Papercut
By Kay
Disclaimer: See my rights to Everworld. See the law rip away my rights to Everworld. Rip away, Everworld, rip away.
Author's Notes: Just a bitter and weirdly dark Christopher/Jalil piece I did. ^^;; The SLASH (male/male) is there if you want to see it. In fact, it has to be. Doesn't make much sense otherwise. If you want to see more drabbles from this universe, just ask-- I store them up.
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Christopher didn't like Jalil.
It was never a secret; few things were hidden in Christopher Hitchcock's life and this was no exception. Everyone knew he hated Jalil. Everyone knew it, like how they understood the sky was blue and the grass was green. Except the sky wasn't always blue, sometimes it was a bruised and livid purple, and the grass here had the habit of being stained with crimson slashes of blood, and more hopefully, Hetwen filth left from battle. But the sky was still blue if you asked someone. The grass was always green, even when it was not. And so he didn't like Jalil. No, when he thought about it even more, it was worse.
He hated Jalil Sherman. And it wasn't even one thing about him, it was more a combination of a million and one different aspects about the arrogant scientist that just pissed him off.
He hated his smug attitude, the way he always thought he knew the answer to everything. He hated Jalil's endlessly rambling theories and analytic method of looking at everything like it was something to study. Worse, the way he thought nothing in the world could touch him if he didn't will it.
Christopher hated a lot of things more. He hated the way Jalil never smiled at anyone, always frowning thoughtfully or in irritation. When he laughed, he shook his head slightly as though he couldn't believe something was actually amusing. He did that odd lizard-eye thing. Arched his eyebrows when in doubt. Always looked so cool and collected that it made Christopher almost sick.
He hated it. Hated the scientist's habit of locking himself up in the libraries and not coming back until dinner, carrying a heap of leather-bound books and nursing swollen papercuts on his slender, dark fingers. The skin was such a rich mahogany that it was nearly impossible to see the blood and tiny, vicious cuts. But Christopher saw them when Jalil winced as he pulled out his chair at the table with difficulty. He saw it, took it in and reveled bitterly in the sensation. Hated it intensely.
He hated how Jalil was always dismissing him. The dark-eyed youth waved him off like he was nothing, like Christopher Hitchcock was just another name to him even after all the dangers they'd been through. Like he could just forget about the blonde and go back to studying his precious books, his wonderful knowledge. Knowledge was crap to Christopher. Jalil and everything he believed in was crap.
He hated the way Jalil could reduce his arguments into idiotic blubbering in under five minutes, cutting him down to size and putting him in a place he was unfamiliar with. He hated that smirk. That slight flash of triumph and satisfaction in those dark, coffee-hued eyes when he'd won the skirmish for the day. The soft exhale that spoke a thousand words and told them absolutely nothing.
Christopher loathed those eyes, those rare and quirky smiles, and the thin hands that could have belonged to an artist. The brittle bones that jutted out on his skinny, wiry frame. The arch of his neck. The hard skeleton of his knuckles. The graceful curve of his legs; the way Jalil liked to stretch out and cross them at the ankles if he was sitting back in a chair. It was as laid back as he preferred to get, it seemed.
He was disgusted when Jalil sneezed, looking overly startled at the unexpected motion that one morning when the sun was overly warm. He was repulsed when the scientist absently cupped a hand around a candle's flame one night, trying to capture some of the light to throw it over the castle walls. He never watched when Jalil brushed his ink quill over his sharp cheekbones, lost in thought as he poured over strategies. And the way he mumbled in annoyance when he was sleepy. And the awful way his inky black hair kept falling into his eyes, making him sigh in exasperation and flick back the lock with a grace and ease that made Christopher want to howl in fury.
He hated it. He shuddered when he thought of the way Jalil sometimes gave him scornful looks before reaching out and brushing a cobweb off his shoulder. As though being dirty wasn't a good look for him. As though he cared. As though the mocha skinned scientist wasn't sickening him with the way he chewed his lip in contemplation, or skimmed circles on the nearest surface when preoccupied. Once he'd done it on Christopher's forearm by accident. Christopher went to his room and scrubbed maliciously over the spot until it was a searing, painful red. Red so raw that it tore at his insides and made him forget dinner, and Jalil asked him if he was feeling sick or just being a melodramatic dumbass again-
He hated him. Hated with a vicious, dark and ugly sort of rage that crept unwillingly over his eyesight when he saw the other boy. Nothing would please the blonde joker more than to slam that bastard against the wall, squeeze his throat and watch as those haughty words stifled and choked. Watch the dark, unreadable eyes panic and plead in horror. Watch the stark red that oozed behind his fingernails, digging into that skin and that flesh and that abomination and that freak-
IhatehimIhatehimIhatehim
-bring him down, break him hard, wash away in the savage pleasure of knowing he couldn't control Christopher any more than he could control his breath-
And then the image fades, dissipates in a cloud of deep and desperate gasps. Because the fantasy has replayed so many times in Christopher's head, and every single time, he gets sick because of it. It twists at his stomach. Aches. Gnaws.
Christopher always thought it was the bad guys you should hate. Not your supposed friends, if that's what Jalil was. Not himself, either. Not like this. It made him feel like he was crazy. Sick. Twisted. Every night Jalil came to the table, he wanted to take those stupidly fragile hands and squeeze. Squeeze and clench and strangle until all the blood from those angry little papercuts flowed straight out of him. Tighten until it's all over his hands, ugly and beautiful and exciting.
And maybe someday he would. It was lying inside of him beneath the surface. Waiting, watching. Something he didn't understand that could easily destroy him. It bubbled gleefully under his skin. The secret. The need. The ache. The want. It glistened wetly like a bleeding, gaping wound. A papercut of his own to nurse and suck on, suck all the poison out, try hard to ignore the fiery sting that came with the cleansing. Always small, subtle, always there. Never leaving him a moment's peace.
Christopher didn't like Jalil. In fact, he hated him.
Hated him like how the sky was blue, the grass was green, and he didn't want to know what Jalil Sherman's blood tasted like.
Didn't want to know at all.
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Whew. Intense. o.o
Please review? *heart*
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