Trent couldn't hear anything aside from his own beating heart. Kenny had caught him completely off guard. That was definitely intentional. Nevertheless, he recovered quickly, putting his hands on Kenny's back and pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. The world narrowed down to just the two of them, sitting in the grass. Kenny's breath hitched ever so slightly when Trent pulled him into his lap, a very easy task despite his broken wrist. For a second, Trent thought he had hurt his ankle, even though he had been so careful not to.
Kenny tasted like Bebe's homemade punch, sweet and sugary. He smelled like the punch too, not that Trent was complaining. He wanted him closer, so much closer. His body was aching, burning, writhing, and he wanted him closer. It had been aching and been intensifying, and now he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in Kenny. Every brush of Kenny's body sent shivers down his spine, and he squeezed Kenny's hips instinctively, a silent plea for more, or a demand.
He had never thought of making out outdoors as particularly sexy, or even romantic. Not with all the grass and bugs and stuff. But this night was perfect. The stars peeped above them, the lights from the Gatsby akin pool bathed their bodies in its soft lilac light, and the loudness of the party dulled to mere filler beneath the roaring pumping of his own heart. The Blacks' estate was surrounded by a dome of trees that shielded them from any potential onlookers.
He could honestly sit here like this forever, but a horrendous screech broke his daze. Those bitches! They fucking followed him everywhere! Their screeching moans echoed all around them in an insufferable cacophony. The crows. Those godawful crows! Why did it always sound like they were warning him of something? He should've never started feeding those things.
Thankfully, Kenny didn't seem aware of them, considering his clear surge in confidence. But Trent still found himself peeking his eyes open just to see what they were screaming about.
The sight sent a cold shiver down his back: a large figure stalking toward them, his pale green eyes staring right at them. Rick? He had something in his hand.
It's funny how one sense makes way for another because the second Trent saw him, he was hearing him too. Obscenities spilled from him, only barely audible over the thumbing of the party and the blood that had previously been rushing through Trent like crazy.
What the fuck was he doing here? Was it to harass Kenny again?
Trent squinted. A gun. He had a fucking gun. Holy shit, Rick had actually gone insane.
In a flash, Trent placed his hand on Kenny's shoulders and pushed him off, much harder than intended. He hit his back on the ground. It must've hurt because he let out a choked half-sob.
"Quiet!" Trent hissed, covering his mouth. He couldn't look at him, his eyes were fixed on Rick, on the gun in his hand. He thought he heard a firework before. Was that Rick? Was that how he got past the officer guarding the Blacks' estate?
"Kenny," He said, "Go inside."
Kenny took a few moments to react, piecing the puzzle together much slower than Trent had. Maybe he couldn't see?
But eventually, he got to his feet, his injured ankle consistently making a horrendous cracking noise and grabbed Trent's arm. "Come on!"
But Trent wasn't budging. Whether he was smart, dumb, or just drunk was hard to tell, but it seemed obvious to him that Rick would just follow them inside. Sure, they could just close and lock the door, but Rick was big and strong enough to break it down.
"No, you go." Trent hissed again, "I'll keep him outside."
"No, you're coming with me." Kenny tugged at his arm, putting his entire weight behind it.
"Listen to m-"
"No, you're drunker than I am, you listen to me!" Kenny asserted.
Well, he had a point. Besides, Kenny was not leaving without him, and Rick was getting closer. He peered over his shoulder. Rick was yelling at the crows, calling them 'Murderer, murderer, murderer!' Then his eyes, wide and crazed, landed on them once again. He had gotten so much closer in the time they spent arguing.
"Shit," Trent hissed, grabbing Kenny and dragging him toward where he knew the entrance was.
He winced every time Kenny took a step, the cracking of not properly looked-after broken bones echoed through the garden. Fuck the crutches though, they would only slow them down. He would've run, would've picked Kenny up and sprinted, but his legs were aching, and his head was wobbly. His entire body felt like it might collapse. It had to have been that messed up drink he had in Tweek's car. With each step they took, three loud thumps of Rick's could be heard.
But still, the entrance wasn't far away, at best 20 meters from the pool, and before too painfully long, Trent was channeling his inner gentleman: he was making damn sure Kenny went inside first, even if he had to push him in. He thankfully didn't have to give him that final shove, but he pushed him a little, enough to make him yelp slightly in pain.
Before he entered, he dared one last look back at Rick. But he wasn't there. The frantic yelling had stopped, replaced by an unsettling silence only punctuated by the constant caws of the crows. Where had he gone? Had he gotten bored and wandered off? Or was he circling, waiting for the perfect moment to strike? Maybe he wanted to shoot from a distance? Cartman said Rick's revolver had 12 bullets. Having only used 1, he could afford to miss.
"Trent…?" He heard Kenny's voice beckon him. "What're you do-?"
With a bang so loud, it momentarily silenced the crows, the door slammed shut. Rick stood with his hand on it, his hollow eyes wandering over and through Trent, never directly looking at him. "Hey, buddy." He said, in the way one would speak to a rabid dog. His revolver glistened in the lilac light. "What's the rush?"
He was blocking the door, his literal only escape. Now what? Talk him down? Wrestle the gun away? Distract him?
He took a deep breath and started backing away. Kenny was surely getting help, so it was only a matter of time.
"Hi, Rick," Trent responded. "Nice weather, huh?" The confidence in his voice stretched thin like taffy. He had never been held at gunpoint before, so lord forgive he was a little scared. "So, uh, what brings you here?"
With every step he took the searing pains in his muscles intensified, his veins ripping themselves apart.
"The clicks." Rick's voice was low. For every backward step Trent took, Rick took one forward. "Did you hear them too?"
"What clicks?" Trent sounded more rushed than intended. He was at the edge of the pool, its lilac shining onto his back. Wearing Bebe's lifeguard uniform felt very ironic now. "Like… like cicadas? Cameras?"
"Like Max…"
"Yeah?" Trent responded. Maybe if he just kept talking Rick wouldn't shoot. But the constant and overly loud screeching of the crows left him half-unable to hear his thoughts. They told him the danger was far from gone. As if he couldn't already tell.
He was all up in his face, his nose a mere inch away from Trent's. "You know, I'm so glad you stopped pretending to be him." He placed a hand, bloody from something, on Trent's shoulder and shook him. "Now we can put this whole week behind us, right, Boy- Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" Trent half jumped at the sudden outburst. Rick had turned his back to him and was furiously hollering at the crows. He then raised the gun into the air, aiming at the treetops. He shot 1, 2, 3 times.
8 bullets left.
With Rick having turned his back to him, Trent decided to make his escape. He gingerly turned around and started walking as quietly as he could. Maybe, just maybe, he could hide in the trees. His body resisted every step, making him slower than he wanted to be, but then again, it was quieter too.
The first bullet shattered whatever quiet had remained after the crows began to scream, the second dispelled their chanting, and the third grazed Trent's shoulder, ripping flesh and blood and the lifeguard uniform along with it. He could only imagine how much damage it would do if it actually hit him, if the bullet had actually torn its way into him. But no, it only grazed him. 5 bullets left.
The searing pain was a revelation. It wasn't a dull ache or a pounding throb; it was a white-hot poker shoved into his shoulder, a monstrous vice tightening around his bone. Trent cried out, a sound halfway between a gasp and a scream, the world tilting on its axis. He hit the ground with a thud, his cast turning from a pristine white to red as he tried to stop the bleeding.
"Ha! So you can feel pain!" Rick cheered, his thumping footsteps coming closer. "I was starting to think otherwise!"
The world spun and blurred into a whirl of shapes and colors. He couldn't move. There was no way. Instead, he was reduced to a gasping heap on the ground. He had never been shot before, never grazed with a bullet, but he was certain this agony couldn't only be blamed on that. Surely, a hit to the shoulder, while excruciating, wouldn't cause his legs to feel like they were ripping themselves apart. It had to be that damn melted euphoria bottle that had been opened. It had to be.
He suppressed the urge to scream and yell when Rick grabbed his collar and hoisted him back on his feet. "Don't be dramatic now, Boyett." He scolded. "I thought we were making up."
Survival.
It seemed like a pretty simple goal all things considered, but was surprisingly hard. Fight or flight? They both seemed like pretty shitty options. Flight: Guns are long-ranged weapons, so run away = death. Fight: Don't be stupid, fighting someone who has a gun = death. Not to mention that both his arms were impaired now. His left wrist was broken, and his right shoulder had now been grazed by a fucking bullet, besides Rick had clearly shown him that he was not afraid to shoot. He was pretty sure he was stronger than Rick, but not today, not right now.
Surely, the human survival instinct was more nuanced than just fight or flight. Fawn? That was a thing, right?
"R-right," Trent smiled. It was a risky strategy, considering the situation, but then again, everything was risky, considering the situation. "Let's make up."
Rick's eyes were wide and bloodshot and hollow, his hair a mess, his hands bloody. The crows circled in the air, creating a dark halo over his head. "Well, what're ya' waiting for?! Say you're sorry!"
"I'm sorry." It came out so fast. But do you know what else is fast? A bullet!
"What are you sorry for?" Rick smiled, dragging each word.
Shit. What was Trent sorry for? He knew he had pretty majorly pissed Rick off this whole week. But which specific incident should he talk about?
"I'm sorry for…" stopping you from killing Kyle? Talking shit about you to Kenny? Making out with Kenny? Insulting your fighting skills, even though you only attack people who are smaller than you (or people who don't want to get SHOT)? Did you a really bad job at customer service that one time you entered Corvus Antiques? "I'm sorry I mocked you when you first called me Max."
Yeah, yep, that was probably the best thing to apologize for. It was the only thing he actually should apologize for. It was a douche move.
The crows continued their unsettling cacophony, their dark forms swirling like a storm cloud overhead. Rick's smile seemed less genuine and more unsettling, stretched thin across his bloodshot eyes.
"Good." His voice was low. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
His legs were visibly shaking. He just hoped Rick didn't notice. "No,"
"Anything else?"
"Not really." Now, it should be duly noted that Trent had never had to fawn his way out of a dangerous situation before. Still a terrible response though. "Seems kinda like inflation, doesn't it?"
A flicker of surprise crossed Rick's face, but his smile remained plastered on it. "Inflation?" he echoed; the word slurred slightly. He tilted his head, his gaze lingering on Trent for a beat too long. Maybe not on Trent, but slightly above him. The crows seemed to caw louder, their unsettling chorus filling the space between them.
"Yeah, well, if I apologize too much, it'll hurt my ethos." Good god, was he seriously spouting rhetorical terms in the face of death? Trent didn't even realize how much info he retained from class, but for some reason, it always seemed to come out when he was nervous. Was that seriously his best survival strategy? Regurgitating his entire English curriculum? Hey Trent, do you think he wants you to clarify the biological difference between a dominant and recessive gene? NO! Oh well, if it kept Rick from shooting him, it was working. "And I dunno if you noticed, but I already don't have that much ethos."
Resorting to fancy words as a form of intimidation was pretty bad rhetoric, but then again, 'ethos' wasn't a fancy word and neither was 'inflation'.
He tasted metal. Ah, shit, he had been biting his cheek. He stopped only to realize why he had started in the first place: it distracted him from the searing agony of his shoulder. It seemed to come in waves. One minute he was relatively functioning, next the white-hot iron poker was digging its way through his flesh again. He was getting dizzy and he kind of felt like throwing up.
He was maybe a few good words away from punching Rick in the nose. Not a great plan, as previously concluded, but he was getting pissed.
"Don't lie to me," Rick fucking grabbed his shoulder, digging his nails into the already searing wound. "You have ethos. Don't try to confuse me with big words."
Trent desperately suppressed every urge to rip this guy's head. What gave him the right to dig his disgusting fucking fingers into Trent's wound? He had a whole vocabulary of 'big' words to tell this guy. "Ethos has 5 letters." He mumbled. "It's not that big." But I bet you'd think it was.
Rick just dug his dirt-covered nails deeper into his shoulder. Black dots clouded his vision. "Max had ethos." He began, "Lots of it."
"Fuck Max, honestl-" Trent cut himself off. Maybe insulting Rick's big obsession wasn't a great idea. "I mean, sure. I wish we had met."
"He's pretty mad at you."
"He's dead." Trent hissed, "He's fucking dead. What is wrong with you?! How can a dead guy I've never fucking met be mad at me?"
Trent's outburst echoed through the garden, momentarily silencing the raucous crows overhead. Who knew being nice to a crazy guy would be so hard? Rick's dirty, bloody fingers had to be at least an inch in his shoulder and that shit was agitating. God, he was probably giving him some kind of disease.
"He's mad you're copying him." Rick's voice was low. It was like he hadn't noticed Trent's words at all. "That's why the clicks led me here."
Again, with the clicks. Next, he was going to say the crows were making fun of his haircut or some bullshit.
Trent rolled his eyes. It was a reflex you can't blame him. "Why would I copy a guy I've literally never met?"
"Why do you live in his apartment? Why do you do his job?" Rick's eyes were right above his head. "Why do you wear his face?"
Wait, Max used to work for Ms. Corvus? Damn. That old lady was definitely a witch. Trent was willing to bet she told Max to feed the crows too. Hold on a minute, Max used to live in Trent's apartment? Gross.
"Uhh…" He scoured the deepest parts of his mind, trying to find anything to make a good response. "I uh… It was my face first. So maybe he copied me?"
"He's older than you."
"Okay, okay," Maybe he could bargain, "let's pretend that I am copying him. Is it really that big a deal? Shouldn't he be flattered? I mean, I'm pretty cool, so that would make him, like, the OG cool, right?" Given the look on Rick's face, this approach was not working.
It seemed more counterproductive. The following milliseconds had a dreamlike quality: in a dream, he saw Rick's gun moving to his face like a jellyfish underwater, and Rick's voice came from far away and was muffled. "Soon, it won't be his face."
The cold metal of Rick's gun pressed against his cheek like dry ice on water. He was evaporating. No movement, no twitch of a muscle. He was Gatsby getting shot in the pool. He was King Duncan reading a play about his own demise. Anne Boleyn on her way to the chopping block. He was 13 again, writhing in agony while no one was around to help, left alone under that sadist's spell.
And he could not move.
Rick's finger clicked on the trigger, sounding very far away. Its metal surface reflected the light from the pool.
Suddenly, a crow ascended from above and swiped at Rick's head. Trent had never thought crows' talons would be that sharp, but it cut a gash in Rick's temple that immediately gushed blood. Not only did it make him bleed. It distracted him.
"Fucking rat!" Rick roared, as he pushed Trent hard enough for him to fall, aimed at the crow and shot 3 times, hitting it on the third. "Piece of shit, vermin!"
He had good aim, hitting a flying creature like that, but then again, he did graze Trent while he was half-running away. 2 bullets left.
With Rick turned away and his vile hands no longer fingering him, he got a few seconds to breathe. A few seconds to notice things that had seemed too irrelevant for his survival-oriented monkey brain to pick up. Among them were the sounds. In particular, the lack of sounds coming from the mansion behind him. All music had been shut off and no voices travelled to his ears.
With great effort, —since he was still in a ton of pain— he turned to look at the house. Rows and rows of eyes and faces stared back at him. Worried eyes, angry faces, frowning mouths reacting to the poor fool who got stuck outside with Rick, watching from their safe little bubble.
No one was intervening, and of course, Trent couldn't blame them. No one wanted to be close to the crazy guy with the gun, and the bystander effect was a pretty normal thing. Had any of them thought to call for help? Was this the classic train wreck you couldn't peel your eyes from, or was it somehow entertaining? Gather around, people, let's watch that psycho, Trent Boyett get fucked!
It struck him that he didn't know how long it had been since Rick came. It could've been 10 minutes; it could have been an hour. Either way, no one had shown up to help. It seemed there was nothing to stall for.
Hell, the only one to help him was that crow. And what happened to it?
Trent briefly looked at the dead crow, its blood pooling beneath its body. Its beak kept opening and closing; its eyes, dark and lifeless, darted around. What a waste of life. But it had dropped something before it ripped Rick's forehead open, something made of shiny silver.
With slow, aching movements, he stood back up. He couldn't expect others to swoop in and save him at the last hour, not when he was the only one in danger. Even the crows were quiet now. There was only him and Rick and those 2 precious bullets.
"Fuck divine intervention." He hissed.