'Ivan?' Yao pushed the door open tentatively, uneasy at the thought that it was almost noon and he had yet to see Ivan's face. The room was dim, save for the streams of daylight escaping through the boarded up windows. The bed — the only piece of furniture in this room — was hidden away in the corner, Ivan's form buried beneath the blankets.
It was silent as Yao walked across the room, his bare feet not making a sound on the rough wooden floor. Approaching the bed, his eyes instinctively looked for movement, for the rise and fall of Ivan's chest beneath the sheets. It was perhaps an unreasonable kind of anxiety, but one that Yao couldn't help but feel, particularly after hearing of the gamble Ivan took every morning. Suddenly every absence of him, every moment of not knowing, had become tortuous for Yao. It was for this reason that when he put his hand on Ivan's shoulder and felt it rise softly, a breath of relief left Yao's lips.
'Ivan,' Yao whispered, shaking his shoulder slightly. 'Wake up.'
Ivan responded by burying his face further into the blankets, shifting slightly without a word. Yao shook him again, but it seemed that Ivan was deep asleep. He puzzled over why this might be — Ivan was often up at early hours, already cutting up bodies or cooking breakfast by the time Yao had woken up. For the sun to be up and Ivan to still be fast asleep, surely something was wrong.
Yao felt uneasiness sprout again in his stomach, sitting on the edge of the bed and wishing the nagging worries in his chest would quit gnawing at him. Once again, his heart felt hollow and sore, the sight of Ivan's wintry face making it worse somehow. Ivan looked so calm, almost angelic in this dimly lit room.
As Yao's eyes lingered on Ivan's pale face, he caught sight of the white scarf wrapped around his neck. Yao felt a prick of curiosity stab him, wondering what kind of a scar was so hideous or so horrible that Ivan had to hide it even when he slept. Yao gently pulled the covers back slightly, exposing more of the white scarf wrapped snugly around Ivan's neck. Uncomfortable as it might have been, Ivan seemed to cling onto it dearly.
Yao felt an urge to pull away the scarf, at least while Ivan was still asleep and unaware. He would have a look and then leave it be. Ivan would not have to know, nor even explain the scar.
(I only want to look. Just once…)
Yao's hand reached for the scarf, fingers gripping the edge of it delicately. He stopped still, listening to Ivan's breaths whispering softly in the air. Steady, quiet even in the silence of the room. Yao's own, however, did not match. His own breaths were slightly uneven, an almost subtle kind of panic riddled between them as his fingers brushed against Ivan's neck. Nervous at the slight intimacy, yes, but also nervous at the dangerous ground he was treading on. It would almost be a betrayal to pull the scarf away like this, a kind of decision that put Ivan's trust at stake.
And yet, Yao's fingers itched to tug away the scarf, still hovering hesitantly over Ivan's throat. Yao had not felt this kind of reluctance since the night he had tried to strangle Ivan — or rather, considered it.
It was in this position of indecisiveness that Yao had found himself frozen, listening to Ivan's breaths and wondering, until a knock on the front door jolted him out of it. Ivan began to shift beneath the blankets, eyes fluttering open before Yao could even think of hurrying out of the room.
Ivan furrowed his brows for a moment, before smiling drowsily at Yao.
'Dobroe utro, myshka.' Ivan sat up. 'Is something —'
The sound of rapping on the door echoed within the house again, louder this time. Ivan's threw his legs over the edge of the bed and hurried to answer the door.
'One moment, myshka,' Ivan sighed quietly.
Yao followed Ivan out, lingering in the hallway as Ivan opened the door.
'Ah, Katyusha,' Ivan said, stepping aside to let her in. 'I did not expect you to get here so fast.'
'You did say it was important.' Katyusha said, wiping her boots on the doormat before walking into the hallway. Upon seeing Yao, she smiled. 'It's nice to see you again, Yao.'
'Yeah.' Yao smiled back, although his eyes were immediately drawn to the orange bag in Katyusha's hands. 'Nice to see you, too.'
'So, um.' Katyusha turned to Ivan, quickly returning her gaze back to Yao. 'Whenever you're ready.'
Yao frowned. 'Ready for what?'
'Oh…' Katyusha's eyes widened, her head turning back to Ivan. 'Didn't… didn't you —'
'I haven't told him yet, Katyusha.' Ivan shut the door behind him.
'Told me what?'
'Why don't we sit down first?' Ivan smiled gently, sweetly in the way Yao had become so familiar with. Only this was the smile Ivan wore when he wanted to steer the conversation his way, and it unnerved Yao, to say the least.
It was with this annoyance — as well as an odd sense of anxiety — that Yao sat with at the kitchen table, arms crossed and waiting for the other two to start talking.
'So… um,' Katyusha spoke softly, looking to Ivan. 'Ivan, maybe you should…'
Ivan nodded, directing his gaze to Yao. 'Yao, Katyusha's aware of our situation. She's agreed to help us.'
'With what?' Yao shifted in his seat. It felt odd, the way Ivan was speaking to him, to have Ivan and Katyusha look at him as if conducting a press conference of some kind. Words were stiff, withheld and controlled. Yao felt as if he were back in that interview he had gone to so long ago, with cold eyes glaring at him apathetically and a nervous jittery feeling settling in his stomach.
'We're going to fake your death, myshka.'
Yao blinked. '…What?'
'It'll be fine, Yao.' Katyusha reached over to hold his hand, her touch warm and soft, although not comforting in the least. 'It's not as scary as it sounds!'
'Katyusha's going to help us draw some blood,' Ivan said, his lips curved into a slight smile, as if trying to comfort Yao, too. 'And I can take care of staging it so that it —'
'What?' Yao pulled his hand away from Katyusha, glaring incredulously at Ivan. 'Why?'
'This is all so you don't get caught, myshka,' Ivan said. 'We can't have you going to jail, da?' Playfulness saturated his voice in an almost sickeningly sweet way, coating words so that they would somehow sound less terrifying to Yao. But Yao read past the tone of voice, the smiling mask Ivan was wearing. There was something else, something hiding behind Ivan's smile.
Yao only swallowed quietly and asked his next question: 'And if they catch you instead?'
The question was not an easy one, a flickering shadow crossing Ivan's eyes as it was asked. It was this micro-expression, this tiny glimpse of an answer, that set Yao's stomach into a twisting motion.
'That is something to discuss another time, myshka,' Ivan said, his gaze flickering, avoiding both Yao's and Katyusha's questioning expressions.
The room went quiet, a heavy curtain of silence falling over for a painstakingly slow moment. Katyusha fidgeted in her seat, before speaking up.
'Is… is this something you're okay with, Yao? Drawing blood, I mean.'
Yao nodded weakly. 'Y-Yeah…'
He was not, however, comfortable with Ivan's words, of the sacrifice Ivan was knowingly making. But there was little choice in the matter. Ivan would knock him out unconscious to draw the blood if he had to, if it meant keeping the police off Yao's trail. This, Yao could see in the lilac eyes that watched him so carefully.
'I'll uh…' Katyusha looked to Ivan for his silent approval. 'I'll get started then.'
She got up from her seat and knelt by the orange bag she was carrying earlier. She pulled out a pair of gloves, and began to set out equipment onto the kitchen table.
'You're not afraid of needles, are you? Or have any allergies?' Katyusha asked somewhat absent-mindedly as she rolled up her sleeves and slipped the gloves on. She picked up a small plastic bag, attaching a small tube to it.
'No,' Yao replied, his mouth going a little dry — not out of fear for the sharp needle that Katyusha was now holding up, but more so out of that fact that he was actually going through with this plan Ivan had come up with. He looked to Ivan and hoped he would understand this. Ivan only smiled back, and Yao felt a bitter taste in his mouth. Once again, a mask was glaring at him, and Yao felt a slight sting of betrayal because of it.
Katyusha gently took ahold of Yao's hand, turning it up and rolling up his sleeve. She pulled up a kitchen chair towards Yao and sat in it to examine Yao's arm. She tied a rag above Yao's elbow tightly, before wiping the skin of his arm with an alcohol-drenched tissue.
'It's only sting a bit,' Katyusha said sweetly, as if placating a child. She pressed her thumb over a vein, faintly showing through the translucent pale skin of Yao's arm. 'You might feel a little dizzy, too. But that's okay.'
The needle pierced Yao's skin, a viscous crimson red draining into the tube. Yao watched it with fascination, almost wishing Ivan had been the one to drain the blood. He marvelled at the sight of his blood pouring out so carefully, so slowly and beautifully, even if the prospect of what would be done with it was something that Yao still felt uneasy about.
The bag was gradually being filled up with the dark fluid, Yao glancing up at Ivan to see if he too, was watching. Lilac irises gazed back at him, softly and without the fake cheeriness Yao had gotten weary of. He felt his chest tighten, a small jab of pain piercing it. The gentle smile graced across Ivan's lips was half-hearted, broken so that it almost wasn't a smile at all. It was this honest and raw gesture that sprouted thorny roses in his chest, feeling guilt for feeling irritation at Ivan in the first place. Yao had begun to wonder if perhaps it was better that he had not seen this broken smile, that maybe Ivan had known what he was doing when he coated his words sweetly for Yao.
As the deep red of the bag approached the top, nearly filling it up, Yao's vision flickered slightly, the room darkened as if a candle was being blown out. He felt the needle being pulled out, a slight pressure on his arm as everything was swallowed up by a grainy darkness.
'Make sure he doesn't fall. He might need a few minutes.'
'I know…'
The voices echoed and drifted in Yao's ears, drowning in and out as if Yao was being submerged into deep water and pulled back out again. He felt the world spin on itself, tilting and falling until a cold touch slowed it to a stand-still. Ice, melting onto his arm where the needle had stung. Powdery snow falling onto his shoulders, somehow keeping him from falling. It was cold, distant… but it was comforting, an anchor for Yao.
But it was melting, dissolving away.
(Don't go…)
Where was it? The snow…
'I'm not leaving, myshka,' Ivan chuckled, his voice so very close.
A warm glow spilled into the pitch black, the kitchen light shining into his eyes. Lifting his head up from the back of the chair, Yao felt a dull headache emerge. As his eyes adjusted to the light, graininess fading away, he saw Ivan's pale face.
'You passed out for a moment there,' Ivan smiled gently. 'Don't try to stand up just yet, da?'
Yao nodded weakly. His eyes lingered over to his arm, a cotton pad held by Ivan's hand to where the needle had pricked him. Pale fingers pressed into his arm, brushing against his skin frostily.
'Where…' Yao rolled his head side to side, the kitchen empty, save for a bag of crimson blood lying on the table. 'Where's Katyusha…?'
'She's gone home.' Ivan wrapped gauze where the cotton pad was being held. 'She told me to make sure you don't overexert yourself.' He glanced up at Yao. 'You should probably rest, myshka.'
'Yeah…' Yao said drowsily, his head feeling empty and light. He grasped the sleeve of Ivan's shirt. 'Don't leave without me, though.'
He wanted to be there when his blood spilled across the floor, to see his own ghostly death flicker before him.
'Ochi chernye…' Ivan placed his hand over Yao's. 'Of course I won't.'
.
Kiku frowned, leaning in closer to the file. 'Something is not right here…'
'Tell me about it.' Alfred slapped the pile of papers in his hands to the table, picking up the paper at the top of the stack. 'Take this kid, for example. Vincent Erikson. Admitted into Glen Hills in 1999, aged eight. But when he was released in 2006, he was ten years old. And that's just one of them.'
'Yes, I've seen patient profiles like that, too…' Kiku said, sliding a file across the desk. 'Like this one. Abigail Fulman. Admitted in August of 1995 for unspecified reasons. Died in January of 1997.' He placed his finger on the top right corner of the page, a small date printed where it rested. 'But the record wasn't created until after her death.'
'You can thank digital records for that giveaway…' Alfred muttered, pulling the page closer to read it. 'They're falsified, aren't they?' Alfred said. 'This Abigail Fulman… She never existed.'
'That's what I was thinking as well.' Kiku said, voice softer than it was before. 'Glen Hills staff created new identities for deceased patients. It's likely this was done to maintain government funding.'
Alfred set the paper back onto the pile, leaning back into his desk chair. 'Which makes our job a hell of a lot harder. Our guy could be any one of these patients, and we still wouldn't really have a name.'
Kiku sat across the desk wordlessly, mulling over the sheet Alfred had dumped back onto the pile. After a moment of pensiveness, brown eyes glanced up at Alfred. 'Where is Dr. Kirkland?'
'Hm?' Alfred rubbed his forehead, a persistent ache causing him to wince. 'Why should I know?'
'I-I don't know.' Kiku flustered. 'I just thought to ask…'
'Don't worry about it.' Alfred chuckled weakly. 'He's uh…probably busy or something. Looking for a top hat to match his cane.'
Kiku offered a small smile, although neither of them were really laughing.
'Besides,' Alfred continued, his smile fading. 'There haven't really been any bodies turning up lately. It's been kind of quiet… I don't think he's got much to do right now.'
'He never said much about the woman with the burnt heart.'
'No…' Alfred shook his head, crossing his arms and letting his gaze drift off. 'He didn't.'
His eyes spotted a crinkle in the stack of papers on his desk, pages curled as they often did when something was spilled onto them.
'Has someone…' Furrowing his brows, Alfred lifted off a huge chunk of the stack, leaving only the pages that seemed to be a little wet. 'Has someone already been through these?' Alfred leafed through the pages. 'Someone's spilt something on them… like coffee or —'
Alfred's thumb caught onto one page in particular, his gaze fixed on the name printed at the top of it.
'Kiku.' Alfred snapped his head up. 'Look at this.' He passed the page over to him.
Kiku took it gently, glancing at it and frowning. He looked to Alfred questioningly. 'Is that..?'
'I think we might have our killer.' Alfred said, an involuntary smile tugging at his lips as adrenaline coursed through his veins. 'At least, we got one of them.'
.
Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead, even as the cold air of the room stilled and settled. So terrified, so scared of what might happen next, it was all spoken in her ragged breaths and trembling shoulders. As if staring into a mirror, the sight was familiar to Yao. Anticipation, waiting for a painful death, was perhaps more terrifying than anything else. Sympathy, however, did not reach him.
She was a frail and weary looking woman, haggard lines of a frequently worn frown etched permanently onto her face. Her nails, like bloodied claws, were painted a deep shade of red. Yao did not have to ask Ivan to know why she was tied up in that chair, he knew. He could almost see the teary faces, hear children's muffled cries and pleas. It was those curled and spindly fingers, painted red as if in warning, that bit into the shivering skin of children. No, sympathy did not reach Yao. The knife dangled loosely and freely in his hands, waiting to slice skin away if Ivan would let him.
A hand clamped down onto his shoulder. 'Put the knife away, myshka.'
Obedient, Yao slipped the knife back into his pocket. He looked to Ivan, the absence of a smile unnerving. Ivan pulled out a folded page from his coat pocket, handing it to Yao.
'I need you to hold it out for her to read.' Ivan took a tape recorder from his coat and gave this to Yao. 'You'll have to record, da?'
Yao nodded as Ivan retreated to the far side of the room. He turned to the woman in the chair and tore off the tape from her mouth.
'Start reading when I tell you.' Yao held out the page in front of her. 'Only what's on the page, okay? Don't make this more painful than it needs to be.'
The woman nodded vigorously, perhaps catching scent of a way out, a sliver of hope that she would simply read the page and be left alone. A silly, perhaps overoptimistic notion, to say the least.
Yao clicked down on the record button, prodding the woman and holding the recorder by her mouth.
'H-Help me, please…' she croaked out hoarsely, sunken eyes trained on the paper obediently. 'So-Someone's broken in, I think there's two of them. They — They're —'
A loud thud startled the two of them, Yao's gaze snapping towards Ivan on the other side of the living room. A couch had been turned over to its side. Ivan only nodded in his direction, a silent reassurance for Yao to continue on. Yao prodded the woman again.
'T-They're —' She whimpered, tears rolling down her cheeks as glass shattered onto the floor. 'In the living room. One of them pulled out a knife. They haven't found me yet. I'm hiding under the table, but—'
A flower vase knocked onto the floor, piercing the air as the woman swallowed her cry. 'But I can see one of them on the floor. He — He's bleeding. He can see me, but he's not saying anything. Oh God, I think he's dead. He's dead…'
The woman looked up from the paper, her trembling mouth agape. But Yao did not stop recording. He looked to Ivan, approaching with heavy footsteps. The woman frantically whipped her head from Ivan to Yao, eyes widening so that the whites of her eyes glistened even in the dim light of the room.
'N-No…' she whimpered. 'No! Please!'
Ivan untied the rope around her waist, yanking her up from the chair. Yao pulled out his knife and held it out to Ivan. Ivan took hold of it, and without even glancing up at Yao, he drove the glinting knife into the woman's throat. Hot blood spattered onto Yao as the woman shrieked and gurgled, blood sprouting out from her lips as she screamed. The knife twisted and dragged across her neck, her head falling limply as the knife reached its endpoint. Ivan let her fall to the floor, her body strewn on the carpet by the dining table. Ivan pushed the chair into the dining table with his boot, and slung the loose rope so that it hung on his shoulder.
Cold and bloody fingers brushed against Yao's, folding around them and pressing down where Yao's index finger held the stop button.
'Thank you for the knife, myshka.'
The recorder was pried out of his hand, replaced with the dripping knife.
'Y-Yeah…' Yao stared into his hand absent-mindedly. He snapped his gaze up to Ivan. 'Why did you do that?'
'Do what?' Ivan pulled a rag out of his coat pocket, wiping his hands before cleaning off the splotches of blood from Yao's face.
'All you did was slit her throat.'
Ivan nodded, the rag trailing down the side of Yao's face. 'And?'
'By your standards, that's a mercy killing.' Yao reached up to snatch the rag away, wiping his own hands and bloody knife.
'Mercy?' Ivan chuckled, although it was a laugh devoid of its usual airy lightness. 'No… That was not mercy.'
'What was it then?'
'A lack of patience, myshka.' Ivan smiled. Once again, it was a broken smile, weakly holding back something Yao had yet to understand. Ivan brushed the hair away from Yao's face with icy hands, the air around Yao becoming stifling and thick as they left icy trails on his skin.
'Patience for what?' Yao asked, breath shaking as Ivan's hand trailed to the back of his head, tugging at the ponytail and pulling the hairband loose. A curtain of hair spread across Yao's back, Ivan's hands combing through it. 'Wh-What are you doing?' Yao asked, although he did not flinch or try to move away.
'Ochi chernye… Vizhu traur v vas po dushe moyei,' Ivan murmured, sighing. He pulled his hand away, but Yao wanted to snatch it back, to feel it on his skin even if it made him shiver.
'How would you do it?' Yao grabbed Ivan's sleeve, afraid to reach for his hand even though he sought it desperately. 'How would you kill me, if you had to?'
Ivan exhaled sharply, perhaps in what was supposed to be an amused chuckle. He brought his hand to Yao's neck, dragging his finger across it slowly. Yao stopped Ivan's hand in its tracks.
'Not as a mercy killing,' Yao said. 'Or as an impatient kill, whatever it is you want to call it. As one of the others… how would you do it?'
'Yao.' Ivan curled his hand so that it cupped Yao's chin. 'Perhaps when I first met you… I might have been able to. But now…'
'…Now what?' Yao asked, feeling drawn in by the cold hand guiding his chin. Suffocating, drowning, burning, Yao felt as if he were dying a million deaths in Ivan's hold, feeling the ache and sting of every one of them in his chest.
Ivan traced his thumb over Yao's cheek. 'There's…' Ivan sighed, pulling his hand away, only to leave yet another void, another hole in Yao's chest. 'There's work to be done, myshka.'
Ivan pried the rag out of Yao's hand and walked to where the overturned couch lay, a black bag beside it. He knelt down and opened it, shoving the rope and rag into it. He pulled out a deep red bag out, a small pump and tube attached to it.
'Stand over there, myshka.' Ivan gestured to the space in front of the overturned couch. Glass crunched beneath Yao's boots as they made their way towards the couch, and he stood there with a twisting and churning feeling in his stomach.
Ivan stood behind Yao, wrapping his arm across Yao's chest.
'Don't let go of the bag,' Ivan said, his free hand placing the blood filled bag in Yao's hands.
Holding the pump up against Yao's neck, Ivan stood still for a moment and chuckled.
'Relax, myshka. I can feel your heartbeat.'
'S-Sorry,' Yao exhaled, squeezing the bag gently in his hands. 'Is… uh… Is this your mercy killing?'
'I'm not sure what it is…' Ivan said, his breath lingering by Yao's ear and making him shiver. 'But it's for both of us, myshka.'
A vision of a bloodied heart flashed before Yao's eyes, of the torn ribcage from which it had been ripped out of. A memory of an old nightmare, somehow still fresh, still raw as Yao heard these words.
Ivan's hand shifted on Yao's neck. 'Shall we begin?'
Yao nodded, although he did not have much say in the matter. A death by Ivan's hand, real or imagined, seemed inevitable, inescapable in any world Yao chose to inhabit.
Ivan's hand gently squeezed the pump, crimson spraying out of it as Ivan slowly dragged it to the side of Yao's throat. Splotches and stretches of blood, his blood, splayed out on the mottled ceiling. Staining the walls, sparingly painting them red. The bag quickly sank in Yao's hands, the blood draining out of it faster than he had expected.
There was a breath, a moment of silence. Still in Ivan's grip, Yao let himself hang loosely in his hold, gaze trailing over the patterns of his blood on the wall. A chuckle bubbled up in his throat, quiet and hesitant, but in the quietness of the room it was louder than anything.
'Is that it? My death?' Yao asked.
'I'm afraid so, myshka.' Ivan rested his head on Yao's shoulder. 'Is it not living up to your expectations?'
'Expectations…' Yao said, his voice almost a whisper. 'I guess you could call it that.'
'Hm.' Ivan pried the bag out of Yao's hands. 'Perhaps next time…'
'There's going to be a next time?'
'I can't make any promises,' Ivan hummed, pulling the tubing out of the bag and throwing the bloodied coil into the black bag. He pat Yao on the shoulders. 'Fall to the floor, myshka. There's one more thing to do.'
Yao nodded and let himself crumble onto the floor, Ivan's hands guiding him so that he lay on his back.
'You might find this unpleasant, but it has to be done, da?' Ivan knelt by Yao's face, holding the bag over Yao's throat. He tipped the bag over, cold blood pouring over Yao's neck. Yao bit back a yelp, the feeling of it sickening and uncomfortable. He felt his own blood pool beneath him, seeping into his loose hair and soaking the back of his clothes.
'Stay still for a moment.' Ivan stood up to dispose of the bag, now empty and limp, before returning to stand over Yao. Ivan seemed to scrutinize the sight for a moment, of Yao lying in his own blood, as if he were a slightly off-center painting.
'Something wrong?' Yao glanced up at Ivan, feeling the blood become sticky on his neck, and wanting to wipe it off.
Ivan sighed, pulling his gloves out of his pockets and slipping them on. 'I don't know what I would really do in a situation like this…'
'What? Killing someone and disposing of the body?' Yao arched a brow, impatience starting to itch at him ever so slightly. He could feel the blood congealing in his hair, staining his scalp and neck.
'Not just anyone, myshka. You forget…' Ivan knelt down and picked Yao up, carrying him as if he were a porcelain doll, ready to shatter at the slightest breath of air. Yao, however, did not object. Dead bodies could not simply walk out, after all. It was only reasonable for Ivan to carry Yao out.
(Only reasonable…)
Yao watched as crimson droplets fell and sank into the carpet, dripping from his hair to leave a trail as Ivan slung the black bag over his shoulder. Ivan pressed the door handle down, pulling the door open to let in an icy draft of air.
'Wait.' Yao placed his hand on Ivan's chest to stop him, only for a moment forgetting what he wanted to say when he thought of the heart that beat beneath his hand. 'The… uh… The flowers.' Yao turned his head to indicate towards the broken vase on the floor, wilted white roses having spilt out of them. 'Put the petals where my blood is.'
Ivan blinked at Yao, brows furrowing in question. 'Is that important?'
Yao nodded, hand sliding away from Ivan. 'Very.'
A small smile broke onto Ivan's lips, eyes softening in their gaze in a way that squeezed Yao's heart, the dull ache returning once again.
'As you wish, ochi chernye…'
Yao returned the smile, the dried blood on his throat no longer quite as stifling or as uncomfortable as it was before. His chest felt smaller, tighter as he inhaled, but it was not unpleasant. Perhaps in this fake death of his, something new — something better — could be born out of it. Yao was finally free of the world, completely gone from its grey and stifling face. He could envelop himself completely in this new world he had become part of — a world of crimson ribbons and ice cold hands.
He watched as the petals fell into the dark pool of blood, as they were engulfed in red and no longer white. Somehow, this reminded Yao of his nightmare, of the very first drop of blood trickling down his skin and blooming as it was soaked up by the mattress. It was this same fascination that captivated his eyes, his neck craned to gaze at the curled petals on the bloodied floor, even as the door shut closed behind them.
In the strangest of ways, the sight was not sickening in the least. On the contrary, Yao felt it was oddly dream-like. A beautiful, scarlet dream framed by Ivan's ice cold touch as he carried him through the pitch black night.
(Such a pretty dream…)
Yao could only hope that he would never have to wake up.
