A/N: Ha! I didn't miss my deadline! Made it home right on time, lucky me.

So, this bit is one long Finas post, but it's really a short chapter compared to the other ones. It also may be the last one on a deadline. Next week I'll be camping… And the week after that I'll be in Tahoe, and my birthday will be on this Friday! Woot!

After that, updates will be VERY sketchy, as I only have a couple more chapters after this one. But god, this baby will be longs, guys. And I'm hoping it won't end until it's finished, Doma and I have an entire plotline. Stick with us guys.

I think that's it, better put this up before I go apeshit on my computer, which just froze while I was typing this.

|.|.|.|.|

Finas couldn't remember his eyes closing, couldn't remember when shapes faded into black and then back into shapes. A haze floated around him, leaving him senseless and numb, save for the gentle throb that occurred whenever he tried to clear his mind.

And to be honest, Finas stopped trying.

"I c-couldn't…"

Hn?

It took Finas far longer than he could have hoped to register the owner of the voice that spoke so shakily, the words that barely made dents along the fog of his mind. He felt surges running through him, of what, he couldn't tell and didn't have the energy to try to recognize.

"Finas!" Again, the gentle numbness that he bathed in was cut through, ever so slightly. In something that might have been irritation but was honestly too weak of a trial to think about, Finas tried to envelop himself in the swath of frayed nerves and silence, tried to push away the distractions.

"…ios mio… It's going to be okay Finny, I swea…" His efforts seemed to be in vain, however. The blanket of calm was cut through again, and he would have grumbled in annoyance had he the desire to respond to the distraction. But as he did not, he stayed silent, and willed the source of irritation to do the same.

Finas continued to fade in and out of the black reality—those were the moments Finas couldn't remember, wouldn't recognize happening, because everything was a constant black in his mind. Such a sweet darkness, bliss and unfeeling and outside of time. And again and again he was pulled away from it as cold appendages touched him and reminded him that he had a body, and it hurt, it stung like mad and being in that reality made him want to scream and sink away again.

If he did feel, and he tried desperately not to, it was of pain and cold and nausea. Why would anyone want that world? What else could there be in it?

He was still being touched, and it cut through the haze very lightly and tenderly, making a different impact on his defenses than all had been. The touch was unnerving on a level, made him curious in a fearful sort of way, made him stick his feelers out.

He almost immediately retreated to the haze, because it hurt so much, why did it hurt so much?

But if one could push past that, find something to hold onto and push past the agony that was the world, one could find the slightest of comforts.

Someone was holding him closely to a cool body. The hold was protective and he found he didn't mind. But why did it sting some, why did it burn?

He had a body. The hold defined that, made the fuzzy outlines smoother and clearer. And now he found he didn't want the body. He didn't like the stinging that was inside the lines of his body.

Sounds (sounds? what were those?) bounced off his body, sounds that made no sense. What were languages? What were words? What were tone and voice, what was screaming, and crying?

Such strange thoughts fled his mind and the barriers built themselves up again as he was moved, lost that touch. The stinging turned to a fire that burned up the haze like it was a gasoline, setting Finas (he had almost forgotten his name, who he was) on fire, agony touching his core and flicking at him.

"—ck, Fuck, Fuck!"

Words. Those were words. Bitter words, painful words, agonizing words.

Finas knew those words.

Finas knew that voice.

Cas.

Casimiro.

Fire again, fire that made Finas want to grit his teeth and weep—but where on his body were his teeth again? Fire that was only slightly doused with sad words of shame and panic and profane utterance.

Words that at one point stopped making sense but were still a comfort in the familiarity of their speaker. Words that brought Finas back to sanity from the cloud and fog and fire.

He was touched again, right into the core of the fire, and his mind reeled and writhed though his body refused to move for him. He felt sick, electrocuted, almost as though he had drunk a gallon of holy water (and he couldn't remember why he knew it would hurt, but dammit whatever made sense to him!).

"—cazzo, Finas…" The fire continued more and more, but Finas didn't twitch—couldn't twitch. And slowly again it receded, and his walls once again began to come down, touching the world of pain again. Pain and agony and sadness and Cas.

He had forgotten what had happened. Forgotten the screams of denial and accusation and the claws in his chest. Forgotten everything.

"—anted to leave… before this happened didn't….knew that I'd… I'd fuck up. I fucked up."

Pain, again. But more emotional than anything. Because, if he pulled himself back there to those moments, he'd have been forced to admit Casimiro was right. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid. But he'd never imagined things to turn out like they had.

The fire in his chest, he knew what it was now. Claws that had torn into him, flesh that felt enflamed but seemed… tended. Better?

For the first time in his existence, Finas was slow on the uptake. He was sinking again, into the numbness and dark and haze that had returned to float around him. But he didn't want it, he wanted it to go away, no, go away, go away. He had to listen, had to focus.

"…wanted me to stop before this happened…"

"…But now that it has…"

"I can't stop."

What? What? No, that wasn't right, Casimiro could always—another flame shot up in his chest and caused him to lose focus. He tried to repress it, tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't let him. By the gods, it hurt. It was utterly horrible.

But nothing could ever be as horrible as what happened next—

"But I won't burden you any longer Finny."

Abruptly Finas felt the fire flare up stronger than ever, then die inside him. He felt it die. Bursts of clarity hit the vampire painfully.

Cas was leaving. He was actually leaving. Because he thought he was a burden, some sort of monster. And, true, Casimiro could lose himself in such anger and the damned curse—but that wasn't his fault. It never had been. What had been his fault was the constant fuel he provided for the burning monstrosity inside of him. He had never been able to let go of the past, of what could have been but never was, and now—what? He was gone.

Finas was always aware if Casimiro was by his side or not; such a bond had grown over the centuries. He had been aware that Casimiro was moving aside, if only faintly, but he had never actually expected what was happening. He was the one that was going to leave. He was the one that had caused this, not Casimiro, Cas couldn't just le—

"It's for the best…"

For the best? For the best?

"…It's for the best isn't it?" (so quiet now, so quiet)

Fuck, no, Cas, it was not for the best, they could fix this, they could! Finas had been to blame, he hadn't meant to make Casimiro angry, they could make things right—

But deep down, somewhere next to the fiery wound that was sparking again, trying to gain his attention, Finas knew that it wasn't true. Casimiro had crossed some sort of boundary; they both had. One of them was always going to leave the other tonight, it had just occurred differently than one could have expected. This couldn't work anymore.

It couldn't.

"I'm the hollow one aren't I?"

Finas wanted to scream. The man, so reserved and quiet and brooding, wanted to burst out into angry screams of denial. Casimiro wasn't hollow. God, couldn't he look at himself now? He wasn't hollow.

But again, the vampire's body refused to respond to his wishes, save for another sharp stab of pain through his body that shook his core and sent him reeling back into the haze with a final thought.

Casimiro was gone.

The Englishman wouldn't wake for hours on end, until his body had finally touched over the worst of the damage done to him by his best friend—he would wake and grab at the bag by his side and swallow it with barely any patience or reserve. He would grip the bag tightly in his clenched fist and let his hands show his emotion for him, as his mind would scream one thought, one painful realization, over and over again.

Casimiro was gone.