𖧧 ˙ what a mess, this scene is, her heels soft thuds on the marble tiles that are slippery crimson. the backdrop is unimportant, the hideout that could no longer be called a hideout without some serious witnesses ready to swear on it with how unrecognizable it looks, every single object in peripheral vision broken, every single living thing reduced to an unmoving assortment of limbs displayed on the floor, on the chair. it is not important, that some of them belong to the butcher of baltimore, that some of them belong to ichirou moriyama, that the faces would be recognizable if she looked a second too long. it simply is not relevant.
what is relevant is him, across the room, panting against the wall with a trickle of blood sliding down his cheekbone like teardrops.
[ oh, nathaniel. what have you done? ]
the unanswerable question sits heavy in the back of her throat, never making it far enough to reach the tip of her tongue. she knows why, to an extent. has been knowing for a while now, with every layer she's unraveled of the butcher's son, with every scar he's stayed silent against when her fingertips moved over them. with every crack they bursted in the comfortable yet suffocating castle they were sitting in, every light of hers he let ooze in like poison and salvation all at once. the butcher, in the expensive leather chair, his back turned against her, but maybe that is for the best. it is not him she wants to see. it is not him she feels this insurmountable grief over.
she knows what she's here for, knows what the weight in her belt is clinging to her left hip for. knows what ichirou wants, as she always did.
but neil, in a july night, in the passenger seat of her chevrolet, with wind in his hair and a well enveloped insult for her curling in his throat. neil, with hands that stitched her back into breathing more times than she could count. neil, the only soul she could trust enough not to break her in a way she couldn't be glued back in the sparring mat. the only person she'd ask how high, if he'd ask her to jump.
‘ oh, neil. ’ she exhales, and it sounds like a plea and a resignation both at once, hoarse. and here he is, calling her stupid for all the wrong reasons, and her hands remain in her sides, unmoving, even when he closes the distance between them, until barely a step exists, until her gaze can wander on every single detail on his visage and is reminded once more that there is nothing about him she hasn't memorized yet. you have to shoot me, he demands. you hate me, remember? and all she can remember is how this, this lack of distance, this lack of action he gives her, is something she wouldn't be able to find anywhere else in the world.
and she has a choice to make, she knows. when she hears the footsteps in the hallway, the running, her gaze locked on his waiting gaze, and when her hand grasps the handle of the pistol and draw it. would he let her press the barrel against his temple, she wonders. would he really let her be the last thing he'd see, before a death in her hands, which would be way more merciful than what ichirou would do to him if he'd get his hands on him?
that is something they'll never find out, because there are three shots that ring in the air and none of them are aimed at him. they are aimed to her side, instead, where the incoming executioner was running- was, indeed, before she hears the body hit the ground, her gaze still locked on his. because there isn't a choice. there never was a choice. there is neil, and then there is everything else. and when it is neil in question, it is terrifying, how easily everything else falls behind, and is deemed irrelevant.
‘ i hate you alright. ’ she says, barely a whisper, barely a murmur, still clogged and thick with something she can't name. her free hand reaches to the bloodied cheekbone he has, her palm sitting warm and sticky against his cheek, as her thumb wipes beneath his eye, collecting the crimson stain without hesitation. ‘ there is no one i could hate more. ’ which means something else entirely, but she knows neil knows. he always does. ‘ and nothing can take that away from me. not even you. not even this. ’ her hand doesn't press further, with the fear of unchartered waters neither of them properly committed before- but not pulling away completely either, waiting for something, anything. ‘ tell me you know this. ’ tell me you feel this.