Life is so much better when you're dead

The flow used to be unhindered. The time interlaced the space, the touch mingled with blood, each event resembled a kaleidoscope, unveiling every facet, every possible way of evolving. He used to be able to dissect every last little speck of reality, trace out every tangent, predict every course. He could see what others couldn't, he could see them, each and every one of them. Passing through, connecting them with strings. They dreaded him, but did he ever adore them. He understood, admired, derided, cut open and let them witness their own punchline, starting from the inside, spreading until the very last nerve ending withered.

And the world used to be so vast. It surged right through him, not meeting a sole obstacle. He didn't feel himself, he didn't acknowledge himself, his senses would simply strive for the right texture, color, smell or sound. He didn't exert himself in search of what suited him; those things would always find him. They flew to him, from him, through him, circling, diverging, clashing. And he laughed every time the past and the future collided with a bang.

And there never was any hierarchy. Soaking in the rain for hours, crashing a car into a tree, gutting someone, feeding their innards to stray cats, going grocery shopping, massacring his entire crew because one of them seemed to be unreliable, smearing make-up over his own face or painting up their dead features--somehow, everything was equally engrossing. Hysterical in its own right. Interacting with one thing at a time, he would soon forget it with something new attracting his attention. A string of instances would flick before his eyes while the soft, translucent flesh of reality flaunted its lithe skeleton. Everything could be foretold, everything could be prevented, everything could be bent. Everything, but those fingers that still kept his own captive in their gentle grip. And those eyes that scorched him in a sickly nonabrasive way. Those lacerated lips that he had bitten, still curling up in a triumphant smile. Pliancy, when he dug his fingers in the strands of dark hair and yanked, his other hand sliding down the prominent cheekbones, clawing at the throat, scratching, tearing off the bandage that he had put there himself just moments ago. The blood was warm, thick, seeping out lazily; a red liquid blurring the border between him and what was sprawled beneath. He leaned down again to lap up the glistening beads and rivulets, to claim them. He sucked and licked those lips, his fingernails dug deeper and deeper into the scalp and the soft flesh of the throat, but slowly, he started to see that no matter how much blood he would take, he won't be able to see the bigger picture this time. It was the only time that the taste actually made him feel something. And it didn't want to swim right through him, it ground into his mind, rending it at the realization he was being kissed in response to his teeth sinking into the already gnashed mouth. He groaned when a warm hand rested on his neck as if encouraging him to continue, although it didn't protest when it was pinned back down to the mattress. He scratched the bondage marks brutally, and his teeth sank even deeper; he was about to bite through, but all he got in return was a silent chuckle. He pulled away again, infuriated.

Nothing had ever been like this. Right now, he couldn't capture any movement, he couldn't sense any disturbance. The man he was straddling was devouring him without stirring anything, and suddenly it felt hard to breathe. His eyes started to sting as he watched a genuine smile creep upon the blood covered face, while the gaze remained bleakly tranquil. He couldn't breathe. His fingers tightened around the throat, squeezing hard, but there was only soft laughter. The first time he had ever heard it, and it hurt. His hands let go of the neck and closed into fists. Everything was blurry, but he could still hear it, he could still feel the eyes fixed on him. His lips curled back and his teeth gritted, a low, droning growl bursting out of his throat.

His arm retracted and plunged down, knuckles connecting painfully with the bloodied laughter, punching repeatedly, but it only grew louder with each blow. He kept hitting, hissing and groaning like an animal, but it didn't stop. It hurt. Debilitated him. He braced himself on both arms, leaning over the other man, heaving. Looking down, he watched the patterns of blood, the bruises starting to bloom. Still no movement. Only that smile, so cruel and tender. His eyes stung so badly the image began to dissolve into an amalgam of shifting forms. Something wet ran down his cheek, and the vision cleared a little. He righted himself slowly and swallowed what was growing in his throat, letting the air barge in with a ragged gasp. His whole body felt numb, but he could actually feel it. The awareness of being paralyzed, the awareness of anything, being susceptible, wanting to be... Wanting anything and getting it, having it, at the reach of his hand, being bound with it, but still seeing every possible route, fearing the scenario that had as much pretension to coming to existence as any other. The scenario of the end, the end of something that belonged to him.

The stupor lifted from his body with a prick of heat in his stomach. Blood rushed to his head, and he reached down, grabbing the black t-shirt. He pulled the man up to face him without meeting any resistance. Something was creeping over his insides, mixing in his veins, insentient, but knowing. The resolution would always find him, even when he himself was incapacitated. His gaze rested on the placid eyes and he couldn't feel the droplets running down his face anymore. His consciousness retreated a little. He heard his own laughter, stifled and sinister, and his head lowered slightly, his face burrowing into the bruised neck. His arms snaked around the firm body tightly and possessively, scarred cheek brushed against the stubble covered jaw until his lips found the man's ear.

"You're not going to leave, you know," he hissed. His embrace surely grew painful with his arms closing tighter.

"Of course not," Their eyes locked. "It's dark outside, I might get hurt."

The nonchalant tone, that faint smile--it didn't unnerve him anymore. It drew him in.

"Ever." His fingers ran through the dark hair, coy in one moment, clawing in another. Their foreheads pressed together, and his lips rested on the soft skin, ghosting against the cheekbone, kissing. He heard a whisper.

"This is what I meant." No remains of a smile in that voice. His eyes clenched shut, and he pulled himself even closer, coaxed by the arms that enveloped him gently. Suddenly, everything became lucid, every sound, every touch, every last little sensation, it flew freely once again, but something changed forever. He was deeply entrenched into something, wrapped in something soft and warm, but solid at the same time, and he didn't want to break out. He felt himself growing into it, settling, melting against it, diffusing.

Their lips found each other. Somehow, it was like he had never done this before, the hot and swollen skin intoxicating against his. He sucked hard, feeling the growing exhilaration as it was being returned with equal zest. A firm tongue slipped into his mouth, entwining with his own, caressing it with sensual insistence. The threat waned, leaving him with nothing more than wanting this, to be right here, like this, close to him.

He pulled away to catch some breath. His insides had already turned into mush, and all he could do was to remain as he was, molten, his head lolling against the other man's. A kiss settled on his forehead for a moment before the lips wandered down to the tip of his nose, then further down to nip gently at his own. The image was clearing with every second, and all the fragments began to fall into place. He gave into a smile when he felt the tongue lick up the tears on his cheek. His hands enclosed the bruised face, and he just couldn't get enough of this sight, so crisp, so close. He was only vaguely aware of his own movements, delving into all the details of those eyes, relaxed lips, spots of dried blood.

"Bruce..." He heard his own voice, realizing something started to gently drag him out of the haze.

The dark haired man smiled in response. There were no traces of vile triumph left, his gaze became simply tender and slightly weary. He reached up to stroke Joker's hair languidly, playing with the damp curls, glad that his touch didn't startle him this time.

"Look what I've done to you again." Joker brushed his fingers over the bruises that were getting more visible with every passing moment. The smile didn't leave Bruce's face when he leaned back a little bit to get a better look at the madman. It was almost inconceivable how many facets of him he had seen in the past hour. Each of those emotions he was the reason for. Each of them vehement, genuine, and vivid. Fear, lust, rage, numbing panic, every shade of that morbid affection they both shared, and now this. As he watched Joker lean onward to be closer, as he felt his body relax against his own, it struck him how happy he was to see him placated, as simply as that.

"And I didn't even ask how was your day," Joker purred, kissing his temple. Bruce chuckled and rested his head on the man's shoulder, closing his eyes.

"I don't really mind," he said softly. The growing sense of affinity was incredible, and yet it felt so natural. He was fully aware of what had happened, nothing seemed out of place, one thing leading to another until they both found themselves in a place where words were only used to hear the other's voice.

"You're tired, aren't you." Bruce nodded without lifting his head. Joker crawled off his lap slowly and paced to the desk to turn off the night lamp. He was back in a few seconds, clawing at Bruce's shirt in the dark and tugging it off his body. Pushing him gently to make him lie down, he giggled.

"You're not scared of tetanus, right?"

"No, but you could really change those sheets every once in a while."

"You're gonna help me pick some new ones tomorrow."

Bruce smiled when the madman began to pull down his pants. "You know, I'm not that tired, I could undress myself."

"Oh, shh. I like to undress you."

He felt Joker's warm body press against him, his arms snaking around his neck, adjusting until they both lay comfortably, as close to each other as possible. They remained still for a few moments before Joker's fingers wandered down Bruce's face and sneaked behind his ear, rubbing his skin as if he were a cat. Bruce relaxed even more, the caress oddly lulling. He let out a quiet sigh and nuzzled his face into Joker's neck without thinking, and he could tell the madman was smiling.

"Hey, Bruce."

"What..." Bruce groaned with faked annoyance. He felt he could fall asleep any second now.

"I was just wondering. I mean, uh... how was your day?"

"I'm supposed to be tired, you know."

"Well, yeah, I just wanna listen to you actually talk a little more." Joker's voice reclaimed its playful tinge, but it was still very soft, slightly lower than his usual nasal drawling. Bruce smirked and tilted his head a bit to be more comfortable.

"Just record me and put it on loop or something."

"Come on, tell me. Had fun at that get-together?"

"You mean Sofia and everything?"

"Yeah."

Joker heard a mirthless chuckle and his fingers tightened a little over Bruce's body. Neither of them said anything for a few moments.

"I had so much fun, I almost threw up."

"Now. Details. Share with the class, c'mon."

"I'm really not sure if she made it, and I actually feel bad about it." The words were leaving his mouth without any effort, despite his exhaustion. "Because she told me to wait for a sign, but it didn't come until each of her limbs was broken and dislocated, bones sticking out, and then they cut off her finger." He paused for a second and sucked in a breath. "Can you guess why I waited so long?" he asked with a bitter smile.

"I'll just pretend I can't." Another gentle squeeze. "Keep talking."

"I was staring at what they were doing to her, trying to enjoy it. I couldn't. I only felt sorry for her." Another ringing pause. "You know how I like to think of myself as a monster, right? It's easier that way."

"I know."

"And now, I get sickened looking at the scars I gave you, I get sickened watching a piece of garbage like Falcone get beaten up, and yet when I think of you killing Rachel..." A quiet giggle cut into Bruce's musings. "Yeah, you know what happens. It is funny."

"And confusing, isn't it?"

"Very."

"I've told you, you're not insane, you're not a monster, you're just having a tough time. Soon you'll understand."

Bruce closed his eyes, allowing himself to find some comfort in those prosaic words; coming from Joker they held some foreboding significance. Understanding couldn't come any sooner, but for now, his wrecked body succumbed to warmth, taking the mind with it.

♣ ♣ ♣


There were leafless trees all around him, and the air was cold and moist. The grainy image was suffused with sickly faint, orange light slithering through the bare branches. Bruce tried to look around, but all he saw were shadows, some of them still and gnarly, others cadaverous, moving, meandering through the trees so slowly it was almost unsettling. Some of them even had faces, and he knew he should recognize them, but he couldn't. He felt something warm standing close behind him. Unfazed, he watched the flickering spots of light laced with the cobweb of shadows cast by the dried twigs.

Someone walked past him without paying any attention to him. Just another shadow with a face. For some reason, it held a gun in its hand. Bruce began to notice guns in the hands of each one of them. Still, it didn't stir him. The warmth kept him motionless, calm.

The image became even more grainy and lurid. A definite shape emerged from the woods, approaching him slowly. Jagged movements, limbs bent at unnatural angles. The closer it got, the more its features blurred, becoming indiscernible. When it was right in front of him, the face was completely blank, framed with ragged strands of red hair. It pulled out its gun and pointed it at his forehead. Bruce could hear its dry voice, even though it had no mouth.

"Tag, you're it."

It pulled the trigger. He felt the bullet break through his skull slowly, but there was no pain. The rending heat wandered through his brain, a piece of metal disconnecting everything forever. Finally, it reached the back of his head, breaking out, going for the warmth.


♣ ♣ ♣


Bruce opened his eyes and turned his head, trying to lift a little. It wasn't easy as he was lying on his stomach, pressed down by Joker's weight. The madman was drawing something on his back with a red sharpie, but as soon as he noticed Bruce was awake, he greeted him with a big grin.

"Good morning," he sing-songed, his arms snaking around Bruce's torso without letting go of the marker.

"Morning... what are you doing?" Bruce narrowed his eyebrows and twisted his head, but he couldn't even catch a glimpse of Joker's work.

"Oh, I just... I was playing connect the dots on your back."

"What?"

"Y'know, you have so many beauty marks, it was so hard to resist." Joker sighed and snuggled a little closer, resting his head on Bruce's shoulder, careful not to irritate any of the wounds or bruises. Bruce chuckled, and his hand slid down the arm wrapped around his chest, caressing it.

"So what did you come up with?"

"An elephant."

"So now I've got a red elephant on my back?" he droned reproachfully, but he couldn't hide the amusement tingeing his voice.

"Oh, c'mon, it's always been there. Now it's just... redder."

The smile didn't want to leave Bruce's face, and he just closed his eyes, enjoying the other man's touch.

"What time is it?" he asked quietly.

"It's daytime, dear. And we have a lot of crazy things slated for today, so you better start getting up."