Now your mess is mine
4/4/16 00:12![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scubatankfilledwithfarts There's something about the smell of gunpowder that never changes. No, its not because the recipe hasn't changed much for the past one hundred years (unless you're in a deeper business, as in fate of the immediate world sort of thing)-- it's because Badou smells it constantly. It's all but caked in his nosehairs, in the last bits of his lungs that have begun to rattle from too much tar. Lemony fresh scents don't do it anymore. If his pillow doesn't smell like a battlefield, weathered away by time and the subtle DING of tumbling bullet casings, he can't sleep a wink.
[it isn't because, when he presses his nose in the folds of the pillow case, he can close his eye and pretend he's in a room full of torn war birds and dumbasses]
"This shit reeks! Did you even read the instructions? It went down like the last time you tried to get take-out from that Tai place. My asshole burned for a week."
The stench of chemicals that swirl down the tub's drain cuts right through gun residue like a machete. Badou similarly cuts a glare through the bathroom door at his companion, whose fluffy white head he can see sticking out from behind the couch.
"I'm not the one who bought that shit. You're the only dumbass in the world who could buy draino and make the clog worse. I'm telling you, if you want me to shave your head...." Badou can just see the shiteating grin on the albino's face, knowing he's entirely serious too. Heine is the only person in this world who thinks he's funny.
"Come near my head and I won't tell you about the gray hair in your pubes," he grumbles to himself, capping the lid onto the bottle. It still reeks, the water hasn't even gurgled in the past ten minutes, and his hair's dripping water into his underwear all the way down to the puddles between his toes.
If Heine hears him, he chooses to ignore him. Either he's practicing that whole religious tolerance stemmed from hatred as black as the Catholic church's heart or he doesn't care about his pubes. Badou figures its the same deal with the no condoms thing.
But, despite being some sort of envoy? For Bishop and the church, the info broker isn't a religious guy. No standing on the issue, not even when the world went to hell. It drags people into dangerous territory; brooding is the most deadly of all.
[but carcasses half eaten in the streets, bones with bits of flesh still clinging to the frames of skeletons that should have burned, should have rested, that's the most dangerous territory there is: a living nightmare]
When Badou decides watching the drain putter like the little train that couldn't perform on prom night after too much bubbly, he flips that wet mop of hair over one shoulder and straightens to his full height, about to head out the door and kick Heine's ass for wet albino ass on already-stained pillows when---
he looks in the mirror for a split second too longquick. In that instant he doesn't see the red of his own sins, not the scar on his chin he got from one headbutt too many, nor the scream-lines around his mouth.
It feels like his stomach ripped open just as his mouth drops, the draino tumbles to the floor and the sound is a dull thud like his heart. The eyepatch is on the other eye and chestnut locks brush his shoulder and the scent of Lucky Strikes hang overhead like a particularly stubborn cloud and and and and and--
['Fuck you, and thanks for all the memories', unburned grass swaying under a wind he felt rattle his entire being, empty and alone]
[he didn't think it'd be like this, thought he'd at least get to sound off]
It seems like an eternity rolls by when he tears his gaze away from the mirror, eye squeezed shut until the light all but burns beneath his eyelid. Badou takes one shaky breath, then another. His arms remain steady on either side of his head hung low in the sink. That single green eye cracks open enough to see red in his peripheral, calming, normal red.
[not chestnut split ends and that stupid little bit of ribbon woven around shitbrown]
"Did you take another shit and ruin the toilet, too? You're not coming over. My landlady hates you more than me," Heine sounds off from the back of the flat, envy and a pout in his voice. Because it's awful when your partner in crime is hated more than you. Truly.
A sigh like a cleansing wind overtakes him, from toes to the roots of his hair. A breath he hadn't realized he'd held in those vast moments of the screaming void.
It fills him with that righteous anger, like it's normal again. Normalcy, thy name is clusterfuck. Badou's fingers only ache a little when he releases the sink, gaze only lingers a little as he turns away towards the rest of the flat.
"I'm gonna come over and take such a big dump your landlady's gonna think you had a baby!"
Badou continues to be an unflattering member of society, the door slams shut behind him.
If it seems like the mirror flickers with something, it won't tell any prophecies of fairest in the land. It's just the lighting, that's all.
[it isn't because, when he presses his nose in the folds of the pillow case, he can close his eye and pretend he's in a room full of torn war birds and dumbasses]
"This shit reeks! Did you even read the instructions? It went down like the last time you tried to get take-out from that Tai place. My asshole burned for a week."
The stench of chemicals that swirl down the tub's drain cuts right through gun residue like a machete. Badou similarly cuts a glare through the bathroom door at his companion, whose fluffy white head he can see sticking out from behind the couch.
"I'm not the one who bought that shit. You're the only dumbass in the world who could buy draino and make the clog worse. I'm telling you, if you want me to shave your head...." Badou can just see the shiteating grin on the albino's face, knowing he's entirely serious too. Heine is the only person in this world who thinks he's funny.
"Come near my head and I won't tell you about the gray hair in your pubes," he grumbles to himself, capping the lid onto the bottle. It still reeks, the water hasn't even gurgled in the past ten minutes, and his hair's dripping water into his underwear all the way down to the puddles between his toes.
If Heine hears him, he chooses to ignore him. Either he's practicing that whole religious tolerance stemmed from hatred as black as the Catholic church's heart or he doesn't care about his pubes. Badou figures its the same deal with the no condoms thing.
But, despite being some sort of envoy? For Bishop and the church, the info broker isn't a religious guy. No standing on the issue, not even when the world went to hell. It drags people into dangerous territory; brooding is the most deadly of all.
[but carcasses half eaten in the streets, bones with bits of flesh still clinging to the frames of skeletons that should have burned, should have rested, that's the most dangerous territory there is: a living nightmare]
When Badou decides watching the drain putter like the little train that couldn't perform on prom night after too much bubbly, he flips that wet mop of hair over one shoulder and straightens to his full height, about to head out the door and kick Heine's ass for wet albino ass on already-stained pillows when---
he looks in the mirror for a split second too longquick. In that instant he doesn't see the red of his own sins, not the scar on his chin he got from one headbutt too many, nor the scream-lines around his mouth.
It feels like his stomach ripped open just as his mouth drops, the draino tumbles to the floor and the sound is a dull thud like his heart. The eyepatch is on the other eye and chestnut locks brush his shoulder and the scent of Lucky Strikes hang overhead like a particularly stubborn cloud and and and and and--
['Fuck you, and thanks for all the memories', unburned grass swaying under a wind he felt rattle his entire being, empty and alone]
[he didn't think it'd be like this, thought he'd at least get to sound off]
It seems like an eternity rolls by when he tears his gaze away from the mirror, eye squeezed shut until the light all but burns beneath his eyelid. Badou takes one shaky breath, then another. His arms remain steady on either side of his head hung low in the sink. That single green eye cracks open enough to see red in his peripheral, calming, normal red.
[not chestnut split ends and that stupid little bit of ribbon woven around shitbrown]
"Did you take another shit and ruin the toilet, too? You're not coming over. My landlady hates you more than me," Heine sounds off from the back of the flat, envy and a pout in his voice. Because it's awful when your partner in crime is hated more than you. Truly.
A sigh like a cleansing wind overtakes him, from toes to the roots of his hair. A breath he hadn't realized he'd held in those vast moments of the screaming void.
It fills him with that righteous anger, like it's normal again. Normalcy, thy name is clusterfuck. Badou's fingers only ache a little when he releases the sink, gaze only lingers a little as he turns away towards the rest of the flat.
"I'm gonna come over and take such a big dump your landlady's gonna think you had a baby!"
Badou continues to be an unflattering member of society, the door slams shut behind him.
If it seems like the mirror flickers with something, it won't tell any prophecies of fairest in the land. It's just the lighting, that's all.
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