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iillunis-blog · 7 years ago

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valants:

soren & jun — ( continued from here )

bruises begin to mottle the broken skin covering his shaking hands, eyes trained to the shaking form as his dissociative state remains unperturbed by jun’s words, failing to recognise any comfort that may or may not have lied in the other’s speech. he doesn’t even recall jun swinging the car out of the motel lot and the speed at which he drives, a panicked haste running from certain, inevitable doom; it’s a strange kind of panic that washes over him now, one that almost resigns him to the fact that it was all futile, every thing he did and all attempts to keep himself (and the man driving the car to some extent) safe, a hopeless dream born from whatever naivety remained that some part of the world remained untouched by the evil of their chasers.

the strained expletive coming from jun finally breaks soren from the hypnotically numb condition, rarely hearing such expressions being spoken by the other; silently, soren turns in his seat and is greeted with the sight of cars steadily yet surely catching up with them, the growling of their own engine suddenly sounding as if it were some dying animal giving its last fight. he register’s jun’s words this time, his throat tight and eyes shaking as he tries to grasp the situation, tries to find anyway out. impulse takes hold of him as the mutant climbs from the passenger seat and practically falls into the spacious back of the pickup, his damaged hand getting trapped under his body in the process and alighting another shocking wave of pain through him. “shit,” the word is spat in agony, soren cradling his arm as he clambers onto the backseats to regain vision of their pursuers. get them off our trail. the words rang in his head, the voice of reason breaking through soren’s calamity of incoherent thoughts; he realises as the other cars swerve and jolt violently that jun is emitting his own power to little avail, soren realising that it would take more than the other’s efforts to throw them off.

and he tries, tries so desperately to exert his own power yet he feels the crushing pain ricochet through him as he thrusts his hand out, weak pulses hardly deterring the vehicles that were gaining more proximity as every valuable second passed. it wasn’t enough, soren vehemently cursing himself for being so weak, for being the cause of his own doom. “i can’t…” his voice is feeble with defeat, his head dropping low to the car interior as shaky breaths rattle from the cage of his chest. he feels walls that he is unsure even exist close in around him, those sickeningly pristine barriers that would often be painted with crimson lashings of his own blood as he tried to fight his way out, screaming against the confines the facility locked him away in.

you’re going to die here.

you’re already dead.

he feels himself scream against the upholstery before it breaks from him, the strength of the force crushing his chest as it radiates from him and practically obliterates the cars amongst them, an almost whiplash inducing dichotomy of adrenaline and natural exhaustion turning the world around him hazy, only vaguely aware of the car spinning when soren is thrown against the backseats. the world seems to shake beneath them, soren’s mind blank albeit for one thing — jun.

delirium strewed his perception of his surroundings, and as soon as the calamity had begun, stillness prevailed. though it may have been mere seconds, it felt like hours had passed until soren was able to again clawing back from where he had been thrown into the uncomfortable space in the backend of the car during the crash, pulse pounding dully in the back of his mind; he was confined, felt the vehicle begin to close around him and the familiar sickly sense of claustrophobia and all the horrors that it gave him slowly rising up his spine. he practically fought to get out the car, having to throw his bodyweight against the door until it finally snapped open and he fell onto the ground outside.

he stumbles as he takes in the sight that surrounds him, the vehicles that had chased him now thrown meters into the distance, some completely flipped and — from those soren could see — the masked drivers passed out from the force of the wave he had emitted. he feels dizzy, swaying as if he was on the deck of a boat caught in the beginnings of a tempest and making his way to the door of the driver’s seat without thought, struggling again with the door since the crash had evidently hit this side the hardest and eventually managing to wrangle it free.

the shaky breaths that had rattled from his chest almost stopped completely at the sight, so much blood that soren felt a nauseous feeling sweep over him, prickly and cold. “fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck…” his voice is strained with panic and shock, immediately reaching over with hands shaking so hard they’re close to convulsing and wrestling jun from the confines of his seatbelt. he’s got jun halfway out the vehicle before his arms give out and he falls backwards, the other’s weight knocking the wind out of him as soren pulls himself from under the all too still body.

he almost wants to avert his eyes to the damage clearly inflicted onto jun’s body, but forces himself into a half-standing position, looking closely down upon the other as an intense fear and profound feeling of devastation grips him; he’s dead. soren is almost certain of the fact until his mind finally gains clarity and he notices the shallow yet sure rises and fall of jun’s chest, eyes flickering behind nearly closed eyelids, and it hits him.

he has a choice.

the ease of which soren can leave is frighteningly tempting, jun’s injuries ones that need obvious attention; he thinks of the risks involving getting all what was necessary to treat him, thinks of the even higher risk of jun dying in some motel bed and soren having to deal with the body. consequently, he thinks that jun may die regardless, perhaps leaving him here to rest a better option than the turmoil that was bound to ensue.

but then the hollow, still kind of sick feeling that settles uncomfortably in his stomach at the thought of leaving jun here, despite his own escape and journey being tainted with the other’s presence, he almost feels a vehement hatred for himself at the way his mind continues to weigh up the options — conflict spreads heavy across his features, his good hand reaching out to settle onto the space where jun’s chest rose and fell slowly.

why was it so difficult? a month ago soren wouldn’t have thought twice before stepping over jun’s injured body and driving away, armed only with the duffel bag stuffed with money and no guilt; yet now, he’s stuck, glued to where he hovers over jun, as if some cosmic force won’t allow him to move anywhere if the other weren’t coming with him.

a minute or so passes with soren fighting with himself internally, it being clear that he wants to leave jun but can’t, and the next thing he knows, he’s dragging the heavy body over to where the door to the backseats remained open, hoisting jun onto the seat as carefully as he can as he allows the other to fall against his chest, at which point soren can’t help but murmur, “i’m sorry, jun.” he knows that the words don’t reveal the extent of the guilt and other ugly feelings creating a storm inside him, but feels too numb with it all to even begin formulating more, too burdened with the knowledge that if he did nothing soon, jun would be dead.

the car coughed back to life and soon they were back on the road, a dichotic state from when they had first set off from the motel earlier that day, with soren struggling to turn the car with a half-crushed hand and jun bleeding out on the backseats, the cloud of vermillion getting starker each time soren took a hesitant look back at him.

“don’t die on me, jun. don’t fuckin’ die on me.”

the moon had past its highest axis by the time soren could finally allow his mind a semblance of rest, neon lights filling the small room with technicolour as advertisements for sketchy businesses faced the sketchy motel. a small city on the outskirts of the border, soren was surprised at the lack of security around the place, though it did seem to leak an air of debauchery, the kind that the authorities allowed to pass for they were the ones to indulge in such things also.

the cold sweat and slight convulsions that had started around the time soren had moved jun from the car and somehow brought him up to the room unnoticed (those who passed by possibly believing the other man, held up by soren, to be a drunken friend) had subsided, soren wanting to cry with relief now jun seemed to have all but calmed down from the worst of the injury, though the lump in soren’s throat remained. smoothing his hand over the bandaged wrapped around almost the entire expanse of jun’s torso, soren allowed his head to fall onto the double bed, the muffled music coming from one of the clubs nearby lulling him into what could be the deepest sleep that ever took him.

it’s snowing in the compound today. he can’t see past the all the white, it blinds him, settles so cool against his skin that jun thinks he’s numb.

is he?

“why do you always have to go?” sumi’s frock is white. ( was it white? ), and she’s so small in his arms. he doesn’t want her to catch a cold. she’ll be cold. he wants to look for their mother, would crane his neck if he could move it-- -but he sees nothing but her face, and the soft ways in which it holds the upset he can hear in her voice. but that’s no worry, no worry at all. jun has always known how to make his sister smile.

“i’ll be back before you know it. two weeks tops. you can have my share of dessert when i’m gone, ok?”

( he’s been here before. has he been here before? )

“promise?” she asks him, like clockwork—small hands playing with his fingers as she forgets to frown like kids do. her heart forgives him so easily, he thinks, absentmindedly.

“of course, heart’s own. i promise.”

he comes back to his body violently.

jun had left behind his mind in a mess of blood and chrome -- - and that’s where it wakes, even though there’s nothing in the air now other than the smell of the years sinking into the musty motel carpet and the thumping sounds of a heavy bass that tickles at the bottom of his chest with the way it reverberates. he blinks the bleeding alarm from his weary gaze, body moving to jerk up, only to fall promptly down when it tears a seam of pain down his torso. the breath that leaves him is punched out, a broken sound hidden somewhere in his parched throat. it’s only when his shoulders ( having barely heaved up at all ) settle back against the rough cotton of the bedsheets that jun clocks his surroundings, eyes settling their wandering gaze on the clock on the wall that seems to be perpetually stuck telling the time to be – three forty three, and some ways.

in this stillness, he wills his erratic heartbeat to rest, letting the panic slide off of sticky skin ( thanks to what seems to have been the aftermath of plenty of sweating ) and rests his head long enough to let his conscious slip back into the folds of his memory & muscles.

( -- -oh god, they’d made it. )

the sheer immensity of the panic is enough to shorten his breath, and he wonders if the lightheadedness he feels is because of that or the price his body had paid. and once his mind has done it’s catching up, his body is quick to follow; jun registers the hand resting on his bandaged torso as, distinctly, not his own. it’s attached to a stilled soren, who jun can’t quite check for damages of his own given he’s lying face down and shadowed by the cover it gives him.

soren -- -

and that’s the metaphoric crack in the dam that kept the wreck of the last day from washing over him. it all unfolds onto him unceremoniously, and he remembers – he remembers it starting with a request from the man that lies beside him now.

he feels the anger as it builds, settles into the crooks of his elbow and in the tightness of his chest like it hasn’t in a long, long time. the thought of moving makes his bones hurt, but he doesn’t know what else to do when he feels the rage wash over him—crimson & hot. he trusted him. he trusted him blindly, which was why this worked. jun had asked him no question, demanded no answers, had done nothing but offer his trust—though not for ways of a martyr, they were both just looking for a way to survive in a world that very much wanted them dead ( or worse off )—all to make this work. ( and now he had a gaping wound in his side for it. ) there are other tendrils wrapped in there somewhere, tangled and cutting into tender insides that he doesn’t attend to, because it’s so much easier for him to grasp onto that burning itch of anger. so much easier to blame it all on the man lying in the bed next to him -- - it does help that he is to blame for this all, partially.

jun makes to move, gritting his teeth down to keep the noises of protest from falling from his lips as he pushes himself up. the movement is slow, but he doesn’t think he can do much more of sitting around when he feels on fire with anger over what has happened. he feels it bleeding into his vision even as soren’s hand falls from his chest, and he more than easily lets it. the rational part of his brain ( not strong enough to keep him in one piece, in one place, apparently ) tells him to attend to the dryness in his throat. he wants to make it to the bathroom to guzzle down tainted tap water, but that proves harder to do even with that steady burning heavy on his lids pushing him to do so. he manages only to push himself up to a sitting position before he’s huffing rapid breaths, and he has to pause with his hands curled into fists, pushed down into the thin mattress under them, to keep himself upright.

it takes him a few moments to collect himself, but before he can push his way up and off, he hears soren stir. he thinks he hears soren start to speak, but it doesn’t stop jun from cutting him off, back to him even and a light shake to his limbs from where he holds them so tight. “—what the fuck was that.” his voice is low, it cracks from where it lacks the water he needs—and so tight, so thin from where he’s trying to decipher the anger he feels from the exhaustion, the pain, the alarm, the regret. “what is so damn important in that stupid bag of yours that you had us nearly killed over it?”

#;jun|t

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iillunis-blog · 7 years ago

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@valants

God, she really doesn’t like that feeling.

It’s the first thought she has when they land in the alleyway, her hand gripping Nox’s bicep as her feet land on hard ground once again. It feels surprisingly like a hook tucked into the back of her navel, behind all the skin and muscle—and pull. Once she’s steady on her feet—even as her head swims—she lets go, taking a moment to square herself. Releasing a long-drawn breath, she brushes her hair out of her face and flashes him a look that would be all daggers if Edria didn’t find his company entertaining, at the very least. “Next time, we walk.”

They’re scouting a club tonight, some run-down of a place colored with grime and dark corners. That’s where most mutants hide, after all, especially the ones worth finding. ( And it’s crucial, you see, finding the right people before the wrong hands get them. ) She all but blends into the night, though with no need for her mutation to aid her. She’s dressed for the occasion in a leather ensemble that’s all black, the shoes on her feet heeled because it’s just not like Edria to not want eyes culling her way when she walks past—is it? Lips stained crimson, there’s a sharp settle to them as they make their way to the unguarded side entrance, an easily scouted loophole to front their entry into said lair. “Watch your silk, pretty boy. The grime stains.” --Is the quip on her lips as she kicks the unwilling door open, and lets herself in. ( No matter whether he wears actual silk or not, it’s the tease that matters. )

It takes for a moment for her eyes to adjust to the smoke that fills the low ceilings of the hallway they’re in. It snakes into a few rounds and out into a bigger den. Edria’s gaze is sharp as she clocks a stairway going up, one down. From the hunting she did earlier on the place, she knows the woman they’re looking for houses in an office that sits past the last door on the top floor—but they’re not here exactly for the woman, instead for the information she safeguards. ( There’s been some sort of drug rotating their circles, some sort of enhancer claiming to kick up their powers. No one knows where the feeder source is, but all leads point to here. It took one of the underground’s own showing up in a state on the wrong side of rough for Aries to order this mission-- -and then, there was two. ) They’re on what seems to be the main floor, if the bass thumping in her chest and the clashing sounds of instruments being set up is any tell. Turning back to Nox, Edria improvises. “I’m gonna head to where the safebox is—” she’s invisible, Edria knows she can get in and past any security they have with as little bloodshed as possible. They don’t want to create a scene, after all. “—You wanna scout the rest of the floors? See what they’re hiding around?” Nox can teleport, which means he can cover the ground of the main floor, the basement, and anything else they might have hidden about faster than she can.

Look at them, dividing and conquering.

“I’ll come to you.” She adds in a nod, waiting until she heeds a sign of the affirmative from her partner in crime before turning on her heel and walking off into the crowd, and towards her destination.

On the other side of the room where the stage sits, Oren is the one responsible for most of the aforementioned clanging of instruments. They’re setting up for a routine gig. The shithole—yes, that really is the quote unquote unofficial name for the place; they were a ‘say it like it is’ bunch around here—is home turf, and their set attracts regulars at this point. ( Jorn over on the bass, who’s more crass than Oren is for the hell of it, will say the regulars are just the groupies hoping to get some. He wouldn’t be wrong. )

His drum set’s already been setup, and he’s waiting on the other guys to quit fucking around and get to tuning up their guitars and basses. But no, why do that when they could preen and try to sweettalk whichever blonde in a bust heavy top was ogling over them on the left side of stage today. ( Oren was a simple guy—it wasn’t that he wasn’t swayed by the run of the mill charm that came with the type of crowd that ran with the Shithole, it was that blondes in bust heavy tops weren’t always his type. Not that he was often picky; it simply depended. His dick spoke, he listened. ) He finishes the bottle of water he’s been nursing in three large gulps before chucking it straight at Jorn’s big head, jerking his head in a nod when the fellow band member turns to shoot him a glare, and curse him out, to top it off. “Stop yapping and tune it up, will ya? We’re not gonna be late on the set just ‘cause you can’t keep it in your pants.” He tunes out the rest of the reply where he continues to curse him out, swearing this and that about Oren needing to get laid to get that stick out of his ass—even though they both know who’s been claiming their shared room most nights for a nightcap with strangers. ( And alright, in Jorn’s shitty defense: it’s not that he doesn’t have game, it’s just that Oren is faster at calling their room for himself for the night. How about that? ) And for all his bitching and moaning, he gets right to it anyway. Oren rewards him with a toothy grin and a nice li’l bird of a finger.

It only takes a handful of minutes after that for the band to get fully set up, one of their band members front and center stage yelling into the mic to get the crowd rallied for their coming set. The first few songs start off set their pace strong, and by the time they’re done with the second song, Oren’s already worked up a proper sweat. Their guitarist leads the break, taking a few moments to talk to the crowd and keep them going; Oren takes the opportunity to cool down by downing another bottle of water.

And that’s when he sees him.

He’s a new face, Oren knows that much. He would’ve noticed him had he come around before. Yeah, damn him to hell—he would’ve noticed that face before. Once his wandering eyes land on that certain crimson haired stranger, Oren doesn’t really bother looking away. He’d consider it something just short of eye-fucking, but the stranger doesn’t seem offended in the least. He’ll take that as a win. Eventually the crowd pepping that his bandmate’s been doing lulls, and the next song is being drummed up by his foot that’s stomping rhythmically on the pedal to introduce the upcoming beat. He keeps his eyes where they are, tongue drawing over his lips in a move that leaves behind a wet smirk—if there was any confusion on the eye contact he’s maintaining, Oren’s simply making sure there’s no room to think it’s accidental. Practiced fingers spin the drumstick he holds in circles before he launches into the new song. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Oren thinks—he’s gotta get his number. That one. He’s gotta get him alone.

#;oren|t #;edria|t

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