Work Text:
“Killer,” Kid rounds the corner hard, chest heaving, a hard staccato of up-down-in-out breath that sets cloth aflutter where it hangs loose over his chest, a single hand propping himself against the doorway firmly. Dust swirls around his feet, the South Blue’s filth refusing to settle around him and tracing his steadfast strides into the makeshift room, bundles of cloth interspersing the unforgiving angles of scrap and grating rust that streaks bloody scrapes into tender skin. Killer hardly shifts from his curl in the innermost pile of blankets, soft fabric twining and whorling up around bare legs to support a lax spine.
“Let’s kiss,” he’s grinning, already on his hands and knees to trawl over the filthy floor (he knocks aside a loose screw and sends it ratcheting into the background with a clang, another casualty of his eagerness) and climb up the leisurely curl of Killer’s body in which he shelters a weighty tome. The book is pushed to the side, fingers scrabbling over thick, brown leather to snap it shut and shove it off the blonde’s lap, to allow Kid to occupy the vacancy it leaves.
“No,” Killer’s blunt, hands just as when he pushes Kid down by the shoulders, whose own hands are already wisping under Killer’s chin, greedily streaking the skin there with oily hands, bearing that signature ruddy tint that indicated the swinging of fists and whirr of metal.
"Pretty boy your boyfriend, huh?" Some kid in scuffed leather shoes with dull golden buckles is jeering at Kid, a gangly mess of a product of inbred royalty, discarded to the lesser shithole of one of South Blue's islands. He’s got a pistol tucked in his belt, glinting and clunky under an untucked shirt, hands lacking the autonomy to tidy himself.
“Putting him to work?” he wolf-whistles, one hand tucked deep in a pocket, the other curling triumphantly over the bulge of the firearm.
“What you talking like that fer, you little shit?” Kid doesn’t think of the words, just gearing up to tear him down, “Got dumped on a backstreet and suddenly think you’re hot shit? Don’t make me laugh!”
“Aw, c’mon, why not?” Kid whines, pulling up Killer’s tank from the lower hem to expose his stomach, where he lays a couple sloppy kisses between words. There’s the hint of a happy trail there, the scant beginnings of blonde hairs traveling the deep, malnourished ridges of Killer’s abdomen, and it scratches against Kid’s unadorned lip and chin as the kisses devolve into blubbering raspberries that make the skin shudder under him.
Killer withholds a snort, slapping weakly against the red head of hair buried against his stomach. “No way,” a fist right at coquelicot roots, yanking the boy away, “why the hell are you asking?”
Kid flushes at that, freckles dark on pinkened cheeks, directing his gaze to the corners and away from Killer’s unusually drilling stare, bangs having been brushed back to bare sharp eyes. “I just want to!” he snaps, fidgeting in his hold on Killer’s shirt, clasping and unclasping his fingers.
"Yeah?" Killer sneers, giving another tug. "You're a shit liar, Kid." Kid whines again at that, a long, drawn-out noise that reaches up right past Killer's ears to grate on his sensibilities.
"Yeah? And you're a--not letting me kiss you!" Kid's face screws up into a pout, legs kicking weakly and further disturbing the sanctity of the little blanket nest.
Killer presses a palm to his temples with a sigh, sliding the hand down until it slots over his eyes. The other hand finds itself in Kid’s hair, scratching soft and soothingly against the curve of his scalp.
Doruyanaika is Killer's age, maybe a year or two older, but not much more, with just about as much spunk as Kid and Killer combined, sweeping into town on the creaking wood of a pirate ship and smelling like the call of the sea. She laughs, hip-checking Killer when she walks past in the town’s only harbor. Kid pays her no mind, at least then, scrambling up behind her to duck into the bowels of the ship, thrilled. White sails with a brilliant verdant trim, emblazoned boldly in some lopsided jolly roger, dark wood and high masts, larger than any of the fishing vessels or merchant ships that bothered stopping on their island as of late.
Kid’s captivated. (Killer less so, more accurately pegged as intrigued , or perhaps more plainly, hormonal, when he seems to have caught the eye of the handsome pirate girl.)
He’s not quite old enough to be cracking skulls on his merry way down, and not quite young enough to slip through the halls unnoticed to reach the hold of the sharp and shiny, just charismatic enough to end up hauled (rather kindly) by the collar of his tank and thrown onto the docks. Here, he catches sight of a slender, painted hand curling a narrow waist, sweeping golden hair back from the filthy starching of a ragged button-up. His heart gives a little twinge, lip twitching up at the edge in tandem.
But then, Killer smiles at her. Well, not really, but his cheeks do that thing where they go a little flat against his teeth, muscle tensing a notch. Or, at least, from his distance, Kid thinks so--so he closes it, poorly feigning nonchalance as he rounds on the pair, one hand rubbing firmly at the back of his neck.
“Hey!” he barks, and yeah, poorly feigning indeed, “That ship yours?” The girl turns, grin sly and just a little top heavy, like she’s got her lips pulling up to brandish gums and quash her philtrum. Funny.
“ Mine is a little generous, kid,” she laughs in reply. Before Kid can ask why she knows his name, she leans in, presses the line of her hip into Killer’s so she can feel his hip bones through the thin fabric of her shirt against her skin, exhaling a pleased sigh and another tittering laugh and, oh, he doesn’t know what to do with the sensation of a drillbit being pressed to his organs, screwing up his intestines beneath the skin.
“You’re scowling, Kid.” Killer says, licking along the edge of his mouth in a not-grin. Kid knows what that lipstick tastes like. He’s teasing him, maybe both of them are. He’s not quite sure what to make of it, still dizzy on his feet. He likes that knife on her hip, at the very least, a long, wicked looking thing that seems to grin in its dark sheath.
“Fuck are you playing at?” He reaches over, grabs a fistful of golden hair because he knows he can, so unlike the way her languid fingers had brushed the lock back with a flighty sort of delicacy. He tugs, and Killer reaches up to pinch his hand hard enough to break skin; this is a dance they’ve had long mastered.
“Lunch,” she says, straightening and planting her hands on her hips. “Let’s go.”
Killer lets her walk ahead a few paces, watches with a flush fading fast from his throat, a sight that makes Kid’s mouth go dry, for some reason, wanting to pull that pink tint back to his skin, brush his bangs back so he can see the way it settles high on his cheeks to make his lashes look white against the warmth of his face.
Killer goes after her. Kid brings his hand up, presses the flat of his tongue to the back of his palm to lift away the blood beading there at the edge of the raw half-moons Killer had dug, iron blooming on his taste buds. He follows.
Kid’s not quite sure who starts it, when they glance up from their bowls of udon. Her bowl is making that funny ringing noise as it clatters against the hardwood, ceramic spinning in place with the force of the movement of her utensils, splashing up against her chin and drenching the front of her shirt. It plasters the cotton to her skin, and Kid can see the way it makes the hard line of her cleavage go dark through the cloth, the way Killer notices that. Kid takes a sip of the broth as he averts his eyes, finding Killer's gaze on his where he's seated beside him, the whistling sound of liquid overwhelmed by Doruyanaika's nearly feverish slurping. He nudges him, heel-to-toe, and hides an amused grin in his bowl of udon. Killer returns the cheeky gesture.
The girl must've been raised by dogs. Surely not all pirates are like this. He laughs--this is one of the greater sins, he's learned, this unrepentant expression of the wicked self, though Kid has never been quite one to follow conventions. Killer can't help himself, too, turning to press his face into Kid's shoulder and huff a wheezing breath against his arm, ffha, ffh… ha… Barely restrained, fingers coming up to wrap warmly around Kid's wrist like a lifeline. "You have to ruin everything for me, don't you, you little shit?" Killer mutters, low and breathless as he tamps down that handsome laughter of his. Their date is still elbows deep in that bowl of curry udon. Ha, ha, fuck. They can't help it, if they have to make fun of her a little.
Doruyanaika's eyelid twitches.
If Kid was right about one thing, it was that knife being wicked. There's a heft to it he hadn't expected, even as she'd jumped across the table, swinging it, still-sheathed, hard enough to send Kid plummeting, the wooden stool splintering on impact. Ouch, god, fuck. Kid can feel the blood welling up at his hairline, a toe burying itself in his rib: familiar enough.
"First lesson! Don't laugh at pirates!" The words spill through his head like oil, warped and warbling, or perhaps that's the blood traveling down the curve of his forehead to pool beneath his head on the floor and finding its way into his ears. Killer doesn't think, turning on her with his haunches raised and teeth bared--pretty as she is, pent up as he is--to haul her away from Kid. He watches from the floor as she nails him in the head with a right hook before using the handle of the knife to leverage a hard uppercut to the space between his lower ribs. There's udon running down Killer's chin, now, with an ugly little gargling hrk noise that would've been funny, too, if it didn't make Kid so damn angry from where he looks up at them, vision swimming and dappled with blank space. They're not usually faster than Killer, fuck , and I need to help him echo in his head like the dull plunk of sea-weathered boots, running a tight contrast to the way every muscle in his body seizes up with the need to fight fight kill hurt fuck you I'll kill you , as he watches Killer crumple inwards. He passes out like that, eyes still wide open, burning with something animalistic.
When he comes to, Killer's got his shirt off (score), wiping gentle around the gash opened along Kid's brow. Kid can feel the dried blood flaking off, catching in his eyebrows and resting on his lashes, the skin Killer makes each damp pass over going hypersensitive and overblown in its wake. Killer's eyes are so blue when they peer down at him, and his hair hangs pale and flavescent around his head, the limp halo of some forgotten guardian angel, relegated to this South Blue shitsack just for Kid, and he's overwhelmed with the urge to apologize, you deserve better, I'm selfish, let me give you better, just me, almost on the verge of tears. The light streams through from behind him and makes those hanging strands glow white, and, yeah, angel. He wants to reach up, brush the sanguine flecks from his tacky skin, touch Killer's face, and he makes to lift his arm before the pain hits, exploding behind his eyelids and screaming along the insides of his skull.
"Fuck!" he gasps, and Killer chuckles down at him, still cleaning out the wound. "Tha' was stupid." Killer's head bobs, pulling closer before dipping away, breath ragged, a nod of agreement. He's slurring, just a little, thinks he can taste blood in his mouth.
"Kiss me, asshole," he says. Killer snorts, ffha , wipes the back of his hand across the length of his mouth and lends it to Kid, pressing the skin against his nose. Bile, noxious and acidic, mixed with the scent of curry. "Asshole!" Kid reiterates, gagging hard enough that he jerks up on Killer's knee, setting his head spinning again. He wants to close his eyes, but it's so nice to watch Killer's eyes crinkle like that, on the verge of laughter.
"Pretty," he mutters, not really meaning to. " 'ss me anyway?" He says, blinking up at him, brain pound-pound-pounding inside his skull like it wants to be set free, oozing down past the plates of his skull. Killer smiles, toothy and rare ( double score, score all the way to infinity ), and leans down to press a kiss to Kid's hairline. Maybe his grey matter is oozing out his ears.
"Hope that gets infected," he mutters into the heated skin. Kid passes out again, managing half a grin.
The water is warm where Killer wades, Kid sitting just deep enough to let the waves lick up the hem of his shirt and trace the back of his shorts in a splotchy wet patch, darkening the coarse fabric a couple inches up and plastering it to pale thighs. There's light blooming into the sky around them, raucous in noise and color that splinters off into little streaks of gray-white that stain a sky that's just barely crept over the threshold of day, still rimmed red at the edges of the water.
He doesn’t look over his shoulder, just draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them loosely, lets his wrists mirror the cross of his ankles, all bone under too-thin skin, almost translucent under moonlight, washed over in flashes of vibrant color by the island’s celebrations. He's bruised sporadically, stretching chains of mottled red-purple spanning his ribs and over his chest where toes of the older kids manage to dig in (Killer's got a matching cord stretching up his lithe frame, too, swinging together, even if they miss). He doesn’t startle when Killer settles beside him, though, instead going slack and letting himself slump into the older’s lap with a happy sigh.
“This ‘s nice,” he slurs, tipping his head back so he can slide a little further into Killer’s space. Killer, as always, makes room for him, pulling him back to rest, unwound by the sea, against his stomach and chest. He’s got this little look in his eyes when Killer tucks his chin in to glance down, half-lidded as they are, a sparkle blinking brightly enough to eclipse the fireworks and keep Killer’s gaze fixed firmly where it is. He grunts in agreement, reaching around to knit his fingers over Kid’s where they rest on his knees.
"I wanna go to sea," he mutters, head tilted back to peer skyward and eyes narrowed to slits, "I'm gonna be King of the Pirates."
"Yeah?" Killer squeezes their knit hands, feels the give of flesh and the shifting firm of bone beneath. Kid's grown burlier these days, but his hands are still such delicate instruments, tinkering and manic. "No one laughs at pirates," Killer says quietly, bordering on whimsical in tone.
The water laps up their backs and sides, and they shiver in tandem. "Yeah."
"Then let's go to sea." and Killer flashes him a grin from beneath his bangs, those pretty, elegant lips upturned into something wild and rambunctious. Kid's heart is hammering in time with the waves, the feeling of his pulse just as distant as the touch of the water as it soaks up his strength.
“Let’s kiss?” Kid says, sleepy and round on the edges, words melting into action as he tilts his chin up and forward to meet--a palm to the lips. Killer’s heart is swelling up too big for his scrawny chest, oozing past his ribs and bursting skin with a messy pop-pop-hiss , the drip of viscera with each jackrabbit pulse. What a brat. Killer lets the night smother the heat in his cheeks and opts to cast the younger an impasse glance beneath his lashes. He shakes his head, no , and Kid slumps further in his arms with a huff.
It's a beautiful morning on the Punk , the glass surface of the ocean warped only in neat, rippling waves by the smooth glide of the vessel, just barely swaying from where she sits in the water. The captain’s quarters reflects this calm, Kid on the verge of stirring beneath threadbare sheets--not by necessity, rather choice, the shared body heat of two men making anything much thicker excessive, much to Killer’s displeasure.
“Ahh, I’m fucked,” he grumbles, watching the way the sun is just beginning to pinken the horizon from the porthole. What was it that Killer had said about something-rhythm? Damn. Killer’s still asleep beside him, head thrown back to bare his throat and let his hair splay messy around him, and that’s enough for Kid, to watch the way the sunrise paints him ephemeral. Pretty. He’s too eager, Killer hearing the way Kid’s breath hitches in his throat, eyes fluttering open in alarm before sliding shut again when landing on Kid’s too-pleased grin.
“Hey,” he coos, nosing down into Killer’s hair. Smells damn good.
“Your circadian rhythm’s fucked, Kid,” Killer mumbles in turn, too sleepy to stop himself from pressing up into where Kid bears down over him, seeking contact. He doesn’t need the control here anyway.
“Ah, yeah, that’s what it is,” Kid says, a satisfied smile settling on his bare lips. His eyes narrow to slits, content with the way Killer is arching long and lean beneath him, enjoying the way he stretches himself to the point of quivering and holds it there, trembling minutely against his captain.
“Good morning,” Killer says, voice all husky from sleep. Kid knows what that means, knows without asking, without even thinking, without taking another breath before he dips down and kisses him, slow and warming.
It’s so easy, now, even when the two of them pull away and Killer mock-gags in response to Kid’s quiet laughter. Morning breath.
“Just one more?” His grin is too brilliant in the morning, teeth glinting in low light. He likes watching Killer squint, narrowed eyes going melty for him.
“Yeah, okay,” Killer says, as if he couldn’t answer any other way, grabbing himself a full fistful of Kid’s hair to pull him back down.