travelling and landing, thick and slick over buddy like a vat of hot honey, finn’s voice filled a room. he knew, he’d seen him captivate crowds of inattentive socialites who would rather stare at mirrors but found themselves enraptured as if finn was a reflection of the sick entertainer in them all; he’d been one of them, hanging onto his every word, doe-eyed, puppy-tongued, awed and sucked into his whirlwind of charm. but it was different, in the little vacuum they’d created. buddy could drool through a thousand men’s orders’, admire their tenacity and their sad little belief that they held even an inkling of power over him, but as soon as they told him to jump, he’d roll over. all it took from finn was a flick of his wrist, a rumbled demand that could never be mistaken for anything but even to buddy, to the boy who broke the spines of words that disagreed with him, that bent every will to his way. finn spoke as if speaking to a world beneath the crushing heel of his very expensive shoe, but he spoke as if whispering to their own intimate little evil, too, over a ten-minute dead body and red-ruined italian leather. buddy hopped from the desk with a soft thud, slid to his knees with a sick click, budding bursts of white fabric tucked under bruised lilac knees.
then came those giggles again, hot tarmac paving the way to trouble. he just adored trouble, just adored the word for all its implied forgiveness; ‘he hadn’t meant to skin the poor lad alive, honest, he was only lookin’ for a bit of trouble’. he loved it for its juvenile sweetness, sherbet soft in all the awful it described. finn’s hair appeared to him like liquorice, his now exposed arms at once like bitten bubblegum. he folded his hands in his lap, so as not to be too greedy, but from between pink lips and right from deep down in the depths of what he hoped wasn’t humanity, poured forth a torrent of truly desperate pleas. desperate for what, he never made clear - where would be the fun in that ?
“ tacky and gorgeous, darlin’, you spoil me. “ he wished he did; he’d seen the special treatment finn’s girls in all their fake pearls got, thought them utterly ungrateful when they’d complain about bruised, bleeding gums. he wanted a scarlet smile eternally, lit up in the brilliance of the pure animal before him. he stared up at him, never wavering, not once, not even to breathe. “ like he begged for his life, y’mean ? ‘cos that was a sad, fuckin’ sorry display. i’m surprised you even let him in, wet fuckin’ towel. said he were just curious, he were just havin’ a good time. “ he made a face, disgust and delight all rolled into one amalgamated mound of mould. “ he weren’t nothin’ if he weren’t a fuckin’ creep. “ like an eclipse, his blinding rage dulled as if on a dimmer switch, and buddy stared straight into the sun, up at finn, through him, a messy boy in more ways than one, a mad boy, in all ways but none. he half hoped he might go blind, so as not to have to comprehend this man and his talk of rat-picked eyeballing, as if a lullaby. “ please. “ he began, trembling with false insecurity, remembering himself, smile twisting toward cruelty. “ have mercy. you mustn’t kill an angel on halloween night, can you imagine the talk ? it’d be fuckin’ ruthless i admit but i- “ his facade was fading fast, he was leaning up on his knees, closer, faster, honest. “ i won’t care if y’do. i ain’t gonna know, when i’m fuckin’ strawberry delight pasted on you’re walls, am i ? eat me up, either way, i fuckin’ dare you. can’t beg for a life i ain’t never had, darlin’, but i can beg for you. “ he was practically panting, wide-eyed, delirious. “ just fuckin’ touch me. slice me clean in half, like, shove that fuckin’ barrel back down my throat ‘til i feel it in my fuckin’ soul. touch me. “
SO IT WASN’T the desperate plea he had expected, anticipated. though it did tremble, already finn can tell that buddy’s no regular diddy. before him, buckle-kneed and pouty, a twisted sadness might’ve showed in gleaming eyes reflecting the dull overhead light. sinister served on a careless but specific stone cold platter, far too gone to not crack a smile when a gun’s drawing blood from your gums, winding rivers of red. finnian stands wide legged and patient, but not too patient. buddy’s got a way with words, it seemed, and finn’s kind enough to listen without cutting him off hilariously by the ring-inducing blare of his gun’s only real purpose.
“so you’ve got no life, ‘ave ye,” is what finn plucks from the angel’s lullaby. that’s ungrateful, he thinks. imagine, attending the night’s most anticipated bash, and standing before mr. bailie himself, saying you have no life. well, that sounds like disrespect, devoid of the flattery that followed like a band aid over a bullet wound that would never really heal over. he unravels a faux-empathy, carefully staples it to the corners of his face like a costume piece, one that was usually reserved for employees wishing to roam off for the day because someone’s hurt or they’ve got a second job. bullshit. finn’s gonna snap the neck of the next fucker who comes to him with an excuse. “poor child. sat on your arse, whinin’ away,” finn should shoot his head clean off just on that count. though, he’s not exactly keen on giving anyone exactly what they want. finn walks closer just to take the boy’s chin in his hand, all gentle like handling an injured doe. he looks down at him in his bruised, willing glory. that controlled chaos that still seemed to spill over in burnt, bubbling succession. still sat that same mocking compassion, furrowed in his eyes that were somehow full but hollow. “want to be touched. s’that it?” he doesn’t wait for an answer, because he already has what he wants; finn smooths a soft caress across buddy’s face, and in the solace of his blinks he really did look like an angel, if such a fucking thing existed. right then it did, on his hardwood, on his time. the hand smooths through tufts of hair, and round to the other side of his face, cupping.
let’s see how much this angel really wants it. finn crouched down to the other man’s level, leans in real close, and tucks the gun back into his waistband. “..maybe you’re right,” he says, soft in a way he never was. “if you aren’t even worthy of a life, well you’re certainly not worth my fucking time.” he’s not subtle nor soft when he GRIPS the boy’s throat, and dips in to face him closer closer closer, deadly. “don’t come skippin’ ‘round my joint ever again. not with your pathetic, embarrassing needs fer attention or with your sob story wrapped in pretty fucking bows ‘n paper.” finn stands, but his grip doesn’t let up on the angel’s throat. “and if that body’s not oot me fuckin’ sight by sunrise, i’ll slice that face t’pieces and y’wont have no lips to pout with, my darling.”
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