wasted times & wasted breath

[Marcus King]

Where were his smiles now?

The thought was a rueful one in his mind as his arms rested over his knees, his hands curled into loose fists. His head leaned back against the farthest wall in the cage, the smell of mildew in the air. It brought back memories of a foster home in Queensland, when he’d been little more than a boy of eleven. His room had smelled like this, along with heavy cigarette smoke. The grandfather had died in this room as the real kids liked to tell him to try to scare him, eager to pick on him just because he was different.

Marcus took another slow and steady breath, trying not to let the itching take over his skin. He knew it was a mental thing, but that didn’t stop it from being goddamn annoying. Detox sucked. Really f***ing sucked. His throat was dry from the lack of water, though by the smell of the place he knew that water had to be somewhere. He wasn’t even sure how long he had been in this place, the days passing in a cycle of being in and out of the cage. Sleep wasn’t reliable, as it rarely came, but the experiments…well he could count on that. He was still stiff from earlier, the extreme physical demands that they made of him.

He’d been ordered to run, with dozens of wires connected to his skin. Marcus, however, hated to make anything easy for anyone, so he refused outright. The pain that followed had nearly caused him to black out completely, his vision dimming around the edges and gasping for breath. He had run after that, zapped again any time he slowed or began to fatigue. He had eventually collapsed, losing consciousness as they tried to get him up. But he was done, he was out and they’d had no choice but to dump him back in here.

He wasn’t even sure how he had been found out, given that only one other person knew of the existence of his abilities. Tav. The name sent a ripple of pain through him, and he grunted as he moved. Stiff, his bones felt like sticks that snapped every time he tried to move. He couldn’t think about Tav, not here in a place like this. That kid, well…he had been everything to Marcus before he’d gone and f***ed it all up.


ooc: really terrible. Trying to get back into his character and things u.u But he is rather lethargic like this. 

[Octavian]

He first became aware of his breathing—that he was still breathing, after everything. He felt the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering rhythm of his heart as awareness slowly crept over him. And with it came fear. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. His tongue felt like cement in his mouth, hard and cracked—he parted his lips only to find them stuck fast. He tried to open his eyes, caked as they were with dried sweat and dirt. He managed to open them to a thin slit, just enough so he could see a blinding aura of white and grey. He thought he saw the shape of a man, a shadowy visage reaching for him. He felt his lungs squeeze as he let out a hoarse cry, willing his deadened limbs to move. He looked down to his hands and saw his fingers twitching spasmodically in his effort. He felt hands grip him, haul him to his feet. His legs felt like a strange mix of jello and iron; heavy and unmovable but weak and shaky. He tried to speak, to fight back against them. Not another surgery. No. He couldn’t bear the thought of them cutting into him, digging around in his brain. He knew it was impossible but he could almost feel them inside. He had to get out. Octavian felt the man on the right slacken his grip. He drew up all his strength and managed to twist to the side and throw all his weight on the other Keeper, a throaty grunt resounding in his chest as he struggled to gain control of his limbs and get free but the man’s grip around his arm was vice-like. The Keeper said something to the other man in quick, angry tones—Octavian was barely cognizant of what was happening. But he felt a quick sharp prick on the back of his neck and the thin slit of vision he had turned black. He awoke staring up at a bright light, thinking for sure he was on his way to Judgment. Heaven or Hell, he figured he was ready. No more tests, no more cutting knives and seeking tools. He heard monitors beeping, low voices mumbling. He tried to move but found himself restrained at every joint. He heard a woman to his left and tried to look her way but they’d strapped his head down. “Prep him,” he heard someone say. A familiar voice. Tears burned in his eyes and he didn’t bother to keep them back as they streamed down his face, a strangled noise half-way between a scream and a sob surging from his throat. He tried to heave himself upwards but they’d completely immobilized him, experts at their trade. He looked to his left where the woman was, eyes straining at the very corner of his vision to see her. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t articulate any thoughts beyond the needle in her hands. She didn’t look at him as he lay there prone, motionless except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the vicious pulse of his jugular as it strained in his neck. She stuck the needle into the IV they had attached, her emotionless eyes suddenly, for the first time in months, meeting his. He felt himself trying to talk, straining against the numbness quickly spreading through his body but it only came out a babble of terrified pleas for release. For death. For anything but this. Not again, not again. “Please,” he finally managed to rasp out clearly, tear-hazed eyes locking with hers. She said nothing, face yielding no emotion; but he watched as her hands slowly rose to slide around his. Even through the gloves her touch was warm. She held his hand even as the darkness closed around him. --- Alastar awoke with a jolt, sitting bolt upright with a shout. He glanced to his hand to see if she was still holding it, only to realize that they’d put him back in his cell. He reached to the back of his skull and felt for it, fingers trembling as he traced along the grotesque stitches. It was a small incision but just feeling it made his stomach churn. He drew his knees up to his chest, finding that he was clothed in baggy gray shirt and matching pants made out of a stiff, unforgiving material. He was too tired to think beyond what his eyes could see and fingers feel. He’d drifted off to sleep (if you could call it that) when he heard their boot-heels ringing on the slick tile. He knew they were coming to get him, to take him back to that room. He didn’t look at them as the cell door slid open and they barked at him to get up. He thought of the woman who had held his hand. They said it again, louder this time. Prodded him with their sticks. He acquiesced, numb to everything. He walked between the two men in silence and stared down at his bare feet. The floor was cold, and felt wet. He looked up only once, to see them heading towards the door they always took him through when they took him to the room. He stopped, his heart feeling as if it had stopped beating. His ears started ringing as one man shoved him forward, telling him to keep moving. But he didn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears that nearly deafened him until the ringing turned into screaming. He didn’t realize it was his own screams until he was swinging his fists at the men, savagely throwing kicks and punches at whatever he could see. Their batons collided with his ribs, doubling him over as pain lanced through him. But the numbness came back and he righted himself, swinging with a savage upper cut. He felt his fists collide with a jaw, heard a crack—a grunt of pain, cursing. He felt his teeth sink into flesh the other man grabbed him from behind. Another scream, not his this time. “Open the damned cell!” The Keeper with the broken jaw lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious. Octavian aimed a kick at him as the other Keeper relinquished his grip and Octavian spit out his blood, distracted momentarily by the disgusting taste. He swayed on his feet as he tried to turn and fight the other Keeper. He heard a cell door slide open, felt the cold metal of the cattle prod the instant before the shock sent him to his knees. The Keeper planted a boot between his shoulder blades and kicked him in the cell, holding the cattle prod as warning to the other occupant to stay back. The door slid closed and the Keeper nodded with a satisfied grunt, turning to call Medical. It took a few minutes for Alastar to recover before he became aware of someone else in the cell. He was still sprawled out on his chest but he slowly turned onto his side and tried to curl into a fetal position. The adrenaline had ebbed and now his ribs lanced with pain with each breath he took. He looked up at his cell mate, eyes blank of emotion even when he realized who it was. “Marc,” he breathed before a sob heaved from his chest and he reached out a limp, trembling hand unthinkingly. He wanted the warmth of contact, like the woman who had held his hand. But he drew it back and tucked it against his chest, determined not to need him. I don't need him. I can't need him.

[Marcus King]

He had nearly pissed himself as the scuffling started out in the hall, his head snapping up with uncomfortable speed. One would think that he was in his sixties for all the goddamn bones cracking around in there. He wanted to surge to his feet, wanted to scream out his obscenities and encouragement to whatever poor bastard was out there trying to fight back. He had learned well enough already that fighting back did not get you much besides a happy little zap to the ass. Or the head, as it had happened once. That had been some real f***ery.


He was surprised when the door to his cage opened, his face guarded as the Keeper pushed someone else inside with him. Great, just f***ing great. He was in here with some rabid f***ing dog, and the Australian gathered himself up with a readiness for a fight. What the hell was this? Primetime? If the Keeper had not been holding the cattle prod, Marc was sure that he would have tried something. Then again, he was not even sure if he could move as it was. The cell slid closed again with a finalizing sound, the sound of the boots retreating across the floor. No doubt that they would be back for this one.


Marcus glanced down at the other person, noticing first that it was a man. His jaw twitched, that uncomfortable feeling under his skin beginning again. He rubbed his arms absently as he tried to chase away the feeling, his tongue running across the top of his mouth. Marcus looked away, not quite able to bring himself to care about the pain that the other man felt. ”It’s what you get, whacka.” He mumbled, watching the figure roll over.


It was not until the man tilted his face up to look that Marcus realized who it was. It was like the breath had been knocked pure out of him, his face registering the shock of seeing him here. Jesus f***ing Christ. ”Octavian.” He said, his voice tight and pained. Jesus, jesus. He couldn’t…how had he? He forced himself to move, his back numb from leaning against the wall for so long. He went to the Irishman, crawling on his hands and knees because it was all he had to offer. His hand was shaking as he reached out to touch his head, his hand finding the softness of his hair.


He ran his fingers through it, letting his hand come down to cup his cheek, still on his knees and one elbow. ”f***.” He swore, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He almost wished the kid would disappear when he opened them. ”What the hell?” He asked, looking for explanation. Had he come looking for him?

[Octavian]

It's what you get, whacka. The harsh words resounded in a susurrus of mockery from his memory, all the words he'd said that night carving him fresh and new, like it was happening then and there. His eyes were hollow as he watched Marcus scoot closer, stare blank and bereft of anything resembling an emotion. He wouldn't let Marc see him so weak, not again. But it was hard, so hard to keep up the strength. The strength to deny the chilling comfort from Marc's fingers through his hair, god it was so hard to smother the ripple of desire even after everything Marc had done to tear them apart. He tried to focus on the pain of his bruised ribs, focus on how hard it was to breathe. The stabs of pain became almost comforting because it took away from the pleasure-pain of Marc's touch. But he was still there, still so close. So close he could feel the warmth roiling from his body, seeking him out as if the claws of some demon. His breath came in halting, shuddering gasps as he struggle to breath around the lancing pain, tried to keep the stinging tears from spilling down his cheeks, choking back sobs of wanton desperation. He was drowning in loathing, ecstasy, misery. Hands in his hair, hands that once roamed over his body freely, passionately--flashes of his lips, his body all angles and planes in the dim light, limbs entangled, air slick with sweat and fervor. Fingers trailed down the back of his head, and he jerked away with a sharp violence. Flashes of blood, slick as their sweat, of blades cutting deep, a screaming numbness as they carved, carved and dug and sought out every crevice inside his skull. "Don't," he rasped, barely choking out the word. "Don't." His own hand reaching to cover the incision on the back of his skull but as his fingers skimmed over the sutured flesh he felt the bile rising a moment too late, retching so harshly he was nearly doubled over. There wasn't anything for him to spit up except the stinging, acidic bile that burned at his throat and nostrils as it dribbled from his mouth. God, he was pathetic. He was the disgusting, pathetic wretched creature they had made him. He was sobbing again, couldn't stop the wracking heaves now as they came in shuddering convulsive waves too strong to keep back. "Marc," he choked out, grabbing for him. He couldn't see anything, everything was blurred and darkened in a haze of confusion and desperation. "Marc, please--make it stop! Please," he couldn't breathe, couldn't think-- "Oh, God, please..."

[Marcus King]

His fingers felt like bloody sausages instead of the quick and nimble things they were known to be under the dash of a car, known for hotwiring rather than the fumbling they were doing now. Jesus, what was Octavian doing here of all places? His hand went back to the other’s hair, grabbing it to get his attention. ”Tav.” He called, trying to reach through to him. He summoned all of his strength, all of the power he had left to his voice.

”Octavian, you’d better goddamn well answer me, boy.” He demanded, listening to the heavy breathing that the Irishman was doing instead. He ran his tongue over the dry and cracked surface of his lips, his own mind in a somersault. Kid had taken a beating it seemed, but then Marcus had always known him to be hardheaded. It had taken him months to shake the kid once he had decided that they needed to call it quits, so it shouldn’t have surprised him at all that he would fight the whitecoats. His fingers dipped again, tingling and numb but still workable at least, sliding down to his jaw. A jaw that he had once caressed, kissed in tenderness.

Marcus’ jaw clenched as he had to listen to the wretched sounds of his mate choking back sobs, though from what he wasn’t sure. Was he in that much pain? His blood blazed with a desire to see whoever had hurt him in a bloody grave. It would not even cross his mind that he could be the cause for his pain. It would not even cross his mind about the dirty ways that Marcus had always done him wrong, or that the reason he looked so pained might just be because he was facing down the guy who had broken his heart.

The only thing that Marcus King had on his mind was comforting the man that he cared about. It had clicked like a light, the use of drugs draining out of his system, that all that really mattered was Octavian. It was all that had ever really mattered. Not the drugs or the money or even the f***ing cars that he loved so much. The other man jerked away from him violently, drawing Marcus out of his anger for just a moment. Don’t. Was something wrong? His frown deepened, a low growl rumbling in his chest but not directed at Octavian. The dumbass still had not figured it out, had he? He was to blame here.

Octavian was sick then, and Marcus kept well out of the way as he retched. His tongue darted out to wet his lips again, able to taste the bile in the air, his nose wrinkling at the smell. It made him uneasy as he cried, reaching out for him suddenly too. Still, that didn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around his equally as unclad friend, dragging him with a surprising bout of strength into his chest. He sat, drawing the other man between his legs to pull him in to his chest, holding his head there as his own heart pounded.

”I’m sorry, Tav.” He said, wishing he knew how to help him. ”Just breathe, man. Just breathe, it’s going to be okay.” He murmured, his own breath shaky. ”I’ve got ya. I’m not going to let you go.” He held him tightly, unsure of what he needed, but Marcus was going to make damn sure that nothing else happened to Tav. He was going to make damn sure that nothing was ever going to happen to hurt him again. ”Close your eyes now.” He murmured gently, his hand still against his head. ”You just gotta…ya gotta breathe through it. I’ve got ya.”