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The morning directly after a ritual never felt quite right for Arin Fairfax.
Especially after failure. Arin, bleeding heavily from their abdomen, is tuned out from the kind whispers of the Archmother, her gentle words not reaching them whatsoever; not like they would help now. The heavy rain makes it impossible to see farther than ten feet in front of them, the droplets getting stuck in their eyelashes—not to mention the deafening noise, somehow making the gunshots and explosions they heard only a few minutes ago pale in comparison.
A vampire Arin recognized had stabbed her umbrella right through their stomach. Arin expected to see regret in her eyes when the two had finally met face to face after five years, but she tore right through them without a shred of remorse in her twisted smile.
The raucous jeers and shouting of the victors behind Arin fades after what felt like an eternity of sprinting and stumbling, so they allow themself to halt to a limp. Their vision begins blurring, their weakening gait requiring support from the brick walls nearby, their hand helplessly pressing against their open wound. Their spare hand is left tirelessly gripping their briefcase, which might not be able to save them this time.
It doesn't take much longer for Arin's legs to finally give out, collapsing to their knees in what must be the longest alley in New York City, their tunnel vision lending credence to their fading consciousness. They sit with their back against a damp wall as the hateful downpour finally gives up, enough for them to gather their remaining thoughts.
Just like last time. That same five years ago, Arin was nearly killed in an assassination attempt, and the bullet in their chest left them bleeding out in an alleyway—it doesn't seem like there's a way out now as their head spins and spins.
Last night proved nothing for Arin; this is all I'll amount to, they think. Nothing gained, and the briefcase is still the only thing they have. It won't matter in the face of their death. A waste of an heir, a waste of a ritualist. At least I won't have to hurt anyone anymore…
Their vision encroaches with shadows which refuse to be blinked away. There's nothing left for them to do but to close their eyes.
“Aaaarinnn,” a sweet voice calls out from the darkness.
Arin’s eyes open to sunlight. They stand in front of a window where the sun peers through. They take a deep breath, their lungs filling with fresh air like they've never had a gulp of it in their life.
Knock-knock, knock-knock-knock. The girl behind the door impatiently raps at it in a rhythm. “Aaaariiin.”
Amused by the girl's impatience, Arin chuckles. "Be right there," their unexpectedly raspy voice squeaks. They clear their throat out as they head to their bedroom door.
Beyond the threshold, Arin finds their bride-to-be: Mina Ha. She taps her heel on the floor with her arms crossed, looking down the hallway as if looking for someone to pester about them. At first, she gives them side eye, glancing up and down at their outfit, a smile crawling across her face. “About time, Arin. I thought you were still asleep," she giggles, her eyes noticeably sticking to something on their person.
“How could I be asleep? Today's the day." Arin glances down at their clothing, trying to notice whatever Mina might be scrutinizing.
Mina’s foot tapping ceases as she squints at Arin’s neck. "That it is…" She trails off as she purses her lips, stepping towards them to take their scarf into her hands. “You certainly look like you just woke up.” She straightens out the scarf, deftly throwing it around their shoulders in the way that she likes—admittedly, they've grown to like it too.
Arin scoffs at her comment, but they're unable to help their smile from forming. "Can't say it was easy to sleep." They aren't uncomfortable when Mina fixes their appearance, but her perfume assaults their nostrils, nearly making them cough.
Patting the scarf gently, Mina utters, "There we go." Her fingers rub against their collarbone underneath, tracing it horizontally before finally letting her hand go down to her side.
"Thanks." Arin sighs, holding onto the feeling of her fingers longer than they stayed. They certainly feel the exhaustion she pointed out.
"What are you, nervous? It doesn't have to mean anything, you know?" Mina doesn't sound so sure when it comes to an entire marriage meaning nothing. She gives Arin a once over before nodding, "Much better."
"Well, it's the first time I've ever gotten married, so let me have this excuse at least."
Mina giggles again, and Arin looks up at her. Her red lips curve upward in a smile big enough to squish her black-lined eyes, which stare intently at their chest like she's trying to see straight through them.
Arin tries to look where she does, turning behind them to see shattered glass from the window they stood at moments ago. They glance back to Mina, who's expression changed while they turned to absolute horror as her eyes dart across their body.
Arin looks down at themself. It seems like nothing for a brief moment, but the next second, pain flares in their chest, and a rapidly expanding crimson splotch now stains their white shirt.
Before they have a chance to question what's going on, they fall backwards.
Right as they hit the floor, Arin jolts awake, rising up just to be put right back down by the searing pain in their stomach, making them whimper. Pressing their hands against the wound, they try to gather their surroundings.
Through their cringing eyes, Arin notices they’re inside wooden walls, the room piled wall to wall with scrap. The smell of fresh, cinnamon-y bread is barely noticeable over the scent of oil and metal, and their own blood and odor. They are on what feels like a bench, cushioned by a blanket, with a poor excuse for a pillow supporting their head, and their trench coat covering them like a blanket—truth be told, it’s more comfortable than most of the things they’ve slept on as of late.
As their vision clears, Arin begins to notice little things in the room; most of the scrap is quite useful, and spare parts for a familiar robot. There's a cracked open door to their left, and they can hear a gruff bot humming no particular tune as water runs in the other room.
“Bebop?” Arin’s voice is too weak to travel to the kitchen, but the water shuts off as their dry plea echoes out the room. They cough before bellowing, “Bebop!”
“Pocket?” he calls back.
Arin can hear stumbling, and something clattering on the ground, along with muttered curses, but after a few more metallic footfalls, an apron-clad Bebop shoves the creaky door open, and his sensors immediately land on them. “Oh, mate, thank Christ you woke up,” he says, voice filled with relief, "Was worried you weren't gonna." He walks over to Arin, giving them a once over.
“It’ll take more than that, it seems.” For better or for worse. Arin slowly sits up to face Bebop, groaning as they straight themself out. They glance around the room again. "A-Are we…"
"At Miss Shelly's Scrapyard," Bebop explains. "Found ya bleedin' in an alley on my way out from the ritual. Barely escaped intact, just to find you worse off than me."
Arin can't fathom the amount of luck needed for Bebop to have found them, let alone get them patched up in time. "Bebop… I can't thank you enough."
“Aw, it’s nothin’. Get you some tea?” Bebop offers his small arm for support.
For once, Arin gets to enjoy the sun; being up at night and sleeping through the day has been draining. With the warm air, and the excellent cup of tea Bebop provided, they feel somewhat at home; alive. The air in the scrapyard is rather thick, but that's about the only thing bothering them now—not even the wound is particularly achy.
The door behind Arin squeaks open, tearing them from their thoughts. They turn to greet their host.
Bebop waves his small hand, gesturing for Arin to follow. “Biscuits are done, Pocket. C’mon.” He nods his head toward the inside.
Arin steps inside behind Bebop. The two walk through the front room to the kitchen, the smell of the fresh, cinnamon-y biscuits welcoming them as they pass the empty doorframe into the room.
"How's the patch job, mate?" Bebop asks, reaching over the counter for a spatula. "S'not my first time doing that with an organic, but…" He gently sighs—it's more of a groan imitating a sigh. "You were more hurt than I've ever had to deal with."
"I'm fine," Arin dismisses, "Can barely feel it right now." Though, the surprise of Bebop's is shared, especially through the thought that they wouldn't have to keep living. It's all replaced with a sense of gratitude they could never pay back.
"Good, good." Bebop's voice is distant, like he's still vividly recalling the state he found Arin in. "Just… try not to move around too much, hey?"
Arin waves off his concern, "Like I said, I'll be fine. Hell," they chuckle, "I owe you for this." Suddenly, Arin tenses, a realization hitting them that makes them hold their breath as their heart begins to race—their briefcase is missing.
Bebop doesn't see them freeze as he slides the spatula beneath the biscuits, shoveling a few of them onto a wire rack. “Hey, offered you a place to stay, didn’t I?”
Arin works their jaw, not responding at all to Bebop. They're caught up on asking something of such a generous host, even though it seems so small to inquire about; it's theirs in the first place, but they can't seem to get any words out.
“These'll be great with the tea," Bebop fills the silence, moving the last few biscuits from the baking pan to the wire rack, and he tosses the spatula into the sink nearby. He turns to Arin, who still hasn't said anything, so he nudges their elbow with his small arm. “Stuck in thought or summat?”
“Huh? Oh,” Arin is brought out of their head, back to reality. “I-I’m not hungry, but thank you, Bebop.” They sigh, weighing that leaving sooner is better than staying and risking him and Miss Shelly, but their heart beats rapidly all the same. “By any chance, do you… know where my briefcase ended up?”
“Ah, yeah,” Bebop points to the room where Arin woke up in. “I tucked it under some spares in the back there, you can't miss it.” He’s not reluctant at all to tell them, which is incredibly relieving—it feels like everyone wants to take it from them.
Arin nods graciously, setting their teacup down before heading into the storage room, finding their briefcase obviously sitting beneath a pile of scrap. Their jaw’s no longer tense, but a dread lingers with them on their way back into the kitchen as their pounding heart doesn't stop. “I hate to understay your welcome, but I can’t be in one place too long." They take a shaky breath out, "I seriously can’t thank you enough, Bebop.”
“Like I said, Pocket, it’s nothing.” Bebop bumps Arin’s shoulder with his large fist, and they grunt in response. “I’d be actually pissed if you don’t have any of the biscuits though.”
Arin rubs their shoulder, breathlessly chuckling. “I’ll take ‘em with me, I promise I’ll have some.”
By the time Arin reaches their hideout, the sun's already gone down. Their injury is back to paining them as they keep a white knuckled grip on the briefcase.
Once they're inside, they feel like they can finally breathe, despite the dust on every surface, the lack of a window and a fan, and the room's general mugginess—Arin’s only choice is to ignore it. They set their briefcase down onto an unused dresser, covering it up with a cloth.
They walk to their bedding, dusting it off before they take a seat. They’re ready to get secure rest, to enjoy the biscuits Bebop made, and sleep off the pain.
Though, as they sit down, pulling the small container of biscuits from their jacket, the ritual crosses their mind.
Specifically, the lady who was there to summon the Hidden King. She didn't look a day older after the five years they tried to forget about her—and that look on her face: twisting, sharp malice. The thought of it all is churning their stomach, the feeling unpleasant enough to annihilate their appetite.
In defeat, Arin tosses the container to a nearby table, and it clatters against the wood. They give it an empty stare as it nearly slides off the edge, trying not to let the bleariness of their eyes escape down their cheeks. He was nothing but kind, but here they are, squandering his gift.
Because of her. Arin feels it’s okay that Mina knows they’re alive, but the pure hatred in her eyes as she struck them down, her shouting as they would “dare” to hesitantly fight back, isn’t the greeting they had expected after so long.
The pain flares in their abdomen. They don’t expect they’ll get much sleep tonight.
Knock-knock, knock-knock-knock.
Arin’s eyes lock on to the hatch leading to the roof in the corner of their room, where the noise came from. That same rhythm from their nightmare, as if it's coming to life to finish what it started—it’s making their heart race a marathon as their mind tries to reason with hearing that unforgettable cadence.
Whether or not it was a hallucination, the call of the void is particularly beckoning Arin this evening—a call they almost completely ignore the pain for, save for who caused it in the first place.
Arin carefully pushes off from their seat, ready to ascend the steps.
Arin's peeks their head over the threshold to the open air, unable to find any presence above. They push the hatch fully open, pulling themself up the rest of the way onto the roof.
Cold air whips them in the face when they fully stand. It makes them squint as they check behind each of their shoulders at the surrounding rooftops for anyone.
Not a soul around. Maybe I did hallucinate.
Arin looks toward the skyline where a blood orange sun peeks at them over the endless rows of tall buildings. They walk to the ledge, propping themself up with their elbows on the raised part, glancing across the blue-ish, smog-filled sky—the pollution covers what little amount of visible stars they could already barely see.
They remember once, traveling outside of New York, and getting to see the stars in their full beauty, a full moon hanging high amongst the speckles. Now, it too is barely visible past the clouds, leaving the dying sun as the only pleasant part of this vista.
It wouldn’t be the worst thing to see before dying. I could save her and my parents the trouble… I won’t have to kill anymore.
Arin slowly fills their lungs with the city until it feels like their ribs could burst as their throat contracts, before letting it all out as they lean a little more forward to look below to the street. The wind in their hair mid-plummet, the resulting quiet: one move would make it easier for everyone.
Arin’s ears perk up to heels clicking up behind them. Knowing exactly who’s wearing them, they freeze up, unprepared for however she decides to finish this. Arin lets the final peaceful moments with the sun sink into them, closing their eyes as they wait.
The sound of the heels arrives next to Arin, and she retracts her umbrella, setting it down against the roof ledge. “Not thinking about jumping, are you?” Her voice is oddly worried.
Arin sighs—they're not sure what she's planning now, but being honest now wouldn't change anything. “It crosses my mind sometimes.” They open their eyes, letting the vista burn a dot into their vision. “Why do you ask, Mina?” Why don’t you just kill me?
They can see her shrug, and she leans against the ledge as well. “It…” she hesitates. “It’d be a shame.”
Now, Arin is genuinely confused. Thrown off from what seemed like a high possibility of death, they give in and glance to Mina. Concern is what's written on her face, instead of hatred, or ill-intent, or anything they could make sense of. Her distant eyes track nothing in the expanse out to the sun.
She takes a deep breath through her nose before reciting, “Heir of Fairfax Industries, dead to suicide at age 23,” her voice is dry, crackling at the seams, speaking it like it's a headline from their previous life told in the current year. “Jumped off a building, instead of…” Mina bites her lip.
Arin looks to the sun, the image of what’s below flashing in their mind. The world already thinks they're dead, so they can't understand what it would matter. “Instead of what?" they ask, tired but most of all, frustrated. "Dying to my father?” They put their eyes back on Mina. "To you?"
The dull look on her face, sorrow spilling out her blinking eyes in a glossy texture as she’s still chewing her lip. “I don’t know,” Mina whispers, her voice unable to create a sound any louder.
This is the most emotion she’s shown since their botched marriage, maybe even before that. Arin can tell she isn't here to kill them, so they feel like they can finally put their guard down, at least somewhat, as they desperately hope this bone she throws them won’t be retracted just as fast.
Mina clears her throat as she spins her umbrella side to side like a spin top. “It seemed easy to do when I was coming up here.” She takes a deep breath, sighing again as she taps the umbrella head against the ground. “I could’ve just shoved you off this ledge, and it would’ve been too easy to get it cleaned up… and then I saw you.”
The wound singes. “That’s cold, Mina. But I was ready. I would’ve been fine—”
She stomps her heel into the stone ground, baring her fangs at them. “I get that you would've been! I am so well aware that your goddamned life is miserable, Arin, I just…!” Her anger is brought to a heel, and she huffs her steam out as she returns her view to the lowering sun. “I can’t do it, okay?”
Arin can’t get over how she sounds—filled with the regret she completely lacked the previous night. It’s spinning their head more than the blood loss did, just thinking how much simpler this would all be if she just went for the kill. “So what now?”
Mina grits her teeth, clutching the handle of her umbrella tightly. Her eyes bounce around for words to say before shutting them tightly. “My wish couldn’t be granted…” Her half lidded eyes are downcast, her sigh sounds nearly like a weep. “I have to keep working for the Amber Hand before he can even do anything for me."
Arin considers if the Archmother would’ve granted them anything if they had won; it’s a net loss on every side. The pain in their abdomen worsens still with every breath as if Mina’s unseen grief was left there alongside the bleeding. “So… why are you still here?”
Mina growls, “God, I don’t know, Arin! I can't think with you asking me stupid shit the whole time, and if you keep doing it, I swear I… will…” Mina trails off, her boiling becoming quiet as she puts a hand on her forehead. Arin notes her paleness, but not as a trait of vampirism, but something more as her balance gives way, nearly tripping backward as her eyes roll up. "I…"
She’s fainting. Arin quickly reacts, stepping close to tuck their arms beneath her arms and around her torso, keeping her light frame from collapsing to the ground. Her weight pushes into them while the remainder of her consciousness fades, and she falls deeply into their shoulder.
The next step is unclear. Bringing her into their hideout seems like the worst mistake they could make this night, but Mina doesn’t make a single noise—she’s barely even breathing. She might not appreciate having to recover in their dusty room, but she might appreciate the open roof even less.
Arin sighs, pulling her into a more secure grip—their wound not appreciating this exertion whatsoever—and they carefully make their way back down the ladder.
Arin assumes about half an hour has gone by. They don't know the first thing about taking care of a vampire. Mina's begining to breathe regularly, but she's still just stirring in her sleep.
Since bringing her inside, Arin’s nerves have not come to rest. They sit on the table, with her laying on their makeshift bed as they tap their heel against the ground so hard, they can feel the room shaking as much as their hands do.
They want to think about how, in some other time, the two would be married, drinking tea in some cafe in New York, enjoying the sun and living free. The thought was usually a daydream, or hopeful wishing after that nightmare would wake them up in a sweat, clutching their chest. Now, it's just weird—she's here, right now, passed out on their bed. It's an insane reunion, never dreamt by them at all, but it's happening before their unbelieving eyes.
Mina groans, making Arin cease their tapping as they jump out of their skin. She presses her fingers against her temples as she sits up. Her whole face contorts in pain while she massages her aching head. “Where…?” she whispers.
Indecision strikes Arin as she comes to, and they just stare in horror as Mina gains her bearings. Her eyes scan the room, her gaze landing on them. Her eyes widen in shock as she gasps, but she immediately starts choking on the air, coughing as she cradles her head like she’s trying to keep her brain in her skull. “Dammit… where… the hell did you bring me?”
“We’re just downstairs from the roof.” Arin presses at their wound, failing to think of something with their brain fogged with guilt. “Uh… is there anything I can get you?”
“First, you kidnap me, now you pretend to be hospitable?!” Her voice raises as she stands up with her fangs bared, making Arin flinch and put their hands up in front of them, but she sucks air through her teeth in pain as she's pulled back down just as quickly. She grips the bedding tightly as if it’s the only thing keeping her conscious.
Her sudden rise is making Arin's mind even more unclear. "I didn't know what to do, Mina, you fainted. I had to get you somewhere safe."
"As if it's safe anywhere around—cough, cough—a should be corpse!" Mina yells, stomping her heel into the floor. "I can find a blood bag for myself easily without—" Mina grips her head tightly, clenching her jaw as she whines pitifully—though, Arin doesn't feel pity, they feel empathy. Her shaking inhale seems to set the pain aside, as her hands fall to her elbows, hunching over as she props her elbows on her lap.
Arin moves from the table, sitting next to Mina, and she scoots over to make space for them. "I don't think you can make it far like this."
She continues to tremble with each breath, looking at Arin with what seems like hunger. She barely hides the look of it across her face with how she stares intently at their neck. "My only other option…" she laughs dryly. "I could kill you, you know? I know you bled a lot last night."
"Tsh," Arin chuckles. "Maybe you're right." They glance over to the container on the table, the pathetic thought of offering them making them snort. "All I've got else to offer's biscuits."
Mina giggles, widely smiling as she spots the container as well. "How the hell'd you get biscuits?"
Arin glances to her, sharing her laugh and smile before they reach over for the container. They pop the lid off it, and the fresh, cinnamon-y smell filling them with warmth. "Bebop saved me after the ritual. Stitched me up and gave me these to go."
"That old scrap bot with you and the Archmother?" Mina's smile makes Arin feel a little more welcome, despite this being their own hideout. She takes a whiff of the biscuits, humming with intrigue. "They smell great. But, uh…"
Arin's eyebrows raise up at her, and their heart sinks.
"I can… eat regular food? But it won't fix," Mina gestures at herself, "me. I need blood." Her face is completely serious, clearly genuine in each of her words.
Arin squints, processing what she said. They nod, swallowing to fix their dry throat, knowing now that they were afraid to hear that. They close the container and set it back down on the table in a sort of awkward defeat. "Sorry… I don't mean to keep you here—i-if that's the only thing that can help."
"Arin," Mina says, looking directly at them. "Revel in me saying this… but you're right. I can't just make it to someone else." She moves slightly closer to them, glancing up and down between their neck and their eyes.
Arin scoots back from her, heart beating fast as they reach the edge of the couch, caught between whether or not they're dreaming or going crazy, unsure if it's both or neither. Revelry isn't among the things they feel now, just this sudden adrenaline rush that makes them think too much about all the blood flowing in their body. "I don't know if I…" they gulp. "Would I even survive?"
Mina keeps getting closer to Arin, keeping her eyes locked to theirs. "You will. I just need a little bit… I'm not trying to kill you."
Despite Mina's out-of-nowhere reassurances—it was unknown to Arin she could do so until this moment—they're still too nervous to let her get close to them. "Remind me how long it's been, and tell me with a straight face I should just trust you."
Mina shuffles away from Arin, taken aback by what they said. She glares at them, her tongue swiping across her teeth. "Why are you afraid to die now?" Her voice is venomous, and she digs her nails into the couch cushion. "You've already been dead to me up until now, and I nearly killed you last night." Her voice and expression soften, so does her vice grip on the couch. "I would've done it if I planned on it. But now…" her breath trembles as she inhales, shaking her head as if her next words need preparation to come out of her mouth. "I need you."
Mina's convincing, Arin will give her that much. They shrug and joke, "You did plan on it." She giggles, rolling her eyes. Things between the two feel normal somehow, as normal as being at each other's throats barely twenty-four hours ago can get. They breathe out, calming their beating heart, swallowing before their next words. "Okay. I trust you. What do you need me to do?"
Her face fully lightens with gratitude, her lips curving upward, which pushes her cheeks up to squish her eyes; an authentic smile. "Well, first thing's first, take off that Kelsey Evans coat. Can't get blood on it, now can we?"
Due to Mina's direct orders, Arin already feels anxious again. "I did get blood on the inside," they state as a matter of fact, chuckling. The wound makes itself known again as they stand up, and they groan from the pain. They shed their coat, setting it on the table before sitting back down.
"Don't suppose whoever's been taking care of you could get it cleaned?" Mina leans over to peek inside the coat, staring at the blood that seeped through Arin's shirt into it. She returns her gaze to them, sizing them up, but her eyes land and stay on their bloody shirt, right at the wound—she takes a deep breath in through her nostrils.
Arin looks at the blood stain, shaking their head. "It's not really something I've asked about…" Glancing to Mina, they notice how her eyes haven't budged from their wound; they look down at it themself, pressing it with their hand, and they come away with a bit of blood on their palm. "Shit."
"Thought I smelled something," Mina comments. "You want help with that? We could call it even."
Arin sighs, wishing to make the dread turn into hope, as well as the hope that this is a lucky break rather than a corner they're tightly backed into. They nod, "Sure." Being even right now is the one thing they could pray for.
Mina stands, ushering Arin to do the same—doing so again makes them wince even more this time. They point in the direction of a first-aid kit that was provided to them, and Mina brings it over while they pull their shirt from their waistband, lifting it enough to let her see the damage she did.
Mina's sets the first-aid kit down on the table next to the two, her deft hands cracking it open as she individualizes what she needs: a rag, cotton balls, disinfectant, and tape. Her eyes then set upon the wound, and she tilts her head to get a good look at it. "Whoever patched you up did a shit job," she says blankly while staring intently at the bloody gauze attached to Arin's waist.
"Cut Bebop some slack. He might just be better with spare parts than bandages."
"Pfft," Mina glances up to their eyes, "clearly." Her eyes return to her work, her hands going first to strip the tape off, quickly but carefully, and the saturated gauze pad comes off with it. She lets it fall to the ground as she reaches over for the bottle of disinfectant, and she unscrews the cap with her thumb. Grabbing the rag, she turns the bottle into it, soaking it with the antiseptic. She looks up at Arin, holding their gaze for a moment.
Arin meets her eyes, the two coming to a sort of standstill. Somehow, they think they can feel that Mina might feel the same: this is one hell of a situation to have themselves in the first time they've met in years. They were dead to her, to the whole world, but one by one, their family would come to realize that they survived the hit their father put on them. Little did they know, Mina would come to realize their continued existence, and even more unexpected, would she be here, right now, providing some semblance of comfort, even if it all started with her stabbing them.
"Arin."
They snap out of their thoughts, back to Mina's soft gaze, however laced with impatience it is. "Ready?" she asks.
"Yeah."
Without actually preparing for it, being too busy with the yearning of a moment like this ever happening, Mina sticks the drenched rag to their wound.
Arin's whole body flinches, a horrendous stinging sensation making them clench their teeth to restrain the agony as they groan. "Couldn't you have given me…" they pant, the pain subsiding, "…a moment?"
Mina covers her mouth, barely containing her laughter. "You said you were ready," she mocks, shrugging. "I already gave you a moment, silly."
Arin scoffs, heat rising across their face from the passing thought that she's able to read their mind, and that she knows exactly what they were thinking about just then. "Guess so… please just finish torturing me already."
Mina cutely giggles, like she's having much fun doing so. She continues wiping the surface area, cleaning off all of the excess blood. She gingerly hands them a cotton ball to press against the open wound as she takes the adhesive, ripping off a couple strands, and she places them parallel to each other. "There," she puts the remaining back inside the kit, shutting it with a click. "Should get you through the night. Try not to sleep on that side."
Arin hums, looking down at the clean job Mina's done, already feeling a lot better. "Thank you." They sit on the couch, closing their eyes as they take a second to enjoy the relief of a freshly dressed wound.
Mina sits next to them, her weight barely shifting the cushion the two are both on. She shakes their knee, like she's making sure they aren't nodding off.
Arin opens their eyes to Mina, who's leaning forward, her face close to Arin's. Her expression is expectant but amused. "How much is this gonna hurt?" they ask.
"Not too much," her voice calmly assures. "It'll feel weird though."
Arin laughs, not exactly feeling assured, but her thoughts count somewhat. "Been a while since I've had my blood drawn."
"It's a little similar." Mina moves her body closer to Arin's, the two's legs now touching. She moves her hand up to their face, hesitating for their approval; Arin nods. Her fingers trace from their shirt collar, up their neck, and onto their jaw. She lightly tilts their head up and to the side, craning their neck for easy access. "I'll be gentle."
Those words send a shiver down Arin's spine. They swallow hard, heat flushing up their neck as Mina slowly approaches.
Her mouth opens, her impossibly cold breath on Arin's throat, the feeling sending shivers throughout their whole body as goosebumps raise across every inch of their skin, their bated breath trembling through their open mouth as they wait and wait until her sharpest teeth reaches their skin
It feels like a limbo, this very moment where time is forgetting itself, where, somehow, the two's closeness feels like something else entirely, like it could be mistaken for years ago. Maybe it wasn't all fake back then, especially if this is where it would lead to now, the two genuinely leaning on each other for once in the time they've known each other.
Two sharp daggers imbed themselves deep into Arin's throat, ceasing the limbo. They helplessly vocalize like a dog in pain. With the hurt being too much to bear, their hands grasp at any support they can, latching around Mina as tight as possible. She's a lifeline, but she's slowly killing them in the process. Sanity provides that she's taken enough blood from them, but at this very moment, they would let her drain all that they have left.
Mina's arms get buried between Arin's shoulders and the back of the couch, the close embrace letting her feed away at them. Their warmth is shared with her dead cold body.
The real eternity begins now, it seems—the previous limbo was just a fake out. Arin can barely hold on to consciousness, unable to keep their groans down. It somehow feels more personal than the arrangement the two had several years ago, a reconnection in a vast emptiness, as much as it feels like she could kill them at any instant.
But Mina's mouth finally detaches from Arin. They take a sharp inhale, almost hyperventilating from their lack of breath of the past minute or so. The two don't budge from their spots, both pairs of arms crushing the other. Arin's too light-headed to think straight, ready to let the darkness behind their eyelids carry them to another place until they feel better, or die trying.
Mina continues to lick at Arin's bite marks, pressing and swiping her entire tongue against their neck, lapping up the blood spilling from their neck. The feelings she's putting on them now, mixed with the dizziness, is the most surreal body experience they think they've ever had.
She pulls away from their neck, taking one of her arms out from behind Arin, to cup their cheek in her hand and pull their gaze to her.
Mina's invigorated, twinkling eyes are what Arin's met by as soon as they open theirs. The now warm breath coming from her lips makes Arin glance to her mouth, where blood surrounds her smeared lipstick. They return to her eyes, which are now staring at their lips.
When she meets their eyes again, it's like the two have made a connection, silently consenting to something. Arin's vision flutters as Mina closes in on their face, their breath reflecting off of her face back onto theirs, until there's barely a gap between their lips—softly, barely brushing against each other…
Right as Arin's lips twitch against Mina's, she shakes their arms off of them, bringing herself to her feet. Her pistol appears in her hand, and she trains it right at Arin's forehead. They're startled out of their dream-like daze, their hand pressing against the aching on their neck. Their eyes become bleary as they watch as she clicks the safety off. She wipes the blood from her face, summarily licking her lips, all of her actions just smearing it more.
Arin can barely keep their eyes open, the dizziness and the pain in their neck making it hard to focus, their tears not helping any of it. She's now shattered any visage of hope, her humanity replaced by that old silhouette—all they could remember her by before last night, once again unrecognizeable behind the barrel of a gun.
Mina's hand shakes as she squeezes the trigger, the tears bubbling in their eyes. They try with all the will have remaining to meet her eyes, but it fails as a sob makes them hiccup, forcing them to shut their eyes for good, letting the first tears make their way down their cheeks.
It's like they can feel that bullet in their chest, breaking their heart into pieces, left to bleed out in an alleyway. It was their time then, and what time they've borrowed is now up. They can't accept that, but they have no other choice.
But nothing comes. No deafening sound, no resulting silence. Arin sniffles, letting their eyes peek open.
Mina's finger is now fully off the trigger. Her hand is shaking too much to keep the gun accurately on Arin's head. "Goddamnit," she curses through clenched teeth. "You look like a kicked dog… I just… I can't…" She chokes up, biting her lip to stifle a sound, but what seems to pain her still makes it out in spite of her effort. "Fuck!" she stomps her heel, turning towards the ladder, disappearing as a swarm of bats fly up and out of the hatch.
Arin can't comprehend any of what just happened. Even as their mind attempts to make a timeline of events, they're just too dizzy to realize any of it well enough. Above all, they can't stop crying. A scream would escape from their throat if their gurgling stomach wasn't threatening to empty its lack of contents, so all they can do is hold their hand against their neck, digging the nails of their spare hand into their scalp.
The shrill noises Arin makes, they can't help but feel just sound absolutely pathetic, a whelp lamenting about someone that they never had and never will. They aren't some stupid teenager anymore, just an adult with barely a grasp on what a real life actually is, wailing uncontrollably at losing everything once again, and once again, it's just them and that briefcase.
Once the harshest thoughts against themself finally melt away, Arin gives themself a second to breathe. They remind themself that their circumstance will be just the same as it has been for a while now, and they'll still be a shadow lurking nobody.
Arin wipes their eyes off on their shoulders, sniffling before taking a deep breath. Their nausea has subsided, but the dizziness still hasn't been abated. They sigh, eyeballing the container still sitting on the table. They reach for it, slowly pulling the lid off, letting its faded aroma pull them away from their freshly re-opened grief.
They take a biscuit into their hand, placing the container back on the table. They're worried it'll just upset their stomach, but they know they have to eat something. Their lips part, putting the soft biscuit between their teeth, and they bite down. A light cinnamon flavor graces their tongue, bringing them right back to Bebop's hospitality.
Tears begin to surface on Arin's tired eyes again. There's nothing left to do but to close their eyes.