Log; Complete [Part 1]

[bitingnightmare.livejournal.com]

When; Apr. 18 (evening)
Rating; MA (meals, knives, and that whole sex thing)
Characters; John Constantine silkcutremix, the Corinthian bitingnightmare
Summary; The nightmare’s problem seems to be getting worse, prompting the magician to probe the matter a little deeper.
Log;

The aroma of a pizza pie speckled with pepperoni, sausages, olives, mushrooms, and the rest of the works still lingered even after three quarters of it had been consumed by the two tenants in the apartment.  It was one of those times in which the nightmare had decided not to cook for whatever reason.  He plucked an olive that had fallen onto his plate.

"Not bad," Cori remarked, the culinary artist in him giving praise to the market-bought pie.

He still wore bandages around his forearm to protect the partially sealed wound, and long sleeves to hide the wrap as well as provide extra precaution.  It was dusk by now, a perfect hour to split a pint with his blonde companion.

 

----

"Must have done something right then," John commented. Despite recent events, the two had a lazy afternoon and an even lazier evening. Anticipating a return trip to the Underground's black market for a necessary binder for the nightmare's "wounds," the magus could use all the rest and relaxation he could get. Spending it with Cori was a reminder that it was all worth it.

John got up to fetch the drinks for once, knowing what was on the nightmare's mind. "The usual?"

 

----

"The usual," he upnodded once to the magus.  Normal as the City could get, what with broadcasting memories, broadcasting songs, and forcing them to represent their namesakes.  It felt good.

On second thought it felt a little nauseous.  The Corinthian narrowed his teeth eyes briefly as he watched John move to fetch the beers.  That succulent pair of chartreuse eyes were still in the crisper, but just thinking about sucking on their milky white surfaces made the nightmare feel unusually ill.  He tried to shake off the feeling, maybe the beers would help.

"Might give me a run for my money," said Cori, indicating what was left of the pie.  Casual conversation seemed to quell the tickle in his throat.  Sort of.

 

----

Maybe John had sensed something a little odd about this, maybe not. He had lots count of the times where he had questioned his own life: his double one with the Bitch, his coping with lycanthropy, the curses, the fact that his love had a cock and teeth for eyes. Came with being a Constantine. He fetched the drinks, the usual as he had said, as Cori had confirmed, and pitched them over to that little quaint table of theirs. He took his bottle. "A toast."

 

----

"To?" Cori asked with a little smirk, his own bottle of the still smoking Guinny popped open.

Funny, his love had the sleight of hand and a legacy as old as himself.  One of those strange twists of fate, whether doomed from the start or not.  The Corinthian didn't particularly care how it looked or how much it was likely considered 'poor conduct’ for a nightmare and for a Constantine.  He waited for John to declare their toast, stalled by a subtle swallow of a lump in Cori's throat.

 

----

"Long life, good health and all that bollocks." John grinned rather than smiled, raising the bottle; why toast to those when the nightmare had immortality and an effective, efficiently crafted body that essentially negated any sort of aging and sickness whatsoever? Selfish but John never denied it, but given recent events, what could have gone twofold on the magus might have been best evenly distributed between them.

 

----

"And a helluva lot of beer," Cori added, mirroring John's grin with his own even though both had a tendency to turn strictly to the bottle in dire circumstances.  He raised the bottle to his mouth for a long drawn out sip of that Guinness, good old St. James.  A toast well made and well deserved for the both of them.

"......."  His mouth slanted in a frown, the taste of the dark beer not going down as well as he thought it would.  The Corinthian set the bottle down on the table.  "Grease," he blamed.

 

----

Even John had set his bottle down, giving the nightmare a look. "It was sort of low-end shite." An excuse, maybe: The magus could readily consume edible filth, stale, burnt and old alike, he was not picky. The nightmare might have not been the same way.

 

----

"Really," Cori said distractedly.  For a man who cooked and cooked *well*, he still had a palate for even the lowest grade sort of 'shite' as John called it.  Something about the presence of grease rang true with a bloke.  "It was good," he added, forcing himself to take another sip--no.. a *gulp* of that Guinny.

"Fuck," said the Corinthian.  He thumped the bottle back on the table, almost knocking it over as he rose from his chair.  The porcelain bus was always at its stop, but the nightmare didn't think he could make it in time.  He had the decency to consider the poor floor as well, resulting in his dash to the kitchen sink.

 

----

John stood up, puzzled. "Cori? Is something...?" A stupid question as he watched his companion run for the sink.

 

----

For the curious, there was a very good reason for his shutting those teeth eyes as his stomach pumped everything he had consumed out into the steel basin.  If only someone had removed the drain sieve to make it spill down the pipe easier.  The only answer he had for the Englishman was the heaving sound from his throat.

 

----

"Jesus wept," John muttered, quick to the Corinthian's side while he brought dinner up so soon. The alcohol hadn't even kicked in yet. His hand wanted to rub and pat the nightmare's back, but all of him watched him finish.

 

----

Embarrassing, one, unusual, two.  He rarely became so ill as to empty his stomach, even when soaked with alcohol (it took a great inhuman amount of alcohol to achieve that).  The undigested mass wasn't without its own peculiarities.  There was something gritty in it, amidst the toppings and faux stomach acid.  Cori coughed harshly and turned on the faucet to wash that shit away.

 

----

"Cori." John continued to gawk as the returning dinner was offered to the garbage disposal. There was an acrid smell about it for one, but his keen nose detected something else in it, something not quite right. He was not the one to vomit immediately from the harsh, sour odor.

Besides, he was the one that puked a fuck of a lot. He could not recall a time when the Corinthian had vomited when he did not reek of alcohol.

 

----

He waved his hand at John, wherever he thought John was standing, a weak version of signaling that he was 'okay'.  Clearly Cori was not well and not okay.  He held onto the edge of the counter, his knuckles paled.  The nightmare coughed again, each one drier than the next as saliva stretched from his lips.  There were grains of sand in that too.

 

----

You daft cunt, John thought, feeling more and more pangs of familiarity ring as the scene played out before him. The coughing, the vomiting (red), the weakness he felt in those drying coughs.

Cori was spitting up pieces of himself in that goddamned sink.

Revelation had twisted the magus' face in horror. He felt cold. "No." He shook his head. "Bloody fucking hell, no."

 

----

"I'm... fine," Cori uttered, a bold faced lie that he wanted to believe.  Keeping his eye mouths shut he filled his palm with water and sipped.  Christ there was sand in his mouth, speckling the discolored fluid in brickish black and brown as he spat.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his palm, unwilling to look John in the face yet.

 

----

John had to say it for the both of them, watching as the nightmare cleaned up and denied. "Cori. You're sick." He forced himself to step closer, closer to a bitter memory played out in gruesome full. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

 

----

Sick was an understatement.  He shook his head, already feeling a cold sweat bead across his brow.  "I don't know... John," Cori admitted, his skin chilled.  He remained bent over the edge of the sink, unsure if something else was going to vomit up, like maybe his fucking skull.  Slowly he opened his eyes.

 

----

Strong hands gently had taken the nightmare's shoulders. No doubt this had something to do with the mere scrapes he had bandaged up the other day. No doctor could cure what the nightmare had, just as no doctor could cure his terminal case of cancer.

It was just him. His way. John's own brow furrowed.

"Cori," his voice was serious, "you're going to rest and we're going to figure out what's happening to you. You understand that?"

 

----

His shoulders actually flinched when John touched them, but only briefly and he didn't protest the man's touch afterward.  What in the name of hell was wrong with him?  Cori looked to the magus, someone who had been able to heal his hands and glue cracks when necessary.  Could John Constantine fix this?

"Nothing's happening to me," he replied with a slight shudder and another hard gulp of air.  Was it considered denial when he knew he was lying himself?

 

----

The man's grip tightened, squeezed. John would have punched the nightmare if that had not carried the risk of possibly knocking his whole fucking head off, grains and all.

"Come off it. You're not stupid, I'm not stupid. Something's happening to you, you daft twat."

 

----

"I don't know what the fuck it is," he barked back in return before his brow furrowed again, "Christ what the hell's happening to me."

The Corinthian shut his eyes again.  He was an immortal, his very existence was beyond that of human beings and even some gods.  The loss of his power (the very thing he was made for), the scratches, and the sand in his purging, he considered there could be only one real reason for it.  "What did I do wrong."

 

----

"I don't know," John growled, pressing his cheek against the nightmare's back, his shoulders. He was losing that comfortable mortal warmth already as that something continued to eat at him. "Cori, you're not okay. Quit telling me you are."

John had no idea. John hated having no idea.

 

----

He felt John at his back, the warmth of a mortal man, heat the nightmare seemed to be losing.  Cori was far from okay, but he had no explanation why and that bothered him the most.  Like Constantine, he needed to know, and he was in the fucking dark.  He reached up to place his hand over John's.

"Here."  With his other hand he pulled out a small knife from the cutlery block.  Their set was always well cared for and perfectly maintained.  "I need to know," the Corinthian insisted, tip poised at his own wrist.  He needed to know if he could still bleed.

 

----

John pulled back, eyes following the gleam of that knife to the exposed wrist. Deja vu continued to nip at him with sick nostalgia reeking of a cancer ward and an old flat stained with devil piss. His rough fingers took that handle and wordlessly he made what would hopefully be the final cut.

 

----

The Corinthian watched the vertical incision Constantine made, his gaze focused and determined, determined to see his 'human flesh' bleed.  He even pulled a dishrag into his other palm to soak up the red from his vein.  Red that never came flowing out.  His meat separated like moist clay.

"... Fuck...  Fuck."  Cori cursed.  "Make it deeper," he insisted.

 

----

John's knuckles went white as he clutched even tighter. The stainless steel did not make another slit. "Cori, I can't."

 

----

"Let me do it," he growled at John, ready to accuse him of doing it incorrectly but he knew better than to accuse the blonde aloud.  Cori reached for the blade, wanting to see blood, something, anything alive from his body.

 

----

John held it away from those pale fingers, the edge shining as if they were the nightmare's shades. His voice was firm, absolute: "I won't let you."

 

----

He glared at John, with teeth that could have resurrected old fears in the Englishman, of blowjobs for cab fairs and razorblades to the face.  If he could grab the knife Cori'd take off his own finger just to reassure himself that he could gush blood in the first place.  He shifted his glare to the open wound on his other arm, an open incision with grain beneath.

"I think I'm dying, John," the nightmare admitted, ashamed.

 

----

The d-word John had been avoiding, a word he could not associate with the nightmare despite the fact that the magus had rightly disposed of even the immortal types. He shook his head again in disbelief.

"Cori, you can't die. He didn't do anything to you, now did he?" Did the old Dream King pound another nail into the nightmare's coffin for the magus' little confessional regarding the dream sand? No, that was before that. Did it have something to do with those omens? The sudden appearances and disappearances of others from their own neighborhood? "Cori, I- we can fix this. Don't say that."

 

----

Immortality safeguarded against most conventional deaths, particularly that of the physical.  John Constantine knew as well as any other denizen of the Dreaming that immortals could perish too, some in worse ways than others.  Ripping the Corinthian away from what he valued dear, that was death.

"Fuck did I screw up somewhere," he asked the blonde, trying to recall all his shortcomings.  There were many.  The nightmare couldn't think of any other reason.  He drew his gaze back up to the magus.  "I'm sorry," Cori didn't know what for, but he was.

 

----

John, still wielding the blade for the nightmare's sake, had his fingers quickly around Cori's chin in a not so gentle cup. He wanted eye contract whether the Corinthian desired otherwise, the poor sod.

"We're going to fix this," he repeated, those blue eyes intense, determined. Still absolute.

 

----

He looked into those vibrant blue eyes, still sharp as the magus' wit, defying his middle age.  The less than gentle grip worked.  Those teeth eyes slanted in quick frowns, but the expression melted away with John's determination.  Cori still had no words, no clear idea he could formulate, but he nodded twice for the magician.  Solid nods.

 

----

Those fingers softened but not that resolve. The intensity did not leave just yet. He was not ready to quit on him, not by a fucking long shot.

"Good boy," replied the magus before roughly kissing Cori on the lips.

 

----

He left the rag on the countertop only to feel his lower back press against the edge from that kiss.  Rough kiss.  The Corinthian's hands reached up to hold the sides of John's face, stubble hard against his palms.  He didn't want to let go, he wouldn't let an ominous outside force rip that from him.

 

----

John continued regardless of any interesting flavors that still lingered in Cori's mouth. He didn't care; chances are he had sent more disgusting things down his gullet. He might have tasted grain, an imitation of saliva, imitation digestive juices, but Cori was still Cori.

 

----

Everything John had naturally the Corinthian had to simulate, but at his healthiest there was little difference in the way he felt, the way he tasted.  It was a dangerous thing they did, not the magus' wielding a knife so close to him but their exchange of tongues.  The nightmare wondered if that was the reason for his decay; living, breathing, carousing with a Constantine.

His hands lowered from John's face to his neck, fingers under the collar of his shirt.  Call him a fucking outlaw if it was against the rules.

 

----

John's own hands had trailed along to the Corinthian's back and shoulders, pressing that fragile nightmare towards him. He grunted into the kiss, his breath low and husky, lips against lips. "Cori... I wonder if... I could still fuck you."