Rubbish Bin - Art & Lame Lit [Read Only] - Printable Version

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Rubbish Bin - Art & Lame Lit [Read Only] - Blade - 06-24-2015

<div style="text-align:center;]Blade & Seph

<img style="font-size:10pt;max-width:100%;" style="" src="http://orig13.deviantart.net/f8ac/f/2015/175/5/f/bladeseph01_by_blade_redwind-d8yjisd.png][/align]

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RE: Rubbish Bin - Art &amp; Lame Lit [Read Only] - Blade - 09-16-2016

Desperate Measures

“How are you progressing?”

Progressing? It was an odd question, a damned frustrating one. Not as bad now, but bad enough. Despite all the time that had passed—as he felt it—it was frustrating to the smallest point. As if the tip of a needle that would barely pricked him everytime Esme dared to bother him with the query. He supposed he looked busy enough to warrant the question...

Leaning over a desk... not really reading slips of paper in front of him... trying to ignore the golden wispy glow of the woman next to him...

He sighed, palms flat on the wooden surface. Everything around him had color, had substance, looked at if it were the home he’d once entered more than a hundred years ago—was now trapped in. It all looked the same, smelled the same, but it didn’t feel the same. And it didn’t help that he was lethargic all the time... a consequence of trying to save human lives.

How his brethren would mock him, not that he gave a damn. They always had other things to mock him for anyway.

“Ambrose?”

He stood straighter at the whisper of his name. That’s how they all spoke—in whispers; half there things that had once been able to do more than flit around a manor like too-tired apparitions. His dimmed garnet orbs, once the bright color of flames, settled on Esme. “There hasn’t been much progress, no.”

“I see.” She wasn’t frowning; half fumbling with her hands, but not wringing them. And that was progress, at least; Esme-progress. She’d stopped frowning once he’d informed her there’d been more than stray burglars about—that he had arrived, the one who’d found the book; the one would help undo all of this rotten mess he should have stopped right from the start when Quinn had been playing with things he’d been better off not playing with. She looked less sad, he supposed. One would think all the golden colorful light she washed in would make her look brilliantly lovely... she did. Always did, but he couldn’t ever ignore the guilt and defeat in her eyes. He wondered if she tired of the Victorian gown she was stuck wearing...

For a moment, in the back of his mind he was reminded of his own regrets... but... there wasn’t much to do about those until after, when one wasn’t only barely able to control a half version of oneself to manage the energy needed. If he could just...

He refrained from sighing again; it wouldn’t do to worry her further with more visible human emotion. He would take care of the doctor once he was whole again, when he wasn’t starved out of his mind. If he could just get a few more people... if his other half could just glean him a bit more energy... Harmless and wasted human emotions that held just a smidgen of what he fed on... then he’d have enough to take care of this whole damned mess. Then he could deal with all the blame anyone wished to lay on him—leave if that’s what people wanted. Maybe find another world to explore and catalogue.

He couldn’t stop himself from brushing long strands of opaque white from his line of vision before taking a seat in the ever present desk chair. His hand moved to his chin, caressing... scratching, and barely noting as Esme moved to take a seat on the edge of the office desk.

“I miss apples the most, I think,” she said.

He smiled, a rare sight these days.

Her smile was wane in return; she looked towards the wall behind him. “I suppose it might seem silly, my missing apples.”

“Not really.”

She hummed in response. “I miss keeping busy too.”

“Drove you a bit crazy in the start.”

“Indeed.”

Then they were both silent for a time before she said, “I’m sorry if I’m a bother... But I know how bloody close you are to...”

He could stop the sigh this time.

She forced a smile. “All in good time, I know.”

“You’re not a bother. You’re anxiety in understandable. Were it I could feed off your expended emotional energy, everyone’s? We’d have left long ago.”

She nodded and stood. “You’ve worked very hard for us, doing more than anyone could have expected... You... You’re very kind, Ambrose. Believe me.” And then she was gone, as if it didn’t matter to say goodbye anymore here. It didn’t. Not with everyone always feeling as if one day more mattered less than the previous.

He didn’t feel like arguing with her assessment either, even if he disagreed. And she knew he would. Kindness would have been stopping her husband, not resorting to this. Not resorting to grasping at a cursed item in hopes of it leading to their freedom, dooming someone to terrors for an unforeseen amount of time. All because he couldn’t have been better, smarter.

He would not ask for forgiveness.

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RE: Rubbish Bin - Art &amp; Lame Lit [Read Only] - Blade - 09-23-2016

Better Off Broken

The reflecting light from the ten by ten projector screen hanging up on a brick wall, the glow, flashed across his face as he stuffed a piece of popcorn in his mouth, accenting his semi-rounded and boyish features. The crunching wasn’t loud enough to overcome the scream of violence booming out of his speakers, but the crackle-snap could be heard here and there. It wasn’t all dark, the wide open space that was his living room, bedroom, kitchen, and work area inside the second level of the warehouse; though, it was dim enough that any flickering of illumination became noticeable.

He was curled up, legs nearly a lotus pose under him, on the oversized and overused couch. Several blankets covered it, hiding the occasional rip or tear. When he was thinking about it, looking at his furniture, he told himself he should get new stuff. But, he also reminded himself that tech wasn’t cheap and his money was better spent there—on his ship, gear, and the servers in need of constant maintenance. Among other things. New tools, he told himself from time to time, would be great. When he thought about it.

He wasn’t then. He wasn’t even really watching his show, a new episode release on the streaming anime service he didn’t hardly have the seven dollars a month to spend on. No... his mind was on someone else entirely. Worried.

What the hell, Seb?

He should have called; it wasn’t impossible to think his boyfriend had gotten into a scuffle. Came with the job, after all. Or, you know, the after-hours job. Desmond sighed and ran a hand through his brown strands, ones that curled just barely here and there—especially at the tips and along his ears.

If he were honest... he was worried about more than just him getting hurt. He—.

Desmond jerked and twisted in his seat towards the stairway that led down to his parked ship. That was definitely the sound of his slide-up door opening and slamming shut. Setting aside his popcorn bowl, he got up and straightened the t-shirt he’d put on for PJs; fingertips brushed over black flannel pants. Barefoot, he padded over just as Seb reached the top. The darker-haired male enveloped him in a hug.

“Sorry I’m late. Had some last minute things to do.”

“It’s alright,” Desmond murmured into his chest, squeezing back once. “I was worried you got in a fight.”

“Nah.” He pulled away and held up a six pack of bottled beer. “Just helping a friend. Brought a peace-offering, though.” He flashed a grin as the other hand settled on his hip. Desmond’s heart jumped once and something danced in his lower belly at that.

“Something sweet, I hope?”

“Yup.”

“I forgive you,” he shot back with a grin of his own before leaning up and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s put it in the fridge.” Desmond turned back to the couch and grabbed his bowl on his way to the kitchen; it was just adjacent to the living room. He flicked on a few lights next and went digging around in the drawers for the bottle opener after setting the nearly-empty bowl on the counter.

Seb was opening the fridge and putting bottles on a shelf one at a time. “Looking kinda sparse in here, Dez.”

“Haven’t had time to shop. Been getting ten hour days, sometimes twelve.”

Seb nodded once before shutting the fridge, setting two bottles on the counter, and folding the box. He tossed it in the recycling bin just as Desmond finally located the bottle opener.

With a grin he popped the lid on one. Though, during the process his elbow bumped the other bottle and it wobbled before falling over the edge of the counter. wide-eyed, the fixer tried to catch it. Seb was one second faster, snatching from the air just before the bottom hit the hard wood under them. But that was when Dez noticed something else. His heart dropped at the plastic tag sticking out of Seb’s back jean pocket.

Hospital.

He snagged it before Seb stood back up, eyes scanning the information he knew how to read all to well. “How long were you in?” he whispered.

“What? The hopsital? Uh, two days? No big. They just had to stitch a pretty deep cut.” He popped the lid on the other bottle. “Why?”

“You didn’t call me.” His voice was a whisper.

“It was just a cut, Dez. I didn’t want to worry you over something stupid.” He took a swig of his drink. “You ready to watch stuff?”

“You didn’t call me. Again.”

“Dez—.”

“You always do this. All the time. You get hurt, or something important happens—like a friend dying, and you don’t say a word.” His gaze met Seb’s, locking on the violet symphony of shades—searching.

Seb sighed. “We doing this again?”

“You never talk about your past,” Dez went on quietly, undeterred. “I don’t know anything about your family, Seb. We’ve been together ten months, and the most I know is the name of your parents and that they work for a circus.

“I’ve video chatted you with my parents. You went with me to my cousins wedding.”

“Christ.”

“When are you going to let me in, Seb? When? In another year? Two years?”

“You know I don't like talking about my family.”

“No, you’d rather make a joke instead of. Which was fine in start; charming, even. But I want more, Seb. I want solid and real. I can’t keep...”

“Can’t what? What are you saying?” He had Seb’s attention then.

Desmond’s heart was pounding, forcing hot blood through his veins. And he hurt so much with it. So damned much. He was choking on it and didn’t even try to hide the tears that came after, slow at first—like burning brands down his cheeks. “I’m saying that if you can’t... if we can’t... If you can’t open up to me, then we can’t do this. I don’t mind waiting, Seb. I don’t. But you can’t even be bothered to tell me when you’re in the hospital for more than a few hours. Is it always going to like this? Are we making any progress—at all?

“When... when are you going to talk about Yue?”

“Dez...”

Desmond sighed and wiped his face, but it didn’t help the tears. He stared down at the hospital bracelet, his thumb rolling over the plastic coating. “When, Seb? We can’t keep acting like we’ve only been at this a few months. I want more and I need an answer.

“When? Am... am I always going to kept at a distance? Close enough to care about, but far enough away to...” He didn’t know.

“I don’t know.”

He met Seb’s gaze. “Look me in the eye and tell me it will happen. Can you do that? Can you honestly tell me we’ll ever be better than this?”

Seb did look at him, and Desmond saw pain there—infinite and impossible to repair. He didn’t have the right tools. Desmond knew he didn’t, he could tell in just that gaze alone—in those endless depths of violet. He inhaled deeply and his jaw flexed once as he placed the bracelet in Seb’s hand. “It’s ok.”

“I love you, Dez.”

“But not enough.” He nodded as he said, the motion shaky. “You warned me in the start. I thought... it’s ok,” he repeated, stepping away as Seb stepped towards him. “Go home, Sebastian. I’ll be alright. Just... give me some time. If you need tech... I’ll... I’ll drop it off at the front desk of your building.”

For a while they both just stood there. Desmond because he had to keep telling himself it needed to be this way; Seb because... because he didn’t want it to be.

“Go home,” Desmond repeated when he didn’t move—just staring. “Please.”

“...Alright.”

When the warehouse door slammed behind him, rage wound into the action—making Desmond jump once—he finally let his shaking legs succumb and crumbled to the floor. The tears came more easily, but he was fine with that as he leaned his shoulder and temple into the island’s cabinet. He didn’t have the energy to get up; didn’t feel like it. But...

...damn... it was cold on the floor.

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