#vent writing

it wasn’t the first time either of you had spent the night together. or had sex. in fact, it’s been happening for a while now, but the amount of whiplash you’ve been receiving lately was driving you slowly insane. so when chan invited you to stay, you jumped at the opportunity when you knew you shouldn’t have. but you missed him. when you stopped by the studio, he’d been quiet lately. short. almost like he was angry or just too tired to even bother with you. but you didn’t push him though, knowing that the prying eyes of the outside world was enough. the last he needed was for you to pry too. even if he pried at you about the simplest of things in your life. 

and you realized that wasn’t fair. you realized a lot of things weren’t fair, and after chan fell asleep, here you were, standing in his bathroom as you broke down for the fourth time that week.

what are we doing? what is he doing? what are we? what does he want? fuck.  my chest hurts.  my heart hurts.  i can’t breathe.  fuck.  i’m tired.  please. 

this was all that ran through your head as you paced silently in his bathroom, trying to keep your tears as silent as possible. and it worked, chan slept hard, no idea the person he had befriended and formed some weird casual fling with was breaking down five feet away. 

you braced herself in front of his sink, gripping the edges as your knuckles turned white. you looked up at yourself in the mirror. 

‘babe, you look so tired.’ chan hummed, his thumb rubbing over your chin sweetly as his other hand moved to cup your cheek, his other thumb caressing it.  he wasn’t wrong. you had deep dark circles under your eyes. you looked awful.  ‘are you sure you’re okay, baby?’ chan asked, his brows knitted together in concern. 

“yeah. why wouldn’t i be?” you whispered to yourself, repeating the words aloud that you had said to him earlier that night when you were curled up in his lap in the living room. 

but the truth was, even standing here in his t-shirt, hickeys beneath the fabric already darkening, you weren’t fine. 

you hated herself, and you wanted to hate him, but you couldn’t. 

you opened the door and looked to his sleeping form. it was the one time he ever looked at peace. another tear rolled down your cheek, and you walked past his bed, pulling his shirt off of your body. you began looking for your own clothes, slowly pulling them back on as you cried in the dark of his room. 

you didn’t even hear the rustling of the blankets until a sleepy chan finally spoke. “baby?” and you heard more shuffling before the light flicked on. at least you were dressed now.

 “what are you doing?” you could hear the surprise and confusion in his voice as he observed you, seeing that you were back in your jeans once more. 

you wouldn’t turn around to look at him. you swallowed before speaking, trying not to sound like you had been crying. 

“i’m not feeling the greatest, so i’m just gonna head home. i wouldn’t want to get you sick.” you said as normally as you could before you began to leave his room. 

“babe, what? you’re sick? what, hey wait?!” he had tried to follow you, but he still wasn’t dressed, so that gave you more time. 

you quickly grabbed your bag, tossing your phone into it and anything else you left out. your pace got faster as you made it to the door, trying to slip your shoes back on, a curse leaving your lips as the tongue of your converse folded weirdly, making you stop to fix it.

“babes, at least let me take you home-“ and he grabbed your wrist, finally getting you to look at him, making him stop talking. 

“have you been-“

“i can make it home just fine. let go of me.” you said firmly.

and when he didn’t let go, you pulled your arm away, finally getting that damn shoe on, and opening the door. 

“baby, i’m- what’s happening right now? are you okay? please, talk to me.” chan followed you out of the door, his pace matching your quick one. his hand found your wrist again and he stopped you. 

“seriously, talk to me. this isn’t funny. you’re worrying me.” 

“yeah, it isn’t funny, christopher.” you finally spat out, looking at him finally. you felt your heart crack as you looked at the beautiful man in front of you. you pulled your arm away again. 

“now you want to talk? now you want to know what’s wrong? after ignoring me for almost two weeks?” you asked him, tilting your head to the side a bit. a bitter laugh left you as a few tears fell down your cheek. 

“this isn’t the first time you’ve done this. ignore me, and then ask me to hang out or something and we end up fucking or making out and everything feels right for a bit until you push me out again.” you said quickly, the lump in your throat growing again. 

“i thought it was me, but if it was, you wouldn’t come back, but each time this happens, it kills me. i.. i feel disgusting. i’m not some.. some fucking toy or diary you get to open up and do whatever you want with it when you feel good and then forget about when you’re going through something. even when i had my own shit, i never did that to you.” you said through your tears as they began to fall faster. 

“i’m so tired of this casual whatever we have. i’m tired of being your momentary piece of normalcy, because that’s all i seem like i am to you.” you noticed the look on his face and you scoffed, a watery laugh leaving you once more.

“i’m not stupid. i know you lived through me. i understand though. you don’t have a normal life anymore, but if you just thought to actually talk to me and let me in for more than one goddamn second, i wouldn’t be here right now hating myself for crawling back to you every single fucking time.” you were a complete mess at this point. 

all you did was smile and nod all the time. and then eventually, you fell for him, especially after things progressed past the stolen kisses in the studio when no one was around. 

“im going home. alone.” you breathed out after catching your breath. 

and you turned around, and began to walk away completely. you meant it. you were going home, and when you were showing up on monday, you already decided you were no longer letting yourself get so wrapped up in it anymore. 

you didn’t think chan had the kind of heart to do this willingly, and that’s what hurt the most. it was unintentional. innocent, even. yet it left you hurting more than anything else. 

once the taxi dropped you off, you made it into your apartment, and didn’t even make it to your bed. your pillows still smelled like his cologne from the last time he was here, and you couldn’t bear to be near it. you collapsed on your couch, crying yourself to sleep in the moonlight of your living room. 

you didn’t show up that monday though. or the next day after that. or the day after that one too. you sent a text to han every morning, letting him know that your stomach flu really had it out for you, but you would be back to see everyone as soon as you were well again. the thought of seeing him and trying to be normal in front of everyone was too much. so your couch became your bed, your workspace, and your safe space. this was your new normal.

for now at least.

a/n: there it is.... anyways if you read this far thank you!! if you guys liked it and want a pt 2 lemme know??? or if you think my writing is good enough to grace your blogs.. let me know if you want me to do more of these 'spotify shuffle scenarios' - elle

You had never been a needy person.

Years of relying on no one but yourself to scrap by had taught you to be plenty self-sufficient.

Lately, however, something had changed.

You'd been with your boyfriend for two years now, and had long gotten used to him coming and going at all hours of the night only to return earliest in the mornings, beaten and bruised in his black and blue suit, as the sun just began to peak up amongst the waves of Blüdhaven— He’d give you that grin as he stumbles past the window of your shared flat, pretty boy smile stained bloody by a busted lip, and collapsed on the couch as you fixed him up, fed him and cleaned him, only to repeat the process the following day— You'd gotten used to the little routine, happy to spend the little time he could give you in his care.

The problem was, at some point, he stopped returning.

Dick came in later and later every day, giving you nothing but one single-sentence message every twelve hours just to let you know he was alive, and whenever you tried to talk to him, help him, interact with him, he'd rush back to work without much explanation.

You'd worry alone, at work, or at home, doing whatever you could to try and distract yourself from the anxiety, hoping that it would die down when he came back.

And usually, it did.

Until one day, he just vanished.

He came in in the middle of the night, for a shower and a meal, and disappeared just as soon as he was done. 'Be back soon.' Was the last you'd heard from him, but the night fell, the morning rose, the evening rolled around, and he hadn't answered any of your texts.

When you came back from work, the sun had just fallen, and in a desperate attempt to calm yourself down, you whipped up some thai red curry for him to eat, all the while repeating he'd get home as soon as you fell asleep.

But you couldn't sleep.

This wasn’t like him, and he’d been acting strange all month long, always with his head on the clouds, always glued to his phone, as if he was waiting for an important update —There must have been something bad going on in Gotham, something he couldn't tell you about, something he needed to deal with on his own, in the middle of the night, when you couldn't reach him. And though you'd accepted his life as a vigilante long ago, you couldn't help but worry.

You'd been pacing awake around the tiny apartment, doing anything you could to keep your mind from being crowded by the most gruesome conclusions, and panicked, silently, as you scrubbed the pristine floors into a mirror, or got around to removing every inch of the old wallpapers to change it in for the new. The result was that the sun would rise past the sky and down the ocean without any news of Dick, and it would be night by the time you burned through every person in the phone book, and were forced to call his father.

Bruce seemed startled at your crying, the calm tone of his voice doing nothing to soothe you as he asked what you were talking about. The line went silent as you explained Dick had disappeared just before midnight and hadn't returned still, two days later. Softly, though in a very infuriating manner, he told you his son had been with the Titans all day, that he was fine, and that you only needed to call him to find out.

Of course you'd called, you said.

All your calls rolled straight to voice mail.

Bruce found it strange.

He said he'd spoken with your boyfriend a couple times during the day, that he seemed rushed and a bit impatient, but that he was fine, and working as usual.

All your worry simmered down into rage.

Bruce barely had time to give you his patronizing last words before you hung up, got dressed, and rode the hour across town to get to him.

Kori was the one to open the door, much to your own chagrin, and she met you with the same aloof condescention you found to be so common in heroes. - Do you need anything here? - You'd never really gotten to know her, of course, since she had just returned from her planet, but you’d always gotten an inkling that the great Starfire wasn't too fond of you at all.

- Is Dick here? Is everything okay?

- Yes... Night Wing is here. Where else would he be?

You explained the situation to her, and tried your very best to be civil, nice even, but just when it seemed you were getting a reaction out of her, Dick walked past the two of you, drinking from a gallon of milk and walking around in his Panthera shirt as if nothing was happening. - Where the fuck were you?! I was worried sick!

He looked at you as if you’d grown a second head. - I was here, working. What did you think I was doing?

- I thought you were dead! I called you a million times! Why didn't you pick up?

- Because I was busy.

- Busy enough that you couldn't answer a single message to let me know you were alive?!

He frowns, refraining a scoff. - You could've just called the tower.

- I did! No answer! I called every person you know and nobody could get a reach on you, what's going on?!

- Nothing is going on! Why are you freaking out?

- What do you mean why?! You were gone for two days, not a word from you, all my calls roll straight to voice mail and no one I know knows where you're at!

- You're making a big deal out of nothing. Look, go home. We'll talk about this later, okay? Kori and I are in the middle of something.

- But-

- We're really busy. I'll talk to you later. - You saw it then: A bite on his neck. Fresh. Soft. Loving. Not yours.

You were frozen outside the door for a while.

You don't know when you moved.

Why you did.

Your skin was buzzing.

You'd gotten home with your hands shaking.

The door knocked against the rolls and rolls of new wallpaper you had impulse-bought from amazon while waiting for Tim to try and get a hold of his brother. In the moment, you were glad for how quick he was, but as the interaction replayed in your mind for the sixth time, you realized it was a little too quick —Two clicks of his keyboard and this weird little laugh he gave you whenever he made a reference to something you didn't know— Come to think about it, he didn't even turn off your call to call Dick.

What was it with these fucking people?!

You dial with shaky hands, blood boiling inside your charred veins.

"Oh, hey Y/n. Looking for Dick again?" He laughed.

Laughed.

For the second time in those two days, he gave you that stupid laugh while making an innuendo.

- I was born without one. Isn't that the only thing we have in common?

"Ouch.” His laugh was short, breathy, the sort you'd expect he'd have if you punched him in the guts. “Who pissed in your cereal?"

- You did, asshole! Why the fuck would you even pretend to call your brother instead of saying 'sorry can't now' like a normal fucking person?! What the fuck is wrong with you?!

He was quiet for a second, and then you heard him huff: "Look, Y/n. I like you and everything but I can't just stop my life to help you find your boyfriend whenever he doesn't come home, okay?"

- In that case you might have had the grace not to pick up! Isn’t that a novel idea?!

"Maybe you were calling for something else." He laughed again, more condescendingly this time, and you could hear him shift on his chair as he switched the phone from one hand to another. "You and I get along well enough, don't we? Maybe you got tired of chasing wonder-boy around and finally-”

- Oh, fuck you!

The phone crashed against the bare walls and slid against the rolls of wallpaper sitting beneath it. Screen face-down on the ground, you could see the little Polaroid of you and Dick through the transparent case.

You were halfway through marching right over to set that goddamn photo on fire when you're interrupted by the rap of fists against your door. Quiet as kept. Slow. Pompous.

- Go to hell. - You shout. You're tired. You've not slept. Your boyfriend is an asshole, his brother is a dickhead, and his whole family is weird as hell. You're not up for maturity.

- Just came back from it, thank you.

You look at the door.

The muffled words seem familiar in tone.

- Turn around and walk your way back there, since you know the way.

- Don’t make me push this door. - He says, voice still muffled. - It looks like it'll fall if I blow on it.

You stand, peeking on the dusty magic eye to see an armani suit and too much hair.

Bruce Wayne.

He gives you a half-hearted smile, sensing your presence through the flitting light that bleeds from under your door to the hallway outside.

- Try and kick it down, if you're bad.

He laughs. Still looking at the magic eye, his grin sharpens. - Why would I? I know you can't afford another one.

- I was hoping for a reason to sue you, actually.

- Well, can you hope while I'm in there? It's freezing out here.

You scoff, beginning to unscrew the deadbolts. - If you're hoping for internal heating, you're deluded.

The door creaks open with a groan that sounds like it resents the effort.

He looks at you for a moment, pulling out his coat as he throws whatever’s in his hands on your corner table, like he owns the place.

- I thought you were cold.

He shakes his head, looks back at you. - I thought your wallpaper was blue. I liked the other one. It was nice.

You feel the need to push down how unimpressed you are by him, but your face doesn’t collaborate. - Do you have any more commentary on my interior design, or are you just gonna cut to the chase?

He almost seems to flinch for a moment before he looks at you, raising a brow as he nears the wall closest to him. - Yeah. The other one had less noticeable mends. Did you— Don’t tell me you put this all up just yesterday. - Bruce looks at the peeling edges of your hard work like they’re a crime scene, and something about it pisses you off more than it should.

- Wire me the money for renovations since you're so bothered. Are you gonna tell me what you're here for or do you wanna have a look at the new tiles I put up on the bathroom, too?

He does a double take: - You put up wallpaper and changed out tiles in one night?!

- No, Bruce. I snapped my fingers and an army of blue minion things came out of the drain and did it for me. Can you just spit it out?!

- Smurfs.

- Excuse me?!

- The blue “minion things” you're thinking of. They’re called smurfs.

- I know what a fucking smurf is. Now are you gonna tell me what you want or should I open the window for you to jump out of?!

- There's no need for violence.

- Great seeing you. Get the fuck out of my house.

Bruce makes a face, hand fixed on a mend between one roll of wallpaper and the other. - I wouldn't call it a house, per se.

You grab his coat and hold it out to him. - Bye, Mr. Wayne.

He doesn’t take the coat.

Doesn’t even look at it. Just flicks his gaze back toward the wall like you weren’t about to shove him out the apartment and hope the door hits him on the ass before it shuts. - I was just kidding.

You scoff, bitter, impatient, and throw the coat on the same corner table before heading towards the kitchen door. - Remind me to laugh about it later. What do you want?

His expression softens, dark eyes glimmering with that pitiful sort of sympathy that makes your guts churn. - I don’t want anything, Y/n. I called you, you didn't answer. I was worried.

- You're on a roll with these jokes today, aren't you?

He makes a face. - Stop deflecting.

- Stop saying shit you know isn’t true.

- I repeat myself.

- You're gonna repeat your way back to the door real soon, Bruce. - He raises his brows as if you'd just proved his point. - Go fuck yourself.

He takes a step closer to you. - Why didn't you answer?

- You're the detective, figure it out.

He's quiet for a moment, and then— You went to the Titans Tower.

- Those are some incredible powers of deduction you have, huh?

He sighs, pushing a hand through his hair. - This conversation would be a lot quicker if you dialed down the snark, y'know.

You feel the laughter bubbling up to your lips before he even finishes his sentence. - This conversation wouldn't be happening if you just cut to the fucking chase. - You walk right past him, mind blurring in anger, hands twitching with the impulse to get your hands busy before the darker side of your mind takes the wheel again.

- What?

- What? - You mock. - You knew. You knew what was going on. You knew the moment you picked up the phone. That's why you're here, because you're guilty!

You pick up things in such a speed you can barely tell what you're doing, but you move through your cupboards and appliances with enough certainty that you can feel Bruce struggling to keep up - What are you talking about!?

- Dick! I'm talking about Dick and the alien girl! You knew it! And you sat there, listening to me crying, worried about whether the asshole that was probably cheating on me as I spoke had fallen into the hands of some psychopath and died. You knew! You knew and you said nothing!

You don't look at him.

You're deep into cooking something you don't even know the recipe of just so you have an excuse not to look back. But you feel him staring, shifting, adjusting his collar and pushing his hair back in discomfort the same way he did when Dick brought you to meet him for the first time.

- I suspected. - He says stupidly, his voice as even as the rattling of him fiddling with his watch is unstable. - I asked him, he denied.

- And you believed his lying ass. Of course you did, why would the ‘World's Greatest Detective’ ever suspect that the worst liar on the face of the Earth would be talking out of his ass?!

- If he's such a bad liar, then why did you need me to tell you what he was doing?

- BECAUSE I'M A MORON! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANNA FUCKING HEAR?! Do you need me to spell it out to you that I've been in love with that bastard for over two fucking years and that I'm just now figuring out that he was using me as a place-holder?!

His jaw ticks, ever so slightly. You weren’t supposed to say it. He wasn’t supposed to react.

- Would it have mattered, - he asks, low, - if I told you what I thought was going on?

- You think I’d be sitting here, humiliating myself, making these stupid ass questions if it didn't?! - You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand, still working thoughtlessly with the other.

- You're not— He stutters, trails off. You keep talking.

- Would’ve saved me two days of waiting around like an idiot. Saved me a day of not going to work. It would've saved me two fucking years of being with a guy who doesn't like me if you'd just gotten it off your chest the day he brought me to meet you. I bet you wanted to say it too. Or maybe you wanted to see just for how long I'd let him string me along, right?! Nice revenge for the time you wasted on my mother!

He doesn’t gasp, but the way his mouth opens it almost seems like he would. - This has nothing to do with her!

- Of course it does! Everything in my fucking life has to do with her! Everything I fucking do is somehow because of her! Everybody that talks to me is only talking to me because of her! I have no other reason to exist, do I?! And you don't either, that's why you hated me so much when you met me! Selina's the whole reason why you're here!

He studies you for a long moment. You hate that look on him—the one that says he knows something you don’t and doesn’t plan to share. The one that’s half pity, half appraisal.

You have no idea of when he got so close, but he holds your wrist in place before you can move the knife too brusquely, before you can hold it to your skin again. - Put it down. - He whispers, soft, warning, almost a plea. - Give it to me. Just put it down.

The edge is pointing down, directly above your hand, looming like a guillotine.

Your hand is still trembling when he takes the knife from you.

He doesn’t let go of your wrist. Doesn’t move. His other hand clutches the blade like it might do something if he looks away—even though it's harmless now.

You don’t look at him.

Your eyes are on the silver edge of the knife.

Your skin is buzzing, like someone turned a switch in you.

You sniff, wipe your face with the back of your hand. - I wasn’t gonna do it.

He doesn’t answer.

You're not even sure if it's the truth. - I wasn’t. It just—it helps. Having something in my hand. Keeps it busy.

Still, nothing.

You finally glance up—and his eyes are closed. His hands are shaking.

You blink. - Bruce? - He lets out a breath he didn’t seem to know he was holding. - Give it back. - You plead. You don’t know why. You're not sure what you're gonna do with it. But you want it back. - Give it back. - You say, and it sounds harsher then you meant to.

He shakes his head. Holds tighter to your wrist.

- Give it back. - You repeat.

The tears come out quicker. Heavier. You can’t blink them away. - Give it back.

He doesn't.

You try to pull your hand free, but he holds it tighter. Like he knows what happens if you get it back. Like he's scared of you, and not in the way people usually are.

You breathe harder.

It feels loud in the small kitchen.

- You don’t get to do this. - You sob. Your chest is tight. - You don’t get to show up here and act like you care.

He says nothing.

- Give it back.

Still nothing. His silence starts to feel cruel.

- Give it back. I swear to God, Bruce—

- Stop it. Stop it. Just stop it! - He opens his eyes, finally. You can’t see him right through the blur of your own tears. You don’t wanna look at him. But he looks at you. His voice is cracking. His hand so tight around your wrist you can feel the bruises coming on.

You laugh. A horrible, wet sound. The kind of laugh people mistake for crying.

- Give it back.

- Stop it. - He pleads.

- Give it back, Bruce! It's my goddamn knife! I paid for it! Give it back!

- Stop it. Stop. Please!

- Just give it back! - You finally wrench your hand away, reaching for the knife, but he pushes you. A knee-jerk reaction. An instinct.

But it throws you away.

Your spine hits the counter so hard the board sitting on it clatters to the ground next to your feet, sending spring onions and minced garlic all over your floor.

You’re not even looking at him.

Your fingers curl into fists. Your whole body buzzes with that ugly static that always comes right before—before you snap, before you do something you’ll regret.

- I'm sorry— He stutters. - I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, ai didn't mean to push you—

The words come out fast, breathless. He steps forward, but you flinch before he can touch you.

- Don’t.

It comes out hoarse. Shaky.

You’re blinking too fast. You can’t see straight. You wipe at your eyes but it only smears the salt around.

- I wasn’t gonna use it. - Your voice is almost a whisper now. - I just needed to hold it. Just for a second. Just to feel something in my hand.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, face twisted in a way you can't decipher.

- I wasn’t gonna. I just… - You swallow. - Just let me hold it. Please.

He shakes his head.

Slowly.

Desperately.

As if it's taking all the effort in the world.

- Please. - You try again. - I'm not gonna do anything with it, Bruce. I just wanna hold it. Please. - It's softer now. Raw.

He swallows hard, breathing heavy.

- I just wanna hold it.

He says nothing.

But his knuckles are white around the handle. His eyes flicker between you and the knife for a second, like he wants to believe you.

Like he has to give you something.

Anything.

You step closer.

Your tears are slow now. They don't drown you. Your eyes aren't blurry anymore.

You press your palm to his chest.

He flinches—not away from you, into himself. Like you triggered something internal. Like you're digging whatever’s left of him out.

You feel his heartbeat stutter beneath your fingers.

His breath shakes.

So does yours.

Your other hand finds his shoulder. The fabric is damp.

He's sweating.

You’re not thinking about what it looks like. You’re thinking about the knife.

But you see it.

The way his throat works when he swallows.

The way his eyelids flutter.

The way his grip on the blade weakens, just for a second.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

So you press your forehead to his collarbone and whisper again, voice soft as the touch of another feather. - Please, Bruce. Just for a second.

His breath comes out shaky.

You look up as he shakes his head.

You feel it hit your temple, warm and quiet.

- I can’t. - He says. His voice is nothing now. A rasp. A thread. - I'm not going to.

You feel his hand on your back. Hesitant. Guilty.

You don’t pull away.

You’re crying again, mouth pressed to the side of his neck, voice breaking open like glass.

- Please. Please, I don’t know what else to do. Just for a second, Bruce. Just one. I'll give it back to you, I promise. It's just a second.

Your fingers tremble against his shoulders.

You see how he shakes. You feel how close he is to giving in. And you lean into that, because it’s all you have left.

- I’ll be okay. I swear. I’ll be okay. I'm not gonna do anything.

He exhales like it hurts.

He's softer now as you look up to him, his eyes glimmering with tears. He almost looks like he pities you.

- It's just for a second. - You beg. - Please, Bruce.

He shakes his head again, but doesn’t move.

You reach down his arm.

Over his hand.

His knuckles are like stone. Cold. Tense. As if he'd shatter if you let him fall.

- Stop it. - He says, but there's no weight to it. - Why are you doing this? You don’t have to do this.

- I'm just gonna hold the knife for a second, then I'll let it go.

And before he can stop you—

You reach for the blade.

Not the handle.

The blade.

Your fingers close around the edge, and your skin splits open—quiet, like paper tearing.

Your blood is warm.

- Just for a second. - You whisper. - It's just a pinch. Just for a second. I promise.

His voice breaks.

- No—stop. - He drops the handle, tries to pull your hand away. - Stop, stop—don’t—Let go of it!

- It's just a pinch—

You sob, clutching tighter to the blade as he tries to unwrap your fingers.

- It won’t even hurt.

The knife slips, slashing against the side of your fingers before it clatters to the tile.

You lunge for it, but his arms are around you now. You can’t move. He pulls you back hard—too hard—and your knees buckle.

You hit the floor together.

- Bruce—

You try to twist, try to push him off, to crawl for it, but he’s holding you like you’re the last living thing on Earth.

- It's not even gonna hurt. - You tell him. - It's just I second, you won't even notice.

You’re sobbing now.

You can’t stop crying.

Mouth against his shoulder, breath coming in gasps, your whole body shaking.

- Please. Please, Bruce, please.

He tries to say something. His voice shatters. His mouth presses to your hair as he holds you tighter, keeping you still.

- Stop it. - He whispers. - Stop it.

- I’m sorry. - It chokes out of you. Guilty. Painful. You don’t even know what you're apologizing for— I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—

You’re both on the floor now. Tangled. Bleeding. Breathing too hard, like the air’s running out. And still, he won’t let you go.

You hope he doesn’t.

But you wrap your arm around his neck and press your finger to the pin on his collar, pretending to hug him back.

You feel bad.

And he hold you tighter.

You just hope he won't notice the blood on his shirt until he takes it off.

Buck lay on the cold grass, staring up the sky, the stars so far away, yet so bright. He had been on a small night run for ingredients to dinner, but something odd had happened. As he was riding back home, he got really dizzy, and his heart kinda.. felt like it clenched. He felt faint, and fell off Duke, thankfully only landing on his shoulder and not his head. Duke had stopped, but decided not to mess eith his owner, and went to a patch of flowers, eating away.

Buck hadn't moved, just stared up at the sky. Blinking. Confused, yet everything made sense at the same time... he hated feeling this way. He hated being this way. As he lay there, his chest ached. His throat felt tight. He felt really shaky and as tears entered his eyes, he tried to breath through it. He wasn't sure if he was having some emotional break, or just the darn sickness playing with him. The voices in his head also got louder occasionally, and it felt like pressure in his mind.

You're dangerous. You're unpredictable. What's wrong with you? Can't you get up? Get up! Awww, your leg and back hurts? You are pathetic. Get up. Your family is waiting for you. Huron is waiting for you. You want to go back to him don't you? Or will you leave him like he fears?

Oh are you getting angry now? Angry at who? Huron? Yourself? Can't you make your mind? Oh now you feel guilty? You should. You deserve to feel bad. You should feel bad. How could you think like that. Don't you love him? Are you scared? Are you scared of yourself? Coward. You should run away. You should leave. Is your heart beating? Are you even alive?

Bucks chest tightened again and suddenly... he couldn't stop himself from crying, turning onto his side and curling, sobbing as he took off his hat and buried his face in it. He wasn't sure what he wanted. What he needed. He wanted to be with huron. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be home. He wanted to be at the end of a gun. He wanted everything, yet wanted nothing at the same time.