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The Hour Of Death

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The world, he thinks with a sickening laugh, was cold. Far too cold. 

 

He breathes in, even if his world is alight with pain. He forces his eyes to gaze on-to the adoring face he would love to press soft kisses against. 

 

He opens his mouth which feels like it had been scraped repeatedly by sand paper, "I don't want to be just friends."

 

Those doe-like eyes widen, blinking owlishly and any other day he would have scoffed fondly, would have cornered the boy into a small, tight space where they would not be seen and kissed him senselessly. 

 

But today, is no such day. Today, all he feels is the harsh cold wind in him even as the sun blared brighter than ever. 

 

This is your punishment, the voice whispers to him as he walked away, dragging his feet which felt heavier than anything he had ever lifted. He had craved open his skin with the blade called Can, tore open his heart and left himself vulnerable for the beautiful boy in the shape of Can, to pick and cradle.

 

He had let the boy hold his heart gently in those hands, hoping with each passing days that it would not be squeezed and crushed by those lithe tan fingers. It had not been so for those days, and he had never felt so happier by it. The boy did hold his heart, carefully and walked with it with an alluring smile and innocent eyes.

 

He had thought, this was mine. This was something Tul nor anyone could ever hope to touch, it was only for him. God, please, let it be mine. 

 

Until today.

 

He slams the door of the sleek car shut. Gripping the handle of the wheel, he searches for the key on the cupboards, almost desperately ignoring the rapid knocks on his window. He can't let the boy see his redding eyes, he doesn't think he can bear to hear any of the honey-toned yet brash voice calling out for him. 

 

He can snarl at the other to get away, to shout at him to leave him to wallow in his own misery o even raise a hand against him but he couldn't bring himself to. Not even after his heart had been crushed into icy shards once again, the very concept of doing something remotely awful to Can and watch those wonderfully opal eyes wretch up in tears brings him to a halt. 

 

Pathetic, so pathetic. Where is your haughty attitude now? Where is your stingy insults against those beneath us now?

 

The voice is a poison next him, perched up on his shoulder like a death skull, whispering dark truths skillfully. He wants to claw it away from him, wants to strangle it to death so his head could finally be free but it always lingers, like a second shadow and he can do nothing but accept this too. 

 

He finally, finally finds the key and starts the key, almost stomping on the peddle too hard. Can almost rolls off the car, there's a tight hold on his heart that screams at him to look back, look back, he might be hurt—

 

He grits his teeth and slaps the thoughts away. This was no place to show weakness, he refuses to let himself be vulnerable again. Not when Can had promised to be different, not when he had been given so much hope. 

 

Everything feels far too numbing to him, like a pipe dream just out of reach from his golden hands. His hands are beginning to grow painful, each petal like finger shake with a sense of sobriety. When had that happened? 

 

He's inclined to drive faster, and wants to tear his skin apart in frustration when he sees that Can was still running after him in the rear window. 

 

Stupid, beautiful boy of mine. 

 

He groans, the choice weighs in his head as if there some secret Judge sitting upon a high table, a gavel in their black hands as they shout and argue about which one is the better evil. 

 

He doesn't get to choose as there's a bird smashing on his screen and he jumps in fright, his heart hammering as he comes to a stop. Another car zooms past him, narrowly avoiding in an collision, the sound of the it escalating and hitting a tree registers in his mind. The engine hums deeply and he takes in shaky breaths. 

 

The relief is palpable in him as he realizes there was no lasting damage done to him or his car and he turns back, looking behind the slightly cracked screen of the back window, cursing himself for caring about what happened to the boy that had broken his heart and—

 

He stills, the world suddenly coming to screeching halt as there's a scream. It sounds terrified and full of pain. 

 

The silence that comes is too deafening. 

 

The car hadn't hit a tree. It hadn't gone past him and slammed against a god forsaken tree. It had hit a boy. A boy who won't stop yammering over idiotic stuff or leech off food from others. It had hit his Can.

 

The small body lies unmoving on the road, eyes wide and the light shining on his paling face. His eyes never the crimson blood the seemed to trickle down, down, down towards him, the difference is stark to the ashy cement road. He cannot move.

 

It's as if his lungs fill with water and he feels himself drowning deep in it, unable to do nothing but sway along with the turbulent turrets. There is a hole inside of chest, one too close to his heart or maybe, that was where his heart was supposed to be? 

 

Your fault, the clipped voice sounding awfully like his brother whispers in his ears. Whatever you touch, comes to ruin. The husk of his brother tsks haughtily.

 

Yes, he defeatedly says, I only bring despair. 

 

Can is gone, he thinks, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. I'm alone. 

 

Each wavering, shaky breath comes out more difficult than before. Here he was, weak and despicable, unable to even open and the door and face what he had done. Once he had believed his brother that he would never do anything worthy and would be a miserable bastard, unlearnt it as he grew older but now, he believes his brother more than ever. 

 

The world is cold, he thinks. 

 

The moment is broken as someone raps on his window hurriedly and he rips his eyes away from the agonizing sight (I'm so sorry—), the world suddenly spins with unshed tears in his eyes and—

 

He wakes up, gasping for breath and scrambling for something he doesn't think he can reach for anymore. The alarm blares loud beside him on the bed table, the sun is still low hanging in the sky with a deep red ray and everything feels too entirely real. 

 

It had been an dream, he convinces himself it had been a dream. A haunting, terrifyingly painful dream and he never wants to have it again. 

 


 

He confesses again, with each word his hope wavering because everything is just the same as the dream. 

 

He leaves stony faced, his heart breaking into pieces yet again just like the dream and watches as the car storms past him again, and hits something with a disgusting crunch. He watches the blood crawl towards him, like an invisible hand reaching out to him and he realizes with a guttural sob, this one wasn't a dream. 

 

He learns what death is.

 

Death is despairing and painful, a mockery of life that failed to imitate correctly. 

 

He wakes up to the sound of the alarm again and screams. 

 


 

Why? Why? 

 

This time, he doesn't confess, let alone meet with him. His heart is too heavy and he does not think he would be able to watch the blinding smile directed towards him again. He goes away on his own work, pushing out all the life around him and acts as before. 

 

The cold blooded prince with no smile to spare. 

 

It does not matter what he does, it seems. 

 

He still watches as his beloved runs towards him, a bright happy look illuminated on his face by the light, no doubt to leech off from him again and he can't help the small quirk of his lips. The fondness inside of him reaches his eyes and he momentarily forgets all that was, forgets the pain and the unbelievable things that are happening to him. 

 

In that moment, all he can think of is, Can, Can, my lovely Can—

 

It does not matter what he does. 

 

Can still lies pliant on the ground, his eyes wide and glazed over once more, the stark red against the bright sun and the blue dewy sky. The blood does not crawl towards him, it slides across his skin, splattered across his hands and face as he stands, perfectly frozen and just stares, and stares because—

 

Can is never rooted to one spot. He always fidgets and bounces about, yelping about how hungry he was or how he won one of his stupid games and it feels too surreal. Can should be moving, he should be getting up and laughing in his face, about how Tin is always so naïve to think he would let his free meal ticket go. 

 

But he's not moving anymore.

 

He's gone again.

 

He kneels down, his body suddenly so very weak. He does not care about the dirt clinging to his pants, does not care about the people screaming around him, panicking as they take in the after math of the accident. 

 

He eventually drags himself closer to Can, his wonderful beloved. The blood stains his pants, smears his hands with it slick substance and the urge to simply caress the boy came upon him in the moment of clarification. It's silly and stupid, something he would never do but he still reaches out and touches the tan skin, it's cold and soft, terrible in an nightmarish way and he recoils back from it, shocked at how much the coldness seeped inside his fingers.

 

He wakes up again and retches upon the cold vase sitting on his table top, clutching the sooth jade like a lifeline. 

 


 

He is tired, he can tell. 

 

Even when he had woken anew, his eyes had looked hollow, his shoulder drawn into a tense pact. He looked too much like his own father, whom had locked himself away in the office, caring none for the son he left to fend for himself. He wonders what had propelled the man to abandon him. 

 

Did he look too much like his mother? Did he remind the man how much he had failed his first wife? 

 

He can't recall a fond memory he had with his father. From day one to now, all he had seen were cold formal congratulations whenever he had managed to a report card full of As or when he had won several awards for exceptional performance. He cannot remember if his father had ever held him warm in his embrace, if he had ever stroked his black hair and muttered songs to his small ears, if he ever nuzzled his face and pressed a kiss. 

 

He looks, really looks into the mirror and all he can is his father's own gelid in his eyes. He can see the distinct blue-ish tint his father had in his eyes, he can see the high defined cheek bones only his father had and the sharp regal face. 

 

There was nothing of his mother in him. 

 

To be relieved or not, he did not know. 

 

He does not go to the University, opting to stay in his bed, and staring at the ceiling, wondering if anything would be ever different again or would it stay the same? Would he remain in whatever this was?

 

The maid knocks at his door, softly calling out, "Master Tin, it is time for your University. Would you like me to bring you your regular breakfast?" 

 

He startles out of his trance and mutters out with a surprisingly steady voice, "No, leave it. I won't be going today." 

 

He can practically feel the surprise from the other side of the door. He never missed any of his classes or arrive late at the University, always prim and proper decorum he maintained. It had been his own personal rule of some sorts, a determination to prove how better and worthier he was than his brother. 

 

It was again Can, who forced him to break not one but several of his rules lately. 

 

He turns still as his thoughts slither into the direction of his prominent trouble. 

 

Would things be different, if he didn't go at all?

 

He gets his answer at mid day as a calls rings his phone. He had taken several of his notes out, wanting to focus on his studies but all he had managed to get done was muse over what went wrong, why is this happening to me? Am I mentally unstable as my brother said I was?

 

Pete's mellow voice is hoarse as he hysterically says, "He's gone, Tin. Can's gone! He didn't see the car coming, god, if only I—"

 

He cannot bring himself to bring cut the call. Gripping the metallic black phone in his hands, he throws it against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces. 

 

The horrible ache gnaws away at his everything, it bears down on his shoulders heavy and pleased, as if amused at his endless suffering. The gaping wound in his heart seemed to grow larger, more bloodier and far more burning than ever. 

 

He closes his eyes and wakes up. 

 


 

It hurts, He keeps on falling and keeps on waking up, this is hell.

 

He wants to give up , wants to stay in his room trapped forever and he thinks, that maybe that would been a kinder hell. At least, this would be the hell where he did not need to see Can's face so pale and gaunt. It would have been kinder to let him rot away in a single corner than to make him feel the warm blood on his skin every time it happened. 

 

He sits on his bed, head burrowed in his hands. He feels he was run ragged, his bones felt like cinder ash and the loud piercing noise penetrating his mind does not seem to be normal. The buzzing, burning ache inside of him grows across his skin like patterns of flowers. 

 

Everything is silent for a moment, no sound except for his own whimpering until it isn't. The air breaks apart and there's something beside him, cold and unassuming. 

 

It's a person, he realizes. 

 

He can see a short tan body, his arms hanging around him almost uselessly. He wears a simple opal colored dress shirt with black pants. Somehow, the attire feels wrong as if it's not what he wears usually. 

 

It feels too elegant, far more displaced on the boy. 

 

What catches him off guard isn't the attire. It's that the boy has no face. There is no defining features on the face, no eyes nor nose, no lips nor eyebrows. Just an empty blank face. He looks like an unfinished doll, as if the painter struggled to come up with anything that would complete the face and simply grew frustrated with it, letting it tumble within the box of the unwanted. 

 

The noise grows louder, irritating and high pitched. He winces, cringing hard at the pain spreading across his head and wonders if he should shout for help. 

 

"Leave me alone." He whispers to the air and perhaps to this disfigured thing beside him. 

 

It stays quiet and it's another thing that grates on his nerves. The thing should be loud, should be making some kind of noise. It shouldn't just stay still and make no moves. It feels wrong.

 

"Why did you throw me away?" 

 

He freezes. 

 

The figure twitches and he unconsciously waits for the sound of wooden creaking to begin, almost convinced it had been something hand crafted delicately, the image of an rusted mannequin fleets across his mind. 

 

And maybe, he should be concerned that the thing just spoke, considering it has no mouth. It had been as if it spoke from within it's body, it's chest rumbling with each word.

 

It's arms weakly flop around, as if it's not used to using them. It turns it's unnatural face towards him, and he feels oddly bared down in front of it's unseeing gaze. He considers taking the lamp and whipping the thing across it's face but his own hands never move, his body locked in tight as he for the first time, begs for it to continue in his heart. 

 

"What?" He hisses.

 

"I loved you too. You left me there to rot." 

 

It says, sounding more humane and alive, the voice muffled by the rustles of the air con. It sounds tired. 

 

The phone rings, buzzing inside the cloth of his pants and this time he doesn't bother picking it up. He knows what it's for, he knows the end is near now but he needs to know, he's afraid that if he doesn't get his answers now, he might never will. 

 

"What do you mean? I—Who are you?!" 

 

He's near to shouting now, veins visible in his neck and he knows he must look like his father now, the visage of anger split on his face. 

 

The figure recoils, curling around it's self as if struck and the pure fear visible in it's tense body makes him freeze in his track and he— 

 

He—

 

He wakes up. 

 


 

Can was the autumn breeze that came about, joyful and laughful in the wind. He sits under the shade of his garden, surround by the aroma of the fresh minty leaves. Can was everything life was, he symbolized the brightness in the flowers, the lark bird's songs and the blue skies. 

 

In a morbid fasciation, as if a light had suddenly gone off, he realizes that Can was life.

 

That he, Tin Medthanan, was death.

 

All around him, everything had come to ruin in his presence. 

 

The 'thing' is back again, standing listlessly cowered in the corner, it looked as if it was afraid to breathe. He stared at it, he wants to open his mouth and shake it, begging for answers. But he refrains, the thing looked like as if it would blow away at the slightest of provocation. He felt as if he knew this thing, his heart thumbing in his chest each time it came around but not in unpleasantness. 

 

It haunts him, day and night, as if just on the edge of his conscience and refuses to leave. Like a leeching ghost who did not dare to wander away, consistently reminding that they were there t stay and plague you. 

 

It looks up, and he feels his breath stop. 

 

It's face was littered with words. Word's like, "Beloved." "Lovely." "Greedy." 

 

Each line, each stroke was deeply craved into's face, shining black and the red liquid sliding across it's face. It pained the creature, he realizes as he watched it writhe with each new word appearing on it's skin, like if someone was holding a knife and lovingly wrote with it. 

 

It seemed scared. 

 

It seemed sad. 

 

It seemed ironic, since it's horrific blank face would scare anyone and there's a sound that caught his mother's attention. It irritates him, he wants a moment of peace to himself without this thing bothering him and this damn noise the noise itself seemed to wedge inside of his ears and it wouldn't stop—

 

Oh. 

 

It was him. The sound was coming from him. 

 

He was crying. 

 

His mother drawed back away from him, ceasing her useless talks of parties and how he had to attend to show the world how the Medthanans were the successful ones while they weren't. 

 

She seemed horrified of him. She seemed scared too. 

 

(Was that all I was good for you? Was I a prize for your false freedom you gained from bearing a son? Did you ever love me for me?) 

 

They all feared him. Feared of what he had become, feared of what he would do to them if they did not comply to his demands and—

 

He's scared too. 

 

He wakes up. 

 


 

He's back here again, standing on-top of that damning side walk and still so hopelessly in love. His stupid, stupid, heart yearns for the love he knows he would not receive. 

 

He's bone-weary, he wants to weep in Can's arms, he wants him to hold him gently and lay soft caresses on his hair. He wants Can to kiss him tenderly as a lover would, he wants that brash voice to promise him comfort and gentleness. 

 

He wants, he wants. 

 

He talks to God, pleads him to give him salvation or closure, but the sky remains empty, and he takes his prayers away. 

 

"Tin?" 

 

Can's voice sounds so far away now. as if he's talking through a window, blurry and distant. 

 

I'm sorry I loved you, I have ruined you. 

 

"I—" He chokes, an avalanche seemed to tip over inside of him and he couldn't bring himself to put his words together. 

 

"I just—" He laughs, his smile watery as he tries to stop the incoming huffs of laughter but he's also crying, tears streaming down his face and he knows he must look bat-shit crazy right now but he wants, needs Can to know. 

 

"I just hoped that maybe, there would be a time where you would love me," It comes out oddly serene, the opposite of the war raging inside of him. 

 

He sounds utterly defeated. 

 

"That maybe, there will be days where I would wake up and see your face. Why did I even fall in love with you? You're everything I go against, everything I swore I hated. You—you wonderful, beautiful boy." 

 

He sobs, teeth clenching tight and his hands whitening with the strong grip. It feels freeing to let out his thoughts after so much of suffering, he had spent so much of his life taking blow after blow, each time the knife making it's way deeper inside of his hurt.

 

"I love you. I love you so, so much it pains me. There's not a day where I do not think of you, of your smile, of your neediness, of your everything. Perhaps it's punishment for everything I did not become, perhaps I wronged you too many times. I want you so much, I want to make you mine, mine—" 

 

"Enough." 

 

Can's eyes are wide, his eyelashes trembling and unlike his dead glazed stare before, he seems so alive right now. His eyes flutter and shine with emotions Tin cannot put name to, they glisten lovely with unshed tears. His cheek flush bright and his entire body seemed to vibrate within place. 

 

He's here; breathing and alive. 

 

"What—What's going on, Tin? Are you okay? I know I'm stupid and everyone says I can't read the room but you, you look like you are suffering so much. What happened, Tin?" 

 

Can's gaze is soft, concern welling up within those irises and he couldn't help but crumble at the sight of it. He's fought for so long, he has fought this war far too long. 

 

"Everything," He says, voice wavering, "Everything is so messed up, Cantaloupe. I—I can't explain it but I want you to know; I love you. That I tried my best" 

 

"Ai Tin, you're scaring me. What is going on?!" 

 

He shakes his head, gurgling down a sob and asks, "Do you love me?" 

 

Can recoils, shifting away from him and he wants to cry, please don't go, please— 

 

"Do you love me?" 

 

He waits. 

 

"Yes." 

 

He snaps his eyes towards the red flushed face. He can't believe, he can't believe—

 

He said yes—

 

He wakes and the creature is staring at his face, coiled around his body like a second skin, the word 'Death' ever so meticulously craved in it's skin. 

 

He asks, "I was doomed from the start, wasn't I?"

It doesn't answer.

 

It’s okay, he will wake up again.