[ it's only been 24 hours. he can't stay away from this fucking place for more than a day. it both disgusts him and gives him an ironic sense of Belonging, of having found Home, and not because the place is inching clear of its final left-overs of gremlin gore, but because there's a fox curled up asleep like it's a real den
( ... )
[ it's like he's praying when he drops to his knees in front of the couch, muscle and sinew a thick thud on the hard floors, his eyes as earnest as the dark lets him be when his thumb brushes lips. they're parted when he's sleeping, and he's not surprised. it's a smoker's rasp that draws him in, and he lingers there, hovering, tasting the breath that's exhaled, still reeking of nicotine and maybe the coffee he'd left on the counter. ]
[ and smelling like blood. his own. Genkaku's, in a dried, thick musk that almost seemed stale. ]
[ it's not the thought of blood that makes him pull away, but the thought of betrayal. he can't. he won't. ]
[ his shoulderblades bump into the couch's edge as turns and settle in front of it, head dropping back and bumping into his ribs, a nudgenudge of forcing him awake. his voice is less playful than it should be when he mutters, distantly; ]
[the nudging touch has him flinchtwitching awake -- there's a clear half-second of situation appraisal, like he's used to his dens being invaded, to being woken up by threats]
[this is only further proved as he half-sits up, and the knife is revealed to have been held under the battered couch cushion, with his hand firmly wrapped around it's handle]
[he lets go of it as he braces a hand on the couch to shift up more]
[bleary, Badou rubs his eye, tugs the corner of his eyepatch on a bit straighter (like he knows where Genkaku has been looking and what Genkaku has been thinking)]
[he mutters in response, a bit foggily]
Uhn? Can't be told no if ya don't ask.
[and waking up a bit, he blinks once down at the welt red hair before reaching for a pack of smokes left on an end table]
[ his mouth quirks crookedly at the response, surprised with how calm it is. the sigh comes from his mouth but loosens through his bones as he turns with the rising body. his head slides down into his lap, cheek turning over to rest uncomfortably comfortable on a bony knee. ]
[ the exposed line of his neck is red beneath the cooler cream of the silksnakeskin sash, the lip of black making it glow in the dim light, beckoning a touch, any touch (Genkaku knows it won't come more than his body does). ]
[ he stares down at boot smears in the fabric, too-long limbs stretching towards the arm rest and over, and then down at the dried, crusty lines of his arm. ]
[ ...it's not unexpected. not with the way Genkaku writes jaw-grinding music, or tends to his religion with blasphemy]
[he's anxious (knowing what's happened to past obsessions) and relieved (hate is a common ground, don't call me a lover) in turns, but mostly, he's... tired]
[there's an ache, too, but it's numbed as if by deepness, too trapped within dark confines]
[ despite being in peak physical condition, his whole body aches on its foundations of hands sinking into cushions on either side of him. it's not the lactic acid burn he's familiar with, but the realization that he's slowly ... not wanting anyone else. obsession's itching at the backs of his hands. ]
[ he grants the gaze in a lethargic sort of manner, as if agreeing with Badou's tired body. ]
I like to break the things I love. Or ruin 'em. What makes you think I don't wanna be broken back?
[ it's firm and it's honest, even if there's an undermining edge of a growl. a hand grabs the man's shoulder, the curve of his palm aligning to the curve of the scar, fingers and blunt nails digging into the back of his neck. ]
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[ and smelling like blood. his own. Genkaku's, in a dried, thick musk that almost seemed stale. ]
[ it's not the thought of blood that makes him pull away, but the thought of betrayal. he can't. he won't. ]
[ his shoulderblades bump into the couch's edge as turns and settle in front of it, head dropping back and bumping into his ribs, a nudgenudge of forcing him awake. his voice is less playful than it should be when he mutters, distantly; ]
Nobody said you could sleep here.
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[this is only further proved as he half-sits up, and the knife is revealed to have been held under the battered couch cushion, with his hand firmly wrapped around it's handle]
[he lets go of it as he braces a hand on the couch to shift up more]
[bleary, Badou rubs his eye, tugs the corner of his eyepatch on a bit straighter (like he knows where Genkaku has been looking and what Genkaku has been thinking)]
[he mutters in response, a bit foggily]
Uhn? Can't be told no if ya don't ask.
[and waking up a bit, he blinks once down at the welt red hair before reaching for a pack of smokes left on an end table]
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[ the exposed line of his neck is red beneath the cooler cream of the silksnakeskin sash, the lip of black making it glow in the dim light, beckoning a touch, any touch (Genkaku knows it won't come more than his body does). ]
[ he stares down at boot smears in the fabric, too-long limbs stretching towards the arm rest and over, and then down at the dried, crusty lines of his arm. ]
[ the production is ... simple; ]
That was real -- mean. Brutal.
[ like he couldn't pick a word and said both. ]
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[he seems to sink back into the couch, not pushing away the head bumping against his pointy kneecap, but laxing under it]
I told you it would be. Long time ago now.
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Think I'm startin' to hate you.
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[he's anxious (knowing what's happened to past obsessions) and relieved (hate is a common ground, don't call me a lover) in turns, but mostly, he's... tired]
[there's an ache, too, but it's numbed as if by deepness, too trapped within dark confines]
I know. ...It's okay.
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[ he raises, content with the low line of the furniture, hands on either side of the man's body and leans in. ]
[ it's a secret, is the obvious answer, his voice a little drier but still soaked with heat next to the black straps; ]
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[ and with the exhale, he sinks, lips skirting the exposure of pale skin next to an open collar. ]
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[there's a brief war between psychological whiplash and physical discomfort, and the former must win, as words shoot out instead of knuckles]
'Coz you ain't a liar. I always believe you.
[more than a little flustered, pressing back and away to force eye contact with burning red, he bursts]
How the fuck don't you hate me? That doesn't --
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[ he grants the gaze in a lethargic sort of manner, as if agreeing with Badou's tired body. ]
I like to break the things I love. Or ruin 'em. What makes you think I don't wanna be broken back?
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[his body stiffens a little, even through it's exhaustion; the concept is more physically offensive than the proximity]
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[ he has to ask himself, right then, if it's true. ]
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[ it's firm and it's honest, even if there's an undermining edge of a growl. a hand grabs the man's shoulder, the curve of his palm aligning to the curve of the scar, fingers and blunt nails digging into the back of his neck. ]
[ the response is always pain. ]
I want you to wanna.
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[a forearm bar comes up, bruising and hard against the digging hand, bone on bone]
If I'm fine with you hating me, that means I ain't gonna stop hurting you 'coz it hurts. I already wanna.
[the 'why' is left unsaid, doesn't need to be restated: it's too raw to pass up.]
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[ but he fucking hates this. ]
[ when he peels away, the rawness there is as apparent as the scar on his chest, and he does nothing but give a shrug before turning his back. ]
Guess it was too soon.
[ the door handle quivers in his grasp. ]
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