And he shows them pearly white.

[:// 43]

2009-04-02T08:19:21Z

Jesus fucking Christ it's fucking April already.

Who the fuck wears shitty fucking breathing masks like the shitheaded retards they are? Levi, I hope you goddamn have an asthma attack in the middle of the night and die. Would save me the goddamned trouble of killing you one of these days.

Or go fucking tie a roll of tissue on top of your skull like

I don't give a fuckshit as long as you stop your retarded annoying sniffing away from me.

The same fucking goes for all of you goddamned retards who're stupid enough to have hay fever.

[ooc log post] Squalo + Badou.

2009-03-26T05:25:31Z

Who: Squalo and Badou.
When: SQUALO'S BIRTHDAY. omfg backdated it's all my fault i'm slow at tagging.
Where: Varia Mansion, Squalo's bedroom.
What: Badou attempting to sneak back in to punch Squalo over his birthday. Shit happens involving a lot of things like Squalo's hand and stuff. Angst and Lulz and Plot and everything ever.
Why: SQUALO'S BIRTHDAYYYYYYY. STFU. Plus we wanted to do something about Squalo's metal hand.
Note: Nobody saw this.

There was a reason Badou was, on average, chased screaming through the Underground City at least three times a week, if not more. This had to do mostly with Badou's abilities of stealth; that is to say, how he didn't have any.

Nevertheless, he had managed to keep himself quiet by falling back on the best of bad habits- lighting up and enjoying a crumpled cigarette. Taking the smoke deep in his lungs, the redhead grinned around the tar, congratulating himself on a job well done. It hadn't been any trouble at all convincing Squalo he couldn't stay over that night because of an early morning shift, and it had been even less trouble to ask one of the maids to tromp lazily down the stairs in an imitation of himself. In less than five minutes, it was going to officially be Squalo's birthday, and Badou would be the first one to punch him over it.

After he finished his cigarette, of course.

Squalo had been less pleased by the prospects (Badou had, after all, even refused his offer to drive him down to the station) and had gone to bed early, and at the very moment Badou was lurking somewhere very much unknown and relatively unnoticed, the swordsman was attempting to concentrate on the book on the Balkan Wars that he'd brought back from the library downstairs.

Except he wasn't doing too well in the actual reading part, of course.

Finally, after some half an hour or so and realising that he'd made absolutely no progress into the book apart from reading the blurb over and over, Squalo made an angry noise to self and slammed the book shut. Guess it was time to go to bed, then.

Without looking, the Italian reached out and turned the face of the alarm clock away from his side of the bed, the scowl on his face deepening. It was nothing. What the hell was he getting so annoyed about? (And no, there wasn't meant to be an answer to that, in any way)

At least it was a nice enough weather, thought Squalo to himself as he carefully twisted off the metal hand, laying it down on the said side table where the clock used to occupy. He can leave the windows open. The room still smelled like smoke.

Exactly 13 minutes after midnight, Badou swore loudly enough for the "fuckshit!" to carry down the winding marble staircase and startle a sleepy butler. This less-than-stealthy noise had come about as the gunman realised he had missed the first 13 minutes of Squalo's birthday [but goddamn, the smokes the Italian scored for him were high end shit, who could really blame him?].

Approximately 14 minutes after midnight, Badou kicked off his jeans, vaulted along the hallway as if pursued by rabid bears, flung open the Italian's bedroom door, and catapulted his entire body into Squalo's. The bed gave an almighty protest, the headboard of the four-poster cracking back against the wall. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU RETARDED PIECE OF PASTA-FUCKING SHIT!" crowed Badou as they skid-rolled haphazardly across the bed [and he didn't mind a bit as he became tangled up in white sheets and white hair].

And by approximately 13 minutes after midnight, the Italian was more or less on the very verge of being asleep. As it was considered one of the most vulnerable times in one's daily cycle, he was in no way prepared for the thunderous slam as the door burst open, and the subsequent roly-poly tumble of sheets and hair and lurch of the mattress.

Squalo yelped, partly at the sensation of what felt like a bag of bones (a bag of very sharp bones, and the bag itself being very, very thin) slamming into his chest, partly at anger (god damn it, can't they spend just one fucking night without causing goddamned ruckus around here?).

"God damnit- Ow- What the fuck-?!" The swordsman managed to struggle at least partly out of the oh-so-fucking-considerate assailant's grip, still half-winded from the impact. Fuck this, fuck Badou, fuck everything he was just the type to throw an ungodly racket in the middle of the night in a blatant, inconsiderate glee like this.

(However, even amid the chaos and the remnants of sleep still clinging to the edge of his consciousness, he had enough presence of mind to stop the odd quick of lips from showing).

With laughter erring on the side of deranged, Badou threw his leg [the one not twisted up in the comforter] high up on Squalo's hip to keep him from escaping, party-balloon and birthday cake boxers blinding. His arms snaked around the other's torso and tightened for a complete immobilization. "HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOOOU," sang the smoker, raspy voice not managing to hit a single key, "HAPPY BIIIITHDAY TO YOOOOU! YOU SMELL LIKE MEEEATBALLS, AND YOU FUUUCK THEM TOO!"

Hands on the move again, Badou's mismatched palms slid across broad shoulders, along toned biceps, and down pale forearms. He leant in, nose to nose with the Italian. In a husky voice, he mumbled, "I'm gonna punch you 23 hundred times, baby." The redhead's hands slid down further, to put Squalo's hands on his hips or maybe, hell, on a slice of birthday cake boxers-

-and his right hand closed around air.

Squalo froze.

Wide, deer-in-the-headlights grey-blue eyes met the single green one for a few seconds, a stark difference from the look in them a few seconds ago when the swordsman was trying to hold back the incredulous laughter-cringe at the off-key singing. It was the sort that the people didn't get to see very often, indeed didn't get to see if ever on the white-haired swordsman. They'd all seen too much and done too much for that look to ever suit them anymore.

It was to last only for a short while, though, before the Italian snapped out of it, turning his gaze away (the expression in them stuttering like window shutters on a windy day). He pulled the hand[arm] out of Badou's grip and hurriedly scrambled back against the other side of the bed, reaching over to snatch up the metal hand from its place atop the table, his every gesture seeming jerky and agitated, an odd look that didn't resemble in the slightest the assured, confident movement that was characteristic of Superbi Squalo.

Badou bit his lip, mentally berating himself to no end at his hesitation, his scarred hand extending after the other. "-Wait," he rasped, much quieter than before [he'd never seen that confidenceless kind of reaction out of the Italian before, and was already sure he'd take a goddamned bullet if it meant not seeing it again]. "Stop, wait, Squalo? Squalo."

Disregarding the boundaries still left, the redhead dogged after the other man, sitting firmly on his thighs and reaching out, hands closing around the other's jerky arms. He held the forearms tight in his grip, keeping the Italian from snapping the metal hand back on. Exhaling a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, Badou leaned forward, knocking his forehead against the side of the other's head [willing Squalo to look up again]. His own eye went back and forth between Squalo's averted face and the handless forearm. Slowly, fully aware of the fight-or-flight energy humming in Squalo's body [fully aware Squalo could toss him across the bedroom], he let his scarred hand drift over the top of the bandages twined around the arm. "-You don't need it," he murmured.

Squalo gritted his teeth tightly even as the redhead silently urged him to look up (the line of his shoulders still taut, his right hand curling into a tight fist; he could throw him, could punch the other across the room if he ever wanted to). The Italian's expression tightened, flickered with something that none of them could tell in the darkness (something that he didn't want to be able to identify) as Badou's hand touched the bandages so carefully wrapped around the arm.

He made no reply to Badou but made a movement to pull the said arm away again, his other hand coming up to press flat against the redhead's chest to push him back. It was no-one's business but his. His decision, albeit made at the age when black was black and white was pure, blinding white (now it was shades of differing grey and Squalo wasn't so sure if he liked the thought of even wanting this bright red pyromaniac burning away the faded ideals, the sunbleached photographs), and he would stick by it.

"Squalo," the smoker said again, not retreating even an inch as the other's palm pushed back [yes, he was a coward, but that just meant he would know better than anyone what risks were worth taking]. His left hand was placed over Squalo's right, shifting down to lightly grip at the wrist, taunt with resistance as Squalo put pressure on his chest. Still leaning his head against the other's, his other hand continued it's tentative path down, tracing the tidy bandages with cautious fingers [but any way you looked at it, it was still toying with barbed wire].

Making up his mind, he nosed soft white strands of hair aside, chapped lips seeking out the corner of Squalo's mouth [all twisted and tight]. "...Please," Badou exhaled, tilting his head to bump their lips together, a not-quite kiss. Thin, pale fingers crept the final inch down. "You should be proud of this." That single murky green eye flickered up to meet Squalo's. "I am."

Squalo let out a short bark of a noise, more like a sharp exhale, more like a noise someone would make who was resigned to the fact (resigned to the decisions and is really quite prepared to follow through whatever consequences, but sometimes the wind just blew too hard). "I am." His voice was quiet, the sudden hush in the room almost as surprising as the sudden whirlwind of chaos that had occupied the air previously, even as his shoulders tensed again at the feel of fingers against the carefully wrapped bandages.

"I am." The swordsman repeated, the other's chapped dry lips a scratch against his with every syllable, his right hand caught fast in Badou's grip flexing and tightening into a fist.

"Then there is no problem," responded Badou, in that same stark, quiet tone. The night breeze blowing through the trees in the wide garden could be heard in the lulls of silence between their words. His fingers weren't broken yet, that was a good sign [but how far could he push it before they were, that was the question]. A wry all-or-nothing smile lit across the redhead's face, unseen in the dim, though the Italian could probably feel it against his cheek.

With slow movements, Badou guided the handless arm around his own body, shifting closer still. His grips on Squalo's wrist and forearm slackened as he settled against the other more fully, the trust he put forward implicit [the last thing he wanted the Italian to feel was trapped]. His lips pressed another, more full kiss to Squalo's mouth [as if he were trying to force the tension out of Squalo's shoulders with the firmer pressure]. Parting after only a few brief moments, he let go of Squalo's good hand entirely, fingers coming up and brushing the other's long bangs aside.

"I-" The swordsman started, but something in the other's tone (something in the papercrease smile against his face) made him stop and stutter, feeling a strange sort of ache coming on from where his hand used to be. It wasn't like he needed it; he lived with this (nearly a decade; it should really have healed by now, the tingling sensation disconcerting) and it was his (or lack thereof). It was just.

Squalo's hand came up, his gaze flickering (between the same old hard determination and don't you see don't you see) as he half-cupped, half-gripped the side of the redhead's face, leaning in to press his lips against the other's. A finger brushed (just for a second) against the black leather stripes of Badou's eyepatch, the old leather smoothscratchy against his bare fingertip, before snaking in further into the redorange hair.

After a while, carefully (oh so carefully), the arm around Badou tightened.

Something claustrophobic and important rising in his chest at that tightened pressure, Badou couldn't help but smile into the kiss [not a sneering grin, not a shit-eating-smirk, just a warm, private smile]. He let out a shaky breath[chuckle] into the other's mouth, and after one last, lingering touch along the bandages, he released his last hold on Squalo draped his arms loosely around the other's shoulders. With a contented hum, he leant into the kiss, going deeper, a slow unwinding [acceptance, comfort, desire, all the shit he could barely think about seriously, much less express in actual words].

Pausing, breaking the kiss, Badou gave a relieved, cheeky exhale, forehead pressing to Squalo's. "Good. It hurts way more when you punch me with the metal one," he mumbled, the corners of his mouth twitching playfully with a suppressed grin.

"Then obviously I'm not hitting hard enough." Squalo burst out, but it was more out of yet another belated wave of awkwardness than anger or even annoyance (the arms around his shoulders, the forehead against his own somehow comforting instead of restricting, a weight not to hold him down but ground him), seeing from out the corner of his eye the metal hand lying on the side table like some sort of morbid modern art exhibit.

His form relaxed a little, then a little more when Badou's fingers finally left the bandages wrapped around his left forearm, and the swordsman let out a breath, slowly letting his hand leave Badou's mess of redorange hair and trail down his back, settling lightly but decidedly around his waist.

"That's not being a very jolly good fellow," rasped Badou back, nipping at the Italian's lower lip sharply. He grinned, shifting purposefully in the other man's grasp, the loosening of tightly wound muscles in Squalo's athletic frame not going unnoticed [and man, it was stupid to be happy about something like that, but Badou had always been prone to doing stupid, stupid things].

With a sudden, solid press forward [without breaking the strong loop of the other's arms around his waist], Badou had pushed the swordsman flat on his back, and was hovering low over him on elbows and knees. The redhead's eye ghosted over the proud tilt of the other's jaw [the stupid-long hair spilling over the sheets], and his grin widened, warmed. "I can sing a song to remind you about how to be a jolly good fellow and not a retarded asshole, if you want." Pausing, he brushed a dangerously fond kiss to the top of the other's jaw. "Dunno how much it'll help, though," he mumbled absently against the skin.

Squalo merely raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from the mortally embarrassed to one of careful indifference (a lord must have worn an expression much like this one when he was confronted with a hoard of beggars) as he shifted under the redhead, tilting his head a little. His arms shifted, however, his fingers tracing the sharp knocks and bumps of the redhead's spine.

Before the said hand clamped down unexpectedly around Badou's waist, and with a sudden push, it was Squalo pressing the other down into the sheets, a grin finally breaking over his face.

"You can't hit a single note." The Italian said, breath ghosting over the paleshallow skin of the side of the other's neck, absently humming the birthday song low in his throat before he leant in further and nipped lightly at an earlobe. "I don't think that'd work as a reminder."

Lips trailed down the side of Badou's neck slowly, the humming broken only by the occasional press of teeth and tongue against skin. "More like a torture."

The redhead laughed at the humming [a burst of bright noise after all that hushed quiet], laughed at the other's constant competitive streak [Squalo didn't need two hands to get the upper-hand, that was for damn sure]. Around the chuckling came a sigh in aggravation [though it came out a little shaky] at the press of lipsteethtongue along the column of his neck. Even though his eye had lidded, he could still see that idiot grin in his mind's eye [that was annoying, so annoying].

"No torture today," Badou promised, voice smoky and amused, lacing his fingers lazily across the fair skin of other's nape. "On my smokes. The punches don't count, that's-" an intake of breath, more like an inwards laugh, "-cultural. Rite of passage kinda shi- oh. Shouldn't I be doing this to you?"

However, the Italian was just as determined to make Badou forget about the birthday punches; if he had a hand of steel, then the redhead had knife-sharp knuckles to make up for it. "I don't know," Squalo rested his chin on the other's shoulder for a moment, eyes flickering to seek out the other's green, and tilted his head slightly to nudge Badou's chin upwards. His teeth scraped over the Adam's apple, and the Italian grinned. "I quite like this better though."

"You're annoying," murmured the freckled man matter-of-factly as his head tipped back, the content, pleased tone contradicting the words more than a little. "Even if it is your birthday." His scarred hand slipped from the other's nape, palm brushing down the Italian's defined chest. The hard angles were familiar to the touch [but that didn't seem to deter him from running his fingers along the planes, exploratory and indulgent]. "Ah. Control freak. Sadist. Asslover. Let me know when you're finished so I can-"

He paused, cutting himself off. "-Harder," he said instead, left hand slipping into that clean shock of white. After all, just because Squalo was annoying, he'd said no torture. This in mind, his voice became dead-pan. "Ooh, sexy. You know how baby likes it. Ahuh. Ahuh."

"You're annoying all the time, birthday or not." Squalo muttered against the junction of where Badou's neck and shoulder met, the exhale of breath at the feel of fingers in his hair not exactly annoyed and giving another (slightly harder) lingering bite, tongue smoothing over the indentation of teeth that he'd left; there was sure to be a mark there, although in the darkness it was hard to tell.

His expression, however, shifted from amused to first hint of annoyance (with the redhead, Squalo had the worst mood swings - anger and annoyance and rage and exasperation and stupid, retarded stuff in a crazy kaleidoscopic cycle) at Badou's deadpan delivery, and the Italian shifted slightly to jab an elbow sharply into the redhead's abdomen. "Shut up."

"Ooh, yeah, Squalo, you big Italian sausage, uhn, uh- oof," coughed Badou. He laughed again [the freckles on his face seeming to stand out all the more as colour heated his cheeks at the spot already feeling sore on his neck]. "Fucker. Can the no-torture rule work both ways?" he whined, impulsively burying his nose into all that retarded-ass hair. "Please?" he rasped. A skinny leg hooked around the swordsman's waist, reeling him in [and among silver-white strands, Badou's expression was sly]. "I'm trying to be nice and everything. I have great shit planned for today, y'know. I'm kind of the best-" he stumbled, here, but recovered, "-redhead who makes you feel all tingly in your girlparts ever."

Squalo lifted his head, turning slightly to peer at the redhead (missing the sly expression, but it was unmistakeable in Badou's voice, rasp or not). "But it's my birthday," he said, leaning back in to press his lips against the purpling mark on the redhead's neck. "So I get to do whatever I want."

He let the unwitting stumble slide; it wasn't like Badou had the best skills at keeping his mouth shut, and right now, he had other things to occupy his mind with. Slowly, with a smug grin (a sharp exhale of breath hissed out from between his teeth) Squalo let himself be reeled in, shifting to slide his hips forward. "What girl parts?"

Badou bit his lip around another chuckle[gasp], too comfortable to stop himself from arching subtly up [the wiry muscle in his calf and thigh tightening around the other's body probably all too obvious, but damnit Badou didn't give a shit anymore]. "Do you have a Lego in your pocket," he mumbled back, warm lips finding the shell of an ear to busy themselves with.

"You can do what you want, not who you want," he added quickly, feeling the smirk against his skin. Contrary to this, he hooked his other leg up around the swordsman [even Badou himself couldn't seem to unblur what was contradiction for the sake of contradiction and just simple contradiction anymore].

"Only you'd think it was." The swordsman muttered against Badou's neck, giving another half-hearted jab to the ribs (bare fingers slipping in under the hem of the redhead's tshirt, feeling slightly cold against the skin). He trailed his lips up along the side of Badou's neck, only pausing slightly to glance at the purpling mark. A slow intake of breath, and the slowly widening smirkgrin was the only acknowledgement that Squalo made at the other's motion and he nipped at the skin just below Badou's jaw. "You don't count as a person."

"Fuck you," hummed the redhead absently, shifting under those cool fingers. Trying to ignore the other's ever-growing air of smugness was a task, but the clever mouth working up his jaw was a good distraction [Squalo was a goddamn distraction]. "Stop poking me," he whined in a rasp, head tipped back. Nicotine stained fingers traced lines of other's back and shoulders, shameless in their exploration of the hard musculature. They then skimmed down the other's sides, short nails [bitten to the quick] dragging lightly on the skin. Giving another lazy arch up, Badou added in a sigh, "In both places. It's annoying."

Squalo shifted slightly at the feel of nails dragging against his skin, giving a half-nothing noise that wouldn't have even been heard if his mouth currently wasn't occupied with the pulse jumping at the other's throat, under the thin papery skin that looked and tasted as if all the smoke that Badou was inhaling daily had somehow soaked into it (hair and skin and sheets and furniture and ceilings, Badou was a walking mini-pollution all by himself, leaving trails of smoke to hunt him down by). "Your fault." The Italian said shortly, tilted his head slightly, now almost absently (almost) worrying the redhead's earlobe.

"My fault, huh?" Badou couldn't help the twitch of his lips into a grin at the clipped words, the nibbling on his ear making his toes curl. "Maybe I should take care of it, then," he mumbled back wryly, fingers on Squalo's back spidering around his torso, down the curve of a hip, scarred palm flattening against the other's toned stomach. The drawstring on Squalo's pajamas was easily pulled apart [he wanted to undo Squalo just as easily]. "Maaaan," drawled the redhead in a low voice, seemingly unconcerned [but his face was tinged with colour],"man, you'd be piiiissed if I birthday punched you right now."

Breath hitching audibly in his throat (the sound louder in the darkness, almost louder than the slide of cotton and silk as he shifted), Squalo lifted his head up to catch Badou's eye, his gaze sharp (darkened grey searching out the green). "You don't even fucking know." With that, he leant in to press his lips against the other's.

Badou's answering laugh was muffled by the other's kiss, his left hand still roving Squalo's back, grasping at the network of scars [the thin white lines, criss-crossing and erratic, that marked the path of a sword emperor]. He sat up a little for better leverage, kissing back harder, one of his gangly legs falling with a quiet whump back down onto the mattress. Gun-calloused fingers teased the line of the Italian's pants, then went lower to start a stilted but firm massage, tentative touch slow. When the kiss broke, he did not move his mouth from the other's, but glanced downwards quickly once, twice, expression half determined, half nervous [similar to how a poor dancer looks down at his feet, to make sure he's doing it right]. "Uh, is this-"

There were so many things wrong with having only one hand. The benefits to understanding the last sword emperor (still clinging to that confident, determined stubborn little voice from his childhood) didn't quite compare to, say, struggling to keep your eyes open and your elbows from buckling so that you didn't collapse and crush this nothing of a goddamned redhead. Didn't do much for chasing after the said redhead, either (but he wasn't running away, this time, and Squalo didn't know whether he should be warned by the sharpbright shiver going up his spine at the realisation).

Squalo sat up slightly (leaning back a little even as Badou sat up, half-closed eyes dark) and brought his hand to the back of the redhead's neck, tangling and winding his fingers tightly around the orangey locks of scraggly hair. His words were nothing more than a half-growled out pant, giving a sharp jerk of his grip on Badou's hair. "If you stop now I'll fucking cut off your fucking hand."

"But then where would you be, as far as these kind of things go?" murmured the smoker back, smoky voice more amused than anything else. And for once, he didn't stop, didn't give a cruel smirk and a cold shoulder [and he hoped Squalo wasn't going to die of shock, or cardiac arrest from the fact, after all the stupid trouble]. Badou watched the tense expression play across Squalo's features, much different than the one before [and much, much more welcome]. There were already way too many damn things that Badou actually admitted that he liked about Squalo, but this panting-hot-breath against his cheek being added to the list deserved the recognition. His face warmed, and he pressed a few messy kisses along the fine slope of the Italian's jaw [still embarrassing, it was as if he couldn't really help himself].

With the same sort of amused, embarrassed, incredulous air, Badou slid his hand upwards, then down again, beneath the cotton of the other's pants. "Fuck," he accidentally mumbled out loud, sounding as if he were surprised by what his fingers wrapped firmly around. "Shut up," he added, although the other hadn't said anything [though, he was willing to bet he was now in a position to make Squalo say any damn thing he wanted].

Squalo silently echoed the sentiment (he might have said it under his breath, he might not have said it through seemingly frozen tongue, but it was all so very much obvious in the way that his eyes slid shut completely, teeth clenching together hard, the fingers vice-like clamp around the redorange locks, almost even more so than his steel one could ever have.

He bowed his head just a little, silverwhite hair sliding over and around his shoulders at the motion, breath warm against Badou's hair (smelling just a little stale, just a little muddy and ashy enough to make Squalo want to just breathe in forever). "Well what the fuck did you expe-"

"Shut up," Badou interrupted, breaking the slow rhythm he had begun to establish to squeeze [whether in punishment or in reward was uncertain, and that was rather more characteristic of the two of them]. His other hand traced almost clumsily along hard stomach muscles and toned chest, slinking up into Squalo's hair. While lining the shell of the Italian's ear with light, nipping kisses, he let out a quiet, satisfied exhale [unabashedly loving the feel of that proud body shivering and twitching from just a light stroke of his fingers].

There was an odd, choking noise (half-surprise half-annoyance half-ohmygod) from deep within the Italian's throat at the squeeze, and he gave another hard, jerky tug at Badou's hair that would have been nearly enough to pull strands out by the roots. "Bitch," he gasped out, with a tone that started out with an intent of being somewhat angry but ended up halfway through into a sharp exhale against Badou's shoulder. The bandage was rough against the other's skin as Squalo brought his other arm up, hooking it around Badou's neck.

Badou huffed an irritable laugh at the hard yank on his hair, his head tilting with the force of the the pull [but to be totally honest, he didn't mind it a little rough]. His motions stilled again, and both hands relocated to the other's toned hips, grabbing hold of Squalo's pajama bottoms and tugging them down to just below his knees. Face pressed against the side of Squalo's head, he abandoned the reddened ear and glanced down again, watching his fingers scratch up the Italian's thighs with no little fascination. Slammed with a mad impulse [an image in his mind that made the heat between his own legs burn], he shuffled awkwardly backwards, lying down on his stomach and propping himself up on his elbows [the bandages dragging against the nape of his neck a reminder that Squalo trusted him, the painful grip in his hair a reminder that trying to run away wouldn't be easy anymore]. His scarred hand slid back up the inside of a shaking thigh to wrap around Squalo, stroking fully as the other hand clutched at the other's hip, holding him in place. This bracing sort of maneuver was probably good foresight, as he then ducked his head and pressed a hard, sucking bite to the thigh [the scruffy ends of his hair trailing along the reddened paths his nails had left].

"Oh," a breathless (gasping like a dying fish just out of the water, hook line and fucking sinker too) laugh, half-incredulous, half-just a little bit hysterical (just who the fuck could have known this would fucking happen, and just-) escaped the Italian as his head fell back slightly. "Oh shit-" The words died in his throat as Squalo's eyes snapped open wide, the frazzled slide of redorange hair against his skin and the momentary sting of the hard bite raising goosebumps on his skin, the rough folds of the bandage momentarily pressing down hard against the back of Badou's neck as he shuddered.

Even as he bit down again on the taunt muscles of Squalo's inner thigh, Badou's eye flickered up [starved for how the other looked like this, wanting to take a picture of it all and spend way too much time in the darkroom developing it]. Lapping his tongue over the twin bites, his breath was as heavy as the movements of his hand. The weight on his nape made it all too easy to drop his head into where thigh met body, and draw a messy line of licks and kisses ot the sensitive skin there. "Squalo," he rasped lowly, almost a murmur, not wanting to drown out the sound of the other's harsh breath and strange laughter [but not being able to hold his tongue either, he never had been].

Squalo jerked slightly at the bite, another shaky, faint exhale leaving his open lips (a sharp gasp following immediately after, the heat coiling in his gut and burning through the muscles - but this was a much different kind of fight). "Ow, motherfucking-" His hand flexed in the tangled grip on the redhead's hair but it was mostly out of sheer effort to keep still than anything else, the taut muscles in his arms useless in agitation (feeling the breath in his lungs shallowing, the darkened grey eyes shuttering as he curled against the sure, firm touches). "-Fuck."

"Mm," hummed Badou against the other's thigh, giving it another cursory lick as his fingers increased in pace around the other. His other hand slowly stroked the small of Squalo's back, almost a soothing touch [though needing comfort was probably the last thing Squalo felt right now, if ever]. He could practically taste the other's arousal as he pressed more biting kisses higher and higher up the Italian's thigh [and it was fucking heady, a smug voice in the back of his head going he's like this because of you unable to be silenced]. With a sort of mad, happy chuckle, the redhead's hand left the dip of the other's back, pushing at Squalo's ribcage. "Lie down," he muttered, warm puffs of breath rather close to extremely sensitive areas. He gave a harder push and another laugh. "Lie down."

The bed didn't even make a sound apart from a muffled whump as Squalo teetered onto his back, the sound of his breath hitching loud in the dark, almost embarrassingly so (the slow steady tinge of red rising up onto the surface, across the high cheekbones and slightly creased, frowning forehead). The sound of that chuckle (manicmadcrazyhilariouswhat the hell's so funny asshole, slight narrowing of the light-coloured eyes as they focused sharply on the redhead) sent a flash of annoyance through the Italian, and while a tiny part of his rational mind was glad at the fact that, well, at least something wasn't changed at all, the rest of Squalo's senses were focused on the other's hands (the fucking stingingwethot bites to his skin) with an intensity that almost physically hurt.

With a grin, Badou sat up up enough to strip off his t-shirt [pulling the neck wide so as not to dislodge his eyepatch, then tossing it carelessly right at Squalo's face], then shimmied up in between the Italian's legs. His hands returned to the other quickly, caressing and stroking their way down the other's torso before going lower again. Bending over the Italian's stomach, Badou pressed hard, open-mouthed kisses to the jumping abs [his hair a bright trail that slithered down after him]. As if feeling the annoyed stare on the top of his head, Badou glanced briefly up, his expression a little wicked. The shafts of moonlight coming in from the big veranda window was just enough to see the colour streaking Squalo's face [making his smirk even wider]. His hand sped up, grip tightening, and he laid his cheek [patch down] on the other's stomach, just next to where his hand was working at the other. "Do you want me to stop?" he rasped teasingly enough, though he made no motion to do so at all.

Squalo's hand finally left the confines of Badou's hair as he reached up to angrily tear the t-shirt off his face, throwing it to one side. He'd, admittedly, felt a brief moment of what the fuck as the red on his face deepened just a little more, but the embarrassment and anger dissipated quickly (he couldn't help it, not if Badou's doing that-ohmygod) and his eyes almost closed back again then and there, head tilting back just so.

"If you fucking- ah- stop now," the Italian pressed his left forearm tightly against his eyes, the scrape of bandage rough against his skin (the gun-calloused fingers rough against him), curling his fingers tightly into the bedsheets instead of back to the orangeyred hair. It was hard forcing words through the mouth that was already gasping. "-Going to fucking throw you out the- window."

The redhead knew the script, knew that here is where he tossed out a witty remark about how Squalo would be too busy clinging to him and whimpering like a girl to toss little old him out the window. However, he was instead caught totally off guard by the way Squalo gripped at the sheets, the way the Italian's breath couldn't seem to come fast enough [and the comedic timing flew by, unnoticed]. "Shit," he swore under his breath, heat curling low in his stomach. How the fuck did he even manage to end up this retarded, loud-ass motherfucker [and when the fuck did he suddenly start thinking he should buy some bananas or some shit, in the pursuit of knowledge that would make Squalo's fucking eyes roll back?].

Badou no longer felt like teasing, and the messy line he licked and bit down the Italian's hip, the firmness of his movements, more than reflected that. His scarred hand burned a little with the friction and the heat [but it just made him sink his teeth in harder, made his fingers tighten and stroke even faster].

And that was just as good for Squalo, because he really wasn't in any sort of position to really think clearly (or even speak, for that matter) anymore, gritting his teeth tightly until it hurt even as a low, shuddering hiss shook out from inside his throat (an elbow pressing down, digging down hard into the soft sheets and the mattress, seeking for some leverage, any leverage, for the fingershand around him and the teeth sharp against his skin).

"Badou," there was something odd about the way the Italian said his name, a little strange, the intonation a little slurred, half-desperate (and he had said it a thousand times before, exasperated and annoyed and angry and furious and incredulous and tired and quiet and-) and with a sluggish movement, Squalo pushed himself up a little, sitting up on his elbows (the tips of his fingers hurt even with the silk sheets, gripping hard enough that, if it were his other hand, it could have torn right through) and staring down at the redhead with wide eyes.

As Squalo shifted, Badou's own murky green eye glanced up, meeting his stare [and it was fucking ridiculous that he'd blush now, with his hand where it was and his mouth slipping precariously close to his hand]. He lifted his head, his breathing quick, thin lips parted to grab the extra air that didn't seem to be anywhere in the room. Without any grace, he clambered up Squalo's body, the knock of their foreheads together a footnote compared to how much he wanted to kiss the other man. His hand still moved between them, that hot heaviness against his scarred palm a strangely satisfying weight, like holding a loaded gun [yeah yeah, don't 'shoot' your eye out, fucking hilarious]. Lips covering the other's in a messy kiss, Badou rasped, "Come on, come on," into the Italian's mouth, free hand sliding down shoulder and forearm, unclenching the other's hand from the bedding [putting it on his curled-over lower back, just above his ass]. "Come on," he repeated with a breathless sort of laugh, pressing the line of his nose along Squalo's, smoky voice scraping with lust. "I want you to."

With a little strangled noise Squalo leant up, headtilted lipsopen hot, heavy breath against the redhead's face as he positively bit down on the other's lips, bit down hard enough to bruise and then delved in deeper, the brief ache from the inadvertent headknock going unheeded in the sheer almost desperation that he felt. Fingers grasped, nails scratchingscraping across the pale skin of Badou's lower back (fuck, fuckfuck it always seemed like Squalo couldn't fucking get Badou closer enough and guess it still applied, birthday or not) and the Italian muttered breathlessly himself too (though the meaning was lost in the pants and half-gasps, the sound growing deeper and heavier like the movement of the redhead's hand), lips pressing against the corner of the redhead's mouth. Squalo's eyes were wide, but the darkened grey gleam in them was still focused (almost as if the bandaged arm digging uselessly into the sheets beside him still held a sword), and he shifted his head to press another hard biting kiss against Badou's lips even as his fingers hooked around the elastic of the redhead's boxers.

With a quiet ah Badou arched against the nails clawing into his lower back [hoping they left marks, hoping he'd feel them for days]. He let the Italian bruise his mouth with his fierce kisses, opening his lips wide to the intrusion, wanting more. The movements of his grasping fingers became calculated, exploiting what [judging by the swearing, the gasping, the skin peeled off his back] Squalo wanted more of, too. He didn't close his eye, wanting to commit the way Squalo panted and bucked into his hand to memory [shit, he'd want two working eyes just for the sake of being able to watch Squalo fall apart even better]. He returned the biting kisses hard, managing for a few seconds to sync the press of his tongue and the movement of his hand [but it fell apart quickly, he couldn't fucking concentrate when Squalo was making those noises, looking like he wanted to climb into Badou's frame].

"You- F-fuck, Badou-" Squalo's head fall back onto the bed, the ivorywhite hair laying in a tangled mess on the sheet (caught damp with sweat across his face) as he gasped again, his kisses becoming more sloppy (more careless more desperate, fingers raking up the redhead's spine loving all the quiet, barely-there noises from the other and always wanting more). The wet warm coiling heat in his guts tightened, momentarily making his fingers, so sure and firm usually, stutter and pause to clutch at the lean wiry muscles of Badou's shoulder. "I-"

"I want you to," Badou murmured again, almost lost amidst the frantic clashing of mouths, something scorching and possessive rising in the pit of his stomach as the other choked out his name. More of that would be good, almost as good as the grasping, shaking nails scoring up his back. He broke off the kissing, breathing hard and laboured, then leant in with a slow tongue to taste the other's jawline [saltysweet with perspiration]. His voice was just that bit hoarse [he couldn't deny how much this was what he wanted, needed], rough at the edges, as he rasped against the other's cheek, "I wanna see you, come on, Squalo..."

He couldn't seem to be able to stop swearing, really nothing more than soft pants and sharp hitch of breath (inhaling the air that Badou had exhaled) and Squalo's eyes clenched shut tight, throat working as he swallowed dryly (his entire body faintly burning with the friction of skin against skin). "Ba- shit, Badou," his own voice sounded odd to him, half-muffled against the side of the redhead's face and by the combined mess of tangled hair and skin. His fingers grasped at the sharp bones of Badou's upper arm, the shoulders, seeing the blackness behind his eyes beginning to blur with steadily rising heat in his gut. The Italian gave a hoarse, choked gasp, the only warning he could give at that very moment, before the muscles in his stomach tightened, the bandaged left arm coming to wrap back around Badou's neck and pull him up to crush their mouths together again.

The lips moving against Squalo's forceful kiss twitched, slowly spread into a crooked grin. Between them, the shadow of the redhead's hand slowed to a leisurely stroke, but didn't stop, drawing every last harsh breath from the other man that it could. Aware that his other arm was beginning to shake from propping himself up, he collapsed down, half on Squalo's side and half on Squalo [all tangled up in hair and tongues and stickywet warmth, and damn pleased to be there]. Finally, he broke the kiss, his chest rising and falling quickly against the Italian's. Fingers slipping up from between the other's legs, he gave a small, playful slap to Squalo's abdomen, pressing his face into the top of the other man's jaw, still grinning [struck dumb by how he didn't want to say anything].

Squalo wordlessly tightened his arms around the redhead, gathering the other in close against him (hot puffs of breath and the racingloud heartbeats, the twitch and shiver of muscles still all too evident through the kiss, despite the leisurely feel to it). A last slow, vaguely shaky breath of air passed from his lips as they broke the kiss, and Squalo squinted down at the mass of tangled red hair. After a few moments, his left arm tightened around Badou a fraction more (the red hair clinging to the pale bandages). "-I can't believe you just did that." A steadily rising note of surprise (and just a little bit of annoyance; feeling as if the upper hand had been reversed) was plain in Squalo's voice.

Badou laughed at the incredulous, pseudo-suspicious tone of the other, colour smudging across the bridge of his nose. He wiped his hand perfunctorily on the sheets, then draped the arm lazily across Squalo's chest, curving himself into the other's arms [bony and boneless all at once]. "I didn't, uh, plan on it," he rasped back honestly, twining his leg absently with the other's. Although he was still extremely turned on, he wasn't in a rush to do much about it, happy enough for now to soak in Squalo's satisfation [and that gobsmacked look on his face, man he'd never get tired of that, either]. "Uhm. Mostly, I was just gonna jump on your bed. And probably elbow-drop you, I dunno, I didn't think much farther ahead than that." Fighting the stupid fucking flush again, he spread his fingers on the other's chest, thick scar tissue rough against the smooth skin.

"You never plan anything out." The Italian pointed out, his tone still rather skeptical, though there was a definite tinge of half-laughter in it (the way his fingers pulled closer at Badou, almost as if he didn't really believe that the redhead was there at all in the first place). "Retard." After a sort of silence (a comfortable kind of silence where only half-thoughts floated around, not the awkward silence where the very air got crowded out by questions sometimes), Squalo glanced down at the redhead again. "This really isn't happening, is it? It's like a fucking retarded dream and any minute now I'm going to wake up and you'll be doing something stupid like- I don't know - cooking waffles or something-"

"You like waffles," Badou hummed lethargically against the other man's shoulder. He shifted, getting comfortable, not seeming to mind being tucked in closer against the Italian. "A lot, actually."

"That isn't the point." Squalo's voice had a certain annoyed edge to it this time, although his form relaxed just a little against the shift of the other's body. "I wasn't talking about the waffles and whether I like them or not, it's-" An annoyed sound left his throat and the Italian shrugged irritably, lifting a hand to tuck behind his head (his left arm curling tentatively around the other, however, the slightest brush of bandage across thin shoulders). "Nevermind."

Badou made a noise to show that he was listening [he wasn't, which was what the noise really showed]. "Im gonna make waffles tomorrow," he mumbled in response, a content drawl.

"You're fucking impossible." The Italian sighed, and he tiredly blinked a few times, a yawn escaping him.

Hearing the yawn [feeling it breeze against the top of his head], redhead's eyebrows drew together and then quirked. His eye blinked open wider as he sat up [the bandaged arm sliding down his back] and looked down at the Italian, ending up half-straddling him. Cocking his head, he zeroed in on the tired eyes, and his eyebrows shot into his hairline. "Oh, hell no," Badou rasped, tone as incredulous as Squalo's was before. "Is this how it's gonna go? You rollin' over and going to sleep?" He made as if to vacate the bed, but couldn't seem to unwind himself from Squalo and the bedding. "Fuck this noise, I'm gonna go see if anyone worth my time wants a piece."

Squalo made an irritated noise in his throat, an eye opening wider to stare up at the redhead, lips curling into an annoyed frown as he shifted to pull the other back into his grasp, (almost)inadvertently locking one of Badou's arms to his side in the process. "Shut the hell up, you're the one who wasn't goddamned listening-" He muttered against the redhead's shoulder, blinking once, twice, his eyes losing some of the bleariness.

Badou struggled in the other's hold, and even though his voice and words were cutting, the corners of his mouth twitched with unspoken amusement. "What the fu- ow, let me go- all the shit you've been talking, I thought you fucking Italian assholes were into gettin' off ten times a night and then five times more the next morning, should'a known that was a load'a crap-" Trying to free his arm, he shifted the knees on either side of Squalo for leverage, but only ended up twisting the sheets across his calf and around his opposite ankle, effectively trapping himself as he squirmed more. "Motherfuck-"

The Italian's hand rose and clamped around Badou's wrist and pulled it away, his left arm still tightly wrapped around the redhead's other arm and torso. "Were you looking forward to that?" Squalo leant up, tilting his head a little to one side to brush his lips against the side of Badou's neck, lips spreading into a grin against the skin.

The smoker froze, face colouring in what was mostly irritation [the warm brush of smug lips against his skin harder to ignore than it should've been- stupid asshole, goddamned piece of shit pastafucker]. "Guess so, yeah. Can I maybe get some of your shitty ex-tramps' numbers, then? Sooner rather than later, I mean, I been unsatisfied more than long enough-"

"But you burnt them all." Squalo countered, the face half-hidden in the darkness wearing an expression that was more smug than ever. Slowly, the swordsman reached out to the bedside table again (quiet snap of steel latching shut, a subtle change in Squalo (no less smug, but just a fraction of a glimmer of sharpness in his grin, the rising of pale eyebrows) probably not going unnoticed as he glanced down at the hand, then back up at the redhead. "Guess you're stuck with me."

"Guess so. Excuse me while I fuckin' swoon," responded the redhead in a monotone, unable not to grin. Said grin slipped a little uncertainly as his eye slid down to the metal hand as Squalo adjusted it [and why did that snap sound so ominous?]. "What are you-" he started suspiciously, but he didn't get to finish.

The next morning, Badou was far, far too tired to make any waffles.

[He was not too tired, however, to attempt to give Squalo 23 hundred birthday punches.]

[://42]

2009-03-06T05:58:19Z

Badou.

I made the appointment for this evening.

I'm picking you up from work.

[:// 41]

2009-03-03T05:17:29Z

More new fucking people.

Don't fucking talk to me if you're going to be retarded and annoying. I'll fucking cut you.

{ hmd }

2009-02-08T06:58:52Z

HOW'S MY ~~FERRARI~~.

Go for it. 8U

comment | critique | stuff lke that.

anon is on and ip is off.

[://40]

2009-02-02T09:17:38Z

Almost forgot about this place, I guess. Can't be helped. This shit is fucking retaaarded.

Hn. Had stuff to do and shit.

There's nothing to say apart from that. What the fuck is up with you fuckers?

[://39 ::: accidental "voice" post]

2009-01-02T08:39:55Z

[ heavy wind in the background, almost rendering the words incoherent before the actual syllables cut through, though crackling as if due to bad reception ]

FUUUUUUCK THIS SHIT, IT'S FUCKING FREEZING!

[ crunching of boots in snow, another curse as something heavy falls with a thud quiet near him ]

Fucking stupid retaaards running all the way out here..

[ muttered out, almost to himself, and another few, dull sounds are broken through amid the static ; could be steel sliding into flesh and bones, could be nothing out of ordinary at all, just frozen weather tricking the machines and ear alike -- before he lets out a sharp bark of laughter ]

Heh. Well. Not that something like YOU could have fucking hidden for that long, aaah?

[ with a roar of piercing static and screeching almost-scream that's probably a trick of the weather, transmission cuts out ]

[ooc: he's away on a job somewhere - northern europe? /// AND IDK YOU CAN TAG WITH NORMAL TAGS I GUESS SINCE THIS IS A "VOICE" POST IN ELJAY idk man do what you want except like, idk say if it's a voice tag.]

[ooc log post] Squalo + Badou.

2008-12-22T06:21:04Z

Who: Squalo and Badou.
When: After the Kimbley and Badou log HERE
Where: Varia mansion.
What: IDK DON'T ASK.
Why: Because we felt like it.
Note: Nobody saw this.

When Badou blinked awake [groggily, eyelid feeling heavy as a slab of granite], he immediately regretted doing so due to a pounding, insistent ache in his head. All of his first thoughts contained the word fuck as he slowly surfaced out of a drug-haze of a dream [and all of his second thoughts too]. Sitting up among soft sheets, he blearily looked around, pleased to find he wasn't in a dumpster or beneath a pile of rubble or back in a foreign hospital-

-where he'd probably gotten Ed and himself in a hell of a lot of trouble.

"Well, shit," he croaked absently to the calm, empty air of Squalo's bedroom. Sliding clumsily out of bed, he sleepwalked his way to the private bathroom, rounding the cream porcelain sink and leaning on it.

"Shit," he repeated, staring at a reflection that would be better suited for the role of a mummy in a horror flick. Carefully, he touched at the bandages obscuring almost the entire right side of his face, and some of the left, only his left eye and a small area around a bruised and chapped mouth open to the air. The bandages snaked up to the right side of his head, his hair exploding out oddly from between the wrappings. As if that weren't enough, both his forearms and right hand were also bandaged, and a quick look down his t-shirt and the at skinny bare legs revealed a path of dark bruises.

All in all: Badou Nails, extremely fuckin' shabby.

He grimaced, which hurt his face, which hurt his already hurting head, and decided he was not ready to face this day without a hundred cigarettes and a bowl of Fruit Loops first. After grabbing a pack of smokes off the nightstand, he walked in a worryingly zig-zagging line into the hall, heading for the stairwell.

And halfway up the stairs with a full breakfast tray in hand (the doctor said that Badou probably wouldn't be waking up anytime soon but that didn't mean that he couldn't put some fucking cereal by on the bedside table, just in case - just in case just in case a jumble of mixed letterswords in his head and that kind of hopelesshelpless feeling sinking into his gut) Squalo looked up at the sound of uneven staggering footsteps, falteringwandering dangerously shuffling like a fucking baby deer on ice or something--

The tray clattered down the stairs (clangclangclackclackclack bumping and rattling at every step), scattering bits of milk and cereal on the carpet and leaving trails of silver cutlery, before finally landing in an upended heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Squalo, on the other hand, had already lunged forward, almostnearly tripping on the steps and muttering out a curse (fuckfuckfuckshitfuckthankfuckinggod). Seizing Badou around the shoulders with an arm, the other one hooking around the redhead's knees, Squalo scooped him up as easily as if Badou weighed nothing (the whitestale flutter of bandages making him tighten his grip just a little).

The carefulness with which he laid Badou back down on the bed was a stark contrast from a minute ago when he nearly kicked the hinges right off the door, and the Italian crawled in next to Badou (shoes and awkward random tightness in his chest and all), reaching out to wrap an arm loosely around the other's shoulders and then, only then, almost as an afterthought, remembering to take a breath, the antiseptic smell strong in the air. Almost even stronger than cigarettes.

"Uhm," gasped Badou, head spinning with the suddenness of it all, the jarring quickness that his aching head couldn't even begin to process. Stomach lurching a little, he shut his eye tight, trying to will everything in his vision to stop whirling. Curled instictively up to his chest, his bandaged hand clenched into a fist convulsively, and a sharp intake of breath at the pain it caused hissed between his teeth [owowowfuckingshit he could barely remember the fight, just the spray of blood and bullets and the cloying smell of smoke from explosions hazingobscuring his memory].

When he opened his eye again, the blurry, shaking outline of Squalo's collarbone took a long while to come into real focus. He arched his body tiredly closer, trying to concentrate on the rise and fall of breath of the Italian's chest than his aching head and body. "Morning," he ventured, voice rough like his vocal chords had been shorn with sandpaper [he could only half-recall the laughter that had ripped them apart, half-recall the screaming].

Squalo didn't say anything but just took another slow, deep breath (antiseptic and iodine and stale blood still clinging to Badou's hair, the bandages around his head), pressing his cheekbone against the top of the other's head before exhaling, the red hair sticking out in haphazard spikes (like a particularly maltreated doll) fluttering a little at the motion. He could feel the bandage rough beneath his face and only loosened his grip around Badou's shoulder with an effort, though his fingers still twitched a little, the edges of his breathing just a little too shakey.

"-Afternoon." He finally muttered out, only belatedly remembering to try to stop (unsuccessfully) the- this- thing, the tightness in his chest, heartbeat like crazed lightblinded moth under his skin, the fingers that kept curlingtightening against the thin shirt and the crumpled sheets. Squalo closed his eyes, his other hand clenching into a tight fist, the slight creak of metal and leather almost audible in the silence. "...Asshole."

The quirk of Badou's lips into a wry grin [grimace] only caused a slight twinge of pain that barely even surfaced over the dull throbbing of everything else. "Afternoon," he creaked in corrections [he could feel Squalo's heart slamming against his chest as if he'd run up and down the stairs not once but a hundred times, knew it wasn't because the swordsman was anything remotely close to out of shape]. He shifted, his toes touching expensive leather shoes, his purpled knees just brushing cotton.

Carefully as he could manage, he uncurled an arm from where he'd clasped it to himself protectively, reaching with an uncoordinated hand to wrap it around the other [pressure light but tense with a tiredwired sort of energy, wanting to tighten and hang on for as long as the Italian would let him]. "Sorry I didn't call."

"Asshole," Squalo said again, mostly because he couldn't really say anything right then, couldn't really think anything right then except for you're alive alivealivealivealive (fingers flexing tighteningslackening against the hardsharp jut of shoulder, brushing against the trail of rough medicated bandages and the sharp spikes of hair sticking out from between each wrap like blood).

The other hand other arm hesitated, the Italian pausing only for a second before carefullyslowly (not wanting to disturb any of this none of this, not wanting to cause any more fucking pain (the smiling, dark haired asshole's facewords partial explosion flashing through the back of his mind again and making him grit his teeth he'll fucking kill him) and just pulled Badou a fraction closer. "-Shut up."

Badou's sigh rattled out from his throat as he let his eye drift shut. "I was winning," he rasped in a small voice. More words followed in a rush, slurring together on his tongue with fatigue. "I think. No. I know. I was. And I was going to seal the fuckin' deal and then something happened that didn't make any sense and-" he took a slow breath through his nose [the nostrils the only part of it not covered], "-and then shit went to hell."

There was a silence. Sometime during his harsh words, Badou's thin frame had started to shake. When he spoke again, it was clear that it was out anger, not any sort of fear [he'd come to fear getting hurt, to fear loss, yes, but neither of those things seemed important in this bed, with this man]. "I had him. He- it's not fair. I'm not weak."

When the shaking started, Squalo just pulled the other even closer, carefully bringing a hand up to the back of the other's head and (very, very carefully - he had read those reports, he knew what was under the bandages, Badou's injuries almost ingrained into the back of his eyelids black and white, as familiar as the scars he'd acquired over the years) tucking it under his chin, resting his cheek against the top of the other's head after a hesitating pause, and even then almost gingerly.

"I know you're not." He said, fingers carefully brushing over the lumpy bandages and the bristle of hair, drifting down to the nape of the redhead's neck to brush away the long hair from the skin to one side. His other arm tightened around the other's shoulders again despite the words, the thin body under the thin t-shirt strangely frail, unstrangely vulnerable and the sallow skin looking even more washed-out than the pale bandages wrapped around Badou's head. "You're not weak. I know that."

Although the cool touches to the nape of his neck were calming, and the position Squalo had gently pushed him into felt grounding [felt safe in ways Badou rarely felt, scarcely knew, because every day in the Underground brought new dangers and new poisons], the redhead's hands still clenched with a slowly simmering anger. "I was beating him, even with his- enhancements-" the word spat out viciously, a fierce grudge held too long and kept too silent, "-because I'm not fucking weak. They're not better than me. They're not. They were before but they aren't now and I won't let them do shit to me again-"

The past closed up his throat almost forcibly, and he gave a violent twitch as his grit teeth sent a lightning-hot spark of pain through his cracked skull. "Fuck-"

Squalo uncurled the arm he held around the other's shoulders (his other hand still curled around the redbright hair hanging limp from under the bandages seeping out like blood) and brought it forward, steel fingers encased in soft leather (but not soft enough for the cold that seeped through, not soft enough to disguise the hard press of metal) reaching out and finding the bandaged fingerspalmhand.

"You're not weak." Squalo said quietly, fingers gently but firmly prying Badou's fingers open, brushing against the bandages and smoothing them out, the words replaying themselves in his head again (-explosion of the face burns to the arms cracked skull and in front of his eyes in his arms the harsh angles of Badou's shoulders somehow unforgiving and brittle, like he's made out of bones of birds, all holes and air and wafer-thin walls of sallow bleached white).

"I never thought you were fucking weak." Slowly, the Italian brought the hand up, pressing his lips lightly against the bandaged fingers, the sharp medicine smell almost making his eyes water. "If you were, you would still be under a hundred tonnes of concrete, not here with a couple of bandages."

Gaze flickering up to Squalo's face, Badou was silent, the feel of the metal a stark, chilling relief against his painfully hot, burnt skin [the firmness and sureness of the gesture more effective than any kind of gauze]. After a long few moments, he shifted his eye away again, mouth in a thin line, before the ache in his chest overcame that of his head.

Wordlessly, he pulled his fingers away from Squalo's lips, and threaded them slowly with the metal hand. He then pressed his battered palm to Squalo's perfect mechanical one, hard and tight [and beneath the bandages, beneath the burns and cuts, his scar ached- but it didn't matter].

The Italian returned the tighthard grip just as strongly, the bluegrey eyes never quite leaving Badou's face even after the other shifted his gaze elsewhere. A slight twitch of lips, just a fraction of a frown smoothed away from his brow, as the Italian leant forward to press his forehead against Badou's, all of his movement still careful as if even this gesture would be enough to somehow make everything fall apart (fallsmashdrift apart and goddamn it this took too much effort to gather them back all together but this was worth every single ache).

After a short silence, Squalo ducked, his other hand still curledentwined around the red locks of hair and resting loosely on the nape of Badou's neck. "-Sorry about the cereal." He muttered against the curve of the redhead's collarbone, practically the only area that wasn't covered in bandages right now, and pressed slightly closer. Anything to keep his mind from straying towards the surprising strength in the bonyscarredbandaged hand, anything to make him stop thinking about (-well, everything ever-) for even a second.

The short, quiet laugh that huffed out from his cracked lips surprised Badou, and he had to make a conscious effort not to clutch the Italian closertighter and aggravate his wounds [but fuck that, he wanted nothing more than Squalo as his new, unmarred layer of skin]. "No use crying over spilled Captain Crunch," he mumbled back hoarsely, turning his face against the clean silverwhite hair [it's softness stroking the bandages, pale and fine].

He was quiet again after that, half-shuttered eye far away, thoughts turned inward. "Sorry," he breathed, a barely heard scrape of an exhale. The tone spoke volumes, none of them concerned with something as trivial as breakfast cereals. His fingers tightened, seeking that unapolgetic safety and reassurance, even as it sent sparks of pain up his arm. A tired mouth quirked at the corners into a crookedly flawed smile. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Squalo looked up as the redhead laughed, his expression still set into an impassive half-frown half-something at the face of the tired smile on Badou's face (but his hand his arm tightened almost imperceptibly around Badou again, pulling the other closer towards him).

"Don't be sorry," he finally muttered out, leaning forwards to press his lips against the sliver of exposed skin of the other's forehead, silverwhite hair slipping over one shoulder as he shifted his weight to one elbow, carefully untangling their fingers and rolling Badou over onto his back, the gloved fingers lingering on the bandaged forearms for a second before coming to rest on the sheets.

"I'm not blaming you." Breathed out against the bandages, lips just brushing overagainst the rough bandages as they moved before he pressed another kiss on the corner of Badou's eye.

"It's not your fault." Nose brushing the redhead's cheekbone, the lightest hint of teeth grazing against the earlobe.

"Don't ever fucking say you're sorry. Shithead."

A warm, insane kind of somethingfeeling [a much different kind of insane than that which accompanied the sound of gunfire] spread in Badou's ribcage, and he raised his unbound hand to brush back the fine hair falling across the swordsman's eyes, pooling on his own chest. The movements were lacking in any kind of motor skills to speak of [a little like he was wearing thick gloves and trying to pick up a teacup], but he managed alright. At each touch of the other's lips, the tension in Badou's shoulders released, the dim, tired smile lifted. "I- you're-" he faltered, broken rasp stuttering off [because it wasn't that he wouldn't say it, it was that he didn't know how to].

"You're the shithead," he found himself saying, fingers digging into white hair, drawing him in, keeping him. "You dropped my breakfast down the fucking stairs."

"I'm not. That wasn't my fault. You're the shithead for leaving the bed." Squalo pressed his nose against the crook of Badou's neck, shouldersarms drawing in, fingers tightening around the thin tshirt and the jut of bones (skimming over the redhead's side to count the ribs, feeling a slight grin starting to play over his lips at the feel of strongbony fingers in his hair). The Italian took a deep breath, breathing in the sharp sting of medicine and the acrid and damp smell of stale smoke into his lungs, almost hunched over Badou (they both knew Badou didn't need any protecting but Squalo always ended up wanting to pull the other in closer).

"Don't fucking leave." He said, after a slight lapse in conversation(not-conversation not-dialogue more silences than words in his head). Squalo's hands tightened around the other. "Stay here."

"I will," mumbled [promised] the redhead quietly, allowing himself to be enveloped and shielded [it was a whole new level of trust to let someone take care of him, and he was finding it harder and harder to remember to fight against it]. With a tired, heavy palm, he stroked the back of Squalo's head, fingers tangling and untangling in the long strands. No more words came, Badou's smile only flickering and widening even more [pulling at the abused skin of his face, but the pain was a footnote, barely worth noticing- not much was when that shitheaded fucker was around]. Briefly, he wondered if Squalo would ever realise he didn't even need to hold on so tightly- Badou wasn't going anywhere.

As his stomach made an insistent, grumbling noise, he mentally amended, except maybe the kitchen.

"Don't fucking go anywhere," Squalo said again, the voice uncharacteristically quiet (but in the still air of the bedroom, the afternoon sun dim through the heavy curtains and half-formed thoughts drowsy with the feel of fingers in his hair, it didn't quite matter so much). He shifted, leaning his weight onto one elbow so he wasn't looming over Badou as much, and let out a soft exhale of breath, the oddly sharp explosion of red hair beneath the bandages stirring a little at the motion.

Squalo let out a slight bark of a laughter against the redhead's neck at the growl from Badou's stomach and the set of the Italian's shoulders relaxed (just a little fraction, a fraction of a fraction still not quite used to the smokey rasp and the quirk of thin lips, the murky green eye surrounded by palewhite bandages after days of silence) but the fingers didn't, as if the metal hand'd been rusted shut clenchedthreaded into Badou's shirt.

Eye sliding shut, Badou made a small, solemn noise of affirmation, fingers still working gently through pale silver. For the first time, he lightly touched his cracked lips to the long strands [a sting worth it, and more]. With the Italian pressed along his side, breath warm at his neck, Badou started to drift off again. The fingers in Squalo's hair slowly stilled, but never withdrew. As his bandaged arm rested lightly but surely across broad shoulders and he nudged the other's head sluggishly down, it became difficult to tell who was holding who [even red and white hair seeming to mesh together].

Breakfast would have to wait.

Exhaling quietly, the Italian's lips twitched almost convulsively at the feel of the light press of lips, the weight of the arm across his shoulders barely heavy enough to be acknowledged (barely anything enough to be something) but it was still there, almost as surely as the warmth of body under his fingertips and pressed against his palmsfacehairchest. Squalo shifted a little at the nudging, mumbling something only half-heard against the pale skin and worn tshit, his eyes sliding shut after a few slow blinks.

Well, they could just pretend it was still morning (cereals and milk growing soggy in the expensive carpet and all). A few hours wouldn't hurt anybody.

[ooc log post] Squalo + Badou.

2008-12-14T10:47:59Z

Who: Squalo and Badou.
When: Before his ferrari crashed. IDK.
Where: Random countryside. On the way back to Varia HQ from town.
What: Squalo attempting to jumpstart the car idk. Badou being an asshole. Both of them being retards.
Why: WANTED TO TRY MINI LOG THIS ISN'T SO MINI IDK BUT W/E WE TRIED. Also just random logging fun about broken down cars.
Note: Nobody saw this.

The afternoon sun blazed down on the long dusty road back from the markets to the mansion, and Squalo swore for the third time in a row as he quickly took his hand away from any vicinity of the burning-hot engine, almost banging his head against the bonnet of the car as he jerked backwards. What the fuck, he was going to scrap this shitty car as soon as they got it up and running enough to go back to the mansion, it was nothing more than a fucking piece of shit.

He stepped back, grimacing at the overpowering smell of overheated metal and grease, and peered over the propped up bonnet towards the car itself. "Try it now?"

Inside the car, Badou was getting chocolate ice cream all over the expensive leather interior. Fifteen minutes earlier, he had been pretty good, the wind whipping through his hair and shit. Nobody had punched him out for haggling like an asshole at the market, and there were a bunch of hot dogs in the back seat to eat for dinner later. Badou loved hot dogs. However, there were a lot of things he didn't love.

The first and foremost was the blistering, oppressive heat beating down on his head. The second was the fact that his ice cream was melting literally faster than he could eat it. Also, the hot dogs were starting to smell, his hair was hanging lank and damp in his face, and he had a feeling someone was going to get punched soon. So much for pretty good.

Hearing Squalo swear for the upteenth time, he twisted the key in the ignition, smudging chocolate all over it in the process.

The car growled, growled, and-

-nothing.

Badou stuck his head out the window. The bridge of his nose seemed to have more freckles every time you looked back at him. "You fucking suck at this."

"Fuck you, let's see you doing this shit." Squalo growled back, feeling more irritable and 'oh-my-god-I-need-to-punch-something-preferably-Badou's-nose', and he bent down once more under the bonnet to fiddle with bits of wires and cords, the dirty oil leaving dark shimmering shine over his leather gloves.

Badou groaned a half-hearted insult back, letting his head fall back against the seat cover. Discomfort was the name of the game; his hair stuck to his neck and face, caught in the perspiration, and his jeans felt scratchy and heavy on his thin legs. He plunked his head back harder, whining loudly to the hazy blue sky overhead, "It's too fucking hoooooooot for liviiiiiiiiing. I'm gonna diiiiie. I'm melting. I'm like that bitch with the monkeys. You're the monkey, you look like one. And I'm meltiiiiiiiiiiiing."

Badou's ice cream, which was actually melting, began to drip down his wrist.

Okay. This sucked. The car sucked. The heat sucked. Badou sucked, and the fucking grease on his hands sucked most of all. And Squalo was pretty sure it was getting into his hair and leaving dirty black streaks. The somehow nagging knowledge of it didn't help with his mood one bit, naturally. "SHUT UP," the Italian barely looked up this time and merely growled it out from between gritted teeth, just loud enough to be heard by the other sprawled(stuck?) to the car seat. "It's not like I'm enjoying myself any more than you are about this. Try again."

Rolling a murky green eye, Badou twisted the ignition again. It revved for an even shorter amount of time than previously, before making an ominous, continuing clanging noise, slowly decreasing in volume, like a single lobster pot falling away down a flight of stairs.

Badou stuck his head out the side of the car again, now transferring chocolate to the driver's side door. "Looks like you gotta fly us back, monkey."

Squalo lifted his head back up from beneath the hood of the car again and took a deep breath of the humid air, accidentally smearing grease across his forehead as he reached up to brush his hair back away from his face. "I'm not lugging all that shit all the way back to the fucking house." It was still at least fifteen minutes away by car from where they were, and in this heat, with the amount of stuff they bought, it was going to be near-impossible to walk.

Muttering sharp Italian swear words under his breath that would have made any mother cringe and block a child's ears, the swordsman tried to make sense of the incomprehensible tangle of wires.

"Why don't you just call somebody already," rasped the other man, already knowing the answer as to why Squalo probably wouldn't [pride was a nuisance, and he was glad he didn't have any, that was for sure]. Having had more than enough of melding to the seat, Badou got out of the car, marking his progression with sticky fingers. He perched on the bumper of the car, just next to where Squalo was working/swearing [and the shining metal beneath his clothed bony ass would've seared his skin right off if he touched it with his fingers]. Absently realising his ice cream had melted even further, the redhead made an irritated noise, trying to follow the trail of chocolate from his elbow up [with comical results].

With his free hand, however, he'd managed to come up with a hair tie, from wherever all his stray lights and train change came from. Wordlessly, still focused more on his rapidly melting dessert, he held it out to the Italian.

His gaze rested on the elastic band for a few seconds before moving up to meet the other's eye, and the frown lines between Squalo's eyebrows deepened a fraction more. "I can't." He gestured vaguely towards the mess laid out so chaotically in front of them, to the gloves now almost too slippery with leaking oil and grease to hold anything without it catching on fire from the sheer rising, suffocating temperature. His pale shirt already had blotches of dark stains from his (so far fruitless) attempts at resuscitating the car, as did his hair that was lying haphazardly over his shoulders and into his eyes.

Almost as an afterthought, Squalo eyed the dripping ice cream with disapproval, almost as if it was Badou's fault for insisting to get an ice cream that led to this general mechanical failure. "Just throw that shit away if you're not going to fucking eat it."

"M'eating it," mumbled Badou defensively, who was indeed apparently trying to eat his elbow or something like it. He whined. "Shit is fucking too hot, satan's asscrack hot, why the hell did we think it was a good idea for me to go the fuck outside today. Can you just call someone? I'm dying. I'm dyinggggg." In truth, the redhead looked drowsy in the fierce sun he was unused to, his eyelid a bit droopy like a drunk's. With an abstract, sleepy movement, he stuck his cone inbetween his teeth, holding it there as he got up. Then, without being asked, or asking for that matter, he stepped up behind Squalo and gathered the Italian's long hair back, matter-of-factly putting it into a messy, harrassed looking bun, out of harm's way. Briefly admiring the chocolate stains he'd put next to the oil stains, he plunked back down on the bumper, popping his cone back out of his mouth.

Squalo paused, his stance just a little awkward (as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself, feeling the unfamiliar yet not strange chocolate-sticky fingers pulling his hair back out of his face). He tilted his head a little, glancing back at the redhead out the corner of his eye as Badou went back to where he'd been sitting before, and he looked down at the car again after a moment, the heavy weight of the hair shifting slightly with the motion. "Don't fucking sit there. You'll burn your stupid bony ass off."

Oblivious to Squalo's awkwardness [or maybe just too used to it to really take note], the redhead gave an unattractive, dismissive snort. "Knew you only wanted me for my stupid bony ass," he rasped unconcernedly. Crunching into his cone placidly, he blinked at the other man, slightly owlish with curiosity. "Why does it look like the air is wiggling?"

"You know that's not what I fucking meant, asshole." At least the hood of the car provided some shade against the sun, Squalo guessed, and the retort was half-hearted if anything as he bent down once more to peer down into the oily smudged depths again. He probably wasn't doing too well with this whole thing. However, the next question made the Italian stop and glance back up towards Badou, taking a moment before it clicked. Squalo ducked his head back down and pulled out a few cords at random, feeling a momentary annoyance as he tried to keep his lips from quirking up. "That's because it's too fucking hot."

"I don't get it," mumbled Badou, finishing his cone in three more big bites. Ice cream ended up smeared on his right cheek, just under his eyepatch, like war paint from a world made of cotton candy or something equally retarded. Still chewing, he suddenly looked striken. "Wait, is the sun melting the fucking air?" The hitman nearly choked as he sputtered additionally, "Are we going to goddamned well suffocate?"

A lanky leg extended, muddy boot whacking into the back of the other's thigh. "Fucking fix that shit! I don't wanna die!"

"It's just air curre-Shit fuck fuck fuck shitfuck you fuck-" Squalo cursed at the heavy, unexpected impact of the boot against the back of his thigh and jerked up straight, only to bump his head painfully on the hood of the car. Completely forgetting the presence of (a rather large quantity of) oil and dirt on his hands Squalo raised his hand to rub at the bump that was quite definitely forming, turning to glare at the redhead. "I'M FUCKING TRYING TO FUCKING FIX IT DON'T FUCKING KICK ME!"

"DON'T FUCKING LET US SUFFOCATE OUT IN THE FUCKING WILDERNESS!" shouted Badou. The town they had left was admittedly quite a walk away, but anywhere not coated in cement and telephone wires and people was Wilderness to the Undergrounder. "JUST FUCKING CALL SOMEONE! YOU'RE SO FUCKING RETARDED! I SHOULD KICK YOUR DUMB ASS MORE FOR NOT TELLING ME ABOUT THE GODDAMNED MELT-AIR AND FOR NOT JUST CALLING SOMEONE IN THE FIRST DAMN PLACE SHIT FOR BRAINS ASSFERRET-" he took a deep breath, then looked even more panicked. "SHIT! I THINK I'M RUNNING OUT OF AIR ALREADY! FUCK YOU!"

"You're not going to fucking die SHUT THE FUCK UP SHUT UP." Squalo stepped back out of the range of Badou's flailing as well as eardrum-bursting noise level besides, scowling heavily. He gave the car a vicious, hard kick (replacing the bright red exterior for Badou's face), taking a deep breath of the hot air and tasting sharp tang of cigarettes in the back of his throat. After a moment of slowly counting to ten and taking another deep breath of the cigarette-air, the Italian turned his gaze back towards Badou again, the greyblue eyes narrowing considerably; he'd almost reached the end of his rope, in this stupid heat and this stupid situation. "The air's not melting, it's just- air current- shit- thing- shut up. Something. Get back in the fucking car and let me fucking try this shit again."

Throwing up his hands and mumbling bad naturedly under his breath, Badou stood to comply, but he was slow to leave the shade of the raised hood. Lighting up a new cigarette, he squinted at the guts of the car incomprehensibly. As he usually did when he was at a loss, he thought about what he'd seen on television, and in films. "Maybe we need one of those. Cable things. Jumpstarts. The red thing and the black thing. But you have to do it right or else you electricute yourself." After taking a drag, his nose twitched a little, and he couldn't help adding, "And you already smell pretty cooked and ripe, frankly."

Squalo gave no dignified response to that except for another muttered curse directed at the back of Badou's head and turned back towards the car, the nape of his neck somehow feeling cool with the newly-tied back hair; he could feel the sweat drying off from the skin, lifting his annoyed mood a little. "I don't fucking think so." The swordsman grunted in response to the suggestion, glancing up to look at the road lying in either direction. It was probably siesta time by now, noone would be around for hours, especially this far out. "It probably won't work."

"It could," hedged Badou brightly, slipping two fingers through Squalo's belt loop and tugging a little. His own hair felt heavy and thick on his shoulders, strands sticking to his cheekbones, but he didn't bother brushing it away [it would only spring back]. Releasing the other, he walked not back to the car door, but closer to the road. There, the gunman rolled up his left jean leg, and crooked the limb out. "I saw this on TV. Stop a car in no time."

Squalo stared.

And stared.

And stared some more.

Presently, a small sound of amusement escaped him as Squalo ducked, tried to cover his face to mask the smile but (thankfully) remembering the grease on his gloves at the last minute, though it left a smear of black from his thumb across his cheekbone. The Italian turned his face away from Badou who was looking more than a little ridiculous and definitely more than a lot retarded standing by the side of the road like that, hair sticking out in all directions and the rest clinging with sweat, but the bubbling laughter didn't cease.

The redhead kept his head high and his pose in place for an admirable couple more seconds, once he heard the swordsman's laughter start. He couldn't help the wide, amused grin that stretch across his lips, however, and when he turned back around, ridiculous hair flying and his hands on his hips, he felt a little less like dying of fuck-shit-heat [a little more human]. "What?" he demanded, carrying off indignancy well. "Truck drivers fuckin' love that shit. What? What? Don't you laugh at me, I'm saving our asses. How the fuck could anyone resist?" He put his skinny, ghost-pale leg up on the bumper just beside the Italian, striking another ridiculous, 'sensual' pose, and giving the bent over man a shove.

Squalo's half-muffled laughter only doubled in its intensity even when he had his back turned away from the redhead (god, maybe he was just fucking- contagious or something-) and when he stumbled slightly from the shove, it took a few more seconds than it would have normally to regain his balance. The Italian turned his head towards Badou, the perch of the messy bun of hair over one shoulder hiding the ridiculous grin, but it was probably too late. "I CAN. SHUT UP. YOU-"

"-What?" challenged Badou, lips curving up into a smirk, chin up. The other's grin didn't go unnoticed at all [it never did]. He leant against the car again, and, lowering his voice suggestively, added, "you want me to roll up the other one. Don'tcha. Don'tcha."

There wasn't any answer from the other man except for a half-hearted, but still firm, shove at Badou's shoulder, leaving a smear of dirt and grease on the shirt. The same hand moved down to rest on the redhead's bony knee, the black grime stark against the skin before he shoved that down off the bumper as well. It was an annoyed sound he made, but the grin on his face didn't quite disappear. "Shut the fuck up, just go and fucking start the damn car already."

Laughter raspy, Badou finally acquiesced, boots crunching on the pebbles and rocks on the ground as he sidled back around the car. After slipping into the driver's seat again, he tried to start the car [all too aware of the heat beating down on his head again, the sun making his red-orange hair look literally aflame]. After a few promising sounded revs, the car groaned in defeat, and fell silent.

Badou echoed the noise, banging his forehead on the steering wheel, ash falling to the floor of the car. "Whyyyyyyyyyy."

"SHUT UUUUUUUUUUUP!" An answering roar was heard from under the hood of the car, Squalo yet again struggling unsuccessfully with the wires and cords one more time before throwing up his hands. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, and then a bit louder again, resting his forehead against the crook of one arm as he gripped the top of the hood tightly. "Fucking piece of fucking shit."

Rolling his eye and tuning out the swears, Badou began looking for Squalo's mobile in the side compartment on the door.

Squalo finally straightened up with a deep breath, brows knitted together in a fine mixture of annoyance, resignation and wounded pride, fingers tightening a fraction more around the heated metal of the hood and almost searing his fingers even through the gloves. If it were any hotter the dirty grease on his gloves might have combusted by itself, even. "Fine," he growled through gritted teeth after a slow exhale of breath, irritably huffing away a stray lock of hair away from his face as he slammed the bonnet down with enough force to rock the whole car. "Fuck this shit, fine, I'll fucking call. Happy now?"

The redhead let out a cheer, throwing his hands up into the air. He reached to pull the key out of the ignition, accidentally twisting it the wrong way.

The car roared to life.

There was a silence that prevailed even above the din of the engine, but Squalo was quick to recover, a slow but sure grin creeping up over his face, as he walked around from the front of the car to the driver's side. "What did I fucking tell you? I can fucking do this."

Shielding his eye from the glare of the sun, Badou squinted up at Squalo's face. It was smug. Extremely smug. Way too fucking smug for comfort, really.

Badou flicked his cigarette at the other man, and pressed on what he assumed was- and was indeed- the acceleration.

Squalo flicked the cigarette away down onto the pavement with the back of an arm almost reflexively as Badou tossed it at him, but he wasn't quite prepared for the car speeding away from him after all the hours burning his back off trying to fix it. Especially if it was his car, and even more especially when he knew just who was attempting to drive the said car.

He let out an angry shout, almost stumbling as he ran after it, coughing at the rising dust and fume in the wake of the vehicle.

A thrill [laced heavily with panic, ohgod driving] shot through Badou, and he let out a mad cackle, the car swerving a bit, making wild lines in the dirt on the road. He whipped his head around, grinning at the white haired man tearing ass after him, and slammed on the other pedal.

Screeeeeeech.

His hair actually shot forward with the force of the stop.

The (melting? dripping? the heat made everything seem so fucking runny ) grime left a dark unsightly smear at the back of the car, across the red finish, as Squalo flung an arm out but stopped himself a second too late, cursing as he collided with the car. "FUCK YOU. WHAT THE FUUUCK?!" The Italian (now hot and sweaty and coughing and half-blinded by the rising cloud of fine dust all around them, stumbled over and shoved badou away from the driver's seat. "YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE."

Even as the stickshift tried to twist its way around his spine, Badou laughed and laughed and laughed, clutching his stomach in almost-pain. Squalo's face was red with rage and sweat, and he looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel or thirty [not so much with the man-pretty for once, and the redhead approved]. The chainsmoker half kicked out, warding off any further attacks, laughter doubling over itself at the ever-increasing volume of the other man. Around them, the dust whirled gracefully in the vehicle's sudden stillness, much different than the uneven, raspy laughter of the chainsmoker.

Squalo grabbed for the other's ankles and all but pushed Badou to the other side of the car, over to the passenger seat, the laughter rising from the redhead merely serving to increase his irritation and making him swear and curse all the more. He only stopped to catch his breath (his hair messy and falling into his eyes and over his shoulders in tangles, the bun half-loose and hanging down his back) after he reclaimed his seat in the car, gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands. "DON'T FUCKING DO THAT SHIT EVER FUCKING AGAIN."

"Next time," wheezed a still-cackling Badou, sick lungs madly trying to draw in gasps of air, "next time I'll leave your ass stranded." With awkward, clumsy motions, he began to unfold himself from where Squalo had crunched him against the other side of the car [much like a soda pop can]. He stuck his thumb under his lower eyepatch strap, wiping tears of laughter and sweat away. As he leant back against the seat, the redhead crooked one leg up, foot on the dashboard, grin razor sharp. "That'll teach you to fuckin' call next time."

"I said I could fucking fix it." The Italian glanced at Badou out of the corner of his eye, his lips twisting into a hard frown. His hands still gripped the steering wheel hard, quite oblivious to the grease marks they left on the soft leather interior. The sun beating down on their heads hard, but Squalo leant back in his seat, the heat positively searing through the thin shirt and making the sweat cling uncomfortably.

Badou shook his head at the other man [something like exasperation, something like irritation, and neither of those things at all], leaning forward in his seat. A pale elbow bumped Squalo's [accidentally?] as he flipped on the air conditioning, then cranked it full blast so hard it creaked. As the sudden small gusts of chill air tried to cut through the claustrophic heat around them [as the first tendrils reached Badou's madly freckling cheeks] the redhead made an almost indecent sounding noise, his hands went up to pull the hair back away from his face, and up off his neck and shoulders. A sly, lazy eye slid to the hands grasping the steering wheel as if they wanted to crush it. "Mm. Well." A pause. "Don't quit your day job."

Squalo turned his head slightly to regard Badou as the other cranked the air conditioning, so hard that it alomst made him break out into goosebumps at the feel of the blast of cold air. The Italian struggled with the silence for a few more minutes, fingers finally loosening their grasp on the wheel, the line of his shoulders not so stiff now (though the frown on his face was still deep as ever). "It's full-time." Squalo reached down, glancing at the time before he changed gears and started driving back towards the mansion again.

The redhead just laughed in response. As they pulled back onto the road, he slid sideways, his scarred hand coming up to clasp firmly at the other's jaw, keeping Squalo's eyes on the road. In one quick, clean movement, pressed forward and brushed his lips in an almost-nothing sort of kiss along the other's cheekbone, the light touch soft but sure, mouth still half-curved in a smile. As quickly as he'd taken hold of the other man, he released him.

He'd taken the hair tye away with him, and looked up at the sky again as he snapped it into his unruly hair.

The Italian glanced at Badou, so quick it was hardly there, just a flick of his eyes towards the redhead and for all the world looking as if his attention was all on the road (when it was nothing but; there were no squirrels to be run over, after all, and the road in front of them was empty and full of dust). He reached up with a hand to brush away the half-damp hair away from his eyes, fingers lingering a little over his cheekbone a fraction of the second longer before returning to the steering wheel.

"Retard," was all he said, the deliberate frown between his eyebrows trying to push down the slight twitch of lips.

Face still turned up towards the sun, eye lazy and closed, Badou's private smile stretched into a grin. "What's Italian for 'Faster, bitch, the hot dogs are going bad?'"

[://38]

2008-12-14T08:06:18Z

I went and got another car while Rosalie's fixing the Scags up. And since I got a fucking loan offer from Marmon and it's no-interest. Might as well make the most of it.

Badou. You're not allowed to touch any of the cars ever again.

The fucking garage is locked when I'm not fucking there.

And also, for that note. I'm not taking any fucking responsibilities for broken doors. I'm not touching any of them until this fucking madness is over or someone fucking goes and fucking shoot that fucking retarded fag.

[://37]

2008-12-06T09:23:13Z

....

[:// 36]

2008-11-22T05:56:09Z

YOU'RE ALL FUCKING RETARDED.

EVERYTHING'S SHITTY.

I'M GOING TO STAY AT A FUCKING HOTEL UNTIL THIS IS ALL FUCKING OVER.

[:// 35]

2008-11-15T07:56:42Z

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT MOVIE.

IT WAS BLOODY FUCKING STUPID AND YOU DON'T FUCKING GET THOSE ARTERIAL SPRAY FROM A CUT LIKE THAT. AND YOU NEVER SEE THAT WHEN YOU FUCKING DISEMBOWEL SOMEONE.

NOT TO MENTION, WHAT THE FUCK, A FUCKING CRICKET BAT?!

I'M RETURNING THIS PIECE OF SHIT TO THE SHOP.

ZOMBIE MOVIES ARE FUCKING STUPID.

[ooc log post] Squalo + Badou. ::: backdated to August ish. ::: Part 2.

2008-11-13T09:29:26Z

[ooc log post] Squalo + Badou. ::: backdated to August ish. ::: Part 1.

2008-11-13T09:28:04Z

Who: Squalo and Badou.
When: Way back when in August. I failed at tagging the log so here's the final finished log.
Where: Varia Headquarters, Italy. Squalo's room.
What: Badou nearly drowning twice. Funsies and water damage in Squalo's bedroom.
Why: Because. And idk we like logging? WE NEED TO TAKE A "NORMAL SIZED LOG" COURSE SOMEWHERE FAST.
Note: Nobody saw this.

The evening air of Venice was cool and quiet, with a subtle nip of the first autumn chill. Outside the Varia mansion, it was calm and peaceful.

Except, of course, for the grunting and swearing and snarls of one irritated one-eyed hitman, scaling it's balcony by means of a knotted sheet. Right hand going over his left, he strained and climbed higher up the clean stone, ash spiraling down behind him. "Fucking uppity little bitch can't even fucking open a fucking door," he muttered viciously, cigarette clenched between his teeth.

And, of course, the other end of the knotted sheet tied over one of the columns that made up the fence. Squalo peered down at the redhead, his expression switching between half-amusement and half-anxiety (he didn't really believe that the idiot would actually do it- the lungpower alone was enough to make him doubt the redhead's prowess already). The swordsman leant over the edge of the balcony, the loose half-braid of pale hair falling down over his shoulder in a perfect damsel-in-distress style, if he even cared to pay attention. "You alright down there?"

"Fucking suck piss, asslover," grit the redhead back, oh so affectionately. His boots left smears of grime up the side of the balcony. As he got closer, he half-fell a little, the sheet burning against his scar as it zipped through his hand. He swore, re-grouped, and continued climbing. "Butt-fucker, you're soft! What head through yonder window am I gonna break? It is the east, and Juliet is the son of a bitch."

"Shut the hell up or it won't be just the moon that will be killed." Squalo snapped back, glad that the smoker could not see the grin that threatened to slip over his face. He pulled back from the edge and leant down to grip the other end of the sheet as well, wrapping it a couple of times around his left hand for good measure; he didn't think it'd be this fucking hard to sneak someone upstairs--the noise alone could wake the whole house--but then, it could just be because it was Badou.

More smacking of filthy boots against stone sounded. A gust of ash preceded Badou, curling up into the evening. Finally, he was close enough to reach out and grab at Squalo's hand. He got one foot on the edge of the balcony, and he tried to wedge it between the columns for stability. "Jesus fucking christ, next time I'm just breaking a window. A ground floor window. Hi, fuckface."

"Hi, shithead." Squalo relaxed slightly as Badou emerged over the edge of the marble columns and eased the sheet knotted tightly around his hand, stepping forward to help pull the other over to stable ground. "If you break any of the windows you'll have fifteen knives in your gut before you can say 'fuck'."

One foot on top of the columns, Badou rolled his eye. "Like you couldn't fucking replace that shit within three hours. Once a pigeon flew into my window so hard it cracked it. I think it had the mange. Anyway, I had to tape that shit up. Only there were all these feathers stuck in the-"

Just as he was about to clasp the other's shoulder, there was a noise of fabric swishing alarmingly quickly. Badou blinked, realising within a split second that Squalo could never be in the boyscouts, because that fucker couldn't tie knots for shit. He had to time to blurt "NO BADGE!" before he fell backwards, flailing madly.

Squalo was barely listening to what Badou was saying, the words being filtered through before being categorized as "Useless Ramble" in the wastebasket of his brain. (mind you, it was a big basket; Badou was long-winded more often than not-) when the other fell backwards, his hands grabbing empty air when Squalo rushed forwards, leaning precariously over the balcony to peer down into the darkness. "Badou?!" He hissed out, trying to keep his voice down but failing miserably.

Far, far below, there was a loud splash. After a few seconds, Badou came thrashing to the surface of the pool, howling bloody murder, and something about not having his swimmies.

The thrashing continued, and then became a long, frighteningly loud gurgle.

"Fuck," Squalo muttered out, squinting as he tried to make out the shape of Badou's head over the surface of the water. "FUCK."

He took a step back from the edge of the balcony, looking behind him and mentally gauging the amount of time it'll take for him to run down the stairs, or--

"Fuck," was the last word he uttered before he was clambering over the edge of the balcony, hardly thinking at all before he was jumping in after Badou.

He resurfaced only seconds later, irritably pushing the sodding wet mass of pale hair out of his face and searching for the dark shape in the water only a few metres away from him that could only be Badou. "Fucking- stupid- coat- What the fuck-" The Italian mumbled in between grunts as he hauled the redhead out of the pool as best as he could, 'accidentally' knocking the other down painfully on the tiles that lined the pool as he pushed Badou over the edge of the water.

"You're such a fucking retard!" Squalo hissed through gritted teeth (Italy or not, the evening air was chilly, and he could feel goosebumps come out along his bare arms as the cool air hit him) and rolled the other onto his side, the other hand pushing matted red hair to one side as he repeatedly thumped at the redhead's back. Who knows just what was in the pool-?

The redhead coughed and spluttered up water, making throw up noises for a few seconds, then struggling to say something. "Stop-" a hack, a cough, "STOP HITTING ME, ASSHOLE." He sneezed, hard, shivering and trying to squirm away from the violent barrage at his soggy back.

"Al... Alright there?" Squalo stopped with a halfhearted snort, though it was masked by the chattering teeth. He was not good with cold, not to mention his clothes weren't exactly meant to be worn sodding wet in the creeping chill.

Badou sat up, his huge, fuzzy green jacket completely saturated. He adjusted his eyepatch awkwardly, and sneezed again. "Th-that was the w-w-worst baywatch sh-shit I've ever seen. Where were the slow-mo t-t-tits?" He looked forlornly at the pool. "Fuck, I think I lost my s-smoke in there!"

"There was no time to call for Luss." Squalo's voice was more annoyed than anything else and he rubbed at his arms and looked back up at the house, scanning the windows for any signs of anyone waking up. Thankfully, it was quiet, and Squalo slowly got to his feet, reaching out to pull Badou up as well. "I have some in my room. Come on, it's fucking cold."

Badou huddled closer than he might've normally, stripping off his heavy coat when he realised just why he felt five times heavier. "Smokes," he nodded, stumbling after Squalo distractedly. "Did you know I can't swim?"

"You told me you were learning how to swim," Squalo grumbled but automatically reached out and took the coat, the other hand still clamped around Badou's upper arm as he pulled the redhead up the steps of the front door, then up the stairs, leaving a wet trail of footprints and dripping water behind them; somebody will clean that up tomorrow morning, if they didn't slip to their death on the marble floor. "I didn't know you were like a stone."

"I never said I was learning how to swim successfully," sniffed Badou, sliding a little on the slick floor at the top of the long stairs. He sneezed a third time, looking very much like a rat who had been drowned not once, but twice.

Squalo unlocked it and stepped in, pulling Badou in after him. "Retard," was all he said, before he dropped the coat on the floor by the door and closing it (it'll get taken care of, he reasoned; they had people to do these kind of things, after all). All that done, the Italian turned back to Badou, trying to push back the hair from sticking to the back of his neck and wring it at the same time. "I'll run you a bath."

A red eyebrow arched over Badou's eyepatch. "'Baby, let me get you out of those wet clothes-?'" He cast his eye around the other man's luxurious, yet tasteful room, feeling his fingers twitch, and not from the cold. "Smokes first, shitty, transparent plans to get into my pants later?"

Even before the other said it, Squalo was at his bedside table, leaning down to snatch up a pack and a lighter from the polished mahogany top. "Onto it already, shithead." He muttered and tossed them both towards the redhead's direction, pulling some dry clothing out from his closet next. "I don't want you giving me any fucking diseases, is all."

"You won't have to worry about gettin' any STDs, for at least five reasons. Mostly bein' I'll never let you score." Had Squalo thrown anything else, Badou would've fumbled the catch. However, by means of his nicotine-fix radar, the the redhead had caught both objects and was already lighting up within three seconds of the catch. He let out an embarassingly pleased noise as he took his first puff. "These are those fucking awesome expensive ones, shitttt, oh my goddd." Shivers and sneezes forgotten, he inhaled greedily and exhaled reluctantly, as if saddened that he had to let the smoke go. "Mmm. Fuuuck."

"One of these days I'll have to record you and play it back." Squalo spared a second to glance back at the redhead, before (almost embarrassedly) looking away and muttering some words under his breath that were really nothing more than nonsesical mumble. Dropping the dry clothes on top of his bed, he peeled off one of the spare blankets. "So did you want a fucking bath or not?" The swordsman dropped the bundle of blanket over Badou's head, the heavy weight of it almost smothering the other under its covers.

Just barely paying attention to the swordsman's words through his nicotine-bliss haze, Badou started to respond just as his world was suddenly gained a much higher thread count. He made a whiney noise that ended in the word cigarette, tugging it off. Meeting Squalo's eyes, he gave a wide, bright grin. "Yeah. I wanted to take a bath in that shit ever since you started braggin' about it. It really got claws?"

"Of fucking course it does." Squalo clicked his tongue in annoyance and shivered slightly, rubbing his upper arms and feeling the raised flesh of goosebumps across the cold skin. He turned around, gloved fingers pulling at the wet material of his shirt, sliding across clammy buttons and popping them open. "I'm fucking cold." He announced it unnecessarily, walking towards the bathroom and looking back at the other over one shoulder at the doorway.

Badou fixed a wry, amused look on Squalo as he made his way over to the bathroom, hip checking him non-too-gently as he wandered through the doorway. He whistled, seeing the spotless ivory tub, making a point to lavish much more attention on it than, say, Squalo. "Fuck, this tub is clearly part fuckin' tiger. Look at those claws. Now that's a reall goddamned tub. Does it have jets and shit?" He peered into it, absently trying to toe his boots off, wobbling unsteadily and catching himself on the edge. A quick glance around the bathroom revealed it was just like Squalo's room; tasteful, neat, and with an overbearing air of being really fucking posh. Sounded real familiar.

Squalo crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, glancing at the redhead with a grin that nearly bordered on smugness. "You like it, then?" He soon pushed himself off, stepping closer beside Badou and reaching out to turn the water, steam rising up into the air as hot water started pouring out. "No fucking jets. I hate that shit." His free hand reached out, closing around Badou's elbow and steadying him, glancing down once at the other's boots and wrinkling his nose slightly. "And buy yourself some new boots."

"What's wrong with my boots?" Badou looked down at the raggedy, broken articles in question, his cigarette drooping. They were so filthy they had one solid layer of scum, coming out the other side and looking almost clean. Clean, that is, if you didn't know they were a completely different shade of brown underneath. "I just got 'em nice and broken in." The fingers of Badou's scarred hand darted under the tap, flicking through water that was too hot. He absently noticed Squalo's hand, still on his elbow, and grinned again, breaking the contact to peel off his socks.

As the other broke contact between them (his elbow, his hand) to pull off his socks, Squalo moved to unbutton the rest of his shirt, grimacing at the feel of the cold material clinging to his skin. After he discarded them, however, his gloved hand came right back down, resting on the back of the redhead's neck, this time. "Everything's wrong with them. They're fucking disease-ridden." The swordsman bent forward to let a trickle of cold water run into the bath as well, the tub filled with almost scalding hot water.

"You're fucking disease ridden and I haven't gotten rid of you yet," countered Badou cheerfully, not moving away from the touch this time. "And there's probably a lot more wrong with you than a good pair of shitkickers. I could list it all, if you want." With quick fingers, Badou undid his fly, struggling to squirm out of the sopping denim. "Uuugh, wet jeans, uuugh."

Squalo snorted audibly, fingers tangling lazily into the hair at the nape of Badou's neck, eyeing the tub to see that it doesn't overflow. "I'm not made of some fucking cheap cardboard and PVC." He muttered, leaning down at the appropriate moment again to close the taps, coughing slightly at all the steam. "It can't be that bad," he glanced at Badou, once, eyeing the wet mass of denim almost thoughtfully before finally pulling away from the other to pull his shoes and socks off as well. "Can it?"

Fighting with the bottom of the second leg, the denim suckered onto his skinny white shin like a squid, Badou leveled another amused look at the swordsman. "The fuck do you mean, can it? Ain't you ever taken jeans outta the dryer and been like, UUUGH MY SENSES ARE NUMB. Even I can smell old wet jeans. And they're impossible to get outta, practically. Hate when they spray you with water at concerts and you're wearing jeans. You feel like you wet yourself for the next five hours."

With one final, vicious kick, Badou won the struggle, sending them flying into the air, to land on the back of the toilet. He eyed the steam above the water, liking how it curled and wove through the air like smoke. Like clean smoke. Turning around, he drew a giraffe on the large mirror behind him. After a moment's thought, he gave it a sunglasses and a laser gun.

"I've never worn jeans." Squalo retorted as he passes his hands over the waist of his pants, tinkering briefly with the heavy buckle of his belt before dropping it carefully on the small rug laid out on the floor, where it only made a muffled thumping noise instead of a loud clang on the tiles. The pants button and the zip were the next, though afterwards the swordsman reached back up to pull the soggy wet hairtie from the end of his tangled braid, wincing a little and muttering more sharp Italian curses as he prised off the elastic from hair caught into the rubber. "And stop that. It leaves stains."

Not turning around, Badou hummed a lazy assent, drawing the giraffe trampling a shark to death. A shark with a mullet. "How have you never worn jeans? That's fuckin' retarded." He signed his work, then shucked his t-shirt as he turned back around, automatically tugging the neck of the shirt wide at the last moment so as not to knock his eyepatch askew. "You act like you're sixty instead of. What are you again? Thirty-two? Fourty-six?" He tossed the sopping shirt at Squalo's face.

With an annoyed noise Squalo snatched the shirt off from his face, stalking forward towards the redhead and pulling him almost bodily away from the mirror by the wrist. "Twenty-two, you fucking shithead." His lips twisting into a frown, Squalo dropped the other's hand and pushed away the soggy, dripping material of his pants, the tan colour of it darkened to mahogany brown. "They're too heavy."

"That's stupid. You're stupid. I feel stupider for being in the same room with you." Badou closed the gap between them, purposefully trodding on the other man's discarded pants. It was just a light resting of his hand at Squalo's waist, but it was the first touch he'd initiated. "At least you look twenty-two, even if you act seventy-eight. 'Less you got some dentures I don't know about."

"That's because you are even more stupid." The swordsman shrugged, deliberately scowling and looking away from Badou as the other stepped closer, though one of his gloved hands rose to rest on the back of the redhead's neck once more; none too subtly trying to keep him there. "I've never had to wear them, that's all." Squalo tilted his head slightly and raised an eyebrow at the other, a sly twist of lips the only acknowledgement of the touch. "Would you like to check?"

Badou's pale, freckled nose wrinkled up in distaste. "Eugh. Mafia slobber. Not into it. It's got little bits of parmesean cheese in it, I hear." As soon as he properly registered the easy, comfortable hand on the back of his neck [it took him just a little too long], Badou slid out of Squalo's space again, laughter in the corners of his mouth. "Y'got towels?"

"And French have bit of frog legs and shit in theirs." The fingers let go of the other as Badou moved back away again, and Squalo turned his head, brushing the thumb of his hand across the corner of his lips to smother the twitch of grin found there. "In the cabinet right there."

After collecting two towels from the cabinet, Badou hung them up on the shiny hooks on the wall next to the bath. "Ribbit. Ribbit. Oops I didn't chew one enough." With that, he pushed his boxers down his hips, swiftly kicking them up into his hand, then balling them up and throwing them at Squalo's face, too. Collecting his damp hair to one side, he grinned, cigarette lolling jauntily from his lips. "Ready to get in?"

Squalo irritably snatched the boxers off his face and threw them to one corner of the room where the wet laundry was decidedly piling up, eyes narrowing as they landed on the redhead. "I'll fucking drown you." The swordsman muttered as he bent down to push his own boxers off, absently tucking a lock of pale hair behind one ear as he straightened up, tossing them off to join the mass of clothes on the floor.

Badou laughed, the sound echoing off the tiles slightly. He took a drag, whining forlornly even as he continued to grin, "I already almost drowned once tonight. You're a cruel motherfucker, you know that? That's not even funny. I could'a died. All soggy and shit, too. What kind of death is a soggy death." He exhaled his smoke as he looked back over his shoulder, lifting his leg to step into the tub. Yelping a little as his toes touched the surface of the water, the redhead pulled his foot back. "Shit, this is fucking hot!"

"I promise to make it quick and painless." Squalo stepped towards the bath also, but inadvertently snorted as Badou yelped and pulled away. "You're fucking impossible." He said with an exaggerated shake of the head, taking this opportunity to slide into the almost scalding hot bath with a sigh, and a quick flash of smirk up at the redhead. "Can't handle the heat?"

"Then get the SHUT THE FUCK UP," responded Badou curtly, attempting to get in again. It took three more foot dips before he gave up and just hopped in. "The water at my place runs barely luke-warm on good days. Oh, christ, hot hot hot-" he plunked down, sloshing water everywhere and sending a small wave towards Squalo. "Ahhhh!" he cringed. After a moment, he shifted, long legs brushing Squalo's. "Ahhhh," he sighed, releasing a content puff of smoke.

"Ahhh?" Another grin tugged at his lips that Squalo didn't bother hiding this time, reaching up to gather the wet tangle of pale hair over one shoulder so it draped down his chest, before leaning his elbows back against the rim of the bath; gloved fingertips barely brushing the water. "That's a good kind, I hope." Squalo tilted his head back, resting against the bath now, feeling rather more back to normal submerged up to his chest in scalding hot water, to drive the coming winter chill away.

"It could be a better kind," rasped Badou offhandedly, allowing himself to sink more. His eye distractedly followed the twirling line of Squalo's pale hair down the other man's chest, gaze shifting guiltily away after he realised what he was doing. He slumped even further into the heat of the water, his bony feet emerging at Squalo's end of the tub as he sunk down to his chin, hair floating like some odd kind of orange seaweed.

A barely-there twist at the corner of his lips, Squalo watched Badou through half-closed eyes, the foggy bathhouse-steam filling the bathroom to almost stifling degree. "How better?" He drawled out, leaning forward to absently, half-curiously run his fingers through the water, the redorange hair sliding against the leather.

Badou's smirk was unhidden apart from the steam, but he didn't answer the question, his bony foot shifting to push at the centre of Squalo's chest. "I bet," he rasped lightly, "that you take lavender-scented bubble baths in here. By candlelight. While you listen to Enya."

The swordsman grunted a little, partly at the foot, partly in annoyance, as he grudgingly leant back again, tilting his head back a little. "Peppermint," Squalo answered, narrowing his eyes slightly as he looked back across the length of the tub at the redhead. "Not lavender. And I don't listen to shit in the bath."

Badou didn't move his foot, his grin widening. "Ah, peppermint. I can't tell if you're joking or not but it doesn't matter. Do you put pickle slices on your eyes, too?" Noticing the ash collecting on the end of his cigarette, Badou tapped it absently over the side, eye never leaving Squalo's face.

"No." Squalo's eyes narrowed again as he wrapped his hand securely around Badou's ankle, a lingering threat, maybe (drowning imminent?) His gaze flickered from the other's face to the ash drifting towards the tiled floor, and back up again. "Don't set fire to the rug."

"I do what I want, I do what I want," replied Badou in a dry monotone. After one last drag, he crushed the cigarette out on the edge of the tub, the dark smear of ash the only spot on the flawless ivory. "And after the pickles," he continued, "you put your hair up in a cute little turban so you can put your face on in the vanity."

The swordsman said nothing but made a noise in his throat akin to a disapproving hmph, eyeing the dark stain of ash on the porcelain critically. Every single time that he had the redhead over, the smell of the cigarettes started to permeate everything within seconds unfailingly, taking weeks for the smell to dissipate. The random stains and burn marks on the furniture lasted even longer, of course. "Fuck you," he muttered, finally irritably pushing Badou's foot off himself and dropping it back into the water.

Badou laughed, and suddenly water was sloshing everywhere as the redhead moved forward, inserting himself up in Squalo's space, pushing his legs to either side. He pressed his two nicotine-stained fingers just behind Squalo's jaw, tilting his head and covering the swordsman's mouth with his own, kiss playful and insistant. Badou was patient, and Badou could hold out for quite a long time- but not always. Not with Squalo, at all.

Squalo laughed along, his fingers immediately resting back against the now familiar warmth of the skin at the back of Badou's neck, tangling the wet mass of redorange hair through his digits and tightening his grip just a fraction as he pulled the redhead closer. "You're fucking impossible," he pulled away for a moment, lips brushing against Badou's lightly, before he tilted his head and leant in once more.

Badou sighed, his other hand coming up to the other man's chest, fingers splaying on the damp skin. His mouth opened easily to Squalo's, allowing and provoking a slow, comfortable kiss, a slept-in-on-saturday kind of kiss. As he parted from the other man, he bodily slid even closer, if that were possible. "You know you like a challenge, pickleface," he rasped lowly, with a nicotine-sharp smirk.

"But I don't feel like it right now." The swordsman muttered, almost absently pulling at the other's hair and leaning up to press their mouths together again, tasting nicotine as sharp as Badou's grin on his tongue. "I don't feel like chasing."

"It would- mmf," Badou laughed against the other's lips, suddenly shoving the swordsman and banging his shoulderblades back against the tub. His eye was bright, mischevious, as he leant in to sample with sharp teeth and slow tongue at the bottom of Squalo's neck. "It would be more of a damp flail-after. Not exactly fuckin' dignified."

Squalo breathed in sharply, both from the cold porcelain against his back (fuck, that fucking hurt) and the teeth at his throat, sliding his hand down Badou's back and pulling them closer, the wet hair rough and lumpy against his gloved palm. "Leave a fucking mark," he grunted, eyes sliding shut almost even without him even thinking about it. "And today's your fucking death day."

The redhead's teeth dragged particularly hard after a pointed kiss to the wet skin. "Are you saying," he murmured easily, his tongue sliding up Squalo's throat after a water droplet, "that you want lots of marks, rather than just one?"

A noise escaped from his throat that wasn't quite anything (his heart almost skipping a beat) and Squalo scowled almost immediately afterwards, his hand moving back up to wrap around a shoulder as if to push the redhead away. "Badou,"

"Lots, got it," rasped the smoker in question, and with that he bit down hard on the pale skin. As he pulled back his tongue lavved over the bite, the air of smugness unmistakable. "You look so damn good all fucking marked up," he muttered, more to himself than anything else, and he leant back in and pressed a few hard kisses to the darkening bruise.

Squalo hissed in pain at the bite, almost feeling the bruise rise and darken on his skin but somehow weaving his fingers back into the darkened mass of redorange hair and holding Badou there. "Fuck you," the swordsman narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head back a little. "You're a fucking creep."

Against the bruise, Badou made a content noise, lips chapped and eager. "Says Signor Let Me Show You My Bath Tub Hurr Hurr..."

"If you don't fucking shut your mouth, Monsieur Nails," he began, the greyblue eyes narrowing a fraction (half with amusement, half with just sheer frustrated annoyance) as Squalo glanced down at the other. "I'm going to fucking shove the fucking soap up your fucking nose."

"As soap jokes go," hummed Badou cheerfully, unperturbed and impossible to silence as always, "that one was pretty bad, and you could've stooped a couple levels. If you get my meaning." Badou arms came up loosely around the other's shoulders, and he shifted forward again, deposting himself into Squalo's lap with a demented, perky smile. He brought two fingers to Squalo's forehead, smoothing out the crease between his eyebrows almost distractedly, as someone would tuck in a shirt or adjust a tie.

Squalo scowled even more and moved his hand to swat the other's hand away, before wrapping the arm around the other's neck while the other snaked around Badou's waist. "I don't know any fucking soap jokes." He said, tightening his grip just a fraction more and pulling the redhead closer, fingers pressing on the skin where the water lapped at. "Retard."

Letting his hand plop noisily in the water with an impish grin, Badou slowly slid his hips forward again. His sharp, quiet exhale disturbed the steam between them, sending into whirls and looking like the smoke that usually curled from his mouth. "I think," he said slowly, "you do." A pointy elbow jutted back, knocking the bar of soap on the side of the tub into the water with a sploosh. He arched an eyebrow, cheeky grin widening. "Gonna pick that up, you man-pretty motherfucker?"

Without saying a word Squalo leant forwards, tilting his head and nudging Badou's head back to nip at the skin just under his jaw. "Still debating on that." He muttered against the reddeningflushed skin. "Is it worth the trouble?" His arm around the redhead's waist tightened a fraction, the fingers brushing against the wet skin and curling around Badou's hip, the water sloshing slightly at the movement.

Instead of responding in a sassy, sexy manner, waggling eyebrows and all, Badou laughed, flushing a bit. "Dunno. Seems a little counter-productive. I mean, you'd have to bathe again right after." Wet hair slid off his shoulders as he leant his head back, letting Squalo's lips wander where they may. A goofy grin broke out on his face. "And then again and again and again and again."

"Well, I dunno either." The swordsman murmured as he gave the sallow skin light bites and nips, really nothing more than barely-there press of teeth and tongue. He paused and lifted his head for a moment, tangling his fingers into the wet hair again and tugging to bare the line of Badou's throat open, dipping his head and pressing light kisses along it. "But I wouldn't mind." He grinned sharply, before leaning in again to bite down on the swell of collarbone. Hard.

Badou jolted in the other's lap as the gentle ministrations suddenly stopped being so gentle, a rasping exclamation of surprise leaving his mouth. He clutched at Squalo's shoulder and chest, moving restlessly. "You fucking son of a cock bitch whore-" he managed, laughter still somehow making its way around the edges of the words. Water sloshed over the side of the tub onto the floor.

"Now we're fucking even," there was more than just a hint of laughter in the swordsman's voice, as he cupped the back of Badou's head and pulled him back down, brushing his nose against the other's before tilting his head to press their lips together.

The redhead kissed Squalo back slowly, deepening the kiss as languidly as a man on holiday. His fingernails scratched lightly down the other's chest, leaving faint red marks in their wake. "Squalo," he murmured, initiating an even deeper kiss.

Squalo took a shallow gasp of a breath in between the kisses, muscles jumping slightly under the nails scratching a path down his chest as his mouth opened slowly underagainst Badou's. "Mm," he muttered something unintelligible and arched up slightly, arm tightening around the other's waist.

Badou gave a small shiver in response, nails scratching harder as he shifted on top of Squalo. He bit into the kiss, more demanding, growling a raspy, "I need-"

One of his hands that was tangled into Badou's hair slowly trailed down the other's back, digging his fingertips hard along the line of his spine and tracing the vertebrae, inciting the redhead to arch against him before the hand - both hands - were wrapped securely around Badou's hips, holding him there. "I know," Squalo said, a little breathlessly, biting down on the other's lower lip and tugging at it. "Badou-"

"Ah-" breathed the redhead, hands abandoning Squalo's reddened chest to clutch at his shoulders for balance and leverage. The way Squalo's hands knew just where to touch, what to do to, and how to carefully peel off another layer of his inhibitions was fucking maddening. That thought fuzzily in mind, he kissed the other man with little coordination and a lot of enthusiasm. "No, I," he managed between kisses that had teeth as well as enthusiasm. "I need-"

"What," a gasp followed the question as Squalo's eyes slid shut halfway, watchinglooking up at the other man through loose strands of hair that started to fall across his eyes. They, however, closed completely as the swordsman leant in, returning the almost-clumsy kisses and bites just as hard as the other, his thumbs digging hard into the line where the thighs met the hips.

A soft noise of want left the redhead's throat, vibrating low against the other's lips. "I need-" Impatient hands pushed silver-white hair back to better kiss the other man, the shivers chasing up and down Badou's spine enticing, spurring him on. "-to get out before I prune," he finished, breaking the kiss [panting mildly].

"I-" Squalo's eyes narrowed and his lips twitched slightly, and he pulled Badou closer by the hips, pressing them almost flush together (feeling suddenly heady, suddenly breathless, not enough oxygen amid the heavy steam and the brushslide of skin against skin). "-don't care." He finished, leaning up (chasing up) to tug at the other's lower lip, one hand sliding around Badou's waist to press against the small of his back.

Badou's lips quirked, expression shifting from a foggy want to a focused mischeviousness, and his fingers wrapped around the other's shoulders again. As soon as he felt the pressure of Squalo's hand on his lower back, his thighs tightened and he raised himself up just enough- before grinding down hard right into the other's lap, the arch and movement almost serpentine in it's nature. He lapped at Squalo's open lips as he repeated the movement again, even slower and more intense.

A surprised expression flickering across his face, Squalo lifted his gaze up sharply to look at the other (sleepylanguid look in the half-closed eyes vanishing completely into a blatant surprise, maybe annoyance, maybe shock). "You fucking- aah-" An inadvertent, shaky sort of moan left Squalo's lips and he tightened his hand around the other's hip, head falling back against the edge of the tub.

After absently pushing his own hair back to one side, Badou leant down to kiss and suck at the other man's jumping adam's apple, exposed so nicely for him. His hand slid down Squalo's upper arm, up his forearm, and then covered the hand at his waist. As he leant back again, he pried said hand off his hip almost as an afterthought [he looked at it briefly, then let it drop into the water with a plunk]. Shoulders slumping down again, he gave Squalo another heated, biting kiss, ending it after an extremely intense few seconds. "I'm getting out now," he rasped brightly, thighs tightening around Squalo's lap for one split second. Then, grasp leaving the Italian's shoulders in favour of the sides of the tub, he started to get to his feet.

Squalo growled, lifting the arm back up from where it was dropped to hook around the back of Badou's knee, his other arm wrapping around the other's waist again to somewhat break the fall as he half-pushed, half-tilted the redhead backwards into the bath, but a loud slosh and flood of water onto the tiled floor still followed the motion. "Fuck you," he muttered against the side of the redhead's neck, reaching up to smooth back the clump of wet hair away from the skin as he gave a series of sharp bites over the muscles and tendon, pressing his tongue flat against the pulse of artery. "God fucking damned tease."

After letting out an awkward, indignified yelp [bony ass making a none-too-quiet thunk against the porcelin], the redhead made an entirely different kind of noise at the teeth and tongue working up and down his neck. Reflexively, his arm came up around Squalo's shoulders, clutching at the tight muscles. "Oh, shit," he breathed, the already quick pulse beneath Squalo's tongue quickening even further [his neck would always, always be his weakest spot]. "Don't pretend you don't- ah- like it." His hips gave a cocky, erratic sort of buck into Squalo's, and he laughed a little breathlessly. "I can tell you fuckin' like it-"

"I didn't say I didn't like it," he muttered, quick of lips against the wet skin kind of obvious as the swordsman pressed the other against the other end of the bath, an arm still hooked around the back of Badou's knee and brushing his fingers along the line of his thigh teasingly. "I said you're a fucking goddamned tease- (a hard dig of fingertips against the skin and Squalo dragged his teeth back down the length of Badou's neck, what's left of the water sloshing almost dangerously) -and I fucking hate that."

"Oh god," moaned Badou, fingernails dragging hard at Squalo's shoulderblade. Shivers rolled up and down his spine like the small waves in the tub sloshed, and he gave another erratic wiggle, half-trying to free himself, but mostly just to be a nuisance. The fingers at his thigh were causing him great interest. "That so. What...fuck yes, just like... would you prefer?"

Squalo lifted his head up slightly, grey eyes searching the other's expression for a second before he leant up, drawing Badou towards him and pressing their mouths together a little insistently. "Don't stray." his hand slid a little against the redhead's ass, the palm of his hand sliding decidedly against the skin and lips parting against the redhead's, Squalo drew back a little before muttering, "Stay here."

Badou made an embarassing noise into Squalo's mouth, gasping for air to swear with when they parted. "You-" he managed, but then seemed to hit a verbal roadblock, and it was no wonder; lips, hands, and words, Squalo was a goddamn tactical genius. It took him a few moments to manage to remember to breathe again, and when he did, he bit hard at Squalo's lips. Just so he didn't say something like, 'I will I promise', he said, "Hand."

"What about it?" Squalo ran his tongue over his lips at the stinging bite, eyes never quite leaving Badou's although it flickered, once, to take in the whole of the redhead's face, the expression. He shifted slightly, hand decidedly sure and pressingpushing Badou's hips up. The exhale of breath against the redhead's throat was definitely shaky at best, downright purr at its worst. "I don't see...anything."

"It's-" Badou inhaled, sharp and jagged, feeling heat beginning to twist and build in his stomach. He grit his teeth to stop the moan that threatened to escape at that hot press of skin against skin, the slide of hips against hips, the sound of Squalo's goddamned voice. "It's out of bounds," he managed, his own voice hoarse and a little frantic.

"Fuck that," Squalo murmured against the skin of the other's neck, somehow managing to leave several darkred marks spread and bloom across the pale skin even as he gasped for some semblance of even breathing. Almost dizzy from lack of oxygen and too much heat, Squalo (pressing close with lipstongueteeth and insistent but always careful ) cautiously, almost too slowly, rolled his hips against the other's, hissing a breath through gritted teeth. "Want you."

"Fuck," groaned Badou, single eye shuttering closed, flush blotchy and high on the bridge of his nose. The fingers not clenched like a vice around the swordsman's shoulder wound their way into Squalo's hair, almost yanking at the ivory strands. The Italian was fucking overwhelming his senses, making him unable to think beyond yes and more. Absently, he thought this may of been a problem, but that didn't stop him from pushing his hips back against Squalo's, the hot, hard contact making him gasp, "Oh, fucking hell..."

The corner of his lips twitched, wavering in between a grin and a smirk as Squalo nosed under the redhead's chin, running his tongue up the side of Badou's neck and grazing his teeth against the Adam's apple. "-Yes?" He panted out against the skin, shifting slightly to draw the redhead even closer, when the motion brought him within close proximity of the soap that Badou had oh so helpfully dropped it in the bath earlier. Right under his knee, that is.

He didn't even have the time to make a surprised noise before he was slipping forward, bringing the redhead down with him with his weight under the water, and banging his elbow sharply on the faucet as he flung an arm out for balance. "Fuck," he cursed, pulling back and alternatively trying to rub at the twinging spot at his elbow, and to wipe off the soapy water from his eyes. "Fuck, shit, fuck-"

"Hoomf-" Badou managed to get out as the older man's greater weight suddenly crashed down on him. Following this noise was an assortment of bewildered gurgles and the brief, frantic thrashing of the redhead's legs in the water, and then a loud gasp as Squalo pulled back and he surged to the surface. He, too, banged his [opposite] elbow on the faucet as he scrambled to sit back up, and his knee came very close to ensuring that the Italian's family line was going to stop with him [although a sharply angled kneecap was still quite painful to recieve in the upper thigh, truth be told].

After coughing wetly for a long few moments, Badou spat a dingy grey-purple mixture of ash, soap, and bathwater over the side of the tub, his thin chest heaving, and stared wide eyed at Squalo.

"-FUCK, oww, you fucking-" The pitch and volume of the swears rose a tiny fraction as Squalo flinched back to the other side of the tub, away from the other (-'s knee), the jab to his thigh smarting sharply and banging his elbow (again) on the porcelain.

"-Sorry?" He finally got out after a few bewildered seconds, pale hair dripping wet and plastered to his scalp and staring back at the redhead just as wide-eyed, face twisted slightly into a grimace at the pain.

Badou returned the stare for a good ten, silent seconds, before he dropped his head. For all appearences, he was going into some sort of eplileptic seizure, convulsing as if he'd swallowed the bar of soap that had done them wrong and it was not lodged in his throat. However, after a few more seconds of his bizarre fit, a wheezing, ridiculous sounding laugh escaped from between his lips.

Shoulders shaking, Badou's head fell back as he laughed, and laughed, and coughed, and laughed some more.

Squalo watched Badou with an expression that was increasingly bewildered, worried, horrified and then finally annoyed, finally leaning in and reaching out to firmly slap the other's back, much like what he had done back in the pool. "Shut up," he hissed, somehow having a grin twitch at his lips and trying desperately to not show it in his face over all the annoyance. "It's your goddamned fucking fault-"

"-that you keep drowning me?" laughed Badou, his laughter practically toppling over itself before falling into a tumbling cough. "That's my fault? You with your fucking- sexed up Italian bullshit, think you're so fucking smooth-" Badou pushed wet hair out of his own face, his eye scrunched up with peals of laughter. Absently, he reached up to his eyepatch, squishing the water out of it, his hand covering his damanged eye the entire time, and smoothly pushing the patch flat again with his palm when it was no longer saturated. When his eye met Squalo's, he redoubled with laughter, pressing Squalo's sodden hair out of his face, too."Jesus fucking christ, you retarded fuckass-"

"IT JUST KEEPS HAPPENING, HOW THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW? MAYBE GOD HATES YOU." Squalo growled out, pointedly looking away from the redhead, eyes flickering down to stare hard at the cigarette stain on the pale porcelain that somehow miraculously survived all the water and still stood out glaringly from all the white. He looked up though, when the other's bony fingers pushed the clumps of wet sodden hair out of his face, and his brows furrowed even more as he snatched at the other's wrist, pulling the hand away from his face. "FUCK YOU, SHUT THE HELL UP-"

Caught in the other man's grip,Badou knew was treading on thin ice [with loud-mouthed sharks swimming below]. He knew that Squalo's pride was a very easily offended, fickle and dangerous creature, and that the other man was, during the average day, given to both preen and rage because of it on and off like the flipping of a switch. Squalo had that dignity crap, too, which made his male ego even more fragile, which in turn made the people around him at risk for spontaneous head trauma at any moment.

Even with all this in mind, Badou couldn't seem to stop himself. "Really," he rasped brightly, his other hand popping easily up to push at the darkened, silver-white hair, "you should've just got out when I said so."

Squalo's expression wavered slightly, flickered at the sight of the other's face, the bright tone of voice, and he slowly loosened his grip on Badou's wrist, not making a move to flick the other hand out of the way. His gaze moved from Badou's face to the scarred hand, muttering out in a decidedly quieter tone after a minute or so. "-You're pruning."

"Is it sexy? Does it make you hot? Tingly in all sorts of interesting places?" mumbled the redhead in that same cheerful rasp, squishing the water out of damp lock of Squalo's hair. He grinned, noting Squalo's [tense-awkward-oh-shit] expression, and he thumbed the other's cheekbone in an almost bashfully reassuring way. "You do keep threatening to fuckin' drown me. Maybe I shouldn't be so surprised every time. Is the toilet next? Can it not be? I have this reoccurring nightmare where this asshole from primary school gives me a swirly and my hair gets stuck in the u-bend and I can't stand up and then a crocodile comes up the pipes at me."

The corner of Squalo's lips quirked, just a minute trembletwitch of muscles but still there, turning his head away from Badou's hand, bowing almost apologetically (almost unintentionally) over the hand still held loosely in his grasp. "Stop that," the Italian muttered, trying to keep the mad, idiotic grin threatening to burst open on his face. "It's fucking gross, and no- You have a fucking bony knee, did you fucking know that? There aren't any crocodiles, but I heard rats live in the toilet pipes-"

"I know I do. Did I get you in the rocks?" Although Badou had been grinning, there was now a subtle difference in it, a warmth suddenly hidden in the crooked corners. "Rats aren't so bad. Mostly because they can't snap your head up like a grape inside their mouths. Look, I definitely saw something on the television about toilet crocodiles. Like I'd make a serious threat like that up. I wouldn't want to be the little boy who cried toilet crocodile." The water, now calm around them, rippled gently as Badou leaned forward a bit, lightly knocking his head to Squalo's [still unperturbed about the grip around his wrist, doing nothing to break the contact].

"Too fucking close." Squalo muttered, the frown lines on his forehead easing out as his eyes flickered up to gauge Badou's expression, and he bowed his head even more, almost as if by curling up like this he could somehow push down the grin stretching his lips wide. "Rats are just as fucking bad. At least you'd know when a crocodile is fucking coming." He leant just a fraction into Badou, nothing more than a tilt of the head, another grin twitching at his lips, the way his fingers curled around the other's thin wrist.

Badou considered this near-miss, lips quirking. "Bad luck for you, in the long run, really," he decided absently, the fingers at his cheekbone sliding up into pale hair, rubbing in small, lazy circles at his head. He watched Squalo's slowly brightening features and the even slower thawing of his posture carefully [it was like the two were related, and there was no wonder as to why Badou made such of a fool of himself all the fucking time, really]. "And you might not know if it were a preteen crocodile."

At that, the Italian let out a small snort of amusement that he couldn't quite hold back, and Squalo finally looked up with a bemused gleam in his eyes that were now unmistakably there, tilting his head back as to keep the fingers in his hair (it just felt right, and Squalo had always been one for small comforts like this) "Preteen crocodile?" He murmured, grip tightening a fraction around the other's wrist and abruptly pullingtugging forward, leaning in to lightly brush his lips against the other's. "You're such a fucking retard I can't fucking stand you sometimes."

To his chagrin [and rather inexplicably at that, considering the position they had just been locked in, the high degree of comfort he felt, and the general lack of pants all around], Badou felt colour rising to his face again. Still, he held the gaze Squalo intiated, the amusement sparking in the icey blue irises opposing not going missed at all. At the gentle touch of lips on lips, he smiled, fingers still working slowly through the other man's hair [like a guilty fucking pleasure or something]. "Bedroom?" he rasped. When his internal tape recorder played that back at him, his expression contorted awkwardly and the scarlet across his nose deepened unflatteringly. "That. I mean. Prunes. Drowning. Y'know. Not. Whatever."

Squalo closed his eyes with another wide, stupidly big grin stretching at his lips (god, it was just like he couldn't fucking stop, maybe he was drugged or something) and leant his forehead against Badou's, just beneath the redhead's eyepatch, almost feeling the hot blush creeping on over the freckled skin. He let out a barely-there sigh at the touch to his hair, and then a slightly louder chuckle. "Retard." He pulled back to brush their noses together lightly, muttering low. "I know. Whatever."

Badou fought his awkwardness, trying to stop stupid blushing, but every light brush of skin against his [somehow feeling almost more intimate than when they were- er, being intimate] set him off all over again. Mumbling to himself schizophrenically about raisins, his fingers finally slid out of the older man's hair, and he got to his feet carefully, hand tugging Squalo up by the forearm. Unconsciously, he seemed to keep contact with the other man, even as he stepped out of the tub and made a grab for the towels he'd hung up earlier.

Within this time, he'd managed to overcome his awkwardness, apparently, as he lazily wrapped one towel around his waist, and used the other to scrabble through his wet hair, leaving Squalo dripping and exposed. He grinned.

[://34]

2008-10-31T01:02:14Z

I DON'T FUCKING KNOW WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON

BUT I WILL KILL YOU, KAMINA.

And. Don't fucking even think about talking about it when you come the fuck over, Yoko.

SHUT UP.

[ooc log post] Squalo + Badou.

2008-10-26T13:10:22Z

Who: Squalo and Badou
When: The morning/night/fuckoclock of; immediately after the Xanxus and Squalo log here
Where: Varia HQ, Italy.
What: DF;LKJAF;KLJS;KJLASD;JKL!!!!!!!!
Why: Idk we're retards.
Note: FDLKJGSA;LKJGADS;LJKADSG;LKJDAGS;JLKADSGKJ;LDAGSJK;LDG;KJLGD;KJLGDS!!!!! or, SORRY ABOUT THE LOGS OVERLOAD.
Note 2: LOLIDK RETARDATION AND FLUFF. THIS IS A WARNING SERIOUSLY.

Squalo wasn't usually the patient type. Especially give him a night like this and a certain redhead sleeping on the other side of the goddamned mansion, and he'd probably have done the exact same thing, broken shoulder or not. It wasn't probably the best of ideas, but hell, he was, at best, impulsive.

"Badou," he hissed, reaching down to grab one of the redhead's arms and giving it a sharp tug, struggling to lift Badou up into a sitting position and only managing to half-drag the other off the bed. "Wake the fuck up."

[ooc log post] Squalo + Xanxus.

2008-10-26T11:44:15Z

Who: Squalo and Xanxus.
When: Right after log here.
Where: Varia Headquarters, Italy. Squalo's room + corridor.
What: Xanxus and Squalo talking.
Why: Because.
Note: Nobody saw this.

Xanxus was already in bed by the time Squalo came back into the room, his back to the door and the blanket up to his chin. He ignored Squalo's entering, choosing instead to try and be asleep, though the tense line across his shoulders more than likely gave away the fact that he was most certainly not asleep yet. There wasn't much of a chance a restful sleep would come that night, anyway; more of an unconscious period than actual sleep. He laid there like that for a few moments more before he finally spoke, voice half muffled by the blanket. "Been shown to his room, has he?"

His gaze first landing on the figure of Xanxus in his bed, whatever words he might have spoken to the other's back falling into silence at the hard, tense line of his shoulders, Squalo clenched his teeth slightly and walked over towards the bed, pausing only long enough to kick off his shoes and gingerly laying himself down beside Xanxus. He probably should have taken at least one more of the pills, but Squalo's eyes were wide open as they stared up at the dark ceiling, absently counting the other's breathing out of sheer habit (he used to count his own heartbeat in the dark, seeing how low he could get the count down in a minute).

He made no acknowledgement or a show of surprise to Xanxus being awake (he already knew) and only turned his head a fraction towards the other's direction, the quiet words carrying easily in the silence. "..Yeah."

"Mm. Good." Xanxus gazed at Squalo for a moment then, feeling like he was supposed to do something. Move closer. Reach out. Touch him. Something. But that something just wasn't in his nature, was it? It never had been. Never learning proper affection meant he would never know how to give proper affection. Thus? Glass throwing. "Good night, then," he finally settled on and he closed his eyes, actually looking to fall asleep now. Xanxus had stayed awake only to wait (to make sure) for Squalo to join him. He hadn't lied earlier when he said he was exhausted.

Squalo stopped counting when Xanxus started speaking, banishing the numbers to the back of his head and merely making an affirming noise in his throat. But... Squalo sighed, pushing himself up on his good elbow with a hidden wince. "--Xanxus?" he said, after a few minutes of silence, glancing down at the half-lit figure shadowed in the darkness of the room. If he was asleep, then it could wait until tomorrow. If he was still awake...then. (he'd never been good at planning things out through)

The shifting and the talking were not incredibly conducive toward getting any sort of sleep. Xanxus tried to ignore it for a few moments before he finally let out a faint sigh and opened his eyes. He glanced up toward Squalo, half-hovering over him as far as he could tell (the silhouette was all he had to go by, after all; it was later than he thought) and eventually Xanxus propped his head on a hand. "What?"

It was hard to make out anything in the half-darkness and Squalo blinked slowly, just making out the glint of the red eyes before he just exhaled sharply. "Why are you sleeping here?" It wasn't like his room was any more comfortable than any of the guest rooms, and from experience he knew that Xanxus would much rather move to a hotel than sleep in a less than perfect room. He could, perhaps, probably guess at the reasons why, but right now Squalo preferred to hear it from the other himself. Hell, he couldn't fucking sleep like this, anyway.

"Because," Xanxus muttered, his voice low mostly from the habit of conversing quietly when there was no light, "there's blood on my sheets. Your blood. So it would only make sense that I usurp your bed until that's taken care of." And it was an excuse, nothing but an excuse; a big part of the real reason was sleeping in a guest room in another part of the house, as far away from here as Xanxus could manage, but not so close to the damage he had caused to the mansion that in going in the room one would risk falling through the floor.

"Change your fucking sheets." Squalo replied, lowering his voice slightly to match the other's tone as he shifted again, moving to pull the sheets over to his side a little and settling down again onto his back with a muffled hiss. "It's not my fucking fault."

"No." When Squalo had settled back down again, Xanxus did as well, though he rolled until he was on his stomach. He draped an arm across Squalo, below the injured arm, and turned his head so it was facing away from the swordsman. "I wanted to fucking sleep here, so I'm going to fucking sleep here."

The swordsman was silent for a moment, shifting again with a grunt to get comfortable before falling silent again. Though... "--What the fuck happened," he breathed out into the air above them after a moment, eyes wide open; the pain in his shoulder distracted him from getting any sleep for the present moment, "before?"

Xanxus had to think about that, himself. Everything was lost in a sea of white-hot flame. He had to peer through the fire in order to see what happened. "He asked who shot you, I said I did. He got pissed, I got pissed. He said I was a fucking monster trying to take away your happiness, I almost shot him in the fucking head but instead took out half the mansion." Xanxus paused for a second and eventually grunted. "After that, I'm completely blank until I headed up the stairs back to here."

At that, Squalo glanced sharply beside him at the other, though he couldn't catch Xanxus' expression, merely seeing the dark head of hair turned away from him. Not that he'd have been able to see anything, in any case, but that wasn't the fucking point here, was it? The corners of his lips tightened for a brief moment, blinking a few times before opening his mouth. The words floated up into his head much slower than he would have liked. "...Why would he say that?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Xanxus grumbled, and eventually he turned his head so he could look at Squalo's outline again. "He doesn't get it," he finally said, and he moved the hand that was draped across Squalo up so he could run his fingers across the bandages around the swordsman's shoulder. "Doesn't understand why I did this. Thinks it's only 'cause of him. Fucking ego." Like he was one to talk, but that wasn't the point.

There was the barest hint of a flinch at the touch as Squalo breathed in sharply, almost regretting not taking another dose of the pills before settling down on the bed; it was too late to get back up and hobble across the room for them, now. "Why?" He glanced back at Xanxus again, his expression half-hidden in the darkness a mixture of annoyance and pain, and a hint of confusion as well. "You fucking know you don't need any more fucking proof, I-"

Xanxus heaved a sigh and shifted his arm again so it was once more just across Squalo's body. "Probably for the same fucking reason I almost shot him in the head tonight," he said, his eyes on Squalo's shoulder--it was about all he could see in the darkness. "Because I fucking can. Because that's how I fucking express myself. There's no better way to get the point across then a god damn bullet or ten."

Squalo gritted his teeth tightly and pushed the other's arm off, half-sitting up by propping his torso on his good elbow and looking down on Xanxus. "Just because you fucking can doesn't mean you had to- (almost, almost-) shoot him!" His voice rose slightly, his expression tight. "Why did you get so damn angry? What more do you fucking want?"

"Everything." Xanxus answered, and he rolled over to sit up as well, refusing to be towered over like that, even if Squalo was only half up. "You've known me how fucking long and you still have to ask me what I fucking want? I want fucking everything, Squalo. And don't try to give me any sort of bullshit of my already having you. Because it might be fucking true, but only to a god damn point." He snarled quietly and seemed to pick invisible lint off the blanket and flick it away. "Which is where he takes over. Him and all those other fucking people you've...bonded with."

"Well fucking excuse me, you were in that fucking- (the words choking in his throat, piled and packed too tight with too much memories, too many words ) -thing for the fucking majority of the time!" The swordsman snarled, almost completely sure that he'd get a blow to the head for that remark, this.. defiance, and internally braced himself for it, his good hand curling tightly into the sheets. He looked up to meet the other's gaze, the red tint of it almost glowing in the semi-darkness, and his hand tightened just a fraction more around the fabric. "What the fuck do you mean? Of fucking course it's everything you fucking need-"

"Need. Need? Just because it's what I fucking need doesn't mean it's what I fucking want. I don't need to spend fifteen hundred euro on a suit, but I do it anyway because I fucking want to. Che, what I need..." The last part was no more than muttered as Xanxus turned his gaze away from Squalo and stared across the room, the light that came in between the flaps of the curtain illuminating a line across the wall.

Squalo's chest felt too tight, as if the bandage wrapped around his torso was somehow pressing down on his ribcage, his lungs not expanding properly, and he took a shallow, barely-there breath. The slow clenching of sudden emptiness in his gut (feeling as if the metaphorical table sheet was wrenched out from underneath him). "Then what the fuck do you want from me?" The swordsman pushed himself up to sit up fully, turning to face the other. "Xanxus," he got out, his expression screwing up into a grimace of half-pain, half-confusion, "I just don't fucking understand-"

A short, bitter laugh left Xanxus and he lifted a hand in order to cover most of his face. "I don't fucking get it, either." Slowly the hand slid down until it dropped uselessly into his lap. "You know, I was doing just fucking fine all this time, being the way I was. I wasn't questioned. I didn't question. People either threw themselves at me to bestow my favor, or they fled in terror. I didn't fucking wonder what the hell else there was out there. I didn't fucking care. I had what I wanted. And then you..." Xanxus stopped and shook his head before he allowed his gaze to slide sideways toward Squalo. "What the fuck are you getting from them? What are you getting that you're not getting from me?"

The swordsman merely looked at the other man without speaking until he was done, and for a while afterwards, staring at the darkness on the other side of the room in a silence so uncharacteristic one might have thought he'd finally dropped off to sleep, if not for the fact his eyes were wide open, expression on his face slightly tense. "I," Squalo started, before falling silent, dropping his gaze to slowly run his hand over the sheets, smoothing out the creases on the cover laid across his lap. "They just are."

"Are what, Squalo?" Xanxus turned half toward him then, his eyes sparking with the moonlight. "They're. Just. What?" His jaw tensed and he made a low sound of annoyance as he looked away again, eyes focused back on the wall across from him. Frankly, he almost didn't want to know. And this anger and frustration that had been keeping him up every time Squalo disappeared for a few days was starting to wear on his last nerve. Maybe he really should have just killed Squalo earlier to end all of this headache.

Squalo glanced back at Xanxus then, eyes narrowed to slits and baring his teeth in a half-grimace, half-snarl with a noise much like an annoyed growl, something hot and tense and just (he was just so fucking-) scared coiling in his gut, but meeting the other's gaze unflinchingly. "Why the fuck do you care what I do?" His hand gripped the smoothed sheets tightly, the threads straining with the sheer force behind it--but it was the furthest thing from his mind now. "I do my job. I do everything you tell me to, and more. Don't fucking tell me what to fucking do in my fucking spare time."

Xanxus brought up a hand and fisted his fingers into Squalo's hair, though not in any sort of painful grip. He pulled Squalo closer and rested their foreheads together, much like he had when he was nearly comatose out in the hallway. "Because you're fucking you. Because you are the only god damn constant in my life that hasn't completely fucked me over. Because you don't annoy me like every other piece of trash on this worthless fucking planet. Because...you...just...fuck you frustrate me so fucking much."

The swordsman took a breath and held it in, closing his eyes for a brief moment. This was too much, too hard to think about and the right words weren't coming at all- "Xanxus," Squalo finally said with a sharp exhale of breath, bowing his head. "I've waited for you for all these fucking years. I- (eyes flickering down, the bandage scratchy and hot against his shoulder; the other's fingers a solid weight in his hair - the words were so hard to get out, almost as if he were trying to force himself through a thick hedge) -I gave up so fucking much."

His eyes flickered up, and he curled his fingers into the sheets, pulling back just a fraction so he could look at Xanxus properly, though the gaze dropped back after a moment, a tired grin wavering on his face. "But I'm not fucking giving this up." His voice was low, almost sounding as if he was half-asleep, but really, the real situation was the furthest thing from that. "I'm tired, Xanxus. I don't know what more you want from me, and-" His voice died, and Squalo took a shuddering breath, feeling it settling like lead in his lungs. "-and I'll give. But not this."

"If you still can't figure out what the fuck it is I want from you, then..." Xanxus paused for a second as he slid his hand from Squalo's hair and shifted away. Then...what? He wasn't one to give anything up, either. Especially not anything he really fucking wanted. "I'm not fucking asking you to give anyone up. That'd just be fucking idiotic of me, and I would be a god damn monster. But why the fuck am I not allowed to know what the hell is going on in that stupid fucking head of yours? What the fuck are you trying to hide from me? Because nobody fucking hides shit from me."

"I'm not hiding." Squalo snarled, his shoulders tensing as he looked hard at the other, ignoring the pain shooting up from the injured shoulder. "I would fucking tell you if I fucking could, but I can't. I can't fucking explain it." His shoulders sagged after that tense outburst, and Squalo brought his hand up to rub his face, finally unclenching his jaw as he exhaled. "I just don't know." His voice wavered, broke slightly in the end, and Squalo closed his eyes, dropping his hand back into his lap. "I don't fucking know if I can give what you want."

Xanxus remained silent for a few long moments, and his breathing evened out enough that it was entirely possible he had fallen asleep sitting up. Finally, he took a breath and laid back down on his side, his back to Squalo. "Fine. I'm too fucking tired right now, or I'd take my ass to a hotel. Tomorrow? I go back to being the fucking Boss. None of this bullshit anymore. If I can't have everything, I don't want a fucking percent of it. I don't fucking settle for what I can get."

"Xanxus-" Squalo started before falling silent again, merely staring down at the other without speaking. "...Boss." The word fell heavily from his lips, left to hang there in the air between them. "I'm not going anywhere." Squalo said, his voice quiet. "I'm not leaving. I'm still here."

"Right. Boss. That's fucking right. I'm the fucking Boss. Always fucking have been--" Xanxus's voice fell flat then, cut off, and his tone was lower like he wasn't even aware that Squalo was there anymore. "Always fucking will be." The silence that followed that was morose, at best, and downright uncomfortable at worst. Xanxus shifted just slightly as he tried to get more comfortable.

Squalo watched the other for a few more minutes, before shifting himself. The tense feeling in the air was obvious, and the swordsman hesitated slightly, moving his head to glance towards the door. "If you want me to go, then- I know."

"No. If anyone should fucking leave, it should be me." Xanxus stayed where he was for moments more, a side of him almost amused by the tense atmosphere. Eventually he snarled to himself and sat back up again, angry. "Fuck this." He turned toward Squalo and brought a hand up to cradle the back of his head again. "Let me...fucking...try this...fucking emotion...bullshit that you seem to like so damn much. I've never given up on a god damn thing I wanted in my life. I'm not gonna let you deciding you can't fucking give it all to me ruin my god damn reputation." Xanxus pulled Squalo to him again, their lips together, and it was a kiss reminiscent of the one he had given when in the hallway; that not-angry, not-forceful kiss that was something else entirely.

"Your reputation?" Squalo pushed at the other's shoulder with his good hand, turning his head away to break the kiss. "It's all your damn fucking reputation?" He swung his legs off the bed and struggled up, reaching out and grabbing the bedpost for support with a small hiss, lest he teetered back down again. "I'm not doing any damn thing to ruin it. I'll do whatever the fuck you want, I'll do anything you tell me to."

Squalo made his way across the room, only turning back to the bed with a slight hesitation as he closed his hand around the doorknob. "They don't ask for anything." He addressed the figure shrouded in half-darkness of the room. "They don't ask me for anything, or to be anything, and-" He took a shallow breath, turning the knob and pushing it open. "It's nice, to have that. Sometimes."

"Sorry." A slight twitch of lips, maybe a grimace, flickered across his face, and Squalo stepped out into the corridor, shutting the door behind him.

"Squalo." Xanxus all but roared after the closed door and he cursed, loudly, as he threw the covers off and climbed out of the bed. Without time to dress, he merely threw on his jacket and buttoned a button or two before he was out in the hallway, after the (slowly) retreating figure of the swordsman. "I never asked you to follow me. I never asked you to fucking care this god damn much about me. But you do. And, here's a god damn surprise even to me, for some fucking reason, in some twisted god damn way, I care, too. I may not be able to ever fucking love you. Hell, I may not be able to ever fucking love period, but guess the fuck what, Superbi fucking Squalo? I...cannot exist as I am...without your ass there beside me. So of fucking course I'm going to ask things of you. Of course I'm going to fucking ask you to fucking be something. But that's because there is no one else in this god damn house," Xanxus paused and turned slowly, arms out wide, as if addressing everyone who wasn't present, "that's right, no one else in this god damn house," and he finished the rotation to glower at Squalo, "that I can rely this fucking much on."

Squalo turned around after a long silence, and leaned heavily on the banister leading downstairs. "I don't get you," he said, his voice decidedly strained. "I'm not leaving, I'm not going anywhere, and I'm still your fucking-" Squalo glanced sideways, at his injured shoulder. "-Right hand, and that's not gonna fucking change."

"I can't give you what you want. You can..." Squalo bowed his head, gritting his teeth in suppressed pain as he slowly fell to his knees, gripping the banister tightly. "--kill me. I let you down, Boss."

"No. No, I can't kill you. I tried that earlier, remember? Didn't go so well." Xanxus pressed a hand to his forehead before he lowered it in order to undo the buttons on the jacket. With a huff he shrugged it off of his shoulders and tossed it aside and he didn't even bother watching as the coat fluttered to the ground. "I'm fucking baring it all, Squalo. Both literally and figuratively. As much as I need and want you to be my right hand, even more I need and want you to be fucking Superbi Squalo. The loudmouthed punk. The swordsman. The however you identify your own fucking self. If you can't give me that, then you can't give me you--at which point you're free to go and do whatever the fuck you want."

"I-" The swordsman sagged visibly out of sheer fatigue, letting out a short bark of noise that wasn't even a laughter either. "I can't. And- I don't want to either." His hand was shaking where it was wrapped around the curving leg of the banister and Squalo took a breath, tightening his grip. "I'm sorry."

Xanxus stared at Squalo in stunned silence, unable to even comprehend what was just said to him. "...Yeah. Yeah, you are, aren't you?" His voice was low, tight, absolutely strained as he tried not to break down again. Not again, not again, not twice in one fucking night. He turned and stomped back into the bedroom in order to grab his guns and went back into the hallway. "If that's the way you want it, fine. If for whatever fucking reason I'm completely incapable of making you happy outside of this life that we have then...fine. I'm going to go to my room, get dressed, and then go to a hotel for the night. After that...I don't fucking know. But don't expect me back for a while."

Xanxus gazed down at one of his guns, at the X emblazoned on it, and he shook his head. "I hope it's been fun for you, because this suddenly finding out I'm a fucking human and have more than a one track mind has been fucking hell for me." He fell into silence as he caressed the trigger of the gun with his forefinger. "I should've just fucking killed the both of you. Have fun having fun with him."

[ooc log post] Squalo + Xanxus + Badou. :: COMMENT LOG.

2008-10-22T04:45:08Z

Who: Squalo and Xanxus and Badou.
When: After the ITs here and Xanxus's post here.
Where: Varia Headquarters, Italy. Corridor + Squalo's room. Kitchen, main hall, etc. Basically just all over the Varia HQ.
What: TENSIONNNNNNNN and much awkwardness. Xanxus's ~*PRESENCE*~. Explosions, mad laughter, injured Italians and general fucking crazy. Jesus Christ, don't fucking ask. Read.
Why: Badou was spazzing too much. And we needed Xanxus and Badou to meet? Squalo is a cranky injured ~~bitch~~ ~~kitty~~ person.
Note: None of your characters saw this. Though they'd have seen all the public threads in the ITs and in Xanxus' post, if they cared to know. Idk people in Varia mansion ie the servants and Luss and Levi and Bel, if he was here at that time?

Squalo startled back into consciousness, heartbeat frantic in his ears as if after a nightmare (but he hadn't had any, hadn't had any reason for one, not for a long time), the pain in his head considerably less than before he faded out. The swordsman took a breath, letting it out as as sharp curse when stabbing pain shot up his shoulder at the tiny movement. "Fuck."

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking another slow, deep breath and counting to (one, two, three, four-) before painfully rolling himself off the bed, staggering a little as his vision swam for a moment. The sheets were bloodstained, the dark patches visible even on the dark tint of the sheets, but Squalo merely glanced down at them for a moment before he was stumbling out of the bedroom, reaching for the doorknob and twisting it open, stepping out unsteadily into the corridor. He knew he should have stayed down for a few more hours, but Squalo didn't really care; he just. Needed to get out. Or... or something.

[ooc log post] Squalo + Xanxus.

2008-10-22T03:24:00Z

Who: Squalo and Xanxus
When: After the Interesting Truths on Xanxus came out here.
Where: In Venice. Varia headquarters. Xanxus' room, and a private hospital, then back to Xanxus' room.
What: Squalo's reaction to Xanxus' secrets. And some Mafia moments, ie guns and blood. And even more blood and Xanxus being all Xanxus with his killing desire and weird manly Mafia stuff. ~*EPIC*~
Why: Because the ITs for Xanxus were too awesome and we needed to do this. And HOLY SHIT WE DIDN'T KNOW THIS WILL BE SO AWESOME. IT IS EPIC.~*EPICCCC*~
Note: Go HERE for information on Squalo's condition during the log. It is a perfectly acceptable behaviour for him to do in that situation and he will tolerate no comments otherwise. Not that your characters would know anything about what happened. So NONE OF YOU REALLY SAW THIS HAPPENING.

Xanxus pushed himself away from his desk and stalked into the main area of his bedroom, away from his study, and immediately went for a glass and a bottle of whiskey. One glass then another was downed quickly and he turned around to lean back against the wall, glowering at nothing. A reputation carefully built was destroyed in a matter of seconds by a stupid fucking fish. Xanxus gripped his glass tightly and reached beside him to grab the bottle in order to pour himself another drink.

Squalo didn't bother knocking on the door this time, leaving his room almost as soon as the conversation died down, and making his way across the house towards Xanxus' rooms, kicking the door open so hard that the doorframe rattled at the impact. "XANXUS!"

His reflexes immediately wanted to have him send the glass in his hand flying across the room, but instead Xanxus kept a firm hold on it and he knocked back a fourth refill. "What the fuck do you want, shark." he snarled before he turned to gaze purposefully out the window. "Make it quick."

The swordsman stalked forward over to the other, taking a clean glass and filling about half of it with whiskey, not even bothering with the ice. The pale eyes flickered over to glance at Xanxus's face once, a quick glance that lasted for a fraction of a second, before he was muttering a sharp swear and gulping the liquor down, ignoring the sharp sting down his throat and at the corners of his eyes.

Xanxus turned his head and watched Squalo in silence as the swordsman downed the drink he detested so much. What the hell was this supposed to be? Some sort of sign of support or some shit? Xanxus raised an eyebrow before he removed the bottle from Squalo's possession and poured himself another glass, which he sipped at instead of completely downing. "The fuck was that all about?"

Squalo didn't enjoy the drink, the burning trail it left in his throat too much normally - and some rather unfortunate incidences back when they were still at school left him with a penchance for the sweeter taste of wine - but right now, tonight at least, he almost welcomed the burning heat, the stinging pain that almost made tears form at the corners of his eyes. "I have no fucking idea, Boss." The term sounded slightly odd on his tongue, and Squalo lapsed back into uncharacteristic silence, absently swirling what little liquor that was left in the glass.

"Right." Xanxus put his glass down on the small table that held his many bottles and he moved away, arms crossed firmly over his chest. He was less than thrilled with the way this month had thus far been going, which really pissed him off since it had been his god damn birthday. Never a fucking break. Finally he leaned against the window divider and glanced back toward Squalo. "You still haven't told me what the fuck you wanted."

"I don't know," the swordsman leant back against the desk, absently pulling his hair away before he settled down, and emptied his glass after a moment of silence, a sharp intake of breath that he couldn't quite mask following it. "We could get Marmon to find out where the fuck it is?" Squalo said, just wanting to do something, say something, anything, really.

"I don't fucking care right now." Mostly, Xanxus just didn't want to deal with it. With anything. In fact, he wanted to forget any of it had happened, though it didn't look like that was going to be a viable option at all. His eyes remained on Squalo for a brief moment more before he looked away again. "If you don't have anything useful to say, leave."

Squalo merely made a noncommittal noise, his eyes fixed on the barely moving drapery of the curtain. His eyes narrowed at the other's words, however, his grip tightening around the heavy glass that he held in one hand, and the next moment he was throwing it across the room, hitting the portrait of the Ninth that hung on the opposite side of the wall to him and leaving bits of broken glass and droplets of whiskey on the painted surface.

"LEAVE?" Squalo stood up and turned at Xanxus next, pale greyblue eyes narrowed, almost snarling in the other's face as he stepped closer. "You want me to fucking leave, AFTER ALL THAT SHIT?"

Xanxus gazed coolly back at Squalo, his eyes hard and rimmed with the fire of his barely contained rage. He wanted to go shoot up the fucking ocean and all other bodies of water, lot of good it would do him. Something finally broke, and he reached up with a snarl to tangle his fingers into Squalo's hair. "What else do you want me to fucking say, huh? Do you want me to boohoo and sob about how fucking important you are? Get the fuck out if you don't have any god damn useful thing to say to me right now."

That hurt, stinging his scalp a little with the force of the grip, but Squalo was far more preoccupied in other matters than that and he reached up, rolling back his sleeve with a gloved hand, eyes never leaving Xanxus'. "And FUCKLOAD of help would it do to you for me to leave you with all the fucking booze!" A hollow thud of metal hitting wood and Squalo's steel hand dropped onto the floor, the sound no less muffled by the carpet.

"Xanxus. Boss." Squalo looked back up at the other, the bandaged stark stump of a limb held out like the blade of his sword against the other's throat, his other hand gripping down on Xanxus' shoulder so hard it would have hurt anyone else. "What else do you want me to do." The tone was questioning, words hissed out through gritted teeth. "What can I do, Boss."

The sound of a gun being unholstered almost echoed in Xanxus's ears after Squalo finally stopped talking, and he lifted one of his guns, pressing it against Squalo's left shoulder. He narrowed his eyes, sharp and focused and completely without hesitation, before he snarled back at the swordsman. "I want you to remember just one god damn thing." A click, and the gun was cocked and ready, "You fucking belong to me. You always have, and you always fucking will." Xanxus shifted the gun, just a little, just enough that nothing vital would be hit, before he finally pulled the trigger.

What pain there would have been were mostly drowned out by the deafening noise of the gun still ringing in his ear (too fucking close, too fucking--) and Squalo stared at Xanxus, the feel of blood soaking warm through his shirt almost foreign. And. That's when the pain hit, his good hand clutching at the other's shirt collar as Squalo leant close, the surprised eyes narrowing once more into a mix of pain and anger. "--YOU- WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR?! WHAT THE FUUUCK, XANXUS, YOU DIDNT HAVE TO FUCKING SHOOT ME!"

Xanxus lifted a hand and put it over top of the bullet wound before he pressed down on it, the shrieking in his face not fazing him at all. "That pain? You better do fucking well to remember it. And to remember it every time you see the scar it's going to leave when you look in the mirror. Because it's my fucking mark. Mine. Just like you." His lips twitched upward in a smirk as he moved his hand away, absently wiping the blood off on Squalo's shirt.

Squalo winced slightly at the harsh press of hand against the wound, which somehow burned and stung even more at the contact, and clutched at the front of the other's shirt even harder, leaning his weight on that hand as he stumbled slightly. "You- fucking- asshole!" The swordsman hissed out through tightly clenched teeth, digging his elbow hard into the other's side as he managed to somehow push himself up into a standing position, though his vision decidedly wavered at that exertion. "I... don't need- ANOTHER reminder- for that-"

His words trailed off, the grip around Xanxus' shirt slackening as the blood loss and the shock from the wound proved too much even for him. Squalo gave a barely-heard pained noise, his legs giving out from underneath him as he collapsed onto the floor.

He had been prepared to laugh, to tell Squalo that the mark was more for his sake than the swordsman's, when he felt Squalo go lax against him. Xanxus crouched and caught Squalo before he could hit the floor, and he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling with a snort. Fainting from a little gunshot wound, how absolutely ridiculous. He shifted his arm and let it rest behind Squalo's shoulders before the other went under the man's knees and he lifted, carrying Squalo like a princess who had just fainted from the heat.

Xanxus made his way outside, ignoring the exclamations he heard from the wait staff for the mansion, and placed Squalo in the backseat of one of the cars before he hopped into the driver seat himself. And he was off to the private clinic the Vongola family used. The wound was cleaned and dressed, the procedure not taking very long at all with it being such a clean shot, and Xanxus waited rather impatiently in a private room for Squalo to get out of surgery, his shirt stained red with the other man's blood.

He didn't have to wait for very long, as Squalo was soon ushered out by a nurse, his left arm carefully bandaged and resting in a sling, the pale medicinal white of it almost blending in with the swordsman's hair and the still-sallow pallor of his skin. His eyes almost immediately landed on Xanxus, taking in the stark red stain on the other's shirt, and he waved the nurse off with an almost annoyed motion, and turned slowly to Xanxus. "Fuck you," he spat out, parts of his hair still stained with the blood, and glanced back down at his arm, the stump of his missing hand not so obvious through the opaque material of the sling.

"Is Princess feeling better?" Xanxus's lips twitched a little and he shook his head as he shifted in his seat to lean down and pick something up off the floor: Squalo's hand. "I had someone from the house bring this up while you were in surgery. Here," and he tossed it across the room toward Squalo. Silently he eyed the wrapped arm, still imagining the hole he had created just underneath all of the gauze. "How long did they say?"

"Don't fucking call me that!" Squalo snarled out but caught it deftly, the motion and the weight of it making him wince again a little, although it wasn't very noticeable. He stepped a little closer to the other in order to gingerly perch down on the hospital bed in the middle of the room, his good hand moving to fit his left hand into place, a process that only took a few seconds even in his condition. "Three weeks or so. Tch, it's not worth the fucking trouble." The last part of that was directed at Xanxus with a narrowed gaze, baring his teeth in a half-grimace.

"Oh, it'll be fucking worth it." Xanxus stood from his seat and moved toward Squalo once the hand was back in place. He lifted a hand of his own up and gingerly, with an odd sort of out of place tenderness, ran his fingers across the bandage where he knew the wound to be. "I know I can't wait to see the mark it left behind. It's going to be perfect." He glanced down at Squalo and tilted the other man's chin up before he bent down over him to crush their mouths together.

Squalo merely let out an annoyed, disdainful snort at the comment, although he didn't jerk away from the other's hand. Apart from the fact that it would have hurt too much to move the arm right now, the bandage seemed to burn curiously under Xanxus's fingers. "Take out my fucking eye next time, will you? Fucking asshole." Squalo tilted his head up and bit down hard on the other's lips, a decidedly poor retribution for the goddamned shoulder wound.

Xanxus snorted quietly and raised an eyebrow as he stood straight again. "You'd be useless to me if you only had one eye. Bad enough you only have one hand." He moved across the room and picked up his jacket to drape it over his arm, glancing only briefly over his shoulder toward Squalo. "Well, hurry the fuck up," Xanxus let his eyes wander around the room just for a second, "I hate hospitals."

"Why the fuck not? You seem fucking intent on tearing me to fucking pieces as it is." The swordsman grumbled as he stood back up, reaching up to gingerly adjust the knot of the sling. He glanced around the room also, taking in the sterile surroundings, the overwhelming smell of disinfectants and iodine, almost too evident even in the rather plush furniture. "God knows I've had my fucking share of it." He finally muttered, stepping away from the bed and waiting for Xanxus to move first. "Lets go, then."

With a nod, Xanxus turned and left the room, silence surrounding him as he moved down the hallway, not even caring enough to be amused by the way some of the nurses and even doctors flinched as he stalked by them. If only he weren't so preoccupied. He came to a stop outside and handed the valet the parking stub and watched as the kid scampered off before he looked back at Squalo. "As if I would tear you to pieces."

Squalo followed Xanxus at a short distance, not entirely trailing too far behind the other man but never getting too close either. He only moved to stop beside Xanxus as the car pulled up, giving a quick glance to the taller man. "As if I'd fucking let you."

"If I wanted to tear you apart," Xanxus paused for a second in order to take the keys from the boy without a tip and moved around the car to get in, "I fucking would." He strapped himself into the car and started it up with a loud revving, looking out the passenger window at Squalo expectantly. "You waiting for the fucking bus or what? Get your ass in."

"No fucking way." The swordsman muttered under his breath as he reached down to open the door, sliding into the seat with a muffled curse. Reaching awkwardly for the seatbelt, Squalo glanced at the other man and narrowed his eyes slightly. "So what the fuck am I gonna do for the next three weeks like this, huh?"

Xanxus tried not to laugh. He really did. But it didn't work so well, and he let out a sharp laugh as he rounded a corner rather tightly, ignoring all common safety sense as he drove back to the mansion. "The same thing I did when I was stabbed in the fucking leg, of course. You do abso-fucking-lutely nothing and like it."

"HEEEEEEEEEY, what the fuck are you laughing about now?!" A loud curse was the response to the rather violent turn of the vehicle and Squalo jerked, another hissed curse leaving his lips as pain shot up from the the bad shoulder. "I'M NOT GOING TO FUCKING DO NOTHING FOR FUCKING THREE WEEKS!"

It didn't take long to get back to the mansion from the hospital--the perk of a great location--and Xanxus brought the car to a stop in front of the doors. "You'll do fucking nothing for three weeks if the doctor fucking told you to. What was your damn excuse for making me stay put? Oh right, I know this kind of wound. So suck it the fuck up."

Squalo didn't reply, but angrily pushed himself off out of the car after struggling with the door for a minute, not even looking back before he was walking towards the doors, pushing them open with one hand and entering the house. "I fucking hate you," he hissed, turning his head briefly to regard the other. "You don't even- I- Fucking retard-!"

Xanxus stopped just inside the door and glanced to the side at a small glass ashtray, empty from having recently been cleaned, and about the same weight as the glasses he used to drink his whiskey. He hefted it into his hand and tested the weight for a second before he chucked it at Squalo's retreating head. Without a word, Xanxus turned and headed off down the hall toward his room.

The weight of it nearly knocked the swordsman to his knees and he stumbled, clutching at the nearby table for support; the vase on it wasn't so lucky itself, dropping off and shattering on the shined marble floor, water spreading like clear blood that trickle down the back of Squalo's head, making him hiss in pain as he straightened up. "H-Heeeeey! I wasn't fucking done!"

"I am. If you have more to say, you can follow me." Xanxus wound his way through the halls and up stairs in order to get to his room, more than certain that Squalo was following behind him. He paused just outside of his room and turned around in order to wait for the other man to join him.

Almost even before he was within reach, Squalo roughly grabbed for the front of Xanxus' shirt (the half-dried blood sticky against his bare forearm) and leant up to crush their lips together, more like a savage bite than anything even remotely resembling a kiss, almost looking as if Squalo wanted to tear the other's face off with the gesture. "You're a fucking idiot for even thinking that," he muttered against Xanxus' lips, eyes narrowed and hard as they stared directly into the other's. "I don't fucking need another reminder."

Xanxus put an arm around Squalo's waist, his hand resting at the small of the swordsman's back. He held the other man there for just a moment, gazing at him, before he made sure to return the kiss, just as hard and vicious. Blindly he reached with his other hand in order to open the door and haul Squalo into the room with him, slamming the door shut once they were inside. "And just what the fuck am I supposed to think when your ass takes off without a fucking word. You're to be here when I god damn need you to be here."

His good hand grappled for hold anew as Squalo turned them around, slamming Xanxus back against the closed door and pressingclamping down at the base of the other's throat, feeling the hard jut of Xanxus' collarbone under his splayed fingers, pressing down even harder to feel the pulse of the vein under the scarred skin. "I'm not your fucking servant." A low, vicious hiss left Squalo's lips, specked with blood. Xanxus' blood. "Don't fucking treat me like one."

It was easy enough to flip their positions back around again, Squalo's back now against the door, one of Xanxus's knees between his legs. "You're not a fucking servant, you idiot shark." He reached down and took a hold of Squalo's good wrist, his right wrist, and brought it up to pin it up against the door with a slam. "You're my fucking right hand." Xanxus gripped Squalo's wrist tightly, mostly in the hopes of leaving a bruise in the grip's wake.

Squalo snarled at the other's face, only inches away from his own, and bucked hard against Xanxus, his whole body tensing, pushing against the grip that held him pinned to the wood. Between a rock and a hard place, and in his current condition, his left arm almost immobile with pain now, it would almost have been impossible to. "I'm no fucking use to you like this." Words almost incoherent through the rising growl and clenched teeth, the swordsman tilted his head and used what strength he could muster against the other to crash his forehead against Xanxus', in effect a headbutt, in attempt to be freed of the bruising grip.

"Son of a fucking--" Xanxus pulled away (though his body said no, no, not yet) and he put a hand to his forehead, glowering at Squalo. "That's not the fucking point, you--" He brought his hand down from his head and turned to stalk further into the room finally, a hand up to undo his tie and tear it off, tossing it to the side. Frankly, he needed to get out of the bloodied clothes anyway. "I'm going to have to fucking spell it out, aren't I." Xanxus snarled and started to work at the buttons of his shirt, fingers moving with impatience.

The effort made lights go off along his peripheral vision and Squalo slumped heavily against the door, before gritting his teeth even tightly together and somehow keeping upright on his feet. His shoulder jolted sharp pains every time he breathed, and the hot wetness at the back of his head (from the ashtray--fuck him, fuck him) made Squalo wince. "Fuck you," he spat out towards the figure of Xanxus across the room, his grip closing around the doorknob (the wrist stinging at the motion; it was bruising darkpurple under the black of the glove) and yanking it open, stepping out into the corridor.

"The point fucking is," he started, finally getting the buttons undone and the shirt tossed to the side, almost angrily thrown, "that you're fucking there. That you've been fucking there; a constant thorn in my side that I can't remove no matter how god damn hard I try." The feathers were removed next, and these Xanxus placed down with a little more care. "Do you fucking get it yet? Eight fucking years, Squalo. Eight fucking years and somehow you're the only thing that ever broke through that prison. Explain that."

Squalo paused (not really a pause, more like stilling of his entire body as if he's turned into a stone, as if his feet'd been nailed to the floor, except for the hand gripping the doorknob so hard, trembling with the tension visible across the uniformed shoulders); halfway out into the corridor, halfway in, stuck in some kind of limbo. He closed his eyes, took a breath, feeling alls of a sudden the bandage around his shoulder, his chest, too tight.

"I missed you." He finally said, simply, though it was possibly even harder to breathe out into the still air. Searching his memory, the first meeting (I won't let you down, boss) the bright burning rage simmering just under the skin, the white school shirt marked with the Varia sigil. Eight years, and that's all the memory he had to keep with him.

Xanxus stopped for a minute himself, a hand gripping the back of a nearby chair to the point of his knuckles being white. He stared at Squalo's back in silence, at the feet of hair that trailed down the swordsman's back, at the tension along the line of his shoulders. Xanxus took a small step forward then stopped, hand still on the chair, still nearly ripping through the fabric, and he shook his head. "Squalo," he finally said, his voice nothing but a low rumble, a private tone, "look at me."

It was hard to keep standing on his feet now, pain shooting through his torso with every breath and Squalo leant heavily on the door without even really meaning to, stumbling a little as the door slid open a bit further before (painfully but soundlessly; he wasn't weak, he would never-) regaining his balance. "No." Squalo said (with closed eyes gritted teeth because the brightblack spots to his vision was somehow more bearable when his eyes were closed, the pain in his head less so with the taste of blood in his mouth) flatly, the doorknob creaking audibly under the vice-grip.

"Come here and sit down before I have to carry your ass over here. You shouldn't be on your fucking feet right now." Xanxus finally let go of the chair after he pulled it away from the desk it sat at and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Unless you want to pass the hell out again." He glanced away, though, all the same, fairly sure that there was no way that Squalo would want to be seen like this. Xanxus sure as hell knew there was no way he'd want someone fucking staring at him when he was on the brink of a blackout.

Squalo took a moment to let the dizzyness pass by (like a roaring train through his head, the rattle of it almost making his vision swim again) before turning slowly, somehow managing to walk upright, somehow managing to stand straight (somehow managing to not look at Xanxus directly) in front of the other, the blood drying and sticky at the back of his neck, matting the pale hair sickly, dark red. He glanced at Xanxus (rather, at the crossed arms, the scars even darker pattern over dark skin) then at the chair, momentarily unsure of what to do even with the order so clearly given.

"Will you just fucking sit down?" Xanxus's voice was subdued, quiet in contemplation, and he moved across the room with muffled, heavy footsteps. He sat on the edge of his bed and picked up the phone to call the mansion's service, a quiet conversation taking place. When he hung up again, he remained perched on the edge of the bed before he finally glanced back toward Squalo to see if the stubborn idiot had finally sat down or not.

As soon as Xanxus was far away enough, the swordsman let his good hand perch on the armrest of the chair, nearly staggering as he sat, a sharp intake of breath the only sound of almost-pain he made. The silence that followed it was making his head hurt again, and Squalo turned his head slightly towards Xanxus' direction after a moment, his voice cracking and hoarse around the edges. "What more do you want?" Eight years of his life staring at the frozen ice that wasn't really ice, punching the spiked surface with his hand until the metal jarred shock up to his shoulders, watching the hair grow steadily long every day and still stuck in that limbo, still stuck in aimless killings, what more?

Xanxus didn't answer right away and instead waited until after the maid had left, the supplies he had called down for now in his possession. He placed the bandages on the bed and moved to place the large tub on the ground behind the chair Squalo sat in, a jug of water in one hand and a towel draped across the other. The towel was put down, and Xanxus reached around to tip Squalo's head back with a gentle touch. He lifted the jug and started to pour the water out slowly down Squalo's hair to loosen the blood, the temperature tepid to avoid shock. "Hold still for a minute."

Squalo closed his eyes, flinching a little at the touch to his face but not making to move away, instead letting the other pour the lukewarm water over his hair, the sticky blood staining the water that collected beneath pale pink. The eyes opened after a while though, the pale gaze glancing up at Xanxus, the look somehow managing to be both vaguely puzzled and. And. He wasn't used to this strange gentleness coming from Xanxus, expecting the rage that was always present to present itself any moment, familiar crash of glass against skull, sound of metal sliding against metal, click of a gun. "--Why?"

"Why what?" Xanxus glanced down at him only briefly before he went back to the task in hand. When the jug was finally empty, he took a hold of the towel and started to rub the hair dry. There was still some red present, but nothing that wouldn't wash out with a good shower. He tipped Squalo's head back up again before he moved back toward the bed to grab the bandages and return. Silently he wrapped the bandages around Squalo's head. "Tight enough?"

The swordsman sluggishly obeyed Xanxus' ministrations, though his gaze now never completely left the other's face; gauging the reaction, perhaps, or just merely having no other place for him to stare at instead (and Squalo was sick and tired of staring at the same old ceiling). "...Why are you doing this." He finally said, nodding slightly and raising his good hand up to press down on his forehead, letting Xanxus wrap the rest of the bandage around his head.

Xanxus finished wrapping the bandage and finally tied it off before he dropped his hands to his sides. "Because," he finally intoned, moving away from Squalo to sit on the end of the bed and stare at him in the ensuing silence. Xanxus let out a breath and shook his head and turned his gaze out the window. "I was this damn close to fucking killing you earlier, you know," he finally muttered, arms crossing over his chest. "I've changed my mind."

A silence reigned for a minute or two, Squalo dropping his hand with an audible sound back against the armrest - a display of weakness, he knew, but the edge of his vision was blurring again with the darkness of the room, and he was just so fucking tired, in as much as he could somehow force himself to admit. A short bark of laughter broke the silence though, and Squalo tilted his head back against the chair, the sound choked halway up his throat. "That's a... fucking stupid way to die."

"I wanted to kill you." Xanxus said, standing once more and absently pacing back and forth across the room. "I wanted to see your fucking blood seep out and stain my damn floor just so I wouldn't have to fucking worry about any damn number of things. About you fucking off and getting shot in the back, dying in some damn alley somewhere. About your ass leaving and deciding it never wanted to fucking come back. Whatever. So that's fucking why."

Squalo looked up at that, his gaze fixing on Xanxus as he silently sat on the chair that he was given, watching the other pace back and forth across the room and listening to the words as intently as he had when they had been mere children (it was almost funny at how old he felt, just then) and Xanxus was laying out the meticulous plans for the coup, the sharpened blade laid across his lap. But now it was his broken, bloodied arm in a sling, his head wrapped up in bandages yet still managing to sting and make him grit his teeth at every small movement, the dark jagged lines of the scars on the once smooth skin.

"Xanxus," his voice was still hoarse, both from yelling and from pain, and Squalo struggled to push himself up to his feet, stumbling his way over to the other, just managing to catch himself at the last minute from crashing to the floor. "Boss," Squalo looked up, his knees still stinging from the impact with the floor, but his grin still knifesharp and bright as if the red staining his hair and bandage beneath his shirt were all nothing.

Xanxus stared down at him in silence, down at the top of Squalo's head, at the bandage. He reached down and placed a hand on the top of that head, his eyes closed. This was familiar. This was like a memory, a memory of the same image, only Xanxus wasn't able to place a hand on him like this. His movements were hampered, cut off by ice that wasn't ice. He opened his eyes again and looked down at Squalo before he finally crouched a little and hauled the other man back up to his feet, one arm under Squalo's good shoulder to support him. "You need to lay the fuck down," was all that he could muster before he started to lead Squalo over to the bed.

Squalo stumbled only once on the way back to bed, a sharp swear of pain that was barely muffled as he bit down on his lip hard, his good hand curling against Xanxus's shoulder as he leant his weight against the other; a second of weakness that Squalo would never really admit to. "Idiot," the tone was vaguely sneering, a part mockery, a part serious, a part something entirely different. Imagining the bright white of the school shirts again. "I've done too fucking much to leave."

After he laid Squalo down onto the bed, Xanxus moved around to the other side and sat on the edge, silently removing his shoes, his belt, before he shifted to lean against the headboard. "Then stop fucking leaving. Stop fucking disappearing like you did over the weekend. This bullshit isn't gonna fly anymore." He paused for a second and lifted his hands to place them behind his head. "You had eight years to get used to fucking waiting. I've had a lifetime of getting whatever the fuck I want. It's been a good run. I'd rather not fuck with my nearly flawless record."

The swordsman silently glanced over at Xanxus, mere flick of eyes that could have meant anything under the bandage and the bloodstained hair, and directed his gaze back at the ceiling again. "I'm fucking sick of waiting." He finally breathed out, eyes closing for a moment or two as the lights swam across his vision again. "You don't fucking know how--" Squalo cut his words short, passing his good hand over his face. "...Sometimes I feel like wanting something too."

Xanxus shifted so he hovered over top of Squalo now, gazing down at him with a hard look. "You're not fucking waiting anymore, Squalo." He brought up a hand and absently pushed a bit of silver hair out of Squalo's face, the urge to do something to him, anything, but the swordsman was already on the brink of passing out and staying out. "You have some fucking decisions to make, though. I'm not as fucking patient as you are."

Squalo reached up, the tips of his fingers brushing against the other's scarred cheek once in a bizarre display of... of something that he would (and could) never really do normally (cold leather against warm skin) before dropping back against the sheets. "You never fucking were." He felt tired, drained, even, half-closed eyes flicking between Xanxus' face and the ceiling beyond that, and the corner of his lips twitched into some semblance of a smirk. "Can't it be my turn now?"

A light snort left Xanxus as he watched Squalo start to fade out (sleep, this time, not instant unconsciousness) and he shook his head. "No," he finally muttered, though he didn't even know if Squalo heard it. Xanxus moved away from the bed and to the closet to change out of the rest of his bloodied clothes and into something clean before he went to the door. He paused for just a second to glance back at Squalo before he pulled open the door and left.

[:// 33]

2008-10-18T16:03:26Z

BBL.

[:// 32]

2008-10-17T02:55:39Z

I thought you weren't fucking ATTACHED, Xanxus.

THIS PICTURE IS FUCKING UNCUT FOR UNIVERSAL PROOF.

[ooc log post] Squalo + Xanxus + Belphegor. [VOICE LOG]

2008-10-07T01:40:58Z

Who: Squalo and Xanxus and Belphegor. A PHONE CONVERSATION.
When: Two days before Xanxus' birthday. Squalo is in Japan.
Where: Xanxus and Belphegor in Xanxus' room, Venice // and Squalo in Japan.
What: Squalo calling Xanxus at an inconvenient time. Much shouting and Bel whining.
Why: We wanted to do a voice log.
Note: Nobody saw it.

[dial tone]

.......

[dial tone; irritated huff of breath, muttered curse and creak of leather against steering wheel]

...Answer the phone already, Xanxus!

[ooc log post] Squalo + Xanxus.

2008-09-30T01:51:51Z

Who: Squalo and Xanxus
When: After they switched back to their own bodies.
Where: In Venice. Varia headquarters. Xanxus' rooms?
What: IDK porn mostly. D:
Why: Because they've been being deprived of their opportunities and we felt bad for them idk.
Note: Nobody saw it? The Varia might have heard but probably not. :3

Squalo didn't even bother to wait; as soon as he set foot in the hallway at the entrance of the house, he unceremoniously dropped his bag (nothing more than clothes and some standard weapons; they would take it up to his room later, in any case) on the floor and made his way upstairs to Xanxus's room, not even bothering to knock (though the hard thud as the toe of his boot made contact with the thick wood was a giveaway) before he walked in, the usual uniform tunic uncharacteristically unbuttoned and loose. "HEEEEEEEY, XANXUS!"

Oh, fucking hell. Xanxus shut his eyes when the door swung open and he silently folded the newspaper he was reading before he placed it aside. His eyes traveled up to where Squalo stood in the doorway and he eyed him briefly for a second before he promptly lifted his nearby glass, still halfway full with whiskey, and chucked it at the assassin's head. There were several reasons behind this action, but most of all he just god damn well felt like it.

Squalo ducked but a second too late, the bottom of the heavy glass colliding with the side of his head just over his ear before shattering against the door behind him, and splashing the whiskey every which way, most of it soaking into the long pale hair with smell strong enough to make anyone's eyes water. The swordsman shook his head and snarled, ignoring the slight stinging pain the motion brought him, and stalked towards the desk that Xanxus was sitting behind, not minding the glass crunching under his step into the carpet. "What the hell was that for?"

"Just fucking making sure you are who you say you are." Xanxus snorted quietly and stood up to face Squalo head on. He reached out and wrapped his fingers into Squalo's hair and used the leverage to bring the swordsman in close. His eyes flashed and he dropped his voice before speaking. "I should fucking maim you for molesting that piece of trash's body like you did. I don't know you can even fucking live with yourself after that without taking scalding hot baths for a month."

Slowly, a grin appeared on Squalo's face and he drew even closer towards the other, draping an arm loosely around Xanxus's neck. "So you think I'm dirty?" The swordsman dropped his voice likewise, the pale bluegrey eyes looking directly into the other's red ones, almost defiant if it wasn't for the wide smirk. "It was still you, boss."

"Horribly dirty." A matching smirk spread its way across Xanxus's face and he loosened his hold just slightly on the other man's hair in order to twirl a few strands around his fingers. "I might just have to cleanse you." He leaned in, teeth nipping along Squalo's jaw before the clamped down on the earlobe. "You fucking want that, don't you, Squalo. You want me to cleanse you."

Try as he might, Squalo couldn't keep back the slight shudder at the feel of teeth against his jaw, his hand tightening around Xanxus' shoulder reflexively as he hissed in pain, the earlobe stinging much like the earlier pain at his temple from the thrown glass. Normally, he would have said something inconsequential, something to push the other further, but he was tired, the plane ride was anything but comfortable, and his nerves were already frayed to bits from the continued tension. "Xanxus," the swordsman murmured against the side of the other's face (the grin still intact, a glimmer of teeth against the darker skin), his other hand moving up to tangle in the dark hair. "I want you."

Xanxus chuckled quietly and released his hand from Squalo's hair and he dropped his hand. The clink of his belt being undone echoed in the brief silence that followed and he raised an eyebrow at Squalo. "Good. I'm very glad to hear you say that," Xanxus scraped his teeth along the edge of Squalo's ear as he slid the zipper of his pants down. "Because I want to experience the talent of those hands of yours on me, not on the trash. Got it?"

His hair freed, Squalo let go of the other's hair also to reach up and sweep his hair back over one shoulder, stepping a fraction of a bit closer against the taller male as he tilted his head. "Are you sure you only want my hands on you?" Despite the words and a quick duck of head, light graze of sharp teeth against the junction of Xanxus's neck, Squalo reached down with both hands and lightly traced the pads of his fingers over the other's lower stomach, curling against the hipbones.

"Well no, I don't just want your hands. I want that hot little mouth of yours, and that sweet fucking ass, but I figured the hands would be a good place to start." Xanxus let out a faint hiss and rolled his hips up. Squalo's hand was only vaguely near where it needed to be. His own hand came down, and without preamble, he promptly cupped the front of Squalo's pants. "Fucking get moving, Squalo."

"X--" Squalo had to choke back the rest of the words, digging a hand hard into the other's side before dragging down sharply, the rest of his patience wearing thin with the other's action. "You're the one to talk." He hissed out against Xanxus's ear, drawing the other closer with a hand fisting itself into the white shirt, and slipping the other hand into the other's pants and pressing. "Don't fucking order me around."

Xanxus grunted at the pressing and he tipped his head down to bit at Squalo's neck. "I'll order you around if I god damn well went to," he muttered as, a few flicks of his fingers later, he had Squalo's pants undone and a hand inside of them. "I'm the fucking boss." Xanxus growled this out just as he gave Squalo a long stroke, his wrist twisting as it moved along the length. "Don't fucking forget that."

Squalo leaned against the side of the desk with a sharply drawn breath, followed by a hissed curse. It actually hurt to think how fucking long he'd been waiting for this, and the swordsman tightened his grip on the other's length in a sort of retaliation, flicking his thumb over the head of it, the leather smooth and cool against the skin. "Boss." He hissed the word out almost as if the term was a swear word in itself, pale eyes narrowing as he looked up at Xanxus. "What're you gonna do about it if I don't listen, huh?"

"Guess I'll just have to take what I fucking want, won't I?" Another snarl left Xanxus as he found the tightness of Squalo's pants limiting his motions. He pulled his hand out and tugged Squalo away from the desk just long enough to tug the swordsman's pants down to free what was inside. Xanxus licked his lips slowly once the pants were down around Squalo's thighs and he brought his hand back up to wrap it around the hard length.

"I.. guess it's always been that way." Squalo's hand pulled Xanxus closer by the collars again, almost yanking on the material with something akin to desperation, growling as he leant in to bite down hard on the other's lower lip. A part of him tsk-ed at the rather uncomfortable situation that they were in right now, but most of him (and it was a wonder how sensitive he was to everything, right now) didn't give a fuck about the discomfort, instead concentrating on pushing the other's clothing away too, another snarl rising out of him in annoyance.

"Always." There was way too much fabric going on right now between them, but Xanxus was too into the rhythm he had going on Squalo to break his concentration to get rid of something as trivial as clothes. They could take them off later when the immediate edge was taken care of. He brought up his free hand and fisted it into Squalo's hair, none-too-gently tugging the strands, pulling Squalo's head back so he could get at his throat with his teeth.

Squalo growled as he was pulled away from the other's lips, straining briefly against the tugging that was hard enough to make his scalp sting. "Shit," he hissed, eyes closing briefly at the feel of teeth against his throat and Squalo bucked his hips against Xanxus, trying to pull the other closer. "I hate you."

If he moved too much closer, Xanxus wouldn't be able to work his hand anymore. These motions kind of required at least a little damn space. "Good," he growled in return, even as he nipped at Squalo's collarbone through his shirt. "Wouldn't want you to fucking love me or any god damn useless thing like that." He wanted worship, adoration, a follower. That was different, right?

With another snarl that was barely muffled at all despite how tightly Squalo gritted his teeth, the swordsman dug his fingers into Xanxus's back, the nails still felt through the leather gloves. "I hate you." He hissed again, exhaling sharply against Xanxus's shoulder and reaching down to cup the other's balls, eyes sliding shut involuntarily. "Just fucking hurry up--"

Xanxus choked back a noise as Squalo's hand moved to a different location and he jerked his hand quicker for a few strokes. "You're the one who needs to hurry it the fuck up," he growled out, his mouth near to Squalo's ear, his breathing labored. "Gonna fucking give me carpal tunnel at this rate." Xanxus's fingers flexed in Squalo's hair and he turned his head a little bit, lips brushing against the other man's ear as he spoke. "Just. Fucking. Come."

"You can't fucking tell me what to --aah-- do--" Squalo's fingers tightened, digging harder into the other's back as he spluttered out a curse, the word coming out muffled against Xanxus' shoulder as he buried his face against the crook of the other's neck and almost reflexively biting down on the heated skin there. He shuddered slightly, his hand momentarily stilling as he poured out his release onto Xanxus's hand, smearing skin and clothing alike.

A smirk spread across Xanxus's face as he brought his hand up and eyed the mess on it before he held it out where Squalo could see it. "Like fucking hell I can't tell you what to do. We've been over this." Xanxus gripped Squalo's chin with that hand and lifted it so he could look the swordsman in the eye. "I'm. The fucking. Boss." He leaned in and pressed their mouths together in another angry kiss.

Squalo's the one who broke the kiss first, cheeks looking slightly flushed and hair in disarray, though a sharp grin hovered on his face as he pulled the other towards the bedroom, pushing their respective coat and jacket off and discarding them along the way. "You don't even fucking know," Squalo murmured as he leant in, leaving a hot trail of bites up the side of Xanxus's throat, pressing closer against the other, "how much I fucking want this."

Xanxus only had a brief moment to celebrate his little victory before he was being unceremoniously stripped and shoved backwards. It took just a second for him to get his bearings before he was assisting Squalo in the whole getting rid of clothes thing. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed when the backs of his knees hit it and he hauled Squalo down with him. "I'm starting to get the fucking picture."

"You'd be stupid if you didn't." Squalo breathed out, pressing his lips against Xanxus's once more as he clambered over onto the other's lap, hands pulling at the other's shirt and managing to alternately open and tear the buttons before pushing the other male back onto the bed, nipping down on the lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Some snarky little comment about how he liked that shirt was at the tip of Xanxus's tongue before it was occupied by Squalo's. His hands came up to follow the motion, Squalo's shirt getting torn open as well, and his fingers immediately moved to scrape down well defined muscles. Xanxus rolled his hips upward, his erection rubbing irritatingly against the fabric of Squalo's pants. He wanted all of this clothing gone.

Squalo inhaled sharply at the friction, fingers curling tightly against the other's shoulders, needing the contact so much that something in his gut ached. "Fuck," he almost reluctantly pushed himself off the other male, irritably ridding himself of the rest of his clothing and a long stream of curses while he struggles with the laces of his boots, before turning back to Xanxus. He didn't hesitate or pause for a moment before he was curling his fingers into the waist of the other's pants, pushing the material off the other's hips and down.

Xanxus took the opportunity of Squalo being off his lap to crawl further up the bed so his legs were no longer dangling over the edge. He sat against the headboard, naked and hard as hell, and stared at Squalo with slightly hooded eyes. Xanxus glanced, just briefly, toward the door that he had just been shoved through before he looked back at Squalo again. "Lock the fucking door."

"I'm getting to it." Pale eyes narrowed slightly and Squalo hissed at Xanxus, sliding off the bed and towards the door, shutting it with the sort of impatient haste that made the door practically shudder in its hinges. With that task done, he turned back towards the other, pushing the pale hair out of his eyes as he stalked back towards the bed, finally settling back into a warm, heavy weight atop Xanxus. "Better?"

Once Squalo was on his lap again, Xanxus slid his hand under the other man's hair and down his back until he had his palm against the curve of Squalo's ass. His lips twitched into a smirk and he lifted his chin up. "Much." His other hand came up and curled into the hair at the nape of Squalo's neck, and Xanxus used the leverage to pull him in for another heated kiss.

"Whatever," was what the swordsman muttered half-heartedly, much too preoccupied with the kiss itself, hands sliding into the short dark locks of hair and tugging hard at the strands.The other's hands on him felt warm, almost too warm, and Squalo closed his eyes as he ground down, rocking his hips against the other's, letting out a long sigh.

Xanxus nipped at Squalo's bottom lip before he eventually nudged the swordsman back so he could lean over toward his nightstand, thinking briefly what he actually had within it. "You're gonna have to fucking deal with just oil," he grumbled as he pulled the scentless massage oil out of the drawer, there for when his masseuse came. Xanxus hated that generic shit the bitch carried around with her.

Squalo glanced up briefly at what the other held in his hand, before leaning forward again to nip and bite down on the dark skin of the other's neck, almost hard enough to leave dark reddish marks that looked almost like bruises. "Do I look like I really care?" He growled out, ignoring the loud thump of blood in his ears, one hand sliding along the other side of Xanxus's neck to rest on one shoulder.

"Dunno. Look like you might get fucking fussy when you get fucked." Xanxus smirked and tipped his head briefly as Squalo's teeth raked across his skin before he sat up. He moved his hand up from where it still rested on Squalo's backside and grabbed the arm opposite in order to flip Squalo around and pin him down against the bed. He grinned down at the other man, a hand planted firmly against his chest, the other unscrewing the cap on the oil.

Breath catching in his throat for a few seconds before he regained his bearings (the sheets and pillows almost too soft against his back) Squalo narrowed his eyes up at the other, meeting the grin with a twist of lips that bared sharp teeth, even as he bucked up, wanting any sort of contact (more, really). "It all fucking depends on you, doesn't it?" His eyes flickered from the oil back up at Xanxus, finally managing to get in a proper lungful of breath into him as he rested the back of his hand against his forehead. "Hurry up."

"Fucking impatient..." The sheets, and the mess that was about to be made, were thought of only briefly as Xanxus poured the liquid onto his fingers as he pressed Squalo's legs further apart with a knee. He lowered his hand and slid his fingers over Squalo's entrance before he finally pressed one inside. Xanxus leaned down over Squalo's body and placed bite marks across his chest.

Squalo closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in another slow breath as he shifted slightly against the finger--it'd been a while since he had done this, after all. It was a sheer miracle that he didn't curse, merely exhaling sharply and curling his free hand into the other's hair, ending in a mutteredhissed something that wasn't quite a word, wasn't quite a noise, either.

Xanxus shifted so he could fit the bottle between their bodies in order to pour more onto his fingers as he pressed a second into Squalo's body, and then a third, his own impatience refusing to allow him to take too long with this. It was probably going to hurt Squalo, a bit anyway, but Xanxus didn't fucking care and he somehow doubted that Squalo did, either. "Fucking tight ass..."

"What.. Complaining?" A grin flickered onto Squalo's face as he glanced up at the other through tosses mess of pale hair and dark glove, before clenching his teeth shut again. That hurt, albeit he guessed it couldn't really compare to some of the wounds he had gotten over the years, but-- "God fucking damn it, fuck!" Squalo let out without really even meaning to, indeed not exactly being able to help himself, giving Xanxus a sharp tug by the grip at his hair.

The tug made Xanxus snarl quietly, and he responded by biting down on Squalo's chest. He twisted his hand, knowing in the back of his mind just what he could do to make Squalo stop whining like that. His fingers moved along the inner walls as they searched and finally he found it, that hot little button built into the male body. With a knowing smirk, Xanxus pressed.

Squalo pressed the knuckles of his hand tightly against his eyes, trying to kid himself that the bursts of light behind his eyelids were simply because of it; it didn't really work, and the half-moan, half-growl that sounded from his throat seemed unnaturally loud in his ears, making his cheeks flush even more. "---Fuuuuck," he finally let out when he could take a breath again, arching up against the other with an almost impatient, annoyed motion that was even faintly desperate. "Fuck, Xanxus--"

"Working on that." Xanxus could feel Squalo opening up around his fingers, and after a few more twists of his wrist he pulled his hand out. A little more of the oil was poured out and he slicked himself up before he positioned himself at Squalo's entrance, his hands on the other man's thighs. His eyes clouded over as he started to press in and a pleased sort of growl left him as that first grip of heat surrounded him.

The stream of curses didn't exactly stop, although it was punctuated by quicksharp gasps and hitched breath, and Squalo tilted his head back, eyes already closed shut tightly. His hands moved to wrap around Xanxus' shoulders, digging his nails into the skin of the other's back that could be felt even through the leather, scabbering for hold to pull him closer.

A few more shallow thrusts, and Xanxus was wrapped, completely and utterly, by Squalo's heat. And Jesus Christ, was it fucking hot. Almost too hot. Xanxus slid an arm around Squalo's body and laid there for a brief moment, his breathing a little shallow. He took a few slow breaths before he pulled back, hauling Squalo up so they were both sitting. "Shit..."

Squalo's head rolled onto Xanxus's shoulder, a sharp moan of sorts escaping his lips at the motion, his hands briefly losing hold on Xanxus before they were grippingholding on again hard enough to leave bruises and pale marks against the skin. "Xanxus," a warm puff of breath against the crook of his neck and Squalo shuddered a little, hissing the name out through gritted teeth. "Fuck.."

Xanxus tangled his fingers into Squalo's hair with one hand, his other planted on the bed behind him. He used the leverage to press his hips up, into that addicting heat, Squalo's shudder causing him to shiver himself. "Move..." he grumbled quietly, his hips still rolling up and down as much as he could beneath Squalo. Xanxus needed more, so much more. So much more.

Even though the haze and the bright, almost painful flashes behind his eyes Squalo managed to nod, the usual loudness seemingly completely robbed as his throat tightened again. A hand scratched a long line up Xanxus' back, finally clamping down on the back of the other's neck, his elbow digging hard into the line of the shoulder. A quickshort exhale of breath stirred the short, dark hair as Squalo pressed them closer together, a low, long moan sounding against Xanxus' ear as he lifted himself up before sinking back down, never breaking the contact between them.

"Fucking...hell." Xanxus turned his head in to the side, forehead resting against Squalo's throat. His tongue darted out and caught a bead of sweat that had been working its way down towards Squalo's chest. He lifted his hips up as Squalo came down, and the sound, the feel of their bodies coming together like that reverberated through Xanxus. There was something there, something that had been there for years, something that was finally there, and Xanxus was too far wrapped up in what was happening right then to figure out what.

A quiet breathy laughter escaped from his lips (that was quickly drowned out by another half-growl) at the feel of the tongue against his throat, the tickle of damp hair against his skin as Squalo tilted his head up, arching his back a little to fit against the other's body better, the rolling, easy motion (more, he wanted more) never stopping. Squalo's hands tightened around Xanxus' shoulders, his eyes closing shut again as he rolled his hips a little, giving a sharp curse when he found it again, white light bursting behind his eyelids.

It wasn't enough. Not at all. It wasn't fucking enough. This slow steady whatever rhythm they had going was not what Xanxus wanted right then. Maybe some time later, when he didn't feel so charged, but not right now. Xanxus held Squalo tight against him as he shifted again, once more laying the swordsman onto his back. He lifted one of Squalo's legs and rested it against his shoulder before he slid out, almost completely, and snapped his hips forward again.

Squalo couldn't hold back a loud snarl that escaped from his throat, petering out into a half-muffled moan as he curled his fingers back into the hair at the nape of Xanxus' neck, reaching up to crush their mouths together. His other hand dragged harshly down the other's back with the force that surely would have clawed marks into the skin if not for the gloves, even as he stuttered out a few broken words of some description into the kiss.

Xanxus kept one hand on Squalo's knee to make sure it stayed steady while his hips set up a pounding rhythm. He slipped a hand in between their bodies and wrapped his fingers once more around Squalo's erection, though he really didn't care about any sort of pace he had set there. Not while the pressure was building in his body the way it was, swirling around and pooling at his center.

"Xanxus, I-aah- Fuck--" A few words managed to be even vaguely coherent, the kiss breaking as Squalo moved his head, taking shallow, uneven breaths to just manage to match the other's rhythm. He gritted his teeth tightly, the sweat matting the long strands of silvery pale hair to his forehead. He was so fucking close, it was like the sharp taste of blood at the back of his throat, on his lips (he hadn't even noticed his lip had split during the course of events) and a few more strokes later, he was spilling out over the edge with a sharp cry, pulling the other down to sink his teeth against the shoulder.

Shit. The rhythmic clenching of the walls around him made that rush of heat pool even faster. Xanxus's own breath came out quick, rapid, shallow, and he pulled away from Squalo in order to sit up, his hands on the other man's hips. A burst of energy shot through him and he pounded just that much harder, the headboard of the bed smacking against the wall. With a loud curse, Xanxus snapped his hips forward one more time and his entire body stilled as he came.

Squalo arched high off the bed with a harsh snarl that caught in his throat, the fingers scratching down the other's side, his hips, anywhere he could reach, really, trying to pull Xanxus closer, deeper, his head almost swimming with the overwhelming sensations. Chest still rising and falling rapidly, the swordsman opened his eyes just a fraction, the lidded gaze moving up to fix itself on the other's face.

Xanxus came down off the high slowly, his face going from that height of ecstasy and back to its normal state. With a faint grunt he finally pulled out of Squalo and promptly collapsed onto the bed beside the other man, an arm draped lazily across Squalo's stomach as he laid on his own. He took a few, slow breaths, before one slow one that he exhaled sharply. "...Fuck."

The arm across his stomach (the sweat and everything else drying stickycold against his skin) was the furthest thing from his mind as Squalo let out a slow, shuddering exhale of breath much like what Xanxus had done, a gloved hand rising to rest atop his forehead. In fact, the warmth from the small contact was, in a way, comfortable, despite the fact that he was in for some serious pain come the next morning. "I need a fucking shower."

"We'll take a fucking shower later," Xanxus muttered, and his arm tightened around Squalo by degrees, possessiveness in the motion. He cracked open an eye and peered at the other man briefly before he closed it again, exhaustion settling in now that the adrenaline of the moment had been sapped, completely, from his body.

Finally, with an almost annoyed noise, Squalo shifted so that he was closer against the other, the grip around his waist becoming much too uncomfortable for him to stray so far. With an almost sluggish but practiced motion, he pulled away the leather gloves, then detaching the metal hand, reaching over the other (the pale hair falling over his shoulder) to carefully set it down on the side-table. "Getting lazy already?" The voice was grumbling, but a hint of smirk was on Squalo's lips as he flopped back down on the bed.

"Shut the fuck up," Xanxus muttered, voice half-muffled by how close he was to the pillow. When Squalo settled in again, Xanxus turned his head a little in order to place a bite against the other man's shoulder, mostly a half-assed attempt to mark him after all the fucking scratches and bites he'd received himself. That shit was going to sting when he woke up and all the endorphins were gone.

Squalo ran his tongue along his lower lip, feeling the split bite marks of teeth and tasting the blood still remaining on the edges of the cuts, before closing his eyes back again, the stark stub of one arm resting against the other's chest. "Whatever," the swordsman mumbled out, merely being content to lie still, only shifting a little and muttering out another soft curse at the bite to his shoulder.

[:// 31]

2008-09-28T06:02:10Z

Haven't posted here in a while. It was busy after the stupid disaster or whatever.

A few people I haven't seen before around here, whatever. Mess with us and I'll cut you, fucktaaaards.

Yoko: The island whatever you're at looks like a nice place. I haven't really been practicing on my aiming much, so there isn't really much to go on that side of things. It was nice to see you again after seven years or two weeks, whatever.

Apart from odd jobs and shit, it's been pretty alright.

Ah, yeah. I had fun yesterday, too. Thanks, I guess.