je mourrai pour vous, a General fanfic

je mourrai pour vous
moments between the scum of the city
A man stands on the edge of the infinite, smoking cigarettes and wondering if he should jump. He’s sparkle-bright, one of those creatures that demand attention and adoration, with features sharp and biting, clothes that make your eyes blister in their sockets, a tongue that shapes the words he spits at you.

He thinks he’s crying, but he isn’t. Instead he’s yawning becausIe he hasn’t slept in days. Infinite, they had said. Life that goes on forever. Marcus, his boss, had even grinned a little. Don’t worry, son, he said, shoving his boot into his hip and sending him buckling in pain, don’t worry at all, El’s part of the infinite, he’s been through worse. Kicked him in again a few months after, the fucker. Just coz he tried to glass him at his pathetic dinner party, like they were normal people, living in a normal world, with normal jobs. Like Marcus and his tramp wife-to-be we’re a regular couple sipping on wine and talking about the love life of their mutual friends. Like he and El, fucking El, we’re just a regular gay-as-you-like couple who had moved in together and held hands at Pride as they watched the multi-coloured balloons swim past, beacons of diversity.

Like fuck.

Jut swallows his spit and chucks his cigarette over the edge of the bridge. Its five in the morning and its empty except for cars. No one takes notice of the piece-of-shit queer peering over the edge and into the water. Why would they? He’s just another eccentric London character who just happens to have a gun strapped to his thigh.

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that dinner party and not about what’s lying slumped back at his flat. El’s flat, really, not his. He just moved in and took it as his own and El had let him because El was that type of guy, he’d fight like a feverish dog but he’d rather let his home be invaded then chuck someone out. He just didn’t have it in his vocabulary to send someone to the streets, the poor sod.

Infinite. Don’t worry, son, El’s part of the infinite, he’s been through worse. That’s what he had said that time when El had almost been killed in the bathroom of some Soho club. And after when he went to go talk to him Marcus had booted him in the ribs and hips for killing a customer and causing all that trouble. Good job El didn’t know about it, Jut thinks, otherwise he’d of gotten two beatings.

El.

He looks down into the water and wonders if he should jump.

El would tell him to suck it up, stop being such a fucking pansy and get on with life. El would hold onto his wrist, just tight enough so that the beating of his pulse would be harder against nimble fingers, and press his belly against Jut’s back and tell him to calm down, stop acting so rash, just step back and look at the world.

Wildcat.

The hurt starts then. A corroding hurt, whisper-soft in his chest that starts chewing on his organs. A bloody, gushing sort of hurt that makes his throat go tight and his tongue thick in his mouth. Gotta be love, he reckons. Friendship just irritates him so this kind of thing has to be love.

He looks into the water and wonders if he should jump.

“This here is Jut,” Marcus leers, slapping some kid’s back with his spindle-long fingers, his shoulders hunched forwards like he is trying to sink into the universe. I ghost over the bruises on the boy’s cheeks, his rubbed-raw knuckles pulpy and swollen, his eyes hard like broken glass. He is thin and bony, hips jutting out like aeroplane wings, ready to fly him off into the sky, his collarbones arching outwards, cheekbones ready to cut me up. He is wearing a tight fitting t-shirt, tight black jeans and boots up to his knees, bands and bracelets clacking against his thin wrists like he is a foreign princess dancing at the throne.

He isn’t made for crime.

I arch an eyebrow and turn back to coke-nose Marcus, his teeth glittering dangerously as he stares me down. Fucker. “He’ll be yours, for a bit.”

“Mine?” I bury my fingers into my pockets, fishing out my cold-flinted cigarette box and a lighter, curling my lips into a small snarl.

“Yeah, he’s part of the gang now, inne?”

“Why’s he all beat up?” I can see the kid getting angrier and angrier at being ignored and I jam a ciggie into my mouth to hide my grin.

“Initiation,” Marcus snorts and I watch the wax of his skin fold under his eyes, like he’s a puppet falling to pieces in the summer sun.

“Right,” I sigh, lighting up and taking a long, desperate drag, sighing as the smoke fills my lungs and claws at my veins, twisting animals boiling my blood. “So I’m training him up, or what?”

“Whatever you want, just look after him.” Marcus nods his head once, twitching lips and foul breath, before ambling out of the café like god’s breathing on his shoulders. I watch him go with soft-bellied irritation rolling up my throat, fingers padding at my coffee cup like roaming spiders. I chance a glance at Jut and find him glaring at me.

“So…” I mumble, leaning back and taking a big puff on my cigarette. “Your name really Jut or is just ‘coz you’re bony?”

He stares at me through killfuckdie eyes and I can feel a grin slip over my mouth like smoke, fleeting and toxic, so I tug up my coffee cup and take a gulp, and its fucking revolting, cold and sugary. “Oh look,” I slur, watching a glob of blood dribble from his nose, cherry-red and like an old slug. “You’re bleeding. Best get you cleaned up before we do anything,” I sigh, drop my cigarette out in my old coffee and stand up.

“Whatever,” Jut’s lips pillowed into a frown, eyes flashing cold-ice.

Fucker.

“Ouch! Shit!”

“Yeah, I reckon you’ve broke it,” I sigh, ducking out of the way as Jut flings the flannel at me with furious eyes. He is sat on the side of the bath, his jaw gritted in hot irritation, hand limp on his knee, knuckles broken and cracked. They have roughed him up good.

“No shit,” He sneers, wiping his nose with his good hand, “Tit.”

I frown and wash my hands in the sink, water pink with his dried blood. They really did a number on him. Scratch marks and everything.

“You know, for a new kid you’re fucking rude.” I bite, flicking water in his direction. “When I joined up I pissed my pants every time one of them looked at me. Wouldn’t fucking swear at them, for sure.”

“Piss off,” He sneers, his shoulder hanging at an awkward angle where I had to pop it back into place. No wonder he looked so shit in the café, he was holding himself together and trying not to fall apart at the seams.

“Not very nice, are you, kid?” I humph, turning back just in time to see him grit his teeth and peer at me through fury-fogged eyes, sharp and iridescent in the light, shooting up my soul with a pellet gun.

“Don’t call me kid, I’m almost twenty years old.”

“Yeah, and I’m twenty seven, which makes you a kid to me.” I sneer, irritation creeping up my spine like cold fingers. This kid, this kid is taking the piss, even if he has just been destroyed by five burley criminals, eyes dull with skag. Swearing like a sailor, spitting like a whore, he needs a lesson on etiquette.

“Connasse,” he spits, voice like acid in the air, thick and burning and beautiful. I shiver and twist my hips towards him, eyes narrowing viciously, my fingers tightening against my palms.

“What?” I snap, pushing myself towards him, my hand snatching out to his shoulder, gripping it hard. I watch his eyes roll back into his skull, lips bearing his teeth, shining quick-fast like darting fish, snarling. “What did you just say?” my voice is cold, hurtful, like daggers in wrists, pinpointing vitals and ripping out veins.

“Ah! Nothing, nothing, nothing, sorry stop!” he shrieks, twisting out of my grip and hissing wildly, vibrant cat trapped in a grown man’s body. I let him go and smile.

“Talking dirty in French, eh?” I lean back and my heart trips once, twice, three times over itself. “Keep doing that and I’ll ram an English dictionary so far up your arse you’ll be shitting words A to Z for weeks.”

With new guys, you have to assert your authority, I guess. “Fucking cunt.”

The French thing doesn’t stop.

“Fous le camps et morte!”

He does it all the time, when things go wrong or he hurts himself or during those spine-tingling moments when he stares at me, feral and wild like a big-cat, from across the room, the anger ripping through his muscles like short, blunt knives.

I don’t understand it. He isn’t even French. He’s never even been.

“What did you say?” I snarl, my hands covered in blue paint, dripping like cold blood, alien blood, the blood of some deep-sea creature with no warmth in its veins. “Stop talking French! It’s fucking annoying and cowardly.”

He looks up sharply, paintbrush poised like he’s loaded his gun.

“Cowardly?” the word slips off his tongue like rotten food, grotesque and thick and putrid. “How is it cowardly?” “You just do it so that no one knows what you’re saying. Its fucking pathetic.”

I watch him, bones trembling hollowly with the thrill, the thrill of poking a wild-cat in the belly and waiting for to claw at my arm. He stalks forwards, eyes like thin diamonds, shoulders hunched against the universe as if he is trying to cut out a section, wrap it up and keep it for himself. My heart starts to flutter awkwardly and I grit my jaw, ready for the punch.

Jut is made of needles and spice, there is nothing warm or inviting about him; he’s all sharp angles and dangerous points, like a slinking, burning demon crawling up the walls of the world and waiting to get out at the top. His words sink like poison and oil, his knuckles push flesh flat-packing and winding, his bones like rockets. I wait, I wait because Jut is all fight and venom and there’s never anything afterwards except grim victory and the taste of blood on my gums.

“Cowardly,” he murmurs, his face inches from mine, breath like hot steam on my skin. “Merde,” Breath and blood, breath and blood, there is no substance to him except breath and blood. “Tu es con, that means you’re an idiot, El, and I ain’t cowardly. Next time you say that I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to your mother.”

I am jelly already.

“Noted.” I say weakly, watching him go back to painting the wall.

One thing I progressively learn about Jut is he’s a fucking mental.

I watch him through the slit of the door as he does his thing, prances around and flirts like a Thai prozzie and collects money from those that have it. I watch him with my gun strapped to my belly like a baby, content with the cold-cruel feeling of it pressing against my skin, always there when I need it. When one of the punters doesn’t have our money he changes, like he’s a peacock with his feathers all fluffed and fragrant, then all of a sudden he’s a whirling, angry wildcat with dripping claws and dirty teeth, smashing his knuckles against the man’s skull then sending him down with a beer bottle to the head.

I kick the door open because Jut’s a fucking cunt and sets the whole bar off, girls screaming and jitterbugging their way to the sidelines, boys snarling and throwing their glasses against the tables so that they can get in on the action.

Fucking prick, I tell him every time, ever single bloody time that people don’t react well to unnecessary violence. It just lowers our profile from businessmen to thugs and street rats. Little shit thinks that because Marcus thinks its funny to watch this slim-hipped whirlpool kick the shit out of anyone he comes across he can just do it all over the city.

I grab his shoulder and drag him bodily away from the poor bloke he’s kicking in, pressing his back to my front and slipping my hand to my gun.

“Idiot,” I breathe, pressing his ear against my teeth so that he can hear every fucking word. “What did I tell you about drawing attention to us, huh? You want to be bummed in prison?”

There’s a pause and then he’s doubling over, his jaw cracked open as loud, deranged laughter filters through like warm milk, teeth chattering, tongue lolling.

It takes him a good fifteen minutes for him to stop and by the time he’s calmed down we’re walking through Piccadilly Circus with bloodied knuckles and beer dripping from our trousers and shirts. Tourists look silently appalled and the rest of the world ignores the two junkie-looking creatures stalking through the lights and noises of a city too big and too full to hold us all together.

“Little shit,” I snarl, clipping his ear and sending him jerking into a shop window. “Coulda fucking got us killed. I really ought to cut off your fingers or something.”

“This isn’t the Japanese mafia, sir,” He sneers, his arm looping around my waist and tugging me towards Soho, his eyes all eager-bright and whimsical, like he’s some grey clown trying to paint the world red with his bruised knuckles and the shape of his tongue.

“I’m serious, Jut, you fucking go off like that again and I’ll leave you at home when I have a job, alright?”

“Jesus, boss-man, it won’t happen a-fucking-gain. I’ll stand by your side like some pup.”

“Good boy,” I spit, enjoying the way he cringes and knocks heavily into some on-coming drunk, ignoring the cries of outrage he leaves in his wake. “Come on, we’ve got three more blokes to find, and I’ll bet ya they’re all hiding because they ain’t got our money.”

Because London is a huge city and the rats can crawl into every dark corner. Its our job to fish them out.

“What dya think of her?” Jut asks, his willow-bone finger pointing across the market stall to a girl dressed in a purple leopard-print dress and a leather jacket. She’s skinny and her make-up has smeared down her face, like some grotesque doll, all colourful but painful at the same time. She’s one of those morning-after girls, stumbling through the grey-lined streets in their heels, tottering into coffee shops to inject themselves with something tangible, wake them up a little.

“She’s alright I guess,” I murmur, flagging down the stall-owner and pointing at his apples. “Two of them, yeah?”

“Just… just alright?” I shoot him an irritated glare and go back to patting my jacket down, searching for cigarettes. The man bags us our apples, twirling it around several times so the opening is sealed all nicely. I twitch and pull out my battered ciggie-tin.

“Yeah, Jut, just alright. She looks like she needs to eat some fucking potatoes.” She does. She’s looking at a stall full of crystals and healing candles and all that Pagan bullshit, fingers flittering along the colours and glittering objects like they’re sweeties and crack.

“True,” he mumbles, his fingers tugging impatiently at my wrist for a cigarette. I pass him one and huff awkwardly.

“Why you asking, anyway? You gonna ask her out?”

She looks like his type.

I pay for our breakfast and light my cigarette, tucking the bag under my arm so that I can hide my lighter from the wind. Jut’s doing his petulant kid impression, foot tucked in behind the other, hands playing with his shirt bottom, cig in the corner of his mouth as he stares at the trash-superstar across the way.

“Nah, don’t think so. She’s not my type.”

“Bullshit,” I sneer, prodding his ribs, smirking at the way he recoils angrily. “She looks like she’s just your type. Fucked up and drugged up.”

“I resent that,” He snatches the bag from between my arm and side, pulling out his apple and stalking off.

See? Fucking petulant kid.

“Why’d you ask, then?” I push, jogging to catch up with him. He’s crunching on his apple, his hair mussed up from a night of drinking cheap wine and watching two-hour long Korean dramas.

“Because, El, sir, boss-man,” His voice is rigid with anger and he chucks his cigarette onto the pavement. Barely smoked, I notice, my throat going dry with resentment. “I’m wondering what your type is.”

“Why?” He rolls his eyes and takes another bite out of his apple, the juices making his lips shiny and plastic-looking. He doesn’t bother chewing with his mouth close and he obviously has no problem talking with a mouth full of fruit, either.

“What’s it to fucking you, yeah?” He spits, and I am disgusted, as usual. “Is it a crime to want to know the guy who I live with? You might be some kind of weirdo pervert.”

I stare at him as we walk and wonder why I have never thought the same thing of him.

“She’s not my type,” I say, “My type has less drugs in them.”

Jut gets angry at how vague I am and chucks his apple against a Starbuck’s window, startling all those too-cool kids sipping coffee with their laptops out.

I eat my apple on the tube, idly chuckling to myself at how fucking idiotic Jut is. All the while he glares at me from his seat across the carriage, his fingers clawing at his jean-clad knees until we make it out near Hyde Park and he clouts me violently around the skull.

The knife is cold against my throat, like sliced diamonds, jagged and dangerous, I can feel the tip pressing through my skin, biting, biting. I’m in trouble, for sure. The guy has tattoos on his eyelids and gnarled, yellowing teeth that look like they could take a chunk out of my neck in one bite. I gasp and chock on his fingers, pressed tightly between my teeth, on my tongue, in my throat. They’re disgusting, they taste like salt and nicotine and I gag and wretch and try to bite him away but my eyes keep watering and he keeps pushing my head back against the bathroom stall.

He’s trying to kill me.

The ridge of my skull connects harshly with the mirror, I can feel the glass against my scalp, can feel cold, cold, and the horrible burning, sizzling of my skin where my wrists are pressed against the radiator. I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die. I chock and writhe below his bulky muscles, try to wind my legs around his hips so I can kick him in the guts, bite on his knuckles, anything, but he’s pushing my head back so far, knife pressed so tight, he’ll cut me open. I’ll have a gaping red mouth in my throat, spilling blood and lost words.

Not like this. Not in some seedy Soho club, not with some fucking weirdo shoving his fingers down my throat, like he’s helping out his bulimic buddy.

Please, not like this.

I open my eyes and stare at his snarling face, things are going dark, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, oh god, oh god, I’m going to die. Things swim, darkness creeps along my eyes like smudged fingers, my lungs are on fire, my jawbone is going to break, I can’t breathe, my heart is going to explode, I can’t breathe-

He stops pressing. His fingers pull out, the knife leaves my throat and I crumble to the floor like an old coat, gasping and chocking, my spit like poison in my belly. I arch forwards, unhooking my jaw and vomiting on the dirty tiles, retching and coughing.

Jut. Jut, Jut, Jut, Jut Jut Jut Jut Jutjutjutjut.

I have never been so happy to see his angry face.

He is poised like a panther, his gun pushing against the man’s temple, eyes burning like the sun. I can see his lips pulled up in a vicious snarl, his knuckles burnt-white where he is trying desperately not to push the trigger and watch the man’s brains splatter up the sick-yellowed walls. I gasp and grip my throat. There’s a small smear of blood, like those cheap ruby-bead necklace you get on the stalls down Camden.

“What. The. Fuck?” Jut hisses, his cheek pressed against the bones of the man’s jaw, teeth biting, his hand creeping to his hair, snagging it back. I stumble to my feet, checking my wrists and wincing at the red welts slashed across them, like I’d gone at them with a razor or been tied up. “You think you can mess him up, huh?”

The air reeks of vomit and piss and I need, need to get out. “Think you can touch what ain’t yours?” I don’t think about what he’s saying, don’t care, can’t care, just need to breathe air that isn’t saturated with waste.

I catch his eye and nod before I stumble outside, my legs wobbling like a fawn’s, my heart burning.

The door closes on Jut’s words, something French, something deadly, but I don’t catch it.

I wait for him outside the club, the music thrumming behind my ribs like dirty fingers, the cheap lights illuminating the streets neon pink and danger-yellow. Drunks girls stumble past, giggling like they’re ten again, eyes following the path of my body, stopping dead on the cut under my jaw before moving swiftly on. I smoke a cigarette with shaking hands, my bones rattling like wood, my jaw crunching horribly. The fucking prick has broken something, somewhere. I have the post-bone-snap numbness creeping in my toes, pain throbbing up my body like cold snakes, eating at the withered flesh hanging limply in my skin.

It is fifteen minutes before Jut prowls out, his narrow hips swaying slightly, his fine boots splattered pink with flecks of blood. I take a drag on my cigarette, watch him search me out in the dark, flexing his knuckles; he catches sight of me, squares his shoulders and strides forwards. For a moment I think he is going to punch me, or scream in my face, but instead he rips the cigarette from my lips and presses his fingers against my cheeks, burrowing in my jaw. My eyes roll back into my skull and there is a dull-white pain lacing through my teeth and I push him away just in time to see his expression.

Relieved.

I roll my lips back and move to punch him in the face. He ducks out of the way.

“Idiot,” I hiss, “That fucking hurts!”

He smirks at me and moves my cigarette to his lips. I watch him pillow, take back the smoke, eyes lulling languidly, teeth glinting like fangs. Wildcat Jut.

“Ungrateful twat,” he says. “Just saved your old-man arse.”

“I didn’t ask you to, I coulda done it myself.” He shoots me a cruel look and with a sinking feeling in my gut I realise he knows, fucking knows how fucking scared I was.

Damn.

“Well,” He slurs, eyes alight like hellfire, “Maybe I shoulda just left you, you know? His fingers in your gob, knife against your throat and all that. Looked kinda cosy there, too. Maybe I interrupted something, eh?”

I grit my teeth and look down at the pavement, anger sinking its claws into my belly like a rat, squirming and horrible and corroding. He doesn’t have a chance to dive before I grab him by his collar and twirl him around, watch his face open up and the cigarette between his lips fall to the floor. I slam him against the wall, as hard as I can, hoping that his spine snaps in two, enjoying the satisfying clunk of his skull as it meets brick. He grunts and gasps, his hands coming up to clutch my wrists, nails in my burns.

“’Member who you’re working for, eh?” I snarl, shoving my face against his, so our foreheads are connecting, eyes drilling, my spit smearing down his cheek. “You geddit? Any more fucking lip from you and I’ll fucking shoot you in the face, alright? No drawn out shit, I’ll just straight up shoot you.”

He starts laughing and I want to kill him. I hate the little fake-French fucker.

“Sorry boss,” He wheezes, chocking on his giggles. “Hit a nerve?”

I slam him again and his words are lost in a gasp.

“What did I just say?” I snap, fumbling in my belt for my gun. His eyes go wide and feel a sick kind of fascination watching them gleam a little brighter as I shove the barrel under his chin, metal digging into flesh, my fingers twirling tighter in his shirt, pressing against his throat. “Din’t I just say I’d destroy your face? Do you never fucking listen to me?”

“Sorry,” He chocks, pushing himself back, eyes to the heavens. “Sorry, shit, don’t-”

“Oiy!” Someone shouts, and we both turn to see a policeman tumbling forwards, hands reaching for his radio. I duck and turn, tucking my gun away as I try to launch myself down the road, Jut’s boots clumping on the pavement as we dash into the darkness of London’s late-night streets. We lose him easily, but decide to take the back roads home just in case there are any coppers lurking in the shadows, stationed and told to stop and search a man with a hollowed-out face and a little queer with boots like a tranny.

“That was epic!” Jut says gleefully. Our reflections gleam in shop windows, like drawn out watercolours slipping down a canvas. “Absolutely epic!”

I am not inclined to agree. My lungs wheeze cold air and I am so fucking tired I think I am about to collapse. Threatening folk and getting attacked knocks seven shades of shit out of you, you know?

Jut is laughing and dancing, his boots clacking like horse shoes, his bright-neon t-shirt like a smear of yellow paint on a black and white photograph. He’s smiling and I wonder if it’s the violence that’s done it or the chase. Either or, he’s one fucked up puppy.

“What did you do?” I mumble, unsure if I should talk to the twat when I was half-way through murdering him.

“What?” He stops skipping up the pavement, eyes glittering, wildcat, wildcat.

“To the man, in the gents, what did you do?”

His lips twist into a frown at the mention of him, fingers curling by his hips. Did he really get that bothered? I wonder. Jut hates me, makes it clear at every possible moment, there’s no way he’d care about me getting knocked about in the toilets. At home (and it is our home, now, I notice, because his clothes litter my bedroom and his hair products adorn my bathroom like small trinkets and there are sweets and cakes in my fridge. How he stays so thin I don‘t know) he’ll try a fist fight over what we’re watching on telly, he’ll swear his arse off when he’s in the shower and I pop in for a piss. He’ll destroy my favourite mug, drink all my expensive coffee, spill beer on my books. He hates everything about me.

And I hate him.

“Got what was coming to him, dinne?” He smiles vaguely, remembering. “No one messes with my mates without getting battered.”

“Mates?” I mutter, fishing in my pockets for another cigarette to calm my jumping heart. “Thought you couldn’t stand me?”

“Yeah, well,” He looks suitable abashed, looking up from under his lashes, cheeks flaring red, his boot kicking the ground angrily. Something bubbles in my guts. “You’re alright, I suppose. If anyone is gonna kick you in its me, yeah?”

I smirk at him and chuck him a ciggie.

“I’d like to see you fucking try, kid.”

Things start getting weird.

Two days after the incident I am staring at myself in the mirror, eyes narrowed at the curve of my cheeks, checking for swelling and bruises. There are finger marks below my ears, a nasty scab on my neck and the burns on my wrists started leaking when I was trying to sleep. Marcus said I ought to bandage them up, especially as I have no fucking clue what was on that radiator, cum and spit and beer and dust, anything.

Jut disappeared yesterday. Got a call from Marcus asking for him, just him and when he got back he was limping like a wounded lion, eyes burning acid-hot and when I moved to touch him he smacked my hand away and snarled. The rest of the night he locked himself in his bedroom playing crooning, wild European music.

My belly aches from punches, bruises littering my skin like ink marks pressed against my hips by dirty fingers - like I’ve fucked an artist. I stare at them in grim fascination, play dot-to-dot with my fingertips, trailing from one to the other and making pictures with my sin. I get bored and run myself a bath, steam licking the walls like hungry tongues, the mirror ghosting over as I wait for the tub to fill.

Downstairs I can hear the sound of some cheap electro spinning colours and shapes with imaginary instruments, the constant pound of the baseline reverberating up my shins, tickling at my pelvis like rude thoughts. Jut listens to all sorts of shit, from electro to punk to new-aged hippy crap where they sing about flowers and birds and trees. He’s a music hound, hording records like a dog burying bones in mud. When I told him to go get his stuff so he could move into my flat he came back with a battered suitcase full of records and CDs.

I sigh and rest my head against the cold mirror. Noise, noise, noise. Wildcat Jut is made of noise and colour, meshed together with an indescribable amount of fury and violence. He is an explosion against the world, a firework, deceitful and dangerous, desperate and acidic on your tongue. He is made up of spikes and foul language and ever since he was given to me to look after there has been nothing but noise. I long for quiet.

The door opens and Jut stumbles in, his hair mussed up from sleep, eyes blinking awkwardly to the glaring light. I scowl at him through the mirror, clutch my towel tighter around my waist.

“What?” I mutter.

His eyes roll like wheels over my skin, hot and searing, electricity from sockets made of flesh and blood. I watch his reflection in the mirror, his knuckles tucked into his shirt-cuffs, his jawbone writhing under his skin. Something acidic and violent spurts in my guts and I hitch back a broken breath. “What?” I snap, desperate.

“I…” He meets my eyes and his dumbfounded look twists into a vicious scowl, animalistic and dangerous and the Jut I know well. “I need a piss, bucket-fuck,” He barges past me, elbow in my ribs, the metal of his jewellery scratching the skin on my side. I snarl and he smirks, tugging down his zipper and ignoring me.

“I’m in here, you know,” I spit, “Fucking barging in like a dog.” I pad out of the room, slam the door behind me, try to rinse away the dusty feeling in my mind, the hot-and-tumble in my belly.

Weird.

It’s our day off, so I make breakfast thick and rolling in grease, the smell of it hanging like a ghost made of animal fat and fried bread. The smell lures Jut down out of his bedroom, his bony body slipping quietly through the house like a starving fox, eyes alert and vacant. I glare at him over my eggs, watching him sit down at the table, his lips tugged up in a strange smile.

“Domestic,” He leers, “Can I have a coffee?”

“Make it your fucking self.” “But you’re making me breakfast, why not go the whole way?”

“I’m not making you breakfast,” I snarl, throwing three thick slabs of bacon in the pan, watching them curl and sizzle and scorch. “This is all for me.” It isn’t. I have made him breakfast, have brewed fresh coffee. It was automatic, listening to the sounds of someone clattering about upstairs, being walked in on in the bathroom, playful-bordering on violent banter. The way we live, the way we are, it is pretty domestic and the lack of business and painful bones sent me on automated pilot.

“That’s a lot of food. All that grease and salt, you’ll die, El. I think I better help you out with it.”

No. No, this is too weird. Its like we’ve just had sex and now he’s teasing me.

I grip my metal fork tighter, my heart lurching uncertainly, my legs bucking against the counter. The chair behind me scrapes and I can feel him edge closer, like he’s approaching a wild animal, one with claws and fangs and dripping, burning hunger. I tense and cock my head to the side so I can see him, his arms hung awkwardly by his hips, his eyes scanning my shoulders, neck, head, face. The air has melted, turned to soft ooze, hard to breathe, gets clogged up in my lungs like thick globs of fat.

“What?” I murmur, aware of the electricity sparking between us.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is soft, soft like he means it, soft like he cares, too soft for a boy made of jutting bones and points, angles that dig in flesh and destroy souls, eyes like rusted steel, fingers that scrape over the ridges of your shoulders. I grit my teeth, and suddenly his hand is on the base of my back, running up the notches in my spine, electric and coldhot, thrilling. I shiver and pause.

He steps closer.

“What’re you doing?” I hiss, twisting around before he can properly touch me, jerking at how close he is, so close I can feel his heat, can smell cigarettes and toothpaste, mattresses and my soap, all laced together with an oddly metallic smell, the smell of danger, the smell of violence and anger.

“I want coffee.” He says, his breath lingering on my cheeks.

“You know where it is,” I snap, turning back to the breakfast. “Make me one as well, return the favour for your breakfast.”

I don’t look at him again, but I can practically feel his smirk.

We eat in silence, crunching on fried bread, ripping flesh apart with our teeth. I watch him rip up sausage with his fingers, grease running down his fingertips, making them slick and shining, egg yolk smearing across his chin like rabbit guts. He looks like a wolf, lips rolling over his teeth, eyes shining brightly, his tongue running over meat, tasting and lapping. I wrinkle my nose. I’m not hungry anymore.

I push my plate away, stomach shuddering nervously, growing small and tight and dry.

“You not eating?” Jut asks, mouth full of egg and bean.

“No,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes, burying my face in my hands.

“Can I ‘ave it?” I peer through my fingers at him. I had made a lot of food, piled it high on his plate, and he wants more. He eats like a fucking horse.

“Go for it,” I stand up, nodding at him and stretching my straining muscles. There’s a pause and we watch each other awkwardly, eyes aligning, the air crunching with a frosty atmosphere. It is weird, being around each other so much and only just realising that the only thing connecting us is guns and drugs and violence. This domestic scene, this quiet life, its too weird, too normal.

I wrinkle my nose angrily and sigh.

“I’m going out,” I mutter, “Tidy up after yourself.”

I grab my coat, keys and phone, slipping on some shoes and rushing out into the cold air of a London morning, brisk and crisp on my tongue. I need air. I need space. I need quiet.

I walk around the city for five hours, smoking cigarettes and thinking.

There’s only one thing to do, I decide. On my way home I buy a crate of beer and two bottles of vodka. We’ll get pissed, I tell myself, and everything will go back to the way it was before.

We are drunk.

So drunk the world spins like sugar-crystals in our eyes. I blink but the colours are still there, neon bright and electric. I think of pretty girls dancing in handmade dresses, their tights ripped at the seams by grabby hands and leering eyes. I think of universes evaporating besides us, because we are as big as the world, bigger even, lying on our backs on the living room floor, the lights turned off so nothing but moonlight and streetlamps shine on us.

Jut is laughing, his fingers curled tight around a joint, his eyes watering as he grips his belly trying to keep it all inside of him, like his thoughts are eels waiting to wriggle free. I laugh too, because its funny and his outline is silver-orange with streetlamps and stars, like he’s a graphite drawing on a bit of old newspaper. There’s no filling to him, he’s just an outline full of words that aren’t even about him. He’s empty but full at the same time.

“Here,” He slurs, rolling onto his belly so he can stare at me. His eyes flash dangerously and I feel my guts unfurl tenderly, the skin on my belly tightening. “We should go on ‘oliday, innit?”

I smile and raise my hand to pat him on the head, just the way I know he hates. But I miss and end up pressing my fingers against his cheeks, my thumb running heavily on his lips, tugging them away so that the tip can feel his teeth, smooth and slick with spit. I laugh and he pulls away, a disgusted wrinkle in his nose. “Your fingers taste like vodka.”

“That's gross, Jut,” I say, my chest thrumming pleasantly.

“I’m seri… serious, seriously El, let’s go on… away, let’s go away.”

“Where would you like to go?”

The world spins and we are robots, slumped against the carpet of my flat, staring at the ceiling like it’s the mouth of the universe and it has answers to all our big questions.

“Lets… go, let’s go to Berlin.” He slurs, scrambling to sit up, blinking his cold-glass eyes blearily. “Always wanted to go there.”

“Really?” I hum, sitting up with him. “It is… pretty.”

Jut’s grin turns manic and I want to laugh, or cry, because my guts are a shivering mass of jellied needlustwantfuck and his fingers retract like claws along the carpet, staring down at me. Wildcat Jut, Wildcat jut. I open my mouth to speak, let words slip like curdled milk from between my teeth, let out the stale air that is lodged in my throat but he gets there before me.

“I’m pretty too, right?” he asks, all serious and desperate and, god.

“You’re a man.” I whisper, moving my hands to search for one of the bottles that rolled listlessly away from us. “I…”

“But you want me, right?” He edges closer, drunk, drunk wildcat, his claws tucked away, leaving his soft hands to curl around my cheek, press against the hollow of my neck. I blink and he is straddling me, hips jutting like harsh knives, his feral-eyes black, black, black oh, oh god. “I’ve seen you looking.”

“Jut, no-” He sweeps down, pounces, and we battle teeth and tongue, growling, desperate. He writhes on top of me, jutting little fish, trapped out of water, and I scrape my nails down his spine so hard he arches forwards and sneers into my shoulder. “Stop it,” I snarl, but everything moves like we are underwater, underwater boxers trying to take swipes at each other. There are cords, yellow black and red, pulled tight in my belly and they keep getting tighter and I pant and push him up against the sofa, bite, bite, bite at his neck, snag skin with teeth.

This really shouldn’t be happening, I think, clawing his jeans open. This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t right. But then he is topless and sliding against me, slick with sweat, hot and harsh, like he’s made of lava, lava-Wildcat. I hiss and everything goes white and black, we’re in an old film, or we’re tripping on bad acid, but I just know that this bubble of the universe that we have created for ourselves, moving like a sphere of toxic-waste through a river made of all things natural, this is where I want to be forever.

He calls my name, and I know I am in too deep.

I wake up to the feel of someone sliding away from me.

The fuzzy, hung-over side of my brain protests, unhinges my mouth so that I can mumble for them to come back, don’t worry about the mess, we’ll sort it later, come back and lets fuck some more before you go on your merry way. But when I breathe in I can taste vomit and the snail-slime feeling of residue alcohol, bubbling in my belly like a hot spring of filth. I groan into my pillow, grip my stomach and try to go back to sleep.

I can hear someone throwing up, the sound of sick hitting the basin echoing from the bathroom, followed by Jut’s impatient, irritated swears. Something French, something disgusting, no doubt. The amount of times I have woken up to Jut chucking his guts up from drinking too hard or taking too many drugs is unreal.

I open my eyes and the sunlight burns my retinas and sizzles at my eyeballs. I hiss and roll onto my belly, burying my head into my pillow.

Wait. Not my pillow.

The heady scent of Jut coils like a spike in my nose, filling my brain up to the brim so all I can think, feel, remember is Jut, Jut, Jut Jutjutjutjut. Shit. Shit fuck cock damn bollocks cunt shit!

I feel sick. I’m naked, in Jut’s bed, I’m… Shit. I remember limbs, writhing and hot, his breath on my stomach, his fingers wrapped in my hair, his bitter moans, his nails along my shoulders. Oh god, I recoil into the sheets, pushing my palms into the sockets of my eyes, pushing, pushing, so maybe I can push the thoughts out of my brain, push so hard maybe I’ll get flung into the past and this will have never happened.

“Oh god,” I moan, “Oh shit, oh god, oh shit-”

“El?”

I look up and Jut is stood in the doorway, his fingers curled awkwardly around his hips, his spine arched slightly. He looks terrible, his hair mussed up, his face grey and slick with sweat. He avoids looking me in the eye, his shoulders hunching horribly and I notice the marks on his skin, finger bruises, teeth marks. Jesus, shit.

“Jut,” I croak. “I…” He’s wearing my boxers.

“It’s alright, El.” He says, padding forwards and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Happens sometimes, dunnit?”

“When the fuck does this happen?” I snap, leaning forwards so that the air between us fuses and crackles again. Shit. Jesus. There’s a flare of heat in my belly and I lean back quickly. No, no, no. This can’t happen. Jut peers at me curiously, diamond eyes, wildcat Jut again, his claws back out, his hackles poised. He shrugs idly, looking away, to the flaking paint on his walls.

“Just does, sometimes.” He murmurs.

“Happens to you a lot, does it?” He glances back, eyes alight, dangerous. My guts coil like hot snakes.

“Calling me a slag, are ya?”

I snort and start to move away, disgusted. Obviously he is a slut. He dresses like a freaky ponce, swishes his hips all taunting-like. I should know, I go to the clubs and do the rounds with him. I suppose it is one way to get the money - act like some little queer and the Soho Sleaze will be all over it. Fucking cunts.

“You are a slag, Jut, you wear glittery boots and listen to electro music about girls being new-aged slags. You were born to be a slag.”

I didn’t actually mean for it to come out that harsh or for my voice to sound that bitter. Jesus. There is something going on here, isn’t there?

“Oiy!” He shrieks, grabbing the sheets that I had coiled loosely around my hips so I could walk back to my room with some semblance of dignity. He tugs them furiously, pulling me closer to him, so closer that my hand flies out to steady myself, using his shoulder, but slips down to his chest. His skin is hot and sizzling and electricity sparks up my veins. His breath flutters on my face and he’s looking at me all coyly.

Fucking cunt, playing me like Scrabble. “Just ‘coz I get drunk a lot and have a good time don’t make me a slag, yeah?”

“… Din’t even know you were gay,” I breathe, sneering down at him.

“I’m not, s’just… sometimes things are distorted, you know?”

There’s a horrible, awkward pause and I clear my throat loudly, averting my eyes.

“Yeah,” I mutter, stepping away. His grip falls away easily and I practically scamper my way out the room, flaming hot, boiling under my skin when I hear his laughter follow me. Fucking cunt. Knows how long its been for me. I’d have fucked anything last night and he looks like a girl, anyway.

I close my bedroom door, take deep breaths and try to unscramble my brain. Flashes of heat, gasping in my ear, teeth dragging down my skin… I squeeze my eyes shut and cringe. Jesus. Jesus Christ, there is something, isn’t there?

Fuck.

We are made up of awkward tension and fizzing sexual irritation.

Half of me wants to push him against the wall and throttle the little bastard and the other half wants to push him up against the wall and fuck him. I don’t do either, instead I go about ignoring him completely and spending far too much time in the bathroom sorting myself out.

“El.”

I grit my teeth and continue counting out my money. “El?” Fucking idiot, get a clue. I don’t wanna talk to you! “El? Fucking listen.” No, no, no. If I look at him I’ll remember, remember him whispering whatever French filth he could think of, remember his dark eyes - wild, wild, drunk Jut. I gulp back spit and press the pile of tenners harder into the table. “Seriously, El, stop ignoring me, I’ll fuck you up.” Like to see you try, kid.

I don’t even have a chance to grin to myself before he comes up behind me and smacks me around the head like a bitch. I yelp and tumble sideways, my pile of money fluttering behind me like dead birds falling to the earth.

“Fucking hell!” I snarl, stumbling to my knees, glaring. “What? Jesus, what?”

“Stop ignoring me.” Jut looks odd, I notice. His eyes are wider than normal, his shoulders hunched against the universe. “Just stop it.” I don’t want to think about the lilt in his voice, the odd trembling of his hands. Don’t want to think about why he cares so much.

“I-”

“We’re going out, tonight.” He snaps, turning away, half-sneering. “Get ready, yeah, El?”

I nod weakly and try to ignore the bubbles in my belly.

The place literally throbs, like we have been swallowed by a translucent snake and its belly muscles are slowly dissolving us, engorged and delighted, pushing us deeper into the oblivion of its stomach. The music is electric through my veins, burning my tissue and smouldering at the papery skin separating my heart from space. I chock on it, this delicious aroma of beats and melodies and gyrating bodies grinding against me. Girls made of hips and breasts and lips pressed against the hollow of my neck, fingers curling around my t-shirt.

I pull away from them, panting, clutching my beer tightly to my chest, looking around blearily for Jut. He’s normally around, simpering like a dog at the DJ, or band, depending where we are. Except tonight is different, tonight is weird. We walked through Camden in silence, our heartbeats echoes in the wind. He was angry and when we got to a club he dived straight into the crowd and didn’t look back.

Angry. I don’t know why. Well, maybe I do. We had sex the other night and then I called him a slut, basically, and ignored him for another three days. That’s pretty fucked up, I suppose.

I twirl lazily on the spot, looking for him, pleasantly drunk, buzzing just enough so that the walls tumble like broken statues around me. I catch sight of his t-shirt, electric-blue with silver on it and start towards it like a mad man, bee lining the dancers despite their wonderful, inviting heat.

He gets led outside, and I’m delirious, I swear, because when I gasp on solid-cold air I can see him getting tugged into an alley way, a man holding onto his wrist, practically dragging. For a moment something hot and horrible surges through me, diseased with jealousy and guilt and resentment, and I am prepared to go back inside and get lost in the music. But then I notice how he’s walking, Jut, normally so astute and gloriously poised, Wildcat as he stalks through the streets. He doesn’t tumble like that, doesn’t jerk and flop like some dying animal.

Roofies? He’s out of his skull…

“Shit,” I bark, stumbling forwards. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

Jut is gonna get fucked by some creep that can’t even work up the energy to chat someone up. Quick slip of the pill and its right there, on a plate. Fucking cunt. I fumble in my shoe for my switchblade, irritated and scared and, shit, only Jut could get picked out for a raping.

I creep into the alley way, alert. Some chubby bitch has got his hands up Jut’s shirt and I watch him stare up at the sky in a daze, eyes sliding close, his arms flopping by his sides like two dead swan necks. He’s being propped up, too jellied to keep himself standing, too jellied to even fight. I open up my knife and slink towards them.

“S- s-nice.” Jut slurs, his knees parting open, like an instinct. I pause and feel horrible, bitter resentment claw at my stomach like savage wolves. I should leave him, I think viciously, leave him to wake up in some alley way covered in cum and not knowing what’s happened to him. He fucking deserves it, the slag. “Elliott.” He moans suddenly, arching forwards, the shadows hiding his face. The smell of piss and rubbish rolls in the air and I grit my teeth and decide, shit, god, fucking Jut, ruining my life, taking my space, making this weird. He’s a shit and a mouthy cunt but he’s Jut and he doesn’t deserve this.

I stride forwards, quick as you like, press my knife under his chin, just like Jut did all those weeks ago. Did he stand around deliberating? Did he consider letter me get torn to bits? I press my chest into the fucker’s back and hiss.

“What do you fucking think you’re doing?”

The man gasps and lurches backwards, leaving Jut unsupported and sliding to the floor like a rag doll. “Think you can mess with my mates, eh?” There is a desperate, tormented thrill rolling up my spine and I want, want so fucking much to just slit his throat and leave him bleeding, but I don’t, I just press deep, deep enough to cut, just the first few layers of skin. Its not enough. “What the fuck?”

Jesus, who am I? Al Capone without the charisma. I’m a shambles.

“I-”

“Don’t you fucking say a word!” I snarl. “Ok, I’m just gonna take my friend and pretend this ain’t never happened, alright? Try it again and I’ll really gut you out.”

I push him away and watch him tumble off up the street, chubby little pig. I memorise his shape and style for another day, a day when I’m not drunk, a day when I’ve got more than a little knife on me.

“Elliott?” Jut moans, rolling onto his side and vomiting onto the grime-coated pavement.

“I’m here, Jut.” I whisper, sliding down and pressing my arm under his shoulders, pulling him up against my chest. “You fucking idiot…” He reaches blindly forwards, pressing his face into my shoulder. I can feel wet where his snot and sick starts smearing along my shirt, but I don’t care. My heart is beating wildly, horribly, corroding behind my ribs as it batters out drum solo. Oh my god, I reel, what did I almost let happen? I’m a monster, a fucking monster.

“Elliott,” There’s a squeak and I can feel his shoulder shaking and the wet on my collar getting bigger and I realise, with a horrifying jolt, that he is crying.

“God,” I chock, stumbling to my feet and leaning against the wall as I try to adjust him against me. He’s sobbing, his face crumpled up awkwardly, tears rolling like fat pearls down his cheeks. “What are you like?”

“Stop ignoring me,” He whines, draping himself over me like a wet pancake. “I… I din’t… m-mean f’us to fuck.”

“I know, I know.”

I grimace and start ambling down the street, struggling under his weight, tripping on his feet. He vomits three times before we manage to get home and it drips from his mouth like he’s a zombie and he’s just taken a chunk out of some poor corpse. I have to sit him on the doorstep before I can get my key in the door, and he won’t stop crying, bubbling nonsense and I feel like a fucking fool and there’s still that sick feeling at the pit of my guts. Guilt. Jesus.

“I reckon you’ll have a fucking huge hangover tomorrow, kid.” I croak, heaving him from his slumped seat, wincing as he grunts, gripping onto my shoulders.

He’s trembling violently, his skin ash-white, his fingers digging into my flesh like he’s afraid I’ll drop him. I have to carry him bridal style up the stairs and its then that he passes out, horrible black bags under his eyes. Its almost like he’s dead.

Oh my god.

I get him into bed, take his boots and jeans off, go into the bathroom to get a wet flannel to put on his head. I put him on his side so that he doesn’t choke on his sick, go downstairs to get him a pint of water. I think about leaving him, kipping in my own bed and waking up to see how he is in the morning.

What if he dies, though?

I don’t have a clue what he’s taken. It could really be roofies. What if he reacts badly to them? I shiver in his doorway, watch the rise and fall of his chest intently, just to make sure. Eventually I snarl and throw my jeans off, crawling into bed with him, my throat tight with worry, my lungs shuddering to breathe.

Jesus. What am I going to do?

I look down at him, his face too pale, his lips blue - god, blue. Should I take him to the hospital? But if I did that the police would get involved and they would want to know how I got him away from Chubs, would want to know a bit about us. They can’t, I can’t, its against the rules. No hospital. I bite my lip and shuffle myself next to him, press my hand against his heart to feel the jerk-fast rhythm. God.

I stay up all night.

“He isn’t awake yet.”

“What?”

“I said, I said he isn’t awake yet.” My voice catches and I clear my throat awkwardly into the phone. “Well, he woke up mutterin’ nonsense and I got him to drink a pint of water but he just chucked it up and went back to sleep.”

On the other end Marcus sighs noisily, irritated and I can hear his ex-prozzie girlfriend murmuring in the background. I look over at the clock, 2:23am, I’ve woken him up, but I don’t care, I don’t care because Jut is comatose and I almost left him there to be used, defiled, left alone.

“Look, mate, it’s a good sign that he’s chucked up. Just keep him on his side and let his body do its stuff, right? All you can do is prepare him for the inevitable hangover. He’s not dead, right? He’ll be fine.”

“Really?” I croak.

“Yeah, you fucking poofter. Now piss off and let me sleep.”

“Alright, thanks mate.” I click the phone down and stare back into the darkened room. Jut’s lying on his side, breathing deeply, his hair a shambles around his face, the sheets twisted around legs. The air reeks of sweet fever and sick and the heat presses against my throat like strong hands and I have to open the window and smoke cigarettes into the night air, just to breath. My fingers shake and rattle like old bones and behind me I can hear him murmur and move, his throat clogging up with stale spit and residue vomit. I glance over my shoulder but he’s still asleep.

Its been a very long weekend, I think. I haven’t eaten anything since before we went out, haven’t really left the room just in case he started having a fit or something. Shit, I should really know what to do in these situations, shouldn’t care as much as I do, but I can’t help it. Its Jut, irritated, angry Jut with his wild-glass eyes and his drugs and his shit electro music and his French.

“El?” He croaks and I am at his side in an instant, my cigarette flung out of the window, barely smoked.

“Jut,” I chock, leaning forwards and gripping his wrist. His eyes are unfocused, bleary and dead as he peers curiously up at me, face ashen white, like a corpse. His breath stinks and his body still feels feverish and the pulse below my fingertips races like a war drum. “Jut, stay awake, please?” I’m begging, he should see it, he should because I’m almost fucking crying here.

“What…” He clears his throat and sits up, wincing and swaying and gripping his head like his skull is trying to pop out from behind his skin. “What the… fuck?”

“You’re a right prick, ain’t you?” I breathe, leaning in closer, my hands trembling as I grip the sheets. “Thought you were gonna die on me!”

Jut’s eyes go wide and he stares at me. Awkwardly, I steer myself away from him and move to sit on the edge of his bed, careful not to touch him. “You got spiked, mate. Someone put something in your drink and tried to have it off with you in the alley behind the club. Don’t think you reacted well to it.”

His eyes go wider and his hand jumps up to bury itself in his stomach, squeezing the skin. My heart lurches awfully and I have to bite my lips to keep from being sick.

“Shit,” He breathes, fingers rolling through his greasy hair. “Oh shit, they didn’t - I didn’t? Please say…” he looks like he’s going to cry.

“No!” I say quickly, not looking him in the eyes. “I, uh, I went to find you and noticed something was wrong with you, figured you’d been messed with, got you out of there and home.” I laugh nervously. “Should have seen yourself, Jut, chucking up fountains. Thought you were possessed.”

Don’t tell him that the time you didn’t spend with him you spent vomiting in the toilet, I think desperately, he don’t need to know that.

“You serious?” Jut croaks, looking vaguely horrified. “How’d you get me out?”

I smile, my stomach still twisting at his skinny body shaking and pale. He looks so ill.

“Got my knife out, dint I? Almost stabbed him up. Got his face clocked, just in case we see him again…”

Jut’d kill him. Pure rip his insides out, regardless. He gets violent about insignificant things like spilling his drink, almost getting raped is going to turn him murderous.

“I…I-” Jut’s shivering like a baby rabbit, his face ghost-like, eyes wider than the moon. Must be the shock, I think, hanging back awkwardly as he stares down at his hands and swallows thickly. “Merde,” He breathes and I notice his eyes are shining and, shit, he’s crying. I move back nervously, look politely down at my hands so that he doesn’t feel like a tit. He probably does anyway.

“Listen, Jut,” I mutter, the shadows of the room flittering across the floor like rats. “Its alright, nothing happened, you got off lucky, I-”

“Fucking hell,” Jut sobs, pressing his face into his hands, his shoulders shaking, the sheets pooling around his lap. I stop and reach out, hopelessly unsure. This is Jut we’re talking about, the one of the hardest, most violent people I know, has a tongue like a whip, studded boots to crush skulls, eyes like hard diamonds. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t look so helpless, so fucking terrified. The horrible wave of guilt and fury lashes through my guts, acidic, dangerous, the writhing hatred of a man that wants to kill. I’ll find him, I think viciously, my fingers curling in the sheets like claws, I’ll find him and I’ll rip his throat out, smash his face in, powder his bones down and sell him as cocaine. I’ll kill him for this, for touching the untouchable, for touching what’s mine.

My heart leaps into my throat and I feel sick again.

“Do you want something to drink?” I whisper, pressing my fingers softly against his arm. “I’ll make you tea? I’ll make you something to eat, you’ve been out for days, you’re probably starving-”

Suddenly Jut’s alive again, his head raised, poised like a spitting cat. Fast as a striking cobra, is my Jut, grabs my wrists and wrenches me forwards and for a blinding, terrifying moment I think he’s going to beat the shit out of me, just for witnessing this small glimmer of weakness, just for noticing the tears down his face, the snot under his nose.

He doesn’t though, and I’m pressed against him, his palms on my cheeks, his nails digging into my hair, scraping my skin. I gasp and his lips are against mine, hungry, demanding, his tongue slick and hot in my mouth, his teeth gnashing against my gums, biting violently so that I can taste blood between us. I don’t respond, just let him attack me furiously, his eyes squeezed shut, his heart beating wildly against his ribcage, so hard I can feel it below my palm. Our hips align and he arches forwards and I shudder and grip the sheets besides his arm tight between my fingers.

This is wrong, I think. So, so wrong. I’m not drunk and he’s recovering from almost being date-raped and this is Jut and just wrong. I try to move away, but he snarls and rolls me onto my back, straddles my hips and starts biting my neck, all teeth and tongue, his eyes black and, oh god, he’s Wildcat Jut again, fingers sliding up my shirt, scratching at my belly, tearing at my ribs. I gasp and buck my hips, try to catch my breath but I can’t because Jut’s back again, shoving his tongue between my jaw, only this time his eyes are open, he’s staring right at me. They’re black, black with lust and need and hatred, and he’s fucking angry.

That’s what this is. He’s angry, he’s so angry, that someone managed to get one up on him, that someone almost hurt him, that he can’t fight back. He’s angry that I was there, that he wasn’t sober enough to beat the shit out of the man. He’s angry, so he’s taking it out on me.

This means nothing.

I grasp his shoulders and push, grunting a little as he rolls off of me, he snarls and I stumble out of bed just in time before he pounces again. I lean against the wall, panting, blood and spit smeared up my cheeks, my trousers uncomfortably tight, my skin burning. Oh god, he’s kneeling on the bed, eyes alight like hellfire, his lips bared, teeth shining in the moonlight. I can hear him, he’s fucking growling, snarling, angry like a wildcat, his fingers clenched tight on his thighs.

“What?” he bites, “What the fuck is wrong now?”

He’s so furious, he’s shaking. His whole body is trembling, his breathing coming out in laboured pants, his hair a mess. He’s gorgeous and I want nothing more than to stride over there and fuck him, but I can’t, because its wrong, too fucking wrong.

“Don’t,” I croak, leaning against the wall.

“What?” He is snarling, I can see him about to get up, charge at me, demand, either kick me in the ribs and beat me into a blood pulp or go back to biting.

“Don’t do that ever again,” I pant and close my eyes. “I don’t want that. Just don’t fucking expect me to be a willing participant when you want to lash out. I’m not… I’m not-”

“Fuck you!” he explodes, scrambling forwards, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck, fuck, fuck you!” I watch him crash, all charged up, his knuckles white. “You have no fucking idea, do you?” He charges right up to me, smashes his fist in the plaster right beside my head, his face inches from mine.

I’m fucking terrified. I watch him, savage wildcat, his arms trembling, his fingers reaching forwards to grab my jaw. I wince and cringe, but instead of being forced forwards, like I had expected, his fingers flutter awkwardly along my cheeks, reach up into my hair, thumb tracing my lips. I open my eyes and Jut is staring at me, expression open and blank, his teeth biting at his lip so hard there’s blood. My breath hitches, my blood becomes molten rock, burning my flesh from the inside out. I try to breathe, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, because Jut is pressing himself against me, chest to chest, hips to hips, his thigh going between my legs. His lips are soft and metallic with blood, pressed lightly against my mouth, his eyes closed. My stomach squirms up my chest, starts wrestling with my heart, my guts trembling like dead foxes.

Oh god.

He pulls away a little, presses two soft kisses on either side of my jaw, before moving back enough for me to see his face. His eyes are half-open, his cheeks flushed, lips ruby-red and smeared slick with his blood. His eyes are dark, dangerous still, and he’s trembling and, and, and - oh god, I don’t know what to do.

“Don’t know nothing, do ya?” He murmurs, his eyes narrowing, becoming harsh. “Je mourrai pour vous,” He pushes himself away and I instantly feel the loss of his heat, the weight of his body, him. I reach out for him but he just stumbles back into his bed, facing away from me. “Just fuck off, Elliott.”

I don’t know what to do.

I float out of his room, because I’m a ghost and I must be dreaming. What does that mean? I open my bedroom door, fall into bed, stare at the ceiling as it spins on top of me, a great white eye, unseeing. I remember his eyes, so black and burning, his fingers digging.

I can’t stand this anymore.

I wake up with a gun against my temple.

Groggily, I jerk awake by the feel of a weight on my hips, stare up a sombre looking Jut, his eyes wilder than the world, burning, dripping malice. I open my mouth to speak but he rears his hand back and slaps me hard, rattling my brain up like a spray can. I bite my tongue and blood pools out.

“I wanna talk to you.” He mutters, shifting his hips so that they roll against mine. There’s a spark of heat that I try to ignore, my heart pounding like rotten meat on slabs of hot pavement, my lungs flat and burning as I hold my breath, wait for the click and thump and mush of my brains being splattered on my stained pillow case. “I’m gonna talk to you and for once you’re gonna listen, ok?”

I nod like a simpering little puppy.

The barrel is cold and hard, I can feel it digging like a large claw, ready to peel away my layers, shave my skin off and show Jut just who I really am, a quivering little bitch, just as frightened of guns as the rest of the world, despite holding one every day. I open my mouth and his eyes narrow like liquid lasers, burning holds right into my skull. I bare my teeth, irritated, gums slick with blood. “First of all, thanks for stopping that bloke from bumming me.”

Its almost laughable. Almost.

“No problem.” I croak. There’s a blinding spark of white-hot pain as he slaps me again, palm ringing against my skin, biting like hot coals. My teeth ache and writhe in my gums, blood turning my mouth oily and metallic. I try to swallow it back, my face screwing up. Fucking hell.

“I said you don’t talk, ok? You listen. So, thanks for that.” He leans forwards, his palm sinking in to my mattress as it props him up, his fingers trembling against the gun. My gun. I swallow hotly and look back up at him, mouth sealed shut. “I just… I need to tell you something, and you ain’t gonna like it, so after I’m packing up my stuff and I’m leaving.”

My heart shudders.

“Jut-” His hand goes up in the air and I wince, squeezing my eyes shut. He doesn’t hit me, though, just snorts viciously.

“I…” His voice breaks and he looks at the bed behind me and its then I notice his cheeks are red and oh god, what’s this? “I think I…”

“Don’t.” I hiss, bucking my hips and watching his throat work a quick, violent gasp into his lungs. His eyelids slide shut and I am burning and I sort of want to kill him, I really do. One day, I tell myself, one day when his bones are old and he’s still smoking his cigarettes and looks like Mick Jagger with his sagging skin and his voice hoarse with drugs and shouts and his body is littered with tiny little scars, then I’ll kill him. I’ll open his door and he’ll recognise me for a moment and then I’ll shoot him and then he’ll know, I’ll know, everyone will know that even though he was wild and he was crazy he still never got one over me.

“I l-”

“I said don’t!” I snap, pressing my skull against the gun. He stares at me, his features pulled taut by shock and his shoulders slumping awkwardly. “Don’t say shit like that to me.”

He’s angry now, of course.

“Why not? Why the fuck not? What’s wrong with me, El? What is so fuck-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I sneer. “Feel what you like, Jut, but I don’t want to hear fuck from you. You’re not leaving, you’re staying here with me, ok? So unpack your fucking stuff and stay.”

You can’t leave me, I’ve become accustomed to having a wildcat hissing by my side.

“I don’t want to stay here, forever.” He says coldly, sitting up and leaving a trail of burning-bright heat behind him. “I’m not happy.”

“Who the fuck is?” I laugh hysterically and my hips jerk against him and I watch Jut tug his lip between his teeth and his eyes grow dark. Shit, shit, why does this happen to me? The gods must fucking hate me. “This is the real world, sweetheart, no one is fucking happy.”

“You make me sick,” He breathes, arching his spine. My fingers itch with the urge to scrape them down his belly.

“Ditto,” I breathe, and the gun falls lax in his fingers, softly hitting the pillow and I pause before I nudge my head against it and send it thumping to the floor. At the sound, Jut looks at me and my heart explodes like rockets too close to the sun.

“You’ll kill me one day?” he sighs and closes his eyes and I wonder not for the first time if he really is insane. You’ll kill me one day? Its not even a question its a plea; like he’s Lennie, but instead of being too big and too stupid he’s just fucking crazy and his small hands have hold of things too dangerous for such a wild, wild creature. Maybe he knows it, maybe he has his own dream of living off the fat of the land with his little rabbits, with me. Oh god, oh god, I’m George and the gun is in my hand.

“No,” I chock, shaking my head. “You ain’t a dog.”

He looks at me then and the universe is crashing in his eyes.

“I see,” he whispers. “Not a dog…”

This is fucked up, I know. Its so fucking messed up that even I, a character who has seen many disturbing things, am sick to the stomach. There’s something wrong with this man, this juggernaut-man, fingers clasping against air like he’s trying to find some leverage that doesn’t exist. He looks as if the concept has never occurred to him, and I wonder if he has lived his life constantly on the tail-end of someone’s orders. I don’t know anything about his past, except that his parents are dead and he was brought up by his older brother, a skag-head. Maybe as a child he saw and did things that messed him up, I don’t know.

“Jut,” I mumble, sick to my belly with the tenderness I suddenly feel. For him. “Jut, please don’t go.”

He blinks at me and his mouth flattens into a startled frown.

“I won’t…” He says cautiously. “I’m tired though.”

“I… you’ve had a rough couple days, yeah?”

He shakes his head, then silently and slowly slides away from me and the friction makes me shudder but he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care anymore. He stands up straight and looks over at me, flushed and squirming in bed and he smiles. Its not his usual sinister smile, the smile that belongs with violence and adrenalin or the cold-cruel smile he gets when he wants to start a fight with me. Its just a smile, one you would see on the street, one you would see on the television in an advert for cereal.

Just a smile.

“I’m tired of our job, Elliott, and I’m tired of London and I’m tired of myself. I think I need a holiday.”

He turns and he leaves and I am left feeling empty and confused and suddenly completely and utterly terrified.

“What?” I call, “You mean Berlin, right?”

I’m so stupid.

I scramble to my feet and launch after him, thumping against plaster and wood and ignoring the welts of pain in my hips and thighs as I go crashing downstairs and into Jut’s bony body. He snarls as I push him against the wall, pinning him with my hips, my fingers digging roughly into his shoulder as I smash my lips against him and kiss him as furiously and harshly as possible. He whimpers and moans and wriggles about but I don’t stop.

When I pull away I can taste blood.

“You’re talking about Berlin, aren’t you?” I hiss softly, pressing my fingers against the hollow of his neck.

“I…” He is breathless and flushed and I think I could live with him forever, not as Lennie and George or anything except Jut and El, those two junkie-looking fellows that live in a small flat and roam the streets of London looking for cigarettes and a place to die.

“I’ll come with you, if you like. I heard the music scene is belting.”

He smiles again and my ribs crack open to make room for my swelling heart.

“Ok,” He says, his fingers plucking at my hair awkwardly, shyly, except he’s not shy because Jut is everything but shy. “Ok, ok, sure.”

Its alright for a while.

Me and him, him and me, Jut and El, we spend the next two years as we always have, hip-to-hip, gun-to-gun, and often one of us comes up bloodied and bruised, often from each other, maybe from a punter that was a bit too crowing for our liking. At home I stitch him up, ignoring his pained growls, insults and badly pronounced French and its ok, it really is. We’re called on as a team, if you ever want something done in twos, you go to Jut and El, El and Jut, one looks like a queer and the other like a dealer.

Marcus knows we’re fucking, but that’s ok. He invites us to dinner with his ex-prozzie fiancé and we have to leave early because Jut gets drunk and tries to bottle Marcus in the face. He gets the shit beaten out of him the next day and I watch them, leaning against the wall as Marcus boots him in the ribs and he spits up blood. I start getting an ache in my belly, a weird churning in my chest and I have to look away and when I hear Jut’s strangled cry I wrap my arms around Marcus’s waist and drag him away.

I suppose it could be love.

We never talk about it. When we fuck it feels good and after neither of us can be bothered to move to our respected rooms so we sleep side-by-side and wake up tangled and slick with the heat of another person. I stitch Jut up and he makes me coffee and whenever someone says a bad word about me he screams and smashes things in, people’s faces mostly.

Its ok. We’re ok. Things are ok. It could be love but it most likely isn’t. Jut’s like a wild animal and wild animals don’t love, they just fuck and live where things are convenient, but I don’t mind that. Its ok, really.

For two years, we’re happy.

It’s a cold morning when things stop.

The universe, infinite and agile, like a long-fingered cat stretching out across all the space that ever existed and purring softly over planets and stars and black-holes, stops. Goes black, sort of like a light being turned off except it isn’t because even in the dark you can still see things, feel things, know things.

My bones are cold, gnawed right through with ice and rain as I jump past puddles and try to bury my face in my scarf. The bottles clink in my paper back, clutched tight to my chest as the rain pelts down in flesh-numbing curtains. I make it to my flat and kick open the door, gasping as the heat hits me in a wave, cupping me in hot palms and warming through wet clothes. I shake myself off and take the shopping through to the living room and stop.

Jut. I stare at him staring at me. His eyes are wide and terrified as he is frozen in the middle of the room, his hands slightly raised from his hips in a stop motion. I look across the room from him and spot another man, dressed up in a black suit and tie business and I open my mouth, arch an eyebrow, confused. My heart pounds like exploding stars.

“What-”

He jerks towards me and I don’t even get time to hear the click of his silencer before things go black.

The universe stops.

Jut doesn’t even think when he watches El jerk back, his blood coming out in a spray of red against the off-coloured walls. He snatches up his gun from the coffee table and puts three bullets in the man’s brain and watches him tumble to the floor like a heavy sack of vegetables, lifeless and gurgling.

Both men are twitching, muscles squirming under skin as blood pumps from veins and arteries that are open and wasted, gasping on exposed air instead of their confined bubbles. Jut is shivering, shaking like a newborn as he steps around the man he shot towards El. He’s slumped against the stair-well, still clutching a bag of alcohol and food that Jut had idly commanded him to get.

Don’t look at his face, don’t look at his face, don’t look at his face.

A bullet to the head. There’s no way he’s alive.

Jut crouches down and checks anyway. No, no pulse. He recoils, horrified, when he realises he’s still warm. Of course he is, he thinks hysterically, a few seconds ago he was alive.

“… Elliott…?” He murmurs, pressing his fingers against his wrist. Nothing. There’s nothing there. “P-please…”

He doesn’t even think, just staggers away from the body of his best friend and clutches madly at the wall to prop himself up as he vomits on the carpet. He can’t breathe, he needs to get out, needs to gasp the air and be away from it all, the stink of ringing metal, of smoke and blood and those needy last breaths. He can feel his heart shuddering, his skin itching, this isn’t real, this can’t be real.

He stumbles out into the street, grabbing his coat and launching himself down the road as fast as his stupid boots will take him. His breath comes out in harsh pants and he can’t think, can’t think, can’t think at all because all he can think about is the spray, the horrible sound of a bullet passing through El’s skull and out the other end.

End.

He makes it to the bridge before he has to double over and retch from running so far. He pulls out his cigarettes and smokes them one after the other, one after the other, one after the other, as if the repetition and the smoke will kill him slowly. He looks down into the water and wonders what he should do now, now that his partner is dead, his friend, his best and only friend, his fucking lover, for Christ’s sakes. He hates thinking of it that way, lover, like they were two men out of those stupid indie movies where they fall in love. Sure, Jut thinks, he did love the bastard but they never said it, El probably never even felt it, and Jut didn’t like it.

But it was love all the same. A twisted, awkward love that made his fingers skitter up his spine whenever he turned his back on him, made his teeth grit hard and almost breaking from the force as he held himself back for him. Made the crack and pool of broken noses feel oh so fucking satisfying when he was doing it for El. Always for El.

Maybe it is like those films. Maybe he can’t live without him, maybe he should just chuck himself off the bridge and die with him.

He finds the lapping water a whisper, like some tempting, vivacious woman luring him with sweet-soft lips pursed around comforting words. He’d jump, he’d jump in a second if it meant…

He didn’t even have the chance to say anything… just shot him clean in the head.

Jut’s hurt turns to anger.

Three months after the funeral, after Marcus has cleaned everything up and the police have said it was a shoot-’em-up, spaghetti western style, Jut packs up his records and a few of El’s books and clothes and leaves.

He gets a taxi to Marcus’s house, asks the driver to stay where he is, because he’s got a make-up bag full of money that he and El had saved, is richer than your average thug and he doesn’t care for buying things anymore. When Marcus opens the door he’s already expecting him and doesn’t even blink when he passes him the envelope, just nods and sighs and leans back against the doorframe looking tired.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“It’ll be ok,” Jut says serenely, quite unlike himself, he knows, but he doesn’t care anymore. “I don’t much like London anymore.”

“Well, don’t make too much mess, alright? Jeremy had a fit with the last guy you did.”

Jut smiles at the memory and watches Marcus flinch at the sight of it. Not that many things change in the space of three months, it seems.

“Don’t worry, boss-man, this is the last guy.”

“So this is the last time I’ll see you, is it?” he asks, looking a little relieved and more than a bit sick. Jut doesn’t mind though, because he’s tired too and the money he’s getting for this job is enough to last him forever. Turns out, the shits that shot El were high on the death list of Marcus’s gang and who’d have thought all it would take was to kill the loved one of a crazy-man to get rid of them all. It was almost laughable, almost.

“Its been beastly workin’ with you, mate,” Jut grins, shaking his hand and nodding once before leaving his doorstep.

“All the best, yeah?” Marcus calls and Jut shimmies his way back to his black-cab and gives the driver the address to some core-rotten club in Camden town. They drive in silence and he watches the city roll past his window in a sort of glazed fascination. London, filthy under its skin and diseased on the inside, is beautiful. Jut loves his home more than he loves himself and the thought of leaving makes him sick to his belly, because if there’s anything he’s learnt in his short life its that, even those who are beautiful but ugly on the inside, or those who are filth on the out and filth on the in, are the best type of people.

He’s never been one for creatures of a happy, kind nature. Puppies and kittens, helpful teenagers, all that bullshit? He’d rather have some rat-bag pull a knife on him than deal with them.

They pull up outside the club and he tells the driver, softly, to wait.

It takes him two minutes to toe past the drunken bodies of London’s wasted folk to find him. The last of the kings that sent their knights out to destroy Jut’s life. He kicks him harshly in the groin and watches him splutter and groan on the wooden, dirty floor before he shakes his body down and charges at him in a rage.

Jut growls and spits and writhes and grapples like a wildcat until the man is kicked back onto his spine and he stands up, pulling out his gun and shooting him cleanly in the throat and head. He hasn’t got time to linger and relish the feeling of completeness, of finally being free and all that bullshit, because he’ll miss his flight. Quick as a fox he wipes his gun down and presses it against the man’s hand. Marcus will send someone soon, he thinks, but its better to be safe than sorry.

Outside, he hurries into his cab and tells the cabbie to take him to Heathrow airport.

When they get there he presses a hundred pounds into the man’s palm, as well as the fair and smiles sickly at him in the mirror.

“For your discretion,” he says and leaves before the man can answer.

He’s tired, but its finished.

The pigs that shot Elliott are dead. He’s cut his ties from the gang and sold off El’s flat to some new kid Marcus introduced to him, some wobbling, scowling thing that made Jut’s ribs hurt with the thought of how he first came to be part of this world. He doesn’t feel all that complete, probably won’t feel complete until he finds someone else to lodge his wildcat claws into, to manipulate and destroy and love so, so ferociously. Maybe he won’t feel content until he’s dead and he meets El on the other end, scowling and complaining loudly that Jut took his fucking time, where’s he been, for fuck’s sake, they ain’t got all day.

In the airport he waits for his plane, bags littered around him, his fingers shaking as he thinks about the city he’s leaving behind. He wonders if he should have jumped all those months ago, should’ve just ended it then and there and joined El in hell. He should have, maybe, had he lived a different life, but there was a voice in his head telling him that El has probably had enough of his company and would like a small break before he joined him in the underworld.

Besides, he thinks serenely, he never did get to go to Berlin.

END

MERRY CHRISTMAS: This story is for all my old readers - those that enjoyed the guns, thugs and drugs. I hardly seem to write like I used to anymore, and every time I post something here I feel ashamed for letting you all down. I can't tell you all enough how much you got me through some difficult years. You really do mean a lot to me, the lot of you, so in the spirit for Christmas (gag) I decided to offer you this. A story with guns, thugs and drugs in it. I tried to make it as twisted as possible, without it being obviously awful, haha.

You've seriously no idea how long this took me to write. Well, it was mostly putting it together. I wrote all the scenes mixed up, everywhere - they're in different notebooks, journals, scraps of paper, some on my computer, some currently under my bed. I had to try to get them into some kind of order and it took ages. Also, I know the French is probably wrong and there's probably loads of mistakes but, fuck if i have to spend another minute on this story i'll go mental. PLUS, never been around a spiked drink so I hope that scene is ok. If it isn't... pretend it is.

I know I said this is for all my old readers but its especially for these wonderful, beautiful, amazing people: Aquafied (Sara), heart race, Cracked Butterfruit, SerialXlain and summerbee. Just, thank you :)

I hope everyone has a nice Christmas and all that bollocks :) x

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