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Sep. 13th, 2010 02:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
turpsDW is being assy and won't let me edit my last entry, so prompted by a comment conversation with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
krisipanics have,
Mikey lowers himself to the ground, back against a shredded tyre and sand under his feet. There’s always fucking sand, it chafes beneath his clothes and sticks to his teeth. When he spits his saliva is gritty and his skin constantly sore, pulled tight and red against his bones.
He hates the fucking sand, and the fucking sun, and this whole fucking world where all he can do is keep running, picking up shit and selling it to those too stupid to realise what he’s doing. Mikey’s good at selling, he never used to be but now he assesses the situation and goes in for the kill, tells poison-tipped lies and wears a shark’s smile as he sells with one hand and takes with the other.
He never slows, talks in quick fire bursts, shoulders hunched and hands clenched against the urge to claw at this new skin, through sinew and bone and flesh, black blood spreading against white-washed sand and sun-bleached stones.
Mikey’s going to do that one day. It’s just a case of when.
Not tonight though. Tonight Mikey’s celebrating, his thirtieth year around the sun.
Twenty nine years, three hundred and sixty four days, twenty three hours, fifty nine minutes. Mikey looks at his watch, the second hand ticking forward. There’s a glass bottle at his side and he thumbs off the top, holds the bottle in one hand and stares into the distance. At a blood-red horizon and a sky made even darker with smoke.
Fires rage in the north quadrant and Mikey’ll walk there tomorrow, claim things that aren’t his and wear his fake smile. How much will you give me for this amazing piece of shit? Highest offer gets it, fuck you very much. And they’ll fall for it. They always do.
But that’s tomorrow. Tonight Mikey brings the bottle to his lips, tips back his head and swallows, flames burning his throat as he marks a new day.
Tears sting his eyes and he rubs a grimy hand over his mouth, sand grating as he holds out the bottle and breathes through the pain in his chest, making a wish on stars that he can’t see.
I wish. I wish. I wish.
Mikey doesn’t know what to wish. There’s too much he misses. Too much he needs, and nothing he wants will come true.
Except.
There’s a rustle. A soft whistle, and Mikey drops the bottle, liquid drawn down into the sand. His hands are shaking and he tucks them under his legs -- which is stupid, because if it’s not.... if it’s not there’s no way Mikey will get to his gun in time -- and stares into the darkness.
Another whistle, a darker shadow moving forward, and then, “Mikey.”
Gerard’s dressed in a battered leather jacket, his hair a tangled mess. There’s a filthy bandage wrapped around one of his hands and he’s got a gun strapped to one thigh. He’s also smiling. A real smile that only brightens as Mikey scrambles to his feet and Gerard says, “Happy birthday, Mikes. I told you I’d come.”
krisipanics have, Mikey lowers himself to the ground, back against a shredded tyre and sand under his feet. There’s always fucking sand, it chafes beneath his clothes and sticks to his teeth. When he spits his saliva is gritty and his skin constantly sore, pulled tight and red against his bones.
He hates the fucking sand, and the fucking sun, and this whole fucking world where all he can do is keep running, picking up shit and selling it to those too stupid to realise what he’s doing. Mikey’s good at selling, he never used to be but now he assesses the situation and goes in for the kill, tells poison-tipped lies and wears a shark’s smile as he sells with one hand and takes with the other.
He never slows, talks in quick fire bursts, shoulders hunched and hands clenched against the urge to claw at this new skin, through sinew and bone and flesh, black blood spreading against white-washed sand and sun-bleached stones.
Mikey’s going to do that one day. It’s just a case of when.
Not tonight though. Tonight Mikey’s celebrating, his thirtieth year around the sun.
Twenty nine years, three hundred and sixty four days, twenty three hours, fifty nine minutes. Mikey looks at his watch, the second hand ticking forward. There’s a glass bottle at his side and he thumbs off the top, holds the bottle in one hand and stares into the distance. At a blood-red horizon and a sky made even darker with smoke.
Fires rage in the north quadrant and Mikey’ll walk there tomorrow, claim things that aren’t his and wear his fake smile. How much will you give me for this amazing piece of shit? Highest offer gets it, fuck you very much. And they’ll fall for it. They always do.
But that’s tomorrow. Tonight Mikey brings the bottle to his lips, tips back his head and swallows, flames burning his throat as he marks a new day.
Tears sting his eyes and he rubs a grimy hand over his mouth, sand grating as he holds out the bottle and breathes through the pain in his chest, making a wish on stars that he can’t see.
I wish. I wish. I wish.
Mikey doesn’t know what to wish. There’s too much he misses. Too much he needs, and nothing he wants will come true.
Except.
There’s a rustle. A soft whistle, and Mikey drops the bottle, liquid drawn down into the sand. His hands are shaking and he tucks them under his legs -- which is stupid, because if it’s not.... if it’s not there’s no way Mikey will get to his gun in time -- and stares into the darkness.
Another whistle, a darker shadow moving forward, and then, “Mikey.”
Gerard’s dressed in a battered leather jacket, his hair a tangled mess. There’s a filthy bandage wrapped around one of his hands and he’s got a gun strapped to one thigh. He’s also smiling. A real smile that only brightens as Mikey scrambles to his feet and Gerard says, “Happy birthday, Mikes. I told you I’d come.”
