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What was once anger, veiled in controlled poise, which was plastered on the halovian’s face, that then turned into shock, was now reduced to a blank, tranquil, and almost peaceful expression, as the blade of ‘Dormancy’ slid out of the man’s chest with a schlick.
Then, because he was no longer being held up by the intruding blade, the winged man began to fall. Much like a dove falling out of its nest after getting too close to the edge, threatening with squawks a dog barking up its tree.
But instead of the cold, hard, ground, it was a pair of strong, warm, arms that catches the now unconscious man. He was then brought closer to the other man’s chest, close enough to hear a heartbeat (or 52?), if the halovian was awake to hear it.
The Bloodhound sighs, breaking the silence (that he was the cause for) between them, and closes his eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When he opens them again, he finds that they’re now in an alleyway within Dreamflux Reef. He debates for a split second on how to exactly carry his ‘special package’, and when he eventually reaches a decision, he quickly changes his hold on the other man. With fast, yet almost gentle, movements, he keeps one arm supporting the man's upper back and puts his other arm that was once on the halovian’s lower back to the bend in his legs instead, and lifts.
It surprises him with how little force he has to use.
In his sleep, the halovian suddenly adjusts his head, slightly turning it to its side, seemingly to avoid his wings and halo from poking the other man's arm. And in doing so, he unknowingly ends up bringing his face closer to the man’s chest, again near his heartbeat.
The Bloodhound glances down because of the movement before starting to walk down the alley, passing by a few of those who called this place their ‘home’ or were dragged here by accident. Some were happy and content, and some were lying to themselves that they were.
And, despite of who he was with and how exactly he was currently carrying them, he didn't feel any stares boring into him. Most likely because those who were in the outskirts were usually the ones who were far too deep in the dream, or were too drunk, happy, or sad to care.
He felt a slight gratitude for that as they continued their short trek to the elevator. In the silence (save for the heavy footsteps reverberating in the alley), the fictionologist couldn’t help but keep note of how the halovian’s wings twitched every time they brushed against him as he walked down the many stairs that were in his way. Why did it matter him in the slightest? In truth, the man knew, but didn't want to admit it to himself, even in his thoughts. And so, he kept on.
Once he finally reached the elevator, the doors, though with effort, automatically open and he casually walks inside. However, he does make sure to not accidentally bump the winged man’s head (or its adornments) on the edges of the entrance.
Once he was fully inside, the doors creak and close up with a thud. And as it starts its journey up, the Hound’s gaze couldn't help but land on the absolute gigantic Clockie statue that was in front of him.
As he kept looking at it, it brought his thoughts to the Watchmaker…to Mikhail.
Then, not sure if it wss to keep those thoughts away or not, he brings his gaze down to the man within his arms.
The man that he’s spent a big part of his time within this dreamscape with, bickering, trading sarcastic remarks. But also at the same time laughing, smiling, and making him feel truly alive even with his…existence situation.
And so he thinks, that even though the halovian surely didn’t etch his name into his mind and memories as deep and in the same way as Mikhail had done, he was sure to have left a stain, one that he guesses won’t wash away for a long, long, time.
The stubborn kind of a stain. The kind of one that just won’t give up, no matter how hard you may try.
He’s brought out of his thoughts when a loud ‘ding!’ signals that they’ve already arrived at their destination.
As the doors of the elevator slowly open, he suddenly becomes aware of the two vagrants camping it, one on either side, most likely planning on robbing him dry.
To avoid any fuss, the Bloodhound decides to simply leave the elevator with his head out first. And in doing so, what he sees as he exits the elevator are the pair of vagrants, who instantly freeze up when they immediately realize who he is, so much so that they don’t even realize that the man that he is currently carrying in his arms is the infamous Oak Family Head, Mr. Sunday himself. (or, as he likes to call him, Mr. Wings)
The two vagrants scurry off and he continues his trek forward, looking for an area without many people to set the halovian down.
The people he passes this time though are much more eager to stare at him, mostly in confusion. But nevertheless, these gazes drift off of him soon enough as the people up here are actually engrossed in their own conversations with other people, and not just talking to themselves.
As he continues walking, his gaze once again returns to the man in his arms.
He observes how his body reacts as he’s getting gently shaken with every step the security officer takes. He looks at his wings and how they flutter with each bump to his chest, and feels something flutter near his abdomen.
He looks down and sees that, as the halovian’s coat had fallen down a bit from all of the movement, the wings on his waist were actually getting rocked against him as he walked. He adds another mental note about how..they’re sensitive too.
He returns to looking forward when he almost trips on a pebble.
~~~~~~~~~~
Once he reaches a spot where he could no longer see nor sense anyone around, he walks over to one of the park benches in the area and carefully puts down the other man on it.
Then, he himself sits on the bench near his head, resting one arm on the arm rest and placing the other on the back of the bench to lean his head on.
And for the nth time today, he brings his gaze back to the Oak Family Head himself, just beside him.
As he watches his sleeping figure, he hears Sunday murmur something in his sleep. Something about ‘flying’, ‘the sky’, and then eventually, ‘Death’.
It’s funny, he thinks, how ‘Death’ has managed to bring so much pain to this man, when it doesn’t really exist in the Dreamscape, in the beautiful dream or otherwise.
Likewise how he, even while being fictional, had managed to capture the mind and eyes of the highly-praised, winged man, lying motionless beside him.
Then, he brings his eyes lower, down his sleeping face, and begins to quietly observe his outfit. It was clean, pristine, neat, and overall way too pure.
In the back of his mind, he feels a flick of fire. A heat burning him from the inside.
And as much as he was a follower of the Mythus…he couldn't stop wanting to show this man to the world as he was on the inside, free from his secrets and lies. Remove the veil of mystery he covers himself with…and claw his impurity out with his own. two. hands.
Defile him in a way that will stain him as much as he has stained him. And finally wipe that goddamned smirk off of his pretty face.
But for now, he decides, that putting those mental notes to good use will have to do.
He’d always been curious about the other man’s wings, he admits. It was one of the unique parts of his anatomy that made him more ‘sacred’.
At times, he is plagued with questions about them. Questions that only he will hear in the confines of his own mind.
How would they feel under his touch? Would it be soft? stiff? Would it be hard to draw blood?
And so, he reaches out with his hand and, entirely unceremoniously, puts one wing between his thumb and index finger.
And almost immediately, the usually composed Sunday completely shivers under his touch.
This greatly amuses the Bloodhound. And a small smirk begins to ghost his face. Now having his attention piqued, he then turns his hand around, and this time uses his palm to glide across the underside of the wing, petting it up until he reaches the tip.
And soon, the still asleep Sunday was now reduced to a panting, shivering mess under Gallagher’s many feather light touches. Even his feathers have all fluffed up from all of the fluttering.
Amused, the security officer then brings his other hand down to now assault the halovian's other wing. He takes his time running his hand through it, gently gliding over the pierced studs as he passed them.
‘Now that’s somethin’ to think about, how did such a ‘pure’ figure ever wanna get piercings? Hm, I guess Sunday ain’t just one note like I thought he was,’ the fictionologist thinks to himself.
Then, he abruptly stops his barrage on the man below him and bends over slightly, his face hovering just an inch above the halovian’s pierced wing. Close enough that the feathers on it were now fluttering slightly because of the Bloodhound's breaths. He uses his hand to bring the wing even closer to his face.
And he bites.
Hard.
It’s a miracle that Sunday didn’t wake up right at that moment, only stiffening up and letting out a moan of pain.
Blood drips down the sides of his wings, but Gallagher makes sure to lick it all up. He spends a long time there, making sure to leave no traces of blood behind on the man's feathers.
Then, once he was done, he lifts his head back up, licks his lips, licking away any blood that lingered on them, and sighs contently.
“Heh, sweet as honey, and much better than any of the SoulGlad this Dreamscape will ever see. Unfortunate no one will get to taste it,” he mutters to himself, “well, except me, but do I really count?”
Not expecting a response, he leans back down on the bench with one arm on the arm rest and one on the back of the bench, satisfied, for now.
“Guess I’m really livin’ up to the Bloodhound name now, huh? Markin’ you like that. Though, a real hound probably would’ve devoured the raven with no second thoughts,’ he chuckles to himself.
Running a hand through his hair, he turns his gaze back to the sleeping man, and continues.
“I wonder how you’ll react when you see the existence of my presence on you, little angel. Will I finally get rid of that stupid high-and-mighty, im-above-you face you always have on? Take down your ‘perfect’ facade? Will you punish me? Kill me?” He laughs. “Heh, but I guess that the saying is that ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ not the Hound. And last time I checked, your name wasn’t Curiosity.”
He then brings down his arm on the back of the bench back to the pierced, and now bitten, wing. He runs his hand through it again, tracing over his bite mark.
Sunday once again shivers, and small whimpers make it out, loud enough for only the Bloodhound to hear them.
Gallagher is amused and continues petting the halovian’s wing.
And when he finds that the smile on his face is genuine, he chuckles to himself.
...Maybe the next time he makes a ‘fictional character’, he’ll keep a memento of him, he thinks in the back of his mind.
A wing there, a feather here, an eye or two (or three…four..) there. Or maybe he’ll just get two piercings on one of his ears, golden and flat, just like the ones on the man’s wings that he’s gently caressing right now.
Or maybe, in the end, he won’t do any of that. Memories aren’t his thing after all. But a thing about being a follower of the Mythus, is that even he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next, always surprising himself. Just as he surprised himself with how exactly his heart beats for this infamous, annoying, but pretty, Oak Family Head.
But he must admit, that if it had something to do with Sunday, he’s not going to say no to surprises.