#paris origins

[roanfusions]

"Look at you. Needing me," Paris coos, finger tilting Sascha's chin up as he grins, leaning close. "Thought you hated me."

Sascha keeps his mouth shut, glaring at Paris and waiting for an answer to his fucking question. The hatred simmered the air, kept an audience that didn't exist at bated breath. Paris leans away, hand outstretched to take something. "You know I'm not your friend without a price," he says, slyly.

Sascha keeps the glare, taking Paris' hand and bending down to kiss it, just once. He drops the hand the moment it's done, straightening his back. "Give me the fucking memories."

Paris smiles, producing a marble sized object that appeared to be glass. But it was more then that. It was the memories, emotions, and essence of someone. He had kept it safe for as long as it needed to be. Now, Sascha needed it to save that… dog. She was hardly worth Paris' time.

Sascha takes the marble, spinning on his heels.

"I do expect gratitude," Paris muses. Sascha pauses, turning around and walking right back. With a quick sweep and move, Paris is slammed against the wall.

"You think I'm going to thank you?" Sascha growls. "You had her memories and you didn't think to even give them back!"

"Why should I?" Paris asks. "She was happier without them. And so was everyone else. It hardly made sense to give it back."

His smile made Sascha's blood boil. Sascha presses Paris hard against the wall, before abruptly tossing him to the floor. That mildly shocked Paris, who frowned at his spot on the floor. Looking…. Up at Sascha.

"You're an arrogant selfish prick," Sascha says, "You're so fucking pretentious it's unbearable. I hate you."

Paris grins, "Doesn't change that you needed me," he pauses, "...Sugar."

Sascha raises his foot, and Paris sees it coming closer before he hits black. Paris has the bruise and a reoccuring bloody nose for two weeks, and his tooth is ever so slightly chipped.

He'd never seen Sascha look so genuinely angry.

[roanfusions]

"Are you aware, Virgin, that you're in love?" Virgin woke up groggily, frowning as he held his head. He was in an infirmary, laying on a bed. He sat up, looking down at his outfit.

"What the fuck am I wearing?" He asks, frowning. The hospital gown is pink. When he looks up, he doesnt recognize the doctor. Blonde hair, blue eyes, no name tag. His face slips to a blank slate.

The brown haired doctor smiled, and Virgin had trouble recalling any memories at all. His face was blank of emotion, but he couldnt figure out why. He felt uncomfortable in the clothes as the doctor smiled. "Are you aware, Virgin, that you're in love?"

Virgin looks at the doctor, glancing over the brown eyes and blonde hair. "Love? I'm not in love."

The doctor tensed. "Well that's not true! After all, you're love sick!"

Was the doctor's voice distorted? Disjointed music played from a radio. When had that radio gotten there? The black haired doctor smiled. Wasnt the doctor's hair brown? No.. no it was blonde. Wasn't it?

"I'm... I'm not.." Virgin holds his head. "I'm not in love. Where am I?"

"Hm," the doctor says. "I guess I'll have to do do this, then."

Virgin looked up and into the barrel of a gun. Inside the chamber was a pink bullet with a heart on it. "Wait-"

The doctor pulled the trigger.