Work Text:
Run.
His pale hands were icy, shaking in his pockets as he pushed his feet further and further ahead of him. He didn’t know where he was. He could only register the shrill tone of a dog barking. There were no tire screeches; no frogs or crickets. He vaguely recognized the crunch of snow beneath his feet, and stopped for a moment to fully understand his surroundings.
City streets, once bustling with the action of a normal nine to five business day—action that he thrived upon—were now dull and empty. There were no fresh prints in the snow besides his own; no cars on the street and no stars in the pitch black sky. He couldn’t even recognize the phone buzzing relentlessly in his pocket.
Subconsciously, he knew it was there. He knew that the buzzing in his right hip was different from the buzzing firing in his brain, but in a futile attempt to shut himself out of the world, his mind made the cruel decision to blend them all together, and force him to sprint, alone through the silent city street.
“He’ll never love you.”
He froze, the harsh crunching beneath his feet suddenly ceasing. His feet remained planted. If he wasn’t so genuinely afraid in that moment, he would have grimaced at the way the snow melted into his tennis shoes.
“You don’t mean that,” He spat back, voice quivering.
“No, I think I do.”
He didn’t turn towards the voice. He didn’t want to know what it was, or who it was. He didn’t want to give it the power. If it remained faceless; a figment of his imagination, then maybe he could gather himself enough to find his way out of the dark alley, and to his fiancé’s house.
“We’re getting married,” He stated, hands clutching into fists. “We are engaged. He loves me more than he has ever loved anyone. He told me—”
“No one can trust a faggot.”
He sucked in a breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. He felt his eyes squeeze shut, hot tears bubbling behind his lids as he tried to keep his composure. He could run from this. He could run away to his fiancé’s house and never look back. He could open the door and take off his shoes and climb up the cool wooden stairs into his lover’s arms. He didn’t have to fight.
And yet, the moment that word was spoken about the man he loved, something inside him shifted.
“You don’t get to talk about him like that.”
“Would you rather I talk about you?”
“You don’t even know me.”
“Oh, but I do.”
It was in that moment that he decided to turn around; to face the assailant head on, head fogged with anger and exhaustion, but when his eyes fell upon the attacker, he felt his heart drop into his toes.
Maybe this was a fight he couldn’t win.
Standing in front of him was himself, clothes worn, features sunken. He stood atop the snow, his weight seemingly nonexistent as every time he took a step the bright white pillow remained untouched. In his hand was a tragic kitchen knife. On his face, he wore a smile.
“I do know you. I know that you were addicted to nickelodeon as a kid. I know that you will do whatever it takes to be happy, even if it's just for a little while.”
“Stop it.”
“I know that your parents left you. I know that the moment you tasted rejection you decided the pills were easier. I know you rush into things because you know , deep down, that good things never last.”
“He’s different.”
“Is he?”
“He loves me!”
“Does he?”
“Yes!”
“Are you sure, though? Are you sure he wouldn’t just… find somebody else? Leave you to die?” The figure took a step closer, and he instinctively stepped back. “Because the way I see it, you’re nothing but a mistake. A fuck up. The gum on the bottom of his shoe; ever-present, and ever-neglected.”
“He loves me.” His voice was barely above a whisper, now. His eyes locked on the ground, his heart pounding because for once in his life he knew something for sure. He knew that he loved him, and that he cared for him, and that he would never let him go.
But that revelation was a little too late, for the moment his eyes snapped up, they were met with the dark irises of the figure, and his body was knocked back into the wall.
Pain coursed through him, stemming from the back of his head and his abdomen. He let himself panic for a moment, heavy breathing only lending itse;f to the growing drowsiness he felt, and cried out when he felt his gand graze past his abdomen. He looked down to see the handle of the kitchen knife, sticking out, pulsing with each breath. When he looked up, the attacker was gone.
His lip quivered as the snow painted itself red. He mustered all of his strength to reach past the cold, crimson substance, into his pocket, and pull out his phone.
“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?”
“Tell Carlos I love him.”