Inspired by this picture:
http:/miimochi (DOT) deviantart (DOT) com/art/Damien-I-m-Coming-For-You-162432163
Makes you realize what kind of fic this will be.
Satan realizes halfway through his son's ninth year that the boy is a spoiled wimp. This won't do for the antichrist (the last thing the world needs is for little Damien to grow up just like his father). He decides the best way to ensure his son will grow a backbone is to send him to the American public school system, which is a far worse hell than anything he could ever manufacture himself.
Pip meets Damien for the second time at the beginning of their fifth year in elementary school.
Craig has his sneakers planted on Pip's back, his lips curled in a sneer. Pip's face presses into the grass. He can't breathe under Craig's weight and his own fear.
"Hey."
It's the new kid, Damien, his eyeliner-lacquered eyes narrowed and his painted lips pursed.
Craig laughs, because Damien's been called a fag seven times so far today and with the way he responds, the general student body has started to assume it's true.
"You shouldn't do that," Damien says.
Everyone knows Damien's the antichrist. He told them all upon his arrival and they remember the disastrous experience back in the third grade which involved him killing a good portion of their class.
Everyone knows. None of them care.
"Why not?"
"It's not nice." Damien's shoulders go up, like he knows he's going to be hit.
"All right, then." Craig steps off him.
Pip rolls over and inhales as much air as he can.
Craig stalks over to Damien and punches him in the face. Damien drops to the ground, crying out.
"Pussy," Craig sneers, and saunters off, laughing. His friends join him, telling him how awesome he is. Damien and Pip are left together.
"Have you . . . had a nice first day?" Pip asks after a minute of staring up at the cloudy sky above.
"No," Damien says, and he starts to sob. "It's been terrible."
Pip sits up and holds him awkwardly while he cries. "Don't worry," he says, "it will get better. Soon they'll tire of you and go back to bullying me."
Damien explains how his father sentenced him to seven years in the public schools, until his high school graduation. He has to get through it like a normal human, apparently, living with foster parents and without his magical powers. It will be horrible.
They sit on the swings on the playground, Damien nursing his black eye, and they talk. They talk about nothing and everything. Damien's terrible at conversation. He spaces out at the strangest moments and comes in with odd questions, like, "what color was the chair?" But sometimes he just listens and nods along with Pip's words, and whenever he hears about something particularly bad that happened to him he promises to sentence the "motherfuckers who did it" to a thousand years of torture.
After school every day, they meet and they talk and they play the games Pip's always wanted to play. Wrestling. Foot races. Tag. Hide-and-seek. Games he's never been able to play, because you can't play them with just one person.
They look after each other's wounds, they cry over each other's hardships, they smile at each other's triumphs.
Damien will be up on the surface of Earth for seven years. After just three weeks, Pip knows they're going to be together forever.
They're eleven when they share their first kiss eight months later. They're building a sand castle on the class field trip to the beach. The other children are avoiding them, as per usual. They fling sand at each other and Damien tells a stupid joke and Pip laughs until he cries and he's never felt happier in his life.
They sit with their shoulders together, faces tilted back to drink in the sun, and Damien says, "I think we should kiss."
Pip stares at him. "Er . . . why?"
"Because."
"Oh."
They kiss. Their noses bump together.
The hand-holding thing doesn't start until midway through seventh grade. At first, it's just Damien teasing and joking around. He'll snatch up Pip's hand on the way to Biology and tickle his fingers (every inch of Pip's skin is ticklish).
Then they're at the library one day, pouring through a collection of Spiderman comics, when a girl the grade below comes over to them and shyly asks Pip if he'll go to Friday's dance with her.
"No!" Damien snaps before Pip can even consider responding. "He's going with me!" And he grabs Pip's hand and doesn't let go for an hour.
They've never even gone to a dance before. They attend, and they're made fun of for their terrible skills, but they share the slow dance at the end. For three and a half minutes, it's just Pip in Damien's arms, and it's like none of the other children never even existed.
Damien decides to define it a few years later. He says they officially became boyfriends on March 12th of their freshman year of high school. Pip, although he knows it happened long before that, has never been one to go against what Damien says, so he goes along with it.
One day Damien mentions his father, and Pip realizes this isn't permanent. This isn't their "forever". And although Damien said the comment in passing, Pip starts to keep a countdown until their twelfth-grade graduation. Nine hundred and fifty-six day, nine hundred and fifty-five . . .
Sex before marriage is supposed to be wrong, gay sex even worse, but when he mentions it to Damien, Damien promises they'll get married as soon as it's legal. This makes Pip feel better. And honestly, it feels far too damn good for him to complain more than that.
He's leaning up against Damien behind the school during lunch, a book in his lap and their backs pressed together. The sun warms their bodies. They've got one class left in the day, Chemistry, but they have it together and after that they'll go to Pip's house and watch reruns of ancient TV shows and end up making out on the couch.
He doesn't know if he's ever felt so at peace.
Two hundred and three days, two hundred and one –
"I'm going to have to leave soon," Damien says December of their senior year.
"I know," Pip says.
Pip's eighteenth birthday is February sixth. Damien gets down on one knee and asks him to marry him.
"I don't ever want you to leave," Pip says.
Damien is quiet for a few seconds. They're curled up in Pip's bed, both half-asleep after three hours of cramming for a math test.
"Don't want to leave, either."
They stare at each other through the darkness, their breathing heavy and their heartbeats rapid.
Damien plants a kiss on his forehead.
"I have to leave," he says. "My father won't let me stay on earth, not when I have all my goddamned responsibilities as the antichrist. I've tried begging. I plead as hard as I can whenever I see him. He never listens."
Pip shifts next to him so he can bury his shoulder into his forehead.
"Maybe," he murmurs, "maybe I can follow you."
It's the perfect plan. Damien talks about it for weeks, a gleam in his eyes and a smile on his lips. They're both smiling. And kissing, and touching, and laughing-
The night after graduation. Pip wears the jeans he knows Damien prefers, and Damien brings the knife.
They hide in Pip's attic (his foster parents honestly wouldn't notice if he jumped off he roof). They light scented candles.
They kiss, and talk, and have sex, and kiss and talk some more, and by the time they're both exhausted and resting against each other, it's eleven-forty eight.
"Remember," Damien says, "tell the council who are deciding your fate to put you on hold until I can convince my father to let me come find you."
"You're sure I'll go to hell, right?" Pip whispers, and his voice cracks.
"Assisted suicide is one of those things," Damien says wryly. "You'll be there, I'm sure, even if I have to drag you down from heaven myself."
"All right," Pip murmurs.
His voice is so quiet Damien strains to hear it.
Pip's only wearing his jeans, so it's quite easy for Damien to place the knife over his fiancé's heart.
Pip's rapid heartbeat pounds through the room.
"We'll get married," Damien says, "as soon as I take you down to my dad's house. We'll have a grand wedding with everyone throwing white flowers."
"And then you'll be mine forever," Pip says.
"And you'll be mine."
Damien kisses him, and Pip feels certain this is the last kiss he'll ever taste as a living human being.
Damien lifts the knife up. Pip keeps his eyes on him. They share a smile.
Then Damien plunges the knife down and misses.
He misses Pip's heart by two inches.
Pain shouts through him, pain hot and real and hungry. Pip screams. Damien yanks out the knife, gasping his apologies, and lifts it again to fix the problem. Survival instinct takes over. Pip shoves him away, fingers slippery in his own blood, and scrambles back. His vision blurs as the pain starts to consume him. He's shrieking, wordless, his heart pumping blood from his body. His feet slip in puddles and he topples to the floor.
"Pip!" Damien cries out, knife raised, and then the clock on the wall flashes twelve and he disappears.
Pip leans back against the wall, breathing heavily, staring at the place where his fiancé was just a minute ago. For a second he feels overwhelmed with loneliness. Then he reminds himself that he'll be with Damien again shortly.
His hand traces over the wound. He smiles. Faintly.
Then another stab of pain hits him, and he lets out a groan, and suddenly he's fucking scared.
It hurts. It hurts so much. Damien didn't say it would hurt this much. He made it sound like it would be easy and painless.
He tries to whisper out, "I'm coming-" but his lips don't move right.
He just wants it to be over. He wants the pain to end and he wants it to be over.
"What ze 'ell ees going on – ahh, I zought I smelled blood."
He manages to move his gaze from the floorboards on the floor. The teenager climbing through the attic window is tall and lanky, and he has a shovel strapped over his back and a coil of rope around his arm.
"Suicide? Well, you 'ave done a fucking terrible job of eet." The stranger drops down next to him, shrugs the shovel off his back, and starts to rip his own shirt into shreds.
"No –" Pip gargles out.
"Not suicide? Zen, what deed zey look like, so I can go avenge your deaz eef I cannot help you?" He pulls out a cell phone and dials nine-one-one. His French accent mangles his words as he recites of Pip's address.
"Not . . . suicide . . ." Pip murmurs.
"Zen what deed zey look like?" the French teen asks without much patience. He snaps his cell phone closed and uses the shreds of his shirt to sop up Pip's blood. Then he holds the cloth against the wound, eyes screwing shut in concentration.
"You don't . . . understand."
"You're right. I do not. Now, stop talking, as I doubt eet weel 'elp ze 'dying of a knife wound' zing."
"I'm not ending my life," Pip whispers out, "I'm just starting it."
He whispers it over and over until the ambulance arrives.
When he wakes up, everything's white and empty and very obviously not hell.
There's an IV drip attached to his arm. He's wearing a hospital gown. When he peeks under the sheets, he sees his chest is bandaged up.
"I'm alive," he whispers.
He curls up on the bed, tears running down his cheeks. "I'm alive."
"Oui, eet was a close call."
He looks up. The French teenager is standing in the doorway. A blond-haired teen Pip recognizes from school stands next to him. He's the only other British kid at school. His name is Gregory, Pip thinks.
"Eef I 'ad not been walking to zis cocksuckers' 'ouse to report after completion of my mission, and smelled ze blood and 'eard ze screaming, you would probably be dead right now."
"I-" Pip wipes his face with the sheets. "You . . . don't understand."
The French kid saunters over to him and sits in the empty chair next to his bed. "Don't understand what? I am Christophe DeLorn, by ze way, eef you care at all, alzough zis cocksuckers seems convinced my nickname ees 'ze mole.'"
"I'm Pip," he whispers.
"What do I not understand?"
"It's . . . "
Gregory comes over to him and sits down next to Christophe. "Whatever it is, you can tell us," he says. "The doctors confirm it was a suicide attempt, and although we are not therapists, we will help you out as best as we can. Whatever . . . whatever drove you to do this to yourself, we can fix it, Pip. It's going to be all right."
"I . . . " His voice is dry. "I . . . I'm alive." Then, "where are my foster parents?"
Christophe and Gregory glance at each other. Then Gregory says: "They haven't showed up at the hospital yet, although they have been informed. But it's all right, Pip, you're alive."
He knew they didn't care anyways. "I'm alive."
Then he screams it. "I'm alive!"
He rips the IV from his arm, tears the bandages off, screaming and crying Damien's name over and over again. It takes Christophe's and Gregory's combined strengths to restrain him.
"Tell us why you did it, Pip."
"It's okay, just take it slowly."
"You can tell me anything."
"You can't run away from your problems."
"You can trust us."
The therapists come, a steady barrage of them, all with their false smiles and comforting words. All Pip does is roll over and stare at the wall and pretend they don't exist. Oh, and whisper Damien's name. He does that a lot.
Six days after graduation, he dreams the most beautiful dream of his entire life. Because it's real.
They're standing in a meadow filled with waving grass, the moon above full, the wind rippling over their shoulders and caressing the bare skin of their arms.
He and Damien try to embrace each other, and when it doesn't work and they just pass through, they settle for standing close enough to make out their reflections in the other's eyes.
"I'm using magic," Damien says. "My dad doesn't want me to. He doesn't want me to connect with earth. He says he doesn't want me to be attached to it. I don't know how much longer I have in this dream."
He looks as beautiful as Pip remembers, as strong and fierce and proud.
"Pip, you have to kill yourself," he says. "I don't know how much long I can be without you."
"Me either," Pip whispers.
Their ghostly hands pass through each other.
When he wakes up, he cries again.
They won't let him near any sharp objects. When they stop eating, they force feed him. He tries to save up his pills and then overdose on them, but they put a stop to it at once.
He's never hated anyone in his entire life, but if he had to he would hate these doctors.
"I'm coming for you," Damien says.
It's the eighth time they've dreamed together. Two weeks since graduation.
"How?" Pip whispers.
"I'll send some demons up to earth with your scent, telling dad I'm training them to track down one specific scent. They'll burst through the hospital and tear you to pieces."
They smile at each other and air-kiss since they still can't touch in this dream world.
"Thank you," Pip whispers. "I miss you so much."
"I miss you, too," Damien whispers back. "But you'll come to hell, and we'll get married, and we'll be together."
"Forever," Pip promises.
When he wakes up this time, he's smiling. The doctors take this as a good sign.
It's eleven thirty-seven in the morning. Damien said he would release them at eleven-thirty.
The demons will track him down any second now.
He smiles to himself and pulls the sheets further up around his body. Soon he'll be with Damien again.
The door opens. For a second he thinks it's his salvation. Then he realizes it's Christophe, with Gregory in tow. Christophe has his shovel slung over his shoulder. He carries the red-and-yellow flowers as if they've been forced into his hands.
"'Ere," he says, and thrusts the flowers at Pip.
They smell fake.
"Zis cocksucker made me get zem." He jerks his head at Gregory. "Ze doctors say you are getting better."
"Yes," Pip says. "Since yesterday, anyway." They visit every day.
"Are you still planning on offing yourself?" Christophe asks with more than a little bit of a scoff.
"Mole!" Gregory digs his elbow into his ribs. Christophe scowls and rubs his ribs, but doesn't retaliate.
They stand there in awkward silence. This has happened every day. He's brought something (chocolate, a book to read, et cetera) they stare at each other for a few seconds, Gregory makes small talk, Christophe snarks, they leave.
"Thank you both so much," Pip says, "but you really didn't have to-"
And then the demon roars into the bedroom.
The two of them act as if they've slaughtered demons hundreds of times (maybe they have). Christophe throws himself in front of Pip while Gregory slams the door shut. The demon crashes into Christophe, snarling and spitting fury.
Gregory pulls a gun from his coat and empties three rounds into it.
Black blood bursts from its body. It turns on Gregory, claws exposed. Christophe slams his shovel down onto its head.
It explodes.
Black goo coats every inch of the room. The demon-thing had been about the size of a cat, maybe a little larger, but each surface drips with foul-smelling black blood. Pip gags on the stench. Christophe wipes his shovel off on a clean bit of his shirt.
Something hits the door. Banging emits from beyond. Claws and fangs start to scrape at word. Christophe and Gregory look at each other, and they share an expression Pip can't comprehend.
Christophe smashes open the window in the corner of the room. Shards of glass shower down upon them. Pip gasps. Sharp. He tries to scoop one up but before he can Christophe throws him out the window.
He lands on asphalt. Road rash scrapes up his bare arms and legs. He reaches out to grab a shard of broken glass, but Christophe jumps out the window, scoops Pip up, and tosses him out his shoulder.
They make it halfway through the parking lot before Gregory leaps out the window after them, landing with his palms in the pile of broken glass. He doesn't show any sign of pain, just readjusts his grip on his gun and sprints through the parking lot after them. There's enough black goo on him to morph his appearance beyond familiarity. And the demons burst through after him.
A huge, hulking mass of black and snarling teeth. Golden eyes opened wide and narrowed at them and blinked. There must be multitudes of demons, but they ran so close he couldn't make them out.
"Ees ze C4 still een ze car?" Christophe hisses to Gregory when he catches up.
"Yes, not unless you moved it."
"Good." The mole's panting now, straining under Pip's weight.
"I can take him if you want." Gregory stretched out his hands.
"Don't be retarded. You are injured." Christophe shoots him a glare and they slide to a stop in front of a beaten-up truck.
Christophe dumps Pip into the passenger seat and snarls for him to stop trying to kill himself for a minute, goddamn it. Then he and Gregory start to dig through the bed of the truck. The demons grow closer, oozing over the sidewalk, leaving black smears wherever they travel.
Pip starts to look through the glove box, looking for something sharp. He finds a Swiss army knife and flips it open. Then Gregory ducks into the driver's seat, still focused on the demons, and Pip hides the knife under his hospital gown. Gregory would stop him. It'll be easier to use it later, when he has some privacy, if Damien's demons don't succeed.
"DRIVE!" Christophe yells from the truck bed, and Gregory hits the gas and the car lurches forward.
They almost hit the car in front of him but Gregory swerves to the side just in time. Explosions echo out behind him. A rippling sensation roars through Pip as he hears the world exploding behind them. He glances back and sees smoke and orange flame and not a hint of demon-black.
Christophe climbs up into the backseat behind the two of them. "I got them all, I zink," he pants out. "Zat was far too fucking close. I 'aven't seen demons in, what two years?"
"Not since the Siberian haunted house mission." Gregory keeps his eyes on the road.
"Right. Why are zey 'ere?" Christophe focuses on Pip. "And why were zey targeting you?"
"Me?" Pip squeaks. "Er, how do you know they were going after me?"
Christophe snorts. "Never mind." He shares a look with Gregory that says 'we'll talk about this later when he's not here.' Then he says, "where are we going? We need to find a safe 'aven to plan, to regroup, and to prepare for ze next wave of zeir attack. Demons always come in groups. So, where are we going?"
Gregory grins wryly. "Where do you think?"
Kenny McCormick goes (went) to Pip's high school, which means he's another one of the kids who hate Pip and enjoy making his life pure torture. He scowls when he opens the door and sees the three of them standing there.
"Why happened to you guys?" he asks.
"Demons."
"Ah. I hate those little buggers." He glares at Pip with more than a little disdain. "What's this bastard doing here?"
"We are trying to keep him alive," Gregory says.
"Awww, why?" Kenny moans, and he's not even joking, really. But he adds, "Mom and dad are out getting wasted, little sister's at a friend's house. Come on in."
Christophe ops for the first shower while Gregory shuffles around the kitchen looking for food. Kenny leans back on this threadbare couch, crosses his arms, and watches Pip.
"So," he says, "you tried to kill yourself."
"Well, yes, I suppose I did," Pip mutters. He wishes Kenny would leave so he'd have more luck with that. Actually, it probably didn't matter if Kenny were here or not. The other boy would probably help him along.
"Make sure he doesn't do it again!" Gregory orders from the kitchen. "You don't have any food in here, I'm going to order pizza!" He heads outside, fumbling with his cell phone, black demon goo still dripping off him.
"I'm going to have to clean that up," Kenny says with disgust. He looks Pip over again. Pip stands awkwardly against the wall, terribly aware of how filthy he is, how he's only wearing a hospital gown, how it's getting harder and harder to keep the pocketknife hidden in the thin fabric.
"I hate suicidal jackasses," Kenny says.
Pip says nothing.
"You know why?"
"No."
"Of course you don't. It's because they throw away everything they have. You know how valuable life is? I doubt you do."
It's not suicide, Pip thinks, if you'll be happier after you die.
"Forget it," Kenny says. "I'm talking too much."
He leaves the room. Pip stands alone, alone for the first time in ages. Usually it's a doctor or a nurse or Christophe and Gregory watching over him. He considers making use of his knife, but before he can Kenny returns, carrying an oversized, patched-up jacket.
"Here." Kenny hands him the jacket.
Pip stares at him. The jacket feels soft and worn in his hands.
"You look cold, okay? And I know it's not the best ever. I'm well aware that my family's poor." Kenny flops back down on the sofa. "Well, go ahead. Put it on."
Pip shrugs the jacket on.
The pizza is a thousand times better than the hospital food. He hasn't eaten pizza in ages. He chews slowly, even though Christophe and Kenny wolf down their slices with speeds typical of teenage boys. Kenny lends him a pair of ratted jeans and a t-shirt as well, so he doesn't feel so naked and exposed.
Afterwards, they watch a horror movie from Japan, complete with cheesy subtitles. Christophe ends up clutching at Gregory for comfort and whimpering while each of the protagonists die slow, painful deaths. Kenny laughs at the fakeness of the blood. Pip watches with wide eyes. He's never seen a horror movie before.
Everyone dies at the end, and because Gregory thinks it's hilarious that Christophe can't watch a horror movie on his own, he chase Christophe around the house and tackles them all to the ground. They end up play fighting for an hour, until Pip's bandages open up and Christophe has to stop and re-wrap them.
Kenny and Gregory walk to the 24/7 convenience store for food and Christophe invites Pip to help him set explosives around the house. He doesn't let Pip hold any of the explosives, of course, so mostly Pip just watches with an open mouth while Christophe prepares them for a demon attack.
By the time Gregory and Kenny return, it's almost three in the morning. They come bearing pancake mix. The smell off frying batter makes Pip almost delirious with hunger. Exhausted from a night of . . . well, playing like children, he eats with pancakes with abandon. Christophe and Kenny get in an argument over which kind of syrup is better, which ends up in a syrup battle of epic proportions in which the entire kitchen gets covered in sticky gunk.
Gregory stands in the bathroom while Pip showers, to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. It's almost four by the time he flops down on the living room floor in a heap next to the other three. They've turned on another horror, but the volume is down and no one's watching it.
He's not at peace. He's not. Maybe . . . it's just . . . he . . .
The meadow is shaking and falling apart. Damien is crying now, the way he was when they met back and fifth grade.
"It didn't work," he mumbles.
Pip nods. "The people with me are too strong."
"I know." Damien shakes his head, then looks up to glare at Pip. "You – you could be with me right now."
Pip freezes. "What? No, I couldn't."
"Yes, you could. I saw you take the knife."
"I-" He stops.
"I thought you loved me," Damien says.
"I do!" Pip cries. "I love you so much, more than I've ever loved anything."
"But not enough to die for me."
"Damien," Pip says, and looks in his eyes, and grasps at his hands, even though they can't touch. "I will die a thousand times over for you."
He wakes up when dawn is just starting to tease through the curtain-less windows of Kenny's house. The others are still asleep.
He rises slowly, his joints popping. He walks to the bathroom and locks the door and sits down with his back against the sink.
He pulls off Kenny's jacket and sets it on the ground next to him. His forearms are very bared and very white in the dim light.
He pulls the knife out from under his shirt and flicks it open.
It's long and sharp and beautiful.
"I'll be with you soon," he promises the air.
He digs the knife into his wrists, drawing blood. Somehow he manages to keep his mouth clenched shut. It hurts. It hurts bad enough to make tears leak from his eyes. But he keeps carving, carving away at the skin of his left forearm.
He drops the knife, red coating the handle. He looks at his arm and admires his handiwork.
He wrote "I love you" in capitol, permanent letters. It's perfect.
"We'll be together forever," he croaks out.
"Pip? Pip, are you in 'ere?" Christophe knocks on the door.
Pip stiffens. Oh, god, not again.
"You are not allowed to be on your own," Christophe orders.
A pain-drenched whine escapes Pip as another huge gush of blood pumps from him.
The door bursts open, splints flying. Christophe stands in the doorway for a second and takes in the bloody, half-dead Pip. Then he turns and walks away.
He walks away and leaves Pip to bleed.
Good . . . he finally decided to let me go . . . he . . . Pip's thoughts are slowing down. His body feels cold, like he's been dumped into ice water. The feeling starts to ebb away from his fingers. His arm throbs.
He's alone. He's dying. He's alone. He'll be with Damien soon enough.
He's alone.
Pip lurches to his feet and staggers out of the bathroom. Gregory, Christophe and Kenny are in the living room. Pip stands there, panting, the color draining from his face.
"I . . . thought you were trying to . . . save me . . . " He clenches his fist but his body chooses this moment to run out of energy. He falls forward and hits Christophe's outstretched arms.
"Cocksucker," Christophe says, pushing a strand of blond hair from the British boy's face. "I can't fight for someone who won't fight for themselves."
He's not crying, he's not, he's not-
"I'm not strong enough," he mutters out. "I can't do it . . . I can't join him down there."
"Killing yourself ees not strength." Christophe taps him on the nose. "True strength ees waking up every morning to deal with ze bullsheet life 'ands out to us, and fighting for zose moments of true 'appiness we sometimes get."
The bandages on his arms, white and fresh and clean, don't look like they belong. They itch against his skin. Gregory makes him eat several muffins to make up for the blood loss. They can't go to the hospital because they want to stay near him at all times in case the demons attack again.
While they're bickering over the likelihood of a future demon attack, the doorbell rings. Pip gets up off the couch (where he's been watching TV with Kenny) and answers the door, wondering who'd been ringing on the doorbell at eight in the morning.
It's Damien.
He's as beautiful as ever.
For a second, Pip thinks this is just a dream again. But then Damien grabs him and slams his lips on his, and Pip's happy again, and he knows nothing will ever be as good as this, as being next to Damien and drawing in his scent.
"Dad gave me permission to go up to the surface for a few minutes," Damien whispers. "Quickly. Let's do it quickly. Where's the knife?"
"Left it up in the bathroom after . . . before," Pip whispers back.
"Pip? Who ees zat?" Christophe calls from the kitchen.
Damien grabs his neck and starts to choke him. Survival instinct flares up in Pip yet again, but he beats it down and focuses on the fact that he's here, here with Damien, and he's finally going to die in his arms. His vision starts to blur.
"Mozzerfucker!"
Something slams into Damien, knocking him back against the wall. Pip is sent flying, smashing into the opposite wall, the breath shoved out of him.
"What ze fuck do you zink you're doing?" Christophe snarls, getting up into Damien's face.
"Stop it! Stop it, Christophe, he's helping me!" Pip cries.
And Damien, who's clearly regained his demonic powers, swats Christophe aside like a rag doll. Christophe's form crashes through the plaster walls of Kenny's house, leaving rubble trickling into the room.
"Fuck!" Kenny leaps off the couch and lunges for Damien. A shadow appears out of nowhere and cuts clean through him. The top of his body topples to the ground. His legs remain upright for a few seconds before he, to, crumples.
"Ahhhhhhh!"
Pip doesn't realize he's screaming until Damien silences him with a kiss. He pulls away almost immediately, gasping out, "oh, my god. You . . . you killed Kenny."
"It's fine," Damien says. "He'll come back. Promise."
"What-" he whispers out, but since Damien's never lied to him he decides to take his words at face value and kiss him again.
And, oh, god, it's been so long, way too damn long, and he's hungered for the taste of Damien and Damien's smell and-
Damien stiffens and lets go of Pip. "Goddamn it, just give up already," he growls to the person behind him. Pip peers over his shoulder. Gregory stands there with his chest heaving, blood trickling down his hands and staining the sleeves of his collared shirt.
Then Pip realizes there's a knife sticking out of Damien's back.
He can't even be angry at Gregory. Because he doesn't understand. None of them understand.
A gust of wind blows Gregory back and sends him crashing into the wall next to Christophe. Damien turns back to Pip, his eyes wide, half-mad, crimson red.
"I have to do it . . . because I die and go back to hell . . . before they take me away from you forever . . . " Their gazes lock.
"And you're too damn good, Pip. There's no way you're going to hell unless you kill yourself. So . . . please . . . " He coughs out blood and manages to lift his hand. "We'll be . . . together . . . right . . .?"
"Forever," Pip pants back.
Damien crashes forward, on top of Pip, pinning him to the ground. "Sorry . . ." he gasps out. "Can't . . . move."
"It's all right." Pip says it because he doesn't know what else to say. Damien's blood is staining through his clothes and splattering his face and he tastes it in his mouth.
"Here." Damien lifts up his right hand and a knife appears in it out of nowhere. "Use . . . this one."
Pip accepts it from him. He's close enough to Damien to feel his heartbeat, to hear his ragged breathing. He can close his eyes, and he can pretend he is happy, but he's not.
"I love you," Damien says. He traces his index finger over the bandages on Pip's arm. "These . . . are beautiful. Thank you for doing them for me."
"I love you to," Pip whispers back, and he reaches up to wrap his arms around Damien. He presses his forehead into the antichrist's shoulder. Then he grabs the blade in his back and twists it.
Damien screams, his voice spiking up two octaves. He screams and clings to Pip even as the knife rips through his muscles and tears out his insides.
He dies right on top of Pip, his heart churning to a halt and his breath stopping. Pip lies there until it's just Damien's cold, dead weight on top of him. He knows it's not real. He knows Damien's alive down in hell. But he's still gone.
He could explain to him that he can't (won't) kill himself. He could explain that he's willing to die for him (a thousand times over) but he won't die and just end up with them both being dead. Because this is his life, here, on earth, with the friends he thinks he now has, and being dead won't solve anything.
He could explain that even though they've romanticized the concept of his death, it still hurts; it hurts like a fucking bitch. He won't be starting anything by killing himself. He'll just be ending it all.
He could explain all of that, but he doesn't. Instead he closes his eyes and pretends he's not crying.
Damien's blood starts to chill him. The body on top of him starts to restrict his breathing.
"Help," he rasps out.
No one helps him.
"Help," he says again.
Then he pushes Damien's body off, rolls it away, and staggers to his feet. His stomach churns. He leans against the wall.
He's cold.
He left Kenny's jacket in the bathroom a few hours ago. He fetches it now and shrugs it over his body. It's about six sizes to big, and he hugs it tightly against himself.
"Helloooo?" someone calls from the door.
He heads back into the living room. Kenny stands in the doorway, a grin on his lips, his parka hood up, his eyes smiling like everything's beautiful. Pip has a vague memory of Damien punching Kenny or something, but the smug asshole looks fine now.
"Gregory and Chris all right?" he asks.
"I think so. Just knocked out."
Kenny's eyes rake over the dead antichrist on the floor. "S'not your fault, you know," he says.
"Yeah," Pip says. "Yeah, I know."
He hugs the jacket tighter around his body and helps Kenny wake the other two up.