METHOD OF MADNESS ━ 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 ¹ (Under editing)

𝓋𝒾. 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓇𝓉𝓎-𝓉𝓌𝑜: black star day

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : blackstar - david bowie

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

vi. thirty-two: ❝black star day❞

✵✵✵

Small heath, Birmingham

The night before had been an unremarkable blur of intimacy. Thomas and Marianna lay entwined in his bed, their bodies buried beneath a heap of blankets. Their hands roamed over each other's forms, fingers tracing and memorizing every inch of bare skin. The air was thick with their murmured names, a desperate attempt to cling to the fleeting melody of their union.

Mari, Tommy, Mari, Tommy.

Yet, despite the tender familiarity, Marianna was wracked with fear.

She told herself she was ready, that she wasn't afraid, but her heart belied her resolve. She clung to the hope that their joy would persist if they stayed cocooned together.

"I must get up." Tommy grumbled, reluctantly easing himself away from her warm embrace.

"Can't the day's star delay his departure for just another hour?" Marianna purred, wrapping the covers tighter around her bare torso.

"I'd love to, if only John and Arthur would rise from their slumber." He paused to pull on his black trousers, a look of mild frustration crossing his face. Marianna chuckled softly at his exasperation.

"I suppose they might if they knew what day it is." She teased.

A playful smirk tugged at Thomas's lips, his curiosity piqued. "And what day would that be, then?"

Marianna met his gaze with a steady look. In his eyes, she saw the stark, turbulent blue of a man unsettled. As he waited, his breath steady and measured.

"Black Star Day. The day a bullet will find Kimber's thick skull." Her tone was unflinching, her words a grim prophecy.

She had glimpsed the future in a haze of gunfire and saw a body being dragged away—dead, but the face remained a blur. She felt a shiver of dread, an unsettling realization of her lack of control over the unfolding chaos.

The lines had been drawn, the roles assigned, and the war must reach its inevitable conclusion.

All she could do was brace herself for the inevitable clash, waiting with a mixture of fear and resignation until the final battle was upon them.

✵

The Garrison had barely opened its doors for the day. Marianna lingered within, her finger tracing patterns on the glossy wood countertop as she fiddled with the beer pump. The comforting hum of Harry's cheerful whistling was a small balm to her fraught nerves.