SYTYCW - DRFAUSTUS' entries

I - St Patrick's Day

AN: The first prompt was St Patrick's Day with romance. So I chose my darling couple, Sergei and Alfonse. Alfonse belongs to my fiancé, but we often do writing with eachother's characters.

Warnings for desecrating a religious icon, I guess?

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The river was a serpent, winding its way through decayed shadows of former housing estates, consuming shopping trolleys and tyres and signs caught up in the muddy banks. Wind whipped through the air. Sergei pulled his coat further around himself, the fur lining caressing the necrotic flesh of his inner left arm. He watched the wind ripple and dance across the surface of the mud-thick river; he watched a green balloon bobbing through the grey sky, offering colour to the sparse landscape; he watched the charred concrete crumble and fall to ash beneath his feet.

In amongst the struts of iron and rubble towers piled high, primal calls echoed, fires flickered - drinks were downed and people pranced in green, laughing. He kicked a stone into the river. It was swallowed with a plop.

"How many of them are even Irish?"

Sergei turned to his companion, smiling a little.

"I'm not entirely sure - a fair few. This is what used to be northern Poland, so I doubt many are of actual Irish heritage," he said, stooping to pick another rock to skim it.

It skipped across the water five times before sinking into the murky depths. With a laugh, Alfonse applauded the smaller man. Sergei mock-bowed, searching for another stone.

"Mika's Irish," Alfonse said, leaning against a wall.

The scars over his body stood out starkly against his pale skin, the glasgow curving up from one corner of his mouth imitating a smile, maybe a sneer.

Sergei shrugged and laughed. "Yes, but she's weird, and from underground to boot. Not really Ireland, is it?"

He threw the second pebble, then trudged along again. The shouting and wild music grew louder, foghorn-like. Individual voices and laughter crackled above their heads, the smell of smoke filled their noses. Sergei slipped his hand into Alfonse's. His skinny fingers clutched a little, curling around his husband's. The gold ring on his finger was cold, biting against Alfonse's scarred hand. He leaned down to peck Sergei on the cheek, peering back up as another balloon passed by, the green ribbon trailing behind it through the smoke and smog surrounding the city they were slowly rebuilding.

"Let's just leave them to their fun for now. This wasn't exactly how I planned my Friday afternoon, in the company of broken buildings and loons wearing green and binge drinking," Sergei said.

They picked their way around the ruins of a church. Nuclear fire had warped the lead, saints screamed and Christ's mouth gaped in an empty moan. One of the windows was fairly intact, depicting a man holding a cross in one hand and banishing a lurid green snake with the other. Sergei skipped over, attempting to peel it up from amongst the burned pews. He cut his finger on a slither of glass and recoiled, hissing.

"It bit me," he said, offering his hand to Alfonse for a make-better kiss. "St. Patrick bit me!"

Alfonse dutifully pecked the bloodied finger, then went to peer at the stained glass.

"What's with the hat? And the snake?" he asked, scrutinising the man further. "He's got a weird beard."

Sergei suckled on his finger, perching atop a fallen lectern. In his fur-lined coat and smart clothes, hair neatly styled, he was the very picture of decadence in the new world. Everything handmade by worn, skinny people living in run-down shacks or old trailers. No more tailors any more.

"That's a snake he's casting out of Ireland. A pagan, in other words," he said, resting his feet on the outstretched wing of the eagle designed to support the Bible.

With a snort, Alfonse aimed a kick at the already-desecrated glass. Glass shattered everywhere and the lead bent under his boot. The slivers crackled and crunched under his feet as he strode over and scooped the smaller man up in his arms. Sergei squealed and curled up a little.

"Alfonse, no, you'll drop me!" he said, clinging to his husband's arms hard enough for his nails to dig in and draw blood. "I'm a delicate flower!"

Alfonse laughed at that, kissing him on the cheek. He carried him out over the almost solid remains of the font and through the crumbling archways, back out into the greying world. The sky was iron, bearing down upon them, and the primal screams and shouts grew louder by the minute. Smoke spiralled crazily upwards, drawn this way and that by the whipping wind, and Sergei could nearly taste the fires and roasting flesh on his tongue. His gripping grew less desperate, and he allowed himself to be carried beside the river, through the ruins. His hand dipped to the pistol holstered at his thigh when a couple of drunken revellers passed him, wailing about no nay never or something of the sort. They barely glanced at the two leaders, instead passing in some other direction, staggering into a run down warehouse.

Sergei rested his head against Alfonse's shoulder, licking the blood from his cut finger once more.

"Don't let any of those rowdy people get too close. If I was a assaulted by a stained glass window, god only knows what they would do," he said, a smile playing on his lips.

"Throw up on you at worst."

Sergei pulled a face.

"Oh god, please don't say that."

Shifting in his arms, Sergei inhaled the stench of roasting flesh and spilled alcohol and filth.

"I know I was turning my nose up at the idea earlier, but perhaps we could get some whiskey when we are back in civilisation?" he asked.

Before long, the path evened out, and the silhouettes of their skyscrapers loomed on the horizon. Alfonse gently let Sergei down and walked hand-in-hand with him, green balloons drifting overhead.