Sick-minded:
A/N: Favorite pairing in GONE. Easily. Astrid and Sam can jump off a cliff for all I care. But Drake and Diana? Yeahhh, they can stay. :D
Disclaimer: If I owned this, Drake would still have two arms and he'd be using them to push Diana into a wall and kiss her. So no, I don't own. Please stop reminding me.
It's set during the beginning of the FAYZ.
…
She was…well, she was not kind, to put it quite simply.
He was…very messed up, to say the least.
They were…not on the best terms. In fact, they were at each other's throats more often than not.
But sometimes, if you think about it, things like this are irrelevant. Insignificant. Inconsequential.
What matters, in the grand scheme of things, is the loss of minutes, hours, days, that these two suffered by constantly attempting to kill one another with harsh words and rough actions.
When they should have known the truth all along: Hate is just misguided love.
If only teenagers weren't so dense.
…
Drake punched a hole in the wall, feeling the burning pain mixed with cold blood dripping down the length of his arm. Had he been wanted it to, the punch would have caused severe damage to the structure of the wall while causing minimum damage to his fist. Certainly there would be no bloodshed.
He was practiced, and as much as this tended to scare people, he could've been very practical about his method of destroying.
But sometimes, the white-hot fury, the adrenaline, the need to feel the pain in his hand, would win out against the technicalities. The madness beating out the methods. The need for release.
Only one person could completely numb his sense of pragmatism.
A dark-haired, manipulative, beautiful girl.
The only real emotion that would ever course through his body was hate. This was not for lack of feeling, but for lack of anything to care about. Most people couldn't even gain his hate. His contempt, his distaste, his annoyance. But not his hate. Never his hate.
That was reserved for one person, and one person only.
Diana Ladris.
On the one hand, she was obnoxious, annoying, and a major pain in his ass.
On the other, she made him feel.
Drake almost couldn't remember feeling. There was comfort in holding a gun. There was disdain for Caine. There were these little bits of sensation, like little samples of emotion.
And then there was the pure hate he felt for Diana. The only sense of emotion in his frozen body. She got blood running to his veins, pushed all his buttons, made him contemplate facing Caine just to murder her.
But it was better than numbness. Than his anesthetized version of living. It was real, palpable feeling. And in a way, he needed her. To keep him semi-sane. To make him partially real, to keep him from killing the entire FAYZ.
Not that he'd ever admit it.
Not that he'd ever appreciate her for it.
He seemed to conveniently forget all of this whenever she was near. Especially when she was being a bitch.
Like now, for instance.
"Did you know that most psychopaths end up killing themselves?" Diana said to no one in particular. "Drake, we'd all appreciate it immensely if you'd just…you know, hurry it along." The last bit was accompanied by a meaningful glance from the she-devil.
…
"Did you know that most cold, manipulative, bitter, bitches that hang around violent people end up disappearing mysteriously?" Drake said, much in the way Diana had approximately three seconds ago.
Diana tossed her hair. He. Was. Insufferable.
Usually, the only thing that stopped them from coming to blows was Caine. Caine was not here. Caine was in Perdido Beach, being their 'Fearless Leader'. They were in Coates Academy, all alone. Caine wanted to rule by himself for a while. He said that Diana and Drake looked too suspicious to be with him at the moment.
Diana was no fool. She knew better. He was getting sick of them. He wanted them to either get over it, or kill one another. No matter how much he liked Diana, or how useful she was. It was too much for the cocky, holier-than-thou bastard.
Diana didn't much appreciate how disposable she was, either. It damn near infuriated her.
But that didn't matter. They'd been waitingwaitingwaiting for this. For this moment. The chance to fight without interruption.
"Drakie, Drakie, Drakie. You've been threatening to hurt me for years. Now there's no Caine to stop you. So…what are you going to do, little psycho?" She didn't sound scared. She wasn't. Diana was curious, inquisitive, maybe a bit excited. But not scared.
"I'll show you." Drake smirked, his menacing eyes zeroing in on Diana. He sauntered up to her like a lion stalking prey. Diana watched him with intrigue. His fluid movements. She'd always wondered what his victims felt.
His hands grasped her wrists and pinned them above her head, shoving her into a wall. "You do realize that I hold more hate for you than anything in this world. You are aware that I have years of pent-up rage against you to unleash, right?"
Diana just smirked. "Yes. I'm aware. You remind me all the fucking time, remember? 'Diana, I want to kill you' 'Diana, I'm going to make you die slowly and painfully' 'Diana, my anger is just me pretending I'm not in love with you'." Diana looked up at him, smirk even more pronounced. "Trust me; you've made it painstakingly clear." She was baiting him. Majorly. Trying to get a reaction.
And she did get one.
Drake just slammed her against the wall again, harder. "What the fuck did you just say, Ladris?" Drake snarled, his face inches from hers.
"Did you not here? Should I say it louder?" Diana tried to feign innocence, but instead she gave up and smirked like a Cheshire Cat. "DRAKE MERWIN LOV–" Diana was cut off by him smacking her hard across the face.
She didn't even dignify him with a glare. She just smirked and rubbed her cheek, using the hand Drake let go of to slap her. One of her wrists was still pinned above her head, though.
She was, in a sick, masochistic way, excited by this.
….
"Are you suicidal, Diana? Do you want to die? Do you? Because that is where this is heading. Do you not enjoy living? Is this world to mundane for you? Are we not good enough for you?" Drake hissed.
The last sentence caught him off-guard. He didn't mean to say that, nor had he ever really thought it.
But he knew that somehow it mattered.
He just didn't know why.
But the thought of something mattering to him…Drake shook himself.
Drake finally admitted to himself that he did not know if he wanted this girl to die. He was caught between wanting to watch her blood spill onto her perfect skin and wanting to feel something, anything.
"Is that what you think?" Diana asked, not smirking. Just looking at him. Really looking at him. What had he said again? He couldn't recall.
"Yes. It is." Drake said, finally remembering. "And it sickens me. You're exaggerated sense of self-worth makes me physically ill. Everything about you repulses me. Especially your undeserved love of yourself. You're also a manipulative bitch. You disgust me." Drake said the words more harshly than need be.
Diana's mouth hung slightly open. Her taken-aback expression changed into anger. Her eyes burned with intense hatred and she did something completely unexpected and completely un-Diana-like.
She freaked out.
"Shut up!" She screamed, loudly enough to be heard in Canada. She sounded mentally insane. "Shut up, shut up shut up! You have no idea how I feel! You have no idea how much I hate myself! So stop acting like you know me! Stop acting like you know what thoughts go on in my head! Stop pretending that you understand! You DON'T! So just SHUT UP!" Diana shook and pointed an accusatory finger at him, and Drake realized he had unwittingly let go of her wrist. She sunk to the floor, unshed tears brimming in her eyes.
Drake thought that he liked this side of her. He liked that he made her feel, too. That she didn't hold all the power over him. He liked that she sank to the ground in tears. He liked that she fought.
He didn't know why he liked it. Just like he didn't know why she made him feel.
She reminded Drake of a broken toy. Of a doll that'd been worn down, her hair cut, her body dirty. Someone who just wanted to escape.
How similar they were in that aspect.
Drake couldn't stand to let her live. He didn't want his worst enemy to remind him of himself. Drake didn't need a mirror image to hate. He needed her dead.
He reached into his pocket and drew out a switchblade, sharpened to a very lethal point. He knelt down to her level. Her head was buried in her knees, which were hugged to her chest. She sobbed tearlessly into her designer jeans (she ditched the uniform now that she didn't need to wear it to show her Coates-iness)
Drake fisted her hair, pulled her head up roughly. She looked at him, tears spilling over as she realized what would happen next. He brushed the knife against her throat. Drake felt her gulp, which pushed her throat into the blade. A small trickle of blood formed where the knife had cut her. Her eyes were closed. She made no sound other than her heavy breathing.
The blood made him realize that he might actually kill her. That he'd no longer feel. That she'd no longer live.
He removed his knife from her throat and pocketed it. Her eyes opened at the lack of pressure. Her face was tear-streaked at the thought of her death.
She gasped in surprise when his lips were on hers. Drake almost smirked against her lips because of it. But he was too focused on feeling the things that Diana made him feel.
Her lips moved against his, her arms pulling him closer. One of his hands was in her hair, the other on her slim waist. It was frantic and not gentle. There would likely be bruises tomorrow.
The emotion he felt was raw, unadulterated. It wasn't hate. It was something he didn't have a word for, but Diana did. Drake knew because when they pulled away and she buried her face in his chest, she murmured something that sounded a little like 'I love you'.
But he didn't respond. Because there were certain things Drake couldn't say yet –probably never would.
At least he knew that, for now, he wouldn't be able to kill her.
But Caine on the other hand…