Something Is Wrong With Me

[Waddle]

It was hard, juggling a small gasoline container full of gas and a small toolbox full of items in one arm, holding the head of a cane in the other hand, limping and trying to smoke at the same time. But somehow, Damian Warren Sage managed all four. He never worked without smoking, and he couldn't go anywhere without his cane, and the other two items were part of his work, as much a part of it as the cigarette was. But his main problem was getting from the cottages to the gardens without being seen. The steel end of his cane was muffled with cloth, but it still made some noise, and his other shoe landed softly but not silently. He couldn't sneak, either. He hadn't been able to sneak for a long time, and never would, but that didn't matter. He knew how to do his job with minimum consequences. The trouble it took to complete, on the other hand, was a very different matter.

Currently, he was cursing very colorfully under his breath in Italian as pain shot up his left leg. It was a strange feeling. His leg was normally numb, like it was asleep, but it never got that tingly feeling whenever blood resumed coursing through a sleeping limb. He had been moving a lot in the past week, and his leg was beginning to protest. But he wasn't going to not do this job - it was the first in a while he'd recieved. In a small town like this, jobs were terribly few, and the ones he got often required traveling to the next town over, which was a considerable distance. Sometimes he took these jobs, sometimes he didn't. He had taken this home job though, one he only thought would be simple.

The park was deserted. It was the dead of night, though. Well, not exactly the dead of night. It was just at midnight. But, luckily enough, there was no young couple swinging on the swing set about to have a romantic moment, nor was there a gang of boys Damian's own age who would demand to know what his business was. Ignoring the pain in his leg, Damian let a small, satisfied smile play on his face as he paused on the edge of the park. Letting the gas and the toolbox down softly, he used his free hand to draw a long puff from the cigarette, then blew it out slowly. The good thing about home jobs was that he could general complete them on his own time. The bad thing about home jobs was that they were home jobs. He could be found much, much easier. So far he had avoided the attention of law officials, but his grandmother was already suspecting him of being up to no good. Dear Fiona wouldn't confront him directly until she had real proof, but he needed to do his best to keep at a distance. Living with her was both a bad and a good idea. It made her think that he wasn't sneaking out to burn down buildings, but it made it easier to find out that he was. Damn, I need a place of my own. He was working that way, slowly but surely.

Replacing the cigarette between his lips, Damian picked up the can of gasoline and began to spread it around on the ground in a line through the center of the park. The grass was dry and crisp; it hadn't rained in weeks. It just needed a bit of coaxing to go up in flames. Damian wondered briefly on why someone wanted the park burned. It was a nice place, and he himself had enjoyed multiple afternoons spent here. Still, the price was good, and the risk was low, and it was, after all, a home job. Damian finished spreading gasoline on the ground and tossed the now three-fourths empty can of gasoline back onto the ground, then crouched down on his right leg. He left stuck out awkwardly straight, and he groaned as pain coursed through his whole leg up into his torso. Digging his fingers into the ground for a moment, Damian squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the pain to pass. After a few seconds, it did, and he unclasped the lid of the toolbox, flipped it open, and rummaged around.

He almost shouted a curse as he realized he didn't need anything in the toolbox, but he managed to keep it to a quiet tone. You MORON! Now you have to get back up! I sound and feel like such an old man and I'm only twenty. Falling back onto his bottom, he sat there for a few heartbeats, then, gathering his cane, he pushed himself to his feet and leaned against it. Picking up the container and the toolbox, he walked away a few paces before stopping and turning back around. Leaning all his weight on his right leg, he taked the cigarette from his mouth and stopped. He just stopped. Scanning the park, he remembered how it looked in daylight, and saw how it looked now, in the dark, the starlight shining down softly on the playground equiptment and picnic tables. The street lights illumated the place further, but it all seemed peaceful. And it was about to go up in flames. A dark smile curved the corners of Damian's thin lips and he prepared to toss the cigarette over onto the trail of gasoline.

[Augustus is a SWOObat]

Ichabod could hear a gentle, muted tapping. It was strange. No one came out this late. He hardly went out at all, but when he did need some fresh air, night air was always the best. It was cool and crisp and the dark of the night ensured no prying, staring, or prodding eyes. Iggy always felt good at night. Something about the tapping noise drew him in. It reminded him of his childhood. It reminded him of that brief period when he use was forced to use a blind-stick. He never liked those years, but something about the repetition of the noise was almost soothing. Before he even knew it, Iggy started following it. That constant tapping noise had seemed so close, but it was really just Iggy's hearing. As he got closer, the tapping noise got louder, and as it got louder, he walked faster. It sounded like it was by his ears. All around him, as if it were reverberating through a cave. How come he hadn't reached it yet? A little part of him was afraid that it wasn't real. That it was in his head. It felt like it was in his head, it couldn't be anywhere else. It was so loud.

He was walking in a fast stride, his features tight with concentration. The same concentration a blood hound had. He breathed in slightly, as if he could smell the tapping. There wasn't a sound on the earth that Ichabod could smell, though sometimes his nose felt so keen that it should be able to. He didn't know what he expected, but the reek of gasoline was not it. His steps were quiet, they had to be or they'd drown out the tapping. Iggy was there. He stopped moving, just to make sure. He stopped breathing, eliminating all noise but the tapping, focusing singularly on it. Iggy was sure of it. Whatever of whoever was making the noise was right here, with him. He didn't bother looking around. It'd be useless anyway. Instead, he closed his unseeing eyes and clicked very quietly. He opened his eyes slowly, as if he were waking up. It was a person, about the same height as him, that meant it was most likely a man.

A man with a tapping stick? Immediately Ichabod thought he was blind. It was most likely hopeful wishing. Some part of him wanted someone to talk to, someone who had to deal with the same things as him. They could relate how hard it was to adjust, how long it took to learn braille, how people talk slower when they find out Iggy was blind, as if it made him dumber. He never realized how alone he felt till now. Silently, Iggy walked up behind him. He thought about how he could tell Tapper he was there without frightening him. Maybe he should have walked louder? It was too late now though. The smell of gasoline had gotten obscenely strong. It seemed to emanate from Tapper. Iggy got a little worried. What was Tapper doing playing around with gasoline? It wasn't the place for a blind man to mess with flammables.. though Ichabod was a mechanic.. and worked with gasoline and flammables all the time.

Ichabod already felt protective. It was hypocritical, sure, but Iggy didn't like the idea of someone as helpless as he believed Tapper to be messing around with gasoline. He could already feel that annoying anxiety that he heard in so many other's voices. Iggy forced it out before he dared to speak. He didn't know how close he was standing to Tapper, if he knew he would have moved back a little. Iggy was still quiet, even though that tapping had stopped. He was barely breathing, as if he was quiet enough he could hear the silent tapping. With the anxiety forced out, Iggy's voice came out flat. A quiet, monotoned, but gentle whisper sailing on a pent-up breath. "What are you doing?"

[Waddle]

He was taking too long, but it was hard to not absorb the peacefulness of the park before he destroyed it. The cruel smile still on his lips, he briefly imagined what it would look like after fire ravaged it. The smell - oh, how he loved the smell of something burned. Gasoline currently pervaded his senses, almost intoxicating him, but he could still imagine the charred, roasted smell that would come after the fire. The scent that normally made people scrunch up their noses made him expand his lungs. The thought that that was certainly not healthy flashed across his mind and he almost laughed out loud. What did he care? He didn't care about his health. Never had and never would.

A voice behind him jerked him back from his thoughts. Someone was standing close to him, much too close to him. Feeling violated already, Damian whirled, the cigarette falling to the ground as he whipped out his .45 Caliber pistol. He had it aimed at the man's chest, pressing into the shirt, in a matter of a couple seconds. His fault was that now his left leg was twisted awkwardly; it had been the side he had turned on, and by putting his weight on it while turning, he had caused further pain.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"[/b] The words hissed through clenched, grinding teeth. His pain was obvious - grimacing with half-closed eyes, leaning down slightly to the right to keep his weight off his bad leg, his voice strained and almost cracking. He pulled the gun away and limped back a step. It wouldn't do well if this man was some ninja master who could chop him into a million little pieces. He didn't seem threatening now, but he had been so close... Goose bumps ran up Damian's arm and he shivered compulsively, shook his head to clear away the initial surprise that had him stumped.

"Get out of here," he ordered in a more firm voice. His teeth were still clenched but he didn't sound as weak. "This has nothing to do with you or anyone else. Go."[/b] He suddenly noticed that his gun was not cocked, and he didn't cock it. He didn't want the man to know that it wasn't prepared to fire. Aren't I just full of brilliance today?[/color] he asked himself sarcastically. Today, or rather tonight, was not going well so far.

With barely moving the gun, Damian bent down to pick up the cigarette, ignoring the pain in his leg and side. It wouldn't do to have it kicked into the gasoline and be in the middle of the fire when it roared to life. Placing it safely between his teeth, he took a long puff and let the smoke slip out between his lips.

What was he even still doing here? He needed to simply shoot the man, drop the cigarette and leave. So what if this stranger was incinerated in the process? He had gotten in the way. Damian's job would be done. He wasn't being paid to 'make sure no one was hurt'. He was being paid for an act of terrorism because some person didn't want the park to be there. It wasn't his place to ask. He got the money and he did what they asked. He was no better than any other petty criminal, except his services and skills weren't that common.

But no. Damian wasn't cold enough to shoot a stranger and leave him to die. He could shoot one, just not kill them. And especially not let them burn to death. Well... It all depended on the situation, he decided, then mentally scolded himself. This was not one the time to be pondering the most humane way to rid himself from a weird creeper. He needed to get out of here now. He needed to get farther away, turn around, hurl the cigarette onto the gasoline then dive for cover. Then run. Where the stranger was in that time shouldn't matter to him, and yet he found himself being entranced by the man's good looks. He couldn't help but to notice. Quickly, he shook his head for a second time and grumbled a few original curses in Italian under his breath. "Get out of here, alright? Just go."[/b][/size]

[Augustus is a SWOObat]

What was that pressing into his chest? He could feel how cold it was through the thin material of his simple white button-up shirt. It was a gun and it didn't waver. Ichabod felt he made a mistake in coming here. It's not that he was scared. No, Ichabod was rarely scared. It wasn't a good thing, his lack of fear. It wasn't that he wasn't capable. He use to be afraid all the time back when he lived with his father, but suddenly the fear had dried up. There were a lot of reasons his fear could have disappeared. Maybe nothing seemed scary compared to his father. Maybe his fear had just dried up; he had been so scared for so long that he had no more scared left. Or maybe it was because he was blind. He couldn't see the .45 trained on his heart, or the unwavering hand that held it, or the determined face of Tapper. Iggy never had imagination.

He glanced down at the gun, but the pressure was gone. Iggy looked back up at Tapper with a question on his face.. but apparently Tapper didn't take well to questions. "What does it look like I'm doing?" Iggy hated that question. He never noticed it before when he had his sight, but now that it was gone he was so painfully aware of the question and how stupid it was. He couldn't hide the hostility in his voice. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be asking, now would I?" As quick as the anger had come, it was gone. Tapper sounded tense, in pain. He always pretended he was some tough guy, but Ichabod was such a softie. Iggy couldn't smell blood, actually all he could smell was the disgusting stench of gasoline, but that didn't mean he wasn't hurt. He told Iggy to go away, that this didn't involve Iggy but he was wrong. Just by following the tapping Iggy was already involved. Ichabod couldn't just leave Tapper hear alone and hurt, no matter how much of a jerk he was.

Even though Tapper was just as tall as Iggy, he still felt like a kid to him. A poor confused kid who didn't know what he was getting into. Something told Iggy that Tapper wasn't blind. Something being the gun he had. Blind men have no use for guns. Despite the ability to see, Iggy still felt Tapper was helpless, so young and confused. "Just go?" Iggy laughed. "You make it sound so simple. I wish I could, kid. But i'm involved now." Iggy took a step closer. He knew the kid wouldn't shoot him, the ignition needed to set off the gun powder would set off the gasoline as well. Unless the kid had a death wish, that gun wouldn't be of much use. Now that Iggy was closer, he could smell the cigarrette smoke.

Iggy swore under his breath. Is this kid crazy? It seemed very likely. Just the thought of the cigarrette falling made Iggy very hot. It didn't take much imagination to imagine the fire. He had experience. Iggy reached up and rubbed the scar of a cigarrette burn on his collarbone. Such a small portion of his skin was burned but it hurt so intensly. He tried to imagine what it was like for his entire body to feel that way but that's where Iggy's pathetic imagination reached it's limits. Maybe the kid really did have a death wish, but death by fire seemed terribly uncomfortable. Iggy's skin was burning and the contrast of the cool night air just made it worse. He unbuttoned his shirt a little bit but it wasn't enough. Iggy attacked the buttons on the cuffs of his sleeves, his normally nimble fingers fumbling. He rolled up the sleeve as high as they'd go, up to his elbows.

Iggy didn't trust the kid with the cigarrette and stepped closer, too close. He had never gotten use to judging the distances between bodies and had never needed to, Iggy being an unsocial being. Journey was the only one he hung around with and to be truthful, Iggy never stood too close on accident. He grabbed the cigarrette between his forefinger and thumb, careful not to grab the hot end. He almost pinched the kids fingers. Iggy took it from him, and took a long drag. Maybe it wasn't the smartest thing, but Iggy needed something to calm him down. It felt like they had reached a stalemate, an impasse, like in a game of chess or, more seriously, war. Iggy wasn't going to go, and the kid couldn't make him. The lack of distance between them worried Iggy, but stepping back seemed like stepping down. Careful not to scream in the kid's face, Iggy took back to whispering. A little smoke escaped with the words, "So.. what now?"

[Waddle]

Damian blinked in surprise. What was that supposed to mean? If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking, now would I? This man didn’t seem like one to ask unnecessary questions. So asking that question meant he really didn’t know. Which either meant he was stupid or couldn’t see. The lighting in the park wasn’t bad, but it was faint enough that Damian had yet to notice the fogginess in the man’s eyes. Even as Damian narrowed his eyes on the man’s own pair, he was distracted by his mouth. Involved. Such a strange word. How could some stranger get involved in this? What right did he think he had to try to stop Damian? They didn’t even know each other. They hadn’t even seen each other before, and Damian did not know that seeing each other would never happen.

How many times was this guy going to invade his personal space? Damian liked his space. Liked it very much. But he wasn’t going to step back again. That would make him seem weak. Instead, he took the opportunity to look closer at the man’s eyes. Yes, there was something strange about them…

The guy’s arm brushed Damian’s shoulder as he rubbed his chest. Why did he seems so nervous? Well, Damian did have a gun, but he hadn’t seemed uncomfortable until he had stepped close. And just why was he unbuttoning his shirt? Damian saw a small scar right on the man’s collarbone before he jerked his eyes away, looked to the side and cleared his throat awkwardly. Now it was his turn to be ill at ease. Now he did want to back down. He knew his face was scarlet with embarrassment. He gave a small, indignant cry of “Hey!”[/b] as the cigarette was ripped from his hand, his fingers almost going with it. Shaking his hand out, wincing, Damian couldn’t help but to feel small as he watched the stranger take a long breath of smoke. Ideas rushed around his brain - should he shoot the man? Simply walk away? Shoot the ground and let them both be engulfed in flames? Damian wasn’t quick to jump away from the gasoline-soaked grass. No matter if he tried, he wouldn’t make it out alive. The stranger might. He was plenty muscular and strong, even if he was blind, which Damian still wasn’t sure of.

The smoke that came from the man’s mouth as he spoke drifted to Damian, and he took a deep breath of it. Second-hand smoke worked almost as well as the cigarette to calm his nerves. He knew what he had to do. His only reply was to punch the man as hard as possible. His other hand caught the cigarette before it fell to the ground. It burned into his palm, extinguishing itself. The force of the punch had him swaying to one side, and he staggered ungracefully out of the way of the stranger in case of a counter-blow. Damian was strong in his upper body, but he could not out-maneuver anyone, and this strong, handsome stranger was no exception. Porca puttana… Did I just mentally call that guy handsome?! He knew it was the truth but now was definitely not the time to be thinking like that. Leaning on his cane, fingers wrapped around the dragon head handle, his other burned hand held close to his chest. His left leg was trembling from over-use and strain. It threatened to give way.

No. He couldn’t show weakness now. He wanted to just sit down on the ground, massage his leg and curse colorfully under his breath, but he did none of those. It was the stranger’s move. The money was in the center of the table. The cards were unknown and the players’ faces were masked. It could go any way, and yet Damian's gut was heavy in his stomach with anxiety weighing it down.[/size]

[Augustus is a SWOObat]

Ichabod never liked being hurt. It brought back bad memories. Rough knuckles connecting with his cheekbone. He staggered back. Losing his balance he landed on his hands and knees in a puddle of gasoline. A punch was the last thing he'd expected. His gasoline covered hands were already at his face. His gentle fingers probed the point of impact. It was bruising already, but not bleeding. This kid didn't wear rings, not like his dad had. Something always changed Iggy when he was hurt. It felt feral and hard to control. Pressure growing in his chest, howling to be released, but when Iggy let it go, he did very bad things. Iggy stood up, thoroughly pissed. The pressure in his chest was back. His heart was fluttering fast, like the wings of an animal that was stuck in a cage. A piercing noise gave him a headache. It was sharp and it left his ears ringing. It wouldn't stop. The screeching noise was unintelligible, but little scraps of coherent things came to him. Iggy wondered if it was just a trick of his mind, or if there was something really there, talking to him, commanding him.

Hurt.

The screeching noise climbed higher on the scale, almost beyond normal hearing capabilities. Iggy wasn't normal though, and he could still hear it fine. The increase in pitch became painful. He brought his hand to his ear and shut his eyes tight, willing the screeching to stop.

Revenge.

Iggy took a step forward, closer to the retreating kid. Would he compromise his morals to hurt the kid to make the screeching stop? No. Iggy would rather hurt.

Revenge, Ichabod. He hurt you.

Iggy's unseeing eyes snapped open, though nothing changed. Everything was still black, and it always would be. Never before had he heard a sentence. A word or two? Sure.. but Iggy had played that off as a trick of wind. Iggy's vision might not change, but the way he saw things did. This kid had hurt him. Who was he to punch Iggy? A kid who didn't know what he was doing. A kid who thought he could mess with fire and not get burned. Iggy was going to teach him a lesson. He was going to be fire, and show this child that no one could mess with him.

Ichabod kicked the cane out from under him. He'd already pieced together that the kid had something wrong with his leg. It was in the sound of his uneven footsteps, and the imbalance in which he stood. Now the cane was in Iggy's hands, he twirled it, showing the kid just how easy this was going to be. Whatever beast resided in Iggy's chest, held captive there, was going to stay there. Yes, Iggy was mad, but not mad enough to fade away and let whatever monster Iggy nurtured in his heart rip this child to shreds and consume him. Maybe Iggy wasn't the son of Dracula, but he was a monster. He smiled the smile of a demon, and brought the cane down over his knees. The sound of splintering wood broke the silence temporarily. Iggy dropped the severed cane on the floor. It clattered noisily. Everything seemed noisy. The labored breathing of the kid in front of him, his own fluttering heart, the slight splash of gasoline as he stepped closer.

He couldn't stand it any longer. He took off his shirt. It was thoroughly doused in gasoline and the stench burned his nose. The screeching was fading. Iggy was behaving- behaving badly, but that's what it wanted. He dropped his shirt on the floor. Iggy didn't care about it. He ran his gasoline-soaked hands through his hair, slicking it back. A little drop of the liquid flammable dripped down and landed on an eyelash. If Iggy could still see, if his eyes weren't useless, he'd be worried about losing his sight. The thought made him let out a breathy laugh. He was losing himself to the beast, but that wasn't what he wanted. Iggy wasn't acting like himself. He stepped as close as possible to the kid, knowing how uncomfortable it made him. Bodily contact never bothered Iggy. He was use to it.

Iggy's hand was on the back of Kid's neck. He leaned down, his lips at Kid's jugular. His mouth opened slightly,a mean-spirited grin forming. His breath tickling the skin to make goosebumps rise. He was so close it felt like he could hear the Kid's blood rushing through his arteries. It didn't make him thirsty. Iggy was no vampire, just a sick kid who had wanted to be one. He'd only bit one person, under the influence of the beast. After that incident, he policed himself, never allowing himself to indulge in the satisfaction of someones fear so up close and personal. He wasn't too close anymore.. Iggy was touching kid. His teeth gently pricking his surprisingly delicate skin. Only little children had skin like this.. It evoked a little sympathy from Ichabod.. but the sympathy renewed the screeching. The brief feeling of sympathy was smothered under an acute stabbing sensation in his ears. Ichabod was stiff, waiting for the screeching to subside to make his next move. He didn't want to bite. Wasn't that how animals killed? Iggy wanted to believe he wasn't an animal.

With a shove, Kid was on the ground. The puddle of gasoline he fell into splashed up at Iggy. It hit his chest mostly, but some splattered onto his face. It's texture was similar to blood, thick like it, but a little too oily to be real blood. It had been a too easy to knock over the ill-balanced kid. No sympathy. Iggy learned his lesson. The screeching made sure of it. Iggy got on top of Kid, one hand on his throat, the other poised to strike, fist clench, knuckles white. The fluttering in his chest grew wild and excited.. but Iggy wasn't wild or excited. He was human. In his usual soft-spoken manner, Iggy asked, genuinely curious.

"Can you give me one good reason i shouldn't hurt you?"

[Waddle]

Damian hadn't known what to expect, but this was most certainly not it. He hadn't expected to be interceded by a madman. The war going on within the stranger was obvious, and so was the fact of something terrible was about to happen to himself. A brief distracting thought that almost made him laugh crossed his mind. He would definitely have to be paid extra for this. If he got out of this alive.

In just a few moments, his cane was gone and in the hands of the stranger. Swaying to one side, Damian held up his fists in a defensive stance, though he doubted that they would help him any. This man was strong and out of his mind. That smile sent shivers down his spine, and when he heard the solid snapping of his cane, his heart fluttered. This man could probably do just the same to his spine if he so wished it. The panicked thought of flight seeped into his mind, but he knew he wouldn't get far. He hadn't run in years. He couldn't run.

It was impossible to not stare at the stranger's torso after he took off his shirt. There were scars there, so many that Damian decided he did know why this guy was crazy. Someone had thought it would be good to beat the hell out of him. Pity stabbed his heart like ice, but it grew warm as it melted, and his fists lowered. He couldn't hurt this guy, this poor madman. Sympathy kills was a lesson Damian had learned a long time ago, but it was impossible to not feel it. The stranger's demented laugh quickly banished all thought of forgiving or apologizing that had entered Damian's mind.

His breath caught in his throat when the man stepped close. Mixed emotions pounded in his skull, all fighting each other, but all agreeing that he needed to get out of the park. He was trapped. He had been trapped ever since first seeing this man. Damian knew that this madman wasn't the man in whole. The first man he'd seen had been concerned, even kind. Damian didn't like this man but it was hard to not be turned on. Goosebumps rose along his entire body; his breath was shaky but at least he was still breathing. What the hell was this man doing? It was like he knew just how to make Damian uncomfortable, like he already knew the secret that he kept hidden from the world and even from himself. Damian had never believed in vampires, and the thought of the stranger being one didn't pass his mind. Instead, he just decided that this man was hopelessly insane.

Where sympathy fails to kill, foolishness and curiosity succeed.

Damian found himself on the ground, splashing into the gasoline-soaked grass with a grunted curse. He tried to roll to one side but the stranger was already straddlig him, forcing Damian's airway closed, the other fist raised threateningly. A feeling of complete loss swept him, because he knew there was no hope. There was no one around to help him. But the main reason was because Damian didn't want to be helped. He knew he was sick, but he hadn't known he was this sick. He would gladly take blow after blow for this guy. He hadn't even tried to get away from him, hadn't tried to push him off or squirm away. Because of sympathy, curiosity and foolishness. Maybe the stranger just needed to blow off some steam. No, no, that was stupid. He hadn't been angry when he'd first come over. Damian closed his eyes and tried to focus on the stranger's question, even as he choked for breath.

"Because... Because this isn't you." Even with his eye closed, Damian could see that. Those tell-tale signs of reluctance, that small hesitation. Madman he may be but he certainly wasn't a killer. Madman he may be but he wasn't one willingly. "Hurt me then. I'm not going to stop you." There were three reasons for that. One, he knew he couldn't stop him (foolishness). Two, he didn't want to stop him (curiosity). And three, it was his fault own (sympathy). He'd thrown the first punch. Damian opened his eyes but didn't look at the man. He didn't want to see that face. He turned his head away and stared blankly at the remains of his cane. Spots were starting to appear before his eyes from lack of oxygen, but he focused on just that one place. Tension left his body and he gave himself up to his three stupid reasons. Was was the use of fighting a battle he knew he wouldn't win?

[Augustus is a SWOObat]

And just like that, the pounding urge to hurt was gone. The fluttering feeling, the painful screeching, the anger was all gone. Iggy let out a shaky laughter, very relieved. "Good answer.. " He took in air, sounding like a dry sob, and apologized over and over. How had he gotten so close to hurting this kid? He stroked the kids hair, practically petting him, with the same oil-soaked hand that had threatened to punch him. The lack of resistance was how he had been when he was young. It was all he had known, and gradually he'd gotten use to it. The fear had subsided, the anger had vanished. He accepted his life as what it was. Now that Iggy was free from that, this kid's complete acceptation of what Iggy was going to do disgusted him. How could he hurt someone so.. pathetic? He offered a weak smile and apologized once more, though he knew no amount of apologies could really convey how sorry he was. Suddenly, Iggy remembered the kid's leg and after a flurry of more apologies, he stopped straddling the poor boy. He was about to offer his hand to the boy, help him to stand up, but there was the matter of the cane. He remembered where it fell, more like he remembered the location of that distinct sound. He picked up the two pieces, touching the jagged edges. It was definitely fixable, though Iggy would have to do it at his apartment. He was handy, but he wasn't magic. He had nothing to work with, not here anyway, and Iggy really doubted the kid wanted to go to his apartment. Better to give him a choice though. "I can fix it... if you want, i mean.. Iggy's voice was getting gradually quieter. ".. we'd have to go to my apartment though.. This was where the kid vehemently opposed, and where Iggy felt stupid for even suggesting it. He felt like he had to make up for.. for what he did a moment ago. It would get the kid away from the oil-soaked park. It could make up for Iggy's outburst. It could make up for making the boy helpless. Iggy would carry the kid there if he wanted. He wasn't comfortable with leaving him on his own.

He should probably find his shirt, but staggering around to find it was too embarrassing. Iggy didn't hear where it dropped. It didn't make a sound. Oh well, the kid saw his scars already. He had probably already guessed. He'd leave his soggy shirt behind, and his chest, scarred by the past, wide open for anyone to see. It was the most trusting thing Iggy'd ever done since.. never. He didn't mind trusting the kid who could already see. Not see reality, but what hid behind it.

[Hope that last part makes sense...]

[Waddle]

The shock faded slowly, and it took several seconds for Damian to turn his head back to the stranger's face. He liked the petting... No matter how odd it felt, it was soothing. He couldn't react to the apologies, because all he could have said would be to deny them. Damian had no idea what to do, but he found it easier to both breath and think when the stranger got off of him. Damian knew what was happening - just being around the stranger was driving him crazy. Taking that rough hand, Damian struggled up and quickly pulled his hand away. After a second he managed to mumble a thanks, though he didn't understand why himself. How he wished this was just another balancing act. But more was in it than a little bit of pride that depended on whether he could stand on his own.

Several seconds passed before Damian replied, and he knew he was making a big mistake. "Umm... Sure..."[/b] Mentally hitting himself over and over, Damian pulled off his jacket and put it around the stranger's shoulders and cleared his throat awkwardly. It was cold out... and they were both covered in gasoline. He mainly didn't want to see those scars. His jacket wasn't very good at blocking out the cold but at least it blocked the sight of those scars.

"So you, umm, live at the apartments?" Damian's mind was so scattered that he would have just stared dumbly at a fire racing across the gasoline-soaked ground toward him. Damian shook his head, then wrung his hands nervously, trying to gather himself. Taking a hop or two backwards, he found it easier to breath and think once again. Recovery managed, he said, "Well, of course you do, you just said that. Sorry, I'm just..."[/b] He realized he didn't know how to explain. 'Confused' didn't cut it, and he didn't want to say something stupid like 'overwhelmed'. He he did speak again, he spoke quickly. My name's Damian, by the way."[/b]

(SO SORRY this SUCKS D: NO muse whatsoever but I needed to post.)[/size]

[Augustus is a SWOObat]

"Ichabod Caecilius Hallows. But it's just Iggy for you. Sorry about.. Yeah." Iggy was fully aware this was his thousandth time apologizing, but he also knew he'd never stop. The jacket gesture renewed Iggy'd guilt. He didn't know Damian was only doing it for the selfish reason of hiding Iggy'd grotesque body, because he couldn't see his disgusted and horrified face. Even if he could, Iggy would understand.

"I apologize in advance for this." Iggy knew Damian would hate to be helped, but honestly, Iggy wanted to get away from the death trap they lay in immediately. He scooped up Damian, holding him like an infant, pretending he weighed nothing. Iggy walked swiftly, before Kid could protest. The jacket billowed behind Iggy, and he wished he had thought of zipping it up before moving. His chest was getting cold, and he subtly used his load to warm himself up. All the heat from his anger was gone, and now he was left cold and just a little bit weaker. His head was light but he didn't let him affect him.

Throughout the entire walk to the apartments, Iggy said nothing. He didn't want to make this more awkward or embarrassing for Damian than it had to be. It didn't take him long to get to the apartments. He knew the way and he was walking fast. He turned around and pushed the lobby doors open with his back. He lifted his long leg and kicked the button, calling the elevator. He hummed while he waited, but the wait wasn't that long. The elevator ride was silent, no cheesy elevator music to interrupt it. Iggy had ripped out the speaker his first weeks in the apartments. He counted his steps, found his door, and gently dumped his cargo onto his couch. He didn't care if the couch got stained. He'd never see them.

"This might take a little bit. You wanna shower while I'm at it?" Iggy didn't know if he was uncomfortable. Iggy didn't know if offering him a shower would make it worse, or the prospect of a shower would calm him down. Iggy didn't know a lot of things. He grabbed his wood glue from the closet and set the two pieces on his counter-top in the kitchen. Iggy cleared his throat.. ".. Don't worry. I can't see you." He hardly ever admitted to being blind out-loud, but if it put Damian at ease, he would. After all, who wanted to parade around naked in a strangers home? Aside from prostitutes. Iggy laughed at the thought of a cripple prostitute. Hopefully, he hadn't just invited a $20 dollar whore into his house. He focused his attention on his task, already applying the first layer of wood glue. He never raised his eyes to look at Damian. He had learned a long time ago, that his odd habit of looking at people without seeing was disconcerting, creepy, and unsettling.

[Sorry. No muse. This is crud. Some of it doesn't even make sense. I was just so tired of making you wait... Next one will be better. Hopefully..]

[Waddle]

The only reply Damian could make was a mumbled assurance that it was fine. Normally, Damian would have reacted very differently, had someone gotten in the way of his job. The stranger's, Iggy's, almost daunting presence left him weak in the knees, unable to draw a steady breath, and scared the holy bejeebies out of him. More or less, the scaring part was caused by the first two options. Damian had never met someone who could do that to him, especially not by pinning him to the ground, threatening to beat him, and by breaking his much required cane. His feelings split his mind, but they were not warring with each other. Instead, they seemed like wide-eyed, confused people facing each other, who were supposed to fight each other for no solid reason. And that didn't make sense to him.

Being scooped up into his confuser's arms dragged him out of his mind and to the present. At first he tried to push away, a protest that wasn't anything more than a quiet moan welling up from his chest. He couldn't breath again. He was drowning, suffocating, being crushed. But by what? Was he really that cheesy to believe in all those love stories, where that happened to someone who just fell in love? No. He wasn't that cheesy. He couldn't be. He couldn't be that stupid, that foolish, and that utterly blind. Besides... weren't those love-struck feelings supposed to be good? Not like he was dying? The dying feeling should have come when the one he loved was gone. Not when he was being carried by him.

No, no, no, dammit! Damn it all! I'm not in love! What have I been smoking?!

He found himself holding onto Iggy like a lifeline, head tucked into his chest, eyes tightly shut. He didn't move away. He could feel Iggy breathing, a steady, strong rise and fall of his chest, and could hear his heartbeat, feel the blood pulsing through his torso. Unintentionally, Damian matched his own breathing with Iggy's. Also unintentionally, he began to fall asleep. Safe in a stranger's arms, comfortable with the same hands that had just been about to permanently disfigure his face holding him. Being carried God knew where. All common sense and instincts disappeared, and the end of the walk came far too early for his liking.

The prospect of showering hit him like a bullet. Out of nonsense-land and back to the real world. He was on a couch... and getting gasoline all over it. Quickly sitting up and taking his legs off the couch, he tried to reply. Like a fish out of water, his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, each time with a different kind of reply.

So he was blind. That settled Damian's nerves, if only a little. Finally he managed a calm, collected answer. "Thanks, I'll do that. Sorry for getting gas all on your couch." Glancing around, he located the bathroom, and by using just about every piece of furniture between the two places, he made it in there, shut the door, put his back to it, and sighed, sliding slowly down to the floor. Tilting his head back, he took several seconds to settle himself, to force himself back into his quiet, watchful state of mind. Thinking clearly didn't help his queries about his feelings to Iggy though. Finally, he decided to hell with it, and blamed it on too much stress and cigarettes. A dark bubble of laughter escaped his lips. Dragging himself back to his feet, he began to peel the oil-soaked clothes off himself.

Showering was as difficult as ever. The gas had soaked into his skin and was nearly impossible to get off; he probably still smelled of it once he was done. Wrapping a towel around his waist for the sake of decency, he stepped out of the bathroom and awkwardly scratched the back of his head with one hand. "I doubt you want me putting those clothes back on... Do you mind if I borrow some of yours? I'll get them back to you. Ci dispiace, amico." Apologizing in Italian seemed better than apologizing in English. That way, Iggy might just brush it aside, not knowing precisely what it meant. Damian wanted to apologize, even if it was under-handed and not near as satisfying. It was better than Iggy denying it completely, even if it was politely declined.

[screw the colors. I FOUND MUSE.]