#v.01.

eh, sure…? because all cars are ugly, according to Hidan; sorta practical, but ugly. ( recalling that this train of thought would likely break a guy-he-knew’s heart —or brain, or temper— does nothing but solidify the belief. ) big metal boxes wheeling ‘round, carrying you from point A to point B while you’re sitting on your sorry ass with your zombified brain up in lala land. ( just a handful of seconds of inattention though, and off you go, whee’ing your way off a cliff. at least that’s a prospect. somewhat funny, definitely exciting, as long as you don’t end up just another breathing fleshbag with mobility issues and, instead, land your way straight at the gates of hell. )

the blade waved ‘round peaks his interest, for all the wrong reasons. ( Hidan tilts his head, considering it from the altered angle as if it were an intriguing offer unexpectedly laid at his feet, gilded and silver-plattered, rather than a veiled threat. eyes just a touch wider, pupils dilated to soak it in. or, perhaps, as if he’s considering the grip and the extent of the knife’s usefulness if push were to come to shove. . ..  and, upon reflection, deciding that the other didn’t know their way ‘round it nearly as well as Hidan would have wished them to. he might be wrong. but he usually wasn’t, or cared to admit it. still. a blade is a blade; in the end, it does know how to pierce and to cut, regardless of endpoint effectiveness. )

           “ oi, oi. what's with the look? I ain’t judging. really, none of my business if someone wants to indulge in some recreational vandalism instead of taking that shitshow for a ride. ”  the laughter in his voice indicates that he is taking the whole thing in jest; that the words he spews out, he means. yet something calculating slithers, curls ‘round, lingers right beneath the thin veneer of joviality that his gaze always carries. hmm. it's worth reflecting on, so Hidan briefly contemplates it: is he in the mood for a squabble, or a fight, or a brawl? not necessarily the bad kind, either. just the sort that can get your adrenaline pumping, or, if you’re lucky, good enough to land you in a hospital bed.

Feathers and ash are drifting through the air, the atmosphere ungodly intense ( if you listen closely you can hear the heavens whisper: sinner, sinner, sinner! ). His naked hand is still buried in their hair and forehead, the stench of burnt flesh finding its source there, and Valentin is still so utterly focused on the person he just purged that he almost does not realize someone standing there, seeing him in all his winged glory. Golden eyes snap towards the smaller man ( bigot, bigot, bigot ), finally letting the body crumble to the ground as he stands there almost awkwardly. " I doubt I could convince you to forget all of this? "

his body sings ( a slave to its own automatic responses, as adrenaline floods his system, shortening his breath and quickening his pulse. it is, as always, the most pleasant feeling. what else is there to joy but your own blood, screaming at you, you are alive? you are ready to burn at the pyre? ). the sight doesn’t, in fact, frighten him ( there is only one thing that Hidan fears, that fills him with dread, replaces every atom of oxygen in his lungs with ice-crystals. . . and it is no being that chooses ——or was cast upon—— this earth. it is something else, altogether. beyond description, beyond anything his clumsy tongue could conjure. it is divine. ) but it’s certainly…. out of the ordinary ( even for Hidan, whose ordinary is… quite exceptional, especially nowadays. ) so he surveys the scene with a great deal of interest that tiptoes the line of morbid fascination. he wants to reach out and yank ( and tear and dig his very nails in; to verify that the sight takes hold in physical reality and is not merely the fruit of his own demented imagination. he refrains, but his body still tenses. )

golden gaze to violet. Hidan foregoes blinking. stares, in a direct, unwavering line.

( whether or not it’s a challenge, he’s still smirking, amusement diluted and spread like watercolour at the corners of the mouth. )

idly, a thumb fiddles with his rings, each in turn.

the click of his tongue and a darkening expression upon Hidan's features are, customarily, harbingers of disaster. ( it isn't that he has an easily-frayed temper ; in fact, genuine anger, the sort that runs marrow-deep and rattles his bones, is a rarely-indulged and seldom-visited acquaintance. but he has his own set of triggers, that can send him flying like a bullet, straight for someone's throat. ) and yet, in spite of it, he submits to Q's touch. submits to the ministrations ( with the grace of a petulant child eager to run outside rather than suffer through any sort of care — but submits all the same ), hands dangling loosely by his sides. ( still, as if in protest, his eyes roll up so hard that he glimpses, for a split-second, his own cortex. or would. if that were possible. )

it’s a dirty little bar, the sort of hole in the wall that you cling to when you want to crawl away from your problems. the sort you’d never bring your friends to ( at least, not for a good time, unless it was at their expense; but then. . .  those wouldn’t be your friends, now would they? ).  it’s not exactly clean, and it’s certainly not reputable ( wouldn’t dream of confessing you’d spent your night here, into the wee hours, drinking yourself stupid ). not if you had any shred of dignity left to you. but the alcohol’s cheap and they don’t ask too many questions, turn a blind eye to much. operate in such blissful ignorance that it is obviously counterfeited ( as HE would say – money talks ; in here? it screeches and orders the very fabric of reality. as long as you don’t have too much of it, else you risk finding your throat cut. )

the clientele is hardly palatable to most people. but it suits Hidan fine, when he wants to unwind. he always chooses a place as far away from the entrance as possible, a distant viewpoint from which he can indulge in surveying the scenery before him. puppets and all. there're a couple of regulars whose habits he knows like the back of his hand, now ( who operate like clockwork in chasing their vices ), but there is always the odd variable here and there, making it worth his time. making it interesting. there’s one thing that Hidan has learned from this habit of people-watching ( a rarely indulged habit, as his skin often itches to do rather than to sit still long enough to SEE ) – it’s that everyone is guilty of something. and that oftentimes, people are neither angels nor demons. just pieces of paper, blown in the wind. aimless, with little direction – their only goal being to find a goal worth having, snapping a few necks in the process ( often their own ), before ruining any chances as they have it in their grasp. self-sabotage at its finest ( or maybe that just speaks to the patrons here. half of them drowning themselves in bottles. )

Hidan clicks his tongue at the thought, and momentarily diverts himself from its finer intricacies by reaching for the open beerbottle on his table. spinning it around on its axis, the gesture lazy, taking in the label with unseeing eyes ( just blotches of colour ). the sight that greets him when he raises his gaze again. . . . that gives him pause. in a way few things have done, over the past week. ( past week? month, maybe. )

the man looks ( eerie, as if liquid shadows had frozen into a humanoid form, suddenly there )  expensive, Hidan thinks, even as his eyes rake over that black suit. therefore, he is strikingly out of place. as if someone had mixed up their chess pieces and mistakenly placed the black queen onto the wrong side of the board, admist white pawns and a single bishop. it's an interesting study in contrasts. Hidan doesn’t deign to kick off his boots from the opposite chair, but he does pluck out the earbud from his left ear, regaining access to his full auditory range.

HA! how you like that !? ( ah! ) you gonna like THAT, da ra ra da ta . . . .

a figment of your imagination, the man offers as explanation, and Hidan . . .. ( laughs ) ‘s mouth curls into an amused little smirk. behind closed lips, his tongue runs the length of his teeth, pausing upon the edge of a canine. call it instinct.

( his pale head tilts to the side. )

              “ are you? ” he asks, running a finger over the rim of the bottleneck, the gesture nearly obscene, but then he brings the beer to his lips. cool liquid travels down his throat. he can barely taste it. ( it’s a contemplation that isn’t one. a question that isn’t one. ) whether things were about to turn good or ugly, Hidan meets them with gaze at half-mast. ( still, it’s lucid and sharp, if one knows where to look. )  “ ...I’ve seen better. ”

a jest. ( there’s a kernel of truth to it, though.)

when face-to-face, eye-to-eye with Q, the very concept of agitating or forbidden questions slips Hidan’s mind, all the damn time. sand between open, spread fingers ( as if his grip on them was ever all that solid— ha! ). much like societal niceties and the majority of well-acknowledged social norms, much like the knots of any tension that might linger between his shoulder blades. he stretches like a cat, boldly occupies too much space, lets himself go completely. ( the change never registers in his mind. ) yet, in spite of his ease, the words thrown at him force a huff past his lips, snap his eyes back to the only object of interest found ‘round.

( Q possesses many an interesting thing that one would like to poke and prod at, but none are as exciting as their person. )

alas that Hidan was never taught not to go poking his fingers in flesh parted into wounds, or to stick his nails right in there.

           “ the fuck? I don’t get it. people die all the fucking time. it’s basically what they’re made for. ”  like shooting stars, disintegrating into the atmosphere. like fireflies smashing against a windshield. ( blink once, and in the next second they’re gone. ) his hands find the edges of his seat and he pushes himself closer, right to its edge, threatening to slip right out. his eyes are wild and open and eager. because. . ..  well, never you mind that part.

anon ilu / unprompted ( always accepting )

          “ I mean. . . . I guess you're always welcome to TRY. buuuut just saying... you alright there, buddy? need a Snickers bar? ”

(( Belphegor was in the mood to give him a nightmare <3 while he's out here chilling in some corner of Hidan's room. )) / I am being personally victimized by @helllords, send help.

his eyes snap open with a pull of will and Hidan crashlands into reality with a throat scratched raw, bled out, stuffed to the brim with ash, sandpaper-hoarse and desert-dry ( there is no sound, he remembers no sound that had his neighbours yanked out of their sleep at 3AM, plunged into a fucking horrorshow ). the sheets entangle him, trap him, cling wetly and he shoves them aside with a hand unveiling a heaving chest.

fingers, hands (his own?), come to cover his face. wet wet wet, and he doesn’t open his eyes, he doesn’t look at them, doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to see whatever is coating them ( red or black or— in the end, it’s all the same, golden or black, dark or green; one face blurs into another, and it doesn’t matter if it’s been five years or just mere moments ago.)

it isn’t real. it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real it isn’t real—

     except when it is.      ( except when it isn’t a dream but a reality that is slitting your throat. )

labored breathing, panting, incoherent sounds assault his eardrums, reverberating from far away, reaching him as through a sponge, barely registering in his mind. whose breathing? in the dark, who’s out there breathing. .. . ?  

 ( he’s breathing until he isn’t and darkness blurs the edges of his sanity, making everything spin. )

and then the animalistic impulses return, force him into automatic, mindless operation. large, cold gulps of air — he sucks them in and they tumble through his lungs like ice-water, choking him out. it isn't real. the memory-that-in-not-one ( it is not real, nothing in the dreamlands is real except the consequences upon awakening ), as cold and unscrupulous as a cobra, digs its barbs into his flesh, makes every single one of his bones shake. they rattle and dance in this sack of flesh that traps him here on earth, that chains him down. his arteries are ablaze.

He presses a knife into his hand, light etchings covering the handle. It looks sharp and deadly and most definitely supernatural. "This---", he starts, wrapping his fingers around it. "-- is a knife made of pure iron and has been prayed over many times. It is also a knife that almost killed me." With a swift motion, he moves Hidan's wrist, letting the tip poke against his chest. He looks at him intently, calmly. "If you stab me with it, I will die. Won't be anything more than a pile of ashes. No resurrection, nothing." His own hands return to his sides. "It's yours now, my love."

he has asked for this, hasn’t he? then why does the gesture turn him inside out, tearing out his intestines, scooping out all of his innards? ( without lungs, he cannot breathe. ) a wave of nausea overwhelms him, as the earth tilts on its axis. why. because he had thrown it into his face with the petulance of a child knowing their tantrum to be unreasonable, in full expectation of its denial. in further expectation of ridicule. ( you and I, we do not operate in the same manner. and, after all, is there any trust or understanding to be found between wolves and men?  in the end, reduced to its core, that is what his request was: a test. and beneath it, a demand for a token of trust, the magic of kintsugi worked upon its shattered remains. a broken thing needn’t be rendered useless, or ever remain so. just because you can still see the cracks doesn’t mean they cannot be beautiful, meaningful. )  

he stares upon the object in his hand with a gaze that lacks comprehension, as if his foothold on reality had suddenly slipped, and he was lost in freefall to the dark depths of The Pit. he stares, and the blade stares back, light licking long lines over its edge, the tip of it digging into cloth. ( Hidan’s breath shudders as he yanks his hand back ; it slithers past his teeth in a serpentine hiss, yet with none of its elegance. )

        “are you out of your goddamn mind!? ”

( and yet, he keeps it. and yet, he tests it, later on. )