A/N: Been a while, huh? xD I've been writing this since December and have let myself procrastinate way too much. This fic is dedicated to literarylolita, who asked me to write another songfic based on Marianas Trench. Here you go, lovie! :3

Disclaimer: I do not own Degrassi or anything affiliated to it. The song used is called "Alibis" by Marianas Trench and I do not own any lyrics, Marianas Trench or any affiliates.

From the scrapes and bruises to the familiar abuses
I'll kick and scream but it never changes anything

Stuff.

There is always stuff. And it's everywhere.

Now matter how much he cleaned up, no matter how many boxes she pushed out of his door, no matter how many useless things they picked out of his clutter, it just never went away. The mess, the clutter, the mountain of junk that swallowed his room, his space, his life… it wouldn't go away. No matter how much progress they made, it seemed another pile of junk would appear before them, destroying their progress.

Eli breathed heavily as he lifted another box and slid over his cluttered bed, placing it above another short stack of boxes he planned to throw away later today. He had made some progress at least; today he threw away a few old movie tickets he had kept as a reminder of the times he took Julia to the movies. He also managed to place an old plastic plate in that box after about fifteen minutes of considering; he didn't quite remember where it was from. But, the fact of the matter was that he had it. It was in his room. He may not remember why but he put it there for a reason. Meaning he wanted to hold on to a special memory that involved that used plastic plate with dried grease lines. It must have meant something special to someone close to him. And therefore, throwing it away would destroy that memory, further distancing them from his mind.

That person would have died without that plate.

I could spill my guts out
Wearing my best little girl pout

That mentality… is what got him in this mess in the first place.

After fifteen minutes of staring at the plate, tracing the dried lines of grease and sauce poignantly as he scavenged through his arsenal of memories, searching for the place where this dish had any significance to him at all, he found himself strong enough to admit that he did not remember. He didn't remember where this plate came from.

And, with a large intake of breath, his eyes wide shut and his hands trembling, he managed to drop the plate in the box, telling himself over and over how a memory he does not remember must not have been that special or important.

So why does it always feel like a piece of his heart is being ripped to shreds every time he attempts to throw something away?

And I almost missed it
But nobody said that this was gonna be easy

That plastic plate may be gone but there were so many other things, so much more junk he had to wade through, searching for the room he used to have, searching for the happy boy he used to be; before the trauma, before the emotional clinginess to anything that reminded him of a time when he truly felt alive. People usually keep presents or concert tickets; Eli kept greasy plates. It's not that different, not that different at all. In fact, it was a healthy thing to do.

All this fucking mess is healthy.

Anything to escape reality, eh? I'm pathetic… he thought to himself as he picked up the plate again. Nobody lives the way he does; suffocated by a mountain of things, memories he can't let go of. Perhaps he won't throw away that plate. People usually keep dirty plates in their room… right?

How did all of this happen… How did he end up this way? He never asked for this life.

This is not the man I hoped to be
And I'm just trying to stop the bleeding

The mess was much more bearable when she was around. The flame when the power goes out, the rain in his desert and the reason why he let that greasy plate fall back into the box instead of finding it another spot in his room.

Clare.

If the morning dew on his window could dance a samba of joy, their line would spell out her name. If the evening wind could whistle a tune of serenity, it would sing of the morning sky hiding in her eyes. He could write a million poems and sonnets for her using extensive vocabulary and never be able to truly describe her. "No word in the English language" is an understatement. So is her name. There are other girls in the world named Clare. None of them could hold a candle to his deity. They can only wish.

I don't know how to word it
I just started to deserve it

He could spend hours wondering where she came from; it may even be a good idea. He didn't truly remember the first time he met her; it wasn't one of those "love at first sight" things everyone seems to be so infatuated with. He probably passed by her in the hall a few times or accidentally knocked her pen off her desk in class before truly realizing the gem that was so carelessly floating beside him. Funny how life works, isn't it? Love's a bitch too. But, unlike life, love doesn't spare your feelings. Sure, life can ruin you until you have absolutely nothing left. Love is the one that makes it hurt.

All my faces are alibis
And me, I'm half the man I wanted to be

Eli had seen quite a few things in his lifetime; most of which he'd rather forget, all of which had crawled into some little corner of his room. Yet, the only thing he was never able to understand was those preconceptions of love. All that talk of butterflies and chills and loss of breath at the expense of just one person? Please. Sounds like a load of jargon. Yet, how odd it felt when Clare would bat her eyes, hold his hand, kiss his chapped lips and steal the oxygen from him when she pulled away. Scientifically, this can't be proven. Yet it still happened.

So… this is what it means to be in love. Act like a complete moron and lose all sense of logic and integrity.

He liked it.

Most times it all comes out wrong
I don't know the words but I'll hum along

The thought of finding the stars missing from the sky hiding in her eyes, wishing to replace the chaotic tunes from his mp3 player with the sound of her voice… even the intense loneliness he felt when she was gone, his body yearning to hold her tiny frame against him, keeping her safe from harm… he loved it.

Love… what a beautiful feeling. What in the hell did he do to deserve it?

Why should someone like Clare even bother with a screw-up like him?

There's nothing familiar here anymore
To anyone or anything left to feel alive

He picked up the greasy plastic plate for the umpteenth time and tossed it across his room. He was a failure; a letdown, a jackass, an ironic disappointment. Heaven had decided to send an angel to save the souls of the damned? Clare was meant to save someone else. His soul was too ill-fated for God; even Satan would second guess before letting him through the gates of Hell.

So many thoughts would ring through his head, each one more confusing than the last. His first love was dead because of him; a soulless murderer. Dreaming of a utopia he wished to achieve: a pretty little house with pink bricks and a yellow fence, a little red car in the driveway and a briefcase in hand as he arrived home from a generic day at work. The boss was seldom annoying and the employees would have been terrible for his badass image he had discarded years before. He would discard everything; everything he had. For the girl at the end of the hallway. The one who finished work early and had come home to start on dinner, crouched below the stove and placing a pan in the oven. Her breath would stop and her majestic laugh would ring through the air when he would grab hold of her, burying his face in her sweet honeysuckle curls as he took in a scent of lavender and cotton candy. She would shift in his embrace and face him, her half-lidded eyes as radiant as the ocean as she would press her sweet lemon lips against his.

Clare. Clare, Clare, CLARE.

And I still taste that sickness
And it makes me crazy without it at best

He tugged at his hair in frustration, the pain he felt at the root of every strand a solace to his dirty thoughts. How dare he even think of such a thing? An angel by his side, his partner for life, his bride?

Why the fuck did love despise him so much? What did he do to annoy her, anyways? What the fuck did he do? Why did she just love screwing around with him?

He let out a frustrated roar as he knocked the box over in rage. He watched with burning eyes as all of their progress cluttered to the floor, ruining the hours she spent by his side, holding his hand, supporting him, loving him, dragging him under a spell, making him vulnerable, part of love's devious plan to shatter his heart and feast on his rotting corpse.

He knocked over more boxes, his teeth gritting in anger and agony as the things he had worked so hard to separate with poured all over his bedroom floor, out the door, into the hallway, snarling and roaring incoherent, bestial sounds as the corner of his delicate green eyes watered with anger.

But I'm in the same place I used to be
But I'm trying harder not to be

This is not who he wanted to be; this is nowhere near the man he wanted to become. He took a wrong turn somewhere, stumbled across the dark side and now… the light was fading. It was much too difficult to find his way back to penitence and sanity.

It wasn't worth it. None of it. He was a desolate soul, a murderer to say the least, and a heartbreaker. He should drown in his memories. To die here would be the worst way to die. But it would all be over soon. Death come quickly, death come quickly.

So what am I?

"Eli!"

Odd. His literary heroes always described Hell as a terrible place where dreams and happiness were reduced to ashes in the fires of evil. Why would you hear a voice as soft as honeysuckle rose tea in a treacherous place for the souls of the damned? Even angels couldn't reach such a place.

He let the empty box in his hands drop to the floor, emitting a soft clunk as it landed above the mountain of trinkets it had possessed a few moments ago. The rage was gone. The pain was gone. Fury, wrath, ache and hate. It had all melted away, leaving a numbing pain of loss. Loss of feeling. What do you feel in times like this?

His breath came out in large, inaudible gasps as he attempted to lower his heart rate, staring ahead at an old All Time Low poster that barely hung on his closet door. If he focused on the intricate details and decorations of the band's logo, maybe things would seem less complicated. Maybe he would be able to find inner peace.

Inner peace… it seems nice. But nobody ever wants it. He never wanted it. The complexity of emotions, trials and tribulations always proposed a more amusing option. Things always seemed better when you felt intense pain or happiness, rather than feeling nothing at all. Life just sucks that way.

He blinked twice and shifted his gaze towards the doorway.

I don't know how the words go
I just started not to say no

It was difficult to comprehend what he saw at that moment. Perhaps because of the swift beating of his heart, the painful gasps that emitted from his chest, the feeling of love and adoration that sent chills through his body and the feeling of guilt and letdown that kept swirling through his mind as her pain stricken eyes swept through his room and rested their gaze on his emerald wonders.

"Eli, what did you do?"

Her voice… soft and quiet, it almost cracked under the amount of shock and confusion that beheld her. He loved when her voice was this soft, whispering his name in his ear as she lay beside him on a rainy night. Yet it killed him to hear it so full of disappointment.

"I…I…"

He thought he knew what to say. He wanted to yell incoherent and incomprehensible jargon about orange juice and calla lilies to her but the words wouldn't come out. The look of confusion and longing in her face stole his words, his breath and his train of thought. She was so beautiful, standing in his doorway with her angel eyes and soft skin. And she searched for an answer; one he could never provide.

Don't want it, don't get it
I know you won't regret it

"Eli…" she whispered as her gaze fell, a look of understanding washing over her beautiful face. She knew what he had done, why he had done it. He didn't have the strength to continue without her. All of their hard work lay on the floor, all the hours she spent by his side consoling him and reassuring him, wasted. He felt weak, broken, his ego shattered along with his heart.

And before either of them had a chance to reconstruct their trains of thought, before either of them could form coherent words, she had darted across the room and savagely pressed her lips against his.

Don't surface
And I feel so damn worthless

The force of the impact knocked him off his feet as he grasped her tiny frame, wrapping his arms around her torso in an attempt to save her from harm as they landed on his bed, her lips still pressed against his as her tongue traced the contours of his chapped lips. He held her tightly in a vice-like grip as he continued to kiss her sweet strawberry lips, running his hand up and down her bare arm, shivering at the sensation of her soft skin at his fingertips. Their embrace and kisses were rough and violent yet filled with nothing but passion and love. There was never any room for fear and doubt whenever she would decide to press her lips against him; she melted it all away with just a touch.

The trinkets on the floor held no more guilt and regret; the cluttered room was filled with nothing but useless knick knacks instead of bad memories and painful tears. He realized, as their kisses became softer and more delicate, they were just stuff. Just stuff. That's all they ever will be.

As long as Clare was in his arms, it was all just stuff.

Another day is gone and all my faces are alibis

"I'm sorry…" he whispered quietly when she pulled away, burying her face in his neck as she closed her eyes.

She hesitated for a while before responding. "It's ok, Eli. We can start again."

"And if I relapse again?" he whispered softly, fearing his voice would crack if he attempted to speak any louder.

"We'll start again. Together."

He let a sigh escape his lips as she buried her face into his neck once again and laced her fingers with his, pressing her body against his as her breathing became soft and even, lulling into slumber. Placing a soft kiss on her forehead, he shut his eyes as well, hoping to see her again in his dreams.

At this rate, cleaning his room will take days, weeks, months, even years. Perhaps it would never get done. At this point, it just didn't matter. Nothing else matters.

As long as Clare, the angel who held the other half of his heart and hid the stars in her eyes and the sun in her hair, was by his side, nothing else ever would matter. He didn't need to wake up ever again.

For, at that moment, everything was simply perfect.

And me, I'm half the man I wanted to be