SOMETHING IDEK
i
one of the dreams end up like this: a desert in endless blistering heat as it dies off in the afternoon, the horizon red, the air dry and merciless. he lies naked before a dead tree with the carrion-birds watching him turn red and dark on the sad and cooked open alive. kamui feels himself soaked in sweat as it pools on the hollows of his throat and on the widths and curves of his muscles. the dragon arrives. the carrion-birds scream and caw in a shrill tune and snaps their beaks in the branches of the tree, waiting in anticipation. tension so thick he can feel it.
easier if you close your eyes, the dragon snarls, and kamui laughs because that's such a waste of a beautiful thing, to not even see death especially when you've waited so long for it. a claw pushes through his chest, he feels his chest collapse, he feels his ribs cave in as it pushes through. he barely feels anything anymore when two claws move in to the sticky, sickly fountain of red and gore (waste not want not nothing savoury slithering away from the rip in his chest to his stomach) and opens him with such hunger that the birds trill, and begin the feast.
ii
sometimes it's not him. sometimes it's the tigers and the lions who eagerly await for his return. sometimes he lets them gnaw on his bones. and sometimes he takes them by their throats and crush them in his hands, letting the blood wash over his arm and trickle down his chest, letting it spatter beautifully on his face. everything beautiful, everything violent, everything so vicious. kamui is clean and curious and he licks the pads of his fingers. give and take and all that.
dexter has a tendency to just drive off sometimes for days and not come back. this would've mattered so much if only his parents were around more all the time, but they're not, so soleil takes up the space for worrying. because of this dexter's taken the time to turn his celphone off because he really doesn't want to listen to anything when he's trying to think things through for himself: does he want to be forever trapped in a city so small he can barely even breathe in it? even soleil's leaving, but he can't, because he can barely find the force and the will to move himself from where he's anchored in. he drives to the edges of the city around the highways that frame it but never beyond. he comes back just as empty as he left and only the dryness of his throat tells him that he's been away, he's seen the edges of this dream and he was so close, so close.
soleil goes to his house that night and she sits with him in the dining room in silence, hands folded on her lap as she watches with a keen eye making sure that he finishes his food, because he barely does that nowadays. she sighs. "you don't look good, dex," she whispers. "i'm really worried. tomorrow i'm taking you to the doctor, alright? it's just a checkup," she adds hastily. "nothing drastic, so don't worry. i just want to be sure you're alright. and don't try to fool me, i know you haven't been eating. i know it's been days. honestly, dex. just tell me if you're too lazy to cook."
dexter scowls. "i don't like richards. he's fucking insane, he's been trying to put me in an asylum since auntie died."
"it won't be him," soleil replied. "i'll take you to the university clinic, alright? there's a new doctor there. he won't know you, and you won't know him, and that's exactly how you want it, right?"
his name was langerak, he found out that morning. his eyes were dark and when he stared at his throat dexter had the near-insatiable urge to slice it in half, and that's when dexter knew that he can't leave the town, not yet. "hello, doctor," he peers shyly from half-lethargic eyes. briefly, soleil wondered if she did the right thing.
(amidio writes this at the back of a napkin in angry, jagged letters:)
SO THE OTHER AMIDIO IS NOT AS AWESOME AS I AM BECAUSE HE'S TALL AND ITALIAN AND HE CAN SPEAK THE LANGUAGE BETTER THAT FUCKING SUCKS BLEEDING EFFECT OR NO I HATE THAT STUPID LANGUAGE WHY DOES PRINCESS KEEP USING THAT GEEZE ALSO HE CAN'T SERVE COCKTAILS WORTH SHIT AND HE CAN'T COOK AND FUCK IT HE DOESN'T EVEN CUT HE SHOOTS AND THAT'S A FUCKING IMPERSONAL WAY OF DEALING WITH THINGS AND I CAN'T HANDLE THAT I CAN'T HANDLE IT IT'S RIDICULOUS SOME DAYS I HATE IT WHEN I FEEL LIKE I AM ON THE EDGE OF THE KNIFE AND I AM THE KNIFE INSTEAD OF THE ONE WIELDING IT AND I HATE THAT THERE ARE PRINCESSES INVOLVED YEAH I KNOW HE WANTS ME TO USE HIS NAME THAT'S NOT THE POINT BUT AUGHHHHHHH
(this is carefully crumpled and doused with water, then thrown into the trash. he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and steps out of the back door of the kitchens to smoke.)
jajajajaja hate not being able to write damn you fics write yourselves augh