Disclaimer: Don't own anything.
"Do you trust me?"
You can't hear the slight falter in his voice, the wince he covers up as his arm stretches out to meet yours. You don't notice the pain, carefully concealed behind his guarded grey eyes.
The only thing you see is his hand, covered in earth and completely grubby, sticking out to help you.
You manage a smile as you accept his hand and he pulls you to your feet. It is not returned. When has it ever been? In the whole time you've known him a smile has never graced his chiselled features before. Perhaps the only thing that somewhat resembles a smile is his infamous smirk constantly plastered on his face.
The pain searing in your ankle soon brings you out of your reverie. His arm wraps around your waist, providing much-needed support and together, you stumble towards the broken-down shack.
You're so caught up in ensuring not too much weight is put on your broken ankle that you fail to notice how his breath gets heavier with each step. Consumed by your own self-pity, your usual observance has left you and the dark browns and crimsons blend into the same shade.
By the time you reach the shack, your face is contorted with pain. Your lip is bleeding - anything to prevent you from screaming, anything to prevent them from hearing you. He assists you to lean against the doorframe and sits in the corner, the furthest away from you. The shack isn't safe, but it's probably the last place they'll come looking for you.
You watch as his eyes shirt about, darting occasional glances at you.
"What afraid I'm going to hurt you?" You spit the words out spitefully and instantly regret your rash actions.
The silence overwhelms you and you watch his face, in vain, to catch a flicker of emotion. Eternity passes before he answers,
"On the contrary," the sliver of moonlight sheds light, enough to show a well-practiced smirk form, "I brought you all the way out here, just to kill you myself."
You can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not, seven years of bantering prove to be pointless. His grey eyes turn darker, to the point of black and his features twist into an evil sneer. With speed you thought impossible for him – or anyone for that matter - to possess, he leaps up and crosses the room. He jerks your chin up roughly, forcing you to stare into his unfamiliar eyes as his harsh voice sends shivers down your spine.
"Do you trust me, still?" You lock eyes with him, determined not to be the first to back down, especially after that mocking statement. Yet your eyes flicker to his hand as he pulls a blade from its sheath, and you know you've already lost.
It certainly is a masterpiece, quality craftsmanship and all. You can tell as the said blade is now pointing at your jugular. With painstaking slowness, he withdraws the blade from your throat. The moonlight exposes his family crest, the intricate 'M' branded in silver. Perhaps the moonlight is tricking you, as there is a greenish tint to the blade. He smirks at your expression and runs a finger down the side of it, almost lovingly. Except you both know he's incapable of love.
"Poison," another smirk, "my ancestors certainly were original. Even if you didn't die from blood loss, this ensured you would. Everyone dies eventually; but why not make it more amusing for those who live to watch you die?"
"Only you and your family would have such twisted little minds."
"Little minds? I think not. This poison was specially designed by my great-grandfather. Created to cause pain, so intense you would wish death upon yourself, unlike those pathetic poisons that gives the drinker painless death. Boring of them, wouldn't you say? To be unable to provide entertainment, even on the verge of death."
"You are twisted and sick." He only shoots another smirk at you, causing your skin to crawl.
A loud blast from outside distracts you both and you seize your chance. Knocking the blade out of his hand, you pin him to the ground. This action inflicts further injury on your ankle and you bite your tongue – to stop yourself from screaming. At this point, you finally notice him lying on the ground, his hand upon his chest. Panic courses through your body, surely the blow you dealt wasn't so deadly.
Cautiously, you hobble to his side, he gives you little reason to trust him after the previous stunt. You lean over and recoil in shock. His once pristine white shirt is now soiled in dirt and…blood. Dropping to your knees, you struggle to rip the shirt open. It takes a while to prevent yourself from spewing out the bile that rises in your throat. The sight of the massive wound should probably have a worse effect on you, but you're almost used to seeing such sights.
His hands clasp over yours and you release the silky material from your fingers immediately. Your eyes return to his face and widen in disbelief at the pain etched clearly across. Something completely unheard of; he always kept his face in a clever mask of impassiveness or in a cruel smirk.
"Go." Seeing your raised brow he continues.
"Go. I'm not going to make it through the night and I'll only slow you down. Go while you still have a chance."
You shake your head mutely, who would have thought he was altruistic?
"Get up." Your words are harsh, perhaps seven years of brutal taunting and teasing has left their bitter mark on you. "Stop your pity party, because I'm not leaving without you."
He laughs mockingly as you help to his feet and let him lean on you. Somehow, you manage to go through the grassy field, unseen by them. You no longer feel the pain in your ankle, the only thing you can think of is him.
"Do you trust me?" You hear yourself whispering into the darkness. If not for the feel of his racing pulse in your hand, you wouldn't know he was there. The moon has hidden behind its veil of clouds, the cowardly thing it is. Even the stars offer no comfort, content to twinkle away, shedding little light.
Another eternity passes before he finally mutters,
"No."
Fin.