Killian hadn’t been counting the days since Amira had been gone. He wasn’t at that level of desperation yet. He didn’t think he’d ever be at that level of desperation. His love for Amira didn’t have all the cliches of a crooning pop song, although the deeper he’d fallen in love with her, the more it had started to feel like it. So no, Killian hadn’t been counting the days since Amira had packed her bags and left, but her absence had been marked in other ways.
Wraith didn’t paw at her bedroom door, she was too used to finding the small, warm body of her owner curled up in Killian’s bed. But often she sat on Killian’s chest in the morning, peering down at him with a look that was either sheer confusion or disdain, he wasn’t sure. Her mugs still sat in the cupboard above the kettle, but her tea bags had long since run out, and Killian wouldn’t torture himself by replenishing them. He noted her absence in the way Goose stared at him when he came home from a night shift at the Pizzeria, like he was wondering just what the hell Killian was playing at. Killian often wondered the same thing. Playing at. Even that. An Amira-ism.
He hated his apartment now. It felt as fraught and empty as his married home, and he wanted to spend as much time there as he had in Saskia’s house. He did feel bad for Goose, he was sure the kid must feel he’d been abandoned. But Killian had always been selfish, and his desire to be out of the house overrode his guilt. He started picking up more night shifts, wandering during the day. He didn’t want to encroach on Persephone’s happiness, and was dodging Hunter’s texts. Instead he wandered the city, avoiding the places he knew she frequented.
He’d even picked up a little side hustle.
It hadn’t been purposeful. He’d discovered the drugs back when he’d been tearing his bedroom apart, out of his mind with loss and a need for something to do. He’d forgotten about the creaky floorboard underfoot. It was a ridiculous spot, reminiscent of a teenage boy hiding his pornography stash. But he’d never wanted Amira to know they were in the apartment. Perhaps it had made him a bad boyfriend, to conceal something so damning when he ought to have flushed it all away - the pills, the baggies. He’d been a bad boyfriend in a lot of ways. What was one more?
When he went out, he tried not to think about the people slipping him cash, the desperate people and the bright eyed party girls. Before, he hadn’t really thought about the person on the receiving end. Now he knew addicts - loved them, even. And he knew the hand a particularly uncaring dealer could play in their downfall. Killian knew his sleepless nights would become a whole lot worse if he started associating his clients with Amira, or with Persephone. Killian would just deal for a little while until everything was out of the apartment, til he couldn’t anymore. He made that bargain with himself.
With his pockets full of pills, Killian lurked in the dark corners of the shittiest bar in downtown New York. No surface was spared from a thick layer of grime and stickiness, sweat and cigarette smoke hung in the air. He stayed well back, letting people come to him. Killian wasn’t entirely convinced he’d be able to venture into the middle of the bar without experiencing some kind of panic attack. Besides, the bartender had gotten to know him in the past couple of visits he’d made, pointed people his way and even bought for himself. He would let the other man do his dirty work, unable to bring himself to seek out the unfortunate.
Tipping his head up, Killian squinted against the overhead lights of the bar, chemical yellow flushed with glaring neon signage. A few patrons were hanging around on the upper level, where it seemed quieter, a few people nursing drinks and actually conversing, as opposed to the disgusting smattering of bodies rubbing up against each other down on the ground. He squared his jaw, wondering if he ought to venture up there. Much more conspicuous, sure, but anything to be out of this throng.
Then, he felt a small body make direct contact with his back. His shoes skidded against the sticky floor, the usually-agile man stumbling in sheer shock. Biting back a low growl, he turned to face the drunken stranger, ready to chew them out for sheer idiocy. Instead, her words made him feel like he’d been doused in cold water.
It had been a long time since Killian had been mistaken for his older brother. Growing up, they’d shared many distinct physical traits. Same dark hair, same slight quirk of their mouth when each boy found something amusing. As they’d grown up and developed two completely different personalities, the mix ups had become less frequent. Killian was sullen and withdrawn, Bash had been kind and nurturing, making up for all the things Killian had lacked. In fact, the only person who’d ever found them to be interchangeable was Saskia.
No, Killian thought, wincing. That had been unkind. He was doing her a disservice. She had loved him once, or at least, the idea of him. Even Killian could recognise when he was being cruel.
“No.” KilIian spat, voice hard. “You’re mistaken.”
He flexed his fingers inside his leather gloves, peering down at the young woman. The young woman who knew Bash. He would say she didn’t look like the kind of company he’d keep, but it would have been a lie. Sebastian loved waifs and strays, perhaps as much as he did. And she looked… genuinely rattled. Like the ghost of Sebastian Ford had truly risen up in front of her. But how could a young girl from New York City know his big brother, who existed only in Nevada? Whose body resided there, New York an unfathomable thing he would never touch? It felt impossible to place her.
His gaze hardened. Clearing his throat, he heard himself ask, “Sebastian Ford?”
It was a foolish thing to do.
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