Work Text:
There is a melody to the chaos of rainy cities. The drops falling on the pavement mix with the clogs of horses, the cries of motorised vehicles, and the clamour of passersby, their hurried voices and feet as they seek shelter or rush to their destination. Note after note, the streets of Paris write their hymn, only disturbed by the irregular lament of passing trains.
In this ambient cacophony, there isn’t a soul to notice gunshots echoing in an abandoned shoe factory, caught between Gare du Nord and Gare de l’Est. Or at least that was Valentin’s explanation when questioned.
“Relax, no one ever comes here these days. They closed it five years ago. It’s nothing more than a ghost town now,” Valentin had provided in the same breath he’d climbed over the wall with pretentious agility. The shit-eating grin, raised slit eyebrow, and open hand he directed at Octave, while he sat on top of the wall, were eloquent enough. And so must have been the bored look in the other’s eyes, as he took off his cloak and threw it at his unlikely accomplice, before climbing on his own.
Shrugging in amusement, Valentin simply jumped in the courtyard and led the way, unsurprisingly discarding Octave’s cloak on the ground. “You can thank the Long Depression for that,” he opened the worn front door and advanced, caring little for Octave's unresponsiveness, “It wasn’t kind to anyone. Or, well, not to most of us.”
An easy attack. Octave knew better than to let his growing annoyance show. Without a word, he followed suit.
“All in all, an ideal training ground for murder.”
For the last few minutes, Octave has been turning that thought over in his mind, hoping to appease his unsteady nerves. It has yet to prevent Octave’s heart from skipping a beat every time his finger makes contact with the trigger. The gun becomes heavier the more it stays in his hands and its sight sickens him the more he stares at it.
One, two, three bullets hit the central pillar, ten metres away from him. They form an uneven triangle around a lazily drawn cross. Still, this shape is more flattering than the three other bullets that got lost somewhere on the opposite wall. One might call it progress, and Octave might too if the amused huffs behind him weren’t testing his patience. He gives up on his semblance of posture and snaps around to face his elusive ‘friend’.
“We won’t get far if you sit around all night. Those are your bullets I’m wasting away, you know. I thought even anarchists had some notion of budget.”
Valentin hasn’t moved an inch from the window ledge he chose as his perch, his back against the window panes. Octave can’t discern his features, hidden in the shadows of the last rays of sunshine. But he does see the way his head curiously tilts.
“A heartwarming concern,” and he can hear the mocking rictus in his voice, “If you’re offering to pay for the damages caused by your mediocre skills then please, be my guest.”
He fakes a bow and Octave wonders if changing targets might prove more motivating for his shooting practice.
“No doubt you’ve got better things to do than gaze at my mediocrity until the sun rises,” he counters, growing tired of this charade, “You offered to help me. In my goal - our common goal,” he adds, not to make it sound like he believes in the goodness of Valentin’s heart, “if I asked. Well, I asked and you brought me here. If watching me make a fool of myself is the compensation you’re expecting, then fine. I don’t care how you get your kicks. But I’m not wasting my time if I’ve got nothing to gain from it. ”
At these words, he throws the gun at the other and, in the way it almost slips through Valentin’s hands, seemingly manages to catch him off guard. Satisfaction nearly makes the corner of his lips twitch.
For a few seconds, Valentin remains unmoving and silent, assessing him. An exaggerated sigh escapes him. He rises to his feet, making the gun go from one hand to the other, like a boy would with a toy.
“It’s always the same with your lot, isn’t it? Lots of words and whining for a simple request. If you were oh-so eager to have a model, you only needed to say so, Monsieur,” he retorts in a parody of courtesy, right when he gets to eye level with the other man. Thankfully for Octave, he has grown better at not looking away. Before he can be ordered to, he steps aside, letting Valentin stand at his place.
Under his eyes, the anarchist holds and charges the weapon with an ease that betrays a well-oiled routine. When he speaks again, the cheekiness is gone.
“First piece of advice: you’ll go nowhere if you’re more terrified of the gun than your opponent is. You’re too stiff around the shoulders, crouching on yourself, as if you were the one about to get shot. Remain solid, not frozen.”
After a rather harsh imitation of Octave’s closed posture, Valentin straightens his whole body, as sharp as an arrow pointing towards its goal. His equally sharp gaze matches his aim. Octave, or any witness, might as well not be here at all. Shutting away the rest of the world, his whole being is focused on the cross, until the trigger is pulled and its centre is hit.
Just as quickly as the shot happened, Valentin turns on his heels to face Octave, the familiar grin back on his lips.
“Voilà.”
Try as he might, Octave can't help but feel a shy layer of respect.
“... Impressive,” he must concede, “They don’t exactly teach you that in boarding school.”
This gets him a hearty laugh and one of Valentin’s usual pats on the back as he hands the weapon back to him. The man truly has no sense of personal space.
“Neither do they in the public schools of our dear Republic, rest assured.”
Allowing himself one smile, Octave readies himself, trying to gain some focus with one eye open on the target. A difficult task when curiosity keeps on tickling him.
“Still, you must have learned somewhere.”
“School of life. Would have done you some good. Now, less nosy journalist talk and more shooting.”
Octave rolls his eyes, naturally, but doesn’t press further. The ‘nosy journalist talk’ can wait for later. In the meantime, Valentin takes his hand from his shoulder, putting it in his pocket while he stands next to him. He can sense him looking at him from the corner of his eyes, his attention, always unpredictable, fully on him. It takes Octave quite the self-control not to let it distract him.
Focusing on his target, his surroundings slowly fade away. His breathing becomes secondary as his sensations all gather on one focal point. He shoots once more and, this time, doesn’t shiver. The very edge of the cross is hit. It may not hit the bull's-eye but it’s fatal enough. The rush of adrenaline is still here and he discovers in morbid fascination that it’s not too unpleasant.
Octave turns to his teacher, taking in the sight in front of him. He wouldn’t call the glimmer in the other’s eye consideration or, an even wilder assumption, pride. Curiosity or intrigue sound more plausible. And yet, if he allows himself to extrapolate, he can almost discern a certain pinch of interest.
“Would you look at that?” Valentin whistles, leaning in to get a better view, “For someone who was this far off just a moment ago, that’s not bad at all.” He can’t be too nice about it, of course, yet there is contentment there when he adds in a lower tone: “I might be able to do something with you.”
It really shouldn’t feel this gratifying, the rational part of Octave’s brain warns. But this same voice of reason has been growing quieter recently and the man pushes it away with ease.
“Don’t be too proud of yourself,” he teases with a half-smile, “I did most of the work here. You only showed off once and called it a day.”
Valentin’s eyebrows are raised high in response, his eyes looking him up and down with an intrusive insistence Octave finds difficult to analyse.
“Is that so? Well, if you want further instruction.”
In his wolfish manner, he slides behind him before Octave can react. The gun still sits idly in his hands until Valentin’s hands crawl on his to direct his aim. Alarm bells are running loose in Octave’s mind. The man is of similar height and build yet he corners him by his mere presence. He doesn’t need to look behind to feel the predatory pleasure he takes.
“You were close enough this time. But when the day comes, close enough might not suffice,” his breath tickles his neck as he insufflates words in him more than he utters them. “You can’t settle for anything less than their heart as your target. His heart, in our case. That’s why yours is vital. This isn’t a game or for sports, rich boy. When you shoot to kill, your whole soul must be in it. You can train day and night, every hour until you drop, but Death will only come if you call for it. At its core, murder is about desire.”
The smile and glee are palpable in his voice. Octave must call on all the concentration he’s capable of not to break away.
“Will always finds its way. It’s quite simple, you cannot rest until it does. You have to desire the outcome strongly enough for the bullet to follow. But it still scares you, doesn’t it? I can see doubt clouding your resolve.”
His voice now corners him. It prickles at his skin and forces through his pores, unravelling uncomfortable facts he already knows. And the pain from biting his tongue in silence can’t overcome the frustration nagging at him.
“Now, tell me, Octave. What do you imagine in that pretty little head of yours with your hands on a weapon?”
Letting himself be guided, Octave closes his eyes. A reddish light replaces the dark in his vision, emanating from a single point. A red puddle on a table, a man’s head lying in it. Octave can only watch over the Corpse’s peace. Affection rises in him, fed by the visceral need to protect its eternal rest. But it can’t remain so. The same shadows, three inseparable Gorgons, emerge from the darkness, growing and growing, standing above the two of them. They’re indiscernible, identical to one another ; lifeless black veils with eyes of pure white, looking bellow with delight. They fuse in one single imposing shape, towering over the Corpse and Octave, paralysed as he always was and still is and is doomed to be. The boiling in his veins is the sole reminder he exists at all. That’s when he sees it, the red mark at the centre of the figure, small but shining, calling unto him.
When he opens his eyes, the heart-sized cross is staring at him. Now an extension of himself, the gun fires.
Dans le mille.