âWhat kept you? Were you scared to say it out loud?â
Again comes the rasp of Octaneâs harsh, almost taunting laugh, terribly amused. Insufferable. âYou think you can outrun me, amado?â
His jeering is cut short by a sharp gasp, dragged out of hiding by the brush of blood over bottom lip. Jamie says it againâ I hate youâ but it feels different this time, sickly sweet, like the taste on Octaneâs tongue. He mirrors the man above him, licks his lips, chasing the salt of sweat from Jamieâs touch. The hand splayed over the side of his face reaches up to glide through his hair, a gesture of duality on a knifeâs edge between affection and torment.
Heâll admit heâs surprised itâs only been since that empty lot. Heâd suspected such hatred had been brewing far longer, a slow poison reaching inky fingers into Jamieâs heart - and maybe it had been, maybe heâd just refused to acknowledge that insidious hand of resentment until Octane, naturally, had done enough to make him snap.
How flattering. The daredevil grins smugly up at him, blood on his teeth, though his arrogance is once more short-lived; Jamieâs fist twists in his hair and pulls, and he pursues the hiss of pain that follows with another nip at Octaneâs tender lower lip. Fresh blood dots to the surface. Octane whines and licks up into Jamieâs mouth, kissing him longer than he should, longer than he can manage when itâs so hard to breathe through the bruising and the adrenaline. He breaks off, panting. His gaze stays trained on Jamie, pupils blown so wide his brilliant green eyes turn very nearly black. His hands tremble where they fall to rest on either side of his head, arms limp against a cold floor.
âHow long were you gonna pretend? I knew what was there. Mira, you only hurt yourself, dragging it out. You know that, right?â
It comes from a sincere place, an honest one, but ultimately sounds patronizing, and it kind of is, if heâs being honest. He has little tolerance for restraint, no matter intention. Why people waste their time floundering when they could be doing is beyond him. He clicks his tongue, gives a minute shake of his head. One hand bumps against the switchblade abandoned beside him. His fingers wrap idly around it.
Octane remembers, now, the moment he told Jamie he has no regrets. Vividly he recalls the words unsaid within the spite glazing over amber eyes. God had he waited for that refreshing violence to rear its head, and itâs still not all out in the open. He despises how considerate Jamison is on his behalf, like heâs fragile, like one wrong word will splinter his already disarrayed composure. Octane is far from breakableâ and Jamie of all people should know that better than anyone. Yet heâs kept this from him, has hidden who and what he is and how he feels at his core. Maybe it isnât for his sakeâ maybe itâs for Jamieâs own sanity. Maybe itâs just cowardice. Octavio doesnât know and he does not understand.
But hatred, violence, reckless abandon - those are a language Octane can speak. Itâs tangible. It radiates from every cut and bruise Jamison has left on him in their scuffle, and itâs far preferable to the confusing emotional havoc Jamieâs hesitance has wreaked.
âAre you gonna keep acting like I donât deserve this or are you gonna do what you shoulda done months ago?â
The press of his thumb flips the blade in his palm to open air for emphasis. His tone lowers, something dark and vicious unfurling in the intimate space they breathe between them.
âCome onnnn, Jamie. I know you wanna hurt me,â he practically purrs. âLet go. I dare you.â
what kept him? WAS it fear? was he scared to admit it? --- and was that fear of admitting such towards that of saying it to him, or that of finally coming to GRIPS with it HIMSELF? it was a dilemma heâd been fighting for MONTHS ( years, really ) by this point, and right about now he wasnât sure which of two poisons he hated most. a part of him feared saying it aloud due to possible retaliation -- he didnât want octavio to react negatively ( it would seem that wasnât the case ), and the other part of him was terrified to admit it to himself in fear that it would, in fact, be true and everything would be LOST. that he would be left alone once more. it was the internal conflict that was shrouded with nothing but worry for what would become ------------ and god did he HATE IT.
he couldnât outrun octane -- couldnât outrun this. maybe a part of him thought he COULD all this time ( maybe a part of him still thought so ), but it was about time he owned up to the truth of the matter.Â
kiss is initiated ( and broken ) by younger, and jamison is left to do nothing but reciprocate-- golden shards peering down into thin rings of green momentarily before he shuts them; the junker left to do nothing but listen to the panting coming from beneath him ( at least until he speaks up once more ). words spoken are PATRONIZING ( did he expect anything else? ), and it leaves him furrowing his brows; lips pursing before ultimately tugging into a frown. one often pretends to flee from an outcome they FEARED would come should they stop ------- he canât say that his case was anything but that exactly, and lord knows he could have kept up the ACT as long as he needed ( heâd done so before, it was necessary ). little by little, however, did that begin to crumble as time went on, until jamison was left scrambling to keep it all held together. every last bit of it, held together by false hopes for himself that it didnât NEED to be this way, that he could keep on pretending..Â
                           and then it all fell apart just like that.
heâs holding back. heâs HOLDING BACK when he shouldnât be--------- part of him is HOPELESSLY trying to piece himself back together, wipe the slate clean of any anger that had finally BURST through the seams; scrambling to bury that vile, horrendous, bloodthirsty THING ( careless thing ) heâd allowed himself to become ( you still remember the smell of smoke-- of burning flesh and DEATH, and the feeling of adrenaline coursing THICKLY through your veins as the sound of sirens nearing struggled to overwhelm the sound of your own laughter at such a dastardly display of chaos ) --- a cruel and unlovable thing. his own sanity had withered away PLENTY because of it. he feared losing what was left.
once more are provocative words spoken by HIM, and he STRUGGLES to retain the sigh that threatens to fall betwixt bloodstained lips. he deserved this --- no part of bomberâs being could be swayed to believe otherwise. he deserved the damaged dealt, every bruise and every scrape.. the sound of switchblade flicking open draws his attention forth, amber eyes opening once more; their gaze immediately drawn towards knife held in otherâs palm before flickering back to meet the nearly black gaze of him --------- itâd be easy. killing him like this. lest there be one last burst of ADRENALINE there to assist daredevil, he could finish this here and now and call it a day..
fingers untangle from within otherâs hair, and his hand falls to rest upon chilled floor; his prosthetic reaching towards octavioâs hand holding switchblade. momentarily does he allow it to rest at his wrist, metal fingers grazing battered skin gently ( the purr in his voice nearly driving him to continue act of tenderness ), but its no later that he moves it further up; fingers curling âround blade once more before heâs pulling away. it feels like a chore, the way he has to push himself to sit up straight upon otherâs waist; the junkerâs hands coming to rest gently âpon his own thighs as his gaze remains LOCKED upon the man beneath him--------- and he laughs. he laughs, yet thereâs no HUMOUR behind it, not even a lick of sarcasm. only exhaustion.
â god------ â he sighs, EXASPERATED, and scoffs soon after. â youâre... fucking insufferable, yâknow thaâ ? âÂ
a grin cracks across his lips ( heâs tired. heâs so. fucking. tired. ), and hands raise in DEFEAT; another HUMOURLESS scoff sounding in his throat, and he allows hands to drop carelessly. â what do ya WANT from me, tav ? a round two ? for me tâ leave ya the fuck alone ? i------ â and he laughs, his frustration clear this time. â --- THIS ? â word is spoken and only seconds later is knife brought to the runnerâs exposed abdomen, the junker none to gently pressing sharpened steel into battered flesh; penetrating only enough to draw forth blood, but not removing it from its place otherwise. â this ainât thâ RING, love. there ainât no cominâ back from this--- â another harsh press of knifeâs edge against his skin; an EMPHASIS to statement made.Â
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