(no subject)
Title: it seems like you're a soulless friend
Author: oldwickedsongs
Characters: Arnold Rothstein, Manny Horvitz, mentions of Monk Eastman (some AR/Manny near the end)
Rating: R
Word Count: 607
Summary: In which a young Arnold Rothstein receives the warmth and instruction of a man in a bloody apron.
Warnings: Gore. Torture. Dark!fic
I gave or when you took something it's stranger than it's ever been I guess, it's what you wanted of late it seems lonely I will be I beg, I plead but this is all that I have gotten'>
“Mr. Horvitz?”
There was a thin layer of liquid on the butcher floor when Arnold walked into the backroom. He knew the smell of aging meat almost immediately and as it had done since he was a child his stomach twisted against the odor. It was dark in the slaughter room, darker than usual with the only light coming from a small kerosene lantern on the heavy wood table at the far end of the room.
Large carcasses of animals, mostly cows hung from meat hooks in the ceiling and the patient stream of offal and blood echoed against the stone walls. Arnold stayed in the entry for a long time, letting his eyes adjust to dim light and his nose and ears adjust to the smell and sounds of the backroom. If truth be told, he liked the backroom of Munya Horvitz’s butcher shop. It was always quiet, despite its location in the heart of the neighborhood and cool even in the dead of summer. AR liked the silence, always had and once more Munya was warm to the touch even with his hard bitten hands, bone white teeth that flashed like his knives and bloodied aprons .
Arnold had grown up in his father’s shop where everything was neat, pressed and orderly. His home was the same, Spartan in Abraham’s piety and somehow unlived in, despite five children. After Harry died it became worst- the entire house was frozen after that, transfixed into something like a grave marker despite the ones still living there.
There was more life in the slaughter rooms of a butcher shop then to be found in the living room of Abe the Just.
“Shaygets?” Manny’s voice was in the far left corner, away from the light. It boomed and filled up the room. He was laughing to himself, at Arnold’s arrival or because of a joke probably didn’t matter. “Kommen sie hier, shaygets.” Rascal, come here.
There was a familiar snap and sizzle of a match as Manny lit a cigarette and he followed the pale ember to the older man’s side. There was a bulk at his feet, and a small curved knife in his left hand- the kind he’d seen Manny use before to skin a hide. The form at their feet shifted a little, and blue eyes caught Arnold’s brown.
“…I thought you’d be done by now.” Arnold said quietly, mostly to the figure then Manny. “Mr. Eastman told me to see you.”He had moved closer to Manny, and away from the rest but still he did not flinch.
“Ja, ja, I know…” Manny gestured with the blade and flecks of blood flew wild. He spoke in English now too, his accent heavy on the cadences. But he knew Arnold liked it better then Yiddish. “He called me, told me it’s time to put a little mud on your polish, pretty boy.”
“Don’t worry,” Manny continued, pinching the cigarette between his teeth and clapping his free hand on the teenager’s slender shoulder. Arnold pushed closer still, till he could feel the slickness of Manny’s apron on the small of his back. It was involuntary but to his surprise, Manny maneuvered till Arnold was against his shoulder, being cradled against the dark and work. “I’m just teaching you how to defend yourself. I will take care of the dirty work.”
When Arnold reached for the knife, Manny’s fingers curled around his wrist like he was taking up a violin’s bow. Manny had his scruffy chin against Arnold’s own and bit off a kiss in a place under Arnold’s jaw he seemed to claim for his own.
Then, they began.
Author: oldwickedsongs
Characters: Arnold Rothstein, Manny Horvitz, mentions of Monk Eastman (some AR/Manny near the end)
Rating: R
Word Count: 607
Summary: In which a young Arnold Rothstein receives the warmth and instruction of a man in a bloody apron.
Warnings: Gore. Torture. Dark!fic
I gave or when you took something it's stranger than it's ever been I guess, it's what you wanted of late it seems lonely I will be I beg, I plead but this is all that I have gotten'>
“Mr. Horvitz?”
There was a thin layer of liquid on the butcher floor when Arnold walked into the backroom. He knew the smell of aging meat almost immediately and as it had done since he was a child his stomach twisted against the odor. It was dark in the slaughter room, darker than usual with the only light coming from a small kerosene lantern on the heavy wood table at the far end of the room.
Large carcasses of animals, mostly cows hung from meat hooks in the ceiling and the patient stream of offal and blood echoed against the stone walls. Arnold stayed in the entry for a long time, letting his eyes adjust to dim light and his nose and ears adjust to the smell and sounds of the backroom. If truth be told, he liked the backroom of Munya Horvitz’s butcher shop. It was always quiet, despite its location in the heart of the neighborhood and cool even in the dead of summer. AR liked the silence, always had and once more Munya was warm to the touch even with his hard bitten hands, bone white teeth that flashed like his knives and bloodied aprons .
Arnold had grown up in his father’s shop where everything was neat, pressed and orderly. His home was the same, Spartan in Abraham’s piety and somehow unlived in, despite five children. After Harry died it became worst- the entire house was frozen after that, transfixed into something like a grave marker despite the ones still living there.
There was more life in the slaughter rooms of a butcher shop then to be found in the living room of Abe the Just.
“Shaygets?” Manny’s voice was in the far left corner, away from the light. It boomed and filled up the room. He was laughing to himself, at Arnold’s arrival or because of a joke probably didn’t matter. “Kommen sie hier, shaygets.” Rascal, come here.
There was a familiar snap and sizzle of a match as Manny lit a cigarette and he followed the pale ember to the older man’s side. There was a bulk at his feet, and a small curved knife in his left hand- the kind he’d seen Manny use before to skin a hide. The form at their feet shifted a little, and blue eyes caught Arnold’s brown.
“…I thought you’d be done by now.” Arnold said quietly, mostly to the figure then Manny. “Mr. Eastman told me to see you.”He had moved closer to Manny, and away from the rest but still he did not flinch.
“Ja, ja, I know…” Manny gestured with the blade and flecks of blood flew wild. He spoke in English now too, his accent heavy on the cadences. But he knew Arnold liked it better then Yiddish. “He called me, told me it’s time to put a little mud on your polish, pretty boy.”
“Don’t worry,” Manny continued, pinching the cigarette between his teeth and clapping his free hand on the teenager’s slender shoulder. Arnold pushed closer still, till he could feel the slickness of Manny’s apron on the small of his back. It was involuntary but to his surprise, Manny maneuvered till Arnold was against his shoulder, being cradled against the dark and work. “I’m just teaching you how to defend yourself. I will take care of the dirty work.”
When Arnold reached for the knife, Manny’s fingers curled around his wrist like he was taking up a violin’s bow. Manny had his scruffy chin against Arnold’s own and bit off a kiss in a place under Arnold’s jaw he seemed to claim for his own.
Then, they began.