[THREAD] all the colors gonna rot off your sight when we're around

[pastafucking]

Who: Giovanni (pastafucking) and Heine (siegheine)
Where: Abyss; the apartment Heine 'borrowed.'
When: Around 2 in the morning.
Summary: The 'brothers' meet again.
Rating: R.

Comments

[siegheine]

Heine wasn't aware of any of this; in fact, you could say that the matter of Giovanni (just a name, just some stranger, just a queasy gut feeling in his stomach, a twinge at the back of his neck) was less important to him than other more simple and everyday matters. Such as the apartment he had now successfully occupied. The white-haired male was standing in the middle of the room, a little absently looking around the small space and wondering just where the hell he should put the dead body without it being a bother, when the door burst open.

Red eyes (looking startled for only a moment) met orange sunglasses as Heine's hands pulled the guns out from their holsters, the muzzles pointing straightsteady at the figure standing there in the span of a few heartbeat, probably less.

[pastafucking]

The body on the floor barely catches his attention. What he's interested in is the living person - the living person with his guns trained on Giovanni. He smiles and draws his second Luger from the holsters underneath his jacket. Both of his guns are out now, as are Heine's; they match well, don't they? The thought makes him chuckle to himself. As much as Heine would like to deny it, they're very much alike.

"It's good to see you again."

[siegheine]

Heine wasn't expecting their meeting to be this soon, if it was ever going to happen at all. ( - Damn; it was just as he got hold of this apartment too - he'll have to find another place after this. ) The white-haired man shifted his footing slightly, the narrowed gaze never leaving the other's form and gloved fingers tightening around the triggers, but he didn't fire; it wasn't quite the time yet.

"I warned you." The voice was flat when Heine finally spoke, ignoring yet another incomprehensible sharp twinge at the back of his neck, just where the collar was.

[pastafucking]

"Let me guess." Giovanni takes a few steps forward, testing Heine's boundaries. He's not doing it so that he'll know when to stop, though; he's doing it to know when he should push harder. If he had a bit less self-control, he would be shaking - with nerves, maybe, or excitement, or anger (or all three) - but he's deliberately keeping himself still. He wants to be the one in control: Heine should be the one delirious with frustration and terror and blind rage - and with any luck, Giovanni will be the one to drive him there. "You'll kill me." The guns stay steady, muzzles both aimed at Heine's head.

[siegheine]

He doesn't miss the other's guns (doesn't miss just where they're pointing at, and even through the vague memories not even skin-deep, he knows that that's bad - 'still, if you shoot them in the head, it's all over' - there's pain and crying and bodies piled uparound blood pooling reflecting his face red it's okay it's okay it doesn't hurt anymore it)

and there's the tiniest glimmer of recognition in Heine's eyes as he stares across the room at Giovanni, a hint of warning (slight creaking as heavy boots shift against the linoleum) in the way that the white-haired man deliberately shifts the grip on his mauser. "I'll kill you."

[pastafucking]

Good - Heine's remembering, if the subtle changes in his body language and his facial expression are anything to go by. Giovanni takes another step forward; the metal soles of his shoes clack against the floor as he walks, an ominous sound to herald the figurative convergence - or maybe it's more like a collision. Yeah, a collision would be more like it. Giovanni's sure that he won't leave the room without at least five bullets through his flesh. He's looking forward to it.

"You don't have enough mercy for that. The people you loved...you had no qualms about killing them, did you? You snapped Lilly's neck, crushed her skull - but you wouldn't do that for me. You don't like me enough. I think you'll have me live."

[siegheine]

The pounding of blood in his head (the odd tightening of his throat) increases as the distance between them grows smaller, until Heine can see his reflection distorted in the other's mirrored glasses. A crude rendering in orange and red, but it means shorter length for his bullet to travel from the barrel of the gun to between his fucking eyes (and vice versa).

You can practically see invisible hackles rise alongover Heine's form at the remark, although he has no idea why (has no fucking idea what he did what he's doing who is Lilly-)

The dark luger fires with no warning; the short distance isn't even a concern.

[pastafucking]

There's no time for Giovanni to think between when Heine fires and when the bullet hits its target. His mind's on Heine and then his mind's on the sticky-wet throbbing beneath his collarbone, right above his heart; he thinks 'that hurts' and his shoulders jerk back and his brow tightens, lip curls. There's another gap in thought as Giovanni reaches forward and pulls Heine up by the shirt collar. "You're ruining my jacket," he hisses. "Don't you have any respect?"

[siegheine]

Even though he is the older brother, Heine is just a bit shorter than the blonde, and the unexpected contact surprises him enough that Giovanni can fist his fingershand around the collar of his jacket, close enough that Heine can smell the warm blood spreading on the other's pristine (not any more ha ha ha ha) white suit and the angry hiss of the other's words.

"You're ruining my room." The white-haired man retorts, the tone half-mocking, his eyes are still hard and red as he raises them to look into the orange lenses again, but the grin below it is careless, wide, uncontrollable. "Don't you have any respect?"

And just to prove a point that he, indeed, has no respect for the suit and Giovanni by some crude extension, Heine raises his (right) hand and (a flick of his wrist and the hard metal is pressed tightly against Giovanni's side) fires a couple more bullets. Just to prove a point.

[pastafucking]

Fucker doesn't worry much about wasting bullets, does he? Pain sears and shoots through his stomach. In that familiar just-shot haze, he's snarling and letting go of Heine's collar just to lift one gun and strike him across the jaw, hopefully giving him enough time to aim the other and fire straight and steady into Heine's chest. "It isn't yours, you haven't-" And as he talks, blood pools in his mouth, spatters out down his chin across the front of his jacket across Heine's shirt and face. "-earned it you've earned nothing-"

[siegheine]

It's like he got hit in the chest by a sledgehammer (and damn, it's probably in his job description, this, but Heine would never get used to getting hit dead center in his chest) and Heine stumbles back, his head snapping sideways with the force of the blow from the butt of Giovanni's gun. The metal edge of the weapon catches his cheekbone and splits the skin open, splashing red across his vision

[pastafucking]

Giovanni laughs; his voice is still inundated with sputters of blood, but the message is clear. It's fucking hilarious. His arm's laced up tight and it's cutting off the circulation and he's swaying, being jerked sideways, falling but dragging Heine along with him, and then - ha ha ha, wow, isn't this feeling great? - the bullet meant for the inside of his skull is grazing against his cheek and his ear and slicing off a lock of his hair, leaving a slim trail of blood where it slid past. His stomach doubles up in pain with every laugh but he keeps doing it (what a microcosm of his own life - pain and pain and bringing it on himself). His knees hit the floor; the chain half-unwraps and he's firing the twin guns, aiming for Heine's knees and ankles. (can't run away can't run away don't run away) And Giovanni spits onto the floor and then looks over at Heine and says: "You're not - haa - trying very hard, are you?"

[siegheine]

Heine falls heavily to the floor at the crunchcrack of joints and cartilage and bones giving out from under him and makes a noise much like a snarl (the blood rising up his throat as he coughs, hacks as if he wants to throw up his lungs and the clinking metal bits of bullets dropping onto the floor like beads from a necklace) as he spits out a mouthful of blood. When he looks up, Heine is all sharp teeth and wide grin stained darkly red, his right hand still clutching at the chain and tugging it hard again, the edges of the chain slidingsnappingcutting tightly back into its place around Giovanni's forearm and wrist.

It was going to take a bit of time to heal; the pain would make anyone delirious, but another part of him (the mad high laughter chantingcursingegging him on alwaysalwaysalways) feeds off it; it makes his grin grow sharper, makes the hiss of wordless feral sound from his throat like something straight out of nightmares

[pastafucking]

The arm bone connects to the shoulder bone, right? And the hand bone connects to the arm bone? Ha ha, not anymore. When it splinters he feels it, feels each piece secede and then feels his nerves spark and then go numb as his arm falls limp and the gun in that hand drops to the floor with a loud clatter. His knees buckle for a moment too, and when he looks to the floor he sees the linoleum washed down in sticky brown-red (that's our blood there, our blood together and it's blending together and soon you can't tell whose it is anymore); the edges of his vision are clouding with fireworks of purple and green but he knows he won't pass out because he can't. Instead of faltering - 'don't stop now, trash,' he tells himself, 'keep going' - he pulls himself up to his feet and fingers the trigger of the one remaining gun. The muzzle gets shoved underneath Heine's throat, tilting his head back, and Giovanni starts to sway but then rights himself. ('get up and fight-'"Tell me-" And his throat is still clogged with blood; his words are hoarse

[siegheine]

He feels the hard muzzle of the gun being shoved under his chin (unforgiving metal against thin skin stretched over bones and muscles sharphardbruising) and Heine simply bares his teeth in a wide loud snarl, more animal than human, more dog than a man. The white smoke sizzles under his knees, around his ankles, it looks like he's on fire (fucking burnt alive for his sins that he cannot even recall, the half-remembered half-forgotten memory of a little girl a monstrous woman the six fingers wrapping around the halo of a collar my best child my favourite son) and it makes the corners of his eyes sting with the acrid smell of flesh healingbubbling over at an unnatural speed.

"Doesn't matter." Raspylow voice barks out (the tongue seems to have a hard time getting around the syllables and blood and bullets thick in his mouth) and before any of them can blink (before he even thinks about it) Heine lashes out at the other's kneecaps (an eye for an eye ten fucking bullets in the head for every gunshot).

[pastafucking]

"She wants you-" Giovanni doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence before his kneecaps his bones are splitting and shattering, pieces of bone slicing out from his skin and the pain bringing him down weak to the floor, gun falling from Heine's throat to his chest but he's still holding it up still keeping the threat - I'll do it again (I'd do it forever) - "She wants you back even if you don't remember. You're her favorite, you're still her favorite. And judging by your reactions-" He coughs, spits, and when he looks down he sees the knees of his pants are ripped and bloody but underneath, his flesh is almost healed. The muzzle of Giovanni's gun presses into Heine's sternum and it's not very much of a threat (can't kill him can't even scratch but you can't kill him anyway Giovanni you can't kill her favorite-) but even then he's keeping it there, and he lunges in a gesture more feral than he usually allows himself to be: he's holding Heine down and keeping the gun steady and his fingers are playing long and thin across and around