It Rains Red
Title: It Rains Red
Fandom: Dogs: Bullets&Carnage
Pairing: Heine/ Badou
Rating: PG-13
Summary: If he stands in the rain long enough, the blood will wash away. With sleep comes the nightmares and stained hands, so tonight he won't sleep.
Notes: First time I've written for Dogs, just got into the fandom. A fun pairing, I wonder how I did? It's been so long since I've written fanfiction for manga. For
blackmoralistxx.
The rain’s coming down in sheets like a waterfall, unrelenting and oppressive in its glory. He drags over a chair and straddles it, forearms resting on the curved back and cigarette limp in his mouth. It’s loud in the church, raindrops beating down on the roof and echoing hollowly in the cavernous room and from where he sits, he can smell the rain and asphalt and city grime.
The candles are lit, but they flicker weakly in the wind streaming through the open door. Badou doesn’t mind the cold any more; it’s with a distant part of himself that he observes the wind throwing rain in his face. He's the picture of apathy, face slack and hair damp at the tips, long fingers numb with cold.
“Hey,” he says through the wet and sadly unlit cigarette, “how long are you going to stay out there?”
Heine doesn’t answer (he knew he wouldn’t), doesn’t even move, just stands there in the mud and grass and lets the rain drip down his bared arms like he’s some kind of statue. His hair’s plastered down around his face, the gun loose in his hand and the chain connecting to it swinging in the wind.
Badou’s lip curled. “I mean,” he continued doggedly, “you should really stop doing this to yourself every time something happens. Anyway, I thought you were over it after Nill came?”
Heine tilts his head up towards the sky like he expects a goddamn star to fall on him, ignoring Badou like he’d just mouthed off a sermon and not words of comfort. Badou scowls and grinds the cigarette between his teeth, wondering if he’d dare risk Bishops’ questionable wrath and throw a hymn book at him.
In the end it just isn’t worth it, and Badou gets up, nearly knocking the chair over as he casts one more look at Heine’s unmoving form. “If you catch a cold, I’m not gonna nurse you,” he shouts over his shoulder.
His boots clunk noisily up the stairs, leaving a wet trail on the wooden boards. The fluorescent lights hum doubtfully as he stomped into the bathroom and wrenches the tap on. It squeaks and groans but water gushes out hot and steam fogs the mirrors before the frigid air coming through the cracked window clears them.
He settles his long limbs in the porcelain tub and stares up at the cobwebs on the ceiling. His hair trails in the water like seaweed (red seaweed, his mind tells him), and just as he’s about to relax the door ricochets off the wall. It’s not an armed battalion of angry mobsters thirsty for revenge; it’s just wet and bedraggled Heine, looking for all the world like a drowned dog so Badou just sits back and closes his one good eye, intent on returning the silent treatment and mindless of his virtue and decency. Heine’s seen it all at some point anyway, and personally, Badou thinks he’s jealous.
He hears something wet and soggy hit the tiled floor and cracks his eye open in faint curiosity, just in time to see Heine pull his high-collared sleeveless over his head. “Oi!” he says, a trace of panic entering his voice as Heine walks towards the tub naked as the day he was born. “What’re you-?”
Heine climbs in like it’s the most natural thing in the world, ignoring the rising water level splashing over the sides as he settles into the tub. His skin is cold and Badou barely restrains a yelp as Heine’s foot lodges in his thigh. He’s all elbows and knees, too skinny and too pale and his ribs visible under the water.
“Heine-” Badou says, but Heine looks up and he looks so tired and pale, half ghost, half corpse. His eyes are dark and dead, not rubies or fire, but dull maroon, dead rocks.
Something about that is just gutwrenchingly wrong, he had to fix that somehow because that dead and defeated look just wasn't Heine, couldn't be Heine. The next thing he knows is his fingers sliding over Heine's jaw, leaning in, breaths interminglling before he slides their mouths together like two pieces of a whole. Heine’s lips are cold and numb; Badou tastes copper and rain before he’s shoved away and now Heine’s eyes are angry and red and alive. Badou counts it as a personal triumph and waits for the swing to his jaw but it never comes. Instead he’s shoved up against the tub, and water splashing on the tiles as Heine climbs on him and smashes their lips together in carnal violence, because that was just so Heine. Tangled limbs in a narrow tub, fisting hair and teeth on lips, bruising kisses, just how he liked it.
The rain pounding down on the roof kept them company that night.
Fandom: Dogs: Bullets&Carnage
Pairing: Heine/ Badou
Rating: PG-13
Summary: If he stands in the rain long enough, the blood will wash away. With sleep comes the nightmares and stained hands, so tonight he won't sleep.
Notes: First time I've written for Dogs, just got into the fandom. A fun pairing, I wonder how I did? It's been so long since I've written fanfiction for manga. For
blackmoralistxx.
The rain’s coming down in sheets like a waterfall, unrelenting and oppressive in its glory. He drags over a chair and straddles it, forearms resting on the curved back and cigarette limp in his mouth. It’s loud in the church, raindrops beating down on the roof and echoing hollowly in the cavernous room and from where he sits, he can smell the rain and asphalt and city grime.
The candles are lit, but they flicker weakly in the wind streaming through the open door. Badou doesn’t mind the cold any more; it’s with a distant part of himself that he observes the wind throwing rain in his face. He's the picture of apathy, face slack and hair damp at the tips, long fingers numb with cold.
“Hey,” he says through the wet and sadly unlit cigarette, “how long are you going to stay out there?”
Heine doesn’t answer (he knew he wouldn’t), doesn’t even move, just stands there in the mud and grass and lets the rain drip down his bared arms like he’s some kind of statue. His hair’s plastered down around his face, the gun loose in his hand and the chain connecting to it swinging in the wind.
Badou’s lip curled. “I mean,” he continued doggedly, “you should really stop doing this to yourself every time something happens. Anyway, I thought you were over it after Nill came?”
Heine tilts his head up towards the sky like he expects a goddamn star to fall on him, ignoring Badou like he’d just mouthed off a sermon and not words of comfort. Badou scowls and grinds the cigarette between his teeth, wondering if he’d dare risk Bishops’ questionable wrath and throw a hymn book at him.
In the end it just isn’t worth it, and Badou gets up, nearly knocking the chair over as he casts one more look at Heine’s unmoving form. “If you catch a cold, I’m not gonna nurse you,” he shouts over his shoulder.
His boots clunk noisily up the stairs, leaving a wet trail on the wooden boards. The fluorescent lights hum doubtfully as he stomped into the bathroom and wrenches the tap on. It squeaks and groans but water gushes out hot and steam fogs the mirrors before the frigid air coming through the cracked window clears them.
He settles his long limbs in the porcelain tub and stares up at the cobwebs on the ceiling. His hair trails in the water like seaweed (red seaweed, his mind tells him), and just as he’s about to relax the door ricochets off the wall. It’s not an armed battalion of angry mobsters thirsty for revenge; it’s just wet and bedraggled Heine, looking for all the world like a drowned dog so Badou just sits back and closes his one good eye, intent on returning the silent treatment and mindless of his virtue and decency. Heine’s seen it all at some point anyway, and personally, Badou thinks he’s jealous.
He hears something wet and soggy hit the tiled floor and cracks his eye open in faint curiosity, just in time to see Heine pull his high-collared sleeveless over his head. “Oi!” he says, a trace of panic entering his voice as Heine walks towards the tub naked as the day he was born. “What’re you-?”
Heine climbs in like it’s the most natural thing in the world, ignoring the rising water level splashing over the sides as he settles into the tub. His skin is cold and Badou barely restrains a yelp as Heine’s foot lodges in his thigh. He’s all elbows and knees, too skinny and too pale and his ribs visible under the water.
“Heine-” Badou says, but Heine looks up and he looks so tired and pale, half ghost, half corpse. His eyes are dark and dead, not rubies or fire, but dull maroon, dead rocks.
Something about that is just gutwrenchingly wrong, he had to fix that somehow because that dead and defeated look just wasn't Heine, couldn't be Heine. The next thing he knows is his fingers sliding over Heine's jaw, leaning in, breaths interminglling before he slides their mouths together like two pieces of a whole. Heine’s lips are cold and numb; Badou tastes copper and rain before he’s shoved away and now Heine’s eyes are angry and red and alive. Badou counts it as a personal triumph and waits for the swing to his jaw but it never comes. Instead he’s shoved up against the tub, and water splashing on the tiles as Heine climbs on him and smashes their lips together in carnal violence, because that was just so Heine. Tangled limbs in a narrow tub, fisting hair and teeth on lips, bruising kisses, just how he liked it.
The rain pounding down on the roof kept them company that night.