EMAIL Log || Tainted [Complete]

[black-gloved.livejournal.com]

Who: Matt [nicotine_sky], Mihael & Mello [black_gloved]
Where: Room 420 - Eleventh Floor [Mello & Matt's room]
When: Backdated; Friday, August 11th - Late Afternoon (Why yes~ This did happen before the SH event. :B)
Rating: PG-13/R-ish? [Nondescript violence, blood, curse words~ The usual.]
Summary: The price for freedom, are you willing to pay it?
the Story:

Ehxale. A plume of smoke swirled and floated to the ceiling. Inhale. Toxins entered the bloodstream, contaminating everything that they touched. Mihael smiled because he wouldn't have it any other way. He was in control, this body was his, and he could do as he pleased. Spreading the taint of nicotine and tar was the signature on the proof of purchase (no, no, I can't return it now, it's already been used), and nothing else gave Mihael such a rush. Another drag on the cigarette. It wouldn't be long now, he'd reached the eleventh floor. Down the hall, then hook a right, it wasn't far, not at all. Room 420. Mihael hadn't seen Matt in awhile, he'd left after their night of fun - gone out the door, without a word, and somehow he didn't think that Matt had minded all that much. Now another encounter was to take place, though not without a pinpointed purpose, a goal. Mihael alwaysalwaysalways had an agenda, and he never strayed from it. One by one he'd mark and destroy the things that the monster had cared about. No reminders could be allowed to exist, no heartfelt relationship could go unharmed. (Everything must be purged.) Destination? Reached. Amber eyes (courtesy of cosmetic contact lenses) locked on the door before him, glanced over the shimmering gold plate and the dark mahogany, and Mihael wondered what awaited him on the other side. What had been the after-effects of his conquest? Had Matt been broken? Tamed? None of the above? Mihael was sure that he could adapt to the circumstances, he had to, he wasn't going to leave without his prize. Failure wasn't an option, here. Failure was suicide. Any memory, any memento left behind, was to be considered dangerous. Knock, knock. Two gentle raps on the door. Two steps taken toward a different kind of rebirth. A slick grin crossed Mihael's lips before he once again turned his attention to an oh-so wonderful form of cancer. Smoked. Puffed, like opium. Nicotine filtering through the smallest of capillary beds. It was part of the show, part of the deed of ownership. A hand rested upon a cocked hip, fingers splaying over denim jeans that washed over long legs like india ink. The cuffs on a aesthetically crumpled oxford shirt were adjusted, and locks of blonde were pushed back by a skilled hand. Perfect. Mihael always liked to look his best. A pity, though. He hadn't been able to do anything about the scar that snaked over flesh, marring and disfiguring it. Tragic that he could no longer play the part of painted Jezebel, not with the ruined skin that stretched over half his face. A frown threatened to crease the corners of his mouth, but Mihael stopped it just in time. He'd have to make do. One more knock. Three's the charm. (Knocking, knocking, at my chamber door.) Matt pointedly ignored the first knock, flinched at the second, and looked up from the sink, water dripping from his bangs and into his eyes. (Trying and failing and trying again to purge the last tastes of filth and lies away.) The sharp aftertastes of whisky and cigarettes lingered, and he spat bitterly into the sink, wiping rivulets of water out of his eyes and glancing up at the mirror. He looked a mess - eyes dark with exhaustion, hints of a bruise snaking down the side of his neck and dipping towards his collarbone, dotted with little bite marks - and he didn't care any more. The third knock (three two one blastoff boom bang everything explodes) and he slipped his goggles back over his eyes, turning towards the door. The cheap lights that hung over the door - lighting the stage for the main actor - hurt his eyes something awful even through the lenses. And, for a moment, he hesitated, fingers resting on the doorknob, still wet and sending beads of water sliding down the metal globe. The click of a lock, the metallic grind of a deadbolt. Greased hinges slide silently. (Facing the monster.) He wasn't sure exactly what he'd been expecting. But it wasn't this. (Mello. What did he do to you.) Amber eyes and white, so much fucking white - you've been tainted, Mello, you know that, you've been tainted and dirtied with all this filth - and Matt immediately, instinctively backed away a step. Because even if he'd come to deny what had been done to him (lock away the memory, throw away the key, denial, denial, run run run from what you fear, Mail, you'll never fight it down unless you run run) his body remembered. Oh yes, it did. A sharp intake of breath, and Matt almost - almost, almost, almost never really cut it, y'know? - held down a visible flinch. Why are you here you freak why did you come back what do you want this time why why why why I was supposed to look for you you weren't supposed to come here first why why His hand immediately flew to his belt, fingers tightening around the handle of a handgun - double-action, semi-automatic, .40-inch diameter shots, I can kill you with this, Mihael, I can kill you - and he glared at Mihael (the monster), trying, trying, to keep down this repulsive mixture of fear and hatred and hopelessness and goddamn you, what am I supposed to do, I hate you, I don't-- And fingers tightened around a burnished metal cross, the sharp ends digging into soft skin and almost drawing blood. Mello's rosary. Matt had kept it wound about his left wrist in some pathetic semblance of a protective charm - a string of crimson beads, haha, yeah, that's going to work well at keeping the monster at bay - and he clutched at it now, knuckles white with pressure. "Why are you here." A statement, more than a question, spat out with a bitter aftertaste. But asking, all the same, what do you want this time? The door had been opened and Mihael was greeted by broken glass - shattered beyond recognition, but still dangerous all the same. Fake amber eyes flickered with distaste as they studied the rifle holstered at a slim hip. Whatever had happened to hospitality these days? He'd seen better on the streets of LA, from people that he'd barely had known. This was despicable, coming from a rape victim or not. ...but there was nothing to really worry about here, was there? Matt would never be able to put the gun to use, he would never be able to shoot with the knowledge that there was another life at stake. (Though there wasn't. The real monster was dead. He was gone. He was he was he was he was--) And then synthetic amber caught sight of rose red beads twined around a slender wrist. Mihael hadn't noticed the rosary at first, had been too busy observing the step taken backward, the sharp gasp for air, the flinch that hadn't been controlled - all of them reactions that he'd created, actions that were solely for him - but now that he'd caught sight of the prayer beads he paused for a moment, transfixed. Who knew that his prize would have been so easy to find? The only challenge now was securing it. He almost reached out, then; how easy it would have been to rip the rosary away, destroy the string of beads in front of Matt's eyes, but something stilled his hand. (Mihael, Mihael, don't cut yourself on the glass. Not after you've come this far.) Mihael tossed his cigarette to the ground, crushed it out like a light with the heel of his boot. Nicotine was definitely a plus, but not when it came in the way of speech. Everything had to be perfect, down to a 't'. "I want something that belonged to him." Spoken in past tense, because Mihael knew it would hurt. "Something that you now possess." He took one step forward, closing the gap that Matt had opened; the movement was slow, graceful, a far cry from the telltale swagger that the monster had walked with. "I promise you that I don't mean any harm, I just want what's mine. Imagine it's like inheritance, if you will." A smile, pinpoint sharp and perfect, complemented sugar sweet words. "The rosary, I want it, and I'm even willing to make you a trade." Because Mihael doubted that Matt would hand it over easily, nothing was ever that easy. "Give it to me, and I'll tell you a story. And let me assure you, it's one that's worth hearing." And oh, it was. A story comprised of dictated atrocities, sincere desires, mock mercy, and Jezebel betrayal - it wasn't something to be missed. A hand was offered, palm open and facing the ceiling. It was a simple gesture made with the utmost effort to keep the exchange clean. "Do we have a deal?" For the smooth step taken forward an equally jerky one backwards, and Matt tried (desperately) to keep some semblance of distance between himself and those (fake fake fake) amber eyes. His heart beat a wild tattoo against his ribcage, or at least that was what it felt like, and he winced - those eyes aren't yours to color like that, they're his, like everything else you've tainted, you bastard. His. But Mihael knew, and he knew this monster knew, it hurt to face the truth, that Mello wasn't here at the moment. 'Had belonged to him?' No, no, don't talk like that, he's still there, I know I know, he's not dead, he's not gone-- (how long can you stay in denial, Mail? You always ran from the problem, but what will you do when it finally catches up to you?) "No." He immediately drew his wrist out of range of the other, tightening his hold on the fragile string of beads, fingertip scraping across the tarnished silver, because this was all he had left of Mello at the moment. A half-step slid further back, but he forced himself to glare back at that sugar-coated (poisoned) smile, forced himself to keep his voice steady, his refusal bitter. (Mello, I never did tell you, I did wear these horrid things, y'know? I always did. I'm sorry I never got to tell you before he before he--) "Get out." The sharp metallic click of an undone safety catch, and he lifted the gun, pointed it at Mello - no, no, this isn't him this isn't him - pointed it at Mihael, a finger on the trigger-guard. I will shoot you, Mihael, I will, I will. "Get out of his body. It's not yours. Get out." (Who do you think you're commanding, Mail? You're weak, you're pathetic, you can't shoot him, can you? You'd never be able to pull that trigger, you'd never be able to--) Tempting words of doubt that twisted through his mind, saying, saying, you can't do this, and Matt nearly pulled the trigger then and there. Mello, I've got a bullet for you, and I've got one waiting for me, too, right here right now. I will kill him, Mello. I'll shoot. "You're wrong." Spoken as if Mihael wasn't staring down the barrel of a gun; spoken as if Mihael still thought he had a fighting chance. "It's mine. It has been ever since the day he decided to cast everything aside. He may have chosen to make a sacrifice, but I was the one made to carry it out." Resentment and incrimination, both feelings were hidden behind a saccharine voice that would have liked to be anything but. "Ah, excuse me, I'm getting ahead of myself. That was part of the story I offered to tell you, but you haven't paid up just yet." Mihael took another step forward, entered the room, and closed the door behind him in one fluid movement. I'm not going anywhere. There was nothing to fear except the muzzle of a gun that would never be fired. Matt was bluffing (he had to be), making an attempt to scare him off, force him to give control back to that monster. And even if the threat was real, being shot to pieces was infinitely better than being locked away again. That was something Mihael refused to let happen, not when he'd just taken a glimpse of freedom. He wouldn't be left in the dark again; he wouldn't be left to rot away after he'd served a purpose that wasn't his own. There were two types of freedom, freedom to and freedom from, and Mihael had already managed to grasp the first. He just needed to secure the second, and he'd be damned before he let the chance slip through his fingers. Backing down, retreating, would be futile. The rosary? He'd walk away with it, one way or another. Mihael was sure of it. "My offer still stands, and it's my suggestion that you take advantage of it." Mihael leaned against the door, amber eyes meeting Matt's gaze, "I know if I were in your shoes, I'd like to know every last detail. What happened and why. You'll need it for closure, I suppose. Because, when I say that he's gone, I mean it. I can't even feel him anymore, if that makes any sense at all." Thoughts and images, sometimes Mihael had been able to pick them up from the monster, sometimes he hadn't. But he alwaysalwaysalways had been able to feel a consciousness that wasn't his own, and now that feeling was absent, it just wasn't there. Mihael couldn't seem to stop s m i l i n g, he'd done a splendid job of locking the beast away. "I wouldn't lie to you, you know. I wouldn't lie like he did. I don't have reason to." Sing-song and carefree, Mihael's tone never quite fit any of the conversations that he'd held, but he liked the sound of it just the same. Was he talking too much? Perhaps. But at least it was good for stalling. Maybemaybemaybe Matt would change his mind. "I'll tell you everything you want to know, and then you'll realize that he isn't worth defending. He isn't someone worth fighting for." Oh god, that voice, those words, those lies, lies, lieslieslies (are they really?) Lies. They had to be, they had to be - Mello, you fucking cunt I know you're there, this isn't like you to stay down and quiet, you bastard, get out, get out right fucking now or I'll shoot I swear I'll shoot please please come out here right now-- "Shut up." (And yet he couldn't keep that slight hesitation, that slight fragment of doubt that dug into his brain out of his voice. Because what if, what if, what if you're right, Mihael? What if that one thing I'd do anything for, that one person I'd die for is no longer there? Haha. Ha.) "Shut up. You're lying." The entire time Mihael spoke he'd been frozen in some disgusting mixture of fear and horror, finger slipping from the trigger guard to the trigger and back again (I knew you couldn't do it, Mail, you were always a coward), the barrel of the gun wavering slightly, but never leaving that invisible target he'd painted smack in the middle of that scarred face, in the middle of that sick, painted smile he hated, hated because it wasn't his. It didn't belong there, it never would. Mihael!=Mello!=Mihael. You!=Him. The rosary gave a sharp click and bounced once against the hard casing of the gun as he brought up his other hand to grip the pistol, steadying his aim, directing it straight at Mihael's forehead. The beads were digging into his palm painfully, the tiny globes of crystal reminding him of just what they were fighting over. (Is this a fair fight?) His shoulders ached with the tension that filled the air - made it thick and obscene, hard to breathe. Words forced out, forced to remain level and not show all of that built-up doubt/fear/hesitation/fear/anger/fear/fear/fear (because what are you without him, Mail?) "Fuck you and your offer." (Brave words, Mail. Brave words. You were always a good talker, and ran away from your problems like that.) "It's impossible that he's gone. A double identity is created by the splitting of the original persona in times of distress, but it doesn't create two whole identities, it simply divides the first in half. Without him, you wouldn't function properly. You're lying. He's still there." Logic, yes, logic would work, right? Mello, you're still there, right? "Furthermore, if the consciousness of the body is completely shut down, then the stronger personality will surface once consciousness is regained." So. Please. "Mihael." A name he forced himself to say neutrally, with some pathetic semblance of conviction. "Get out." Finger sliding from the trigger guard to trigger, shaking, shaking, but not moving away. "I will shoot you." For a moment, that plastered-on smile faltered. It cracked to pieces, chipped away, and turned into something disjointeddismantledmangled. It twisted into an expression that was worthy of a monster long gone. (No, no, no; I don't need him. He's gone. I'm nothing like him. Nothing. I'm better. He's the one that needed me. I'm stronger. I'm not a liar. Lies can never be upon my tongue, I make my own truths. I'm not a--) monster. The term was relative, wasn't it? Everything was. But the Jezebel's will was good, it was pure - in any struggle for power there were bound to be atrocities, casualties (hold your ground, Mihael; you've done nothing wrong), he'd done the world a service, his actions were only just (not monstrous; no, never). Composure? Replaced and accented with a picture-perfect smile that was beginning to put a strain on scar tissue and facial muscles. (Wipe away anything that's left. Purge. Purge. Purge.) "Then, by all means, shoot away." If the action banished any and all thoughts of the monster's return, Mihael had no qualms about it. And who better to carry out the sentence than it's partner? Even if the man standing before him was only traces. Even if he was only broken glass. "Though prepare yourself for disappointment: I'll be the one to wake up after all is said and done." Contacts were ripped out, and watery midnight eyes flashed to Matt, capturing his gaze. Here, where death didn't last, one had to at least derive meaning from it. "Imagine that he's the one looking at you, not me. Maybe that's the only way that you can understand that he's gone: if you kill what's left." Mihael laughed and the sound echoed dully in the room, carrying the faintest whispers of bells. "Really, it shouldn't be too hard, I do have his eyes." (That's it, Mihael. Aggravate the wound, dig into it with your fingers and spread open the festering cut you already drew there. It works. It works well.) As artificial amber was torn out and cast aside in favor of the original black - dark and piercing and heavy as sin - Matt's aim with the gun wavered, hesitated. (I can't shoot.) Because for the all the brave (false) words he'd thrown out, for all the attempts he'd made to convince himself that the man standing there was not Mello, those eyes glaring back at him made him falter. (I can't shoot you.) (And you've always known that, haven't you?) A finger pulled taut against the trigger - just a quarter of an inch more and Mihael's brains would paint the door a beautiful red and his body would hit the floor, deader than a doornail for two blissful days - but he couldn't bring himself to do it. A jagged breath as he backed away a step, shaking his head. "--get out." Please. Please. I don't want to do this, I can (liar) but I don't want to, I don't want to kill you (you can't) please, please, get out get out (coward! coward!) get out "Get out you fucking bastard, get out." --multiple personality disorder - characterized by headaches, soreness, depersonalization, phobias, anxiety (why didn't you show this any earlier Mello, why why) where the personality is split into multiple parts that often dominate the consciousness at different times, especially during times of stress or pain - pain pain pain will that do it, Mello, you reveled in pain you fucking masochist, will that do the trick? Stop hiding. That's my job. Come out already. The muzzle of the gun wavered an inch, changed targets, now directed at Mihael's shoulder, that delicate junction where arm met torso, and Matt spoke, voice hoarse - desperate. "Get out." A pause, and more quietly, pleading, pleading. "Please." Pleas were unpleasant things, both silent and not, they never brought about any good. Pleas were reserved for those that were weak, helpless; people that had no other option but to prey upon an empathetic ear. Mihael should have expected it; that pulse-born hesitation; the shifting of targets; the single word that seared across his mind like a brand - please. Mihael should have expected it from broken glass, but somehow he'd made a misjudgement. (What will it take to make you let go? What will it take to make you shoot? You shouldn't be this loyal to a killerdemonmonster. He isn't something worth fighting for! So why? Why why why? Why can't you just forget him? Why are you blinded by him? He'd lead you to Hell in a heartbeat. It doesn't make sense. What makes him so special? Why--) "So we have a stalemate." Mihael took one step forward, blinking back a tide of saline - his eyes were on fire with the aftermath of his actions - and walked further into enemy territory with a calm sense of purpose. (You can control him, Mihael, you can.) "You won't shoot." Another step. "And I won't leave." Point-blank. Mihael was close enough to grasp Matt's hands (which he did), redirect the aim of the gun (from shoulder to heart), and press against it (the muzzle of the gun dug into his flesh) - all with the most gentle of movements (carefulcarefulcareful, mishaps are to be avoided at all costs). "Are you certain that you won't take action?" (Whywhywhy? Matt, why can't you do this? After all that he's done to you why can't you kill him?) The rosary wrapped around Matt's wrist, he could feel it, the crystal beads felt cool against the palm of his hands and Mihael hated it. Pleas and prayers, how useless they were. Mihael released his grip and lowered his hands to his sides. At least he knew the rosary was no longer a threat, something that the monster deemed invaluable, it held no power over him (he'd won, he'd won). It wouldn't cause another slip, not like Kira had (perhaps it took one monster to draw another out). But, no matter. Nothing mattered now. Only... "Are you certain that you won't shoot?" An involuntary shudder that went screaming down his spine when the monster laid a delicate hand over his own, took the muzzle of the gun and guided it - slowly, gently, why are you doing this - to that beating heart. (Mello's.) Why why why why are you doing this, Mihael, why do you want to die. I will shoot I will shoot you (I can't shoot Mello, but you're not him) I will I will-- And in that instant, one single moment of screaming insanity and instability - you were never sane, Mail, nobody who ever comes out of Wammy's can ever grow up with their mind in one piece, did you ever think you could pretend you won't someday kill someone like BB did? - he jerked the gun to its original position aimed at Mihael's shoulder. (When they were very young they used to play with little plastic guns and shoot each other dead dozens of times, screaming with laughter, shouting out loud and free to each other--) Pulled the trigger. Bang bang, you're dead. No, not yet. (Might as well be, though, god, Mello, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't mean to I did you can shoot me however many times you'd like when you're back just please I'm sorry come back I'm sorry I'm sorryI'msorryI--) A faltering step back, almost staggering, as the scent of blood began to waft through the air, and the hands gripped about the gun shook, rosary beads pressed painfully into the flesh of his palm, finger waiting against the trigger. (Would you like a second helping?) Watching, waiting. Matt's expression was forced a blank and he fell back another step, away from this beast he'd wounded, crippled. (Injured animals are always more fearsome than uninjured ones, as they tend to strike back with a vengance unmatched. A shot rhinoceros can gore a man through, and some species of bull apes can be shot in the head and will still have the time to tear a person in half. Never leave a wild animal injured and still mobile, as it will most likely--) What am I supposed to do now? "Mihael." All traces of desperation gone from that voice, replaced by steel and wires, a hoarse flat whisper that was betrayed only by pale-green eyes visible beyond goggles. (I will not sway, I will not yield, I will not) "Get out. Or I will kill you." Pain. Pain. Pain. Painpainpainpain//p--aaaaaIII[[n. A razor sharp ratchetratchetratchet wheel diggingruttingclawing into skin, ripping muscle, sawing tendons, splintering bone. Such a close range shot, the damage done was irreparable; incorrigible; incurable. Teres major, deltoid, components of the scapulohumeral six - all torn apart by a torrential hurricane of fire and glass. Mihael couldn't think; couldn't form the words that he wanted to say so badly. He stumbled backward, legs almost giving out, and collided with the door (real men never fall, even if they stumble; a real man would never be forced to his knees by something so small), using it for support. No, this wasn't what he'd wanted. Death was a pretty thing in comparison to this mind-numbing (mind-altering) agony. The death he'd wanted wouldhaveshouldhave been instantaneous. It would have proved that he was the better one, that he'd be the one to come out on top. Not this. He never wanted this. A thousand pushpin fingertips were mauling flesh with deepsent puncture wounds, grazing across the skin of the Jezebel, the fake, the doll, trying to awaken the monster just underneath the first layer of epidermal tissue that the fingernails could scratch, scratch, scratch a w a y . Mihael's hand found its way to his shoulder and clamped down like a vice, trying to stanch the flow of opera scarlet. Blood was in the air, running down his shoulder, seeping through the fabric of his shirt and dripping onto the floor. White stained with red. It wasn't so different from back then, the aftermath of knife carvings. Only one factor was missing. Mihael's breath hitched and he bowed his head before stilling completely. (Ignore it, ignore it. Ignore that feeling growing in the base of your neck, ignore that headache, it isn't there.) "You think I don't know that? You think I don't want it?" A silkscreened growl, bereft of grain and full of little liquid smiles from behind a shield of gold. "Go ahead, kill me, I'm not stopping you." (Do it, do it quicky. I can't fight it off like this. But maybe I have a chance if--) "Kill me." (And kill the monster in me, too.) Hand slicked with blood, it was getting harder to keep pressure on the open wound. It was that much harder to keep his vision from blurring, to keep his breathing steady. "Jezebel, Jezebel, torn apart by dogs." Pain-induced stuttering and a ghost of a command, "D-do it now." You don't have the right to say that, Mihael, I am not yours to command. You are not him, you are a shadow, a copy, a monster, smoke and fire and mist, a doppleganger and Mello hasn't died yet, you're the one who has to vanishdissipatedisappear. Eyes narrowed behind lenses, but that expression did not change, steeled and hard. (Listen to me, Mihael, listen to me. I will do this, I will, I will.) A second blast rent the air (bang bang bang, I'll blow your brains out cowboy, quickdraw and just shoot) and a bullet buried itself into the door, a splash of splinters and woodchips raining down over Mihael's bloodied shoulder. A warning at best, a threat at worst. "Get out." And, for the first time, anger. Words hissed out, sharp, bitter, biting, and the gun changed targets from wood to flesh, the opposite shoulder. You're weak against this, aren't you, Mihael? I saw that flash of fear and pain if your eyes - no more fake gold to hide it - and you forget that we were all broken in at a young age. Have no mercy if you want to be a detective, have no mercy and take down the criminal shot by shot, one empty chamber of your gun at a time. I won't kill you directly, Mihael. I hate you. I'll bleed you to death. "I've changed my mind." The barely audible grind of metal on metal as he nudged the trigger, ready to shoot. (Mello, Mello, how much would you hate me for this? I'll give everything - my sanity, my life, everything - come back, please, you fucking bastard, please, I already broke your arm, what more do I need to do?) "Get out, or I'll shoot you." No mercy, no mercy. (Do you think Judas ever meant to be a traitor? Maybe he tried to be loyal. Maybe he tried, but it just didn't work. Maybe he never meant to kill. Maybe maybe maybe I was always meant to stab you in the end like that time I had my hands around your throat and drew my fingers tight.) "Opposite shoulder." (I'm sorry.) Shiver. Shake. Shudder. Mihael hadn't been able to hide the automatic flinch that coursed through his body in the wake of the second gunshot (a railroad spike driven home just right - it caused his legs to quake). And then, a promise of a third shot (three's the charm), a rock in the road, the acute certainty of another bullet wound. If he was lucky, the round would pierce not only the flesh of his shoulder, but the vital organ that wasn't far from the intended target - his left lung. Death would come quickly, then. Matt wasn't an expert marksman, there was still a chance, but it wasn't much to bank on. It wasn't much to hope for. (Though what else can you do, Mihael? With a redstained shoulder, pinprick needles down your spine, and a monster at the door, what else can you do? You're trapped, you're trapped, you fell for it, you're stuck.) How many shots would it take, he wondered, before he bled to death? For how long, he wondered, could he keep the monster away? How far could he run, he wondered, before he gave up? (He didn't know, didn't know; the answers were swimming over his head, just out of reach.) Blood pulsed from the hole drilled into Mihael's shoulder, snaked down his arm and dripped from his fingertips to the floor like rainwater - rainwater that did nothing to put out the fire that burned his nerves and threatened to take hold of his mind. He was being forced over the edge, bare feet ripping up against the crucified imprisoment he'd created for the monster, a familiar darkness that he now was faced with. He met Matt's gaze, saw the eyes narrowed behind golden lenses and found no mercy there. The hands holding the gun were steady, and Mihael knew that Matt wouldn't miss, knew that there was no chance of error. There was a rock in the road, and this time, Mihael tripped and fell. (Real men never fall, even if they stumble. A real man would never be forced to his knees by something so small.) It was like begging; it was like praying (the two things that Mihael absolutely hated). It was like closing your eyes and letting the water fall down. The failing embers of final attempt at smiling. A simple choke. c o l l a p s e . i n t o . n o t h i n g Three seconds. It took three seconds for the abandoned body to hit the ground, a pile of limbs streaked with blood, slumped against the door. Black eyes were glazed over, unfocused, and unseeing; breathing was shallow, soft and barely there. A retreat, that's what it was, a strategic retreat. Control hadn't been exchanged, but a window was left open. If the monster wanted it, he could claim it himself. Until then, everything was at a complete shut down. Waver. Waver. Drop. Arms shaking with fine tremors loosened their taut wire grip on the pistol and lowered the gun. It suddenly felt heavy. (The weight of sin and blood.) A loud moment of silence, and Matt realized for the first time that his breath was coming rough and harsh, his throat dry and hungry for the taste of smoke and poison. Not now. Not now, not now, not when the monster was down - but for how long? (Venture forth and face the minotaur, brave hero, face the monster who wears the face of a son of man. Let it rip your chest apart and tear out your beating heart. It already did.) Scarlet stains that crept down the carpet and its sick, heavy wetness was thick in the air. Matt could almost breath it, this noxious scent that he was starting to grow accustomed to (that he had caused), it tasted like smoke. Look what you did, Mail. You shot him. You ruined his arm, you crippled him. Are you proud of what you've done? You called yourself loyal, Judas. You nailed his shoulder to the cross. You watched him bleed. You him you you you. The muzzle of the gun was pointed at the ground - no longer a threat, no longer anything but a chunk of metal and lead and fatality in dormancy. Blood seeped from the fibers in the carpet and continued to pool about his feet as he approached the fallen form. (Jezebel fell to the ground and waited for the dogs to come.) Black eyes that he couldn't bear to look at, red-stained limbs he couldn't bear to touch, and so he stood, speaking softly (desperately, desperately, pleading silently). "Get up." A pause, as if waiting for that sign of return, as if saying here's your cue. Center stage, parts the curtain and enters with a blast of fire and blood and anger and god knows what the fuck else, just anything, anything is fine, so please, come back-- (I await retribution at your hands.) "--Mello." A hiss of pain and a staccato-quick march of expletives heralded the rise of the phoenix, reborn from blood and ash. Coal black eyes refocused, immediately locked on the gun held loosely in his partner's hands, and flickered with a disillusioned understanding. The crimson stigmata that painted his shoulder turned into a mere afterthought and the thousand questions that lingered on the tip of his tongue melded into one single fear. (Mihael, you took my name, you took my face. You already hurt him once, you bastard. That wasn't enough for you? What have you done? Look at what you've forced him to do. His hands were never supposed to be stained with red. Not once. Not twice. Never. This is all--) my fault. Because you (Mihael) are underneath my skin; what you've done is what I've done, what I've allowed to happen. You--we--I. It's all the same. There's no one to blame but myself. (There's no retribution to give.) Center stage was taken; Mello willed himself to stand, skillfully concealing the vertigo that came with excess blood loss (the metallic tang of liquid scarlet was in the air, it was suspended like clouds, like mist), and looked to his partner, dark eyes unreadable but not unrecognizable. (Matt, there's nothing to forgive, you know that right? I can see the apologies in your eyes, but you've done nothing wrong. It's like what you said back then, "You don't have anything to apologize for.") "Matt." Mello's voice was guttural and harsh, like crumbling stone roads and bars on windows; it was devoid of any climatic statements, but still was a familiar sound, a far cry from the voice that Jezebel spoke with - cloying, fake, and velvet. This was real. "It's me. I'm here." I wish I hadn't taken so long. I wish it hadn't come to this.