Chapter Twenty
Declan
Fingersathiswaistand arm.Antonio smiling for the first time since before breakfast.Hesitant humor as they found their footing, ground steady.
Fantastic cars and long drives.
A familiar, acid tang, burned on Declan’s tongue.Just enough time to thinkoh no, and then the world twisted, crumpled around them.Once the vision triggered, there was no stopping it.No looking away.Nothemin any way that mattered.
Sepia washed reality.A sparse flat, worn in and threadbare.There’s a couch and an aged, scuffed coffee table on walked-thin carpet.A kitchen beyond, the counters littered with old takeout containers.
The kitchen’s not important.
What’s important is the skinny redhead on the couch, anxious and eager by turns.Or maybe that’s only something you imagine.You know why you’re seeing this.Watchinghim.You can’t do anythingbutwatch.Nothing but take in the spread on that coffee table.
You see a lighter, a spoon, a small twist of a bag.A water cup.There’s a strap for a thin arm that would be pale, if not for the red-brown haze that coats the world.
He’s still breathing.Still moving, too.You see his hands, made for detail work, sure on his tools.That metallic click clickclickof the lighter is his doing, as is the sigh of flame that follows.
The hiss of heating metal.Laughter, distantly, from outside in the hall.He’s alone in the flat, playing with things best done with friends.Friends who can do more than watch in helpless realization at the slide of a needle into his vein.The act itself isn’t shocking.You’ve seen it before.But you know why you’re seeing it now.
You aren’t here to watch.
Bliss, as it hits him, his features go soft.He tips his head back against the couch, lips parting.
You’re here towitness.
His body slumps, dead weight on flat cushions.His head lolls, unsupported, eyelids heavy.Not quite closed.
Minutes of silence, and you have no choice but to stare into that glassy, sightless gaze.
The world came back in full color between Declan’s tight, shallow breaths.The rigidity of deathsight faded as quickly as it came.Thirty seconds lost.Thirty seconds and so much more than that.
No screams.No fight.Not this time.
Just a man, quiet, who meant something to Antonio.A friend.Former lover, perhaps.Someone who mattered enough to be seen.
“I’m sorry.”Declan’s face settled into a careful, concerned mask, all level empathy.“He’s a friend of yours?”
Isstill.The red-haired man had time before he used.The vision had been too faded to be sooner.
Antonio clutched at him, his hands on Declan’s waist and arm turned bruising.Those lovely dark eyes burned with the suffocating anger roiling through the bond.Always anger, when the realization hit.
That was why bonds had time stipulations.Why sluagh were shunned andallowedthemselves to be.
Antonio wouldn’t lash out at him.Wouldn’t flinch the next they touched.Wouldn’t sayMurderpunkand meanmonster.
Declanbelievedthat.He had to.
“Thatasshole.”A snarl.Hurt, buried under it, dark and sharp.“He fuckingknowsthe shit that’s out there.Fuck.Fuck.”The anger twisted into something plaintive.“Why wasn’t anyone there?He fuckingknows.”
Why would he, instead ofhow could you, and it was distant enough from other reactions that Declan managed to bite back panic.This wasn’t about Declan.
Declan and hisdramatics.
“I don’t know, mo chuisle,” Declan murmured.He brushed his free hand against Antonio’s cheek.When had he started to shake?“I don’t know.”
“Shit.No.‘Course you don’t.I’m– FuckingReece.Christ.I just talked to him.I should have– Fuck.”He let go of Declan’s arm to rub, furiously, at his eyes.Fiery still, no matter how fragile he sounded.“I just– I need– Fuck if I know.”
