SAINTS AND SINNERS [open]

[kearny]

They’re holding hands. No, they’re not just holding hands, their fingers are friggin’ entwined. Two men. They’re taking comfort in one another. Two men. They think they’re giving one another strength. Two men. He doesn’t know them, but that doesn’t matter. Two men. They’re holding hands in broad nut knocking daylight. Kearny watches them round the corner, watches the taller of the two bend down to press a kiss to his lover’s lips before heading into a rundown apartment building, leaving the other alone to head on his way. Alone. Half of a whole. Best to be a whole on your own. A half is vulnerable. A half is weak. A whole made of two male halves is weak. They are meant to be two wholes, standing strong, waiting for a woman to complement them. They are unnatural. They are wrong.

He hates them.

He hates them so much that he follows the boy, who is shorter than him by at least a foot, if not more, but that doesn’t matter because he hates him, hates him with everything that he is even as he loves him, loves him enough to want to teach him a lesson, to want to set him on the right path. He’s so small, so innocent, with his rounded face and bright green eyes, his shock of red hair and his slim hips. But Kearny knows all too well that even the smallest, most innocent mareep can be led astray, for was he, himself, not once led astray?

”There is only one true path, and the three shall guide us along its course.
The Trio does not tolerate dissent.”

When he finally catches the boy, Kearny reaches out and grabs his hand -such an innocent movement. His fingers tighten -such strength for such small hands.

Sol is clutching at his hand, trying to will life back into Kearny’s battered body, but it doesn’t matter. It never does. His limbs are weak, his body bruised and bloodied in places he wasn’t aware he had, and the burns that run along the insides of his thighs, where his elder brother Malthus pressed the still blazing brazier against his skin, feel as though they’ve been set afire. Tears stream down his cheeks as his fingers clench around Sol’s until his knuckles are white from the strain. He thinks he finds strength there in his lover’s thin fingers, in the arm that cradles his head as though it’s the most precious thing in the whole Gods be damned world. He thinks he’s lucky.

He’s wrong.

These desperate moments, their laced fingers, they won’t give him strength; they’ll only lead him further down the path of weakness. He doesn’t know that yet, but he will. Oh, he will.

The boy mumbles something about the tightness of his hold and Kearny smiles a wolf’s smile, all teeth and malice. "What's that fag, you want to know what we do with sinners?" He speaks with his father's voice and, for the first time in years, he is untouchable. The fists and the fury are his own, the ribs that bow and crack beneath the blows are also his own, and the laugher - free, and wild, and hysterical - that is also his own. Blood drips between his fingers, coats his hands and runs down his wrists, and still he laughs. Because it’s funny, it’s so Gods be damned funny, because here he is, and he’s beaten the odds. He has become his father, all knuckles, and narrowed eyes, and furious glory. He has been made strong by The Three.

But father’s knuckles never bled. ‘He was stronger than you. You’re still weak Kearny. Always have been, always will be. A fag. A failure. A disgrace.’ And he doesn’t have his father’s voice after all, because in the end, he’s still a failure, he can still taste the sweat on the other boy’s neck as he slams him against the wall, mashes his face into the brick until his cheeks are stained red with bloody embarrassment. They match his hair now, such a pretty shade of red. The shame intensifies.

“Yesss. Yes, that’s right” he hisses, voice low and menacing as he presses himself against the other boy’s back. “You should be ashamed of what you’ve done, of how much you’re enjoying this you little whore.” His fingers curl just so, pulling back and then moving forward again, connecting with the boy’s cheek with a satisfying snap. “Men lying with men, blasphemy! The Three will not have it. I will not have it. No son of mine will be a filthy blasphemer, not if I have anything to say about it.” He pulls back again, let’s fly. The sound his fist makes as it knocks the boy into sweet oblivion, bouncing his head off the bricks, is familiar, too familiar, and he’s sinking to the ground, his entire body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

“Please, father, don’t. I’m sorry. I know it was wrong, I do. I’ll never do it again. Ever. I swear!” But words aren’t enough. Actions are the only things that matter, the only things that have ever mattered…like the press of his lips against Sol’s, the arch of his hips as he sought more of that delicious friction and something that he was too young to name, the feel of his father’s firsts as they meet his flesh, the sound a rib makes when it shatters in two places, the sound it’s brothers make as they join their fallen kinsman, the hiss and sizzle of skin beneath a hot coal. He hears them now, those actions, as his father lays into him, punishes him for his sins, punishes him to purify him. No, now he hears nothing. A snap, a thud as his head meets the wall, and then nothing. When he wakes from this oblivion, he will be cleansed.

”With Entei’s fire we purify, burn out all unholy desires.
Entei will guide you, will reforge your soul anew and you shall know purity once more.”

The boy, Kearny doesn’t know his name, but he was beautiful, and they were holding hands. For some reason, that matters, though he can’t remember why. He used to but, now, it’s unimportant. No, he remembers. He wishes he didn’t, wishes they’d never held hands, but he can teach them, he can purify them, he can make it all better. The boy looks especially beautiful in red, and that seems wrong. The blood matches his hair, and it shouldn’t be beautiful, but his face is shaped like a heart, like it was meant to be covered in blood, and it is. In sleep he looks like a broken doll, pale and perfect beneath the blood, splayed and painted, made all the more beautiful by the knowledge that when he wakes, he will be cleansed. He will be perfect.

‘You want to touch him, don’t you fag? You want to wipe the blood from his face and press kisses all over his skin until he wakes and calls you savior…They say a well placed kiss can heal any hurt, but we both know that that isn’t true, don’t we Kearny? Your kisses are unclean. Your kisses bring death. Do you want to kill him the way you killed your sweet Sol? It would be so easy. Do you want it to be easy, Kearny, easy the way you’re easy?’

He hears his father’s voice again, and he knows he’s going to die this time. Father is angry and he’s going to die. In a blind panic, he scoots away from the boy’s prone form until he’s pressed against a dumpster. He can’t save him now. The boy takes a breath. He can’t save anyone, can’t even save himself now, and tears can’t bring back the dead. Sol is dead, the sun has not set, but fallen, fallen down, down where he can’t reach it, and he’s…

Trapped. He’s trapped. There’s nowhere left to run, there’s never anywhere left to run, and his eyes are clenched shut, awaiting fists that never come.

[marlin]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #ffffff; border-radius: 100px;][classy=icon][/classy] "help me understand, why-"

[atrb=border,0,true] The crisps of fallen leaves beneath his feet follow him as he makes the long walk from work to the dry cleaners. Each leaf has its own sound, it’s own crackle, and though he steps on dozens of them at a time, he feels as though he can make out each distinct sound. It’s like the snaps and gasps of a burning flame, a burning fire, like the fires he’ll light to keep warm this winter, huddled in his little one-room apartment. Marlin is walking along one of the quieter roads in Goldenrod, taking a shortcut to pick up Doc Barnaby’s coats. He’s got the slip tucked into his pocket, along with a few other random bits of whatnot- a single golden key that opens the doctor’s door, the more tarnished brass key of his own apartment, a little still-green leaf shaped nearly perfectly like a weedle, a pomegranite lozenge. He always has trouble this time of year, always finds himself in possession of some cold or another, but not yet, not yet. It’s not quite cool enough yet. Rounding another corner, Marlin walks past the shattered factories lining the far edge of Goldenrod, walks over broken grass that has a crunch that sounds wrong- not like the distinct notes of a crunching leaf but a sickening, grinding sound of dischord- walks past the smell of rot and decay and- and blood. Blood. There’s blood on the ground. There’s blood on- he spots two boys, both reclining, and- and one’s unconscious. Okay. Check the body for response, move him to a position to be sure he’s breathing- but he is already breathing, isn’t he? Marlin doesn’t want to come close enough to find out. He pivots, shoes shifting in clean white trainers that are yet a little big, and makes his choice. He walks up to the other boy, the purple-haired boy sitting shell shocked in the corner, and crouches down next to him. Words flow from Marlin’s mouth in spurts, jumpy and unevenly paced, but his tone is honey-smooth and hopefully soothing. “What happened? Are you alright? I work for- Let me call a doctor.” His fingers, trembling slightly, are already digging into the pocket of his tight jeans, digging in to pull out his cell phone. The scratched silver surface shouldn’t’ be so difficult to grip, but his hands are sweating, making it slippery. “Try to stay calm.” Is he talking to Kearny, or himself? He’s not talking to the boy on the other side of the alley, the one who’s bleeding. He can’t look in that direction. [style=font-style: italic; text-align: center; padding: 0% 2.5% 0% 2.5%;]430 words for Kearny Sorry for the long wait [/style]

you've given in to all these, reckless dumb desires made by amb tanz

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[kearny]

The waiting game is a familiar one, practiced in many respects, because the blows have to come eventually. They always do - fists striking flesh hard and fast, stripping away bits of skin, bits of skin. Each cry is a confession, each blow a step toward renewal. Yet even as they carry him toward a black, blank reprieve, he knows that he shall trespass again, he shall sin again, and the Trio shall forgive him again, shall purify him, as is their way.

It is an unending cycle, one that must be respected, yet the blows never come. The cycle veers off course and Kearny waits: one hearbeat, two, three, four, five - nothing.

No, not nothing, a voice, floating through a darkness made of clenched eyelids and fear. Fear of rightful retribution, fear of a past that refused to leave him behind, becoming present and future.

He sits on a solid oak bench between Malthus and Lamarck, trying not to squirm. Three solid hours of dogma and the words of the priest drone on, never ending, as eternal as the Trio, but he dares not move, dares not draw attention to himself, to his sins.

"There is no escape from the judgment of The Three. They are eternal, all knowing. They are past, present, and future, life, death, and dream. It is they that guide our steps, shaping us for greatness, purifying us, redeeming us in spite of our many trespasses against them, our dark actions and darker thoughts." Kearny shudders and winces as the priest's gaze falls upon him. "Kearny, what of your sins, your trespasses against The Trio. Do you believe yourself worthy of their forgiveness, their all encompassing love?"

Beneath the priest's gaze, he feels like a caged beast, his faults bared for all to see, his thin limbs trembling with obvious guilt - a filthy sinner. He wonders if they can read his mind, if they know how much he wants to run. The priest's earlier words run through his head as he meet's the man's steely gaze. 'There is no escape from the judgement of the three. They are eternal, all knowing.'

Kearny's throat feels pinhole thin and the lump in it refuses to budge when he swallows. "I...n-no, sir. No man is worthy, least of all I." The words are familiar, expected, and the priest smiles at him, a razor edged thing sweetened by approval, and Kearny doesn't relax until his gaze had passed on to another restless soul.

When Kearny opens his eyes, there's blood on his hands and his father's shade has dissipated, replaced by a kind face and a shock of hair red as flame.

"Let Entei's flame cleanse all shameful desires. Let him burn away all shameful thoughts and yearnings."

A flame in the darkness as it lightens and the world begins to take shape around him once more. The red of shame needing to be burned away there before his eyes. The boy has gotten up and come to face him, perhaps to repay him in kind. Does he plan to fight against the right of purification, to profane Kearny's body with the touch of his flesh? But no, the face is wrong and the boy in question lies still and bleeding on the pavement a few feet away, dangerous for all his beauty.

The new boy speaks of doctors, of aid that neither of them deserve. He has done his duty, no doctor is necessary. Healing is part of the process of renewal and, as if to prove the point that he has not yet spoken aloud, Kearny brings his bloodied knuckles to his lips and licks the blood away with a few quick swipes of his tongue.

"A doctor is not necessary. Man must face his renewal alone, must heal alone." The words are familiar and, for a moment, boy and priest overlap and Kearny begins to tremble, the eyes narrowed in confusion before him becoming the narrow gaze of disapproval that he knows so well, the precursor to utter humiliation.

"Please--" The plea is cut off abruptly as Kearny's gaze refocuses and the priest dissipates, leaving only the strange red haired boy and his near panic.

“Try to stay calm.” Kearny's eyes narrow as he watches the boy raise the phone to his ear at last and, without hesitation, he lashes out and flings it away. "You must not interfere with The Trio's judgement," he admonishes, tone sharp.

[marlin]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #ffffff; border-radius: 100px;][classy=icon][/classy] "help me understand, why-"

[atrb=border,0,true] He’s heard the Trio mentioned before, in whispers and in shouts, at the office. Dr. Barnaby’s patients include many members of the cult, all of whom hold firm to its tenets. After so much time, so many cases where their restrictions must be worked around, he’s picked up a fair amount of knowledge on them. Enough to know that this is a tricky discussion, one he won’t easily get around. He goes to fetch his phone- not like he can afford a replacement- but sets it back in his pocket, not wanting to aggravate the purple haired boy further. “Judgment for what?” he asks quickly, the words flying out in a rush. This is pretty severe, and don’t most punishments involve the elements? Well- they’ve seen a few cases where a belt beating went too far, but that’s usually with much younger children. This doesn’t seem to fit that pattern at all. It isn’t organized, it looks… like a random act of violence, really. This doesn’t look like any ‘cleansing’ victims they’ve seen (or been told they could not see to). He turns from Kearny to check on the other boy, because it’s been long enough that he’s truly concerned. Kneels beside him, where he lies bleeding, and checks for a pulse, checks for breath. Please let there be one… The air around his chimes softly but he knows the sound comes from bits of the ruined, sagging buildings in the distance, from their loose bobs and edges striking each other as the wind hits them. It’s not a pleasant sound once one considers the source, even if each sounds like a miniature church bell. If he can find a breath, a pulse, then he’ll tilt the boy back into the recovery position, he’ll work on stopping the bleeding. If he’s still bleeding. Head wounds bleed intensely, and he can’t tell if blood is still flowing, not with how much has already sprung up. It coats the wound, it’s dripping down onto the boy’s face, clothes, the ground. Marlin’s hands are shaking, his legs feel unsteady, and- is that a pulse? He can’t tell, so he presses more firmly and waits. [style=font-style: italic; text-align: center; padding: 0% 2.5% 0% 2.5%;]361 words for Kearny [/style]

you've given in to all these, reckless dumb desires made by amb tanz

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[kearny]

“Judgment for what?” For failing. The answer comes at once, unbidden, but it is the wrong answer and he does not dare voice it for fear that someone from the church, or the Trio themselves, might overhear it as it passes his lips. Instead he remains resolutely silent and his gaze narrows further as he watches the new boy tend to the felled sinner, fingers checking for a pulse, touching smooth, unclean flesh now sticky and red with blood, watches as he slips an arm under the boy's neck and cradles his head before propping him up - a careful gesture, almost tender in it's care.

The ground serves as Kearny's pillow when arms no longer cradle his head - hard and unforgiving where Sol's arms had been warm and welcoming. Kearny wonders for a moment if he will ever feel them again, wrapped about his waist or curled beneath his head like a pillow, even as he knows with a sinking certainty that he will not. They have stripped him of the feeling of being a precious thing and there is a sort of finality to the moment, crushing and all encompassing.

Sol's desperate pleas reach his ears as he's dragged away and Kearny finds laughter burbling up, wild and hysterical - one more bit of wrongness added to the growing pile, one more strange regret to dwell upon as he recovers and long days drag into even longer weeks.

The laughter itself is a strange thing, misplaced, and without joy. Instead, anger rises up, threads its way through the choked, discordant notes, and tries to make itself known. It goes ignored. Lying there broken and battered, covered in his own blood and looking, for all the world, like a discarded doll, he is no threat. They know that all too well. They've brought him low before, but not like this, never like this. They know that as well. So does he.

When the pleas fade and a door slams in the distance, the pain rushes back in to reclaim his attention, making him dizzy and sore beyond imagining. he feels his stomach churn in time with the rapid beating of his heart. Pins and needles run down his arms and legs, and it feels as if a living, breathing flame has sprung to life inside his chest where his ribs have cracked and pressed in perilously close to heaving lungs.

"What do you care?" The answer to the boy's earlier question, the one he voices, is sharp and rife with accusation. Why does this boy care? This outsider? What does he know of the healing process, of purity, and damnation, and sin? What does he know of saving a life, of desire and a need for an unknown something so strong it twists the very soul with the wanting of it, of the doubly painful process of ridding oneself of that desire, that wanting? He had been doing the little faggot a favor. Trying to cleanse him of his impurities, his twisted desires, trying to make him understand...but this boy, he doesn't understand, he cannot, and Kearny doesn't care to try and make him understand.

Few outsiders can be saved. It is known. And this boy who looks like a demon with his shock of red hair and pale, perfect skin, and acts like an angel with his unexpected tenderness and care, like Sol, is obviously an outsider, and Kearny is all out of righteous fury with which to bridge the gap between recognition and understanding.

[marlin]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #ffffff; border-radius: 100px;][classy=icon][/classy] "he who saves one life"

[atrb=border,0,true] He gets the boy into the recovery position, head tilted slightly back to ensure he can breathe. He’s pretty sure there’s a pulse, though of course, he’s not checking too closely. He’s moving anxiously, like a ruffled bird, except instead of feathers he flaps his hands about. And at last, when he’s done all he can, he turns back to the task of talking them into accepting help, into letting him make the call. He has to admit it, he’s a little fascinated. The rigid rules to be dug into and studied, to search for loopholes. The discipline, the united front. The rituals- he’s always had a thing for them, for the neat, orderly lines of an oft-repeated action, once whose meaning is defined only by its recurrence. He remembers his father straightening the already-neat stacks of paper on his desk each night, cleaning out the pipe he quite smoking years before Marlin’s before, and then flicking the light off before turning for the day- a routine set in stone in his mind, tracks paced again and again, day in and day out. There’s a sort of magnetism to living with that sort of certainty… And this boy isn’t unattractive. They say danger and fear are only a step away from arousal and maybe it’s true because Marlin watches the boy’s chest rise and fall to check for signs of panic or irregular breathing, but finds himself simply watching the boy’s body. He walks up to him and looks him in the eye to see if his pupils are dilated or contracted, but finds himself lost staring into them. He has no idea what’s going on here, but this boy is as interesting as the mystery- perhaps as dangerous. There’s still another young man bleeding on the ground behind him, so he can’t linger too long. “They say anger befalls any who force Raikou to come for a man before his time,” he says softly. It’s something he’s heard many times before in the clinic, usually when the issue of payment arises. Sometimes in trickier cases- a woman with a problem pregnancy, a condition he couldn’t quite understand but could garner was serious, had come in once, escorted by father and husband. They’d argued back and forth about whether it was riskier to try an abortion so late, or riskier to let her try to carry to term. Both had thrown the phrase at each other, arguing for what they considered to be minimal harm. It’d struck him as an odd phrase, for despite all his time working with patients from the Trio, they almost never mentioned Raikou. Suicine and Entei’s advice was consulted on a regular basis, but Raikou… Even when they went through ceremonies representing him (he still bore four stitches in his foot from when he’d stepped on a shard of glass left over from a lightbulb broken ceremoniously, to attempt to ward off the death of a very ill-off patient) the name rarely passed their lips. There was little more he could do, but he can’t just walk away, can’t let things stall much longer. The other boy could bleed out, could suffer brain damage… Marlin kneels, folding his thin frame beside Kearny, and extends a hand to try to help him up. Their faces are far too close, and he’s suddenly aware of it, but he can’t look away. “Their will is better accomplished by the living,” he says pointedly. [style=font-style: italic; text-align: center; padding: 0% 2.5% 0% 2.5%;]575 words for Kearny [/style]

has saved the whole world entire made by amb tanz

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[kearny]

"Respect Raikou above all others, but do not speak his name aloud too often, lest you call him down to steal you from the world before your time." It was an oft heard phrase - ironic in hindsight. Yet, even now Kearny shudders when the thunderer's name is spoken aloud.

Raikou: The thunder. The lightning. The bringer of death.

Raikou: who provided the balance, who took when the others gave. Who knew nothing but the dark business of taking.

Without light, his eyes look like pebbles, small, and round, and dark. Unremarkable, where once they shone with an inner light, an inner joy. Sol - it meant sun, the source of all light in the heavens above. Sol had been his light and when it ran out of him, Kearny's followed.

Sol's body is slumped forward, a crumpled note tucked beneath an outstretched hand. A note of intent meant to secure him a place among the faithful ,despite all that he has done, the truth lain out in the creases rather than the words themselves, in the nervous strokes that speak of coercion, the most powerful of the church's forces.

Kearny doesn't get a chance to read the note before it is snatched away and read aloud to the entire congregation, gathered up to give thanks to Raikou for removing a wolf from their flock. And, when it comes time to make an offering of the body, Malthus shoves him forward.

He moves toward the alter with slow, jerky movements, like an automaton, his mind elsewhere. He has no tears left for this. It is for the best. Tears are a sign of weakness, a sign that he intends to forgive the slights against his person, to forgive the boy who set out to sully him. Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, he will weep a river to carry himself away toward nightly oblivion. He will dream of chance meetings and shy smiles, half-met glances and unsure caresses, and Sol will be saint instead of sinner, a savior.

Days after that, it will not matter. He will recall his own blasphemous prayers, his futile wishes that Sol remain among the living, away from Raikou's fatal grasp, offered up to Raikou between choking sobs.

"It is not in Raikou's nature to give. He concerns himself only with the business of taking, of guiding the faithful on to the heavens and the damned to the realm of storms."

Days after that, nothing will matter but the Trio, as it should be, as it is now, and he will make offerings to each of them as a show of faith renewed. Incense will burn his nostrils.

He will understand at long last, and his father will watch him from the doorway with the ghost of a smile upon his lips.

This boy who speaks Raikou's name aloud and does not tremble at it's power, he does not understand. Kearny hates him...but not for the reasons that he should. He should hate him for his blasphemy, for his callousness, for his lack of understanding but, instead, he hates him for presuming that Raikou might want such a filthy soul, that he might enjoy carrying it off to the realm of storms, that sin could be so easy to eradicate. And he hates him from coming so close, for being concerned.

Strength comes from standing alone. For accepting judgement and punishment, taking it in stride and moving beyond it, from bettering oneself through the trials and tribulations set upon them by the Trio. To help another through his trials is to deny him the chance to better himself, to make himself stronger so that he might better serve the Trio.

"You...you don't even know what that means." He can't, or he wouldn't have said it, and Kearny's furious with the him for reciting their words as though he could possibly understand the power behind them. So furious that he doesn't think - just acts, accepts the offered hand on instinct alone and finds himself frozen, momentarily cast adrift by the closeness between them and the softness of the other boy's hands.

He speaks to distract himself, because the heat of fury is a lot like the heat of lust. "He'll be fine. Sin isn't that easy to eradicate." There's a finality to his words, as though the fallen boy's fate has already been decided.

[marlin]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #ffffff; border-radius: 100px;][classy=icon][/classy] "ashes to ashes, we all fall down"

[atrb=border,0,true] “I do,” Marlin says gently. He might not agree, but he knows what it means, he’s spent enough long hours sitting at bedside vigils, he’s spent enough time making special notes on intake forms, enough time modifying procedure protocols… He’s immersed himself enough to have some idea, to have a clear idea, not that he expects this to be understood. Each new visitor to the clinic eyes him with the same mix of suspicion, wariness, and disdain. He looks at each as another chance to prove himself, to do what he was hired for. He’s soft and pliable and he and Doc Barnaby both know it; he and doc Barnaby both know that willingness to yield is why he was hired. The doctor’s clientele aren’t the easiest to work with, but Marlin has yet to turn any away, his well of patience seemingly endless. “Sin or no, a chance for redemption must be allowed,” he’s not sure if that’s absolute, but he’s never heard of a sanctioned death taking place. The priests… He hasn’t met them all, but the one he did meet, didn’t seem the type. He was full of speeches on hellfire and brimstone and icelocks and endless hail, but never directly threatening. He’d shared the same hair as this boy, too- as had the young man he’d brought with him, but him, well. His eyes held something Marlin hadn’t wanted to dwell too long on. Made him uneasy. Not this boy, though. He was angry and sullen and maybe dangerous- definitely dangerous, Marlin amended, as the purple haired boy all but admitted to bashing in the other’s head- but he wasn’t repelling, he didn’t make Marlin recoil like the other one had. Perhaps it was the honesty- there’d been dignity and charm in the other’s façade that Marlin had seen through, but this boy seemed to be exactly what he portrayed himself as. Danger. Hadn’t he learned to avoid that? He had not, for after helping Kearny to his feet, he let his hand linger a moment too long before letting go. And then- And then he really ought to be helping, but he didn’t dare bring out his phone again, not quite yet. “Be that as it may…” his hand slipped lower, towards his cell, but stopped halfway, as Marlin watched for any resistance. “He can’t just- sit here bleeding in an alley like this.” His voice was firm, the one who often used on patients who weren’t cooperating. “We have a room set aside for cleansing.” It’s a re-purposed closet, but though it’s tiny, it’s clean. And that seems to be enough. The doctor refuses to put in any sort of actually harmful implements, of course, but there’s a basin that can run both chilly and warm water, and that’s enough for a basic ritual. He knows there are more complex ones, knows there are tests and ordeals and the like, but for a simple cleansing until a more formal one can be done with witnesses, any form of temperature-controlled water will do. He also can’t, much as he’d like to, let this boy walk away now that he’s admitted his part in this crime. Not that he expects the law to get involved, anyway. They usually avoid the Trio, and if this boy refuses to talk- which is likely- it won’t even make it into a police report. They so rarely talk. No one wants to take the group on, open that door to their bizarre world. Marlin can understand that. He opened it a crack on one occasion, just far enough to peek, and found himself enthralled- drawn in. And maybe that’s what’s keeping him here, as the clock ticks down the time until it will be too late to retrieve the doctor’s laundry tonight. [style=font-style: italic; text-align: center; padding: 0% 2.5% 0% 2.5%;]632 words for Kearny [/style]

we got innocence for days made by amb tanz

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[kearny]

Cleansing. They both need that -badly. Kearny and the other boy both , and not just to wash the blood from their flesh. Kearny has made contact. Skin against skin, sliding, touching, tearing, and he needs to be cleansed before the taint infects him, spreads through him like a disease and he can no longer contain the desire to touch, to taste, to understand all that has been denied him since childhood. A dangerous path, one that he nearly tread before, in his youth. One that he does not dare to tread again.

There is great danger in such a path. Danger and temptation and a righteous fury that would cut right through him and leave him bare and vulnerable before the mercy of the Trio. And Malthus's hands there to finish any part of him left untouched, uncleansed, a knife flashing in the light, held loosely in one hand. Imagination is not needed to picture the rest. He has scars, knows that if he falls again, someone - maybe Malthus, maybe one of his cronies - will finish the job.

Kearny knows that, in the grand scheme of things, he is unnecessary. he has only been saved because he is one of them - not just a member of the church, but kin, and that means something. Means more than it would if he were just some schlub, just one more faceless church voice - like Sol. Some people aren't important enough to save, though they say that everyone deserves a chance at salvation. Some people can't be saved. He knows this as well and has done his utmost to prove that he doesn't fall into that category. Not now. Not ever. He refuses to be found wanting, to be erased.

Sometimes people just...cease to exist. It's a fact of life within the church, and Kearny makes the assumption that it's a fact of life without as well. The collective is far more important than one lone individual. They are merely parts, pieces of the whole. They speak with one uniform voice to praise the three. There is nothing else. They have no other purpose but the glorification of the legendary Trio, those who watch over, guide, and protect them.

He watches warily as the boy pulls out his phone, but makes no move to stop him...this time. "Fine, I'll go with you and cleanse myself before I return home." It's a small concession, but it means the world. it's rare for one of the Trio's faithful to trust an outsider, to accept their aid, but Kearny finds that he has no choice. He has to do something to keep the other boy from getting the law involved, and this seems a small enough price to pay - his cooperation.

Yet, even as he agrees, there's something sharp and angry in his gaze, something threatening that says, in no uncertain terms: ' if this is some kind of trick, I will make you will regret it.' There's no need for words. Kearny's eyes have always been expressive - often times too expressive for their own good, and one look says it all.

That dark gaze slides from one boy to the other, from the one offering him the seemingly impossible, to the one propped up against the wall and stained with blood - Kearny's and his own. Mostly his own. "I'm not touching him," he states, his tone leaving little room for argument. He has already done enough where that ungrateful wretch is concerned. He owes him no more.

If the other boy wants to do something about him, so be it, Kearny can't stop him, but he refuses to have any part in it.

[marlin]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #ffffff; border-radius: 100px;][classy=icon][/classy] "am I feeling what I think I'm feeling?"

[atrb=border,0,true] There’s a part of him that’s shocked to see the damage, to see the power in those gangly limbs. Kearny’s not emaciated, but he’s not as muscle-bound as Marlin would have expected when he’d first spotted the other boy’s impressive head wound. Said wound is still bleeding sluggishly, reminding Marlin that he doesn’t have time to wait, time to wonder. He can’t quite get his sluggish limbs to work, at least not right away. The phone still seems to tempting, and he wants to ask if he can call the doctor and get his help in moving the injured man, but he remembers Kearny’s previous reaction. It leaves his hesitant for a moment, and he falters as he tries to decide what to do. It’s hard to tear his eyes away from those bright green ones he’s staring into. He feels like he’s looking at a ghost, the ghost of whoever this man was before rage overtook him, the ghost he’s likely to become- because Marlin’s worked with the cult enough to know what happens to those who breaks its prohibitions, and surely this must be one. He can’t imagine going around breaking heads is permitted. The terms of banishment aren’t entirely clear, but he’s sure they must be absolute; once a person disappears every trace of them down to their medical records are wiped clean and they never return again. Where they go, he can’t say, but whatever threat is leveraged to prevent them from returning, it works. With a soft sigh, he pulls out a pokeball, summoning Valkyrie. The Ponyta shivers a little in the chilly air- by her standards, at least- before settling. Carefully, Marlin hauls the boy up, at least far enough to drape him across the horse. He’ll have to walk alongside them and hold him on, but it should be good enough to get him there. The boy is taken in on a stretcher as soon as they reach the doctor’s office. Marlin knows he should go along to give any information he can, but he’s made a promise he’s loathe to shirk, and he can’t stand looking at the injured man’s pale, bloodless face. He stays by Kearny’s side instead as the injured party is carted off, then gestures for him to follow. “The room’s down this hall,” and he really, really hopes it was cleaned. If the night staff forgot to tidy it again, he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do. [style=font-style: italic; text-align: center; padding: 0% 2.5% 0% 2.5%;]632 words for Kearny [/style]

the hope the heat the fear? made by amb tanz

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[kearny]

Watching. Waiting. He is little more than a shadow now, doing all that he'd promised - a whole lot of nothing. He watches as the boy considers his phone and decides against repeating his earlier mistake. A good sign.

He's learning.

A bright flash brings a pontya into view and Kearny continues to watch as the body struggles to get the limp sinner onto its back. He does not make a move to help. Here and now, inaction is the only permitted action. He will not stoop to touching that..that filth again. He cannot. Nor does he wish to risk brushing the new boy's fingers: so gentle, so kind, so out of place. That is to say nothing of the flames, and though reason tells him that they will not burn him unless his master permits them to do so, still they are a terrifying sight, a sight borne of a potent mixture of nightmare and reality - memories of flesh being seared away, of blisters that shriek and burst at a touch. Kearny finds himself backing away until the dumpster is once against pressing against him. He finds little comfort in its solidity. Feels trapped once more.

The boy is smart enough to refrain from asking for help but, with the way he's struggling to lift the other boy's limp figure, words are unnecessary. His very actions call for an aid which he will not receive. But so too does he refrain from mentioning the unguarded wariness in Kearny's eyes, that little something that might be called fear if someone were brave enough to call him out on it. By all rights, there should be a familiar accusation, a voice hissing in his ear, telling him that he has been taught better than this, that he is better than this. Yet, the boy says nothing, and that nothing is music to his ears.

He's learning, but not fast enough.

Kearny considers casually mentioning the sheer weight of sin as he continues to struggle, but the words die on his lips as Marlin hefts the other boy onto the ponyta and his muscles shift and strain beneath his shirt, the movements mesmerizing.

This will not do, he tells himself. He should leave while the other is occupied, but he has made a promise and promises are sacrosanct. it is not that he will not break it, it is that he cannot. A promise made to an outsider may well not count, but it is impossible to be sure, impossible to know if breaking it would make him just like them, would sully him in some way, so he continues watching, waiting for the boy to make some grand mistake that will break the stupid oath and allow him to walk off in a huff, to return home before anything else falls apart before his eyes, before anything else tempts him into folly.

"We are creatures of temptation. It is in our nature to be tempted, and it is only through The Trio, through the trials that they put before us, that we may rise above our base wants, above our base humanity, and attempt to be worthy of the love and guidance that they bestow upon us."

Kearny closes his eyes as Marlin settles the other boy on his ponyta's back. He refuses to watch the muscles strain and flex beneath the boy's shirt. No, he cannot. So he gives himself to darkness and contemplation, imagines, as he always does when he needs to be forced back onto the rightful path and turned away from temptation, the trials of Suiciune, the cold leeching all warmth and feeling from his skin, leaving him numb - a husk.

When Kearny opens his eyes again, a cold stillness settles over him. He is numb. Pure. Unable to be tempted, or so he tells himself as he follows Marlin to the hospital, making good on his word. I do this because I must, he tells himself. No other reason is acceptable. Already he is treading an uncertain path. The church does not approve of allowing outsiders to interfere, whatever that interference might be called.

[marlin]

The small room is neat and tidy. Marlin opens the door, then steps back to allow Kearny to pass through. The space is spotless, pristine, and the two walls are each coated in a sheet of glass. No, sheets, reddish orange on one wall, blue on the other. The orange glass looks as if its still warm, what with the messy seems and the drops running down it, a meld of roughly soldered together parts. The blue wall, on the other hand, is a single piece, but it, too, has a fragmented pattern. Shapes and swirls have been carved down its length, neatly sanded, for a clean look.

He waits for him a little ways outside the door, not far enough to miss when he emerges, not near enough to be hovering or offend. There’s a lot on his mind, but first and foremost is what he’s going to say when the doctor inevitably asks how the injuries occur. If he tells the truth, Kearny will surely be in for trouble with the police. But if he lies….

[kearny]

A wave of revulsion rolls over Kearny as he enters the hospital with Marlin, it's white walls and strange machines staring alongside its foreign peoples.

Outsiders. Kearny's eyes narrow suspiciously as he takes them in. Takes them in taking him in and feels the sharp nails of despair clawing at his heart. Pushing deeper, deeper, ever deeper - burying themselves into the fleshy little organ until Kearny is forced to look away, to drop his gaze to the ground as guilt follows in their wake.

They look as if they know. Staring at him with glassy eyes that scream accusation instead of telling tales of sickness. Kearny begins to count the floor tiles as he passes, anything to keep from meeting those gazes, those gazes that look as if they know what he's done, as if they know what he once was, what he once yearned for...what he still--

No!

"To lie with another man is to commit a grave sin, to soil the body with unnatural longings. Any man who willfully gives into such filthy desires is lost to the Trio and can be restored in their eyes only through penance and great personal sacrifice." They must be cleansed, as he was cleansed. To batter the boy now slumped over the back of Marlin's ponyta is not enough. That his blood has run from him and met the open air is not enough. So too must Entei purify him with flame, and thereby cleanse his body of its foul corruption.

Kearny's hands ball into fists at his sides, press until little crescents begin to form against his palms. He continues to follow Marlin, saying nothing as he is brought to a little room and bid enter, but he knows now what he must do. He must find a flame: a lighter, that thrice be damned thing they gave him with the burning tail, anything, and he must pray for the boy's soul, pray that it be set on the proper path, that it be turned away from sin...and he must cleanse him with a tongue of flame and force words of repentance from his lips. Then, and only then, will the accusations of those around him be laid to rest.

The room he enters is pristine, the patterns on the glass familiar - Entei's purifying flame, a sign of his boundless love, and Suicane's just winds, a sign of his great wisdom.

Kearny drops to his knees between them, his mouth moving in a silent plea for forgiveness, and then in prayer.

He knows what he must do.

When he emerges from the room, he passes Marlin without so much as a second glance, makes his way into the waiting room, and casually asks a rough looking man with tired eyes for a lighter. The man fumbles around in his pocket, handing over a rusted silver lighter a few moments later. His hands shake as he passes it over, but not for the reason that they should. Kearny smiles and thanks him for his generosity, promising to return it when he's finished.

He knows what he must do.

[marlin]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #ffffff; border-radius: 100px;][classy=icon][/classy] "fake some confidence and cheer"

[atrb=border,0,true] There are police in the front room, and he’s going to have to tell them… something. They’re going to question him. Maybe he can say he arrived too late to see what happened, but if the purple-haired boy in the little closet doesn’t corroborate his story? Marlin’s anxious. He’s almost pacing, but he restrains himself, instead tugging at his clothes and hair, adjusting things that aren’t even out of place. He needs to… something. And then the boy walks out, walks past him silently, and Marlin opens his mouth but he has nothing to say yet. He follows, lagging behind, until Kearny reaches the waiting room. Marlin hangs in the doorway as Kearny requests, and is given, a lighter. Shit. He shouldn’t be curious. He shouldn’t be nosy and intrusive. He’s been taught the ways of the cult well enough to know not to interfere, well enough to know it’d be unwise to butt in and seem like a thrill-seeker, a voyeur to their rituals, but he’s going to anyway. When Kearny heads back in his direction, Marlin passes through the doorway, then walks in his path to try to stop him. But he can’t directly tell him what to do with that lighter, can he? Can’t tell him to return it. He can offer him bandages for after the fact, but that’s useless. Instead, in a low whisper he says, “The police will have questions. We…. Need to talk.” [style=font-style: italic; text-align: center; padding: 0% 2.5% 0% 2.5%;] [/style]

is this someone else's headtrip? made by amb tanz

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[kearny]

Kearny pockets the lighter and makes a beeline for the door. It has to be done.

When Marlin steps forward to block his path, Kearny fixes the other boy with a withering glare. "I have nothing to say to outsiders," he snaps, echoing the sentiments of his elders as he sidesteps Marlin and continues on toward the room where the boy with the red hair has been taken to recover.

It takes some time before Kearny manages to find the room in question. The boy is still unconscious when he steps inside. With the police sniffing about in the lobby, witnesses would only bring trouble, it's best the purification ritual goes unseen.

The door swings shut behind him with a soft click.

Sucking in a breath, Kearny steps forward, his fingers playing over the surface of the lighter over and over again. Soon a purifying flame will spring to life in his hand. In. His. Hand.

Kearny hates fire. He remembers it's bite far too keenly not to, but so too does he know that this must be done. A creature this beautiful cannot be allowed cannot be allowed to remain sullied, cannot be allowed to be banished from the reach of the Trio...of the light.

Kearny steps forward and reaches forward to take the unconscious boy's hand as his fingers close around the lighter and pluck it from his pocket. Fingers curl about the lighter. Fingers lace with fingers. Kearny swallows hard and feels it catch on the lump in his throat.

Sol reaches for his hand, laces their fingers together and squeezes when he thinks no one's looking. Kearny would do the same, if not for fear, but he feels the strength in those fingers, in the boy beside him, and drinks of his courage, holding fast. When the world doesn't open up to swallow them whole, Kearny squeezes back and fights the smile that threatens to tug at his lips. For the span of several heartbeats, he's whole.

"Sol I--" he begins, his voice just above a whisper, only to have the other boy press a finger to his lips.

"Shhh, they'll hear you." Even as he says this, there's no fear in his eyes. The thought of retribution is as far from Sol's mind as it is near and ever present in Kearny's. Sol sees this and grins, hoping to allay the other boy's fears. "Don't worry," he whispers, voice low, "I have an idea."

The boy is still unconscious, unable to purify himself. This won't do.

Kearny raises the lighter and gives it a cursory flick, watching the flame dance back and forth with wide eyes.

He has an idea.