up in smoke {elegant}

The shop didn't usually receive many customers of the teenage variety. Most often, they had Peacekeepers and older gentlemen in business suits who Gun had learned from a young age never to question when they asked to purchase a gun. Every now and then, they had the odd woman. Sometimes their eyes looked haunted and Gun would look at their eyes, sunken and hollow. He'd see his mother in them every single time to the point that it hurt and when they asked to purchase a gun he'd hand one over without question.

When this girl entered, he'd been picking at the skin around his finger nails in a rather intent way. They must have been the only bit of him that had never felt the hands of his father's anger. So he gave them his nervousness and it made him tear at the skin around his nail bed, tugging at the skin around the nails that had become worn from activity, peeling it back until he bled and it hurt to pull any further. He shed skin from there as if he were molting. As a result, the skin on the ends of his fingers were horrid looking things, tired from the abuse he had given them over the years.

Carefully, he laid his hands down flat to either side of the cash register, thoughts going to the gun underneath the counter as they did every single time a stranger entered the shop as well as how it flashed through his head every single time his father hit him. She stands there staring at him for long moments and he doesn't know how to react to this. Sometimes people notice his scars like that and they just stand there noticing, as if they can't even stop. They always want to know what happened to him, it was the question he heard most often, even before they asked for his name. After all, a name has never sounded so sweet as the hottest gossip.

However, Gun was old news.

Sometimes his father insisted on renewing their family's headlines by beating the shit out of him but that only happened when Gun's father had to look at him for more than two minutes at a time and Gun always made sure to stay as out of the way as possible. This morning he'd accidentally gone into the small kitchen two minutes earlier than he should have and he hadn't had to say anything before his father was calling him an 'ungrateful son of a bitch' and throwing his orange juice glass at his head. When he'd ducked, it had shattered against the wall and the glass had embedded itself into his skin. His father had been so mad that he'd made him pick up the glass with his fingers.

Sometimes he could make it a day or two without even seeing his father. Today had obviously not been one of those days.

When people entered the shop they never looked Gun directly in the eyes. They didn't like to because the emptiness there scared them and they knew that there was nothing they could do to help him because his father built and sold every gun in the district. They never entered the shop and stared at him so openly and then asked him what had happened to his face because they all knew what had happened to the Bang boy so many years ago and what happened to him every single day. They just didn't care, or they were just too afraid to notice it because everyone else knew it was important to stick to your own business if you wanted to survive. They certainly never said what she had just said.

For a moment, he was at a loss for words. He'd been in this situation only once before and his father had been there to answer the question, he hadn't had to worry about thinking up a lie then. Wildly, he tried to think. He didn't owe this stranger anything and if he didn't want to tell her anything he didn't have to. He didn't know if he had a plausible explanation for the fresh bruises and cuts that last night and this morning had left him with. He could say that he'd walked into a door but somehow that didn't seem like it would work.

She was pretty in an odd way. Her lips were red and big, they looked as if she'd smeared them in blood. The blood of innocents? They matched her hair that was pretty and made him think inexplicably of rusted pile of cogs that had sat in the corner of the workshop for six years now.

He let the silence drag on, hoping that if he just didn't say anything she would forget his question because sometimes if he just stayed still and didn't make himself noticeable that would work with his father and he'd just go away. However, if this girl actually wanted to make a purchase his father would kill him for losing a customer. He deferred to his training and decided to change the subject and get them back on track. "What can I do for you today, Miss?" he asked, voice soft, hands curled tightly out of sight into fists.

It looks ugly,
but it's clean
O h m o m m a ,
don't fuss over me

The amount that this girl couldn't seem to take a hint was stupendously above average. She seems unfazed by his brush off, as if he never spoke at all. For his part, Gun is wondering where she gets off, getting annoyed for once in his short, miserable life. He'd like to be left alone in his uncomfortable life. It wasn't like he was asking for much else. He has a shit life, a shit father and a shit body, the last thing he needs is for some prissy pretty girl strolling in and stirring things up.

The best that could happen after answering questions like these is someone actually stepping in and putting a stop to his father.

The worst that could happen is his father beating him to death out of rage before anyone could actually do anything.

He's tried telling people before of course, he's stared so desperately at people, waiting for them to comment on his bruises, only to be disappointed when they averted their gaze away from his. The people that buy from this shop are often too desperate themselves to bother a dragon that's got a plaything already. They've seen what his father's fits can do already, they hardly want to call his wrath upon themselves as well.

For the District to live peacefully, Gun's role is to be the maniac's punching bag.

Everybody knows that, so this girl marching in and being so open is utterly terrifying. She obviously does not understand how life works. If she had half a brain she wouldn't be doing this to him. He glances upwards, at the floor above where his dad is probably breaking into his first six pack of beer for the day. If he could hear what was going on down here right now, Gun wouldn't even bother going upstairs later. He'd sleep outside.

To be so reckless with another person's life, it's horrible. He reasoned that maybe some people just don't understand these things, that they don't get that their actions have consequences. He doubted sorely that this girl really cared at all about what she was asking about. It was likely just hot gossip for her, something to bring back to the family. 'Guess who I met today....the freak with all the scars!' She probably didn't understand that this line of questioning would have repercussions, specifically if his father heard.

Her voice only seemed to get louder too.

Desperation gripped him and he jumped over the counter, using one hand to push himself up and over. He hadn't really touched anyone else physically before. Once he'd tried to fend his father off by pushing against his chest and that had ended up in broken fingers. Since his father wasn't the type to show any form of love, the last time he'd felt a loving touch must have been when his mother was still alive. Seeing as she had been dead for a hell of a long time now, it had been quite some time since he'd felt someone else's warmth.

When his fingers collapse like ancient buildings falling to rust over her lips it stills him in the smallest of ways. He feels her breath on his hands and it is warm and messy, so far and different from the cold that is in his regular isolation. It only makes him pause for a moment before he's leading her out of the shop, out the door. The bell jingles happily above their heads, so far and sweet from what the aura in that building actually is. So far from happiness it's laughable.

He lets go of her, pulling away to stand with his hands on his hips. He's something other than accepting for the first time in a while. He's alright with his dad laying into him for something that he's done but being beat because some girl with butterflies in her head is talking too loud isn't fair.

"Do you always ask such personal questions?" he asked, hands on hips.

It looks ugly,
but it's clean
O h m o m m a ,
don't fuss over me