Don't Run from Me [Clockwise Dream]

''Yeah, blood'', Samael said, focusing on that, on the smell of it in the air, and the way it stained against the whiteness of Deith's shirt, and the recently cleaned sheets his mother has had him place on the bad just this morning. He focused on that, on the fact that the sheets were clean and he really shouldn't get them covered with blood, not if he did not want his mother to kill him-wrong choice of words, wrong, everything about this felt so wrong somehow, yet he still kept pushing on for what else was he to do?-and on the fact that Deith was bleeding, or at least covered with blood himself. It was easier to focus on that now, as there was a defined practical response to finding your friend is for some reason covered with blood-right? as long as they had not killed someone (which Deith had just admitted to... in a way...half of it anyway. His brain was so confused).

''I tried to kill him'', it rang in his had, much like everything else about this moment had, for it had turned too confusing too quickly. There was still something for him to do in front of him, though, and he chose to focus on that, all the while keeping alive the feeling in the back of his head that it was something he said that had triggered...whatever this was.

''Get it off'', he ordered, grabbing at Deith's shirt for a moment. ''Come on, get out of the damn thing so I can see what you've done to yourself.'' Somehow, though he wasn't sure why, he knew that it was not somebody else who had gone wild with a pair of claws-nails, it looked similar enough-against Deith's skin. They were self made, those wounds, he was sure, just as he was sure that they had something to do with-I tried to kill him- the fact that nobody would be getting jealous, apparently, and that Deith suddenly waned everything but to keep breathing, apparently.

''My mother is going to try to kill you if you get blood on her sheets'', he said, his mouth running in front of him even as his brain tried to keep up. He should go get his father, probably. Or his mother. Somebody older. More responsible. Not that it was going to help, however, he felt. It would probably just make it worse. But it was a should. Something he should do.

He didn't do it.

''Come on'', he urged the man curled up on his bed. ''I don't know what happened, but please, calm down. I'm sure...'' He wasn't sure. Not of what to say, at least. It wasn't that bad? When he had tried to kill someone? He was pretty sure Deith meant that literary as well. Drunk people usually did, and if they didn't, their metaphors made a lot less sense than this one.

''You're safe here'', he chose in the end, for that was a fact. Deith was safe here for all that he apparently didn't want to be. For now at least. Unless he did actually did kill someone then he really would have to tell his father and...

He would make that decision later. For now, he bit onto his lip, wondering about the quickest way to get his hands on some bandages and medication without being seen. His father usually kept some around, in case one of them broke a glass or something, but he couldn't exactly go out and ask for them... Could he?

A few moments later he was back inside the room, bandages in his hands, his father frowning expression left behind him, hands up Deith's shirt as he took it off.

''For fuck's sake'', he cursed again, even though it was not something he was in habit of doing so often, but this, this required some strong language, for he had been right. ''You are a mess'', he whispered, before he throw himself into cleaning the wounds and covering them as best as he could with what little bandages he had.

''What the hell did you do?'', he asked in the end, when all of his supplies had been spend, his eyes wide and somewhat afraid, he himself somewhat out of breath, as he tried to make eye contact with Deith. ''Honestly, for heaven's sake, what did you do?''

Samael breath grew heavy as he felt himself be pushed into the bed, the strength that Deith still possessed in his seemingly lean and definitely intoxicated body surprising him, before he suddenly felt every muscle in his body tense, twitching and snarling, as it urged him to turn in a way he had not felt in a long time: wild, and completely out of his control. It was because he was scared, he knew, scared of Deith suddenly grabbing him and pushing him down, scared of what he had just been told. And angry. So angry. He growled, steadying himself on his feet as Deith pushed him away yet again, this time off the bed so that he could head for the door.

''And where do you think you're going, you fucking drunk bastard?'', the young man growled under his breath, turning towards the leaving man, knowing all the well that he really shouldn't do that.

What did I do? I tried to kill my lover!

It echoed inside his head once again, just like it before as he grabbed the other man by his shoulders, and puled instead of pushed, drawn in instead of out.

He had always been tall for his age, tall and strong even when not counting the fact that he could turn into a giant cat within the space of one breath, which is probably why Deith's drunk body did not stand a chance against his pull now even though it probably could otherwise for all that he looked like a tall branch.

''Fools that can't stand on their own two feet don't get to leave this bar on their own'', he said, his voice still deep, and dangerous, and growling, like an animal, an angry one and that, even though at the inside he was shaking like a leaf.

I tried to kill him 'cause he was gonna leave me, 'cause he caught me with the corpse of a woman I was fucking to death!

It screamed at him, even now that Deith was no longer saying anything, not making any other sound, in fact, apart from his own heavy breathing.

He refused to let him go, still, despite of it.

Part of it was of course, that it was written so in the unwritten rules of the bar. Unwritten, because his father had made sure he had know them down to his very bones.

''Those foolish enough to get so blind drank they cannot stand on their own two feet do not get to leave this bar alone'', his father had told him the first time they had to drag somebody to the spare room together because the man was too big and too drunk for his father to do it alone. His father had told him then, and he remembered it.

Remembered it so well, in fact, that he used it to ground himself now. He tied it, like a thread, around his throbbing, hurting mind, and used it to connect himself to the ground, and the reality in which it resided.

Those were his father's rules. He would not break them.

Part of it was, of course, because he refused to accept it, despite knowing that the liars rarely got drunk because the drunk never lie. They care little for their secrets, if at all, as he had just been the witness off.

Still, he could not come to terms with the fact that a man he had teased into resembling a tomato could ever really do such a thing. Then again, he thought, as he looked down at the form sprawled all over the bed, wasn't that one more thing he had been taught, until he knew it down to his very bones?

''Everyone has a story'', his father had told him as it was time for him to go to school for the first time. ''Not everyone has had a happy life.

''Be careful'', he muttered under his breath. ''Be accepting. Be kind'', he said, sighing as he looked up to the ceiling. ''I honestly hope that that still applies'', he said, clenching his fists as he bit onto his lip.

''Shut up and lie there quietly'', he turned back to Deith then suddenly, ordering him in sharp voice. ''Try not to let your head fall off your neck while I'm gone. You are obviously going to need more bandages.''

''And I some fucking help'', he added to himself as he slammed the door behind him with much more force then it was probably safe.

''Everything alright, son?'', his father asked as he saw Samael march past the bar towards the door leading up to the apartment, a dark look on his face, his shoulders shaking as he walked.

''Yes'', came a snippy, short reply, and the man frowned himself, yet again, for a nth time that night.

''No'', screamed Samael inside his own mind as he tried to steady himself, forcing himself not to fall apart, not to cry, here, in front of everyone. He was stronger than that.

''Need some more bandages'', he said, opening the staircase door, every line of his body however continuing to scream something else.

''Need help'', it said, and his father understood. ''Need your advice, need you to hug me and tell me everything's gonna be alright'', he thought he could see there too, though it was hidden under the surface, and suddenly, a storm started to brew inside his eye.

If he had hurt his son, he thought, as he himself left the bar too, heading for the door leading up to their apartment without a second glance towards his customers and his friends, some of which were not the same people and did not understand where the hell their bartender was going until shushed by those who did, if he had done something to him, then there would be no force in heaven, no rule his or theirs that could stop him from breaking every bone in his body. And he hoped that that quivering mess knew that.

''Son'', he called, grabbing Samael by the shoulder as he was half way up the stairs, tears falling down from his eyes now that he was finally alone.

''Hush'', he whispered immediately, grabbing onto the young man even harder, pulling him into a hug that swallowed him whole, for no matter his son's, or his own age, he will always have the build, and the strength to to that, growing old, or up, be damned.

''Are you alright?'', he whispered into his son's long red hair, as the young man finally burst into tears against his father's shoulder. ''What has he done? Had he...'', he tried to ask, his grip on his son growing stronger.

''He had tried to kill him, Dad'', the young man whispered through his tears, and for a moment, his father saw red. Then he noted the pronoun, and forced himself to calm down.

''Who?'', he asked, his voice still gruff, for for all that it was not personal, the situation was still grave.

''I don't know'', Samael answered, and the story came spilling from his lips, all in once giant breath, as his shoulders continued to shake, less with tears, or fear, and more with anger with each word that left his mouth, sharp as a knife and dark as night.

''How?'', he asked, now sitting down on the stairs, placed there by his father once it had become obvious he could not stand, not even with the other man's support. ''How can he be, be that, someone who can do something like that and be a fucking shying tomato a week before? How can he be both?'', he yelled, and for a moment, his father worried his wife would be coming down, all raging tigress that she was, demanding to know who it was that had made her son cry. She always could hear them cry better than he could.

The hallways remained empty, however, expect for the two of them, and the burn of Samael's confusion. Greyam Fein Carnige found himself sighing as he thought about all the lessons he had tried to teach his sons. This had been one of them, the most important one in his opinion actually, and he wondered why did Samael's first experience with what the reality of it really meant had to be this violent.

He had known there was something he did not like about that ma. Nevertheless. He had a crying son to comfort, and a though lesson to explain. He could be angry at the one who forced him to do so later, though somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet voice of his past spoke to him softly.

Hey, do not shoot the messenger!

A memory that was out of context, but not the words. Thus, he spoke, in quiet tones and hushed words, trying to explain to Samael all the things that he already knew, but never truly realized what they meant.

''Fuck'', the young man said then, cursing in front of his old man and not caring about it one bit. ''It's weird'', he said, burying his head in his hands. ''And scary. And it makes me angry.''

''I understand'', his father nodded his head, ''But does it make you hate him?'', he asked, and for a moment, he knew exactly how Samael felt, for he hoped that an answer would be both 'yes' and 'no'.

''No'', his son finally whispered in the end, his hands falling away from his face. ''No it does not. Fucking fucker'', he said, jumping to his feet. ''Fucking fucker for fuck's sake'', he cursed, angry that it was Deith, angry that there was something like that in his past, angry that he didn't know. Angry... Just angry.

But not hating.

''Fucking idiot is going to bleed to death before I can kill him if I don't get him more bandages'', he said, looking at his father not whit a smile on his face-he probably won't be seeing that for a while-but as a stronger man. ''So...'', he asked, wondering if this was the part where his father suddenly started to act like a sane parent instead of a righteous one.

''Go'', Greyam Fein Carnige said instead. ''Your mother will kill you both if there is dried blood on those sheets in the morning'', he noted, going back down to the main room as his son run up to their bathroom, still afraid, and with a whole new world view, but not hating. Never hating.

He had done something right, he thought, as a fiery head of red marched past him with a determinant look on his face, a bag of bandages in one hands, a key to the old wooden door in the other. A click of a lock later, and Samael sighed into the silence.

There was nothing to do now but wait. And get those damn scratches covered of course.

''They say third time is a charm'', Samael said suddenly, as he watched Deith wake up, sit up, groan, and then try to leave, again, without well, anything. Including, for example, paying his bill from last night.

''Not so much with you, apparently'', he said, standing up, and glaring at the other, definitely hung over man. He had no intention of mentioning the bill to Deith, though, unless everything else to hold him back from leaving failed, including the door.

''You really suck at the whole sneaking out thing'', he commented, making way to the small bedside table on the other side of the bad, and grabbing a few pain pills he had remembered to take with him last night before he had locked the door for the night. ''Drinking, too, if we are already listing things which you are completely horrible at'', he said, before he suddenly turned, approached Deith, put a couple of pills in his hand, made sure his fingers were around them so he wouldn't drop them, and then turned around again, going back to stand by the bed, a few steps away.

He would have thrown him at him, he thought, he was in the mood for that, had he not know that the man had absolutely no chance of catching them.

''That should help with your head'', he said, staring at the wall, then and the bed, than at a chair, before turning back to Deith. ''I'm afraid you'll have to take them dry, though, I forgot to bring water in last night'', he was such a mess of emotions last night it was a miracle he had happened to remember the pills. Water, although a net logical step, had been the last thing on his mind.

''And the door is locked, by the way'', he said, sitting down finally at the edge of the bad and continuing to stare at Deith. ''Just in case you haven't noticed yet. So, you're not going anywhere for a while, I'm afraid.''

''You know, somehow, I keep forgetting'', Samael said from where he was sitting at the bed, his legs now crossed beneath him, his elbows placed against his knees so that he might lean against his arms, his head titled slightly to the side. The expression on his face still tight, angry, yet slowly mellowing down along with his tone.

''You've been around so much lately I just keep forgetting it wasn't always so'', he said, straightening his head and proceeding to stare dead on at Deith. ''Keep forgetting that you don't know, about me, my dad. The rules of the bar. All those things that those who have been around long enough know.''

Not in the way he knew it, having been t he one to name himself the hair to the bar, or even Michael, who might not have any interest in mixing drinks but was still their parents' son, but they knew. His father was good at teaching stuff to people like that.

''That means no, by the way'', he said, sighing, as he shook his head, dragging himself from his thoughts. Now was not the time for reevaluating all of his childhood memories. ''No one will be turning anyone in'', he explained even further unsure of whether Deith would even understand him, not only because he was still as hangover as.. well someone who had drank four and some Demons in the row, but also because it seemed like he was not exactly inclined to listen to him.

Him being obviously angry probably didn't help that though, so he tried to tone down his emotions, though some sort of rage still burned in him. At what he was angry, however, he was no more sure than he had been last night when he had started waiting for Deith to wake up.

''As to why I locked myself in here with you'', he said then, deciding it would be better to keep talking before he fell into yet another round of trying and failing to understand what was going on inside his own head. ''You can say I know you would try something like this. Plus, I couldn't think of any other way to make you stay put and talk to me.''

And he wanted Deith to talk to him, wanted him to talk so badly, because he needed, well. An explanation. Maybe that was what he was angry about. The fact that Deith had just pushed that information on him, no explanation, no warning, and had expected him to do something with it that he would never do, not even before last night.

And before last night felt like a long time ago, to him, for somehow he felt like he had done a hell of a lot of growing up within the space of just a few hours.

''So that's why the door is locked and we are staying here until you explain yourself'', he finished in the end, stretching his legs. ''So you might as well make yourself comfortable and start talking. Or just make yourself comfortable, if you intend to drag this out.''