Breathe (Tronnor One-Shots)

Love You To Death

Genre: Wtf did I write um warning for non-graphic mentions of murder and also I love this one so much, despite it's... oddity. Stylistically some of the best writing I've done.

Word Count: 3.7k

He tells you to stop and for a second you almost listen. Maybe it's the tone of his voice or the rise in pitch over the words he uses to plead with you. Maybe it's the way his eyes go wider as he lifts his hands, palms out in a gesture of surrender. Maybe it's the way you love him more than almost anything.

You don't, though- stop. You pause, at best, and turn your head to look at him, but it doesn't last long before you start up again. Beneath you, the man begins to scream again.

His voice is more demanding this time, a command rather than the plea it was just moments before. You almost listen now, too. You still don't stop.

The man stops screaming, though, and you wonder briefly if he thought he was talking to him, not you, before you pull back and stare down at the work you have done. The man is not breathing, not moving, and you realize this is why he is no longer making a sound.

You move your hands into your line of sight, eyeing the blood that coats them like thin red gloves. You smile, a small thing, and laugh like you've just been told the world is ending. And then- You turn, lift your head, your eyes, and you see the way he's looking at you.

He pleads once more, hands falling to his sides, and this time you do listen. With a final glance at the body beneath your feet, you walk away.

You almost miss the breath of relief he lets out when he sees that you're leaving, but you don't because you never miss a thing, no matter how small. You throw him a glance over your shoulder, eyes narrowing, but you say nothing as you swing the door to the convenience store open and step outside.

You feel nothing.

.

The first time you see him, you can't take your eyes off of him. You watch with bated breath from the comfort of your screens as he moves over the stage, bending down to prod at the last star of your show with a single gloved hand. He shakes his head, covers his mouth, and then shifts off camera.

You feel like you've lost something when he's gone and there's an overwhelming urge to chase it, to follow after him. You don't, staring absently at your screens as the officers- unpaid extras in your masterpiece -clean up after your day's work.

You don't forget him, though. You never will.

.

You're not sure where to go, after. You wander the streets for a few hours in a mindless haze of snow crunching underfoot and cars loudly whizzing by. Somehow, you end up on the Brooklyn Bridge, staring down at the water below with a dazed kind of fascination.

For a moment, you think about holding someone down under it, their body thrashing under your godly hands before they're instantaneously gone, just like the man in the convenience store and the dozens before him. For a moment, you can feel the rush in your veins and the urge to find someone to do just that, the tingling in your fingertips imploring you to wrap them around another's throat. For a moment, that's all your mind can focus on.

And then, suddenly, a single flicker of glimmering clarity where it is not your next victim, the next star of your show, who is drowning- dying. It's you and, God, for the first time in what must be forever you can feel that distant tingle of joy again. You never realized how much you missed it until now.

You want to hold onto it, want to cling to it and chase after it just like you did him that first time you ever saw him. This is what leads you to step up onto the railing, still staring fixedly at the churning tide raging so close and yet so far from your feet. There's a rush of wind on your face and the smell of the water hits you nearly as hard as the feeling that cascades across you, warm and exhilarating like nothing you've ever felt before.