[fic;dogs] thinking very much of nothing ; giovanni/heine
Title: thinking very much of nothing.
Fandom: DOGS: BULLETS & CARNAGE / BLACK BLOOD BROTHERS.
Character(s)/Pairing: Giovanni/Heine. (hinted) Giovanni/Zelman. Badou. Einstellsehn.
Rating: R.
Word Count: 2419.
Disclaimer: none of the characters/sources are mine.
Notes: AU-verse. I DON'T EVEN KNOW, OK.
Summary: Normal family life---or maybe not. Maybe in the movies. There is nothing to pull away; it's just a bad movie with no crying.
Giovanni is wearing that t-shirt again, the fabric so worn and threadbare that Heine can practically see the soft jut of shoulderblades when he leans down to pick up a dropped pen, the shift of muscles of his back when he stretches. His collarbones seem strangely delicate, breakable (fragile, even; and that isn't a word that he associates with Giovanni, most of the time) peeking out from the stretched neck of the shirt.
The professor is out for the night (another extended overnight shift at the hospital; another urgent case that needs to be monitored, another child to be saved) so they have the house to themselves. Giovanni is at the table, poring over some textbook or other (criminal justice, of all things; hah, sometimes the world doesn't make any sense) and Heine is lying on the couch counting the silver studs embedded in the ceiling like so many stars. As if Giovanni is a shrink that he came to see.
In truth, he does see one, but only on Tuesdays. The man, short, potbellied. He punctuates his sentences with a sharply pronounced exhale huh.
Huh.
Occasionally Giovanni makes notes, lead scratching against paper, the soft schick of post-it notes coming unstuck, pads of his fingers smoothing down the edges close against the paper. Heine closes his eyes.
There's only one reason that Giovanni would forgo his usual pristinesharp button-up shirt for plain cotton and Heine knows even before the doorbell rings down the corridor that it's him.
He opens the door and Zelman grins widely at him with his fake fangs (sharp canines bleached white) visible, a greeting that Heine returns with a grunt that only barely scrapes above prehistoric courtesy. They had never been very comfortable with each other, playing the roles of the disapproving older brother and the confident boyfriend with remarkable accuracy. Heine merely opens the door wider for the redhead to come in after a brief pause, mostly because there's the soft sound of bare feet on the carpeted floor behind him (and Heine wants to have nothing to do with this).
Giovanni smiles at Zelman, the greenyellow eyes narrowing slightly in amusement behind the thin tinted reading glasses.
(weak eyes, she said. too weak for anything. while heine and lilly stood behind and watched--)
He doesn't understand how a pale skinny bookworm like Giovanni (with his slender violinist's fingers and Strauss and the smell of coffee and old crumbling books clinging to him) can possibly have a (go on, say it) boyfriend who looks like a delinquent. Probably is. And a drug addict. Could see the needlemarks like bug bites all in a mottled line down the pale line of his arm. But it's none of his business. Heine never asked. He didn't care. Doesn't.
But then, the important question was, did he really want to think about Giovanni's supposed sex life?
Heine looks away and scowls as Giovanni leans closer, pressing his lips against his temple in a way much like how Einstellsehn does before she leaves (always him, never him), an enigmatic grin curving at the corners of his lips. Heine thinks he caught a little glance (a quirk of lips here, a twist of an eyebrow there) passing between Giovanni and Zelman, but he can't be sure because he's roughly pushing Giovanni away. He doesn't care though, and regains his balance soon enough with that shit-eating grin of his as if he knows more than you do and they're not talking about who is on their way to taking a bar exam in a year and a half and who is going to end up half-drunk and stoned in a concert gig again.
"Going out, Heine?"
"I'm not staying."
And a shrug, as the blond reaches out and pulls Zelman (by the hand, Heine notices, and there's another twinge of disgust in his gut). "We'll be upstairs." His voice floats down, a murmur of inaudible words following, maybe a laugh or two (at him?) as Heine clicks his tongue in irritation and snatches his jacket from the hook by the entrance.
----
"You gotta get out of that house, man."
Clang, click, rattle as Badou flicks another pebble at the empty beer can lying a few feet away from them. They're at the usual place, under the bridge with a murky body of water not three metres from them and eight-hundred tonne trucks rumbling past not ten metres above their heads. Wonder if this'll break he asks and Heine replies who cares.
Who indeed cares.
This is the place they come to hang out when there's nowhere else to go (no shitty band playing music for a dollar entrance with all you can drink, all you can smoke all you can think; not on Mondays). It's so dark that the water doesn't even seem to be flowing. Just an even darker blackness to the left of Badou if he squints his eyes just so.
That's his blind side, he knows. Underwater monsters, he wouldn't even see them coming. But not in this river, they won't.
"Pass me a light," he says instead.
Plop, goes the beer can as it finally escapes Badou's assaults and rolls into the river.
Badou looks at him, briefly illuminated in the glow of the cheap cigarette lighter. All pale skin and dark freckles and scraggly wisps of red hair with a hoodie pulled right over his head to keep out the cold, all you can see is his nose and the cigarette sticking out. His words are remarkably unslurred even after alcohol and the fact that there's a cigarette burning itself out in his mouth. Burns his lips, sometimes. Blisters smoothing out the cracks.
"You're seriously not going to stay there forever, right? That bitch is--"
"Yeah, yeah."
He feels the shrug more than he sees it as Badou does exactly that, twisting his head back to stare overhead as another truck roars over them with headlights blazing.
"Whatever."
"Whatever."
----
It's late when he comes back, neither of them having watches to speak of, but they both decide it's time to go (home? the word rings odd in his mouth and Badou feels it too) when the trucks stop coming. Badou shoves the rest of the cigarettes in his pocket and Heine says nothing, and slouches on down the street after a cursory nod.
The key misses the hole once, twice, and third time (un)lucky, sending Heine spilling into the hallway with a curse barely muffled. No worries; that woman's car isn't in the driveway. Guess it's not as late as he thought, then. All the lights are off, though. Giovanni must be asleep.
No, he isn't.
Heine only realises that something's wrong when he slides under the covers of his bed and the mattress dips in an odd way that makes the hair at the back of his neck stand up and prickle down his spine.
"Giovanni," he hisses out, reaching out a hand to roughly shake him by a shoulder. Normally, he hates physical contact. Flinches away whenever people try; handshakes are a nuisance, even a touch to his shoulder to draw his attention haves him scrambling away. Germophobia, people think. But it's not. The only person who touches him with any regularity and intent is Einstellsehn, but with her it is more out of duty(fear) than anything, and even then his jaws ache by the time those six-fingered hands let him go (you're such a good boy, Heine; you wont leave me like your father, will you).
Speaking of Giovanni's shoulder, though. It's bare, smooth, warm (thin paperskin barely covering the bones buried underneath) and the touchfeel of it giving a little under his fingers makes Heine grit his teeth tighter but it's worth the effort if(when) Giovanni mumbles, blinks awake and smiles up at him. "Welcome home."
"Are you kidding me? Why are you--"
Not finishing the sentence. Even in half-light it's obvious. A sudden lump in his throat that Heine wills away as just annoyance. Maybe anger. Giovanni isn't worth it though. But the lump is still there, pressing against his windpipe.
Wait, that's just Giovanni's hand.
"You're so late," he breathes against Heine's ear, other arm moving to wrap around his neck and pulls him down closer. Goosebumps on Heine's skin, he can feel it. Compared to him Giovanni feels warm, warmer, each heartbeat slowing down pushing the drug around his bloodstream (or maybe it's his ears going) and he laughs, soft and quiet. He feels like he could fall asleep any minute, just floating in that spreading warmth burning just under his skin in the back of his eyes pooling in his gut but he can pick out the slightest change in Heine's breathing, hear the crease of bedsheet as he curls his fingers tight in the material. If he concentrated, he could hear the creaking of joints of his knuckles.
"Was it him?"
Heine's voice is flat, but there's the flutter of breath (a rattling of chains) in his chest when Giovanni just laughs like everything's fine and dandy and they're just having a simple conversation (but nothing about them is simple, nothing about them calls for a conversation) and that Giovanni isn't naked in Heine's bed with a needlewelt swelling in the crook of his arm like a bite. There's a faint sheen of red beginning to start on the inside of his elbow but he isn't sure if that's just the drugflush or not; he's always bruised easily. That this is an everyday occurrence, nothing to worry about.
Wasn't he supposed to be the irresponsible black sheep of the family, here?
Cut off my tail and bring it home, why won't you.
"Isn't this nice?" Giovanni asks but he isn't looking for an answer, at least not in what Heine could ever speak out loud. He looks for them in other places, and Giovanni lets his fingers stray to the back of Heine's neck, short nails scraping across the rough scars left where his neck meets the slope of his back. They are rough, unsightly, ugly, stretching the width of his neck like someone tried to slit his throat open but did it backwards instead. Giovanni's only seen them once, when they were (children, no, Giovanni was a child then, Heine was more than that)
a long time ago.
Now the scar's healed over and nothing comes off red half-moon under his nails as he drags them down to the front again, presses against the hollow of Heine's collarbone until he lifts a hand to bat the hand away. The way his sickly blond hair strays over his forehead and spills onto the pillow and the way his teeth flashes when he smiles up at Heine reminds him of (someone else beginning with an elle and ends with a whywhywhy).
"Get out."
"I don't want to sleep alone."
"Where's your boyfriend."
(that gets a smile, a crooked grin hidden in the curve of Heine's shoulder) and he mouths he isn't here. He went home. He isn't here.
Thinks that he should just say he isn't my boyfriend just so he could see how Heine would react because he isn't, they're just
there.
But he is here now.
"Go away."
"But I want to stay."
(fingers in his hair now, a decided press of skin against skin an arm holding him in place pulling him down)
Heine flushes, glad of the darkness, the light that shines through the window behind him and casts a silverdark shadow over Giovanni's face.
"You're sick."
"You are, too."
(how nice of her, how brave, to bring up three children on her own -- pity that the youngest --)
Giovanni shifts under him, drags his hand down the length of Heine's back and there, see Heine stiffening electricshiver up his spine and hear the clench of hands on the sheets on either side of his head hear the sharp intake of breath a huff of laughter (sicksickeningsickened). He knows (and Heine knows that he knows) that given half a chance he would punch his face in to next week but all the other does is
(legs on either side, now. lips at his ear, but not touching. fingers gripping the sheets tightly. a shift of hips against hips (against the hand, down there, yeah, just like-). forehead against throat, but not touching. only his breaths, hot and moist and clammy against the side of Giovanni's neck and he almost
laughs, but doesn't.
he'd just end up making him angry.)
He comes embarrassingly fast but Heine does too, a warm stickywet spatter on his belly and even before it registers (either disgust or something else, he can't really think right now) Heine rolls over and pushes him off the bed.
"Get out."
His voice is tight, strained, the frantic heartbeats still thumpthumping under his skin Giovanni hears it but he's too busy laughing with the simple euphoria that comes from just having jerked off and oh god, he just did his brother --
All in all, it's just too much for one night. So he leaves, stumbling down the corridor back to his own bed with his blood slowly going cold and flat like a can of coke that's been sitting on a windowsill for far too long. Curls his fingers under the pillow, breathes in the coolclean smell and he's out like a light.
----
The morning after is always the most awkward scene in the movies. Why should real life be any different?
In any case, Giovanni barely turns his head when Heine comes into the kitchen, a cup of coffee and half a buttered toast as he sits with the newspaper spread out on the counter in front of him. The world's tragedies, the nation's scandal all spread out blackwhite in the morning sunlight for everyone to look at. Heine feels that the secret's written on his face just like that newspaper for people to read. Like the touches with his hands his breath his fucking laugh it's a brand burning on his skin and he says nothing. Just walks back out. Bumps into Einstellsehn on the way to the front door (smiling welcoming perfectly made up pristine not a nail out of place) but he brushes past her before she could (leave me alone), out the door and off.
It's a Tuesday. He'd be getting his week's worth of medications, which he'd sell to blow the money away on life's real necessities. Another week so begins.
"Really," she says, ignoring Giovanni's greeting and pouring a cup of water for herself. Taking a sip, she gives a distasteful glance at the cup of coffee in front of Giovanni out the corner of her eye. "I really don't know what the matter is with him. Not even saying good morning (here is a convenient situational deafness in motion) to his own mother-- (and a little sharply) --Don't you have classes to go to, Giovanni?"
Eats shoots and leaves.
There isn't anything to say.
Fandom: DOGS: BULLETS & CARNAGE / BLACK BLOOD BROTHERS.
Character(s)/Pairing: Giovanni/Heine. (hinted) Giovanni/Zelman. Badou. Einstellsehn.
Rating: R.
Word Count: 2419.
Disclaimer: none of the characters/sources are mine.
Notes: AU-verse. I DON'T EVEN KNOW, OK.
Summary: Normal family life---or maybe not. Maybe in the movies. There is nothing to pull away; it's just a bad movie with no crying.
Giovanni is wearing that t-shirt again, the fabric so worn and threadbare that Heine can practically see the soft jut of shoulderblades when he leans down to pick up a dropped pen, the shift of muscles of his back when he stretches. His collarbones seem strangely delicate, breakable (fragile, even; and that isn't a word that he associates with Giovanni, most of the time) peeking out from the stretched neck of the shirt.
The professor is out for the night (another extended overnight shift at the hospital; another urgent case that needs to be monitored, another child to be saved) so they have the house to themselves. Giovanni is at the table, poring over some textbook or other (criminal justice, of all things; hah, sometimes the world doesn't make any sense) and Heine is lying on the couch counting the silver studs embedded in the ceiling like so many stars. As if Giovanni is a shrink that he came to see.
In truth, he does see one, but only on Tuesdays. The man, short, potbellied. He punctuates his sentences with a sharply pronounced exhale huh.
Huh.
Occasionally Giovanni makes notes, lead scratching against paper, the soft schick of post-it notes coming unstuck, pads of his fingers smoothing down the edges close against the paper. Heine closes his eyes.
There's only one reason that Giovanni would forgo his usual pristinesharp button-up shirt for plain cotton and Heine knows even before the doorbell rings down the corridor that it's him.
He opens the door and Zelman grins widely at him with his fake fangs (sharp canines bleached white) visible, a greeting that Heine returns with a grunt that only barely scrapes above prehistoric courtesy. They had never been very comfortable with each other, playing the roles of the disapproving older brother and the confident boyfriend with remarkable accuracy. Heine merely opens the door wider for the redhead to come in after a brief pause, mostly because there's the soft sound of bare feet on the carpeted floor behind him (and Heine wants to have nothing to do with this).
Giovanni smiles at Zelman, the greenyellow eyes narrowing slightly in amusement behind the thin tinted reading glasses.
(weak eyes, she said. too weak for anything. while heine and lilly stood behind and watched--)
He doesn't understand how a pale skinny bookworm like Giovanni (with his slender violinist's fingers and Strauss and the smell of coffee and old crumbling books clinging to him) can possibly have a (go on, say it) boyfriend who looks like a delinquent. Probably is. And a drug addict. Could see the needlemarks like bug bites all in a mottled line down the pale line of his arm. But it's none of his business. Heine never asked. He didn't care. Doesn't.
But then, the important question was, did he really want to think about Giovanni's supposed sex life?
Heine looks away and scowls as Giovanni leans closer, pressing his lips against his temple in a way much like how Einstellsehn does before she leaves (always him, never him), an enigmatic grin curving at the corners of his lips. Heine thinks he caught a little glance (a quirk of lips here, a twist of an eyebrow there) passing between Giovanni and Zelman, but he can't be sure because he's roughly pushing Giovanni away. He doesn't care though, and regains his balance soon enough with that shit-eating grin of his as if he knows more than you do and they're not talking about who is on their way to taking a bar exam in a year and a half and who is going to end up half-drunk and stoned in a concert gig again.
"Going out, Heine?"
"I'm not staying."
And a shrug, as the blond reaches out and pulls Zelman (by the hand, Heine notices, and there's another twinge of disgust in his gut). "We'll be upstairs." His voice floats down, a murmur of inaudible words following, maybe a laugh or two (at him?) as Heine clicks his tongue in irritation and snatches his jacket from the hook by the entrance.
"You gotta get out of that house, man."
Clang, click, rattle as Badou flicks another pebble at the empty beer can lying a few feet away from them. They're at the usual place, under the bridge with a murky body of water not three metres from them and eight-hundred tonne trucks rumbling past not ten metres above their heads. Wonder if this'll break he asks and Heine replies who cares.
Who indeed cares.
This is the place they come to hang out when there's nowhere else to go (no shitty band playing music for a dollar entrance with all you can drink, all you can smoke all you can think; not on Mondays). It's so dark that the water doesn't even seem to be flowing. Just an even darker blackness to the left of Badou if he squints his eyes just so.
That's his blind side, he knows. Underwater monsters, he wouldn't even see them coming. But not in this river, they won't.
"Pass me a light," he says instead.
Plop, goes the beer can as it finally escapes Badou's assaults and rolls into the river.
Badou looks at him, briefly illuminated in the glow of the cheap cigarette lighter. All pale skin and dark freckles and scraggly wisps of red hair with a hoodie pulled right over his head to keep out the cold, all you can see is his nose and the cigarette sticking out. His words are remarkably unslurred even after alcohol and the fact that there's a cigarette burning itself out in his mouth. Burns his lips, sometimes. Blisters smoothing out the cracks.
"You're seriously not going to stay there forever, right? That bitch is--"
"Yeah, yeah."
He feels the shrug more than he sees it as Badou does exactly that, twisting his head back to stare overhead as another truck roars over them with headlights blazing.
"Whatever."
"Whatever."
It's late when he comes back, neither of them having watches to speak of, but they both decide it's time to go (home? the word rings odd in his mouth and Badou feels it too) when the trucks stop coming. Badou shoves the rest of the cigarettes in his pocket and Heine says nothing, and slouches on down the street after a cursory nod.
The key misses the hole once, twice, and third time (un)lucky, sending Heine spilling into the hallway with a curse barely muffled. No worries; that woman's car isn't in the driveway. Guess it's not as late as he thought, then. All the lights are off, though. Giovanni must be asleep.
No, he isn't.
Heine only realises that something's wrong when he slides under the covers of his bed and the mattress dips in an odd way that makes the hair at the back of his neck stand up and prickle down his spine.
"Giovanni," he hisses out, reaching out a hand to roughly shake him by a shoulder. Normally, he hates physical contact. Flinches away whenever people try; handshakes are a nuisance, even a touch to his shoulder to draw his attention haves him scrambling away. Germophobia, people think. But it's not. The only person who touches him with any regularity and intent is Einstellsehn, but with her it is more out of duty(fear) than anything, and even then his jaws ache by the time those six-fingered hands let him go (you're such a good boy, Heine; you wont leave me like your father, will you).
Speaking of Giovanni's shoulder, though. It's bare, smooth, warm (thin paperskin barely covering the bones buried underneath) and the touchfeel of it giving a little under his fingers makes Heine grit his teeth tighter but it's worth the effort if(when) Giovanni mumbles, blinks awake and smiles up at him. "Welcome home."
"Are you kidding me? Why are you--"
Not finishing the sentence. Even in half-light it's obvious. A sudden lump in his throat that Heine wills away as just annoyance. Maybe anger. Giovanni isn't worth it though. But the lump is still there, pressing against his windpipe.
Wait, that's just Giovanni's hand.
"You're so late," he breathes against Heine's ear, other arm moving to wrap around his neck and pulls him down closer. Goosebumps on Heine's skin, he can feel it. Compared to him Giovanni feels warm, warmer, each heartbeat slowing down pushing the drug around his bloodstream (or maybe it's his ears going) and he laughs, soft and quiet. He feels like he could fall asleep any minute, just floating in that spreading warmth burning just under his skin in the back of his eyes pooling in his gut but he can pick out the slightest change in Heine's breathing, hear the crease of bedsheet as he curls his fingers tight in the material. If he concentrated, he could hear the creaking of joints of his knuckles.
"Was it him?"
Heine's voice is flat, but there's the flutter of breath (a rattling of chains) in his chest when Giovanni just laughs like everything's fine and dandy and they're just having a simple conversation (but nothing about them is simple, nothing about them calls for a conversation) and that Giovanni isn't naked in Heine's bed with a needlewelt swelling in the crook of his arm like a bite. There's a faint sheen of red beginning to start on the inside of his elbow but he isn't sure if that's just the drugflush or not; he's always bruised easily. That this is an everyday occurrence, nothing to worry about.
Wasn't he supposed to be the irresponsible black sheep of the family, here?
Cut off my tail and bring it home, why won't you.
"Isn't this nice?" Giovanni asks but he isn't looking for an answer, at least not in what Heine could ever speak out loud. He looks for them in other places, and Giovanni lets his fingers stray to the back of Heine's neck, short nails scraping across the rough scars left where his neck meets the slope of his back. They are rough, unsightly, ugly, stretching the width of his neck like someone tried to slit his throat open but did it backwards instead. Giovanni's only seen them once, when they were (children, no, Giovanni was a child then, Heine was more than that)
a long time ago.
Now the scar's healed over and nothing comes off red half-moon under his nails as he drags them down to the front again, presses against the hollow of Heine's collarbone until he lifts a hand to bat the hand away. The way his sickly blond hair strays over his forehead and spills onto the pillow and the way his teeth flashes when he smiles up at Heine reminds him of (someone else beginning with an elle and ends with a whywhywhy).
"Get out."
"I don't want to sleep alone."
"Where's your boyfriend."
(that gets a smile, a crooked grin hidden in the curve of Heine's shoulder) and he mouths he isn't here. He went home. He isn't here.
Thinks that he should just say he isn't my boyfriend just so he could see how Heine would react because he isn't, they're just
there.
But he is here now.
"Go away."
"But I want to stay."
(fingers in his hair now, a decided press of skin against skin an arm holding him in place pulling him down)
Heine flushes, glad of the darkness, the light that shines through the window behind him and casts a silverdark shadow over Giovanni's face.
"You're sick."
"You are, too."
(how nice of her, how brave, to bring up three children on her own -- pity that the youngest --)
Giovanni shifts under him, drags his hand down the length of Heine's back and there, see Heine stiffening electricshiver up his spine and hear the clench of hands on the sheets on either side of his head hear the sharp intake of breath a huff of laughter (sicksickeningsickened). He knows (and Heine knows that he knows) that given half a chance he would punch his face in to next week but all the other does is
(legs on either side, now. lips at his ear, but not touching. fingers gripping the sheets tightly. a shift of hips against hips (against the hand, down there, yeah, just like-). forehead against throat, but not touching. only his breaths, hot and moist and clammy against the side of Giovanni's neck and he almost
laughs, but doesn't.
he'd just end up making him angry.)
He comes embarrassingly fast but Heine does too, a warm stickywet spatter on his belly and even before it registers (either disgust or something else, he can't really think right now) Heine rolls over and pushes him off the bed.
"Get out."
His voice is tight, strained, the frantic heartbeats still thumpthumping under his skin Giovanni hears it but he's too busy laughing with the simple euphoria that comes from just having jerked off and oh god, he just did his brother --
All in all, it's just too much for one night. So he leaves, stumbling down the corridor back to his own bed with his blood slowly going cold and flat like a can of coke that's been sitting on a windowsill for far too long. Curls his fingers under the pillow, breathes in the coolclean smell and he's out like a light.
The morning after is always the most awkward scene in the movies. Why should real life be any different?
In any case, Giovanni barely turns his head when Heine comes into the kitchen, a cup of coffee and half a buttered toast as he sits with the newspaper spread out on the counter in front of him. The world's tragedies, the nation's scandal all spread out blackwhite in the morning sunlight for everyone to look at. Heine feels that the secret's written on his face just like that newspaper for people to read. Like the touches with his hands his breath his fucking laugh it's a brand burning on his skin and he says nothing. Just walks back out. Bumps into Einstellsehn on the way to the front door (smiling welcoming perfectly made up pristine not a nail out of place) but he brushes past her before she could (leave me alone), out the door and off.
It's a Tuesday. He'd be getting his week's worth of medications, which he'd sell to blow the money away on life's real necessities. Another week so begins.
"Really," she says, ignoring Giovanni's greeting and pouring a cup of water for herself. Taking a sip, she gives a distasteful glance at the cup of coffee in front of Giovanni out the corner of her eye. "I really don't know what the matter is with him. Not even saying good morning (here is a convenient situational deafness in motion) to his own mother-- (and a little sharply) --Don't you have classes to go to, Giovanni?"
Eats shoots and leaves.
There isn't anything to say.