Demolition Lovers (Frerard)

26: and... it ends, finally, lmao (but seriously this is some damn good plot ok)

-

The second home was across town, and at a first glance, far more difficult to break into, which was really ruining the ecstatic vibe they gotten off Ray Toro's murder, because that's what it was: murder, justified murder, at least in their head, but murder nonetheless, but they didn't cower from that truth, they revelled in it.

However, with a jump over a back gate into an unkempt, small backyard, they found themselves with not an unsuspecting open window, but a fucking unlocked backdoor, and they even considered stopping to laugh at the stupidity that had gone into a fuck up of that calibre, but of course, they never quite stopped to consider just why it could have been left open, as the back gate shut behind someone: a certain someone that had the intruder pinned against the wall of the house with a pistol.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The man: the owner of the house, was anything but pleased to see a face, darkened, and unrecognisable in the absence of light, smirking at him like a madman, despite the apparent mess they'd gotten themselves into.

"Oh come on, Bert, don't be such a little bitch about this for once, why don't you?" They attempted to laugh it off, but Bert wasn't having it, reaching for the porch light switch, and half regretting that he hadn't.

"You're- you're covered in blood. What the fuck? I... fuck... I... you're- you're... I... you're... supposed to be dead-" Bert's eyes widened in shock as he took in the appearance and mortality of the shorter one of two, recognising them as perhaps the last person he'd ever wanted to see, ever.

"Yeah, about that..." They shook their head, aiming their gun at Bert's head. "How about you take my place? Because, I don't like you, McCracken, and you're fucking well aware of that, aren't you?"

"Don't get so up your own ass, kid, you're covered in blood, you're psychotic, you're... you're supposed to be dead, and now you're attempting to kill me, and what for? We know what for, so don't fucking bullshit me, kid, you're just pissed because he kissed me, not you; he chose me, not y-"

And let's just say that Bert's life ended before that sentence could.

"Don't fucking try to tell me shit, you got that?"

-

They hadn't exactly reckoned on there being a third house, and a third visit, but Bert's words, and the seeds of doubt they'd planted in their head had ensured that they took the extra time, still covered in blood, and heart still racing like hell itself, to make their way across town, to a place they knew they shouldn't go again, to people they knew they shouldn't talk to again, but by now they'd figured this all out.

It was all for him. It had always been for him, and there was no escaping that as they passed the alleyway, and the car, still parked on an angle, and winced a little as they glanced down at the bloodstains, and the wounds.

Because no one had reckoned, no one had realised, no one had even considered that the blood they were covered in was not from others but from their own wounds, from their own veins, and it dear god, it wasn't stopping: it had no intent of stopping.

And they knew that as they took a seat, a break, a rest, something on the curb, taking three pills this time; they didn't even know what they were, but they knew the pills helped, and that was enough, that would have to be enough, because sure, it wasn't like they were going to last that much longer, was it?

They'd evaded it the first time, when Pete had left the car, had fucking bailed out for the second twice, had fucked up for the millionth time as they couldn't take it, and couldn't figure it, simply leaving the body there, unnoticed, perhaps even forgotten about as Pete drank everything away, because, sure Pete had been a good enough friend, but he was never the kind of person that Frank would have picked to help him on his deathbed.