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Unquestioned Answers; private between Ilario Fiametta III and SECRET CHARACTER TO BE REVEALED
Topic Started: Aug 16 2010, 10:02 PM (1,777 Views)
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((B136 start))

A little blood flicked on the darker face below him as he pitched his own flailing arms against the ones assaulting his gut. Jackson didn’t have time to register whose it was. All he had time to do was swing. He kept the boy pinned to the ground with his knees. He put his weight forward. His knees dug in. He hoped it hurt. He aimed for the face. Jesus ow motherfucker right back at you.

The first punch collided with another fist. The second, jaw. Not nearly hard enough, that wouldn’t even leave a mark. Missed on the third. He barely felt the punches going into his own gut. Fourth and fifth were air. His depth perception was shit without his glasses. He spat in the boy’s face. Oh, it was his blood. That explained why his nose was throbbing and his mouth tasted like warm penny syrup. His shoulder was throbbing too. Just throbbing. He was lucky the rock didn’t do more damage.

Lucky?
Fuck you.

He hit the boy’s nose this time. The sensation almost made him smile. No blood. That was no good.

Rock-boy smartened up and grabbed at Jackson’s arms. Everything spun before his head ricocheted off the sand. He was grateful for the softness. A concussion was the last thing he needed. He struggled under the slim dark form. Sand went everywhere, up his shirt and in his boxers and in his moccasins. He could feel it raking against his scalp as his head moved. One of them went flying into rock-boy’s back as he kicked. He should have worn fucking steel-toed boots. Or maybe stiletto heels. His arms were pinned down. The boy wasn’t very heavy, but neither was Jackson, so it was hardly an advantage. Jackson’s blood dripped back down on his face from rock-boy’s. The resulting stripes were threateningly war-like. He peered down his chest. There was a dark V over where his waist was. Perfect.

He brought his right knee up sharply.

He was sure the groan was the most satisfying thing he’d ever heard. The sound of meat collapsing to his right was probably the second most.

He took the extra few seconds to try and make sense of what was happening. When nothing came, he stumbled to his feet. Hollow thunder roared in his right arm when he put his weight on it. It was just ignorable enough. He could feel the sand through his black socks. When did his other moccasin come off? Oh, there it was. Right next to a squirming little lump of rock-boy at his feet. He began to worry if he should be enjoying the idea of kicking him so much. It wasn’t enough to stop him.


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The sound was sick and satisfying. It was a bit sick to be satisfied by it, he thought, and additionally the sound made him feel a bit sick despite his satisfaction. But his shoulder was burning and his nose was unbroken but spilling and he could only sincerely hope the Rock-Boy would puke his fucking insides out. He wiped at his lip with his sleeve (he could feel a split now on the left side, another heave from behind him set them even again). He only succeeded in rouging his face, sanguining the sheet of sweat and making a sticky brew of fluids and sand. His body was coated with a similar stew that itched and abrased with every jerk of every limb. The discomfort was extraordinary. But there was the sweet chorus of bile and pain behind him and it almost made him smile. It disturbed him. He savored every pain-filled sound and hated himself for it. Every splash he rolled on his tongue, savored, wanted to spit out but instead sloshed it with saliva and swallowed it whole. It was a delicious and feverishly ill sensation. It was not him. It could not be. Nurses don’t lick the bedpan clean. They sterilize, stabilize, would spit instead of swallow.

But the sound was so sweet.
Maybe he could be someone else for a while.

A socked foot found his glasses where his eyes had failed to. The sand was deep enough to prevent them from being crushed but the beach would not return his spectacles unscathed, not with the sand raking against the lenses even as he shifted his weight away. He knelt (more stumbled, knelt too graceful a word) and pried the beach open until his bifocals were surfaced. He shook them off and donned them, being sure to prepare his annoyance in advance. The now-rising sun lit up little linear ghosts in his vision. He changed his angle and they were exorcised. It could be worse. He could be the one making those attractively revolting sounds behind him. He got to his feet and wiped the sand from his socks. When it did little good, he slipped his moccasins back on. It was not an enjoyable sensation. More gasps. Even that was losing its charm. It was a sign to leave.

But, first.

Their bags were all a-tangled as their owners had been moments before. He vaguely remembered ripping at Rock-Boy’s quaint little satchel at some point in the struggle. Or had he torn at his? It was all an unreal blur of sweat and limbs and, let’s be honest with ourselves dear Jackson, a bit of piss. But the chronology of the bags suggested that Rock-Boy hadn’t the sense to slip his own off first. They were on top. The small one was a pretty chunk of cow, too. Jackson slipped-knelt again. There was sand in every crease clinging to the ghosts of oil or perhaps just duty-bound to spoil expensive things. Greedy hands found the outermost pockets first. Orbitals rich in toothpaste and tissues and mints. He pocketed the mints. They were Altoids, after all. Cheap sport deodorant that was probably hidden under cologne anyway. Floss. Comb. Pill bottles. These he took out. He could just barely make out their dim-lit identities. Sedial with a Celexia chaser. Something white even under this. Crumpled cloth with “I.F. III” in the corner. He was beginning to get an idea of who his attacker might be. Oh, how much sweeter it made that vomit sound.

He listened.
Quiet.
Why was it so quiet?






Fuck.

The sand fought against his balance. He wasn’t sure if he was ever actually upright as he scrambled towards Rock-Boy the Third, but by some form of propulsion or at least of sheer will he reached his side. It was not a comforting sight. All Greek sculpture and bulging eyes. Dorian Gray as he stabbed his own visage. Veins flexed to the surface of his neck. The effort of pain pushed at the familiar birthmark on the left side. Fingers gracefully looped around a flap of shirt torn to below chest level. The collarbone was dainty, a contrast to the dust of curly blondes on the smooth dark chest. The canal between his breasts flowed into the hollow triangle just above where the fabric parted. Even in the non-light is gleamed with sweat and sand. None of it was moving.

He had been avoiding the eyes, but they dominated the view. Dark scared things. Deer eyes. No, they were headlights. He was the deer, drowning in coffee eyes. Move. Move. Move.

Had he taken the bag with him? It was there in any event. Expanding the Calculus Horizon made that vile slap only textbooks can as it collided with Global Forces of the 20th Century. A flash of white. Nice cut-away collar, James Bond. The beach can keep that one. More clothes flying. His hands clutched frantically for the sacred little tube. He’d only seen one used once, when his brother had that reaction to the bee sting. He remembered it was yellow like the bee with a scarier sting. Even his child self found that ironic. His hands found it. Oh, cute, it’s a tiny one.

No.
No, this is lipstick.
No time to judge, Jackson, just keep grabbing.

“Fuck, Fiametta, breathe!”. Rock-Boy probably did not hear. He was kicking now. Jackson’s hands felt the sand pour into the bag. He began to doubt the existence of the Epipen. More sand. Fuck fuck fuck. He searched his brain. How could this asshole pack lipstick and not his Epipen? Unless this wasn’t anaphylaxis. New query. How likely was it that he was choking on vomit? Really? Shit.

Jackson gulped hard, pinched Fiametta’s nose, forced his head slightly back and began to bring his lips down.



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Was the scene safe? Had he checked the mouth and throat for obstruction? He was doing this all wrong. It was so much easier when it was pretend time with office workers and soon-to-be babysitters on those creepy little gray dummies with their transparent plastic insides and sinister little dick-sucking mouths and jesus christ this isn’t helping he’s going to choke and
the taste was actually better than the smell, he thought as he spat into the sand. A bit like bitter French onion soup. He hated French onion, actually. The onions always reminded him of some slimy and terribly wrong parasite. The vomit was almost preferable. He gagged and spat. Almost. Jackson finished hacking out Fiametta’s bodily fluids almost in unison with Fiametta himself. He saw he’d shot a bit of yellowish-clear sludge on poor-little-rich-boy’s lovely slacks. Fiametta himself had done irreversible damage to the undoubtedly expensive button-down. Pity. Green was his color.

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t realize how much he was dreading the eye contact until it happened. Coffee eyes again, only just barely lighter than his own. Full of something. Definitely not coffee. He understood coffee. He didn’t understand this, both headlights and deer at once, reverberating with every babbling apology. It was the eyes that were keeping him from anger. Sorry meant fuck all. It was a useless word only used by people who couldn’t be less sorry. Even when someone did say “sorry” and meant it, they weren’t saying they were “sorry” at all. It even sounded pitiful. It made the lips form that ridiculous doube-r shape that somehow managed to be uglier than a regular R. Then there was that dreadful o. There was no way to make that sound remotely pretty between the s and the r. It always came out an obnoxious almost-a or a sort of low o-w that made the speaker sound like they were a child or had a speech impediment. And that fucking y, ending it all so lightly as if the word carried no weight, undoing all it was supposed to stand for. It wasn’t even a word. It was a collection of pathetic spineless sounds. And yet he
kept
fucking
saying it.

I’m sooooowry.
I’m soooooooooooowry.

But the eyes were something. They weren’t sorry things. They were scared, flickering with more fear at what the other boy probably thought were realizations. But Jackson saw the fear clearly. Their eyes really were so similar. Especially now, he assumed. He began to wonder if Rock-Boy had saw it too when his breath caught.

He tensed as soon as he sensed the arm off to his right. Never breaking the eyes but ready to unfurl into more limbs and sand and blood. But then the fingers brushed. Fluttered, more like, still shaky. His body didn’t release. A hot, sick vapor ran up his chest. He thought he was going to vomit again. His cheek rang where the fingertips floated across them. Thank you. Thank you. Fuck you.

He thought to twist as he pulled Fiametta’s wrist back down, but that part of him was already back in its dark hot wet little place. He saw the fear flicker back as he twisted himself in the sand. He kicked the cow-flesh bag as he rose. It crashed over a bottle. Celexia or Sedial? It was a difficult journey back to his bags on shaky legs. He felt the boy’s eyes on his back the whole time. He wondered what was in them now. He didn’t look.

He laid all the straps on his left shoulder. His right was still glowing with ache. He could see where the water languidly licked at the shore now. It only just then seemed light as he noticed the low sun, as if a switch had been thrown. He hadn’t realized how close they were. He dropped his bags again where the sand divided itself wet-and-dry. He shifted off his flannel and tossed it on top. He left his socks too, after rolling his jeans up. He ventured several steps into the water’s tongue. It was incredibly cold, a loud but not unpleasant sensation. He leaned over and worked the water over his face and neck. A jolt of panic when he remembered the collar, but it remained undisturbed. He breathed. His nose has stopped bleeding, but there was blood all crusted around it. The blood and assortment of other elements in his beard were more stubborn. He slipped his shirt off next, for a second considering with a twinge of embarrassment that Rock-Boy might still be watching, for another second considering slipping off the dreamcatcher as well but not wanting to touch his neck again to find the sick sensation of thick leather. Blood and sand had worked its way into the hair on his chest and stomach too. The water lapped it up. He splashed again at his back.

He noticed a distant screech, then a cheery roar, just barely detectable over the waves. Like a game-show left on too loud. The specifics were lost to distance and other noise but he knew well enough what it was.

And he could make out the names.

He was starting to get used to the cold, he thought. He took it as a sign and pulled the shirt back over himself as he turned to shore.




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He gave a little gasp and pulled his shirt down quicker as Fiametta’s voice jittered on behind him. He bee-lined for his bags, not making eye contact, unconsciously digging his toes into the sand as he went, hiding his feet between every step. He hastily pulled his moccasins on and was gingerly slipping his bad arm back into the flannel shirt when Fiametta’s offer clattered out of his mouth.

He cringed a bit as his shoulder painfully twisted its way through the fabric. “You’ll pay? Really?” He grunted as the arm finally slid its way through. “You’re a real fuckin’ joke, you know that Fiametta?”

The hot wet place burst open again. He shook with the force as it erupted through him. The boy looked so hurt as he opened his mouth. Jackson raised a hand to cut him off. “You attacked me. With. A fucking. Rock. And now you want me to be a fucking babysitter with you? What, did you learn this shit in charm school? You fucking asshole.”

He was ready for more fists. His own good one was clenched tightly. But the boy just stared dumbly back. He gave a disgusted sigh and reached for his bags. He let the socks-now-sandbags drop.

“I had you pegged as a sack of shit, but christ. No wonder your bitch sisters never bother with you.” Spite-words poured out. Not even entirely true, not even remotely true but maybe they were now and jesus did they feel good. He swung his bags on. They were heavy even against his unharmed shoulder. This wouldn’t last long especially not if he kept shaking but for now he just had fire that needed out.

“You’re goddamned lucky I didn’t just let you choke. Stay the fuck out of my face.” He turned now. He kept his walk as steady as possible, trying to channel indifference through even though everything was shaking. He clamped his lips shut with his teeth. Just leave with words enough, but no, more fought their way out behind his shoulder.

“And you might wanna clean that puke off before you go play hero. You look like a fucking slob.” He regretted the words even as they left him but it was all he could do to mask the tremors.

((Jackson Ockley continued in Act I: General Anesthetic))
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