fangbitesâ:
One of the perks of being more or less frozen in time was the way bad habits didnât really fucking matter anymore. Smoking was something heâd kicked decades ago, loathing the way the stench clung to his clothes, but heâd lit up a month or so ago and had essentially been chainsmoking ever since. This hellscape ruined all his clothes before their time anyways. It hardly mattered, and he supposed changing in the aftermath of a crisis was to be expected. Eternity- or however long his slice of it ended up being- would get stale quickly if one stayed the same always, after all, and if the smoke had helped to banish the scent of the person who had originally owned the shirt he was wearing now, tucked safely beneath his current favorite jacket, well, that was just an added bonus.Â
Heâd stayed in the shop later than heâd intended to. He usually headed home around three a.m., but it was late enough in the morning that the sun was high in the sky. Heâd been lost in drawing up sketches and designs this time. He wasnât sure if heâd bother making them or not. Sometimes he thought it was time for a new hobby. As small of a town as this was, the people that appreciated his talents were disparagingly few. Heâd keep the shop open, of course, but probably mostly for repairs and alterations at this point. Maybe heâd take up ice skating again, or writing. Maybe heâd open up a nail salon. Maybe heâd do nothing at all and become a recluse and make beautiful clothes for Natalia and himself and ignore the rest of the town entirely. What did it matter? He could do whatever he damn well pleased and it would make hardly a lick of difference to anyone but himself.
He was nearing home when his ears picked up odd sounds. It took him a moment to figure it out- someone was panicking, he thought, and he hesitated in place for a minute. Wasnât his business, wasnât his problem. Heâd been living by those two little rules lately, had been keeping his shit very decidedly to himself and burying everything under a thick layer of apathy. He was content to keep it that way, too, but after only a few quick paces towards home his traitorious feet were leading him towards the sound. Curiosity, 1. Cat, 0. For now.
As Kolya rounded the corner, cigarette at his lips, hands in his pockets, he very quickly began to realize what a mistake heâd made because crumpled on the ground, naked and bloody, was none other than Peter Lopez. Former best friend, former short- lived flame of sorts. Kolya stood in place and stared. The thing about wounds was that, whether one healed or not, a knife in the same shape as the one that had mutilated you in the first place was always capable of opening you back up.Â
It struck him as funny, hysterical, almost. DĂŠjĂ vu, except this time he was witnessing the train go off the rails instead of driving it.Â
He didnât know this man, not anymore, if he ever had to begin with. The Kolya of a few months ago would have already been next to the person in crisis, crouching down and trying to help whether it was anyone he knew or not, but the Kolya of now wanted nothing more than to walk away.
Wasnât his business, he told himself. Wasnât his fucking problem.
He took a final drag, dropped his cigarette to the concrete and ground it out with his heel before moving in closer anyways, because some things never changed, they just never fucking changed even if they should have. He slipped out of his jacket, draped it around the shoulders of the crumpled up man and cynically wondered if heâd just shrug it off the moment he figured out who it belonged to. Probably, but he hoped not. It wasnât the jacketâs fault things between them had gone to shit. It didnât deserve to be punished for Kolyaâs crimes.Â
He could tell himself he was over this repeatedly day in and day out for months on end but as he crouched down next to the panicking werewolf on the grass, the sick feeling in his gut and the tightness of his throat was quite telling. The revelation was met with nothing but exhausted acceptance; On some level, Kolya supposed heâd been fully aware that heâd been bullshitting himself, but that didnât matter either way. Heâd help the man get home and then theyâd part ways again and that would be that.Â
It took a lot of effort, but he reached out, laid a hand on Peterâs shoulder. That was another reason why giving up his jacket had been a good idea, he supposed. Less risk of skin contact. Any contact was bad enough. âPeter?â His voice came soft, soothing, the opposite of everything Kolya felt just then. He didnât know what the fuck to say, what the fuck to do. This was so far outside his paygrade and his comfort zone that it wasnât even funny, it was just pathetic. He swallowed hard.Â
âI know you didnât. I know.â His own personal issues with the man and this whole situation aside, Kolya did know that Peter would never intentionally do anything to put an innocent at risk. Or hadnât when theyâd been acquainted, at least, but it wasnât hard to infer by his current state that that much hadnât changed. âItâs gonna be alright.â Kolya did not know whether it would be alright or not, but again⌠that wasnât his problem. Briefly, he wondered if he should just go ahead and compel him to calm down, take the easy way out. Thereâd be less of a mess for everyone involved. His grip tightened, and wildly, he scrambled to think of any action that might be of use.Â
âI need you to concentrate on your breathing for me, alright?â He swallowed hard, let his hand drop from Peterâs shoulder to his wrist, taking Peterâs hand and pressing his palm against his chest, over his heart. âBreathe with me, if that helps.â Corpse or not, Kolya still breathed. Perhaps if Peter was capable of syncing his breaths with Kolyaâs and calming down that way they could both be free of this mess that much sooner- Kolya could only pray to gods he vaguely believed in but hadnât had much use or respect for as of late that it would be so.Â
Hell, Peter was in hell. He had finally died and fallen down into hell, and all of the stories that his grandmother had told him about fire and brimstone had been a lie. Hell wasnât fire and brimstone, it was far more personal than all of that. It was trembling and cold, struggling to breathe as one thought disconnected from another and flew around in his mind. It was the very real possibility that Peter had killed someone, that someone elseâs blood was sticky and coating his hands, matting down his hair. It was spiraling down into the dark and trying to claw himself back out, only to be shoved in yet again by the wolf that was forever clawing angrily at the back of his mind. He was alone and cold in the middle of a dark hole that he would never escape from.
His own name snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts, the world becoming a slow swirling thing as that voice his his ears and a heavy weight landed on his shoulders. He huddled into the warmth of it, huddled into the feeling of something covering him, and his eyes slowly lifted to find an angel looking back at him. It had to be an angel, his swirling thoughts supplied, God sending him a final punishment, an angel wearing the face of the man he loved to taunt him and call him the monster that he was.Â
Unbidden, tears filled his eyes again, and fell quickly. What did it matter? He was in his own personal hell, let him cry. He had that right, didnât he. The strange actions of the vindictive angel confused him for a moment, and he tried to force himself to follow the instructions, a shallow breath in, an even shallower one falling from his lips, and something in the back of his head told him that his heart was still beating, that this might not be Hell after all. But then, it could be a trick that the devil played. Prayer wouldnât help him here, just the steady breaths of the angel, in and out, in and out. The rhythm was one that took him several minutes to grow accustomed to, shallow breaths and mis-steps setting him back a bit before he finally seemed to settle into it. His eyes never left the face of that angel, vindictive or not, this might be the last time he could see that face, and he was going to drink it in as much as he could.
When he thought he might be able to speak again, Peterâs shaky hand moved from the chest of the angel with Kolyaâs face and moved to brush unsteady fingers against cool skin, surprised by the attention to detail. The angel mimicked Kolyaâs body temperature, as well, matched the way those cheekbones stood out against skin, the ridge of the brow. Even now, Peter could remember those things about the man he loved, and the angel was a perfect recreation. It was almost heartbreaking. âYou look just like him.â His voice came out as a whisper, eyes closing for a moment to try and force back more tears, to swallow thickly before his eyes opened again to go back to drinking in that face.
Kolya was gone from Peter now, while he rotted in this hell. Likely relieved that the werewolf had finally gone, no longer there to burden the world. The thought stung, but Peter would have accepted it. âI miss him.â Why bother hiding from this angel who likely knew his every dark thought and feeling, anyway? This was his own personal hell, might as well open up. âI suppose-- it makes sense that you took this form. If Iâm to suffer for eternity, itâs fitting that Iâm haunted by this face. I love him, you know. Loved, I suppose...â Trailing off, Peterâs eyes finally fell from that face, and he blinked again, a bitter chuckle leaving him, staring at the hand uselessly in his lap. âCan you tell me how I died?â His thoughts returned for a moment to frantic, and his eyes shot up, wide and afraid. âI didnât kill anyone else did I? Please, please tell me that I didnât kill anyone before they took me out. I canât... I... Please.â













