Title: Eyes on Fire
Pairings: Damien/Curly Goth, mild Red Goth x Henrietta, mentioned Stendy
Rating: Mature
Genres: Angst, Drama, Horror, very mild Romance
Description: Curly Goth has inner turmoil and he's thrown over the edge when Vamp kid Mike returns from Scottsdale.
Warnings: Stereotypes, cursing, discriminatory words, hormones, mood-swings, blood fetishes, parricide, child abuse, bullying, cigarette abuse, a crazed Damien, mild necrophilia, and other such sensitive material.
He lit a cigarette and inhaled it thickly, feeling his nerves wash in calm as the smoke slapped his tongue and warmed his chest. The flare of the lit end brightened with the next deep inhale, creating a glow in the night air.
Snow fell around him, but the boy refused to bow to chill.
He stood stiff, hand raised to his lips while the other was stuffed half-way into his jacket pocket.
"Smoking's bad for you…"
He took another deep suck and blew the smoke out through his nose, senses tingling only faintly now. "So?"
"Aren't you afraid that you'll get cancer?" The other boy stepped out from behind the corner and entered the shallow alley that the Goth was in.
He leaned back, relaxing his shoulders against the wall of the building next to him. "What is there to fear?" He looked over at him dully, eyes caved in from the years of long, sleepless nights. "My existence would be no better or worse if I were to get cancer… All that would change would be those conformist bastards trying to force feed me their drugs and people to get all sappy and fake with me."
He quirked a brow, "So it doesn't matter if you die or not?"
He bit down on the bud of the cigarette and he spat the small nub out onto the frosty ground. He stomped it out, grinding it into the shallow snow, before he pulled another out of the pack that rested against his breast. Tucked between his scowling lips, he replied sourly, "Why are you back, poser?"
"Scottsdale was hell."
"Good," his eyes narrowed and his lighter clicked open. He lit the cigarette before he slid the small, metallic lighter back into his back pocket. "That was the point."
"No, it wasn't." His eyes narrowed, darkened by charcoal-based make-up. "Why did you do that, anyway? I wasn't doing anything, per se…"
The Goth's hands clenched and his eyes grew large and livid. "I should fucking punch you, fag."
He scowled back, "Stop avoiding it. Answer me."
"Like I said before; 'that was the reason.' You and your fucking friends just had to join that stupid fucking trend and taint our reputation with your stupid, fucking, preppy ways. Even after we shipped you away, burned down the new Hot Topic, and made the public statement to the school, everyone still thought of us as stupid fucking vampires!"
He wore his teeth wide, shaped canines flashing.
The Goth glare only grew deeper and he spat another cigarette onto the ground. His fists balled and shook in his anger.
"You're so... ego centric!" Mike shouted at him, eyes growing sharper, just like his teeth. "God forbid someone do something like you but call it something different! You hide behind your stupid views but you're just like me! You're not dressing and acting like that because you're depressed! You're acting like that because you thought it was cool, because it guaranteed you popularity in a group that you really liked!"
His face was red, chest heaving. "You're just like me, you prick! You follow every stereotype Goths are and you claim to be anti-conformist? Hypocrite!" His voice had raised several octaves, cracking and sinking suddenly as he ranted further, puberty slamming full throttle into him.
Curly Goth's fists were shaking more.
"You're just hiding... faking," spittle flung past his lips and he nervously cleaned himself, trying to keep some dignity, "faking to be wounded and gloomy and hopeless because you want attention. Just like everyone else!"
He lunged, knuckles cracking against the straight-haired teen's chin. The skin on Curly Goth's hand tore and blood gently built from the new wound. He panted angrily, hand cracking close by his side. The bones were at the very least fractured. "Fuck you,"
His eyes might have been as equally angry, but there was a slight glint of success behind the film of rage. He had stumbled back, spacing himself from the other. His chin was red but was nothing compared to his attackers hand.
The curly-haired teen refused to cradle his injured hand, refusing to show any form of emotion other than his anger.
God damn, he should have brought his cane.
"You. Don't. Know. Me!" His chest heaved, limbs shaking a little. He started to calm only slightly, breath settling.
Mike gulped heavily, "Leave us alone,"
Curly Goth's eyebrows perked, "Us?" He sent a dark look at him, hooked nose and frightening eyes and dark surroundings giving him the look of a vulture.
"Us? Don't you know? After you left, all your 'friends' went back to their pop music and slutty clothes. You're the last vamp." He scoffed heavily, "I'm surprised you're still one, actually..."
The success in his eyes drained away and he squinted at him, "What?"
"Yeah," he had freshly lit cigarette in his unwounded, smoking hand, "Even with all those fags not dressing up as us, that stupid fucking name stuck." Smoke bellowed from his nose like a raging bull.
He shifted to his other foot, lips rolling in on each other. "Fine, whatever, I give up. I'm not getting anywhere in this conversation. I don't even remember what I was talking about to begin with." He pressed his bangs out of his face and he turned around, bringing his back to Curly Goth.
He pressed himself against his wall again and watched as the last remaining vamp in South Park leave the alley. His eyes felt heavy as his anger and adrenaline wore off, leaving him in a very satisfying state of mental and physical exhaustion.
He blew a ring of smoke into the air and slid down to the alley floor. He placed his hand on his lap and looked down at his swelling hand.
"Shit,"
"Where is he?" Henrietta asked from her fancy black bed and at her two male companions.
Red Goth shrugged, leaning back against her bed with his eyes pointed at her face.
Kindergoth, no longer a kindergartener but rather a freshman, shrugged himself and he kept himself close and secluded to his journal.
She sighed and pulled her poetry book out. She was just about to start reading when her bedroom door slammed open and a very disgruntled Curly Goth stepped in.
"Where have you been?" Red Goth eyed him from his lounged position.
He grunted and sat down next to the black-and-red-haired teen. "The vampfag is back."
The other Goths all turned their attention to him.
"Yeah?" Henrietta said in a low, uninterested tone.
He raised his freshly bandaged hand and grunted again, "Broke my hand punching him in the jaw,"
Red Goth looked at him with a suspicious look, "Yeah?" He blew cigarette smoke into the air, clouding it further, "Since when were you one for punching?"
"You should know that jaw bones are stronger than the bones in your knuckles," Kindergoth muttered, nose still buried in his journal.
"Apparently I wasn't thinking too clearly; too clouded by the hatred towards him and the world."
Henrietta rolled her eyes and lifted her book back up, scanning across several titles.
"Well, good fucking job for you." Red Goth growled.
"Shut the fuck up," he snapped back.
Henrietta snarled, "You two are acting like fucking teenagers."
He glowered for a small moment before he rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Conformists."
In a flash, the boy with dyed red hair slammed into him and his fists were wrapped around his curls.
Curly Goth flinched and he fought back, slamming his palms against the other's chest and forcing him onto the floor, away from him.
"Guys!" Henrietta shouted at them, smoke puffing from her lips as she leaned over the floor and glared at them.
Red Goth punched him in the face, teeth shown in a subconscious show of fury. "Faggot!"
"Cocksucker!" He punched him back, only this time he did so in the ribs. His broken hand was pressed too roughly against the other teen's shoulder, only shifting the bones more.
The shortest member of the group stood up silently and left. The door snapped close loudly behind him.
He kicked at him, slamming his shin into the curly-haired teen's groin.
His eyes grew wide and he gasped, spittle dripping over his lower lip and onto Red Goth's shirt. He was kicked off of the other teen and he gagged, clenching his aching crotch. "Fuck,"
Red Goth scrambled to his feet and he glared down at his "friend". He spat onto him.
"Fuck, stop that you two! You're both acting like a bunch of Jocks!"
Curly Goth stood up and he gagged heavily, "That was a pussy-ass move." He wiped the spit off of his cheek.
His eyes narrowed, "Yeah, well, I'm not the one pussing out over a little kick in the balls."
"How about I—!" He jolted forward before he stumbled back a little.
Red Goth put up a defensive stance.
He sighed heavily. "Fuck this." He turned to the door, limping towards it. He left, feeling like a dog with its tail between its legs.
The faux red-head stood next to his others, lips pert to the student walking by. Their small "coven"-esque spot that dipped away from the busy hall and was the perfect place to both show their stray from the everyday life of their "peers" as well as to smoke out of view of the cameras.
Stan Marsh stepped by, arms around Wendy's shoulder, and laughed along with her.
Red Goth's temper flashed.
Henrietta scoffed, "Fake bigots,"
"Hormone-driven Preps," he rolled off.
"Conformists," the youngest said.
Their eyes rolled over to their fourth member whom had quickly pulled himself from the clogged hallway.
He threw his carrier bag onto the ground and pushed himself to the back of the small area, to the forever-locked door.
His lip was split and a raging black-and-blue-and-yellow bruise was spread wide across his cheek. His hand was in a formal splint and it seemed to be colored over with black marker. By the smell of it; Sharpie.
"It happened again," The young Goth muttered to the other two.
They said nothing.
He looked at Red Goth curiously, "What did I miss?"
Red Goth's eyes glowered as he glanced over at the tallest of them all, "We fought and I kicked him in the balls!" He ground out from his teeth loudly.
Kindergoth stepped to the side.
Curly Goth said nothing. He simply picked up his bag and walked away from them, leaning heavily against his cane.
Henrietta melted for a brief moment before her stoic character fell back into place. "He seems really hurt." Her voice was even.
"He does," Red Goth muttered.
"Yeah,"
He was slammed into the wall. He slid down emotionlessly to the floor where he sat in a slumped state. His eyes were held strong against the man's face.
"Why don't you understand this, Logan?" He shouted at him, "Why don't you understand that all this bullshit you're pulling is bad for you?"
He cracked a smile, "Bad for me?" He picked himself up, hand held against the wall, "Bad for me?" Anger flushed across his face like wildfire.
"What a sick joke!" Curly Goth screamed only that much louder, "You think my behavior is bad for me? What are these daily throw-downs then? Huh?! A walk in the park? Going to a fucking ballgame?"
"These are for you're—"
"My what? Own good?" He scoffed loudly.
He slapped him, pushing him to the wall, "Don't interrupt me."
"Sure thing, Dad!" He was shaking.
"Don't change the subject!" The black-haired man snapped, "I've heard you haven't been going to class again. And look at yourself! Your hand is so swollen! It's probably broken! You're getting into fights too? Do you have any other hobbies you're doing that are going to be costing me more money? Anything else destructive like your cigarette smoking?"
His eyes wavered over his father's face.
"Go on, tough guy! Say it!"
He was stuck, heart thumping and stomach tight.
"Tell me," he stepped forward and grabbed a hold of the collar of his son's shirt.
"Fuck you," he flinched as his father punched him square in the cheek.
"Tell me!"
"Fuck you, you abusive bastard!" He spat out before another punch landed close to his lips. The curly-haired boy landed to the floor, face to hardwood floor, and his lower lip split open.
"What would your mother say if she could see you like this?"
His chest ached, "That you're a son of a bitch."
"What would your mother say if she could see you like this?"
His broken lips trembled, "She can't—"
"What would your mother say if she saw her son acting like this?"
Tears built in his eyes, "She can't see me like this."
"What would she say?"
"She's dead! She can't see shit anymore!"
"What would she say?"
The tears released and he felt the pitiful act of sobbing fall upon him. He gave up for the night.
"Get up; we should get that hand checked out. What are you going to tell them?"
"I was in a fight."
He sat in the circle, looking pissed.
"Logan, would you like to talk today?" The woman whom acted as counselor asked.
He despised everyone who was in the room with him.
What the fuck did they know about pain?
Bwaa, my parents took my phone away! Bwaa! My computer crashed! Bwaa, my dog died!
They were all a bunch of pussies, in his opinion.
"Fuck off," he pointed his eyes to the floor and crossed his arms.
"Okay then, that's fine if you don't want to speak. Losing someone in the family is always hard." She said.
His chest burned.
The group therapy commenced, everyone getting their "sadness" out but him.
Finally, everyone looked at the boy he hadn't paid attention to.
"How about you Mike?"
His eyes lifted and he glared at the fake green-haired boy.
"Yeah, sure, why not?" He shrugged and returned Curly Goth's glare. "I was kidnapped by my fellow students and was held up in Scottsdale for a week. I finally was about to get my way home but my parents wouldn't allow my out of my house because of their paranoia that I'd be kidnapped again. We moved and only just recently have we come back to South Park." He said; his eyes darkened.
"Oh, that's very saddening. Isn't that right everyone?"
They nodded, saying they're sorry.
They both continued to glare at each other.
"Alright, time's up. Remember, next meeting is the last for the semester!" She said cheerily, dismissing them.
He stood up, eyes burning coals, and he pulled his bag onto his shoulder. He exited without saying a word.
"What happened to you?" A small bruise had formed where he had punched him the day before.
"Nothing," he snapped. He was feeling so very moody lately.
"Yeah, well, I don't think punching me would cause you to bruise on the face too."
"Fuck off,"
"Why do you say that so much?" He walked next to him, looking at him slyly.
"Fuck off,"
"Do you live in an abusive household?" He was getting warmer.
"Fuck off,"
"Is that why you're in this group therapy thing?"
"No, wait, fuck off! Stop asking me so many dumb-ass questions you vampfag!"
"Oh, never heard that before." He rolled his eyes.
"Get away from me."
"What if I said no?"
"I'd have to kick your ass!" He snapped, pushing himself into the bathroom. He hated them, but if it were to make the vampire kid go away, he would put up with it.
He followed, "What if I told you that I'd enjoy that?"
Curly Goth growled, "I'd make it so you wanted to die."
"I've changed. Have you?" His brown eyes stared at him.
"Get out," he stepped into the only stall in the boy's bathroom.
He held the door open, "No,"
"Get out," he tried to close the door, "Get out!"
"I'll get to the point then:"
"Get out!"
"I will get my revenge on you,"
He hesitated.
"I will,"
"...get out,"
He sneered and let go of the door.
The curly-haired teen sat down and he cradled his head into his hands. "Fuck,"
He slipped into his house and he stepped up the stairs with a sense of fatigue all over his form.
His father peered out from the kitchen, "Logan, could you come here?" His voice sounded gentle, but the almost-adult couldn't help but feel a little threatened.
He obeyed, setting his bag onto one of the steps and he walked into their kitchen.
His father was standing next to their small dining table, hands clasped in his blue jean pockets. "Come here,"
He obeyed, stepping towards his father and angrily bowing his head. His mouth turned into a scowl.
The man wrapped his hands around him and hugged him tightly. "I'm sorry,"
He only scowled harder.
"It was wrong of me to hurt you like that. I lost my temper. It was terrible of me to bring your mother into the fight. It was a low blow and I'm sickened by myself that I had the audacity to mock you with the dead."
His teeth ground together.
"I'm sorry,"
He pushed and kicked him away, screaming nonsense at the man who called him his father. "Bullshit! How dare you bring her back up again! How dare you go on about being sorry, just like every other mother-fucking time! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," he kicked him several times in the side, face burning as his blood rushed to his face.
He pulled his leg and he pulled him to the floor, jarring the boy's hand and knocking his elbows roughly against their tiled floor.
Curly Goth gave a cry of pain and he kicked his father's hands away from his ankles, "How dare you be like this, you dick-face! I hate you! I fucking hate your fucking guts!" His voice screamed, scratchy from being underused. He stood up, limbs feeling long and stringy as he towered over his fallen father.
He ground his teeth as he glared up at his son, "I try to make amends but you're not accepting me at all! You spoiled sonava bitch!" He shot to his feet and back-handed the seventeen-year-old across the face, other hand clenched into a fist.
"I swear I'll kill you if you hit me again!" He screamed, back against their dinner table.
"I'll be forced to hit you again if you don't stop acting like such a spoiled brat! I know you've entered puberty pretty late, but I'm not taking this bullshit from you!" The man shouted back.
"Fuck you! I'm leaving this shit hole!" Curly Goth turned and stepped limply towards the stairs to grab his bag. He could give two shits about clean clothing; as long as he had his cigarettes and some money he knew he'd be fine. Luckily all of those things were in his school bag.
His eyes grew wide and he stopped Logan in his tracks, "Wait, Logan, please, you can't leave!"
"Stop calling me Logan! I despise that cock-sucking name almost as much as I hate you!" He shoved past him and grabbed his cane from the coat hanger by the door.
"Wait—!" He gagged as the cane slammed into his stomach and knocked the air out of his lungs.
The curly-haired boy marched up the stairs and to his bag. He threw it over his shoulder and he stomped to the front door. He paused, glaring at his father, before he flew him the bird and marched out. "Fuck you!"
The door slammed and the man struggled to regain his breath.
She was beautiful. He had decided it very long ago and now it seemed almost second nature for him to think of her like that.
She was the most beautiful, non-conformist, original and creative person he had ever met and he was... in love. Disgusting, disgusting love...
And that all sucked.
Hands against hips, lips against lips; he was content as things were, love or no love.
Henrietta's eyes drifted up and pointed to the door. "Someone's here," she told him.
Red Goth pulled away from her and they arranged their clothes back into perfect place.
Rapid knocking echoed through the house from the front door.
She blinked rapidly before she sat back, "The bitch will open the door."
Footsteps stomped up the stairs and Henrietta's door slammed open.
Red Goth blinked at the curly-haired Goth, "What happened?"
He stepped in, all energy seeming to drain at the door, and he slumped against the wall, hand held tight against his forehead.
"What happened?"
"I'm going to kill him."
They both looked at him with their normally narrowed eyes.
"Why?" Red Goth asked.
"I'm going to kill him."
Henrietta stood up and walked over to him. She knelt down and looked at him, trying to catch eye contact, "What did that bastard do?"
"I'm going to kill him."
"I seek you out," the girl said in a sing-song voice, "Flay you alive. One more word and you won't survive."
"That's 'Eyes on Fire' isn't it?" He pointed out, seated back in the small corner of the even tinier book store.
The arriving girl and her circle of friends looked over at him and their eyes grew into saucers.
"M-Mike?" The raven-head cried in excitement as she sped over to him with her arms held open wide.
The teen stood up, stretching his legs, and welcomed her hug.
"I thought you moved!" She said, only squeezing him tighter.
"I came back. I missed my friends." He said, feeling so out of place next to all the people whom used to dress exactly like his self.
They had all changed. They have all reverted back to their old selves, back to their sports and back to their old fashion.
Was he the only one who had stayed vamp?
Was he the only one who saw it as more than a trend?
"What are you dressed in?"
He pulled away from his female friend and looked at the sandy-blonde. He couldn't even remember his name... "Stuff from Hot Topic," he replied to the no-name.
The blonde glared at him, "Only Goths and Vamps shop at Hot Topic."
The black-haired girl stepped back and integrated back into the group.
"And?" He didn't like the direction the conversation was heading.
"Only Goths and Vamps shop there." His voice was granite against a steel grate, repeating such "facts" to the vampire boy.
"And? What's wrong with being Vamp?" His voice held the same sort of irritation the fellow boy's had.
"Goths and Vamps are fags to the highest level, that's what." The teen grunted.
His face contorted into a look of sheer disgust, "Shut up! I'm not gay! Anyway, you were Vamp too!" His hands were clenched, "Does that make you gay?"
"I'm not fucking Vamp anymore! I'm normal!"
His face only twisted further, "I'm not normal? Normal?!" He yelled, "I'm a normal person like you! What makes me abnormal? Just my clothes? That's hardly abnormal!"
Red-faced, he breathed heavily to attempt to calm himself.
"Nothing about pretending to be a vampire is normal!" The sandy-blonde yelled back.
His chest caved slightly, "So that means we're not actually friends then."
The black-haired girl looked up at him but couldn't say anything.
"Fine then, whatever," he maneuvered past the group and out of the bookstore.
The group watched him quietly before they fell back into normal routine.
Mike walked down the street, shoulders hunched, head held down, and had his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
"Damien,"
His walking ceased and he lingered by the deep alleyway.
"Yeah? What do you want?" The voice was high and while the tone seemed like it could be feminine, a high level of masculinity held strong under it.
"I..." the voice faltered, low and with a sense of nervousness, "I need your help."
The voice laughed, long and trembling, "Since when did you need my help?"
Silence ensued, the even breathing of them becoming more apparent.
"Since I decided to kill him,"
"Oh!" More laughter...
Mike pinned himself against the wall, eyes held wide to the street in front of him.
"Now that's something different! What would you like my help in?"
"... I need you to lend me a bit of your power."
"And what do you plan to pay my services in?"
"..."
Mike's ears strained.
"... What would you want?"
"Your blood... your soul... Whatever's better for you?"
His lips trembled as he worried over the conversation. It was clearly the Goth who had broken his hand punching him who was speaking and that only worried him further.
Did the Goth intend on killing him?
"How much blood?"
"What's your type?"
"O positive,"
"Five pints,"
"Isn't that dangerous?"
"Would you like me to raise the number?" The voice grated out.
"No... that's fine."
"Good.
"You're blood type is actually really common blood type and the amount needed has to be higher than others. Now, if it were really rare, than you could pull off a pint, maybe half. But you can't, because you're so very common."
He growled, "This won't kill me, will it?"
He chuckled, "Probably no, unless you loss a shit load more than five pints. You know that's like, half the amount of blood in your body, right?"
The other was quiet again.
"Oh, would you like to bleed in front of me?" He called mockingly, "Too afraid to do it alone?"
He growled, cane tapping angrily against the alley floor. "Fuck off,"
"Fine, fine," footsteps, "came back to me when you have an answer,"
Mike stood face-to-face with a frightening boy with fiery eyes and smoky hair.
"Oh, hello," he smiled, teeth sharp and yellowed.
His heart felt like it had died when the teen had said 'hello'.
"What are you doing here? Eavesdropping?" His eyes lit with a version of joy that only connected to him. It was the joy that accompanied a minority of people; a look of joy at the sight of a loved one dying, at the sight of an animal being tortured, at the sight of someone about to be killed.
The look of joy that only accompany those people who hold extreme malice towards mankind, to those who have killed ever since an early age, to those whom have walked to the beginnings and to the ends of the earth.
Tears peeped from the corners of his eyes.
"Are you whom my dear friend was talking about?" He did a semi-circle around him, looking at him from crown to sole.
Mike trembled a little.
"Or are you a simple stalker; a boy with too much time on his hands and an obsession over Gothicism?" He laughed.
The curly-haired boy stepped out of the alley, drawn by the noise. He stared at the two before he made a step away from them.
Damien gripped onto his arms and he dragged him over to the vampire boy. "Is this what you want?"
The Goth was frozen, trapped in between the Anti-Christ's hands. He seemed shaken, eyes wide but adverted. His face was covered in goose-bumps, oddly, and his cheeks seemed to be sunken in.
Almost as if his actual life energy were being sucked out of him.
"Is this what you were hiding for? Do you like him? Don't be afraid, I'm not homophobic or nothing."
He couldn't move. He was frozen in time.
"Damien," his voice hovered.
He blinked and leaned over his shoulder slightly, looking at him in the face. "Yeah?"
"Let me go, please,"
"Please? You're not Logan! Who are you?" He shouted sarcastically, laughing soon afterwards.
He bared his teeth, "Let me go you cock-sucker!"
Damien rolled his eyes, "More gay jokes? Can't you think of anything else? Like our proposal, for instance! I'd like an answer now, just for that! Yes? No?" He let go of the Goth and looked down at him.
He glared at Mike before he looked back at Damien, "Get him out of here and I'll answer."
Mike's eyes grew wide and smoke filled his lungs.
He coughed and gagged, dislodging the smoke from his lungs. His eyes felt like they were falling from their sockets and his chest burned. He coughed more, eyes trying to search through the cloud of white smoke that had accumulated around him.
When it finally cleared, he found himself in front of his house.
He looked around wildly, searching for the boy named Damien and the Goth kid.
They were nowhere in sight.
"Oh god, he's going to kill me." His face drained of color and he felt like he were to vomit. He dashed down the sidewalk, heartbeat quick and his eyes peeled back in panic.
