Tangible Schizophrenia


Spent Cartridges

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: See individual drabbles.
Pairing: See individual drabbles.
Disclaimer: Characters not mine.
Notes: One crossover with Norse myth.
Summary: Little pieces of dirt.


The Definition of Love: PG, Sands/El, for comnena39

“The most romantic thing I’ve ever—” Sands ripped himself to a stop, then started again “—I remember seeing is an earthworm on wet pavement, ten feet from any grass. Stupid slimy piece of shit was going to die.”

The song was coming along now, so El didn’t look up. Instead he watched his fingers slide and pluck, curling around invisible triggers to fire off the next note. “Why?”

“You didn’t ask me if I saved it. Which I didn’t.” Springs creaked as the other man flopped down and began to inch his hand up El’s knee. “Because romantism’s not flowers and light; it’s egotism, plain and simple. The world is solely your perspective, whether that’s your tragedy or soap opera or whatever the fuck. And that worm? Didn’t know anything except crawling—completely focused on that. Romantic.”

“Dead.” And El let the music come to life, while Sands listened with half a sneer.

* * *

Dependency: PG-13, Sands/El, for raphe1

There are dark marks around El’s wrist, and spots of ache all down his back whenever he moves, where Sands’ nails had gouged. Ever since he took up with the American, he’s had the taste of blood in his mouth.

He can remember when he wouldn’t even touch cigarillos, for fear of their yellow scarring stains. He can remember when he was hot and furious, his anger almost its own living being. And now that he is scarred and cool, the blood in his mouth arouses nothing more than these faint, fading memories.

Sands is burning, though he wishes he were cold again. He and El press into each other, leeching what they can. But it’s never enough. The marks fade, the ice creeps in and curled in the sheets beside El, the fire leaps ever higher.

* * *

Hugin and Munin: G, crossover with Norse myth, Fideo, for viva_gloria

They only think he drinks to numb himself. Honestly, the piss here isn’t even close to what he remembers sloshing about in gold-rimmed horns. But it’s all he’s got—never enough to drown himself in once more—and so he makes do. He has to. Otherwise he forgets too fast how to see the flicker of flame that coils so lovingly around Sands’ wrists, how to see the hammer of El’s guns come down and release the thunder.

Lorenzo thinks he’s just wall-eyed drunk. Well, the other man was always the one who flew ahead, cawing and bitching and too busy letting thoughts zing right through him to look around, for all that they played the eyes. They still do, even if Lorenzo doesn’t seem to remember, or realize, or care. Whichever. It doesn’t matter.

The lines have been drawn differently this time. Fideo sits back and downs another bottle, wondering.