. What makes us so special? Our determination? Because only one of us has that, and it's the one who isn't careful enough to sustain it.

"Probably not, Lucien," I counter.

"Mull it over and see what you think, yeah?" He anticipates my permission but carries on when he doesn't receive it from this hermit of a companion he's selected to live with. "In the meantime, how would you like to be remembered? Certainly for a literary revolution, yes? Not because you wrote an article on rhyme and meter that made a desolate few think about it and turn away from those principles without so much as a protest towards their teachers' misinformed pedagogy."

I'm not accepting this literary revolution that Lucien is proposing, so I only shrug. "I'd actually prefer to be forgotten."

"Aww, come on!" Lucien rocks back on his feet, and a magnet on the ceiling tugs his hands upward. "Where's the fun in that?" His hands eventually settle on my cheek, but I reject them.

"Where's the fun in having your mind picked apart by people who just want to sound smart?" I didn't start writing to have fun. I started writing to feel something on the paper that I had felt long before in my heart, and Lucien needs to comprehend that I'm not looking for fame with what I feel, only an outlet in which to channel those feelings.

This is the first time I've won over Lucien, but it isn't as boisterous as I thought it would be. Rather, the minimal light in the room has been tightly pinned against the walls to desert us for the hue of the abyss, and suddenly that black isn't so charming anymore. I abhor being in this state, so once again I distribute yet another foolish question.

"Do you find beauty in me?" I ask timidly, terrified at the future response that will most definitely be either a letdown or a sugarcoated lie that both of us know is false.

Lucien scampers from his position in the void, scooping me in his palms once more. "Well, yes," he confesses. "I find beauty in everything, especially you."

And that's the best we can do for broken people.  

~~~~~

A/N: this chapter is so cute I'm

perspectivism: only people are real, only people have value, only people have free will

~Dakotapillar