Work Text:
The flashing lights caused Boothill to squint his eyes, shifting them away from the audience and towards his singing competitor. His opponent’s hair was long and bright red–akin to that of a freshly bloomed rose. No wonder he was the favored one to win… everything about him was captivating, from his eyes, to the way he held himself, to the way he sang…
The last time his opponent sang on stage, he was passionate and full of emotion, singing his heart out with a sense of determination and hope. But now… ever since Idrila disappeared from the competition…
His voice was restrained. Quiet. Sad. All Boothill could do was sing his own part as best as he could, keeping his eyes on his opponent to avoid being blinded from the stage lights and flashing cameras… although the sight of his opponent was not bad, either.
Boothill was not even sure his competitor knew of his existence–even now, on the stage where it was only the two of them–as the redhead could only look down with a listless gaze. He may not know that much about Boothill… but Boothill definitely knew about him.
“Argenti. A pleasure to make your acquaintance…” Back then, Argenti’s hair had been much neater, his appearance well put together, and he wore stylish outfits with metal statements similar to armor. He was a popular face for the journalists and the other singers, but he seemed to have his mind focused on one person in particular.
Of course, Idrila never noticed him.
Boothill was, of course, quite the opposite in the public eye. He was brash, disruptive, and vulgar. His hair fell in front of his face in messy clumps, and manners were nearly nonexistent. Still, he had a good voice. That allowed him to get as far as he did in this godforsaken competition.
Back when they were brought to this strange place, Boothill had been a scrappy kid, always getting into fights with others. Especially Argenti. He didn’t quite know why he did it, after all, he didn’t hate Argenti at all. He just knew that he liked how much the other focused on him when they were exchanging blows.
Overtime, they stopped fighting. Boothill had grown out of that, and Argenti’s focus had shifted to another one of the competitors: Idrila. They were beautiful, of course, another favorite of the fans. On top of that, Idrila was kind. Patient. Everything that Boothill was not. Boothill hated Idrila for prying away Argenti’s attention from him, but he knew he couldn’t blame them. It wasn’t their fault.
He hated Idrila anyway.
As Boothill finished his side of the lyrical exchange, he waited patiently for Argenti’s part.
But it never came.
Abandoning his mic, Boothill glanced at the scoreboard. He was in the lead: he could just let Argenti crash and burn and die here and live to see the next round. He could live.
But he didn’t want to live without Argenti.
Boothill remembered the previous rounds–a competitor had botched her performance so Idrila could advance. And Idrila had tried beating up Sunday which immediately earned them a loss.
He remembered finding Argenti hours after that performance, hours after Idrila had gone missing, battered and bruised and stained with tears and scars. He had been collared, and lay uncomfortably still against the wall.
Tenderly, perhaps the gentlest he had been with Argenti, he propped him up in a more comfortable position and rested his face against the redhead’s neck, cradling him gently. Boothill wasn’t sure if Argenti knew what happened, he wasn’t sure if Argenti noticed, but that hadn’t mattered to him at the time.
Boothill didn’t want to live without Argenti. He couldn’t. But Argenti could live without him. Without hesitation, he pulled his opponent into a forceful kiss, grabbing the back of his head as he tried to shove away.
Shooting a look at the screen behind them again, satisfied to see his score lowering below Argenti’s, Boothill offered him one last kiss. Tenderly, perhaps the gentlest kiss he could give him, before wrapping his hands around Argenti’s neck.
Boothill did not press down, he didn’t want to hurt Argenti anymore. He didn’t want to leave Argenti with any more marks–not like the ones he had seen when Argenti had been abandoned against the wall–but he needed to fool them.
And he did.
Pain shot through his body, fired through bullets that pierced his shoulder, grazed at his skin, and chipped away at his life. As he fell, his eyes locked to Argenti’s eyes–those beautiful eyes, widened in horror–and he smiled.
Boothill understood now. Why he always fought Argenti, why he’d tease and poke and prod and annoy him until he snapped and fought.
He wanted to be noticed.
Of course, Argenti never noticed him.