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“Tate...what did you do?” you asked meekly, staring with wide eyes at the boy standing at the foot of your bed. His clothes were bloodstained, much more than what could’ve come from the scratches on his face, and the shotgun in his hands along with the report playing on your tv answered the question for you.
Dozens of sirens blared down the street, but you couldn’t take your eyes away from him. They all passed your house, stopping at the Langdon’s down the street, and even from here you could hear men shouting orders, cocking assault rifles and preparing to enter.
Tate didn’t answer, instead he tossed the shotgun on the floor and took his trenchcoat off. Staring at you for a moment longer, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Suddenly he turned and punched in the television screen with a scream, shattering the glass and shredding the skin of his knuckles. Flinching, you unconsciously pulled your blanket higher. Tate had talked to you about death before, about his primal desires to maim and destroy, but you’d never truly been scared of him until that moment, with him moving towards you, an unfamiliar look in his eye and blood dripping from his hand.
You sat up in your bed, as close to the headboard as you could get. “Please, Tate, don’t–” you cut yourself off when he ripped the blanket away, and you barely noticed the tears that began to spill over. He was towering over you, hands reaching towards your face as he sat on the side of the bed. Blood dripped from his hand onto your sheets, your sweatshirt, and then stained your cheek as he tried to wipe away the tears. You couldn’t keep from leaning into his touch, despite the panic swelling in your chest, and the warm blood smeared across your cheekbone. “Tate–” you sobbed his name, looking into his dark eyes and seeing two souls, clashing in havoc. One was the Tate you knew best, your closest friend, the boy you’d fallen for; and then there was something else, something you’d seen more than a few times, but was still completely unrecognizable.
Tate growled, his bloodied hand now gripping your face as the other moved towards your neck. His thumb brushed against your collarbone gently, and then his hand was around your throat. You let out a choked cry, bringing one hand up to his wrist and pulling, but you weren’t strong enough, and his grip only grew tighter.
Your vision began fading in and out, and you could barely take in a breath. Your mind was racing, trying to think of anyway out of this, but you kept coming back to the same thing. With what little strength you had left, you reached up, placed a hand at the base of his neck, and pulled him forward. No hesitations, nothing to stop you. If you were going to die here, than you had to make sure he knew. So, you kissed him.
The hand around your throat tightened painfully for a moment before going slack, and his eyes grew wide, two essences struggling for control. Then, his eyes closed, a tear rolling down his cheek as he leaned into the kiss. It was sloppy and wet, more and more tears falling as he pulled you closer, and you could feel them, hot against your skin. He crawled forward, his legs moving to straddle yours, and his hands travelled down to your waist, holding you flush against him.
You could feel the tremors wracking his frame, and the sob that passed from his lips to yours. This was Tate, completely falling apart in your arms, and it broke your heart. You moved your fingers into his hair, brushing them through, trying to somehow comfort him, and he pulled away from your lips. His eyes lingered on yours for a moment before he buried his face into your neck, collapsing in your lap as he clutched at your shirt.
The thoughts running through your head disturbed you. You had a mass murderer crumbling to pieces in your arms, and all you wanted to do was comfort him, protect him from all the people who would want to hurt him. At any moment, he could stand up, grab his shotgun, and there would be nothing you could do; but this was your boy, your Tate, and you'd be damned if you ever abandoned him.
You’d hold him until the devil himself appeared and ripped him from your cold, dead hands.