Rushed and a little sudden, but it does what it needs to do.
Slipping away from the Hunt on non-Hunt business is the last thing Aspen should be doing at the moment, but it's all he can think of.
There's nowhere for him to go besides Nyx's tavern. He finds that he's tried to reconcile so many things concerning family lately that he's never worked to reconcile his own. Perhaps Kane was the catalyst, or thinking of Kellan and knowing of his family troubles, but he can't be entirely sure. Perhaps he's just overwhelmed, the responsibility of Kellan's disappearance weighing down on him and he hates that he's had to be responsible for someone other than himself. His legs carry him down the street and through the doors, maneuvering his way in the tavern so he can get into Nyx's office.
He's just sitting there at his desk with some papers, but glances back at the sound of the door opening, his gaze sweeping over Aspen in some rare moment of being caught off guard. Deep eyes. They're the same ones that watched him while he slept and even now, he finds that he's unnerved.
"Aspen?" There is a considerably amount of surprise in Nyx's voice, but he also looks pleased, standing up from his chair to face him and beckon him. "I knew you wouldn't be able to stay away."
Shutting the door and all the words he'd prepared faltering on his lips, he takes a few shaky steps towards him. "I know it's sudden..."
"Sudden, but not unwelcome." There's a natural way Nyx moves closer to him as well to study him, appraising him and appreciating the way Aspen looks entirely at his devices. "You're back so soon."
"I...I know." Stuttering words and heat rising to his face. When had conversation become so difficult? "I feel like there's...unfinished business. I missed you."
"Well, you cut your hair. I'm glad." Nyx's approval is clear, reaching out to touch the shorter strands that curl slightly over his forehead and by his ears. "It was starting to look unkempt."
Reaching up, Aspen curls his fingers around Nyx's wrist. He has to remind himself that those are instruments of harm, that for every time they have mussed his hair affectionately, they have also knotted and yanked at it, prodded at mouth and throat, but now he nearly leans into his touch. Those hands burrow into him, carving out his insides to create hollow ground. Nyx makes terrain only hospitable for himself and Aspen tries to not blame him for the barrenness he sometimes feels within. It seems he has selective memory.
"I can't stay long. I-...I shouldn't stay long." His grip loosens on Nyx and his voice catches in his throat.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm just glad you're visiting." There's a croon, those familiar sweet words, and another careful caress against his hair.
Aspen tilts his head up to kiss him, his fingers brushing against his cheek and his eyes pressed shut. There's a slowness in his movements, and a sort of sadness before he pulls away, quickly wiping away a thin string of spit. He steps back, watching Nyx with an intensity, taking in his features, his expression, the first face in his life that he can vividly remember. He recalls being afraid of him, more so as a child than he is now, but the feeling has been snuffed out to something that is both manageable and nostalgic even through his unease. It's difficult to try pushing out the memories he dislikes, and he remembers them poignantly anyway.
"Will you ever come back home?" Nyx asks and Aspen gives him a sorrowful kind of smile.
"No. I just came back for you." He doesn't mean for his words to almost sound affectionate - wistful, even - and it's enough to make him hesitate. Nyx reaches for him to pull him back into his chest or to kiss him perhaps, but Aspen unsheathes both his swords and plunges them into his chest.
Both blades sink in cleanly, through the chest of his coat and through the back, and then Nyx crumples back onto the wooden ground, the swords sliding free. Blood pools and swords clatter from limp hands. They hit the ground and don't seem to make a sound. The calmness is broken and he stands still in the few following moments, shock and a cacophony of fear crushing down on him, his legs growing unsteady and unreliable. There's just a silence that seems out of place and a panic that slowly gives way to grief. He doesn't feel himself fall, but he finds himself at his knees, hands against the floor as he reaches to pull Nyx towards him.
There's no air coming from his lips. Eyes stay open. A whimper is pulled from Aspen's throat involuntarily, and he tastes bile. That barren part within him aches and contorts. Fingers press into the growing pool of blood and he becomes increasingly aware of the fact he cannot breathe.
It is as if hands are at his throat, pressing into his windpipe, the weight of someone sitting on his chest and his lungs being torn from his body. He struggles to draw in his next breaths and they come in rapid succession, a quiver to his form and a wilt in his posture. He inhales raggedly and it's forced out of him in a painful sob, fingers knotting in Nyx's coat to pull him closer. Short staccato breaths bordering on hyperventilation are all he can manage. His hands are too slick and red, staining against the grey fabric, unable to find much purchase and Aspen instead presses his face into him and he can smell blood and lavender and clove cigarettes and it washes over his senses. Quick gasps and muffled cries. Bleary vision smudges the lines of wounds and he can feel his face is wet and sticky, no doubt from the blood that is smeared against forehead and cheeks and the tears that streak through it. He feels like a child.
When he finally grounds himself, he sits there unmoving by Nyx's body, his chest aching from some unlocked feeling of distress. To be so upset is pathetic, and his thoughts offer him no comfort. A quiet numbness steadies him and it doesn't register just yet that he's removed perhaps the only thing that resembles a family member and guardian from his life. His jaw hurts from clenching it and a heavy exhaustion pushes down on his spirit. He had thought about that moment many times, what he'd say and how he'd do it, but he didn't think he'd ever follow through. He doesn't even know what propelled him then except some sort of necessity. After all, Nyx had loved him, hadn't he?
A knock at the door and a female voice breaks his trance. Mechanically, he stands up, surveying the mess he's made. He runs his fingers through his hair on instinct, matting it with residual blood, and collects his swords from the floor. He sheathes them individually, slowly, if only to stop the shaking of his frame.
When he pushes open the door, the blonde woman waiting shrieks at the sight before pulling back in fear and he slips past her. He walks through the tavern, senseless and bloody. A few patrons grow silent and some give a couple startled calls, but no one stops him as he leaves.
Time stands still and all he thinks of is making his way back to the Hunt, ignoring the stares of bystanders in the Towns when he passes them. Heavy steps weigh him down. The blood has started to dry and there are splinters in his hands.