Fic: Your own blood and bones. (Used, Bert/Quinn, R)
A short piece for day 2 of 14valentines.
The 14valentines community isn't intended to raise money. However, I was recently reminded of what an uphill battle it is for a lot of non-profits that work with women. If you have the inclination, then, I want to suggest two possible places: Maryland Crime Victims Resource Center, and the National Domestic Violence Hotline. Both links go directly to the donation page. Thanks.
---
Your own blood and bones
Used, Bert/Quinn, R, 1400 words
Bert can't stop writing, and Quinn can't bear the sight of his own hands.
Scribomania & body integrity identity disorder feature in this story. Originally inspired by a shorter commentfic I wrote. Thanks to rilee16 for looking this over. Any and all remaining mistakes and misuses are mine.
---
12pk Bic $1.99
Bert grabbed five packages off of the shelf. He didn't bother to do the math; he knew he didn't have the money. He couldn't afford to go without, so two packages in one coat pocket, two in the other, and one wedged in his underwear, pressed against his belly.
The plastic wrap on the pens crackled softly when he moved. His pits were already wet with nervous sweat when he walked in the building, and now it was trickling down his sides. His belly squeaked against the package he'd put down his pants. Bert chewed on his thumbnail.
Bert walked to the front of the store. He measured his steps by the gray and white tiles on the floor. The woman at the front counter didn't look up from her manicure right away. Bert was almost past her when she did. She said, "You good?"
Bert took his thumb out of his mouth. He said, "Yeah, thanks." He focused on the door. It slid open in advance, and chimed. Bert echoed the chime, under his breath, guh-dnng guh-dnng.
Bert crossed the parking lot. He did not run. Sweat was pouring down his sides, and his stomach was slick with it, but he did not run. Bert walked out of the parking lot and down the street. He stared at his feet as he walked the three blocks to his street, turned at the corner, and walked another block and a half. He opened a gate in front of a small, dingy-looking yellow house, and then closed it after himself, carefully.
Bert went along the side of the house, to the back door. He had his fingers in his mouth, again, worrying at one nail, though he was safe now, almost home.
Quinn was sitting on the back step, in front of the kitchen door. His hands hung in between his knees. His right hand had no pinky, and his middle and ring fingers were tied together; on his left hand, he had his pinky and ring finger bound up in the same way. His fingertips were already turning purple. A cigarette was dangling between his right thumb and index. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth.
"Shit," Quinn said, mumbling around the filter. "You look like shit."
"Fuck you, let me in," Bert said, around his thumb.
Quinn rolled his eyes, but he pushed himself up and opened the door. Bert slid past him, into the house. His hands shook as he took out the pens. Bert shed his jacket and peeled off his undershirt. He picked up a package of the pens. His bitten-down nails couldn't get the purchase on the slick plastic, and he couldn't get it open. He grunted, scrabbling at it.
"Here," Quinn said. He took the package. Even with his hands like they were, Quinn was graceful. He ripped open the plastic without spilling anything, and held it out.
Bert took one pen, bit the cap and spat it out. It skittered across the linoleum. Bert lowered the pen to the ink-scarred surface of the table, and wrote.
let's pass this day you & i
pass it like a kidney stone out of an old man howling drunk pounding his fist against the tile all fuckfuckfuck it burns god what did i do
piss it out like hail in the urinal
Bert has been writing in this house for two years. They got it for cheap -- something about a murder-suicide -- and Bert has been writing in it since they put down the first payment. The walls were dark with ink. Chickenscratch scrawl covered the counters, the cabinets, the chairs, the floorboards, the doors, the molding.
In absence of new walls, Bert was layering, filling in the gaps on the table, writing between the lines and inside the old letters.
hello hello this is serious take this seriously
a nun a priest and a monkey walk into a Helen Keller and they all order dead baby milkshakes
don't laugh this is serious very serious business everyone is wearing suits even the nun
even the duck hello hello
Bert wrote until dark. The electricity was off again; they had no money for essentials, much less shit like utility bills. Quinn came back downstairs when Bert was reduced to writing blindly, when even peering an inch away from the surface wasn't close enough to see.
"Time to come upstairs," Quinn said.
"I--" Bert said.
"Upstairs," Quinn repeated. He used a couple of unbound fingers to snatch away the pen Bert was using, then picked up the other ones between his wrists before Bert could grab for them. "Come on," he said. He walked away. Bert followed like a dog, hating him.
Jepha's bedroom door was closed. "He's dancing tonight?" Bert asked grudgingly, between nibbling on his fingernails. He watched Quinn's grasp on the pens.
"Yeah," Quinn said. "Picked up an extra shift."
Quinn handed back the pen Bert had been using when they got to their room. Bert snatched it away and dragged the tip of the pen up the inside of his arm, leaving a jagged gray-black line behind. Fuck you, he wrote, in the crease of his elbow, and held it out so Quinn could see.
Quinn just rolled his eyes. He bent in half and went through his awkward dance to take off his shirt without using his fingers. When Quinn stood back up, his hair was a mess. The windows in their bedroom didn't have any curtains, and his skin was colored orange-yellow by the streetlamp outside.
"Don't know why you're doing that," Bert said. "I'm not writing on you."
Quinn shrugged his shoulders. Bert watched the gray-marked skin of his shoulders, the way the faded letters rolled over his bones. "Do you want me to say I'm sorry?" Quinn asked.
"Yes," Bert said. "You shouldn't take my pens, I'll come if you ask."
"I'm not really sorry, and you wouldn't," Quinn said. "But I'll say it if it'll make you shut the fuck up."
"Fuck you," Bert said. He stuck the pen in his mouth and chewed, the plastic squeaking and rattling against his teeth.
Quinn said, "Come on." He frowned. His hands hung at his sides.
Bert said, "Fine, fine," around the pen, and went, pressed himself up against Quinn's chest.
"Cry about it," Quinn said. He rested his chin on Bert's head, briefly, and then stepped back to shove off his sweatpants with his wrists. He laid himself out on the bed. "No hands," he added.
"How long have we done this?" Bert snapped. "Of course not."
"I let you sometimes," Quinn said. He looked up at Bert. His expression was hard to read in the dim light. "I have," he said.
"I know," Bert said, chastened. "Shut the fuck up, already."
Bert knelt on the bed, then scrambled to straddle Quinn's back, sitting on the curve of Quinn's ass. He wrote you are endless reams of paper on Quinn's folded arm, where Quinn could read it. Quinn turned his head and smiled, open and sweet. Bert ducked his head and moved to Quinn's left shoulder blade.
i wish you had four arms and five legs
i wish you'd grown horns and tails and wings
and flippers and gills and fur
i wish you weighed five hundred pounds
with all the extra limbs lurching out of your skin
i wish you were too big to move
just so i would have more of you to eat
Bert muttered out loud as he wrote. Bert sang, too, little snatches of melodies. Quinn didn't talk. He laid there, letting Bert scrawl down the smooth map of his back, filling it in. Quinn did move, though, when Bert reached the small of his back. He shifted back and forth, rubbing himself unselfconsciously against the sheets.
Bert shifted back. He dropped an open-mouthed kiss in between the dimples above Quinn's ass, and then slapped the back of Quinn's thigh. "Up," he said.
Quinn grumbled, but he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Bert bit him and scrawled a line of disconnected words down his thigh. Quinn giggled hoarsely. "One day you're gonna have no hands," Bert promised, recklessly.
"Yeah," Quinn said, "one day you'll have a whole forest of paper." In Quinn's mouth, it sounded like a possibility, a promise.
if my black villainous heart could love anyone, it would fling itself after you; fall down stairs, slam on doors, break through windows, and it would tell the worried doctors and careful nurses that it was an accident
not your fault at all
all all.
---
Comments and criticism encouraged, either here or at sinsense at yahoo.com.
The 14valentines community isn't intended to raise money. However, I was recently reminded of what an uphill battle it is for a lot of non-profits that work with women. If you have the inclination, then, I want to suggest two possible places: Maryland Crime Victims Resource Center, and the National Domestic Violence Hotline. Both links go directly to the donation page. Thanks.
---
Your own blood and bones
Used, Bert/Quinn, R, 1400 words
Bert can't stop writing, and Quinn can't bear the sight of his own hands.
Scribomania & body integrity identity disorder feature in this story. Originally inspired by a shorter commentfic I wrote. Thanks to rilee16 for looking this over. Any and all remaining mistakes and misuses are mine.
---
12pk Bic $1.99
Bert grabbed five packages off of the shelf. He didn't bother to do the math; he knew he didn't have the money. He couldn't afford to go without, so two packages in one coat pocket, two in the other, and one wedged in his underwear, pressed against his belly.
The plastic wrap on the pens crackled softly when he moved. His pits were already wet with nervous sweat when he walked in the building, and now it was trickling down his sides. His belly squeaked against the package he'd put down his pants. Bert chewed on his thumbnail.
Bert walked to the front of the store. He measured his steps by the gray and white tiles on the floor. The woman at the front counter didn't look up from her manicure right away. Bert was almost past her when she did. She said, "You good?"
Bert took his thumb out of his mouth. He said, "Yeah, thanks." He focused on the door. It slid open in advance, and chimed. Bert echoed the chime, under his breath, guh-dnng guh-dnng.
Bert crossed the parking lot. He did not run. Sweat was pouring down his sides, and his stomach was slick with it, but he did not run. Bert walked out of the parking lot and down the street. He stared at his feet as he walked the three blocks to his street, turned at the corner, and walked another block and a half. He opened a gate in front of a small, dingy-looking yellow house, and then closed it after himself, carefully.
Bert went along the side of the house, to the back door. He had his fingers in his mouth, again, worrying at one nail, though he was safe now, almost home.
Quinn was sitting on the back step, in front of the kitchen door. His hands hung in between his knees. His right hand had no pinky, and his middle and ring fingers were tied together; on his left hand, he had his pinky and ring finger bound up in the same way. His fingertips were already turning purple. A cigarette was dangling between his right thumb and index. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth.
"Shit," Quinn said, mumbling around the filter. "You look like shit."
"Fuck you, let me in," Bert said, around his thumb.
Quinn rolled his eyes, but he pushed himself up and opened the door. Bert slid past him, into the house. His hands shook as he took out the pens. Bert shed his jacket and peeled off his undershirt. He picked up a package of the pens. His bitten-down nails couldn't get the purchase on the slick plastic, and he couldn't get it open. He grunted, scrabbling at it.
"Here," Quinn said. He took the package. Even with his hands like they were, Quinn was graceful. He ripped open the plastic without spilling anything, and held it out.
Bert took one pen, bit the cap and spat it out. It skittered across the linoleum. Bert lowered the pen to the ink-scarred surface of the table, and wrote.
let's pass this day you & i
pass it like a kidney stone out of an old man howling drunk pounding his fist against the tile all fuckfuckfuck it burns god what did i do
piss it out like hail in the urinal
Bert has been writing in this house for two years. They got it for cheap -- something about a murder-suicide -- and Bert has been writing in it since they put down the first payment. The walls were dark with ink. Chickenscratch scrawl covered the counters, the cabinets, the chairs, the floorboards, the doors, the molding.
In absence of new walls, Bert was layering, filling in the gaps on the table, writing between the lines and inside the old letters.
hello hello this is serious take this seriously
a nun a priest and a monkey walk into a Helen Keller and they all order dead baby milkshakes
don't laugh this is serious very serious business everyone is wearing suits even the nun
even the duck hello hello
Bert wrote until dark. The electricity was off again; they had no money for essentials, much less shit like utility bills. Quinn came back downstairs when Bert was reduced to writing blindly, when even peering an inch away from the surface wasn't close enough to see.
"Time to come upstairs," Quinn said.
"I--" Bert said.
"Upstairs," Quinn repeated. He used a couple of unbound fingers to snatch away the pen Bert was using, then picked up the other ones between his wrists before Bert could grab for them. "Come on," he said. He walked away. Bert followed like a dog, hating him.
Jepha's bedroom door was closed. "He's dancing tonight?" Bert asked grudgingly, between nibbling on his fingernails. He watched Quinn's grasp on the pens.
"Yeah," Quinn said. "Picked up an extra shift."
Quinn handed back the pen Bert had been using when they got to their room. Bert snatched it away and dragged the tip of the pen up the inside of his arm, leaving a jagged gray-black line behind. Fuck you, he wrote, in the crease of his elbow, and held it out so Quinn could see.
Quinn just rolled his eyes. He bent in half and went through his awkward dance to take off his shirt without using his fingers. When Quinn stood back up, his hair was a mess. The windows in their bedroom didn't have any curtains, and his skin was colored orange-yellow by the streetlamp outside.
"Don't know why you're doing that," Bert said. "I'm not writing on you."
Quinn shrugged his shoulders. Bert watched the gray-marked skin of his shoulders, the way the faded letters rolled over his bones. "Do you want me to say I'm sorry?" Quinn asked.
"Yes," Bert said. "You shouldn't take my pens, I'll come if you ask."
"I'm not really sorry, and you wouldn't," Quinn said. "But I'll say it if it'll make you shut the fuck up."
"Fuck you," Bert said. He stuck the pen in his mouth and chewed, the plastic squeaking and rattling against his teeth.
Quinn said, "Come on." He frowned. His hands hung at his sides.
Bert said, "Fine, fine," around the pen, and went, pressed himself up against Quinn's chest.
"Cry about it," Quinn said. He rested his chin on Bert's head, briefly, and then stepped back to shove off his sweatpants with his wrists. He laid himself out on the bed. "No hands," he added.
"How long have we done this?" Bert snapped. "Of course not."
"I let you sometimes," Quinn said. He looked up at Bert. His expression was hard to read in the dim light. "I have," he said.
"I know," Bert said, chastened. "Shut the fuck up, already."
Bert knelt on the bed, then scrambled to straddle Quinn's back, sitting on the curve of Quinn's ass. He wrote you are endless reams of paper on Quinn's folded arm, where Quinn could read it. Quinn turned his head and smiled, open and sweet. Bert ducked his head and moved to Quinn's left shoulder blade.
i wish you had four arms and five legs
i wish you'd grown horns and tails and wings
and flippers and gills and fur
i wish you weighed five hundred pounds
with all the extra limbs lurching out of your skin
i wish you were too big to move
just so i would have more of you to eat
Bert muttered out loud as he wrote. Bert sang, too, little snatches of melodies. Quinn didn't talk. He laid there, letting Bert scrawl down the smooth map of his back, filling it in. Quinn did move, though, when Bert reached the small of his back. He shifted back and forth, rubbing himself unselfconsciously against the sheets.
Bert shifted back. He dropped an open-mouthed kiss in between the dimples above Quinn's ass, and then slapped the back of Quinn's thigh. "Up," he said.
Quinn grumbled, but he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Bert bit him and scrawled a line of disconnected words down his thigh. Quinn giggled hoarsely. "One day you're gonna have no hands," Bert promised, recklessly.
"Yeah," Quinn said, "one day you'll have a whole forest of paper." In Quinn's mouth, it sounded like a possibility, a promise.
if my black villainous heart could love anyone, it would fling itself after you; fall down stairs, slam on doors, break through windows, and it would tell the worried doctors and careful nurses that it was an accident
not your fault at all
all all.
---
Comments and criticism encouraged, either here or at sinsense at yahoo.com.