The world is green, and smelly, and prickly. It's in your face. It's before your eyes. It's all you see.
Yet another bit of the world is dangling in your arm, spreading that tugging, dull, grayish pain throughout it. It feels like your veins are so tired, they groan.
You're sitting under a Christmas tree in your living room with an empty syringe in your arm.
What a marvelous way to begin the Christmas day, baby!
You sigh, inhaling the smell of pine, so strong, so fresh. It makes you feel dirty. And old. Way too old to even have any right to have a Christmas tree in your house.
To start with, you never had one when you were a kid. Right.
Is that all?
That's all you can think of. You should be thinking of something else. Something major. Think that it's Christmas, and you forgot to call your grandpa - all that remained of your half-existent family. That you didn't even call your friends this year, no late night calls, no "Hey dude, it's fuckin' Christmas - is Santa bringing a couple of pornstars over?". You'd better remind yourself that you are twenty-nine - way too old - and you don't even have a girlfriend to celebrate this day with.
Better remind yourself that you've just been miraculously revived from a junk OD, so it's really, really foolish of you to have been shooting up again.
But all you can bring yourself to think is Is that all? Is this what I fought for? Is this what I used to dream about?
Shooting up under the Christmas tree.
Alone.
It wasn't always like this. You know it wasn't. You remember. You remember a small apartment, all trashed and stinky, and yet having a distinct home feel. You remember a small Christmas tree you stole somewhere, decorated with all kinds of shit - beer cans, bottles, panties.
You remember people. You could never understand how that many people could fit into a two-bedroom apartment. Neither did you try to understand it. They just were around, and that gave you some strange comfort, even though you never talked to most of them. It gave you the feeling you belonged.
You remember them laughing, pushing and pulling the tree, cans and bottles jingling.
"It needs to be lit up!"
"Not here, you dickhead! You'll set the whole fucking house on fire!"
And you're dragging it out through that ever-opened front door together with them.
Together with him.
He's right beside you, looking desperately young, all smiles, full of life. You love it when he smiles. It's a smile you could die for, you could kill for, you could beg and steal for. And he smiles at you and, using a prickly green branch as a shield from over-curious eyes, kisses you on the cheek... only you've turned your head a little, and the kiss falls on the side of your mouth, and it doesn't feel innocent. No, not innocent at all.
It's all good.
And then the fire roars, and shadows are dancing all around the little courtyard, turning dark shapes of garbage cans into something weird and fancy.
Turning the snowy whiteness of his hair to shining, fiery gold.
Nobody's watching anything but the burning tree now, and so your hand steals into that silky gold, ruffling the strands. He laughs and snuggles up to you. Just for a second or two. It's a promise.
"After the show, man?"
"After the show."
"Hey. What are you two on about there?"
"Ah, Tom, I'm telling him I'm not wearing that fucking Santa suit onstage for tonight's show! Ya hear me, Sixx? No way in Hell!"
"How mean of you! To get Sixx pissed on a Christmas Eve!"
But you aren't pissed. You can't be. Just this one particular night you couldn't be pissed...
You'd better get up. So you try. And, of course, the fuck you succeed. All you do is get the tree swaying slightly. All the glassy little things going dzzzennn!. Who was it that decorated the tree for you? Your housekeeper?
You don't want to be buried under the mess of pine and broken glass, so you stop squirming. The smell gets stronger, and you almost see it - a clear, greenish smell. Makes you think of pine woods, squirrels... and snow.
You're not getting snow in LA. As he would have put it, no way in Hell. California is poor on snow, indeed. Tommy jumped through the ceiling when he saw snow for the first time...
... In New York.
Buffalo, New York. This you remember, too. Can't forget. Can't help smiling faintly at the memory.
"It's... It's... it's fucking snowing!"
You and him both wince and jerk your head up as Tommy rushes in, announcing the news at a no less then ninety decibels volume.
"Wha?.."
"You know what, Lee, you could have knocked!"
"Ah, come on, as if I care which of you sick fucks bottoms... You hear what I'm saying? It's snowing!!!"
"You haven't ever seen snow, Tommy?"
Tommy looks at you with these wide, wide eyes and that super-wide smile of his. Most people think this smile looks crazy. You think it looks as if it belonged to a five-year-old kid. Which is, probably, how Tommy feels, too.
"No, man! My first snow!"
He smirks against your shoulder, then gets up to join Tommy at the window. Butt-naked. And not giving a fuck about it. You love it in him, you do. He's so easy with his body. And the body in question is real hot, and you feel something inside you tense as you watch him bend slightly to look out the window. To run your fingers over these thighs, up to these firm curved buttocks... To feel the heat of this smooth skin... To grab a hold of this golden mane and feel its fuzziness against your palm... To spread these legs and...
You've just done it.
And yet you want more.
"Hey Nik... come over here. T-bone's right, it's snowing."
You've seen snow before. But you walk up to the window and...
Gasp.
You've forgotten how white it is. So white, almost blue, falling from milky skies. Covering everything outside the window with a lacy, half-transparent, moving veil. Making the sight almost psychedelic.
Piling up right next to the window pane. The glass breathes off cold. And when you touch it, it's icy.
"Damn it, dude... it must be freezing out there!"
Tommy nods. He snickers and moves in, his butt brushing against your thigh.
Cold?
You must have been kidding.
It's fucking scorching...
Have you seen snow ever since? You don't remember. But you liked that feeling. Snow made you feel like some miracle was about to happen. Not that you believed in miracles, even then. But it was nice to pretend you did...
You hear a key turning in the lock. Your front door lock, judging by the sound.
You start. You pull the syringe out of your arm and throw it aside. Who's there? Cops?
Umm, yeah, sure. Caring about unlocking your door. Cops. Sixx, you dope...
But who else would have passed the security gates...
The gates you never bothered to lock yesterday.
Shit.
"Nikki?"
No... it's not the cops... it's...
"Nik?.. Oh fuck. I should have known."
...Him?!
"Hey. You alive there?"
Slow steps. You see his feet approach. The feet in old tennis shoes, peeking out from under washed-out blue jeans. You feel the stirrings of vague surprise. He's almost always all dressed up when he goes out. Not old jeans, definitely.
"Nik. Get the fuck up."
You don't reply, and the right foot stomps impatiently.
"Fuck, Sixx. Cut that crap. Stand up."
You snort. From above and behind the green comes a heavy sigh.
"Alright."
You expect him to just turn and go away now. Why not? He's done it a hundred times before. You can just see these tennis-shoe-clad feet stomping one more time, stepping back and disappearing from sight.
Instead the branches in front of your face wave and part. Now you can see him.
He's not dressed up at all. He's wearing that old black Jack Daniel's t-shirt that began falling apart at the seams way back in 1981 - you were practically sure he'd thrown it away with the trash years ago. His hair is in a ponytail, and his eyes are tired. Weary. He's crouching beside you, ducking under the branches, looking small. Delicate.
"Nikki. Oh shit. Look what you done to yourself. Idiot."
Soft voice. A little raspy. Smell of coffee. Smell of brandy. Smell of vanilla. Smell of fresh sex. On him.
You snarl.
"Leave me alone."
"Sure."
"Get back to her. To whatever bitch you fucked this morning. Leave me the fuck alone."
"Her name is Sharise. And she has nothing to do with this."
"What are you even doing here? Huh?"
"I called you. Wanted to wish you a merry Christmas. You didn't answer. Now I see why."
"Well, seen it, now get the fuck out."
The words come out unbearably slow. He sighs again, a small air movement next to your cheek. More coffee, more brandy. More vanilla. You close your eyes. Leave. Leave now. While I still can take it. Because I'll break down in a minute or two. I'll break to pieces. Crumble to dust.
To snow.
"What's this?"
He must've seen the syringe.
"Again? Nikki, you're not just stupid. You're thick as a wall, you know that?"
"Fuck off."
"Wanna finish what you started?"
"Like you care."
SLAP!
You don't believe it. You fling your eyes open. See the hurt in this dark hazel stare. See the teeth sinking deep into his lower lip. See him rub his palm on his knee - it must sting as bad as your cheek now. But you still can't believe it.
He slapped you in the face?!
"Fuck... you're dead, bitch!"
He inches away.
"Yeah?"
"Fucking dead."
"Fine!"
He moves out of the tree shade and jumps to his feet.
"Get out here and do that! Gimme a fucking whacking! But you can't, can you? Ya can't do shit. You can only sit there, shoot up and pity yourself. Right? I know I'm right!"
White fury. It takes you over so suddenly, you almost burst. It takes you just a second to scramble out in the open and two more seconds to get up.
He steps back. He's afraid. You see that. But he doesn't run off. Doesn't even try to reason with you. Just stands there and waits. His eyes are huge. And dark. And pained.
And you stop. Feeling unsure. Feeling... ashamed?
"I called you... you didn't answer..."
That's why he's so messy. He called you, got no reply - and stormed out on the spot. Knowing you too well for his own good, having too fresh a memory of what you could bring yourself to... He got scared. It's a wonder he didn't show up in slippers.
Hurrying like crazy... to save you.
Your throat tightens.
"Vince..."
"I care."
"Vince."
"Hit me, beat me, kill me, whatever. That's all you do. But I care. You heard that? I care!"
You don't respond, just walk forward. He swallows. You close the distance between you two. And hug him.
For a moment he's awfully tense. And then he's frighteningly soft in your arms, soft, warm and shivering. Pressing into you and burying his face on your chest.
"I thought... I thought something happened..."
"I know."
"I was so afraid... So afraid..."
"I know."
He looks up at you desperately.
"I care about you. I swear! I do care..."
"I know."
"Shit... you don't believe me, do you? What can I do? Want me to shout it across the street? Want me to say it on the TV? I will!"
You can't stop his babbling, so you shove him onto the sofa and kiss him.
Should have done that long ago.
His lips are pure magic. You can't tear away. He responds - immediately, willingly, hungrily, almost fiercely. He tastes like brandy, tastes like coffee, tastes like sugar, tastes like milk and honey, and all things delicious. He tastes like a dream.
His hunger starts you up. Your hands crawl under that ancient T-shirt. And he doesn't mind.
He so very obviously doesn't mind.
When the kiss breaks, he looks up again. His breath is uneven, but there's the stubbornness in his eyes that just won't go away.
"I care."
"I believe you."
"I don't give a fuck if everyone knows. If that's what you want."
He means it. And you're amazed. Because you know what it cost him to say that. He's always been so anxious to keep it secret. Always defending his masculinity so madly. Always thinking what the chicks would say.
He's ready to give it up. For you.
You pull the T-shirt off him.
"You don't have to prove anything."
He sighs as you kiss him right beneath the ear, his secret sweet spot, you'll never forget. He moans softly, and the moan sounds almost like a sob. You stroke his hair, and all of a sudden everything seems so easy.
You don't have to prove anything. Because it doesn't matter. Even if you didn't care. I care about you. I sooo care about you. That much care is enough for two. Enough for us both.
He squirms in your arms as your lips explore his chest, discovering millions of points of interest anew. And then you encounter something weird. Something steely. You raise your head to look at it and hear him giggle.
It's a crucifix.
"You wear crosses?"
"Gee, you have a lot of catching up to do."
Oh yes you do.
"What's wrong about it? Today's the dude's birthday, after all. Quite the right time to wear it."
Christ's birthday. Why haven't you ever thought of Christmas like that? This way it doesn't even sound too religious. It could be your friend's birthday. Or your friend's friend's. Sounds so nice...
"Yeah, but I licked it. I mean, come on, licking crucifixes. It's kinky."
He laughs, and seeing him smile makes you feel a good ten years younger.
"Well then, it's just like you."
"Nope. Let's take it off. I insist."
He laughs again, pushes you on the shoulder and you roll over. Now he's on top.
"Okay."
He bows down his head and you take it off him - a small golden crucifix on a thin chain. It remains in your hand, and he kisses your chest. You sigh happily.
"Put it somewhere safe. It's my grandma's present, mind you."
"Your Mexican grandma?"
"Yup."
You put it on a little table near the sofa, next to a pack of cigarettes and an ashtray. For a couple of seconds you look at the tiny golden figure.
Happy Birthday, Christ.
And then you turn the ashtray upside down and cover the crucifix with it.
Jesus must have seen loads of shit in his life. But this particular thing is definitely not for his godly eyes.