the worst things in life come free [open]

[makism vandik tarasov]

click for clothes
He’d left the ring on the nightstand before leaving. Space… space… Makism didn’t fucking want space. Not now. There was too much going on and there were too many things changing. He’d chased Quinn down, tracked the man here because there was nothing out there for him. Without Quinn it didn’t look like there was anything for him anywhere.

But he left the room. Dimitri had to get out. A borzoi’s main purpose in life was to run and to chase, to find things and course after them. Makism couldn’t keep the dog locked up in his room all day. Things like that were seriously unethical. In a place like this, a sense of honor could be skewed.

What the fuck was honor anyway? All he wanted to do was find the skinny punk with the greasy hair and beat the living hell out of him. Makism had never been good with anger, had never been good with being anything short of possessive. To slip your hands around someone else’s neck, to feel their last breath in their lungs and then feel it get stuck… that was power. That was real, pure, raw power. It had been his drug.

Drugs. He’d found what he’d wanted in the bottom of his suitcase, a flask he’d said he wouldn’t touch. Tincture of whatever the fuck it was—there was laudanum in that flask. One sip… two… a third. Makism was numb, at least physically. That right there was about as good as he was going to get, wasn’t it?

And he left. He blew through the door of his room… if you could call it that. God damned shoe box filled with all the things he wanted nothing more than to push away. It was freezing outside, a raw chill he wasn’t going to fuck with. The indoor pool had a track running around the top… they’d made him sign something that he wouldn’t be an ass with his dog. It was too cold to bring a creature like Dimitri outside—he’d freeze on contact. He wasn’t going to pee on the track, so what harm could a run do?

It was in running that Makism tried to steady himself. It was in running that all the memories came back and silent tears ran down his cheeks, tremors washing over his muscles. He was cold to the touch, still running. If he was to quit his run now all hell would break loose.

All hell already had broken loose. Everything he’d said wouldn’t happen was happening. He’d missed the boat on the man of his dreams, the man he loves. Maybe it was too much after all.

[connor crayze sykes]

Blue eyes looked out across the glimmer of water in the pool then he got up and made his way to the track. The chill air had his lungs feeling tight, but it felt nice on his skin. Connor had come out to escape the crowd, spend some time alone to think. He hadn't talked to Deacon lately, though Derek kept accusing him. Everyone was accusing him of kidnapping Deacon's kid yet he hadn't seen her since she had gone missing. He couldn't help bu feel he had been set up, and it wasn't fair.

Arms crossing over his chest, his fingers traced scabbed cuts along his wrists and he couldn't help but wonder if Ashley was alright in testing. The boy barely had the mentality to understand what the hell was going on, how wrong it was. Dark wings ruffled and tucked closer to his bony back as a rugged cough passed his lips and shook his body.

Footsteps, the sound of breaths, and Connor lifted his head to look at the male that had come onto the track. He seemed to be crying. Connor's head tilted a bit, dark hair falling away to reveal curious, tired blue eyes. And then it struck him who he had seen this male with. Connor bit down on his pierced lip, taking a careful step back. But he knew better than to think he had escaped from being spotted.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism looked like hell on wheels. All he’d done since that god be damned incident was take the dog out, feed him, and sleep. Dimitri depended on him, and if he couldn’t so much as make sure that there was clean water in his dish he was way more fucked up than this place could “fix.” He wouldn’t forgive himself. It was like a man with nothing to lose really didn’t have anything left. All he could do was keep himself running steady.

Running. That was all he needed to do to fix this. A run wasn’t something that could be fucked with. How does one mess with something that’d been perfected over time? A human being with perfect form, reaching up occasionally to flick the hair out of his eyes, keeping his steely gaze straight ahead. It was as if daring anyone to fuck with him, anyone to say anything about his dog being indoors. No harm, no foul in this situation. All he needed was the ability to keep going on in the one… two… one.. two… Makism was willing himself to forget his breathing. He was willing something to happen, something to actually remind him how to feel. If that meant the back of his head cracking against the Astroturf, so be it.

You know when your nose blocks up and you know if you blow it nothing will come out? Yeah. As Makism sobbed away silently, head down, that was what he happened to be feeling. His breaths were heavy, hard through his mouth. There was someone else up here with him, Makism felt as if he was being watched. He pulled the neck of his t-shirt up, wiping his eyes as best he could, but they would still be red. It was all the Russian man could do to keep himself on his feet as he saw who it was… ”A äåðüìî.” Well shit. His native tongue came rushing back, what he resorted to when he was trying to not think. Don’t think, don’t speak.

He had to speak. The words are rushing from his mouth, and he’s screaming. ” Kto , chert vozʹmi vy dumayete , chto vy , tak ili inache ? Vy znayete , kak proklyatyy bogom tebe povezlo , ya ne zadushu vas na meste , malenʹkaya suka ?”

[/i] And it feels good to scream. There’s more emotion than he’s felt in days bubbling to the surface, and no one can touch him for it. No one can say a damn thing, they have no idea what he’s just said. Makism hardly knows what he’s just said. ”This godforsaken language doesn’t give me the right words for you.” It’s all he can say, it’s all that his brain finds in the bank of words he’s stored up. In the midst of everything he’s said to Quinn, he can’t find anything for the man he’s blamed for ruining it all. The big, wooly dog before him bows closer, trying to steady his quivering handler. There’s pain in the eyes of the man, distrust in the eyes of the beast. [/blockquote][/blockquote]

[connor crayze sykes]

Connor's eyebrows furrowed and he swallowed as he studied the ranting male before him. The guy was attractive, Connor couldn't help thinking he shouldn't even be competition. Near emaciated, scarred and beaten. What was he even worth? He didn't get it at all. "I-.."
Connor coughed softly, licking his lips. Wings ruffled a little more, spreading away from his back some, almost nervously. He didn't know this guy from Adam, didn't know what he might do. He felt terrible, taking love away.. It wasn't right..

But the worst thing Connor probably could have done was let his guard down to peer at his scabbed wrists from the previous night's cuts. They littered his bony pelvis as well, hidden beneath his jeans, rubbing painfully.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism was the aggressor, not the aggressed. Vulnerability, weakness… none of it appealed to him. The creature before him, all skin and bone, looked utterly weak. Pathetic. His mind was buzzing with thoughts, with ideas. Connor’s ribs showed through his skin, each one could be snapped and could be broken with the greatest of ease. There was very little outward sign of muscle on the Russian man, but he was strong. No, his strength was in his hands. The hands of a canine trainer… the hands of a murderer.

A dozen or so men and one woman. He’d taken each one of them down because they’d been coveting what was so rightfully (or wrongfully) his. There was one that Makism had wanted on his list that wasn’t… one that had been taken care of just as it should have been. Things had been easy in those days, when a certain brother had been called into question… Quinn’s words still stung hot in his ears. Three people that’d laid hands on me… you’re the only one left. The man wasn’t supposed to know about the girl. Oops. He’d even been proud of it. So… so much to be proud of.

Connor digs himself a deeper hole. Makism’s gaze follows that of the other man, noting the cuts where they stand. It doesn’t matter, not to the Russian man. He knows what he’s looking for. He needs to know if the other man’s dark, wild hair is hiding bruises. He needs to know if the creature that had grown wings had been with Quinn since he had. A muscle spasm kicks up in his left shoulder and he stretches it absently. With his left elbow just above his head, Makism’s t-shirt rides up, exposing a burn that had had scarred, turned into a brand on the skin. Strong palm, delicate fingers… Quinn’s hand.

He’s quivering where he stands. ”You what?” The words are spit as if a curse, not letting his voice crack like he feels it might. If there’s an apology waiting there he hopes to god it dies on the lips of the other man. It’s ever so chillingly that he watches the other man, the way he shifts… how nervous he looks. Makism tries to appear composed, the picture of confidence. If you didn’t know him, the only thing to give him away would be the constant shifting of the black and white beast at his feet. Emotions travel right down the lead, so they say.

[connor crayze sykes]

Connor raised his head, studying the other male in silence for a moment. Blue eyes flickered down to the burn and he hesitated. Connor knew of the marks he had left on Quinn's neck when he crawled into bed with him. His own from the male had probably faded by now. Not that he could be sure. Connor hated mirrors, used them to brush his hair and that was about all. He knew he looked close to death despite looks that once might have had heads turning. An attractive face could only take one so far when everything else went downhill. When even your view on the world turned sour and ugly.

Defiance sparked. He owed this man nothing. Before him was somebody like Jon, his own father. That anger but cool composure. No, Connor owed him no apology. It was not his fault for the things Quinn had done with him, for how protective he had become. It wasn't his fault at all. Perhaps it was that addiction to punishment that had that challenge glimmering in his face. Maybe it was a dare, desperation to see what Quinn might do, if he would help protect him or turn his back. If he cared enough to go against the choices of the other male whom he seemed to love.

Eyes flicked towards the shifting dog and he shifted his own weight foot to foot. Who's mark mattered more..? And how had he got into this mess when he had only been wishing to fix things with the coroner instead? He wanted somebody to care, that was the problem. That was the reason he just stood there, waiting.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism is shivering. Head to toe he’s shaking with repressed emotions… shows of emotion are weak. Weakness is to be destroyed on sight. Don’t throw me away— The words ricochet in his head, an icy numbness rocketing through his skull. It’s physical pain that the man feels, ripping him to pieces. He’s falling apart on the spot, Makism is, and he has been for the last few days.

Connor would have been attractive, maybe, once. Still the damsel in distress type, the Russian man couldn’t help but think. Where some fall short in the fields of controlling their arrogance (Makism for one) others simply can’t hold their life. It was like not having the ability to hold your booze but worse, for life was purely unavoidable.

Until you died. Quinn had said something about Connor being a dying man… it was clear. There was something strikingly unhealthy in the other man. He wouldn’t come closer. He wouldn’t touch.

The silky coated creature that had been sitting at his side got to its feet. Dimitri made his way to the other man and sat directly in front of him, not necessarily in his personal space, but on the fringes. This was a man that smelled like Quinn… he liked Quinn. You know… his buddy. The one with the good throwing arm that let him sleep on the bed even when Makism didn’t want him to. That Quinn. This man smelled like Quinn. It was as if his little doggy brows furrowed as he looked up at the other man. This was strange.

Makism didn’t give much heed to the fact that his dog was up and wandering. He’s not making the connection, he can’t see into Dimitri’s mind. He wouldn’t want to, not with the implications of what it all means.

But his voice cracks when he speaks. ”You what?” It sounds like shattering glass as the words pour from his mouth. Every muscle shakes.

[connor crayze sykes]

Connor's defiance was put on hold for confusion as the dog seated itself in front of him. He held a thin, trembling hand out before scratching it behind the ears. He was probably overstepping his boundaries with the action, but at the same time hoped it might show he wasn't trying to start anything.

Even so, Connor knew he had already started something the moment he had been dragged in those gates and taken that cigarette from Quinn's fingers. The moment he had let the male undress him in the gym. The male before him seemed to have a similar temper. Connor had witnessed it too much, he was good at reading people. So when the guy spoke again, Connor once more raised his head, swallowing. A rugged breath passed his lips and he smirked faintly. He didn't know what to say. He sure as hell didn't plan on apologizing. The tension was almost insane. Connor glanced at the pool. The place was empty. "N-noth-thing."

[tarquin finley ellis]

Quinn hadn't paid attention to his overall room, let alone the nightstand. He was oblivious as ever as to what might be on it. Honestly right now, that was for the best, seeing as a ring would only mess with his head more. And he didn't need that right now. Or, well, ever, but that was besides the point.

Anger, being possessive? These were things that both Makism and Quinn had in common. Hard to control urges at times, the ease in which both might dish out violence at the drop of a hat... dangerous creatures to be sure. Quinn knows what Makism is capable of; he's heard it, seen some of it. It keeps him on edge because he cannot be sure how much Makism has found out, how much the Russian man might know or what Makism might do with that information. But Quinn had some pretty good ideas at what could happen. He wasn't stupid, and Makism had admitted to blatant disregard of Quinn's feelings on certain matters.It was problematic, and there were some things you just couldn't crawl back from.

He isn't actually close to the place where the screaming had orginated -- normally Quinn wouldn't have blinked an eye at the sound -- except that this was in Russian, and that set him on edge. As far as he knew, there was only one Russian in this place. Makism. Quinn knew he should probably leave well enough alone, but considering the risk, the reasons that Makism might laspe into Russian, Quinn had to make sure. Unfortunatly, it was still a bit of a walk to the track area from where Quinn was.

But he gets there, and although he's still at a distance, he can see what is happening. He pauses for a moment to suss out things for a minute, wondering how far this would get. Quinn's close enough that he could reach either male at a dead run if he must, if there's sign of actual threat; but something holds him back for now, prowling at at the edges and waiting.

Makism was an aggressive, lethal predator -- they both were -- but they both knew which one was the big bad wolf. Quinn was probably more like a large cat then a wolf, yet such little things didn't need to be debated right now. There's more to it all, there always is. And if either of the two; Makism or Quinn is more like Jon -- what he knows and even doesn't know of the man -- it's Quinn. There's no doubt of it, no way around it and no way to pretend otherwise. Deep down at the core, Quinn could very well be considered a monster. Quinn was the one to lick his lips and be quick to initiate rape-play, and he has. It's something Connor is far too fragile to ever be involved in, and Quinn would never want the male to see such a thing. But there it is. Quinn loves the sound of making someone scream in that way. It just is and Quinn doesn't care to question why.

Would Quinn step in to protect Connor from Makism now? Yes. He would without a moment's hesitation if he spots true danger, the movement to close the distance that could only spell out incoming violence. Instead, Dimitri seemed to want to make friends. Interesting, that. But Makism is losing his shit again, and Quinn figures that it's now that he should step in, and so he starts to move again, in direct sight of both males and coming from the side. His nerves are all frayed already, but it's more the kind of tense a cheetah has stalking it's prey, just ready to run at a moment's notice. He pauses a few feet away from either one, head cocking very slightly to the side; he's still got the marks Connor made there on his neck, but Quinn's not even thinking of that right now. "Are we playing nice?" His tone is calm, even as his gaze moves from one to the other; considering.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Everything was going wrong and Makism was nearly sick with it. Going on like this… like what? Quinn needed space. Alright. Makism would give him space. It was in that space that there was trust. It was in that space that Connor slipped right in… and the Russian man had only thought he wanted to think. Would it be so wrong that he’d believed that the man would be spending the time alone… the time sorting things out. Makism supposed he had some things to sort out on his own now too.

Clearly there was a lot he’d have to think on. Clearly Quinn couldn’t make this decision on his own. Makism shivers, shakes to himself. It’s a quiet seething. ”You are god damn lucky I don’t want to hurt him.” More than anything he wanted to wrap his hands around the man’s neck and give it a squeeze. That was something that he’d let go, a part of him that would always be there… but wouldn’t. When you put two possessive creatures together they’ve got nothing but each other to hoard. It makes each less dangerous to the environment as a whole. They had been less dangerous together… and all in the same, strikingly deadly. Short fuses, ticking time bombs… the both of them.

And there was the devil himself. Makism couldn’t allow himself to be amazed at the fact he kept himself entirely neutral. What could he fixate on? Tarquin Finley Ellis, what else? There was something there that was too strong for the Russian man not to feel. Two halves of a whole, a whole that was starting to crack. Nothing was clean, nothing would split away evenly. Just seeing Quinn’s face, his eyes, the way he stood… hearing his steps in the quiet of the gym… too much. For Makism, too much.

Not for Dimitri. The dog had been content with allowing the man that was simply skin and bones to pat him on the head. So long as the stranger wasn’t coming too close to anything that was his they wouldn’t have an issue. The black and white beast didn’t necessarily have issues with humans… again, not until they encroached on his pack or his territory. It was to Quinn that he leapt, a few short barks pouring out. His tail is wagging a mile a minute, eyes bright, tongue reaching the Irishman’s hands. Moments later he’s leaping for the man’s face to lick the skin, showing youth in every action.

Makism didn’t have the heart to call him off. His chest is aching, he’s feeling as if everything inside is ripping apart. Dimitri soon tires of assailing one of his boys and sits in perfect heal position at Quinn’s side. The Russian man finds a rueful smile dancing across his lips, a nod. It’s what he’d taught the dog to do, it’s what he was going to do. He appreciates that.

The man crosses the floor, standing directly in front of Quinn. He’s always been short in comparison, but no midget. His palm is open, coming towards the man’s face with a striking grace, lacking speed. If the love of his life will allow it, Makism’s palm will slip across his cheek, fingers resting on his neck. There’s no threat here, just the rubbing of his thumb on smooth skin. Chills have always raced up Makism’s spine at the skin to skin contact, the thrill of closeness from another human being.

The thrill of closeness from the love of his life.

Fear and pain register all at once in the man’s eyes. There are a million things that he hasn’t said that he wants to, but lacks the words. They’re all there, laid out on the table in the simplicity of a gaze.

[connor crayze sykes]

Connor drew in a breath at Quinn's approach, eyes wandering the male. The marks on his neck. He could only guess that would be cause for more drama with this other male. Fingers slipped from the dog's fur slowly as the friendly creature bounded happily towards Quinn and sat on its haunches beside him. Connor couldn't remember if he had ever owned a dog. He had been torn up pretty badly by one at school a few months back, went to court after a drug bust at school.

The dark haired male was approaching Quinn, a hand sliding to his neck, those marks there. Connor bit his lip, torn. He deserved nothing of what he saw here. But at the same time, agitation sparked. "I'm n-not usually the jeal-lous type, but you're a f-fucking bitch," He sneered at the shorter of the other two males.

Connor had himself a temper, and got sick of people playing games. And while any other person may have seen pure perfection in the two before him, Connor had been hurt too much, assumed too many people were out to get him. He scratched at his scabbed wrists, eyeing the pool again. He'd already thought about drowning himself once, but had put the thought off. He'd given the coroner enough grief, whether he could get that friendship back or not. Most likely not. No, Connor was probably best off alone anyway...

His blue eyes darkened at the thought, wings relaxing to drag along the track. He worked his jaw slowly. Maybe Quinn did deserve somebody more than himself. Perhaps all Connor would ever be worth was drugs and sex. If that. He was a mess in his head right now, hurt and confused and mad at himself more than anybody else. He wasn't exactly sure of what drove him to smack the Russian male upside the head, but he did, looking between the two with gleaming eyes. He refused to cry, couldn't do that now. Quinn had been in love with this guy first.... Connor had no right to butt in... Did he?

[tarquin finley ellis]

Spending time alone. Well, for awhile he had been -- a few days -- trying to avoid pretty much everything he could. Most of it he can't even remember with all the drugs he's forced into his system and the fact that he'd been half comatose through a lot of that time. Then there came the time where he couldn't fall back on the drugs because of how much they were screwing with him. He'd had to stop, and so he also had the need to avoid his own dormroom just to make sure he wasn't cornered, pressed to fix it all then and there. Quinn hadn't felt safe, and that alone was one of the more funny things about this whole thing. Emotionally, Quinn had been too uneasy to fall asleep in his own bed sober.

But the exhaustion had gotten to him, made him react. It didn't help that emotions had pushed him in the direction that it had. He'd gone to Connor because he had felt comforted and unpressured in the male's presence. And... he'd missed Connor. Quinn had to admit that to himself. There was a lot he had to finally accept about himself, but it wasn't always easy. Not much of this was.

It's Makism who speaks first, and Quinn gives the Russian man a steady look. "Of course you want to hurt him." He responds simply. "You are supressing the urge and that's what counts." There's a faint, almost bemused half-smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't want to be cold about it, but right now he has to be. Everything could so easily come unhinged if he didn't keep his cool, stay steady. But he knows damn well that Makism wants to hurt Connor. It's who the Russian man is, and Quinn knows this very well. Yet even if Makism is supressing the urge now, Quinn knows it might not last. The Russian man has admitted to wanting to kill someone else enough to disregard Quinn's feelings, and Quinn wonders how long it might have taken for it to actually happen if he hadn't done the killing himself.

And then Dimitri was there, leaping to him. Quinn had to crack a smile for the borzoi; he did adore the animal. He leaned to ruffle Dimitri's fur, ears; allowing the dog to lick at him and murmuring lowly enough for the borzoi's ears only. Once Dimitri is sitting at his side, Quinn rests his left hand over the dog's head for a moment; noticing that Makism is moving closer. Quinn's eyebrows furrow a little, but he doesn't move, keeps his expression blank. He doesn't even blink at the hand coming at his face; though he knows it could be an actual hit as opposed to the touch it actually was.

There's a chill down his spine, but he just stares; tense. Too much contact and he'd recoil with a sharp hiss. He's trying to keep still now, but his jaw clenches. Quinn is still very angry with Makism, and that doesn't just vanish because the Russia man responds with a light touch rather then biting words this time. It could have taken only a few more moments before he snapped, but there wasn't even that. Connor's words cut through the red haze Quinn was seeing, and it was then that he blinked. Shock was clear on his face as he stepped back from Makism to look at the winged male.

Quinn was more then a little surprised at what Connor had said, and his muscles tensed to be ready to do any damage control that was needed. For whatever words given, Connor was still so very fragile. It wouldn't take all that much, would it? Of course if Quinn hadn't seen the words coming, he sure as hell hadn't thought to see Connor hit Makism. Quinn's eyes had widened and it took only another second for him to move and wedge himself between them; keeping Makism and Dimitri from Connor. "Dimitri, stay!" He snapped, voice strained. Well shit. The last thing he wanted was to fling an arm into Dimitri's teeth, but he was ready for that if it happened. The dog was a protective sort. Uneven ground in so many ways for Connor to have lashed out, and Quinn wasn't sure just where the next move would come from; but he was trying to be ready, he really was.

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism doesn’t stop quivering. He’s shaking with consistency, especially where they rest on the smooth skin of Quinn’s cheek. His breathing is shaky, teeth chattering ever so slightly. It’s only from his hands he’s chased the chill away, and that’s with the utmost concentration. No, the cold has seeped into his belly and is freezing his insides quite slowly. It’s a slow, icy trickle. Drip… drip… drip… Yes, he can feel it. It hurts. There’s a tightness in his chest… fleetingly he’s reminded of Quinn’s heart problems.

Quinn is still angry, he can see it in the man’s eyes. Hell, they’re so attuned to each other he can feel it rolling off the man in waves. Quinn’s smooth, pale skin contrasts with his own. He breathes a word that’s two in the language that’s crossed the barrier that skin on skin can’t cross—language barrier. His voice is gentle, green eyes dancing across those of the Irishman with a certain gentle light. Makism aches for the tenderness their relationship had in its own twisted way. ”Prosti… I’m sorry.” They’re gentle, his accent thick—not too thick to take his meaning away.

It takes a moment to register Connor’s words. He’s more distracted with the fact Quinn had just backed off, stepped away. Still, it’s an effective slap across the face. ”How the fuck do you think I feel?” The man’s eyes are dancing across Connor’s face, and oh boy, if looks could kill. There’s a shaking, icy quality to it… the air around Makism was starting to go cold. While some would acquire physical features that made them look like oversized crows, the Russian man found himself with something that could be used, on occasion, to his advantage. He couldn’t say it wasn’t scary when he couldn’t control it. The emotions coursing through the man are sweeping him away. Any control he’d had a moment ago was gone, the air around him growing more cold as his fingers and hands return to being icy.

What he doesn’t expect is Connor’s outburst. It overtakes the man quickly, and he’s too fogged to be anything more than stunned. There are too many opiates in his system to actually physically hurt. His insides ache, but there’s no other feeling. Instead, the man sneers.

It’s echoed by the posture of the dog. As soon as Connor begins his lunge the borzoi is on his feet, bristling. Body language is everything to a dog. Family is everything to Dimitri. This is his pack, Makism and Quinn are his to protect. They’re supposed to be kept as close together as possible—where he can watch them both. The winged creature, especially strange in his eyes, was coming for his boy. Several short, growling barks flow from his mouth, eyes burning. It’s as his muscles are coiling to spring that Quinn’s command comes. Immediately the dog returns to his haunches, staring up at the Irishman with confusion. Still, he’s been trained and he’ll honor it. It doesn’t keep the creature from searching for eye contact—to a dog, it’s a clear challenge.

And then there’s Quinn, pushing between the pair in an instant. All he wants to do is grab the man by the hips, pull him close, and cling like nothing bad could happen to them again. He represses the urge, swallowing hard, as if to keep all of the feelings back. The dam is coming close to breaking and his heart is hammering in his chest… Makism is on the brink of going crazy from everything welling up inside. ”Why do you feel like you need to play the knight in shining armor for him?” His teeth are chattering, lips holding a touch of blue.

[connor crayze sykes]

Connor eyed the dog as it bristled, ready to take the thing down, too, if it hadn't seemed to make Quinn smile so much. No, he couldn't do that. That was crossing too many lines. He glanced back at the other dark haired male curiously, eyes amused, sarcastic. Bitterness lined his face and the hard set of his jaw, looking between Quinn and the other slowly, calculating.

Calculations were a specialty. Objects in a room, distances and possible escapes. Time for police calls, expected hits from a person. One had to catch him off guard. It wasn't hard to do, but if it wasn't done, Connor was quick enough to avoid trouble. Naivety often got the best of him though, that quick wit and nasty tongue.
His blue gaze flickered, pissed and confused as ever.

He drew in a shaky breath, barely noticing how it wavered feebly. Fights meant nothing when he'd been in so many, when he had been beaten and raped so often in a week that he lost count. When you had no fear of death, you didn't have much fear of losing. Not when you had nothing left. He knew he didn't deserve Quinn. He didn't deserve a lot of things. He was the reason he had lost nearly everything in the first place. His brother? That was his fault. As was his mom. His dad's love was gone before him...he was here because of himself. He was to blame for many things gone wrong in his life, at least he thought he was.

Yet Quinn had to have seen something... that or he was blind as fuck...
Those uncertain eyes landed on Quinn again and grew troubled, frightened. You couldn't take a wild animal and put it into a new setting and expect it to do as you wanted. He had no morals anymore. No good people skills that he could just throw out there. They had to be fished out of him. Quinn had been doing that. Yet Quinn had never even been his...

Connor's eyebrows furrowed. He heard the words spoken by the male, guessing they were meant for Quinn. He might very well be the reason Connor wasn't on the slab in the morgue, hanging from a building or at the bottom of the pool yet. He'd kept him distracted. Perhaps not the only one, no.. but he hadn't judge him, just as Connor had let Quinn tell him his own wrongs. He wondered if this male was the same in that way, so seemingly in love with Quinn though.

Connor reached out, barely aware he did, eyes searching those now familiar ones. Fingers brushed hair back, touching the marks on Quinn's neck. Another wavering breath passed his lips. He felt sick. How could he put him in a position like this? They had both set each other up for hell.. Connor had hoped his words never would have been right. That Quinn never would have found him. Some part of him longed for Quinn's possession though. Even if he took back this other male instead. And, despite how Connor's quick temper, cold mood, very well could have made him just like these other two, Connor could only handle so much hurt and confusion anymore. He felt a warm droplet fall down his cheek, glimmering before falling to the track beneath them. Teeth bared down on his lip, and he pulled his hand from Quinn's neck so he could wipe the mark from his face.

[tarquin finley ellis]

His heart problems. No, no, no, that was never suppost to come to light. Quinn would probably flip shit if a word of that was so much as breathed to anyone. It was fine, he was fine. He actually hasn't given it any thought lately; none of that matters to him. He forgets often enough about it. Meaningless.

Yes, he's still angry. It keeps him from any kind of response to the pain he can see in Makism, because maybe the Russian man deserves that pain right now. On some level it bothers him, but he won't let that win over. He won't. Quinn tries to keep mixed emotion from his eyes, and it's just the rage that seeps out, that clouds his vision and his mind. He doesn't like to be cornered like this, in this kind of position, but he supposes that it was inevitable. It had to happen sooner or later, so why not now? At least Quinn was far too pissed off over the whole matter to crumble. The anger was making him strong enough to stand against it all. And the words Makism speaks; that sets Quinn right over the edge. It was a bad idea, terribly bad to have said that now, while he was in this mood. "You can only apologize so much until it's just words." He spat the words back at Makism, seething.

Quinn lapses back into silence when Makism spoke again, looked at Connor. He twitched at the sudden chill in the air, the level of heat through his skin rising to fight the cold. It's a wonder the anger hadn't pulled at the fire, but it's another thing that Quinn doesn't really feel the need to use or let loose if he can help it. No, he is lethal in ways that had nothing to do with the fire. That's what he would use if things came down to it; what he had used when someone messed with him too much. Quinn hadn't had that kind of problem lately though, which was good. He was barely awake half the past week anyway.

Just a sneer so far from Makism after what Connor had done, though Dimitri had reacted much in the way Quinn had expected, though thankfully the borzoi had done as commanded. The dog looked confused, but Quinn had to shift his attention back to Makism now, not sure if the physical would have sent the Russian man over the edge or not. But Quinn is attuned very much to Connor right now too, not sure if the winged male will try for another hit, which Quinn will have to block. He doesn't want this fight, it's not fair at all. It won't fix anything. If anything Quinn would only have the urge to distance himself more. There's a sudden thought that flashes through his mind, but not now. He pushes it away.

He doesn't know the differences in Connor when he's not around; he hasn't seen it, never watched from a distance. And yet it was very much the same in Quinn's case too. They'd probably learn quite a bit from how the other acted when not in the same general area. It made a difference. When Quinn had first come here, he'd been nothing short of a wounded animal willing to lash out at anyone to ease his own pain, to do something, anything, about it. Connor had helped to soothe that hurt, had given Quinn a reason to push it away. As for what he saw in the winged male? It was hard to explain and even Quinn was confused over the whole matter; why. Something had obviously called to him. Didn't mean Quinn understood it all.

Quinn's body quivers from the tense way he's been standing; the muscles are itching for a fight, but his mind is far from wanting that. Makism's question is posed, and Quinn's tongue-ring is set between his teeth on the inside of his mouth, and there's a rather forceful pushing of air through his nose in a sigh. "He matters to me. I don't want you hurting him." He replies bluntly. And he nearly jumps at the touch from Connor, but he relaxes against it a second later and looked back at the winged male. Then Quinn looks away from the two. "This is all very cruel." The words are low, distant. There's hurt all around and it's making his head spin.