#v | untested

---------so that isn’t where he had expected the conversation to go. Statement uttered in the diminishing light of of polite conversation, Scott can’t help but let beer splutter out from rosey lips at the absurdity of which was spoken. He had certainly chosen the wrong second to take a swig. Choking just a little, laughter escapes through drink-splattered breath.

“Now, fuck yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” He turns to grin at the man next to him, rough hand finding its way to the other’s shoulder in a rough-and-tumble squeeze of solidarity. “You ever fucked a milf? Had this red-head back last month, shit was wild.” A lie. So eager to please someone’s he’s just met. His hand scoops back round to his bottle, wiping off the residue with his sleeve. “Milfs should be in more things. Or at least, I should be in more milfs.” A nudge to the ribcage, “This guy knows what I’m talkin’ about huh?”

ᴇʏᴇs sǫᴜɪɴᴛ, ʀᴇᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴄʏ ʙᴜʀɴ. The wet towel was blotted carefully against wounded temple as Scott’s world continued to spin around him in manic concerto. His tongue rest aloft on the roof of his mouth, the taste of iron hot and fresh still amongst the mingled burn of alcohol. It had been stupid. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀs ɴᴏ ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ. Doing a stage dive into a crowd of barely 20 people was only going to land the frontman into a world of pain. But it had been so fucking worth it. He couldn’t stop grinning, despite the pain his head was in.

It was still early days for the band; a rag-tag group of young misfits who didn’t quite know themselves, nor what they were trying to achieve from their art. But the atmosphere had been electric tonight, and it was the biggest crowd they had pulled in so far. The nineteen year old couldn’t contain himself, a wild bundle of unbridled energy just waiting to explode. ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ɪᴛ.

He winced again as the alcohol soaked rag dabbed neatly against open wound, his eye-liner smudged eyes struggling to focus on the face before him, but grateful for the assistance of his best friend regardless. Scott hadn’t expected Adam to show up at all. It wasn’t like the budding photographer had much else going on, but he was sure there’d be a laundry list of excuses the bullshitter could toss at him. But he had actually showed up, adding yet another number to the growing following the group had brought in tonight.

A gentle hiss emitted as the solution felt like it was dissolving into his skull; still strains of crimson seeping down his jaw from where temple had connected with the sticky basement floor below. But the pain couldn’t stop him from smiling.

The room was hot, and with everything going on around them it felt far hotter than it need be. Adam had helped bundled Scott away into a small side room, dutifully attending to the guitarists injury, though he was sure it wasn’t without annoyance. His face felt red hot, flush with glee and beer as he leaned into the man’s touch. The burn felt good, it felt real against the growing numbness of the rest of his orbit.

“ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ----.” He spoke through gleeful grin, eyes closing for a moment as he did. A gentle inhale of air. Adam always smelt so good. He didn’t know what it was. It certainly wasn’t whatever cheap deodorant or shampoo he used. Maybe it was the familiarity. The scent of reassurance, companionship. They always had each others backs. Even now.

He could barely breathe. Scott was sat up on a table, with Adam’s boots planted still on the floor. Scott’s hues found his again, the young man having moved closer to get a better look at his cut that just didn’t want to stop bleeding. Maybe it was going to need stitches. He didn’t care.

He was far too busy looking at the goofy drunken smile on the pale boy’s lips. That snarky little curve which said “I told you so” without having to say a word. Doting, playful. They looked so soft. Had they always been that soft? He smelled so good.

Scott’s legs swung a little from his position up on the table, swinging themselves around Adam’s own to pull his friend a little closer. He didn’t seem to resist. There was barely a beat for thought before Scott’s hand curved itself around the back of Adam’s neck, his lips connecting with the other’s in a desperate rush of heat. Clumsy, messy, stiflingly hot. An awful need and want ached in his chest far more painful than any cut above his brow. He felt the rag remove itself from its stay, the rush of cold then heat afflicting the injury as it hits the air. It’s all forgotten in the taste of his lips. The sweetness of tobacco, of the alcohol.

It was only now as the seconds began to push away, as Scott pulled him even closer- a desperate need to eliminate any space between them - that a spiralling realisation plagued foggy mind. This felt good. It felt better than good. Feverishly his hand left Adam’s neck to grab at his shirt, his whole body feeling lighter than air. But then it was gone. The photographer pulled away, and Scott opened his eyes once more. Perhaps if he had been sober, a panic would have rushed through him; a cold and unkind seeping dread of unplacated desire. But that’s not what he felt at all.

That broken smile grinned as he watched Adam dab once more at the open wound, his legs still wrapped around the other’s as he played nurse to the guitarist. He bit his lip before closing his eyes, drunken tongue unable to come up with anything more intelligent than a half slurred,

“sᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ɪᴛ.”

An unanticipated, cold laugh escapes him, almost causing him to choke on his beer. A sour mixture of surprise and disgust glowers away in those pencil smudged headlights of his.

"You lookin' for ᴏɴᴇ particular reason here? Or are you lookin' for the laundry list, ғʀᴇᴀᴋ?"

throttle .   aggressively  wrap  your  hands  around  my  muse’s  throat .

Scott had only come here for an interview. Upon hearing the news that the same doctor that had been trapped in one of Johnny 'Jigsaw' Kramer's games as his assumed dead best friend- how could he resist the opportunity? The small 'documentary' that had been in the works had been left forgotten, a dormant product after the catastrophic ( but luckily not fatal ) failure of a home-made 'game'. But when word had gotten out, courtesy for the wonder Mr D that Dr. Lawrence Gordon had transferred hospitals, a second rush of passion had erupted in his heart.

But how terribly wrong it had gone. Eyes flaring with rage, the bruised fingers of Scott Tibbs had found themselves clenched around the oncologist's throat in the man's own office, teeth grit tight with seething and uncontrollable anger as he began to squeeze tight. Camera left abandoned, clattered to the floor. What power the doctor held with just so few words to be able to evoke such emotion from the man. It had been what he'd said about Adam that had set him off.

"You motherfucker!!! You fucking take that back!"

"It's incredibly overrated."

"You're not fucking wrong. You seen this shit on the news? Fuck, it's so fucking gnarly."

“- and how am I meant to know anything    when you don’t talk about it, Adam?    ---when you don’t talk to ---ᴍᴇ?”

    The words came through uncharacteristically ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ from the      musician in the heat of yet another squabble. However, the      usual tit-for-tat embers of altercation had for finally pushed itself     too far; spilling over into a full-blown wild fire.

    Scott’s words, for once, carried with them no ₳₦₲ɆⱤ - but there      was a weight held with them that only intensified the fire in his     eyes as they burned into the photographer’s form.

    ( He had been so lucky. He had been given the opportunity to truly     test himself. To make himself better that what ever ‘this’ was.     And all he had done in Scott’s eyes was fall into the same spiral of shit. )    “You don’t tell me shit - and then hobble about the place      fuckin’ complaining like I’ve got any sort of solution for you.      All I’ve tried to do is fuckin’ help you, man!  ₴Ⱨł₮!”

           “ᴡʜᴀᴛ??”               A bristled look of ᴏғғᴇɴᴄᴇ nestles onto incredulous               features. His hands threw wide in search of the audacity the               other had to reject him with such record timing. Despite the                expansive hunt, such audacity was ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ғᴏᴜɴᴅ.

                          “You don’t trust me? ---Me??                             Y’know I’d never make you do something                             that made you look stupid.                             Do that fine enough on your own.” 

             He stifles a laugh, bringing hands together to rub in silent prayer,              wide eyes locking in that devilish smirk.

                   “You just gotta hand out some fliers. Get some buzz going                      for the show. It’s the last one before we head into the                      competition next week, and we need traction.”               The playful smile simmers into one of contemplation. The                photographer looks unmoved.                       “ɪ’ʟʟ ғᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ $𝟻𝟶 ʏᴏᴜ ᴏᴡᴇ ᴍᴇ.                                  Don’t go being a fuckin’ pussy again. ”