A/N Literally just put down Nightlife. I'm in love.
I couldn't decide whether or not I should think of him as Cal.
He looked like Cal, yeah. Talked like Cal. Even smelled like Cal, when I got close enough. His laugh, I was pretty sure Cal could produce, if he were up to it. It wasn't hard to fathom him making such a sound. If I let my eyes unfocused, if everything were in slow-capture, or silent, and if the bullets and knives stopped flying and I could turn my predetory instinct off for five seconds, I could see it, I could see Cal. Still there, still himself. Like none of this shit happened.
But the eyes.
Jesus Christ, the eyes.
A harsh, brutal, unforgiving reminder of what he was now, of what was inside him. Grey, cold, devoid of any kind of compassion. Even when he hid it best, you could still see it. That glint of life, of human emotion, flashes of fear or guilt or pity. Alot of the time, it would glow with a cynical humor that only came to those who had scarcely heard of a kind word, but it was something normal, for him.
But this...this wasn't him.
When Cal, or the thing inside of him, stood still, for only a moment, daring Goodfellow, daring me, I could see them, the round circles of his eyes. It was like looking into the deepest, coldest bit of the worst kind of hell. It held a mundane laughter at the suffering around him. It flashed with what could only be described as, in a perfect cliche, pure evil. A the sight of Goodfellow's blood, the delight, the rombous joy, only elevated to the point of glee. He remembered things, none of Cal's, but of his own. The cruel black irises only shone brighter.
Through all the banter, the back and forth, me begging, him mocking, I couldn't stop thinking of those eyes that didn't belong there. It was like a boa thrown into a child's playpen. Cruelity where there was only good. A black smudge in a canvas of yellow. Of course, Cal himself would deny that, but it was true, and it was heartbreaking.
It had to go.
Maybe it was why I found it so easy to drive the tip of the iron blade into his chest--not his, my brothers--and keep pushing until the hilt was halfway down. That sensation, however, didn't last long.
Oh my God.
Darkeling...had to go. Him or Cal.
The blood gushed out, soaking through his clothes and onto the shine of the sword. Either him or Cal. At worst, both. Now, I thought, would be an excellent time to decide.
He smiled, though, the cocky bastard. He smiled and said, in a voice I was sure wasn't my brother's, "Well, look at that."
He had to go.