Kiku's thumb ached as he pressed down on the remote control button again. The television screen flickered in the dark room — there was news of a fire downtown. Kiku sighed and clicked to the next channel. A recent string of robberies strikes across the city. Next channel. A woman defends her murderer boyfriend. He pressed down on the button again. A flood devastates families.
(American news is so depressing.)
Kiku pressed back to the previous channel and settled for the flashy headlines and close up shots of the woman's face. She looked nervous, her eyes uneasy as they surveyed the stage she was on.
Kiku's brows furrowed as he sank back into his seat. How she had decided to put herself on a show like that, he could not understand. Given the headlines, Kiku doubted she had any fighting chance against the live audience. The woman's slim hands were now fidgeting, gripping the hem of her skirt with trembling fingers.
'So you mean to say he's not such a bad guy after all?' the interviewer asked with a teasing smile.
The woman blinked, biting her lip. 'No… He's… He's a terrible person. He's insane.'
'Oh?'
'But I still love him!'
The interviewer's smile faltered. He looked to the live audience behind him, turning back to face the woman again with a frown.
'Lisa… He killed your husband.'
Kiku shut the television off, leaving the room completely dark. He sat still for a while, sinking into the calm of the quiet room.
'Still love him…' Kiku murmured, as if hearing the words aloud would make them more comprehensible. An emptiness was left behind, Kiku staring into the pitch black of the room. Though it wasn't the silence Kiku had always longed for — the blearing of traffic outside never died down — it was as close as it would ever get in this sky high prison. But Kiku was happy to settle for a mere cell block of an apartment, so long as he could get to work and get his job done. That was his reason for coming all the way to America, after all. So he could work, and perhaps one day, not feel quite so foreign to the world. Kiku used to think Japan was his one and only true home… but even there he had felt like an outsider. Something had been missing — no, something was always missing, wherever he went.
Kiku drew out a soft breath, lolling his head to the side. City lights peeked in through the curtains, teasing through fabric to invite Kiku. He got up from his seat and drew back the curtains by a sliver. Only the sight he saw every night, apartment buildings across the traffic clogged street, their windows glowing with warmth. Silhouettes talking, eating at tables as families… living as normal. He was ready to pull the curtain closed, when a familiar cold light bathed his hand.
Kiku looked up at the sky, a full moon shining between dark clouds.
('Beautiful, isn't it?')
Kiku pulled the curtains back further, letting the moonlight spill onto the carpeted floor of his tiny living room. Never quite breaking his eyes away from it, he stumbled back to sit on the floor, his legs folded.
'Yes… it's very beautiful,' he whispered, though he wasn't sure why he still bothered to reply to these echoes of old memories. He had hoped they would fade, and yet whenever the full moon was up, he wrought them out of his dusty memory to relive again. It was an incomprehensible thing to Kiku, though he never tried to understand it.
A crescent shadow teased over the moon, creeping up on its edge. Kiku's craned neck tilted down, his weary head facing the carpet of the floor as the moonlight became dimmer. What was it that man had said to him again? Jin Wang and his half-lidded, curious eyes…
('You sure you're a detective? You don't strike me as one. Far too… timid. Like a little brother.')
And then Jin had smiled, as if having caught onto the end of a tangled yarn ball. Kiku had felt himself flinch, trying to hold onto the file in his shaky hands as he eyed the tape recorder. But Jin had caught even that, and his smile only grew. As if Kiku had been the one being questioned. I know you, Jin's eyes seemed to say, I know you well. But I'll do you a favour…
'Tell me about your cousin, Yao Wang,' Kiku had asked him, letting his own expression withdraw and become a blank slate. 'What was he doing at the Poisoned Apple?'
Jin quirked a brow, drawing in a breath and sighing. 'Yong Soo brought him. Apparently he had found him passed out on the side of the highway.' Jin paused, running his index finger over the scabbed nailbed of his thumb.
A hesitant chuckle escaped Jin's lips. 'He carried Yao into my office like he had found a box of kittens on the street or something. He looked so worried and concerned… but I saw his secret little smile.' He looked up to meet Kiku's eyes. 'Just like a child.'
Kiku folded his hands on the table. 'Do you think that's what got to Yao Wang? Made him snap at Yong Soo?'
Jin bowed his head back down and picked at the dried blood on his finger, the sound of it clicking quietly in the pause that followed Kiku's question.
'Did you see the body, Detective?'
'Yes, I did.'
'Then you know Yao did more than just 'snap'.' A scab peeled off Jin's finger, fresh blood oozing out of it. 'He butchered Yong Soo. Like he was the most repulsive thing there ever was…' Jin lifted his head up. 'Have you ever felt that kind of hatred for someone, Detective?'
There was a breath of silence, the fluorescent lights above them buzzing in the absence of voices. Kiku felt his mask of composure jilt, lips twitching to say something other than what he had in mind. He blinked, breaking off the hold Jin's scrutinising eyes had on him.
'No. I haven't.'
A gust of wind coursed against the window, whistling through the hinges. Now seeing the surface of the carpet beneath his lap, Kiku shivered, his eyes snapping out of the trance they had fallen into. He got up, resolved to draw the curtains closed and forget about the moon, about Jin's pointed questions and Yong Soo's mutilated body, about —
The snap of glass sent a flinch through Kiku's shoulders. An angular line of cracked glass had appeared, branching out from the corner of the window. Kiku sighed, resolving to buy masking tape in the morning. He grabbed the curtains, ready to close them, but he hesitated. He glanced up at the moon, bright and luminescent still.
('Don't leave me here.')
Kiku furrowed his brows, wanting to shut the curtains now, to will the moon out of its existence.
('I'm not letting you leave, Kiku —')
And yet, his fingers quivered against the fabric. It hurt to look at it now, dredged up to the surface voices and images he wished would disappear. If only they were made of paper — of thin, fragile paper so he could burn them.
A scream rang out in his head, every uneven tremble of that voice etched into his memory. It stung Kiku, to know that he remembered that sound so well. Was that how Yong Soo had sounded, too? Was that how his soul had been ripped out of him? Kiku was sure that this horrible scream was the mark of a heart being torn, of someone's soul wanting to escape and shrivel away. It was a terrifying kind of shriek that had sent a chill through his body even after hearing it so many times.
'I made a mistake…'
The words were so small, pathetic and barely audible through Kiku's mumbling lips. But his eyes were held by the sky, stinging as the edges of the moon began to blur. And though it still pained Kiku to watch the full moon, his head remained fixed, unable to tear his gaze away.
.
The single light-bulb that lit the room began to flicker, buzzing and spitting in the dusty silence. Arthur sighed and shut his eyes, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in his stomach, the hunger scratching away inside of him. He rested his head against the wall, rolling it from side to side to shift his gaze between the empty chair and the door. Neither had changed nor moved in the past twenty-four hours.
He settled for the view of the basement door, eyeing its hinges and hoping for light to peek through them. But hoping was only just that — wishful thinking. Arthur was better off clawing at the door. His hands were untied, he was free to move around — and yet he simply remained slumped on the floor.
He jolted his numbed legs, checking that they were still his, and not the deadened husks that they felt to be. Yao had not needed to tear his skin away to render Arthur legless. Somehow, an odd feeling had struck him paralyzed beneath the tip of the kitchen knife. That sweaty, cold tension that Arthur could recall feeling as a young boy. Fear, was it? It had been a while, a long time, since he had felt fear that real. Arthur thought he was done with it. He had hoped he was done with it.
He drew up wooden legs to his chest, lolling his head toward the chair and jolting at the sight he was met with. Where an empty seat should have been, Alfred was sitting instead. Steady blue eyes held onto his, unblinking and still.
'Alfred.' Arthur felt a smile stretch across cracked lips. 'Fancy meeting you here.'
Alfred seemed to consider Arthur for a moment, his hands locked together in his lap as he leaned forward — the rustle of his suit jacket fresh and beautiful to Arthur's ears.
'You do know what's going on right now, don't you?'
A wheezed chuckle rose in Arthur's throat. 'My dear Alfie is paying me a visit…'
Alfred's brows pinched together. He sighed and adjusted his glasses. 'You're really not wondering how I —'
'Will you always do this?' Arthur said, his sand-papery voice scraping his throat raw. 'Visit me…?'
'You and I both know why I'm here.' Alfred paused, perhaps waiting for some sort of recognition on Arthur's face. But Arthur only continued to smile, lolling his head to rest on his shoulder and chuckling.
'I know… I've gone mad. But that's nothing new, Alfred. I told you, didn't I? That I was just like them on the inside...'
Alfred gave him a perplexed look, brows furrowing so delicately, so subtly — Arthur almost started to believe that this was real. He could smell the scent of coffee lingering in the air, could hear the crisp rustle of Alfred's jacket, could almost touch him if he reached out. Alfred was right there, seemingly solid and real in every way even though Arthur knew he wasn't.
Alfred stayed silent, waiting for Arthur to speak again in a long, unblinking stare.
His breaths. Arthur can hear them, too.
'Alfred —'
'I don't think you're like them, Arthur.'
'How can you say that?' Arthur lifted his head up, hearing the prick of irritation in his own voice, though he couldn't say for sure why it was there.
Alfred gave a shrug. 'Dunno. You just aren't.'
'Oh please, Alfred. I get paid to think like a beast, like a psychopath and a sociopath and every other deranged individual under the sun. I get paid to be them, Alfred! Of course I'm one of them!'
There was a pause, a silent moment as Alfred's eyes wavered in their hold. Arthur's breaths are louder now, overpowering Alfred's. Arthur remembered once again that this isn't real, that this isn't Alfred. He heard footsteps creaking upstairs and could feel the dream slipping away from him, fading like wispy smoke.
Alfred leaned forward, lowering his voice so that it was soft, quiet enough to send a shiver through Arthur's aching frame.
'If you were one of them, then why are you here?'
Arthur felt his breath, felt the question as it softly sounded out. Alfred watched him as the question rang in Arthur's head, unanswered. Why was he here? He was being held captive, was being starved in this dingy basement, sat here weakly as he waited, waited for something and yet…
It wasn't something a wolf would do.
The basement door creaked open, Arthur's head snapping toward it. Realising what he had just done, he turned his head back to the chair, perhaps desperately hoping Alfred would still be there. But he wasn't, and Arthur was only left with his softly spoken words. Alfred had been right; the door had been unlocked the entire time, swinging open easily in the corner of his eye, so why was Arthur still there, trapped? Arthur's escape had been waiting for him, but he hadn't even given it a single thought. No, he only sat here limp and docile, waiting for the next visitor. Passive like a lamb when Arthur had always deemed himself a wolf.
Pathetic, Arthur thought grimly as he pulled his legs closer to his chest, a heavy feeling flooding his stomach as a shadow approached. I couldn't even profile my own bloody mind.
'Dobroe utro,' a sweet, almost childish voice said. Arthur looked up, met by a pale-faced smile. He forced himself to return the gesture, ignoring the pit of his stomach that was now twisting and churning in uncertainty. He eyed the tray in the man's hands and wondered if it was food or death on a platter.
'Ivan, isn't it…?' Arthur's voice was hoarse, crushed beneath bruises. 'Here to put me out of my misery?'
Ivan's brows furrowed. 'Why would you say such a thing? You are a guest of the house. Killing you wouldn't be nice, da?' A chuckle echoed out into the empty basement, light and airy though the words were anything but. Ivan set the tray down onto the floor, a bowl of soup steaming and sending Arthur's stomach growling.
'I have brought you food, but first I need to see your wound, da?' Ivan kneeled down beside Arthur, meeting his eye level. 'Yao stabbed you, didn't he?'
'He told you?'
'Nyet. I saw the bloody knife outside.'
'Did he tell you how he tried to feed me my own tongue?' Arthur said, feeling the corner of his lips tug up slowly. He watched the thoughts run through Ivan's head, so transparent and easy to read. He saw the slight surprise in his eyes, the amusement faint on his lips, the way his gaze flickered and fell to the ground…
(Oh.)
'Is that what happened…?' A weak chuckle escaped Ivan's lips, though his eyes did not match the smile. Disappointment, was it? Arthur looked closer, frowned when he realised that Ivan had not even questioned his claim for a second, had taken it as truth for granted. For someone who supposedly hated so much, supposedly maimed and killed the doctors and nurses that had betrayed him, there was little cynicism.
Ivan's smile widened, shy and hesitant as he looked up at Arthur. 'Myshka has a cute temper, doesn't he?'
Arthur scoffed. 'Dangerous is perhaps the better word for it.'
Ivan only hummed appreciatively. He prodded Arthur's shoulder. 'Enough with the talking, da? Let's have a look at that wound.'
Arthur winced at the touch, pursing his lips as he started picking at his shirt buttons with numb fingers. He pulled his shirt away from his shoulder, taking in a sharp inhale when dried blood ripped away with the fabric. He felt fresh blood oozing out of it, an ache running through to his collar bone.
Ivan blinked. 'Ah. That's not so bad.'
'Not so bad? I could have bloody died!'
'Does it matter to you if you do?'
Arthur paused. 'What kind of question is that?'
Ivan only stared back in expectation of his answer. Truth is, Arthur didn't really have one.
'… I suppose it should,' Arthur said.
'So why doesn't it?' Ivan asked. 'Isn't there anyone looking for you or waiting for you to come home?'
Arthur watched Ivan pick up a roll of gauze from the tray, absent-mindedly unwinding it as he waited for Arthur's answer yet again. The look on his face was one of innocent curiosity, of a child that had merely asked why the sky was blue. But Arthur could feel the weight of the question, the weight the answer had on his shoulders as it formed. It was on the tip of his tongue, ready to slip out — but Arthur kept to himself.
'Hm?' Ivan hummed as he began to wrap the gauze across Arthur's wounded shoulder. 'Why doesn't it?'
It's a test. He's testing me… Arthur thought as the gauze wrapped once, twice around his shoulder and chest, binding tightly to his skin. He thought of Alfred, of Kiku, of the entire police force that would be aware of his disappearance by now. He thought of how stupid, how dangerous it really had been for Ivan to even bring him here. Arthur was the beacon, the giant red flag marking Ivan and Yao's location for Alfred — that is, if Arthur had even left any tracks for Alfred to follow.
But which answer was it? That Arthur was being looked for? That he wasn't? Which one would cost him his life, his freedom at best? He didn't trust the childish look in Ivan's eyes, ones perhaps too eager to watch him break, and kept his mouth shut.
Ivan's smile quirked up. 'It's not something you want to answer, is it…?' He sighed, wrapping the gauze yet another time around Arthur. It was getting tighter, more constricting as it crushed his ribs.
'I have just realised…' Ivan continued, reaching the end of the gauze strip. 'I don't know your name. What is it?'
Arthur felt his chest push against the gauze as he took in a shaky breath, having to fight for air. 'It's Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.'
'Arthur…' Ivan yanked the gauze ends, nearly cracking Arthur's ribs in one fell swoop. Arthur bit back a cry, feeling his chest wanting to collapse in on itself. 'We're both going to have to be honest with each other. It's in both of our interests, da?'
'Y-Yes, of c-course,' Arthur wheezed out.
'So if there was anything you want to tell me… It would be best for both of us to find out now rather than later.' The bandages squeezed Arthur even harder, biting into skin. 'Does that make sense to you, Arthur?'
Arthur nodded, his mind a frantic mess of fear and adrenaline, vision fraying and flickering at the edges. He felt the dangerous words on his lips, knows they might just kill him or save him —
(Say them.)
'I don't know what you did to end up being strangled by Yao when I found you, Arthur. But it would be a shame if saving you was a mistake, da? It would be a shame if keeping you here was drawing in someone…'
'If —' Arthur blurted out in a hoarse whisper. His heart pounded as a forced smile stretched across his lips. 'If you're not so sure… why don't you… just kill me?'
In a heart stopping moment the coldness in Ivan's eyes softened, gaze faltering and hesitating. He loosened his grip on the gauze, giving Arthur's chest leeway for a gasp of air. Arthur swallowed up the dusty air like it was fresh water, his chest rising and falling heavily as the devilish smile fell off his lips.
'You can't 'just kill' someone,' Ivan said, tying off the gauze. 'When you kill, you do it with every piece of you, every part of you — because you want to. Because you need to. Not because it conveniences you.'
'You… don't want to kill me?' Arthur panted as he pulled his shirt back on, wincing at the bruised constriction against the wound. 'Not even after all the trouble I've caused you…?'
A small smile tugged at Ivan's lips. He chuckled, though the sound of it did not have that airiness it had before. 'I'm afraid not. It would be easy if I did, wouldn't it? But you, Arthur, don't deserve any death I could give you.'
'I beg to differ.'
'I'm sure Yao would, too. But I'm not killing a man who only stuck around in a place he should not have been in.'
'What does a man have to do to get killed by you?' Arthur asked, watching the sight of Ivan's expression as it faded into flickering emotions, fleeting and transparent. Pain and fake amusement — it's all there for him to see. Arthur felt that he'd already snaked into this man's mind, and a smug smile nested itself on his lips.
'That's not something you would want to know.' Ivan pushed the tray towards Arthur. 'You should eat before it goes cold. I'll be back to check on your wound in the evening, da?' He began to make his way towards the door.
'Ivan.'
Ivan turned around. Arthur felt the myriad of questions on his lips, the ones he so badly wanted answered and yet could not ask. Questions about the rose man, about the scorched heart on a platter and the head full of red spider lilies. About that very first colourful kill — the woman with the candles in her womb, the absurdity and morbid decorativeness behind it all. Arthur wanted to know, to be in that strange head of Ivan's when it happened, when that first drop of blood had spilt. There were pieces missing, and yet…
'What is it?' Ivan asked.
Arthur's questions started to collapse in his head, suddenly remembering to feign ignorance. Was it worth asking a question if it put his life at risk? He felt his chest constrict and tighten once again, as if the gauze were to remind him of the promise he made, the flimsy trust Ivan seemed to accept from him. If he knew about Arthur's involvement in the case, what would happen then? Arthur wouldn't be just a guest any more. He'd be a liability, a danger to whatever hidden away life Yao and Ivan had. And surely, surely then, Ivan would not be so merciful.
'Is there something you wanted to say, Arthur?'
Arthur blinked, his heart pounding again at the prospect of saying something risky, of testing Ivan's cruelty. This time, he hesitated. 'N-No, never mind.'
Ivan looked at him for a moment, considering. He offered a small smile, more so polite than anything else, and left the room. There was no sound of the lock.
Arthur felt a breath ease out of him in relief, pulse ebbing and washing over him in loud thumps. A waiting game, Arthur supposed, was exactly what he's playing. Waiting, balancing between life and death, between wolf and lamb, tipping his weight in careful doses so as to keep from falling. And all the while keeping that voice in his head quiet, that timid little answer that had formed when Ivan had so innocently asked if Arthur's life mattered.
Arthur eyed the steaming bowl of soup, his stomach hungry for it. And yet, he could only think of that pointed question. Of course his life mattered! Of course it did, and yet… perhaps it was something more subtle than that. Perhaps Arthur was lying here in hope of something, in that stupid wishful thinking —
(Perhaps… I'm just hoping my life matters to someone else.)
It's this shaky little answer that Arthur tried to suffocate as he looked up at the ceiling, counting the faces he could recognize in the mould and grime, counting how many times he could see Alfred in them until the steam from his bowl of soup no longer rose. But even then, the answer wouldn't go away.
.
('Careful, myshka…')
A piece of toast waited pathetically in Yao's hand, barely eaten as his mind drifted off once again. Staring into the bleak grey sky through the kitchen window, Yao could only think of warm lips, of a hand trailing up his thigh and sending his heart into a throb. He could still hear the nervous swallow Ivan had made as Yao pressed his lips to his throat, could still feel Ivan's heart fluttering wildly and delicately as Yao pulled him closer. The memory had not faded. How could it, after being repeated endlessly throughout the night as Yao had tried to fall asleep, as he tried to close his eyes and not wish that Ivan was next to him?
Yao gave up on eating his breakfast, dropping the piece of toast onto his plate and pushing it away. It felt pathetic, to be pining over something as fleeting as one kiss — one mess of adrenaline and vulnerability that had collapsed before it could become anything more than that. And yet, even as he drifted off to sleep in the empty bed Ivan had carried him to, his thoughts were still swimming in the moment, going over every detail as if he were afraid to lose the memory.
The basement door creaked open, Yao's stomach jumping up and twisting into a knot. He picked up his toast and nibbled at it, wanting to preoccupy himself somehow. He shouldn't have felt like that — nervous. The feeling was making his fingers jittery and his mind hazy as he heard heavy footsteps make their way up the stairs, slow enough to make Yao paranoid. Paranoid enough to think that Ivan was toying with him, drawing out the moment to make him even more flustered and nervous than before.
Ivan peeked his head into the kitchen, a quick glance at Yao setting off the constricting feeling around his chest.
'Dobroe utro, myshka,' Ivan smiled. He looked innocent, naïve as ever. But Yao couldn't shake off the feeling that Ivan was thinking about it too, thinking about that ridiculously bold gesture Yao had made yesterday, about how easily Yao had just melted in Ivan's arms.
'Morning,' Yao croaked out.
Ivan chuckled, and for a moment the sound was almost bizarre to Yao. He could only think of how softly Ivan had sobbed the night before, how trembling and delicate his voice was. It sent an ache in his chest to think about it, reminding Yao of everything painful Ivan had shared. It had always been Yao asking the questions, always him prying out answers and scratching at old wounds. But Yao had never really shared any of his own.
Yao took a small bite out of his toast, watching Ivan busy himself with the pot of soup on the stove. The morning light danced on Ivan's features, outlining the calm and gentle expression on his face. Yao wondered if that would change if he told him about his own wounds and scars, shared that one mark Yao would rather forget. It was a thought that made Yao uneasy. Ivan had more than enough tales of violence and hatred in his life. Did he really need the burden of yet another?
'Did you want some, myshka?' Ivan turned towards Yao. The ladle in his hand was raised, soup steaming out of it.
Yao blinked, Ivan's eyes meeting his. He swallowed down the food in his mouth. 'Uh… N-No, I'm fine.' He redirected his gaze to the wood of the table, taking another bite of his toast and hoping Ivan wouldn't think too much of the fact Yao had been staring.
'Are you sure?'
'Yes, I'm sure.'
'It's good…'
Yao heard the soup slosh into a small bowl. Though he didn't look up from the table, he knew Ivan was serving him a bowl of soup anyway. He let out a small sigh, lifting his head up and braving a glance.
'But you made it for him, didn't you?' Yao said.
Ivan stole a glance at Yao, a small smile quirking on his lips. 'Is that a problem, Yao?'
The sound of his own name on Ivan's lips sounded strange somehow, familiar and teasing in a way that sent Yao's heart fluttering nervously once again. He set his half-eaten toast down, his gaze on Ivan wavering.
'No, I meant —' Yao hesitated. 'We're not actually… keeping him, are we?'
Ivan took a seat at the table, setting the bowl of soup in front of Yao. 'He makes a nice friend, don't you think?'
Yao frowned. 'He tried to bite my fingers off. And I said I didn't want any!' He pushed the bowl towards Ivan.
Ivan pushed the bowl back. 'You'll like it! And you might have not injured your hand, myshka, if you had kept out of his mouth, da?'
'Aiyah… Don't say it like that.' Yao pushed the bowl away. 'You make it sound like I —'
Yao hesitated to continue, not sure what exactly had his cheeks warming up like this. Ivan's face lit up in amusement, eyes gleaming in a way Yao hadn't seen in a while.
'Like what, myshka?'
'Never mind,' Yao snapped, watching Ivan push the bowl slowly towards him, as if being more discrete about it would change Yao's mind. 'It's just —' Yao stopped the bowl, leaning forward and lowering his voice though he was sure Arthur couldn't hear them anyway. 'We can't keep him here.'
Ivan's smile faded a little, the amusement in his eyes blinked away. He lowered his voice too, for some reason. 'I know. But I'll think of something, da?'
Yao felt the crease between his brows deepen. The surface of the bowl burned and singed the palms of his hand. He lightly lifted his hands off the bowl, still hovering over it as if he were holding it. He didn't want to pull away, didn't want to break the whispers just yet.
'You don't need to,' Yao said. Ivan chuckled. 'I can go in there and take care of it now.'
'Don't, myshka.' Ivan shook his head. His fingers too, were hovering shakily around the bowl. 'He's not like the others, we can't just kill him.'
'We can. I mean, he's dead already, Ivan. He died the moment we put him in the car trunk,' Yao said, searching Ivan's eyes for some kind of recognition, some kind of understanding, or perhaps something entirely different. Yao wasn't sure. He continued on, stumbling with his words. 'And, I mean, you — you said so yourself, didn't you? A dead man can't dispose of himself? Isn't that… isn't that what you said?'
Ivan's brows raised in slight surprise. 'I did, but…' Ivan's gaze fell to the untouched bowl of soup, watching the steam rise from it absent-mindedly. 'Maybe he's not our dead man to get rid of.'
Ivan's fingers wavered on the porcelain surface of the bowl, incredibly close to Yao's own, and yet the distance couldn't feel farther. Yao thought for a second to touch them, to hold them because they looked so pale and fragile. Fragile, though he knew they had ripped flesh apart and gouged eyes out. Yao wanted to reach out anyway, wished he could be as bold as he had been yesterday.
'Yao…'
Yao looked up, meeting Ivan's gaze. He could see the apprehension in them as Ivan formed his question, hesitated with the words he wanted to say.
'Who was it you killed on that day… when you left?'
Yao stiffened at the question, still able to feel the scissor blade in his hand, to see mangled flesh. Broken sobs and dark rivers of blood — of Yong Soo's blood. Yao wanted to shiver at the memory. He pressed his fingertips lightly onto the hot bowl, letting them scorch briefly.
'… Someone I knew.' Yao drew his hands back and folded them on the table, finding it hard to meet Ivan's eyes. 'He was kind of my friend, but not really. He…'
('let go of me')
('but I don't think I want to…')
Yao shifted in his seat. 'He did something stupid. I lost it. And then killed him.'
The room went quiet, and for a moment Yao was tempted to steal a glance at Ivan. But he didn't, was too afraid to see the disappointment on his face. Ivan had been tortured, hurt and bruised by the men he killed. And yet here Yao was, having snapped because he simply couldn't stand someone. It repulsed him.
'Does Arthur know?' Ivan asked, voice breaking the silence delicately.
'He saw me covered in blood.'
'Is that why you tried to kill him twice?'
Yao hesitated. 'Make that… three times…'
'… Oh.'
Yao glanced up at Ivan. 'I'm a terrible person, aren't I?'
Ivan chuckled. 'Then what does that make me?'
'It makes you not terrible.'
Ivan's brows furrowed. 'Yao —'
'You answered my questions even though they've only made you remember horrible things. You went out looking for me in the snow even though I've only brought you trouble. And you… you patched my hand up even though I got what was coming to me. Terrible people don't do that.'
Ivan blinked, pulling his hands away from the bowl and fidgeting. He burst into a nervous laughter, his eyes wavering even as he tried to look at Yao.
'Terrible people don't say nice things like that either.' The smile on Ivan's lips was shy, timid in a way Yao hadn't quite seen before. The sight made Yao chuckle, almost regretting doing so when Ivan looked to him in question, as if he had said something wrong. Yao shook his head.
'It's nothing. I just…' Yao hesitated — I wish you would smile like that more often. But the words were stuck in his throat, hidden away because he was too scared to speak them. What he was afraid of, exactly, Yao wasn't sure.
'Are you gonna eat that?' Yao said instead, dragging the bowl towards himself. Ivan blinked in surprise, the smile growing and a childlike glee in his eyes.
'Have as much as you want, myshka. You'll like it! I'll make more if you want, too.'
Yao chuckled, forgetting in that moment what he had been so uneasy about. Uncertainties seemed to dissolve away, and for a while, he could almost pretend the world was only of sweet smiles and lilac gazes.
.
The pipe faltered in Ivan's grip, slipping between his gloved fingers. He took a heavy step toward the man, who was writhing in the chair he was bound to. The man's eyes were sunken and low, staring back at Ivan without recognition, though Ivan knew him well — enough to remember how this man's voice had sounded, how his hands grabbed like claws. How easy it had been for the man to exchange shivering children for wads of money, to snatch Ivan from his bed every week and throw him to some shadowy stranger. Ivan's gaze travelled down to the man's tied up hands, down to the ends of his quivering fingertips.
Ivan let the pipe drop onto the floor, turning back to his bag to retrieve a pair of pliers. He crouched down behind the chair where the man's hands were tied up. Picking up a trembling finger, Ivan pinched the edge of the nail with the pliers. There was a small cry of terror, the sound inciting a strange twinge of guilt in Ivan. His grip on the pliers weakened, but he couldn't understand. Why did it feel so different now?
A hand tentatively touched his shoulder. Ivan flinched, turning his head around to find Yao watching with his brows furrowed.
'I'll do it for you if you want.'
Ivan breathed out a hesitant chuckle. 'There is no need, myshka. I can do this on my own.'
'Then why did you bring me?'
'You insisted.'
'But you still didn't have to.' Yao's dark eyes flickered, searching Ivan's for an explanation. The touch of Yao's hand on Ivan's shoulder felt heavy, became the centre of everything even though it was the smallest of gestures. 'Let me help.'
Ivan watched the way Yao's lips moved, and couldn't help but think of how petal-soft they had been yesterday. For a moment he was tempted to drop these cold pliers and hold Yao's warm hands instead, tempted to feel that intoxicating dizziness once again, to fight off that ache in his chest. Wouldn't that keep the heart in Ivan's chest from feeling like it was falling out? Wouldn't that ease the worry on Yao's face?
'We're in this together, aren't we?' Yao spoke again, softer this time.
'Your hand hasn't even healed yet…' Ivan croaked out, feeling the resolve in him start melting away. He fought it, tightening his grip on the pliers and feeling the man's hand stiffen. He shouldn't have brought Yao here, shouldn't have given in to his own need to keep Yao with him.
'Neither has yours.'
'Doesn't matter.' Ivan shook his head. 'Please, Yao. Just… step back.'
Yao's expression softened. His gaze flickered to the floor, the space beneath the chair and perhaps the bloodstains that would soon mark it. He gave a weak nod, hand slowly sliding off Ivan as he backed away.
Ivan turned back to the man's clammy hands, taking in a shaky inhale. His fingers trembled, the pliers shifting the nail as his grip wavered. The man sobbed through the fabric of the gag, hand shaking with each convulsion. It had already begun, the man was already crumbling apart before Ivan could even draw a pinprick of blood. Already reduced to a pathetic mess of a human being, when Ivan had suffered long nights of bruises and cuts without shedding a single tear. No, Ivan had kept silent, even when this man tightened the straps around his wrists and ankles so tight that they dug into his skin. Kept quiet even when the man ripped them off, only to throw him into the chest of a hungry shadow. And yet here this man was, crying in fear of losing a fingernail, of feeling a small and useless part of him being torn away.
It disgusted Ivan.
He tilted the pliers, lifting the nail and ripping it away from the nailbed. Sobs turned into screams, raw pink skin became bloody and torn. When the nail was hanging loose from the man's finger, Ivan yanked it off, hearing the man's screeches sharpen. He threw the yellowed nail aside and set the pliers onto the next finger, having to uncurl the man's hands as they balled into clammy fists. He tore off each nail until only bloody fingers remained, lumps of raw flesh where each nail used to be.
Ivan tossed the pliers aside, reaching for the rusty pipe he had dropped earlier. He stood up, towering over the man whose face was twisted and contorted in agony. Still sobbing, still falling apart though Ivan had only just started picking away. A sour taste built up in his mouth, a heavy lump growing from the bottom of his throat as the man's cries continued to ring out.
('Keep your fucking mouth shut.')
Wasn't that what he had always told Ivan? What had followed a crushing kick to his ribs when Ivan had done so much as bite back a whimper?
(It's only fair that you do the same.)
Ivan held the pipe up over the man's face. He touched the tip of it onto the man's nose, pulling the pipe back and watching his beady eyes squeeze shut. He swung the pipe into the man's face, hearing it crack as red specked out into the air. Ivan felt blood dot his face, the heat of each drop cooling on his skin. Ivan swung again, bits of flesh flying away from where the pipe had struck. Every hit had greater force than the one before, sweating skin melting into lumps of red, white bone jutting out as Ivan shattered it.
There was a loud squelch, a ribbon of red trailing out of the pipe as Ivan swung it back. Blood splattered against a hard surface, sending Ivan's glance up in its direction.
There was a large wooden frame hung on the wall, the dips in its ornate design now coated in dark fluid. Within the frame, a pale man's face crossed out in red. Ivan's arms weakened, the muscle of it loosening and wanting to fall away. He lowered his arms, watching his own reflection do the same. When had he last looked into a mirror? He couldn't remember…
The pipe fell from his hands, Ivan stumbling toward the mirror on the wall. He watched his own blood specked brows crease, sitting on his skin like they were freckles as he frowned. His lips were stained. That horrible taste in his mouth, of that man's rotten blood… It was Ivan's taste, too.
(I'm rotten.)
It had been these stained lips that Yao had kissed, this ugly skin that Yao had touched. This horrible man in the mirror that Yao had leaned on, that he had trusted his wounded hand with.
Ivan wiped away at the stretch of blood on the cool surface of the mirror, spreading it to leave a streaked film of red over his own reflection.
'Ivan?'
I'm just like them. Ivan pressed his palm into the mirror, feeling it bend beneath his fingers. Rotten…
The glass cracked, the pale of his skin distorted across the mirror's surface. Ivan pressed harder into the glass, until shards fell loose and shattered at his feet.
'What are you doing?' Yao grabbed his arm, though Ivan did not turn around. He ran his thumb over the edge of the mirror shard that was still pinned up beneath his hand, the feel of bloodied skin on slippery glass familiar. He picked it off from the nearly empty frame, closing his fingers around it and almost being able to see those bloody tiles again. Almost able to feel the shard dragging through skin, twisting in flesh and ringing out shrieks.
Yao's hand closed around his, gentle fingertips prying the shard out of his grip.
'Ivan, let go of that. You'll hurt yourself…'
Ivan turned to look at Yao, dark eyes watching in concern. He felt the bloody shard slip out of his hand — effortlessly, easily beneath Yao's touch.
'Let's just clean up and go home, okay?'
Yao's hand reached up tentatively, a thumb brushing away the red stain on Ivan's bottom lip. He studied Ivan for a moment, perhaps more out of hesitation than curiosity. Ivan heard the patter of blood drops, his own breath shaking alongside it. It was quiet, peaceful as it always was when a kill had been finished. But his heart wouldn't stop pounding, wouldn't rest even though Yao was here with him.
He was rotten, and there was nothing that could ever change that.
.
(He's so cold…)
Yao brushed his fingers over Ivan's cool cheek, not caring for the blood splotches that would stain his hand, not caring for the sound of flesh still falling apart from that man's mutilated head. Ivan's eyes had clouded over and lost themselves in something Yao couldn't see, something terrifying and beastly. Just what had Ivan seen in that mirror? Yao smeared away the specks of blood from Ivan's porcelain white skin, wishing he could do more than just this. He was stuck at the surface, on the edge on a dark pool he couldn't see into, though he only knew Ivan was drowning in it.
'Hey…' He swept the feather soft hair out of Ivan's eyes, worry knotted in his chest. 'Please say something.'
Ivan's gaze wavered, finally focusing on Yao as if waking up from a nightmare. 'Yao…' Ivan croaked out. A small breath of relief escaped Yao's lips, a smile sweeping across them. 'I shouldn't have brought you here.'
Yao shook his head. 'No, don't say that. I… I told you, didn't I —'
Ivan pried Yao's hand away from his face, glancing at the blood that was now smeared on Yao's palm. 'I ruin everything I touch…'
'Ivan —'
Yao caught sight of a dark flicker in the corner of his eye. He turned toward the mirror, watching the distorted reflection of a shadow approach them from behind. Its hands were raised, poised to strike —
'Move!'
Yao pushed Ivan, the two of them stumbling as the shadow swung at the mirror. There was a crash, dark shards of glass raining down from the wall. The stranger swung again, aiming at Yao. Yao raised his arm reflexively, the bottle smashing against it. He stumbled further back, bumping into Ivan's chest. The corner of the wall caught them both, leaving them trapped as the shadow crunched on glass and mirror shards. It charged at them, ready to pierce Yao with the jagged black teeth of a broken bottle. Flinching, Yao's eyes shut in fear, in cold anticipation. The shadow was ready to swallow them both, to tear them into tiny pieces like every other body Yao had mutilated, to twist and rip every muscle —
'Ivan!'
The crunch of the glass halted.
Breaths, ragged — Yao could hear them, could feel Ivan's chest heaving with every pant, could feel his breaths on the back of his neck. Yao opened his eyes, watching his own chest rise and fall dangerously close to the sharp jutted edges of the bottle, teasingly close to being pierced by it. Ivan's hands were wrapped around the shadow's — no, the man's hands. Human hands that had held the bottle, that had tried to stab Yao. And Yao could hear their bones crack and crumble beneath Ivan's grip, break and bend like twigs.
A terrified cry broke out into the air, but the bottle only wavered, only started to inch closer with dying strength. Yao's hands gripped the edge of the bottle to push it away, skin nicking against the sharp juts of glass. Ivan crushed the shadow's hands even harder, his arms trembling as the black teeth of the bottle approach closer, closer even as blood started dripping from the stranger's hands.
Yao gasped as the bottle made a sudden thrust towards him, just about scratching him. He could hear his and Ivan's breaths tremble, the lump in Yao's throat as streams of blood rolled down his palms, glass cutting through both bandages and skin alike. Yao lifted away one hand, slowly, and snapped off a bloody shard from the bottle. Quivering, Yao jammed the shard into the stranger's throat, ripping out bloody gurgles from him. The stranger's crushed hands slipped away from Ivan's, head lolling back and sending the rest of his body falling to the floor with a heavy thud. His face was illuminated by gentle moonlight. Young. Terrified.
He was just a kid… A lump buried itself in Yao's throat. No older than Yong Soo, no more guilty than any other child defending his father. Yao stumbled toward the body, a sickening feeling boiling up like poison within him. The room had fallen into near silence, time marked by each panicked dying breath sounding out. Blood was pouring out of the young man's throat, his eyes glancing over to the chair where the mutilated body lay slumped.
Without a further moment, Yao sliced his throat. It had been too late anyway. Innocent or not, the kid was already dead. Yao dropped the shard, trying not to let the nausea overpower him.
'Yao…'
Yao turned around, finding Ivan sitting with his back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. Yao could see him shaking from where he is, could hear the frailty of his voice. He took an unsteady step towards Ivan, his head feeling light as he crouched down in front of him.
'… Are y-you okay?' Yao asked, his teeth chattering though the room felt anything but cold. Far from it, the air was sticky with the scent of fear and blood. He held onto Ivan's knees for balance. 'Ivan?'
Ivan kept his gaze down at his own red-stained hands, his voice barely a murmur. 'I thought the house was empty…'
'I know.' Yao took ahold of Ivan's hands, tightly even though it stung his open wounds. 'I know you did. We both did.'
Ivan lifted his head up, looking at Yao with teary eyes. 'Promise me you won't tell Katyusha about this. Promise me you won't tell her I —' His eyes flickered to the space over Yao's shoulder, towards the body that was now bleeding out onto the floor. Ivan swallowed.
'Ivan, you didn't kill him. I did —'
'It doesn't matter. It was my fault anyway. I should have known the house wasn't empty, I should have gotten out of the way when he attacked. I should have come here alone so that you wouldn't have to get hurt again.'
Ivan's hands trembled in Yao's, blood cooling on skin. Yao drew them closer to his chest, hoping whatever little warmth he had would somehow fix the panic laced in Ivan's voice. He wanted to tell Ivan that it wasn't his fault, that Yao had been the one to stab the young man, but he knew it was pointless. The terrified, timid look in Ivan's eyes was one of convinced guilt, of believing he truly was the distorted image he had seen in the mirror. Nothing Yao said could change that.
'Katyusha is waiting for us outside,' Ivan said, his voice unsteady. 'I only have one bag for the bodies, we'll have to carry one without a bag. It's dark out, so maybe she won't be able to tell —'
Yao shook his head. 'Don't worry about it, okay? I won't let her find out. I'll come up with something.' He squeezed Ivan's hands. 'I promise.'
Ivan's teary eyes blinked, a shaky exhale of relief escaping his lips as he rested his head against his knees. He mumbled in Russian, words sounding out softly and delicately like the blood drops from the man's mangled corpse. Yao stayed still with Ivan like that until the blood drops ceased, until Ivan's shoulders were no longer trembling. But even so, Yao felt that something had been irreversibly broken, shattered like the mirror behind them. He could only wish the shards could somehow come back together, though he knew this to be no more than wishful thinking.
.
Kiku pressed the knife into the heart of the cabbage, the blade snapping against the wooden board. He tightened his clammy grip on the knife, shredding and dicing up flimsy leaves. No matter how steadily he held the knife, his hands always shook as if bitten by the cold. Always trembling, even at that time —
The phone rang, almost causing Kiku to drop the knife. He set it aside on the chopping board and went to pick up his phone.
'Hello?'
'Dude, we fucking got him!'
Kiku furrowed his brows, having to pull the phone away from his ear from the sheer loudness of Alfred's voice. 'Got who?'
'Yao Wang. Our killer. Or at least, one of them.'
Kiku felt his hand go cold as it gripped the phone back against his ear. 'You've arrested him?'
'Not yet. But we have his prints all over the murder weapon from 'The Poisoned Apple'. I got them cross-checked with the prints in his apartment and it's a perfect match. All we gotta do is find him now.'
'Find him…' Kiku echoed, Alfred's words slurring together in his mind. He leaned against the wall, unable to keep himself steady.
'Not only that, but there was a report of a pick-up truck abandoned on a highway not far from 'The Poisoned Apple'. Prints on the steering wheel match, so I'm thinking whoever that pick-up truck is registered to is a place to start.'
'That sounds reasonable…'
Alfred paused. 'Are you okay, man? You sound a little out of it.'
Kiku forced a smile, though it was only his voice that needed to brighten. 'I'm fine, Alfred. Thank you for asking.' He hesitated, thinking of the next words that would be most appropriate. 'I'm glad to hear the investigation is going well. I will search up the license plate for you tomorrow morning.'
'Nah, that's fine. I'm still at the office, anyway.'
Kiku's chest tightened, the thought of Alfred possibly finding Yao Wang by morning making him uneasy. Even so, he only made a half-hearted hum in agreement.
'Right…' Kiku fumbled with the phone, his hands still shaking. 'I'll… I'll see you tomorrow then.'
'Yeah. See ya.'
The phone closed, leaving Kiku with a buzzing silence. He set the phone down onto the kitchen table, feeling a boiling black mass fester in the pit of his stomach. Sitting at the table, he steadied his palms flat on the table surface as old echoes rang in his head again.
('You used to be so sweet…')
Even after Kiku had finished cooking, the sickening feeling in his stomach persisted. He went to bed hungry, still unable to let go of that pained voice as his head hit the cool surface of his pillow. He wondered how that voice sounded now, if it still carried that airiness that Kiku was so familiar with. Or if perhaps it had changed, become strained and weary… because of what Kiku had done, of what he had left behind on that day.
And now, more than seventy men and women died at the hands of Yao Wang. Kiku couldn't help but wonder if perhaps it was his fault Yao had turned out that way. If his betrayal had spurned Yao into the monster Alfred was so intent on hunting down.
(A mistake… it was only a mistake…)
But no matter how many times Kiku told himself this, sleep did not come easy.
