pairing: xiao/reader
rating: mature
summary: Any good man would’ve refused, said no without hesitation. But he’d stopped being good a long time ago. He looks up at you, meets your eyes in the dark. He’s got nothing left to lose. Nothing but himself. “Deal.”
notes: tried something different this time. this isn’t really a romance piece, and is more experimental, with slashes of horror. has hints of xiao/lumine.
also. happy 124th birthday georges bataille! this ones for u king <3
warnings for: gore, horror, character death, cannibalism. nothing too explicit, but tread carefully. as always, feel free not to read if any of the mentioned topics make you uncomfy.
He never once imagines he’ll ever dream again in this life. At one point, he’s convinced that he might’ve forgotten how, and he resigns himself to it, accepts his fate. But then it starts again, a few weeks ago, bits and pieces of a memory he’s long buried deep, coming and going.
Flashes of red, of spilled blood. The glint of a knife, glimmering in the pale moonlight. Flames that lick at the ground, burning everything to ashes. By the time he awakes, there’s nothing left. Not a memory, not even a piece to take with him.
He can’t tell if he should be grateful.
The dreams grow more and more frequent as each night passes by—lengthy and sharper, vivid with a clarity that feels much too real. And still, when he awakes, he can’t remember a single thing. All that’s left is the flash of red, haunts him even in his waking moments. There’s a part of him that wants it to stop. He doesn’t know who to ask.
Some nights, he remembers a little more than usual. Memories that unfurl bit by bit like a freshly bloomed flower, unlocking to form a bigger picture. But there’s no bigger picture, only a nightmare, slow to build, long and drawn-out. An agony all on its own.
And each time he awakes, the taste of copper clings to his tongue, salty and rusty like blood. He tries to wash it away with water, with anything he could get his hands on. Still, the taste sticks, as if sewn into his body, as if it’s another part of him entirely. He doesn’t like it.
In some dreams, he could hear screaming. Loud and shrill, earsplitting, calling his name. Some nights, the screaming grows softer, turns into a whisper, and yet each time, they keep asking him the same thing. Help and salvation. Hope. He runs toward the voices, but by the time he arrives, it’s already too late. He never sees anything but the sea of red, the pile of ashes scattered around like grains of sand.
He wakes up in despair each time. He doesn’t know why.
He ignores it at first, tells himself that it’s just a dream, over and over, that it can’t hurt him. And yet each time he awakes with the taste of copper in his mouth, he grows more and more uncertain. And now, he doesn’t know what to believe anymore.
-
Some nights, when he’s in her company, he feels a little less lonely, a little less afraid. Lumine is a kind soul, a great friend. With her, he doesn’t need to say a thing, doesn’t need to fill the silence with small talks, casual conversations—meaningless in the long run. Some nights, they spend the night in bed, without words. He lets himself be touched, be soothed. He lies awake for a few more hours, watches as the woman beside him sleeps. She looks peaceful, relaxed, her chest rising and falling as she breathes, lost in her dreams.
It’s moments like these that he loves the most. Peaceful, quiet as a static. He doesn’t dream. He doesn’t have to feel afraid. He doesn’t wake with the taste of blood on his mouth, doesn’t wake with the voices still ringing in his head, bouncing around in his skull like a reminder of everything he couldn’t do, of everyone he couldn’t save. No. With her, he awakes like everything is fine, peaceful. Like nothing’s wrong.
He likes it this way, wishes it would stay like this forever.
He’s wrong, but he doesn’t know it yet. And some nights, he savors this moment of peace, however little. He pulls her close to him, holds her in his arms, tight enough as if he could somehow keep her there, linger in the moment forever.
He doesn’t say the words, but it clings on the tip of his tongue, always close to falling. I love you.
He never gets the chance to say them to her face.
-
He knows there’s something wrong when he wakes. He feels it in his every bone, every sinew. Every nerve screams at him to get out, get away, but he doesn’t know why. The taste of copper clings to his mouth, along with something else. He doesn’t know what it is. His breath catches in his throat. His heart pounds against his chest, loud as a wardrum.
Slowly, he stands up from the bed, makes his way to the bathroom, splashes water on his face as if it would somehow bring the clarity he needs. It doesn’t, and the taste of blood still clings to his mouth, sweeter than ever.
He looks up, stares at his reflection in the mirror. He looks different, stronger, wilder like a predator on the loose. He feels different, too, strange. There’s a hunger inside him, a yawning void that feels alive, constantly searching for something. But he doesn’t know what he’s looking for.
He steps out of the bathroom, heads back into his room. It’s the smell that hits him first, pungent. He feels sick to his stomach, as if he could retch. It’s the silence that nags at him next, eerie and unfamiliar. He knows Lumine has a tendency to be quiet, but there’s something strange in the silence, wraps around him like a phantom embrace. He doesn’t like it.
He narrows his eyes, turns his head this way and that, searches for her. Even at first glance, everything is perfect, in their proper places, untouched. The books are on the shelves, arranged by volumes. Dust begins to gather in the corner, unswept.
He frowns. It seems as if she’s left the place without a note, a word of goodbye, and yet he couldn’t help feeling that something’s still missing, a puzzle piece that could put every clue together. He racks his brain for answers, for the memory of last night. He remembers it clearly still—the look in her eyes, the smile on her lips. The sweetness of her voice as she bids him good night.
The way he falls asleep after that, darkness clouding his vision until there’s nothing but shadows. After that, there’s nothing. All he could remember is the taste of blood on his mouth, along with something else—new and unfamiliar, something he can’t seem to get rid of no matter how much he tries.
Dread forms at the pit of his stomach, coils around his neck, cold and serpentine. He closes his eyes, draws in a sharp breath, tries to keep calm even as every part of him screams for the worst. He calls for her name, shouts it in the silence, over and over until his voice is raw and his throat is hoarse. No one answers.
He walks toward the kitchen, the next room, and still he finds nothing, only his distorted reflection in the windows he passes by. He can’t recognize himself anymore.
He goes back to the room, exhausted, closer to panic than he’s ever been in his life before. The smell is stronger now, enough to make him retch. It lingers in the air, cuts through the fresh breeze like a knife. He follows the phantom trail, stops in front of the bed—the space where she had been the night before, blissfully asleep, unaware.
He swallows the lump in his throat. His hand trembles, shakes with fear of discovery, but slowly, he moves, pulls the blankets back with one hand. It jerks away from the force, reveals the mystery beneath. Blonde hair, pale skin. White dress stained with blood, dried like rust.
At a glance, he could mistake her to be asleep, her eyes closed, peaceful and quiet. But upon closer, he sees the true horror of what he’s done—the answer to the question that nags at him since the moment he opened his eyes. Teeth marks on her neck, deep enough to pierce through the skin. He finds them again, on her arms, her thighs, chunks of flesh ripped out as if by force. Eaten alive, bled to death.
Despair washes over him, cold and sudden as a riptide. And still, the taste of blood clings to his tongue, sweeter still, exquisite—the taste of ripe fruit. He can’t stop himself. He drops to the floor, empties the content of his stomach. Blood, red as a fresh wound. Bits of chewed-up flesh, familiar. Quickly, he looks away, unable to stand the sight of it, of everything.
Slowly, he stands up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. All of a sudden, he feels sick to his stomach, dizzy with horror. How could he do this? Didn’t he love her? Didn’t he care about her? For a moment, he’s paralyzed, uncertain what to think, how to feel.
There’s a part of him that wants to die, to disappear. He wishes the ground would open up, eat him alive. But all that answers him is the silence, agonizing, unendurable. He’s struck with a sudden desire to run, get away. His feet are moving before he could stop himself, think twice.
He spends the next few hours wandering through the forest, uncertain where he should go, what he should do. He could drown, he thinks. It would be easy finding a river in the wilderness, a body of water strong enough to pull him under, trap him down, without escape. But he doesn’t deserve the mercy of a quick death, of something so easy.
Here, there’s nothing but the trees, endless and infinite. He walks to wherever his feet carry him, walks even as his legs hurt. The sky grows dark, and the trees gradually turn into shadows, darker than anything he’s ever seen in his life.
He can’t see a thing, but he presses on, not afraid, not caring. Branches brush against his skin, slices it open. It stings, but it’s not enough. He wants it to hurt, sharp enough that he feels it.
He wanders through the wilderness, in the dark, stumbling past shadows, past images of ghosts that follow after him, always close to catching up. He drops to his knees on the ground, thoroughly exhausted. He sucks in lungfuls of breath, gasping. Wind bites at his cheek, his skin, cold as ice.
He looks up, blinks a few times, finds a figure in front of him, dark and wispy, made of shadows. Blurry at first, as if from a dream, the shadows grow sharper with each second, gradually beginning to take shape. He finds you a second later, and you’re no longer made of shadows. You smile at him, and the look in your eyes makes him ache.
“Hello,” you greet. Your voice is quiet, kind. He closes his eyes, turns away. He doesn’t deserve anything, not even an ounce of kindness.
“Leave me here.”
You laugh, cold and cruel. “You think you’re the first man to have felt pain, but you’re not.”
He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t bite the bait. His voice is quiet as he speaks, a murmur quickly swallowed by the night, the darkness. “What do you know about it?”
Another laugh, and this time, it sounds sweet, musical against his ears. Like a siren’s call. “I know more about you than you think, Alatus.”
At the sound of his name, he jerks up to look at you, glaring. You’re smiling at him, and in the darkness, your teeth are very sharp. Your eyes glimmer, strange and unnatural. There’s something about you that calms him down, draws him in like a moth to a flame. All of a sudden, he forgets what he’s going to say. Every thought disappears, fades away into the wind, into nothing.
His breath catches in his throat. He feels the lull all around him, and he’s never felt any more peaceful than he does now. You crouch down, enough that your face is level with his, reach out to touch his cheek. Your skin is warm against his, comforting. He turns away, swallows. He doesn’t deserve this tenderness, this piece of mercy you offer him.
And yet, you’re relentless, tilt his chin to the side so he’s looking at you once more. You whisper his name under your breath, your voice quiet as a sigh, sweet as temptation, and there’s a part of him that wants to give in, to surrender, if only to hear you say it again.
You lean in, close enough that your breath tickles his cheek. You whisper his name again, and the sweetness of your voice is enough to send a shiver down his spine. He tries not to show it, turns away from you as if to hide, but it’s too late. You laugh at him, amused, though you make no remark. By the time he turns to look at you again, the glimmer in your eyes seems brighter now, like a pair of evening stars. “I know what you want.”
His voice is quiet, shaky as he speaks. “What?”
“You want to forget.”
His breath stills against his chest, his heart stops. There’s a sudden dryness in his throat, and for a moment, it feels as if he’s lost his voice, couldn’t find the words. All he could do is stare at you in silence, his eyes wide with surprise. Is this what he wants? He doesn’t know. Then again, he’s not known much about anything ever since.
You smile at him, unperturbed by his silence, his lack of response.
“I can make you forget, you know.” You make a vague gesture with your hands, and he’s quiet as he watches you, waits, uncertain how to feel, how to respond. “It’s easy, more simple than you might think. You could start a new life, make a new future. It’s what you’ve wanted all this time, isn’t it?”
He draws in a sharp breath, closes his eyes, mulls your words over. Your words are sweet, delicious as temptation. It’s all he’s ever wanted before—a new start, a clean slate, free from the shackles of his past. It’s all he’s wanted still, even when he knows he doesn’t deserve it. “And what do you ask in return?”
You hum under your breath, pretend to think. He turns to look at you, catches the toothy smile you give him, playful, mischievous. “Your loyalty, of course. And your soul, every piece of it.”
He draws in another breath, lets your words hang in the air, linger like a promise. The better part of him knows he should say no, refuse. No good man would ever accept a deal from the devil, no matter how sweet, no matter how tempting. But he stopped doing good a long time ago. He’s tainted now, filthy with every sin. He doesn’t deserve anything.
But he’s got nothing left now, no one to return to, not even a reason to go back. No home, no purpose. Nothing but a desolate space that waits for him, devoid of anything. A yawning void that only ever hungers, never satisfied with anything.
He looks up at you, meets your eyes in the dark. He has nothing left to lose now. Nothing but himself. Maybe it’s all he’s ever wanted all along. He takes another deep breath. His voice is quiet as he speaks, a whisper meant only for your ears. “Deal.”
“Good boy,” you say, still smiling. Your teeth are razor-sharp in the dark. Slowly, you lean in, seal the deal with a kiss. He closes his eyes, savors the warmth of your lips against his. It’s a quick kiss, chaste and sweet. He chases after you, hungry for more, but you laugh, stop him with one hand.
When he opens his eyes, you’re no longer in front of him, close enough to touch you. For a moment, all he could see is your arm, outstretched toward him. He looks up, finds you smiling, waits for him to take it. “Welcome home, Xiao.”
Slowly, he reaches out and takes your hand, grips it firmly in his. You pull him to his feet and he follows after you, steps further into the dark.