floratic:

HESITANCE  SHOWS  EVIDENTLY  IN  THE  SLIGHT  PART  OF  HIS  LIPS the  water  bottle  is  thrusted  into  his  hands ,  &  he  takes  a  loose  hold  on  it ,  only  staring  at  the  man – now ,  isaac ,  with a  hard  swallow  of  his  throat .       ❝  —-why  are  you  so  intent  on  helping  me ?  what  will  you  get  out  of  it ?  ❞  he  asks  after  length ,  the  former  guard  finally  released  to  reveal  the  uncertain  trepidation  of  the  18 - year  old  boy  within  himself .  the  knife  was  forgotten  now , &  he  presses  the  cold  surface  of  the  bottle  against  a  bruising  cheek ,  wiping  at  the  dribbled  blood  by  the  corner  of  his  mouth  in  a  slap - dash  matter .  

it  wasn’t  often  that  another  body  would  come  forth  so  willingly  to  offer  him  help .  his  mother  was  kind , but  far  too  weak  to  oppose  against  his  father .  mary  anne  had  been  there  for  him  sometimes ,  but  she  was  most  often  not  than  she  was .  the  moment  she’d  hit  the  hard  age  of  18 ,  she  was  gone ,  a  jail - bird  girl  pursuing  out  of  her  cage  for  the  free  world . 

 for  a while ,  he  had  been  resentful  of  her  as  well .  but   that  was  how  it  was  with  the  tyvers ,  always  &  always .  live  for  yourself .  his  father  had  told  him  countless  amount  of  times ,  words  reworded  retold  in  different  tales :   in  the  wild ,  the  lions  abandon  the  weakest  cubs  to  die .  this  world  is  always  the  survival  of  the  fittest . are  you  a  lion ,  elliot ?  or  are  you  a  weak ,  helpless  thing  ?  his  mother  had  raised  him  to  be  a  boy  with  trembling  hands ,  &  his  father  had  raised  him  to  be  a  terribly  cautious ,  daring , &  dangerous  creature .  there  was  nothing  ,  no  one  else  to  blame .  

  ❝  you  say  that  i’m  interesting ,  but  you .  you’re  hiding  something .  ❞   rolling  the  bottle  down  the  side  of  his  face ,  he  flickers  the  cold  gaze  up  towards  isaac .   what’s  a  once  high - academic  kid  doing  here  now ?  what  kind  of  cliff  were  you  pushed  off  of  ?  were  the  hands  pushing  you  of  someone  else’s ,  or  was  it  your  own ?   

he  wasn’t  a  stranger  to  tragedies ,  &  he  didn’t  find  that  he  found  sympathy  for  them  within  himself  either . it  was  to  merely  identify  another  thing  of  his  own  kind , —— alex  had  once  said  that  it  had  felt  good  to  realize  that  he  wasn’t  the  only  one  leading  a  concoction  of  everything  fucked  up  in  his  life .    you ,  tyver ,  i  say  that  i’m  a  fucked  up  bastard . . but  you’re  really  a  riot ,  you  know  that ?  what’s  it  like  living  walking  on  knife  edges  all  the  time ?  not  scared  that  you’re  going  to  fall  &  cut  yourself  up  one  day ?    

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   he  pauses  a  moment ,  as  if  to  contemplate  isaac’s  silence .  then  without  waiting  for  the  reply ,  he  wipes  the  sweating  condensation  of  water  down  his  face ,  &  digs  deep  into  his  pockets  to  pull  out  a  rolled  up  wads  of  dollar  bills .      ❝  here ,  i  don’t  owe  debts .  ❞      tossing  a  wad  towards  isaac ,  he  returns  the  rest  of  the  money  back  inside  his  jacket ,  ——- the  former  guard  against  the  other  lifted  back  up  once  again .  the  fences  were  rarely  placed  down ,  &  parrish  was  a  rare  exception  , he  was  always   an  exception , the  only  one .     ❝   take  me  to  your  nest ,  junkie .  –won’t  be  touching  your  stash ,  but  make  wrong  moves ,  &  i’ll  cut  your  throat .  ❞    

His eyes widen for a moment, gleeful expression evident on his clownish mouth. “Oh man, so you think I’m interesting, too? Gosh, I’m flattered. He holds a hand to his chest in an exaggerated fashion, gripping Elliot’s wad of cash in the other. He pockets the money, and then whips out a crushed carton of cigarettes. He brings one to his mouth, then tips the carton over, allowing a small lighter to fall out into his palm. Bringing the flame to the tip of the cigarette alights it in a cherry red burn, and it isn’t until that moment that he speaks again, watching Elliot through a plume of gray smoke that puffs from his mouth and nostrils, and fades just as quickly as it’d come.  

“Don’t we all have secrets, Elliot? Mine, well, I’ll just tell ya straight up. Fuckin’ show you, more like.” He moves his fingers to the hem of his shirt, leaving the cigarette to dangle between clenched lips. He lifts up the dark fabric, revealing a vast series of thin, pink scars, criss-crossing across his abdomen in a fairly aligned pattern. A methodical case of harm, drawn out literally in a case of parallel carved-in lines. “Every time I didn’t do well in my classes, or was ‘disrespectful’ at home, I’d give myself one of these bad boys. Misguided shame does that to a dumb kid. My parents were fucking nutcases. They’d scream at me to high godforsaken heaven if I so much as breathed out of turn. Dad was a retired military officer, mom, an active city cop. We weren’t poor or nothin’, there was no reason to push me like they did. Just… It’s all about the Ivy League legacy, right?”

He gives a grin, but it isn’t like the others he’s shown. It was stripped of his smugness or cocky attitude, and all that was left underneath that, was the shuddering, vulnerable, depressive boy he believed he’d left in the past. But there he was, lurking underneath the surface, melded to him just as the self-made scars marred his body.

“Shit’s fucked. That’s all she fucking wrote.” He takes another inhale of his cigarette, sucks in long and deliberately, allows the smoke to billow from his slack jawed mouth. “Oh, and I don’t want anything from you. Just, when you see a kid in distress, you have a lawful obligation to help them. Well, for me, it’s more moral than lawful… And that uh, throat cutting thing is very much noted. I will keep my colorful comments and my hands… Mm, relatively to myself. Sound good, champ?” Then he’s waving his hand over his shoulder, telling Elliot to follow him to the entrance of his the apartment complex. He makes a point to nudge a sleeping homeless woman on the front steps with the toe of his shoe, for no reason other than his own sick amusement at watching her slump further down on the concrete. Just like that, his emotional layers were pulled back over his wounds, tightly sealed and not so easily pried apart.

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“Aaaaaaall right, welcome to casa di Moreau!” As he opens the door to his apartment, the first thing he does is unceremoniously drop his cigarette to the floor and kick a piece of dirty laundry over it, snuffing out the flame with the fabric. “Mind where you step, I haven’t exactly gotten around to spring cleaning yet. Even though it is… Waaaay past due for that. I’m a bachelor, this is how we live. Manly traditions, you get it.”

He leads Elliot past the mounds of garbage and clothing, strewn in disarray all across the living room floor. There’s a room to the left, with a sign on it stating in all capital letters, “DO NOT ENTER,” and the contents within could have only been Isaac’s infamous “products.” Other rooms with open doors seemed to be bedrooms and a bathroom, each with their own unique level of hygiene problems.

“Make yourself at home, bud! You can have that little bedroom to the far right over there. Stay as long or as little as you want, I just ask you don’t eat all my fucking food or drink all my beer. I know how you teenage boys can be, the little black voids that you are. I was just like that myself.”

There’s a buzz at the door, and he’s a bit startled by that, the confusion momentarily in his eyes signifying that he was not expecting visitors. He leaves Elliot to call down to the buzzer, and a grainy, dark voice responds to him. Isaac all but bashes his head against the wall, but tells the visitor to come on up. He looks over at Elliot, sighing so heavily he nearly makes himself wheeze.

“Hope you don’t mind, but this fuckface I’m partners with just has to come up and drop off some money he owes. We work together. Weird, freaky shit, but it pays well.” He smirks at how strange that vague description must sound to a stranger who was not as in the know as him, and just shrugs his shoulders when he should have been explaining more. “I’ll protect you from him, don’t you worry. He’s a creepier fucker than me, but just smile and nod when he talks to you and you should be good.” He holds a finger to his mouth after some thought as he adds, “Mm… On second thought, that might be a challenge for someone like you.”

 And just like that, there’s a new man standing in the apartment, taller than Isaac, blue eyes sharp and alive as they seem to immediately register another life force besides Isaac, standing just a few feet away. Isaac holds a hand to his head, sighing again as he says, “Victor, please, can you not stare at people like a fucking hawk? It’s weird. Look, the poor kid’s probably shaking in his boots. Either that, or he’s about to tear you a new one with his favorite toy…”

“It’s hard not to stare when I come in here and find a strange boy in your apartment. I thought you were over this whole ‘save the children’ obsession.” The man named Victor strides further into the apartment, movements fluid and without falter or lack of elegance in any of his steps. He comes to stand before Elliot, sizing him up like he’s a predator scanning the potential of getting a good meal out of this new piece of prey. He’s still watching Elliot as he calls over his shoulder to Isaac, “Where on earth did you find such a pitiful little mutt? I hope you weren’t the one who roughed him up, Moreau. Tsk, he looks like a lost lamb…”

He reaches forward, cool, silver ring-clad fingers intent on thumbing at the crusted blood droplets against Elliot’s cheek. It’s invasive and without care for personal space, but he doesn’t seem to be one who has much concern for those things. An immediate red flag if ever there was one. “Which dumpster did Isaac drag you up out of, hm?”

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