terrorised and hoo-miliated

Despite how hot and unforgiving the Californian sun was during the day, the barren, abandoned desert landscape was damn near freezing when the moon took over. Brian always desperately tried to remember to leave his fan on at night, so as to not awaken in a puddle of sweat the next morning, but his shivering, sleep-addled mind never seemed to recall that fact. His house was far away from any sort of civilization, any sort of reliable energy source besides the sun, so air conditioning was simply a luxury he made do without. Brian could live with that, sure the heat was incredibly intense, and his poor, pale irish skin had taken years to grow accustomed to the harsh rays of the desert sun, but the feeling of being completely alone out there was one he had been longing for since he were but a lad.

Well, almost completely alone.

The slam and subsequent shudder of both his storm door and inside door being opened too quickly awoke Brian out of his almost sleep in a momentary frenzy. After checking the clock and rubbing his sticky palms over his face in agitation, Brian slunk out of bed to greet his occasional roommate.

Just as he had suspected, there stood Evan Fong in his living room, his bulky form hidden beneath an oversized jacket and denim jeans; each perpetually stained with blood and viscera of all sorts. Sometimes, Evan would be heaving his breaths, some unlucky bastard behind him either tied up or encased like a duct taped Egyptian monarch. Sometimes, Evan bore a crazed look in his eye, and a tied garbage bag on his wrist, heavy with the dismembered remains of someone who had looked at him wrong that day. Sometimes, there would be no trace of whoever Evan had followed home that night, other than the damage they had done to their attacker.

That night seemed to be a bizarre amalgamation of all three common scenarios.

Evan wasn't breathing hard, but it still hung heavily in the air as he compulsively puffed on a cigarette. Blood from a wound upon his cheek sparkled with the moonlight filtering in through Brian's living room window; it slowly weeped from the gash, sluggishly dripping onto Brian's brand new area rug like sap from a maple tree. A matching lesion upon the shorter man's hand also dripped, though much faster from the way Evan clenched his fist, forcing more blood to pour from the opening. In his uninjured hand, Evan white-knuckled a white garbage bag, threatening to tear open and spill its gory contents onto Brian's mostly pristine floors. Nearby, tossed aside from the kitchen door, was yet another duct taped mummy, bent in an unnaturally contorted shape.

Brian didn't have it in him to ponder just what exactly Evan had done to it.

They stood there in silence for a while, as they always did. Evan bore a hole into Brian's face, never pulling his cigarette from his lips, instead exhaling the smoke from the corner of his mouth occasionally. His expression was unreadable, but that was nothing new. Even when they were kids, Evan had developed that trait early on; his poker face unmatched by anyone else Brian's ever known.

He'd long since grown past the unease he felt at how casually Evan treated these encounters. Brian had never been outright scared of Evan, but the first few times his front door was lockpicked and a wrapped carcass was dropped onto his floor made something akin to regret and discomfort twist tightly in his gut. Now, Brian only felt exasperated. He really should just expect Evan to come barging in like he owned the damn place these days, it was a vicious cycle after all, but some sort of heads up would be nice.

There'd often be nights, such as that night, where Brian was certain sleep would come before Evan, only to be awoken by the sound of a Jeep roaring into his driveway, or a door slamming, or someone screaming outside. Brian knew the man well enough to know he purposely never gave a heads up, he liked being doted on, liked having Brian fret over the stains on his rugs, liked having Brian run worrying hands over his lacerations and bruises and dirt-stained cheeks.

“I jus’ got this rug washed today, Ev.” Brian murmurs out half-heartedly. He watches the shorter man cock his head to the side slightly and look down at his feet, raising one foot to glance at the muddy and bloody bootprint he'd left behind. He looked back up at Brian expectantly, waiting for the mildly agitated sigh and bark to follow him, just as they did every time they reached this point in the cycle.

Evan would leave Brian's house in the late afternoon, and just under two days later he'd return at the dead of night with his latest claim or two. He'd pick Brian's locks, they'd have a silent conversation in the living room at three in the morning, and Brian would all but drag the younger man into the bathroom to scrub him raw and dress his wounds. Then, they'd go to bed, Evan draped over his chest the same way he had during their sleepovers as kids, and Brian would shimmy out from beneath him the next day to clean the evidence Evan would drag into his home.

He couldn't help but wonder, as he sat Evan down on the toilet lid and retrieved his first aid kit, if the man had picked this behavior up from the cats he so adored all his life. Leaving at the crack of dusk, completely unseen for days, and returning with a fresh kill for Brian to dispose of later. Like a free roaming feline dropping a disemboweled mouse at it's owners doorstep before creeping inside to fall asleep safely in a warm bed with an even warmer human to cuddle all night.

That certainly seemed to be Evan's favorite part of whatever this agreement was between them.

He could feel the canadian's eyes boring into him as he gradually disrobed the man and began scrubbing the grime of both the desert and the Los Angeles alleyways from his flesh. Brian always took special care to mind the scars, both old and new, that marred Evan's olive skin. Pale remnants of lost fights, lucky shots, and accidental nicks with his own boxcutter danced across Evan's form like little streaks of lighting across a stormy evening sky. The sight of them always made Brian gulp in shame, knowing Evan would keep scraping himself raw for eternity, no matter what Brian said.

He'd keep chasing the high brought on by playing reaper with anyone he chose, and Brian could only dream of a day where he was the one to satiate that hunger within his friend. He didn't need to stalk strangers from the club, or start fights, or nab loners off the streets to scratch that itch, because Brian would scratch it for him if he just asked. But, Evan would never ask, and a strange, solitary part of Brian was ok with that, ok with everything about their relationship.

Examining the wound upon Evan's hand, Brian deduced that whoever was either mummified or dismembered in his living room right then had turned Evan's own boxcutter against him and forced it through his hand with great strength. Most likely stomped through, based on how jagged the puncture wound was. Evan winced as Brian dabbed rubbing alcohol onto the stigmata, and he clumsily pressed his lips to Evan's still sticky forehead in a half kiss. The shorter leaned into it with a moan so quiet, Brian would've missed it if he weren't so close.

The cigarette butt dropped from Evan's lips carelessly onto the floor below, and Brian only minded enough to huff an annoyed sigh. Without looking, he pressed it down further into the tile with his slipper, twisting to put the lingering embers out as he bandaged Evan's palm. As soon as the appendage was free, both the younger's hands trailed down to play with the loose hem of Brian's t-shirt. He braced himself for when they would venture upwards, raising the fabric over his head so Evan could kiss up his bare torso, but they never did.

Sometimes Evan wanted more.

Sometimes Brian wanted more.

Sometimes, just the proximity was enough.

Soon, the only cleaning left to do was a shower, and Brian decided he could drag Evan into one the next day. Despite being a chronic insomniac, it was clear that fatigue was setting into Evan's bones, as his head drooped to rest upon Brian's clothed belly, his hands lazily lingering at Brian's hips. Brian leaned over to press a chaste kiss to Evan's ratty scalp, caressing over the troubled man's slouched shoulders. Before long, Brian was pulling his friend up to all but carry him towards the bedroom. The irishman collapsed first, Evan following behind to tuck one hand beneath Brian's back, the other reaching up over his collarbone. One leg tangled with Brian's, and the other raised and bent at the knee to rest over Brian's crotch and hips.

Evan's head, heavy with the weight of all he had stolen and was to steal from unsuspecting passersby, found quiet solace in the crook of Brian's arm. He weighed Brian's limb down in such a way that the only thing the older could do was wrap it around Evan's back and gently rub up and down as though he were comforting a child.

That's all they were really.

Children, scarred by all the wrongdoings of the world. One choosing to isolate himself from it, the other taking his anger and pain out on those Brian knew didn't deserve such a fate.

Maybe Evan would stop some day.

Maybe he'd decide enough was enough.

Maybe he'd settle.

Maybe he wouldn't.

Maybe Brian would want him to stop.

Maybe his conscience would ring in his ears.

Maybe he'd ask Evan to stop.

inspo of course