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A wisp of breath.
Candle lights flicker from the gentle movement, the air rolling from pale lips like a wave.
The mouth curves upward, pupil-less eyes blinking open and an eerie glow casting from them, illumination more pronounced than the gentle light of dancing flames, yet somehow colder. Freckles dance across cheeks, clear, see-through holes in an already intangible body. The boy's blurry vision focuses, and he blinks a few times, but its strange because he can still see, eyelids as clear as pristine glass. It reminds him of when he tried wearing contacts instead of glasses, only to give up from the irritation and toss aside both.
The memory's fuzzy, however, and more importantly, it doesn't belong to him. Yet it draws out a fond chuckle, ending on a wistful sigh. The wicks of candles, still alight, sway as their flames dance from the soft winds once more.
For a moment, it's peaceful.
But then the boy tries to move, and voices assault his mind and pain sears through his entire being. He can't pinpoint it, but the apparition can clearly make out the screams of multiple voices —
I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryIkilledhimIdidthatHe'sdeadbecauseofmeshekilledmeohgodwhyOhgodOhGodOhGodWhydidthishappenImissmymomPleasestopMakeitstopforfuck'ssakepleasemakeitstopmAKEITSTOPICAN'TTAKEITOHGODFUCKI'MSORRYFORGIVEMEIHATEYOUILOveyouImissyousorrysorrysosorrysoscaredsoalonedon'tleave m e s o m e b o d y h e l p m e —
With a wail, he falls to the ground, clutching his head with both hands as sobs and quiet, pained retches wrack his form. He can't cry, finding his tearducts incapable of creating anything, but that doesn't matter now.
He doesn't know how long he's down like that, but eventually the unending pain and echoing voices fall to the back of his mind, and he finally straightens up again, wiping at dry eyes.
Without a purpose, the boy begins walking, padding along the maze of hallways slowly, searching, his form shimmering and sputtering like he's some sort of television channel that's cursed with bad reception. And he's definitely cursed, he knows that much.
A sudden memory flickers into the boy's mind mid-step, and he pauses, head tilting in confusion at the movie it seems to play behind transparent eyelids. Glowing eyes widen, and a name slips past lips.
"Jean...?"
A candle dies.
Suddenly the boy — he remembers that his name is Marco — feels his mindset shift from autopilot to consciousness. His life's memories return to him from out of nowhere, twisting images into his mind, and suddenly he's shouting the other's name down dark corridors, speeding past more of the dead in search of the only thing that's mattered.
The only thing that's ever mattered.
—~—
Hours pass with no luck, and the boy can feel something unfurling inside him as he is left to stew over things. His unstable form's grown darker, the light blue light shifting to red, then back again, colors wavering in a deadly Tango. Purity is a rarity, and is often crushed immediately.
"Oh, Jeanny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling," Marco sings with a soft giggle, a strange smile curling his lips as he drifts, only half focused, through the halls.
His brows are furrowed cruelly, and the song's hum reverberates in his hollow chest as he rounds a corner, only to press against the wall at the sound of ragged breathing.
The sound hitches, then breaks into choked sobbing that has Marco drifting closer, peeking around only to spot the back of someone who isn't exactly dead. They aren't watching him, though he'd recognize that hairstyle anywhere, and with a silent sound of glee, he pushes himself toward him.
Jean.
But then Marco stops, because against the wall Jean's facing lays a corpse.
Against the wall Jean's facing lays Marco.
Pale. Chest cut open. Eyes dull and staring ahead, ruddy brown turned murky like a churned puddle. There's so much blood, and he can't tell if its from the gaping, crushed chasm that was once the back of his skull or if its from the fact his organs are on display for everyone to see.
For Jean to see.
"Oh god, I'm sorry," the blond is whispering over and over through his tears, and Marco reaches up to clutch his head as a sharp pain bolts through it. That's him! That's him and he's dead and Jean please don't look please don't look at me I don't want you to see me like this lookawaylookawayJean p l e a s e nonononononONONONO —
"A-a-aaaAAHHHH!"
He's not sure who the cry comes from, but suddenly Jean's looking at him with wide eyes and he's looking down at himself and he's scared — so, so scared and Jean's reaching for him, tearful eyes confused and apologetic.
Jean please don't touch me don't look at me no no no —
Something snaps.
Marco suddenly has Jean by the collar, pushing him against the wall with terrifying force that has the boy crying out as wood splinters against his back. The darker-haired of the two is blazing, narrowed, colorless eyes searching golden ones as panic brings sharp, unneeded breathes out of him, nostrils flaring and vision unfocused.
"Why did you go and do that, Jean?" he growls through clenched teeth. His friend looks confused once more, but his eyes are still wide. He's in shock. So Marco shakes him once, thrusting his form back against the splintered wall and cursing at the wheeze he hears.
And he elaborates.
"Why did you have to go and look, Jean?" He can practically hear the gears turning in the other's dazed head, and when it clicks, the blond looks absolutely mortified.
"I-I didn't mean to! God, Marco, I-I'm so sorry. I let you go off by yourself — I let you get killed —" He breaks then, sobbing before he can even register that he's doing it.
Marco recoils at the words like he's been burned, because they actually hurt like a brand, and as he releases Jean he watches him crumple to the floor as if he'd lost all strength in his body. Like a rag doll.
Suddenly, all he wants is for Jean to stop. Please, stop. But whenever Marco calls his name, or asks him to calm down, it seems like all it gives him are the opposite results. Its infuriating, and before he knows it, all he can see is red.
His fist swings downward in a perfect arch, supernatural strength aiding him as he vaguely feels the impact of knuckles to the crown of Jean's skull, feels the tickle of hair and then the give of bone as a sickening crack resounds, over the loud cries of his best friend and abruptly silencing him.
The only thing he can hear for a few moments is his furious breathing.
...
Marco Bodt smiles.
Bending down, he scoops up Jean's limp body, cradling it against his chest and pressing a light kiss to the sticky, blood-dyed hair. Now all he needs to do is wait, and then they can be together. Jean's soul will find him soon enough.
They'll have their own forever.
Crimson dyes his soul, corrupting.
"... -- Oh, Jeanny Boy, oh Jeanny Boy, I love you so!
But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead, as dead I well may be,
Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an Ave there for me;
And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,
For you will bend and tell me that you love me,
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me!"