[Red Ciranor]

OPEN

---

       He was sprouting. Thin twigs were trying to bloom out of his bones and he'd already spent an hour snapping them off. It hurt. Everything hurt. Bruises stained his skin and he'd stuck band-aids over the worst wounds. His fingers scratched at a bright Bulbasaur band-aid with a grimace. The face was starting to turn a dull brown.

      Red pushed his mask up, exhaustion slumping his shoulders. It had been a long day. He'd only managed a few hours in the studio before the branches had locked his fingers in place, and he'd gotten too dizzy to try and paint. His fingers massaged at the back of his neck.
      At least he didn't have to try and fake an expression. It felt like he was stuck in a permanent scowl; the bus lights were bright and humming in an itch that pissed him off- the glare was making him more nauseous than usual- and every jostle of the bus sent a wave of pain up his spine. It coalesced into a rolling ache at the back of his eyes, a throbbing maggot that sat fat and heavy in the hollow of his skull and ate at his thoughts with a gnawing mouth.
      His fingers worked at a knot, pushing at the tension. It wasn't stiffness; there were hard roots underneath, a twig jabbing up and out of the back of his skin. He sighed. It was always like this. Never just one thing. Always the goddamn plants. His fingers worked at the nub with narrowed eyes and a tight, hidden grimace.
      A little trickle of blood dripped between his fingers as he tugged. This would be easier with a knife. This would be easier if he didn't have a headache, if he were at home, if he were dead and, oh, not fucking cursed to be some shitty hybrid monster. It hurt. It always hurt.
      Red exhaled, a shiver shaking his fingers. He could feel the roots coming loose with every twist of his hand. But it was slow, and wasn't that the problem? It took too long- the longer it was there, the longer he was infected- the more chances people would see, would know who- what he is. And then how long before people could recognize him? Before the cops showed up? Before people knew what he's done?
      The twig snapped with a sound like breaking bone. Red froze. Brown eyes darted around the bus; there weren't very many people. Did anyone hear? There was barely a blink. He exhaled, soft and shaky. No one seemed to have heard. Not that it mattered- who was going to say anything? Who was going to say anything to him?
      His hand came away wet with the branch, bone white and dripping with red, human blood. Shit. The hole was oozing; it was going to get stuck in his hair and stain his jacket. A muffled whine slipped out. He didn't have anything to stop the bleeding. Red glanced around, then leaned towards the closest person. His jaw worked. Half a sentence formed, his vocal chords scratching in his throat and mouthing soundless words before he blinked hard and winced.
      The words grated in his chest. He couldn't. It wasn't worth it. His fingers left little red prints- then smears as he tried to clean it- on his phone screen as he typed out a message. Red nudged the person closest to him, tilting the screen towards them.
[do you have a tissue/bandaid? hurt myself + am bleeding sorry + thx]

[Dane Wayland]

[nospaces]

[attr="class","post-lizardstripe-o"]

[attr="class","post-lizardstripe-bus"]

[attr="class","post-lizardstripe-title"]THE WRITING'S ON THE WALL

[attr="class","post-lizardstripe-subtitle"]says eventually we fall; and even romans know

(CW: Drug-use mention)[break][break]

Dane wasn't yet sold... whether the night had gone extremely well or extremely bad. He'd had to stash his bike and make his way home on a city bus. Both weren't ideal. But he hadn't a scratch on him and his phone had (so far) been suspiciously quiet. Apparently, the clean-up crew following behind him on tonight's assignment had no particular issue with what all he'd left behind. At least, not enough issue to bring it to Wolfhound or his father's attention. [break][break]

If he made it home without a prickle across his shoulder blades, he'd call it a good night.[break][break]

But... the guy sitting across the aisle from him had been fidgeting and rubbing at himself ever since Dane sat down. At first, he decided he couldn't be too put-off by it. Annoyed, sure, but not overly so. No one used a city bus for the shining company. And it'd been his own fault for plopping himself down in a nearby seat when half the bus was empty. But... as the ride went on... and the guy kept clawing at himself with the occasional whine or sigh... Dane couldn't keep from rolling his eyes.[break][break]

Dude was probably coming down from something. And the idea of that always put a bad taste in his mouth. Like bile in the back of his throat.[break][break]

From the corner of his eye, he could see the creepy guy cast a look around. 'Don't, don't, oh my fucking god, please d—' Dane droned inwardly, cutting the wishful thinking short with a fluttery blink when Dude leaned toward him. (Of course he did... of course.) He braced himself for some shaky ask. Probably a pitiful beg for a simple bit of drug money. The guy opened his mouth. But then — after what appeared to be an almost strangled moment — he closed it again and turned away. [break][break]

Dane tipped his head; a pleased frown tugging down the corners of his mouth as he lifted his brow. Huh. Maybe it was a good night after all. Every once in a while, he supposed, nice things could happen to him. Small blessings. But the idea of that could barely churn in his mind, before the guy gave him a nudge across the aisle and tipped a phone toward him. Dane rolled his head on his shoulders, eyeing him with an obvious lack of friendliness, then shucked a hefty sigh and let his gaze fall to the screen. [break][break]

'do you have a tissue/bandaid? hurt myself + am bleeding sorry + thx'[break][break]

There was blood smudged on the screen, fresh and wet. The same, bright crimson edged in the bed of the nails that held the phone between them. Dane noted it impassively, lip twitching barely over his teeth. Public transportation could be so gross. "Mmm, no... I don't," he answered plainly, not bothering to sound at-all sympathetic about it. His gaze lifted from the phone screen to the man's face, searching there for the expected signs of pathetic, ugly drug-use (specifically a comedown) that he was more than familiar with. Bruised eyes and tacky skin. A bit of ever-present sweat. Hollow desperation tucked in the shadowy crooks of a face that'd — surely — been fuller at one time. [break][break]

The guy was wearing a mask. And Dane didn't want to look at him too long. Didn't want to find those signs. So he only let his gaze dart about for a single, weighing moment before he leaned the tiniest bit into the aisle; lips pulling into a tight smile most certainly not meant to be warm. "Plus sign. Sorry about your luck. Plus sign, use your fucking shirt."

that everything, everything[break]
everything, everything goes

Tag: Red Ciranor [break]
Lemme know if this doesn't work for you![break]
No harm, no foul if you had other ideas/plans!

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[Red Ciranor]

     Silence stretched between them; brown eyes stared at Dane Wayland with narrow annoyance and disdain and anger. He could hear the condescension dripping out of the other's mouth. Like it was his fault he was sick. He could feel his face burning; he knew how he looked, too pale, too shaking, too wrong to be something-- someone- worth valuing. It twisted against his skin, a thin vine crawling towards his eye, and Red's mouth tightened under his mask.
     "Asshole," he muttered. His voice was rusty and choked with branches. They caught against his mouth, roots tightening in his lungs. He wheezed once, doubling over to tug his mask down and cough a spray of rose petals into his hand. Goddammit.
     He could feel eyes on him. Watching. Could feel the disgust pricking at his skin. Red eyes flicked up to the other man, sharp and glaring. A strained buzz hummed in his ears in the empty air of the bus. He could taste iron on the back of his tongue. A millipede skittered under the collar of his shirt- a line of thorns shifted at his shoulders- a few vines pricked at his wrists. He knew that smell, that taste, that crawling starvation-
     His nails scratched at his arms. His fingers tightened and his eyes darted across Dane's body, intent and predatory. He didn't look hurt- the smell wasn't right. There wasn't any indication of an oozing wound. And he was clean. Too pristine to be injured.
     And Red could see the strength in his grip- healthy and cultivated- his body relaxed and easy. He wasn't hunted. Wasn't scared. He could taste it. But the little ruffled strands of his hair, the ragged edge of his jacket where a hand caught his clothes- and there, small and splattered, was confirmation. There was a small splash of blood against his shoe; another drop was caught in the folds of his shirt, dark and dried against black cotton. Red knew what that meant. This man had been in a fight.
     He tasted the air, letting the hunger settle on his tongue sat back. A shudder made him tremble, red eyes slipping shut in fever heat. He didn't need to hunt. Not really. But he was hungry, and what else was there to do but feed? When had he last eaten? It hadn't been that long, right?

     He breathed, shaking and hesitant, as his body unraveled slightly. It helped, just a bit. One eye cracked open. The bus was starting to slow; he'd be getting off soon. Which was good; the hunger was starting to curdle into nausea. Maybe he'd get lucky and make to an alley before he was sick.

     Maybe he could hunt the other person. He'd deserve it.

[Dane Wayland]

[nospaces]

[attr="class","post-lizardstripe-o"]

[attr="class","post-lizardstripe-bus"]

[attr="class","post-lizardstripe-title"]THE WRITING'S ON THE WALL

[attr="class","post-lizardstripe-subtitle"]says eventually we fall; and even romans know

(CW: Drug/addiction mention)[break][break]

Dane could see what looked like a vein bulge at the man's temple. He muttered a weak profanity, voice scratchy and hoarse, and his mouth quirked smugly as he shimmied his shoulders — just once. Then the guy was wheezing and doubled over, hacking something bright into his palm, and the snide smile quickly transformed into a lip-curled frown of disgust. He looked away, rolling his eyes and shucking his shoulders in another exasperated sigh. "Gross," he scoffed. [break][break]

And it was gross. Clearly, this guy was coming down hard and Dane couldn't stand to be so near it. It infuriated. Stoked a boiling, spreading heat in his chest that was far, far too familiar. He'd been around it enough — dragging his stupid, deadweight brother from sticky, piss-covered bathroom floors — to be completely intolerant of it now. How people thought it was okay to subject others to the filth of it was baffling. Angering. [break][break]

Still, looking fixedly out the window, Dane unzipped the bag on the floor between his knees and rooted blindly for the clean shirt he knew was inside. He balled the fabric in a fist, withdrew it, and rolled his head on his shoulders to shoot the man another look. When he met the gaze waiting for him — raking him over — he recognized (quite immediately) the pointed and seeking look in it. [break][break]

Oh? [break][break]

A brow lifted and he tipped his head. Then his mouth split in a wide, carefree grin and he chuckled freely. This scrawny bastard, wheezing and hacking, probably too weak from some week-long bender, was so pissed off by what he'd said, he was considering doing something about it? Was that what it was? Or, perhaps, the idea that Dane might have something worth stealing in his bag... something to pawn or trade-off for another fix... was an irrepressible thought? Addicts were always the same. Either way, the sudden, sharp heat in the other man's eyes was quite funny.[break][break]

The bus began rolling to a stop and Dane wiped a finger beneath his eye, pretending to catch a tickled tear as he let his laughing quiet. When he stood, no longer amused, he lurched close and seethed low, voice dripping with a disdain that many would find disproportionately personal, "You're a mess." He straightened, hiked his bag over his shoulder, and tossed the shirt at the man with more force than was necessary, watching it drop from his chest to his lap impassively. "Get some help." [break][break]

Shaking his head faintly from side to side, he started down the aisle and toward the bus door.

that everything, everything[break]
everything, everything goes

Tag: Red Ciranor [break]
Give me a nudge for any changes!

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