He'd torn across the rooftops, blood boiling and muscles burning, with only one objective in mind: beat the shit out of someone.

He was still too angry to fully comprehend what had just occurred; the violence of what they'd said to each other in the aftermath of those spiteful words. The remorse in Amber's eyes had been scorched away when he lashed back at her, and then it had seemed the decrepit tenement around them had shook beneath their malice and fury as they each strove to do the other the most harm.

Bitch, his mind roared as the wind lashed his sweaty skin and the world veered beneath him with every gut-churning leap he made, the actions of his body pure impulse, guided by nothing but the urge to move, to outrace the pain that skittered at his heels, to stay safely immersed in fury. Fuckin' worthless bitch.

Each ragged breath seemed to scrape his throat raw when he finally dropped to a halt in a backstreet, panting and drenched, every muscle quivering. His mind was still a furious, babbling churn of anger, thoughts tumbling over each other in little more than senseless flashes of feeling, and he didn't want it to clear. Didn't want anything except the comforting fog of rage obscuring all else, all reason and all desire.

He couldn't stop; fury propelled him forward, silently cutting through the backstreets of the city with grim intent, every inch of him gripped in a constant, feverish tremble as he hunted for something upon which the clamouring hell within him could be unleashed. He had to do something, or it seemed it would devour him from the inside. Every moment that passed that he remained frustrated and locked in torment he could feel himself slipping away into utter mindlessness, feel his grip on sanity loosen.

The man didn't do much; flicked a girl's skirt up as he passed by and laughed when she shrieked. But for Raphael it was enough. The stricken look on her face, the fear and the shame, made his fists tighten so hard it seemed the skin over his knuckles would split and he had the bastard in the next alleyway, laying into him with a series of savage and satisfying blows the man never had a chance to defend against, the scent of blood on the air and the crunch of bone beneath his fists exhilarating, the face of every man who'd taken Amber blistering in his vision with every blow that landed.

Raphael wasn't sure exactly when the man passed into unconsciousness, but he came back to himself with a ringing in his ears and sparks behind his eyes, the man's limp body sagging in his grip, his face nothing but a pulpy mess of blood and bone.

He crumpled to the street in a broken heap when Raphael released him and all Raphael could do for countless, senseless moments was stare at the mess he'd so viciously, deliriously made.

And it all came upon him in a rush: every harsh, vile word they'd spat at each other, how mercilessly they had raged, how easily they had resorted to cruelty, to hitting each other in all the places they knew would devastate the most, only knowing them at all because they had loved each other – surely they'd loved each other, surely that had been love…

And he'd fallen to his knees next to the man's prone form and retched and retched as though he could expel all the guilt and self-loathing and heartache that way, as though the poison of his own rage infected only his body and not his soul.

Fuck – the things he'd said to her – how the fuck was he going to live with himself – how was anything ever going to be okay again –

The man was alive, a thin strain of breath whistling through broken teeth, and Raphael called nine-one-one before he took to the rooftops once more, the anguish that had chased him since he stormed from her side finally catching him up in a relentless embrace, bearing down on him like the fist of God and leaving him crushed and shuddering, weeping into the dirt and pigeon shit.

He had no idea how long he had heaved and sobbed, his face scalded by hot tears, his heart feeling as pulpy a mess as that man's face, before sheer exhaustion stilled him.

He'd sat back on his haunches and only then became aware of the stiff agony that gripped his knuckles. He was lucky they weren't all smashed to pieces. Jesus – he'd been completely out of control. Jesus.

She'd told him to never come back and in that moment he'd never wanted to see her again anyway.

But god, the things he'd said –

He'd betrayed her in every imaginable way. There was no coming back from it. He stared into the future with the dizzying knowledge that nothing was ever going to be the same again, that everything that unfolded from that moment forth was set into motion by that terrible fight, and nausea again overcame him as the enormity of it all seemed echoed in the heavens that stretched endlessly above him, leaving him reeling, swaying, stricken by a shuddering that felt like fever.

She'd told him to never come back. He'd told her he never would.

But that didn't mean he couldn't –

But it was never going to be the same. Not ever. They had fought a lot, but never like this. Even if they were able to come to some sort of peace, he would forever see the things he had said in the shadows of her eyes – and he knew the things she had said would forever haunt his.

The things she had said –

Everything he had ever feared, ever dreaded.

If he had betrayed her, then she had betrayed him, as completely and utterly, in kind. And as her bitter, venomous words tumbled through his recollection in a hot, churning flow, anger once again ignited, like a blaze set beneath his heart, scorching and vivid.

He seized upon it and held it close with a sort of mad joy, its familiar heat repelling the anguish, consuming him in a comforting haze. For everything she had said, she deserved the same again. Fuck her.