TW: brief description of a panic attack
Witnessing other people lose their minds was one thing. Right now, staring at the tiny symbols of fucking doom which you had no recollection of drawing, was another.
"Oh, what the fuck." You breathed.
Brian didn't try to pull you away from the glass now that you'd already seen what he had.
Your first instinct was to turn to Brian, start panicking, project your fear onto him in the form of mortified anger. But upon further frozen reflection, you could only come to one very frightening conclusion; you were next. And while you still half heartedly thought Brian deserved a lot of shit, you didn't need to take your current state out on him.
When you finally tore your eyes away from the crosses of doom, Brian was already staring down at you, trying to gauge a reaction. There was a look in his eyes that you couldn't quite place, something brimming beneath his greenish irises. This staring contest felt different to all the others - less discerning, more... concerned.
After a moment, he spoke in little more than a murmur. "Do you believe me now?"
He read you like a book, of course. Knowing you well enough to realise that no matter what he told you last night, you weren't one to believe in random ass fantasy creatures right out of a horror movie. Yet he hadn't pushed it, probably a setup for reverse psychology that he planned on taking up on a later date - ever the manipulative bastard, though you believed now that his intentions were good.
It didn't matter now, though. There was no explanation for the symbols you'd drawn mindlessly, the same ones on Lily's mirror and Harry's walls. It would be too much of a stretch to call it all a coincidence.
You didn't answer, staring hollowly into his eyes. You believed him, yes, but you were struggling to come to grips with it. A mental wall had just been shattered within you, opening the floodgates to a whole load of other shit that you'd previously thought impossible. A part of you would never truly believe in demons. It was the same part of you that still struggled to believe that Harry was dead, or that Brian could be kind.
Your legs seemed to carry themselves. You pushed past Brian's chest, stalking out of the bathroom. You didn't even make it half was down the hallway before you heard him follow, though. You increased your pace and so did he, until you had no choice but to turn and face him.
You were now in the middle of his musty living room, walls feeling like they were closing in on you. He kept a few paces back, keeping his distance and yet something in his gaze told you he'd follow you around this shitty little place no matter where you hid, just to keep an eye on you.
It was all too much right now. Only just processing what the symbols could mean, the darkness of this room, the knowledge that he wouldn't let you go anywhere else, his intense stare that made you want to sink into the floor. You felt tears sting your eyes, heart rate increasing until it was through the roof as you just stood there, shaking.
The symbols meant that it was after you. That's what you'd learned from Brian. He'd said his boss liked to mark its territory. It wanted you dead. Just like Harry, just like Lily. Would you go mad, too?
"(Y/n)." At the sound of Brian's voice, gentle and concerned, you could help but let the tears spill.
You sank to the ground, curling up against the musty floorboards, head in your knees. You weren't drunk enough to run to him for comfort, though it only took a few glasses of whiskey as you'd found out yesterday.
Your brain went a million miles an hour, and you were powerless against it. The usual mental motions of a panic attack; your brain spiralled, letting you sink into painful and mostly unrelated flashbacks to upset you further. Harry. Jade. Masky. Lily. Cass. Hoodie.
Hands were on you then, gentle. You didn't move your head - you couldn't. You just barely registered the sound of floorboards creaking right by you - had Brian sat down? His gentle palms moved along your back, soothing. He stayed silent for a while, letting you cry. Then, he began to instruct you, telling you gently to breathe in and out at calculated intervals. You did as he said through sobs as he shushed you sweetly, rubbing circles into your back. He only stopped when you stopped sobbing, breathing normally, danger of you passing out subsiding.
It took you a while to look up still. You weren't ashamed, per se - you'd freaked out in front of him before, on far worse terms. Oddly, though, you felt your cheeks grow hotter than they already were. You put it down to being feverish, another symptom which you had a sinking realisation must have been down to the sickness.
You spoke with a strangled voice when you finally peeked up at his solemn face. "I'm going to die, aren't I?" you sounded pathetic, and you knew it. The words fell hollowly from your tongue, existential dread heavy in your tone.
He took an agonising moment to consider his answer, probably sizing up whether he should tell you now or later - but you already knew the answer must be a 'yes'. You'd already seen two people succumb to this condition.
"You're not thinking clearly right now." He said finally.
That was a non-answer if you'd ever heard one. Usually, you'd be fighting the urge to throw something at him. A few months ago, a knife. Nowadays, probably a pillow or something. But you were too tired and frightened right now to go grab one off the couch.
You instead stared at him dumbly through bleary eyes. He wasn't helping, making you feel stupid. But he had a point and you couldn't deny it. Your voice broke as you spoke again, not even bothering to be abrasive, "Just tell me. Please."
He spoke again after a moment, placing a gentle hand on your good shoulder. "You're safer here than you would be anywhere else."
You had a terrible feeling. Brian wasn't giving you a 'no', he wouldn't tell you that you weren't in any danger. He dodged the question - because he'd be lying if he told you, with all certainty, that you were going to live through this.
He should know by now that when you wanted answers, you didn't give up. With a shuddering breath, you looked away as you spoke. "And are you saying that because I'm going to die, Brian?"
A while ago he would've said some horrifyingly apathetic shit about death being inevitable, probably while holding a gun. Now, he only shook his head from where he sat, barely a foot away. When you glanced back to him at the movement, you could have sworn that his eyes were on your lips for the most fleeting of moments.
He couldn't put his other hand on your bad shoulder, so instead he rested it on your knee before he answered properly. "You're not weak."
You blinked.
Brian wasn't one to dish out compliments, and though it was one, he said it matter-of-factly. Your thoughts went to Harry and Lily, grasping for his meaning. It hit you rather quickly - Harry had been on steroids, Lily had been an alcoholic. You, on the other hand, were only under the influence of trauma. And you were shocking even yourself with how well you were handling the things you'd seen, the things you'd done. Was that what he meant?
"And besides." He continued, grip on you squeezing gently to get your attention, "There's other ways this can go."
You frowned at him. "What?"
"We don't know what happened to Lily." His eyes bore into yours.
What he said about Lily was true, you realised. Things sure hadn't looked good for her, being coerced into madness and crime by a sociopath in a mask. You'd assumed that Masky had killed her, but now you realised that both him and Brian had to have ended up the way they were by some means. Maybe she'd been... recruited? After all, hadn't that been the original plan for Harry?
You swallowed thickly, trying to grasp what that meant. Being one of... whatever they were. A forced member of a cult - with the way Brian talked and acted, it seemed like he didn't make the choice for himself. For another candid moment, you found yourself wondering how long he'd been like this - one year? Two? Five? Moreover, had he tried to run from it, or lied down and accepted his forced fate? You weren't sure you wanted to know.
The thought of being forced into a life like his had literal bile rising in your throat from the fear and disgust, your heart thudding in your throat. You'd say you couldn't kill a person, but yet you already had. Maybe that was why it was taking an interest in you. But Hell, you didn't know jack shit about demons.
"To be honest, (y/n), I knew this was going to happen one way or another. You've been around me too long. The sickness is contagious in a way, it-"
"Stop talking." You cut him off harshly, rising to your feet with speed. You couldn't handle what he was saying, his gentle admission. You didn't have the energy to be angry at him right now, stalking back down the hallway. You just wanted to get away from him for the time being. You didn't want to be like him.
You didn't register which room you were headed to until you found yourself in the bathroom, hearing his heavy footfalls following behind you like a heavy ass dog. Your eyes landed on the symbols, slowly fading as the moisture cleared from the air, and you turned sharply on your heel. Your eyes landed on the doorway in the hall across from you, dark oak shut. Without thinking, you darted into Brian's room before he could catch up, locking the door behind you and ignoring his annoyed little "Seriously?!".
As Brian rattled on the handle with an audible tired sigh, you turned to survey the unfamiliar space - he always seemed to keep this door shut. You noted how clean it was compared to the rest of his apartment, bed made and carpet stain-free. It was fairly devoid of decoration, though, with dark blue walls left plain and only a bed, desk, and chest of drawers. It left the room feeling wonderfully spacious, which was admittedly just what you needed right now.
Brian ceased his momentary rattling on the handle, calling out exasperatedly from the other side of the door behind you, "(Y/n), you know I can pick locks, right?"
You merely snorted, not in the mood to say something snarky. The idea of him having to break into his own bedroom, when he was so used to breaking into other people's, was a little funny.
You heard him speak up again, "...oh my fucking god."
Upon hearing him mutter the uncharacteristically frustrated phrase, you couldn't help but laugh a little through your frail mental state. Sucks to suck.
Your eyes landed on the desk on one side of the room. You moved towards it, intrigued. Along with a retro dinosaur of a computer, there were pieces of paper stacked neatly on the surface of the desk. As you got closer, you realised what they were - black and white print outs of drivers licenses and passports belonging to people you didn't recognise. You ran a hand absently over one with a middle aged woman on it, frowning. These were unsettling, and had to be very illegal.
Were these papers Brian's records of his past targets? Echoing your previous thoughts about not wanting to kill people for a living, you wouldn't help but wonder how many of the people on these pieces of paper were now dead. Moreover, how many had died at his 'coworkers' hands, and how many had died at Brian's hand. Though you couldn't hate him for it, not anymore. You even felt a pang of empathy for the man, realising that he probably didn't want to kill most of them in the first place.
As you absently heard a faint clicking in the direction of the door, your eyes landed on a piece of paper closest to the worn keyboard. Another print out, this one of a drivers license. Yours, to be more specific. Your breath hitched as you reached for it, taking the thin sheet in your fingers. Your own face stared back at you in grainy ink, though this photo was taken over a year ago, before any of this had even begun. There were notes scribbled on the margins in red pen, you recognised Brian's handwriting. Details about you in his neat lettering - your old address, your phone number, email address, parent's names. The list went on.
You found yourself smiling at the paper. In the weirdest possible way, it was funny and a tiny bit adorable picturing Brian consulting this sheet of paper, coming back to write things about you whenever he found out new details through his months-long stalking process. He probably didn't need most of this info, but he wrote it down anyway, just incase the need arose. You wondered idly how much of this he had gathered in person, and how much he got through cyberstalking. You couldn't lie, beyond the inherent creepiness of it, you found his process just a bit fascinating. The man was stupidly intelligent, after all.
You placed the piece of paper back on the desk right as the door swung open. You turned in mild surprise to see none other than Brian, giving you a very unimpressed look from the doorway. His eyes flickered to the desk before you, then back up to you. As he surveyed the scene, you tensed a little, preparing to be yelled at or manhandled back into the other room.
However, he only sighed as he moved towards you, stopping a few feet away. "You having fun there?" His eyes moved pointedly to the papers on his desk. He wasn't mad. Good.
You gave him a hard look, before turning back to the pieces of paper. "How many of them are there?"
You wanted to know. Morbid curiosity got the better of you, more poignant than ever now that he'd proposed the idea of you becoming one of them. You didn't even know how many people were in the demon's clutches, let alone how many they could have slaughtered.
"About one hundred."
You shook your head at his blunt answer, "Jesus Christ."
Brian made a small hum in solidarity, he knew how grim it sounded. Once again, you found yourself feeling bad for the murderer beside you. You couldn't fathom keeping track of that many deaths, and not even knowing the reason why they had to die. He was just a grim reaper, going about his business with no control over the who or the why.
You'd been staring at the papers for an unnaturally long time now, feeling the sadness that practically radiated off of them. You could feel Brian's gaze boring into your head. Your breathing was beginning to quicken again, momentary lapse of awe wearing off.
You felt a soft pressure on one of your hands, he'd taken it into his own to ground you. "Hey, it's okay."
He deliberated for a moment before speaking again. "I'll tell you what, let's go get some air."