cont'd ft. @hystare.
back again, like a bloody bad penny. john had actually been stupid enough to think he'd never see the monster that called itself corinthian again after dream's little favor, no more nightmares. the corinthian was a relic from back in the early days, before newcastle. when john had been young and dumb and just looking for magic, anywhere he could find it, whatever the cost. he'd made a fatal mistake, approaching the corinthian like a lamb to slaughter, thinking himself a wolf. hadn't seen him much after their first messy shag, not in person. only in his nightmares. and oh, after newcastle, john's head was full of nightmares for the corinthian to play with.
they'd first met in a dive bar, then moved back to a small room like this one, stinking of whiskey instead of blood. it's the smell of blood that takes john back out of memories best forgotten. back to this dead man: face slack, empty eye sockets bloodied. the victim's white, male, sandy-haired. might look like john, if you squinted. a macabre little love note.
just to get your attention. it's sickening in its casual cruelty. john's seen a lot worse than this particular mutilated corpse, but the comment still makes his gut twist. he should've known better than to ask dream for a favor. everything, even a good night's sleep, has a cost.
"you could've sent scotch," he says -- has to say something, or he'll betray the lightning storm of shamedisgusthunger roiling through him as the corinthian steps closer, gleaming smile just as bright as it'd been in every one of john's nightmares. "flowers. a card, maybe. something with a bit more," his fingers wiggle in a vague little gesture. "style."
john's coat, and all the bits and bobs he's picked up over the years, magic that might keep him safe, if the creature before him decided he wanted john for dessert, is out of reach, slung over a chair in an attempt to temper the heat of the room. he forces a smile of his own, an attempt at jovial carelessness. "this just feels a tad desperate, mate."