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Fingers. That's the first thing Scissor realized. Cold, stern fingers gripping at his cheeks, thumb, pointer, and middle digging in hard enough to make his teeth grind.
His dopey eyes struggle to focus. The water nips at the back of his head, and at his neck. It seeps into the white fabric of his hoodie, making him shudder. The stars are so bright tonight. They glitter into the wide expansion of the sea.
When his eyes focus, he can see red. Two ruby red eyes focused on nothing but him, peering from behind thick locks of hair. They stick against his face, against his cheek. He's soaked too.
“Seven..?”
“Seven.” Oh. It's him.
Everything comes into focus, his face and body becoming less of a blur. It's him. It's him- himself.
His eyes wander down, over to his hips. He's soaked with water, emphasizing his roughish body. It's amazing how much a body could change over time. Going from sharp and handsome, to soft from fried food and sweets.
It's him. He didn't know it could be him. His eyes flutter.
There's a smack against his cheek. His eyes widened, heart sparking up inside his chest and behind his ribs. A mewl leaves his throat.
“Look at me. Look at me, now!” Seven looks. And he looks with intention, eyes wide, mouth struggling to form words.
“...” What is there to say? Seven shudders. He tries again. But it's hard.
He doesn't know what to say. It's hard to say anything when you're face to face with the past you. The better you. The dead you.
“You look…” He sucks in a breath. His chest feels tight. Everything in his body feels incorrect. Maybe that's what it's like to age. To remember after you've forgotten something.
“You look familiar.”
“You look wrong.”
A slow blink.
“You look beautiful.” Silence. So thick that he could cut it with his scissors. He looks disgusted. Pitying.
Another slap, his head splashing against the water. He's sinking deeper. Or maybe the water’s rising. It's on his neck.
“Narcissistic.” He huffs. Hands come up to his chest. They tug at his robe. Seven covers his eyes. It feels polite to do so.
“Uncover them. Look at me. Look at what you used to be.” He listens. Oh.
He's got sharp shoulders, with skin covered in scars. His stomach is a tad bit concave, hard from exercise and not eating properly. There's a light dust of hair on his pecs, with strands of hair on his forearms. He looks pretty. Maturing. An elegant kind of man he doesn't think he's seen before.
He wants to touch. This body is new to him. It's a body he wants to remember.
But he can't touch it. Not yet. His hoodie is being yanked up, over his pudgy stomach, and his soft pecs. The hair on his body is a bit thicker, the scars are paler and faded, more noticeable against his sun kissed skin. His breath hitches.
“Look at you.” His breath is deep, and sarcastic. Thin fingers slide against his chest, squeezing the dusky skin of his nipples. Pale fingers pull, yanking the hair with it. It makes him flinch.
“Out of shape. Losing what it means to be a killer. A lowly beef offal stand runner. A hairdresser. A weakling who doesn't know anything.” He slides his hands down, squeezing at his stomach. “You’ve lost what it means to be you.”
Did he?
He's happy with himself. He likes his life. Maybe he likes his other body, but he likes living here. Being here is nice.
The water lowers. He can breathe a little easier. His hands snap up, threading with his.
“I don't think I have.”
His eyes widened. The ruby eyes glint with something dangerous and unsure. Even with such a threatening face, he's still so pretty. He's pretty.
“I like what I have now. I like my life. I like my friends. I think you'd like it too, if you just listened.”
The killer squeezes his fingers back, before forcing his hand off. He lets it fall, threading with the cold water.
“There is nothing to like.” His tone is certain. Steel and cold. They press against his neck, digging into the skin of his brain. He could feel it, him trying to carve himself out- Trying to carve Seven out. But Seven won’t let him. He just hugs him closer, hand reaching up from the cold water and onto his back, pulling him down. Closer.
He smells like the wind and pine and blood. Seven can’t help but be comforted by it. It made him feel slightly insecure about his own. Did he stink of sweat? Or could Seven smell the scent of beef on him? Or hairspray?
It’s not like he had time to dwell on it. Not when the Water was rising, and he had those eyes piercing into the warm, rich brown of his eyes. They’re breathing against each other, their noses touch. He could feel himself shudder.
Scissor wets his lips, and he pulls him in closer. Their chests press against each other so closely, and he realizes-
He can’t feel his own heartbeat.
He looks down at his chest. There’s a hole in his chest- gaping, but not bloody. It’s like a void. The red string pulls them together. It’s wiry, and red. It dribbles.
Killer seven pulls, but he can’t pull too far. He grunts, body going tense. It must’ve hurt to yank that hard.
“What did you do?” He growls. Slender fingers wrapping around the vein.
“D-don’t pull that.” Seven gasps. He wasn’t certain why- but it felt dangerous. He could feel their bodies- feel the way they seemed so alike, the way he could feel the other’s blood pumping through his veins.
He closes his eyes. “I need you.”
The tugging stops. His eyes crack, peering at KIller.
He keeps talking, “I need you. If you tug- I think I’ll die. I think we’ll die.”
Killer’s thick brow twitches.
Seven looks certain- and he is. He’s so certain, and he’s never been so certain in his entire life.
“We’ll die.”
“I heard you.” It’s gruff, bitter, and he knows Killer believes him. He just doesn’t want to. Stubborn like a mule. That’s one thing that never changed- determination. Seven wants to laugh.
He doesn’t though. He just feels the water. It can’t decide what it wants to do. Rises and falls, touching his cheeks before going back to his skull.
He hums, And carefully, carefully ushers Killer onto his side. Now he can’t see red. He can see a strange dark purple in the sky. But it didn’t feel like staring into the stars. It felt too close.
Seven reaches out, and he grabs his hand. Killer was going to pull away. He knows he was- but he doesn't. It makes him feel less tense, his eyes floating shut.
“I need you. I think I need more than just you.” He huffs, “I don’t know who you are. I don’t think I will, but I know you’re me. We’re just different.” Killer tenses, but he squeezes his hand again. To weaken him. That’s harsh. He just needed it.
“I will never be you again. But it doesn’t mean I can’t mourn you.”
The water goes down. Everything is dry. Not dry, but it’s wet grass. The dew sticks to his hoodie. The sky is less imposing. It’s a lighter shade of purple.
“I think I’ll miss you. I think anyone would miss being a cool high class killer.” He chuckles. The sky gets lighter. Are those clouds?
“But I still like myself. I like my life. We have friends now. We have a family.” He turns his head, shifts his body to press them closer. The vein has shorten.
“You have a family.” He sounds uncertain.
“I’m you. You’re me.”
No reply. He’s quiet long enough to make Seven feel hesitant, but he doesn’t falter. He presses closer. His breath is so cold.
But his eyes look softer. They’re a vibrant brown, rusty.
“Shut up.” He huffs, and they press closer together. Closer, enough for their noses to touch, and their lips to tangle, and their lips to slot against each other perfectly.
It was odd, like pressing your lips to a cold spoon after it’s been in ice cream, but he doesn’t feel faint. He doesn’t feel breathless- He feels sure. They needed this.
They kiss until Killer pulls away with a huff, cheeks pink.
“... I need you too.”
Seven almost believed he hallucinated it. But he admitted it. It's something he's known, but it thrills him to hear it. It makes a loopy smile appear on his face. Killer doesn't smile. But he looks calm. He closes his eyes. He never thought he'd be so at peace.
They don't talk. Not anymore. Everything fades around them.
He can't feel anything.
Now he can't see him. But he can still feel him.