Have a Little Fucked-Up in Your Life

Notes: Mami and I randomly decided to do F/R drabbles, and spat prompts at each other. We did them separately, then exchanged them. Mami's was already posted here, but for some reason my retarded ass only put mine on LJ. >>;;


    Oh, god, this was a big mistake.
    Ran stared into his glass with a foggy sense of self-loathing. This wasn't how he "fixed" his problems. The whole "Drink until you're too blitzed to give a shit anymore" was Yohji's method.
    But he'd been desperate, willing to try anything. Yohji had sworn by it enough times in the past. He'd claimed that it got rid of all the doubt, all the memories, all the guilt. Until the morning, anyhow.
    Of course, Yohji had probably not been drinking alone any of those times.
    Ran was very much alone, his dark glare fending off anyone friendly enough to approach his dark little corner at the table in the shadows. And the drink was not making his problems go away. Without any distractions, no one to steer his mind in another direction, he was left alone with his dark thoughts, his misery somehow compounded by the alcohol sloshing in his stomach.
    A commotion at the bar finally dragged his attention from his sour contemplation of his drink. There were too many people gathered there for him to see the cause of the disturbance, but it sounded like a loud argument, most of it in a harsh language he didn't understand. He turned his gaze away, uninterested, and lost himself in his dark thoughts once more.
    It took him longer than it should have to notice the presence at his side, his senses dulled by the drink. This time, however, he didn't even bother with an uninviting scowl. Screw it. If he ignored them long enough, they'd go away and leave him alone. Finally, he sensed the person move on, and he grimaced as he took another sip.
    Fuck people. He didn't need people. People and their stupid... things. Their opinions and pity and, and... things.
    The person was back again. Good god, what did it take to get a little privacy? He knew it was the same person-- there was a faint scent of some kind of cologne, pleasantly subtle, not overbearing like the crap Yohji used to splash all over himself before a night on the town.
    Then his unwanted guest was sliding onto the bench seat across from him, sharing his very private booth. A glass slid across the stained table and came to a stop against the arm he was leaning on heavily. Ran stared down at it blankly, brain foggy. He caught the faint familiar scent of whiskey. A third-- no, fifth? Sixth. Fuck it. Another round. Someone had gotten him another round of what he'd been drinking all night; or something close to it, anyway.
    He lifted his gaze, belligerent and unwillingly curious all at once.
    It took him a few seconds to recognize the scarred face across from him, alarming proof of just how far gone he was.
    Then a name triggered, along with many unwanted unpleasant memories of terror, hatred, and violence. He jerked back, but there was nowhere to go in the small booth. All he ended up doing was spilling his drink and earning the hint of a sadistic smile from the younger man.
    "Whu--" Ran blinked rapidly, trying to gather his thoughts. The adrenaline had taken a bit of an edge off of his stupor, but not nearly enough for him to survive a fight. Still, bravado was a hell of a lot more dignified than blind gibbering horror. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded harshly.
    Farfarello was cradling his own glass, a tall one with some clear drink that might have been vodka. Vodka straight up-- the man really was a Mick.
    "I can go where I like," the madman informed him, suspiciously calm. His eyebrow lifted just the slightest bit. "Aren't you going to ask me if I'm alone?" he queried expectantly.
    Ran scowled. Like he gave two shits if the man had a date... not that he could imagine any woman being insane enough to--
    He looked around belatedly, muscles tense, but Farfarello chuckled quietly, a sound he somehow managed to make lazy and threatening all at the same time.
    "The Mastermind is busy amusing himself," he murmured, eye flickering briefly towards the upset crowd around the bar. His gaze slid back to Ran, pinning him in place. "Drowning your sorrows, alley cat?"
    "Fuck you," Ran growled, because he couldn't think of an eloquent threat and was too drunk to maintain his usual stony silence. "Get away from me."
    Ran glared at his cup in blatant suspicion.
    Farfarello's expression was tolerant, but there was a thread of dark amusement in his otherwise toneless voice. "Drugged victims are boring."
    Yeah, probably because they didn't scream as much, Ran thought angrily. In a sudden show of defiance, he snatched up the drink and downed half of it in one go.
    Straight whiskey.
    He hacked and coughed, eyes watering and burning, and slammed the glass down on the table. He'd been drinking whiskey and coke all night, and the absence of the sugary soda caught him sharply off guard.
    Farfarello did not seem impressed by his little fit. He gulped his own drink without batting his single eye, then set it aside, avoiding the splash of whiskey Ran had managed to get all over the table. "What a disappointment," he murmured.
    Ran turned a fierce look his way. "I don't drink," he managed to wheeze.
    "You do tonight." And he calmly drained the rest of his very tall glass.
    Ran stared at him, fighting an internal battle. The logical part of him-- greatly diminished and muted by the alcohol --was shrieking at him to toss the rest of his whiskey right in that ugly face and RUN.
    He didn't realize the winning side of his brain was the one shouting "Show this freak you're not as weak as he thinks you are!"...
    Until he found himself forcing the rest of the whiskey down his gullet.
    Grimacing, he shoved the glass away and wiped his mouth off with a hand that shook slightly. "Now get lost," he snarled.
    To his surprise, Farfarello made no argument; he finished his drink without a word, rose to his feet, and disappeared into the crowd. For a moment Ran was too startled to react.
    He was just beginning to breathe a sigh of relief when the damned man appeared at his table again.
    With a tray.
    "NO--" Ran started to protest vehemently, but Farfarello was already lining up whiskey shots in front of him, face blank. He seated himself across from Ran again and took his own tall glass of vodka.
    "Schuldich," he drawled, in an off-hand manner, "says that Weiß cannot hold their own on the battlefield, much less a bar, and that your presence here amuses him."
    Ran glared.
    Farfarello ignored him and sipped at his vodka as if he had not a care in the world.
    ......Fucking psychos.
    By the time Ran had downed the fifth shot, it was hard to keep his head up. The world was spinning, and he could barely hear over the roaring in his ears.
    "I don't feel so good," Ran declared. Except his tongue and lips felt clumsy, and the mumbling noise that came out was "Ah dnn ll s'gud."
    Farfarello seemed to understand. Ran didn't realize the other man had gotten up until he felt a strong palm against his hot forhead, tilting his face up from where it had been about to nod onto the table. A cold glass was pressed into his hand.
    Ran stared down at it for a long time before his brain caught up. "Dun' wan' your ffffffucking vodka," he slurred with a tired trace of anger. He glared in an unfocused way up at the stone-faced Berserker. "Why th HHHEll did you get m' drunk?"
    Farfarello's lip curled slightly in what might have been disgust. As if despite aiding in the redhead's current inebriation, the sight of such a drunken slob was offensive to him. "This doesn't blank things out," he declared. "It magnifies it."
    "You would know... Mick," Ran mumbled into the glass. He took a sniff.
    Damn, was his nose numb, too? He sniffed again.
    Still no scent.
    Suddenly suspicious, he took a foolhardy gulp.
    The fucking psycho had been drinking WATER the whole time.
    "YOU--!" He was probably going to throw the contents-- or maybe the whole glass --at the Irishman, accompanied by some blistering words and possibly a fist to the already scarred face. Maybe. He wasn't sure; all he knew was that one instant he was pulling back his arm, and the next Farfarello had reached out, plucked the glass from his hand, and set it out of reach.
    He seized a fistful of Ran's shirt and hauled him bodily out of the booth. The suddeness and the sheer strength of the simple move sent a spike of alarm through Ran's mind, but did very little to help shake him of the alcohol's effects.
    He was stumbling, practically being dragged, and the room was spinning and he had no idea where he was going or if he was about to die.
    Then cool night air hit him in the face, and he was even more disoriented-- vaguely aware of being hauled down the sidewalk, shoes scraping against concrete as he stumbled-- the sound of a car door opening-- then he was being shoved roughly, landing awkwardly on what appeared to be the back seat of a car.
    He became distantly aware of the extreme proximity of the other man above him before the sound of the door slamming shut kicked his survival instincts on belatedly, and he began fighting.
    Hard hands seized his wrists, pinning them awkwardly to the chair, and a heavy body smothered his own. Ran's head was spinning faster. The car was dark, he couldn't see anything--
    Ran opened his mouth-- to bite, to curse, to... he wasn't sure.     "This," came Farfarello's voice, so close his warm breath washed over Ran's face. "This gets rid of it. For the time it takes to finish."
    Ran stopped struggling and lay tensely, chest heaving as he glared into the gloom above him where he thought Farfarello's face must be. Very faint and faraway his subconscious was gibbering in fear and shock, This is why he got you drunk
    Fight, damn you.
    He couldn't see, so he didn't see what was coming until an ungentle mouth was on his, rough and sadistic. Hips pressed against his own roughly and rolled--
    Ran's brain scattered into frantic little shards.
    For a moment he was in another dark, cramped space, with a softer, more desperate mouth on his.
    "Ken wants you, dude," Yohji had said, impatient and weary and very obviously sick of watching his friends play cat-and-mouse. "Either do something about it or tell him you're not interested."
    He wasn't interested. Ken was... He didn't want Ken. Ken was damaged. But also, somehow, innocent. It was a bizarre and unattractive blend, but things had already started spiralling out of control in those days, and by then Ran was as cold as the glacier he impersonated. He wouldn't-- couldn't --give Ken what he really wanted. That didn't mean he had to pass up the opportunity presented to him. One quick, aggressive fuck in the closet released tension on both sides. A good arrangement.
    It wasn't his problem that Ken had expected more. He should have known better. Ran had made his intentions perfectly clear, but Ken still hadn't put up much of an argument when he'd found himself cornered in the dark.
    wasn't like that.
    This wasn't awkwardness and a choking voice and betrayed eyes in a day's time. This was just...
    Being pulled into the dark and cornered and offered something violent and desperate and unemotional.
    When Farfarello's hands left his wrists to start yanking at clothing, Ran lifted his arms and wrenched the other man's shirt over his head.
    There was only a second's hesitation, as if the sudden cooperation was entirely unexpected, but the moment passed.
    In the closet with Ken, it had been... a relief. For twenty minutes there had been nothing but pants and groans and sweaty flesh. No guilt, no memories, no anger turned inwards.
    When Ran stumbled out of the car half an hour later, torn shirt hanging off of his shoulders, aching and exhausted, he was met with a full-blown smirk.
    Schuldich was leaning against the side of the car, sucking at a cigarette, his shark smile and his glittering eyes full of mockery and twisted amusement.
    Fucking voyeur. Ran offered him a dark glare, then turned on his heel and started his unsteady way down the sidewalk to hail a cab. Thirty minutes of nothing but sharp pain and pleasure, hard flesh and an unkind mouth. Thirty minutes of nothing but that. Even now the darkness was creeping back, curling around his thoughts with painful tendrils, mocking him with glimpses of past misdeeds and blood on the walls.
    But at least he'd had those thirty minutes of violence so intense it was a strange sort of peace.


    The straightjacket was an interesting addition to their detestable after-hour activitites.
    ...If only because it kept Farfarello from bringing any unwanted sharp "toys" into action while Ran was otherwise distracted.


    "Where the hell is he? And can't you read, psycho?" Ran growled, running an already bloodied cloth along the length of his blade.
    Schuldich's eyes travelled lazily to the "No Smoking" sign on the wall. He lifted his cigarette from his lips long enough to blow smoke in the other man's face. "I don't read Moon talk."
    Ran waved his hand in front of his face impatiently to clear the fog, shooting the German a venomous look. "I wasn't talking to you."
    Schuldich snickered as Farfarello finally abandoned his fun and came over to wait with them. Farfarello reached up to toy idly with the golden earring in his lover's ear, tugging just hard enough to hurt.
    "Hey, it's one way to get rid of evidence," the telepath said, inhaling another lung of smoke.
    Ran scowled irritably, returning his gaze to the pile of blazing bodies. "Why the hell did you bring gasoline, anyway? Overkill, Farfarello."
    Farfarello shrugged, unconcerned. "They were already dead."


    Ran blinked rapidly, trying to figure out which way was up and which was down. As the pain slowly ebbed and the world bled back into view, he focused on the somewhat-fuzzy pale man squatting in front of him.
    Wordlessly, the Irishman lifted both hands from his knees and waved them, fingers splayed, at shoulder height.
    "Ten," Ran said thickly, closing his eyes for a long moment before opening them again. No head trauma, at least. "Ten fingers."
    "Jazz hands," Farfarello corrected in a monotone.
    Somewhere nearby, Ran heard Schuldich choke slightly on his coffee, and viciously hoped it would kill the man.


    "Whose brilliant idea was this again?" Schuldich demanded grumpily, spraying the OFF in a choking cloud around him that kept everything from bugs to people at a healthy distance.
    "Yours," Ran reminded him promptly, dropping an armload of firewood into the pit. "And you'd better know how to start a fire without matches, because the rain got to them."
    "What??" Schuldich pulled his shirt collar up to cover his nose and block out the stench of the OFF, muffling his voice. "I fucking put them--"
    "In a bag that you neglected to close," Ran finished coolly, pulling his sleeves down and crossing his arms tightly to ward off the chill. He glared at the German. "I told you this was a stupid idea."
    "Well Farf sure as hell didn't put up much of a fight," Schuldich retorted.
    Farfarello barely glanced up from where he was squatting by the bushes, methodically skinning a rabbit. No one was sure how the hell he'd caught it. He directed his gaze towards the soft grass just outside their impromptu camping site.
    Schuldich snorted with laughter at whatever thought he'd caught flitting across the Irishman's mind. "I would not want to be you tonight," he informed Ran, smirking smugly. The effect was ruined because his shirt was still covering half his face. "Sex under the stars, woo-hoo."
    "It's going to get to forty degrees tonight!" Ran protested, sending his psychotic lover a glare. "Forget it."
    "Good luck getting it up in the cold. I'll be camping about five miles thataway, so come over and let me know when you fags are finished, okay?"
    They never got the fire lit, but at least the wood made good clubs in a pinch.