Ichor And Steel

Chapter Twenty-Four; Mmm, tastes good

ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇꜱ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏɴᴇʏ, ꜰᴀᴛ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ

A promise was a promise and Ethan would keep it. For the restive night he wrestled through, it became the scrap of Heisenberg he conserved against his heart. I will never sleep here again, he knew as he made a hasty exit just as sunlight trickled through rafters. He departed empty-handed, having left clothes at the factory, and a thrilling tumult pounded in his heart and head; a wonderful nausea made his footing sway. He quickened his lumber at every startling scratch of an above footstep. Ethan meticulously plotted his leave when the Dimitrescu residence slumbered. His only caution he remained weary of was Mother Miranda, who lurked in shade, and with each dark turn he plunged himself into was a risky step.

Without encountering Baby, however, Ethan, blond hair slick and sweaty, clinging to his forehead, finally released a breath of reprieve. Prior tension that had made him slouch lifted, pinching his shoulders upright. He swiped away his hair, once neatly groomed into a suburban cut now shaggily tickling his shoulders, and hauled himself up a ladder suspended down by Heisenberg the previous night.

'blood on her skin'

Music hounded at the tin walls and throbbed in the concrete floors.

'dripping with sin, do it again'

Yet, somehow, the factory's frontal workspace remained gentle, and the lyrics were awfully muffled, as though on purpose not to wake the whole village.

'living dead girl'

The singer slurred his words with a long rasp, stretched each word with the shriek of a guitar chord. Ethan's head unconsciously bobbed to a distant kick-drum, timing the rhythm. He wandered through a thin corridor before opening up to the abrupt descent into a valley of rippling metal and blinking red lights. Steam caressed his face, cold sweats drooling down his neck and under his shirt as he passed through and under arches of a hanging army, seemingly on rest today.

"Kar?" he called out, gingerly approaching the door. It doesn't matter what happened between you and him, Ethan, it's time to forgive and forget—you liked it. "Kar?"

"Mhm?" echoed a grunt.

Ethan perked and his pace changed into a slight skip, peering into a wide metal-shop; the coolest room within the entire factory that wasn't a living space. An aroma of sweet oil and matchsticks greeted him before Heisenberg could, the wielder posed back to Ethan. His arms fought with his hair, flexing brawn beneath a damp singlet, and he glared into a dusty mirror, a weathered hair-tie pinched between teeth grimaced fiercely.

Ethan failed to stifle his laughter, excusing the blush forming on his face and the trembles in his knees.

"What are you laughing at?" Heisenberg seethed, as muffled as his music crackling from the rolling vinyl.

"Nothing," Ethan teased, simmering into a smile. He came over and lightly tapped his shoulder, Heisenberg's hands folded up in his lap out of defeat. He surrendered his hair into Ethan's hands.

"What are you doing down here?" he asked, grumpily as Ethan wiped down the mirror from morning fog. The silver man appeared ruffled and unslept.

Whilst leaning over him to reach a brush, Ethan shrugged and answered, "To clearly brighten your mood, whatever that may be today..." he reeled back and fondled with the brush shyly. "You asked me to come to you this morning...last night, in the tunnels."

Heisenberg's lips made an "O" sound and, as his friend yanked at knots, his hand shot up to grab his. "I shouldn't have asked you to come."

Ethan shook his grip away and continued combing. "Who else is going to do your hair? Besides, what's changed your mind?"