Story: ROTOS by kusarinokokoro
Blueberry Yogurt 11. out of my hands
+ Milkshake + Malt + Chopped Nuts + Cookie Crumbs
Word Count: 772
Rating: PG13 (Violence)
Notes: Milkshake Remix of Scared of the Dark, part of the Sergei's gun AU :)
Sometimes he's afraid the memory of that night is fading like it wants to leave him and make him move on.
Sometimes he's afraid the memory of that night is fading like it wants to leave him and make him move on. Let him pretend he's just another American boy with an honest face and boundless opportunity and not a killer, oh no. Not that. But just laying a hand on the gun, the lightest touch on the trigger—it brings it all rushing back.
It's cathartic, he wants to say. When he takes the gun in his hands again, it's like ripping open an old wound to find something pulsing underneath—raw and alive and dangerous. He would tell this to Sasha, if he could find the right words. He wouldn't sound scared, but wild, violent, sexy. He would wave the gun in Sasha's face, press the end to Sasha's throat so the cold ring of the barrel made him shiver, and say see? Now do you understand?
But that will never happen. When he speaks his voice is shaky, a scared child's, and all that comes out is the guilt.
"I shouldn't have had to... We were supposed to be safe. I should have never..."
He looks up from the gun in his lap to Sasha crouching by the sofa. Sasha's face looks grim in the moonlight.
"Stop thinking like that," Sasha says.
Sasha's stopped indulging him.
But the memory's so fresh in Sergei's hands; the feeling of squeezing the trigger, the kick when it goes off. It's hard to let go when all he wants is to feel that again, maybe this time with the barrel pointing at his own head, to erase the guilt, erase everything.
"Take your finger off the trigger," Sasha says.
Sergei hates to, but he does it anyway. He unwinds his finger from the trigger. The gun dangles between his hands, impotent. He hangs his head too, stares down the barrel to the well-worn carpet below.
It's easier than looking at Sasha.
"Sergei," Sasha says. "Give me the gun."
Sergei's head snaps back up at the sound of his name. Sasha looks rarely serious, hand stretched out flat in front of him.
Sergei doesn't realize how hard he's shaking until he hands over the pistol.
"Now, the holster."
He gives that to Sasha too, who tucks the gun inside. One quick motion and it's out of sight.
Sasha's face softens. "That's better, Seryozha."
Sergei looks down at his empty hands and realizes the queasy feeling in his stomach might be relief. He watches Sasha stand up, take two long strides to the cabinet drawer and lock the gun and holster away. Sergei's finger is still tingling from touching the trigger.
It is a relief that he can't pull it now.
Sasha walks back to the couch, stands over Sergei with his hands on his hips. "Now, bed. Even if I have to put you there myself."
Sergei make his hands into fists, tries to squeeze away the feeling of the pistol's polished handle. He takes a few deep breathes, letting his head loll back against the the soft upholstery of the couch.
He looks up at Sasha. "I like it here."
"Come on." Sasha sits down on the arm on the sofa, and reaches over to cuff Sergei's shoulder. "Bedtime. Let's go."
Sasha's fingers are white in the moonlight and Sergei wants to feel them entwined with his own, erasing the shape of the gun from his hand. Sasha's sailor calluses rubbing away the memory of metal.
"I want to sleep here," Sergei says. He doesn't want to sound petulant, but Sasha's treating him like a child, and that's not what he needs. He locks eyes with Sasha. "And you're sleeping here too."
Sasha looks surprised, then he laughs. "Excuse I? I thought I'd be sleeping in my own apartment." But he slides off the arm of the couch to join Sergei on the cushions. "But you want me to sleep here with you?" He leans in closer. "You're afraid of the dark, aren't you? You big scaredy-cat."
"I'm not afraid of the dark!" Sergei feels his face grow warm. He's back to sounding like a kid. "I just don't want to sleep by myself."
Sasha grins. "That's okay, Seryozha." He stretches his legs out across Sergei's lap, leans his head back against the armrest. "If you want me to stay, I'll stay. As long as you’re not all over me when you sleep. Again.”
"Shut up," Sergei mumbles, not fierce or violent or sexy, but it doesn't matter now, because Sasha's hand is closing around his own, Sasha's thumb's rubbing over his knuckle. He leans into Sasha and closes his eyes. He's safe.
I had these different ideas about Sergei and his gun that kept prodding me which is why I wanted to work with this piece. Hope this is up to snuff, Kuu :)