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🎵: friends by v of bts

scp: @choreomanics.scp

Casual. Calm. Conversational.

No answer.

All right. That’s fine. Daniel is sleeping. He’s exhausted. They have both been through so much turmoil these last couple of days. Physically. Emotionally. If Armand were mortal, he too would be sleeping the sleep of the dead.

Daniel is merely resting—God knows he needed it—and it’s a deep sleep. That’s good.

He’s peaceful. He’s relaxed.

He’s comfortable.

Comfortable...

“I never pass a comfortable night.”

Armand’s vision is beginning to go a little hazy at the edges. This isn’t right. The silence.

No sound but the quiet drone of the plane’s engine.

Daniel has always snored, not in an irritating way, just enough to remind Armand that…

No.

All the blood running through Armand’s veins freezes at once. He sits bolt upright, every muscle in his body tensing, his head spinning a little more with the rush.

He looks down at Daniel.

“Daniel?” he asks, a little more urgently this time.

No.

This is wrong.

Armand should have felt Daniel’s breath on his fingers when he traced the line of his lips. Daniel should be snoring. Daniel should… he should… his chest, his shoulders… they should be moving with his breath… he… he…

Armand places his palm on Daniel’s cheek. He strokes the soft skin with his thumb.

“Daniel?” he says, trying his best to keep his voice even and measured. It betrays him with a wobble.

Daniel doesn’t stir.

Armand’s hand begins to tremble, so he gives it something to do. He pats Daniel on the cheek a few times. Slightly harder than he probably should.

“Daniel!” Less of a question now and more a demand as his heart rate ratchets higher.

Still nothing.

The plane is not currently banking. It is simply cruising at altitude, yet the cabin appears to be spinning. Armand’s entire world, entire existence is tilting off its axis as though it is. He is outside of his body. Floating somewhere above it. Watching a nightmare take place below him. He scrambles to his knees and grabs Daniel by the shoulders. He gives him a shake. First just a small one. Then a slightly more urgent one.

No.

No, no, no, no, no!

This is not happening! This cannot be happening! The two of them fell asleep watching Blade Runner together and now Armand is having a horrible, horrible nightmare. Or even more preferable, Armand fell asleep in 1973, and these last fifty years have been nothing but a dream, a fantasy. He never met this ridiculous boy, he never loved him, he never lost him… and he’s not losing him again now.

He cannot be losing him again now! Not after finally getting him back again! Not after glimpsing hope that, after all this time, even if only for a short while, he might once more be loved by his fascinating boy.

Armand isn’t ready. He isn’t ready to let him go again! He knew that it was inevitable—he’s known for half a century—but he is simply not ready! He needs to see those eyes again, those beautiful green eyes. He needs to feel those lips on him again, those soft, pink lips. How desperate he is to hear one more sarcastic comment, one more barb traded with him. There are so many things that Armand still has to say to him. So many things he still needs to hear Daniel say in that raspy, sardonic voice. Like his name, the way only he can say it.

Armand.

And those three words that Armand still needs to hear from him! He needs to hear them again!

I love you.

Daniel promised! He promised!

Armand’s vision is turning pink and blurring even further. His fingers are twisted so tightly in the fabric of Daniel’s shirt that his knuckles are turning white. There’s a lump in the pit of his stomach, something hard and massive, and it’s slowly working its way up through his ribcage. It’s crushing both of his lungs and choking them of any oxygen; it’s pushing against his heart and causing it to fracture, its’s coming up his throat and suffocating him… there’s nowhere else for it to go.

The sob rips out of him, and with it, the dam bursts, and he wails.

He hauls Daniel against himself, one arm wrapped around his middle, his other hand tangled in Daniel’s curls as he clutches his head to his chest, holding him as tightly as he possibly can without shattering his ribs and crushing his skull. He holds Daniel like he’s trying to push him inside his own body, crack open his own ribs and shove Daniel inside, cradled beside his heart where he belongs.

The sound Armand makes is not human. It’s not even vampiric. It is the blood-curdling scream of a wounded beast, ripped straight from the very depths of hell, and Armand barely even recognizes it as his own voice. The last time he had made a sound even remotely similar, he’d been covered in the blood and viscera of his dear dead friend, Riccardo. Now, almost half a millennium later, he’s holding Daniel in much the same way. And he’s just as lifeless.

The blood tears that are streaming down Armand’s cheeks are falling onto Daniel’s beautiful, silver hair—matting the hair and tarnishing the perfect white cloud of his curls. Armand doesn’t want to mar him like that! He doesn’t want to have to remember him this way! Lifeless and covered in Armand’s blood—the image will be forever burnt into Armand’s memory for as long as he lives!

Lives? Who is he trying to convince? He cannot live! Not like this! He is trembling, his shoulders are heaving with every choked-out sob, his entire body—every atom—is screaming for Daniel.

He is never going to let Daniel go! He is going to climb inside the pilot’s head and compel him to crash the plane! And he is going to hold Daniel in his arms until they are both engulfed in flames!

In hell together, after all.