[week 27, day 7. Dream]
The forest’s too thick, so fucking green it hurts your eyes. You wish for a moment for the sterility of your city, the sharp tang of exhaust, rain on hot asphalt. Instead, as you inhale deeply, all you get is thick stench of rot, detritus, things growing, fighting, fucking, dying all in the same space.
The corner of your mouth twitches up. Well, that part isn’t too different from the city you suppose.
You inhale again, and you smell it this time, that thick, herbal smoke and you’re drawn towards it like a beacon, smacking away branches, snarling back when they growl at you.
You find him in a clearing. His pale skin’s dappled by shadow, and your eyes draw along the lines, the stark light over the sharp line of an exposed collarbone, the dark shadow at the hollow of his throat. Lips and one painfully green eye are bathed in light, the other hidden deep in darkness.
You pause, hanging back for a moment, though your throat aches with the taste of that smoke and you can still taste it on your lips, but you remain rooted, and watch his lips purse around one of those cigarettes, watch his chest rise as he inhales deeply, eye half shuttered in pleasure as he lets that tiny stream of smoke curl from between his lips, the tiny creature twisting and fluttering away on the humid air.
His hand drops down and hovers over a knife, and you start because that your knife right there, the wrapped handle and curving blade unmistakable. Those long fingers hover over the shining blade, and gently drag along the length. Your breath catches in your throat, because that’s razor sharp, and it cuts and it kills. The pale fingers make another pass over the blade, and this time there’s a shimmer, a ripple in the shining metal and it blinks up and you can’t warn him fast enough, because those little teeth flash out and bite down.
He’s not angry though. The single green eye just looks sad, and he tsks quietly under his breath, finger tapping sharply at the blade in reprimand. He gets another bite for his troubles, and just shakes his head. The blood beads brightly against his skin, dripping down his fingertips, and he sighs softly, as if resigned.
It crushes you, that sigh, that...that he tried, but then it just couldn’t quite work, that he couldn’t fix it somehow. You want to tell him, to say you’re sorry, that to try it again, that this time it’ll be different. But your tongue is still, and the words turn to ash, and you have to swallow them down, choking, vile and bitter and it nearly makes you gag.
You do move, finally, striding over kneeling before him, shaking your head because you swallowed away all your words. You reach out for the knife, and it squeals at your tight grip, biting at your hand over and over again, sharp little teeth sinking deep into skin, flesh. You shove it back into the sheath and then stare down stupidly at your mangled hand, covered in deep wounds from those tiny, tiny teeth.
You hear him sigh again, and shame squirms deep in your belly, but then he’s reaching for your hand, and his lips are so soft, gentle over every wound, and the shame just flares higher. You can’t let that happen, and you shake your head again, pulling the hand away, and you reach for his eye.
It’s not really covered in shadows, but you already knew that, your thumb smears a lurid mark on the pale skin just below the darkness. You try to speak again, but you know its useless, so you lean in, and press your lips against the darkness. He starts, and tries to push you away, but you ignore him and just press in closer, grabbing his hand, and almost roughly shoving his hand under your shirt, pressing it against one of your scars.
See. It’s okay.
The darkness clings to you lips, like the smoke, like every taste you’ve ever had of him, spreading through your mouth in a tingling trail. You press another kiss there, another and another and you feel him tremble against you, and the hand under yours presses hard against the scar there, and it’s your turn to tremble.
But then his hands are slipping out from under your shirt, and he’s gently pushing you back. You whine, deep in the back of your throat, and try to lean in again, but his strong hand curves around your jaw, stopping your, though his other hand reaches up, brush over your lips.
No Jason.
His fingers come away with that clinging black, and you lean in again, and this time he doesn’t stop you as you lick it away from his fingers, tongue lingering at the soft pads, and you sigh soft as your feel his other hand hand stroke through your hair, twining gently in the dark strands.
I’m sorry.
[Jason slowly stirs awake, his cheeks and chest hot, his own sweat soaking into the thin bedding. He stares up at the ceiling and licks at his lips, and gets the faint hint of herbs.]