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❥៚ bro.
| “WHAT THE FUCK, BRO?”
Quentin grimaced, looking up at the smiling face of a mask. The masked figure tilted their head, and Quentin pouted. He knew who was behind that mask, he knew them well. Frank fucking Morrison. The self-proclaimed leader of a murderous band of teenagers he called the legion. Him and Frank had gotten to know each other over . . . Peculiar circumstances.
Quentin could remember it vividly.
He’d opened his eyes, fog and whispers still swirling around him, and had found himself in a place different from anything he’d seen before. It was covered in snow, and if he squinted, he could almost see mountains in the distance. The only problem was that the snowflakes didn’t melt when he caught them in his hands, and his breath didn’t come out misty like he’d hoped it would. It was the Entity, the being that ruled over the realm, trying to make this place seem normal, and failing. It would never be able to mimic the actual real world. And, though it made Quentin feel contempt, he also felt sad. He’d never get back the small things. He wished he hadn’t taken so many little things for granted. Now, he missed them.
He’d been walking around cautiously, exploring but also keeping an eye out for the killer. Because with a new arena, came a new survivor and killer. He felt sympathy for the poor, unlucky soul that got dragged here. He wondered if it’d be a girl or a boy. It didn’t matter, but he was curious. He’d entered a chalet, kicking snow off his sneakers as he went. Basic manners that never managed to escape him, even now. He made his way towards a familiar sight: a generator. He was almost to it when he spotted someone, just right ahead of him.
It was David. And beside David, was someone Quentin hadn’t recognized. They had their hood up, obscuring most of their face, and Quentin suspected it must’ve been the new survivor. He’d called David over, and the man had led the new survivor right to him. Quentin had introduced himself, and the man hadn’t looked up. Not even once. Quentin felt bad for him. He was probably scared of them. Quentin knew that he’d been scared, too, when he first came here. He had sat in a locker and cried until crows started circling him.
“The bloke doesn’t talk much,” David had said. “Not like I can blame ‘em.” Quentin had nodded, and offered to introduce everything to the new survivor. He felt a strange obligation to. It wasn’t uncommon for Quentin to reach out to those in need, but he had limits. Clearly he’d decided to test them today. He wasn’t good at explaining things, but he was willing to give it a shot to make the new guy feel more comfortable. David wasn’t really the best for comforting, since he tended to just suck things up and bottle down emotions. Quentin would know. He’d tried relying on David to make things better; it never worked.
Just as Quentin went to gently grab the new guy’s shoulder, he moved. It was insanely quick, and even though Quentin was beyond sleep-deprived, his senses were sharp after years of torture from a particular dream demon. The new guy’s hand went to his pocket, and within seconds, a knife was in his bandaged hands, and then in David’s back. Quentin had stumbled back, stricken and horrified — it was one of the most traumatic things to happen to him, at least in this realm. To see someone he’d almost trusted, just turn and betray them. It made him wonder. Could that be him one day, stabbed by someone he thought was on his side? He’d watched David’s body fall to the ground with a dull thud, and he’d shaken.
But Frank had spared him. He’d looked up, and Quentin had caught a glimpse of his face. A scar over his nose and mouth, which made Quentin wonder how he’d gotten them. A fight? Or just his past victims putting up a struggle? He had high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a prominent nose that wasn’t too big or too small. His skin looked a little grimy, but under all the dirt and potential blood, he seemed pretty pale. His eyes were a deep, dark blue that seemed to pierce Quentin’s heart. They seemed as icy as the frigid snow around them. Before Quentin could even try to run, Frank had turned away and sprinted off, but not after pulling on a mask to hide his face. He’d blatantly spared someone on his first trial.
Was that allowed?
It didn’t matter now, though. Quentin snapped himself back to the present, staring up at Frank. “I like your sweater.” Frank grinned, a Cheshire Cat grin, and leaned against the wall. They were in a house, whose — Quentin didn’t know. From what his friend Laurie told him, this was her home town of Haddonfield. “This? It’s like . . . The same one I wear everyday.” Quentin smiled with amusement, grateful that Frank was trying to compliment him. His favorite jacket was beyond ruined and bloody. Maybe he’d have to try and wash it soon. There was a river the survivors could reach outside of trials, but it meant venturing from the safety of the campfire to get to it. That meant they were easy prey for any hungry killer.
“Doesn’t make it less cute.” Frank twirled his knife around in his slim fingers, but Quentin had spent enough time with him to stop feeling scared at the action. “Yeah?” Quentin stood up. “Well, I like your jacket.” Frank was wearing his red-and-white varsity jacket. He’d told Quentin he used to play basketball. Quentin couldn’t imagine this killer running around, dribbling a ball and shooting into a net — it seemed so goofy and silly. It seemed so human. But then again, Frank was human, wasn’t he? They’d all been, once. They were all victims. Victims to the Entity. Quentin shuddered, and felt his nails digging roughly into his palms.
Quentin tried to ignore the fact that Frank had just finished brutally murdering all of Quentin’s friends. It was trivial things like this he cherished most. The time while a trial was ending, where they weren’t running and battling each other, they were just peaceful and talking. If things were different, Quentin would’ve been close friends with Frank. He knew he would. Casting a discreet look at the teenage dirtbag, Quentin felt his heart fluttering.
Stop that, he thought, frustrated. There was no way he’d let his heart flutter for this jerk. No way he’d let his stomach erupt in butterflies for this — this — “Bro.” Frank’s voice cut into his train of thought, making him jump. ‘Bro’ was an ongoing thing exchanged between them. Quentin had called him it first, right after he’d killed David that first time. He’d shouted “bro!” in absolute horror. Maybe that was why he’d been spared. Out of amusement. Either way, it’d worked out in the end. Frank had enjoyed the nickname, and it was an inside thing going on between them. Quentin would feel guilty, but other survivors had that, too.
Some had been here so long, they just gave up on loathing the killers. They realized the ones slaughtering them were pawns, just like them. Trapped, just like them. And although none of them were good, at least not anymore, they weren’t all bad either. Quentin knew Meg had befriended the Trapper. Her quickness and alert evasion of his traps had fascinated him, and being one of the first survivors and killers, they’d been together for ages. It was only a matter of time before the hate and anger faded away into acceptance. And acceptance called for other things, like — friendship. An unsteady and very toxic friendship.
Along with Meg and Trapper was Jake and the Pig. Jake was good at sabotaging things, and had the habit of escaping from her reverse bear traps without searching for keys. That’d irked and fascinated the Pig so much, she’d reached out to him. Now, they were . . . Friends. She still ruthlessly killed him. It was her job. But sometimes they talked during the trial, or outside of it. After she’d done what she considered ‘punishing him’ which made Quentin convinced she had a few screws loose up . . . There. But at least she wasn’t completely awful.
Claudette had even managed to befriend two killers. The Wraith, and the Hillbilly. If the Entity didn’t like the two groups interacting, it didn’t say anything. But Quentin knew hope and happiness weren’t something it could feed off of. Despair and anguish was what it needed to survive. It couldn’t let things get all sunshine and rainbows, now could it? It’d starve. Quentin frowned, and began wondering why the Entity hadn’t stopped anyone yet. There had to be a reason, a cause. It couldn’t just willingly allow them to intermingle. There was a campfire for a reason, it separated them. There were boundaries, never to be crossed.
So why hadn’t the Entity noticed they’d been crossed long ago?
Was it losing its power over them? Was it weakening? Quentin’s hope sparked, and he looked up at Frank. “Yeah, bro?” He replied eventually, the words flowing off his tongue. As he stared at Frank, he wondered why the two even bothered interacting. Frank had his own friends. He wasn’t lonely. And Quentin had his. They didn’t need to talk. They were fine being strangers. But they still reached out for each other. Frank even showed Quentin his face, for some odd reason. His mask was his one confidential thing, the one thing keeping him in the power role. But he’d let that be taken away. It was a show of trust, of camaraderie.
“Close your eyes, bro.” Frank’s words made Quentin still.
For a brief second, he suspected Frank was going to end it. He was probably tired. They both were. Quentin especially. He would miss talking to Frank more, but it didn’t matter what he wanted. In the end, alone with Frank, the killer was in total control. Quentin closed his eyes, fully prepared to feel the cold steel of a blade being pressed to his throat.
Instead, Frank just kept talking. “What do you see, bro?”
Quentin would roll his eyes if he could. “Nothing, you idiot,” he said scathingly. “My eyes are closed.” He scoffed. Sometimes he fully believed Frank was lacking just a few brain cells.
“That’s my world without you, bro.” Frank’s voice was lower, more husky. Quentin opened his eyes in a flash, and felt his face heating up. His neck burned, and his ears felt hot. “Shut up!” Quentin said, embarrassed. He was blushing like crazy, and felt completely ashamed for doing so. It wasn’t like Frank meant what he said. Quentin’s chest tightened. It was just a harmless joke. Nothing was going on between them. He should stop acting like there was. He felt his palms go slick with sweat, and his throat closed up. He couldn’t think properly.
“Quentin.” Frank was leaning closer, and a serious look entered his icy gaze. His rough, calloused hands gripped Quentin’s lower jaw. Through it all, Quentin kept completely frozen. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t think, he could just stare in stunned shock at Frank who smiled tenderly at him. Tenderly? What a sight. To think Frank Morrison could be gentle and tender was outrageous, but here they were. It felt so horribly, explicitly intimate. They weren’t supposed to be intimate. They weren’t a couple. Quentin blinked sluggishly.
“I think I like you, bro,” Frank stated bluntly. Quentin blinked again, but this time, it was much more rapidly. He sputtered, trying to think of something to say. His mind jumped to dirty things. Like Frank having a crush on him . . . His body tingled all over. But Frank just meant he liked him. As a person. A friend. A survivor. Not as a lover. Not as a like-like. “Same here, bro.” Quentin smiled, but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. It couldn’t. He couldn’t will himself to muster up happiness, when inside, he felt the brewing of sadness.
“Really?” Frank’s face seemed to light up. Did he not think Quentin liked him? He probably suspected Quentin hated him for killing him and his friends. But hey, Quentin held grudges against only one person. Or, being. And that was Freddy Krueger. Not some poor kid who’d been roped into an unending hell where he had to kill for an eternity. But maybe Frank wasn’t as innocent as he thought. Maybe he wasn’t a poor kid. Maybe he was a monster, in the real world and this one. Maybe he enjoyed killing. Quentin really hoped that wasn’t true.
When Quentin nodded, he didn’t expect lips to be placed upon his.
Quentin gasped, and his eyes stretched to the size of saucers. Holy shit, he thought in a frenzy. He’s kissing me?! Quentin’s heart practically leaped out of his chest, and he felt ecstatic. He hadn’t felt this way before, not since Nancy. The thought of her made his heart clench, but when he remembered Frank’s lips on his, the pain ebbed away. He didn’t realize, but he had been falling for Frank. Perhaps he’d fallen as soon as they’d met, even though the man was a psychopathic murderer. There was more to anyone and everyone than meets the eye, and Frank was no exception. Quentin only hoped one day they could escape from this realm, alive, and be together. Would Frank change in the real world? Oh, he hoped not . . .
Frank hadn’t really been open about his life before the Entity. He’d elaborated only at the fact that he’d frequently visited the site Mount Ormond, which was the snow-filled place they were at when they first met. He also chipped in that he was adopted, and had a foster father, and that he played basketball and hung out with his legion nearly everyday. From the description, he did nothing wrong. He was just a normal kid, maybe a little rough on the edges, but relatively normal nonetheless. So what made the Entity take him to this realm?
Did he want to know?
Quentin pushed the negative thoughts from his overthinking mind, and instead focused on kissing Frank back. It had been a while — years, maybe, who knew? — since he’d last kissed someone. He was definitely sloppy, and pretty inexperienced. He hadn’t had too much practice. He was too busy fighting for his life at the blink of an eye. But somehow, moving his lips with Frank, it all felt natural. It came to him as easy as riding a bike. Their lips molded almost perfectly, and though their teeth clacked together a few times, Quentin didn’t mind. He liked the roughness, the way Frank forced himself closer, like he couldn’t get enough. It was addictive. Quentin thrived off of the roughness, off of all the attention.
When Frank finally pulled away, biting Quentin’s lip playfully as he did, he was a panting mess. It was different from the panting Quentin would hear when he entered frenzy. This one was heavier, more aroused and husky. Quentin felt a chill of pleasure roll down his spine. How long had he been waiting for this moment? He didn’t want it to ever end for them. His hands tightened into fists, and he clung onto Frank’s jacket like a koala bear.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for ages, you don’t even know,” Frank groaned. Quentin smiled. “So have I,” he admitted. Frank brushed his thumb over Quentin’s bruised, bloody cheek. “I never want this to end,” he whispered, as if he could read Quentin’s thoughts. Quentin blushed, his smile turning softer. “Me neither,” he murmured. He wanted to bring up his thoughts of them living in a different world, a better world. They could be freely together, without them having to worry about Frank being a serial killer. Or so, he hoped.
“It wants me to kill you,” Frank murmured into Quentin’s ear. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Quentin closed his eyes. “So do it,” he insisted. “I’m glad we at least got to confess before I died, you know, like in the movies.” He opened his eyes with a bittersweet smile, and saw Frank glaring at him. “I don’t have to listen,” Frank retorted. Quentin’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Isn’t it your ma—” Frank covered his mouth with his hand. “Don’t,” he said firmly. “You might wake it up.” Quentin shivered. What the hell was he talking about? What did any of it mean? He felt worried as he stared up at Frank’s icy gaze.
“Will you kill me, or not?” Quentin asked after a heartbeat. The silence was unbearable, the suspense was unbearable. “Of course not.” Frank stood up, extending a hand for Quentin to take. Of course he accepted it, and Frank gently pulled him closer. “I’ll always give you hatch, as much as I can,” he said. “That isn’t fair—” Frank interrupted him. “Everyone has their favorite survivor,” he stated. “And I have mine. That’s you.” Frank smiled, clearly smug.
“Wow, bro,” the words came from Quentin instinctively. “You’re my favorite killer.” If he could even have a favorite . . . Frank grinned, chuckling. “Well, thanks.” He released Quentin’s hand, turning to face him. “Can I stop calling you bro and start calling you baby, now?” He demanded. Quentin blushed. “S-sure,” he stammered, taken by complete surprise.
“Good. I’ve been waiting for fucking ages, now, it was agonizing.”
Frank pulled him into one last kiss before shoving him away. “Now go. Find the hatch, before I change my mind and come eat you up.” Frank winked, and Quentin scoffed. “You’d never catch me.” Frank went to argue, but Quentin was already running off, feeling giddy.
As he left, he called out, “See you later br—baby!”