Back from the bothering and bewildering of relatives. Love them all (well most of them) to pieces, but bloody tiring. And another thing I hate. Public Speaking. There's just too many ways in which it's one of the worst things the world ever came up with. Closely followed by...
Clever Art. Lord save us from clever art. Especially when it's clever art that's also supposed to be furniture. I keep getting called away to hold bits of a table so my parents can put it together the wrong way around. Honestly, this was not a cheap table. In fact, I don't think it would be unjustified to say it was fucking expensive. So could they have paid out that little bit extra to have someone else put it together? Oh no. Where would be the fun in that? We have to have the unpleasant arguements and the waving of the instructions and the shouting over the football.... and Ohmigod, David Beckham's wearing an alice band. Now I know I'm a bit behind, but... that definitely qualifies as Scary.
Oh, and that fic I mentioned earlier: in more.
A Day In The Life Of You (as a vampire)
"Remind me why we're here again."
I look around to him, he knows full well why we're here. And he knows I know that he knows.
"You know, someone once told me only boring people ever get bored," I say over the rocking of the subway train.
"Let me guess. A someone from an overly moralisitic, intrinsically dull TV show? One of those deadeningly unoriginal ones, full of impractical and unrealistic optimism and insight. Dawson's Creek? Or maybe you've been paying too much attention to Jerry Springer?"
"It was actually an AB neg someone."
"Flashy off-road range rover resembling a mediterranean yacht, which had nevver been closer off-road than when the nanny accidentally put a wheel over the kurb cos it was a bugger to park?"
"A Lotus, as it happens." He knows not to challenge a Lotus at least. I sigh, but am gleefully resigned. I lean in close, feel his breath on my neck, say into his ear, "That was the guy that expressed what could be described as acute signs of road rage after I cut him up in Corsica. I believe he also wrote physics textbooks."
But my words pass him by, his attention fixed on the proximity of my neck. I feel his needless breath deepen, and I can tell by his slightly parted lips that his pulse would be flickering, if that incessant drumbeat were still a bodily requirement. He pushes his chin to my collar bone and swipes some stray hair out of the way of his unfocussed gaze localised on my jugular.
I draw back. "You've forgotten why we're here."
He looks up at me, as the subway train stops at the station. We walk slow and easy in the mid-afternoon rush hour. The two of us as drops of black blood in the sea of the mundane. From the other end of the carriage two others step out, dressed in conspicuously boring suits, and they tail us as we glide and cut through the throng. We enter a service entrance, and wait.
Opposite the shut door we stand close, together, silent with a mutual sense of anticipation.
The door bursts open, two gun barrels appear, searching for us in the nurturing darkness. Before they can find us out, I have knocked one to the ground, spinning in the dance, snapping a neck. The other gun has fallen also, my partner is calmy dislocating the other agent's shoulder and swatting him to the floor, saving a snack for later on in the day.
We bring our attention back to each other, and step closer. The silence is broken by the rumblings of the trains, but it oozzes thick as mollases, gently caressing, intensely smouldering in the death and the scent. We savour the moment, eyes locked, wordleslly sharing the experience of such over-sensitised attunement to our surroundings, absorbed in each other, yet picking up each stimuli the moment has to offer and letting it seep between us.
A flash of pain. A sharp, fascinating stab of pain, a shockwave in my own shoulder...
And finally the rest of my senses catch up, I hear the shot ring out, feel the sharp gnawing of the bullet in my flesh, my mate's firm grip on my upper arms, shielding himself with my body. I catch myself, but he lets me go and takes the gun from the scrabbling agent grasping on the floor. He raises the gun icily above the sprawling man and stills the faltering actions with a firm blow to the base of the skull with a thunk from the metal of the barrel.
"You got me shot," I say accusingly.
He touches my wound, probing curiously with his fingers, feeling the substance of my blood collect around his blunted nails. "You're bleeding," he points out unapologetically.
He tries to draw me over to him, but I turn away, then snap back with a fierce backfist. I bring my hand up to his face, trace the curve of his lip with the pad of my finger to the angry split at the edge of his mouth. I pull down roughly, forcing him to yield to the motion, bringing our lips into contact. I bite down in the kiss, tasting him, agravating the wound while the kiss continues, appreciatively violent but smoothly so. Roughness is for amateurs with a lack of vision, so naive to think that pure force could be the only expression of violence. Our kiss is wickedness as an artform.
I pull back. "You're bleeding too," I point out with a smirk, punctuating the statement with a generous lick of the tentative rivulet of crimson probing its way down his chin. His arms come down around me, I take a step back, tugging him along with me, and we find a denser patch of blackness in which to pass the daylight hours.