perfect poison
. helium lost .

Author's Notes: I can never remember when to use the past perfect versus just the normal past tense :( Also, there is pronoun ambiguity, but I couldn't figure out a way around it, sorry D:

This is slightly A/U in that it doesn't follow my usual idea of Feitan and Phinx meeting. And it's slightly—okay, kind of really—cruddy 'cause I haven't written Feitan and Phinx in a while, so I haven't had much inspiration D: I want to keep them as my 30 Kisses pairing, though, so I have to write something every two months.

But concrit is still greatly appreciated :D

Theme: #10: #10 (#10)

That day, he was victim number ten.

How long ago was it? Five years? Ten? Thinking back, the numbers blurred together and didn't matter anymore. All he could remember was the vivid scent of blood in the air, that penetrating iron smell, delicate yet terribly strong.

The oiled, black manacles—oiled less for maintenance than for letting his victims squirm and think that they had a chance of escaping the hellish prison, for letting his victims try to squeeze their hands out, only to fail miserably. The wooden board, strong but splintered, pricking their backs and leaving a vast map of dozens of points, each trickling a tiny stream of blood. The tray of sinister-looking instruments, many rusty from use and disuse, use and neglect.

(What day was it? Monday? Tuesday? Maybe it was the tenth day of the week. He could never remember.)

When he removed the black blindfold from his victim, he was surprised—and his heart had leapt a little, in a strange way—to see him nonchalantly staring back into his cold, golden eyes, a cocky smirk playing on his lips.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" his victim had whispered, eyes sparkling in the gloom.

A faint pink blush had tinged his cheeks, but he had taken care to conceal it quickly and reply with a smack to his face. And although the red mark lasted for hours afterward, his victim had only smirked, a soft chuckle slipping from between his lips.

"Lovely," he'd heard him murmur under his breath. He had furrowed his brow at this insolent victim of his—no trace of fear, no trace of preoccupation, or worry; nothing.

Hours later, disgusted with this cocky victim, he had unbound him from his shackles and shoved him outside, bruised and bloody, but with his life more or less intact.

Three days later, word trickled back to him that one of their number had been killed (he couldn't remember who it was; did it even matter?). And he spat on the ground, annoyance tainting his face when he met the new member—with a familiar, cocky smirk—of the Brigade a couple days later.

He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them and glared at the new member. Finally, after moments of tense silence, he muttered, "Why?"

The new member laughed—a warm laugh, warm and cruel. And again his heart had leapt. He cursed under his breath and wished that he could tear out his heart, just to stop it from turning against him like this. A slight frown crossed his face and he turned and began to walk away, shoulders tense. Something about this newcomer made him nervous—something about the way that he could manipulate him so easily with just a single provocative look.

A second later, however, he found that this newcomer had blocked his way and was smirking down at him, one hand gently tilting up his face so that they looked each other in the eyes.

"Why?" he whispered, and shivers ran down his spine. "To torture, and to be tortured, of course…"

Then, without warning, he leaned down and placed a soft, too-gentle kiss on his lips, and something within him died as he gave in and returned the kiss—but only for a second.

Author's Notes: Feed a starving author and leave some feedback :) Constructive comments are also greatly appreciated (as well as lines of praise cough cough ;D). Thanks for reading!