( for a moment, as sam turns and walks toward the fire exit, felix considers loosing a blade from his jacket's sleeve and stabbing him right there. ortez wouldn't have to know; our contact never showed up, he'd say when prompted, and it wouldn't be worse than any of the five hundred other lies he's drip-fed him over the years to keep him sated and content. felix studies the deep curve of sam's spine under strobing fluorescent lights and swallows a deeper drag from his cigarette, smoke and nicotine filling his lungs. plenty of places to sink a knife. plenty of ways to kill a man, and that's all this motherfucker is, despite mounting evidence to the contrary.
( counter-evidence: the hot throb of his pulse beneath felix's tongue. his cock in his hand. the damning fact that he can bleed, and has bled. that he didn't fucking kill him in that gaudy ass high-rise when he had felix pinned beneath his sword. )
his fingers twitch around his cigarette, a barely perceptible tell. he flicks it to the concrete and grinds the glowing butt to ash beneath his boot, then deftly pulls out his phone to send ortez a quick text: omw, eta 15 mins. back into his pocket, and he's widening his stride, catching up with sam just short of a jog. smug asshole's got obnoxiously long legs.
he thinks he might regret this later, when shit goes sideways at the worst time. or maybe not. curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction . . . still killed it, actually. that shit is super dead. )
Do I owe you a drink? ( a belated reply to sam's quip, as felix eases a few paces ahead of him and shoves his ( good ) shoulder into the fire exit door, springing it open. not falling for that blinking neon sign of bait. he takes a large step back, stalling at a set of concrete stairs leading down to the ground floor, and braces both hands on either railing, momentarily blocking sam's path. ) I think you owe me a drink for being a fucking dick.
( the blockade only lasts a few seconds; long enough for felix to eye him again, head-to-toe, a shameless and vindictive once-over. verdict: still insufferable, still a visual feast. he swiftly pivots on his heel and takes the stairs two at a time, light on his feet.
over his shoulder, casual: )
Are you even in it for the money, or do you just enjoy fucking with people?
[ the happy misfortune of all of their lives: that nothing simply comes to an end, or returns to equilibrium. some ship of Theseus shit. sure, you've put the pieces of your own fucked-up puzzle together so many times that you can do it blindfolded and handcuffed and with your teeth, but it's still not going to align the way it did before violent hands scattered it apart.
now, what sam's contemplating: are the hands in this scenario his, or felix's? the searchlight of those pretty eyes distract from his knowledge of what's under the neat cuts and creases of felix's outerwear. an ugly wound that must still be hot to the touch, made in the pattern of sam's beloved Murasama.
did sam fuck felix up, or is it collateral damage? this universe, a perpetual comedy of errors. with felix's footsteps and question echoing in the narrow space leading them into the belly of the proverbial beast, their debauched Monstro, sam hums from the back of his throat. ]
You want to talk ideals with me, now?
[ in the future, he'll say: "war is the payoff." here, with his booted heels soft on concrete, he takes a longer breath to consider. ]
I do what I do because I choose to. [ even now, even still. cradling all his bad decisions and wearing them on his face, in his teeth, in his affability. no one can fucking tell him that everything on him isn't his. ] I fight because it's what I want. I'm bothering you because it's what I want. Simple.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
12 years later i'm so sorry
( counter-evidence: the hot throb of his pulse beneath felix's tongue. his cock in his hand. the damning fact that he can bleed, and has bled. that he didn't fucking kill him in that gaudy ass high-rise when he had felix pinned beneath his sword. )
his fingers twitch around his cigarette, a barely perceptible tell. he flicks it to the concrete and grinds the glowing butt to ash beneath his boot, then deftly pulls out his phone to send ortez a quick text: omw, eta 15 mins. back into his pocket, and he's widening his stride, catching up with sam just short of a jog. smug asshole's got obnoxiously long legs.
he thinks he might regret this later, when shit goes sideways at the worst time. or maybe not. curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction . . . still killed it, actually. that shit is super dead. )
Do I owe you a drink? ( a belated reply to sam's quip, as felix eases a few paces ahead of him and shoves his ( good ) shoulder into the fire exit door, springing it open. not falling for that blinking neon sign of bait. he takes a large step back, stalling at a set of concrete stairs leading down to the ground floor, and braces both hands on either railing, momentarily blocking sam's path. ) I think you owe me a drink for being a fucking dick.
( the blockade only lasts a few seconds; long enough for felix to eye him again, head-to-toe, a shameless and vindictive once-over. verdict: still insufferable, still a visual feast. he swiftly pivots on his heel and takes the stairs two at a time, light on his feet.
over his shoulder, casual: )
Are you even in it for the money, or do you just enjoy fucking with people?
yoooo no sweat!!!
now, what sam's contemplating: are the hands in this scenario his, or felix's? the searchlight of those pretty eyes distract from his knowledge of what's under the neat cuts and creases of felix's outerwear. an ugly wound that must still be hot to the touch, made in the pattern of sam's beloved Murasama.
did sam fuck felix up, or is it collateral damage? this universe, a perpetual comedy of errors. with felix's footsteps and question echoing in the narrow space leading them into the belly of the proverbial beast, their debauched Monstro, sam hums from the back of his throat. ]
You want to talk ideals with me, now?
[ in the future, he'll say: "war is the payoff." here, with his booted heels soft on concrete, he takes a longer breath to consider. ]
I do what I do because I choose to. [ even now, even still. cradling all his bad decisions and wearing them on his face, in his teeth, in his affability. no one can fucking tell him that everything on him isn't his. ] I fight because it's what I want. I'm bothering you because it's what I want. Simple.