The lack of oxygen required in kissing is inconvenient.
Olson doubles over, hacking and coughing and gasping, and Barkovitch grabs his waist and pulls him back against his lips. The blood that rises in Olson's mouth and stains Barkovitch's dry, cracked lips tastes warm and sour and like him, and somehow it makes Barkovitch want it more.
The metallic sound of a gun being cocked behind them makes Olson's body tense up against Barkovitch's, and Barkovitch grabs him and kisses him harder, because those little fucks have got to see all the pain and the suffering and horror that lives in Gary Barkovitch. Because just getting a bullet shot through your chest was for the amateurs.
The real Long Walk winners went out with a bang.
Barkovitch's hands move up Olson's hips and find the hole in him-dumb, cocky Hank Olson, the one who swore that he'd win, now at Barkovitch's mercy-, whose body contracts and shivers when Barkovitch grabs the bundle of organs and twists, grinning and slipping his tongue into the other boy's mouth and sinking his teeth into the now slick and warm and terrified lips.
Both their hands are stained with each other's blood, Barkovitch's once clean and fresh sweatshirt is caked with it, and Olson's eyes are wide and terrified as Barkovitch rips the exposed visceral flesh from the gaping hole in his body. A stream of blood stains Barkovitch's sweatshirt further, turning it from red to dark maroon.
He wraps his arms around Olson's neck and tangles his fingers in the dirty, uncombed hair as Olson falls on top of him with a thud and the breath is knocked from him against the concrete. When they're shot full of holes a minute later, after warnings are yelled and breaths are held, Gary Barkovitch and Hank Olson are both have matching sick, broken grins on their faces.
i don't know why i wrote this. i claim no ownership to the long walk.