Snake Eyes (vitri dmmd)(boyxboy)

Venom

Trip is like elusive fog to Virus. Fog wafts in the early morning chill, acclimating to the temperature of surrounding air. It only adds to a landscape by masking the hills in clouds of deceptive purity. Fog is a perfect subterfuge. Everything looks perfect from far away, but once you're in a haze of fog, direction has no meaning anymore and the only world you exist in stops at the tips of your fingers. Trip is a lot like fog: not in an artistic or poetic way, but because he simply exists in Virus's life.

Childish curiosity thrust Trip into the depths of darkness, not because he trusted that someone would be there to catch him in their arms, but rather a lack of care whether the pit he fell into would be deep enough to be fatal. It turns out that no, it was not fatal. It was not safe, either.

Trip is like fog because he simply floats around, shrouding Virus in a sense of caution to keep his glasses clean so he doesn't miss a thing; squinting as far as he can through that curtain of vapour. Trip is like fog because Virus knows so little about him and the only way to accumulate knowledge to even understand the skin Trip sheds, Virus must first plunge into the abyss. He knows that there will be no soft pillows at the bottom of the pit or a set of arms to tumble into right before impact.
A natural acumen is something Trip doesn't have, whereas Virus has the thought process to sit back and assess the situation, to predict the outcomes and consequences. He can't do what Trip had done and fall head-first, arms spread with no care if he was going to make it out alive or survive the crash. Unlike his counterpart, Virus has the mindfulness to keep his breath steady when swimming through the mist, because it looks harmless, but for all he knows the oxygen he inhales may not be oxygen at all, rather a lethal mix of chemicals that was there from the very beginning yet he was too blind to see.
So Virus is stuck in the haze with only his arms' length of sight to guide him through the motions. He scopes with baited breath and tugs tight on the short leash he has on Trip, fearing that the tighter he yanks the more it will fray.

"Ya-ho Virus," the oaf calls with a mandatory rap on his office door. It's there for the sake of social etiquette. The visitor doesn't even wait for an invitation, instead barging in with no regards for privacy.

Virus's arctic blue scrutiny lands on the mammoth in patterns matching his own. It stays there for as long as he can keep his eyes open before they water. He shares a staring contest with the bottle-blond, both too stubborn to turn away, to be somehow robbed of their manhood from this simple unspoken game. It's Virus that resumes his earlier task first, making sure his face is cold as he swivels around in his chair, hoping that Trip recognises that he's a lower priority than work, which would keep Virus in the driver's seat of their duo.

Something so trivial as turning his back to his partner gives him a strange power rush mixed with a creeping caution: power because Trip doesn't lash out or pull a blade to his neck whilst Virus lets his guard slip ever so slightly, and precaution because those empty eyes bore into the base of his skull like Trip could be discussing with the voices he probably has in his head ― none of which would be a conscience ― on how to murder Virus in his sleep.

His energy is depleted from his tight schedule; Trip's interruption is only serving to further frazzle his delicate nerves. Trip opens his mouth just to comment on his dishevelled appearance today and all Virus can think is how deep the urge is to stomp that bastard's skull into the ground, the only problem would be the blood that would stain his pristine white shoe.

"Please, come back when you've figured out how to filter the utter idiocy that comes out of your mouth." is the venomous sentence he spews. It's kinder than what he wanted to say: 'the reason why no one wants to look at you is because you're a sociopathic monster with no morals or capacity to understand basic human decency, and the difference between you and me is that I know how to act like I'm not the same as you'. He somehow communicates this poison through his razor-blade glare and from across the room that blank mask doesn't even crack. His own eyes stare right back at him ― or maybe through is a more accurate term. Those clinical blue voids are detached from any emotion, and he's sure that his own can't be that alien, despite what some think.