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Post by Vital Larkane Sage on Nov 1, 2012 1:29:16 GMT -6
[/font][/size][/ul] I don’t need your condescending  words about me looking lonely WORDS: 0736 TAG: alek OUTFIT: HERE ONE LAST THING: OHAI. :D Vital had moved his precious little Narcissa to a place he deemed safe enough for now. It would not stay that way, he knew, and would have to act fast at better disposing of her. Maybe he'd drop her in the water at the quarry. No one would find her there. How to get her there, though, was the issue. He would think it over in the next day or so and get a better plan. For the time being, he was enjoying the high he got from being able to take another's life. He only half-assed it with his appearance after having changed quickly. His curled hair was messily thrown up in a pony tail, and he had ditched his coat to lay on the ground a few yards away from where he was burning the clothes that he had been wearing. Vi had not had a chance to wash the blood off his hands, or the splatter of blood across his face and neck. It was a bit itchy, but he would deal with it later. He was not worried about anyone seeing him. After all, it was well after dark on a cold, November night when the world was just hit by a storm that had the school in darkness. Vital was on cloud nine. "Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day," Vital sang to himself once again as he sat down on the coat he had placed on the ground. He was a bit cold with the sleeves of his tunic pushed up past his elbows, but the heat from the fire was enough to keep him from freezing. He had added some documents and other things that were incriminating from his dorm to the blaze, figuring that while he was destroying things, he might as well do away with those things. He did not need them after all. Vital's gaze lingered up on the stars he could see through the trees above him. He silently counted and named each one he saw, smirking as one that seemed to flicker reminded him of the deceased little star he had just gotten to play with. She really should have learned to watch her tongue. Such dirty words were saved for those who deserved it, women like his star had been. He could spend hours out there alone, just studying the stars, and never get bored. It was difficult to be bored with such a high coursing through his system. It was better than any drug, better than sex. If he wanted to, Vi could easily get off from it, but there were other things on his mind at the moment. His Rainbow Brite needed sanitized. It was tainted, now, and that would just not do at all.
Tally was not sure how long he had sat there when he heard the tell-tale sound of footprints in his direction. "Piss," he mumbled, quickly pushing down the sleeves of his tunic before tugging on his coat. He shoved his hands in the coat pockets, though it did not do anything to mask the blood drops on his face, however that could be explained from a bloody nose or something. The blood on the ground a few yards away, just outside the brightest part of the circle of light his fire made, though, was more than a bit alarming. Vi slipped Rainbow Brite up the sleeve of his coat, though, carefully slipping it open in case he needed to do away with whatever person was heading his direction. The teen absently wet his lips before clearing his throat and speaking in a well-practiced, thrown voice that sounded very much feminine, "Who's there?" Vi almost smirked in amusement at how innocent he could make himself sound. His eyes darted around him, though, as he tried to see where the other person was. It was difficult to tell with the way the wind carried sound, though Vi knew the other person was close. Maybe it was just Yony, who would no doubt bitch that he had not been invited to Vital's little game. Vi did not really care, though. He could keep his panties in a twist about it. Vi had not planned his little outing, nor did he always want the other teen's company. He was still very much a solo worker, the other teen's ownership be damned.
i don't need your arms to hold me
Because misery is waiting on me |
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Post by Aleksandr Ilyich Morozov on Nov 1, 2012 14:18:00 GMT -6
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two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl  tagged for: Vital - 1050ish - wish you were here by pink floyd
The meeting had gone swimmingly: they'd only had to dump one body into the quarry water. Aleksandr liked working with the Russian Mafia. They were always so respectful, and sympathetic to his cause. Beyond that, these were recent inductees, more easily swayed in their allegiance. They could be useful for information. Too bad Vdovushkin couldn't keep his damn mouth shut. Aleksandr had liked Vdovushkin. He seemed like a good kid, with sort of a good head on his shoulders except for the mouth. The friendlies hadn't been crazy about Vdovushkin, however, and so Aleksandr did not regret his decision to 'let him go'. His hands had stayed clean, in any case. The only ones who had ever needed to so much as touch Vdovushkin had been his own Mafia brothers. Dasvidaniya, Vdovushkin.
Aleksandr regretted not being able to give the kid a proper sending off. But, they had been in a bit of a hurry, and his job there was done anyway. Greeting new Anarchist brothers personally was one task that Aleksandr honestly never tired of. He loved to see the new flames in their eyes--- that revolutionary spark that burned so brightly inside of him.
Aleksandr stopped short. He'd been taking a little short cut to the place where he'd left his car, through the forest, partially for reasons of efficiency and partly because he wanted to clear his head before returning to school. He could hear singing. There was blood nearby. Burning blood. Aleksandr could smell it. Someone was up to no good, and Aleksandr's savage spirit wanted in on a bit of the carnage. Aleksandr's rational mind told him that he should not get involved in any more violence for one day. Aleksandr's forgiving heart told him that the person he saw by the fire was in need of a little assistance. He was doing it all wrong.
"Who's there?"
"A friend." Aleksandr said, without hesitation, stepping out into the light. "Hello, Vital. I think we have a few classes together." He allowed the other boy a brief flash of a smile. By a few classes, he meant that they basically had every class together. He was already slipping on his 'work' gloves. "Tsk tsk, Vital. That's not how you hide a body in the frost. You've got to drain the blood first, and then preserve the body in the ice so that they have no way of telling how long it has been out here when the ice finally melts. It's common sense."
Because he was feeling charitable, Aleksandr took the coat off his own back and handed it to Vital. "Put this on, we'll have to burn your coat." He stepped over to the decently well concealed corpse and pulled it out of hiding. "Clever, disguising her with the natural colouring around here. Very clever. But, too obvious for a trained professional. But, if you drain the blood, not even the dogs will find her." Aleksandr tied the body up by its ankles and strung it up from a tree. He make a decent sized gash in its throat in order to allow the blood to drain out quickly. He checked his watch--- a Rolex, given to him as a gift by one of the Bratva. This should take about ten minutes, given that the corpse was still relatively fresh.
When the body had been sufficiently drained of its fluids and was prepared for storage, Aleksandr untied it and dragged it by the ropes over to a decently large patch of frequently re-frozen snow and ice. "She'll keep well here. This doesn't look like it will thaw until late spring, at the earliest." Aleksandr spoke in an instructional tone, like he was teaching to a class of particularly criminal and insane students. "And, when she does... well, she'll look fresh. It'll be like she was killed recently, and they'll have no way of placing a date on her death. It's kind of beautiful."
The body now properly concealed and disposed of, Aleksandr turned his attention to Vital's clothes. He let out a sigh. "No no, this wont do. They will find the fibres from your clothing left in the ashes. You'll have to burn them better than that. Stay here and I'll get some gasoline." He started to go, but then turned back around, and as an after-thought, handed Vital his scarf too. "Here, stay warm. I'll try to be quick."
Aleksandr didn't know why he'd needlessly involved himself in another person's kill. But, the fact was he was too deeply involved now to back out, and even if he had the opportunity he wouldn't have taken it. There was something about Vital that he'd found himself attracted to in some strange, twisted way since that day in September when they'd been partnered up for a project in Creative Writing. He'd not really gotten to know Vital then, but he'd had his suspicions about why the pretty boy was at St. Helena's. Now, his suspicions had only been confirmed, and then some, but he couldn't say that he was disappointed. It would have been lonely, being the only killer on campus. From the looks of that last kill, Vital wasn't nearly as experienced as Aleksandr was in the disposal of his victims, so Aleksandr highly doubted that the other boy was a serial killer like he was.
The trip over to the petrol station was quick, and Aleksandr made it back to Vital in record time. He was pleased to find that his little friend hadn't decided to run off. That made things much easier. "Here." Aleksandr handed Vital a change of clothes that Aleksandr had learned to carry around over the course of his revolutionary career. "They'll be a little loose, but it's best to be safe."
After Vital had divested himself of his bloody clothes, Aleksandr handed him a packet full of baby wipes to take care of the rest of the blood on his body. Then, he gathered Vital's bloodied clothes into a pile, doused them in gasoline, and lit them up. Fortunately, they were in little danger of starting a forest fire at this time of year. But, Aleksandr had created a little fire pit formation with rocks just in case. The clothes burnt quickly, and then the evidence was gone. Erased. And, all of the world felt cleaner for having been rid of it.
They would take Aleksandr's car back to school. It wouldn't look suspicious if they made a last minute trip to Starbucks. Then they could say that they'd been studying all evening, and no one would be any the wiser.
"I forgot to ask... did you finish that poem we had to write for Creative Writing?" Aleksandr said, turning back from the fire to face Vital. He concealed a grin as he took in the sight of Vital in those clothes. He was devastatingly cute in the low light of the dying fire, or maybe that was just the killer's high talking. Aleksandr certainly hoped it was.
oh how we found the same old fears TEMPLATE BY BROOKE~ |
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Post by Vital Larkane Sage on Nov 3, 2012 15:32:06 GMT -6
I don’t need your condescending words about me looking lonely WORDS: 1156 TAG: alek OUTFIT: HERE ONE LAST THING: OHAI. :D Vital's brow rose when he was told the other person was "a friend". He did not have friends. Hell, not even Yony was his friend. Yony was just someone he tolerated. Vi's gaze settled on the familiar teen that stepped into his line of sight. Vital smirked a little in amusement. He could not exactly remember the other teen's name, it was not something that he had felt was worth putting to memory. He rarely took the time to remember peoples' names, and the only reason he could recall Yony's was because the boy's name was fairly completely unique. He had never heard even a variation on it before. "Hello, Vital. I think we have a few classes together." If memory served him right, the other teen was vastly understating the number of classes they had together. He was fairly sure there was only two that they did not share. "Well, it seems you have done well to remember my name," the blond boy said with an amused smirk, flicking the fringe of his hair out of his kohl lined eyes, "but I cannot seem to remember yours." He thought it started with an "A", Adam or Alex or something. Vital simply sat silently as the other teen decided to give him a lesson on how to better hide a body. Well, then. Maybe this boy had more use than Vi had originally given him credit for. He did seem to know exactly what he was talking about, and he moved with an ease that was vastly intriguing to watch. Vital could not help but wonder how he had learned what he knew, and found himself wanting to know more about this boy. He could benefit from it, himself; and, everyone who knew Vital knew that basically everything he did was self-serving in some way, even if that reason was not always apparent to begin with. "What is wrong with my coat? There's no blood on it," Vi questioned as he stared at the other teen's coat after it had been handed to him. He could tell that the thing was going to end up being too big just by looking at it, and it was definitely not something he would choose to wear on his own. No, he liked things of a different style. However, seeing as the other teen seemed to be greatly knowledgeable about how to hide a murder, better than he was, which Vital would admit without hesitation. After all, there was no harm in admitting someone knew more than you did, especially if you could benefit and learn from it. It did not happen often, though. Vi was much superior to pretty much everyone. After a moment, though, Vital shrugged off his own coat before pulling on the other teen's. It was big, as he had predicted, but it was quite a bit warmer than his own, as well. That, Vital could not really find a problem with.
"There's always something beautiful in death," Vital commented with a nod and a smirk. A person's dying moments were when they were the most beautiful. Everyone was beautiful in those last seconds of life, when that light left their eyes and the darkness took over. If only people could hold that sort of ethreal beauty all the time. Vi might not be so repulsed by them. Maybe. Possibly. There was a slight chance, anyway. "If only, if only, the woodpecker sighed..." the blond teen said in sing-song under his breath, lost in the wind that blew through the trees and added to the cold night's air. Tally was not all that fond of this young man telling him to stay like he was a dog or something. Did he appear to be someone that would just take commands? No, Vi would make sure that the other teen knew never to do something like that again. If he did not get distracted before the other young man returned. Vi just arched a brow slightly as his "friend" turned back around and passed off a scarf as well. "This won't be necessary." Vi was warm enough without wearing another one of the other teen's clothing. It was just odd to him, and he was not all that fond of wearing other peoples' clothing, never had been. It typically made him sneer at the idea alone, finding himself thinking on the ridiculous habit his mother had of wearing his father's button-down shirts around the house. Disgusting. Pathetic little thing was so blinded by the gifts he gave to her to realize that he was having an affair with multiple people. Vi would never fully trust a man, never enough to not do something like that; and, if by some mircacle he did get into a lasting relationship, and the guy was foolish enough to sleep around on him, Vital would make sure he could never sleep with another person ever again.
When his "friend" returned, handing him another change of clothing, Vital's brow rose yet again, and he was completely distracted from his earlier plans of making sure the guy knew to never command he do anything. For the time being anyway. It was highly likely Vi would remember at a later moment and strike out without warning. He had no issues stripping down and changing into the clothes that were much too loose for his tastes. It did not even look like he had a shape underneath them. Scrunching his nose up slightly in distaste, Vi used an elastic band he had around his wrist to tie his hair back with to bunch the shirt at the side and tie it so that the t-shirt was more form fitting. There was really nothing he could do about the bottoms, though. He felt trashy and it was not a good thing in the slightest. Vi did not bother with the baby wipes, though. He had no plans in going to somewhere public, so why should he? The closest thing would be to the dorms, and no one would be up when he made his way in to take a shower. Vital took a moment to tighten the elastic already tying his hair back in a messy pony, before he looked toward the other teen as he was asked about the poetry assignment for Creative Writing. "Which poem are we talking about? The partner or solo?" They had been assigned many poetry assignments, and Vi could rarely keep the order they were assigned straight. School seemed to all blur together for him. The high from his kill was starting to fade, however, and he was quickly growing bored with the woods and their conversation. He needed something else to do. Maybe he'd go change again and head over to the club or a bar. He could invite Yony, but Vi really did not want to deal with the guy's attitude that night. No, he wanted something new and different.
i don't need your arms to hold me
Because misery is waiting on me |
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Post by Aleksandr Ilyich Morozov on Nov 4, 2012 0:40:31 GMT -6
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two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl tagged for: Vital - 3377 - wish you were here by pink floyd
"Well, it seems you have done well to remember my name, but I cannot seem to remember yours."
"My name is Morozov... Aleksandr Morozov. Most call me Alek." He flashed his classmate another brief smile. "I don't blame you for forgetting my name, it is nowhere near as interesting as yours."
Aleksandr had once killed a man for forgetting his name. Well, he hadn't actually forgotten it. He was in prison at the time, about thirteen years old. The boy had called him by that loathéd nickname--- Babyface. He didn't let people call him Babyface any more. Much of that childish roundness was gone, in any case, so the name was hardly fitting any longer. Aleksandr had told the boy, Tannenbaum was his name, he'd told old Tannenbaum that his name was Aleksandr Morozov, and if he called him by anything other than Aleksandr again he'd regret it.
Tannenbaum was one of those jail-house bully types: big and beefy with little more than a strip of bacon for brains. Tannenbaum was also two or three years older than Aleksandr and nearly a foot taller. He'd laughed in Aleksandr's face and said he could call him whatever the hell he wanted. And, then he'd called him 'Babyface' again.
Tannenbaum fell on his own shiv and it pierced his left eye and plunged into his brain cavity. That's what it said in the coroner's report.
But, Vital was not Thomas Tannenbaum. Vital was something new, something interesting. An obscure object of his desire that he had watched carefully from the shadows for many weeks. He wasn't obsessed. He didn't obsess needlessly over things like that, and he most especially didn't obsess over people. Not unless he was on the warpath. Vital was not at all relevant to his plan, to his movement. There wasn't a single reason why Aleksandr should take an interest in a boy, but the fact was that Vital was captivating. And, Aleksandr was not easily impressed.
He'd taken note of Vital. Maybe that was a better way to put it. He watched, yes, he kept tabs on the boy but only out of curiosity. He liked to know things about people. And, he knew things. He knew that Vital liked to drink raspberry Smirnoff and always took particular care with his appearance, and that he had a special sort of smile reserved for people he must have hated. It was a sweet smile, almost painfully so. It was a killer's smile. Aleksandr had learnt to recognize such smiles while he was learning not to get killed in prison.
There was an elegance to Vital that captivated Aleksandr, and captivated other, less jaded people as well. Aleksandr had watched, in passing, just to keep his mind occupied. He'd watched as girls and boys alike were drawn to pretty Vital like so many mindless moths flying into the violet light of a bug zapper, or the tantalizing flickering of some flame, only to be killed by the brilliance.
It was dark out. Aleksandr always felt more comfortable under the cover of night. There were fewer prying eyes. Everything reminded him of poetry. Of the poems his mother had read when he was a child. While Aleksandr was too busy learning to be a young revolutionary, he had missed out on many of the teachings the poor beleaguered woman had to offer him. He regretted that sometimes, when his mind was not otherwise occupied by big plans. Those quiet moments were the ones when the words came back to him. In the dark now, he was reminded of a poem by Fyodor Tyutchev.
There is an hour, at night, of cosmic silence.
And at that hour of miracles and visions
The vital chariot of the universe
Flies through the vault of heaven with abandon.
Then, like chaos, o'er the waters night doth thicken;
Forgetfulness, like Atlas, presses on the land;
And naught but god-sent vatic dreams
Disturb the muse's virgin soul.
It was a constructive sort of chaos that raged on inside of Aleksandr. He wanted to watch the world burn, but not for the sake of destruction, as entertaining as that could be. No, he wanted it to burn because only then could human kind, wretched and broken, rise from the ashes like a phoenix. And, if they didn't rise again... well, that could be good too. Perhaps they didn't deserve to live after all.
"There's always something beautiful in death,"
"Really? I didn't think anyone else thought so. You are full of surprises." It was a compliment, and not one he would usually give. Most people were perfectly dull. Few had the power to surprise him any longer. "There is beauty to be found in many things once you filter all of the... all of the filth that permeates so much of the world. But, death has its own sort of beauty doesn't it? It feels cleaner than living, and certainly cleaner than birth. Death is an equalizer."
True freedom could only be found through bloody revolution. Blood that was spilled for a cause could purify the earth. You could not have freedom if you didn't have death. And, in many ways death was freeing.
He remembered the day when his vocal chords had been severed by another boy in prison. The attack had been unprovoked. Almost a surprise, really. But, it wasn't a complete surprise. You learned never to let anything surprise you in prison, to be ready to fight or flee when the need arose. The attacker was a large boy, muscular, with a swastika tattooed on his left hand. He'd seen the tattoo up close when the concealed shank had flashed before his eyes as the boy slit his throat.
Aleksandr had been certain that he was dead then, as he lay there choking on his own blood. There had been a sea of faces around him. He was on the cement floor, gasping painfully for air. Someone had called for help. Some snitch, but a snitch that Aleksandr would always be indebted to from then on. They'd taken him to the infirmary and saved his life. He'd felt everything until he finally lost consciousness from the blood loss.
When he awoke he'd been unable to speak. His throat had been on fire, and when he tried to make a sound it hurt so badly that he'd nearly cried. But, time would heal his throat. Time in the hospital was time he had to think without distraction. His thoughts of vengeance were not interrupted by thoughts about survival. The near scrape with death had given Aleksandr a new way of looking at his life. He could die at any time, but he was no longer so afraid because he saw that his death would pave the way for others to follow. He would die a martyr and ten more boys just like him, who shared his vision, would come to take his place. His own blood had been spilled, and it had freed him.
He had a friend on the outside, Zachariah Wallace, bringing him news of his 'boys' while he was recovering. It always gave him a lift to hear about their little successes--- new conversions to the faith of Anarchy. Zachariah had been killed not long after Aleksandr was released. It was a real pity, but he had not died in vain. That didn't make his death any less painful.
"If only, if only, the woodpecker sighed..."
Zachariah was the one who orchestrated the revenge killing of the white supremacist who'd nearly killed Aleksandr. They were fortunate that the boy had recently had a little falling out with his fellow skinheads, or they'd have probably found themselves in a heap of trouble that they weren't yet ready to cope with. Aleksandr hated skinheads, especially after what they did to Zachariah. The Anarchists had converted a couple of them over to anarchy, and his boys assured him that they were completely 'cured' of their racism and other 'isms', but Aleksandr had never been completely comfortable around them. He had never forgotten Zachariah.
"You've got a pretty voice." Aleksandr said absent-mindedly as he fished for his keys. His hands were so cold he couldn't tell what his hands were touching. He was in the habit of having his car keys out long before he ever reached his car, just in case he needed to make a speedy escape.
Zachariah was of southern stock. He had been incarcerated for five years for a crime he didn't commit. He'd been living in a neighbourhood that needed a scapegoat and he was the only non-white teenager around at the time of his supposed crime. He was convicted on minimal evidence and given the maximum sentence allowed for such a petty crime. You could tell people that racism was gone until your face was blue, but it wouldn't make it true. Racism still thrived in Mississippi in the year 2012, when Zachariah was first convicted, at the age of ten.
Zachariah had been a sweet, soft spoken boy who liked to read books before he went to prison. His only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He never touched the little girl who was beaten senseless and rendered a vegetable. If anyone had bothered to check, they'd find that there was a child killer living within a block of that little girl's house, that he'd only gone free on an otherwise hanging case because of a technicality. Instead, the state of Mississippi blamed an innocent child for the crime. Zachariah would retain his sharp mind in prison but all of the dreamy idealism would leave him for good.
He began serving time in the year 2013 and would meet Aleksandr in the year 2016. Aleksandr was eleven and Zachariah fourteen, without much in common aside from their imprisonment. Still, Zachariah had been the first to really speak to Aleksandr, the first who made Aleksandr comfortable enough to drop any pretences. He was one of Aleksandr's first converts to the cult of Anarchy, and probably the best friend that Aleksandr would ever have. In the year 2018, Zachariah was finally released. He'd lost his childhood to the prison system, lost his education, lost his friends and family, but he had not lost his will to succeed.
The first thing he did was put himself back in school and earn a diploma. Then, while working two jobs, plus Aleksandr's outside jobs, he put himself through school. He kept in touch with Zachariah the whole time, calling him, sending him messages through guards. He'd always been Aleksandr's outside man, even when he was still in prison. If Aleksandr had died from his confrontation with the skinhead, he could have died without worrying about his Anarchist Brothers. Zachariah was more than capable of running the organization on his own.
"This won't be necessary."
"Suit yourself." Aleksandr said, not unkindly. He could see that the other boy was clearly uncomfortable accepting his clothes, so he did not pressure him to take the scarf, but left it sitting there on a tree stump in case Vital changed his mind. Vital's lips were stained dark in the cold and Aleksandr couldn't help but let them linger there a moment, before smiling in a self-contained way. His companion was obviously freezing cold, so Aleksandr resolved to find out what his favourite warm drink was before the night was out, just for future reference. It was always good to know what people liked. Especially people who were such clever and creative killers.
Zachariah was a creative killer too. It was funny to imagine that he'd once declared himself a vegetarian to his only amused mother, because he didn't want to "hurt animals". He couldn't have shot a rabid dog if it was chewing his leg off before he went to federal prison.
When he killed the skinhead who had nearly killed Aleksandr, he did it in an almost poetic manner. See, he literally scalped the poor bastard--- get it? The skinhead died of a skinned head? Aleksandr nearly choked himself laughing when he heard. Of course, surveillance was all taken care of by the other boys. They used the 'chewing gum' method that was popular in those days, before gum was outlawed because it so frequently wound up in the lenses of the security cameras.
He was religious too, another thing he never lost in prison. Even for the skinhead, Zachariah had the decency to recite the lord's prayer as he was killing him, just in case the boy needed god to get him through his suffering. He had it all choreographed so that the prayer began when all of the boys left the recreation room where the skinhead was sitting, in the same moment anarchist boys were sticking chewing gum in all of the security cameras, and Zachariah strolled into the room with a shiny blade. The prayer ended when the skinhead was dead and Zachariah was holding his leathery scalp in his hand, and then all of the boys in the room that were standing watch or had lined up to help hold the skinhead down, in unison, said "Amen."
That was the sort of poetic justice Zachariah had learnt in prison. Aleksandr knew he was in love the day Zachariah placed that dried out scalp in his hand. He never did tell Zachariah how he felt.
After he died, it was easy to forget what being in love was like. Aleksandr had spent many days angry at the world for Zachariah's death. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. It was only after one of the boys was nearly killed because of one of Aleksandr's oversights that he snapped out of it. Mourning was impairing his judgement. So, the day after that failed mission he went and got his prison tattoo erased by a solid black band on his arm to signify that he was in mourning. He would not forget Zachariah, but he would not allow his death to destroy what they had worked so hard to build.
"Which poem are we talking about? The partner or solo?"
"Solo." Aleksandr replied, with a sad little smile. "Always solo." He murmured.
Aleksandr's car was a gift from one of his rich connections, and for that reason it was far too expensive for his taste. He always felt uncomfortable driving it and had every intention of selling it and using the funds to buy a less... ostentatious vehicle and using the remaining money for some of his little anarchy projects. He just hadn't gotten around to it yet. Something always came up that got in the way.
"If you are done with the solo, then I thought maybe we could work on the partner project together. I've already got most of it finished... so you'd only have to fill in a couple blanks."
It was all planned, of course. He'd only have to pick a couple of vaguely related words or phrases to the rest of the piece. He'd made it easy, knowing that whatever partner he wound up with would probably be less than thrilled about the subject matter of his poem, but would be more likely to accept it if it was almost completed. The subject, of course, was rather grim. Death and revolution. How freedom could only be achieved through sacrifice. The seeds of revolution were disguised by metaphor and easy parallels to many other famous historical revolutions. Anyone reading it would assume it was a historical poem, and not a veiled threat.
"Of course, if you've already finished, then that is fine too." It was shockingly easy to disguise darker meanings behind seemingly normal words. A historical poem could be a threat, easy conversation could be part of a plan to establish an alibi for both of them. Years of double-speak while communicating to Anarchist Brothers in a prison full of ears had made this sort of thing second nature to Aleksandr. Language was a powerful weapon.
The car was a 64 Ford Galaxie with a modified interior that was still reminiscent of the original vinyl interior, but fitted with climate controlled seats and updated safety features and a stereo with blue-tooth. The engine had been swapped for efficiency, and that alone would have been a red flag for a true car lover. The car could have given a more materialistically inclined guy a boner and given a true car-lover a heart attack from the horror, but the value was completely lost on Aleksandr.
Everything about the car screamed of money and waste. It made Aleksandr uncomfortable just to be seen in it. But, from what he'd observed of Vital, he imagined the other boy would not be put off by the car's value. If Vital liked the car it might be of some use to Aleksandr after all. Or, maybe Vital wasn't crazy enough about cars to appreciate anything more than the general look of restored luxury to the vehicle.
In any case, Aleksandr found himself holding his breath when they finally reached the car. He didn't know why it mattered to make a good impression on Vital. He wasn't usually this concerned about what other people thought of him unless he was looking to convert them over to Anarchy. He wasn't going to attempt converting Vital. He didn't seem like the type to blindly follow orders or care about a cause.
Yes, he was just a pretty face and an interesting brain... and there was no reason for Aleksandr to care what he thought beyond keeping on good terms. He held the passenger door open for Vital, like a gentleman. The gesture was automatic, really. He could smell the blood that remained on Vital's skin and it was strangely pleasing.
"Do you drink coffee?" Aleksandr said, mildly. Still keeping the speech relatively innocent in the safety of the car. "We had better get something from Starbucks so we can say we've been out studying if anyone asks. We've got our completed partner poem to prove it. And," Aleksandr looked Vital over playfully. "I think we could get away with a major coffee spill to explain your unusual attire."
Aleksandr turned his attention back to the road with a hint of a self-satisfied smirk on the corners of his mouth. Now they had an alibi, evidence to back it up, and an excuse for Vital's missing clothes. And, his missing clothes. Aleksandr had found the decency to look away while Vital was undressing, though he could not deny that he had been tempted to look. Was it at all possible that the boy looked as pretty out of his clothes as he did in them?
Aleksandr would not allow himself to waste brain power thinking about such silly things. He had an entire criminal organization to worry about, after all. And, entanglements were always a liability. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted from his purpose. Nor could he have his authority undermined by any more rumours. Speculation about his sexuality had been largely put to rest when he'd briefly dated a little 'royal' girl in his freshman year. News had reached his Anarchist Brothers all the way in Florida by the time they'd become 'official' at school. New recruits had a terrible habit of gossiping, he'd found.
That probably had something to do with the fact that he was now operating in a place that had access to women. In prison there were only men and boys. No one fought over girls and fights within the brotherhood were incredibly rare. But, as soon as he started recruiting boys from St. Helena's all hell broke loose. When there were girls present, much of a guy's status had to do with his sexual conquests. There were fights over girls, boys got territorial. In prison this was not the case. A man earned his status, there was a code of honour, and there were certainly no petty squabbles over who slept with whose girl. It was a headache. He'd considered making a no-relationships rule, but knew it would put off too many possible recruits.
He couldn't stop relationships within the brotherhood, he could only discourage it. And, that was another reason why he could never have Vital. To be attached would be hypocritical. And, he abhorred hypocrisy.
"Tell me, Vital... was that your first kill? I'm curious." Curious as to where he'd picked up such beautiful ideas. The technique was still in need of a little sharpening, but the overall execution had been rather delightful to behold.
He was so very curious.
oh how we found the same old fears TEMPLATE BY BROOKE~ |
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