019; VOICE POST.

[albedineity]

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?

Comments

| COMMENT LOG;

[albedineity]

[ And then, just like that, Heine went completely cold.

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.

| COMMENT LOG;

[pseudism]

[ The turnabout was sudden, jarring and unexpected and there was nothing Gio could do before his head was cracking against the wall, the sound loud enough to echo down the street. His palm was cold without Heine's body pressed against it, his breath quickening to work through the pain and his vision was a blur, a haze with dark edges. His peripheral vision vanished into stars and all he could do, for entirely too long, was stare at him as he was shoved back against the wall again.

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.

| COMMENT LOG;

[albedineity]

[ Heine's head jerked back away from the finger at his lip, and he just turned his head, spitting blood onto the ground before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers dug into the material of his jacket once more, and he wasn't even listening, wasn't paying any attention, because he couldn't. Because it would have been a bad idea, and listening would have only made him shake and quiver even more than he already was.

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.

| COMMENT LOG;

[pseudism]

[ Giovanni didn't need to say anything. Heine had to know, didn't he? He had to know that if Giovanni was predictable, Heine wouldn't be so surprised, and if he was predictable, Heine wouldn't be running like this. If he was predictable, Heine would know what was coming, he'd know to run a little faster, to move even through his shock.

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.