Trail of Blood

by linklover88

The rush. The anger. The lust. The pulse, or rather the lack thereof. For he's an artist, you see, with his silver brush and his blood red paint and the canvas that stretches too wide for arms to hold. His art takes an acquired taste to truly behold, but he always leaves the crowd... breathless... Shadow/Vio AU, side Blue/Red

10. First of the Last

A/N: I was editing this and I realized I had misspelt "condo" as "condom" LOLOLOLOL. Wow. Good times, man, good times.

If the first part (Shadow's POV) doesn't make too much sense, it's kind of because I didn't really use names. Mostly because I wanted to make you guess who the victim was… and then tell you right at the end of the chapter. :D :D (No scrolling ahead! I see you! o3o)

Edit:I went back and used Vio's name to make it less confusing. Welp. The above still stands, though.

Also, further clarification: Shadow's POV (noted) is 9 days after Vio's POV (also noted) which is the morning after the last chapter. In which they did the dirty. (Woot). And a lot of page breaks/ time skips. Because, well, it made it all work a lot easier and saved me from having to write a lot of fillers, which in turn saves you from having to read said fillers. Yay! Team work!

I wonder if anyone ever reads this far into my A/Ns. Like, it's all bullshit man. I could be talking about bologna or other random shit. Like how I use flat out 100 percent naked person-on/in-person porn as a reference to write smut. Did you know that? And I was looking through the gay section, this one time, and there was a video of a guy fucking a watermelon. And I thought it was fucking hilarious. I didn't watch it. I just laughed at the idea, like, a lot. Then I kept scrolling.

Disclaimer: All legal rights belong to their legal owners- I own nothing. This is merely for entertainment purposes.

Also, this chapter contains graphic (?) violence and bloodshed not suited for those underage. If you are uncomfortable with murder and/or blood please do not read this chapter. If you'd like to remain up-to-date with the story without reading through the aforementioned then review/PM/email/kik me (email and kik are on my bio) about it and I can summarize the chapter for you or send you a version without the violence/blood/death/etc. Please note all grievances caused from or relating to this content are the responsibilities of the reader(s).

You feel your heart begin
To get violent
You're alone
In a world filled with silence
You hear that voice again
Screaming end him
I can't take all the guilt I've been handed
:First of the Last; Fight or Flight:

Shadow's Point of View
+Nine Days Later+

Mine.

It's the only thought as the sun sinks low and the heavy clouds of night slowly dance into the sky. It's the only feeling other than sharp metal clenched in my gloved fingers. It's the only taste other than the guilt swollen in my throat, the only noise other than the tick tick of the clock on the wall and the beat beat of my heart. The air is hot and stuffed with pain, with despair, with selfishness and the impatience of a lifetime spent waiting for this. For this chance. This chance to take, to seize, to rule and conquer what is precious, what is rare and plenty. The walls around me aren't my own and they beckon to me, blank and hungry, like starving canvases. Begging for a story to tell, to have a new color smeared against them. The world drones by, ever slow, ever impossible, and why won't the fucking door open.

The world is silent, time measured in the softest tick, tick and beat, beat.

I yearn to count the beats of my heart. Instead my mind fills with the sounds of moans and gentle whispers of my name. Reminded of the anger, the frustration, the need. The feeling of his hands in my hair, his lips light against my skin. I had tasted heaven and kissed sin all in the same moment.

I yearn to count the beats of my heart. Instead all I count are the sly smiles and seductive touches I've suffered beneath.

When the sun has nearly died, when the world has nearly been drowned in darkness and starlight has nearly been lit, there is finally a rumble beyond the door. The shriek of the car engine is killed and once again it is silent, but this silence isn't leading me into madness like the one before. It's leading me to redemption. This time the thoughts aren't of Vio, aren't of lovers wished and nights spent dreaming; the thoughts are of blood and anger and knowing exactly what to say without having conjured the words to my mind.

This time would be different. This would be new, forbidden. This, this was the chance to take, to seize, to rule and conquer. I can't hold back the tease of a smirk that spreads across my lips. It just feels so good to stand here, unseen, yet completely in control. So when the door creaks open and the air finally moves, when the world finally stirs, I breathe in. My lungs are filled, fresh, I come alive as the sound of footsteps come closer.

I watch as he enters the room. I stand with my feet planted firmly on the ground, my back against the wall. I stand out like a drop of blood in water, but he doesn't notice. People have a tendency not to see the things they don't want to see, no matter how obvious. Instead we make up stories we'd rather hear, things that hurt but not as much as the truth would. We build the truth off of lies rather than the other way around.

"It's been a while," I declare, and his whole body snaps to me like a deer in headlights. He blinks and mouths my name. I expected something more along the lines of a scream, of a blood curdling response of fear. I've never confronted anyone before slicing them open before. I'll admit, I was hoping for something… more therapeutic, a gasp at the least.

He straightens himself, trying to look poised, though it's rather obvious he's been caught off guard. "How-" he clears his throat, standing even taller. "You're trespassing."

"You left your back door unlocked. A little secret for you: if you don't want people trespassing, lock your doors."

"I'll call the cops if you don't leave."

"Of course you will."

He gives me an even look, as if sizing me up, weighing to see how much power he has, how much influence over me or my actions. None, of course, but give the man a damn medal for trying. I was going to enjoy cutting him open, going to smile at his blood on my fingers.

Never kill anyone you know personally, Vio said once, a lifetime ago, as he placed his hand over mine and wrapped our fingers around the hilt of a blade. You're an automatic suspect, and you're more likely to leave evidence because you're generally more comfortable with your surroundings. It's safer to kill strangers, he added, his body behind mine, hair tickling my neck. Look, sweep your wrist just like this, nice and even. Try to get their jugular and their carotids. They won't be able to breathe, they'll choke on their blood even if they can, and they'll bleed out in minutes after quickly going unconscious.

"What are you here for, Shadow?" The words snap me out of the memory. My eyes clear and I watch him hug himself, his arms crossed over his chest, a sign of distress. "…Did he send you?"

"No," I laugh. Vio? Send me? Here? He would sooner kill me himself. "No. He doesn't know I'm here."

"Then what do you want?" the words are spoken coldly, enough to give me a chill if only anything could penetrate the heat of my steaming hot blood, past the boiling excitement and anticipation for this.

"I think you know," I reply, said excitement building like pumped balloon in my stomach. Excitement and the thrill and power. I can't imagine why they call it cold-blooded murder. Everything is warm, delightfully warm, as if the sun is beating down on me, as if my heart knows love, as if there is a seeking touch skimming down my skin. The touch of death, perhaps, but no other.

"If I did, I really wouldn't be asking you, would I?" Oh, his tone is ice. He is ice and I, I am fire. Fire and thunder. Vio cares for the cold and yearns inside for the heat, for the roar. Well, even if you did know, you wouldn't say aloud now would you? Not that I would say it either. You know. We both know. What I am here for is not something that can be simply said in words.

"Hm," I smirk. Vio chose fire and thunder, chose me, over him. But the way he speaks is the way Vio has spoken to me before, time and time again to call out on my ignorance. "You're a bit like him, ya know? 'Cept on a duller and… more submitting level." No one could ever have the power or seductive femininity of Vio, no one could ever have that control or intelligence. No one could ever compare, no matter how alike Vio was to the man who stood glaring at me in the midst of his own living room. "Gods, but you must be killer in bed. I mean… he doesn't stay long with anyone if they aren't," I add with a shrug. It was true. Vio's lovers had two things in common: above average intelligence and the ability to rock their hips like a god.

"You're a lot of things, Shadow," a weary and tired sigh, "but I don't believe you came here to sleep with me."

I chortle, amused. No. The only one I want is Vio, the only one I've ever wanted has been Vio. The soft brush of his skin, the tender sensation of his lips, his body close and woven firm to mine. No, I didn't want anyone else. Especially not someone I wanted to kill, someone whose neck called to me only with the desire to lick it with my knife, to ogle the jewel blood that slowly trickled down. "I didn't, Gods no, but would you if I asked?"

"Of course not," he splutters, the tips of his ears turning a deep shade of red. "I have self-respect."

"Are you saying he doesn't?" I snap the retort, instinctively defending Vio without thought. I have no quandary with informing people I'd slept with the detective. The thought brings me pride rather than embarrassment, and there didn't seem to be any amount of surprise flickering across the other's face.

He looks away at the question, though I know he's watching me from the corners of his eyes in paranoia. "That's not..." You can't stand to disrespect him either, hm? He does that to people, wraps them up in his storming dignity until they would crack their knees before utter his name the wrong way. "He and I are different people. He knows you differently than I do."

Something about the way he says it reminds me of relationship counseling. Nothing like granting free advice to your friendly local serial killer. "And what is it you know me as?" I muse darkly.

"You're the psychotic and sadistic man that Vio was in love with the entire time he pretended to care for me."

The words stop me, shatter my pride and eventually I find myself smiling at the thought of Vio being in love with me. Not true, sadly, not true. If he were in love with me he wouldn't be running, he wouldn't be terrified. Vio's afraid of getting to the point where I can stop him from his terror. It's what keeps him going, keeps him on his toes with the tunneling thoughts of this is how it is and this is what it needs to be over this is what we want, what we crave, what we need.

"Psychotic and sadistic," I ruminate. It seems pretty accurate. I love inflicting pain, love watching blood drip from my fingertips. Maybe that means I'm crazy. Or maybe it doesn't. "I can live with that," I add, reaching back into my suit jacket. I should have changed. I don't want blood on something that is dry clean only, but too late, I'm not about to strip and risk shedding anything that would give my presence away after I've left. Not about to risk stray hairs and the such. The thin black gloves I wear dance along the hilt of my knife as I wrap my hand around it, pulling it out with the same lazy smile as I take a step forward.

"You don't want to do this," he rushes, taking an urged step back. His eyes scramble between me and the bright point clutched in my fist. All it takes to push the fear forward in people is show them the weapon, and then they're willing to talk, then they're willing to compromise.

"Do what?" I ask, the smile on my face growing brighter. A mockery of innocence dances on my tongue. What rationalizing would be projected towards me? What accusations, if any could pass the haze of thrill and chase, pass the succumbing vulnerability, the beauty of pending death? The smile bursts into a grin. It feels good to be here, knife in my hand, anger in my heart, victim in eyesight.

"Vio's an emotional wreck. You know that better than anyone," he begins, taking another step back. I take another forward. A step back, a step forward. As if we were dancing in sync, as if we could look past our differences and muse over the realization that our hearts both owed allegiance to the same person. "But I don't believe he would be in love with a murderer."

"Then I have some bad news for you."

"Killing me isn't going to make him love you more," he rasps.

I nearly laugh, biting back the hysterics. "That isn't the reason I'm doing this, sweetheart." Do you taste the sarcasm in that title? It's the same bitterness and loathing he carries when his eyes glaze over and he speaks to me of the past. Have you heard it? Do you know it? Have you felt what it's like to lay behind him, have you memorized the sound of his breathing or the shape of his shadow in the sunset? I don't need to make him love me more. He just needs to not be afraid. "But... we'll have to see, yeah? Or, well," I chuckle, "I'll have to see. You? Well, you'll be dead." The thought of him dead puts another pleasant, genuine smile on my face, stretches my lips until my teeth are shining.

Another step back, another step forward. My strides are longer and we stand nearly next to each other, eye to eye. "Why are you speaking to me?" he asks, calm, quiet. So in control in a reality where he controls nothing. "You never confront your victims."

"How would you know?" I ask, the smile on my lips now thin and dead, like a flower not long after blooming, wilted not long after its peak of beauty.

"I'm a journalist. I did an article on your killings a couple months ago. It's not too hard to figure out once you consider it."

I say nothing. Did Vio know that this bug had already guessed who I am- what I am?

"So why?"

"…Because," I shrug, finally. The knife under my fingers is reassuring and I adjust my grip, looking back up at him from the blade. "Seemed like fun. Fun's over now."

In the heartbeat between the words leaving my mouth and the jolt of now that controls my whole body his fist swings forward. My mind shuts off, a ring swarms between my ears. Something possesses me and my hand wraps around his mid-air, and the knife touches his arm, and between the gasp of a shriek and the burst of a swear I think to myself, in the hum of my mind, that it feels like cutting fabric. Like in high school and I was in theatre tech making costumes and I would grab a knife and just riiiip down the cloth.

I don't fully realize I've actually cut him until I feel the hot blood run against my fingers.

His foot shoves against my knee and I lunge to grab his hair with a grunt, holding the knife to his tipped-back throat. The blade is a deep gray, almost black, but the wicked sharp edge is a glinting silver spotted with the holiest and yet most sinful of reds. The hilt is all black, the sturdiest rubber one can imagine, grooved just right for my fingers to curl around it and wield it as if it was a part of me. It is a part of me. Kill enough people with the same thing and of course it becomes part of you.

We stare at each for the longest moment. "You can't win. Not when I know exactly how to make you hurt."

And suddenly the wind is gone from my lungs as my thigh erupts in a throbbing explosion of agony. My body jerks and there's the tearing sensation under my fingers of ripping something not meant to sliced. Skin. Judging by the crooning of misery I've cut something painful in my knee-jerk reaction at being kicked again.

My sight wobbles through the murky haze of pain. It takes me a moment, as I creak and wheeze to get the air back in my body, to find my fingers are empty of all but thin blood and a knife. I straighten myself, reaching up with my blood-stained fingers to shake the hair out of my eyes

He stands against the wall, his hands wrapped around his own throat, clutching it tightly. I peer closer to see the flushed stain peeking around the sides of his fingers. Blood. I've cut his throat unintentionally, but I feel no remorse. He deserved it. Little bitch kicked me. It was practically self-defense. Yeah, I'm sure that'll sell in court.

He looks me straight in the eyes. "Do it," he rasps.

I stand there, breathing raggedly, still watching as the first drop of blood passes the finger barrier and slides down his neck. So simple to watch life fall from a cut. Morbid, some might say. But... beautiful. Simple. Hylians are animals at heart. We're not meant to look out for too many people other than ourselves, not meant to think of peace. We're survivors at the core, violence is in our DNA, it's hardwired into us to fight or flee, to kill or be killed.

I just happen to know it better than most.

"Do it," he says again, and while his voice remains weak his eyes are strong, saying things he has no voice for. Do it. This is what you wanted, isn't it? Me, dead? Him, all to yourself? "I'm not going to beg."

I wish he would beg. But I didn't really expect him to.

I reach forward and grab one of his hands, slick with blood, before holding it up against the wall. The same way I held Vio's hand against the door and looked him in the eyes and asked him if he trusted me.

His wet hand squelches against the blood on my glove. But this time my other hand goes up too, and I breathe in as I plunge the knife straight into his palm.

I watch his fingers claw outwards, as his hand arches against the wall. His scream is silent, maybe not even there, maybe just a gape of his mouth, but I can imagine the sound ringing in my ears regardless. No, not a scream. Just the sharpness sinking into his skin and the blood that seemed to stain his entire body. No noise other than the stillness of our hearts. I just stand and watch, my hand still holding the knife in his hand, watch as the blood runs along the silver edge of the blade and drips down onto the floor.

Peace, found in the middle of Hell.

I pull out my knife, shut my eyes, and drag the edge wide across his throat.

Page Break

After all is said and done, I stand alone, looking out the window. The sun has set. Behind me, the blood has finished oozing from the slits in his skin, and the crumpled body calls to me. I have a reason for having done what I've done, for speaking to him, for allowing a struggle- as small as it may have been- to occur. Now it's up to Vio to decode it. But I feel the urge to leave a message that will hurt him as badly as he hurt me, Vio, so I turn around and stumble over to the body.

I pick him up, heavy in my arms. He's not quite cold yet. I heave him over to the glass coffee table, mere feet away, perhaps a few yards. I place him on the table and listen to the wooden legs groan under his weight.

I look around. The knife- my knife- has fallen on the ground and I sweep it up, pinching his stained shirt between my fingers, slitting it from the collar down. My heart pounds in my ears as I look down at his chest, pale and vacant.

All for you, Vio. All for you.

And then madness descends again, as does the tip of my knife.

Vio's Point of View
+Nine Days Earlier+

The foul aroma in my mouth is heavy and swollen, bitter and dry like a windless summer evening. It tastes like regret and suffering, though the rest of my body is languid and exultant, relaxed and pleased. The warmth and luxury of the soft bed below me beckons to me, the pillow whispering such sweet nothings that when I blink away the blur and wipe the grime from my eyes my body cries to me that I have awakened far too soon.

An arm is draped loosely over my hips, gentle lips and worriless breathing stirring the back of my neck, the close warmth seductive and loving. I feel comforted, strangely at peace, and my heart tells me not to look. I already know who lies behind me and holds me close in his sleep.

Denial is a burden I have long agonized with.

I look despite the knowledge that the truth can, and will, only hurt. I look to find purple hair tufted up, pale eyelids shut, ashen lips cracked as Shadow sleeps beside me with a look of absolute harmony spread on his face. Part of me finds the situation of awakening to find Shadow spooning me incredibly amusing. The rest of me is in a desolate state of shock and incredulity- which I also find amusing. I already knew it was him. Why am I surprised? All I know is the sensation of my heart beating in my throat and-

Oh, Gods.

My mind is roaring with the menial thoughts of this is bad, very bad, oh so very bad. Last night is a rushed blur of catch me and pleasure and his lips against mine and—

Oh, Gods.

I struggle not to gag or cry out as I carefully slip out of Shadow's sleeping embrace. My stomach is aflame with the thought of it happened again it happened again it happened again, my mind absolutely uncomprehending of anything other than panic. Every step feels like being stabbed with millions of little pin pricks up my spine and between my thighs. I grab a handful of clothes from the closet, staggering into the bathroom, urging myself to remain quiet. If he wakes up all will be over, my life ended, my freedom crushed in his fist. If he awakens to me sneaking about it will surely be my ruin. His anger is merciless and overwhelming. I am nothing but excuses before his rage.

I need to leave. I need time, space- I have never been an open person. I can't stay where there are questions and eyes on me even when he's not looking. In his presence I can only feel panic. In solitude I can find tranquility.

I make the mistake of looking into the mirror as I hobble about the bathroom, pulling on Shadow's dark clothing. And- oh, Gods- I am a muddled mass of disarray. My eyes are wild; my hair is matted and sticks out in weird places, my neck and chest covered in little red marks. Bite marks, or perhaps scratches, or perhaps I have a strange rash in places Shadow's lips touched, as if his poison continues to spread.

I close my eyes and face away from the mirror until I am finished dressing.

I am quick to run my fingers through my hair, catching the knots with my knuckles and tugging until at last I can get away with looking half-decent. I need to brush my teeth, to remove the swollen bile from my mouth. I suppose there is an upside to spending so much time in Shadow's condo—I have my own toothbrush awaiting me. The mint toothpaste does not completely eradicate the bitterness, but it'll have to do.

I tread into the living space with the alarming sense that I'm being baited. As if the escape beyond this building is no more than a test to my loyalty. I shake off the clinging and wide-eyed feeling of suffocation, glancing at the clock to read the time as 9:03. Dim light filters through the window's gray curtains. The whole room is brighter and warmer than the night before, the air static and hard to inhale.

I sweep up my phone, wallet, and keys before slipping my feet into my shoes and unlocking the door, my hand tight around the doorknob as I pause. Shadow will be furious when he awakens to find me gone. Again. Will it always be like this, me disappearing into the rush of the world when the truth becomes too much? Distance doesn't change whether the truth is true or not. I try not to think of the bloodshed this will cause, or the detachment between us, or how he'll stop at nothing to remind of me that I liked it, that I wanted him, that I gave in just as much as he did, if not more.

He will stop at nothing to get me right back here, within his grasp, within his rule.

And then the door opens, and I am gone.

Page Break
+6 Days Later+

I keep thinking about time.

Time, in general. Maker of tyrannical kings and destroyer of great civilizations, time which stretches so long that the existence of written history is no more than a speck in the wind. Time: so great that one cannot touch it or grasp it, yet measured in the softest tick, tick of a clock, noted by the bump, bump of our hearts. Heartbeats fade into seconds, seconds drone into minutes, minutes into hazes of hours. At some point, the moments that feel so specific and infinite simply become a blur.

And I keep thinking about Green. How carelessly I used him as an excuse, a reason to not touch the one I want to touch, a reason to not admit, to myself, that I love the one I love. I keep thinking about how blank and worn his expression was when I found myself on his doorstep again, a choked apology on my tongue. I'm sorry I used you. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I turned around and slept with Shadow, sorry that he's the one I want and not you, sorry that I know if I didn't want Shadow you would have been the one to make me content. Sorry that I want a murderer instead of an honest man. I'm sorry that I came back to say it, that I couldn't have said sorry the first time.

And then there's the guilt and regret for sleeping with Shadow. How I am supposed to come back from that, from my arms wrapped around him until my knuckles were burning white, from his name parting my lips, how I am supposed to come back from that is beyond me. Maybe, there is no coming back from it. Part of me, childishly, wants to stay away forever. To live in denial and refusal. To keep my silence, keep my distance, keep my solitude. Maybe I can't come back from this, maybe I wasn't meant to. Give me the thing I want most and sit back to watch as I break myself down because of it. Give a man heaven and he will turn it into Hell. It seems fitting for all the sins I've committed.

And then there's just Shadow. Hands and lips that know exactly where to brush, open laughs and sly smiles, eyes that glow red like gore some nights and blue like nightmares on others. Fingers that can wield a knife and a tongue that can riddle lies into truth. Shadow is something that no one else is. Shadow is free. Beyond the rules, beyond the condemnation. If you can't make the masses love you then let them fear you, for fear and love are the two greatest emotions. Shadow stirs fear into the heart of Courage itself. Shadow is free, and therefore he is powerful.

I love him.

But I can never admit it.

Not even to myself. But isn't consciously refusing to admit the truth to oneself basically another way of accepting it?

Do you trust me?

Of course I do. What a moronic question. I trust Shadow with my life.

I love him, and he wants me. So why is it that every time we touch, everything feels wrong? Wrong, and right, as if I loathe the sensation and crave more at the same time. Is it the denial? The knowing that this was never what I intended, is that what gets me so messed up?

I trust Shadow. I am the liability to burn heaven to ash.

There's this controlling urge in me that preaches that I owe it to Shadow to know what to do from here before I speak to him again. Of course, it's been six days since we've spoken. Six days since I shut the door behind me and left him sleeping in his bed as I drove home- not home, this could never be a home, too empty and desolate- reaching up to feel the slime of tear tracks on my cheeks. Too busy repeating oh, Gods and it happened again to answer his urgent calls and frightened messages. Too busy feeling guilty and sorry to pick myself up.

I can only avoid him for so long. It's truly not his fault for any of this. Not his fault I'm weak-willed or desperate or unsure of where we stand. Not his fault I crave a dream but would rather die than make it a reality.

I look down to my hands, watching as my fingers scroll along the screen of my phone. It takes me a moment to realize those are my fingers. Everything feels numb, and the sheets of my bed feel cold, even though I've been sitting on them for hours. I watch the messages slowly pass over the screen. All from Shadow, never answered by me. Things like I'm sorry and damn you and please don't do this.

I stare at the screen when my fingers stop moving. I trace my eyes along the curves of the letters until the screen goes dark from disuse. Even then, I still see the words, I hear them between my ears, and I know then what it feels like to be truly damned. To feel my heart carved out, to feel fire lick my skin, to burn.

Shadow: I love you.

Page Break

My eyes flash open at the somber sound that rolls between my ears.

My hand lunges out towards the sound. The room is dark, the light flashing from the screen of my phone the only beacon. There's a horrid kink in my neck from sleeping sideways on the bed with my head hanging off; cold sweat makes my shirt cling like slime to my back. My mind refuses to turn on, like a stubbornly aged computer.

Waking up alone, feeling panicked and rushed, is so different than waking up to Shadow, where the world was warm and slow.

This is why you have such a hard time falling asleep at night. Yet you have the gall to tell people it's insomnia. Bah.

"Yes?"

It's only after I answer the call that I think to check who was calling. My mind flashes to the obvious: Shadow.

"Vio." Ah. Saved, by my own incompetence. Groose's deeper voice rolls through the phone and for a heartbeat I feel relief before remembering that if the Chief of Police was calling me, there had been death and destruction. "There's been an emergency. We need you on duty ASAP."

"What happened?" I sigh, sitting up on the bed and rolling my neck. I flick on the bedside lamp, blinking away the horror of bright light burning away the darkness.

"There was a shooting downtown. Don't know much. Everyone who's worth anything more than their weight in shit is being called to the site."

"I see." Hardly. Terrorism wasn't my field of expertise in the least. I'm a detective. Not a field analyst. Why, of all people, should I be woken to come see a few broken bodies, a few shattered windows? "Where in downtown? I'll meet you there." Anything to save myself the traffic of getting to the department building.

"Eastern," he rumbles. "Business sector. Burnside and 33rd."

"I-"

My heart freezes as it jumps up my throat. I can't speak or breathe around it, the blood still being pumped through my veins chilling me to the core, as if my body had been dumped in ice.

Shadow.

That was where Shadow worked. Burnside and 33rd. Oh, Gods, what if he's dead. What if he's dead. What if he was shot. What if he's dead, what if he died thinking I hated him, died knowing my silence, died without knowing I still love him and want him no matter where we go from here, what if it's my fault he's dead. If I hadn't neglected him I would be with him, he wouldn't be there this god-awfully early if he had to deal with me, he would be safe. And alive. He's dead. Oh, Gods, he's fucking dead—

"Vio?"

"I'm on my way," I rush, dropping the phone. I'm going to puke. Shadow. Dead. The whole thought of it sends the world flying, the sky switching with the ground, my fingers raking through my hair. The surge of panic makes me clench my teeth, eyes wide, fingers tightening.

I can't cry because of this. I shake my head. Gods, I'm a fool. There was a shooting, sure. But that didn't mean he was dead. He's probably alive, I tell myself, and I can't shake the desperation in the thought. You should check before you throw yourself off a bridge.

I listen to the quivering thought and commence groping through the sheets. My phone. I dropped it right here. Where..? The panic surges again, its fingers growing around my neck. I throw the top sheet across the room and cringe at the resounding thud. I bite back a swear as I jump off the bed and lunge for the sheet, picking up the fabric and watching the phone slide onto the ground. I toss the sheet aside Gods I don't have time for this and sweep up the device.

My breathing comes in sharp gasps as I listen to the rings of the call going through.

Oh, Gods, I need him to answer me. Need it like the air I crave so desperately between stolen gasps. I need to know he's alive. Need to hear his voice. Need to feel his body, to feel his fingers on me, need to feel his heart beating with my own hands. I need him because if he's gone my life fades to gray. I've known nothing but him for so long that to know anything else feels like betrayal. At some point, I was too busy admiring him to notice as he took the reins from my hands. I used to be in control. Clearly, no longer.

I don't care about that, though. Right now, all I need is to know he's alive. Breathing. Safe.

That's really all I need.

The ringing stops, but there's no click that signals voicemail. "Are you okay?" I burst out, panic pure in my voice. I don't care. Let him know I'm worried, that I care, that I need him. As long as he's okay. I can play it off later, I can lie later, I can care about it later.

"Fancy that," oh, Gods, his voice. As if the week apart has made me forgotten it. The confidence, the enunciation, the invincibility all in the way he spoke. So very much alive. Alive. Breathing. Safe. "You're speaking to me again."

"Are you okay?!" Say it, please, Shadow, say it. I need to hear it. That you're okay. That of course you're okay. That it was all in my head, that you're safe, that the panic wrapping around me can wither and die. Tell me I'm paranoid. Tell me anything. I don't care. Just say you're okay so that my heart can slow and I can listen to your voice.

"Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be? Gods, Vio," he chuckles. My name. Of course you're okay. You have no reason not to be. I can't process any of it. He's alive. "You act like you don't know I'm the one who shot."

"I…" You act like you don't I'm the one who shot. My mind starts at that, and I feel the pulse roaring in my ears, and I feel the tips of my fingers, and suddenly I'm functioning again. He's alive. He's very much alive. And I'm damned. Still very much damned. "You're insane," I declare, rubbing my spare hand against my throat, praying that there is no one listening to our call. Because if there is, then we're both very much caught, and we'll both have to very well flee the country and move somewhere foreign.

"Maybe," he laughs. "I'll let ya in on a little secret, sweetheart: you're the one who made me this way."

That's that, I suppose.

"Shadow," I breathe his name. I can feel the weight of his name on my tongue, and I catch myself before I can say it again. "Don't do this." The words make me feel like a weak housewife. As if I can't make him stop, as if the little words and a slap on the wrist are more than I can bring myself to deliver. "You're too reckless. They'll catch you."

"I would never sell you out," he huffs. "You know that. So why do you care?"

My mind rushes ahead of me. I care because I need you. I want you. I care because if they took you away from me then it'd be like you died, because they would sentence you to death, and knowing that we were both just waiting for it would be more than I could take. I don't think I could make it to your execution. I would sit there, that night, curled in my bedroom corner, arms around my knees. Knowing you had been looking for me. And I wouldn't be able to take it. Because all I would want would be to free you and hold you and kiss you and never let go, because somehow I need you more when you're away from me then when you're with me.

"I love you," I say softly.

"Then stop running from me!" he yells. I don't mind him yelling. I deserve it, honestly, and the thought makes me feel even weaker. Take the blows and let yourself think you deserve it. But if you think you deserve it, then maybe you do, because you were weak enough to take it and be grateful and smile as you wait for it to happen again. "…I love you too," he sighs, and my heart stops. I love you too. How long can those three words swim in my head? Forever, it seems. I love you too. Words so harmless but slicing me up like knives. "I'm not… I'm not gonna hurt you. Just, please, I... I need you."

"Shadow…" I love you too. I'm not gonna hurt you. I need you. Everything I want in three little sentences. Give a man heaven and he will shape it into hell. Part of me wants to say it in turn, and part of me wants to deny it all. "Shadow, you know I…"

I can't say it. Any of it. That I know he's not going to hurt me, that I need him as well, that I'm sorry but that I would do it all again in a heartbeat. I'm sorry because it's him, but I would do it again because it's him, too.

It's all just one big contradiction.

"I know you have commitment issues, and that ya can't ever see us being more than friends even though we both want to be more, and that ya need me too even if it's less than I need you, and I know you can't ever say any of it out loud because you're too goddamn scared?"

Yes. That. "I…"

"You really piss me off. You have everyone thinking you're collected and intelligent, but you know what? You're just a fucking child! You're frightened, and I get that, but when you're scared you run and hide in your little corner and tell yourself that someone else will pick up the pieces! I'm not playing games anymore, Vio!" I can hear him breathing, hard, on the either side of the phone. How long has he wanted to say this? "I'm not a toy for you to pick up when you're bored!"

"You have never been a 'toy' to me!" I can take his anger. I can take his yelling. I can't, however, let him believe I think of him that way when it's not true, when it's never been true. When it's not even close to the truth. Am I so good at acting cold? Is this the hole I've dug, the bed I've made for myself?

"Really? Are you sure?" he bites. The venom pulses in my body. Burning, spreading, wilting me. "Because it sure seems like I am."

"Shadow, you're not being rational-!"

"You're damn right I'm not. Fuck you, Vio."

"Shadow, stop this." I can't stand to fight you, not now. Not when moments ago I thought you were dead. Not when I was biting myself to stop from tearing up. Not when I know now how much I need you. "Please."

"You want me to stop? Fine. You're the only one who can end this." He thinks I mean the killings, I realize. Well, I suppose I meant that too. "When are you coming back?"

Back. To you. To being under your power, under your watch, back to where your hands stray where they shouldn't and where I'm too weak to say anything other than yes, give me more. "I'm not going over there, Shadow."

"Then this continues until you face your bullshit fears. If you think you're the only one who's piss scared here think again, but at least I'm not too afraid to admit it."

Fears? Of what? I bite back the naïve question. My fears of commitment, of doing what I've always told myself not to, of having what I've always denied myself. My fears of taking my dreams of Shadow and I and making them real. Those fears. "Why are you doing this? You think this will get to me?" Going out. Shooting people. "It won't. I've seen enough that there are only two people you can use to get to me, Shadow, and that's you and I."

He won't kill me, and he won't kill himself just to get to me.

So in that sense, I'm safe.

"As sweet as that is, you're lying."

"I'm not."

"Only us?"

"Are you deaf?" I bark.

"Ha." The short laugh sounds awfully fake. Like he tried to take the question, spoken so many times, and make it funny like it was intended to be before giving up. "I wish," he spits, and we both know why. The same reason I wish I was mute. Because then he wouldn't have to remember the way I moaned his name and called for more.

"We both do."

There's a silence that settles. The type of silence that comes with the end of winter: signifying that something warmer is to come, something brighter, but to get there one must first break the cold tranquility, the solitude. Step forward and all would perish in the silence, yet the only way to move onwards. Life must be found in death. "I don't regret it, Vio."

I nod. He can't see it, but I get the sense that he knows.

"Do you?"

"I don't know," I whisper. I really don't know. Everything in me is jumbled and murky and I can't tell north from south, left from right, good from bad. All I know is I loved it. Sleeping with him. Because even though it felt wrong, it felt like better than anything I'd ever experienced. Because it was him, and because I'd wanted it for so long. Because it was with someone I truly cared about. But at the same time, it was him, and that was the reason to hate it. Being with him, like that, if only for a night, shut the door to go back to how it used to be.

It all boils down to the fact that I want it and can't accept it.

"I need to leave, Shadow."

"No you don't."

"I do. They called me in because of the shooting. I'm supposed to be there already." There's this overwhelming sense of familiarity. Like for a moment the world has spun backwards, and we're sitting here, and he's trying to get me to stay up for another hour, luring me in with promises of more books and more teas and more of whatever I desire, because the Gods know the sky's the limit when it comes to the amount of physical material he can afford.

"If I let you go I'm never gonna hear you or see you again," he whispers.

Grief begins to choke me. "Of course you'll see me again," I chide. "You're holding all my books hostage, aren't you?"

"If I have to wait much longer I'm gonna start demanding ransom too, Vio."

"I shudder at the thought. I'll call you tonight, then."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

A/N: Oh my god I'm sorry guys but I need to end this chapter here.

I have part of the next chapter written and was trying to put it in here like I originally planned but when I hit 9k that was it. Too long. I mean, I've uploaded 10K+ chapters before but not for this story and don't intend to.

The ending is abrupt (sorry!) but there was a page break here anyway. Next chapter could take some time but I swear to god it'll clear up who Shadow killed, and there will be more about the shooting throughout the next few chapters. ThisChapterWasSupposedToGoOnForSoMuchLonger IDon'tKnowHowItGotSoDamnBig.