[closed/complete]

[modraed]

Characters: Famine (eatasam) and Mordred (modraed)
Date/Time: Sunday, May 15th, early afternoon
Location: Mordred's condo
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, talk of violence
Summary: Famine wants to poke Mordred's wound.


Ever since the shooting range the weekend before, Famine had been in a strange mood. Still himself, but the subtle differences could always shine through. Sticking a bullet in Mordred's thigh had awakened something in him that he hadn't felt in ages -- the gratification he felt from hurting something. Someone. Always the bizarre child, he'd experimented on animals, but had only on rare occasions ever hurt someone brutally enough to want to do it again.

That was why the text he'd sent to Mordred was followed up with a quiet knock on his front door. He honestly didn't care if his roommate had anything to say about it. This was about admiring his handiwork.

The series of scratches along the wood might've been a direct result of having a feline addition to the household.

The events that took place at the shooting range had also affected Mordred, plunging him further into the darkness he'd been experiencing intermittently since his birthday. The shooting from Famine, though welcomed, had filled the knight with an almost invincible feeling, which made the possibility of Ares having been the one to have beaten up Agravaine even more enticing. The prospect of a fight against someone as vicious as Ares gave him a slight thrill, especially because he was aware it was a fight he probably wouldn't win.

There was still the question of why Ares would pick a fight with Agravaine, but all that speculation was pushed aside when he received the text message from Famine. It brought a smile to his face even as he glanced down at the puckered scar forming on his thigh.

The knock on the door was not unexpected, though the clawing certainly was. Opening the door to admit his guest, Mordred was dressed only in a pair of boxers. He figured Famine wouldn't mind his lack of clothing, but if so that was easy enough to remedy.

A set of light eyes flickered up, and then down. Famine certainly didn't oppose the lack of clothing, but that didn't mean he could understand it. Clothes were far from decent protection, though he found that, apart from when in bed, a lack of them made him feel vulnerable. It was why he rarely did the shirtless thing. Even the pantsless.

Nevertheless, there was no protest on his part. "Did your clothes jump off the second you heard me coming?" There was a touch of amusement in his voice as he stepped past.

A slight smirk settled on pouty lips as the knight stepped aside. Mordred gestured over at the weights that were sitting in the middle of his living room by way of explanation, running one hand through his hair as he closed the door. While he frequently went shirtless, especially when hanging about the house or sleeping, the lack of pants was out of laziness pure and simple. Though it wasn't as if they were revealing anything Famine hadn't seen before.

The comment was definitely amusing. "The minute I got that text message they just disappeared, almost as if they knew you'd appreciate it." His own tone was appropriately light.

"I'm not complaining," the younger man returned after a brief glance toward the living room and back. There was a ghost of a smile on Famine's lips as he brushed the back of his fingers along the outside of the knight's injured thigh in a light, teasing touch. "Besides, it's easier access."

No matter the reincarnation, he was never going to get tired of being a tease. Of bringing people to their breaking point in order to beg, plead for what only he could give. The idea of that strict control was exhilarating, no matter who he practiced it with.

Because in the end, even the strongest people would beg for something.

"I would hope not," Mordred shot back with a grin as he allowed the contact regardless of the pain it might cause. The brief jolt was just a reminder to Mordred that his suffering was minimal compared to what his brother was going through, although there was no real comparison to be made between getting shot and getting put into a coma. "You know me, a true fan of the easy."

He was aware that the horseman had come here for the specific reason of seeing the bullet wound now that the stitches were out, and nothing more, but that didn't mean that Mordred couldn't use the opportunity to see what the younger man might know about various other deities.

"Can I get you anything to eat or drink, or did you just want to poke at me?"

Food was always a funny topic to bring up with Famine, but he did look thoughtful for a second, as if considering the offer. "Whatever liquor you have, on ice," was all he came up with, declining the offer of food for the time being. "I can poke in the meantime."

And possibly starve Mordred if he touched him for too long, so that hand was retracted as he slipped away toward the kitchen for a surface to perch on.

Nodding in response to the request, Mordred followed the horseman into the kitchen and pulled out two glasses, filling them with ice and a generous amount of whiskey. As the amber liquid filled the tumblers, he glanced up at Famine. "I hope you don't mind whiskey, I drank all the absinthe and have yet to replace it," he offered by way of explanation. "And please, poke away."

Handing the glass to Famine as he raised his own, offering a quick toast, he took a sip before speaking again. "You wouldn't happen to know if your sister has a grudge against my brother Agravaine, would you?"

In one fluid movement, Famine had perched himself up on a counter before receiving the glass. While he wasn't opposed to the whiskey, he did glance down once into the beverage. "Not that I know of," he murmured against the rim, taking a small sip of the whiskey. "But it's not hard for my sister to have a grudge against someone."

It probably wasn't the answer Mordred was looking for.

"... Why?"

No, certainly not the answer that Mordred was looking for, but an answer nonetheless. Downing the rest of the drink in one swallow, he set the glass of ice aside as he leaned back against the opposite counter. "I was of the impression she didn't mind him," he started before shrugging slightly, "though Agravaine does seem to make pissing people off seem as easy as wiping one's arse."

He brushed imaginary lint from his boxers while studying Famine for a moment.

"The only thing other than the weather and location my brother remembers is the person referring to themselves as the god of War."

Famine rapped a nail against his glass, studying his companion's face in turn. "War wouldn't call herself a god of war. We weren't gods." He didn't sound the least bit disappointed. "If you're thinking of confronting her about it, I won't let you leave this apartment in one piece if you try."

The threat was far from empty, but the look in his eyes said that if it came to that, he wouldn't think twice before acting. After all, who had it been last week with a gun to Mordred's head?

Mordred refilled his glass partway, nodding at the logical comment before his lips quirked up into an amused grin at the threat. "I didn't think she would, in all honesty, but since Agravaine can't remember I thought it best to explore all possibilities." He raised his eyebrows slightly as he sipped from his drink. "And believe me, if it were your sister I'd stay out of it."

If War had it out for Agravaine then it would go against everything the religious knight believed to attack the biblical figure. Mind you, the fact that he'd fucked Famine didn't bother him.

That seemed to be the correct response. Across from him, the horseman downed a little more of the whiskey, pausing to adjust to the burn. "If you're looking for gods, maybe you should start with the actual pantheons." The suggestion could've been sarcastic, but wasn't. "Lots of gods of war."

Didn't exactly narrow things down, but he wasn't about to let the topic stay on his sister. He had a feeling that if she'd done it, he would know. And if she had, Agravaine probably deserved it.

The burn wasn't all that noticeable to Mordred, but then again he was used to drinking more potent beverages. "My first thought was that it could be Ares, but my brother mentioned that there's been no real confirmation that he's actually around." It was a good suggestion, despite how it might sound. "Otherwise, I'll admit my knowledge of pantheons outside the Christian and Greek is lacking."

Staring down at his empty glass once again, he decided that he was set with the alcohol for now. He had more pressing concerns, and hopefully Famine could help. In his mind Agravaine deserved the chance to avenge himself.

Ares. Greek. Didn't have to be well-educated in mythology to know that he was one of their gods of war. Famine didn't see how he could be too much help, nor did he understand what he'd be getting out of this, but he figured Mordred would do the same for him if he was in need of info.

"Didn't something happen recently with your brother?" He swung a foot, which knocked against the wood behind. Though he didn't pay close attention to the community, he could at least follow what was going on. Not that he cared much about girls getting hit. After all, he'd broken the nose of one himself.

And nearly paid the consequences for that, but at least no one had thought to come rough him up for it.

At this point in time, thanks to the holes in Agravaine's memory, Mordred was grasping at straws so any possible leads were a good thing. Mordred assumed that the horseman was observant enough to have seen if there were any other war-like types around that he might have missed.

"If you're referring to the punching incident with the young muse then yes." He responded almost blithely. "It's occurred to me that someone may have been attempting to exact revenge for the girl, however the likeliest suspects are Lancelot - who I already ruled out - and some Greek who doesn't seem to know he's one of us yet." If it turned out Arron was the one who jumped Agravaine, well that might just be fun.

His opinion on why the punching had happened didn't matter, it was over and done with and as such he was done caring about it.

A snort, and then another quiet sip.

"Maybe he's your Ares," Famine murmured against the rim of his glass before setting it down beside him. "Thought he was supposed to be a cocky asshole." Not unlike some people he knew -- not that it bothered him. He wasn't any different.

His gaze swept down to Mordred's thigh and back up, a sign that he was growing tired of the conversation and waiting for the poking to commence.

The action did not go unnoticed.

"That could certain be true," Mordred opined as he pushed himself away from the counter and offered a hand to Famine. "Arron is a cocky asshole, and he loves fighting, so I suppose we're two for two on that." At least, as far as he remembered in his studies of the Greek pantheon.

"Now then, I suppose you're wanting to play doctor. Shall we move to the living room, or is there another place you had in mind?"

That offered hand was peered at curiously, as though the younger boy had no idea what it was there for. But once he figured it out, he merely slipped from the countertop unaided, slim fingers splaying across Mordred's breastbone to nudge him back a step.

"Living room." Pause. "Unless your bedroom has better lighting to play Operation." And who was to know Famine didn't have a scalpel hidden somewhere in his jeans? Pestilence was, after all, the resident med student.

It didn't surprise him when the younger man ignored his hand, he hadn't expected anything to come of it. It was an automatic gesture on his part, but seeing that he didn't need any assistance he backed up at Famine's urging to give him some space to move around in.

"No, the living room has the best lighting in the flat." He grinned, unconcerned as to whether the horseman intended to cut him open or not. If he did, Mordred would just hope he'd be allowed to get another drink first, since alcohol was supposed to dull pain slightly.

The grin wasn't returned, but Famine nodded nonetheless, slipping away toward that very living room without a word. His gaze fell to the equipment left along the floor, though he made no comment on them. If this was how he was going to get revenge for his older brother's beating, then he could do what he wanted. But he could be quietly curious.

That expression might've stayed on his face upon turning by the couch. "Has anybody asked about your leg?" Truthfully, he didn't care who was told. Just what was said.

The living room was a bit of a mess, but Mordred could have it cleaned easily enough if Famine required more space for whatever it is he was hoping to do. Picking up one of the weights as he ignored his slightly limp, he put it back on the rack that was sitting near the television. He knew if his suspicion was correct there was no amount of weight he could lift to make him equal Ares strength, but it was worth a shot.

Walking over to the couch, he sat down as he answered the question. "No, nobody has. Most everyone I know has other concerns, actually." Or were dealing with their own issues.

Which meant that he probably hadn't told anyone about the attempted murder, either. But that was fine with the horseman. Everyone had their secrets, and that was good for them -- except when it came to his other fellow riders. No secrets should have been kept from one another. His jawline tensed for a moment as he thought of Pestilence, but still he knelt down, dancing a light touch across Mordred's bare knee.

"Shame. Would you have lied about it if they had?" Those sneaky fingers slid upward.

As no one had asked, there had been nothing to tell as far as he was concerned. He wouldn't mind if the news came out, or if Famine had told his siblings, however Mordred wouldn't be telling anyone unless someone thought to ask. It wasn't out of embarrassment or anything, he just wasn't as forthcoming with information as some. Even when it came to his brothers, he was loathe to just share information, especially in light of what had happened with Agravaine. That was neither here nor there, especially not when he had Famine's fingers grazing his knee.

"No, there's nothing to lie about. I asked you to shoot me, and you did." He glanced down at the hand making its way upward, leaning back slightly.

The touch remained soft, as if it was barely there to begin with, while it slowly trailed up along the outside of Mordred's thigh. "You bled a lot," Famine recalled with another ghost of a smirk. "But when there are so many veins running up your legs, so many muscles--" That graze turned into a light scratch. "--it's no surprise how much blood you'll lose."

Human bodies, much as they decayed so easily, were fascinating in their own right. He was no doctor, but he appreciated the physiology of the body, in particular how the heart pumped blood to the rest of it.

Pestilence would've been proud.

The softness of the touch was causing certain reactions in him even as he attempted to divert his mind by concentrating on Famine's words. "At least you didn't hit anything vital," Mordred pointed out as he looked up into Famine's eyes. "I do thank you for not aming for the inner thigh, that was appreciated." Dying due to getting shot in the femoral artery would have been somewhat embarrassing.

Keenly aware of just how reactive his body could be was a skill that he'd picked up while in the military, which was why he didn't mind speaking of things that might turn a lesser mans' stomach. It was one of the reasons he continued to call upon Famine.

Agravaine and Gawain probably wouldn't appreciate his tolerance for pain.

And maybe it was their shared high tolerance for pain that kept them friends -- among other reasons. "I didn't do it on purpose," the kneeling horseman revealed in a murmur as his touch slid beneath the flimsy material of Mordred's boxers to brush the healing wound.

"Would you have bled out in seconds? Gushed blood all over the grass, too quickly for you to control?" The obvious went unsaid: Famine would've probably stood and watched it all happen.

His breath left his lips in a soft hiss when that hand brushed the sensitive skin of his thigh, the sensation not unexpected. "I know, it was because you're not used to the force of the gun," the knight explained as he shifted in place on the couch wondering if Famine's actions were as deliberate as he believed them to be.

"Most likely, though I would have taken comfort in the sight of you licking the blood from my wound being the last thing I saw." The words were spoken with the type of casualness one might order their lunch.

A feral sort of grin spread across Famine's lips as he pushed that material up to examine the not-quite-scar, dropping an elbow onto the couch cushion to balance himself. "Your blood isn't all that bad," he confessed just before circling the wound with his index finger. That, at least, was something he could say from experience.

"But I wouldn't mind being the last thing you saw." Partly because he was one of the four horsemen, and there was no excuse not to enjoy being someone's last sight.

Sitting as still as possible was proving difficult for Mordred as he unintentionally squirmed under Famine's scrutiny, watching the younger man examine him all the while. "I wouldn't know, never having intentionally tasted it myself." He had a vague idea of what it tasted like unintentionally, however.

"I wouldn't mind having you be the last thing I saw either," he murmured, his mind skipping back to the actual last thing he saw before his most important death.

Famine's mind apparently didn't think to go down that road as he withdrew himself from the other's thigh, maneuvering his body up onto the couch with just a touch of effort. He wasn't much of a fan of being in vulnerable positions. But that squirming had been delicious.

One knee came up so that he could rest his cheek on it, eyes raking over Mordred's face. Most of the time, it was a challenge for him to read people , but pain, whether internal or external, was hardly difficult to miss.

A more comforting person would have stroked his arm, or offered to talk (or not talk) about it. Silence was opted for instead.

Mordred's reaction to the sudden withdrawal was to pout, something that he hadn't done in quite a while. While the noises and movements coming from him could have been construed as him expressing pain that couldn't have been further from the truth. Much as he felt it was inconvenient, the ache from the wound was more thrilling than upsetting at this stage in the game.

That didn't mean that he wasn't feeling at all hurt, more like the emotion that Famine's keen eyes had picked up on were linked more to his brother and his father than to being shooting. Not that he would admit to any such thing, though he had it on good authority that his companion wouldn't bother to ask about it.

The silence was far more welcome than some silly platitudes designed to make him start speaking or feel comforted. Neither of them were much for talking about feelings anyway.

Not now, and not ever. After a good twenty seconds ticked by, the lanky boy next to him crawled off the couch to navigate away from him and toward the kitchen to reclaim that abandoned glass of whiskey. It was less out of respect to keep the counter clean, and more out of a need to not be wasteful. That and a general desire for the burn down his throat.

Upon returning without the drink he'd polished off, Famine placed a hand on the back of the couch and sank onto one knee in order to lean in toward the knight's ear. His murmur was soft.

"I'm gonna go unless you can convince me that it'd be a waste of my time to just leave now."

And that was perfectly fine with him. When Famine got up and went into the kitchen, Mordred took those few moments to force any emotional thoughts from his mind. He was growing sick and tired of getting lost inside his own head, and needed to find a more productive way to stop those journeys down memory lane that didn't involve numbing himself with alcohol.

When the horseman returned and leaned in close, Mordred reached up and hooked an arm around his neck to pull him in close. He had a few ideas, though the younger man could easily say no.

"I don't suppose I could entice you with a quick round of desecrating some of my furniture, could I?"

There was a rush of warm air and a brush of lips against his neck as Famine breathed a laugh at the tempting offer.

"You had me at 'desecrating'."