the worst things in life come free [open]

[makism vandik tarasov]

Makism finds himself feeling more and more ill as he stands and watches the other man. His head is spinning. The Russian man isn’t a trapped animal… he can get out whenever he wants. All in the same, it’s the idea that leaving would be waving a white flag. He who ducks out first loses the most. It looked like he already had lost the most… had he? That wasn’t something he’d let himself think. Not now. Not yet.

The man’s eyes flash. He’s shaking, pure and simple. There’s nothing he can do about the cold, about the oncoming thread of hypothermia. This was one of the side effects they were talking about. This si what they constantly warned against. This was why he wasn’t supposed to be stressed out. Makism couldn’t have seen this one coming, not in a million years. It’s all he can do to hold the words back, the very ones he’d heard out of the man’s mouth the first night… the very first night. He knows that desperation now. He knows what it is to reach out and have your hand slapped… he feels that. Don’t throw me away.

Makism would never let on how fucked up he was. This was a man that needed constant control… almost always. He needed consistency, he needed the flexibility to fly off the handle. He needed someone that understood the ideas of spontaneity, but didn’t need it to always be like that. There was the fight in the pair, something that lit a fire, bright and hot. It was those flames that had scorched everything and left things charred and sooty and just the way they needed to be.

”You’re talking to me about cruel…” His voice trails off, tone strangled. The man’s knees shake, ache. The other words cut him deeper. He won’t crack like Connor—he’s no cry baby. Hell, other than his own brothers, Quinn was the only one that had seen him shed a tear. He’d like to keep it that way, to be perfectly honest. There wouldn’t be anything to change that, not even an outburst like this. There’s no air left in his lungs, though, and he feels like hell on earth.

The contact that lets him feel like a third wheel in his own relationship is too much. He breaks from Quinn’s side, shivering, another cold spell coming on and coming on fast. He’s edging away, eyes wide and stinging. His shoulders ache, his muscles are locking up in the thighs and back. Simply moving is too much, hurts too badly. It’s driving his mind to a state of frenzy, to a state of utter fuzzy blankness. He doesn’t think… he can’t think. Makism is too sick with it. He staggers for a moment, stumbling, ready to start screaming.

But he doesn’t even have the words. He pitches to the side, finding himself leaning on a wall with the bulk of his weight. His lips have taken on a distinct shade of blue, one that can’t be helped. ”And what happens when I’m hurting?” Makism’s words are quiet, he’s slid down to the floor with his knees to his chest. Human response to being too cold for one’s own good. The shivers overtake his body, teeth chattering… it feels almost like death, if death were both cold and covered in worn Astroturf.

[connor crayze sykes]

Connor knew how all this ended... Like the rest, right? He gave up, agreed he was wrong and would be hurt again. He would go crawl off by himself and be forgotten. Quinn would live happily ever after with Makism..Connor nothing but a pointless memory, a few nights under the covers, a bit of unjudgemental listening, positive change. A few extra smiles stolen away by somebody Connor only wanted to trust.
Maybe it wasn't even love anymore. Just trust...
He would rot away as the world continued without him. Nobody would miss him because nobody would remember.

That was where the fear surfaced. He would be forgotten. He was meaningless, never actually had a purpose.
Connor trembled. No, this was nothing new, this wasn't a chance... Quinn had been wrong...this was all a mistake.

Connor took a step back, watching the other male collapse against the wall. He almost wanted to help, but couldn't bring himself to bother, not now. Eyes looked towards Quinn again brokenly, torn, confused. It was a never ending mess for all of them, it seemed. Except Connor was ready to end his part. "Quinn I...y-you need someone wh-who will be h-here tomorrow.. And every day a-after that... I can't be that p-person.. I don't know why I-I should bother tell y-you to keep in touch. No one d-does.. J-just another number, another gh-ghost of the past... I c-can't hurt nomore, Quinn..." He couldn't help the tears. Eyes settled on the other male, some sort of finality in the action. He was sure one of them would see it. That spark of determination to die. The question was, would either care?

He was pretty sure they wouldn't. Respect filled those blue orbs as he stared at the collapsed man, a man willing to fight for what was his. He wouldn't mind Quinn's possession, would miss it if it went away because he was with somebody else. Connor had nothing inthese walls.. He had no reason to live. Quinn and this man had found their's... Each other.

A weak, traditionally crooked smile twisted Connor's lips and he reached out, hugging Quinn to his thin chest, whispering in his ear.
"I-I deserve death...y-you won't care when I'm gone..you des-serve better than me e-even as nothing more than a f-friend..." And then he offered a tender kiss to the male's lips. As he had been there he had bound his own wrists. And with a quick flick of fingers, the blade he had pulled from his pocket opened veins wide. Connor didn't flinch, a single, confused tear rolling down his cheek. Maybe he was sick in the head. He backed up, blood falling to the track, and dropped the blade into the water of the pool somewhere behind it. Then he turned, and plunged after.

[tarquin finley ellis]

He doesn't know what to do. It's all just starting and Quinn's already lost. He's cracking, splintering. There isn't a good way out, there's no right path to take. It doesn't matter now, it's far too messed up and not everything can be fixed. Quinn isn't the kind of creature that can fix things. He knows that, and it's a terrible burden. It's chipping away at him little by little as he has to stand here; waiting. He doesn't even know what he's waiting for. He wants to just turn away and leave. To go away and lick his own wounds, but he's far too worried about the damage that can be done if he leaves the two behind like this. Quinn can look around him and all he can see right now is the pain and weakness. He's suffocating in it.

If he could, he'd take all the pain from them, but it's not that easy, that simple. He's only human, after all. They've played with his insides, changed him, but it's still true enough. He can still feel. It's not perfectly normal, but Quinn hasn't been quite right for a very long time. He accepts this. He'd made some sort of peace with that for awhile, but it's getting torn down now. Everything's twisted, and it's obvious that feeling as deeply as he had -- while it made him feel so much more human, less like a monster -- is crushing him because somewhere along the way he's mis-stepped. He reacted badly to the situation he's been forced into. Quinn thought he could be better, attempt to be normal.

And all he's done is fucked up. Brought more pain to people that he cares about. He's the disease here, eating away at what he's tried to hold close. Quinn has to realize he's not good for anyone. Everything will just wither and die around him. It's that simple, and caring is only going to make it all worse. His brain makes all these connections in moments as he stands there, struggling with the emotions that only make it worse, pull him down. There are words from one and then the other; actions that seem to go in slow motion. Quinn can process that Makism is growing colder, that Connor is trying to pull away. Quinn is being pulled apart, and he accepts it, lets it happen.

He has to answer one and then the other, and he's worn thin by it. He gazes at Makism, eyes bleak. "You hurt me. You were being a cold hypocrite, trying to bat me around and thinking my feelings for you would force me to endure it, to keep me from leaving. But I'm tired." He sighs, a suffering sort of sound. "I can't be with you just because it'll hurt you if I'm not, Makism. I would always hate you for it, I'd make you suffer." The words have to be said because they are true. It can't happen for that reason. There's no way Quinn would allow it. No way. He won't go through that, won't put Makism through it.

In a few moments, happily ever after won't even exist. He's going to give it up, let it go. His hand is going to be forced, and there's nothing more to it. Quinn had been wrong, but about different things. He turns to Connor now; there's words to iron out here, too. "You don't know what I need, Connor. I'm not like you." He looks at the ground, shrugs faintly. "And walking away won't fix what's broken between Makism and me. It's not that simple." And it wasn't. But Quinn doesn't move yet, just waiting because he doesn't know what's going to crumble first. Dull eyes watch the scene before him, and Quinn's clinging to what he can still feel for dear life, but it's not easy. It fucking hurts. All of it.

Quinn doesn't do anything but tilt his head closer when he's hugged to Connor's chest. He listens with furrowed eyebrows, and he can't even get out a response before he feels the kiss; eyes wide at the act. Something's wrong with this, Quinn can almost taste it. But he does see the tear as Connor backs up, and then the blood. It registers only a second before the winged male plunged into the pool, and Quinn doesn't even think. He's in the water, grabbing at Connor, doing all he could to haul the male out of the pool. He can't even pause to unbind Connor's wrists, instead, he wraps his hands around the slices, pushing the flesh together as best as he could. Then Quinn's hands are branding irons; enough to burn the skin enough to knit it back together.

Then he pulls back; he has no idea if it'll work, if it'll do other damage. Connor would probably have the burns forever, there wasn't any avoiding that part of course. And that's when the rage starts to really build. "You bastard!" He snarled, his eyes fierce as he stared Connor down. "If I mean that little to you that you can rub it in my face by trying to force me to watch you kill yourself..." He was shaking with fury, and it's all he can do to stop himself from slapping Connor, because he wants to. Hard. Instead, Quinn picks Connor up and moves slowly over to where Makism is, sitting next to the Russian man and setting the winged male on his other side. He's done this to keep Makism warm, and to keep an eye on Connor for now. Right now, Quinn is pretty much destroyed either way; whatever comes next. "The hardest thing in this world really is living in it..." He mumbles, then lapses into silence; drained.

(( if this needs to be edited, let me know. ))

[makism vandik tarasov]

He’s cold. Everything is too cold for the man to stand. He’s trying to chase it from his fingertips, from his nose, from anything that could feel and make him not feel so… dead wasn’t the right word. Numb was better, but even that wasn’t quite what he wanted. Hell, who wanted to feel like this? There was ice in his bones, and maybe literally in his heart, but not figuratively. A man of heat, of passion, of fire… that was who Makism happened to be. That was who he always would be. It riled him to no end.

He was curled upon himself, forehead to his knees. Still, he can hear a blade flickering. The green eyed boy gazed up in time to watch Connor pull away from what could only have been a kiss on the lips. If there had been anything in Makism’s stomach he would have thrown up on the spot. All he’d had in his system the last few days was laudanum and vodka, nothing substantial enough to crawl back through his esophagus. The stuttering is enough to make his head hurt, trying to figure out what the man’s saying as he stumbles over his words.

He watches the man split his wrists. He watches the winged body fall into the swimming pool. He tries to find words to say, but his vocal chords are frozen, lips too cold to move. Everything is frozen. Makism quivers as Quinn dives in, gazing at the creature—so graceful . He’s always been amazed by that killer grace. Darting green eyes watch as the scene before him unfolds. The wounds are cauterized by broad hands. They’re beautiful hands, the slim fingers of a piano player. Makism’s mind is drifting, cloudy, unclear at best. At worst? He can’t tell you right now. He doesn’t know.

He hears the man speak. The words from moments ago are just registering, just striking another icy chord. Four words echo in his head, four words that he made a promise on. They’re important… they’re more than important. They mean the world to him. Don’t throw me away… More than anything, there they are, blinding him, dragging his heart to pieces. He feels himself cracking, beginning to pull away at the seams. Cold… hypocrite… broken. The breath is missing from his lungs. It’s as if he’s holding them empty for just a little while.

And then the frenzy is over. The Russian man’s eyes are dark, stormy. There’s something brewing beneath the surface, something harsh. A hand twitches, he wants to reach out and touch Quinn. He wants to do it so badly he hurts, but the muscles are too stuck to try for more than that twitch. Instead, his speaks shakily, tongue working to warm his lips. ”What’s it going to take, Quinn?” The words are soft, his chest aching. The man’s fingers rest just below his knee, fighting tooth and nail to straighten, to do more than shake. It’s no use. There’s too much cold to do much of anything.

[connor crayze sykes]

Connor drew in a breath, a mouthful of water, choking. But then his wrists were being grabbed and he cried out in pain. Well... that hadn't been thought through....
Connor coughed up water as he was dragged back out of the pool again. It wasn't what he wanted... he was so ready to go.
He collapsed heavily, Quinn the only barrier between him and the other male. But at this point it didn't matter. "I-I don't c-care so little...I care that m-much.. That I'd give you up s-so...you could be h-happy.. I'm done Quinn..I h-have nothing left.. These f-fucking people keep me a-alive to torture me..Why can't I-I go out my own way..?" Tears and water dripped down his face but his burned wrists were still bound by the floss he had used.

And then the other male spoke. Connor looked towards them with shaky, scarily unsteady breaths. "I wish I c-could have you..y-you've given me r-reasons to smile, a-and care. But you were n-never mine..huh?" He coughed, gagging. That incaved stomach had nothing in it though, it wouldn't matter how sick he got, he had nothing to throw up. Connor shivered, his wings and jeans drenched. "One day I-I'll be h-hanging from a noose and y-you'll be glad I t-told you to f-forget me..no matter h-h-how much it broke my heart." Quinn's hands had been enough to weaken the binding and he pulled his hands free, biting back a pained whimper. At least on the left side. His lower right arm was paralyzed enough that the mark was nothing more than a faint sting, numbed by the nerve damage of shooting so many drugs, cutting so many times.

"I was s-stupid...thinking I-I had a chance..nobody wants a-a dying man." He wasn't sure why he was pretty much telling them to stay together, why he was giving up...
Quinn, that was why. He didn't want to hurt him, even if it meant hurting himself.

[tarquin finley ellis]

Quinn hadn't been able to think too much on what he was doing when he dove in after Connor; he simply had. It was a instant reaction for him to do what he had. All too protective, and he couldn't help it, even if he knew that Connor had done it to himself. And yet it was that very thing that stung Quinn the most. That Connor would make him watch such a thing. Horrible, that's what it was. Quinn registers that and the burning rage that comes from the realization of all of this. Being pulled in different directions and not knowing how to deal with it; that was cutting him on the inside.

He didn't want to go either way right now. He was far too confused, too worn thin to even contemplate what was really happening here. It was a miracle that he could even follow words at this point, since Connor was talking. There is a few seconds before Quinn can manage anymore words, and he's tense and still shaking. Still pissed. "Not in front of me. It's not fair of you to ask me to watch." The words are chilly, dull. He isn't going to try and argue with Connor right now, he's far too spent to have that conversation. Later, if there is one. Then he can think straight enough to deal with what Connor wants.

Right now he just sits there with the two on either side of him, his mind spinning. He felt dizzy, wanted to just close his eyes and fall into dark oblivion. He couldn't do that, not yet. Things were still so shaky, and he had to figure out what needed to be done next. With Makism's words, he doesn't even look at the Russian man, just stares ahead. "I'm not ready to talk about those things just now." He responds bluntly. Connor's words come next, and Quinn still stares at nothing, unable to lay eyes on either of them just now. But he listens. Lucky that he can follow any of it at all.

Quinn doesn't try to reach out or comfort anyone, there's no comfort to be had. "I don't think so, Connor. But I know you can't love me, you are far too in love with the idea of death." Again, there's nothing in his voice; these are just words without much feeling, because Quinn's too fried to put emotion into them. Doesn't make them any less of what Quinn feels, of course. And now he'd simply done, and he needs to get away from them. First thing is first, and he finally glances to Makism. "I'm going to take Connor to the infirmary or whatever. I'll be back soon." He said, then got up, moving to pick the winged male up as well.

Then he'd bring Connor to the doctors, not responding to anything the male might have to say to him on the way over, nor letting him slip away. Quinn was strong enough to keep Connor from scrambling away, so he wasn't worried over that. Once Connor was there, Quinn gave the male a look. "If you do care about me at all, then you'll wait to kill yourself until I can talk to you again." Deadpan tone, and then Quinn turned and left Connor there. He couldn't be sure that the male would stay alive or if there was too much damage anyway; but there it was.

He returned to the track area then, moving to lift Makism up in his arms. He let the warmth run through his skin to try and warm the Russian man up as he started to walk, also bringing Makism to the infirmary. Was this a basic care thing? They could turn up the heat and pile blankets on him? Quinn wasn't sure, but it was the same treatment as for Connor on the way there, Quinn ignoring any attempt to talk for now. He wasn't ready for that. Once there, he gave Makism over to the doctors. "Once you unthaw we can have a proper conversation. But not today." It was all he left Makism with, turning around once more and leaving the area. He felt like he was going to drop.