A sequel to the Arcangelo mansion massacre
An listless autumn afternoon finds Wallace and Nicolas languishing in the hallway of the Arcangelo mansion, the hours suspended in a timelessness that seems to render any effort or movement inconsequential and gratuitous. The lackadaisical innocence of the moment belies the impending toppling of the first domino in a bloody cascade that will upend their fate like an alcoholic with a champagne glass.
Tentative sunlight radiating obliquely through the large windows may deceive one with the illusion of endless sunny autumn days ahead, yet Nicolas' overdeveloped senses of smell and touch can detect the subtle encroaching chill in the air, a dampness in the dust that hovers like miniature sprites under the illumination of the sun, which portend the rapid approach of winter.
Across from him, Wallace leans against the wall, his knees drawn against his chest (ironically, the same queer position for which Wallace always reprimanded Nicolas), the sun kindling his disheveled hair to a potent white-gold reminiscent of flash bombs and lightning. Crimson streaks gleam like petroleum residue along his nose and cheekbones, highlighting the contours of a swelling bruise by his right eye.
Exhaling from a long drag on his cigarette, the pungent smoke striking Nicolas like a physical blow, Wallace coughs lightly.
"I was caught smoking," he remarks mildly and takes another drag. "Next time I get caught, I will probably be killed." Wallace pauses to flick ash down onto the hallways' lush carpet, delicate papery remains of nicotine and catharsis drifting to join its brethren on the floor. A wayward button, along with a faint but unmistakable streak of red, lies shortly beyond the reach of the ash.
"How are you adjusting? Your new guild... was it called North Gate?" Wallace asks absentmindedly. Quietly, Nicolas retracts what is exposed of his arm into his sleeve, hoping that the shadowy dimness of the corner in which he is crouching - directly under the window where the sunlight fails to infiltrate - can disguise the purple blotch winding along his arm like the stigma of a childhood curse. The gesture fails to escape Wallace's eye.
"I see." Wallace notes after a heavy span of silence. Nicolas does not respond and leaves Wallace to his melancholic faraway contemplation. Failing to adopt Wallace's delusion that his abuse will end with the departure of his father, Nicolas have quickly come to regard his new guild's cruelty with a sense of resignation that is almost nostalgic.
"Funny huh? Nothing's changed at all." Wallace observes mildly, leaning back to train his gaze onto the ceiling. Nicolas pauses - the strain in Wallace's face is different this time, not the usual defiance laced with bitterness, but a resignation that renders the angelic radiance of his hair sinister.
Draping his arm across his knees, Wallace dips his head down into its cradle, effectively concealing his expression.
But Nicolas is familiar enough with the youth to catch a glimpse of the faint trembling in his jaw and the brightness in his eyes.
"Seriously, I am worn out," Wallace mumbles.
Wallace... it doesn't have to be like this.
In an euphoric flash, a meteor of purpose shatters the barren placidity of Nicolas' inner world and galvanizes his whole frame into a anticipatory state of quivering. He speaks, without the strain that is usually required of his speech, but from an overflow of the burgeoning instinct in his spirit.
"Ill..."
Wallace looks up, his eyes deadpan. It is possibly Nicolas' first spoken word in a few days.
The smoldering in his chest is ecstatically invigorating - it is precisely this sense of empowerment that have conditioned Nicolas' addiction to the thrill of battle, almost like his dependence on celebre. But how to communicate this smoldering desire to take action, to exact revenge? A anecdotal flash to months ago, when Nicolas sacrificed a right hand to salvage a sign language guide from the destructive range of a grenade, powers a proverbial light bulb in his mind. Holding up his hands, Nicolas gives his response in a single simple gesture. He might not be useful as a companion, but he will prove his worth as a protector of the one who liberated him first.
Wallace's eyes widen in recognition.
Kill?
