let's play with fire // mason

[Python]

t a r o n .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

His misery was like clockwork. Wake up to the bastard holding him prisoner, cook breakfast for said bastard, and pray to false gods that he wouldn't take his frustrations out on Taron that day. Run errands, have sex, follow orders - wash, rinse, repeat, I wish I was dead. His life was painted a million shades of grey, with one violent splash of red. Rudy, the sick bastard, had managed to carve out most of his optimism, leaving a bitter shell and remnants of a once innocent soul.

He was ruined now, forced to sin for a gang he didn't give two shits about. He would rather see them all killed.

They were his shadow. Quite literally; one trailed behind him on this very night, creeping forth through alleyways and abandoned buildings to complete a drug run. Taron hated doing these shitty errands for the boss. While he was out partying, Taron had to pick up the slack and surround himself with scumbags and morons? He would much rather be taking a nap, even if he did loathe the home Rudy had made his prison.

Taron paid no attention to his partner. Some idiot grunt, couldn't remember the name. He didn't care. Anything he had to say would swirl through one ear and out the other, a string of meaningless bullshit. Taron inhaled deeply, exhaled dramatically through his nose, and approached the inner core of the warehouse. Shadows danced around them, but nothing about it was scary anymore. If someone jumped out of the black abyss to shoot him in the face, oh well.

As they loaded the bags, Taron settled himself against a stack of crates. No help at all - he would let the other men do the dirty work.

"What's taking so long?" He complained. The big, burly stranger paused to glower at him. Tough looking guy.

"This is delicate work. How about you get off your ass and help us?"

Taron clicked his tongue, loading it with venom. A reckless opportunity to lash out had presented itself, and he always took the bait if it wasn't Rudy. "How about you work faster?"

They stared each other down. Taron sensed the steam rising from the other's greasy hair. Every gang grunt was exactly the same; short fuses, happy triggers. "You better watch your mouth," he growled.

"Or what? You gonna cry about it?"

This wasn't the first time he had tied a noose around his own neck. He challenged death around every corner, asking politely for its release, but it rejected him time and time again. Nobody noticed the lack of regard for his own life. Rudy would kill his family for it, and everyone else in the gang knew him as untouchable.

But this guy? He was new territory. A reckless way to get what he wanted.

Or, he might just get his ass kicked. If that was the case, then he would at least get the satisfaction of watching Rudy beat someone else to a pulp for a change.

The man withdrew a knife from his belt. It glowed silver beneath moon beams. "I'm warning you, kid."

He didn't relent. "Oooh, a knife," he sang, voice drenched in sarcasm, "Never seen one of those before. Are you gonna use it to carve a pretty heart for me?"

The man lunged. Taron thought his life might flash before his eyes, but instead he only saw the fire in the man's rugged gaze as he pressed cold steel to his throat. His heart threatened to lurch out of his chest in a sudden frenzy of regret - you don't actually want to die, do you? Too late. His life was in somebody else's hands now.

[[nyte]]

mason turner

It's Mason's job to account for every possibility. There's a thousand scars seared into his skin, inflicted by friend and enemy alike. Each is a lesson learned, the language of life and death casting constellations across every inch of him. It'd be easy to find himself weighed down by the shackles Tate had placed around his ankles, a debt he was not meant to escape.

Instead he dawned a jester's smile, bent his knee before the Seraphim's throne and forgot the fairy tale of twelve long years. Mason might never be a knight in shining armor but at least he'd never stopped trying. Even when it hurt.

This assignment was another one of Tate's pet projects. The Reaper found himself outraged every other month it seemed, eyes flaring ember red at the sins of lesser men. (As though the slavery and drugs and prostitution are somehow more abhorrent than the way he smiles with bloodstained lips.)

Mason doesn't argue anymore and Tate hides the way it stings when he rolls his eyes into a salute. You got it, Boss.

Hipocracy is the name of this game they play.

So he finds himself in another terribly dangerous place, surrounded by sharpened gunpowder and a hair's breadth away from fools blissfully unaware of how much they want him dead. All for the righteous indignation of a murderer who sometimes calls him a friend.

Tate doesn't ever think of it like that, it's Mason's job to account for every possibility after all.

Unfortunately for the both of them, Taron Maddox turned out to be a goddamn wildcard. Mason had asked around about him, of course. He was one of the marks that made Mason's stomach churn. Spoken of like an object, not a person, something to be used when it was convenient and hurt when it was fun.

Mason thought he knew the sort, the ones that kept their head down. The ones that had been broken beyond repair. The ones that wouldn't cause any problems on a mission as delicate as this.

"Oooh, a knife," Taron drawls and Mason knows then and there that he's fucked up big time.

He knows how this will play out long before their opponent strikes. His fingers wrap around his wrist before the blade can bite, pointerfinger and thumb dug into pressure points on either side - cutting off bloodflow and sending the knife clattering to the floor before the oaf can manage a grunt of indignation.

It's hard not to glare at Taron as his body falls into practiced motions, his knee digging into the soft skin beneath the gangster's ribs while twisting his shoulder behind his back until he feels it slip cleanly out of its socket. "Really man?!" The hoarse whisper rises above the pained gasps of the man now pinned beneath Mason's knee.

He digs it in further, purely to spite him.

"That was not fucking necessary!"

His cover might be blown but that definitely doesn't matter anymore.

He finds himself fighting a smile.

[Python]

t a r o n .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

What a shame it would be to see such an ugly face before he died. Spending his last moments contemplating the details of a gangster's bloodshot eyes and rancid breath - not an ideal way to go, but he could think of worse. Dying certainly wasn't the worst fate one could suffer. His own life was a living hell day after day, and it was worth deciding that nothing might be better than this. The cold steel stinging the flesh of his throat was a quick reminder that pain was real and annoying. Even when he asked for death, it was still frightening to look in the eyes.

The poetic moment was fleeting. Before he could dare accept his fate, a hero appeared from the shadows in the shape of an absolute idiot. The knife was suddenly bouncing across the ground at his feet, an empty promise of death. Everyone loved to toy with him, didn't they? Even the fates themselves.

He watched one gangster subdue the other, and he didn't blink rapidly because he was impressed. He was shocked that this supposed 'bumbling idiot' was actually capable of causing harm. How disappointing.

As Taron ignored the man's pained grunts, he crossed his arms and gave Mason a pointed look. "It was necessary to me," he said. Now that the excitement had faded from his bloodstream, he felt irritated. Since when did heroes exist in his world, and why did he decide to show himself now? Taron practically begged for the fates to claim him. The thought of returning to Rudy's bed yet again tonight - a shudder-worthy image, yet he was numb to it by now. That was his life. Rudy's lover, Rudy's pet. An object. Nothing important.

Disposable.

"I guess I'll have to do everything myself," he drawled. He made it a point to stare at the two of them before walking off. Of course he was taking credit where credit wasn't due - how else was he supposed to annoy everyone around him? How else would they either kill him or leave him the hell alone?

Since his heart was still beating, might as well get the job done. Another thrilling drug run.

[[nyte]]

mason turner

The gangster goes limp beneath him, nearly dragging Mason down with him as he slumps fully to the ground. The absurdity of it all earns the poor guy a heel to the face, the sound of his shattered nose filling the silence Taron's indigence had left them in. He's actually stunned into silence, staring after his companion with his lips drawn into a tight line and searching for a response.

Shock and frustration have somehow melded with an agonizing pity. He's never been a man of impulse - Mason doesn't hurt where it isn't necessary, meaning much of his life is spent in careful consideration. Each word is weighed, each action is followed to its consequence. The fact that Taron seemed disappointed Mason had saved him? It worried him. More than he'd like to admit.

Years in this business has done little to strengthen his soft edges. He'd been taken advantage of a thousand times before - whether that ended in betrayal or heartbreak depended on the day. Mason isn't so stupid as to not stop this from happening, it's just that the risk is worth whatever sacrifice it comes with. Hurt people wanted to hurt him, Mason's strong enough to take it. So he's always let them.

"That's kinda fucked up dude." His cover seems intact, or Taron was so disappointed his plan fell through that he hadn't noticed any dissonance between the bumbling, greedy grunt and the man stood before him now. Mason jogged a few steps forward to reach Taron's side, but doesn't bother trying to meet his eyes.

"If you're not feeling it today, I can finish up the run. Why don't you uh... get a drink. Or maybe anything other than another poorly planned suicide attempt." He makes a feeble grab for the drugs Taron carries.

Taron is a whirlwind of indigo flames. Electric, magnetic, enthralling. Mason could dig up little on his past, Rudy seems particularly tight lipped when it comes to those he thinks he possesses, but Mason could just imagine the life he could have led had the greed of others not landed him in shackles.

Mason isn't meant to help him, not yet, but still finds himself biting his tongue to keep from telling him everything.

He's always liked to play with fire.

[Python]

t a r o n .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

Taron paid no mind to the fallen gangster or his broken nose. The sound was disgusting but familiar. He could imagine the pain but chose not to, averting his eyes to the supply bags instead. He stared at nothing in particular, a speck of dust perhaps, and kept his back turned to the others. Slowly he had become more and more numb to violence, but so much of it still startled him. He couldn't bring himself to hurt others the way Rudy wanted him to. As usual, he was a disappointment, but nobody would get rid of him for it.

He didn't notice the death grip he had on the bag until Mason spoke again. "I don't care," he muttered. It didn't matter if Mason heard it or not. He was another grunt that was supposed to fade into the background, nevermind how different he was from the rest. A pretty boy among greasy devils, head as empty as the summer sky - although perhaps he wasn't as useless as he once portrayed himself. Whatever. He was still scum, and Taron wanted nothing to do with him.

As Mason appeared at his side to take the bag, he relented. Go ahead, take it, I don't care. He crossed his arms, waiting for the inevitable string of nonsense to slip past his lips. Why couldn't the grunts just shut up?

"You want the suicidal slave to drink alcohol?" He challenged, raising an eyebrow. This guy had some entertaining ideas. As if Rudy would let him drink without permission, but what did he know? Nothing, probably. Or maybe he did, and he didn't give a shit. Nobody else did.

It was effortless to take two steps forward and cross boundaries. Whether Mason backed away or not, Taron pressed forward to invade his personal space - close enough to feel his breath for a moment. "Great idea. I can get blackout drunk and blame it on you. That'll be fun, right?" It wasn't a serious statement; Taron wouldn't put himself or anyone else in that situation, but he wanted to push Mason's buttons. Apply pressure, and a pipe might burst.

Unfortunately, he wasn't quite sure what Mason was.

[[nyte]]

mason turner

Mason really doesn't expect much anymore but somehow he always finds himself disappointed. He shoves the drugs in his back pocket, falling a step behind Taron so that he can watch their backs and provide himself with some shelter from gnashing teeth. It's natural to want to protect something so wounded, even when he seemed so desperate to injure Mason. Luckily, a few well placed insults is nowhere near enough to cripple him. He's not even a little bit hurt, he's made of stronger stuff. He's always had to be.

"In my defense I said grab a drink. I could have meant water, or like... milk." He laughs at his own joke because he's certain Taron isn't going to. For a moment he loses himself in the memory his father and nights bundled up in front of a fire, sipping hot chocolate that had far too many marshmallows for his taste. Still, he never had the heart to stop drinking. Not when his father's eyes sparkled at the way he pretended to love the taste. That was back when simple lies solved problems.

Maybe he should make Taron some shitty hot chocolate, at least it couldn't make things any worse. He's wound tight, a silver wire about to snap, and Mason wouldn't mind being collateral damage. (I think I can save this one.)

He's said that before.

"Feel free to blame me, I'm not scared of trouble." There's bait on this hook, he's staring down a predator and refuses to flinch.

He's not trying to beat him at this game, but Mason also has no intention of letting him win. He knows a test when he sees one, Taron wants to see just how far he has to go to coax a monster out of Maason. Does he want to hurt? Is it so commonplace that he's trying to get it over with?

There's a lot to learn about how his enemies treat their lessers, even if that comes at the cost of a couple more scars.

He laces his fingers behind his head and smiles. It comes so easy that Mason almost fools himself into thinking its genuine. "If you don't like my ideas you can go do something you find fun, y'know. I'm not the boss of you." He raises one brow higher than the other in a playful challenge, "Just trying to be friendly."

(No, he's not.)

[Python]

t a r o n .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

Taron was too tired to fight for a lost cause. Of all the possible options, he was stranded with the man of eternal patience. It was somewhat of a compliment; most men weren't patient, so finding someone with an absent temper was an anomaly. But it was also fucking annoying, because Taron didn't want to be smiled at today. This was the wrong type of attention, and now he felt defeated rather than comforted. When had this gang become so unpredictable?

He couldn't bother even with a humorless laugh. Mason's peppy attitude and puppy dog smile were insufferable. Nothing about his own life was a joke, but perhaps everyone would treat it as such. It certainly wasn't the worst way to be viewed. He was used to humiliation, that was part of his job in particular, but he wasn't accustomed to idiots like Mason who refused to take the easiest bait in the world. It was almost as if he didn't want to hurt Taron. Odd; many would've jumped at the chance, if they didn't first hesitate at the thought Rudy's wrath. Even then, sometimes Rudy didn't give a fuck either.

"Ugh," he sighed in defeat, backing away from the taller boy. "Your smile is creepy. I hope you know that," he lied. Nothing about Mason registered as 'creepy', but that fact itself was unsettling. Any man who joined a human trafficking gang could not be trusted. Mason was no exception, despite the pretty face

Taron glided over to a stack of crates and leaned his hip against them. He stared at Mason, unamused and unconvinced. "My choices are gambling, drinking, or fucking. That's all anyone ever wants to do." And he couldn't stand any of it. The drinking wasn't so bad when he was allowed. Any excuse to black out and forget pain was taken advantage of. Otherwise the only 'fun' he could think of was reading, and even that was a hobby he had abandoned long ago. Stories were an excellent way to escape the real world, and a bitter reminder of everything he was missing out on. He failed to see optimism in any situation, so he didn't bother with fantasies.

Mason was not a fantasy either, no matter how 'friendly' he wanted to be.

[[nyte]]

mason turner

It's not rare that Mason comes across someone so utterly frustrating, but he can usually break them faster. His smile cracks, like a dog straining against his leash as he stares at the place Taron has settled. Clever comments bounce off the hurricane raging within him, storm clouds having blocked out the sun for so long Mason worries Taron's forgotten what it feels like. He wants to be mad, but he can't bring himself to resent justified malice.

Instead, his expression softens. Something an undercover agent in the middle of enemy territory definitely shouldn't do, but Mason prides himself on his ability to read a room. Something tells him Taron won't be noticing the pity in his gaze or the way he worries his lip between his teeth with uncertainty.

Tate is absolutely going to shoot him if he fucks up this mission, but that's not the problem right now. The weight of the world was always heavy on his shoulders and the ire of a trigger-happy boss was no a new fear. Taron's well-being trumped yet another scar for one of his hook ups to gawk at come the weekend.

Now, if only he could read Taron worth a damn. "You could... just not do anything of those things when you leave?" He comments, helpfully, knowing very well the advice is about to be rejected. It kills him to how the very people he's been rubbing shoulders with upwards of a very long month have broken him like this. Choice and freedom were fantasy this deep in the underground.

Mason wonders just how bright Taron would burn if he hadn't been suffocated most of his life. Of course he doesn't trust yet another monster offering him reprieve - it doesn't take a genius to guess that he's been burned before. "Or we could leave together and you can rat me out for it. Get on your boss' good side."

His mind works in twisted patterns now, like he can't comprehend simple kindness without pain as a consequence. Maybe there's an easier way to ensure Taron's safety, but Mason would probably find that terribly boring. He's ruined, like Taron, just in a very different way.

"You don't have to trust me, I just don't feel good leaving you alone here."

Is that honesty?

It tastes sickly sweet.

[Python]

t a r o n .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

If looks could kill, Taron would be a mass murderer. He thought he didn't have the energy to flash another hateful glare in Mason's direction, but ignorant words caught him off-guard. Just don't do those things! Wow, why hadn't he thought of that? He could defy his boss and immediately get the shit kicked out of him, once again tasting bitter copper on his tongue. He was a real beauty then.

The "choice" was an illusion. Sooner or later, Taron would have to partake in one or more of those activities. If he lingered here, perhaps he could stall for a few hours until someone realized he was missed. Was it worth entertaining a brick wall? Maybe. Mason was clearly thinking inside the box. In his world, the grass was greener. It was still on fire, burnt to a crisp by the corruption of violence and crime, but it still glistened brighter than Taron's side. His world had rotted away years ago.

Taron didn't have the energy to explain himself. Mason was clearly an idiot, or didn't care as much as he was pretending to. It didn't matter either way. "I know how to get on my boss' good side," he sighed. It wasn't difficult, not physically - but it was mentally demanding and emotionally draining. Definitely not worth his time right now.

But was it worth wandering off with a stranger? The worst that could happen was awfully terrible, in Taron's imagination. The best that could happen was maybe finding an interesting topic to discuss besides Taron's own miserable life. That counted as an escape.

Definitely worth the risk.

"And where are we gonna go? Do I even want to know what your idea of 'fun' is?" He raised an eyebrow. As much as Mason seemed different than most members of Rudy's syndicate, he couldn't imagine that his interests strayed far from the usual path. If Taron had to guess, he would bet money on 'bar' as the destination. Or if he was extra creepy, he would choose his own house!

Maybe drinking wasn't such a bad idea after all.

[[nyte]]

mason turner

Taron gives, ever so slightly, and Mason lets himself get lost in the tide. Someday, the dissonance will kill him. Standing here and cracking smiles brighter than he should be, considering the blood on their hands and the fact that Taron's just tried to kill himself. Mason feels a bit of kinship with him, if nothing else. They both could have been good people, had the circumstances allowed.

But they didn't, so here they are.

"Fun?" He taps his chin with his finger, still putting on airs. It's so much easier to have to be someone else, that might be the only gift Tate has ever given him. "I'm guessing you wouldn't take kindly to a surprise?" He grins at his companion, spinning on his heel before Taron gets the chance to try to wipe that grin off his face.

Taron doesn't have any reason to trust him. He shouldn't, Mason has to remind himself, as he is currently in the middle of lying to him. But that makes Taron's trust a challenge, something Mason wants to gain. If only to prove that he can. "There's a little cafe next to an animal shelter I like. I'd like to see you try to brood with a kitten in your lap." He keeps smiling and laughing like they're friends, but the way it clings to empty walls has his hair standing on end.

He considers grabbing Taron's hand to lead the way, but thinks better of it.

It's always eerie leaving the depths of gang territory, where the architecture itself seems to have given itself to them. Littered with colorful emblems, branded into peeling paint and almost always splattered with blood gone brown. Mason's used to feel like he was treading shark-infested waters until they handed him a set of teeth and told him to start hunting.

Mason guides them to the outskirts of the Triplet's territory, its wealth leaving it mostly unscathed. As safe as Nine gets. "Not as bad as you were thinking, right?" He gives a bashful grin, rubbing the back of his neck because the sun is suddenly a little too hot. "I uh... I know this place isn't hidden or anything, but lets keep it between us."

Good secrets are worth keeping.

[Python]

t a r o n .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

Taron met his first suggestion with a deadpan stare. It spoke for itself. Mason knew the answer to his own question, so he need not expend unnecessary energy. Existence on this plane of District Nine was a burden on its own. His work was exhausting, his love life was draining. Even putting himself in death's path felt like a day's worth of energy spent, and he knew it was because he never slept soundly. How could he? He shared a bed with a man he loathed.

Surprises came in many shades of black and blue, and he wanted to count his bruises on one hand. At surface value, Mason didn't seem to hold any ill intentions. Perhaps that was a sign of craftiness, a master manipulator's token trait. If that was the case, then he would be higher up in the food chain by now. As of tonight, he wasn't. Both of them were fish bait for the sharks. "Animal shelter" was also such an odd choice, Taron didn't think anyone could possibly lie about it.

He couldn't remember the last time he owned a pet. Had he been four or five years old?

"Sure." It was an uneasy mutter. Mason was full of laughs and joy, like he couldn't read the room, or he was desperately trying to distract Taron from his broken reality. Either way, it was met with sullen silence.

He rubbed the sides of his arms as he walked. The weather was warm, but brushing the outskirts of gang territory always left him uneasy. He was rarely allowed to wander far, and usually it was under watchful eyes. Past instincts screamed run. But to where? They would search every corner of the district for him, and if they didn't find him, he knew what they would do to his sister.

He didn't feel strong enough to keep saving her, but at this point, what choice did he have?

As promised, Mason led him to an animal shelter. Ulterior motives were becoming less and less of a possibility, yet Taron had to remain on edge. The word secret was a reminder of that. "I won't tell anyone. Just don't let anything bite me."