David Riedmaier (_machiavellian_) wrote, @ 2010-12-06 21:05:00 |
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Current music: | Muse - Glorious |
[OOC] Drabbles & Fragments
Smell
He's come to associate Cal with the smell of beer, cigarettes and a whore's cheap perfume. No, David, you can't be jealous of that can you? Eyebrows will rise and questions will fall if he smells anything like your sandalwood aftershave.
Sight
In Saito he sees many things: a pink cherry blossom petal floating on a cup of tea on a cool autumn evening, obscuring the tea leaves swirling at the base; a cold blade of steel slicing through warm, humid air; the handwritten music manuscript of a second movement of a sonata precious few people have heard before; a stern face etched with lines of unhappiness and heavy burdens that, after all is said and done, will at the end of the day still let you use his arm as a pillow; an unopened, blank card on Father's Day.
Taste
He doesn't know how to describe it, but he simply does not like how the Italian tastes. It's all the poison on Ces' tongue that was now thinly spread on the inside of David's mouth - don't slip, David, even as he was slowly asphyxiating, standing knee-deep in the quagmire of the illusion his body was being used for.
Touch
She was warm. Mother's hand, mother's personality, mother's smile. If she saw him now, her little David all grown up, and how cold he had become in order to face his Goliaths, he was sure her tears would be warm too.
Sound
The cacophony of organised chaos was the background noise David recognised as the hushed undertone of his life, but never acknowledged. The Market is a tool. David Riedmaier is a tool. The hullabaloo is always unusually quiet around Mr. Riedmaier, but never is it completely silent.
"I was waiting for so long."
Water soaked into his jeans from the dirty footpath. The rain can't wash away the blood dripping between his fingers. But at the very least, the icy droplets on his cheeks tried to comfort him. He was told once that if he could sleep soundly after ending a life, he was irrevocably condemned. He was fine with that - but this job had never been about harming the innocent.
Don’t wish too hard.
“So how about it?”
“I don’t know, Cal. I don’t- it won’t work…”
“It will! I’ll make it work! I’ll take care of you.”
“Really?”
“I promise. We’ll be okay.”
David was scared. David wasn’t brave – not like Cal, who had come from faraway America.
David waited for a long time after Cal disappeared. Alone, abandoned; he couldn’t find it within himself to be happy for Cal.
And then Cal came back. Cal came back different. David had changed too.
If he hadn’t changed, he might have apologised. David wouldn’t have made it had they left, but Cal might.
Have you got it in you?
“Do you know what’s wrong with training people like you, David?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No sir. I do not.”
“Don’t get me wrong, David – I like you, I really do – I think you’re spectacular. You’ve been trained to handle anything; even our most skilled mindreaders can’t get past your defences.”
A skip of a heartbeat.
“You know better than anyone how important that private rolodex inside your head is.”
“Yes sir.”
“But no one can see your secrets either.”
The most intimidating set of eyes made it impossible for David to avert his gaze.
“Is that going to be a problem, David?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No sir. It won’t be.”
“It’s always the ones closest to us, David. You’ll never see it coming.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Do you? Do you really? Because when the time comes, you’ll be the one pulling the trigger.”
“I’ll do it sir.”
“Good. Good liars live longer.”
I’m sorry, did I do the wrong thing?
“Your colleague went too far. I took care of her.”
“David, you shot her in the face.”
“It was instant. Painless.”
Cal stared at his friend-cum-brother-cum-unflinching-kille
No such luck.
Those trapped in a violent world either lose themselves in the underbelly and die, or stain their hands trying to live, trying to save fragile dreams.
“What have we become.”
David, master of masks, managed a weak smile in response.
“I’m sorry Cal. But I’m treading as softly as I can.”
Step outside and shut the door.
It wasn’t something that bothered young David – he was more concerned about how immaculate his suit wasn’t looking or troubled by the rain incessantly bashing against the windows and how it would make his hair look funny to notice the way his uncle and those Merchant associates appraised him.
David Riedmaier at fourteen years of age was a gamble turning into a successful long-term investment.
He’s past forty when he starts his own family and has his own children. He doesn’t love his wife the way most husbands do, but he cares about her. She knows he’s not attracted to women and the man he really loves is dead now, but he loves their children, and that’s all she can ask for. When his son starts going to school – that’s when they show up at his house.
Is this your son, David? Isn’t it time you found your successor? You know, the younger they start the better they’ll be.
“Daddy. Daddy? Dad – what’s wrong?”
Tugging at his father’s sleeve, he’s shorter than the tabletop so he can’t see his father’s Merchant associates smiling down at him.
“Callum, could you… leave us for a moment please?”
He smiles from under his father’s warm hand ruffling his hair and nods. He has to stand on his toes in order to reach the doorknob and close the door behind the serious conversation going on in the kitchen.
As he runs upstairs he doesn’t hear the silenced gunshots or David cleaning up the mess.
I'm not here for your entertainment.
“What? What’s wrong?”
Cal smiled, shrugged – shook his head a little as if he didn’t know what David was on about. Picking up the large white fluffy towel, he chucked it over at the Englishman.
“Tell me.”
Cal laughed before he could get the teasing remark out.
“That was a David Beckham ad right there pal, the way you got out of the pool with all the dripping water and rippling muscles and everything.”
David furrowed his brows and narrowed his eyes at Cal.
“Poolside sex?”
“What?”
“Nevermind. I know you’d say no. Too English and proper for that.”
“Really.”
Don't go
It’s a silent plea. Silence is what Saito does best, and he recognises it, acknowledges its overwhelming power over him as David’s hand gripped tighter and tighter, creasing the sleeve of his otherwise immaculate suit jacket.
He doesn’t want to see David like this. David doesn’t want him to see him like this. But David manages to be relentlessly stubborn even whilst relying on bandages and band-aids to hold his body together.
Saito can’t always be there for him. There will come a day…
“Takashi.”
Everything grinds to a halt as the silence is pierced and shattered by a single word. He turns and stares at David, incredulous.
The boy-not-quite-man averts his gaze and hesitantly lets go. For a man-not-quite-boy who sleeps with a gun under his pillow, at this very moment, with weak fingers curled into the white sheets instead, he only seemed vulnerable.
Saito leaves, but Takashi stays.
The things we forget
She doesn’t like him.
He’s cold, ruthless – walks around with a gun tucked away behind his back and he pretends not to know but oh – if anyone knows anything at all, it would be David Riedmaier.
She doesn’t think much of his friend either, that Cal Bishop – but he knows that too. They both know, and neither of them seems to care.
But then they both go and do the unthinkable.
There are two presents waiting for her on Christmas morning, and she remembers. She’s seen many things in her eventful life, but beneath their titles, they were only human.
I'm not...
If there’s one thing they won’t do, this would be it. But here they were sitting across from each other, a pot of tea sitting in front of Saito, a deck of tarot cards sitting in front of David. The Merchant speaks up first, his voice soft and his words hesitant.
“I can’t give you an exact date, the way you can.”
Saito silently acquiesces by pouring David’s cup of tea.
In the end, it is David – always David – who backs out.
“I’m sorry, I- I can’t do this.”
I don’t want to know. I don’t want you to know.
Never again
On Saito's 60th birthday he receives a parcel in the mail. Inside was a letter and old, faded, tattered tarot cards. The postmark is strange but it is the handwriting that surprises him.
David had been dead and buried for years now. He must have known, even if he never got a reading, that he wasn't going to be here today.
David was not a good writer and he didn't write much, but he was eloquent enough to say 'thank you' and 'sorry' in the same line.
If we ever meet again after this life, let's never say these words.
Bluebell
“You’re not supposed to pluck them,” David pointed out, but otherwise made no further attempt to stop Saito from doing so. He straightened and studied the drooping flower with no less intensity than when he studied people, their faces and their fates.
“It is a beautiful flower,” Saito observed. That might have been a smile.
“It’s a protected species.”
David and Saito looked out of place, admiring flowers in their business shirts, pants and leather shoes.
“Beautiful things ought to be protected.”
David smiled at that, and shrugged.
“Maybe we shouldn’t protect them. Beautiful things tend not to last forever.”
It’s crooked
“It’s crooked.”
“Huh?”
David glanced at his reflection. Yes. Yes it was crooked. He sighed, out of frustration and quite possibly fatigue. Being able to tie a bowtie from scratch was a rare skill nowadays but after all these years of practice, David still couldn’t get it right the first time.
He tensed up as the back of Saito’s hand caressed under his jawline, foreign hands straightening it out for him.
“Thanks.”
David seemed surprised as Saito’s finger tilted his chin back gently, forcing the boy to meet the man’s unusually softened gaze.
“It’s okay if it’s crooked.”
David smiles.
Not what I asked for
David wasn’t irresponsible, but that seemed questionable right now with David clinging on to Saito as they stumbled their way into Saito’s residence.
He was a reasonably quiet drunk. A little giggly but not rowdy, not violent. It made putting him to bed a lot easier, despite the groans and protests.
Saito offered him juice in the morning.
“I am so sorry. You… didn’t have to stay with me.”
“It’s my house. And I stayed because you asked me to, when you called me ‘dad’ last night.”
David choked, and coughed. Saito chuckled.
“It’s quite alright. Don’t be embarrassed, son.”
A little harder
Every world had its own demons. If you stayed in your world, you knew who they were. Venture into foreign territory and you can’t tell the angels from the demons.
But David was most definitely a demon.
She didn't like him. He was odd. He laughed and shook his head when she asked him if he'd ever asked her father to read his tea leaves. Said it'll ruin the surprise. What kind of person said something like that?
“You’re a demon. I don’t need your protection.”
“Saito-san, I’m only human. And in London, you don’t want angels watching over you.”
Blink and you’ll miss it.
How many years had it been, since they last saw each other? Cal… didn’t know what to say. Didn’t even know who would answer the door he knocked on, and when it was David, it was surprise written all over the Merchant’s face.
“…hi.”
One word. One word and Cal’s mind wandered, back to when David’s voice used to sound so familiar. Back when David’s breath wouldn’t lodge in his throat and he wouldn’t look so relieved and pained when Cal knocked on his door.
“Daddy daddy who is it?”
David looked over his shoulder, down at the pint-sized brat that squeezed his head between the doorframe and David’s leg to look up at the stranger. Cal would have apologised about interrupting – dare he say it – family dinner, but he was stunned and silenced by the appearance of a boy – one who didn’t look a lot different from a little English boy he used to know.
Mrs. Riedmaier pulled the door open wide. Librarians weren’t welcome here – that much was evident in the way she glared at them before leading the little boy away.
“I uh… Guess I’ll be going.”
“No.”
David reached out, and it was David’s familiar hand on Cal’s wrist. A silent cry for help in the way they recognised from back when they were Romeo and Juliet’s age. It was a familiar expression on David’s face – the slight furrow of the brows, tongue swiping over his lower lip absentmindedly; it was a decades-old tell, that one was. A tell, not of a lie, but – could Cal admit it? – fear. But of Mrs. Riedmaier? Or Mr. Bishop?
“Stay,” David asked, letting go of Cal’s arm almost reluctantly. It was evident then, that it was fear of neither her nor him, but fear of letting Cal go.
“Please.”
Stop.
“Don’t struggle.”
He knows David is trying his best not to, but it bears reminding the little boy exactly why he was here in the first place – to get the job done himself where he had previously failed in finding a suitable replacement in the time allotted – and one reminder would hopefully suffice through the night.
David groans and writhes – either because the leather belt binding his wrists was too tight and leaving bleeding welts that would be difficult to cover up, or because he’s succumbing to whatever could possibly be pleasant about Ces fucking him sideways on the floor – either way, he’s in pain, and there’s chalk in his wet hair, rubbing off the floor onto his sweat-slicked back, and the ritual is wavering.
It’s disgusting, the kiss. Unnecessary – the sex was necessary; that’s why it’s rough enough to make David beg. But it’s just the illusionist’s way of being nice; he won’t stop, but he’ll kiss and get David off after he’s emptied a load between his legs, anything to make David feel better about holding still and kneeling there shamelessly as it dribbles down the raw insides of his thighs.
When the phone rings, Ces is unconscious, buried knee-deep in his own weaves of magic, so David, still panting, possibly about to throw up but at least with a shirt on, answers the call. The client sounds pleased. David tries not to break down over the phone.
“…will that be all, sir?”
“For now. Keep me updated.”
Nothing to see here.
“David? What’re you doing here? What’s wrong? Why are your eyes r- have you been crying?”
The English boy wouldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t even look up at the American boy – just stood there with his eyes glued to the floor until Cal hopefully invited him in, though he was half-expecting Cal to yell at him to get the fuck off his doorstep.
“You shouldn’t mix with boys like that,” she said to Cal once she put David to sleep and thought he couldn’t hear them talking.
She meant bruised, bleeding, violent boys who got kicked out of their houses and showed up at quarter to midnight. Cal thought she meant Market people in general.
“He has nowhere else to go.”
“He’s trouble and you know it.”
“He’s not! I have to protect him.”
“From what? What can you do?”
“From that man who keeps-“
“Don’t argue with me boy. Go to bed.”
Cal didn’t sleep. She was right. He couldn’t do anything, and David…
”Who is that?”
“He’s… my uncle.”
“He’s a big jerk.”
“Don’t say that!”
“He hit you!”
“That was… I fell…”
“I know he hit you!!!”
“Cal, please… don’t…”
“I’ll pray for you, David.”
“…thanks.”
“Oh. I thought you were sleeping.”
“I… have trouble sleeping… sometimes.”
“You can sleep here. I’m here so you’ll be safe.”
And don't look back.
He'd never seen David with a Merchant's son before. He always thought 'babysitting' was the nice way of saying 'witch-burning'. He didn't think babysitting actually meant running around in the park chasing a laughing preschooler, playing hide-and-seek, eating ice cream...
"Hey David. You ever thought about having kids?"
The question made David miss his shot, and there was that annoying laugh that Cal knew all too well – that laugh that managed to respectfully convey how David thought that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.
“They’re only cute if they’re someone else’s.”
“It’s just… you seemed happy.”
Cal caught David’s ‘I don’t really want to talk about this’ smile as he bent over the pool table to take his shot. David had a dozen different types of smiles and Cal knew them all.
“I’m paid to please. Babysitting’s part of the job.”
“I think you’d make a great dad.”
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