Big Book Of Sjips One Shots

Burning Through Our Short Lives (S/N)

TW: Graphic Depiction of Violence, Teen!Cast AU, They live in America

~Chapter One: Anyone Here Mentions Hotel California Dies Before The First Line Clears His Lips

"Ah, ouch," he hisses, and tries to pull away. You grip his hand tighter. He looks up at you, pleading. "Maybe this wasn't the best idea, Sips. Maybe we should—"

"Don't wuss out on me now," you keep your gaze fixed on his hand, the blade you're pressing into it, the blood welling around it. You can hear him sniffling, and that alone is almost enough to keep you from continuing. You don't need to see his face. "It's almost done."

You draw the knife (one you stole from the kitchen; it is six inches and the most deadly thing you can imagine) the rest of the way across his palm and pull it away. There is more blood than you thought there would be, somehow. You hand the knife to Sjin.

"Your turn."

Sjin wipes his face with his uninjured hand before taking the knife. He sniffles once, but his face is a stony portrait of determination. He gingerly takes your left hand, palm up (you can feel his blood smearing on the back of your hand, warm and sticky) and slices a gash across it in one swift movement. You hiss in a breath and try to blink back tears.

"Okay," your voice is wavering and forced. You breathe for a moment before continuing, you try to ignore the stinging pain in your hand. "Okay. The contract."

The "contract" is a sheet of notebook paper the two of you had planned out your life together on in colored pencil. Right now, it is utterly unremarkable. Soon, it will become sacred. Sjin pulls the sheet between you. There are two lines at the bottom, each with an "X" in front. You had seen contracts on T.V. before, you were fairly sure this is how they were supposed to look.

"Are we— are we supposed to say something?" Sjin asks cautiously. You shake your head.

"I don't think so. I think we're supposed to just..." You clench your hand into a fist above your respective line, and watch as a droplet of blood crashes onto it. Sjin copies your motions, and a twin droplet crashes beside yours.

You relax your hand, and so does Sjin. The two of you stare at each other for a moment. There is blood in more places than you had intended, and you hope Sjin's parents don't yell at him. You hope your parents don't yell at you. Something is hanging in the air, an odd feeling of incompleteness. This inspires Sjin to do something weird.

He takes your wounded hand in his, mixing your blood. He lowers his face to your hands, and oh god you hope he's not going to start chanting incantations or kiss them or anything because this is weird enough as it is and you're sure he knows what he's doing, you just wish he would tellyou—

"There," he whispers. "There we go."

—

"Sips."

Seven years ago, you made a blood oath with your best friend in the treehouse his father had built for him. In it, the two of you promised a number of things, most of which are inconsequential now. There was something in there about not pussying out a mean spirited prank the two of you had planned for the next week.

"Sips."

Two hours ago, your aforementioned best friend had called you up, telling you to meet in the aforementioned treehouse his father had built. He sounded panicked, so you hurried, only to find the treehouse barren. Still, you waited for him, but the air was thick and warm and there was still a lumpy mattress and a pile of old blankets from the one hundred times the two of you slept (together) up here, so of course you dozed off.