Chapter Text
Planet isn't sure how many times he has seen this scene play out. He has tried to recall each kill, each unsheath of his sword, but it's no use and they all blend into one, a mixture of red and purple and blue. It was always the same, the same practised thrust of his sword, the same lunge and dodge and parry, the same thrill of gaining and applying a new heart.
This time, it is nothing new.
Planet watches as Bacon runs across the unforgiving terrain. Every few seconds, he pulls out his communicator, presumably to message his team, call for backup, but Planet isn't worried. There's sand in his shoes, the same orange that coats the ground around him, the same orange of Bacon's hair, and Planet finds that comforting. He isn't exactly sure why there's an invisible tug in his chest always gravitating him towards the other, but being around Bacon feels right, just like how sleeping under a weighted blanket feels: warm and fuzzy and safe.
"Bacon! Where are you going?" He calls out, his voice reverberating around the spawn valley. He hopes he sounds vaguely insulted.
Bacon doesn't respond.
Planet doesn't really mind. He knows how much of a bitch he's been to Bacon and his team, so it's only fair that he gets the silent treatment. Still, there's a twinge of hurt, one that etches itself onto his features, deepening the creases between his eyebrows and straightening the tilt of his smirk. There were only going to be two ways this interaction could've ended, anyway, he supposes.
Planet chooses the second.
In one, all-too familiar movement, potion bottles are broken under his feet, their splinter just as casual as the crunch of fallen leaves. His sword appears at his side, and there it is again: the teasing taste of bloodlust at the back of his throat. Metallic, shimmering and just out of reach. He thinks he hears Bacon mutter 'Shit,' under his breath, but he's moving too fast, a machine programmed to kill locking in on its target.
And then Planet hesitates, one brief second where he notices a question hanging in the back of his mind. Why am I doing this? His demeanour breaks, and his expression must've shifted, but just as quickly as it's there, it's gone.
If Bacon noticed it, he didn't say anything, probably focusing on the fact he's about to be murdered. Instead, he takes Planet's little intermission as a chance to parry back, the sound of sword against sword harsh and biting. But Planet is stronger and faster and then Bacon is overpowered, Planet's sword against his chest, one simple draw and push away from death. There's something in Bacon's eyes, fear and hatred and something unreadable, and then Bacon is dead again, in one fell swing of Planet's blade. A blur of red and purple and blue, flesh and armour against an ill-meaning blade.
There's another heart beating inside Planet's ribcage, and one less in Bacon's, and Planet doesn't know how to feel about that.
Bacon doesn't scream in death. He never does. He looks... almost peaceful, eyes open and staring out into the sky, the gold flecks in them catching and reflecting the light. He doesn't look dead; he looks like he's deep in thought, focused and thinking. He doesn't look dead, aside from the red staining his clothes and the damaged gear scattered all around him.
And of course, the blood is everywhere. Coating the sides of Planet's sword, little specks on his armour, a puddle forming on the ground where Bacon's body lies. It'll disappear soon, along with all the dropped gear, but Planet doesn't make any moves to loot the corpse. Instead, he's staring at the red, the red all around him, the crimson and the carmine and the cerise painting the ground.
Red, the colour of the hearts beating impatiently, anxiously, in Planet's chest. The constant tugging has not stopped, even after Bacon was slain, instead growing into a more desperate, crazed tempo. It's like it knows what Planet has done.
What have you done?
So Planet keeps staring. Go away, he wills it, go away! Maybe the longer he stares at Bacon, lifeless on the ground, slowly fading away, the less this incessant melody playing on his heartstrings will affect him.
Why did you kill him?
'Stop!' Planet wants to yell at the sky, wants to scream until his throat is hoarse and the bloodlust on the tip of his tongue is satiated. He wants to reach down his throat and rip out his hearts one by one until he finds the one pulling him towards Bacon. He wants to carve out his lungs, alveoli and all, and hand-sew them inside of Bacon's chest just so he can blink up at Planet, take a breath and smile and take this fucking guilt away from him.
Because that's what it is, isn't it? Guilt, for killing Bacon again. Guilt, built up and wallowed in for weeks on end. Guilt, along with a mixture of many other emotions he's not sure he can handle thinking about.
It's almost ironic how Planet ended up like this, somehow wounding himself more than he had wounded Bacon. He knows that Bacon doesn't really give two shits anymore if he dies to Planet - he's cold, an emotionless mask layered on like makeup, layered on and built up like the feeling eating Planet from the inside out.
So why does the guilt pain him so much?
He knows that it isn't just guilt.
It's something deeper than that, deeper and closer to his heart than he will ever let anyone know. It's that feeling - or the absence of it - of sleeping under a weighted blanket, of hot cocoa and a fire inside during winter, of the spring sun on his face, of the gentle croon of the stars in the sky. It's that lightness that comes from dancing in the rain, from snow angels and from eye-watering laughter, unrestrained and freeing. It's everything and nothing and everything all at once and Planet misses it.
Planet opens his eyes - when did he ever close them? - and suddenly Bacon's in front of him, that expression Planet knows all too well veiling his true emotions, alive and breathing and picking up his dropped gear. The blood on the ground has almost completely faded away now, leaving slightly darker splotches on the ground. Spoke likes to call them 'piss stains', Planet thinks. He tries not to notice that the ache in his chest has faded, now only a faint sting, like salty wind on an old cut.
"Hi Bacon!" He offers, hesitantly, sheathing his sword and holding up a hand to show him that he's no longer a threat.
Bacon shoots him a glare. Fuck you, it spits, along with a multitude of other things that probably shouldn't be put into words.
Planet expects to feel insulted, maybe a bit angry, but all he feels is that the pull in his chest lightens when Bacon looks at him. He smiles and swallows his pride, throat bobbing.
"Sorry," he says. He's not sure if he means it or not, but he continues regardless. "I-"
But Bacon is gone, and Planet feels like he's dying.