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A sharp sword juts out of his breastbone. Jinyoung stammers over his breath. He doesn’t bother with a mundane “why?“ as red bleeds into his eyes.
“I loved you,“ he manages instead, words steady as a knee gives out and he falls halfway to the floor.
A mortal would have long keeled over.
The hand gripping the hilt of the sword is young, pale and veined. The boy holding it wears the priest’s traditional garb. The cross hangs from his neck, the clergy collar doing little to hide that the long slender column was marred by his teeth marks.
Jinyoung could never resist temptation well. Three centuries, countless lifetimes and he still couldn’t stop himself from hurtling towards the same mistakes. At least this time would be the last.
“Yugyeom,“ he insists again. “I love you.“ The tenderness in his tone holds no lies.
“Thank you for setting me free.“
Tears drip onto the floor, clear droplets disappearing into the sea of red that was spreading from the prone body.