𝚆𝙰𝙺𝙴 - 𝚄𝙿 𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙻

  𝙵𝙾𝙻𝙻𝙾𝚆        𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁         𝐻𝐸𝐴𝑅𝑇.  

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dr    gordon,    this   is   your     wake     up     call           [  . . .  ]           your    aim    in    this    game    is       to       kill       adam.     there   are    ways   to     win     this     hidden     all     around     you       !    ───────      &   i’ll    leave    you    in       this       room       to       rot,        let    the    game   begin           [  . . .  ]            𝙵𝙾𝙻𝙻𝙾𝚆        𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁         𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃.    

CUTFOOT!           an        extremely        private        blog        for        doctor        lawrence        gordon        from        the        saw        franchise.           chained           by           elliot           (           THEY           +           HE           ).           follows           the           canon           of           saw.      

RULES.          INTEREST TRACKER.          MEMES.          STARTER CALL.        MAIN VERSE NOTES.

SIDEBLOGS:   @tomwambs

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lawrence happy halloween time?

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it’s okay for us to kiss.

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thesadsaint​:

His smile widens at the way the doctor fixated on his manner of speaking. He chuckles, “Is it?” Sean wonders if perhaps he had been too far removed from society for too long a time, but he would have spoken this way regardless. From one soul to another. Another laugh startled out of him, “My approach?” Sean repeats the words, finding some amusement in the way the doctor saw it.

“Perhaps. I’ve always found it freeing to speak to strangers. Less judgment from those who barely know us.” His head tilts to one side. “I have been accused of wearing my heart on my sleeve though so my opinion may be entirely at odds with yours.” Sean grins, appearing unbothered by the perception that he is potentially odd. “I imagine doctors have a particular calling. Those in medicine must have something that draws them to such a vocation.” A slight tilt of his head as his gaze goes distant. “I’m glad for people like yourself, regardless of the reason.”

LAWRENCE INVOLVES HIMSELF IN THE BREEZY RULES OF JUDGEMENT   :        he is the glimmering sword smashing down upon a broken throat,   the bone splintering itself open into a gentle flower       (        will you pluck this forbidden fruit of bloodstains and split veins from the tombstone of a judged body?        ).        ‘   it depends on what that stranger will some day become to you.   ’        he does not pluck   :       he allows the rose to blossom,    he allows the rose to rot.

the other’s words bring a begruding smile to his lips,   devoid of any leftover twitches of wrathful humour       (        people like him have tasted violence in its cool metallic form,    licking the spoon dry until the blood splotches were nothing more than tacky paint   :       a doctor’s hands can become a madman’s weapon        ).        ‘   i think you put too much kindness into a profession.    be more careful with who you hang your virtues on        ...         i don’t claim to be anything that i’m not.   ’

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wantslife​:

IT’S HARD NOT TO FEEL SELF - CONSCIOUS.   adam’s aware that he commands and demands attention.     (   he’s equally aware that he’s cute.   soft features,  bright eyes,  and a disarming grin.   )     often loud,  often smart - mouthed.   he only cares for the attention of his partner :   any other parties are merely figures in the background.   he’s not an idiot,  no matter how keen he is to play the role,  and this was hardly his first time hanging off the arm of an older man.   this is the first time he’s done so with a genuine smile on his face.   but lawrence pulls away,  avoids attempted pecks.   he pulls him closer,  but it doesn’t feel the same  —  it’s as if he pulls adam closer because he has something to prove,  not because he wants him closer.     (   he doesn’t follow lawrence’s gaze  —  he doesn’t want to.   he’s far more content to keep eyes trained on lawrence’s face.   TRIES NOT TO LET HIS CONCERN,  OFFENSE,  BOTH SHOW ON HIS FACE,  at his partner’s hum.   it doesn’t work.   )     ‘ no,  i really haven’t.   i’m impatient.  ’     there are biting snap - backs that die on the tip of his tongue,  tired,  almost bitter comments that adam swallows back.   NO,  he’s too happy to be here right now.   he was here now,  he could hold lawrence,  see him  —  something much warmer,  realer than phone calls slipped in the spare hours they’re both free and time zones don’t plot to keep them apart.     ‘ — sorry. ’     here :   the smile falters.   his voice is dull,  quiet,  when he apologizes.   home for less than fifteen minutes and he’s not helping his case.     ‘ guess being ‘round a comedian for the past like,  half a year made me think i was in a place to make jokes.   i don’t want to leave,  either.   i missed you too bad  —  trying to sleep in the hotels was HELL. ’

a small smile is offered up,  tender,  soft.   a gesture to say,  I’M HERE NOW.     ‘ y’know,  i’m allowed to really like my job AND hate the fact that it pulls me away from you.   wish you could tag along. ’     but it gets easier to smile,  easier to  tuck away that self - doubt and self - consciousness when he gets to turn the conversation away from him and back to lawrence as they wait for a taxi.     ‘ well.   what’d you do without me?   must’ve been preeeeetty quiet,  boring.   NOW you’ve got me to annoy you non - stop for a MONTH.   it’s like a dream. ’

lawrence flags down a taxi and ignores the obvious annoyance that is scrawled across adam’s face.     THERE IS AFFECTION IN LAWRENCE   :        timid,    unspoken,    swelling in his heart like a symptom of some greater disease       (        some would call it love,   but lawrence has never been so impractical       ).      but it is a type of affection that is suffocated by prying eyes,    numbed by whatever harsh glances could befall them         ...          the follies of youth do not guide him anymore.    he is a man made of schedules and timings,   a man with a smile that seems pasted onto his face,    a man that can barely hold adam’s hand in public.    HIS EX - WIFE HAD ACCUSED HIM OF LACKING WHIMSY.      she had been right   :       childhood smothered,    youth strangled,   old age rearing its ugly head on him like a feral beast.     the taxi driver grabs adam’s luggage and throws it into the the trunk of the car,    lawrence reaches down to hold the door open for the younger man.     

‘   you’re free to make jokes,   you just have to realise that we have very different senses of humour.      i’m not in my twenties anymore.   ’         once adam was safely in the car,    lawrence slid into place.    soon enough,   the driver was back in his seat,     and the car was thrumming to life.     LAWRENCE ATTEMPTED TO MAKE AMENDS FOR HIS EARLIER WINCE         --          across the seats,    he found adam’s hand and took it in his own          (            care comes slowly,  patiently,    with his thumb pressed against adam’s pink - tamed knuckles            ).           ‘   was it as bad as the hotel in,   where was it         --       houston?    the one with the pipes that leaked that odd green algae thing?    we went for that medical conference.      i’m not sure you if you remember much of it.   ’

lawrence had very limited free time on trips like that   :       he only remembers attending boring lectures and sleeping on lumpy beds,   with springs intent on reshaping his spine.     HE THINKS THEY’D HAD A NICE DINNER THERE,   BUT HE COULDN’T BE SURE IF IT HAD BEEN THAT CONFERENCE OR THE OTHER TWENTY.         ‘   as much as i’m sure i’d enjoy gallivanting around with you,    your twitter gives me enough of a headache with all the little updates.    i’m not sure i could withstand it.   ’        weary age and sleepless eyes,     those are the signs of life that become lawrence        (      a frail life,   a quiet life       ).       ‘   besides,  i’d miss diana too much        ...       i mostly worked.   an old friend stopped by for dinner.    the support group is going well,   we’ve gotten two more members.   ’

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wantslife​:

THIS  WON’T  LAST,    of  course,    adam  knows  this  far  too  well.      but  it’s  not  a  marathon  that  adam’s  running.      it’s  no  test  of  endurance      —      god  knows  adam  has  plenty  to  spare,    but  each  interaction  with  lawrence  is  a  sprint  :      maximum  distance  covered  in  a  condensed  time.      adam  soaks  up  what  little  he’s  allotted,    and  knows  to  take  it  with  a  grin  and  a  thank  you.      thumb  pressed  against  lip,    doe  eyes  beam  up  at  lawrence  as  if  he  were  glancing  at  the  face  of  an  angel  :    adoration,    reverence.      he  had  pawed,    and  mewed,    and  nudged  for  a  crumb  of  affection,    and  there’s  an  unmistakable  light  that  reflects  in  his  eyes  now  that  he  has  it.      ADAM  IS  YOUTH  :      adam  is  naivety,    adam  is  optimism,    adam  is,    is,    is.          (      first  and  foremost  :      adam  is  lawrence’s,    a  role  he  is  more  than  happy  to  fill.      )          a  gentle  kiss  he  is  more  than  happy  to  return.    

‘  no,    i  GET  how  important  your  job  is,    doctor  man.  ’          there’s  a  teasing  curve  to  his  lips  that  on  any  other  would  read  petulant.      GRANTED,    there’s  shades  of  it  here    —    it  was  etched  into  his  very  being,    after  all    —    but  his  eyes,    as  always,    betray  the  fondness  beneath.          ‘  you’re  saving  lives    —    and  i  adore  you  for  it  ;      doesn’t  mean  i  wanna  share  you.  ’          still,    adam  relishes  in  the  warmth,    in  the  too  -  brief  tenderness.      a  doctor’s  touch,    a  lover’s  kiss.      how  clinically  perfect.      for  a  moment,    a  hum  is  all  the  question  is  afforded,    coupled  with  a  dismissive  wave.          ‘  i’m  running  around  all  day      …      i’ve  got  a  shoot  with  a  friend  of  scott’s    —    another  band,    i  think?    —    doing  some  promo  stuff.      a  meeting  with  my  friend’s  agent    —    she’s  on  tour,    and  they  want  someone  to  tape  their  show  here  next  month.      a  few  other  things  on  the  agenda,    probably,    pretty  boring.  ’

DEATH HAUNTS EVERY MOMENT   :        there are ancient beliefs that call doctors life - givers,    pouring the forgotten worlds back into fading bodies,    slicing open callouses to touch at the soft inside of humanity         (        lawrence has never thought of himself as something so great        ...       he collects these myths just to laugh at the audaciousness of them         ).      he watches adam,   tracking the parts of him that will one day turn to rot.     the sweet crest of his cheek that will one day becomeconclave,    the pout on his lips that will one day become nothing but withered bone,     a corpse’s welp of soon - to - be death.      adam’s bed - warmed flesh wards off the thoughts for a flashing moment,    but he knows already that his mind will turn to them before the day is done       --       life is nothing without the alternative bearing down upon them.

‘   i think you’ll find it’s not just an important job.      it’s a necessary job.    i’m afraid the world will crumble without me.   ’          there’s a deadpan muster to his tone,   a bored hum caught in his throat,     eyes giving away nothing       --       LAWRENCE HAS MASTERED QUIET HUMOUR         (        which is to say he’s often funny to himself and no on else   :       there’s a whip of a smile burdening his lips        ).        he runs a hand gently through adam’s hair,   feeling the rush of brown locks greet his palm with dog - like affection.      it’s nice having someone to wake up to.     a wife and an idyllic life had been scraped out of a sore wound,   the mucus - lining of suburbia,    replaced with a boy whose mouth was too quick for his mind.      lawrence disappears into the adjoining bathroom,    keeping the door open so he could see adam.         ‘   sounds like you’re quite busy.    will you be able to meet up for dinner?   ’

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talbite​:

WILDERNESS     OF     THE     MIND     /     WILDNESS     OF     THE     BODY     ———     even     marked     by     trap   -   tooth     scars,     even     broken   -   boned     and     shedding     the     only     skin     he     knows,     larry     stands.     this     sickness     that’s     settled     in     his     blood     is     not     the     funeral     march     of     the     ailing     or     the     infirm   ;     HOT     BLOOD     STILL     POUNDS     THROUGH     A     HEART     THAT’S     SEEN     TOO     MUCH,     angry     muscles     tense     under     brute   -   borrowed     skin.     ‘   hey,     now     ———     what     the     hell     kind     of     man     do     you     think     i     am?     call     me     crazy     if     you     want     ———     that     might     well     be     true,     but     i’m     not     a     drunk.     …     and     i     didn’t     get     out     in     one     piece.   ’    

THE     WEIGHT     OF     HIS     GROWL     IS     A     PHYSICAL     THING,     a     rumble     that     stirs     and     shakes     deep     in     his     chest.     no     matter     what     beast     he     has     become     [   …   ]     no     matter     how     worthy     of     scorn,     HE     IS     NOT     ONE     WHO     TAKES     EASILY     TO     SCORN.     what     has     a     man     but     his     reputation     [   …   ]     is     he     not     at     least     half     a     man   ?     ‘   there’s     more     to     it     than     that.     i     thought     you     would     understand     …     lawrence.   ’     far     apart     from     a     foolish     caricature     of     humanity,     he     scrabbles     for     it     [   …   ]     a     desperate     hodgepodge     of     manners     and     misery.     LAWRENCE     S.     TALBOT   :     is     he     nothing     more     than     an     animal     in     a     silk     suit   ?     that     same     name     is     a     bile   -   tainted     plea   :     an     appeal     to     the     doctor’s     better     side,     but     even     for     education     and     affected     sophistication,     SOME     MEN     HAVE     A     BARREN     STRETCH     WHERE     THE     SOFTNESS     OF     THE     SOUL     SHOULD     LIE.     wolfmen     alone     do     not     lay     claim     to     a     lack     of     compassion. 

THE WILD DOES NOT RISE TO GREET LAWRENCE   :       domesticity is not an inviting space for untamed wildebeests       (        caution of youth has been long forgotten,       here stands a man who is not a man who is the stitched together pieces of a family home        ).        a life in a body        ...       four walls collapse inwards to form the scalp - skin of his skull,     rotten roots growing delicately around a mind that seemed desperate to be polluted.    THE PHILOSOPHY OF A MADMAN        --       it is a fatherly doctrine.    it is crafted in good will and fond hymns,    it is delivered on the knees,     on the bruised purple that smears itself like salve across their darkest days.       what kind of man do you think i am?       ONE THAT WOULD REFUSE A MARTYR   :         the weak will be crushed by the ancient brush of their own tepid souls.        ‘   i tend to believe the worst of anyone found in a forest        ...         you have to admit it’s a rather idiotic thing to be doing,   at any time of the day.    DRUNK IS THE NICEST WORD I COULD THINK OF.   ’

slowly,   a head tilts,   a curiosity is captured by honeyed moments.       lawrence is an uprooted barrage of thinly - pressed lips and scalp - white skin,    fledgling bones stripped to reveal an uncomfortable body beneath   :       there’s more to it than that,    speaks a voice that is a blight against lawrence’s good will       (       he spits his name like some kind of foul joke         ).         ‘   tell me,  then.    let’s see if i can find it in my heart to understand.   ’

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talbite​:

@cutfoot​   :     things would be so much easier if we were honest with each other.

‘   well,     i’m     not     a     liar.   ’     he     dreams     of     blood     and     teeth.     LYCANTHROPIA   :     a     delusion     that     one     has     become     a     wolf.     (   [   …   ]     might     imagine     that     he’s     anything     [   …   ]     your     son     is     a     sick     man.   )     round     and     about     his     finger     he     twists     his   father’s     signet     ring   ;     there,     a     wolf     leers     up     at     him,     snarl   -   smile     mocking.     THERE     IS     SOME     DISEASE     THAT’S     TAKEN     ROOT     IN     HIM   :     mind     or     body,     it     makes     no     matter     ———     he     is     honest,     and     he     is     scared.     

‘   what     about     you?   ’     all     these     doctors,     all     this     doubt   :     gordon,     finding     no     tumour     or     abnormal     behaviour     of     the     frontal     lobe,     has     branded     him     a     LIAR     /     LUNATIC.     again     and     again     he     turns     up     disbelief     and     sneers     [   …   ]     ON     AND     ON,     until     he     dies,     or     doesn’t.    

HONEST MEN DIE QUICKER   :        a lie propagated by tongues meant to slip truths away for later       (         honest men live forever       --       the boundless shackles clash against bathroom tiles,    homely spaces twisted into inhospitable tombs,    the truth extending out from the rib - cage and cracking its whip down every inch of the torso         ).         honest men do not have to claw out their hearts to make room for every sordid lie        ...          then why is lawrence’s chest half - empty?       HONEST MEN COULD HAVE ONCE BEEN LIARS.

‘   no one can tell the truth all the time.   ’       morality cannot withstand the flame - grip of practicality.       HIS HONEST TONGUE HAS BRED THE MOST INHUMANE LIES       (       his liar’s tongue had crafted the sweetest truths        ).         ‘   which means you must have lied once or twice in your life.     have you really never lied to me?      there’s something almost       ...       sociopathic in constant honesty.   ’

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dhufeainnewedd​:

«        i    ain’t    one    of    those    things.        »            teeth    glint    in    the    lowlight    of    the    fire    as    her    knife    stays    exactly    where    it    is        :        kid    with    no    father,    born    from    the    wild    grime    of    her    mother’s    hatred,    with    no    intention    of    bowing    down    to    patronizing    statements.            even    the    entity    cannot    reach        ;        as    the    blood    leaves    a    puddle    in    the    mud,    it    disappears,    as    if    it    had    never    touched    the    ground        …        girl    with    no    shadow,    in    the    sun’s    nadir.            «        and    predictin’    wha’    i    might    do    is    a    dangerous    game    to    play,    doc.        »    

«        but    am    willin’    to    listen.        »            knife    is    sheathed    back    in    her    sleeve,    good    as    gone.            here    she    is,    the    magician’s    girl    who    swallowed    the    saw    into    her    body    until    she    could    cut    her    way    out    of    the    box        :        how,    when    the    applause    came,    she    was    red    from    the    artist’s    blood    who    was    supposed    to    make    a    living    doll    out    of    her.            «        if    ya    start    talkin’    fast.            ain’t    got    all    time,    doc,    vision’s    already    gettin’    all    blurry.        »

THERE ARE EVEN MORE DANGEROUS GAMES THAN THIS   :       notice the way his hand curls around the rotting edge of his walking stick,    the wood suffering from the lick of fire and the kiss of damp fog         (       nothing survives here         ...         his hand clenches,   splintered nerves zigzagging roughly along the sinew of his body          ).         this is the game where he dons his wolf garb and plays doctor - hunter,     healing turning to harm with the same brutal hands        --       because cutting someone open has always been a sign of aggression.          ‘   i’ll thank you for the warning       ...       and make my own mind up on how closely i’d like to regard it.   ’

he kneels beside her,   a respectable distance,   the sort of space you’d give a wild animal   :        that is how he regards her         (         a child unlearning her own childhood and replacing it with broken beasthood          ).             ‘   let me help you.    THEN WE CAN TALK.   ’        his heart was only bleeding when the glint of metal stabbed through it          ...          this is about gaining trust.     his hand is held out,   his fingers weathered with age.        ‘   before you bleed out here.   ’

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junksaw​:

A  CAUTIONARY  TALE  AGAINST  HABIT     :     amanda  has  never  known  where  to  lay  down  her  hurt.     she  has  hammered  it  into  metal  gears,   she  has  bottled  it  up  and  let  it  cascade  out  in  night  -  cast  sobs,   but  there  is  never  a  purer  release  than  a  knife’s  blade  caught  on  her  skin.     some  kind  of  reclamation,   she  used  to  think  of  it  as     :     when  every  other  piece  of  her  was  tossed  to  the  wolves,   her  body  was  a  tapestry  of  blank  canvases  to  destroy.     now  this  is  more  properly  classified  as  an  addiction,   one  of  many  rabbit  holes  she  ventures  into  in  search  of  the  nameless,   the  ever  -  unidentified  missing  variable  to  her  being     (     she  watches  john  carve  jigsaw  pieces  out  of  flesh  and  feels  the  wound  pulse  against  her  own  skin,   a  phantom  sense  of  loss.     ). 

enter  her  halfway  savior,   whose  hands  have  so  lately  done  worse  than  soothe  this  sore  display.     she  breathes  quietly  near  him,   every  inhale  rendered  a  guilty  failure     (     it  isn’t  lawrence's  personal  disappointment  she  dreads,   but  this  evidence  of  collapse  that  disproves  the  redemption  she  holds  so  close  to  her  chest     :     don’t  read  into  this,   begs  the  voice  trapped  in  her  throat,   don’t  think  that  this  says  anything  about  me,   don’t  think  for  a  second  that  i’m  not  just  as  strong  and  capable  as  i  was  yesterday.     ).     fear  cuts  across  her  eyes,   a  stone  skimming  over  a  disturbed  lake.          ‘     john  doesn’t  need  to  know.     you’re  not  going  to  tell  him.     ’          small  in  her  seat,   shoulders  wound  tightly,   and  still  she  finds  steel  left  to  demand  this  of  him.          ‘     you’re  not.     don’t.     ’

THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE   :       it will rip apart your own body         (        humanity has contrived differences between bumblebees and wasps,    pretending silken stings would smell as sweet from any other buzzing rose         --        she is asking for his silence         ).         turn against your disposed god and unpick the lemon - death of hospital beds        --        veins had been stripped into monstrous machinery,    faint mercy caught in gagging breaths backdropped by routine beeping.     THIS IS YOUR IDOL   :       a man meant for death.     this is your messenger   :       the slit - wrist angel descending like a wild wolf upon any carcass that was rotten enough for her picky tongue          ...        he is not a wielder of redemption         (         merely a curator,   a passive enjoyer   :        there is nothing he can give amanda that she wouldn’t just take from anyone else         ).        and while she is begging for something he could never gift her,     he is trying to craft its artifice in an attempt to free her.        FATHER DOESN’T NEED TO KNOW,   SAID ABEL’S FRAIL MOUTH,   IGNORING THE ROCK IN CAIN’S HANDS.

‘   BE CAREFUL.   ’        this is generic advice   :         there is a faint moment where he thinks about grabbing her wrist and showing her the welts drawn across her skin,    the brutal unworship she’d made of a body         --        a body that should be crafted into a churchyard        (        she is making a funeral home of something holy        ...        she is cutting tombstones across her wrists         ).         PITY IS NOT THE SAME AS DISGUST          ---         but lawrence will not name what pulses through his own heart.          ‘   can’t you see how much worse it’ll be if you hide it,   amanda?   ’       SPOKEN FROM THE DISAPPEARING ACT HIMSELF!

[cutfoot]

drunivers​:

monsters  are  made  in  darkness  –  what  does  that  make  you?  an  angry  spirit,  pacing  the  confines  of  this  rattlebone  ribcage  and  only  feeling  pain  distant  and  dull  as  a  blown-out  bulb?  blood  congeals  in  his  mouth,  ( just  the  internal  bleeding,  nothing  to  worry  about,  doctor! )   tongue  red  as  rot,  and  he  spits  out  a  clot,  just  missing  the  doctor’s  shoes  and  staining  the  assumedly  once-white  floor  instead.  shame  he  missed  –  he  is  a  red  and  weeping  wound,  and  he  stains  everything  he  touches.  no  hands  are  clean  enough  to  put  adam  back  together.

LEAVE  YOU  HERE.  the  words  jolt  adam  back  to  life  better  than  an  electric  shock  and  he  grabs  at  the  doctor’s  hands,  claws  at  them,  unkempt  nails  and  rictus-bared  snarl.  the  pain  barely  registers –  there  is  only  the  fear.  “no!  wait,  fuck,  i’m  sorry.”  somewhere  a  projector  scratches,  rewinds  with  the  wrong  memories  flickering  in  black  and  white:  lawrence  and  the  strange  man  who  had  closed  the  door  become  one  and  the  same,  and  they  stare  at  adam  with  mocking  eyes.   “you  can’t  leave  me  here  again!”

some wounds forbade healing.   the mouth,   with its pristine bone - teeth and its unhealed slab of muscle wiggling fleshily between gore - stained cheeks,    puckered by two pink lips destined to stay parted.    blood drips from adam’s wound - mouth and clots on the ground,    another missing piece of adam laid bare for hungry eyes to devour.      EYES WERE ANOTHER WOUND THAT WOULD NOT HEAL   :        eyes and mouths and adam’s body.     these are creatures left to rot,   these are body parts strewn across once - white floors.    lawrence pries adam’s mouth and sticks in two fingers,    a terribly cold gesture,    as he seeks out wounds.    THIS IS NOT HIS MEDICAL FIELD        ...       but he runs his fingers over the cap of his teeth,   the rough diamond of his tongue,   edging to the back of his throat.    when he pulls his fingers out,   satisfied with the lack of wounds buried there,   he grimaces at the stain of adam’s spit.  

'   be quiet,   ’        lawrence sighed,   wiping his hand on adam’s shirt.        ‘   walk with me and i won’t have to leave you here.    walk with me,   adam.   ’

[cutfoot]

talbite​:

@cutfoot​​   :     why are you asking me for help? 

‘   because     i     deserve     to     suffer.   ’     i     need     to     lock     myself     away.     I     NEED     TO     BE     CONTAINED     AND     HURT     AND     I     NEED     TO     DIE.     but     that’s     not     what     DOCTOR     GORDON     offers,     and     larry     knows     it.     (   MAKE     YOUR     CHOICE   !   )     the     jaws     of     death     spit     up     the     sweating,     bleeding     gift     of     life.     agony   -   born     and     mutilated     beyond     recognition     of     their     former     selves,     these     victims     breathe     in     the     stinking     air     of     each     new     day     like     hungry     children     guzzling     their     mother’s     milk.     underneath     misery   -   laden     words     is     the     silver     sheen     of     hope   :     why     are     you     asking     me     for     help   ?     [   …   ]     i     only     wanted     to     die     /     I     WANT     TO     LIVE.

A GLEAM IN LAWRENCE’S EYES   :        suffering is hot coals slathering the abdomens,   a pain that is meant to ease the cramps that would soon blossom there        (         strange things creep into the hearts of strange boys         ...         he is split lungs and red - white - blue insides,    american sin twisted by doctorly hands       ).       he wants to fester between the homegrown rot of larry’s ribs,   to see just how deeply he deserves suffering   :        very few people are so willing in their penitence.     AND THAT IT WHAT MAKES HIM HESITATE.     true repentance came with screams and pain,    it comes with a villain brought low by their own actions.         ‘   i’m afraid i can’t help you.    what you want won’t be done by me.   ’

[cutfoot]

wantstomove​:

‘  hey,    you  started  it,  ’          adam  throws  out,    a  glance  spared  yet  again  up  to  lawrence,    even  if  just  for  a  moment      …      corner  of  his  lips  twitching  upwards  ever  so  slightly,    the barest  inkling  of  a  smug  smile  beginning  to  show.      he  doesn’t  let  it  blossom  into  a  full  -  blown  grin,    lest  the  reprimanding  come  yet  again    —    and  if  that  comes  again,    he  can’t  promise  he’ll  be  able  to  hold  back  some smart  remarks.      to  put  it  lightly.      adam  softens,    however    —    he  always  does,    doesn’t  he?    —    at lawrence’s  gaze,    hand  not  occupied  with  his  phone          (      and      …      SENT!      )          gently  placed  against  lawrence’s  arm.          ‘  hey    —    listen.      daniel  runs  off  all  the  time.      i’m  sure  they’re  okay.      you  wanna  go  look  for  them,    or  somethin’?  ’

A HAND AGAINST HIS ARM,   A HAND SHRUGGED OFF HIM WITH A TWITCH.      his scowl burns deep into his glare,    a dry - cut expression of nimble grief         (          his worry for diana is a beating heart cut free from a marble - chest,    cool ice yielding to something so terribly human that it burned through him         ).          ‘   daniel is a flight risk,   but that doesn’t mean we should stop worrying about him,  adam.      and that’s to say nothing of the fact my daughter is missing.   ’         his weight shifts as he manhandles the cane to his side,    a roaring glare eradicating any softness from his features.       ‘   do you have any idea where to start?   ’

[cutfoot]

wantstomove​:

HE’S  NEVER  BEEN  GOOD  AT  PLAYING  COY.      leave  that  to  zoey,    really.        (      maybe  he  should  pick  up  some  pointers  from  her  one  of  these  days.      he  still  could  use  some  acting  lessons,    after all,    right?      )          adam’s  always  been  better  at  playing  the  PEST,    a  young  man  with  an  endless  capacity  for  needling  under  someone’s  skin.      a  quick  glance  behind  him,    checking  that  there’s  no  manager  slinking  around  waiting  to  chew  him  out      …      when  he’s  satisfied  that  he’s  in  the  clear,    he  leans against  the  counter  more  comfortably,    left  arm  pressed against  the  counter,    pressing  his  weight  down  onto  that.     bright  eyes  and  a  teasing  smile  colors  adam’s  face  :          ‘  WELL,    i  didn’t  say  THAT.      i  think  you’re  projecting.  ’

adam’s  always  been  very  observant.      it’s  part  of  what  made him  such  a  talented  photographer.      he’s  good  at  reading facial  expressions  and  body  language,    and  right  now,   lawrence’s  is  screaming  let  me  out.          ‘  i  mean,    if  i’m  upsetting  YOU  so  bad,    you’re  not  the  one  being  held  hostage  here.  ’          there.      escape  clause.          (      not  that  adam  particularly  wanted  him  to  take  it  ;      after  all,    this  is  the  best  night  he’s  had  for  a  while      …      first  conversation  he’s  had  that  didn’t  just  about  knock  him  out.      )          ‘  how’ve  you  been?      how’s      …      diana,    right?  ’

THE SOUND OF HIS DAUGHTER’S NAME   :       it makes his own throat constrict as if a razor blade had been dragged along the seam of his body       (       he is cutting himself open upon the dagger of his child’s name,     slitting his wrists for the taste of badly made coffee and the ignorance of his daughter’s eradicated youth       ).         it feels different coming from adam’s lips       --       it is an open wound doused with salt instead of sugar.          ‘   what?   ’       he blinks himself out of the absurd trap of his thoughts,     pretending the fragile loop tasted like anything but regret.       THESE ARE QUESTIONS HE DOES NOT WANT TO ANSWER   :         these are questions he knows he will have to endure.   he grits out a smile that is all gore - wounds.

‘   you don’t have to ask about her.   ’        it is a way of worming his way out of the question.      there are easy lies that should live on the tip of his tongue   :        she’s doing well,   she just tried out for soccer,    she’s doing well,   she’s busy with her mother right now,   she’s doing well.      but she doesn’t think he can bring himself to spit furious untruths at adam.    IGNORANCE IS BLISS.        ‘   i’m sure i’ve been as well as you’ve been.   ’

[cutfoot]

alisongordon​:

‘     larry…     ’          when  alison  says  his  name,   she  pillows  it  with  exhaustion.     it’s  always  best  to,   she  knows  now,   or  else  let  it  be  pricked  with  marital  thorns     (     their  bodies  are  ripe  for  scratching,   for  clawing  and  seeing  if  it  leaves  behind  wet  blood  under  their  nails     …     she  prefers  her  nails  unblemished  for  now,   red  only  with  the  paint  of  a  manicure.     ).          ‘     if  you’ve  figured  out  how  to  turn  whatever  you’re  feeling  on  and  off  like  a  switch,   then  i’m  happy  for  you.     i’m  thrilled.     ’          exasperation  thins  her  smile,   tight  and  flat  as  any  look  in  a  family  photo     (     they  are  turning  two  -  dimensional  now,   she’s  learning     :     lawrence  is  a  façade  of  professionalism,   alison  the  picture  of  love  when  he  can’t  afford  to  be,   the  entire  image  gold  -  framed  and  cracking  at  the  corners.     ).     she  sits,   once  more  becoming  the  furniture  they  fill  their  space  with,   high  price  tags,   form  over  function,   and  every  stray  thread  hidden  on  the  other  side  of  the  cushion.     her  voice  quiets.          ‘     but  i'm  tired  of  sitting  around  and  waiting  until  you  decide  it’s  time  to  let  me  in  again.     ’

@cutfoot     …      “ but you’re here. so stay. “

SHE STARTS ANOTHER ARGUMENT       (        ignore the ivory trail that leads them here,     tainted with the gentle slip of lawrence’s blood,    clawed free from the nest of his veins   :        she ignites the gasoline he’s left in his wake and that’s enough for him to lavish fault upon her       ).       she unwraps his nerves.    gently,   like ripping apart the roast beef they’ve had for dinner,   the fork digs into his scalp and crushes,    sinew snapping free from bone under the breeze of her voice.     SHE WANTS TO FIGHT   :       it’s another thing he can’t give her.         ‘   you know that’s not what i’m doing.   ’        his sigh crawls along his bare bones and worms across the family home,    the home without a family,    the family without a burning heath to keep them warm.      this family photo of theirs has a smudge - print over his face,    the photographer’s thumb caught in the snap,    a laughing little caricature of the happy family      (       they tuck their fingers into marital bliss and see how much it can take before it snaps   :       THEIR AGONY IS NOT WORTH MUCH       ).        ‘   fine,   don’t stay,   if that’s your choice.    i can’t force you to do anything.   ’

[cutfoot]

wantstomove​:

it’s  taken  some  time,    but  adam’s  finally  found  himself  at  a  point  where  he  can  say  he’s  comfortable  with  where  his  life  is  now      …      he’s  able  to  make  his  own  schedule,    choose  his  own  jobs,    he’s  met  the  love  of  his  life,    dreamless  nights  cradled  in  his  arms,    sun  -  kissed  mornings  alongside  lawrence  with  the  promise  that  their  routine  will  repeat  yet  again,    and again,    and  again.      adam’s  kisses  are  pillow  -  soft,   stained  with  morning  sleepiness,    though  lawrence  wouldn’t  be wrong  to  assume  adam  wanted  him  to  fall  back  with  him.     there’s  little  bliss  quite  like  the  warmth  of  lawrence’s embrace,    strong  arms  wrapped  around  him,    and  gentle  lips pressed  to  his.      if  adam  could  have  his  way,    this morning  routine  would  be  stretched  for  hours  longer,    laid  in  bed,    knowing  he  was  perfectly  safe,    perfectly  loved.      he  relents,    eventually,    reluctant  as  it  is.

‘  of  course  i  do,  ’          adam  says,    smiling  into  lawrence’s  shoulder,    nuzzling  closer,    stealing  any  comfort  he  still  can.          ‘  it’s  not  too  late  to  call  out,    y’know      …      or  call  in  late      …      the  bed’s  still  warm.  ’          a  kiss  pressed  to  lawrence’s  cheek,    to  his  jawline,    just   below  the  ear,    a  smile  across  his  lips  all  the while.          ‘  you  like  when  i  whine.  ’

THIS WON’T LAST   :      lawrence’s easy mornings are bursting with overripe joy,   a tactile reminder that he was not built for endurance         (         adam is dulled by sleep and eager for attention,     cutting himself open on all of lawrence’s edges in his unfounded desperation        ...         lawrence stands,   hands dug into his pockets,     wondering what no sounds like in his own mouth        ).        instead,   he lets his hand fill with adam’s cheek,    the warm apple - fresh scent pressing against his skin.    this is young skin,    this is a young body.    IT HAS NOT YET LEARNED HOW TO ROT       --       soon,   he’ll collapse into old age,    ruminating on how he aches.      he touches his thumb against adam’s mouth and knows,   one day,   spider - veins will push against his skin until they become visible wounds,    that wrinkles will pucker his mouth into a never - ending kiss.     there’s so much life inside of adam   :       there’s so much potential for death.

‘   it’s absolutely too late to call out.    i think you’re doubting the severity of my job.   ’       brow bunches together as his hand flattens against adam’s back,   guiding him closer for a soft kiss.    soon,   that mouth will be lavender - scented,   the taste that covers over graves,    losing the feather - softness of morning blues.       ‘   what are you up to today,   anyway?   ’

[cutfoot]

wantslife​:

adam’s  grin  doesn’t  falter.      instead,    it  only  widens,    if that’s  at  all  possible.      lawrence  pulls  away  from  him,   and  adam  follows,    tries  to  steal  another  kiss,    two,   however  many  he  can.          ‘  you  don’t  think  i  waited  long  enough?  ’          words  spill  freely  from  his  mouth,    honey  -  sweet  and bubbly.      adam  is  no  doctor,    but  he  thinks  that  if  his heart  were  any  fuller,    he  might  just  be  in  medical danger.          ‘  wait  ‘til  the  european  leg  takes  off,    then  you’re  really  gonna  miss  all  of  this    —    ’          his  hand  meets  lawrence’s,    an  attempt  to  pull  his  bag  back  for  himself,    all  while  his  camera  bag  is  retrieved,    slung  back  over  his  neck.          ‘  gimme  that,  ’          comes  an  argument    —    mouse  deftly  moving  around  his  partner  to  reposition  himself.      instead,    his  hand  finds  a  comfortable  resting  place  in  lawrence’s.      there    —    perfect  place  to  cling  to.

‘  fine.      kept  busy.      lonely,  ’          he  adds,    with  a  little  bump  from  his  shoulders.          (      if  lawrence  had  been  on  twitter,    for  example,    he  would’ve  seen  all  of  the  complaints,    all  of the  whining,    the  count  -  down  until  he’d  be  back  home again.      being  on  the  road  was  fun,    and  he  was  more  than  lucky  to  make  friends  on  the  tour,    but  nothing  could  compare  to  being  home.      )          ‘  y’know,    while  we  were  out,    i  was  thinkin’,    though      …      personally,    i  think  we  should  move  to  miami      …      you  have  any  idea  how  fuckin’  CRUEL  it  was  to  let  me  spend  a  month  down  there,    then  have  to  go  up  to  fucking  TORONTO  two  days  later?      BULLSHIT.  ’  

adam  shakes  his  head,    a  hint  of  a  laugh  once  again  creeping  into  his  speech.          ‘  i  really  missed  you,  ’          he  repeats,    glancing  up  at  lawrence,    eyes  brighter  than  his  camera  flash.          ‘  SUCKED  being  out  there  all  alone.      BUT    —    enough  about  all  that  ;      you  heard  most  of  that  already.      let’s  talk  more  about  how  much  you  missed  me.  ’

adam leans up in an attempt to steal kisses,   an artful thief in all things annoying,   and lawrence tugs away just enough to keep himself out of the other’s range      (      he is acutely aware of all the eyes that follow them   :      his reputation was a stinging pile of nothing already,    there was no need to further disgrace himself      ).       NOT THAT HANGING AROUND WITH ADAM WAS DISGRACEFUL IN AND OF ITSELF      ...      but there was no denying that the pair drew eyes,    an obvious age difference hanging around their every move.   he met eyes with a mother and she shot him a glare that was full of disgust,  blindingly angry.    his arm tightened around adam’s waist in retaliation,    though he couldn’t deny the displeased hum that leaves him as the mother waddles away.      ‘   i don’t think you ever really learned the meaning of waiting.   ’      he responds in an undertone,    quiet enough that it can feel as if it’s just the two of them.     HE IS TIRED OF STARES.    they exhaust him   :      privacy is the abode he wishes to make a home in.      adam wrestles the camera bag back and lawrence lets him.      ‘   let’s not talk about you leaving already.    you’ve barely been here a few minutes.   ’      the sigh is weathered,   bone - deep,    as if his voice had been chipped and pruned with time.    with the memory of adam rather than the physical being.

‘   of course, you’re the most hard done upon thing in the entire world.    however will you survive the career you’ve chosen?   ’       he makes a gesture for a cab as soon as they’re outside,    waiting patiently for one to pull up for them.    it was a uniquely busy day,    the sun low,    the afternoon speaking for itself in glittery nothingness.       ‘   i missed you,   too.    what more is there to say than that?   ’