But I'll ride home laughing [RL]

[structuraldefect]

[It's a Friday night. Closer to Saturday morning. Kirei tends to wake up early, when he sleeps at all. Fridays are no exception. He hopped out of the bar earlier. Gilgamesh, of course, still had work to do. Well. A certain definition of work. It tended to involve climbing rooftops with various bottles in hand.

But it's the type of late that's starting to seem early, so Kirei tries to catch some sleep by the tail. It's illusive today. Just when he thinks he's got his finger on it, it slips away. Uneasy. That's the word for the feeling. A roll in the gut that won't stop churning. He shuffles his blankets and pillows in the hopes of pinning sleep down. He avoids the still slightly pained shoulder. There are some problems advil can't solve.

This is one of many.]

Comments

[structuraldefect]

[He tucks the bandage into itself. Makes a knot. Not the best. But it would hold, so it would do. He glances up. Thinks of what he has to do next.

Right, the head. That gash isn't getting any better. Yet, if Gilgamesh has energy enough to glare redly at him, his head can't be the worst of it. Still, it must be done. The loose river of congealed blood stuck fast to his hair as it strings.

He reaches for the hairline. Ball of rolled cotton covered with alcohol in hand. Seeks to press fingers in, to see the worst of it. The dizziness seems to have faded. The rage remains. The tapestry of curses under his breath.

Well. Consider this a kind of blessing.]

[structuraldefect]

[His hand is like a vice. He can hear the crackle of bone beneath. The pulse and haze. He gazes lowly at him from beneath his bangs. The venom burns. Spat out. Ground out. A command. Must be obeyed. Must pull back, if the hand would let him.

Must he?

No one refuses him. No one he knows. Not phrased like that, barely a phrase at all. Barely words, beneath the sting and the cutting and the grip.

A red flash. A pounding in the skull. The hammer of pulse. His other hand reaches up. Not like a snakebite. Like a punch. Something solid about it. Planned. Careful, somehow. Presses the hand to Gilgamesh's throat. Feels the thrum of blood beneath his fingers, beneath the palm. The gulp of air that would escape if he squeezed. The line of artery and vein.]

Hush.

[He can command just as well as he can. And he ignores the way his pulse speeds, the way his vision blurs at the edges.]

[structuraldefect]

[The swallow of Adam's apple. The clawmarks in his wrist that spread down his side, catch in his scratchy pajamas. The life that runs through arteries. How easy it would be to squeeze. To clasp shut. The eyes burning through him, enraged beyond measure. And something else. Something lurking. That moves like interest. Like attention gained and received.

He exhales. Shifts his position. Doesn't relax. Between the march of blood and the pulse of head and the thrum of heart, relaxing is impossible. A smile blooms. Sharp, somehow. Like the edge of a knife. Twitches his fingers against his neck. Wonders if any of the blood from earlier is on them. If he will leave a mark.

He gets back to work. Cleaning the blood from Gilgamesh's head. Pressing in. But with precision. And the burn of alcohol. Like fine nettles. Feels the way his blood burns with life as it escapes and sticks to scalp and hair. Clears away what remains.

An almost whistle to it all. At ease. And sometime he might think better of it. Or worse of it. In the dark of the night, when sleep steals away from him. For now the lights are on, and he is home.]

[structuraldefect]

[He finishes cleaning the head wound. He can't find reason to move his hand from his throat just yet. Less of a violent impulse running down his spine and nerves. Still there, unmoving. Relaxing almost, as Gilgamesh slowly sinks back into his typical lazy air.

Two out of three. Not bad. He dare not look at the clock, or flick the lights off. Once started, there's no point in stopping. No point in averting his gaze. No use. A hopeless case. Terminal.

He knows the way an arm catches when it bleeds. A spout of blood, more of a mess than a danger. Still, he's come this far. He'll clean that, too. The towels have probably gone cold by now. It is hard to tell, from the warmth that swims in the atmosphere.

The smile stays in place through the dull burn of alcohol.]

[structuraldefect]

[Done.

All wounds taken care of. The ones that mattered, anyhow. Scrapes and cuts. Abrasions. Minor things. The rawness of knuckles and lip. Probably other bruises lurking out of sight.

But he's done. Efficiently as he could. A practiced ease. Routine. One thing then another. No rush trying to remember steps. Methodical.

He sits back a moment. Surveys his handiwork. The bandages. The sting of alcohol on a forgotten paper cut on his hand. The blood that sticks to his fingertips, and the blood welling on his wrist. The way his eyelids droop with expended effort.

He doesn't know what time it is. Too late. But he stands to his feet. Decides he'll clean up the spots left behind in the morning. Takes in the virtually undisturbed room around them. The silence of the night broken by students returning from the bar. Cars on the highway. Music down the hall.

None of it matters. He reaches out for him, and tries to set him back on his feet.]

Up with you. Won't be long now. You can sulk to your heart's content soon.

[He heads for Gilgamesh's room. His actual room. Not the portion of floor and bed he tends to claim out of Kirei's.]

[structuraldefect]

[The pull on his wrist. The dig in. Half moon shaped marks left behind along with the sting of it all. He scoffs. It seems like a laugh at the edges. He stoops a bit. He's taller than him, after all. It amuses him. Gilgamesh has to reach up to reach him. Or pounce, to knock him down. A body made of wires and springs and coils, well engineered.]

Assuming it was there to begin with.

[It takes some time. To walk half-hobbled to the room. To open the door. He imagined dust clouds behind it. An emptiness. He's half wrong. It's clean. Almost sparkling in the dimness. It doesn't seem lived in. No lumps on the bed. No possessions left out. Like he'd moved in just yesterday.

But he gets there. Walks him to the edge of the bed, and lets go.]

[structuraldefect]

[He steps away from the bed. At first. Assumes sleep will trail Gilgamesh shortly. Just a half step. Not much. The impression of distance, more than the actuality.

There's an opening. He's not blind. He can see it. How easy it would be, to climb upon the bed. Like breathing. Or riding a bicycle. And he nips that analogy before it gets any further. The curtain of hair and the look in his eyes does enough. Like he's entranced.

By him.

It jolts him. Breaks the spell hanging over him. His eyes go wide. He steps back. A hand almost outstretched. An almost bend in the spine. The air seems thin. Or that there's suddenly not enough of it. And whatever little can be found burns on the way down.

There is an opening. Kirei doesn't take it.]

[structuraldefect]

[He does. For a moment, he gets the impression that the laugh is more dangerous than the bed could ever have been. Fleeting. Gone, almost as quickly as it came.

He closes the door behind him. Carefully, so it doesn't echo. Shuts off the light in the main room. Stumbles in the dark for his room. Outside he can hear cars whir past. The shouting in the parking lot. The thrum of bass.

But it doesn't sound so clear, beneath the rushing in his ears.

Sleep doesn't come easily, when it comes at all.]