((No, I haven’t. I’ll go peek.))
((SCREECHES INTO THE NIGHT))
“This isn’t fucking funny, Mis. Your tricks have always been shit, and this is the worst one yet,” Bleak insisted with a forced fury, squeezing his husband’s hands tightly to his chest as he leaned over his prone body, limp from the fall. “C’mon, Mis. Mischief. C’mon, babe.”
Jack smiled faintly, weakly pulling a hand free and setting it over Bleak’s cheek, his gaze fond and solemn. “Sorry, Bleak. ‘S not a trick this time.”
Bleak faked a laugh, badly, and bit sharply into his lower lip when the ache in his chest threatened to burst. “That’s not funny. You can’t go. I can’t go where you’re going, Mis. Jack. Stay here, you have to stay with me,” he begged, unaware he’d started whispering.
Mischief smiled a little wider, and this time it felt easy. He was drowsy. It felt an awful lot like falling asleep. “It doesn’t even… hurt anymore,” he murmured reassuringly. “It’s doesn’t… I’ve got you,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I’ll see you on the other side, Bleak. It’s… it’s gonna be alright.”
“Goddammit, Mischief. Jack. Jack!” Bleak shouted when the other’s grip loosened in his, the hand falling from his face, and before he could stop himself, Bleak screamed.