02 - [carnaggio] causality
Rating: pg-13
Characters: dexter, liam, soleil, nicky
Fandom: carnaggio shenanigans
Summary: anger and jealousy are but two sides of the same coin.
Notes: hurr durr i am a word generator of questionable content. +__+ unbeta'd.
v
he presses his chafed lips against leather and whispers: bring me your red oceans. bring me the box containing your fairy-tale horror (in the silence it beats with the restless pounding and groaning of the sea). bring me your incoherent rage. in his dreams a crow with a white beak perches on his bared ribs, and tears a hole viciously on his chest while it caws triumphantly as it claims a piece of skin. a hungry mouth opens below his wound and lets the blood flow on a tongue as soft as lilies in spring.
when he wakes up he is in the doctor's clinic; he is lying naked on the pristine couch, he is staring into opaque, black eyes. dexter finishes his litany: bring me the ivory hilt of my sword. bring me your vials. bring me your obsessions hidden in a piece of chalk left inside a sketchbook. in the afternoon sun, dexter is a monochrome wash of red and brown.
a finger insistently presses into his mouth, and down his throat, and dexter obeys. it's more forgiving that way.
iv
"hey, dex. do you remember, when we were younger, we used to go out and play in the rain?" a ring of laughter. inside him, he recalls a memory of warmth. "i remembered spinning in the mud, and i remember running along the river with you. didn't you like that? don't you remember that? we'd have a race home in the storm and i'd always win. you never liked losing, but you never liked running either. you were pretty content to sit by the edge of the river and watch the rain, and that was fine too."
i remember rain. simulated rain from a string of codes. i remember rain that fell on 16th century houses made of tile and brick and i remember leaping from shadow to shadow and searching for you. i remember mouthing your numbers in the dark like they were the holy name of god. i remember blood that pools on the base of your throat. blood that runs in rivulets down a brick wall. skin that breaks as you rake down nails against the cobblestone roads. i remember the constricted rising and falling of the chest as you breathe in poison and i remember red glass at fake sunsets and i remember black leather in the dark that chokes your mouth and i remember
"yeah," dexter smiled, replying slowly, like you would form words the first time around, after countless memories re-initialized and loaded. soleil looks at him warily, worriedly. "yeah, i remember the rain."
iii
eidelweiss is eidelweiss when his eyes flash hoarfrost in rage and his hands clench tightly like they refuse give up the only tremor of bliss this world will ever have. and in a way, it was like that, except that it had been stolen.
eidelweiss is a storm and his voice is the quiet raging of sixteen centuries of bones and muscle and sinew unwrapping and encoding in his blood in their jealousy and age. "steal my kills again, and i'll make sure you don't wake up from any of our sessions at all." liam's head meets the floor in a resounding, sickly crack, and eidelweiss touches his temples from where he lies swearing and moaning in pain, smearing blood all over white tile. red on white, the ancestral colours of their own respective clans. the doctor said to always wash your hands after eating. dexter is a boy and he licks his fingers clean.
ii
in a minute, the world spins, he loses his footing and slips on the stairs, slamming hard on a metal rail. liam snickers, dusts his shoulder off from where he held it seconds ago, nails raking in through cloth in childish anger. "dex, you know this obsession you have with the crow-like dude, you know it's unhealthy?" dexter snarls. eidelweiss' fingers curl malevolently around an iron rail. from behind liam, a shadow moves, pauses to linger (he didn't even look here) and swiftly moves away. his eyes narrow. his mouth turns into a sharp slit across his face.
knight move to a-5.
i
"so you've been there?"
"yes."
"how many times?"
growl.
laughing. it's more of a mocking laugh with a side of sympathy, as in, why do you have to be so fucked up. but that was a question to be asked in another time. "yeah, okay. and what does it say?"
murmured response. slips things in italian, because it's more convenient, detached, impersonal that way.
sing-song voice. "can't hear. bleeding effect must've been fucked in my system."
throat clearing. eyes askance. "closed."
"ah."
don't ask anything anymore, he begs silently.
"... i think he has a patient in there. private, you know."
fuck you, liam.
ø
he runs swiftly through the streets, his robes trailing his wake flapping in the quiet air. everywhere there was laughter, hellish laughter, because the sounds of the carnevale can never be suppressed. he is feverish. he is pale. he is also bleeding from the base of his neck down to the middle of his back.
red glass glints in the muted lights of the night as he approached him, storming his quarters, exhausted, injured. in rage. embarassed at his own failure. the dottore looks at him and calmly asks, "what is the matter now?"
"you tell me," he nearly roars. something in his blood has constricted his throat and is beginning to work shadows on his vision. in this light he can barely distinguish colours anymore, only black and white and red. death and innocence and love. a bit of betrayal. so foolish of him, to hand over his trust easily, like it was a thing with feathers that cannot be tied down. "you tell me, dottore, considering that you were trying to heal me earlier. and now this -- this --! you'd kill me for killing his brothers? you'd kill me for covering your tracks?"
"oh, is that what this is all about?" the dottore laughs. his voice sounds muffled and hoarse, like a million leaves that sweep through tombstones and mausoleums of old. beneath his mask, he smiles fondly. "no, no, it's not like that; but it will be like that if you keep doing this." he takes out a syringe. he takes out a vial. he sets them aside and cups his face in his leathered hands. a thumb presses against his lips, and suddenly he feels thirsty. overwhelmed. marked. "you poor child, you should know that i covet the things that don't belong to me too much."
Characters: dexter, liam, soleil, nicky
Fandom: carnaggio shenanigans
Summary: anger and jealousy are but two sides of the same coin.
Notes: hurr durr i am a word generator of questionable content. +__+ unbeta'd.
v
he presses his chafed lips against leather and whispers: bring me your red oceans. bring me the box containing your fairy-tale horror (in the silence it beats with the restless pounding and groaning of the sea). bring me your incoherent rage. in his dreams a crow with a white beak perches on his bared ribs, and tears a hole viciously on his chest while it caws triumphantly as it claims a piece of skin. a hungry mouth opens below his wound and lets the blood flow on a tongue as soft as lilies in spring.
when he wakes up he is in the doctor's clinic; he is lying naked on the pristine couch, he is staring into opaque, black eyes. dexter finishes his litany: bring me the ivory hilt of my sword. bring me your vials. bring me your obsessions hidden in a piece of chalk left inside a sketchbook. in the afternoon sun, dexter is a monochrome wash of red and brown.
a finger insistently presses into his mouth, and down his throat, and dexter obeys. it's more forgiving that way.
iv
"hey, dex. do you remember, when we were younger, we used to go out and play in the rain?" a ring of laughter. inside him, he recalls a memory of warmth. "i remembered spinning in the mud, and i remember running along the river with you. didn't you like that? don't you remember that? we'd have a race home in the storm and i'd always win. you never liked losing, but you never liked running either. you were pretty content to sit by the edge of the river and watch the rain, and that was fine too."
i remember rain. simulated rain from a string of codes. i remember rain that fell on 16th century houses made of tile and brick and i remember leaping from shadow to shadow and searching for you. i remember mouthing your numbers in the dark like they were the holy name of god. i remember blood that pools on the base of your throat. blood that runs in rivulets down a brick wall. skin that breaks as you rake down nails against the cobblestone roads. i remember the constricted rising and falling of the chest as you breathe in poison and i remember red glass at fake sunsets and i remember black leather in the dark that chokes your mouth and i remember
"yeah," dexter smiled, replying slowly, like you would form words the first time around, after countless memories re-initialized and loaded. soleil looks at him warily, worriedly. "yeah, i remember the rain."
iii
eidelweiss is eidelweiss when his eyes flash hoarfrost in rage and his hands clench tightly like they refuse give up the only tremor of bliss this world will ever have. and in a way, it was like that, except that it had been stolen.
eidelweiss is a storm and his voice is the quiet raging of sixteen centuries of bones and muscle and sinew unwrapping and encoding in his blood in their jealousy and age. "steal my kills again, and i'll make sure you don't wake up from any of our sessions at all." liam's head meets the floor in a resounding, sickly crack, and eidelweiss touches his temples from where he lies swearing and moaning in pain, smearing blood all over white tile. red on white, the ancestral colours of their own respective clans. the doctor said to always wash your hands after eating. dexter is a boy and he licks his fingers clean.
ii
in a minute, the world spins, he loses his footing and slips on the stairs, slamming hard on a metal rail. liam snickers, dusts his shoulder off from where he held it seconds ago, nails raking in through cloth in childish anger. "dex, you know this obsession you have with the crow-like dude, you know it's unhealthy?" dexter snarls. eidelweiss' fingers curl malevolently around an iron rail. from behind liam, a shadow moves, pauses to linger (he didn't even look here) and swiftly moves away. his eyes narrow. his mouth turns into a sharp slit across his face.
knight move to a-5.
i
"so you've been there?"
"yes."
"how many times?"
growl.
laughing. it's more of a mocking laugh with a side of sympathy, as in, why do you have to be so fucked up. but that was a question to be asked in another time. "yeah, okay. and what does it say?"
murmured response. slips things in italian, because it's more convenient, detached, impersonal that way.
sing-song voice. "can't hear. bleeding effect must've been fucked in my system."
throat clearing. eyes askance. "closed."
"ah."
don't ask anything anymore, he begs silently.
"... i think he has a patient in there. private, you know."
fuck you, liam.
ø
he runs swiftly through the streets, his robes trailing his wake flapping in the quiet air. everywhere there was laughter, hellish laughter, because the sounds of the carnevale can never be suppressed. he is feverish. he is pale. he is also bleeding from the base of his neck down to the middle of his back.
red glass glints in the muted lights of the night as he approached him, storming his quarters, exhausted, injured. in rage. embarassed at his own failure. the dottore looks at him and calmly asks, "what is the matter now?"
"you tell me," he nearly roars. something in his blood has constricted his throat and is beginning to work shadows on his vision. in this light he can barely distinguish colours anymore, only black and white and red. death and innocence and love. a bit of betrayal. so foolish of him, to hand over his trust easily, like it was a thing with feathers that cannot be tied down. "you tell me, dottore, considering that you were trying to heal me earlier. and now this -- this --! you'd kill me for killing his brothers? you'd kill me for covering your tracks?"
"oh, is that what this is all about?" the dottore laughs. his voice sounds muffled and hoarse, like a million leaves that sweep through tombstones and mausoleums of old. beneath his mask, he smiles fondly. "no, no, it's not like that; but it will be like that if you keep doing this." he takes out a syringe. he takes out a vial. he sets them aside and cups his face in his leathered hands. a thumb presses against his lips, and suddenly he feels thirsty. overwhelmed. marked. "you poor child, you should know that i covet the things that don't belong to me too much."