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Entry tags:
yup, fic *headdesk*
Yet another evening/morning beautifully wasted!
Graduation gift for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
villainny, following on from this gorgeous drabble she wrote for me.
This just kept growing. André wouldn't shut up. Italics tags are EVIL. I am dead of tired.
Warnings for distrubing amounts of blood, a lot of swearing, gratuitous (albeit subtle) insertion of song lyrics, and quotage of a line from Ashie's drabble.
“Why?” is the first thing that André’s lips manage to form.
“Why not?” comes the counter, bemused.
His hands are curling into fists, almost unconsciously. “I didn’t ask to be saved. I don’t owe you a fucking thing.”
“You’re a terrible liar, babe.”
…well, fuck, he had a retort all lined up and all of a sudden his chest muscles have forgotten how to work because those red eyes were green for a moment and that’s not playing fair.
“You owe me –”
“Stay away from him.” It’s falling out, stumbling out of his mouth before his ears have even had a chance to process what was actually said.
“Are you telling me what to do?” He recognises that face, oh yes. He’s seen the Patrician make that face; and it’s more of a lack-of-face, really, a blank polite mask that’s about as safe as a newly forged blade. It means you have just dropped yourself in the haha, and I’m about to let in the snakes.
“Yes.” His stomach is clenched and squirming all at once, but a stubborn suicidal corner of his soul somehow manages to gain control of his vocal cords. “Go ahead and kill me for the presumption. Then you won’t have saved me after all, and we’ll be square.” The suicidal corner is going off its nut and wants to spit in that damn pretty face, but luckily his mouth is dry with sheer terror.
A slow blink, and a distinct lack of fiery death. André breathes out, trying not to attract attention.
“Anything else?” The words are precise and damnably ambiguous.
“Um. Touch him and I’ll kill you. Not that I think I could, just…fuck.” Andre slumps against the wall, suddenly tired. “I’d try, is the point. And I’m sure I’d end up broken in a hundred places or burning in hell or whatever it is you do to people who charge at you with a club, but I’d do it. That’s what he means to me.”
“Have you told him that?” He sounds genuinely curious.
André can’t work up a glare for that. His shoulders collapse inwards a little more. “There’s no easy way to say that kind of thing, you know?”
The man with red eyes laughs. “When there is no easy way, it is best to find a difficult one.”
Now André glares. “Yeah, ‘cos that’s such a helpful suggestion.”
“Now, now.” A very faint smile. André’s beginning to doubt that there is any way at all to make this dark…thing…lose his temper. “Did I say it was a suggestion?”
André opens his mouth, but he’s gone.
He’s still feeling jittery when Skazz meets him on the corner where they usually meet, hands in pockets and hair looking bluer than usual under the dim lights.
“Hey.” A punch in the shoulder and a fond grin.
And he’s just started to reply when something rips, across his stomach, the same insane pain as before and the same flooding warm liquid seeping into his shirt.
A difficult way?
Oh, fuck. Fuck.
And fucked if he’s going like this, if he’s going to let the bastard stretch the end out that little bit further just so he has to taste the coldness a second time. No. He’s going his way.
Hands shaking then fists then curled tight-fast around the kid’s jacket then slam, yeah, just like that, against the wall.
“Listen up, Zacharias,” he says, looking down at his feet and up past the sickening stain on his shirt until he can see green eyes and hear his own voice rough in his ears. “And don’t interrupt, this is important.” He forgets and breaks into a laugh, because he sounds like big bad Officer Webber reading someone’s rights, or (his own last) rites. The laugh dissolves into a gasp but he keeps going. “I know I said the words, quite a few times and that was bloody impressive for me, which you know, but the thing is, the thing is, I love you so fucking much that if I let myself think about it for too long I feel like running, because it can’t be healthy or right or safe to need someone that much.”
Well, that was a sentence and a half. Full marks, Officer Webber.
“And…I can’t run, right now, so I guess I can tell you that you drive me insane with how much I need you, and you’re a rush and a drug and some other fucking chemical metaphor for sex and love and everything in one stupid package. And I can’t spare enough blood to work up a blush, so I’m going to wax fucking lyrical and tell you that I’d die for you if I had a life to spare. Which. I guess I don’t. Yeah, s’about it, really.”
Skazz’s face is hard to see because it’s dark and his vision isn’t working so good anyway, things are starting to wobble at the edges and blur in the middle. Can’t focus. But the kid’s breathing fast, don’t need eyes to work that out, don’t need eyes to slip a finger under the slim leather strip and feel his throat expand with the quick rush of heat and air.
Fuck yeah, we can live like this.
Hell, we can die like this.
So he leans in, pushes in, kisses him hard, probably a waste of oxygen, but he wouldn’t want his last breath going anywhere else. And the very action is agony across his stomach, not even the bright burning pain he can lose himself in and pretend it’s something glamorous or erotic. Just pain. A dull wooden knife hooked into his guts and jerked in every direction at once. His knees buckle, he knows he’s going pale, screw pride and manly stoicism because this fucking hurts.
“André?”
Fuck, it’s almost too much, the concern, the same tight shaking anxiety that was in his own voice when he said his name. Names are leery things. Always a little uneasy, between them. Somehow that makes them doubly important now.
André staggers backwards a couple of steps, hands pressed down over the wound.
“Don’t want to get blood on you, kid…” His lips are made of heavy rubber. Words are coming too fast, in spite of it.
“Fuck, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing, just my second death for this evening.” That voice ain’t his. It’s breathless and sobbing and a hideous parody of mirth. “Or the same death, just delayed a little. Bastard. Motherfucking bastard. Fuck, kid, don’t llook at me, I’m blleeding to death in front of your fucking eyes, you’re going to get a compllex or something –”
“André.”
Thwap.
He slapped him, the fucking ass slapped him! A hole in his stomach and his life smeared all over their clothes and now he’s got an aching jaw to boot –
Thwap.
“Babe.” The kid’s voice is sharp, serious, and sometimes it’s easy to forget that he’s got power of his own. “There’s nothing there.”
“I –” And finally the ringing sound in his ears stops and he looks up, shaking, the pain in his face suddenly infinitely worse and driving the haze away. “What?”
“You keep talking about blood…”
He can see again, and Skazz’s jacket is clean. The pain in his stomach gives one more biting stab, like the echo of a laugh, and then is…gone.
He looks down.
“Babe?”
Up.
He waits for the shock, the questions, the confusion, the anger. He doesn’t get them.
Zacharias Zesk looks scared. His eyes are wide, and when he speaks there is a soft edge that betrays just how young this tough wizard is, in the end.
“Did you…what you said…”
“Every word true.” He bites his lip to keep from laughing, reaches out with hands that have just stopped shaking and pulls the boy in. Explanations can go to hell, right now. “Every damn word.”
Graduation gift for
villainny, following on from this gorgeous drabble she wrote for me.This just kept growing. André wouldn't shut up. Italics tags are EVIL. I am dead of tired.
Warnings for distrubing amounts of blood, a lot of swearing, gratuitous (albeit subtle) insertion of song lyrics, and quotage of a line from Ashie's drabble.
“Why?” is the first thing that André’s lips manage to form.
“Why not?” comes the counter, bemused.
His hands are curling into fists, almost unconsciously. “I didn’t ask to be saved. I don’t owe you a fucking thing.”
“You’re a terrible liar, babe.”
…well, fuck, he had a retort all lined up and all of a sudden his chest muscles have forgotten how to work because those red eyes were green for a moment and that’s not playing fair.
“You owe me –”
“Stay away from him.” It’s falling out, stumbling out of his mouth before his ears have even had a chance to process what was actually said.
“Are you telling me what to do?” He recognises that face, oh yes. He’s seen the Patrician make that face; and it’s more of a lack-of-face, really, a blank polite mask that’s about as safe as a newly forged blade. It means you have just dropped yourself in the haha, and I’m about to let in the snakes.
“Yes.” His stomach is clenched and squirming all at once, but a stubborn suicidal corner of his soul somehow manages to gain control of his vocal cords. “Go ahead and kill me for the presumption. Then you won’t have saved me after all, and we’ll be square.” The suicidal corner is going off its nut and wants to spit in that damn pretty face, but luckily his mouth is dry with sheer terror.
A slow blink, and a distinct lack of fiery death. André breathes out, trying not to attract attention.
“Anything else?” The words are precise and damnably ambiguous.
“Um. Touch him and I’ll kill you. Not that I think I could, just…fuck.” Andre slumps against the wall, suddenly tired. “I’d try, is the point. And I’m sure I’d end up broken in a hundred places or burning in hell or whatever it is you do to people who charge at you with a club, but I’d do it. That’s what he means to me.”
“Have you told him that?” He sounds genuinely curious.
André can’t work up a glare for that. His shoulders collapse inwards a little more. “There’s no easy way to say that kind of thing, you know?”
The man with red eyes laughs. “When there is no easy way, it is best to find a difficult one.”
Now André glares. “Yeah, ‘cos that’s such a helpful suggestion.”
“Now, now.” A very faint smile. André’s beginning to doubt that there is any way at all to make this dark…thing…lose his temper. “Did I say it was a suggestion?”
André opens his mouth, but he’s gone.
He’s still feeling jittery when Skazz meets him on the corner where they usually meet, hands in pockets and hair looking bluer than usual under the dim lights.
“Hey.” A punch in the shoulder and a fond grin.
And he’s just started to reply when something rips, across his stomach, the same insane pain as before and the same flooding warm liquid seeping into his shirt.
A difficult way?
Oh, fuck. Fuck.
And fucked if he’s going like this, if he’s going to let the bastard stretch the end out that little bit further just so he has to taste the coldness a second time. No. He’s going his way.
Hands shaking then fists then curled tight-fast around the kid’s jacket then slam, yeah, just like that, against the wall.
“Listen up, Zacharias,” he says, looking down at his feet and up past the sickening stain on his shirt until he can see green eyes and hear his own voice rough in his ears. “And don’t interrupt, this is important.” He forgets and breaks into a laugh, because he sounds like big bad Officer Webber reading someone’s rights, or (his own last) rites. The laugh dissolves into a gasp but he keeps going. “I know I said the words, quite a few times and that was bloody impressive for me, which you know, but the thing is, the thing is, I love you so fucking much that if I let myself think about it for too long I feel like running, because it can’t be healthy or right or safe to need someone that much.”
Well, that was a sentence and a half. Full marks, Officer Webber.
“And…I can’t run, right now, so I guess I can tell you that you drive me insane with how much I need you, and you’re a rush and a drug and some other fucking chemical metaphor for sex and love and everything in one stupid package. And I can’t spare enough blood to work up a blush, so I’m going to wax fucking lyrical and tell you that I’d die for you if I had a life to spare. Which. I guess I don’t. Yeah, s’about it, really.”
Skazz’s face is hard to see because it’s dark and his vision isn’t working so good anyway, things are starting to wobble at the edges and blur in the middle. Can’t focus. But the kid’s breathing fast, don’t need eyes to work that out, don’t need eyes to slip a finger under the slim leather strip and feel his throat expand with the quick rush of heat and air.
Fuck yeah, we can live like this.
Hell, we can die like this.
So he leans in, pushes in, kisses him hard, probably a waste of oxygen, but he wouldn’t want his last breath going anywhere else. And the very action is agony across his stomach, not even the bright burning pain he can lose himself in and pretend it’s something glamorous or erotic. Just pain. A dull wooden knife hooked into his guts and jerked in every direction at once. His knees buckle, he knows he’s going pale, screw pride and manly stoicism because this fucking hurts.
“André?”
Fuck, it’s almost too much, the concern, the same tight shaking anxiety that was in his own voice when he said his name. Names are leery things. Always a little uneasy, between them. Somehow that makes them doubly important now.
André staggers backwards a couple of steps, hands pressed down over the wound.
“Don’t want to get blood on you, kid…” His lips are made of heavy rubber. Words are coming too fast, in spite of it.
“Fuck, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing, just my second death for this evening.” That voice ain’t his. It’s breathless and sobbing and a hideous parody of mirth. “Or the same death, just delayed a little. Bastard. Motherfucking bastard. Fuck, kid, don’t llook at me, I’m blleeding to death in front of your fucking eyes, you’re going to get a compllex or something –”
“André.”
Thwap.
He slapped him, the fucking ass slapped him! A hole in his stomach and his life smeared all over their clothes and now he’s got an aching jaw to boot –
Thwap.
“Babe.” The kid’s voice is sharp, serious, and sometimes it’s easy to forget that he’s got power of his own. “There’s nothing there.”
“I –” And finally the ringing sound in his ears stops and he looks up, shaking, the pain in his face suddenly infinitely worse and driving the haze away. “What?”
“You keep talking about blood…”
He can see again, and Skazz’s jacket is clean. The pain in his stomach gives one more biting stab, like the echo of a laugh, and then is…gone.
He looks down.
“Babe?”
Up.
He waits for the shock, the questions, the confusion, the anger. He doesn’t get them.
Zacharias Zesk looks scared. His eyes are wide, and when he speaks there is a soft edge that betrays just how young this tough wizard is, in the end.
“Did you…what you said…”
“Every word true.” He bites his lip to keep from laughing, reaches out with hands that have just stopped shaking and pulls the boy in. Explanations can go to hell, right now. “Every damn word.”
no subject
Oh GOD sweetheart I adore you. Completely and utterly. I don't deserve this kind of thing. Wow.
Just.
Thank you.
no subject
Also: hee hee, I feel influential. XD
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*eyes own Skazz/Andre fic*
Fuck. You...and his my character....you....
*FLAILS*
THAT WAS SO GOOD! AND FUCKED UP! BUT GOOD!
no subject
André wouldn't shut up
Yeah, he does that *thawps him*
no subject
*grins*
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Not finished! Will never be finished cause I SUCK.
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I'm trying. And I'll make you beta.
no subject
And I believe that God believes in Claude ARGH MUSICALSI'm off to study for psych, but do email it to me if you finish today :)
no subject
*eyes music*
I shall try.