(no subject)
“Hush, you know you like my singing,” he drawled, glancing over his shoulder, belting into a few off-key notes before joining the laughter that met his ears.
Tucking soapy hands into his back pockets, he turned to lean on the counter, socks slipping slightly on the polished linoleum. A fond smile lit up his features.
“I love you, you know that?”
**
The scrape of his heavy boots on wet pavement was too loud to his ears, glowing embers flicking from the tip of his cigarette to smolder at his feet. Slate gray met his surroundings, taking in the skinny, half-fed boys nearly hidden in the shadows.
Peroxide-blonde locks glinted in the ugly yellow cast of a streetlight, gaze wandered over pale, hollow faces until he found what he was looking for. Crossing to the boy, he cocked his head in consideration, ignoring the dull ache in his chest.
“Olma imnikka?” he muttered, tugging out a few bills.
The boy stepped forward, white-blond hair falling into his eyes as he reached to snatch the bills from between his fingers.
“You come with,” the boy entreated in halting, accented English, a practiced, seductive smile curving his lips. Nothing like wide, shy grins and crooked teeth.
He took a long drag, following without comment.
That was the whole fucking idea.
**
He sat down heavily in the wooden dining chair, yawning exaggeratedly. “So what do you want to do today? I was thinking we could go riding.”
Resting his chin on folded arms, he smiled brightly, tongue poking out between his teeth.
“Or we could do something else…”
**
The burn of alcohol was heavy on his tongue, crawling down his throat as he made his way through the badly lit studio, sneakers sticking in the tacky paint spilled over the concrete. Shaggy brown locks spilled into his eyes, three attempts before the Jack Daniels made it’s home safely on the table top, scattered amongst squeezed-out paint tubes and broken brushes.
Taking a deep breath, he stumbled slightly, setting a canvas in place, half-finished and streaked in white and red. Full lips and striking black brows. His muse. The face he couldn’t free himself from, no matter how much he tried, no matter how much he drank to forget.
He choked, anger heavy in his throat. Why couldn’t he just be free of it? Of him?
**
“Babe?” He leaned over the railing to the staircase, a frown twisting his face. “You down there?”
Rounding the banister, he jogged down the stairs, taking them two at a time and wandering into the kitchen. “Hello-o?”
The screen door whacked against the siding, a wince secondary and automatic. Nothing.
“Where are you?”
**
The saddle was heavy on aching arms as his lifted it from the pinto’s sweaty back, setting it on the tall grass next to his bedroll, moving to stroke a damp neck.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice rough with disuse. Tugging the brim of his hat down over his eyes, he tied off the reigns, moving to stretch out in the frosted grass.
Eyes on the stars, he traced constellation with sharp, gray eyes, hands tucked deep in his pockets. Singing softly under his breath, he picked out the brightest he could find, letting them take shape in his dreams as he drifted into sleep.
He woke with the fire cold, and alone in the open stretch of the mountainside.
Always alone.
**
A sob racked through his chest, hands over his eyes.
“It isn’t funny anymore, alright?”
The whisper went unheaded.
**
Clicking the round into place, he shouldered the sawed-off shotgun, nodding to the scarred man across from him. Sharp eyes met his own, flicked away to address those gathered, weapon-clad and ready.
“Madrox will get us a perimeter, stake out what and who they have posted. Decoys and body count are the name of the game. Sanders and I will break down the front line and then we’ll be bringing you in one by one. Once we’re inside, it’s every man for himself.”
Grim faces and determined lines met the words, a stilted nod as the former-hero raised a hand, a ball of fire taking shape.
A beacon of the hopeless. The damned.
“Let’s go.”
**
"Kirin..."
It was a cry. A plea. It was desperation.
**
The door opened with a whisper, white coats against white walls and a steady approach. The limp form was approached with care. File read non-violent, but what was in ink and what was writing in broken fingers and bite marks were entirely different things.
“No…” the low groan came from parched lips as they propped the thin frame against the wall, unshaven and sunken-eyed. “No…where’s Kirin…where’s…”
The needle slid in effortlessly, stark against purple veins and pale skin, eyes glassing over as a head lolled to the side.
“Kirin…”
The door closed behind them.
**
Warm kisses pressed along the expanse of his stomach, nipping at the hollows of his ribs, tearing a giggle from his lips.
“Stop,” he gasped, smiling like the sun, fingers winding through golden locks.
A soft mouth covered his, the lightest, sweetest touch of tongues and drawing away, gorgeous almond eyes glinting in the firelight.
“Love you.”
He was content.