[ The words spit out rough. Two weeks of sitting by her side, held in her lap that third night, bound by the click of the safety and the way he'd opened his mouth to her. The hot press of his tongue over her fingers. Blood and iron and consecration, the wet click of his throat as he'd swallowed each slice and still asked for more.
Hunger squeezes inside of his chest. Endless roads and dingy motel rooms and she's pristine, some angel who dares to touch him, fleas and all, flannels and dirt near his collar. Terrifying. Unknowable. Elias doesn't know if he wants to vomit because his insides hurt or because it's been two weeks and the animal inside of him has never known how to live afraid like this, in the low-lying hum of terror against something unimaginably large.
But he doesn't want to hurt her. (Doesn't know if he can.) His hands tremble when they run restlessly over his thighs, clammy palms bunching and smoothing the fabric of his sweats. ]
Need to eat somethin'.
[ Someone. He looks at her, glassy-eyed. A shard of shame reflects in the blue of his irises. ]
Usually find faces people won't miss.
[ Two weeks and the red meat helped but it isn't what his body is cursed to want. He'll die, if he doesn't, joints aching, higher thought dissipating until all that's left is something feral and intentionally cruel, a wolf with pitch-black fur that isn't satisfied with bringing down life that moves on four legs. A rabid thing, trapped in his other shape, screaming at himself to stop but unable to think about anything except how fucking good it feels to have someone squirming underneath him, alive right until they're not—
His mouth salivates. He swallows thickly, ignoring the taste of iron in the back of his teeth. ]
M'no good to you like this, Johnny. Should've put me down when you met me. [ He laughs. Some bitter, flinty thing. ] Left me at a morgue.
[ Dead doesn't taste the same as alive. But it can work, sometimes, if he can stomach it. Elias closes his eyes so tight he sees spots and takes a shaky breath, hands balled into fists over his knees. Short nails too blunt to dig into his skin. Loathes that, loathes the black hole of feeling, loathes the way he wants her cool hand back over his forehead. ]
[ her voice comes quiet enough that the words take a while to unstick from her throat. but they come out clear, pinning themselves to the air between her and elias. she circles her fingers around the bone of his ankle, a light touch, a brittle reminder that she's real. that she has done much with her hands the past two weeks, feeding him and holding him, strapping him to a bedframe and pressing the muzzle of a gun to the soft parts of his head. ]
Killing me is the worst thing you can do at the moment. I'm not worried about that.
[ it's true enough. it's true in the only way that matters; johnny could die in this room and the wretched thing that bound itself to her will find a way to bring her back. every cell in her body no longer belongs to her. not one hair, not one fingernail, not one drop of spit or sweat. she bleeds and the red glistens with holy light for those with eyes to see.
angels are the greediest creatures to ever walk the earth. she has looked upon them and learned to be afraid. just as gabriel had appeared before the young mary, the handmaid of the lord, mother of ends and beginnings — an angel came upon her and bid her serve them.
for this is my body, which will be given up for you and for many.
there is no other answer allowed but yes. that's the difference between man and other, johnny knew; a man could say no and mean it. anything else could say no, and find itself twisted by circumstance or some greater force until it either died or surrendered.
death would be easy. killing each other, killing elias, or killing her — that would be the easy part. so she asks; ]
How much of a man do you need?
[ her hand tightens just the bit around his ankle. shifts, moves up to his calf — the muscle is stronger there, and she can feel it jump under her touch, even through the scratchy denim he's wearing. seven millimetres further back, and she can paralyse the leg with a needle.
he needs new clothes. she'll find him something when they get to the city. ]
[ No. I won't. As easy as the words heel. Elias stays hunched, shoulders rolled inward and into himself, and he huffs a laugh and the sound of it is wet, clicking into the back of his throat. A laugh even though it isn't funny. Tears, even though he's not, for a single minute, a single fragmentary second, mournful.
He still has his jeans on. His boots, even. Yet he can feel her hand up his calf and his teeth itch, every part of his body uncomfortable, skin too tight, coiled strength and discomfort. His lips, chapped, when he exhales a long shudder, finally opening his eyes and looking at her. ]
No.
[ They don't need to be alive. ]
It's better, if it—
[ He's never had to explain it. Put words to it, this vile, profane, fucked up thing he shares with so few. That so clearly makes him unhuman. He shakes his head, violently enough that stray strands unstick from behind his ears, fall messily over his forehead.
The last time this happened, more appetite than lunar, Elias followed a man on a greyhound bus. The guy had looked the type: ill-fitting clothes, yellowing teeth. 5'6", maybe 5'7". He hadn't finished him and left him there on the side of the road, offal for the earth. The next meal for the desperate predator with a stomach to keep themselves alive, picking the dirt clean. ]
Can get by on a little, if it's recent. If it's warm.
[ He's more wolf than man. The measure of a person, the sight that calls, even something as pedestrian as belief — Elias has none of those things. But he looks at Johnny anyway, studying the careful, cool planes of her face, when he says, quietly, ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ The words spit out rough. Two weeks of sitting by her side, held in her lap that third night, bound by the click of the safety and the way he'd opened his mouth to her. The hot press of his tongue over her fingers. Blood and iron and consecration, the wet click of his throat as he'd swallowed each slice and still asked for more.
Hunger squeezes inside of his chest. Endless roads and dingy motel rooms and she's pristine, some angel who dares to touch him, fleas and all, flannels and dirt near his collar. Terrifying. Unknowable. Elias doesn't know if he wants to vomit because his insides hurt or because it's been two weeks and the animal inside of him has never known how to live afraid like this, in the low-lying hum of terror against something unimaginably large.
But he doesn't want to hurt her. (Doesn't know if he can.) His hands tremble when they run restlessly over his thighs, clammy palms bunching and smoothing the fabric of his sweats. ]
Need to eat somethin'.
[ Someone. He looks at her, glassy-eyed. A shard of shame reflects in the blue of his irises. ]
Usually find faces people won't miss.
[ Two weeks and the red meat helped but it isn't what his body is cursed to want. He'll die, if he doesn't, joints aching, higher thought dissipating until all that's left is something feral and intentionally cruel, a wolf with pitch-black fur that isn't satisfied with bringing down life that moves on four legs. A rabid thing, trapped in his other shape, screaming at himself to stop but unable to think about anything except how fucking good it feels to have someone squirming underneath him, alive right until they're not—
His mouth salivates. He swallows thickly, ignoring the taste of iron in the back of his teeth. ]
M'no good to you like this, Johnny. Should've put me down when you met me. [ He laughs. Some bitter, flinty thing. ] Left me at a morgue.
[ Dead doesn't taste the same as alive. But it can work, sometimes, if he can stomach it. Elias closes his eyes so tight he sees spots and takes a shaky breath, hands balled into fists over his knees. Short nails too blunt to dig into his skin. Loathes that, loathes the black hole of feeling, loathes the way he wants her cool hand back over his forehead. ]
You gonna let me go?
[ Please let me. Please don't. ]
no subject
[ her voice comes quiet enough that the words take a while to unstick from her throat. but they come out clear, pinning themselves to the air between her and elias. she circles her fingers around the bone of his ankle, a light touch, a brittle reminder that she's real. that she has done much with her hands the past two weeks, feeding him and holding him, strapping him to a bedframe and pressing the muzzle of a gun to the soft parts of his head. ]
Killing me is the worst thing you can do at the moment. I'm not worried about that.
[ it's true enough. it's true in the only way that matters; johnny could die in this room and the wretched thing that bound itself to her will find a way to bring her back. every cell in her body no longer belongs to her. not one hair, not one fingernail, not one drop of spit or sweat. she bleeds and the red glistens with holy light for those with eyes to see.
angels are the greediest creatures to ever walk the earth. she has looked upon them and learned to be afraid. just as gabriel had appeared before the young mary, the handmaid of the lord, mother of ends and beginnings — an angel came upon her and bid her serve them.
for this is my body, which will be given up for you and for many.
there is no other answer allowed but yes. that's the difference between man and other, johnny knew; a man could say no and mean it. anything else could say no, and find itself twisted by circumstance or some greater force until it either died or surrendered.
death would be easy. killing each other, killing elias, or killing her — that would be the easy part. so she asks; ]
How much of a man do you need?
[ her hand tightens just the bit around his ankle. shifts, moves up to his calf — the muscle is stronger there, and she can feel it jump under her touch, even through the scratchy denim he's wearing. seven millimetres further back, and she can paralyse the leg with a needle.
he needs new clothes. she'll find him something when they get to the city. ]
Do you need them alive?
no subject
He still has his jeans on. His boots, even. Yet he can feel her hand up his calf and his teeth itch, every part of his body uncomfortable, skin too tight, coiled strength and discomfort. His lips, chapped, when he exhales a long shudder, finally opening his eyes and looking at her. ]
No.
[ They don't need to be alive. ]
It's better, if it—
[ He's never had to explain it. Put words to it, this vile, profane, fucked up thing he shares with so few. That so clearly makes him unhuman. He shakes his head, violently enough that stray strands unstick from behind his ears, fall messily over his forehead.
The last time this happened, more appetite than lunar, Elias followed a man on a greyhound bus. The guy had looked the type: ill-fitting clothes, yellowing teeth. 5'6", maybe 5'7". He hadn't finished him and left him there on the side of the road, offal for the earth. The next meal for the desperate predator with a stomach to keep themselves alive, picking the dirt clean. ]
Can get by on a little, if it's recent. If it's warm.
[ He's more wolf than man. The measure of a person, the sight that calls, even something as pedestrian as belief — Elias has none of those things. But he looks at Johnny anyway, studying the careful, cool planes of her face, when he says, quietly, ]
You shouldn't be askin' me about this.