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 Posted: Thu Jul 28, 2016 7:34 am
& I RUN FROM WOLVES
tearin' into me, without teeth.
│CREATED BY nowSERENITY
│· Saxon City Prison.
│· Four days after This.
│· Closed thread.
│· Julian & Odin.
│· Flashback thread to their time in prison.
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Posted: Thu Jul 28, 2016 9:07 am
   J U S T T H I S O N C E -- P L E A S E -- S Y M P A T H I Z E W I T H M E
In the days that stretched between, Julian was a proverbial church mouse, speaking only when guards prompted the azurette to answer questions, or demanded a verbal acknowledgement of their orders. It wasn't sullenness -- he didn't have the right to behave that way after what he'd done-- but rather a species of consideration on his part that kept the ink mage focused on causing as little noise as possible. Because even though the man who bunked below him seemed to improve little by little every day, Julian didn't have any illusions about how much pain Odin must be in. The concept of having your entire skeletal system reorder itself twice-- shattering to shape something new, and then again to return to its more regular form-- in one night was terrifying all on its own. But where others might have reserved their fears exclusively for what the werewolf became on those nights, the azurette appeared to have channeled it mostly into a deep sympathy for the pain the older man must be feeling. The aftermath of a situation that hijacked not just his body, but his mind. Every month. Forever.
And Julian had only made it worse.
So he'd spent each day, after, apologizing in the only ways he knew how. Silence, during the times he spent in the cell. Respecting the strawberry blonde's obvious desire that he never bring up what had happened ever again. Stealing down the ladder when he was certain that Odin had succumbed once more to sleep, to carefully pull the blanket from his own bed over that taller frame. It had become almost a ritual for the ink mage-- a series of behaviors that mapped his waking days, adding more structure to his few unscheduled hours.
In that first day, no one had bothered to bring anything for the werewolf to eat. Unsurprising, since the pain appeared to be so intense, and so draining, that Julian wasn't sure whether his cellmate would have been able even to chew. And he certainly hadn't been capable of walking down into the caf during the hours when the regular meals were provided. It made it hard to reconcile this man, laying injured and irritable, with the one who'd left the ring of bruises around the azurette's throat. Julian wasn't an idiot-- he knew that, if compared, the marks on his skin would have matched to the other man's hands like a fingerprint. But it felt twisted and somehow cruel to complain, even privately, about his own small injuries considering what he had done, and how much worse it had to be for Odin.
In the second day, and every day after, he had put all the focus of eloquence and reason into begging permission for meals to be brought to the werewolf. Without utensils, yes, of course. That was only reasonable, considering where they were. Julian understood completely. And to be carried by a guard, because of course the azurette might have some ulterior motive and the prison couldn't very well have someone poisoning a Cypress under their watch, even an incarcerated one. An hour later, the tray would be collected-- whether Odin had gotten around to eating anything or not-- and if the hard plastic was broken, that would be the end of the whole thing and this werewolf would have to just slog down to meals like the other inmates, or stay holed up without meals until he could move, just like the rest of "his kind." I understand, the mage had said, biting back the things he wanted to say about civil rights, because after all he was in prison. And, thank you, making himself smile gratefully, a fortunate supplicant. And, I appreciate you doing this. Because, like a nagging mother, Julian felt that if Odin could eat, then he probably should. He had no knowledge at all of what it might take out of the other man to go through the effects the moon had on him, but the azurette felt certain that no one could keep their strength up if they became malnourished and wasted away.
Every time the ink mage returned from lunch, a uniform with a tray moved down the hall just afterward, usually mumbling about the inconvenience and how little boy blue should have to do it, since he'd caused all the stink in the first place over one mouthy werewolf punk. Could you believe that s**t? And the azurette always pretended to have heard nothing at all, thanked the guard on duty, and took the little collection of edibles into his own hands, to be placed next to the lower bunk for Odin to pick through or ignore.
The other commentary was harder to brush off, because it grew bolder as time went on. They were calling him 'Nurse.' Even the inmates who shared laundry detail with the mage-- men who had typically been inoffensive-- murmured from time to time that Julian must be very easy to get along with. And it seemed like every bruise that started to fade under his uniform was quickly covered by a new one, left behind by fingers that pinched or knuckles that dug into his ribs when he wasn't paying attention.
And this time, when he carried Odin's tray into the cell, door sliding shut again as the guard left him, the right side of the azurette's face wore a mark along the cheekbone. Red and purple, the leftovers of a backhand he'd received when he had called for help instead of allowing the hand that had been in his hair to drag him onto a lap he had no intention of sitting on. Julian made no effort to hide it, mostly because there was no hope of doing so, but it didn't seem to alter the way he carried out his schedule. Eyes down, he brought the tray, settling it beside Odin's bunk with only the softest murmur to let the other man know it was there.
The louder words came from across the hall. From Hotts, who had been the one to rock the azurette's brain inside it's case with one judicious application of the back of his hand.
"Wakey-wakey! Wifey's home with lunch~"
OOC: Apologies for how short this is. Have to get ready for work. :C
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Posted: Fri Jul 29, 2016 4:20 pm
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Posted: Sun Jul 31, 2016 8:44 pm
J U S T T H I S O N C E -- P L E A S E -- S Y M P A T H I Z E W I T H M E
No one had asked the ink mage why he had gone out of his way to secure meals for his cellmate. Even the guards he'd spoken to only rolled their eyes, as though the concept was somehow childish or stupid. And Julian wasn't a complete idiot-- he was aware of how it probably looked. In this place, no one bothered to look out for anyone else, unless they stood to gain something from it, or they were part of the same organization. They'd started calling him Nurse because he'd concerned himself with Odin's wellbeing, and it seemed that even that small display of decency was considered emasculating. That on its own would never have given him pause. Being a man had never meant to Julian what it seemed to mean to the males around him. Physical strength would have been a comforting asset-- but what was it worth if it was used without focus, or in pursuit of pure selfishness? Unwillingness or inability to express emotion was even worse; what made so many of them intimidating was just as much a thing that handicapped their ability to communicate. That they tried to needle him by comparing him to women was just an indication of their own discomfort with the opposite gender. And he repeated those mantras to himself in the wake of each insult and bruise, even knowing that it was only a matter of time before someone went too far.
They ridiculed him for it, but they never asked why, and Julian never tried to explain.
Before the moon, most of the other prisoners had watched the werewolf with narrowed, furtive eyes. Assessing Odin to determine how much of a threat he would be, whether he would challenge any of the established hierarchies, what he could bring to the table if he was approached with an offer of membership. What he was made him a variable they couldn't safely ignore. And now? He had come back from solitary early, unlike the others, and it provided a clear view of just how vulnerable the strawberry blonde could be, and when.
In the cell, where he couldn't easily be reached, it was only an abstract bit of information. Outside of it, Odin's strained movements would have become a painful reality that other inmates could use to their advantage. And Julian, who lived each day in a state that was nearly as vulnerable, had seen a very simple answer to the problem: If Odin couldn't leave the cell to get the things he needed, then the things he needed would simply have to be brought to him.
After what he had done to the werewolf, it was the least the azurette could do. The only way he could apologize for things that the other man would never willingly talk about again. And, after its own fashion, the only way Julian could thank him for the restraint he'd shown. The measure of control that had made all the difference between emotional scars and physical ones. Even in the face of what had been the most confusing and hurtful experience of his young life, little boy blue could still manage to be grateful.
Julian's eyes had risen from the tray as Odin looked up, and for just a moment the mage's gaze caught the other male's look and held it. And the way the azurette's lips formed the very ghost of a curve could have been anything. A greeting from the waking world. Relief that the werewolf seemed to be doing fractionally better. Reassurance that the mark slowly turning the side of his face into a mottled bruise didn't really hurt that much. Or maybe it was just the precursor of the expression that immediately followed, brought on by the voice from across the hall. It was an apologetic wince, as though Julian felt somehow sorry that the blonde had gotten some of the verbal backlash thrown his way, even though the azurette couldn't possibly have controlled that. In some ways, it was inevitable. But the mage made a point of keeping his back turned to the hallway as Hotts banged against the bars of his own cell, demanding attention. And perhaps he would have continued that way-- trying to ignore the other inmate as though he were a badly behaved classmate-- if Odin hadn't looked up from his meal in a way that the younger man read as a prompt for information.
Speech was a tricky thing between them. Rare as they were, Julian could only associate spoken words with retaliation from the man in front of him. If the azurette had been anything else, their communication might have begun and ended in cryptic glances and defensive body language. But with the werewolf, the ink under his skin had become a vague asset, allowing Julian to express himself without drawing the other man's ire-- usually. Still, it required careful thought. He could only expect anger if he told Odin the truth. They think I belong to you. Hotts is just trying to rile you about it. No, that definitely wouldn't go over well. More than that, the blonde might refuse anything Julian brought him after that point, which would only hurt the werewolf's recovery.
So instead, what swam up to the surface of his uninjured cheek before he moved toward the ladder at the end of the bunk was: YOU SEEM LIKE YOU'RE GETTING BETTER. The words he'd said aloud once, in the wake of Odin's withdrawals. It seemed a thousand years ago, now, but hadn't it been only days? Weeks, at the most.
A few minutes later, the azurette was proven right. Glancing up from a letter he'd been rereading, Julian found that the werewolf had moved from his bed to resume the exercising he'd spent so much time on before the moon. And the mage, like a parent who chooses not to interrupt their child during a game of make-believe, decided to do what he was getting better at every single day: He stayed quiet, and avoided turning his eyes in Odin's direction.
More and more, Julian was learning to leave everything unsaid.
OOC: Augh. My brain is not functioning. I am sorry for how crap this is.
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Posted: Mon Aug 01, 2016 1:28 am
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Posted: Mon Aug 01, 2016 7:01 am
J U S T T H I S O N C E -- P L E A S E -- S Y M P A T H I Z E W I T H M E
Some prisons didn't have their own laundries, and those prisons ended up shipping their soiled clothes and linens off-site to be handled by professionals somewhere else. Not so with Saxon City. This meant that four days a week Julian changed into his greens-- the alternate uniform provided for inmates whose function was to clean up after others. There were Greens who shoved pushbrooms along the floors and Greens who spent time scraping food off of trays when the caf was finished serving meals. And there were Greens like Julian, who spent hours pushing the laundry barrows until they were overflowing with sheets and towels and soiled uniforms to be shoved into the industrial machines in the utilities building. It was heavy, disgusting work-- hundreds of pounds of fabric used by thousands of inmates, covered in God knew what. The misconception was that there was a risk of sharps in the laundry, but the azurette hadn't encountered anything yet. No needles, no razor blades, no improvised shivs. Because, after all, the people who owned those things didn't want them rolling around inside a high pressure washer, never to return. What Julian did see a lot of was blood. Other things were common, and just as worrying, but the sheer amount of blood on the sheets-- sometimes dried to a rusty tack, sometimes not-- was a reminder that survival here wasn't just a given.
There were gloves for dealing with it. There were supposed to be dissolvable bags to wrap the possibly contaminated laundry in, to separate it from the rest and prevent it from being touched directly. Except that the sheer amount of it made that entire step impossible. Especially when, during collection, everything was just thrown into one barrow. Additional sorting was necessary, but bagging all the hazardous items would have taken hours longer, and the supervising officers were always barking to hurry, hurry, hurry. The one time Julian had expressed his concern, the uniform had only sneered that filth deserved to sleep in filth, and that maybe the azurette should climb in one of the machines to see if the steam got hot enough to sanitize blood.
So he hadn't asked again.
And it hadn't escaped him that he had been positioned, from then on, for throwing the sheets. The other men who shared his part of the detail-- Malloy, Danner, and an elderly metamorphose everyone called The Shark-- seemed to like the arrangement just fine. After all, it kept them out of what they had dubbed the "splash zone", and left Julian in the most danger-- at least medically. They were worried about blood-borne diseases. The kinds of things that could still kill you, even after you got out of prison and thought your life was going to go on. Not a one of them seemed to know what the azurette was, so the fact that his blood was ink-- and therefor inhospitable-- hadn't played into the decision at all. As with most situations Julian found himself in now, he'd been picked only because he couldn't really fight about it.
Four days a week, he got marched to the showers in front of a uniform whose face was usually screwed up in disgust. Four days a week, he scrubbed small splotches of blood off his skin, knowing that a great deal of it was probably coming from inmates like himself, who were comparatively weaker. Unable to defend themselves. Maybe they didn't cooperate, or maybe they snitched on someone. Maybe they'd just looked at someone the wrong way. And then there were the inevitable self-inflicted wounds, which were more prevalent here than anyone might imagine. Four days a week, Julian washed off the evidence of all these things, and he returned to his cell looking clean. Looking neat. Looking like his job was easy.
And on one of those days, when he slipped in with his still-damp hair braided and wound in a knot to keep it from wetting the collar of his uniform-- blue now, job over-- there was something sitting on his pillow.
His first glance was for the werewolf on the bottom bunk, but Odin was resting. Then across the hall, to the cell opposite, from which Hotts seemed to be missing, at least for now. Neither of those directions provided any clues, and maybe half a year before Julian would have simply taken the jar of Nutella at face value. Its position on his pillow would have suggested it was for him, and what it was-- a treat, in this place of all places-- would have made the azurette happy. He would have assigned its appearance to the kindness of someone he did not know, and would have hoped for the opportunity to thank them. But a lot had happened in the last six months.
Old Guy had left a bar of chocolate on the mage's bed once, and then beaten the s**t out of him when he'd so much as touched it. The lesson had been that everything in the cell belonged to the lycan, and that Julian's presence was an unfortunate punishment forced on Old Guy by the prison. And the azurette could stay there-- he could even have his own bunk-- but he would need to remember that he didn't own anything. And touching things that didn't belong to you would get your bell rung. Possession was nine tenths of the law, right?
And then there were the offers.
Julian had received several bids in his first month-- protection, provisions, preferential treatment-- and he'd politely declined each one, thinking that it was better to be clear. He couldn't be bought that way, wouldn't trade himself like a commodity. In the face of that answer, the same men who'd pretended a shadow of civility before had become the ones to trip him in the hallways. Drag him onto their laps in the caf to whisper things that turned his stomach. They'd wanted him willing and pliant, but those weren't the only way to have him, and one day when he was alone.. Well, Julian wasn't anybody's. No one would mind, would they?
With those things as a precedent, it wasn't a wonder that the ink mage looked at the Nutella with more apprehension than enjoyment. No one had any incentive to just give him something. It was more likely to be a trap. A lesson. Some form of contract. But from who? And if he touched it, what then?
The azurette had been perched on the ladder for almost three minutes, trying to think his way around the corner, but all he'd come to were a handful of what-ifs. And he knew the only real answer was to obtain more information, but as he stepped back down to the floor of the cell Julian felt even more anxious. Because Odin lay there on the bottom bunk, resting. And waking the other man wasn't something the azurette could do with Ink, which had come to be the mage's primary method of communication with the blonde.
So he knelt there, beside the lower bunk, palms resting on his thighs to keep them visible and empty. Never once had he woken the werewolf for a meal by touching him. In fact, Julian had taken great pains never to cause physical contact between them after Odin had shoved him from the bed in the night. They existed in separate bubbles of space-- as much as any two people could in such a small space-- and the azurette always tried his best to keep it that way. Only now, he had to remember how to behave like a person instead of like a kicked dog, and he found that even stringing words together had turned difficult.
"Someone left something on my bed.." Gee, Julian, could you vague that up for me? The mage wet his lower lip, brows drawing together in a way that was all worry as he tried again. He'd been staring down at his own knees, and forced himself, now, to look up. To look Odin in the face, to speak clear and low. "I wouldn't wake you-- I wouldn't ask-- except that it's important. Did you see who it came from?"
Would the werewolf understand? Probably not. The kinds of offers being bandied to someone like Odin would be very different. He was potentially threatening-- an asset to any gang that could rope him in. It wasn't likely that anyone would have explained a prison proposal to the blonde.
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Posted: Mon Aug 01, 2016 7:51 pm
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Posted: Mon Aug 01, 2016 11:03 pm
J U S T T H I S O N C E -- P L E A S E -- S Y M P A T H I Z E W I T H M E
Calm and patient. He needed to be those things if there was going to be any chance of communicating with Odin. Not just because of the other man's attitude, but because anxiety and fear were simply not going to help the situation. That the werewolf even bothered to look him in the face instead of rolling in the opposite direction was fortunate, and Julian couldn't risk pissing him off to the point that he just decided not to answer. So the azurette stayed quiet, waiting while the older man worked his way up from sleep, and forced himself to maintain eye contact. If that first sound was supposed to be a word, Julian didn't catch it. And part of that was because the mage had counted the probability of Odin having left the jar on his pillow as incredibly low. He stayed out of the strawberry blonde's way as much as he could on a regular basis, so there was no necessity for a lesson on that front, at least as far as the azurette could see. And as for the other option..
Odin had already had him. Even if they never discussed it, even if the werewolf spent the rest of his sentence pretending that it hadn't happened, Julian remembered. He knew what he had done to the man in front of him. And he also knew that it made no sense for the blonde to place a bid on something that had clearly hurt him just as much as it had Julian. Suddenly the azurette felt ashamed to be asking Odin for anything at all, even something as simple as information.
All the same, when it was clear the blonde didn't know who had left the Nutella one way or the other, the mage only got more worried. Someone had been able to enter the cell while the werewolf slept. Not only that, but they had gotten so far as Julian's bunk, right above where Odin was resting, and still hadn't been detected. Who would be able to do something like that?
It didn't occur to him that maybe his cellmate was lying. After all, why would he bother to? The smaller male accepted his one-word answer easily enough, making a worried humming sound as he prepared to rise and allow the blonde to go back to his nap. It would have been one of their typical, incredibly short exchanges of sound. Not a conversation, exactly. Just--
Just eat it if you want it. If you don't like Nutella..
Something about that sentence was wrong. Out of place. Tracked badly. And Julian paused, barely started in rising from his knees, eyes shifting to the floor. Back to Odin's face. Stayed there, searching for some change in his expression that might show the werewolf was aware of the mistake. Because the azurette had said something, and you couldn't get anymore vague than that. And sure, maybe the strawberry blonde had noticed the jar there on his pillow-- but then, wouldn't he have known who left it? Julian had jumped to every conclusion possible, but Occam's razor had just sliced them all to ribbons.
Odin had been trying to do him a kindness. And it was clear, too, that the werewolf had no idea how that might be read in this place. It was, in a strange way, endearing, and the mage felt an odd tension in his chest. Warm and full, and utterly incongruous with everything he'd experienced in the last six months. Ridiculous, really, to have this odd swell of fondness. Especially when he was almost certain the other man would deny his involvement if Julian addressed the situation head-on. Odin already seemed to be getting irritated with him. But this kindness he'd been shown was something the azurette would repay, at least in the currency he had at his disposal: knowledge.
"It isn't that I'm allergic..or that I don't like it.." It isn't useless. I appreciate it. You thought of me as a person, and that hasn't happened to me very much here, so it means more than you know. No, of course he couldn't say anything like that, even if that was what he meant while the other words were leaving his mouth. "It's just that.. it can send messages, in here. When people offer me things, it's.. Usually what they want is to buy something from me that isn't for sale. If I accept something like that--", nodding upward, toward his own bunk and the jar of chocolate that he hadn't even moved from its original place, "-- without knowing who it's from or what they want.. It's signing a contract without reading the terms."
Gentler, then, because this bit was something Odin almost certainly had learned already. "For you, it's different. They'll offer you things so they can get you on their side, or so you'll do something that they can't. And look, I don't know you, so maybe I'm wrong. But I don't think this place is the rest of your life. You're better than they are. Don't let them convince you otherwise."
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Posted: Tue Aug 02, 2016 1:14 am
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Posted: Tue Aug 02, 2016 9:14 am
J U S T T H I S O N C E -- P L E A S E -- S Y M P A T H I Z E W I T H M E
To say that the situation was surprising was like saying Cobain's suicide was a framejob: an understatement. You just didn't get that far over the lethal dose of heroine in your system and then serve yourself a shot of Hemingway. If Julian had been free, if he had been standing with this man anywhere else in the world, trying to explain that Odin had made an overture he hadn't intended.. But he wasn't, and the truth was that they probably would have never even crossed paths once in what the azurette was coming to think of as the "real world." Their interactions were confined purely to this place, and the result was that everything was colored by the circumstances. The agitation and hopelessness of being trapped. The constant threat of violence from others. Had he begun to empathize with Odin because that facet of the mage's personality had always been strongest? Or was it only that they were forced into the same concrete box and a substantial part of his time was spent less than five feet from the werewolf? What had happened the night before the moon played into it, certainly. Bathed all of Julian's decision making with guilt where the blonde was concerned, so that he tried to anticipate Odin's need-- space, silence, food, uninterrupted rest-- and fulfill it as penance. And he'd have been lying if he said he expected anything in return. Because Odin was the one who had right to complain, wasn't he?
And all the time, he'd done this. Tried to be kind. Tried, maybe, to apologize even when he needn't have. Even when the azurette was ready to take the blame and absolve him of everything.
It was that state of mind that kept the mage from flinching away when the taller man jibed at him that way. So what? He said it, and the words were like a slap, but Julian kept his eyes resting on the werewolf even when Odin had already looked away. The dim light robbed some of the gold from that look, but it couldn't steal the weariness from his expression, or the-- something else. Was it warmth? Was he really looking at the other man like the blonde was a child having a tantrum? There was a certain amount of sympathy to his gaze, but also a deep exhaustion; it was the belief that what he had to say wouldn't be accepted even if it was understood.
"Odin.." And he said it the way someone might say, It'll be alright.., or maybe, Don't worry. Calm down. It's okay. As though it might have the power to reassure.
"I'm here because I allowed people to threaten me into doing what they wanted. I was afraid, and I let that fear move me to do things even when I knew I was right and they were wrong. I was the only one on the line, and I chose to go along so I could get along."
Another thing that they never talked about. Who they were, and who they'd been. All that and a host of other topics that just never came up because Julian was a church mouse here. Until today, until now. Because of one jar of Nutella, of all ******** things.
He raised a hand, touched the bruise that mantled one cheek as though he needed to reference it, use it as an illustration. But his line of sight never altered, never turned away from Odin, even when Odin had already turned away from him.
"People are going to hurt me. Either I submit, and they'll feel entitled to do it.. or I don't, and then they'll do it out of anger. It isn't about pride, or trying to prove that I'm a man. It's about the day that this ends, and I walk out those doors and need to live with what happened here."
Always so soft, the way he spoke to the werewolf. Like soothing a wounded animal, or defusing a bomb. And if the other man were to advance on him, were to wrap his hands around a throat that still wore a brace of bruises, what then? Well, like Julian had mentioned, he'd get hurt. Again. But that didn't happen, and somehow the azurette felt like the words being flung at him were a mercy. They both knew that Odin was capable of doing much worse if he'd wanted to. And whether the werewolf knew it or not, Julian was counting all the small kindnesses.
Maybe that was what kept him there at the side of the bed, kneeling on the concrete, even after it was clear he was being dismissed. Go away, Julian. Shut up, Julian. But he stayed where he was, stayed still. Only this time, when he spoke, he turned his eyes away. Unable to stare into Odin's face while he said something the other man would inevitably pretend never to have heard.
"You were careful with me. It was my own fault, and you could have--" Silence spoke for all the things he couldn't bring himself to say aloud. Because they both knew, didn't they? The werewolf was so much stronger. Odin could have left him broken and bleeding, but he hadn't. He'd.. restrained himself, in some ways, and that consideration was something Julian would never be able to repay."If I have a choice, I'd choose you. It's something I could live with-- Being yours."
OOC: What. Julian. No, Julian. STAHP.
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Posted: Tue Aug 02, 2016 10:52 am
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Posted: Wed Aug 03, 2016 7:32 am
J U S T T H I S O N C E -- P L E A S E -- S Y M P A T H I Z E W I T H M E
Even a second later, he wasn't sure why he'd said it.
But, of course, he'd overstepped. He'd gone too far. For a few minutes, he had been very close to the man he was outside of these walls. Given time to explain and express. He'd been allowed to speak more than five words, and what had he done with them? Destroyed what little progress he might have made as far as creating a stable environment within the cell. All his long silence, all his careful effort at staying out of the way, confined to his bunk in a place where he was already trapped. Every small display of good will. And just by opening his mouth, Julian had torn all of that apart.
He'd broken the number one rule. Had let Odin know that he remembered, even though the other man had made it explicitly clear that THAT NEVER HAPPENED. That night had been redacted, and the azurette understood why. Julian himself had chosen to stay silent on the matter, so ashamed of his own actions that he'd barely been able to apologize after. If they never discussed it, maybe Odin would be able to recover. To forget. But for the mage, things weren't as easy.
Sleep, for Julian, had become a cycle of nightmares in which those hands were on his throat-- pressing, pushing, keeping the air out of his lungs. Except that when he reached, trying to fend them off, trying to get free.. the hands around his neck were his own. A doppelganger calm and quiet, perched on his chest, with its pale knees over his sternum. Compressing him, suffocating and choking, it would sit there with perfect calm, smiling like the Buddha. Hair in long paintbrush strokes of blue and teal would brush Julian's cheek as the Other leaned forward, forehead against his temple, hands still a crushing vice. His mane wove into the strands of Julian's own tresses like a killing vine, tethering them together. Inseparable. And all of it was pain, like flames being poured down his throat, searing it shut. It went on and on, long after the mage should have died. And the one above him, the unbruised alabaster saint, with his placid eyes and beatific smile, would murmur in the voice he'd stolen: It's alright, Zhǔ Lì Ān. It's just a body. Just a cocoon. You know a moth will never be an eagle.
When he woke in the dark, with those words like poison still dripping in his ear, the azurette would tell himself over and over again the thing that Odin had insisted on. The thing that absolved them both. It never happened. It never happened. It never happened. You never made him do anything against his will and he never hurt you. Not once. These are just bruises. You get them every day. He never even touched you. It never happened.
Except that it had.
It was there in how Julian turned his eyes away when the other man undressed, and in how quiet he tried to stay whenever Odin was sleeping. It was there in the food he brought right after the moon, trying to help in what small way he could. And it was there in the way he earned bruises from others when they asked him where "his husband" was, and he pretended he didn't understand who they meant.
Small and worthless efforts at protecting someone he'd wronged. Small and worthless apologies, to match the person trying to give them. And maybe that was why he'd opened his mouth. Offered to put himself in Odin's hands that way. Another method of saying that he was sorry. And could he really be that surprised that the werewolf was so repulsed by the idea-- so angry?
It was a reflex when Julian's hands came up, resting on the other man's wrist as the blonde yanked him up from the floor. He tried to say please, or maybe it was I'm sorry, but the fabric wrapped tight around his throat, and the azurette knew then that he had pushed too far. The tension in Odin vibrated from that taller frame in waves, and it felt like forever, looking up at the werewolf and wondering what he'd choose to break. He would be justified, wouldn't he? Julian had overstepped. There were simple rules to follow that would have kept things benign, but Julian had ignored them. Had offered himself to the one person in this place that really had a reason to hate him.
But just like that, the storm passed.
He lay there on Odin's bunk, where he'd been tossed so easily, and felt as much relief as he did apprehension. The consequences of this were far from over, the azurette knew. But then, what would he have done if the blonde had actually accepted? They were trapped every single day inside the same concrete box, but the things Julian really knew about the other man were few. His name, his race, the way he'd shaken in withdrawals when he first arrived. Those things were real. The rest were things the mage perceived and interpreted, which made them susceptible to bias. His temper, tightly coiled and always ready to spring. The restraint he showed at times-- like these-- and which Julian took as mercy. The simple kindness of what Odin had tried to do in giving him a sweet without even knowing the message it could send. And without expecting anything in return.
But the azurette had ruined it.
Slowly, he shifted from the place where he'd landed, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress. Elbows resting on his knees, Julian's hands cupped his face, shut out the low light of the room for a few moments. Thoughts tumbled through his head, the cluttered debris that surrounded Alice on her way down the rabbit hole. He would have to find a way to get put in solitary again. Would have to argue with a guard or make noise while the rest of the block was trying to sleep. Something that would earn him a place in a beige box without adding to his sentence. Except, what then? He already knew. So much of him had been stripped away in the four months he'd spent there. No sun, no sky, no voices but his own, just trying to whistle in the dark. No writing, no letters, no window to the world. Just days and days of being an animal in an even smaller trap. Unable to sleep. Every small sound a mysterious threat or something longed for, unattainable through the concrete walls. Skin over-sensitive from lack of contact, until the uniform was a torment of seams and threads that felt too heavy, full of a thousand sources of discomfort.
That was survival. That was keeping the body alive, at the expense of his mind. That was the thing he couldn't explain to Odin. The thing he'd never be able to convey. He'd been safe there, in that box. Perfectly safe. Untouchable. But he'd been dying all the same. And Julian knew he couldn't go back to that again. Not willingly. Not while he was still self-aware enough to know how much that time had unhinged him. It seemed like an option when he was scared, but in reality there wasn't anything that frightened him more than the threat to his mind. To his self. Accepting a contract with a stranger was just another version of that box-- one that would break his mind from a different angle, but leave him no less snapped. If he'd been able to put it into words, would the werewolf have understood? What's so bad about it? Odin had asked. It might kill a part of me that I want to keep. It might make me into someone else. There are a thousand ways to murder someone and leave them still walking around.
Maybe if he'd been able to say it-- really say it-- then things wouldn't have turned out this way.
The mage's hands slid up and back, tangled in the locks of his hair and combed through, pulling loose the braid that had come out of its simple knot. The strands fell around Julian's face and shoulders, a veil done all in shades of blue. And he no longer sounded soothing or gentle, because the voice the azurette used on himself had always been an approximation of his father's. Weary, sardonic, tinged with contempt.
"Great, Julian. You've really got the gold medal for ******** things up, don't you?"
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Posted: Thu Aug 04, 2016 7:24 am
 __________________________________MALCOLM HOTTS
Nobody really had the balls to ******** with the werewolf. Eyes were on him, people were curious, but ultimately they all knew werewolves were no good. They did awful when they were caged in small spaces with people they hated. Their hormones made them extremely unpredictable. And worst of all, once a werewolf snapped, they broke. When werewolves lost control of themselves the person they lost it on was gonna end up dead. Ghouls and vampires were always slugging around trying to make trades for blood and God knows whatever they did in the shadows. They were always scumbags and you knew what to expect each time you interacted with them. Werewolves, though, they were the ones who had violent outbursts that were inevitable.
Hotts could make something out of Odin though. His old friend worked with a werewolf and found when they kept him busy as his agitation started, he was likely to focus on tasks aggressively blowing through them. That’s why Hotta would be able to keep Odin out of trouble - by keeping him busy.
”Odin’s went to the showers.” Faulkner tapped Hotts’ shoulder. ”We doing this?”
”I’m doing it. You two just stall the mutt. I’ll have his wifey broken in without the next half hour. Then we’ll be ready to make this deal happen.”
”Kk boss-man.” Faulkner replied slamming his hand out against his BFF’s shoulder. ”Le’ggo.” The two scurried off to the bathroom to try and find some way to stall the werewolf. That allowed Hotts to have all the time he needed. Since he was in no rush, Hotts took his precious time strolling back to his cell where he began to quietly dig around for the few items he had in mind. He gently placed a box of cigarettes on the sheets, then a small clot of toilet paper that had three pills wrapped tightly inside. Hotts placed a cigarette to his lips, pretending that the object was lit. He’d spent so long behind bars that he had quit cigarettes years ago. But being so close… He couldn’t help but try to satisfy the craving with a small amount of imagination.
His head poked round the corner to make sure no guards were in sight, then he was free to carefully enter Julian’s cell, where he waltzed towards Odin’s mattress, plopping himself down and making himself right at home. ”Juju Bae~” Hotts said gently as he opened the pack of cigarettes, putting the unlit object back inside. ”Surely we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” He carefully placed his hands behind his head as he rested his skull against Odin’s pillow. ”Ya see I gotta keep up an act in public. Not that I wanted to hurt ya. Breaks my heart when I do. But I can’t have you one-uping me in front of these animals.”
Hotts already had a plan. He knew exactly where he wanted this conversation to end. If there was one skill you needed to become very good at inside of prison, it was manipulating people to get what you want. It was the only surefire way to avoid violence, stay ahead of people, and do so without getting in trouble with the authorities that they needed to work around. But in all honesty, it wasn’t that difficult to stay out of sight from the guards when prisoners greatly outnumbered the poor slobs. Surely the guards had better things to worry about than one little teal haired boy.
Hotts knew exactly where this was going to end.
”So,” Hotts swung his legs back out of Odin’s bed and stood to his feet, this time properly facing Julian as he leaned his arms against the bunk, resting his head against Julian’s top bunk. ”Why don’t we make things right?” He carefully placed the cigarettes and pills near the boy as a smile slowly spread across his face. ”You can apologize for the way you’ve treated me. I’ll give ya a nice throat massage. A snack. You’ll swallow it up and it’ll be like nothing happened.” He nodded towards the cigarettes. ”And in return, you’ll have something nice to give to the hubby once he gets back.” Hotts winked. ”You wanna show him you’ve got some worth after all, don’t you? It’s a win-win for everyone. He won't wanna keep wifey 'round if you've nothing to offer after all.” Hotts promised the boy. "Last thing I want is for him to find a new wifey that's got more to offer than you." Because Julian wasn't a very special inmate. He didn't have connections. He couldn't protect anyone. He was nothing more than a fly on the wall waiting to be crushed.
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Posted: Thu Aug 04, 2016 5:35 pm
I N T E L L I G E N T E Y E S I N A H U N G E R P A N G F R A M E
Julian had always been the type of person who could see the good in others-- or at least the potential for goodness. People were beautiful because life was beautiful, and the azurette had been accustomed before his incarceration to stopping on street corners to pay compliments to passers by that he'd never see again. He didn't use lines, he didn't stick around for a response. Julian was, had been, in the main a very sincere person. It was part of why he had such a problem with Hotts, whose mouth always seemed to be running with oily insinuation. And if there was goodness in the man that swaggered through the doorway, Julian hadn't yet seen the smallest sliver of it. There was something about the other prisoner that made the azurette's skin crawl, and it went beyond his distaste for Hotts' casual familiarity, or even the way his mark stood out stark on pale skin. Julian was aware that the way he snapped back at the ravenette at times was unwise. A sure sign that he lacked self preservation instincts, probably. He'd earned the back of Hotts' hand across his cheek that way-- speaking freely, voicing his lack of interest in the face of the man's obscene suggestions. Because that was a greater portion of the bullshit that spewed from him daily. And Julian's disdain made the azurette feel a certain breed of defiant rage. He didn't care what Hotts thought of him, and even the slap hadn't damaged him that badly. So even when he should have known better, should have been afraid, what Julian felt was closer to irritation. The day had been bad enough already, and now this.
The mage sat stiffly, posture sharpening as the other man entered the cell, and going completely tense when he settled himself on Odin's bunk. Julian shrank away, making himself small in an effort to keep Hotts' legs away from him, but there was no aversion of his eyes, no schooling his features. The disgust was there on the surface, open and obvious. A response to the horrid nickname, or maybe to how comfortable Hotts had made himself on the werewolf's bed. Absurdly, that was the thing that irked him more. The.. disrespect of it. Didn't he know Odin would be able to smell the surely vile stench on his pillow? The ease in his tone, the way he made himself right at home, like he was welcome here, like he'd been invited or no one would mind. It was ridiculous to feel even that small spark of territoriality over a bunk in a place where he was serving a prison sentence. Even more so because it wasn't even his own. But that didn't change the anger that bubbled to the surface seeing Hotts reclining there in Odin's place.
Tell me again how sad it makes you to hurt me. Maybe you've got a bridge somewhere that you're wanting to sell.
The azurette's jaw clenched painfully tight-- had probably been that way since Hotts arrived, if the pain spreading across his skull was any indication. And he was startled, honestly, deeply, to find that he hated this man. That on every level he had seen so far, he could find nothing with which to identify. Nothing that made him feel as though Hotts was someone he could understand if given the time. It wasn't something Julian had ever experienced before. Flat enmity. And nothing about it changed as the other male vacated the mattress, because then Hotts only leaned there above him, his body becoming a new set of bars to lock Julian in place where he sat, still on the lower bunk. Apprehension was there in the ink mage's spine, in his jaw, in the clench of his hands as they turned to fists, resting there atop his thighs. Apprehension, yes, but also that foolish anger.
"If we were going to make things right, then it would be you apologizing to me." And he didn't so much as glance at what Hotts was trying to offer. Never moved his hands. No way was he going to be accepting anything from the man in front of him. Now or ever. "And if you ever delude yourself into thinking that I'll swallow a load for you like a good little pet, just remind yourself that anything you put in my mouth is apt to get bitten off. "
The way the words ground themselves out of his throat, thick with contempt and revulsion, was almost certainly suicidal, but it was also a textbook example of the stubbornness Julian had always shown before prison. No, I'm not moving, the look on his face said. If you want me out of the way, you're going to have to mow me down or bowl me over, and I know you can do it, I know what I am. But that's not going to stop me. You can hurt me and you can kill me, but you can't make me consent.
And that look only faltered when Hotts mentioned Odin. The sharp resolve became embarrassment, the anger faded into petulance.
"He's not like that. We don't--" But they had, hadn't they? The once, they had, and the man in front of him occupied the cell right across the hall. Reflexively, Julian glanced across, aware for the first time how visible they must have been, even in the dark, from that vantage point. Aware, suddenly, that even if Hotts hadn't been watching, it would have been almost impossible not to hear. As muted as the azurette had tried to be, even his soft murmurs and muffled groans must have been all too audible in the echoing space of the empty concrete corridor. He sat there with the other man looking down on him and realized how it must sound, this lie, when his throat was still rung about with a collar of bruises, seemingly locked in place with the mark of Odin's teeth. And had he really been so stupid that he'd tied back his hair earlier? Had he really walked the halls back from his shower with that bite visible above the neck of his uniform? Where everyone could see, that spot where the blonde had bitten down and made Julian--
But that had been Julian's fault. Julian's choice. And he would never choose Hotts. Not in a million years, or a hundred million.
"Hotts, it doesn't matter what you offer me. Dangle your protection, or pretend you can somehow influence Odin's approval when we both know that's outside your reach, if you think that'll work. Make believe that you're looking out for me, in some twisted way. Just know that you're wasting my time as well as your own. I'm not going to be your whore.
But the fire, and the backbone, were out of his words. The weariness had seeped back in. The simple quiet. As though Julian expected to be beaten for this rejection, and had already accepted that as the worst possibility. He sat there, unable to move through the body in front of him, unwilling to shift to the side because that might mean inadvertently touching the items Hotts meant to barter with. And what he expected was another strike to his face, a parting gift of pain to drive home the larger man's displeasure before he returned to his own cell. But then, he was young. The world had been kind to him. He would learn.
OOC: My apologies for any nonsense. I wrote this on my phone. @__@
Also, don't mind me. Just added a few tiny snippets.
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Posted: Fri Aug 05, 2016 10:59 pm
__________________________________MALCOLM HOTTS
Prison was like a face tattoo, a blank mark that just got deeper and deeper the longer you spent locked away in there. Ruining your chances at getting a job. Ruining your chances of living a normal life. Ruining your chances of being a normal person ever again. Some people got a metaphorical tattoo removal, going through therapy and taking their probation seriously as they erased the black marks left on them while they were locked behind bars. Others, they grew quite fond of the new addition to who they were and they planned on keeping it. Their calloused personalities and new manipulative mind frames driving them like hungry beasts as they devour whoever they need to in order to get ahead in life.
Unlike Hotts, Julian wasn’t going to suffer from false tattoos staining his skin. He was going to suffer with bruises and cuts and scars that left deep gashes and marks. He’d be left with wounds that wouldn’t be able to be taken away no matter how much therapy he went through. People like Julian got damaged for life. They got changed for life. Hotts could see the hatred burning away at Julian’s lungs as the mage was trapped listening to Hotts’ relaxed tone. When he stood up and leaned in front of the exit to Odin’s bed, Julian was still so tightly wound up in the corner. Had he been anyone else, he might’ve took an offensive stance to desperately attempt to break free. This was Julian, though, and he didn’t have that option now did he? Not unless he wanted to learn how it felt to have each one of his fingers snapped in two then forced to ******** himself. Julian just didn’t seem to learn how much worse things were going to get for him the longer he refused to cooperate.
”If we were going to make things right, then it would be you apologizing to me.” Cute. Adorable. So stupid the teal haired boy didn’t even understand where this conversation was going. He didn’t even understand when he was being heavily blackmailed. The feisty boy promised he’d bite anything Hotts tried to place near his mouth clearly trying to keep any small threads of dignity he had left in tact. Julian was making one of the biggest mistakes possible: There was no dignity in prison. A smile just cracked across Hotts’ face as his eyes seemed to lock onto Julian like some type of drone targeting it’s victim.
Except Julian quickly became flustered the moment Odin was mentioned. The moment the boy realized Hotts had heard that night. He’d heard Odin slam Julian’s head against the wall and tear him from the bunk. He’d heard the clatter and uneven breaths as Julian was nearly squeezed alive. He’d heard the rustling blankets and mattress each time they’d thrust into it. He’d heard Julian’s moans as Odin began to break him in. He’d heard Odin’s moan when the unexpected finish quickly blew out of nowhere. Hotts had heard everything, one hand quietly pressed down his pants as he imagined the bits he couldn’t see clearly. Asides from the occasional head bob and and tuffs of hair as they moved positions, Hotts couldn’t see s**t. But he’d heard everything. What he wouldn’t have given to clearly make out the few small whispers the two exchanged.
Weakness. That’s what Odin was to Julian. The boy might’ve thought the werewolf was there to protect him. But the moment someone took all your words away slicing your sentence short was the moment they became your downfall. Julian gave a s**t about Odin. That night meant something to him. Julian wasn’t sitting there screaming about how Odin was as big a douchebag as Hotts’ was. He wasn’t saying that it’d been done against his will and he was hurting from it and wanted to be left alone. He wasn’t saying that he’d rather die than have Odin use him over again. Julian’s lack of words said more than Hotts’ could’ve asked for. He watched as Julian quickly gained his composure once more and got ready to speak back to him yet again. He listened as the boy went off saying Hotts didn’t mean s**t to him and he didn’t want anything Hotts had to offer.
”I think you’re missing the point, boy.” Hotts leaned in closer over Julian. ”This isn’t about what I can do for you. This is about what you can do for Cypress.” He allowed his body to slowly lean over Julian, his arms landing to either side of the mage. ”Let’s say… Three, maybe four.” He muttered. ”We weren’t keeping count when they followed him.” Hotts wasn’t getting into details on purpose. He wanted to see Julian’s curiosity spread across the boy’s face. He wanted to watch the boy’s lips part as he began to beg Hotts tell him who followed Odin. For what. When. Where.
”Hmm…” Hotts slowly reached up taking hold of Julian’s chin, gently lifting his face towards the ceiling. His hand gently lowered as he ran it across the mage’s neck. The marks left there were likely to stay at least another week. Bruises didn’t vanish overnight. ”But then again… I suppose you of all people would want him to get what’s being served for lunch today.” Hotts mused as he gently placed a knee on the bed, his body starting to lock Julian in place.
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