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Tequila is a light far too bright for Mlynar to maintain his gaze on.
When Tequila smiles, Mlynar can already feel the twist of his lips as he has to force himself to not grimace intensely. There’s something so fake about the curve of the corner of his lips, the way he speaks in words filled with lie after lie, and how he never brings up how much of a liar he is, that is so revolting to the older one that he can’t bear to maintain a stern expression. It's moments like this where Mlynar realizes one big flaw about Tequila.
Tequila as a whole is a giant lie.
There is not one single attribute of Tequila that is truthful. From the eyesore that is his sword, to the tiniest habits like how he lets a strand of hair curl around his finger whenever he’s bored, Tequila is nothing more than a jester in Mlynar’s court.
“Mr. Nearl, you’ve been sharpening that thing for ages now.” Of course it had to be that voice.
Mlynar lets out a quiet huff as he lifts his head, meeting the younger one's eyes. With a hand on his hip, and his other gripping onto the handle of his sword, Mlynar can’t help but think of how much of a child Tequila looks like from this angle. He looks like a young knight who is filled with bright dreams, hopes about what he could become. Disgust pools at the bottom of his stomach.
The Kuranta stands up slowly, he can feel his lower back grate against his other bones like a boulder that won’t move. His grip on the sharpening stone loosens slightly, tilting his head to the side as he hears a cracking noise. Letting out a quiet hiss, he stands tall, much taller than the Perro.
The blonde dogboy stares up at Mlynar expectantly, a smile forming on his lips. Mlynar clenches his jaw, eyes narrowing slightly. There is an unresting nausea that forms at the bottom of Mlynar’s stomach, one that is not going to go away for some time. He grips the whetstone in his free hand a little bit tighter than before.
“You know,” Tequila wipes the corner of his lips with his thumb. The perro glances to the side. “When I asked you whether we could train together today or not, I was so sure that you were going to decline.”
Nearl doesn’t really know how he’s gotten himself into this situation. To be fair, standing next to Tequila makes him want to move. There’s a growing restlessness that emerges in him, his feet grow a mind of their own and itch to do something that isn’t just standing in place until he’s useful once again.
“Why is that?” Mlynar raises his brow a little, placing the whetstone in his pocket.
Tequila chuckles a little, “You seemed so peeved during today's mission. I was sure that you were going to head back to your dorm without saying a single word to me.” The dogboy’s smile gleams a bit brighter, Mlynar squints slightly in response.
When Tequila first brought up the idea of training with him, Mlynar was going to reject before he could finish his sentence. However, there was a thought that intruded in that made him second guess. Perhaps he should indulge in this, see how long it takes before Tequila eventually stops showing up and trains with someone else. Maybe he’ll get bored of all of Mlynar constantly shooting down any weak attempts at small conversation, and find some other Operator to annoy.
To be fair, the plan made sense in Mlynar’s brain, but totally backfired when it came to execution, which is something that barely ever happens when Mlynar is in charge. When the dogboy kept talking for longer periods of time after each fight, how he would walk Mlynar back to his dormitory with that same smile on his face, and each training session he would rush over to Mlynar asking him a million times whether he was ok or not over and over like a broken record, a small revelation had formed in the Kuranta’s head.
Mlynar furrows his brows, “You should’ve been paying attention to your surroundings,” He huffs. “Not on me .”
He sees it, Tequila’s smile faltering ever so slightly. The average Operator probably wouldn’t have noticed such a small detail, but when Mlynar is face to face with the Perro, he can see each detail. How there’s a lack of scars on his face, but if his eyes drift further down, he sees thin, faint lines crossing across his wrists. The pores on Tequila’s face are minimal, but still show up, reminding the older one that this man is a living, breathing creature.
There is not a single reason as to why Tequila should look so effortless. Not a single conclusion wires up in Mlynar’s mind as to why the younger male still looks like what he did pre-mission. There’s no stray hairs, no speckles of dirt still stuck to his face, and there are no wounds that have been covered up via bandages and wraps. He’s as fake as the act he puts up, and it feels all too artificial for Mlynar to continue looking at him.
“You’re staring.” Tequila remarks, there’s a light playfulness to his voice.
“Don’t switch the topic.” Mlynar replies, frowning. “You’ll get yourself killed if you’re not focused in battle.”
Tequila clicks his tongue, “You don’t have to worry so much about me.” There was a tinge of annoyance in his tone, it was barely noticeable.
Mlynar narrows his eyes, his nostrils flaring slightly. “You’re 22, act your age.” He huffed before shoving his stone into the pocket of his jacket.
“No need to get hostile, Mr. Nearl.” Tequila reassures, which only ends up making Mlynar even more frustrated. He inhales sharply, pulling his blade out carefully.
He holds the handle of his sword correctly, with a firm grip in his gauntlet. It fits perfectly in the palm of his hand, and is the same blade he’s been using for decades. It still works as new, and he’s never thought about purchasing a new one. There’s no need to change old things if they still work, anyway.
“I’m not getting hostile.” He replies.
“Mm, some would beg to differ.”
“ Tequila. ” Mlynar lets out a deep exhale, his tone is somewhat harsh.
The two share a moment of silence, which isn’t that rare when it comes to their dynamic. Sometimes, Tequila likes to shut up, and not pester the Kuranta about the littlest of things. As much of a shocker it is to Mlynar that Tequila is physically capable of doing so, he doesn’t question it, nor does he bother to look too deeply into it.
“Get in position.” Mlynar looks away from his sword, eyes moving over towards the silent dogboy. He’s met with a nod, the younger man walking towards the other side of the platform.
Rhodes Island's training rooms vary depending from place to place. This room, in particular, doesn’t have any extremely dense Arts padding covering the room from head to toe. There’s splashes of red, and black, as well as the very platform Mlynar and Tequila stand on. Clearly, this training room is dedicated to practicing your bladework. Perfect for the two of them.
“Anyway, please do not get distracted as we’re practicing like you were earlier.” Mlynar asserts, “You’ll be putting yourself at risk, again.”
“Noted.” Tequila responds, with a swish of his blade being unsheathed, the bright yellow and blues stick out like a sore thumb. It makes Mlynar squint slightly, due to how garishly blinding it is.
When Mlynar takes a grand step forward, his blade immediately collides with Tequila’s. A large ‘clang’ noise echoes around the room, reverberating from one wall off onto another. The sound is loud, piercing to one's ears. It’s a sound that is far too common in the enclosure of this particular room. The sound of metal scraping upon metal, that leaves as quickly as it enters the room. It’s a sound that Mlynar has grown used to, from his knighthood all the way till current day, present moment, where he stands.
A part of Mlynar believes that maybe this is what the universe engraved in his future for him to do. He was born into knighthood, and as much as he despises it, he can’t help but feel as if it will haunt him until he finally lowers his blade into the soil. He’s been fighting, training, thrashing his sword against others for years, decades even. Mlynar has prepared himself for every possible disaster in that handbook, ranging from the minor incidents, such as a measly child being equipped with a tiny dagger stolen from their father, to the grave dangers like the world ending.
He doesn’t like to think he’s bound by knighthood. He no longer wants to attach himself to such a label that is nothing but a dull, overused sword to him. Mlynar has firmly believed for a long time that he is just Mlynar Nearl, he’s no longer ‘Sir Nearl’. And thank heavens for that.
When he feels Tequila attempt to overpower him, the blonde kuranta plants his feet firmer into the platform. He feels his heels ground themselves deeper, brows furrowing slightly as he stares into the dogboys eyes. Blue, he notes. They’re not a deep shade of blue, but rather they remind Mlynar of the packaging of candies he used to shop for back in Kazimeriz. Maria was a big fan of them, however, the older Nearl never bothered to purchase them for her. His stance on candy was that small increments of it were pushing a boundary that was set knees deep into thick water. Tequila’s eyes are teal, almost. They’re also far too light in color, as if he were dead.
The blonde dogboy widens his eyes a little, a look of surprise while fighting back with a similar, but weaker strength. His knuckles tightly wrapped around the handle of his sword. The older kuranta male tightens his grip on his sword slightly, preparing himself for his next move. Mlynar stares him down, before giving his all and slamming the perros sword to the ground, bringing Tequila along with him.
“Gah–!” Tequila grunts as his body hits the ground, his sword clattering against the floor. Sweat trickles down Tequila’s cheeks as he heaves, already catching his breath as he props himself up on his elbows. There’s a look of defiance, slight anger, a taste of disappointment lingering in the air as Mlynar points the edge of his blade against the younger male's chest.
“Shit.. Have you gotten stronger ever since the last time we trained together, Mr. Nearl?” The blonde man wipes his forehead with his sleeve, letting out a chuckle paired with a smirk. Mlynar doesn’t laugh alongside him. Tequila is a terrible comedian.
“We’re here to spar, not to chit chat, if you’ve forgotten.” The edge of Mlynar’s lip curves downwards, almost disgusted. A click leaving his tongue as he walks back to his side of the platform. Mlynar does not care enough to help Tequila stand back up. He’s grown, he can do that by himself.
“This time, I want you to work on preparing yourself for rebuttals against your attacks.” Mlynar states, turning around to face Tequila. It’s always been him, standing at the other side. The older Kuranta male barely gets time to train with other Operators, all because of this idiot blocking his schedule. It pesters him, having to write “Tequila” five separate times on his timestamps. His codename alone makes him frustrated.
Now thinking about it, he’s never really gotten the chance to know what Tequila’s real name is. Tequila knows his, so does everyone else on this landship, considering Mlynar had refused to pick a codename. But after all this time, the older male can’t help but ponder about something particular. A man who presents himself so openly hasn’t even given him his real name yet, despite all the time they’ve spent together. Mlynar would have assumed by now he would be given it, but he supposes not.
The kuranta’s eyes narrow into sharp slits, catching a glimpse of a fluffy tail dashing like a brazed bull from one end of the platform to the other. He notes how Tequila goes around him, swiftly, almost like he’s running away from Mlynar. Nevertheless, if Mlynar was an unskilled man, he would have thought Tequila intentionally missed his attack. However, he’s not. He got used to these types of surprise attacks, especially from this perro, who seems to love surprising him.
The split second of a spark doesn’t lose itself from the corner of Mlynar’s eye, speedily pushing his body around before bringing up his own sword to protect himself from the incoming sword diving into his. The older male lets out a grunt as his shoulders tense up. Catching the look of a stare filled with raw determination, Mlynar grips onto the handle of his sword, pushing it deeper into the blade of Tequila’s sword.
“You–”
Mlynar doesn’t let a single word slip past Tequila’s lips beyond that point. He pushes his sword further into the air, slicing it through as the dogboy’s back harshly hits against the ground, letting out a loud wheeze when his body makes contact with the platform. Mlynar lets out heavy pants, grip on his sword loosening slightly as he feels beads of sweat drip down his cheek. He feels his chest rising, and lowering beneath fabric, his keen eyes sharpening once he sees a wave of blonde hair rising.
The Kuranta tenses his body up, blade shining in the midst that is all happening at once. His brain feels programmed to repeat the same actions over and over. He works from morning till night, not sure of what goals he’s trying to make, or what's the purpose of these deadlines he’s been stricken upon. He hasn’t questioned his purpose in a long time, because in order to do so, means you’d actually have to have the free time to do so.
Mlynar’s gauntlet tightens around the handle, parrying to avoid Tequila’s incoming swing as it crashes down onto the older males. Pressing his knee further– despite complaints from the medics stating he shouldn’t press his joints too hard, in risk of fractures, or worst, life-lasting injuries– Mlynar feels his blade claw into Tequila’s glimmering, cheap appearing one. The metal slices across the room, crushing into one another.
“I’d say,” Tequila says, pulling his sword away before bringing it down like a tsunami. Mlynar, if he were an unskilled man, would’ve faltered at that moment. Fortunately, he lifts his sword back up, letting out a growl as he hears the metal collide against one another. “I think I’ve gotten better.”
It would be a total waste of training, effort, and time, if Tequila hadn’t gotten better. Mlynar thinks to himself, but doesn’t let the thought linger for long. Moving his blade back a little, he slams into Tequila’s sword with a greater force. He hears a thin, surprised gasp leave Tequila’s lips, and takes this as a chance to bring him down.
With Tequila’s sword spinning in circles against the ground, Mlynar can see cracks between Tequila’s not so blank gaze, how his sea foam-colored eyes flicker with rage, and something else that Mlynar can’t quite pinpoint.
“Good one!” Tequila says with a forced smile upon his mouth, the curve of his pink lips twist upward as if someone were holding the two up. He is being pushed towards the spotlight, made to play a role. Mlynar is just the audience, watching him slowly crumble to stage fright.
Mlynar narrows his eyes, wanting to bring up how fake the dogboy’s smile appears to be right now, but his words die in the saliva of his tongue. He shuts his mouth, loosening his grip on his blade. The older male lets out a sigh, his lungs making his voice sound like a gentle wheeze, almost.
“I don’t need praise, Tequila. You and I both are aware of that.” Especially not from someone like you , he had the burning desire to add on, but sealed his lips tightly. To anger someone with a weapon in hand was an incredibly stupid choice, one that only overconfident amateurs would make. Mlynar has always preferred resorting to nonviolent ways of resolving matters before descending his hand to clutch the handle of his blade, no matter how annoying the other person may be.
Tequila lets out a snort, “Sorry, I forgot. But still, it’s always good to compliment another's hard work, especially when they deserve it!” His voice is as chirpy as a songbird. However, it is less melodic than the tune of one singing.
Mlynar takes a moment to inhale deeply, before letting out his breath into the world. He turns his head over towards Tequila, who’s struggling to get up off the ground. His legs are shaking ever so slightly, and one of his hands is extending to grasp onto his sword which was discarded a couple of seconds ago.
The Kuranta turns around, not wanting to see the pitiful sight, “You once again managed to distract yourself during a battle.” He lets out a small grumble, shaking his head lightly while eyeing the shiny metal of his blade.
He’s panting slightly, breath is a tad bit uneven from how much effort he put just into two practice battles. “Haven’t I told you from time to time that trying to disturb your enemies mid-fight only works for some and not for all? It feels like you’re not listening–”
There’s little time to think, little time to come up with a reason, and an answer to a sudden attack. There’s a million things that rush through Mlynar’s brain like sidewalks crossing paths, before diminishing entirely. His brain keens onto the present, where a sword is clasped into the palms of his hands, the shine of metal sparking like it’s prone to starting a fire. Mlynar has seen it all. He’s seen the corpses of allies, foes, the in between, those who shouldn’t have been involved at all, and the plants that wilt underneath his feet. One comprehensive, simple thought elicits reactions in his nerves.
Letting his guard down around this man is a crucial mistake. He should treat him like he’s incohesive article that’s due next week, something urgent to deal with.
Mlynar, despite his current dilemma, pulls his sword upward, watching as the dogboy in front of him twists his wrists around to tauten his grasp upon the handle of his own blade more. He feels his teeth grind against one another, letting out a sharp gas as he raises his slightly pained, but not injured, knee to shove into Tequila’s stomach.
A wheeze escaped the blonde male’s lips, just as Mlynar pushed him to the ground. He didn’t take more than a lull in a conversation to press the tip of his blade against Tequila’s pulse.
“You crazy-” Mlynar grunts, words don’t come out as quick as he wants them to when his ankles suddenly go weak on him. His eyes widen, face slammed into the platform as he lets out a hiss.
The Kuranta male looks up, feeling his back ache as it presses into the ground, propping himself onto his elbows with haste. He catches the sight of Tequila, who has come to be immaturity personified to Mlynar, trying to pull himself onto his two legs. Despite his age, and how his bones would certainly need a visit to the medical department after this session, Mlynar was strong willed in most ways. One of these ways happens to be against people who are too foolish, too filled with pride to realize the strength of their opponent.
Bastard, that’s all Mlynar thinks of when he stumbles to his unsteady feet, a heavy stomp meeting Tequila’s chest while a strangled groan rumbles throughout the room. He should care about injuring those younger than him. He should have done a lot of things a long time ago.
“Do you think you’re better than everyone else here, Mr. Mlynar?” Tequila’s fangs flash like the rays of a blazing sun during a hot summer day into Mlynar’s, so much weaker, eyes. The older male grimaces slightly, face contorting into one of mild disgust and frustration. He can see the younger one's ego oozing out of him, melting into the floor and holding the both of them down.
“Bullshit.” The dogboys' grin twitches at the corners as Mlynar keeps his heel pressed onto Tequila’s weak spot, the very middle of his chest. “You think your status as a knight carries over to the rest of Terra? You’re just an old prick who thinks he’s the shit.”
He can feel the young male's heartbeat through leather, skin, muscle, to the tiniest molecular compounds. It burns through it all, leaving Mlynar’s heart pumping blood faster than it can process air. Mlynar can feel his eyebrows furrowing as a headache begins to form again. He clenches his jaw.
Tequila, or if he can even refer to him as Tequila at this point, twists into a person that punctuates spots he covers up with cheap tape, and cardboard. Spots that he knows shouldn’t be there, but still stand out like a sore thumb. It’s not scary, it’s not terrible, it’s not annoying, it’s all too confusing to someone who thought he was wiser when it came to situations like this.
The Kuranta thinks about the knightly mannerisms handbook he was forced to repeat in his head for years. It never goes away, no matter how hard he shuts his eyes and tries to wash it away, like a stubborn stain. He thinks about how irresponsible it would be of him to stomp onto Tequila’s chest again, watch as the air leaves his lungs, or see how fragile hands would wrap around his shoes in a feeble attempt to save himself.
“I am not a knight, I haven’t been one in a long time. You are very well aware of this, Tequila.” Mlynar’s voice is teetering onto whatever composure he has left. He is a respectful individual with a reputation to uphold.
Tequila’s eyes bear a brightness that sears through the walls of the room, making the rest of Rhodes Island seem blurry to Mlynar. Weakly attempting to stare back with a similar, yet quickly faltering intensity, the oldest Nearl lefts out a huff as he narrows his eyes by a small degree. His head booms against the walls of his skull, pulse leaving him almost breathless as he sucks in a hot, and queasy breath that trembles. Mlynar can barely process which one of his fingers is twitching to grip at his blade, and whatever is left of his rightfulness to keep him from turning into crisp.
“Sir Nearl–”
“ Quiet. ” Mlynar’s anger flares up, stomping once on Tequila’s leg. The younger male hunches over, voice letting out a painstaking croak. He left that title buried six feet under, and had no plans of resurrecting it.
“Haah, Sir Nearl, what a shitty title. I guess it fits for a man like you.” He’s still smiling. It’s not fake, it’s not real, Mlynar can’t decipher what it is and it makes him indescribably aggravated.
“Silence, Tequila!” Mlynar’s voice unconsciously raises in volume, stomping on Tequila's chest again. He leans down, gripping the younger male by the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer. Their breaths mix into a toxic fusion of what smells like mint, and something else Mlynar can't quite pinpoint.
“You’re a coward, Mlynar!” Tequila furrows his brows, his fist swings at a speed indescribable to Mlynar. He hears cartilage crack, his pulse is beating a pace it shouldn’t be for a guy his age. Nearl widens his eyes, something dislocated, maybe even broke. But, there’s not a single remnant of Mlynar that can get himself to pull away.
The blood drips down his face onto Tequila's perfect and delicate face as he hovers his hand over his neck. He’s stronger than the guy underneath him, both of them are well aware of that. Mlynar, out of all people, knows that. There’s an alarm that goes off in Mlynar’s head, ringing how dangerous this situation is, and how much of a bad idea it is to move an inch closer.
“I’m a coward?” Mlynar’s lips curve into a snarl, one of disappointment, almost. “You swarmed me while I was in the midst of giving you well thought advice-”
“Well thought my ass!” Tequila sharply growls, rage beginning to paint his face. His hands– softer, clean-looking, and an additional layer to the false identity that is Tequila– creep onto Mlynar’s wrist, struggling to push it away from his neck. Not a single lie can mask the fear that is coursing through Tequila’s stare, when he looks at Mlynar like he’s an undefeatable foe on the battlefield.
Truth be told, Tequila crying about how Mlynar was this, or Mlynar is that, only makes the oldest Nearl think about enemies he’s fought, and how they would plead endlessly. Mlynar has a family, they have a family, it would be wrong of him to throw a father, a mother, a guardian, into jail because they broke the law once. He should hold empathy, he should do this, keep that, oh heavens, he’s so tired from it all that he didn’t even realize how his knees have dropped to the sides of Tequila’s hips. The sickening feeling in his stomach doesn’t rest, all he sees is a fearful manchild in front of him, with a severely lacking presence of the once joyful Operator he never really knew.
“You never praise me, you never say anything remotely nice about me! It’s always,” Tequila manages, “‘Oh Tequila, you can’t do this!’ Or, ‘Tequila, you have to work on this’-- You hypocrite! You’re a hypocrite, that’s what you are! Do you think you’re untouchable? You never listen to me!”
“Cease this talk, Tequila!” Mlynar uses his other hand to slap Tequila from one cheek to the other, a red mark printing itself nicely on his now, not so untouched, skin. “Don’t tell me this is why you lashed out today. Are you so desperate for attention from those around you that you almost slice me in half just to be complimented?”
“A knight is supposed to-”
Mlynar moves both of his hands to grip onto Tequila’s shoulders, bringing him up before slamming him on the platform. “I’m not a knight anymore.” He widens his eyes with a rage that has begun to arise.
Tequila’s skin ignites flames on Mlynar’s skin, a burning sensation that feels too hot to steady his hands on for long. Everything about Tequila is too hot, in the worst ways. He’s a star that’s ready to explode at any second, every time he breathes, it’s almost like he’s preparing to burst at the seams. He’s the lamp that Mlynar turns off, but its glow still leaves a faint warmth in the room.
He screams, Tequila screams. They’re both screaming at one another, sentences that are a jumbled mess of words and thoughts that aren’t put together. The dogboy thrashes beneath him, his hands reaching up to grip at the collar of Mlynar’s freshly ironed shirt, the other yanking on his tie violently. Mlynar’s pupils dilate just by a margin, letting out a gasp before pushing his hand down onto Tequila’s throat.
They were ruined from the start. Mlynar should have never accepted such an invitation, he should have always pushed him away, left him in a dark room where he could inevitably burn out. Why why why , there’s doubt that burdens that bottom of his stomach, a realization that this problem is something he can’t quite hold in the palms of his calloused hands. He’s no therapist, and he’s certainly not a meditator. He’s far from a warrior, and is a long mile away from a fluttering dove at the end of a battle.
The younger blonde male is squirming relentlessly underneath him, even if his efforts are in vain. Mlynar’s brain isn’t thinking right, he knows that, they both know that. They’ve both gone mad, in a place far from Terra where rules and morals don’t seem to apply to either of them anymore. The Kuranta feels his fingers clench just by an increment, a pant leaving the young ones lips. He’s holding him tightly, tight enough to hurt and temporarily cause a restriction in his airflow, but not tight enough to crush his arteries.
He’s reaching up for his tie, Mlynar swings a punch, Tequila weakly swings one back. It’s a repeated cycle that continues while Mlynar watches the man below him shatter. His glass facade is breaking, and he can’t tell if the blood that’s on Tequila’s face is his own or whatever is coming out of that dogboy. Good heavens, is Tequila a Terran? Mlynar thinks he’s an anomaly, like those Seaborn his fellow Iberian co-workers won't stop talking about. Blood pools at the corner of Mlynar’s mouth, drizzling like gold.
The Kuranta strikes Tequila’s eye, leaving a nasty bruise that’ll stay for a while. The red blooming against his tanned skin. He lets out a hiss, mouth twisting into a deep frown.
Tequila coughs, spurts of blood splattering onto Mlynar’s face. “Wuss.” He spits a glob of spit, mixed with a red liquid onto Mlynar’s jacket.
“Pest.” Mlynar digs a punch straight onto Tequila’s cheek, the dogboy underneath him writhing in pain as his hold on Mlynar’s collar drops to his wrists. His fingers barely wrap around Mlynar’s wrist, shaking like he’s freezing. Mlynar’s hand stays in place, like an unmoving statue.
The first tear wells up in Tequila’s eyes, blurring with all the blood and other injuries across his face. He’s a mission gone wrong, he looks absolutely filthy. Mlynar feels his breath still, eyes narrowing. It doesn’t make sense, it’s all illogical. He should have tossed that handbook a long time ago.
The oldest Nearl hasn’t thought about what a heartbeat feels like when you come across one specific person, nor has he felt such a strong emotion in a long time. He hasn’t thought about his old knightly friends, or where they’ve gone off to. He doesn’t think about his co-workers, or their after work shenanigans. He goes places, and leaves them once his purpose is fulfilled. Mlynar doesn’t bother himself with who said this, and who will say that. Gossip gets you distracted, gossip gets you taken out, and replaced with someone more competent.
Tequila tastes like sweet candy mixed with iron, probably the blood rushing into his tongue as hot globs of tears stream down his face. There’s a ghostly remains of strawberry that blends between it all, and it’s severely intoxicating. Mlynar feels like he’s going to pass out, with hands gripping onto his hair for dear life. It sends a wave of pain through the roots, slowly numbing as time goes by. His own hands find themselves dancing on Tequila’s waist, burying the two of them deeper than they ever were. Beyond six feet under, they’re in hell, burning together.
He’s fantastic, unfortunately. He’s so good it makes Mlynar want to take this moment and incinerate it so he’ll never have to recollect about it again. His tongue pushes onto the older ones, and Mlynar engulfs it. He’s consuming him whole, to a point where there is no boundary between what is him versus what is Nearl. Tequila lets out a choked sob as he brings his mouth closer to Mlynar’s. They’re impure, both have their hands filled with the redness of one another. It’s slathered all over them.
Mlynar is the one who parts first, a thick string between his bottom lip–which is now bleeding, he doesn’t remember when Tequila bit the pink flesh– and Tequila’s lips. He’s still crying, hiccuping in between as a whine echoes across the room. Mlynar’s head falls forward onto Tequila’s chest, which feels like nothing but bone.
“..You’re the worst person.” Tequila murmurs, voice completely ridden of all its earlier bravado. He’s not Tequila anymore, that’s for sure. The oldest Nearl lifts his head slightly, using the last morsels of his strength to stay upright.
His face is filled with tears, blood, spit, and sweat as his bangs stick to his forehead. Iron stinks up the room, and Mlynar’s vision is slightly blurry. He’s heaving, unable to understand what just happened.
“..I hate you, Mlynar Nearl.” The dogboy’s tone doesn’t sound like raw unfiltered hatred, nor does it sound like he’s joking. It’s a mixture of something Mlynar can’t digest. His voice cracks between the edges, the heat warming them both up indescribably. “I want you dead.”
Mlynar heaves on top of Tequila, eyes shutting as his head slumps onto what he’s pretty sure is the younger male's collarbone. He can’t bear to keep them open for long, and for some reason, Tequila is still as warm as he was a couple minutes ago, or however long they’ve been stuck here for. He almost vomits, feels a harsh slam on his lower back and coughs violently as if he’s been smoking for decades.
Tequila is a diminishing light that Mlynar covers with the palm of his hands, slithering through the narrows. Mlynar thinks about the sun, and opens his eyes just a bit.
Tequila burns him in a way he’ll never be able to understand. Maybe that’s for the better.