Caelan watches him leave until he’s out of sight, out of earshot, even (another small mercy for the man who’s been keeping Cassius company, who’s been trying to keep him safe). Even lets the little comments go (said with a jitter, with the air of someone trying so hard to keep from spiraling) because, yeah, they’d gone in trying to needle at the guy, but -
I won't let you threaten his safety.
They really are grateful. That Cassius found someone else. Someone to keep him company, someone who isn’t… put off by who he is. What he is.
(Cassius hasn’t had a lot of that.)
So, when they’re sure that Booze Boy is out of crunch range, they turn to the body and start tearing – well. No. They take the boots off first, the miraculously blood free socks (man didn’t fucking do his laundry worth shit though), and set those to the side.
Then they get to tearing.
(When they were younger, so much younger, back when their hands weren’t stained with anything but bleeding markers and layers of food coloring, they’d found peace in – coloring. Can’t even remember what, now, just the colors gliding onto brand new pages between black lines. It had been rhythmic. Easy. Something to let your thoughts drift away as the body worked.
Breaking a body down is a little like that, in a way. Wetter, yes. Messier. But watching muscle and sinew snap strand by strand feels a bit like tearing out a page from a coloring book.)
They pile all of the meat’s limbs into the hollow of his chest. Close it off by tearing off the bottom half of his torso and flipping it over the top of the pile like some sort of fucked up meat sandwich.
(God, they could really use a shitty burger right about now. Something with more grease than patty.)
The bloods gone sticky thick on their arms by the time they’re done. They use the socks to mop up what will come off until all that’s left are flaking smears and angry, red stains.
Caelan smells the bile before they see Booze Boy return. Already has a hand out to catch their bag (lets the other one flutter limp to the ground), which they shuffle through to pull out a worn, stained hoodie that’s honestly holding up better than it has any right to (the pants, however, have been ruined for days now, left torn and attached to some sharp edge that had no business being inside of a vent).
“Mm,” Caelan replies, voice rumbling a little as they shrug into their hoodie like a second skin. Covers enough to border decent. “Did you?”
They don’t wait for an answer before leaning down to pick the trash bag up. Flap it out in a way they haven’t done since -
(“Caelan, did you forget to take out the trash again?”)
- well. Doesn’t matter, does it. They drape the thing over the meat like a gaping maw and scoop at it with little adjustments. End up just shoving the meat inside like a heathen. Ties the thing with fingers used to brute force and not delicate work. Plops it next to themselves, where it sags into itself.
They glance at Booze Boy with golden eyes. Consider him. (They’re supposed to be playing nice.)
no subject
I won't let you threaten his safety.
They really are grateful. That Cassius found someone else. Someone to keep him company, someone who isn’t… put off by who he is. What he is.
(Cassius hasn’t had a lot of that.)
So, when they’re sure that Booze Boy is out of crunch range, they turn to the body and start tearing – well. No. They take the boots off first, the miraculously blood free socks (man didn’t fucking do his laundry worth shit though), and set those to the side.
Then they get to tearing.
(When they were younger, so much younger, back when their hands weren’t stained with anything but bleeding markers and layers of food coloring, they’d found peace in – coloring. Can’t even remember what, now, just the colors gliding onto brand new pages between black lines. It had been rhythmic. Easy. Something to let your thoughts drift away as the body worked.
Breaking a body down is a little like that, in a way. Wetter, yes. Messier. But watching muscle and sinew snap strand by strand feels a bit like tearing out a page from a coloring book.)
They pile all of the meat’s limbs into the hollow of his chest. Close it off by tearing off the bottom half of his torso and flipping it over the top of the pile like some sort of fucked up meat sandwich.
(God, they could really use a shitty burger right about now. Something with more grease than patty.)
The bloods gone sticky thick on their arms by the time they’re done. They use the socks to mop up what will come off until all that’s left are flaking smears and angry, red stains.
Caelan smells the bile before they see Booze Boy return. Already has a hand out to catch their bag (lets the other one flutter limp to the ground), which they shuffle through to pull out a worn, stained hoodie that’s honestly holding up better than it has any right to (the pants, however, have been ruined for days now, left torn and attached to some sharp edge that had no business being inside of a vent).
“Mm,” Caelan replies, voice rumbling a little as they shrug into their hoodie like a second skin. Covers enough to border decent. “Did you?”
They don’t wait for an answer before leaning down to pick the trash bag up. Flap it out in a way they haven’t done since -
(“Caelan, did you forget to take out the trash again?”)
- well. Doesn’t matter, does it. They drape the thing over the meat like a gaping maw and scoop at it with little adjustments. End up just shoving the meat inside like a heathen. Ties the thing with fingers used to brute force and not delicate work. Plops it next to themselves, where it sags into itself.
They glance at Booze Boy with golden eyes. Consider him. (They’re supposed to be playing nice.)
“What am I supposed to call you?”