Work Text:
Barium compounds (soluble)
Depilatories
Explosives
Fireworks
Rat poisons
Benzene
Benzol
Hydrocarbons
Model airplane glue
Toluene
Toluol
Xylene
They had returned to the hotel in a good mood. Leo boasting about his truly impressive head shot, one arm slung over Minute's shoulder, their bodies pressed flush against one another.
Clown had managed to extract himself from Leo's side.
Minute had been torn between the swell of warmth in his chest at the comradery and the uncomfortable nature of having one arm pinned to his side and another sweaty body sticking to his own.
He hadn't managed to decide whether he liked it before they reached their shared hotel room and Leo took his arm away on his own to fall dramatically onto their bed.
Minute had stood around awkardly in the doorway as always. Waiting for some kind kind of sign.
Eventually, had Clown must have taken pity on Minute.
Had had nodded towards the couach and simply ordered "Sit."
So Minute had sat down and watched as the other two shuffled around, ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate. It had felt a little like a dog waiting for its Masters. Minute supposed that wasn't too far off. He was, after all, little more than a lackey to Leo and Clown, probably wouldn't be able to last even a minute in a fight. And wasn't that ironic?
Leo pulled an armchair to the coffee table and planted himself down next to Minute as a hesitant knock sounded through the room. The waiter bringing their bottle and a tray of full glasses smiled, looking just as nervous as Minute felt when faced with Clown.
With a sly grin, Clown passed the flute closed to himself on to Minute who didn't quite know what to do with the thing. He hadn't drunk champagne before.
Was there some special etiquette he shoukd know about? It sounded french and fancy, which was a bad sign. Minute didn't dare to ask. He should avoid making a bigger fool of himself than he had probably done already.
Clown pressed a glass to Leo making grabby hands before taking the last for himself.
The tray was unceremoniously shoved beneath the table as Clown gracefully lowered himself onto the armchair.
---
"To us!", Leo bragged loudly, raising his glass filled anew.
He had been slurring his words for some time now, but that didn't seem to stop him from only drinking deeper. They were on second bottle now.
Minute supposed today was as good as it ever got. He, too, had been drinking more than he perhaps should have. He hadn't even registered how much he'd been drinking until he was flushed and a little shaky.
But at least the same could be said for Clown. So it was probably alright. Minute was reasonably sure this wasn't a test. Mostly sure, at least. Surer the less he thought about it.
By now, Minute had been holding onto his champagne flute for long enough that it had noticably warmed between his sweaty palms.
Their glasses clunked against each other, raised up little more than shoulder height, even from their slumped positions on the couch.
As the evening began, their cheers had been held high over their heads. Strong enough that champagne swapped over the glass rims and rained down onto their heads.
By now, Minute's shoulders had untensed. The exhaustion of today's hit sunk in as Minute sunk into the couch cushions. It seemed to carry the worry with it.
Or it had seemed to.
The anxiety was slwoly creeping in. It left Minute glancing at imginary flashes in his peripheral vision, chasing shadows.
Nothing hood ever lasted, and the PMC was quite possibly the best thing that ever happened to Minute. So it would surely have to end soon.
Or had it already? Minute eyed his half-drunken glass. The liquid was bubbly and golden green, mostly transparent. That was what champagne looked like, wasn't it? He glanced at Leo's glass. A difficult endeavour, as Leo liked gesticulating wildly as he talked, getting dangerously close to smacking his glass into Minute's head or spilling his drink over the coach. On some occasions, he had crossed those lines.
But Leo's drink had the same colour. It seemed to have the same texture. So maybe the poison was colourless? Taste probably wouldn't matter. Did his teammates (ex-teammates?) know Minute never had champagne before? Would they know that taste wouldn't be an issue?
But there probably wasn't poison in Minute's champagne. But it ahd been suspicious how purposefully Clown chose one specific flute for Minute, hadn't it?
Asking to taste Clown's champagne woukd be weird, wouldn't it? And if they had poisoned, they wouldn't allow it anyway, right? Better get away before the effects set in. Not let them know he knew.
But what if they weren't poisoning him? That was an option, wasn't it? No matter how much Minute's brain screamed at him that something was wrong.
Minute heard his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He felt nauseaus at the thought of taking another sip. His hands shook around the fragile glass, he sat it down on the table with a heavy thump. That was probably suspicious too.
"Minute?", Leo asked him. His eyebrows were pulled together in confusion as he stuidied Minute intently.
"Bathroom", Minute grit out as he stumbled onto his feet. The nausea had returned with a sudden and overwhelming vengeance. His legs folded underneith Minute's own weight until he steadied himself on the wall.
Laboured breaths whistled through his dry lips with every inhale. There never seemed to be enough air in his lungs.
Definetely poison. He had waited to long. He stumbled again and crashed hard into a dresser. The wooden corner dug itself into Minute's sternum and he gagged as bile shot up the back of his throat.
"Minute?", Clown asked frombehind him, feigning concern, at the same time as Leo called out, "That much of a light weight?"
They wouldn't even admit it. Betrayal warred in Minute's heart with the need to sink to his knees and accept whatever fate Clown and Leo would choose for him.
The inevibility of this betrayal didn't make it hurt any less.
Minute smelled his rotting corpse. Burried in some back alley. Crows cawking as they picked the fouled flesh of his bones. Smashed, probably, to make stuffing him in a dumpster easier. Faintly, Minute heard his bones crack already.
Or maybe they would be more creative, smarter than Minute could ever hope to be. Hide his body away so that could never he found.
But perhaps before that, if they pretended to care now, maybe they would hold him as he died. Then it wouldn't be so bad. Minute wouldn't mind, truly.
Still. Minute wondered what poison it was.
The effects reminded him of a time he'd over-dosed on his asthma medication.
And he supposed it fit in with Benzene. Or Benzol. Or something Barium? Many 'B's, nothing form bees though, he thinks. Any number of poison, really. Flush — a fever? — trouble breathing, shaky limbs. Nausea. Imaginary smells and sounds. Tell-tale signs of a seizures. Minute remembered. He had had those too, hidden underneith his covers. Biting down on his blanket to muffle any cries.
If it had been Clown's idea, it was rat poison. He always treated Minute like a rodent he could crush unverneith his boots.
In face of this very moment, Minute supposed Clown was right.
Minute was pathetic. Always so naive. So stupid.
Minute could never seem to learn that trusting anyone was synonymous with a betrayal.
He was the rat in a mace, blindly running towards, chasing love, chasing affection. Missing all the warning bells, ending up in the trap.
Minute was a stupid rat, probably. He wouldn't even make it to the cheese.
Tears stung in his eyes.
He hadn't moved on from his position slumped over the low dresser. Something he immediately regretted as a hand landed on his shoulder. He flinched.
"Minute?", Clown's voice. "What's wrong?", he demanded. His voice was stern. It left no room for disagreement. Despite this, Minute couldn't help but chuckle and choke on it as it robbed him of breath.
Clown was taking this charade of care really serious.
Even now, Minure didn't want to make Clown mad.
But even stronger was the desire to know.
"Wha's 'e pois'n?", Minure struggled to ask as his tongue fought his brain for every syllable, a numb slug lying dead and slimy in his mouth.
He bit down to test if it really was a part of his body. Copper filled with mouth and dribbled down his chin as the pain made Minute unclench his jaw again.
"Minute, what are you talking about?"
The mixture of blood and spit dripped from Minute's chin onto the light wooden dresser, staining it rust.
"What's wrong with him?"
Minute's right leg twitched violently beneath him and folded away, leaving his chin to slam onto the table. He felt a sliver of his bottom lip catch between his teeth and separate, a new flood of metal flooding Minute's senses.
Then, warm arms caught him and laid him down onto something soft. Hands steadied his head, a blurry face above Minute. He couldn't seem to open his eyes past the half-lidded view he was managing. His right leg herked on, his arm twitching by his side, but his neck couldn't, a strong grip restraining his head.
Minute was powerless to speak, to scream, to cry, to even breath. Forced to watch as his own body abandoned all reason, caught in someone else's grasp, choking on nothing but his his own blood, thoughts moving slow. Slow and sluggish.
Where were they again? Who were they?
At least they were gentle. Yes.
Minut was dying, because he thought Leo and Clown wouldn't betray him. But they were gentle, so it was alright.
Minute could rest. What did he have to live for beside this?
There were worse things to die with the feeling of than calloused warm hands gently cradling his face, rain dripping onto his face, tasting salty on his tongue admidst all the blood.
Minute's eyes fell completely shut as someone screamed above him.
"Call an ambulance, Clown! Tell them he's not breathing!"