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“…I should’ve known, you know.”
Matthew can’t help but notice his voice shaking as he shifts in his seat, eyes loosely cast sideways on the clear, black marble of the floor. His face twitches nervously.
“I… I had thought about it, actually,”
He mutters, biting his lower lip as he gently grips the sides of the chair with thin, pale hands.
“But I… I t-thought it was different, you know? Thought… you were different.”
His voice echoes in the big chamber, once so vibrant with warmth and emotion, yet now only dark and hollow and cold as ice.
“And… and I wanted to believe that, and uh… I thought I could believe that, I can believe that, because… well. Because I felt I could.”
Finally bringing himself to focus his gaze, he glances forward to the man standing a few meters ahead of him, below the stairs that lead up to his throne. Even in the eerie, cool glow of the chamber, the rich blonde stood out like a bonfire in a night desert.
“But I guess…”
Matthew swallows, feeling his heart painfully clench at the cold gray eyes of the opposite man. He attempts to smile, to bring up something warm from the opposite face, the cold mask so unfamiliar and strange to him.
“I guess I was wrong.”
The man doesn’t move, and so does the glinting silver pistol in his left hand. It stays there calm and unwavering, and Matthew wonders if he has ever done this before.
“I…”
Matthew clears his throat, looking down, trying not to gaze at the shining death presented in front of him.
“I…”
He tries again, hands gripping the chair tightly as he hears his voice break a little.
“I-I should’ve seen it coming, right?”
Glancing up again, he meets the gray eyes. A sad smile slowly makes its way to Matthew’s face, but the face in front of him doesn’t change. It wears the same, stern mask that emits nothing, gives out nothing.
Letting out a shaky breath, Matthew stands up from his throne. His thin fingers drift up to his collars and he unbuckles the clasp, letting the heavy cloak fall to the ground with a soft thud. Swallowing hard, he slowly starts to descend the marble stairs. He can feel the other man’s gaze burning into him, soaking in every movement, every angle.
Matthew had survived everything. He went through hundreds of assassins in his bedrooms, thousands of poisoned foods around, countless death threats day and night. He had survived them all, and thus, he remained the king. He was strong, and thus, he ruled. He was the strongest man in the whole kingdom, feared and respected by all men. He was the fighter, the survivor, and he had lived long enough to establish a stable reign in this hellhole of a peninsula.
And… he couldn’t go down like this. It makes no sense. It makes no sense that, amongst all the people that he had in his entire life, the one that he finally chose to trust with all his heart had to be the man who finally managed to point a gun at his heart. It feels unfair. It feels tragic.
And yet again, Matthew guesses that is the whole purpose of it.
“Dom—“
The name triggers something deep inside his chest, and Matthew has to stop because, he feels he might burn from the inside, something painfully warm rising from his chest to his throat. He reaches the end of the staircase, and is just a few steps away from the gunpoint that still stays unmoving, shining so innocently like a silver star in a pitch-black sky. He’s shivering, small tremors shaking his small body, and he just lets it show.
He never let his weakness show, never let himself slip. Never has anyone near him seen him cry or shake or sigh in despair. He was known as being built with steel, cold and unbending and unbreakable. He would only ever break down, only ever let himself cry next to one man, the man who stands now in front of him. The man who’s seen him in his weakest, his lowest. The man who saw him shiver in fear and sob in pain and whimper in desperation. The thought of trying to hide those right now feels stupid and absurd. It even feels comical. And he doesn’t want to live his last moments faking something when the other man already knows his true self.
Dominic stands still, left arm stretched out with the pistol in hand. His right hand hangs loosely at his side. With a jolt of pain in his chest, Matthew acknowledges how beautiful he still looks in the dim light of the room. How the shadows create sharp angles on his delicate face and his gray eyes glint like the moon.
Matthew could ask him questions. Could ask him who he’s with — the Wolstenholmes? The Kirks? Will it make things better? Instead, he takes an uneasy step forward, blinking rapidly as the first drop of tears rolls down his cheeks.
“Dom, I—“
…!
First it’s shock, then numbness, then pain. A soft, strangled moan escapes Matthew’s lips as a rich, red stain begins to blossom in his chest, slowly soaking the silky white fabric of his shirt. Pain quickly penetrates his body and he feels suddenly very, very cold. Matthew watches the gun slowly go down as Dominic lowers his arm. His face is still unreadable — yet something is off. Distorted, broken. Twisted.
“I—“
Matthew’s throat begins to fill with a sharp, metallic taste. Everything hurts.
“I love you.”
His vision blurs as he weakly collapses, blood filling his mouth, yet he never reaches the ground. Firm arms encircle him and gently guide him to the floor, the warmth so blinding and sudden like a spark of fire. With all his strength, Matthew looks up, his face wet with sweat and tears. He manages to smile.
“I love you.”
Dominic’s mask finally breaks, and Matthew sees something crystal clear fall from his perfect eyes. He feels himself getting colder, the surroundings zoning out as the only things he could feel are Dominic’s firm arms around him, holding him tight like the countless times he did.
“Me too.”
Matthew’s blue eyes flash and his lips part in surprise, a sudden surge of realization and accusation, yet so soon his body goes limp and his head weakly rolls against Dominic’s arms. With shaking arms, Dominic drags the limp body closer, hugging it tight, the wet blood soaking his clothes. His left hand still holds the gun.
“Me too…”
The silver barrel fits perfectly in his mouth.
And the last note of their song echoes in the hollow chamber.
.
.
.
“What do you mean, he’s dead?”
“We found him—“
“I told you, I made sure that I wanted him alive, haven’t I made that clear?”
“Yes sir, but—“
“I said, I wanted him alive! I want him at my feet and I’ll bleed the shit out of him until he begs from his filthy mouth!”
“I— I know, sir, but he was already dead when we found him—“
“Already dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He killed himself?”
“No, sir, not like that.”
“Then how, pray tell me, was he found dead, you idiot?”
“He— Howard had killed him, it seemed.”
“Howard? Who— you mean the whore?”
“Well.. um. Yes, sir.”
“And where is he now?”
“He’s dead too, sir. Shot both of them in the chamber.”
“Filthy thing.”
“...”
“...”
“...”
“Clean up the chamber. Get rid of the bodies. Throw them in the river, feed them to the beasts, I don’t care. Get the room cleaned and ready for me. It’s a pity that Bellamy never got to enjoy all the little tortures I planned for him.”
“I… Yes, sir.”
“Bellamy should count himself lucky. That whore of his had enough sense to spare him from my hands by finishing him off by himself. Bold thing.”