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The room he was in was small; enough room to move around but caving in just enough to set his nerves on fire. It was an offhand little office with one window looking out onto the storm-riddled city only 3 stories above ground.
He had let the blood from the wound on his head drip down the side of his face and dry, he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t feel it anymore. His breathing was shallow and fast-paced as he paced back and forth in the space provided, a pathetic excuse for a table lamp on the desk providing only a sliver of light in the darkness that hugged him like it wanted him to choke.
He wasn’t looking where he was going before entering, haphazardly running and trying to look for any way out, and ended up with this. The chase ended awhile back, but all he did was run as if they were still on his heels. He was in that moment, for the first time in his career, terrified to look back. To see them rushing to keep up, to see the guns drawn, the vests being worn in caution, the hard looks of policemen who just want to get it over with, and who have no idea or care in the world about the inner turmoil Bison was going through.
He used to love seeing the stumped looks of law enforcement when he undermined their plans. The thrill of getting away, it was like a drug. He couldn’t bring himself to get the fix this time, the need to get away before he threw up from the buildup of emotion that took his entire body over. And here he is now, pacing the room with a stomach full of ticking time bombs and a few wounds scattered on his weakening body pulsing with mad reminders of why he was there, and how he got there.
Trust was a very sensitive topic to Bison, always has. It took him close to 5 years to trust his own brother, and about a decade later, the only other humans he trusted in life were the 3 employees and 2 chefs at their restaurant; even then, it was only due to formality. He wasn’t someone who let their walls fall fast except that’s exactly what happened. Nothing could’ve prepared for the little shameless customer-waiter back and forth would turn into this.
There was shouting from 3 stories below him, hushed agreements that floated up into the air, wheels screeching, and silence soon accompanied the lack of light surrounding his sweaty and shaking body in the office. Bison’s heart had failed him. It aches, it terribly aches to know where he is at this exact moment in time. Bison kicks the closest thing to him, which ends up being a stack of books now toppled over.
He reaches out with one hand to find the edge of the desk and leans against it, bringing his other hand, a tight white-knuckled fist to his mouth to try and silence a frustrated scream. He doesn’t know if he’s alone, and it no longer excites him. Nothing moves, the air is still and his body continues to shake as he stares blindly in front of him at the door. He has no idea what to expect anymore. His senses felt shut down and numb.
Kant’s face is fresh in his mind. His heart continues to ache, but it starts to feel more profound, and it's begging. Loudly.
It’s begging to see it again, maybe for a raise of his eyebrows, or a glint of regret, or guilt, to see an apology on his skin without words, an answer of any kind. It’s begging to know the reason. He didn’t want one.
Except, despite it all, Bison desperately wanted an answer. Was everything for nothing? Did he find the concept of love fun to bend and sculpt at his will in hopes for money and freedom from something long forgotten? Kant had been nothing but an open book, and Bison read him without a single warning of what he was getting into.
The thought of him made the tattoo on his chest throb and the little ones scattered across his arms pulse rapidly in tune with his heartbeat. Kants’ hands, gentle and grounding as always, his touch suddenly felt like it left burn scars he never thought to look at.
Bison loves him dearly. He loved him.
He lowered his fist to his side and took semi-rhythmic deep breaths.
The door opens much tamer than he had opened it minutes ago, almost with a drop of hesitation, and Bison’s heart bursts in pure anguish at the sight of what stands in front of him.
Kant, covered in dirt, little rips on his shirt sleeves and his jeans that weren’t there before, and blood.
Bison’s blood, he realizes. Kant isn’t wounded like him, just roughed up. He aimed blows at his chest, head and calves just an hour ago and didn’t land a single one. He wasn’t unskilled; he was weak. Kant had made him weak when he shouldn’t have been and it was among many of Bison’s fears, and don’ts when it came to getting his job done. He couldn’t bring himself to hurt him, and that was absolutely not the first of his many mistakes he’d made tonight.
Bison had escaped his grasp, and Kant had slammed a gun to his forehead and it failed to knock him out. It was a half-assed hit, and it would’ve put a smile on Bison’s face if his wrists weren’t suffocating in tight handcuffs and he wasn’t watching the love of his life turn the world against him.
Staring at the same face, his mind wanders far away from that small office. He’s felt betrayal before. He’s experienced the turmoil that flips your stomach upside down multiple times. The let down of someone close to you who let you in, just to shut you out and make you the bad guy. Leaving you with nothing but enough confusion to crush your soul and help reincarnate a colder version.
He always got the same ending. Except this time around, in this story, something has shifted, and he doesn’t like it.
It scared him.
Neither of them knew what to say, but Kant moved inwards in small steps, turned around and shut the door so it made as little noise as possible. When he turned back around, the sharp inhale stuttered.
When Kant found his voice, it was deep, raspy and sliced through the still air.
“They think you fled. There’s only the usual security guards on the bottom floor now.”
Bison is unable to move a single muscle. His blood runs thick and hot.
“Two of them are stationed at the front door, one inside near the elevators.”
The look he gave Kant made him visibly wince, like he got a paper cut on his cheek. Bison was still shaking, yet his voice attempted to stay as mellow as he could muster, which isn’t saying much.
“You still think you can be a hero? There is no reason for you to be here anymore. You shouldn’t be helping me.”
“Listen, Bi—”
Oh, how he despised how badly he wanted to melt.
“I had to, th—”
Something in Bison snapped, and suddenly his knife is gripped tightly as he uses his remaining energy to slam Kant’s body backwards against the door he had just closed. It responds to the force with a creak.
His left arm is stationed across Kant’s chest heavily, keeping him in place as his right hand reaches to hold the blade against Kant’s neck. They are too close to Bison’s liking, but he has no will to back away.
He searches his eyes for anything, something to hold onto, and to Bison’s dismay, all he can see is fear . It swells inside his chest and eats at him with no mercy.
“Did you know you ‘had to’ turn me in from the start?”
A slow and calculated nod was all it took for Bison to put pressure onto his skin, and slowly he saw a cut form. He tried to not pay attention to the little drops of blood bubbling to the surface and making home on the edge of the blade.
“You never loved me. Say it!” His voice raised several octaves near the end, and it cracked at the same time. His whole being felt like it was cracking, as if all his seams were undone.
“I did love you. I still love you.”
His hand remains where it is, and if Kant felt it weaken for a second, he didn’t acknowledge it.
”This is what you call love?” He could almost laugh. Break into a smile that definitely would not match what he felt. He was tired, and the last thing he wanted was to let his guard down.
The blood forming across the edge of his blade started to fall, and Kant showed no sign of disturbance or pain. Bison hated it. He was hurting him, why wasn’t he reacting?
“You don’t get it, I was desperate, a clean slate could ensure a better–”
Kant’s eyes widened as a bruised fist slammed into the side of his face, and within a split second, he realized Bison had let go, and he fell to the floor heavily with a loud groan. He couldn’t get himself to sit up in time with how fast the same bruised hand came to grip his shirt collar, a tough and trembling hold as it brought his face within an inch from his.
“I don’t get it? I don’t get trying everything in the damn book to get by? Going through risks and getting into a business I didn’t want to be a part of? I guess I was wrong to assume you knew me.”
There was something devastating in Kant’s eyes, and it made Bison’s nerves light aflame. His voice sounded heavy and slow to his own ears and the want to go home was wearing him thin. He’s lost in confused and dilated brown eyes and suddenly he forgets why he’s mad.
He forgets that there’s still sirens wailing in the distance from all angles, that there’s now a chance at freedom as long as he lays low, and never comes into contact with Kant again. He forgets he’s supposed to escape from the very person his heart is desperate to swim towards.
Kant was the first one to speak, but not without turning his head as much as he could to spit built-up blood onto the floor.
“The love I developed for you is real, I swear on my life.”
He won’t shut up. Bison’s eye threatens to twitch in irritation, and he keeps quiet.
“You won’t kill me.”
Bison releases him from his grip with a shove, sending him backwards closer to the wall behind him as he treks back towards the desk he had been leaning against. A cigarette would be nice, except his pack must’ve fallen out of his pocket at some point during the chase.
“You’re right. I won’t.”
He thanks with every tired fiber of his being the timing between ending his statement and the same office door swinging open in a vigorous and urgent manner.
Kants’ vision is blocked by the door, and he can’t see who it is. But he can hear, and he suddenly felt entirely too cold and frozen in place.
“You really should’ve sent that message much earlier, searching this place was fucking terrible. Dodging those cop cars almost made me turn around.”
Bison chuckled a little, the only small movement he could muster now that the adrenaline had worn off and the wound on his head began to viciously throb. He looked from Fadel to Kant, and he could almost see the gears turning, and the dots connecting.
He’s starting to realize he spent too much of his life loving Kant. It was a good few months. Some of the best he ever had, which isn’t much; spending every day dealing with a few crotchety old people with an ego the size of a bus, and immediately after driving his knife into the side of someone he didn’t even know wasn’t the funnest routine.
The small dates, little gifts, the tattoo on his chest and arms, it all meant nothing.
Kant loves him? He spilled the address and his motives to the police out of love? This was not love. He meant little to no value to him, and the feeling of maybe I found true love is something he had never felt before, and he fears it’ll be the last time he does.
He needed to go home, and knowing his brother had his ride home settled his shaking body only enough to be able to regain his balance as he stood up straight.
He held eye contact with Kant, who had refused to move from the floor, back flush against the wall and still, all he could see was fear and he hated it. He was never scared of Bison, he was of Fadel, but everyone is. He assured Bison before that no matter what he could be hiding, it would never make him love him less.
That now leaves the most bitter taste on his tongue that only a cigarette and a glass of rum could wash out.
“Where’d you park?”
“Near the back fire exit, they don’t have anyone guarding that area. Dumbasses.” Fadel scoffed and fully entered the room, but he didn't acknowledge Kant’s existence. He doesn’t have to.
“I’ll go wait in the car.”
Kant’s eyes widened and suddenly he’s begging against his will.
“Please, Bi, let me come with you. I can get us both out of this, I can get you out of trouble.”
Bison stopped moving towards the door, and now closer, he looks down.
Kant flinches away, except he really has nowhere else to go now. He’s backed into a corner.
“Your words never matched your actions, and they’re both failing you.”
He looks towards Fadel, gives him a short nod, and stumbles out of the suffocating office.
The last thing he hears is knuckles cracking, and a shrill shriek that makes him squeeze his eyes shut for just a second. He deserves this. He deserves this.
He shouldn’t care if Fadel kills him or leaves him only hanging on by thread, not an ounce of forgiveness could be found in his body.
Deep down, both him and his brother know that he cares. Profoundly. Bison doesn’t want him to die. If he could turn the time table back just a few hours, he’d have fled with Kant in tow and a future in a completely different country in front of them.
Bison managed to make it to the car without suspicion, and the sound of the crackly, out of range radio station and the hug of darkness around him gave him comfort. He didn’t bother to wipe the tears that started falling, mingling with the blood.
Once again, he’s back to square one.