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?
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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Finally, it was his turn to touch Heine's wrist, to rest his arm loosely against the hand that curled in his tie, tightened it against his throat inadvertantly - though, perhaps, desirably. And he smiled again, a strange thing that began hesitant, and ended with a soft, pleased exhale through his teeth. ]
You changed your tune quickly.
That's the thing about animals like us. Nothing ever feels like a risk until we do it.
[ Still so shaken. He moved from Heine's wrist to touch his cheek instead, fingers tracing the sharp protrusion of his jawline, thumb brushing the split in his lip - already healing - and working it open with a soft stab of his blunt nail.
He wondered if Heine would go to the Commodore again. He tried to imagine Heine explaining the situation, but his imagination fell just short of realism. Perhaps because he knew Heine wouldn't tell a soul. Perhaps because he knew Heine would never find the right words for any of it.
Too bad, he thought. Really. That's just too bad. ]
... Your body's sensitive, for someone who's 'died' so many times.
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He jerked him away from the wall again and slammed him back against it, breathing deeply in an attempt to fill his lungs with the much needed oxygen. The air still tasted like Giovanni, though, and Heine swallowed, had to resist the urge to spit again. ]
Fuck you. You're so fucking predictable.
[ His words were coming out a little bit shaky, though, because he still couldn't see worth a shit, couldn't really tell if he was talking to Giovanni's face or to his neck. His fingers tightened once more in his jacket, before they relaxed, and he was drawing away, stumbling back one step.
And then another.
And then another. ]
I'm leaving.
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He'd know before Giovanni's hand was at his throat and slamming him into the opposite wall - stalking straight across the alley and smacking him up against it, colder and fresh and the texture was rougher when his other hand planted against the stone, when his fingers dug in hard enough to jab pinpricks of blood free.
He moved to pin him again, nuzzled at Heine's throat and inhaled; he could feel his pulse under his thumb, close, so close, and he squeezed it slowly until the throbbing travelled up his hand, became part of him.
Shaking off his other hand, he planted it on Heine's shirt, exposed with the jacket unzipped, and deliberately dragged his flat palm southwards to his belt. He unhooked it; a few short, sharp motions and one swift jerk, and it was open.
Finally, he paused - either uncertain of his next move, or simply waiting for something.
When he spoke, he sounded breathless. ]
Not yet.
I'm not done, yet.
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