019; VOICE POST.
I'm getting a little tired of this place. Nothing really ever changes here.
[ Some shuffling, and then it cuts off with a long, even pause. ]
-- What the hell, Rikku. Did you sign me up to do bitch work?
[ Some shuffling, and then it cuts off with a long, even pause. ]
-- What the hell, Rikku. Did you sign me up to do bitch work?
When it started, there was no way out of it.
But it wasn't just standing and waiting that was part of the error. That was more like a consequence in the error of his thinking, because the only mistake Heine really made was in thinking that Giovanni couldn't crack into that shell and get to where it hurt the most. It was in thinking that just because it was unavoidable, it didn't have to matter.
It always mattered. Now, now more than ever, because Giovanni had a goal that he could fulfil, Giovanni had intentions that didn't have to come second to his devotion. Giovanni could get revenge, could sink his terrified fingers into Heine and rip out chunks of trembling flesh and he wouldn't have to think avoid his head, don't kill him, just enough and then pull back, just enough.
Until he was dead, it was never enough.
His shoulder brushed the cool stone wall, and he could feel Heine right around the next corner, the smell of sweat and fear and Dog and gunmetal. Anticipation beneath it all, excitement. ]
The weather's pretty good for this.
[ His fingers tightened on his guns; they clicked tellingly, and he could feel the sweat beneath the creases on his palms.]
I hope you weren't waiting long.
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He'd been expecting that, to some extent, and this time, his muscles remained relaxed, calm, even with the hard and ready tension boiling just beneath the surface. His head tipped back until strands of white hair were brushing along the brick, and then one more breath, and then another, and then another.
He didn't move, though. Not yet. The chains to his guns clinked threateningly together, a reminder to what had happened the last time they'd played this game, with Giovanni playing hide and seek on the other side of another object.
Another breath. He could taste him in the air. ]
You don't think I see it, do you?
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The sound of the chains brought back memories - the exact memories Heine desired to evoke. The rough of treebark and cracked ribs as it tightened and tightened and tightened, the feel of him closing in, jerking him forward with teeth bared, but animals were most dangerous when they were cornered. That was one of those things they did have in common, he thought. It was probably to be expected.
Wild dogs looked for weaknesses. They would wait for them and dig at them; they'd see an old wound and lunge for it, rip it clean open again.
Their best and freshest wounds, however, weren't physical things. ]
See what, Heine?
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[ The response came immediately, right after the word "Heine" fell from Giovanni's lips. And he wasn't really talking for any particular purpose, wasn't saying shit to get the other worked up, because he didn't care like that, because he didn't give enough of a fuck to be able to. He was saying it because it needed to be said, because maybe he was a little bit exhausted of this, and maybe he just didn't want to fucking do this anymore.
His heart beat steady and quiet beneath his ribcage, and Heine's fingers loosened around the guns in his hands as he tipped his chin toward the direction that Giovanni was in. He still wasn't moving. ]
I used to think you did this shit because you got off on it, but it's not about that, is it? That's not the real reason.
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His arms, until then limp at his sides, slowly raised until the twin barrels stared up at the sky, watched the clouds that couldn't temper the brilliance of the sunlight. Neither of them cast a shadow; just about midday. The hardest time to hide.
He felt like he was being watched, and inclined his head to look towards the corner that Heine lingered beyond; his imagination perhaps, because he couldn't see him yet, knew he wouldn't have peered around yet. They were just playing, for now. ]
And what's the real reason, Heine?
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Because it's easier to forget this way.
[ And then there was silence again. Heine didn't really have a whole lot to say, because he never did, because he didn't speak a lot in general, especially not when in came to Giovanni. A ripple of tension ran through him, then, and he inhaled deeply, inhaled his scent and his taste, and it was permanent, it was unforgettable.
His Mauser and his Luger slid back down into his holsters, and the chains clinked noisily again as they were put into place.
And then he moved. Finally.
Heine slid over the ground, around the corner until he was facing Giovanni, until he was barely even feet from him, until he could press gloved hands against the wall on either side of him.
He leaned in close, fingertips pushing hard into the brick as his lips grazed barely over his cheek before he reached his ear. ]
You want to kill me? Fine. Fucking do it.
I don't give a shit.
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And then Heine was coming closer, and Giovanni stopped breathing, his guns clicking when his fingers flinched on their smooth surface. Like before, he thought, and something jolted through his stomach like he'd just been stabbed, like Heine had ripped jagged metal up through his flesh like he had once before.
He breathed again, slower, and throat clicked when he swallowed.
Fucking do it, Heine said, and Giovanni wasn't someone who needed to be told twice. In the full face of Heine, with their proximity and looking at the only thing that thrilled him, the only thing that frightened him, he put away his guns.
His hand was at Heine's throat in a heartbeat - easy to grip, even under the shifting shape of tight bandages - and he slammed him up against the brick, eager for the split, the crack, the crunch of bones, his fingers twisting, vicing, tightening - first clawing at Heine's throat, and then just yanking him close by the bandages, close enough for their noses to brush, for Heine's breath to warm his lips. His guns were still put away. It's Heine's that was in his free hand, the long chain clinking as he pressed the barrel against Heine's temple. ]
You're normally so quick to run. It's changed you, as well.
You don't have to think about the ones who rely on you. You'll come back, so it doesn't matter.
[ His grip closing around the whole of Heine's throat again, he slammed him back into the wall, closed the space between them. ]
Is that how it makes you think?
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[ The word was ground out between clenched teeth as he was slammed back against the wall, muscles tensing but not fighting back, but not pushing him away, but not really resisting, because. Because, well, he didn't need to, didn't have a reason to yet, and it was the same old deal with them, the same fucking routine they always went through.
Heine would have laughed if Giovanni weren't pressing down on his throat, and his head slammed back hard against the wall as he tipped his chin, staring at the other with lidded, focused eyes.
Whatever. Whatever. ]
You think this is gonna help? Really?
[ And he shifted his weight some, fingers tracking up his sides before they were digging roughly into the material of his jacket.
He still wanted to laugh. He still didn't. ]
You can fucking kill me all you want, Giovanni, but you still won't ever, ever, ever get to touch me. There's nothing you can do that will fucking hurt me.
You can't do shit to me, and you know it.
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His grip on Heine's throat lightened just a little, fingers brushing down over his skin and the bandages that now hung loose at his collar, and then he dropped it down to Heine's hip, curving against the bone and muscle there. His fingers slipped between the belt and Heine's pants, jerking him close. Easy to gouge reach into him, if he wanted.
But it got to him, in its own way - the way Heine put it, the way he made a point of it: there's nothing you can do that will fucking hurt me.
And if Heine wasn't going to suffer through it, if he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing him break - completely break - it was pointless. He understood: there were things he could do to hurt Heine, but death wasn't one of them. Anything that hurt Heine and wasn't death would get Giovanni slaughtered, would end their stalemate.
Giovanni's thin lips curled a little, not quite a sneer but close, close enough. The cold barrel of the gun moved from Heine's temple, down past his ear and the side of his neck, and then it was braced against the collar, the two metals clicking and then grazing firmly. His hand was dragging him forward, closer, closer.
Are you sure she didn't scream in pleasure?
I wonder if you will.
Heine had bitten him once before when he was cornered, and Giovanni reciprocated with the same affection now, closing the gap to brush lips, to part his own and split the skin of Heine's lower lip, the smell sickening and intoxicating and thick and smokey in his throat, and he bit down harder until he felt the wound deepen, until it popped and flooded his mouth.
He pulled back to watch it, to see the blood trickle and pool down into the corner of Heine's mouth, and his teeth were etched with pink when he smiled. ]
... There's a lot I can do to you, Heine.
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It wasn't because of Giovanni this time, though, wasn't because he was being shoved or pushed into it. It had more to do with the fact that the other's hand had dropped, and that was okay, that was fine, even if he could feel his fingers digging into the flesh at his waist, even if they were moving to slip past his belt to jerk him forward. But the gun against his collar, the metal scraping over metal, that was enough to nearly make him wince.
The hard muscle in his jaw tightened, and his fingers gripped onto his jacket tighter, before they were falling away to rest limply at his sides. Giovanni wasn't really saying anything yet, though, but Heine caught the little flicker of irritation that ran through his expression, and he would have smiled if --
If it weren't for the other dragging him forward to press his lips against his own.
This was familiar.
His breath stuttered out from his lungs in a surprised, slightly strangled noise that he would kill himself later for making, and his hands had moved back up, were clawing down over his sides to push him back so that he could move his head away. But Giovanni was already biting down, and Heine just went completely still at the feel of teeth tearing a small wound into his lip.
The blood was warm and coppery in his mouth, and he finally jerked back, finally slammed back into the wall behind him with a short, breathless snarl. ]
-- Fuck yourself.
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If Giovanni wasn't going to die, if even death meant nothing, he had nothing to be afraid of. It didn't just liberate him to kill Heine. It liberated him for a lot of things. So many things. ]
That's a little strange.
[ He didn't give an inch of space, his grip tightening on Heine's belt until his fingers throbbed and the leather band cut off circulation. His other hand moved to nudge the gun under his chin - pinning his skull to the wall where it had smacked firmly, dragging his hips closer, getting him off balance. His breath played across Heine's jaw when he leaned in, tongue brushing away a bead of the blood as it ran down. ]
You were more confident about dying than this.
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Because he didn't have control. Right. No. Of course not. He didn't.
But he couldn't really help it, all the same, and he would have fallen forward into the other when his hips were tugged forward if it weren't for the gun pressed up against the underside of his chin, pinning him back somewhat into the wall.
This was more irritating than anything, though, and Heine rolled one shoulder back until it brushed against the brick behind him. ]
Quit fucking ar --
[ And then he cut off abruptly, his breath hitching just slightly when he shifted his weight, when he shifted on the ground beneath him, his hips now pushed flush against the other's. It was kind of like an electric shock, like a current running up down over his muscles, and everything was hot, and warm, and heated like molten lava, and he felt his lungs give way to the pressure.
Fuck.
He swallowed, throat dry and rough, and his fingers latched firmly around Giovanni's wrist as he tried to speak again. ]
... Quit fucking around.
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[ His voice was low, thick and flat in the silence. Like the hard thud of something hitting the ground it was there, murmured firm and almost reprimanding on Heine's skin, fucking hungry for it, painting it with his breath; such a contrast to the ragged edges of Heine's voice, the roughness there. How badly they fit together sometimes, but that was alright. Giovanni could carve an edge that would match his own.
His body was too still, a strange instinct that told him to watch and scent the air and feel the fear that wracked the body against him, to savour it, to really feel it for the first time. He took his time, listened: air rushing in, the way bloodied lips parted just a little more for it, the way his muscles jerked in resistance to the posture he was in, to the desire to run.
He moved to drive Heine back into the wall, his leg nudging between his hips (because that was what was getting to him, wasn't it?) until it bumped the rough brick beyond. Just a little harder to move away, without that necessary wriggle room. Just another way to cage him in. ]
You're right.
[ He was back to rubbing his hip bone, thumb pressing in where it was most prominent, then brushing back and forth as if familiarising himself with the shape. After a time, his hand slid down to brush along his slim outer thigh, following the side seam with his fingers, then up again, up to jerk Heine hard against him, his fingers bunching firm in the tight material.
If the hand at his other wrist caused him any distress, it didn't reflect on his face.]
Shall I get to the point?
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Heine inhaled slowly, breath stuttering in his lungs for the second time that night, and his stomach tightening terribly the second that Giovanni pressed him back against the wall, knee working its way between both of his legs. The pressure was unfamiliar, intolerable, and Heine didn't know what to make of it at first, couldn't do much at all except force back the tremor that wanted to work its way down and through his frame.
Giovanni was close, was way too fucking close, and he still smelled like sterility and acid and poison, and Heine was trying not to breathe it in. The thumb stroking over his hipbone made him jerk violently, however, and red eyes narrowed dangerously as he brushed the gun away from his chin with an irritated growl.
But he didn't say anything.
Even when he was being pulled forward, and even when Giovanni's fingers drifted up over his thigh, he didn't say a goddamn word.
He stared at him coldly, evenly, pressing his own thumb into the pressure point at his wrist, because Giovanni couldn't scare him with this.
And Heine was perfectly fine with calling his bluff. ]
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He was starting to get afraid of the gun. Giovanni saw in the way he brushed it aside, in how he applied the pressure on his wrist. It'd been so easy to say it. It'd been so easy for him to think it wouldn't matter, and now it did suddenly, because he was getting distracted, letting things slip through, not wanting to think about what Giovanni's other hand was doing.
Was that it?
If that had been a bluff, didn't it make sense that Heine's apathy was also a bluff? ]
... I'll take that as a yes.
[ Heine's gun toppled willingly from his fingers; he heard it scrape and swing precariously from its metal chain, indicator enough of where it had come to rest, bumping on the wall behind, grazing the ground below.
Giovanni's hand moved to the zip on Heine's collar and started to ease it down with a careful, precise slowness, his head inclining forward until his breath was on Heine's collar, his lips brushing the barely-hidden bone there. His fingers were already spreading out beneath the jacket, brushing over the thin clothes beneath, and his wrist was easing the zip down itself as his hand travelled across Heine's chest, his ribs, easing to his stomach. ]
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The burning ebbed away slowly, pulling at his muscles and his bones as it went, and Heine drew in a sharp breath as he jerked away once more. His head slammed back yet again against the brick behind him, and this time, it stunned him into complete stillness for half a second. He was already dizzy from the first few times it'd happen, and now he was disoriented, still breathless, and his hand closed tightly around Giovanni's wrist.
There were fingers moving down over his skin, over his flesh, and he could feel his lips against his collar, and they were poisonous, wrong, sick, and they'd infect him, too. Heine made a noise that should have sounded a lot angrier than it did, and his other hand moved up until his fingers could fist in the material of his tie.
He pushed forward against him, feet scuffling over the ground as he slammed the other back into the wall closest to them, breathing heavily as he tried to still his body and its shaking.
His fingers loosened their grip on his wrist, and he couldn't see Giovanni's face, not really, and he wondered again why everything was so fucking bright when it was so goddamn dark out. Or was it dark? Had it been day?
There was poison on his skin. Giovanni was poisoning him.
He sucked in another deep, sharp breath, and pulled the other away with as much strength as he could muster, before roughly slamming him back into the wall. ]
Don't fucking touch me.
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