viii. THE CONTAMINATED
The cigarette's dwindled to half its length by the time the birds part to let a lone figure limp through, and Aslan almost wants to laugh.
Of course it's you.
He'd bet money that the same thought crosses through Jasper's mind.
Sheer despair practically melts the Two boy's face. His whole frame seems to crumple when he sees his final opponent, his final reckoning, lounging on the hood of the pickup.
Aslan's not in the mood for a reckoning. Yet. "You look tired."
It's an understatement— limp is an understatement. That's like saying Aslan's arm is broken.
What fucking arm?
What fucking leg?
He leans heavily on some sort of crutch, though he still carries that mace like he was born with it. Everything below the right shin though, it's gone. If Aslan had to guess, he got caught in that explosion way back when, judging by how old and nasty those bandages look. Fucking tragic, eh?
And that's not mentioning the more recent cuts, bruises, scrapes.
(That's nothing compared to what he put you through.)
Jasper hesitates at the edge of the scene, panting with effort. "No shit," he finally huffs.
Pity isn't the word for what Aslan feels. There's no room for that, not anymore. Really, it was never an option—Jasper lost any ghost of that privilege when he left Aslan on the rope. When he beat him before private sessions. No, before that; when he threatened Aslan's allies.
Look at them now. Look at us now.
Aslan takes a long, long drag of his cigarette. He exhales a cloud of smoke that's just as heavy and wordlessly offers the cigarette to the other boy.
Jasper stares, incredulous.
"Come on, a little cancer won't kill you now."
"Why won't you die?"
Aslan throws back his head and laughs. He pats the hood of the truck. "Sit with me before we beat the shit out of each other. You owe me that, no?"
Reluctantly, warily, the Two boy shuffles over. When Aslan doesn't immediately pounce, he leans his backside up against the hood, exhaling through his teeth when some of the weight lifts from his leg. This time, he takes the cigarette.
In his peripheral, the gulls shuffle closer, closing the gaps. Cutting off their escape.
Ha. Escape.
(They want their fight, Aslan.)
Capitol can be a little patient, no?
He's fucking exhausted. And hungry. Aslan pulls out the last sandwich from his pocket, shoving a good chunk down his face. Behind the barrier of their respective weapons, Jasper watches like he's never eaten in his life; now that Aslan sees him up close, the Two boy looks gaunt. "Sponsors not treating you well?"
Jasper shakes his head, unblinking, and Aslan holds out the rest of the sandwich.
It vanishes before he can blink. "You're not off the hook, though." Aslan shoots the still-chewing Two boy a side-eye. "I still don't understand why," he murmurs; a note of something deeper leaks into his tone. "Why did you—why did you do that to me?"
Silence.
A residual anger begins to bubble in Aslan's gut. He faces the Two boy head-on, but Jasper's brow is pinched, gaze trained on something ahead. A muscle twitches in his jaw.
"At least look me in the fucking eye—!"
"What was in that sandwich?"
Aslan blinks. "Peanut butter and j—"
Something knocks into him from the hood of the car—Jasper. Aslan shouts—his head slams into the pavement, spinning, winding him; the Two boy's a blur above him but suddenly there's something in his gut, something white-hot and tearing—
Aslan kicks— his leg connects with flesh-muscle-bone, and Jasper screams. It's a choked noise, but he's gone, out of Aslan's dancing, black-spotted vision, but—
Something eats into his stomach. Heavy and hungry, and that rasping still fills his ears.
Aslan's head lolls towards the sound. It's Jasper; the Two boy's on all fours, hacking up a lung, hell if Aslan doesn't know what that feels like, but something's wrong with him, something evident by the way he gasps for air, clawing at his throat, ignoring the only thing that lies prone between him and Victory.
It's evident when he falls to the side, limp and heaving and weak.
It's evident when the cannon fires.
Aslan's own breath is rapidfire. "What the fuck," he chokes out.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Victor of the One Hundred Seventy-Third Hunger Games: Aslan Salvatici of District Five!"
Aslan gasps.
"What the fuck!?"
The acid-fire still gnaws at his abdomen; a carrion shadow blots out the sun.
"I-I didn't—!"
Gasp.
"I didn't kill him!"
Gasp.
"I didn't—mean to—!"
Gasp.
"I—"
"…still need to test the tensile strength…"
(…)
"…are right, nerve connection is very necessary, but…"
(…)
"…only say so because it can be a little painful while conscious…"
(Wake up.)
Aslan's eyelids flutter open and immediately wince at the glare.
White. Pure white.
He's alone again. Alone, except for—
(The voices.)
"…any other modifications, Mr. Fourier?"
"That's quite alright, Doctor, thank you."
Aslan blinks open his eyes again, rapid and determined this time.
"Look, he's awake." Shadows swarm his vision. They refocus into two blobs, one that Aslan vaguely recognizes. "Aslan, congratulat—"
"You'll have time for that later," the unknown one interrupts. "Aslan, if you could, hold up three fingers for me?"
It takes a minute for the request to process. Once he does—
"Other hand, please."
He holds up three fingers. Or, he intends to. Something feels off, but he can't quite put his finger on it; literally.
But the unknown person— the doctor— tells him he does well, runs him through a few more. One finger. Two. Pinch the thumb and index. A near-imperceptible click-whir accompanies each movement. It doesn't make sense, and neither does the sleek metallic glove that seems to run all the way up his left shoulder—
"Squeeze this for me?"
Something heavy falls into his palm. Aslan catches it, but the leverage induces something strange in his arm. No, not the arm, the shoulder. He feels nothing from the arm. The object, it looks like a ball, but he doesn't feel the round edges like he should, like he's used to. It doesn't feel like feeling, but he squeezes anyway, and…
It's weird. A disgruntled groan slips from his mouth; that's all his brain can produce right now.
At the doctor's insistence, he squeezes tighter, and it's not pain he feels— pain is an old friend that Aslan knows like the back of his hand that shouldn't be there. But the strain in his shoulder, in his nerves, is so bizarre that Aslan finds himself slipping back into nothingness.
"He'll get used to it," is the last thing he hears.
He does. Aslan's starting to think that's 'cause of the drugs they keep pumping through his veins here in this hospital.
Not too hard though. Also probably because of the drugs.
When Solaris visits again to explain to Aslan that he won, all the new Victor can do is flash what he thinks is a left-handed thumbs-up.
He lost an arm. Cut it off himself, but not before it rotted right down to the bone.
Aslan remembers.
It comes back despite the drugs—because of the drugs?—but he's still loopy when they run him through the hospital checkout procedures, still loopy when that old man comes to talk to him— "Truly, you're one of my most fascinating Victors; your sheer refusal to die, I've never seen anything like it—" and Aslan barely hears the words, only the synchronous rise-and-fall of his tone, up and down, back and forth….
Aslan remembers. The swaying. The griiind-click! The snap of dead fingers, the wet crunch of a shattered skull, and a pervasive gasping-coughing-hacking—
The Head Gamemaker leaves, and the doctors up his meds.
Somewhere along the way, it starts to register that Asan's going home.
(It's what you fought for, remember?)
He doesn't think he could forget. He hovers in the common area of the District Five suite, peeling the wrappers off little candy bars from the bowl on the coffee table. The doctors had given him a few "dexterity tasks" to help him get used to the prosthetic, and this probably counts, right?
How is he supposed to ever face the world again?
The candies accumulate on top of the couch pillows, the wrappers on the floor.
How is he supposed to face the people he vowed to protect? He ruined them. He ruined himself. And when he remembers the trail of twenty-five bodies left in his wake, Aslan thinks he's never been so selfish.
But I'm not.
The candy wrapper flutters from his grasp, lodging itself between the pillows. Any second, the escort will appear to scold him for the mess, but right now, the chocolate-covered peanut butter bar sits innocently in his metal palm.
It was never about just me.
He's a Victor now. That means money, influence. Granny will never have to worry about a medical bill ever again. The kids'll never have to wonder if they'll get dinner tonight, the gang will always have a roof over their heads, because whether they want him to or not, Aslan will fix the mess he left behind if it's the last thing he does.
He pops the candy into his mouth, chews, swallows, and doesn't asphyxiate.
(Time to live with your choices, Aslan.)
After all, what was it all for if not his family?
Solaris pulls him aside on the morning of his first real public appearance. The styling team's due to steal him any minute, but Aslan follows his mentor into what appears to be the older Victor's quarters. "Aslan, we need to talk about something. Privately."
"What's wrong with the mentoring room?"
"I've already swept my room for bugs; this is as good as we'll get."
Privately, privately. "Ooo-kay."
Solaris sighs. "You're not going to like this, but—"
"Great opener."
"I see you haven't lost your snark. I suppose that's good."
Aslan shrugs.
"Listen, we need to talk about Jasper."
He can't help it—he goes rigid at the sound of the Two boy's name. His heart thumps, breath sharp in his ears, and his mentor's still talking.
"Aslan, you need them to think you did it on purpose. They are going to ask you how you knew about his allergy, and you tell them I told you. You tell them I sent the sandwiches on purpose, and that you gave it to Jasper with the intent to kill him—"
"Did you?"
Solaris pauses. "I did. Pashen and I both knew. We had no idea if you'd ever get the opportunity to give him a goddamn sandwich, but we wanted them in the arena just in—"
"Did you tell Casey?"
A look flashes across the older Victor's face and Aslan knows.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you're not like that! You never would've taken advantage of it if you knew, and I'm sorry it turned out this way, but they need to think you killed him on purpose."
"Why?"
Solaris swallows. "They don't want the image of an accidental Victor."
Aslan stares at him.
"They liked your story well enough, trust me; the majority of those in the Capitol really started rooting for you after you got down from the rope. But the fact that the only person you killed with intent was—" he cuts off, and Aslan's grateful for it. "You can show them you're accident-prone and out of control, or. You can be calculating. Determined beyond belief to survive. And noble, yes; your time with Casey shows nothing else.
"But let me be clear, Aslan. They can handle both images. They don't want the first, but they can work all too well with someone who earns a reputation of getting people killed by accident. Does that… make sense?"
"I…"
Solaris lowers his voice. "You will only get more people killed, and it sure as hell will look like an accident, but it is not."
Aslan catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror. All the makeup in the world won't hide the ashen hue of his skin as the blood drains from his face, as his mentor's words process. Mutely, he nods.
"Aslan."
He looks up.
"Why did you give Jasper the sandwich?"
Aslan swallows.
Yes, Jasper showed him nothing but cruelty. It doesn't matter the Two boy's reasoning now, whether he was desperate for the cameras, or for something back home, or not; the truth remains.
But Aslan's not.
Is it so bad that I wanted to be kind? To show him and anyone who's watching that the world doesn't have to be awful? Honestly, he didn't really think about it in the moment. He never does.
But Aslan doesn't say that. He… can't.
Instead, he merely says, "He looked hungry."
Solaris sighs.
"I don't want people to think I'm cruel, Solaris!" Even as he says it, Aslan cringes; he hates how much he sounds like a child, but he can't stop. "I don't want to—to ruin everything I touch, I can't…"
I can't live with that.
"We'll get through this, Aslan." His even tone washes over the new Victor, surprisingly soothing. "I'm here to help you, remember?"
There's no one to help him on stage. Aslan's stylist did the best they could, dressed him in soft fabrics and sharp makeup and yes, another fucking jacket, but it's just Aslan now, Aslan and the interviewer and that wide screen full of nothing but dancing pixels and memories.
Whatever drugs Solaris gave him this time send some sort of numbing effect through his bloodstream. Good thing, otherwise Aslan would be throwing furniture.
Again.
Seeing it from the outside, though… Aslan finds his attention lingering more on the others than himself when it lingers at all. Images blur before him. Aslan picks out bits and pieces, grimaces along with the audience's reactions. The Bloodbath. The betrayal. The hanging.
The narrative— how his alliance was doomed to fracture from the start.
Mostly, though, he watches Casey.
How nimbly that little spider monkey avoided the Careers, tracked her former allies. How she didn't shed a tear, not once, until Aslan gave her a shoulder to cry on.
The recap plays on. The pair approach the crash scene and everything that awaits, but in Aslan's mind, they're still in that car, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, her head tucked into the pillow. In his mind, he tells her they don't have to be cruel, and on the screen he is anyway.
Aslan blinks, and it's as if someone hit fast-forward to the mace in his stomach.
The interviewer gestures for him to stand.
Somehow, his legs carry him to obey. He waits while the president approaches with the Victor's crown and a hard stare that demands him bend his knees, to appear small.
Aslan leans forward, and a stray lock of hair falls into his eyes.
Something in President Valorius's face twitches. But he says nothing. With a white-gloves hand, he merely tucks the strand behind Aslan's ear and places the crown atop the Victor's untamed mane, and Aslan's skin crawls. Nausea churns in his gut, aggravating the ghost of his final wound. It doesn't help when Valorius brushes an imaginary speck of dust from Aslan's lapel, and something like tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
(You get the message, don't you?)
(They think you're dirty. They had you scrubbed and pampered after they put you through hell, and yet despite that, you'll never be able to wash away the stain. And they may be cheering for you now, but the Capitol hates you for it. They think you deserve it. You're a poison to this nation, and you'll never be clean.)
The minute he gets backstage, Aslan finds the nearest trash can and throws up.
It takes Aslan far too long to realize they've taken away his scars.
The thought lingers for the rest of his time in the Capitol, popping up when Aslan needs it least. After all, there's only one surefire way to get them back. But he's not at that point, not yet.
It's close when he realizes the person he's speaking with at this godforsaken banquet was Pashmina's fucking mentor. "Really, I should thank you. Couldn't have someone like that coming for my title," she laughs.
The Career at her side, the one who took a lava bath to the face a few years back, gives her a funny look. "What title?"
She smiles, exposing pointed teeth. "Youngest Victor in District Eight."
Aslan blinks. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
The smile vanishes. Immediately, her demeanor shifts. "What's wrong with me!? What's wrong with you, killing a thirteen year-old girl like that?! I'm the one that has to tell her parents, you know, not like they didn't already watch it hap—"
Aslan can't listen. Luckily, he's not the only one. The Career, Azaire Rivette of Four, turns to him, apologetic and scathing at the same time. "Clearly someone forgot to take her meds this morning."
It wasn't him; Solaris made sure of it.
The Eight Victor looks affronted, but before she can spit more venom, Solaris swoops in to save him from the conversation. "Sorry about that. They're alright, really; well Azaire is. Riin, though…" He leads Aslan away from the bickering pair of Victors to another cluster of people. "Don't trust her. Anyways! Aslan, this is Sideria Boltzmann of Three, Victor of the 161st and also my, ah, PhD advisor." She offers a hand, and Aslan shakes.
Everyone seems to want a handshake from his fancy prosthetic. It doesn't take long for Aslan to lose track, to wish that they'd stop touching him.
A shower only does so much, and even then, all Aslan can think of are his fucking scars.
My scars. My tattoos.
The list goes on. Solaris finds him in a ball on the shower floor, eyes wet with more than just water.
Aslan tries not to think about it when they dress him for his final interview. Similar style, different colors. Darker makeup, a smoothness beneath his right eye where that knick used to be—
"Cameras in three. Two."
Beat.
And they're live.
(Remember, Aslan. You killed him on purpose.)
A tremor starts in his knee.
Aslan presses his metal fingers into his flesh ones, and the chill centers him. Takes a minute for him to register the dialogue, but when he does, it's just the interviewer lauding him for his bravery, his fortitude, his cleverness.
Aslan feels none of those things. Never did like lying.
"—can really admire. It must've taken a lot of willpower to cut off your own arm."
"Not really," Aslan finds himself saying. "The rope did most of it for me over the course of the first few days."
Argentus winces dramatically. "You know, Mr. Salvatici, your situation has had a lot of people questioning whether this was all too much. Even for the Games."
Aslan stills.
"What do you think of that?"
(Careful. That's a trick question.)
He wishes it weren't so hard to breathe. Aslan swallows thickly. "Honestly," he says, and the word piques the interviewer's interest, standing out like a red flag. "I would love it if nobody ever has to go through something like that again."
"How very kind of you."
A lump lodges in his throat.
They don't want an accidental Victor, but suddenly he's sure as hell they don't want a kind one either. How does anyone possibly fit this mold? What's the point?!
(Breathe. Relax. You're almost done.)
Aslan crosses an ankle over his knee; maybe that will stop the blouncing.
"Now, a question I'm sure we're all wondering- how did you know that Jasper Andronicus was so highly allergic to peanuts?"
Oh, so we're not even pretending I didn't?
(Answer the question, Aslan.)
Fine. He leans back against the couch, pretending to pick at a speck of dirt beneath his robotic fingernails. "Come on, how stupid do you have to be to volunteer for the Games with a weakness like that? I'd be surprised if the rest of the tributes didn't also figure it out."
(Laying it on a little thick, are we?)
But Marcus eats it up, letting loose a loud guffaw, and Aslan imagines shoving a metal fist through the man's teeth. The questions continue, about his allies, his kills, his pain tolerance, Casey, but he checks out, lets his words land where they fall, and lets Solaris pull him into a tight hug when the cameras finally cut. What surprises him more than the gesture is just how much he needs it. "You did well, Aslan."
"Did I?"
The older Victor nods. "It's time to go home."
Aslan tries not to let the panic show on his face as he steps out onto the platform. Too many cameras. Too many people.
But they're his people, the ones that surge to meet him, and holy fuck, he never thought he'd see them again. The sheer noise hits him like a truck, and Aslan can't help it— he bursts into tears. Best he can, he counts heads, but Elja cuts him off; she squeezes him into a bone-crushing hug— literally; Aslan feels something crack, but he doesn't care— and she's crying too. He doesn't think he's ever seen her cry like this before, and through her tears, "What the fuck, did you get taller?!" Aslan only shrugs.
The second she gives even a little bit of slack, Argo takes her place, crying just as hard if not a little uglier. Aslan ruffles his hair just as one, two, three more projectiles careen into him, latching onto his waist, his legs— the kids.
Little but not-so-little Pascha clings to his elbow. Twelve years old, just like—
(Stop.)
In Aslan's attempts to return the affection, to lift the kid onto his shoulders, he yanks Argo forwards with an indignant squawk; too late Aslan realizes his prosthetic fingers tangle within the other boy's hair. "Shit, man, my bad." But Argo twists and worms his way so that Aslan's arm now rests neatly around his shoulders, red-faced but content, and Aslan…
Deep holes sit within his heart. Some will never quite be filled, but right now, it's never been more full since he first noticed them.
But they make themselves known when Aslan catches a once-familiar face—albeit with a brand new black eye—at the edge on the platform, one that doesn't join them. He lingers like a bird of prey on the sidelines, ever-judgemental yet protective. If Aslan looks, he's sure he'd find more.
Pascha and Murphy still cling to his legs, the rest of the Salvatici orphans mingle with his gang, and Aslan realizes—
(I'm not here for you.)
As soon as the cameras cut, as soon as he gets a minute to breathe, Aslan turns to Elja. "Where's Granny?"
Two weeks until she returns from surgery in the Capitol. Two fucking weeks—
In the meantime, Solaris manages to get more bottles of those fancy pills and a slew of MRI appointments for anyone who needs them, anyone touched by the poison of Aslan's stupidity—his lids, his gang, Keppler's gang.
Its reach is nearly devastating.
When he learns about the orphanage, he's unable to speak. It takes Elja and Argo a hike out to Solar to drag him from the empty manor to bring him out. In his absence, Keppler really had taken on everything— when the PKs cleared out the Salvatici orphanage and its surrounding buildings, it was Kepp who kept track of them, paperwork and all. It was Kepp who headed the operation to keep them fed and housed when the government didn't bother.
It's Keppler who won't let Aslan see them anymore.
It hurts.
But the nightmares—the memories—that come each night hurt even more, and Aslan finds himself agreeing with his once-brother.
He doesn't see Keppler either; the other boy makes sure of it, and he makes sure Aslan knows he'll never trust him again. Not with the kids, and not with Granny.
But it's Granny who gets a say in who sees Granny, and she wants to see Aslan.
Immediately, he knows she'll be here for a while. Where the surgery procedures didn't exhaust her, the travel did, and she doesn't move quite like she used to. She's quick to make herself at home in Aslan's new living space; it hasn't started to feel like one up until then.
He's not much of a cook, but Pashen and her son brought over some lasagnas the other day. He heats up some slices now and a pot of tea for the two of them while Granny takes the weight off her feet via overly-cushy armchair. "Goodness, I don't know if I'll be able to get back up," she laughs.
Aslan offers her a hand. "I gotcha, Granny."
"Don't be silly, I just sat down. Now, that tea?"
Just then, the kettle starts to shriek. The noise sets Aslan's teeth on edge; he fetches it as swiftly as possible. Two teacups and a bowl of sugar.
It's just them now. Solaris is back in the Capitol for some sort of science conference. Alsan keeps an open door policy with his gang, but Elja and Argo have their radio show tonight— she recounted more than once to him how that sneaky little bastard's secret came out on the air during his Games, and the reasoning behind Keppler's now healed black eye. It's difficult sometimes, to hop between Nuclear and Solar just to hang out; Aslan's considering buying an apartment back home just for that.
Granny accepts the cup with a warm smile, reclining into the armchair. Her crinkled eyes scan the room, landing on the pile of equipment set up in the corner of the living area. "What is that?"
"That's my—my guitar."
Granny hums in understanding. "That's because of that little girl, isn't it?"
Aslan mumbles a confirmation.
"Please speak up, Aslan. My hearing isn't as good as it used to be." She chuckles, a gravelly sound. "Never thought I'd have to ask you of all people to talk louder."
Air huffs through Aslan's nose in a pained laugh. "Yes, it's because of Casey."
"Well? Are you any good?"
"Not—not really. Not yet."
"Then practice for me." He hesitates, and she waves a hand. "Go on, show me."
"I—I don't…"
"It doesn't have to be good, Aslan. It doesn't have to be loud either; it doesn't matter if I hear it or not. Casey won't, but you're playing for her anyways, no?"
Tears prick at Aslan's eyes, but he nods.
"There you go," she says simply. "All that matters is that you follow through."
He'll never be as good as Casey, but that was never the point. That wasn't why he had Solaris order the equipment, the amps, the instruments of just about every shape and color that caught his eye.
So he does. Aslan picks up the deep red guitar, flicks a switch, and plays.
He's nineteen today, against all the odds.
Or, close enough, at least. Aslan never knew his actual birthday, so Granny let him pick. Naturally, he and Keppler chose the same date.
There's a celebration later tonight back at his place, but Aslan spends earlier parts of the day in the Nuclear Sector. Argo wants him on the show— he only said it a million times while he had Aslan trapped in the tattoo parlor for his gift. He can actually afford it this time, but the owner let them use the needles. Argo wanted to do it himself.
The outline of the windmill burns his right forearm, but Aslan welcomes it.
He's not sure where his gang went now, but he's got a sinking suspicion— Elja seemed all too eager to keep him from returning to his manor too early, poorly concealing the relief that flashed across her face when he told her he needed a stroll to clear his mind. "Be home by five—no, six," she instructed, and Aslan flicked her a salute.
It's just as hot now as when he first left Five for the Capitol. That's August for you. He keeps to the shadows between buildings, hands shoved into his pockets.
The jacket he wears now weighs just as heavy as the old one. Aslan couldn't get it back, but he thinks he's fine with that. He'll wear this one to the threads, despite the Capitol's eagerness to provide him with a new one at the snap of his metallic fingers.
Smog tingles in Aslan's lungs as he walks. That's something he'll never quite be rid of, he knows.
In a way, he's grateful for it.
Without thinking, his feet trace the familiar path back to the place he once called home.
The sight of the Salvatici orphanage fills him with an odd sort of feeling, the ghost of things that are half-there. An arm. A friendship. A brother. It's empty still, but Aslan doesn't think it will be so for long, not if a certain Salvatici gets his hands on the decontamination procedures.
It's funny— Aslan finds that he trusts Keppler to do this right. He certainly didn't before.
(What changed?)
Everything.
The ghost shivers down his arm, and Aslan flexes his prosthetic fingers. He doesn't mind the metal, honestly. The names help; when Argo snagged that engraving tool, each of his friends took turns etching their names into Aslan's prosthetic like a plaster cast, and it makes Aslan smile.
He's always taken pride in being a canvas of the people he cares about.
"You're not supposed to be here."
The hem of his jacket whips his shins as Aslan turns around, entirely unsurprised at who he sees. "Happy birthday to you too, Kepp."
What does surprise him is the knife.
It flies towards his face. Aslan ducks, but not quick enough. Sparks of pain flare beneath his cheek. Aslan hisses, and this time he dodges the back swipe.
Something vicious lights Keppler's grey eyes. Aslan only sees it a minute before his metal fingers clink into a fist that flies straight into the other boy's jaw.
Long shadows flicker— the rest of Keppler's gang.
But he holds up a hand to keep them in place even as Aslan grabs him by the front of his shirt and headbutts him with a dull thunk. Keppler staggers. His grip on the knife adjusts, ever the professional; and he lunges through the stars dancing circles around Aslan's head.
Aslan lets him. Air huffs from his chest as he strikes the brick behind him. Cool metal presses against his throat just as his own fingers curl around Keppler's.
The knife bites, and he drops them.
"Did you think I was fucking joking?" Keppler's voice trembles with anger, low in Aslan's ear. "I should kill you for this."
"Don't." There's little emotion in Aslan's voice, whether there should be or not. "They won't take kindly to losing a Victor so soon. You know I wouldn't make that threat if it weren't true."
"Unbelievable," Keppler scoffs. "Why the fuck would you care?"
Aslan grins, almost wild. "Does that bother you?"
"It's over, Aslan. You are not my brother, and you never will be." Liquid trickles down Aslan's throat from the shallow nick, soaking his collar, and he barely hears Keppler's next words. "Y'know, despite everything you did to us—" the way he says it, Aslan knows he's not included in this us anymore— "those kids still fucking missed you. I was right here, and they missed you."
Aslan's never heard this bitterness before.
"But even if I wanted to," Keppler continues, "I can't trust you around them. Not after—"
He doesn't need to say it. He does anyways.
"Not after you slaughtered that little girl."
Aslan flinches. "That's—that's fine," he says quietly. "I get it. And I think you're right." Surprise—suspicion—clouds Keppler's features. "Just— do me a favor, and do right by them, Kepp. Don't kill their love for the world."
"Aslan—"
"Make sure they turn out better than both of us because at the end of the day, that's all that fucking matters."
A beat, and then Keppler nods stiffly.
The blade lifts from Aslan's neck; Keppler steps back. And quicker than they came, his ex-brother and his gang disappear into the shadows, leaving Aslan alone in the shadow of the orphanage.
His wounds sting; they'll need attention sooner rather than later. He can already hear the scolding in Elja's tone when he shows up like this to his own damn birthday party, the concern in Argo's eyes, the knowing look on Granny's face. Blood drips from his cheek down to his jaw, from his neck to his collar, surprisingly warm and in a way, welcome. They'll leave a scar or two, he doesn't doubt it.
Perhaps the first of many.
With an odd sort of expression tugging at his cheeks, Aslan stuffs a hand into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette.
FIN.
A/N: Shoutout to syot verses discord for hosting this event ! And to timesphobic for aslan (: thank you for my chew toy :heart: