𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. he tries to remind himself that, not to stumble about and think himself a person. ( HADN’T FELT LIKE ONE OF THOSE IN SO LONG. ) no there was nothing behind his cold grey eyes, plaything for the world. frank should know better than to tread as close as he does, and miller is just as much to blame for letting him. growing comfortable in the stead of quiet talks and mourning moments lost silently to ego and terror. nowhere to hide and everything to lose, they both learned at a young age to hold their cards close to their chest. a spark of something that ignites in his chest when he sees him, hears the familiar gait and that breath behind the mask. the thing that lingered between his teeth is something to keep his heavy heart heaving. a cigarette between his split lips, plump and red and angry. broken by another killer or was it from some past encounter? ( HE DIDN’T WANT TO REMEMBER / THAT HEAT / THAT FIRE / LICKED THE WALLS OF THE FRAME OF WHO HE WAS AND MARKED HIM DEEP ) there was no denying the fact of the matter : he was fucked. tried so hard after that to pull away, recoil. the world wasn’t safe, and miller didn’t deserve whatever comfort frank offered. didn’t trust the fire that kept him warm but always held it in his gaze, let it eat him alive because the pain was something he knew well. yet, couldn’t help but come back time and time and again for more. still, he watches him tread closer, and makes no moves to escape. ( YOU KNOW BETTER THAN TO LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT. ) cigarette drawn from his lips with one hand, partial dried gore upon it. and he must be a sight to see, eyes half-glazed o’er, palms marked with the gore of a slaughtered team he failed to save, all gazing up at him with dark eyes. something unsettling about the way his eyes can switch from a crack beneath the surface, to his crooked grin. q ; was there malice there? a ; perhaps a bit, if not only for the anger of a once more torn shirt from a blade in the other’s hands. with his grin, his lip does split, familiar taste of metal in his mouth soon to be tasted deeper he’s certain. voice no longer holding fast to that bite of snark and rebellion that makes him who he is. a pale imitation in the shaky way he speaks, and the way he gives pause to suck in air. bites back the pain while he awaits his end there, slumped up against the wall on the floor. 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍. god only knows where the hatch is, but he’s staring at the only god in this realm, and knows well that he deserved no such mercy from him.
( OF COURSE HE IS / MUST BE / HATES YOU HATES YOU / JUST LIKE YOU DO ) worthless dog beneath his blade he is, and he welcomes the way his skin is soon to break under his lethal touch. offers up some half spent cigarette to him, hoping, selfishly for the touch of those fingers against his own if only for a moment. wonders if he knows his taste by now, if he even cares. but there was nothing there, he insists, not in the way he wants him to taste his blood on his cigarette, on his lips, his tongue. there was nothing there, and even if there was. 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝.
