𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

50

A/N:
It's midnight out here so I apologize for any mistakes in this chapter because I'm mad disoriented right now. I'll edit out mistakes later, so please bear with me <3 also, vote and comment? ily guys sm

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I GAZED AT HIM, HIS FAIR FACE-bruised at the forehead-was settled in a serenity. His lips were slightly parted, and his breaths were coming in fine-normal. His eyes moved ever so slightly underneath his lids, before they would go still again, and occasionally, he would make an unconscious sound in between his steady breathing with a subtle flare of his nostrils.

I didn't know how long I had been staring at him now. Had I even looked at anything else?

All throughout the process of managing to get him out of the guestroom at Megan Fox's mansion. Trippie Redd, Carter and Woods pushing him out the window while Pete Davidson and Hernandez caught him from below.

The plan had gone to shreds, yet even without the distraction, we had managed to get out, because it had gotten late and the little remaining security stationed outside had been easy to tread past-drunk and occupied as they had become.

All throughout the process, my eyes hadn't left Machine Gun Kelly's form.

It was later now-two hours past midnight to be exact-and we were back at Carter's mansion, in his spacious yet empty basement with makeshift chains to hold Machine Gun Kelly's slumped form in place against the wall on his knees.

I exhaled slowly as I thought back to the night escapade, dunking the cotton pad into a small jar of ethanol as I lifted it up to lightly dab at the bruises that I had given him.

Sitting on my bare knees on the cold basement floor while my child's father was chained to the wall by his limbs in front of me, head slumped over-I must look like a sight. Like a tragic picture from one of Shakespeare's plays-the kind he wrote and scrapped for fear of traumatizing the theatre with the brilliance of his tragical mind. A play that was so wretched, that it didn't make the cut.

I had cleaned the blood off his face-mostly-and his forehead wounds were drying up, the skin around them turning slightly purple as a layer of brown crust fought to form.

"You keep this shit up and he's going to wake up and see you right in his face," Trippie Redd broke the silence then.

I turned my head to see him standing taut at the entrance of the basement, thick arms folded across his puffed out chest. He hadn't changed from the iridescent suit he had worn to the masquerade party-none of us had changed, well except for Carter perhaps, who was already sauntering about his mansion upstairs wearing a Gucci tracksuit at this ungodly hour of the night.

But so preoccupied in my thoughts was I that I hadn't heard Trippie Redd walk into the basement.

"He isn't going to fucking die from being knocked out, Davina," The rapper scoffed. "Kelly's the kind of motherfucker who'll require more than vases and centerpieces to kill. Take it from me."

I didn't respond, focusing my attention on cleaning Colson's wound.

"Hi, Machine Gun Kelly. It is nice to see you again."

After two years of being dead to him, these were the words I'd spoken in his face. Did I even deserve to call him anything other than Machine Gun Kelly anymore?

I had wanted to say his name, so much, but all that had come out of my mouth in its frenzied panic was Machine Gun Kelly.

But at least, I can call him Colson inside my head.