💖💖💖💖 :3c
* hold my muse’s hand!
Occasionally, there were lapses of time between trials in the fog. Legion rarely ventured out much anymore--not keen on seeing other Killers or trying to spook the survivors in their camp. They preferred to be by themselves these days, lost in their own minds and furtively skirting the edge of the endless woods around the mountain property.
Were they waiting for something? Someone?
In a way, they’ve forgotten. Trials and killing bleed together until solemn freedom is too buried to notice. They still relish in their murderous ways--a trait they wonder is ingrained or learned at this point.
They track their feet through the snow, sludging it into mud the more they pace through a particular area. Someone was coming, right? They can almost feel it: the excitement of a familiar face, skin to touch, words to speak. A glimmer of recognition comes to mind. The soft pants of jogging through woods, the feeling of fingers threading through auburn hair, the thin strap of a bracelet being left in their wanting hand--
Quentin’s voice breaks them from their reverie. A cold knot hardens in their chest, losing sight of the image they had and wondering what it had been. Their confusion prompts the dreamer to speak up again.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here...”
---
A bit of awkward chatting back and forth led them to the roof of the lodge. It was difficult to get up there, but Legion insisted they go. A pile of boxes was haphazardly stacked together by one of the outer walls, the killer lending a hand with pulling Quentin up onto the snow-covered roof.
Legion kicks off mounds of snow, watching it flurry to the ground before taking a seat next to the ledge. They offer the spot next to them and Quentin sits as well, albeit uncomfortably cold with the wispy wind. Silence falls between them for some time.
A hand covers another, bandaged and dirtier, one. There’s a start from Legion as they turn their head to let the mask stare forward. Unseen through a bloody smile, lips part in anticipation of what to say. Uncertainty washes over them, and for the first time in a while, they all disagree on what’s the right course of action to take, and so nothing happens at all.
Fingers nudge to lace with Quentin’s and it takes a moment, but he allows it. Cautious glances go unheeded by them, legs kicking back and forth over the edge eagerly as their mask is focused elsewhere.
In a moment of clarity, they scoot closer to the survivor until their sides touch. They leave everything as it is--fingers gently entwined and words unspoken.
This time, they agree, it is better this way.
