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He’s vaguely aware of the bullet’s impact, pushing through his skull and dully thudding into the concrete behind him. Unsurprising, given the proximity. And interesting. He’s never fired a gun before. He feels his head go slack, his body twist to the side and crumple as he collapses. The cool metal of the gun has gone warm against his tongue. He feels it slip, hand still convulsing, gripped around the trigger.
That’s how Marius finds him. Legs splayed out and drooling blood against the wall, eyes half shut. Everything fluttering. The bullet’s made a hole in his brain and he can’t quite see straight anymore. His body feels detached, other from himself, but he can feel the ice of the Nordic midwinter air against his skin. It reminds him he’s still alive. He wonders if it would take shorter for Marius to heal from the same wound, being ancient in the Blood and all. Invincible, almost, nothing like him. And he hasn’t fed recently either. He feels the wound ooze and drip a single line of blood down his forehead to his lip. It tastes good.
Marius doesn’t move for a moment. He can sort of see him frozen at the top of the stairs, a vague silhouette against the light. Ah, right. He’s in the basement. That makes sense. He did it in the basement because. The thought fades.
Cold hands are on his, propping him up, cradling his face. He’s peering into his eyes, the face of a half dark shadow. His presence is a gravity well, even now. There’s panic, he thinks. He tries to think reassuring things, let him know it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong. It was just a whim. He’s fine, of course, he knew he would be. It’s not like he wanted to kill himself.
Stream of blood, and the wound is closing now. Marius turns it on his lips next, makes him drink. Panic, confusion, but also some anger. Or frustration, maybe. The guilt dulls the buzz a little. I’m sorry, he thinks. Sorry for the blood. Ah, that’s why he’d been in the basement. He hadn’t wanted to make a mess. Marius would have cleaned it up, no good. He’s hardly been a model houseguest but he wasn’t raised in a barn either. And it’s difficult not to know how difficult bloodstains are to get out of the furniture. Sorry, he thinks again, just to be sure. It was a selfish whim. And now there’s a bullet lodged in the concrete. A hole. Damage. Unsightly. Maybe he should have picked a window.
What happened, Daniel? He hears a voice ask. Why? He pulls away from his wrist, and his eyes fall shut. He’s so tired, he realises. He pulls in closer to the one holding him, and he’s so hard. Not soft at all. His thought buzz around like mayflies. He feels a mind softly probe his, trying to discern some reason or clarity. He’d only done it to see. Curiosity. How strange it was to be dead.
He must realise he’s gone because he picks him up then. So much like a child. He resents it all over again, resents the fact he’s here, that he needs to be here, that nothing had turned out the way it was meant to and he’d been wrong all along. And he feels terribly alone, which is unfair, maybe. The old bitterness of it cuts through the haze for just a minute, but he doesn’t have the energy for it now. Something about the absurdity of it seems funny. Can’t even play with guns in peace without getting scolded. Childish, but he supposes that’s what he is. He feels light of the living room, kitchen, hall flash behind his eyes as they pass through the house.
Hands stroking his hair, icy and soft. What happened? Tell me, please. He doesn’t know how to say nothing. He doesn’t know how to tell him there’s nothing to feel sorry about. That he just did this to himself and he doesn’t know why. He caused him trouble and he doesn’t know why. It embarrasses him and he stays silent. Sorry for all the blood, he thinks. Again. He doesn’t think his voice would work now, though he’s had the Blood, so he must be strong enough. Too much energy to speak. The hands stroke his hair again and it makes him want to cry. Did his mother do this to him when he was a child? He can’t remember. He’s so grateful he’s here. He wants him to go, his presence is making the shame well up in him, is making his thoughts sharpen into coherency. He wants to sleep. He wants him to pet him and whisper to him until he sleeps.
Okay, the voice says. When you wake up we’ll have a bath. Just rest now. Rest.