COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinepseudismFebruary 16 2009, 17:24:42 UTC
[Maybe Giovanni wasn't the only one so used to the routine. There was something strange about Heine - his resignation, his weariness, and Giovanni wondered whether that was a good sign or not. Because, well. He was wearing him down, yes, and he was slowly getting closer to the core of what he wanted, yes, but he felt like Heine was starting to withdraw at the same time. He was invading Heine, poisoning Heine, but the territory he really wanted kept pulling back from him, dragged down somewhere he hadn't learned how to reach.
He wasn't touching Heine's core yet, and maybe it'd take more than fights, threats, Lily this time. Maybe he'd need something to really wake Heine up, to rip him open in every conceivable way, to expose every inch of him so that there was nowhere to hide, nowhere Giovanni couldn't see and exploit. He wanted him from the inside out, wanted the dog and the mania and the white teeth like weapons. Not this lie. Were they really the same person, the one who tore him apart and this numbed failure?
He let himself be dragged forward without complaint, and took the opportunity to raise his hand to brush his fingers across Heine's white skin, following the line of his cheekbone and the ticklish, soft hair that fell haphazardly over his eyes. And he smiled with something like affection and resentment, something that was almost a grimace.
There was more than one way to skin a cat. Or a dog, in this case.]
And if what I want is to fight, then what happens?
[He leaned in until every breath pulled into his lungs was Heine's, baring his teeth.]
Don't be naive, Heine. You don't have the freedom to decide what we're going to do today. Just like you had no choice in coming here. Not any more.
[His hand slid down Heine's jaw, fingers tracing the bandages on his neck. His palm pressed hard on his throat, squeezing until he could feel that cold, charged metal at the back of his neck, could feel the raw skin that surrounded it like an electrical burn.]
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinetellemyoureshotFebruary 16 2009, 23:16:47 UTC
[ He should have expected that response, too.
This was the way it always seemed to go, and it was stupid that Heine hadn't gotten the pattern figured out yet, that he was ignorant enough to ignore the fact that what Giovanni wanted never changed. It wasn't hard. It wasn't difficult. It was as fucking simple as Giovanni made it out to be, and he still didn't fucking understand, and he brought this on himself. He always did.
Heine didn't jerk back at the feel of Giovanni's fingers brushing up along his cheek and down to his throat. His eyes narrowed just a bit at the words he spoke, though, but he didn't move, otherwise. He didn't have to. Not yet.
Giovanni's palm pressed down against his throat, and there was something in the way he spoke, in the way his voice lilted just lightly that had a warning bell going off somewhere in the back of his head. Warning, warning, and Heine pushed it aside, ignored it, because he wasn't afraid.
Not of him. Not ever. ]
Then you're wasting my time.
[ He dragged the tips of his fingers up over the front of Giovanni's jacket to wrap his hand around his wrist so that he could push him back and away. His skin burned from where the other had touched him, and he tried not to think about that, tried to ignore how big of an impact Giovanni always had on him, whether he immediately realized it or not.
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinepseudismFebruary 17 2009, 01:24:27 UTC
[ Was he?
Not even by appearances. Even when Heine took his wrist and pushed it back, it only took him as far away as Heine's arm could stretch, didn't account for how his body stayed static in front of him even if his arm moved. He let him because it didn't matter what he was trying to do. He let him because Heine was fucked from the moment he showed up, and he was welcome to push, pull, bare his teeth, shy away, stare at him, avoid his gaze. Because none of it changed anything. None of it meant anything. ]
Let's not make it more difficult than it needs to be, Heine.
[His other hand was up in a flash, grabbing Heine's throat to throw him down against the wall. His lip curled in one corner, wet teeth glistening as he tightened his grip, pushed him up higher until he heard the metal collar grinding on the brick behind him, until his grip strained and the tendons of his arm stood up in hyper-detail against his thin skin.]
You're still...
[His grip tightened until he could feel the bones and tendons and flesh pulping and cracking under his fingers, and then loosened just a little to let it heal.]
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinetellemyoureshotFebruary 17 2009, 11:36:05 UTC
[ Not much phased Heine.
He could take the bullet wounds, and the puncture wounds, and the hits to the face, and to the gut, and to every other part of him; those were different, were familiar, and he could handle them. What he had a hard time coping with, though, was the sound of bones snapping, was the sharp and horrific pain that often came with that cracking sound. It wasn't like the dull ache of everything else; it was present, and hard, and real, and all of Heine's breath rushed out of his lungs the second that Giovanni tightened his fingers around his throat.
It reminded him too much of everything he tried so hard to forget, and he tasted blood in his mouth and felt his legs give out beneath him before Giovanni loosened his grip. It had its desire effect on him, of course, and Heine couldn't exactly fault him for it, because. Well, it was what Giovanni was supposed to do, and he couldn't quite shake off that feeling of paralysis for a good minute or two, even though his heart was beating frantically inside his chest.
One, two, and then his fingers were tingling a little, and he flexed them, sucking in a rush of warm air before one hand went up to fist in Giovanni's hair. He dragged him down in one quick, hard motion, still a little bit numb and a little bit cold, and brought his knee up to slam against the other's stomach within the next second. ]
I told you.
[ And he turned his head, spat blood onto the concrete, and then pushed forward, dragging Giovanni down with him onto the gravel and the cement. His fingers were still fisted in that blonde hair, and he moved to straddle his waist, to hold him down against the ground, because now he was fucking pissed because that had fucking hurt. ]
I'm not --
[ He settled his weight on his hips and jerked his head up, before he was slamming it back down hard onto the blood spattered ground beneath them. ]
-- going to fight you, you fucking --
[ And then once more, stopping only when he felt the blood from his head wet his fingertips.
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinepseudismFebruary 18 2009, 02:18:51 UTC
[A waste. Giovanni held him up, studied the man who should've been dead - inanimate now, but not for long - and his brows furrowed just below the shield of his glasses. All that power and potential, and he could still do this to him as though it were so simple, so easy, as though he were only human and he wouldn't come back. He could feel the severed bone, the swelling flesh under his fingers, inflamed and blackened, and that was the normal part, this was the natural part. This was where it could end, where, with Heine's simple stubborn weakness to be anything more than disappointing - it should've ended.
He could feel the swelling ebb. Could feel the bones knit back into place. The pulse began again, and Giovanni's grip stayed loose just to see what came next.
But what came next wasn't something he saw at all. His hand clamped down too late, finding nothing but air and his own blunt nails dragging on his skin. There was a moment of weightlessness when his eyes locked on the wide blood-red ones above him (there you are, Heine, there it is, so fucking perfect), and then they were on the ground and the gravel beat into his back hard enough to whip the air out of him.
Better.
Not that it was exactly what he had in mind, but that didn't matter, because Heine was still showing his true colours, and Heine was still losing his grip on everything that held him together. He couldn't have been surprised, could he? Not by something like this.
But oh, Giovanni was surprised enough for both of them, in his own way. How long had he been holding this in?
He could feel, distantly, Heine's blood dripping off his lip and onto his face, and the warmth of hands against his cheeks. Then the back of his skull exploded in sudden, jarring pain, so intense that it seemed to crawl its way through every nerve from the back of his skull to the front with agonising care, an experience that seemed to take the better part of a minute to really sink in. When Heine went to smash his head down again, Giovanni's shoulders bunched, his hands reflexively reaching for Heine's wrists to resist the movement. He felt blood flooding his mouth and crawling into the cracks between his teeth, and realised he'd bitten through his tongue.
His head went down again with a crack, and the stars behind his eyes gave way to a muddy, watery darkness just past consciousness, and his head was wet, skull fractured, and he felt like everything inside him was leaking out and he couldn't think. His fingers kept an iron-hard grip on Heine that moved up from his wrists, clawed along his shoulders and up to his throat again, jerking him down. His breathing and blood stuttered out of him together, and it took a moment for him to get his tongue working again, the tissues knitting together patiently.
He leaned up, and the blood trickled down the back of his neck to stain his shirt. One hand dropped away from Heine slowly, and Giovanni smiled, swallowed the blood that grew watery in his mouth.]
... It doesn't suit you to say that, when you're like this.
This is what... you came here for. If it was really just to protect Lily, you would have gone to her, not to me.
Or... Are you just afraid of facing the past?
[His free hand came up. He threw his weight into striking Heine in the temple with his pistol, grabbed his shirt with his other hand and, in one fluid motion, flipped their weights to get Heine on the ground. His weight was solid under his hands, all bone and flesh and skin and familiarity, and he knelt between his legs, delivered a solid punch up into his solar plexus and relished in the feeling of his lungs caving beneath him.
His hot breath bathed Heine's cheek when he leaned in, laughing.]
You've become so useless, Heine. Not only to the Professor, but to everyone.
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinetellemyoureshotFebruary 18 2009, 06:50:13 UTC
[ Really, they were more like animals than Heine could have ever really realized. The way they were fighting, struggling for some sort of a power that neither of them really had in the end, it was more akin to that of a fight between two beasts than of a fight between two living, breathing human beings. But then they weren't exactly human, either, not anymore, so maybe it made sense, and maybe it wouldn't have been that hard to see if Heine didn't try to ignore it, but. Well.
He hit the ground hard, twisting for one brief moment beneath the blonde above him before he was choking on his own tongue at the blow delivered to his abdomen. It wasn't quite as painful as the snapping of his neck had been, but it still hurt, and his insides felt like they were caving in on themselves from the bruising force of it. His head slammed back against the concrete, and Heine's hands went up in that same moment, gloved fingers clawing down blindly over Giovanni's jacket before they were moving up and finding their place in his hair once more.
Breathed, and tried to catch his breath, and goddamnit fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck you you motherfucker fuck.
There was always a fucking pattern, and it was always the same, and he should have known better.
Giovanni was talking again, because he couldn't ever really go five seconds without saying some shit, and none of it still meant anything to him. Logically, he could hear what he was saying, knew what he meant by all of it, but it still didn't matter. It had never mattered, and didn't he see that, and why the fuck did it always come back to this, and none of it would ever change ever ever ever, and he fucking hated it.
He fucking hated it more than he could goddamn stand, and he yanked Giovanni down on top of him, pulling his legs apart a bit more until his knees grazed the other's sides. His fingers drifted down over his cheeks to cup his face, and it would have been so easy to just fucking twist his head off right then and there, but he didn't. He just held him, faces inches apart, chest heaving as he tried to ignore the taste of blood in his mouth and the way it rolled to the back of his throat, sinking down into his belly where he'd just throw it back up later.
He breathed again, fingers pinching hard into the soft muscle between his jaw as he dragged him down even closer, and hissed an answer to his question: ]
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinepseudismFebruary 19 2009, 00:35:43 UTC
[It was too bad.
Heine still couldn't figure out what should've been obvious, a plain answer to an uncomplicated question.
If he changed, then this pattern would change. If he did what Giovanni told him to, then this could all be done with, and they would never have to go through it again and Heine would never have to be stuck beneath him again with his head pulsing and his pulse racing and his world shrinking into one tiny pinpoint of space between them. It couldn't really be harder than living like this, could it? This was an unnatural state for an animal like Heine to be in. Something designed to kill, to bite and tear and act on impulses and instincts to just be retracting its claws beneath him, trying so hard to keep some semblance of false composure, holding onto words when all he really wanted to do was rend the skin right off of Giovanni's face.
He knew. He was like him. He knew.
He didn't break that proximity, nose bumping Heine's as he inched in to murmur against his ear. Yeah, he was vulnerable this way. Yeah, Heine could bite him, could rip into his flesh and open it up clean as cut paper, but that wasn't anything to him. Just a minor victory, if anything. Just pushing Heine a little closer to accepting those inherent impulses.
Besides, there was nothing to stop him reciprocating in kind.]
You won't fight, but you don't want to accept what you are. Then shall we just stay like this permanently? You beneath me. Me above you. And neither of us will ever need to change.
[He drew back just enough to study him, and his free palm rested over the place where he'd punched him, applying pressure until he could feel his pulse pushing up through his bones. The gun in his other hand shunted up beneath Heine's sharp chin, digging into the skin there, forcing his head up a little.]
Do you want to know what I'll do to her when I find her, or should I leave it to your imagination?
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinetellemyoureshotFebruary 19 2009, 09:00:55 UTC
[ And, ah, maybe that was the breaking point.
Giovanni's words hit him like a sack of bricks right to the face, like a sledgehammer right to his gut. It hit him hard, wrapped him up in a suffocating cocoon that rendered him immobile and useless and at the blonde's complete mercy. For a second, anyway. Because that was only part of the trick, part of the game, and he felt his heart beating fast, and part of him was saying don't listen don't listen don't you fucking dare, and the dog was already laughing, because.
Oops. Too late.
And the hound whispered ding ding ding fucking bingo, voice strangled and wrong and laced with a twisted sort of violence, and Heine felt himself falling backwards into a pit of black muck as his fingers latched around Giovanni's throat on their own accord. He was paralyzed, couldn't move, couldn't say or do anything, except that other part of him was working just fine, and he tried to scream tried to say no no fuck no no nononono but he couldn't. It was like being on the other side of a window, looking through a pane of glass that he couldn't break through.
He shifted beneath Giovanni, shoving his weight forward until he had the other pinned beneath him. Those same fingers that had been tangled in Giovanni's hair moved down to circle around his wrist and slam it hard against the concrete until he knocked the gun right from his fingers. This wasn't him. This wasn't him, and there was nothing he could do, and he was frozen again, and he couldn't stop it, and.
The dog smiled (something just as sick and wrong and awful), straddling Giovanni's waist as he tightened his hold on his throat, raising him off the ground until they were face to face. ]
So, I heard you missed me, sunshine.
[ And just like that, Heine's months of work, of not listening, of not giving a fuck, all went rocketing right down the fucking drain, because he wasn't in control now, and he was clawing away somewhere down past the dark and the suffocating. And he was giving Giovanni just what he wanted.
His thumb pressed hard into the hollow space between his jaw, and he rocked forward a little, rubbing his nose against his throat, against the pulse that beat steadily beneath a stretch of pale skin. ]
God, about time, too. I was getting so fucking sick of your bitching.
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinepseudismFebruary 22 2009, 01:56:57 UTC
[Maybe he'd been getting ahead of himself a bit.
It was funny, in a way. Even as long as it'd been since he'd first heard him talk like that, even with how distracted he was as he watched his gun clatter away from his fingers, a scant breath that felt so far out of reach, it was funny how fast his head snapped back to look at Heine the moment the words registered even when the rest of his body froze cold. Not just the words - the sound of them, the way Heine formed the syllables and the softer tone of his voice. It came surging back as sharp as a blow to the back of the head, and he remembered. The facility, Heine, narrower and smaller then - they both were- towering over him with chunks of flesh in his hands. His flesh. Giovanni's flesh, dripping onto his own body as he lay there white and paralysed and shock tremors were ripping through what remained of him, and.
Funny. It was like it had only just happened, and all the years in between meant absolutely nothing - like he'd just shut down to wake up for this moment, like they both had died for a while and come back.
Adrenaline cut a path through his veins, straining against his skin. His wrist pressed up against Heine's grip. The panic lasted a moment, instinctual, before her programming kicked in. Before he remembered, oh, no. This is a good thing. This is what she wants. And the struggle eased a little, and his movements became tight and controlled.
It didn't stop his heart pounding violently against his chest, and he couldn't quite form a smile or feel as pleased as he wanted to. He'd accomplished it, though, and that was what counted. That was all that counted as Heine tore him up off the concrete and gripped his jaw until the bones creaked and the ligaments compressed and purpled. Hard to speak like this, so he just raised his free hand, slid it up to cup the dog's wild face with sincere affection. Heine could turn and have his hand halved in the half-second it took him to clamp his teeth down through the flesh, but that didn't matter. That was better, in fact. That was what a brother like his would do.
His pulse raced under Heine's skin, and it took him some time to find the words, to come back to himself and shake off the memory like a nightmare.]
... It's because Heine's too difficult. I wouldn't have to press so hard if he didn't resist so much.
[He inclined his head in his direction, cheekbone bumping Heine's as he directed his question closer to his pierced, white ear.]
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinetellemyoureshotFebruary 22 2009, 11:47:04 UTC
Uhhh, nope.
[ He patted his cheek. ]
Don't care.
[ And he didn't. Not really. Not this Heine. Not this version of twisted and awful that was currently straddled across Giovanni's hips. This Heine didn't care about much of anything except the steady beat of a person's heart and the way warm flesh stayed warm even minutes after death.
Which was unfortunate, really, because him caring might have saved Giovanni a minute or two before those lips tracked over his chin and then moved instinctively back down to his pulse, as if they belonged there, as if they had no other place to be. Heine was still swallowed somewhere beneath all the chains and the mud, and the dog didn't have to force anything from Giovanni to realize that he was afraid. Because he hadn't forgotten, either.
The dog wasn't one for wasting time, though, not much for listening to anyone speak any sort of bullshit, because. Well, unlike Heine, he was immune to that kind of thing, and his mouth opened against Giovanni's throat until white teeth scraped across his skin. He bit down, right where his pulse beat the heaviest, and it was teasing, slow, at first, before he was ripping the skin away, before he was tearing and pushing until the taste of blood filled his mouth.
It wasn't enough to kill him. It wouldn't have been enough to do much of anything except maybe render him a bit speechless for a few seconds, until he was healing just fine, just fucking perfect, because that's what they did, right. That's what she had built them to do.
He could have done more, and he would have, but --
-- But then Heine came reeling back, slamming the dog right down into its barbed wire cage. Came reeling back, and he choked on the blood already in his mouth, fingers digging into the dirt beneath him before he was falling back, falling away, scrambling over the concrete. He felt sick, so fucking sick, and every part of him was shakingshakingshaking, and there was nothing he could do when his stomach lurched, when he turned to face the pavement to cough specks of red onto the hazy ground beneath him.
It was kind of like choking, a bit like dying, and he could feel the unfamiliar sting of tears gathering right in the corner of his eyes, because it still fucking hurt and fuck fuck fuck Giovanni. This was his fault, and he should have seen it coming, really, and now it was too late to change anything, to take back anything. Part of him hoped the stupid bitch bled to death right there in front of him, but he hadn't bit hard enough, hadn't bit deep enough, and maybe that tiny little part of him regretted not letting the dog rip his throat out right then and there.
His fingers curled into a fist against his palm, and he sucked in a sharp rush of oxygen, of air, screwing dark eyes shut as tightly as he could.
It could have been worse.
It could have been worse, but that didn't make it better.
He'd still lost control, and that meant -- ]
Fuck. Fuck. Are you fucking happy?
[ His voice shook with unbridled emotion, with a certain type of achey pain that was hard to ignore and forget, and Heine pressed his face down against the concrete, breathing in the scent of dirt. ]
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinepseudismMarch 1 2009, 21:18:12 UTC
[ Giovanni froze.
No. He should've expected it. Of course. Why would he care, why would it matter to a creature like the Cerberus? Maybe that was what made him so perfect, such a flawless creation in comparison to a defective product like Giovanni - that there was no desire for questions, or rhyme and reason, for explanation and whys and hows. Like he'd said to Heine, like he'd been so eager to remind him - there was just this. Him, his breath coming short as Heine slowly dragged him up closer, breathed on him like he had before so many years ago. His pulse was manic in his throat, the tendons pressing up against his skin as he strained away. Just like last time, only they were a little taller, and a little sicker, and Giovanni's fingers scraped through the dirt because it had to be okay, because survival wasn't the only thing on his mind any more. His death was an acceptable loss. If she got what she wanted out of it...
His legs drew up, feet digging into the ground as Heine's teeth sunk in, and the pain of his skin breaking felt like knives piercing through to settle in his flesh, the area around it throbbing in sync with the mending wound on his skull. He inhaled sharply, his fingers moving up to grab fistfuls of Heine's hair - but before he could tear him back Heine was already choking, already reeling, already throwing himself back off of Giovanni's body and his hands to crawl across the floor like a kicked dog, and for a moment Giovanni just let him. Giovanni just lay there, breathing hard while his flesh closed together slowly, and his mind was away elsewhere, a place from a decade ago.
It was interesting, the way two similar experiences separated by time could influence each other so immensely. The fear he felt didn't feel like his own, but something fed through a funnel from a distance, someone else's experience of fear. Because why would he be afraid? Why would his heart race when the dog loomed over him at his throat? At the same time, he felt invigorated. Feeling the blood expanding across his collar, feeling the pulse where Heine's teeth had left their mark down close to his artery, he shook with something that was neither adrenaline nor terror.
He watched Heine lay there for a time. Then slowly, slowly, he pushed himself up off the ground, blowing air out from between his lips slowly. He got up with rhythmic, natural movements, a machine that couldn't be broken or turned off, and moved to Heine like it was all he was made to do. ]
Beyond words.
[ He dropped down on one knee, grabbed a fistful of Heine's hair and drew him up out of the dirt, forcing his eyes on him. Smiling, he held him there, leaned in one more time. His breath ghosted over his cheeks, close to his lips. ]
It was almost perfect.
[ And he released him, stepped away just a little too quickly. ]
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinetellemyoureshotMarch 3 2009, 00:13:03 UTC
[ Their differences both defined and destroyed them.
Because they weren't really all that different, if Heine thought hard about it. They were more alike than they could have ever imagined, except their likeness would never cross paths, would never come face-to-face with one another, because. How could they know? Giovanni moved like a machine because he was a machine, and Heine choked on his blood because he failed where Giovanni succeeded, and that was something that neither of them would ever be able to logically see. It was beyond their train of thought, beyond their understanding.
Giovanni did what was required of him, and Heine tried his fucking best to do the opposite of that. It was all he'd ever known, it was the only thing he had left to do, and he held onto it because it was the one thing that he knew he couldn't fuck up. If he fucked that up, then everything would have been pointless, would have been a waste, and her death would have meant nothing. He couldn't have that. He refused to let that happen.
He was still choking when Giovanni dragged him closer, but he was coherent enough to realize what was going on. The predator in him noticed the quick retreat, and on instinct, his hand shot out, fingers digging into the material of Giovanni's pants as he yanked him back down to the dirt in one quick, hard movement. He didn't move right away, however, didn't shift over the ground to pin him back into place as quickly as he should have. He was still slow, still sluggish, still running on energy that wasn't his own, that belonged to the monster still settling in its cage.
The blood sat thick and warm in the back of his throat, and Heine's fingers tightened in the material of Giovanni's pants before his other hand moved up to latch around Giovanni's chin and draw him closer.
And closer.
And closer.
Until he could lean forward, mouth still bitter with the taste of copper, to kiss him.
And he didn't say anything, didn't offer him shit when it came to words, because that was what Giovanni wanted, right. Heine wasn't in much of the mood to give Giovanni anything, and he was still hurt, still aching, and it was always fucking painful, but that was okay. Pain always took him a little bit closer to that reality that he had never gotten the chance to explore before. Pain made him aware. Pain made him open his eyes, and they were still blurry, and he still wasn't breathing, but it was still okay.
The only reason he never won was because he never wanted to, and now. Now it was different, and the dog was quiet, finally, just as it was last time, because. He didn't say anything. He didn't say one fucking word, even as his mouth moved with all the tense, awkward inexperience of someone who didn't know what they were doing, but Heine knew. Heine knew. This time. For once.
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinepseudismMarch 3 2009, 21:47:03 UTC
[No; maybe he didn't.
Giovanni let Heine drag him down and knelt in the dirt next to him, his light suit ruined enough from their earlier scuffle that it barely made a difference to its colour. He could've asked him what he had planned, could've wrenched away and stood up, but there was no reason to. It didn't matter what Heine was up to, because this was the weak Heine, the powerless Heine who was only a shadow of the real one. Never mind that he shared teeth, hands, eyes with the beast inside, never mind that looking down at him still sent a chill down Giovanni's spine, because none of that had any bearing on the situation in the slightest; that was just his mind running away with him, his instincts misinterpreting. Whatever Heine wanted to do, it wasn't likely to be anything Giovanni should fear.
And so he sat there, watched Heine lying weak on the ground, exhausted and bitter, and he idly wondered what the Professor would make of them now. If she could see Heine shrink and change the way he had, would she still invest so much in him? Would she still think of Giovanni as the fragile one, towering over him now, stronger than both his fear and Heine's willpower?
... Idle speculation, given that she didn't, and given that he had no right to question her conviction. Given that he knew Heine's strength personally, intimately, and he knew that when it was finally undone, there would be nobody who could match it.
Heine was climbing up, grabbing him and dragging him down. Giovanni resisted the hand against him, moving to grab his wrist and push him off, lips curling in something like disdain. It wasn't. Not really. The chill at his spine tightened his muscles, and he felt it as sweat slicked the space between his arms and his sides, dampened the inside of his shirt. Nothing to be afraid of, but here he was, holding his breath and waiting, just like he did the last time. Thinking, well.
Why couldn't he just stand up?
And Heine's mouth was on him, but it wasn't at his pulse, didn't bare teeth, and it took a second for him to figure out what Heine was doing. Even then, staring blankly into his red eyes, the mouth soft and tangy with blood against his own, he didn't know why.
Maybe he'd lost his mind, but that wasn't really Heine's way, was it? If he broke, he'd give up to the dog, he'd accept the only possible defeat there was absolutely. This was something else entirely.
And then he remembered. This wasn't the first time, although Heine wasn't crushing the flesh of his lips, wasn't trying to break through them and bring the blood forward. Still, still, the fundamentals were there, and Giovanni stayed frozen, paralysed as Heine's lips moved against his own.
Giovanni wasn't ignorant, not when he came from a world of prostitution and rape, not in a world where bodies were cheap. It was hard to ignore when he left the safety of the Underground, and it was impossible to ignore as he grew into an adult. Twisted or not, he wasn't without desire. His craving to reach into Heine and rip him apart wasn't without some strange pseudo-sexual thrill. It was what they were made to love, after all.
There was a lot he wanted from Heine. His strength, his vulnerability, his body, his mind. To break each of them one by one and find the core of what made Heine Heine, what it was about him that made the spine work like it never had with him. He wanted to dissect him and inspect each aspect of his psyche and his organs, his words and his emotions, and compare them to his own until he knew what he had to become.
But this wasn't surrender. It wasn't bringing him closer to the dog or his much-desired answers; whatever tactic Heine was using, it wasn't helping him.
It was confusing him, and maybe that was the sole point.
He grabbed Heine's shoulders and shoved him away, pressed him down into the ground and held him there. His arms shook, and the fabric of his sleeves showed it all the way down, but his face was calm, blank. He could taste blood in his mouth, a pinkish wash that didn't help his dry throat. ]
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinepseudismMarch 3 2009, 21:48:17 UTC
[ And keeping him down, slowly moving to straddle him, he kissed him again. On his terms, his way, with his fingers gripping in the open high collar of his jacket, fingers catching on the zip, and he dug in with his teeth, hissed against his skin. Holding back from just doing the one thing he longed to do, to just grab him and tear him in two directions, to rip his jaw off, to open him wide and just ruin him, just destroy him.
He endeavoured to show Heine everything. He endeavoured to say, in a way in which no words could, just how much he wanted from him, how much he loathed him, how much he was willing to take from him. How much he wanted to perfect him. How much he wished he was him.
He bit him when he was satisfied, bared his teeth and smiled as he pulled back. His hand still played across the zip of Heine's jacket, the thin sliver of exposed flesh between his clothes and the bandages.]
If you picked your games better, you'd win more of them.
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinetellemyoureshotMarch 3 2009, 22:49:51 UTC
[ Heine was on a completely different plane of thinking when it came to the idea of winning and losing.
In all honesty, he had never really seen any of this as a competition, as a game, no matter how Giovanni spun it out to be. It wasn't like that to him. He didn't even really think about it usually, because Giovanni wasn't a person that he was going to waste his time worrying about. So he couldn't triumph over him, even right then, even with his legs spread on either side of his body as he pushed him down against the ground and kissed him. He couldn't triumph over him, because Heine had never cared to begin with, and he'd always known what Giovanni wanted.
But when it came down to it, Heine mastered over the dog, and the dog was kept on a short, tight leash, and that was more than he could fucking say for the blonde that currently sat above him. That was winning. That was how he won. The only time he ever lost was when the dog wasn't chained up, when it was free to do whatever the fuck it wanted, and even then, it didn't really matter. Because it never lasted. Because Heine always took over again. Because Heine was always in control.
He was in control.
Sometimes he forgot this, and it was always destructive, always led him down the wrong paths, but right then, it was fine. It was okay, and his mouth was softer and pliant beneath Giovanni's than it would ever be again. He let him kiss him. He let him do whatever he wanted to do, because he was still thinking, and the wheels were still turning somewhere in the back of his head.
One hand moved up, finger skimming up along his sides, over his ribs, and his other hand moved down his own hip, fingers closing tightly around the chains sprawled across the ground. He didn't want to kill him. Not yet. The heated warmth that had settled in his gut had frozen away into a solid pit of empty nothingness, and it filled Heine with the coherency to reason and think like a logical person, like a normal person, for once. This wasn't about winning and losing, but Heine was going to win anyway.
The chains clinked as he moved them just slightly, one arm drifting up to slide around the back of Giovanni's neck, drawing him closer, drawing him down, until his lips could brush over the shell of his ear. ]
And if you stopped pretending this was a game, you'd probably actually get somewhere.
[ His movements were almost mechanical, because everything he was doing was apart of some other fucking strategy he had locked away; they were just a way for Heine to get under Giovanni's skin. And he'd push him, if he needed to, push him until maybe he got lucky and he fucking snapped, and that'd be good, that'd be enough for Heine. His lips moved down over his chin, over the beating pulse in his neck, and the flat of his tongue pressed against the wound he'd just made minutes earlier, smoothing over the healing mark.
The clock in his brain ticked quietly, and his fingers tightened around the chains. ]
COMMENTLOG | giovanni & heinepseudismMarch 15 2009, 15:12:28 UTC
[Giovanni had considered it in the past. Another facet of his fixation, he supposed, and he was sure the Professor would agree that there was nothing more to it. Throwing Heine down, doing this to him - maybe it'd crossed his mind once or twice in all those years, but the years were hazy and he couldn't be certain of what he was thinking, half the time.
It seemed familiar in some way, though, like playing through something that he'd done before, and surely it wasn't because of the last time Heine bit him. Something else, like an affirmation.
But, well. All the same, holding Heine down and kissing him was rapidly becoming a joyless endeavour. The pleasure was in winning. The pleasure was in drawing the dog out and breaking Heine up inside, and Heine must not have realised his position because he wasn't afraid at all, and maybe it really was futile. The window of opportunity had closed, and Giovanni should've pulled away a long time ago. He knew that. Now, throwing himself against a wall that seemed to be building ever-higher, there was no weaponry in his arsenal to break him down like he had before.
He jerked back when Heine ran the flat of his tongue over his skin, his breath ragged, his mouth still tasting of Heine's blood mixed with his own. He stared across the ground where it met with the buildings beyond. His skin felt a sting, and then a chill where Heine touched him.
Pretending? Heine was right, in one sense. It wasn't a game. It was a contest, a battle that wasn't going to end. Only, for a dog like him, the two were mutually exclusive.
His hand made a fist and relaxed, and then reached up and pressed Heine back, resting across the bruised throat where his previously fractured bones now lay in perfect form. He pushed his head back down against the blood-smattered gravel that left evidence of their conflict, resisting the touch of his mouth, and he stared down at him with an expression that wasn't as neutral as he realised.
His other hand grazed against the side of Heine's thigh on its way up to hook against the belt he wore and didn't need. Such a perfect form, and it was to be expected. Everything about Heine was perfect.]
If it isn't a game, Heine, why are you doing this?
He wasn't touching Heine's core yet, and maybe it'd take more than fights, threats, Lily this time. Maybe he'd need something to really wake Heine up, to rip him open in every conceivable way, to expose every inch of him so that there was nowhere to hide, nowhere Giovanni couldn't see and exploit. He wanted him from the inside out, wanted the dog and the mania and the white teeth like weapons. Not this lie. Were they really the same person, the one who tore him apart and this numbed failure?
He let himself be dragged forward without complaint, and took the opportunity to raise his hand to brush his fingers across Heine's white skin, following the line of his cheekbone and the ticklish, soft hair that fell haphazardly over his eyes. And he smiled with something like affection and resentment, something that was almost a grimace.
There was more than one way to skin a cat. Or a dog, in this case.]
And if what I want is to fight, then what happens?
[He leaned in until every breath pulled into his lungs was Heine's, baring his teeth.]
Don't be naive, Heine. You don't have the freedom to decide what we're going to do today. Just like you had no choice in coming here. Not any more.
[His hand slid down Heine's jaw, fingers tracing the bandages on his neck. His palm pressed hard on his throat, squeezing until he could feel that cold, charged metal at the back of his neck, could feel the raw skin that surrounded it like an electrical burn.]
Everything's different here.
Why should I hold back?
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This was the way it always seemed to go, and it was stupid that Heine hadn't gotten the pattern figured out yet, that he was ignorant enough to ignore the fact that what Giovanni wanted never changed. It wasn't hard. It wasn't difficult. It was as fucking simple as Giovanni made it out to be, and he still didn't fucking understand, and he brought this on himself. He always did.
Heine didn't jerk back at the feel of Giovanni's fingers brushing up along his cheek and down to his throat. His eyes narrowed just a bit at the words he spoke, though, but he didn't move, otherwise. He didn't have to. Not yet.
Giovanni's palm pressed down against his throat, and there was something in the way he spoke, in the way his voice lilted just lightly that had a warning bell going off somewhere in the back of his head. Warning, warning, and Heine pushed it aside, ignored it, because he wasn't afraid.
Not of him. Not ever. ]
Then you're wasting my time.
[ He dragged the tips of his fingers up over the front of Giovanni's jacket to wrap his hand around his wrist so that he could push him back and away. His skin burned from where the other had touched him, and he tried not to think about that, tried to ignore how big of an impact Giovanni always had on him, whether he immediately realized it or not.
Another warning bell.
No. Giovanni wasn't in control. He was. He was. ]
Big fucking surprise.
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Not even by appearances. Even when Heine took his wrist and pushed it back, it only took him as far away as Heine's arm could stretch, didn't account for how his body stayed static in front of him even if his arm moved. He let him because it didn't matter what he was trying to do. He let him because Heine was fucked from the moment he showed up, and he was welcome to push, pull, bare his teeth, shy away, stare at him, avoid his gaze. Because none of it changed anything. None of it meant anything. ]
Let's not make it more difficult than it needs to be, Heine.
[His other hand was up in a flash, grabbing Heine's throat to throw him down against the wall. His lip curled in one corner, wet teeth glistening as he tightened his grip, pushed him up higher until he heard the metal collar grinding on the brick behind him, until his grip strained and the tendons of his arm stood up in hyper-detail against his thin skin.]
You're still...
[His grip tightened until he could feel the bones and tendons and flesh pulping and cracking under his fingers, and then loosened just a little to let it heal.]
too selfish.
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He could take the bullet wounds, and the puncture wounds, and the hits to the face, and to the gut, and to every other part of him; those were different, were familiar, and he could handle them. What he had a hard time coping with, though, was the sound of bones snapping, was the sharp and horrific pain that often came with that cracking sound. It wasn't like the dull ache of everything else; it was present, and hard, and real, and all of Heine's breath rushed out of his lungs the second that Giovanni tightened his fingers around his throat.
It reminded him too much of everything he tried so hard to forget, and he tasted blood in his mouth and felt his legs give out beneath him before Giovanni loosened his grip. It had its desire effect on him, of course, and Heine couldn't exactly fault him for it, because. Well, it was what Giovanni was supposed to do, and he couldn't quite shake off that feeling of paralysis for a good minute or two, even though his heart was beating frantically inside his chest.
One, two, and then his fingers were tingling a little, and he flexed them, sucking in a rush of warm air before one hand went up to fist in Giovanni's hair. He dragged him down in one quick, hard motion, still a little bit numb and a little bit cold, and brought his knee up to slam against the other's stomach within the next second. ]
I told you.
[ And he turned his head, spat blood onto the concrete, and then pushed forward, dragging Giovanni down with him onto the gravel and the cement. His fingers were still fisted in that blonde hair, and he moved to straddle his waist, to hold him down against the ground, because now he was fucking pissed because that had fucking hurt. ]
I'm not --
[ He settled his weight on his hips and jerked his head up, before he was slamming it back down hard onto the blood spattered ground beneath them. ]
-- going to fight you, you fucking --
[ And then once more, stopping only when he felt the blood from his head wet his fingertips.
He breathed. ]
-- piece of shit little bitch.
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He could feel the swelling ebb. Could feel the bones knit back into place. The pulse began again, and Giovanni's grip stayed loose just to see what came next.
But what came next wasn't something he saw at all. His hand clamped down too late, finding nothing but air and his own blunt nails dragging on his skin. There was a moment of weightlessness when his eyes locked on the wide blood-red ones above him (there you are, Heine, there it is, so fucking perfect), and then they were on the ground and the gravel beat into his back hard enough to whip the air out of him.
Better.
Not that it was exactly what he had in mind, but that didn't matter, because Heine was still showing his true colours, and Heine was still losing his grip on everything that held him together. He couldn't have been surprised, could he? Not by something like this.
But oh, Giovanni was surprised enough for both of them, in his own way. How long had he been holding this in?
He could feel, distantly, Heine's blood dripping off his lip and onto his face, and the warmth of hands against his cheeks. Then the back of his skull exploded in sudden, jarring pain, so intense that it seemed to crawl its way through every nerve from the back of his skull to the front with agonising care, an experience that seemed to take the better part of a minute to really sink in. When Heine went to smash his head down again, Giovanni's shoulders bunched, his hands reflexively reaching for Heine's wrists to resist the movement. He felt blood flooding his mouth and crawling into the cracks between his teeth, and realised he'd bitten through his tongue.
His head went down again with a crack, and the stars behind his eyes gave way to a muddy, watery darkness just past consciousness, and his head was wet, skull fractured, and he felt like everything inside him was leaking out and he couldn't think. His fingers kept an iron-hard grip on Heine that moved up from his wrists, clawed along his shoulders and up to his throat again, jerking him down. His breathing and blood stuttered out of him together, and it took a moment for him to get his tongue working again, the tissues knitting together patiently.
He leaned up, and the blood trickled down the back of his neck to stain his shirt. One hand dropped away from Heine slowly, and Giovanni smiled, swallowed the blood that grew watery in his mouth.]
... It doesn't suit you to say that, when you're like this.
This is what... you came here for. If it was really just to protect Lily, you would have gone to her, not to me.
Or... Are you just afraid of facing the past?
[His free hand came up. He threw his weight into striking Heine in the temple with his pistol, grabbed his shirt with his other hand and, in one fluid motion, flipped their weights to get Heine on the ground. His weight was solid under his hands, all bone and flesh and skin and familiarity, and he knelt between his legs, delivered a solid punch up into his solar plexus and relished in the feeling of his lungs caving beneath him.
His hot breath bathed Heine's cheek when he leaned in, laughing.]
You've become so useless, Heine. Not only to the Professor, but to everyone.
Is this how you'd rather be?
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He hit the ground hard, twisting for one brief moment beneath the blonde above him before he was choking on his own tongue at the blow delivered to his abdomen. It wasn't quite as painful as the snapping of his neck had been, but it still hurt, and his insides felt like they were caving in on themselves from the bruising force of it. His head slammed back against the concrete, and Heine's hands went up in that same moment, gloved fingers clawing down blindly over Giovanni's jacket before they were moving up and finding their place in his hair once more.
Breathed, and tried to catch his breath, and goddamnit fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck you you motherfucker fuck.
There was always a fucking pattern, and it was always the same, and he should have known better.
Giovanni was talking again, because he couldn't ever really go five seconds without saying some shit, and none of it still meant anything to him. Logically, he could hear what he was saying, knew what he meant by all of it, but it still didn't matter. It had never mattered, and didn't he see that, and why the fuck did it always come back to this, and none of it would ever change ever ever ever, and he fucking hated it.
He fucking hated it more than he could goddamn stand, and he yanked Giovanni down on top of him, pulling his legs apart a bit more until his knees grazed the other's sides. His fingers drifted down over his cheeks to cup his face, and it would have been so easy to just fucking twist his head off right then and there, but he didn't. He just held him, faces inches apart, chest heaving as he tried to ignore the taste of blood in his mouth and the way it rolled to the back of his throat, sinking down into his belly where he'd just throw it back up later.
He breathed again, fingers pinching hard into the soft muscle between his jaw as he dragged him down even closer, and hissed an answer to his question: ]
Yes.
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Heine still couldn't figure out what should've been obvious, a plain answer to an uncomplicated question.
If he changed, then this pattern would change. If he did what Giovanni told him to, then this could all be done with, and they would never have to go through it again and Heine would never have to be stuck beneath him again with his head pulsing and his pulse racing and his world shrinking into one tiny pinpoint of space between them. It couldn't really be harder than living like this, could it? This was an unnatural state for an animal like Heine to be in. Something designed to kill, to bite and tear and act on impulses and instincts to just be retracting its claws beneath him, trying so hard to keep some semblance of false composure, holding onto words when all he really wanted to do was rend the skin right off of Giovanni's face.
He knew. He was like him. He knew.
He didn't break that proximity, nose bumping Heine's as he inched in to murmur against his ear. Yeah, he was vulnerable this way. Yeah, Heine could bite him, could rip into his flesh and open it up clean as cut paper, but that wasn't anything to him. Just a minor victory, if anything. Just pushing Heine a little closer to accepting those inherent impulses.
Besides, there was nothing to stop him reciprocating in kind.]
You won't fight, but you don't want to accept what you are. Then shall we just stay like this permanently? You beneath me. Me above you. And neither of us will ever need to change.
[He drew back just enough to study him, and his free palm rested over the place where he'd punched him, applying pressure until he could feel his pulse pushing up through his bones. The gun in his other hand shunted up beneath Heine's sharp chin, digging into the skin there, forcing his head up a little.]
Do you want to know what I'll do to her when I find her, or should I leave it to your imagination?
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Giovanni's words hit him like a sack of bricks right to the face, like a sledgehammer right to his gut. It hit him hard, wrapped him up in a suffocating cocoon that rendered him immobile and useless and at the blonde's complete mercy. For a second, anyway. Because that was only part of the trick, part of the game, and he felt his heart beating fast, and part of him was saying don't listen don't listen don't you fucking dare, and the dog was already laughing, because.
Oops. Too late.
And the hound whispered ding ding ding fucking bingo, voice strangled and wrong and laced with a twisted sort of violence, and Heine felt himself falling backwards into a pit of black muck as his fingers latched around Giovanni's throat on their own accord. He was paralyzed, couldn't move, couldn't say or do anything, except that other part of him was working just fine, and he tried to scream tried to say no no fuck no no nononono but he couldn't. It was like being on the other side of a window, looking through a pane of glass that he couldn't break through.
He shifted beneath Giovanni, shoving his weight forward until he had the other pinned beneath him. Those same fingers that had been tangled in Giovanni's hair moved down to circle around his wrist and slam it hard against the concrete until he knocked the gun right from his fingers. This wasn't him. This wasn't him, and there was nothing he could do, and he was frozen again, and he couldn't stop it, and.
The dog smiled (something just as sick and wrong and awful), straddling Giovanni's waist as he tightened his hold on his throat, raising him off the ground until they were face to face. ]
So, I heard you missed me, sunshine.
[ And just like that, Heine's months of work, of not listening, of not giving a fuck, all went rocketing right down the fucking drain, because he wasn't in control now, and he was clawing away somewhere down past the dark and the suffocating. And he was giving Giovanni just what he wanted.
His thumb pressed hard into the hollow space between his jaw, and he rocked forward a little, rubbing his nose against his throat, against the pulse that beat steadily beneath a stretch of pale skin. ]
God, about time, too. I was getting so fucking sick of your bitching.
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It was funny, in a way. Even as long as it'd been since he'd first heard him talk like that, even with how distracted he was as he watched his gun clatter away from his fingers, a scant breath that felt so far out of reach, it was funny how fast his head snapped back to look at Heine the moment the words registered even when the rest of his body froze cold. Not just the words - the sound of them, the way Heine formed the syllables and the softer tone of his voice. It came surging back as sharp as a blow to the back of the head, and he remembered. The facility, Heine, narrower and smaller then - they both were- towering over him with chunks of flesh in his hands. His flesh. Giovanni's flesh, dripping onto his own body as he lay there white and paralysed and shock tremors were ripping through what remained of him, and.
Funny. It was like it had only just happened, and all the years in between meant absolutely nothing - like he'd just shut down to wake up for this moment, like they both had died for a while and come back.
Adrenaline cut a path through his veins, straining against his skin. His wrist pressed up against Heine's grip. The panic lasted a moment, instinctual, before her programming kicked in. Before he remembered, oh, no. This is a good thing. This is what she wants. And the struggle eased a little, and his movements became tight and controlled.
It didn't stop his heart pounding violently against his chest, and he couldn't quite form a smile or feel as pleased as he wanted to. He'd accomplished it, though, and that was what counted. That was all that counted as Heine tore him up off the concrete and gripped his jaw until the bones creaked and the ligaments compressed and purpled. Hard to speak like this, so he just raised his free hand, slid it up to cup the dog's wild face with sincere affection. Heine could turn and have his hand halved in the half-second it took him to clamp his teeth down through the flesh, but that didn't matter. That was better, in fact. That was what a brother like his would do.
His pulse raced under Heine's skin, and it took him some time to find the words, to come back to himself and shake off the memory like a nightmare.]
... It's because Heine's too difficult. I wouldn't have to press so hard if he didn't resist so much.
[He inclined his head in his direction, cheekbone bumping Heine's as he directed his question closer to his pierced, white ear.]
Do you know why I wanted to see you?
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[ He patted his cheek. ]
Don't care.
[ And he didn't. Not really. Not this Heine. Not this version of twisted and awful that was currently straddled across Giovanni's hips. This Heine didn't care about much of anything except the steady beat of a person's heart and the way warm flesh stayed warm even minutes after death.
Which was unfortunate, really, because him caring might have saved Giovanni a minute or two before those lips tracked over his chin and then moved instinctively back down to his pulse, as if they belonged there, as if they had no other place to be. Heine was still swallowed somewhere beneath all the chains and the mud, and the dog didn't have to force anything from Giovanni to realize that he was afraid. Because he hadn't forgotten, either.
The dog wasn't one for wasting time, though, not much for listening to anyone speak any sort of bullshit, because. Well, unlike Heine, he was immune to that kind of thing, and his mouth opened against Giovanni's throat until white teeth scraped across his skin. He bit down, right where his pulse beat the heaviest, and it was teasing, slow, at first, before he was ripping the skin away, before he was tearing and pushing until the taste of blood filled his mouth.
It wasn't enough to kill him. It wouldn't have been enough to do much of anything except maybe render him a bit speechless for a few seconds, until he was healing just fine, just fucking perfect, because that's what they did, right. That's what she had built them to do.
He could have done more, and he would have, but --
-- But then Heine came reeling back, slamming the dog right down into its barbed wire cage. Came reeling back, and he choked on the blood already in his mouth, fingers digging into the dirt beneath him before he was falling back, falling away, scrambling over the concrete. He felt sick, so fucking sick, and every part of him was shakingshakingshaking, and there was nothing he could do when his stomach lurched, when he turned to face the pavement to cough specks of red onto the hazy ground beneath him.
It was kind of like choking, a bit like dying, and he could feel the unfamiliar sting of tears gathering right in the corner of his eyes, because it still fucking hurt and fuck fuck fuck Giovanni. This was his fault, and he should have seen it coming, really, and now it was too late to change anything, to take back anything. Part of him hoped the stupid bitch bled to death right there in front of him, but he hadn't bit hard enough, hadn't bit deep enough, and maybe that tiny little part of him regretted not letting the dog rip his throat out right then and there.
His fingers curled into a fist against his palm, and he sucked in a sharp rush of oxygen, of air, screwing dark eyes shut as tightly as he could.
It could have been worse.
It could have been worse, but that didn't make it better.
He'd still lost control, and that meant -- ]
Fuck. Fuck. Are you fucking happy?
[ His voice shook with unbridled emotion, with a certain type of achey pain that was hard to ignore and forget, and Heine pressed his face down against the concrete, breathing in the scent of dirt. ]
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No. He should've expected it. Of course. Why would he care, why would it matter to a creature like the Cerberus? Maybe that was what made him so perfect, such a flawless creation in comparison to a defective product like Giovanni - that there was no desire for questions, or rhyme and reason, for explanation and whys and hows. Like he'd said to Heine, like he'd been so eager to remind him - there was just this. Him, his breath coming short as Heine slowly dragged him up closer, breathed on him like he had before so many years ago. His pulse was manic in his throat, the tendons pressing up against his skin as he strained away. Just like last time, only they were a little taller, and a little sicker, and Giovanni's fingers scraped through the dirt because it had to be okay, because survival wasn't the only thing on his mind any more. His death was an acceptable loss. If she got what she wanted out of it...
His legs drew up, feet digging into the ground as Heine's teeth sunk in, and the pain of his skin breaking felt like knives piercing through to settle in his flesh, the area around it throbbing in sync with the mending wound on his skull. He inhaled sharply, his fingers moving up to grab fistfuls of Heine's hair - but before he could tear him back Heine was already choking, already reeling, already throwing himself back off of Giovanni's body and his hands to crawl across the floor like a kicked dog, and for a moment Giovanni just let him. Giovanni just lay there, breathing hard while his flesh closed together slowly, and his mind was away elsewhere, a place from a decade ago.
It was interesting, the way two similar experiences separated by time could influence each other so immensely. The fear he felt didn't feel like his own, but something fed through a funnel from a distance, someone else's experience of fear. Because why would he be afraid? Why would his heart race when the dog loomed over him at his throat? At the same time, he felt invigorated. Feeling the blood expanding across his collar, feeling the pulse where Heine's teeth had left their mark down close to his artery, he shook with something that was neither adrenaline nor terror.
He watched Heine lay there for a time. Then slowly, slowly, he pushed himself up off the ground, blowing air out from between his lips slowly. He got up with rhythmic, natural movements, a machine that couldn't be broken or turned off, and moved to Heine like it was all he was made to do. ]
Beyond words.
[ He dropped down on one knee, grabbed a fistful of Heine's hair and drew him up out of the dirt, forcing his eyes on him. Smiling, he held him there, leaned in one more time. His breath ghosted over his cheeks, close to his lips. ]
It was almost perfect.
[ And he released him, stepped away just a little too quickly. ]
You can't keep it up, Heine.
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Because they weren't really all that different, if Heine thought hard about it. They were more alike than they could have ever imagined, except their likeness would never cross paths, would never come face-to-face with one another, because. How could they know? Giovanni moved like a machine because he was a machine, and Heine choked on his blood because he failed where Giovanni succeeded, and that was something that neither of them would ever be able to logically see. It was beyond their train of thought, beyond their understanding.
Giovanni did what was required of him, and Heine tried his fucking best to do the opposite of that. It was all he'd ever known, it was the only thing he had left to do, and he held onto it because it was the one thing that he knew he couldn't fuck up. If he fucked that up, then everything would have been pointless, would have been a waste, and her death would have meant nothing. He couldn't have that. He refused to let that happen.
He was still choking when Giovanni dragged him closer, but he was coherent enough to realize what was going on. The predator in him noticed the quick retreat, and on instinct, his hand shot out, fingers digging into the material of Giovanni's pants as he yanked him back down to the dirt in one quick, hard movement. He didn't move right away, however, didn't shift over the ground to pin him back into place as quickly as he should have. He was still slow, still sluggish, still running on energy that wasn't his own, that belonged to the monster still settling in its cage.
The blood sat thick and warm in the back of his throat, and Heine's fingers tightened in the material of Giovanni's pants before his other hand moved up to latch around Giovanni's chin and draw him closer.
And closer.
And closer.
Until he could lean forward, mouth still bitter with the taste of copper, to kiss him.
And he didn't say anything, didn't offer him shit when it came to words, because that was what Giovanni wanted, right. Heine wasn't in much of the mood to give Giovanni anything, and he was still hurt, still aching, and it was always fucking painful, but that was okay. Pain always took him a little bit closer to that reality that he had never gotten the chance to explore before. Pain made him aware. Pain made him open his eyes, and they were still blurry, and he still wasn't breathing, but it was still okay.
The only reason he never won was because he never wanted to, and now. Now it was different, and the dog was quiet, finally, just as it was last time, because. He didn't say anything. He didn't say one fucking word, even as his mouth moved with all the tense, awkward inexperience of someone who didn't know what they were doing, but Heine knew. Heine knew. This time. For once.
So he didn't say shit.
He didn't need to. ]
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Giovanni let Heine drag him down and knelt in the dirt next to him, his light suit ruined enough from their earlier scuffle that it barely made a difference to its colour. He could've asked him what he had planned, could've wrenched away and stood up, but there was no reason to. It didn't matter what Heine was up to, because this was the weak Heine, the powerless Heine who was only a shadow of the real one. Never mind that he shared teeth, hands, eyes with the beast inside, never mind that looking down at him still sent a chill down Giovanni's spine, because none of that had any bearing on the situation in the slightest; that was just his mind running away with him, his instincts misinterpreting. Whatever Heine wanted to do, it wasn't likely to be anything Giovanni should fear.
And so he sat there, watched Heine lying weak on the ground, exhausted and bitter, and he idly wondered what the Professor would make of them now. If she could see Heine shrink and change the way he had, would she still invest so much in him? Would she still think of Giovanni as the fragile one, towering over him now, stronger than both his fear and Heine's willpower?
... Idle speculation, given that she didn't, and given that he had no right to question her conviction. Given that he knew Heine's strength personally, intimately, and he knew that when it was finally undone, there would be nobody who could match it.
Heine was climbing up, grabbing him and dragging him down. Giovanni resisted the hand against him, moving to grab his wrist and push him off, lips curling in something like disdain. It wasn't. Not really. The chill at his spine tightened his muscles, and he felt it as sweat slicked the space between his arms and his sides, dampened the inside of his shirt. Nothing to be afraid of, but here he was, holding his breath and waiting, just like he did the last time. Thinking, well.
Why couldn't he just stand up?
And Heine's mouth was on him, but it wasn't at his pulse, didn't bare teeth, and it took a second for him to figure out what Heine was doing. Even then, staring blankly into his red eyes, the mouth soft and tangy with blood against his own, he didn't know why.
Maybe he'd lost his mind, but that wasn't really Heine's way, was it? If he broke, he'd give up to the dog, he'd accept the only possible defeat there was absolutely. This was something else entirely.
And then he remembered. This wasn't the first time, although Heine wasn't crushing the flesh of his lips, wasn't trying to break through them and bring the blood forward. Still, still, the fundamentals were there, and Giovanni stayed frozen, paralysed as Heine's lips moved against his own.
Giovanni wasn't ignorant, not when he came from a world of prostitution and rape, not in a world where bodies were cheap. It was hard to ignore when he left the safety of the Underground, and it was impossible to ignore as he grew into an adult. Twisted or not, he wasn't without desire. His craving to reach into Heine and rip him apart wasn't without some strange pseudo-sexual thrill. It was what they were made to love, after all.
There was a lot he wanted from Heine. His strength, his vulnerability, his body, his mind. To break each of them one by one and find the core of what made Heine Heine, what it was about him that made the spine work like it never had with him. He wanted to dissect him and inspect each aspect of his psyche and his organs, his words and his emotions, and compare them to his own until he knew what he had to become.
But this wasn't surrender. It wasn't bringing him closer to the dog or his much-desired answers; whatever tactic Heine was using, it wasn't helping him.
It was confusing him, and maybe that was the sole point.
He grabbed Heine's shoulders and shoved him away, pressed him down into the ground and held him there. His arms shook, and the fabric of his sleeves showed it all the way down, but his face was calm, blank. He could taste blood in his mouth, a pinkish wash that didn't help his dry throat. ]
... You shouldn't have taken the risk.
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He endeavoured to show Heine everything. He endeavoured to say, in a way in which no words could, just how much he wanted from him, how much he loathed him, how much he was willing to take from him. How much he wanted to perfect him. How much he wished he was him.
He bit him when he was satisfied, bared his teeth and smiled as he pulled back. His hand still played across the zip of Heine's jacket, the thin sliver of exposed flesh between his clothes and the bandages.]
If you picked your games better, you'd win more of them.
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In all honesty, he had never really seen any of this as a competition, as a game, no matter how Giovanni spun it out to be. It wasn't like that to him. He didn't even really think about it usually, because Giovanni wasn't a person that he was going to waste his time worrying about. So he couldn't triumph over him, even right then, even with his legs spread on either side of his body as he pushed him down against the ground and kissed him. He couldn't triumph over him, because Heine had never cared to begin with, and he'd always known what Giovanni wanted.
But when it came down to it, Heine mastered over the dog, and the dog was kept on a short, tight leash, and that was more than he could fucking say for the blonde that currently sat above him. That was winning. That was how he won. The only time he ever lost was when the dog wasn't chained up, when it was free to do whatever the fuck it wanted, and even then, it didn't really matter. Because it never lasted. Because Heine always took over again. Because Heine was always in control.
He was in control.
Sometimes he forgot this, and it was always destructive, always led him down the wrong paths, but right then, it was fine. It was okay, and his mouth was softer and pliant beneath Giovanni's than it would ever be again. He let him kiss him. He let him do whatever he wanted to do, because he was still thinking, and the wheels were still turning somewhere in the back of his head.
One hand moved up, finger skimming up along his sides, over his ribs, and his other hand moved down his own hip, fingers closing tightly around the chains sprawled across the ground. He didn't want to kill him. Not yet. The heated warmth that had settled in his gut had frozen away into a solid pit of empty nothingness, and it filled Heine with the coherency to reason and think like a logical person, like a normal person, for once. This wasn't about winning and losing, but Heine was going to win anyway.
The chains clinked as he moved them just slightly, one arm drifting up to slide around the back of Giovanni's neck, drawing him closer, drawing him down, until his lips could brush over the shell of his ear. ]
And if you stopped pretending this was a game, you'd probably actually get somewhere.
[ His movements were almost mechanical, because everything he was doing was apart of some other fucking strategy he had locked away; they were just a way for Heine to get under Giovanni's skin. And he'd push him, if he needed to, push him until maybe he got lucky and he fucking snapped, and that'd be good, that'd be enough for Heine. His lips moved down over his chin, over the beating pulse in his neck, and the flat of his tongue pressed against the wound he'd just made minutes earlier, smoothing over the healing mark.
The clock in his brain ticked quietly, and his fingers tightened around the chains. ]
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It seemed familiar in some way, though, like playing through something that he'd done before, and surely it wasn't because of the last time Heine bit him. Something else, like an affirmation.
But, well. All the same, holding Heine down and kissing him was rapidly becoming a joyless endeavour. The pleasure was in winning. The pleasure was in drawing the dog out and breaking Heine up inside, and Heine must not have realised his position because he wasn't afraid at all, and maybe it really was futile. The window of opportunity had closed, and Giovanni should've pulled away a long time ago. He knew that. Now, throwing himself against a wall that seemed to be building ever-higher, there was no weaponry in his arsenal to break him down like he had before.
He jerked back when Heine ran the flat of his tongue over his skin, his breath ragged, his mouth still tasting of Heine's blood mixed with his own. He stared across the ground where it met with the buildings beyond. His skin felt a sting, and then a chill where Heine touched him.
Pretending? Heine was right, in one sense. It wasn't a game. It was a contest, a battle that wasn't going to end. Only, for a dog like him, the two were mutually exclusive.
His hand made a fist and relaxed, and then reached up and pressed Heine back, resting across the bruised throat where his previously fractured bones now lay in perfect form. He pushed his head back down against the blood-smattered gravel that left evidence of their conflict, resisting the touch of his mouth, and he stared down at him with an expression that wasn't as neutral as he realised.
His other hand grazed against the side of Heine's thigh on its way up to hook against the belt he wore and didn't need. Such a perfect form, and it was to be expected. Everything about Heine was perfect.]
If it isn't a game, Heine, why are you doing this?
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