#ryanwithhorns

“some night i will catch a bus out to the west coast and burn their silicon city to the ground.”

the city was buzzing below them. gavin had been making a habit of spending time on the penthouse roof. los santos was gavin’s least favorite place in america - maybe in the world. when he found himself stepping into the city as a vulnerable teen he knew there was no breaking out. now here he was, in his 20s, staring down at the city that took and gave everything.

when he sat around too long he thought of the other cities in america. cities where he could’ve stumbled into something beautiful. of course, just his luck, los santos was his city. these nights were the nights where he couldn’t help but think what could’ve changed if he’d found some place like la instead. maybe he would’ve made it big with less blood on his hands.

[cont. from here]

This is… Less surprising, more unsettling.

Ryan really, honestly thought that Gavin- after the whole ‘hey I’m immortal too, you’re not alone!’ thing- had been very easy to figure out. Just a guy who was a junkie for adrenaline like any of them, hoping to feel something besides the looming weight of an eternity on Earth with no idea how to end it. He really thought that Gavin, for all that adrenaline junky behavior, was pretty harmless. Sure, he could fight back- sure, he could maybe even kill; but Ryan is supposed to be the one with the monopoly on weird, unsettling behavior.

Except it’s Gavin there, in front of him, with his hands covered in blood. And Ryan isn’t sure if it’s his own, or someone else’s.

At the very least, the mystery is pretty inviting.

“So, someone’s been busy…” Ryan says, sidling up to Gavin with his own hands behind his back. “And got a little messy…. Wanna talk about it?”

Gavin’s hands are steady.

He’s splattered, from the strings on his hoodie to the toes of his Converse, in a deep red that is quickly drying in the cool air. It’s an early hour, too early, and too dark; cars rumble by infrequently on the highway bridge above, but down below by the water’s edge, it’s just the two of them.

The three of them, if you count the body that Gavin pushes into the water with his heel, nudging the still rosy, yet lifeless thing until it is pulled out of his reach by the current. It looks like little more than driftwood, in the shadowed waters.

Gavin’s hands are dark and slick, blood still soaking its way further and further up his sleeves. He lets out a heavy sigh, as if the situation is an inconvenience, and holds his hands carefully away from his body, trying to avoid making the mess worse than it is.

“What does it look like, Ryan?” he asks, not the tone of voice one might expect from someone like Gavin -- some who doesn’t kill, not regularly, and rarely on purpose. There’s responsibility in his voice, a matter-of-fact way about it -- no stammering, no redirection.

           A noise of mild amusement mixed with DISGUST as he gave Ryan a once over. “ -- You look like a fuckin’ CORPSE walking, Ryan -- what the fuck happened to you ?” He started,  leather wrapped arms folded across his chest, “Don’t tell me the cops are on your ASS and you lead them to me. I am not in the mood to do damage control for you .... Thats Jack’s job.”