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blood on its downpour

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He stood in front of me, shirtless. His broad arms defined his tattoos, glistening in the dim light. His hair was additionally damp from the shower. All he wore was a pair of black jeans that revealed the pretty edges of his hipbones. His belt was not buckled up all the way. It looked like it was about to pop out any minute.

I couldn't stop looking at him.

"Hey!" he hissed. My neck snapped towards him. His eyes were hazel aglow, menacing yet dead sexy. "What are you starin' at?" His voice was a little raspy, but it nearly scared the shit out of me.

Shit. "Nothing."

He raised an eyebrow. He could tell that I was lying a simple lie, but he didn't scold me on it. "You've got bags under your eyes."

"I do?" I could feel my lips quiver as the question gurgled out from my sore throat.

"Yes." He put his foot over the other; he walked up to me ever so gracefully yet his steps were so rough on the wooden floor. His upper body leaned forward to me. His collarbone and shoulders were so well-defined. His chest seemed so soft yet so tough, like a coconut. Maybe if I cracked open his shell, the milk would pour out. I still couldn't stop looking at him.

"You don't sleep at all, don't you?"

Jesus Christ, Patrick, stop looking at him like that! "Yes."

"Bad schedule?"

My eyes hopped off his eyes and went back to his muscles. Oh, my God. "Yes."

"Tired?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Why?" he murmured.

"I'm addicted to coffee. And tea."

"Well, when you're with us, you stick to coffee, and coffee only. Maybe a few herbs every now and then in a month."

"Okay."

I knew this was an us. I was somewhere. A home. A place. It had the stench of blood - it fucking reeked of it. I heard practice gunshots on practice targets. The menacing sharpening of blades kept me up at night. I slept in a stolen stretcher next to him. His eyes pierced through my back then my spine and all the way forward to my throat, telling me to keep my mouth shut. They'd hear me.

Well, at least that's what they told me. Someone, somewhere, was coming at us. Coming for us. But they specifically strode through flesh and blood and knife wounds and dust for me. They still were. I couldn't let my voice be heard. My lips couldn't part open and drip out words like honey curing a bruise. I had to stay a bruise. If I was coated in that honey, they'd know.

He then got down on a knee. Now he really couldn't stop looking at me. "What is your name?"

"Patrick." My name burned on the tip of his red tongue. He grinned at my sole name, smirked at my name.

"No friends?"

"Excuse me?" I sounded unintentionally rude when I asked that question. He didn't seem to notice.

"No nicknames for you?"

"No."

He smirked again. "That's a joy to hear. From now on, you will be known as the Caffeinated Sleeper."

I liked the nickname. I admired the nickname. I wanted to smirk at him back, but all that burst out my mouth was an overjoyed "Great!" like a claw sinking into the skin of prey. There was a bowl of prey surrounding me, and all I could do was pierce them with my venom. I couldn't eat them and swallow them back up yet. I had to wait. Waiting wasn't going to take it short.

"What about you?" I asked. "What's your name?"

"Wentz. Pete Wentz."

"What do they call you?" I chuckled.

"Candyman."

"Sweet." The pun came out like golden lips on a silver platter.

"Guns are sweeter." My eyes widened. "Do you know how to shoot?"

"I... I-"

"Do you know how to shoot, Patrick?"

I shook my head. "No. I can't even simply hold a pistol."

He leaned over to me with a smile. I could see his skin turning warm and red. His lips got pinker and his cheeks became a beautiful hue of burgundy.

"Teach me." I finally murmured. "Teach me."

"I thought you'd never ask."