Title: States of Mind: Those Who Go
Author: Ashlea Ensro
Feedback: ::whining:: pleeeeeaaaaaaasssse? morleyphile@yahoo.com
Rating: R for not-at-all graphic m/m interaction and disturbing themes.
Category: VRA
Spoilers: Up to "One Son".
Keywords: M/K slash, post-colonization, implied character death
Archive: yes, but let me know.
Disclaimer: I don't think they'd want to be owned by me. Every time I get them together, 
one of them dies. The States of Mind series was created by Umberto Boccioni, and look 
what happened to him.

Summary: Krycek's point-of-view.

Author's Note: You've heard of songfic; this is paintingfic. Specifically, it is based on 
Boccioni's "States of Mind" of 1911. There are three paintings: "The Farewells", "Those 
Who Go", and "Those Who Stay", representing the artist's belief that the world was at a 
crucial turning point, and humanity was to be given the choice of plunging headfirst into 
the future or to remain mired in the past. The paintings are on my site at 
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/7599/states.html, if you'd like to see them.

Futurism was a mainly Italian movement around the turn of the century. It was 
characterized by a modified Cubist style meant to depict motion and simultaneous points of 
view - but more importantly, by a love for modern technology and warfare, a pervasive 
misogyny, fascist politics, and an urge to destroy the past. (There'll be a test on this later.)

It should also be noted that the opinions of Boccioni and the other futurists are not opinions 
I share. :)

This is one of three stories; they can be read in any order.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
States of Mind: Those Who Go
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I can still feel your pulse echoing through my body.

I should have known that bliss like this can come only before the fall. As you lay there in a 
half-sleep beside me, I had to whisper into the phone to keep from waking you.

It was futile; as his smoke-ravaged voice informed me that it was for real this time, you 
stirred in my arms, asked me why I was suddenly shaking.

You left your scent on me, your warmth, and now you are as cold as death. I don't 
remember how long we talked about it. You had made your decision before I hung up the 
phone.

I beat you to it, Mulder. My decision was made on the night I sold my soul to them.

Oh, *lisitsa*, I can still feel you inside me, your two hands clinging to me with a violence I 
could never have anticipated. You tried to transfer to me the agony of indecision, but 
instead we are here at the station, and an angry push substitutes for farewell.

You want me to regret this. You want me to weep for billions, when all I can mourn is that 
we did not sleep tonight, that I will not wake up beside you tomorrow.

Come with me, Mulder. You are too beautiful to die.

You did not want me to bring the weapon. It is of no use - there are too many of them. We 
have not slept, and you are too tired to fight.

I brought the gun, Mulder. It is better than dying like this. I remember infection. You are 
not the only thing that has possessed me.

Do I disgust you? Did you want me to choose resistance?

"What's the matter, Krycek? I thought you were going to save the world."

Oh, but I was, I was. We were going to save the world together. We were going to take 
them all down; the aliens and the rebels and the Consortium in one fell swoop and then ride 
off into the sunset. We were going to make it a happy ending.

But it didn't end like that; it never does.

So instead I am standing with you in a train station, and I am offering to put you out of 
your misery.

I don't blame you for hurting me, Mulder, God knows I deserve it, and besides it doesn't 
hurt that much. You don't have the strength, the will to struggle anymore. The scrape of 
the brick wall brings back memories of the good old days, when enemies were enemies and 
lovers were lovers, and the end of the world was a glimmer in a madman's eye.

Come with me. Come with me. I repeat it again and again, a mantra that will save him, 
save both of us. You can't stop it. Acquiesce, leave the sinking ship because the waves will 
sting as they take you under.

And you still want to search, you still want to play the hero. Life is too difficult an option, 
too painful a choice.

Both of my hands are touching you. You sink into the flesh, but it is the machine that 
reaches for you, that wants to pull you from the maelstrom.

And you only want to stay.

You gave me absolution, but now you imprison me. The black waters swell behind you; 
your kiss is soft, but I must flee the tide.

I kneel before you, lay the weapon at your feet. You deserve a fighting chance; if you will 
not take life, then please, please take this.

I do not hear our words, just the echoes through the pillars of the station: stay...go...stay. 
This is no time for virtue. There is one choice that remains, one escape.

"Stop me." 

But you do not respond.

And when at last I turn from you, I break into a run; you are behind me, and I am running 
for my life.

I can see the ship among the clouds, and it is calling for me. Not until I am assured of its 
presence can I look towards the drowning man I left behind.

The air is thick with insects; the bees will do their work.

I am only grateful that I do not see your death.

You dissolve into the shadows of the railway station, or perhaps they catch you as you turn 
back to continue this doomed, fruitless search. I hope that in the end, you do not doubt 
your decision.

The light is all around me, and I could not look now even if I had wanted to do so.

Goodnight, Mulder, I offered you the world.