[fic;dogs] &are in real ; haine + giovanni
Title: &are in real
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS: Bullets and Carnage
Rating: PG13-ish for psycho.
Characters: Haine and Giovanni.
Word Count: 828
Disclaimer: I don't own DOGS.
Feedback: VERY MUCH APPRECIATED.
Notes: Nothing...much? I've been working on this fic for forever holy shit. I'm so glad I finished.
Summary: (fellow survivor of the nightmare and the bramble-fingers clutching at you pulling you downdowndown the thorns and the snakes can't hurt you, darling, because we're invincible now).
"Haine." Hainehainehainehaine words echoing around his head like a room with too many walls too many eyes too many mouthslipsteethtongue (fingers stroking his forehead grasping at his collar pushing him into the darkness holding his breath down onetwothreetwelve) and he bolts up from where he's lying on the couch, a hand already grasping the chain hanging from his hip and jerking upupup (around a small wrist a pale neck you can see the musclestendons ripping under the coldcruel metal and you laughlaughlaughlaugh as you tighten your hands
and Giovanni is sitting on the edge of a chair, smiling to a self)
"I expected rather warmer greeting than that."
Redeyesorangelenses heart still pounding voice still laughing and inside his head all the reflections of a grinning ghost I'm okay I'm okay Haine I'm okay I'm-
"What do you want?"
It's not even midnight yet, Haine realises, the noise outside from drunken crowd somehow unreal (the noise inside this room, with this man, somehow imagined yet more real to him, the grinning pierrot sitting across him somehow more real than the very air he's breathing in slowsteadystop).
The gun is still pointed at the pale blond head and Haine's eyes are wide.
Instead of answering, Giovanni makes a show of looking around the small room (breaking the eye contact with the barrel of the gun and baring his throat in a blatant mockery, a blind show leading on the fools and the unbelievers down into hell with the marching tune of his flute watch out watch out all the bad kids the piper's gonna get you go back to sleep). The corners of his lips turn down slightly as he catches sight of something (something unpleasant, the face you might make when the dog had done its little business on the carpet), then immediately twist back up almost as if it didn't happen at all.
"You."
"Stop fucking around."
(a laugh)"What, do you think I'm joking, Haine?"
That gets a response, the bullet barely missing his head and grazing against one ear instead. The noise from the outside stutters slightly (helpless floundering of a drowning man clutching at nothing, a bird flying into a window) as the echo of the gunshot slowly fades.
Giovanni briefly touches the side of his head, catching the (already sluggish) flow of blood on his fingers, and glances at it disinterestedly. Wipes his fingers on the handkerchief. Puts it back in his pocket. (casual greetings aside, now)
"Where were we? Ah, yes." The blond leans forward from his chair towards Haine, lips pulling back from teeth pearlywhite canines shining in the half-darkness. As if to share a personal darkdeepdeeper secret with him, as if to a fellow conspirator (fellow survivor of the nightmare and the bramble-fingers clutching at you pulling you downdowndown the thorns and the snakes can't hurt you, darling, because we're invincible now). "Do you think I'm joking?"
(faster than the car can fucking crash spiralling off everything's airborne now)
onetwothreefour hello earth
"Haine?"
His eyes snap open redburning hellfire breathing sulphur and acid as he snarls up at the face hovering above his own. The grin never fades even as Giovanni moves his head back slightly; the heavy weight on his shoulders doesn't fade either, almost(almost) painful. A hand moves, warm skin brushing against cold pressing against his neck feeling out the vein thud thudding under the pads of his fingers. He doesn't know where his guns are (they're still in his hands, the knuckles turning blue, but he can't move can'tmove can'ttalkcan'tdoanything but stare up into the mirrored tangerine reflection tinting everything bloodorange).
"Don't you see?" he whispers, gringrinning like a clown (a jester a joker) a joke that everybody else doesn't get, a private joke with his painted eyes painted lips painted mask of a face like thin membrane of an eggshell.
"I miss you."
Surprisingly warm fingers trail down the side of his neck and Haine shivers (perhaps even more so because he remembers in those warm fingers brushing gently against his own cold skin the cold fingers brushing against his warm skin roses and lillies in the air bramblethorns tearing his skin wrapped around his neck and it feels like a decade ago an eternity ago lips pressing against the cold of his collar whispering
you are my child).
(I won't ever be real to you.)
Giovanni laughs in his ear; an easy, relaxed sound, the slightly chapped lips pressing briefly against Haine's cheek. The fingers are at his shoulders now, pressing down at the dip of his collarbone and his shoulder, just enough to hurt but not quite, like pressing down on a cut that is just starting to scab over (but they never felt that, not really). "Come back home."
They both know what the answer is going to be even before Haine answers; nothing's easier than what he(they) imagined it would be and everything's harder because they're running out of time he's running out of time and all the while (the madeup paintedup memory of her smile still brightflaring in his head).
"No."
(we're all waiting for you.)
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS: Bullets and Carnage
Rating: PG13-ish for psycho.
Characters: Haine and Giovanni.
Word Count: 828
Disclaimer: I don't own DOGS.
Feedback: VERY MUCH APPRECIATED.
Notes: Nothing...much? I've been working on this fic for forever holy shit. I'm so glad I finished.
Summary: (fellow survivor of the nightmare and the bramble-fingers clutching at you pulling you downdowndown the thorns and the snakes can't hurt you, darling, because we're invincible now).
"Haine." Hainehainehainehaine words echoing around his head like a room with too many walls too many eyes too many mouthslipsteethtongue (fingers stroking his forehead grasping at his collar pushing him into the darkness holding his breath down onetwothreetwelve) and he bolts up from where he's lying on the couch, a hand already grasping the chain hanging from his hip and jerking upupup (around a small wrist a pale neck you can see the musclestendons ripping under the coldcruel metal and you laughlaughlaughlaugh as you tighten your hands
and Giovanni is sitting on the edge of a chair, smiling to a self)
"I expected rather warmer greeting than that."
Redeyesorangelenses heart still pounding voice still laughing and inside his head all the reflections of a grinning ghost I'm okay I'm okay Haine I'm okay I'm-
"What do you want?"
It's not even midnight yet, Haine realises, the noise outside from drunken crowd somehow unreal (the noise inside this room, with this man, somehow imagined yet more real to him, the grinning pierrot sitting across him somehow more real than the very air he's breathing in slowsteadystop).
The gun is still pointed at the pale blond head and Haine's eyes are wide.
Instead of answering, Giovanni makes a show of looking around the small room (breaking the eye contact with the barrel of the gun and baring his throat in a blatant mockery, a blind show leading on the fools and the unbelievers down into hell with the marching tune of his flute watch out watch out all the bad kids the piper's gonna get you go back to sleep). The corners of his lips turn down slightly as he catches sight of something (something unpleasant, the face you might make when the dog had done its little business on the carpet), then immediately twist back up almost as if it didn't happen at all.
"You."
"Stop fucking around."
(a laugh)"What, do you think I'm joking, Haine?"
That gets a response, the bullet barely missing his head and grazing against one ear instead. The noise from the outside stutters slightly (helpless floundering of a drowning man clutching at nothing, a bird flying into a window) as the echo of the gunshot slowly fades.
Giovanni briefly touches the side of his head, catching the (already sluggish) flow of blood on his fingers, and glances at it disinterestedly. Wipes his fingers on the handkerchief. Puts it back in his pocket. (casual greetings aside, now)
"Where were we? Ah, yes." The blond leans forward from his chair towards Haine, lips pulling back from teeth pearlywhite canines shining in the half-darkness. As if to share a personal darkdeepdeeper secret with him, as if to a fellow conspirator (fellow survivor of the nightmare and the bramble-fingers clutching at you pulling you downdowndown the thorns and the snakes can't hurt you, darling, because we're invincible now). "Do you think I'm joking?"
(faster than the car can fucking crash spiralling off everything's airborne now)
onetwothreefour hello earth
"Haine?"
His eyes snap open redburning hellfire breathing sulphur and acid as he snarls up at the face hovering above his own. The grin never fades even as Giovanni moves his head back slightly; the heavy weight on his shoulders doesn't fade either, almost(almost) painful. A hand moves, warm skin brushing against cold pressing against his neck feeling out the vein thud thudding under the pads of his fingers. He doesn't know where his guns are (they're still in his hands, the knuckles turning blue, but he can't move can'tmove can'ttalkcan'tdoanything but stare up into the mirrored tangerine reflection tinting everything bloodorange).
"Don't you see?" he whispers, gringrinning like a clown (a jester a joker) a joke that everybody else doesn't get, a private joke with his painted eyes painted lips painted mask of a face like thin membrane of an eggshell.
"I miss you."
Surprisingly warm fingers trail down the side of his neck and Haine shivers (perhaps even more so because he remembers in those warm fingers brushing gently against his own cold skin the cold fingers brushing against his warm skin roses and lillies in the air bramblethorns tearing his skin wrapped around his neck and it feels like a decade ago an eternity ago lips pressing against the cold of his collar whispering
you are my child).
(I won't ever be real to you.)
Giovanni laughs in his ear; an easy, relaxed sound, the slightly chapped lips pressing briefly against Haine's cheek. The fingers are at his shoulders now, pressing down at the dip of his collarbone and his shoulder, just enough to hurt but not quite, like pressing down on a cut that is just starting to scab over (but they never felt that, not really). "Come back home."
They both know what the answer is going to be even before Haine answers; nothing's easier than what he(they) imagined it would be and everything's harder because they're running out of time he's running out of time and all the while (the madeup paintedup memory of her smile still brightflaring in his head).
"No."
(we're all waiting for you.)