xx. demolition lovers

[Deleted]

It'd been a full week since his life diverted from normal. Or whatever was normal for him, that is. After the fiasco at the mini golf course, he'd doubled down on his patrols, hoping on the off chance that he might catch Dev at some point, somewhere. Jimmy considered himself a pretty balanced person, all considering. Since last week however, he'd been near non-stop hyperfixating on the situation, replaying everything over and over in his mind and picking it apart bit by bit. Everything had been perfect, right up until that moment, and he poured over the memory, heart twinging strangely every time he remembered the look Dev had given him before he left.  In retrospect, he didn't blame Dev for running. he couldn't bring himself to. They hardly knew each other. Of course he would've considered Phobia a threat after his secret was spilled, he was supposed to be a hero after all. Sometimes there were grey areas though. He'd done his homework on the thugs, and as he suspected, they were responsible for most of the gang related activities in the area. In that case, he couldn't really judge Dev. Sure, stealing was bad. Stealing from bad guys though? That made his job easier, by giving them less cash flow to work with. Indirect, sure, self serving? Maybe just a little bit. Almost. It was the third time that night he'd circled back around to the mini golf park. Jimmy couldn't help himself. With his mask on, he sat atop a building that gave him a vantage point. A spot that allowed him to look over the whole course, and that was how he'd been for the last five minutes since taking the ladder to the roof, the wound in his arm complaining the whole time. A flicker of movement made his heart jump, and he forced himself to relax, eyeing the park suspiciously for any signs or symptoms that someone had gotten in... or specifically, if Dev had come back.

. . . and you can sleep in a coffin, but the past ain't through with you. . . phobia @dev wordcount: 333

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Devereaux stood, face flat and slack with apathy, at the warehouse that swarmed with flames a half-block away. He shouldn't have been so close, but a sadistic part of him drew him there. The fire department scrambled, hooking up hoses, training streams of water on the blaze. Dev wondered if they'd get it handled before the whole aged structure was lost. He swallowed past the smoke that still stung his throat. If not for his powers, he'd be in the heart of that inferno. A full week, and he'd hardly kept a step ahead of the gang that he'd hit those seven days previously. If Devereaux had known their boss was so obsessed with getting even, he wouldn't have stolen from him in the first place. Chases. Half-clashes. Dodging. Hiding. But they'd found his... Well "home" wasn't the right word. Where he kept his things. Not many. None sentimental. But they'd found it and waited for Dev to come back to it, setting off a trap that should've pinned him inside while they torched it. Devereaux looked down to the duffel bag that lay at his feet on the rooftop he'd picked to watch the blaze. He wiped soot from his eyes, hefted the thing over his shoulder and, with a last, mournful look at the fire, broke apart into smoke. - - - - - His wandering wasn't really that. Some part of him knew where he was going to end up even from the start. So, when Devereaux looked at the locked gates to the miniature golf course, he nodded at himself, because it made sense. The boy fractured into ribbons of glowing smoke again, reforming a half-beat later inside of it. Devereaux wandered inward, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his jacket numbly. He walked up to a decorative boulder lining walkway and climbed up onto the thing to sit. Dev dropped his bag on the ground in front of him and lit up his smoke, pulling a long drag on it. He stared, unseeing, into the distance for a few more seconds. Then his eyes stung again and, drawing one knee up to his chest, he crushed his face against his thigh to stifle any welling tears.

. . . I'm trying, I'm trying To let you know just how much you mean to me . . . deathsinger @jimmy

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His heart jumped, beating hard against his rib cage, and his throat tightened at even just the sight of Dev sitting on the decorative rock below. Jimmy didn't hesitate a moment before pushing himself up and sliding down the access ladder one handed, dropping onto the concrete below with a muted thud. Every careful and quiet step he took made his heart hammer harder in his chest, breath tightening with each inhale. Pushing the gate out of the way, he moved closer, communicator already in hand and poised to play and announce his presence. Under the mask, he bit his lip, his chest twisting at seeing Dev looking so small. He pressed enter on the keyboard and let his message go, floating between them. "You can't just flirt with me and not give me enough time to say bye." It was a repeat, but one he hoped would be comforting in some way. An olive branch to say 'I'm not mad, I never was'. Tentatively he stepped closer to the younger man, taking in his disheveled appearance and the stronger than before smoky smell coming from him. Jimmy's hand came up, and he unclipped the mask, pulling it from his face and dropping haphazardly to the ground. He bent at the knee, letting his shins hit the ground one at a time in front of the boulder. Levered up on his knees in front of Dev, he did what he could to get their eyes to meet, offering a tight smile before holding up his hand palm forward to say 'Just wait please', mouthing the words alongside it. Jimmy's fingers found the keypad once more, and he typed as fast as he could to get the thought out that had plagued his mind all week. "You can call me Jimmy."

. . . and you can sleep in a coffin, but the past ain't through with you. . . phobia @dev wordcount: 300

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The automated voice froze him in place. Dev had been thinking of that voice a lot more than he even admitted to himself over the past seven days. And here it was. No flight instincts pricked at it. Maybe they should have. But Devereaux was more relieved than anything - bone-deep relieved; more than even made sense. He peeked around his drawn-up thigh and his eyes fell on that eerie, crimson-splattered mask. Devereaux was smiling, try as he might to hide it against his leg, his eyes betrayed that grin. It wasn't lost on him, how the message that came his way was the same one that'd come to him on the rooftop that week before. The implications of the message, just then, made the relief threatening to drive him into the ground.  Phobia wasn't mad at him, or cross about the things he'd stolen. Phobia's mask slowly unclipped and clattered unceremoniously to the ground. For a half-second, Devereaux hid his face again, because seeing those brown eyes that'd just been revealed, he worried, would push him over the edge. Loosen the knot of emotions he'd tightened for seven days of headache and loss and tangle him in them. Dev forced himself to drop that bent leg, and rather than making anything harder, staring Phobia in the eyes did the opposite. The other man lowered to his knees right in front of the boulder. He held up a hand, gesture and gaze pleading for Devereaux to wait, and the younger boy's chest tightene, becausePhobia was so worried he'd bolt, and didn't want him to. He braced for what message was going to come next. "Why did you run?" Or "You need to turn yourself in?" Or "Why did you steal?" Instead: "You can call me Jimmy." A laugh leaped from Devereaux without his choosing. Somewhere in the back of his head he realized he hadn't so much as smiled since the last time he'd set foot in that miniature golf park. Dev thought this name suited. "Phobia" was as sexy as the mask that it belonged to; "Jimmy" was as cute as the face underneath. The smile wavered, then compressed into a scowl. Dev looked aside, stubbing his cigarette and letting it fall to the ground. The words rising, uncontrollable, to his lips were so, so unlike him. But he couldn't hold them in any longer. Every time he'd thought of Jimmy over the past week, he'd imagined saying them. "Sorry. That I ran. I thought-" Devereaux winced, like he was in pain. He looked down at Jimmy, so many thoughts and emotions passing between them in that look. "I know better, now," he murmured, almost on the edge of hearing.

. . . I'm trying, I'm trying To let you know just how much you mean to me . . . deathsinger @jimmy

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A weight felt lifted off of him just hearing Dev laugh, and he smiled, tilting his head to the side just so to angle a tender look at the younger man. Reaching forward, he cautiously placed his gloved hand against Dev's knee as a comforting gesture. Jimmy's own smile faltered for a moment, watching the smile turn to a scowl. Brows knitting together, he kept his eyes on Deathsinger, intently listening to his words and holding onto them, analyzing them, before he shook his head with a small smile. Drawing his hand back, he clicked against the keypad once more and said, "No apology needed. I understand why you did what you did, and I don't blame you for it." Slowly, he raised up once more, hand catching the rouch edge of the boulder as he stood. He moved to sit against the rock instead beside Dev, glancing down at the communicator in his own hands before typing up another message and looking to the other boy. "If you want to talk about it, that's alright with me but I wouldn't feel right forcing you to. I will say though, in my eyes, you did nothing wrong." Waiting for the message to play though, he moved to type another once quickly as a follow up. "I think you're kind of like Robin Hood. As an aside, totally unrelated I assure you, I think you'd look great in tights." He gave a sly smirk and a voiceless laugh, eyes meeting Dev's once more. Internally, his mind chimed in at that, and pointed out Dev would probably look great in anything. His hand reached out of it's own volition, capturing Deathsinger's, and intertwined their fingers together gently. Jimmy gave it a comforting squeeze, and fell back into silence, listening for Dev's voice. His other gloved hand reached into the breast pocket of his field jacket, procuring his own pack of cigarettes. Carefully tapping one out of the cartridge, he gracefully caught the end of it between his lips, not daring to release the other boy's hand as he went about stowing the pack away and grabbing the lighter he carried on his belt. As it ignited, he took a long draw from it, blowing the smoke out of and and away from his companion's face.

. . . and you can sleep in a coffin, but the past ain't through with you. . . phobia @dev wordcount: 383

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The hand on his knee was bracing, kind and not at all unwelcome. The words that followed - saying he understood why Devereaux had done what he'd done, and didn't blame him for it - earned a half-lidded, tired look from the younger man. He highly doubted that was true - the knowing why he'd done it. But the sentiment was sweet. Phobia stood, then turned and leaned against the boulder Devereaux was sitting on. His fingers danced over the keys of his communicator. The Robin Hood comment threw a rueful smile on Dev's face; the tights comment shook a weak laugh from him. "You shouldn't badmouth Robin Hood like that," Devereaux said, expression and words tired, stinging on the edges with fatigued bitterness. Comparing him to Robin Hood just showed how Jimmy was looking at him with the most optimistic lens. Adorable, flattering, but... wrong. Phobia's hand, which laced its fingers through Dev's - goosebumps skittered down his spine - made the French boy feel like he owed it to him to set him straight. "He steals from the rich and gives to the poor. I just steal. Usually from the rich, but that's because they have the best stuff." All physical evidence aside, Dev could feel it in his chest that Jimmy wasn't about to try to arrest him or turn him in or whatever else. Even though his confession painted him in a truer, more self-serving light. The correction caused a swell of exhaustion that Devereaux'd been keeping at bay for the past week to well up again. He pulled one knee up to his chest and rested his face against it, making sure not to relinquish an ounce of his grip on Jimmy's hand.

. . . I'm trying, I'm trying To let you know just how much you mean to me . . . deathsinger @jimmy

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[googlefont=Dancing Script]

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He listened carefully, plainly able to hear the exhaustion in Dev's voice as he spoke.  A tight smile stretched it's way across his lips, and he didn't move to respond with the communicator for a moment, though the silence was more comfortable. Jimmy had been honest, he held no judgement for Dev, he couldn't. During his first few years as a vigilante, he'd tread the thin line of neutrality, arguably doing bad things but specifically to bad people. It'd taken a couple close calls, and several lectures from his grandmother after she eventually found out about his night time hobby before he'd finally been set straight. Jimmy gave the younger man's hand a comforting squeeze, but didn't release it as he brought the communicator out of his pocket once more. Instead he balanced it on his knee and typed one-handed, stubbornly refusing to untangle their fingers. It took longer to get the message out, but he managed it, and responded: "Dev, I can tell you're not a bad person. You may want me to think you are, but I don't. I've been doing this since I was sixteen, and I've learned that things aren't always black and white. Most all of us live in that vast gray area. Myself included." There was a pause, and he added as an afterthought: "There's a fine line between doing bad things and doing evil things." After his rambling messages, he clasped the device in his hand to keep it from falling off his leg. Offering a small smile to Dev, he raised their still connected hands, pressing a quick peck to one of the other boy's knuckles, letting their hands fall between them once more.

. . . and you can sleep in a coffin, but the past ain't through with you. . . phobia @dev wordcount: 282

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Distantly he was aware of Jimmy shifting and moving a little bit. On the whole, though, Devereaux was too busy with his face burrowed into his thigh, nostrils flaring at the heavy smoke smell stuck in the fibers of his jeans, wondering which of his belongings, specifically, created the fabric-locked odor. "Dev, I can tell you're not a bad person-" Devereaux grinned into his leg, shifting to squint at Jimmy with one eye. The poor, adorable, optimistic idiot. His attitude faltered and shifted, though, when Phobia went on to explain that most of humanity lived in shades of gray. Jimmy confessed he, himself, did, Aegis or not. The French boy's mind fizzed, trying to knit together series of thoughts through the exhaustion. What Jimmy said was right. Dev just, still, thought that the other man was refusing to see the truly selfish motives behind Dev's actions. Not that Devereaux was the least bit apologetic or remorseful about those actions. Dev's expression had turned thoughtful and a bit hazy. Then... "There's a fine line between doing bad things and doing evil things." The nearness of Jimmy had his skin tingling. Their hands wound in each others. His unwavering support and kindness. Those warm, brown eyes. The mask laying on the ground at their feet. Now, Phobia drew their hands up and his lips brushed against one of Devereaux's knuckles. A thousand thoughts and daydreams - some rosier and more wholesome than others - that'd looped in the back of his mind for seven days jostled into the front of his mind. The baser urges in him were being fed by all of these things, and he was too tired - too desperate, too needy - to fight them off in that moment. "So what are we going to do?" he asked, blue/green eyes smoldering. Now Devereaux took his turn to lift their interlaced fingers. Rather than a chaste kiss, though, he nipped at the end of Jimmy's index finger without breaking eye contact. "Something bad? Or something evil?"

. . . I'm trying, I'm trying To let you know just how much you mean to me . . . deathsinger @jimmy

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[googlefont=Dancing Script]

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While he couldn't clearly tell if his words had any sort of effect, he inwardly hoped they did. In silence once more, he sat thoughtfully, glancing at the mask at their feet for a moment in contemplation of his own words. His concentration broke at the sound of Dev's voice speaking once more, and his head swiveled to look at the other boy, alert and then after a moment confused. The gesture that followed clued him in however, and his cheeks heated up, a distinctly warm and equally animalistic feeling curling in his rib cage and stomach. His ears burned, and absently he stowed away the communicator, his free hand coming up to one of his ears to try and cool it. With some effort, he managed to recollect himself after the shocking loss of control that had just happened within him. He moved, measured and carefully, dropping his hand from his head and instead reaching for Dev. Gently curling his fingers in the younger man's wavy blonde hair, he drew them closer together, breathing steadily against his companion's lips before connecting them. It was tender and intimate, but there was a rawness beneath it and his grip tightened subtly. Jimmy pulled away for a brief second, leveling a half lidded gaze at Dev, before surging forward once more hungrily. Just as gentle and tender as before however, he nipped at his bottom lip, a silent request, before deepening the kiss. His hand that had managed to stay entwined with Dev's now freed itself, coming up to cup the other man's cheek as he took any bit of ground given up to him almost selfishly.

. . . and you can sleep in a coffin, but the past ain't through with you. . . phobia @dev wordcount: 275

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The color that rose in Jimmy's cheeks made satisfaction purr in Dev's chest, and his eyes shine that much brighter. Slowly - carefully - Jimmy curled his fingers through Devereaux's hair, and the goosebumps returned with a vengeance. He gave a soft gasp. Then Phobia brought their faces together and Dev couldn't see straight, the other man's breath warming his lips. The kiss that came next rolled Devereaux's eyes back into his head. His hands clawed at Jimmy, settling fiercely on his hips to lock him in place. That kiss ended, leaving Dev dizzy and his clothes feeling much too tight. Then Jimmy attacked again before Dev could piece his mind back together after it was shattered by longing. Teeth scraped his bottom lip and Devereaux leaped at the invitation, this second kiss turning deeper and more invasive than any of their previous ones. Jimmy was taking the advantage, pressing his offensive, and Dev was only too willing to be the victim. One gasp bled into the next bite bled into the next grope. Somehow and somewhen, Devereaux surfaced from the pit of need he'd tackled Jimmy into. They were off of the rock, on a soft patch of earth behind it, shielded by some withered shrubs. Dev looked down at Jimmy, who he had pinned - at the blooms of pink his mouth had branded over Phobia's face, jaw, neck and even disappearing beneath the collar of his disheveled shirt. Devereaux gasped, chest heaving. He wanted to dive in for more - getting lost in Jimmy's lips and the pale skin of his neck was a welcome and heady distraction to the smoking remains of his life. But the exhaustion that had built in him was about to break, and Dev didn't think even carnal explorations with Phobia could stave it off. "It's getting late... Erm... Early?" Devereaux bent forward to press two more kisses to each of Jimmy's heavy-lidded eyes. Reluctantly he straightened, then pulled one leg over Phobia to release him. Dev looked off to the side, noting with a bloom of relief his duffel bag was still there. "I'm sure you've got places to go," he smiled teasingly, still not looking at Jimmy directly.

. . . I'm trying, I'm trying To let you know just how much you mean to me . . . deathsinger @jimmy

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