Work Text:
Zeal finishes his duty covered in thin stripes of red starting to harden on his clothes, if not already dried and stained. His chest heaves as he stands still, drinking in the adrenaline through his system, no doubt his pupils blown so wide he looks nearly animalistic. If anyone else were to see him in the alleyway behind the live house, he'd seem more monster than man, he's sure.
The body beneath him, despite the amount of blood loss, is mostly intact. He doesn't want it to be, wants to take the carefully placed stab wounds and multiply them by fifty. He wants to start over and feel the blood spray from the arteries coat him from head to toe in beautiful reds.
Zeal leaves the corpse where it lay, moving to lean against the brick wall across from the ‘staff only’ back door (Meant for just dumpster trips. Oops.) and steady his breathing. He focuses in on the sound of the live house’s guests, loud, cheering, heard even on the opposite side of the building from the open front door. He briefly wonders how Kaelix is doing, before there's a knock on the back door.
“Finished,” Zeal says, stretching his arms, knife still held tight in his hand, a lifeline to his act. “Careful, there's a puddle by the door.”
The door wastes no time opening, Freo behind it, the messenger bag over his shoulder bulging with his usual supplies. Even in heels, he sidesteps the blood pooling next to the door with ease, barely even looking down. Double layered latex gloves cover his hands, hair ever so slightly brushed back, not that anyone would notice if they weren't close. As he approaches Zeal, he wrinkles his nose, looking up at him.
“Did you even try to keep it clean this time?” Freo sounds exasperated, not upset. When does Zeal ever try to keep it clean, anyways?
“I thought it'd give you something to do,” he says instead, a thin grin forming on his face.
“I have enough work on my plate without you being a walking biohazard, Ginjoka,” he flicks Zeal on the forehead, whose grin only widens.
Freo turns around, surveying the ground and body on it while Zeal looms over his shoulder with catlike curiosity. It's always interesting to see Freo like this, purely analytical, even if the designer isn't a fan of the content itself. He watches his eyes dart in quick, decisive motions until he's had his fill. Zeal wonders what goes through his head, but he won't ask. Not after the one time he allowed him to watch the initial slaughter.
“Okay,” Freo eventually chimes, quietly, Zeal humming in acknowledgement, “Clothes are by the shower, leave yours in the bag on the sink. I can wash them at mine, this time.”
He tilts his head, sighing. “Come back out after, I think I'll need your help with this one. Heavy… you could have picked an easier one for me to carry.”
Zeal shrugs a non-apology, but takes the dismissal as he slinks around him to the door. The puddle, a congealed film at the top, breaks open and splashes onto his ankle when he steps into it, hearing a hiss from Freo and eyes boring a hole into his back when the door opens.
He has some semblance of class, though, peeling off his shoes as soon as he enters, not wanting to leave bloody footprints on the clean tile. The bathroom isn't far, fortunately, barely 10 feet from the back door, and he starts the shower as soon as he enters, locking the door behind him.
Peeling off his clothes, rinsing off the bottom of his shoes, throwing the knife next to the bag, his mind wanders back to Freo. He thinks about his careful hands lining up the places to tear his work apart in perfect pieces. Remembers how Freo looked at him the one time he was able to watch, wonders if the tight coil he held his body in was out of fear, or something else.
The water scalds his skin as he watches pink swirl down the drain. He lets it, it feels like a sort of reward, of freedom. Freo never asked to watch again after that night, and maybe it was for the best, but Zeal had never felt more like a true performer than that night. In some, fucked up way, he wanted the designer to watch a man be torn apart and think about it happening to himself.
He's more than clean by the time the heat starts to falter. He grabs the towel laid out for him, fluffing and drying his hair and body before throwing on the clothes left for him. Identical to what he was wearing- leave it to Freo to find the perfect set from the shared live house closet.
Wiping off his shoes as a final touch, steam filters into the hallway as he makes his way back to the door, knocking the same as Freo did before.
“I'm not done, but if you can wait patiently you can stand out here,” his voice is muffled.
Zeal counts his little blessings, giddy enough that he's trusted to see Freo at work, sliding out the door. The once bloodstained ground is as pristine as it can be with a corpse barely in rigor on the stonework, water from the hose reflecting the lamplight in the alley. Freo is knelt on the floor, various tools that Zeal’s been told the names of but never bothered to remember splayed out on a small tarp to his side. A clamp sits holding the left arm, an amputation saw in his hand as he cuts through bone with little effort beyond a few huffs to disjoint it at the elbow.
He's barely watching more than the way silver hair frames Freo’s face, the small amount of muscle he puts to work every day straining against the sleeves of his shirt. But one thing truly catches his eye in the orange light. It's just barely visible, but it's a slip in the spotless demeanour, a small red smudge on the side of Freo’s cheek, a careless swipe from his bloodstained gloves to his pretty face.
“Hey, Freo?” Freo hums in response, not looking up from where he's separating muscle from bone. “Do you mind standing up for a minute?”
That makes him pause. “Why?” He sounds suspicious, and in some way, rightfully so, but Zeal shakes his head.
“You just have something on your face. I can wipe it off?”
Freo looks up at Zeal, squinting, before placing his tools down on the tarp and standing. The bartender takes a few strides before using one hand to brush away silver from red. He contemplates just using the edge of his shirt to wipe it, before a (horrible) impulse takes over his mind.
What if he just-
“Zeal Ginjoka. Did you just lick me?”
The tip of his tongue tastes coppery, not unwelcome. He's had worse tasting blood fly into his mouth during messier killings. He withdraws from Freo, swallowing his own spit and someone else's blood. He grins, looking away playfully. “I thought you'd want me to keep my clothes clean!”
Sunset colored daggers stab at him as Freo peels off the gloves on his right hand, pulling down Zeal by his shirt collar. “Never do that again. That was actually the worst thing you've ever done.”
“Aw. So killing isn't gross to you?” The grin doesn't falter, but there's a faint spike of adrenaline as he feels the way Freo’s staring at him. Always serious, yes, but this feels much more fun. Zeal wants to push him, wants to see how long he can keep that gaze on him. “Besides. I already got covered in it, it's not going to change what diseases I get by tasting a little. Haven't you wanted to?”
Freo loosens his hold on Zeal’s collar, glancing to the side and avoiding his eyes. “What, taste blood? I'm fine, thanks. Go wash out your mouth before you help me.”
But what if he doesn't want to? He sees the cracks, knows what he could do just to worm a little more under Freo’s skin. It's not like he hasn't stolen a few behind closed doors after a particularly fun day, a long day.
He bites down on his tongue, sharp pains shooting as he tries not to wince while the blood pools in his mouth with small rivulets.
“Can I get a kiss, first?” Zeal turns on his best pleading face, while Freo squints at him, suspicion clouding his face yet again.
“And force me to use mouthwash too?” He seems unfazed, but Zeal knows he's not immune to his requests, no matter how hard he tries to be an immovable object.
“Just one. Promise!” He crosses his fingers behind his back, but Freo rolls his eyes, releasing Zeal’s collar to pull him down gently by the back of his neck instead.
It's never simple with Zeal. Freo surely knows that, as their lips meet in a way that would be chaste devoid of contest. It's barely a kiss at all, before Zeal tests the waters, deepening it just enough for parted lips.
The blood he's saved pours from his mouth into Freo's, who makes a sound of alarm but for whatever reason, doesn't completely draw back. Zeal’s eyes flutter shut, unsure of Freo’s full reaction, but he really doesn't want to see it. He feels Freo break for air and swallow, before meeting Zeal’s lips again, and he could cheer. He feels almost lightheaded, a headrush making him grasp onto Freo for stability. He parts faster this time, hand falling from his neck near immediately after.
Freo pulls away with a deep breath and spits on the ground, shuddering deep from his spine. “That was… so disgusting. Get mouthwash, I'm not doing that again. Ever, Ginjoka. Just let me finish this in peace.”
Zeal feels lovesick as he stares at him, humming in agreement before turning towards the back door once more. He has no complaints, he got what he wanted after all. “Yeah, yeah, no problem Freo, whatever you say.”
Freo spits to his side again, groaning in disgust. “And wait inside after you get me a cup for it. I'm done with your distractions.”
Ah. Karma, Zeal supposes. Maybe he does deserve it a little for that, even if he doesn't regret it. The door clicks shut behind him, and he's sure that Freo has gotten back to his methodical tasks without a second thought.
Maybe he can push him even further next time.