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12 January 2003 @ 10:05 pm
In which I add to the Dom/Elijah which is getting written for no fucking reason.  
It's okay though. Not finished, but okay.

And no comments about grammar. It's... uh... all intentional, yo. >_>



Ahhhhhh… shit.

One of those times when he’d watched it happen, knowing it was going to happen, waiting for it to happen in that split-second between the cause and the effect. Cause: glass slips out of soap-covered hands. Effect: glass hits bottom of sink, sending transparent shrapnel flying, making rainbows on the walls and in the bubbles.

Effect: glass slices soft flesh of the palm and all colors but red drop out of the rainbows.

He’d hissed softly, not really feeling any pain yet, but still sure that he should make a noise, any noise. Because without the noise it was as if nothing had happened, even with the broken glass and the thick, red bubbles dissolving in the sink. It didn’t hurt, he’d felt numb, dead, tingling, where is my body? He’d left part of it in the sink and that frightened him.

Warmth enveloped him from behind and he hissed a second time, twitching frantically and stamping his feet weakly in an attempt to step on the toes of the man behind him, to warn him, to let him get away before the real pain hit. Like a wounded animal, he thrashed as hands circled his wrists, trying to hold them still. Blood flew through the air and splattered on the curtains. Red dripped down the cheery yellow and white pattern, and he’d gasped suddenly, throwing his head back. The dishsoap was in the wound and he hadn’t expected it; through the numbness came a thousand bees, disemboweling themselves on the barbed stingers they left inside his body. It hurt, but he wasn’t crying yet, it would take more to make him cry, he hadn’t cried in years.

The hands around his wrist forced him forward, forced his own fingertips beneath the stream of warm running water coming from the taps. ‘Shh, love.’ A sweet, husky voice whispered into the shell of his ear, the slight puffs of breath tickling him slightly. Rough stubble grazed the soft skin below his earlobe and he shuddered as the red seas parted to reveal white flesh beneath skin sliced cleanly open. He tried to close his palm and mewled slightly at the stiff discomfort of a deep wound. ‘No, no… you can’t close it yet.’

And the warmth was gone for a moment, fingers left behind their salmon-colored imprints on his wrists. The warm water felt soothing now that the sting had abated and left him with a slow, steady burn that traveled languidly through each of his nerves. ‘Dom?’ He called, suddenly missing the broad chest behind him, panicking at the lack of humid air sweeping over the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. ‘Dom?!’
 
 
Current Mood: cynicalcynical
Current Music: The Beatles - Blackbird