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"So that's it?.. I'm just stuck with you?.." — Mob's voice trembled slightly, yet his grip on the weapon in his hands only tightened.
"You're not stuck!.." — Verity cried out desperately, raising his hands in a gesture of peace, his gaze was expressing nothing but concern. — "Lets do this together! Put the gun down-.."
Mob raised the pistol, aiming the muzzle at himself, never breaking eye contact with his "friend". The blond's movement was swift, beating the trigger pull by just a couple of milliseconds. Verity's hand — a hand that usually never directly interacted with the physical world — shot out forward, grabbing hold of the slide itself, covering the muzzle with his palm and wrenching the weapon aside.
Mob squeezed his eyes shut, and at that very moment the sound of a gunshot rang out — much more muffled than expected. The sound of the shot and the tearing of soft, almost slimy, organic tissue.
For the first three seconds Mob thought the lack of any sensation was due to shock — that his body was simply trying to recover, to steady itself after the shot, and that the pain would hit soon. Or maybe darkness would come at once. Either way, he was fine with both outcomes.
But even after another five seconds spent in absolute silence — despite the fact that he'd expected a completely different reaction from Verity — nothing changed. Screams, strange noises, maybe a full-blown meltdown — yet nothing happened. No blood, no sensation at all — nothing but his own frantic heartbeat.
Mob cracked his eyes open, hearing heavy breathing and a sharp inhale through clenched teeth right next to his cheek — not point-blank, but close enough to feel.
At first he could only make out the yellow of Verity's hair, his forehead, and then — his eyes — wild, with undisguised horror, cast downward to where the aftermath was already visible at his companion's hands. One of Verity's palms was almost completely mangled — or rather, what remained of it looked more like yellow pudding. No blood, no bones protruding from beneath the skin — just a yellow fluid that had splattered across the boys' hoodie and shirt and smeared over the pistol, which Mob unconsciously released from his grip in that same moment, dropping it onto the white tiles, splashing the yellow liquid across the floor and onto their shoes.
A swirl of distinctly conflicting emotions rose in his chest: anger at the situation he'd been forced into, rage at Verity for interrupting his act, despair at the realization that he was still alive, still trapped with this creature — and fear. Fear for the state of the "friend" before him, and fear of his reaction.
Mob's hands began to tremble uncontrollably as he took a step back, trying to get away, to avoid looking at Verity, to have no interaction with him, to distance himself — as if, if he stopped thinking about him, he would simply disappear. He would disappear, right?..
"No — you couldn't have done that!.." — Verity's voice cracked halfway through the sentence as he lifted his gaze from his torn palm to Mob, who was clearly distraught, trying to pull away. "No, no, no — you were just scared, weren't you!.. Tell me you were just-.. Just frightened, because this is all so sudden…" — Verity suddenly grabbed the guy by the sleeve of his hoodie with his intact hand, and then his palm with the other. The hand that had been torn apart moments ago, looking more like melted chocolate left out in the sun, was now gripping the guy's hand, squeezing it — clearly whole again.
"What the—?!.." — Mob immediately tried to yank his hand free from the grip — unfamiliar, alien, since up until that moment Verity had barely ever touched him, keeping only to conversation — but the realization that both of the creature's hands were intact made him freeze, and as the hairs on his body stood on end, he raised his eyes to the face before him. "You can't die yourself… And you can't be hurt…" — his voice came out hoarse as if he'd suddenly forgotten how to speak, tears of horror and indignation welling in his eyes. "So why won't you at least let me—?!.."
"Don't say it!" — Verity cried out loudly, abruptly moving one of his hands to cover the guy's mouth, pressing firmly, forcing Mob to step back against the wall and fall silent, pinned there with his back to it. His voice trembled, occasionally emitting a mechanical hiss, a grating noise, a shadow settling between his brows. "You can't… You simply can't!.. You're here and I'm here because I was created for you!.. You are my reason for living!.. And I'm ready to die by your hands every single day if it means you'll give up on the idea of leaving me!.. Anything! I can do anything!"
Mob shook his head in denial, feeling the pressure and discomfort from Verity's desperate, almost obsessive gaze upon him. The guy tried to look anywhere but at Verity, to think of anything but what the other was trying to instill in him.
"I'll do everything for you! You don't need to worry! Please!" — Verity slid his hand from Mob's sleeve up higher, gripping his elbow, pressing him into the wall; his voice wavered, rising a pitch then dropping, dissolving into white noise, sounding as if it came from inside the guy's own skull. "I'LL DO EVERYTHING FOR YOU! EVERYTHING, J҉𝕌ׅ𝔖T҉ D҉ꂦN҉'҉𝔗 L̸̖̽̌͂ɆA҉꒦ᘿ ӍE҉ AL̴̢̥̞͚̫̠̰͛̾͌̆́̂̒͗̓͝ͅӨ𝔑ꍟ!"
Mob was suddenly wrenched sideways — the voice, the overwhelming foreign scent, the heat and solidity of skin — every part of his surroundings together and separately made him nauseous. Involuntarily, the boy leaned to the side, feeling bile rise in his throat.
***
Outside the window the sun was setting warmly. Verity, having put on one of his least irritating and most calming melodies (by Mob's standards) as background noise, sat on the guy's bed, running his fingers through his black, thick hair.
The brunet sat with his back to him, leaning flush against his "friend's" chest, almost impassively receiving the affections of Verity — who had grown bolder and changed his demeanor in recent times.
His touches, which he had previously avoided so as not to frighten Mob, had become far more free and overt.
For a while, Mob had strongly resisted any sort of attention or gesture, flying into a rage whenever Verity thwarted his further suicide attempts. More than one, unfortunately.
Was Verity surprised by this? Not at all. It wasn't the first time he'd experienced such moods in others. Was Verity upset? Absolutely. Such strong rejection of all his displays of affection caused genuine hurt and indignation inside. But did it make things worse for him? Oh, quite the opposite.
After enough time spent around people — various ones — and Mob in particular, he had come to understand that affection and attachment would eventually bear fruit. Stockholm syndrome? That's what humans called it, he believed.
Now he had almost completely stopped snapping at and arguing with Verity — isn't that wonderful! Even if he no longer chatted, joked, or justified his actions as actively as before. Every cloud has a silver lining.
He is always close by. And always willing to be held, to lie together (to not resist, more precisely). Verity barely needs anything more. His name is the only one spoken in their home, every time Mob asks for something: a pie, some dye, a stack of wool, other trivial things. He is the only one who looks at Mob, and Mob looks only at him. Over time, he even stopped leaving the house, never going beyond the cobblestone fence — is that not happiness itself?
The guy in his arms, obediently receiving these displays of affection — the scalp massage, the fingers through his hair — tilted his head to the side, pressing his entire body against his chest and collarbone — he seemed to have fallen asleep.
Slowly, Verity lowered the volume of the background music, gradually fading it to nothing, disentangling his fingers from the guy's curls. A faint blush rose on his cheeks as the blond carefully, tenderly wrapped his arms around his "friend," pulling him as close as their position and Mob's sleep would allow — he didn't want to disturb him in the slightest.