Pestilence (pesticidal) wrote in mythologs, @ 2012-03-23 11:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | !event #017, famine, pestilence |
[closed/complete]
Characters: Famine & Pestilence
Date/Time: Backdated to St. Patrick's Day
Location: Their apartment
Rating: High
Warnings: Language, a splash of angst, and implied sexual content.
Summary: Famine has the magic touch.
St. Patrick’s Day. A day of useless excess that didn’t appeal to Famine in the least, and yet he found himself in the kitchen pouring himself a screwdriver without any real ambition to get wasted. He was never a being that encouraged the excess -- if anything, less was more. Walking Beast that morning, he’d glimpsed far too many four leaf clover headbands and hats.
Their glee to get drunk pissed him off.
Operating in bitchy princess mode, the Black Horseman poured himself another half a shot of vodka before throwing the glass back without a care.
Pestilence wheeled in right on time to watch Famine gulp down what looked like vodka with a splash of orange juice. He hadn’t been outside to remember there was an occasion to drink. Not that he ever needed one.
“Make me one.” Please was seldom a part of his vocabulary. It was practically non-existent now that he was back in a fucking wheelchair.
It wasn’t in Famine’s nature to be pissy when someone forgot social niceties. He was about as likely use “please” as he was to say “sorry”. And wordlessly he set to pouring his housemate a drink, making sure not to skimp out on the vodka in case there was a complaint.
As he handed the glass over, his sickly dog padded toward them, pausing next to the pair before laying his head on Pestilence’s knee.
Pestilence made a wordless grunt as a way of saying thanks. With one hand petting Beast’s fur, he took a sip of his drink. The amount of vodka in there was passable, he supposed.
“Is this lunch?” he asked, tilting his head to peer up at Famine.
Under normal circumstances, there might have been a snort in response. Instead, the younger boy dropped down into a squat next to his brother, one hand immediately coming up to stroke between Beast’s ears.
“Vodka not good enough for you?” That same hand came to rest on Pestilence’s upper thigh.
The moment Famine’s hand touched his skin, he felt it. There wasn’t a jolt or a shiver or anything particularly magical. It was a very basic realization. His leg had been broken. Broken again. And unless the vodka was stronger than he thought, it was no longer a useless limb. The dull ache was no longer there.
Pestilence lifted Famine’s hand off his leg, half-expecting the pain to come back. But nothing changed. It felt like he could stand up and pour himself a drink.
“My leg...” Pestilence eyed Famine. Skeptical. His brother didn’t have the healing touch. His touch made guts squirm in hunger. “How the fuck did you do that?”
He received a stare in response. The black Horseman could only search Pestilence’s eyes for an answer, and in there he only found suspicion. Not knowing how to assuage it without first knowing what the problem was, Famine allowed a glance to flicker from his brother’s leg to his face.
“I have this thing called a hand -- you’re holding it right now,” he offered, sarcasm rolling off his tongue rather easily.
Pestilence stood up. He didn’t have to hoist himself up with something taller or hold onto something for balance. His leg was perfectly fine (aside from itchy - which was thanks to the bloody cast around it).
“And how the hell did it do this?” he shot back. Despite his own bewilderment, a faint smile betrayed the horseman’s delight that he could finally fucking stand up without anyone’s help again.
Famine’s reaction was something of the opposite. From his perspective from a crouched position, the older boy looming over him was bizarre. Upon slowly rising back up to his feet, he found they could match each other’s height once again.
Relief should’ve been the first emotion that flooded him, but instead came worry. Worry that this was another game, another way to fuck them over. And in one or two day’s time, would it be over? Would his leg revert back to being broken?
There was no way to know, and so he covered up his grief by delivering a shove with his foot to the wheelchair, sending it across the floor a good couple of feet. A startled Beast barked once in disapproval.
“I think I hate this thing more than you do,” was what Famine muttered, more to himself than any else. He finally glanced back at Pestilence. “Walk. Do something.”
Pestilence took one step, then another. His leg didn’t give out underneath him. He hazarded a small hop, just to make certain. His knees felt weak from disuse, but otherwise, he was fine.
“I’d say let’s light the thing on fire, but –” Pestilence turned around and frowned. “What if it’s just temporary?”
Then I’m going to feel like the shittiest person alive, Famine’s mind answered for him. Rather than risking a verbal reply just yet -- these fucking human emotions; he couldn’t take them -- he grabbed what was left of his drink off the counter and downed it. Back to his housemate and fellow Horseman, he snagged the bottle of vodka by its neck.
“It might be.” There was no point in denying it, he figured, as he poured the vodka in straight. “But it might be the best thing that’ll happen to you in months, if you feel like looking on the bright side. Death’s coming over later if you still want to burn something.”
And what would Death have to say about the sudden miracle act?
“Might as well take advantage while it lasts,” Pestilence agreed before draining the rest of his drink in one go. He set the cup down before stepping closer to Famine. Being able to use his legs, coupled with the promise of something burning later, reminded him of Zurvan. Damn it to hell, but he missed that other world. He and Famine had lived up to their names in Zurvan. With a little more time they could have brought a beautifully horrific end to Zurvan on their own terms.
But rather than admit that he was feeling nostalgic, Pestilence roughly cupped his brother’s jaw and pushed him back against the counter, pinning the slender boy there. He could hold a grudge - but not against his siblings.
Licking the trace of vodka from his lips, Famine quietly allowed this. It wasn’t unusual to be treated roughly, not when he returned the same sentiment when he could. Rarely were they ever really gentle with one another. How could a Horseman of the Apocalypse know of softness, of tenderness?
A burning guilt seared through his veins as he reached out to touch Pestilence’s cheek with a gentleness he only ever showed the dog seated not two feet from them. Stroking an animal was different from touching another human being. He was more curious with his touches, unused to caresses.
His eyes flickered with that same guilt. “You should hate me,” he murmured, curiously tracing along his sibling’s jawline.
“True,” Pestilence acknowledged. A horseman didn’t sugarcoat. His hands traveled down to Famine’s hipbones. They had such nice little indents for his thumbs when there was little to no body fat in the way. “I should. You’re the reason why my legs got fucked up again.”
He hadn’t outright stated it before until now.
A lot of things hadn’t been said, things kept under wraps because the right time to say them hadn’t come up. But now it’d shown itself, and Famine was clawing at any easy way to say his next words. They didn’t sugarcoat, so it was just as useless to keep everything in.
“I am. Every action has its consequence, and my error in judgement had you all suffering for it. That wasn’t what I wanted.” His hand fell to the protruding bones of Pestilence’s collarbone. “I don’t... know how to deal with emotions. I’m not good at being so human. I don’t do remorse and I don’t do regret, and yet every time I look at you, it fucking hurts.”
Being so prone to guilt when it came to his fellow Horsemen was insufferable. It was suffocating him, so when he whispered his tentative “I’m sorry”, it felt like less of a weight off his shoulders and more of a crushing blow to his ribcage.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said sorry to anyone.
And seeing Famine like that-- it just didn’t sit well with Pestilence. He might have drawn out the guilt had it been someone else, manipulated their emotions for his benefit, but he couldn’t toy with his siblings. Pestilence leaned his forehead against his brother’s cheek.
“I forgive you,” he murmured. “Even if this is only temporary. Now shut the hell up and do something better with your mouth.”
That was better. Wanting very much to distance himself from the topic at hand, Famine took his own turn gripping the other boy’s jaw, fingers far less willing to be kind this time. But he didn’t lean in as hoped.
“Something like what, Wheels?”
“Use your imagination.” Stubborn, but playfully so if the smirk was any indication. Rough was familiar territory to Pestilence. A lot more at home than tenderness. “You have one, don’t you?”
“Do I?” Famine returned easily as his other hand ventured lower, right down to the waistband of his dearest sibling’s pants. “A mouth or an imagination?” Warm fingers dipped inside, grazing hipbones.
The limits of his teasing nature knew no bounds, even with the other Horsemen. Perhaps with the exception of impatient, volatile War.
Pestilence tried to keep his impatient grunt in. “You have a mouth. I know because it keeps talking,” he muttered testily. His shifted his body closer, trying to get more friction than Famine was willing to give.
There was amusement only in the younger man’s eyes as he traced his touch lower and lower, until it reached its intended target. Slim fingers wrapped around Pestilence, holding on somewhat loosely. Famine tilted his lips toward his brother’s ear.
“I’m not doing this with the dog watching.” A quick glance was shot at the offending pup, who perked up upon meeting his owner’s eyes.
“If we go into the other room, the cat will watch,” Pestilence pointed out, impatiently thrusting into Famine’s hand. He could really care less if the stupid animals watched as long as they didn’t start barking, meowing, biting, or clawing.
“Fair enough.” It was all that Famine offered before removing his hand and sinking down to his knees, dog be damned.
Words had never really been their thing.