Author : Me
Prompt: 018-Black, at slash_100
Pairing: Billy Martin centric - Benji Madden PoV.
Summary: There is something undeniably sexy about Billy Martin…
Dedicated: To Ellen, downshefalls just because I love her and it’s her birthday soon. Mhm.
There is something undeniably sexy about Billy Martin. Something dark, mysterious and curious about him. Something so… mystical.
He is shy, but the way he moves oozes confidence. He’s quiet, and hides his radiant eyes behind lowered lids, but when he walked he holds his head high and commands control. Sexy, feminine hips are contoured by form fitting pants. His long torso is encased by the perfect shirts. Travelling higher reveals full, pierced lips. The look so inviting, so tempting. A beautifully shaped nose is pierced by a small sapphire stud, and piercing icicle eyes seem as if they may look right into one’s soul. His eyes hold such depth and desire. Styled, newly cut hair frames the blue orbs, stray strands keeping his eyes even more impenetrable.
When he moves, his body shows a completely beautiful façade of royalty. He holds himself like a Prince being presented to his people. Head held high, back straight. Strong, defined, and distinguished.
All of this creates the idea of beauty, perfection, and unreachable dignity.
Buy if you were to sit on the fable in the front of his house, and look thought the window, you would see everything that is completely opposite of all that her appears to be.
Dark. Sad. Scary.
Three black walls, the fourth covered in posters from ceiling to floor. A queen bed in the middle, black and red bedding laden on the mattress. The starch white carpet is a sharp contrast to the rest of the room, but makes it even more absurd.
Billy Martin, beautiful and confident, sits on his bed, staring at notebooks spread before him. Words flow across the pages telling stories and description of tragedy. Smeared, running make-up streams down his chiselled cheeks. He turns his head and looks out the window, wondering what would happen if he were to go.
Sighing, he glances at his chipped black nail polish and picks off a few more flakes. He debates in his head; he’s unable to help the ever present desire throughout his body. Nervously, he eyes the needle on his nightstand. He hates that he’s going to do this again.
But it’s okay.
This is the last time.
He means it this time. He always means it every time. But it’s so hard to do. He loves heroine. And he hates it. He loves the hot, sweet pleasure that runs through him when he shoots. He loves feeling invincible and like nothing could ever go wrong.
But he hates it, so much. He hates the prick of the needle. He hates that the veins of his arms have started to harden, and that he’s now moved on to his legs. He hates the pain, the excruciating pain, that overtakes him when it’s been too long. He hates the no-names that he goes into dark alleyways with, just so they will do him the mercy of shooting him up after he blows them. Billy hates the fear, and the selfish worthlessness that he feels.
And he knows that he can get help. He knows that I would do anything for him; that I love him more than anything.
When I look at him suffering inside or himself, and out, I hate what he’s become.
And when Billy reaches for the needle for “the last time” or “just once more”, I know he is still a prince. Always will be.
Prince of the Junkies, the broken, and the dead.
He isn’t alive anymore, and I’ve known that for a long time. He is gone, so far gone, and I don’t think he’ll ever be back. He’s just a shell, an empty case with nothing there.
He’s sick and he’s lost, and there’s nothing else that I can do.
Instead, I’ll come to him and put him to bed. I’ll stroke his hair, and tell him I love him, and watch to make sure he’s still there; to make sure his chest still rises and falls, that he still stirs and sleep-talks. I’ll watch, to make sure he’s still with me.
Black is still his colour, whether he’s royalty, or he’s ruined.