[THREAD] to HELL we RIDE

[striginae]

Who: Mello [ cruxanathema ] & Nagi [ striginae ]
Where: Some tiny motel ; Terra
When: Three days after [ this ] ; early afternoon
Summary: Maybe there's something resembling sanity here.
Rating: PG-13

Comments

[striginae]

Chin resting on his cross arms, Nagi was silent for a long moment, only quietly watching the other's movements out of the corner of his vision. Trying to gather his shattered thoughts and piece them together, in hopes that it would help him understand this situation. Because it didn't make sense, did it? Maybe, before this macabre tragicomedy had started, he would have been able to understand these sentiments -- this train of thought allowing a person to call someone who tore your arm off a "friend."

But here and now, it was beyond his capabilities -- he was unable to comprehend how one could say something like that. Maybe it was a lie, then? Get him to lower his guard, then hand him over to the police? But, no, that didn't make sense -- the opportunity to kill had been right there. Why hadn't it been taken? Maybe just because the police officer had been present. Yes. Maybe that was it. -- then why was he here, his wounds cared for, treated in this manner that was almost hospital?

A small noise, almost a muffled whimper, escaped his throats as he buried his face in his arms, fingers of one hand tangling into the curls of hair. "I'm sorry, I don't understand." His words were muffled, but not incomprehensible, and he gave a small, bitter laugh, words spilling out before he could think them through. "-- if I were in your position, I wouldn't hesitate to kill. In the most painful way possible." (And it was the truth. His anger hadn't yet faded, not at all. And the sentiments, as well -- the person who'd taken his arm. Still a person he wanted to murder more than anyone else.)

[cruxanathema]

Mello made his way to the wall. Leaning against it as his good arm wrapped around his waist, the other ruined one limply dangled from the shoulder joint and leather folded underneath it. Damp locks clung to his face and the blonde rolled his head back. Shit, Nagi just looked like a fucking mess, but on matter what words Nagi said, Mello’s features did not waver in the least. The blonde got it, though, and how could Mello - one who killed without mercy and for no reason but a rush - couldn’t even fathom killing Nagi?

"Just call me a masochist." He knew he was. Self-destruction always seemed much more rewarding then self-redemption and finding yourself in the amidst of chaos seemed much more enthralling than following the lines on the street. The blonde pushed himself from the wall and walked before Nagi, standing before him with an expression that was sullen. And then, slowly, Mello pulled the arms that were crossed over on the wounded figure - and he dropped on his knees.

His head placed itself in Nagi’s lap and arm around the other. It was almost like, like watching B slowly go insane again. And he didn’t want that to happen to Nagi, someone else he felt close to doing nothing but rampages. "Shut up. Shut the hell up. Just accept I’m the fuck over it. Hell, I couldn't even help you." He hissed in a hoarse whisper.

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Roiling thoughts that clashed and crumbled, Nagi didn't know what to think any more, and he clutched harder at his head, trying to find some strand of reasoning to hold onto. Some stable line of thought to follow, because he knew, he knew, that at this rate, it wouldn't be long before he crashed and burned. (Maybe that's the only path. Maybe he was right. A messenger of carnage, maybe that's what I am --)

He started at first, when narrow fingers first gripped at his arm, and he very nearly reached violently, cringing away and drawing his arm back to strike out in retaliation. Except, his movements froze, with the sudden weight of the arm around his midsection, a warm presence that stopped his heart in his chest. (I don't understand.) And the hissed words hurt to hear. (I don't get it. Why would you go this far?)

A long moment passed, and all he could do was stare at the shock of golden hair pressed against his chest, the grasp of narrow fingers at his skin -- and he finally moved, choking back a shallow breath, forcing a dry laugh. (The faintest traces of the person he used to be flickering into sight. Maybe, maybe, there was still a chance to return to that time. Perhaps not entirely -- but at least partways.) "-- I never took you as such a forgiving person." A hesitant pause, before he spoke softly, hesitantly resting his hand on the other's shoulder. "-- I'm sorry."

[cruxanathema]

It was really fucking painful. But the blonde took comfort in this sort of bullshit. Fucking self-making victim, just wanting some appreciation and acknowledgement for what he did. Mello was selfish as hell, and he was practically doing this for his own self-centered self - not that he didn’t give a shit about Nagi, and he proved that by tightening his arm around the elder’s waist even tighter.

Mello was silent for a long time, even after Nagi spoke his words and his hand coiled into a fist for a brief moment. This was all just too fucked up for the blonde to even comprehend, fucking kid was meant to be a genius, and now he was just pathetically lost. His blue hues closed, and chest heaved as he inhaled sharply. The hand on his shoulder, it felt good, it didn’t feel like a brutal killer at all.

"Don’t say bullshit." He murmured softly, "I’m starting to get use to it." the constant torture, the constant urge to self-destruct himself. He lifted his head before sluggishly maneuvering his position so he sat on the bed, and eyes gazed over at Nagi’s arm before his own. His body flopped back, and his lips parted into a grin, "Looks like we match now."

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It was the oddest feeling, this. The press of narrow limbs against his for a moment, before the warm weight fell away -- and Nagi had to bite back the anger that swelled up involuntarily for a moment. (Yes, he's alive, yes, despite the unfair deaths of my loved ones. Yes, perhaps it's unjust that he's alive like this -- but I can't kill him. I'm can't.) The faintest sense of relief washed over him when the other fell back. (Don't come too close to me. Not yet.)

"... I suppose so." And though he managed to force a weak laugh at the wry comment, it was still painful to glance at the newly missing limb, at the filthy tangle of bandages that he had brought upon the other. His own phantom pains had already faded, forgotten amidst the torrent of torture-induced agony, and he could too-easily imagine what it must feel like, this sudden crippling.

His one hand going to grip just above where his own left arm terminated, he gave a bitter smile, gaze cast downwards, away from the terrible injury, not sure of what to say. (But I've done so much worse than that -- lost count of the people I've killed. It may to be too many to know.) A faint trace of his old determination flickered in and out of sight, and he glanced up, speaking in a low voice. "-- Mello. You do realize the dangers of -- all of this, don't you?" (This. Myself. The one who wants me. Everything.)

[cruxanathema]

Unintentionally, the blonde moved his gloved-hand and placed it over his eyes, draped with locks of blonde and he inhaled deeply. He was slowly killing himself with these irrational decisions, and how he would bottle them all up until they would explode. Fuck, he felt tired. He felt sick. He wanted to fucking puke or blow his brains out.

"Don’t give a shit..." He murmured almost hardly audibly. And he lifted the leather-hand from his eyes and looked at it briefly before lolling his head to the other with half-lidded eyes. He looked a mess, always did. A beautifully screwed up mess. "I really don’t give a fuck--" He laughed, a soft cackle. "Nagi, I don’t give a shit. I really don’t. I could say - I love you, I missed you but--" He laughed again, his chest convulsing, "Yeah...wouldn’t want to lie. The latter is probably true."

His hand went to his forehead, pressing down on creased skin and wiping away droplets of inhumane bemusement and cluttering thoughts. "I don’t know anymore. Sorry Nagi, you’ll just have to believe I got you out of there because of my non-existent compassion to do the right thing." The latter spoke with a tone of mockery. "Don’t want someone else to go insane on me."

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Though Nagi listened to these rambling words without flinching, deep down, it -- hurt. Something, for some reason. Perhaps knowing that Mello had been through something like this before, maybe that was what hurt? (See, it's for selfish means, in the end. He's only seeking self redemption through you. That's all it is.) But no, it wasn't that. It was more -- watching Mello deteriorate. Once something resembling a magnificent bastard, but now, slowly falling apart, a downhill crash that was marked by increasingly restless movements, apathetic stares, the steady flow of harsh words that marked a reckless trail into disaster. (And I've only aided the process, haven't I?)

Answering the ranting words with only a small nod, he sat, trying to gather his thoughts, staring into the palm of his open hand -- cleaned and bandaged. (How many people have I killed with this hand?) And he couldn't help but murmur under his breath, almost inaudible -- "That wasn't insanity. I was fully aware of what I was doing." I knew I was killing those people, I was aware that I was murdering innocents. But they had to die, Mello, don't you see? It isn't fair otherwise, they had to --

No. No, he wouldn't allow himself to fall apart this quickly, rubbing at his temples with his fingers, he pushed those thoughts away, shaking his head -- then looked up once more, forcing his expression into some semblance of the hopeful countenance that had once been his default. "I suppose I have no choice to be grateful, then." A small, weak laugh, that still sounded forced. He hadn't quite gotten the hang of pretending to be normal, not yet, and he attempted to mask these inadequacies through distractions. "-- if I may ask, what's the date?"

[cruxanathema]

He laughed. Mello did. He laughed loudly, almost fanatically at the words of being grateful when the blonde was just being another selfish bastard among others that were like him - but he knew the city depended on them, on monsters like himself and Nagi, and like B. Mello knew that there needed to be some tragedy in this city, just so those that look at them think that they could not go as low as themselves.

"Heh. Gratitude?" He asked silently, it was more so that his lips moved the words, shaped them with a cracked more but the words didn’t come out, not fully, and he just said emptiness. "Don’t be grateful unless you mean it...it pisses me off. Don’t - say shit, like that. Don’t try and, you know, don’t lie. You don’t have to be grateful." A deep inhale, "It doesn’t matter - sorry, maybe I should have asked permission before taking you."

With a stretch of leather, the blonde rolled himself up, his legs over the edge of the bed and hand running through his hair and a soft grunt of pain. Blue optics looked around briefly to see if he could see the time - then he flicked his wrist to see the silver watch that dangled from his wrist. "It’s the twentieth."

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Silent words were almost missed, but Nagi was alert enough to catch the last few murmurs -- and gave the slightest cringe, his hand tightening to a fist. How was he supposed to answer? (I think I didn't want to die, not yet -- I'm grateful for that. I just don't know if I have the right to say it, not after what I've done to you.) At the check of the watch, though, he sat up straight in faint alarm.

"The twentieth -- of January?" A brief pause, as he pieced together what little he could remember his time of imprisonment. No, it had to be more than three weeks -- "No. February twentieth." A hard swallow, as he ran his fingers through his hair, more a nervous reflex than a conscious action. It had been barely after New Year's that he'd been -- taken. A month and a half, almost two months. How much damage had been done during that time?

Feeling suddenly dizzy, he held a hand against his forehead, trying to quell the faint fever that flushed against his skin. Too long he'd spent locked in the darkness, breathing in nothing but stale cigarette smoke and the scent of coagulating blood, and the sudden freedom was overwhelming. Worry sketched across his features, he asked in a voice just barely hiding his concern. "Has -- anything noteworthy happened since New Year's?"

[cruxanathema]

The blonde would have asked Nagi where he was, what happened, all that bullshit that made the other into a glorious monster. But Mello didn’t care anymore - it was Nagi’s business, not his own, and Nagi probably didn’t trust him, not with his harsh words and brutal exterior, not with the bitter undertones that marked his rough features.

"February." He assured and stood up from the bed. Yeah, shit went down. "No, nothing important." Wouldn’t tell Nagi about Tetora, or about the kid that was found limbless. "I have been out of it - Tch. I don’t know." Another deep chuckle with swaggering movements and the blonde picked up the remote for the television that was before the bed and against the wall. "The military has gone crazy. Fucking curfew making chaos."

With a flip of the on button, the TV flickered with minor static until a - an odd sort of declaration was put on. The blonde sat himself by Nagi, not really listening, not really watching, just lowering his head in silent thought.

[striginae]

Carefully watching Mello's movements, Nagi listened in silence. -- something must have happened, judging by the pause in Mello's drawl. Something he was better off not knowing, maybe. So he didn't press the issue, just as Mello didn't inquire about himself. (And he wasn't sure what he'd do, if asked. Explain? Perhaps. But maybe that was a risk. Elaborating on what had driven him over the edge would only bring those memories back in sharp relief.)

The military. A curfew. Chaos. -- no doubt his rampage has contributed to the trouble, at least in part. Mulling over these thoughts, he fingered wayward tangles of hair, trying to think of what to do next. Except, except -- this thoughts were abruptly shattered by the faint sound of a familiar, sneering laugh. (Genkaku.) His movements were immediately that of a trapped animal, on high alert, as he snapped to attention, eyes wide, casting about wildly for the source of the sound --

The television. Genkaku, there, on the screen, as well as -- another figure. Wearing a mask that seemed all too familiar. His own. And Nagi could only stare in frozen horror, as the masked figure was hoisted up by a noose, limbs twitching, legs kicking. Mouth wide open in a desperate attempt for air. (Genkaku -- what are you doing. Are you trying to draw me out again?) It was all too clear that something was wrong. His limbs wracked by shivers, he watched, breath coming in progressively shallower pants and hand fisting against folds of the blanket -- eyes fixed only on the flamboyant figure that paced the stage. (You. You.)

[cruxanathema]

Slowly, the blonde turned his line of vision to the television, watched the struggling figure and man decked out in flamboyancy. Mello had already seen too much shit like this, and so he quirked his head back towards the floor. Apathy painted his face, sullen, and almost depressive in a way. And instantly, when Nagi’s eyes shot wide, the blonde knew there was something horrendous about the act that was going on before him on the coloured screen, and that Nagi was apart of it.

The crowd transfixed on the senator, the assistance, the way the older man moved. How the crowd watched and the camera would zoom in at the vital moments of torture. The screaming, shrieking, and Mello once again watched the television was no change in his visage apart from lips parting to let a vague twitch of his lips hitch up his mouth into a small disgusted grin.

"A public execution." Mello muttered almost breathlessly, "That’s a new one." He knew of the mask, how could he even forgot. It would be better if Mello truly thought the man who was getting maimed and dismembered on scene to be the one that did pull off the blonde’s arm in a frenzy of insanity. The blonde placed his hand on Nagi’s shoulder in a comforting manner. "I want too, but I won’t, unless you want to tell me."

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And at this moment, Nagi wanted desperately to go blind -- but couldn't tear his eyes away from the travesty that played out on the flickering television scream. The spurts of blood as limbs were hacked off, the terrible twitching movements, the halting jerk of muscle as the axe was torn out of mutilated flesh. And the camera zoomed in for a moment, on the face of the man who brandished the axe. (And maybe, maybe it was just his shattered imagination, but it felt, as if those eyes had flickered towards the camera for a moment. Is this a threat? Is that what you'll do to me? -- no, it's not -- it's worse. Why? I don't --)

The gentle touch of fingers at his shoulders snapped him violently out of his shock, and he finally tore his gaze away from the grotesque show on the screens, eyes cast down -- still wide with some combination of horror, fear -- the roiling anger that threatened to return. And fingers clutched tight at Mello's arm, fingers digging into muscle hard enough to bruise -- his arm still shaken by the finest tremors.

"-- I don't -- know. That man, he -- he was the one who." Words came out fragmented, broken, and he was grasping at straws, speaking in halting gasps in between choking breaths. "-- he killed my wife. My child. Did this to me. He won't stop -- I can't go back." A hacking cough, as he gasped for air, feeling like his chest would explode. Still holding onto the other almost desperately. (Praying, hoping, that he wouldn't lose it again. That the hatred that seethed at the back of his mind wouldn't come raging back to life.)

[cruxanathema]

A flinch and the blonde’s eyes widen with disgust at the words that were shaped by the other’s mouth. It was pathetic, Nagi was disgustingly pitiful, and the event that displayed itself in the background was nothing less than horrific. His arm unintentionally flinched, as he almost pulled back, and even his eyelids lowered to hear - to hear everything that Nagi said.

"Fuck." Was basically the only word that came out of Mello’s mouth. And he stood, his arm still clutched onto desperately. And Mello had no idea what to do, so he followed his impulses and stood in front of Nagi, his arm reached around the other’s neck and tugged the other towards him into a bitter embrace. "Just. Don’t say anymore. I don’t need to know."

He closed his eyes before they went towards the television once again. The entrails in a neat pile, amateur autopsy and slaughter house butchery served on a silver platter. "Hey, Nagi--" Mello whispered gently, "Not like it fucking helps or whatever: but it’s not like I’m going to give up on you." God, he even laughed bitterly at his own consideration, because, even though none of it was fake, it sounded unreal.

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He almost flinched, at first, when the arm snaked around behind his neck, drawing him closer -- because he couldn't help but superimpose another image onto that of Mello. (He would do the same, mostly likely, but end the gesture in a flourish of drugs, of blood, of violence.) It was an instinctive reaction, and he suppressed it forcefully, the grip on the other's arm slowly loosening, at least enough to keep from bruising pale skin any further. And the sounds of the television in the background faded out of hearing, drowned out by the pound of his heartbeat in his ears -- gradually slowing down from its frantic beat.

Other than the faint tremors that ran down his limbs, he was still in the faint embrace, his breath gradually slowing down from the harsh pants. The hand that had been gripping so desperately at the other's arm falling away to rest on the bed. And silence reigned for a long moment, as he forced back the torrent of emotions that had threatened to overwhelm him.

It was a weak laugh that escaped his lips, a faint noise that was vaguely bittersweet. "... I'm sorry, Mello. I think I might still hate everyone. It isn't fair, that so many are alive, when the ones I held precious had to die." And unlike the other times he'd had these thoughts, uttered these words, there was no anger in his voice -- only a faint exhaustion. And the slightest traces of the person he used to be. "... could you help me change that?"

[cruxanathema]

Leather flexed out at the base of Nagi’s skull where fingers entangled with dark locks. And Mello placed his forehead against the top of Nagi’s head, inhaling deeply before letting his chest heave inwards with a exhale. His arm hurt like hell but he could shake it off, and a thought of him having no arms went though his head. Fucking depressive shit. It was bizarre how Mello felt attached to someone even now, and how he would only stand in silence.

The broadcast was over. The original program flickered back on. Normal news with the undertones of mutant discrimination that flooded the room. Bullshit about the curfew and how the military was visiting schools to tell kids about the dangers of mutants - the talks of how Abyss was nothing but a garbage dump for the criminally insane and obvious abnormal.

"Yeah. I get it." He said with a hint of playfulness and truth, "God--" A deep chuckle, "You have no fucking idea how much I get it." His fingers gently entwined around the other’s hair and he whispered softly, "What do you want me to do?"