Living Dreamsby Pouncer |
| Jerome had a taste for pain. He liked to torture himself with thoughts of what could never be. He'd always been a masochist; even a genetically-designed swimmer hurts during the last mad dash to the wall, muscles straining and lungs screaming for more air. He'd taught himself to push through the pain, to imagine victory as a way to overcome his limits. Except the most important victory had belonged to someone else, and he'd learned his limits quite nicely since the accident broke his back. Now his legs won't move, and even water's buoyancy can't make him into a champion. Vincent might, though. For all his natural-born defects, Vincent had more will to succeed than Jerome had ever possessed. A silver medal had been placed around Jerome's neck. He'd stood a step down from the winner's podium as another country's national anthem played over the loudspeaker. The crowd had cheered for another man. A better man. The scent of chlorine had nearly choked Jerome then, along with the stench of failure. That had been his first exposure to thwarted dreams, a prelude to the wreckage of his life after his legs turned to driftwood. The doctors had saved his life, but it was an unwanted gift. Jerome had been too ashamed to try to end it again, so instead he picks at the scab of his dead ambitions and watches Vincent's fervor for space overcome his inborn infirmities. Off to work at Gattaca Vincent went every day, clad in his conservative suit, armed with Jerome's skin and hair and blood and urine to camouflage his identity. Vincent scrubbed and scraped, inserted contacts into his eyes and painted on false skin filled with pockets of blood to ensure that no trace of his own DNA would betray his secret, tell tales of Vincent's invalid status. Vincent needed Jerome for his life. And Jerome stayed home, no life at all. But his mind was free to wander, as he lit cigarette after cigarette and sullied his genetically perfect lungs with illicit tobacco smoke while contemplating the pleasures and perils of opening the freezer and indulging in shot after shot of ice-cold vodka. The thought of Vincent's fury usually stilled Jerome's impulse before he could swallow. Jerome always imagined it happening against a wall, the two of them standing. Jerome was certain Vincent never considered the wonder of walking after his legs healed from being lengthened; Jerome seldom thought of anything else. Maybe one day some miracle would be discovered that could re-knit nerves and re-grow muscles and Jerome would lift himself up from his chair. He'd greet Vincent when he came through the door at the end of the day and capture Vincent's surprised exclamation with his own mouth. Jerome would push Vincent back against the wall and release the tie that protected Vincent's neck, molded him to conformity with the other drones. Vincent's hands would come up, he would protest but Jerome wouldn't let himself care. This was his fantasy, after all, and if he wanted to grasp Vincent's wrists and press them back against the wall, why should anything stop him? Vincent had wanted to become Jerome. Didn't that give the original Jerome rights? Their charade had become too real for him to tell the difference between them anymore. “Eugene,” Vincent would gasp. And Jerome would correct him. “No. I'm Jerome. You wanted to transform yourself. You became me hoping I'd disappear. But I'm still here, and now I own you.” Vincent would be nothing without Jerome's engineered DNA, would still be a janitor cleaning the floors instead of a navigator in line for a mission to Titan. A powerful alchemy, this sloughing of cells to allow Vincent to realize his dream. A gift of Jerome's body, of his parents' foresight and care. Why shouldn't he make the gift go deeper – make them truly one? Fill Vincent with his cock, press up into him, bite the back of his neck and drink until his thirst was quenched? Vincent's clothes would melt away after the tie was loosened. Jerome wouldn't bother to strip himself. He would open his pants and push Vincent around, hold his wrists crossed above his head with one strong hand. Vincent's arms would create a diamond, and his head would arch back to gasp and plead for mercy. Jerome wouldn't feel merciful. He would be too eager to go slow, too ravenous to be easy. Gel would help his fingers gain purchase inside Vincent, even though he'd be clenched tight. Jerome would moan at the feel of Vincent's muscles constricting around his fingers, anticipating the beauty of rewired feeling in his cock. Jerome would rub a slick hand over his cock, hard again – a wonder almost greater than walking – and he would work the head inside Vincent. Jerome would have to stop there, to moan at the warmth and the pressure and the sheer glory of feeling this again. Vincent would tremble in front of Jerome, incoherent noises floating around them like bubbles. And then, Jerome would hold Vincent's hips and pull back hard while he thrust forward and Jerome would give himself over to the rhythm of fucking. In and out, in and out. Lick Vincent's shoulders, bite the back of his neck, dig fingers into his skin. Every change save his height (his perfect height) had been superficial, easily discarded. Now Jerome will make the change in identity permanent, transmute Vincent into an exact duplicate. His thrusts would grow ragged, fire sparking from his cock to his spine to his brain. Nerves transmitting sensation – what miracle is man? Jerome's head would jerk back, and he would groan at the sensation of orgasm. His semen would fill Vincent, whose cries of protest had given over to ecstasy moments after Jerome started. Evidence of Vincent's climax would stain the wall, and he would whine as Jerome pulled out. Jerome would turn Vincent, press their lips together, and twine his tongue around his doppelganger's. “Now you're truly me,” Jerome would whisper. “And nothing can take that away.” The sound of footsteps jolted Jerome from his reverie. Vincent appeared from the direction of the front door. His tie was perfectly arranged, his suit perfectly creased, his hair smooth and shiny even after an entire day entering navigational data. “What did you do today, Eugene?” Vincent asked, corporate armor intact, unmussed. “Nothing,” Jerome snapped, and wheeled his chair away. |
Notes : I wrote the first draft in December 2004 as a backup for yuletide per kyuuketsukirui 's request. And then it languished until this year's Yuletide signup reminded me that all I needed to do was watch the film again and edit. My thanks to issaro , ctoan , and mswalter for their beta efforts. Return to The Carousel |