psychoshenanigans | Paradisa // AU

Legato doesn't bother to glance up from the book he has propped open on one knee. It's late, one of the rare times that Rin isn't buzzing around his ears, breathing down his neck while pretending like she doesn't care, and so he isn't going to let a little something like Zelman's presence interrupt him. He's relaxing, and reading, and managing to effectively ignore the fact that he's trapped in a little building against his will.

He's sparing him the smallest amount of attention needed to answer.

"Have you?"

Zelman does not appreciate Legato's attention not being strictly on him--after all, he took all the time to find him when he's blind and tired and feels horrible more often than not. So he covers up his twisting dissatisfaction with a smirk and pushes on the cover of Legato's book, half-closing it.

"Do you remember that time..."

And then half-closing it isn't enough, so he removes his fingers from the book completely, only to reach for Legato's far shoulder and hang across him, face as close as he can manage given the difference in height.

"...Where I asked you if you'd kiss me?"

There are several stages to his surprise--blinking when Zelman pushes his book, then balking when when he's suddenly being touched, fighting with the immediate reaction of wanting to shove him away because... did he miss something here??

Maybe he should have been paying more attention this time.

It all registers in steps. Zelman is too close, and talking about something that... yes, he does remember. And then there is that memory clumsily shoving into all of this, making it seem falsely and awkwardly familiar.

--Oh, and something else is familiar. He can smell it on him now. Yes, start there, it is by far the easiest aspect to address.

"...Are you drunk?" The disdain in his voice matching his expression.

"There you go. You always mind..."

But even when admitting that he knows Legato doesn't appreciate his little drunken adventures (or maybe even because of it), he leans on him even more, practically leaning over onto his lap. His grip saves him, hanging off Legato like a sophisticated deadweight.

"And you didn't answer my question."

"What are you doing?"

Still not answering his question. For the moment, he's focused entirely on not allowing Zelman any more room--conversationally or physically. And, at first he doesn't move because of it. At first, he's worried that he'll get closer if he shifts and tries to free himself. It takes him a moment to remember that Zelman shouldn't be three times as strong as he is anymore (too busy trying not to think about what Zelman is doing or why and just wanting whatever it is to stop right now), and then he tries to shrug his least-trapped arm free when he does.

"Get off of me."

He doesn't get off. Doesn't budge, doesn't shrug, just dips his head to rest his forehead on Legato's chest. He looks unfocused, his mind lost in something that he is completely set on.

"No." The word comes a second later than it should, and full of too much venom for what was supposed to be a casual invasion of space. But then he's back to himself, fingers curling up in the other's shoulder just like his smirk curls along his face.

"I want to know. Would you have? Would you now?"

Him hanging enough to rest his head--and that tone--it's enough to stop him for a minute. It's automatic.

But he still doesn't want to answer. He doesn't want to cooperate with whatever this is; he sees no reason to give him the satisfaction.

Zelman's just drunk.

"Why? Why could you possibly want to know?"

"Do you even have an answer? You were so scared..."

He remembers his expression, as clear as crystal, from that time... But he shakes his head, his bangs caught up into a mess and then shifting back to perfection when he stops. There's the almost-familiar warmth in his chest (never wants to admit he misses it so much) and that's making it hard to think between things.

"No..." But that one gets stretched out, unnaturally, while he finds the rest of that sentence. "No, that's not right. But that's why I wanted to know, see--"

It makes perfect sense to him, so he stops leaning his head like that and instead presses his fingers to the center of Legato's chest--just the tips of his fingers--like he wants to reach in and tear something out.

"Is there anything left? I wonder."

It doesn't really answer anything, just brings up more questions of 'why.' He needs to understand the reasoning for everything. He remembers demanding to know before, too. He remembers that very clearly. Why why why...

...And that finally leads him along through the rest of that memory, instead of just hanging on the parts of it that catch him. He'd wanted to know why, and then it became clear at the end.

He reasons that this whole thing is familiar because it's the same thing as before. Why would Zelman's reasons be any different now? So, having reached a conclusion that makes sense, he abruptly settles down.

"You want to know if there is anything still there to mock."

And that, calling him out like that, makes him laugh. And the strange thing is that it's a real laugh--he think's it's genuinely funny--and the fact of it shakes him so much that he has to lean away, balance and clutch at his own shirt to keep it in.

"Is that what you thought? Shit...!" He keeps down another giggle. It's too funny. He's right, but so wrong. "No wonder you tried to smash my fucking face in. No, no, no."

That's a childish view of it. The reality of it is much more complex. "No. See? Listen, people are stupid. You show them a little affection and it doesn't matter how much you hurt them, they will come crawling back. Time, and time, and time again."

He's looking up at Legato with a certain focus now, eyes mischievous and alive despite the unsteady sway of his voice. "But you're not like that, no, you were always too smart for that. So I wonder..."

Legato will hate him (more than he already does). But he doesn't care, it's not like he's got a reason to stop anymore. He presses in close again and mutters near his ear with a sort of secretive allure.

"Would you? Don't you ever want to, just for a moment...?" He holds down another laugh, a shudder, "Does it disgust you that much?"

Something isn't lining up perfectly--he recognizes this fact--but there are enough new concepts to make him uncertain. Unsteady enough to trip over the rest of it, not able to dwell and figure it out. The misdirection is successful, distracting him enough to miss the flaws, allowing Zelman to get close.

Until Zelman is whispering at his ear, and he's alarmingly unsure of the path that brought him there.

"No, I wouldn't." He can at least manage the words.

"Not even for me?"

And despite the sickening sincerity in his voice, it is a mockery; he isn't mocking Legato, only the idea of it all. He's lived a very long existence like this, where people will do anything for him. Everyone yearns to be that special someone who gets chosen to stay by his side. It's a mockery of his own character and the fools who fall for it than anything.

But Legato is... was... like that, too. He knows it. And he really wants to know if any of that is still inside of him.

All while he hovers so close to his face, of course, nearly touching. Enveloped in that smell of sun and dust that he's never quite rid of, the beat of his heart, the slight whisper of breath. He can't help himself, and he's so hungry--he starts getting ideas and thoughts (because he can never stop that) and his lips graze the other's jaw as he waits for an answer.

"No. Not you."

He means it as a defiance, and it upholds that sentiment in its tone--sounding cold and sure--but to his own ears he hears something of a reminder. Reaffirming to himself decisions that he made a long time ago, and hating the fact that he needs to do that at all.

It's all black and white. There is no room for gray.

And yes he does detest the thought that much. His skin crawls with utter loathing, stomach twisting and breath tense with it, but that doesn't help him out of situations like this. It never has.

He draws in a breath, practically tasting his blood, his anxiety, the way his skin is crawling. He curls his fingers up closer to the other's neck, towards his collar, delights in the fact that he's gotten him so upset even if he himself can no longer remember the exact reason that he wanted to make him upset in the first place. Or did he even want to, or is that just what it turned into?

"Not me, hm?" He makes himself comfortable, as Legato has failed to take any action to remove him. "You had to think about it." Maybe not now, but in the past. He remembers that day, his wide eyes, his rage over some sort of precieved betrayal, "But there's nothing wrong with that. It's only human."

Another laugh, light and quiet and barely kept down. "I hope you hate it. I hope you can't fucking stand it. I want you to imagine tearing me to pieces just to get me away from you. Hm?"

And then he presses his lips to Legato's neck as a sort of warning--perhaps the final warning before he does something that Legato may regret.

It's only human.

He does hate it. So much so that the pressure of it shoves against his chest, pushes his lungs flat, crowds in around his brain until it makes it hard to see straight. He can't stand it, he is imagining twisting Zelman away from him until his limbs are nothing but too many wrong-bent angles. And Zelman wants him angry, and that makes it so much worse.

...It's worse because that's where the self-loathing comes in. He can't avoid it now. It's turning inward because he absolutely cannot argue it. He can't argue against his own humanity, his imperfection, his ugly weakness-- not to someone like him. Not even now. Not with how caught in a corner he let himself get, even after all this time.

And it's in this corner that he's finally forced to realize the answers to Zelman's questions. The remnants of things, the ones he can't pry out of the core of himself no matter how hard he tries. Leftovers of Zelman, still-bleeding things that she left behind, the exhaustion of trying to be his own thing...

The rage and disgust finally makes its mark on his expression, twisting his features as he leans his head away with a sharp motion, finally putting some effort in trying to untangle himself from Zelman and pry him away. A last-ditch effort to get out.

There he goes.

Zelman growls, more like a wolf than a person, fangs too close to everything vital for the moment of resistance he gives Legato--but in seeing that his efforts are genuine, he concedes and lets go and gets pushed away. But he's got this triumphant look on his face, like some sort of smile that isn't a smile, but is victory and disgust and glee and misery all pressed into one look.

"I'd just gotten the most horrible idea that maybe you were empty now, you know?" He speaks with such revery, such distant malice. "I'm glad that's not true at all. Because things like us will die without that something, that meaning. That thing that twists everything up like that."

But he kind of wants to leave now. The thrill of it is wearing down, so he moves to get off of the couch entirely.

"And not caring is sharp, I told you. Knives must cut. That keeps it from going dull."

He has room to breath again, and takes immediate advantage of it. Filling his lungs, relaxing into the space that he didn't have a moment before. It's a freeing feeling.

And empty.

...It is so starkly empty that Zelman's words clatter around in the space he left behind until they echo. He's glad that he weathered the encounter, Zelman's attention is wandering like he'd hoped, but he doesn't feel any of the relief that he'd been expecting. ...He finds that he doesn't feel much of anything at all.

Crisis averted, he passed some sort of test, and things can go back to exactly how they were before. It's cold, and passive, and doesn't leave him feeling any better than he did before. He's just left with the hollowness that Zelman dug up and left open. The scales balance again; it adds up to nothing.

It's not enough.

So, he tosses a pebble in.

"...And you're the one telling me this?"

That does stop him. That gets him to halt in what must have been the start of an exit--gets him to turn back around. His gut reaction is to be offended that he said something like that. His more logical reaction is to be offended that he said something like that.

So he turns around with the over-dramatic motion of someone not completely in command of their own equilibrium, stopping to lean down to eye-level with Legato.

"What, are you going to call me a hypocrite?" He smirks, simply wicked this time. "Gonna say that you know it better than anyone?"

"I was going to say that history has shown that you are usually the one looking for a reminder."

At least he's able to meet his eyes without hesitation this time. That emptiness is helping.

"Does it make you feel better to try and turn the tables?" --An honest question, despite anything else that might be there.

A short, harsh sound. Almost a laugh. Again, he's so close to it... but the point is somewhere else, somewhere far beyond easy explanation.

"Feel better? I have nothing to feel bad about."

Despite his tantrums, his fits, his bouts of anger--he does not regret a single thing he has done. He is not capable of regret. He is only capable of exhaustion, and loathing, and the ever-present, slow, droning waves of boundless apathy.

"Yes, I've been foolish. Yes, I have done things that delay and avoid and squander, but I don't fucking care--" He was happy. That's all that matters. It's all about him. "It was of my own choosing. As if what I ring out of you could make me give a damn about myself--fuck you. As if you're so important."

And then he turns again, ready to leave. "Quit thinking so hard. You should come have a drink or something. Quiets everything down."

It was an honest question because he wanted to hear it explained. He wanted to hear how it was all laid out in Zelman's own words. Both for reasons that are more strategic, and ones that are simply something like indulgent. He likes hearing it. It confirms some things.

And he stands, like he's going to follow him for that drink.

"That's reassuring to hear, honestly. I'd almost begun to believe that you'd actually cared about her."

--Instead of just some inconsequential blip in the scheme of things.

He refuses to believe it could be that. It must be inconsequential, especially after going and saying something like that.

And it's still a sore. Just like when someone dredges up his Night family, just like when his power is questioned back home--it's an open wound that will never really heal over. But the dull throbbing becomes just that after a while--dull.

And you can't really feel that pain if you've always been feeling that pain. That's where he's gotten himself too. Being out here, the murders before... It's all to feel numb again. Just like Legato would want.

So he doesn't stop moving. There's the silence enough to know that it means something to him for Legato to have said that, but it's small. When he speaks, it's with confidence. Conviction. Sarcasm.

"Shows what you know."

He follows, but not for the goal of a drink in mind, and not in the way a dog might follow. It's probably something more like a moth-and-flame effect. Zelman had staggered over to dig something up, and he'd succeeded. After so long of nothing, and hoping, Legato can't quite get himself to let it go stagnant again.

"I suppose it does." He should put it down, but he can't. "It makes me feel a little silly, actually. Perhaps if I had gone ahead and fixed the problem sooner, I could have prevented this."

If he was in a better state of mind, he might figure that this is what he deserves. It's what he gets for kicking the hornet's nest. But he's just kind of drunk and angry and Legato's complaints are getting obnoxious.

"What, you don't like it?" He takes up something of a casual gait, hands in his pockets and eyes focused distractedly out the windows, towards the moon. He looks at the moon a lot, but whether or not that's notable is up in the air.

"You seemed so happy before."

And that decides it.

Something clicks, and he wanders to a stop. The mock sarcasm drops away, from both his face and his voice. He just lets it go as the pins click and the larger thought that he'd been fidgeting with finally unlocks.

"...Tell me. Do you know why my answer was no?"

He stops as well, but mostly because the question intrigues him. He's never bothered to wonder about it before. He's never felt compelled to look for the motivation before--he just figured there was some aspect of him (more than likely lodged in his past) that drives him to make that choice. People are all the same after a while, so guessing and lumping him in to those prior categories is really about the same as knowing, to him.

But now that he brings it up... "You think it matters?"

Which probably should not have been a question, but he adds anyway. "I don't."

"Because it's you."

Which implies that it might be different in some other case. It implies a lot of things.

"You were right, I did have to think about it-- but it was because I didn't have an answer before."

And now he does. He might wish with everything that it would be something different, hang onto some stupid hope and all of the ugly tempting things he can't quite let go of, but he's at least made the conscious decision--

"You turn my stomach."

Well, that? He's caught by surprise. For a second it's plain on his face, such a simple idea somehow not what he'd expected. There are reasons behind these things, and him being a reason all in of himself...

But then he laughs again, all fangs and knives and a little slip as he brushes hair away from his forehead again (Rin needs to stop taking his hat away like some bitter babysitter--it gets annoying). He shouldn't be laughing, knowing that he causes someone such disgust. But he wants it. It comes with the general feeling of wanting everyone to hate him.

"That's the best I could have asked for."

After all, being loved is helpful; being hated is far more exciting.

Well, at least being hated is a sure thing in this case, even if everything else seems perpetually and ferociously up in the air.

He manages to smile, finally. It's certainly without humor--still sickened from before--just a shell of an expression to catch the overflow of everything going on in his head.

"Is that what you came looking for?"

Maybe part of it at least, somewhere amongst all of Zelman's wandering motivations. He'd practically said as much earlier, anyway, so it seemed somewhere close to right.

Paradisa // AU

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