“Easier.”
He smiled.
(I hope it'll never get truly easy for you.)
“It gets easier, yeah. I- you know, I wasn’t really… sure what I would’ve done if I made it out. I’m pretty sure you have more of a future than I do, anyways.”
He was going to die anyways. And maybe, just maybe, he could at least get the most he could out of it.
“So here’s my request, well- I do have two. So you can pick which one.”
“First- I want… well, I’d say that I want Lucia to survive, but, face it- if she lives, then you probably wouldn’t, so I don’t think you’d try to protect her if you actually went through with your reward or whatever. That’s the odds. So…”
He frowned, racking his head for foggy ideas.
“Say ‘thank you’ to Emmy, alright?”
This time, his smile was almost real.
“She’s a good kid. And the only one who’d get out of this safe- physically, at least. I want… I know it’s hard for her. And I know she’s going to be worried for you. And Bacchia.”
He touched the noose with his fingertips.
“Promise me that, alright?”
…
“And, I want you to do to me what I did to Calla after I’m gone.”
(Give an inch, he took a mile.)
Hang on.
CW: suicidal imagery, hanging
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The Honeless Beard
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Ivan squinted at Vasily as the rope continued to swing, occasionally cutting off his vision from Vasily’s eye - and socket - at once. It took effort not to track that grungy, sea-stained white rope, keep his left eye from wandering, and face the soon-to-be corpse in front of him.
He said nothing for a long time, letting the creak, creak fill in whatever counted as silence in this place. The entire flotilla was constantly moving, boats bumping jetties bumping other jetties, a long chain of shockwaves that were felt and flowed throughout the entire arena. Sound travelled over water, and the absence of it was one that had blood rushing to his ears, familiar exhaustion creeping over his muscles, threatening to take him.
“And that was?” he responded.
(Thanking a loved one wasn’t such a chore.)
He said nothing for a long time, letting the creak, creak fill in whatever counted as silence in this place. The entire flotilla was constantly moving, boats bumping jetties bumping other jetties, a long chain of shockwaves that were felt and flowed throughout the entire arena. Sound travelled over water, and the absence of it was one that had blood rushing to his ears, familiar exhaustion creeping over his muscles, threatening to take him.
“And that was?” he responded.
(Thanking a loved one wasn’t such a chore.)
“Calla, I- I freaked out. And I saw her, dead, after Bacchia killed her and after I killed Seth, and I- I sort of, uh…”
Was that embarrassment he was feeling, now?
“I cut her open. And I took her apart. I turned her into a display.”
…
“I thought it would make me- stronger, I guess. I thought that I would- fuck, I’m confiding in you out of all people- I thought it would make me used to the violence, if I expose myself to it enough. And I guess I thought that it would… leave Calla a legacy that she wanted. But I… I mean, I guess I felt like i deserve this. I don’t know why. I don’t believe in reincarnation or karma or whatever.”
…
“Anyways, I-”
(He felt dizzy. So, so, dizzy. And sleepy. He wanted to close his eyes and drift away. He was hungry and thirsty and tired. And he wanted to go home.)
“I guess this is it, so, um.”
He shuddered and leaned on Ivan.
“Tell Emmy she’s doing good, and get a good night’s sleep, alright? Take care of- of yourself, and those around you. Self-care. Blah blah blah. Whatever. To whoever’s watching this, turn the TV off and go drink water, walk around a bit, take your pills, and do your work. I dunno, I’m just- I’m just trying to be good when I know I’m not.”
A single, bloodshot eye scanned the room. Dark and dusty and stained with blood. It was a nice place for a funeral, he thought, that he and Ivan made together. He chose this death for a reason- why he didn't bash his head into the wall until it cracked the momeny he knew it was all over, he wasn't sure, but he felt like this was home. Like Ivan was helping him return to somewhere he hadn't been in a long time.
…
(“Anya, Mama, I hope you’ll miss me.”)
Was that embarrassment he was feeling, now?
“I cut her open. And I took her apart. I turned her into a display.”
…
“I thought it would make me- stronger, I guess. I thought that I would- fuck, I’m confiding in you out of all people- I thought it would make me used to the violence, if I expose myself to it enough. And I guess I thought that it would… leave Calla a legacy that she wanted. But I… I mean, I guess I felt like i deserve this. I don’t know why. I don’t believe in reincarnation or karma or whatever.”
…
“Anyways, I-”
(He felt dizzy. So, so, dizzy. And sleepy. He wanted to close his eyes and drift away. He was hungry and thirsty and tired. And he wanted to go home.)
“I guess this is it, so, um.”
He shuddered and leaned on Ivan.
“Tell Emmy she’s doing good, and get a good night’s sleep, alright? Take care of- of yourself, and those around you. Self-care. Blah blah blah. Whatever. To whoever’s watching this, turn the TV off and go drink water, walk around a bit, take your pills, and do your work. I dunno, I’m just- I’m just trying to be good when I know I’m not.”
A single, bloodshot eye scanned the room. Dark and dusty and stained with blood. It was a nice place for a funeral, he thought, that he and Ivan made together. He chose this death for a reason- why he didn't bash his head into the wall until it cracked the momeny he knew it was all over, he wasn't sure, but he felt like this was home. Like Ivan was helping him return to somewhere he hadn't been in a long time.
…
(“Anya, Mama, I hope you’ll miss me.”)
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The Honeless Beard
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“I promise,” Ivan said, nodding to the boy - socket gleaming in the soft yellow light, standing awkwardly on the chair, the noose dangling between them.He grabbed the noose with one hand, slid it over Vasily’s neck, tightened it.
“You ready?” he asked, and kicked the chair out.
“You ready?” he asked, and kicked the chair out.
“Well,” he said, “It doesn’t really matter if I’m ready, right?”
And then his throat closed off.
He kicked the air- out of instinct more than anything, even when it wouldn’t save him. Nothing would save him. He's made his decision to march and he's made his decision to die here, drifting in the sea to the swinging of the rope and a silent collar below the harsh fabric digging into him.
Vasily didn’t know what hanging felt like, but he always thought it would be fast. Just drop from the table and let gravity do the work.
It wasn’t fast. It didn’t feel like a method of execution, it felt like torture, like Ivan was right there, pressing his big fingers into his pale throat, squeezing too tight but not tight enough to end it.
He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.
It wasn’t over yet. Why wasn’t it over yet?
He kicked the air- out of instinct more than anything, even when it wouldn’t save him. Nothing would save him. He's made his decision to march and he's made his decision to die here, drifting in the sea to the swinging of the rope and a silent collar below the harsh fabric digging into him.
Vasily didn’t know what hanging felt like, but he always thought it would be fast. Just drop from the table and let gravity do the work.
It wasn’t fast. It didn’t feel like a method of execution, it felt like torture, like Ivan was right there, pressing his big fingers into his pale throat, squeezing too tight but not tight enough to end it.
He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.
It wasn’t over yet. Why wasn’t it over yet?
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Ivan’s eyes widened as he realized his mistake, and thought of Keegan, the first time he’d tried to snap a neck and failed. He heaved out a small annoyed huff, watched Vasily choke, flail, and shook his head, once.
Because that made stars pop behind his eyes, he walked to where the noose was secured - around one of the support struts of the cabin, tied tightly - and pulled downwards, lifting Vasily another inch. Giving the rope two more yanks, he made himself a makeshift seat, sat down on it.
The tension kept him off the ground, and now Vasily was five, six feet in the air, silver hair nearly brushing against the ceiling as the smaller boy thrashed.
Ivan crossed a foot over a knee, watched.
Because that made stars pop behind his eyes, he walked to where the noose was secured - around one of the support struts of the cabin, tied tightly - and pulled downwards, lifting Vasily another inch. Giving the rope two more yanks, he made himself a makeshift seat, sat down on it.
The tension kept him off the ground, and now Vasily was five, six feet in the air, silver hair nearly brushing against the ceiling as the smaller boy thrashed.
Ivan crossed a foot over a knee, watched.
The last thing that he ever wanted to say was ‘thank you'- the result of a dying, oxygen deprived mind and sheer relief that he felt, borderline ecstasy, like the whole weight of his sins was hauled off of his shoulders.
And it’s not like he could say it, anyways. Not when the noose was digging into his neck, even tighter.
He looked at Ivan. And he knew that if he asked, with wobbly hands, for it to be ended more quickly it wouldn’t work anyways so-
So he closed his eyes and he stopped trying to breathe and he just let himself go loose, like a puppet with its strings cut, just swinging from the rope. Back and forth, back and forth. He thought of a thousand last words and couldn’t say any of them, didn't want to because he wanted to die quiet. He thought that he’d cry when he died, but he didn’t. All he did was choke.
And it’s not like he could say it, anyways. Not when the noose was digging into his neck, even tighter.
He looked at Ivan. And he knew that if he asked, with wobbly hands, for it to be ended more quickly it wouldn’t work anyways so-
So he closed his eyes and he stopped trying to breathe and he just let himself go loose, like a puppet with its strings cut, just swinging from the rope. Back and forth, back and forth. He thought of a thousand last words and couldn’t say any of them, didn't want to because he wanted to die quiet. He thought that he’d cry when he died, but he didn’t. All he did was choke.
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The Honeless Beard
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Ivan worked his pinky fingernail into the F on his forehead, digging into the flesh, creating a fresh cut once more. It was tradition, after all. Couldn’t stop tradition.
Vasily choked. Ivan scratched. The rope creaked. Eventually, Ivan couldn’t watch anymore, even as Vasily faced him, got caught, continued to face him. Ivan stared a hole into the cabin floor, and Ivan scratched.
Vasily choked. Ivan scratched. The rope creaked. Eventually, Ivan couldn’t watch anymore, even as Vasily faced him, got caught, continued to face him. Ivan stared a hole into the cabin floor, and Ivan scratched.
There wasn’t really a discernable point where he transitioned from limpness to unconsciousness, and from unconsciousness to death. Not like the average viewer would see, anyways. If he was watching his own death, from the perspective of a fan, he would most likely point out a variety of factors- the way that the camera angle wasn’t optimized for shooting the death, and how the editors painstakingly cut and edited and modified the footage to make hanging look much more romanticized and a lot less human than it really is- because that’s how TV does things, really, it cuts out the undesirable parts, the blood and piss and shit and the decomposition of the body, how the skin goes pale and the stomach begins to bloat, and the Vasily watching from the screen was fascinated with how they did that.
But he wasn’t here, and he couldn’t watch this, and all that Vasily’s family did was cry as he swung.
(They won't even point out the little smile on his blotched face.)
And then, they’ll move on. Just like the rest of the world. And they’ll forget him, and maybe, just maybe, that’s OK.
He’s done stalling his time on this earth, anyways.
(It's been a long journey, and we all need our rests.)
"So that's it?"
"Yeah."
"Underwhelming."
But he wasn’t here, and he couldn’t watch this, and all that Vasily’s family did was cry as he swung.
(They won't even point out the little smile on his blotched face.)
And then, they’ll move on. Just like the rest of the world. And they’ll forget him, and maybe, just maybe, that’s OK.
He’s done stalling his time on this earth, anyways.
(It's been a long journey, and we all need our rests.)
"So that's it?"
"Yeah."
"Underwhelming."
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The swaying, creaking rope continued for a long while as Ivan stared at the floor, waiting for something, anything. The stars behind his eyes had finally calmed from the hard head shake and he slowly, carefully, lifted them to meet the glassy single eye of Vasily. A long, quiet moment followed as he looked at the corpse - a corpse, now, not a human - before rising from his seat abruptly.
The sudden force had the rope jarring, Vasily falling to his knees, toes lightly grazing the floor as Ivan stepped around Vasily, cupping his head with both hands. Eyes closed, frown etched into his features, he pressed his forehead to Vasily's, nose to nose, an intimate, connected gesture.
When they separated, there was a backwards bloody F on Vasily's head, a dark mirror of his own.
Ivan stepped back, leaned against the opposing wall, and slid down it until his knees were bent, elbows resting atop them. Exhaustion filled his vision, his lungs, his limbs, and he fought it off - not in front of the cameras - exhaling it into the world.
"Batemans," Ivan said, "Highchurches, Rubuses. If you're watching - fuck, even if you ain't, you're going to see it - I have some shit to say to you about your twerp fucking children.
"I'm going to kill them. Each of them. I'm going to cut them, gun 'em down, strangle 'em, beat 'em up. I'm going to take my fucking pound of flesh and mark each and every one of 'em, and I bet most people won't even blame me for it.
"But I won't make you watch... whatever the fuck Vasily did to Calla. I won't do that. He's - that's pretty fucked up, man. I don't know how someone does that to fuckin' - people they knew. I don't know it.
"So consider this my own - whatever - parental advisory. You're gonna watch me kill your fucking kids, but you won't watch me mutilate them. That's all the courtesy I have."
He straightened, reaching down amidst shattered glass - Vasily's head had cracked two of the five windows in the cabin - before scooping up Vasily's eyepatch, dusting it off. Gently, he fit it over Vasily's vacant socket, closed his other eye.
It didn't take long for him to find a large white canvas sheet - spare sail for the small sailboat they found themselves on. Shorter still to find a can and a half of orange spray paint - safety orange, glittery at night.
When Ivan left the sailboat, Vasily's pack slung over his shoulder, he left behind a makeshift banner.
RESPECTS:
VAS HERE
LOVE IVAN
The sudden force had the rope jarring, Vasily falling to his knees, toes lightly grazing the floor as Ivan stepped around Vasily, cupping his head with both hands. Eyes closed, frown etched into his features, he pressed his forehead to Vasily's, nose to nose, an intimate, connected gesture.
When they separated, there was a backwards bloody F on Vasily's head, a dark mirror of his own.
Ivan stepped back, leaned against the opposing wall, and slid down it until his knees were bent, elbows resting atop them. Exhaustion filled his vision, his lungs, his limbs, and he fought it off - not in front of the cameras - exhaling it into the world.
"Batemans," Ivan said, "Highchurches, Rubuses. If you're watching - fuck, even if you ain't, you're going to see it - I have some shit to say to you about your twerp fucking children.
"I'm going to kill them. Each of them. I'm going to cut them, gun 'em down, strangle 'em, beat 'em up. I'm going to take my fucking pound of flesh and mark each and every one of 'em, and I bet most people won't even blame me for it.
"But I won't make you watch... whatever the fuck Vasily did to Calla. I won't do that. He's - that's pretty fucked up, man. I don't know how someone does that to fuckin' - people they knew. I don't know it.
"So consider this my own - whatever - parental advisory. You're gonna watch me kill your fucking kids, but you won't watch me mutilate them. That's all the courtesy I have."
He straightened, reaching down amidst shattered glass - Vasily's head had cracked two of the five windows in the cabin - before scooping up Vasily's eyepatch, dusting it off. Gently, he fit it over Vasily's vacant socket, closed his other eye.
It didn't take long for him to find a large white canvas sheet - spare sail for the small sailboat they found themselves on. Shorter still to find a can and a half of orange spray paint - safety orange, glittery at night.
When Ivan left the sailboat, Vasily's pack slung over his shoulder, he left behind a makeshift banner.
RESPECTS:
VAS HERE
LOVE IVAN
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((Continued here))