(no subject)
title: Licking Wounds and Nursing Egos (Xanxus/Squalo)
rating: PG-13 (mentioned sex)
sample: "Though you'll never tell anyone... you like Squalo’s left wrist."
Cue the aftermath. This takes place after the Rings Battle.
Though you'll never tell anyone... you like Squalo’s left wrist. You like how pale it is. You like how delicate it looks. You like how it abruptly ends into a freakish stump.
The first time you saw it, the newly crowned Sword Emperor was unconscious and drugged out on a steady trickle of morphine. Dead air occupied the space where Squalo's hand used to be. However you didn’t feel a single shift of regret churn your insides.
This was Squalo. He was "wounded". He was "injured". He was "hurt". But incredibly he couldn't have been further from "crippled".
So you kissed that left wrist.
Stump, stitches, scabs and all.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It's the night before you leave for Russia.
You both have never had such angry sex before.
Violent, rough and needy, sure. But-
You reach for the bottle to take another swing as you lie in bed with him.
Hours ago you both fucked like defeated dogs licking each other's wounds. You drowned in alcohol. He drowned in you. Different waters. Same result. You're both pathetic and wallowing in the aftermath of a pitifully one-sided battle. Give you a shallow puddle and you'll stick your face in it. Open your arms and he'll spread his legs. You'll drag him down and he'll never mind. He never minds as long as it's you. It makes you sick. It makes you untangle yourself from his sprawled arms and get out of bed. Your flight is at 7. You can't be late. You take a quick shower. Under the hot spray you let your mind go blissfully blank. You go on cruise control.
Your suit case is already packed and by the door. Your guns are locked up and sealed in some god-forsaken vault. Your underwear's behind a toppled chair. A single suit hangs in your closet.
You're shrugging on your jacket and straightening your tie and you pause when a flash of colour catches your eye. Feathers are peaking out of a half closed drawer.
Out on the balcony you pour out the rest of your whiskey onto the colourful heap. The moist morning breeze is chilly but all you can think of are sun soaked vineyards. You remember playing Cowboys and Indians with the Dino Cavallone when you were both children. You were always the Chief and he the Sheriff. You light a match. An Italian prince is nothing in Russia so you burn your crown in a dusty ice bucket.
You snuff out the smoking ashes with a glass of water. Squalo's still asleep. You know exactly why you find yourself threading your fingers through his hair. Tracing his cheeks, thumb brushing his lips, palm cupping his chin. But you'll never admit it, even in your own head you're too proud to define that feeling in words. To give it shape, to give it form is a surrender you're not ready to make.
You take his left wrist and you bend down to kiss the stump. This is the second time you've pressed your lips against it.
You look up to find that he's looking back at you. Steel eyes clear and focused, his breath's caught in his chest, his are pupils dilated. From the darkness, from something else. You don't want to know. There are no words. So you quietly let go of his wrist and leave without them.
The world's axis is tilted, snapped off its orbit like a broken twig. Or maybe it's just you.
It's just you.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
From the start you have been living life at its bones. You kill on automatic, manual if you come across a rare thrill. You let mundane days meld into a muddy daze. Think any deeper then you know you’ll snap. You spend your days floating on your back. Close your eyes and a bottomless ocean can feel like a bath tub. Two years in exile is nothing compared to the eight you spent quenched frozen in ice in the basement of your own palace.
This is the mantra calms you, this is the mantra that saves you.
Two is nothing like eight.
Two is nothing like eight.
Another Godfather is on his knees sniveling for mercy. You rest your hand on his forehead and bapitize him in flames. You shut your ears to his blood curdling screams. In a moment of clarity you close your eyes and feel the loving warmth of the blaze that caresses your cheek. You quietly enjoy the feel of Italian sun in the howling cold of Russia. In the dying agony of your last and final target, you think of vineyards.
A summer solstice within a winter solstice, you have created your own equinox.
Two is nothing like eight.
And eight is nothing like two.
Finally you let yourself think of home and think of him.
rating: PG-13 (mentioned sex)
sample: "Though you'll never tell anyone... you like Squalo’s left wrist."
Cue the aftermath. This takes place after the Rings Battle.
Though you'll never tell anyone... you like Squalo’s left wrist. You like how pale it is. You like how delicate it looks. You like how it abruptly ends into a freakish stump.
The first time you saw it, the newly crowned Sword Emperor was unconscious and drugged out on a steady trickle of morphine. Dead air occupied the space where Squalo's hand used to be. However you didn’t feel a single shift of regret churn your insides.
This was Squalo. He was "wounded". He was "injured". He was "hurt". But incredibly he couldn't have been further from "crippled".
So you kissed that left wrist.
Stump, stitches, scabs and all.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It's the night before you leave for Russia.
You both have never had such angry sex before.
Violent, rough and needy, sure. But-
You reach for the bottle to take another swing as you lie in bed with him.
Hours ago you both fucked like defeated dogs licking each other's wounds. You drowned in alcohol. He drowned in you. Different waters. Same result. You're both pathetic and wallowing in the aftermath of a pitifully one-sided battle. Give you a shallow puddle and you'll stick your face in it. Open your arms and he'll spread his legs. You'll drag him down and he'll never mind. He never minds as long as it's you. It makes you sick. It makes you untangle yourself from his sprawled arms and get out of bed. Your flight is at 7. You can't be late. You take a quick shower. Under the hot spray you let your mind go blissfully blank. You go on cruise control.
Your suit case is already packed and by the door. Your guns are locked up and sealed in some god-forsaken vault. Your underwear's behind a toppled chair. A single suit hangs in your closet.
You're shrugging on your jacket and straightening your tie and you pause when a flash of colour catches your eye. Feathers are peaking out of a half closed drawer.
Out on the balcony you pour out the rest of your whiskey onto the colourful heap. The moist morning breeze is chilly but all you can think of are sun soaked vineyards. You remember playing Cowboys and Indians with the Dino Cavallone when you were both children. You were always the Chief and he the Sheriff. You light a match. An Italian prince is nothing in Russia so you burn your crown in a dusty ice bucket.
You snuff out the smoking ashes with a glass of water. Squalo's still asleep. You know exactly why you find yourself threading your fingers through his hair. Tracing his cheeks, thumb brushing his lips, palm cupping his chin. But you'll never admit it, even in your own head you're too proud to define that feeling in words. To give it shape, to give it form is a surrender you're not ready to make.
You take his left wrist and you bend down to kiss the stump. This is the second time you've pressed your lips against it.
You look up to find that he's looking back at you. Steel eyes clear and focused, his breath's caught in his chest, his are pupils dilated. From the darkness, from something else. You don't want to know. There are no words. So you quietly let go of his wrist and leave without them.
The world's axis is tilted, snapped off its orbit like a broken twig. Or maybe it's just you.
It's just you.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
From the start you have been living life at its bones. You kill on automatic, manual if you come across a rare thrill. You let mundane days meld into a muddy daze. Think any deeper then you know you’ll snap. You spend your days floating on your back. Close your eyes and a bottomless ocean can feel like a bath tub. Two years in exile is nothing compared to the eight you spent quenched frozen in ice in the basement of your own palace.
This is the mantra calms you, this is the mantra that saves you.
Two is nothing like eight.
Two is nothing like eight.
Another Godfather is on his knees sniveling for mercy. You rest your hand on his forehead and bapitize him in flames. You shut your ears to his blood curdling screams. In a moment of clarity you close your eyes and feel the loving warmth of the blaze that caresses your cheek. You quietly enjoy the feel of Italian sun in the howling cold of Russia. In the dying agony of your last and final target, you think of vineyards.
A summer solstice within a winter solstice, you have created your own equinox.
Two is nothing like eight.
And eight is nothing like two.
Finally you let yourself think of home and think of him.