Disorder Ch. 08

This is a short work of erotic fiction containing furry, or anthropomorphic, characters, which are animals that either demonstrate human intelligence or walk on two legs, for the purposes of these tales. It is a thriving and growing fandom in which creators are prevalent in art and writing especially.

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of implied incest.

****

Aftermath

There's nothing quite like finding a dead body, even if one expected it to be there. Donnie's feet pounded the grass, kicking up clods of mud, sliding down a bank as thunder rolled overhead, lightning lancing through the murderous sky in a distinct fork. It was the wrong time of year entirely for such a storm but the humidity of it still crackled through the air, clinging to his skin and striving to weigh him down even as he snarled and shoved his way through it, eyes wild and face haggard. But maybe that was just the rain, the thick, peaty scent of earth flooding up in a rise to his nostrils.

Yet he could not breathe, his chest too tight, too fearful. Drawing back and away from the horror playing out around him, he hunted and searched, ineffectively at best. Of course, he knew that things were inevitable -- unless, of course, John planned to leap out from behind a tree with his classic smirk and blood on his hands, which would not be entirely unheard of. Not long after John himself had turned twenty, a good few years back, the oldest brother of the trio had decided that it was prime time, the perfect time, to play a trick on the younger two. And just how had that played out?

Well, it had been funny from one point of view and, in their family, the point of view that seemed to matter the most was John's. He'd laid it all out well and, truly, him and Charles had been too young to really know better. Back then, with the gruffness and coarseness of puberty and the annoyance of that all, there was too much to play with, emotions to toy with even while they tried to get a handle on things, their home situation as unstable as it had ever been. They were glad enough to have a roof over their heads but the strangled hacking gulp (a mean feat of noise indeed) that Charles made when they walked in on John with blood pouring from his chest on the living room floor was a memory that would stick with Donnie forever.

He'd flung himself at his brother, ripping open his shirt, heart pounding, blood roaring between his ears, panting, adrenaline-fuelled. It was all go-go-go and he couldn't stop, phone in a hand that shook too badly to dial even as he tried to shove Charles away, mouth dry and words not coming as he needed them to. However, it was probably just as well that John had lost his cool at that very moment and burst out laughing, howling and writhing on the floor like a long-legged spider that had suddenly lost control of its gangly limbs.

"I-I-I c-c-can't..."

But he couldn't get the words out for the sheer force of laughter coursing through him, the scene frozen but for his writhing and squirming, unable to stay still even as he hunched over, clutching his stomach. Tears streamed down his face but they were a far cry for the ones that would have, surely, have been shed in the absence of him if the unspoken had actually happened, hair clinging damply to his face even as he wiped them away, over and over again. Charles gaped, sitting back on his buttocks, leaning back on his hands, eyes wide and strained, mouth opening and closing like a fish landed out of water. And yet it was Donnie who had snapped that time, the one of them who had always seemed to be so calm and cool and collected, holding back his words until he truly felt that he had need of them, putting them to good use. His fist flew back before his mind had even caught up to the actions he was being put through, as if controlled by the strings of some hidden puppeteer, fist connecting solidly with his howling brother's jaw.

Dance, monkey, dance.

They'd be dancing all night long if the fates and powers that were had their way but John had learned then not to push Donnie too far. Sure, the insults and the banter continued as they grew up and became adults, the power play for control (which would only ever fall one way) developing in adulthood, but there was always a grudging respect for the middle brother who had, right then and there in that moment, called him out on his bullshit. There would always be that, regardless of how things changed between them, where their lives took them or even where their joined relationship went at the end, although neither of them would have ever have suspected that things were due to come to an end so soon.

Donnie swung his head back and forth, blinking rapidly even as he stubbornly refused to acknowledge just what was making it so hard to see, blurring his vision as he heaved for breath.

"You fool, you godforsaken fucking fool, bastard... Fuck..."

Ragged gasps of breath ripped words from his lips but that did not stop the stream of conscious thought from pouring on and on, trickling over the edge in a rush that came in a prelude to the breaking of the dam. Even then, it cracked and bowed, threatening to allow the floodwaters from behind it, the outpouring that was due to come at some point, inevitable at best and rapidly approaching at worst. And it very much looked like it was going to be the worst case scenario too.

That fucking arsehole... If he'd just talked to him, Donnie, he would have known that Donnie was already onto those pricks! Jaunt and his brother, the cronies, fucking cunts. Channelling his inner John, Donnie cursed fluently in his mind, stumbling to his knee as it sank into the grossness of damp leaf mulch, decomposing into what would become more fertile soil with which the forest could feed itself. What a place to end up. What a place to stop breathing. What a place to...

Don't say it.

The thought came as if it was not his own but he had long ago grown to some kind of uneasy peace with the voice inside his head, the little, conniving demon that flirted and taunted his every waking moment. They had their mission and he had his -- his life to lead, that was. The demon could wait, hanging back with slavering jaws to see just how far Donnie was going to fall, inching closer and closer to decrepitly dark reality.

He dug through the leaves, mud soaking through his jeans, but even he could not have known what he was to find there, down in the ditch that stank of the very worst parts of nature. A badger set heralded a worse stench still and he grunted in the back of his throat; a wild animal like that really was the least of his worries, as vicious as they could be, hunkering down low to the ground with fangs that always seemed ready to take on a nasty job, a nasty piece of work in themselves. John had never been able to decide, when high, of course, what wild animal he thought himself the most like, going between a lion and a wolf and, on some occasions too, a badger. If his heart had not throbbed so violently, rain pelting the back of his head, soaked through to the skin, he would have smiled.

And then he found it: a single, white hand curled up as if placed in offering, asking for something to be given. The fingers crooked in just the right way and Donnie froze, blinking at it, heart in his mouth. It could have been anyone's hand: it was just a hand, a normal hand. And yet he knew that he would have recognised that hand anywhere regardless of what he had been hunting for when he had followed the phone signal out to the forest, the back tracks and animal passes that had led out to the cabin and the two bodies there.

As if in a dream, he stretched out his fingertips to those on the hand, followed by a dark sleeve -- was that one of his jackets? He shook his head, lips pressed together. Fucking idiot, just what was he... Well, Donnie knew what he had been thinking even if that too was not something that he wanted to admit to. And it hardly seemed like it was ever something that he was going to have to admit to now.

It was a selfish thought but one could never be held accountable for what they felt in the moment when everything came crumbling down around them, breath hard to snatch, life swimming greyly before their eyes on the edge of consciousness. But there was no light in the eyes, no wicked glee, in the eyes that met his, only half-open as if John had slipped away mid-breath. On his side, just the one hand was outstretched while the other tucked in close to his side.

Donnie stared. There was no sense in denying it and yet...he could not understand. He knew, intrinsically, that John was gone, that what he saw there was nothing more than a corpse, but his mind sucked back and away from the situation, delving into the dark hole from which he had only just managed to escape from years before. That hole had nearly swallowed him up whole too, pushing him beyond what sense of sanity that he had even thought that a human mind was capable of bearing through, and yet he went to it willingly, the cool arms wrapping around him as if to welcome home an old lover. It was not as if his current lover, for John had to have been called that, was going to ever be able to welcome him home again.

Cold. Stone cold. Gone. Donnie swallowed without any moisture actually travelling down his throat, shivering in place as he knelt there, one hand touching John's. He'd always had cold hands and John had warmed them up for him -- even if that warming had, most usually, involved something hotter, coarser, sexual need roughly coursing through them in the depths of a chilling, wet winter. But now it was no longer John's hands that were warmer and Donnie woodenly folded John's into his, pain seeping out from his chest as his heart pounded too hard for comfort.

Gone. He was gone. And it was all his fault.

But whose fault was that? Donnie shook his head, staring down at his brother, or at least the flesh that was no longer his brother but something else. Maybe there was a heaven or a hell and John was there now, there would be no way to tell. Neither of them had been religious for obvious reasons anyway. But it would have been nice, in a way, to think...

Ah, but what sense or shape of heaven would take on sinners anyway? They were lost, lost to the real world and whatever came afterwards. Maybe it would be better if there was only darkness and nothing more than that.

Selfish...

The notion clawed at him, icy fingers digging into his gut, and he shook his head, clutching John's hand tighter. It wasn't as if anyone was going to find him out there anyway. They'd thought he would not find them, clearly, but, well, the note was only something that had cemented Donnie's knowledge of what was happening. Maybe it was a credit to John himself that he had managed to divert the last messages, the last nuances of their enemies' plan, so that Donnie had not been able to take the steps that he had ready in place to ensure that nothing came of it. The lack of communication, in thinking that he needed to step up and save everyone in a blaze of glory was both horrifyingly and beautifully John, good and bad intertwined in perfectly equal measures. Maybe that was just what made him so charismatic. Never again would there be any way or time to work that out.

Hanging his head, Donnie closed his eyes. Nothing seemed real, as if he was going to blink at any moment and realise that he was in the cinema, staring at a big screen and wondering just how it was possible to get sucked into something like that? Watching movies had been a big part of their younger years, although, of course, they had never bought tickets. There was always a back entrance that they could sneak in by and, well, by doing it glean a few hours of entertainment or more in the city. Stories had power, if only to sweep lost souls away in escapism, yet when fiction crossed the line into reality it no longer held firm in the realm of good entertainment anymore.

John...

He brushed his brother's hair back from his face, moving as if he was not fully present in his body, but that was the only way he could keep it together, the only way he could keep his lungs moving, however shallowly, and heart working at pumping blood through his sluggish veins. The luxury of his own mind became the greatest drug, dulling him to sensation, mind shutting down to protect him from the horror of it all, everything that threatened to hurl him into the abyss. And, if he fell this time, there'd never again be a hand to pull him up out of it. Charles was good and all but...he wasn't John. He didn't know and he didn't know any better either in that regard.

John's eyes closed under his fingertips, slipped down over eyeballs that would never again see. His lips would never again bear the passage of food or liquor and his hands would never again close around Donnie's wrist or waist, holding him. Of course, the holding was not tender. That would have been outside the bounds and the natural tenor of their relationship. But the loss of what those hands could do meant more than anyone else other than Donnie could have ever possibly have imagined, let alone put into words. But he would have given anything to have it back again. Even his own life.

Breathing shortly and shallowly, he knew that there was little he could have done and yet the guilt, once again, reared its ugly head, hissing and clamouring for attention.

Your fault, it whispered. You could have saved him.

And yet it was John who had walked out to save Donnie and, fairly so, Donnie who could have very easily have ended up in the same situation as him. Sure, he had a plan but Jaunt and his kind were unpredictable and erratic, as inexperienced and clumsy as they were. Their desperation was what truly made them dangerous and, well...he would have stayed well out of the line of danger if he'd been given the choice in it. It had been John, originally, who had dragged him in.

Growling, he dropped John's hand, slamming his fist into the palm of his opposite hand. The thrum of pain felt clean, although it hurt -- a good kind of hurt. Again. Again and again, he pounded his own hand, redness seeping across the damp skin, rain drizzling off to a pitter-patter that could have, under the right set of circumstances, been melodic, even peaceful. Maybe they could have sat there with the rain pouring down and laughed and pressed together and moaned about having to wait for a drug drop or something like that -- something that would have made the day and the memory more so than what it was. Without John, it would always be less than.

And only then did he howl, forcing visual, wet emotion down, refusing to cry. But he could beat his fists on the ground and hunch over as if he no longer even had the strength to lift his head anymore, pain reverberating down his spine as if it had simply become a transmitter for something more. A lead-in for hurt, it throbbed and thrummed, sending the shocks of the dissipating storm into his soul, raging and pulsing in the empty cavern of his chest. For it could not possibly still be full of lungs and a heart, veins and muscle and all else that made up a living human being. They were just the things that made up a corpse too, although a corpse could still, justly, exist without the majority of them.

Pain lanced through his chest and he pressed his forehead into the dirt, mud clinging to him, rank and stinking with the pittance of the forest. Disgusting. Decrepit. Vile. Unworthy. All words that he had been called in the past and that he had called himself in the past, the voice in his head not being of his own making. And, still, he lived in his head, leaning against the walls of a vacant skull, tapping his fingers against the pulsing membrane of a brain and marvelling at just how one managed to exist in such an empty space, useless and good for nothing.

But John had shoved him away, back then, protected him, said that he'd make something of himself -- hell, if that was what Donnie even wanted for himself. For fuck the rest, there was never any sense in living up to someone's expectations or even working to meet them, he'd said, shaking his younger brother's shoulders, fighting to get him to see reason, to bring the life back to his eyes even then, although Donnie's heart had never stopped beating in his physical body. John couldn't say the same.

Donnie laughed hollowly, the sound bursting from his lungs without humour, only humiliation, dirt in his mouth. He didn't think about what else was in his mouth. John would have made a joke about that but John was gone. Gone, gone, gone.

Yet he could not stay there forever, wallowing in the misery of reality, his own mind colliding harshly with his own worst nightmare. Wasn't it funny when your own death was not your worst nightmare? Ah, there was some humour in there somewhere and John would have laughed but John wasn't there anymore to laugh. He was gone.

Gone all over again.

But grief could not be pushed away so easily and, once that dam had burst, moans slithered past his lips like worms, slimy and unwholesome in that form, unwanted on the skin and membrane of a human body. He shuddered away from the sounds that his own body produced, as horrified at himself as he was about just what had occurred, what he hadn't been quick enough to prevent. That stupid note, stupid... Fucking thing. If he had come back earlier for his jacket, maybe he wouldn't have been too late to stop them from taking John. But he wouldn't have been prepared in that situation and, well, it could have ended up in two dead bodies sinking into the mud, splattered and dripping with blood that had, long ago, stopped flowing. Heaving for breath, panting and curling up as if that would, somehow, help, Donnie tried not to look at the jagged red line across his brother's throat, kept such only by the trickling flow of rainwater. If it had not been allowed to flow for so long, it would have clotted and dried into a crusty brown, curling around his chin and the corner of his lips like a child's paint. Only, child's paint could be wiped off while that kind of blood... That blood left scars, yet not on the one who had slipped from the world.

Raked through from the inside out, he shakily clawed his phone from his pocket, the screen still blinking with John's coordinates, the phone that the foolish fucking bastards hadn't even bothered to take off him. Maybe they'd been that complacent. Maybe John had been totally right to think that he could take them on his own. After all, that had been what Donnie had planned to do, just more covertly, in a slyer fashion. It was his style to take someone down from behind the scenes when necessary, quietly ensuring that they were not discovered and their operation, although it really was masterminded by John, the one who had nagged and pushed for it every last step of the way. Maybe he would have died instead of John, the erratic plan of those who had no business really in fucking anyone else over changing at the last moment. Maybe it should really have been him dead in the mud.

No. No. He couldn't think like that, not if he wanted to keep dragging one harsh, searing breath into his lungs after the other, pain creeping through his body as if he had, quite literally, injected himself with something that he had instantly regretted after the fact. Heat chilled through him, conversely so, and he trembled to try to bring up the one number that he needed on the phone, everything before him shaking and blurring, too much to bear. And yet he had to go on, had to push through, for there would undoubtedly be people after the ones who had taken John's life. They would come, knowing that there were dead bodies to pick up on that side too. The rain would take the majority of the evidence but he needed help to deal with the rest of it. He needed help to deal with...