[ 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. ]
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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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[what an ominous start to the morning]
[ -- afternoon, but who's counting]
[puts his coffee cup down, reaching for the pack of smokes in the centre of the battered table]
[and he lights one before bony fingers move thoughtfully across the Guide]
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[RINGGG...]
[RRRING...]
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Hello?
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you up ??
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YES b/c of STUPID MOTHERFUCKERS
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[and being the smooth motherfucker he is, he just about jumps ten feet in the air]
[christ, he hates moving the goods in T-Sec]
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