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Drabble 1: |
They don´t need to be told it´s destructive, what they´re doing. They don´t need to be told they´re only hurting themselves in the end. (Because it will end and it won´t be pretty and it won´t be nice and they won´t be any more whole than they are now.) They don´t need to be told that this is unhealthy, and wrong, and unholy.
They know already, and they knew before they started, and they did it anyway, and they´ll continue until it gets too hard to ignore the voices inside their heads telling them this all along.
So when El pushes Sands against the wall hard enough for his head to smack on the brick and blood trickles down, it won´t really matter 'cause Sands doesn´t really think there´s all that much you can do to a head that´s already fucking broken.
And when Sands´ nails bite into El´s ass hard enough to leave imprints as he drives into him that he´ll feel for days after, it won´t really matter because if it´s real enough to leave scars it´s real enough to remind him he´s not dead.
And when Sands whispers something about love when he comes and El grouses it back at him and then they both forget they said anything immediately after, it won´t really matter because love isn´t real anyway, it´s just a dream you tell yourself.
Because it´s unhealthy and it´s wrong and it´s an abomination and it´s only hurting themselves more, but it´s good enough to forget the rest of the shit they´re faced with every single god damn fucking day, and that´s all that matters for now.
Eventually it won´t be, and they´ll deal then.
For now they´ll thank you to shut the fuck up.
She sinks to her knees and despite the searing pain of metal through her gut she sees the pistol aimed at her face. She looks up into Sands' eyes and thinks to herself 'well just how God damned fitting.'
She remembers a time when it was easy to forget this man was her enemy. When it was all fire and passion and deceit. Sweat and sex and screaming and clawing and ohgodyesmoredoitnow.
When it was still a gun pointed at her face, as she kneels before this dark beauty of a man with three arms, and she wraps her mouth around that gun. When she'd look up to him as his lips are twisted in the agony of pleasure and thinks to herself 'this man really is attached to his gun.'
It's almost a pity she can't do that now, but she's lightheaded, and she's seeing colors that aren't there, and then she's sinking to the grit and the grime and the dust as her blood pours out of her onto the sandy beige of the last Mexican road she'll ever walk on.