... (rintropy) wrote in apartment666,
...
rintropy
apartment666

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Playlist.

Okay, the other one was fucky. you know it, i know it, let's just pretend it didn't happen.
I've moved the design of the story a little.
the p.o.v. changes were disorienting. they've been removed & replaced.
the voices of the characters were indistinct. i've removed & repaired that problem, too.

this goes against canon. i've given tybalt a life before mikhail. that'll come out in later bits...
this is a twelve-part series. i've got the first two written, more or less, and i'm using the... er... alpha-copy (deleted yesterday, praise jeebus) as a reference. this story is going to go places. a lot of places. probably ten thousand words worth of places.

parts 1, 2, and 3 are going to stay pg-13. little bit of strong language, but nothing you wouldn't hear at the theatre.

things are going to go on from there.

i've put the title, artist, and album of all the songs. the lyrics are the *only* thing in italics. the formatting will likely stay the same in each piece. the copyright to the songs go to the respective artists, no infringement, blah-blah-blah. and i know the musical genres are outside of the land of the bmb, but i'm in charge here. tybalt is also not fucking cyan in the strip, so... yeah... =P

first verse. cyan's p.o.v.

Playlist:
Everything In Its Right Place
(Radiohead, Kid A, Lawless Remix)

If you've tuned a snare, you can open a deadbolt. A quick twist and a little english is all it takes. Deadbolts require some high-viscosity lubricant, though. The heavy door opened quietly, and the interior of the strange apartment was dark. Agent double-oh-sexy, complete with a low-yield nucular device, designed to frustrate even the most level-headed redheaded best friend's boyfriend's ex-boyfriend because of some unseen kissing incident, a broken nose, and an arrogant obsession. That was the request, but I was here on my own. Harley put the idea in my head, but I'm ultimately the one who brought myself here with a nine-volt battery, an electric eye, the primer to a shotgun shell, and a #10 coffee can with flour and just a bit of coffee. Coffee's for effect, you see. Can't have a stinky bomb. Burning coffee is nice. It reminds me of home, sometimes.
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everything.
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Harley doesn't know why I'm here. It's because of his boyfriend, actually. Mikhail took Harlequin Goldman away from me. Not like *that*. I love Harley dearly. He's my best friend, but I don't love him like that. I mean, I don't care that he's queer, but I'm not gay. I mean, there's a little thing about Skids, but that's just because I spend so much time with him & everything. We have to spend time together, since Harley's always conjoined with that meaty russian, usually at the hip. They have no courtesy, practically fucking in the living room. Mik's okay, for a complete prick, I guess. He's arrogant and he always has to be right. "Correct" he'd say, perfectly.
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everything.
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He wouldn't have been in that bar we'd sneaked into if it weren't for this fucker, here. Mikhail was on the latest of a series of short-term flings that'd just ended. Seems that most people either want him for his meat or his money. The only reason I'm around him is because of Harley. Meat doesn't do anything for me, you know. I was only kissing Skids to keep everyone else away from us, and so we didn't look like we were with Harley. Mikhail asked me to do this. If not for the Elevator Conversation and blackmail, I wouldn't be here. Can't let your friends down.
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everything
----

But that's not why I'm here. This guy kissed Harley, and was trying to steal him away from Mikhail. I don't know why I'd want to stop that. Maybe I'd get my friend back, but from the stories--I listen, you know--this one's even more psycho-posessive than the current, and Skids & I would never see our friend again. That can't happen. So I'm here to put the fear of God into him. Or at least the fear of Agent Double-Oh Sexy. Cyanide Torres. King of the funky flour bomb.
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everything.
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This is one of the few walk-up's I've been in with a laundry in the unit. Really odd. All the same, the #10 fits like a dream, and all I have to do is turn around and worry about the hands on my waist and the angry redhead....behind me....
Fuck.
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in its right place
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"Hello, little boy," he says, annoyed, I think.
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in its right place
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"Um," since I'm a genius, I start all...I'm fucking caught. Agent Double-Oh Sexy doesn't get *caught*! "Hi?"
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in its right place
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"What," he begins. He sounds a lot like Mikhail. Smells like him, too. "Did you put in my washer?"
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in its right place
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The #10 tips off the agitator, and all of a sudden we're covered in flame & flour and burnt coffee.
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yesterday i woke up sucking a lemon
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"Detergent," I ask, as his eyes scour me.
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yesterday i woke up sucking a lemon
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"I'm going to hurt you badly," comes from his throat, even and low, like the sound of an expensive sedan accelerating on smooth tarmac. Something you don't want to be standing in front of. "Now."
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yesterday i woke up sucking a lemon
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He's grown to about twice his size. His eyes are iced bottles of Rolling Rock. Cold, green, and evil.
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yesterday i woke up sucking a lemon
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"You can't hit me," it comes in a flurry of panic. He's going to break me. His fist comes down. His eyes are The Riddler's green question-marks. "It's," dramatic pause "Christmas Eve." He's going to kill me. "Season of forgiveness and all?"
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everything.
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He looks genuinely puzzled. The cupric aura of restrained mane has changed in tone from flame to ember and the room has warmed up perceptibly in the seconds of his... I don't know.
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everything.
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"You're right."
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everything.
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His arms drop and he breathes in, visibly shrinking. He looks like Harley does when he's about to break down, but Harley doesn't smile like that. The smile is...
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everything.
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different. It doesn't turn up at the edges. It's like one of Skids' odd graphs. I only took calc because it's required, not because It was required. His arms are back around my waist. His head is on my shoulder, and his lips rest against my neck.
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right place
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The hair on the back of my neck stands to attention along with every nerve-ending in my body Yo, dude. I'm heterosexual. Straight. That's why I'm here with the non-lethal munitions and my arms around you.
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there are two colours in my head
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His hands start below my shoulderblades, and his fingers caress the curve of my spine, and as they drift down under the power of gravity restrained by his athletic musculature--the health freak--they rest at the top of my ass. Yo, dude. Boys don't touch me there. Not even Harley.
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there are two colours in my head
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"Um," I can't let him get away with this. No one gets away with this. Chemistry isn't a whore, and neither am I. "What're you doing?"
----
what's that you tried to say?
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He breathes into my neck. His lungs empty in forever, and his hands drop from my waist.
----
what's that you tried to say?
----

"It's either this or I punch you in the face."
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tried to say
----

His voice reverbates in my own chest, and I'm still pressed against him. This isn't good. I'm not here to ride the Tybalt pony, I'm here to blow his ass up, yo. I step back, lest he think I'm enjoying myself. Because I'm not. No way.
----
tried to say
----

"Right," he says, his voice has gone from curious mocking to that Get Out Of The Way tone in two easy steps.
----
tried to say
----

There's a second explosion. The left side of my face erupts in a pain I've never felt. I want to vomit. The hazing wasn't this bad. That was a joke, this is serious. My hands leap to my eyes, and I'm doubled over. His hands fasten around my neck and I can feel the nerves slowing inside the shell of the same spine he was caressing just moments ago. Where did he learn to cause pain like this?
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tried to say
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"Out," is his last word to me, as he drags me forward like a reluctant dog leashed for the first time. I hear the click of a lock and the heavy door swing in. It clips my hip as I'm ushered past it, and launched across the landing, my hair crushed on the door opposite his. The door slams like a kick, and the tap-tap of two deadbolts are the snare with the counterpoint crash of the chain sliding home and closed high-hat played by the knob lock.
----
everything in its right place
----

I pulled myself up to standing. My skull doubled, volumetrically, and my depth perception was filtered through a rainbow of pain dimming to grey as I re-oriented myself with the vertical. The stairs were a challenge, but two flights later, I was out the door and in a cab. Thank God Mikhail gave me fare, otherwise I'd have to jam a drumstick up his ass for getting me fondled.
----
everything in its right place
----

I made it home around ten. I called apartment 667 and Harley answered.
"Dude, tell your boyfriend I have another reason to hate him," I said. Harley only erked and I hung up. I swallowed four generic Advil, two Excedrin PM, and washed it all down with tomorrow's ration of orange juice. I could hear my sisters singing Christmas carols in the other room. Holly Jolly Christmas with random, mostly silly, insertions of Spanish.
----
everything
----

I was able to slip in without being noticed by Mama. She'd be hovering until I told her how the eye was blackened. My head feels swathed in cotton and the Ziploc baggie of ice wrapped in a dishtowel of questionable cleanliness. I hate this house. In the noise and the pain, I don't remember falling asleep.
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in its right place
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