The Touch of Jack Frost (Weak Hero)

Donald (12-24-22)

"What the fuck is going on with the Union," Donald hissed, complaining to Kingsley, "Those idiots can't do anything right." The blinds were long since drawn shut, every last trace of sunlight was masked thoroughly enough to convince one that it was night. It burned his eyes, he'd claimed multiple times, light hurt. Then again, shitty cockroaches will always run from the light of the house's inhabitants. Maybe he was better suited for the dark.

Kingsley sighed a response, hanging around Donald and his underlings was tiring. His fingers barely swiped at his dim tablet screen, tomorrow was Christmas, and he was here. Dealing with paperwork upon paperwork of Donald's bullshit. What a perfect day. Not that Kingsley had a specific family he wanted to go home to, or any plans. Anything was better than dealing with Union nonsense, and he'd use any excuse to see that was so.

Donald grumbled and signed papers, skimming from paragraph to paragraph. This scene might give you the illusion of carelessness, as if he might miss something important written in fine print. However, this was Donald Na, and he missed nothing.

Almost nothing.

"Donald," Kingsley spoke after a long moment's silence, "Can I go home?" The question seemed innocent enough, though every syllable was laced with something secret. A threat.

The other grumbled some more, "Why?"

"It's Christmas eve," Came the answer, a decent excuse. There was no reason for hurt to flash across Donald's eyes. They didn't glare at him coldly, he didn't look in disgust. Kingsley Kwan was not like everyone else, and he knew it. He was above everyone in the world, even Donald. Since, even the terrifying Union head would not touch him. "I'd like to spend it at home, laying down,"

Kingsley couldn't care less about Donald and the attachment he'd formed to the boy. Kingsley Kwan was the only person who could hurt Donald, and he knew it. He'd planned it this way and worked on it daily. He was not Donald's friend. He was the one pulling the strings and smiling as everything fell into place.

After much investigation, Kingsley had discovered the messy hell that was Donald's childhood. He'd recognized the talent in him before Manwol had tasted his fist. "I'm your friend," He'd cooed as the other's inner broken child cried for attention. Kingsley would give him attention. Even now he noticed the glances Donald sent him, the smiles and intently focus near-glares. 

Donald had developed a dependence on him, he needed the affirmation, the attention. He craved it, and it fulfilled so much that the other's emotions had twisted into some kind of toxic and messed up love. Donald loved him, and he knew it.

Sure, the thought of Donald thinking of him naked was unsettling, though Kingsley masked it well. He sent his own sweet smiles and longing looks, then he'd stop. Then you'd notice the irritability, even desperation, in Donald's actions. He needed the praise. When Kingsley withheld it for a period of time, it only caused withdrawals. Like Kingsley was a drug and Donald was an addict.

Some might call this method cruel, Kingsley didn't care. He calls it surviving in a dangerous habitat. Adapting. "Donald," He cooed softly, eyes on the edge of tears. In another life, Kingsley Kwan would've pursued acting rather than Union drama, he'd always had a natural keenness for it. He tossed aside the blanket that had been draped across his legs. Donald had bought it for him. It wasn't cheap.

Like a cat, stalking it's prey through high thistles. Carefully. Quietly. A shadow. He moved behind Donald's desk, behind the boy's chair. The seventeen year old insane boy. Today he'd decided, on Christmas eve, he'd receive the best present he could have ever asked for.

Donald's face flushed, and Kingsley suppressed a gag. One hand went from Donald's shoulder to his throat, fingertips gracing the skin there gently. Beneath him, he hear the other make a soft gasp. He lowered his face to the boy's shoulder, five years he'd worked. Five years he'd dreamed of this moment. "Fuck you Donald Na," He hissed in a whisper.

Before the other had time to react, Kingsley slit his throat with a pocket knife he'd kept in his jean pocket. Watch the hands not the mouth.

Oddly enough he didn't feel bad as Donald gurgled through blood, nor as tears formed in broken eyes. Kingsley had shattered the boy's world in more ways then one. In a sense, by betraying him, he'd already ended the boy's life.

"I'll see you in hell." He smiled as the last light of life drained from Donald's eyes and the boy's figure slumped down face first into his desk.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Kingsley giggled.

..........................................................................................................

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AHHHHH I GOTTA FINISH EJNWIGBROWNGPIFNEPIWGN