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+--- Thread: PRETTY PETTY THIEVES - hypokrisis (/showthread.php?tid=4952)
PRETTY PETTY THIEVES - hypokrisis - musey - 08-10-2018
[align=center][div style="width: 51%; text-align: justify; font-size: 10pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: georgia;"]/human rp is dead so. we writin modern au until everyone gets that shit going again
He wonders how Hypokrisis manages to keep this hotel room looking so painfully picturesque. It seems like a desperate attempt at keeping them tight at the seams in spite of the chaos that swirls - he makes the beds every morning, sets up the coffee pot with the sunrise and leaves a styrofoam cup steaming for each of them. He folds the towels Trevor's bloodied - they never call room service - and opens the blinds to force Trevor out of sleep and into a violent hangover. Fuck, by now he half expects to come in and see his needles, his pills, his pipe lined up in alphabetical order on the nightstand - and stupid little Hypokrisis sitting in the middle of their organized chaos, ashtray in his lap. He'd whack the kid for being so stupid. He'd tell him that there's no use trying to keep it all together. He'd tell him that he's deluding himself, living a fantasy like Michael always did, trying to play nice when he knew the kid was ready to put the knife in his back at any moment. Just like the rest of them. And then he'd laugh and light up beside him.
Except today, he stumbles in and sees nothing.
The walls are black and his gaze falls in and out of focus. He feels sick - he always feels sick, his organs are rebelling against him - but today it is not from the chemicals in his blood but the lack thereof, the red splatter that spreads across his shirt and shines dark from where it soaks down to his pant leg. Trevor staggers through the door and falls back against the wall when the lock clicks behind him, a weak sound scratching up from his throat where he sinks to the floor. He grabs - he grabs at the spilling viscera that pushes out from the wound, grabs at the handfuls of blood like pressing hard enough will re-fill his veins - and gives a useless wheeze, the raw pain of it all knocking out any hope of making a sound, a cry for help.
He's felt worse. He's felt the air slipping out of him when one of many fathers tried to hang him with a belt, he's felt the drugs take him too close to the edge. He's felt a gunshot to the leg and flames licking at his skin. This - this is nothing. This is a paper cut. But the skin that peels back from the wound on his belly to reveal a lipid sheath of yellow and the red-pink striations of muscle say otherwise. The feeling that his writhing guts are pushing out, trying to burst forth from the massive gash and spill out across the floor in mesenteric knots, it all says otherwise. He grips the wound as tight as he can and chokes on his spit when the agony pushes a half-scream out of his lungs.
Hypokrisis is just past this corridor, he knows. The room is small - a closet, a bathroom, and two beds adjoined by a single table between them - so if Hypo doesn't already see him collapsed on the floor it's near-impossible to not have heard him enter. Hypokrisis is just past this corridor, and then - and then what? He presses towels into the wound until they're soaked, until he's hazy from the steady draining, until the stab wound claims him and Hypo is left alone with his corpse?
Things have been worse, things have been worse. This is the hope that he clings to.
The dawning realization that there's little Hypo can do to fix him leaves him weak. He wants Michael here, now. He wants Michael to pull him into their car and drive them somewhere safe, somewhere quiet. Neither of them could ever fix this wound but at least - at least - Michael would make his death easy, at least Michael wouldn't show him that he's just as terrified of the loss. Michael would hold a cigarette to his lips and let Trevor kiss his fingertips (okay, that was a stretch, but Trevor would try all the same) and he'd turn the radio on, he'd tell him he was alright. Trevor would use the last of his strength to crank the passenger seat back and watch the light-polluted stars from the windshield while his senses faded. He thinks of Hypokrisis letting him die and sees nothing but tears, shaking hands and desperate work to save him but for naught. He thinks of Hypo trying to save his life and wants to tell him in this hallucinative vision that it's no use trying.
A gasp, and Trevor lifts his face from the floor. He was out - for a few seconds? a minute or more? - and the knowledge that he's genuinely starting to die spurs some sort of response in his chest, a final kick of adrenaline. The carpet burns his palms when he digs his hands in and pulls himself forward, blood still dripping from the wet clothing that sticks to his wound. "Hypo," it's a rasp, a thinning noise that works itself from his constricted throat, but a noise over the din of the television on the table and the hum of the fluorescent lamps nonetheless. "-- Hypo."