(SO. I really dunno how this ship happened but it is now p much my favorite thing and I already miss writing about them. This features the pairing Zack from Angels of Death and Garry from Ib, except it mainly focuses in on Zack and how Garry is a sickeningly good influence on him. Who knew, right?

DISCLAIMER: Garry and Zack are owned by their creators (Kouri and Sanada Makoto, respectively). I only own Beatmore aka The One Friend Not Friend Zack Can Probably Get. Enjoy!)

(Alt title: Death Of A Bachelor)

(Double Alt Title: Happy Valentine’s Day you fucks <3 we are in the hell now)

Zack was crouched in the shadows. He had his target in his sights, unbeknownst that they were the serial killer’s next victim. He had his scythe ready, his bloodlust ruling him, screaming, “KILL! KILL! KILL!” until he felt burst to explode with the energy!

So why couldn’t he do it? Why couldn’t he just take one more step? Come in for the kill, slice him in half or quarters- or even smaller if Zack was feeling particularly disgusted/slice-happy/crazy for blood and death everywhere- and rob the corpse for all it used to be worth. This was how he made his living, after all; he survived his days by robbing others’ lives.

But right now, he just. Couldn’t. Do it. He tried so hard; he stepped from the shadows, he gave his scythe a few test-swings, he pictures happy faces turning to screams of horror and being stained with blood, gore, vomit, but nothing. Something inside him was holding him back, making his mind one huge contradiction.

Fed up with himself and his apparent indecision, Zack bolted to a nearby safe house; the residence of a new friend he’d made shortly after making it to the outside. A friend who was really more of a loose acquaintance who let him talk about his problems and gave advice on how normal life worked and who didn’t care if he crashed there after four in the morning and power-napped for two hours before bolting again, mainly because the genderqueer hardly ever slept. Something Zack could relate to.

And to no surprise, they were there, perched on the arm of an otherwise-empty couch, knitting- “crocheting”, they called it once when he asked, but Zack saw no difference- a blanket. Or maybe it was a scarf? Too early to tell. It shimmered purple and black and looked like the least-revoltingly-bright thing Zack had seen them knit or crochet or whatever.

Zack climbed in through the window and stumbled wearily to the couch, giving no fucks as he collapsed face-first onto the other end of the olive-green sofa with his feet sticking over the other arm.

“Rough night?” Beatmore asked without looking up. Zack remembered when they first told them their name- well, the name they preferred. The fuck kinda made-up name is “Beatmore”? Sounds like a bad typo ‘r somethin’, he has said. They merely flicked him off in response. In the present, he grumbled something unintelligible into the cushions of the couch.

“Rough night,” they confirmed, amusement edging their voice. “What happened?”

More grumbling. Zack was reluctant to admit he wimped the hell out on a job.

“That bad, huh?” Beatmore was unfazed; they knew what he did, and still they gave him refuge for some bizarre reason. They’d claimed to have seen some shit, so this didn’t bother them as it would have most people. Not that they encouraged it; they just didn’t care. It was also why Zack hadn’t killed them and instead used them as a safehouse. They were- surprisingly- cool and okay to be around.

Zack lifted his head enough to turn it to the side so that he could be heard. Staring blankly at the generic fake wooden paneling of the wall, he admitted quietly, “I… I didn’t go through with it.”

That was enough to make Beatmore put down their crochet project and look over at the serial killer. “Whoa, wait, seriously!?” they said incredulously. “You of all people pussied outuva kill?!”

“Obviously not my finest moment.” Zack put his face back in the cushions. Maybe if he was lucky, his shame and the strong lack of oxygen he was getting right now by smothering his face in cushion would kill him.

Beatmore went back to the crocheting. “Huh…,” they mused, ”wonder what changed…” There was a moment of silence as the owner of the flat unraveled and re-stitched a whole two rows while the serial killer still kept his face firmly shoved into the cushions.

“Ohh…,” Beatmore said suddenly after a few minutes of contemplation. Zack looked up just in time to see that knowing and mischievous grin spread across their face. The serial killer felt a sudden jump of anticipation and foreboding. That look was never good on Beatmore in the slightest. They giggled.

“He must be a real good influence on ya, boy.”

Zack’s only response was a long, drawn-out groan of agony. His face returned into the cushions. How long does it even take for someone to asphyxiate when they willingly let gravity pull their face into pleather?

“Totally true, then. Man, how long have you guys even been together?”

Zack held up his hand in a number.

“Four…”

He made an obscene gesture with his hands composed of the index finger of one hand going in and out of a circle made with the other.

“Fucking…”

He then traced four letters into the couch cushions. He didn’t know how to mime this one.

“Ever,” Beatmore interpreted. “For-fuckin’-ever.” They giggled. “At least your spelling lessons ain’t gone to waste. He been teachin’ ya?”

Zack mimed his hand into a puppet and had it nod for him. He didn’t want to look up and face the facts that he was going soft because of some stupid purple-haired genderfluid boy and his stupid revoltingly cute romantic endeavors and antics. Romandevantics. That wasn’t supposed to be a word, but it was now to Zack.

“Aww, how cute. Your boyfriend’s your tutor,” Beatmore teased.

Zack looked up again. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Nah, I’m fine with talking about how adorable you and he are together. Thank for the suggestion, though; I’ll hold onto it for future consideration.”

“I can and will end you.”

“Then who else will hide you from the cops when they go knockin’? Mo’fucka I am the police.”

“You are?”

“...Okay, no, but I am damn good at fakin’ them out when they ask ‘bout Isaac Foster.” Beatmore pouted out their lips, batted their eyelashes, and puffed out their chest. It was disgusting when they decided to play feminine, accentuating the stereotypical features of a woman, but they could pull it off well. “‘Why no, officer, I ain’t ever heard’a no ‘Isaac Foster’ on the news,” they said, faking an innocent Southern Belle accent. “Or ‘What would a maniac like him ever have ta do with li’l ol’ me?’”

They stopped. “Basically I am the sole reason why Garry’s still safe and unsuspected and you’re still on the outside. Treat me nicer, assface.”

“Fine.”

Zack decided to sit properly on the couch, the back of his head resting as far back as he could manage as a long sigh blew past the bandages over his lips. “The fuck’m I gonna do?” he asked, mostly to himself, but Beatmore was sure to have input.

“Get a normal job that doesn’t involve killin’ bitches and robbin’ the bodies,” Beatmore said as they unraveled a row and re-crocheted it. “Or, even better, get a job where you do have to kill bitches, and as a bonus, rob the bodies.”

Zack didn’t know why he even bothered. Beatmore hardly ever had a serious answer.

“Garry has a job sellin’ flowers, right?” Beatmore asked suddenly.

Zack blinked. “Uh, y-yeah. Bon-tany or flower-ist or some shit,” he answered. “Why?”

“Uh, duh? Ask him if you could get a job there?” Beatmore said with a roll of their dark eyes. “Kill two birds with one stone; you can earn a real living and be able to spend more time with him instead of… I dunno, when the hell d’ya even see him now?”

Zack bit his lip in thought. “...Actually, I don’t think I’ve seen him in a few d-”

“OH WHAT THE FUCK?!” the genderqueer suddenly shouted. Zack looked over at them as they violently slammed their knitting down into their lap. Did they mess up a stitch or something?

“What-?”

“A FEW DAYS?!”  Beatmore glared viciously at the killer. Oh shit, he thought. They were scary when mad. Zack’s ever seen them lose their temper over the little things, but holy shit he did not wanna know about what happened when they lost it over something big.

“Prob’ly ‘bout a week now,” he continued meekly, at his own risk.

“You dumb mothafucka, you been with him for how fuckin’ long and you ain’t ever fuckin’ home with ‘im?!”

Beatmore stopped yelling and let go of their hooks to hold the bridge of their nose. They inhaled deeply, then exhaled.

“Boy,” they proceeded slowly, as if struggling to keep their unruly temper in control, “I suggest you get the fuck off my couch, get the fuck outta my apartment, and get the fuck back to your boy’s side. Understand?” Before Zack could even respond, they added, “Do it before I chuck your scrawny slice-happy ass out my fuckin’ window.”

Zack had never been quicker to leave his friend’s place.

“If this happens again, I will handcuff you to his side, and it will not be the kinky kinda pleasant you want from a Saturday night!” they shouted after him.