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“You called?”
Sunday looked up from his novel. Boothill was crouched on his windowsill, partly hidden behind the heavy curtains that framed the window.
Sunday carefully placed his book down on the table beside him and beckoned Boothill to come inside.
Boothill’s spurs jingled as he walked over. Sunday looked him up and down.
The perfect distraction.
He smelled like smoke, and his boots left dirty footprints on Sunday’s floor. Boothill was so out of place in this gaudy penthouse, and Sunday loved it. He craved it.
He
needed
it.
He pushed himself up from his reading chair, only one thought on his mind. A thought that he knew both him and Boothill shared, from the moment Sunday sent the familiar invitation message that Boothill was accustomed to seeing the past few months.
“Sunday…”
Sunday grabbed Boothill by the collar and kissed him roughly, walking him backwards until he had Boothill pressed up against the wall. He slotted a knee in between Boothill’s legs and pressed until he heard him choke out a moan.
Sunday couldn’t get enough of Boothill. His hands roamed all over Boothill’s body, but couldn’t seem to decide on a place to rest. He licked into Boothill’s mouth and twisted his hands in his dark hair.
Every touch was frantic, and Sunday pressed harder and harder with every inch of his body. Maybe if he pressed hard enough, Boothill would swallow him up into himself. Maybe if he kissed the other man hard enough, they would fuse together and Sunday would finally be able to
forget—
“…Sunday,” Boothill gasped, gripping his wrists and pushing away.
Sunday leaned in to try and kiss him again, but Boothill turned his head away.
“Sunday.”
“What?” Sunday asked, annoyed. “This is what you wanted, right? Isn’t this what you signed up for?”
Boothill furrowed his eyebrows.
“Don’t give me that look, ranger. You’re only here for one thing and we both know it. Let’s get on with it.”
He stepped closer again, but Boothill reached out and planted a hand squarely on Sunday’s chest, a clear indicator for Sunday to stop. There was no real force in it, but Boothill was glaring at Sunday and he looked
pissed
.
Sunday sighed loudly and grabbed Boothill’s wrist to move it harshly away from his chest. “I thought you didn’t want to touch me,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his tone.
“Don't give me that, Sunday.”
Sunday turned and stormed over to his chair in the corner of the room. He was acting like a child, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He went to sit, but ended up collapsing into the chair instead, his muscles going limp the second he made contact with the cushions.
He sighed again, but this time it was tinged with an air of exhaustion.
“If you’re not going to fuck me then you can leave,” Sunday said, propping his head up with his hand and rubbing his eyes.
“Tempting. I’m gonna have to pass on that one though.”
Sunday glared at him. “Don’t go acting all morally sound on me now. You’re not fooling anybody.”
“Don’t go acting like you’re so high and mighty yourself, Sunday. You’re an angel in appearance alone.”
“Why are you here, Boothill?” Sunday asked, exasperated. “Are you here to mock me? Is this some new kink of yours that I’m supposed to indulge?”
Boothill scowled. “I just thought you might want some company. Is that a crime?”
“I’d much rather you be on your knees before me instead of pretending to be my caretaker.”
“Fucking hell, why are you so
difficult
,” Boothill growled out.
“Why are you here, Boothill,” Sunday deadpanned. “Like I said, if you’re not here to fuck me or kill me, you can leave.”
“Your sister’s dead, Sunday.”
Sunday stared blankly at Boothill. “You think I don’t know that?”
Boothill frowned. “With how you’ve been acting, I almost thought you didn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Boothill gave him a look that pissed Sunday off for some reason. “Your only sister is dead and instead of mourning her, you called me over to fuck your brains out. For someone who acts like the pinnacle of goodness, you sure don’t seem to have much respect for the dead.”
Sunday felt anger rising up in his chest, the first real emotion he’d felt since before he was told of Robin’s death.
“Did you even really love her? Were you even her older brother?”
The cord of anger pulled tighter and tighter.
“Did you even
care
?” Boothill asked, and the cord snapped.
“And what the fuck do you know, ranger? Yeah, I bet you know a whole lot, huh? You think you know what it’s like to be told in front of a whole room full of people that your little sister, who you’ve known for her whole life, who you
swore
to protect, is fucking dead?”
Before he knew it, he was standing up, yelling in Boothill’s face. To Boothill’s credit, his expression remained unchangingly blank as Sunday yelled.
“But oh no, she’s only
spiritually
dead, which apparently is better! Don’t worry Sunday, she’s only a
little bit
dead, she’ll be fine! Don’t worry Sunday, she’ll be back soon! Don’t worry, Sunday! Don’t worry! It’s fine!”
Sunday felt his eyes sting with tears, along with a familiar burning sensation spreading along his back and neck, all the way to his forehead.
Boothill’s eyes only slightly widened at what was no doubt the small emergence of tiny eyes along Sunday’s cheekbones and forehead, and the many wings that began to grow from his back and neck.
Robin was always so adamant on not showing her true form to others. Sunday always followed her principles.
But Robin wasn’t there anymore.
“How
dare
you stand there and lecture me about not loving my sister enough? How fucking
dare
you?”
Sunday grabbed Boothill by the collar. “I promised. I
promised.
I swore it.”
“What did you promise?” Boothill asked, remarkably calmly.
“I—“
All of Sunday’s eyes fixed onto Boothill’s, searching for something. Not even Sunday knew what he was searching for.
“I promised I would never leave her alone,” he said, in a whisper. “I told her I would always be with her,
always.
No matter what.”
Boothill didn’t make the comment that Sunday was expecting him to make. He didn’t tell Sunday he was a foolish optimistic idiot. He didn’t tell Sunday he shouldn’t make stupid promises that he couldn’t keep.
“And you didn’t. Leave her, I mean,” Boothill said instead. To his credit, he managed to only look at one of Sunday’s eyes while he spoke.
Sunday rolled his eyes, even though doing so made it more difficult to see through his teary eyesight.
“Yeah, because she’s ‘still alive out there somewhere.’ I know.”
“No.” Boothill shook his head sharply. “Because whatever happened to your sister wasn’t your fault, dumbass. She knows you kept your promise. You did the best you could.”
A tear escaped from one of Sunday’s eyes somewhere. He couldn’t tell which one anymore.
“You don’t know that. How do you know I didn’t have something to do with it?”
Boothill raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”
“No.”
“Then what are you pretending like you did?”
Sunday went quiet. He realized he was still holding on to Boothill’s jacket and quickly let go.
Silence echoed against the walls of the room, suffocating Sunday. He stared at the ground, refusing to look Boothill in the eyes, then realized what a mess he must look like.
He gritted his teeth and retracted his extra wings, then his eyes. His skin strained painfully to close each tiny eyelid, screaming in agony at being forcibly shut.
Sunday shook his head to get rid of the lingering pain, and tilted his chin back up to level his gaze at Boothill. The other man looked like he hadn’t taken his eyes off of Sunday for one moment, but Sunday refused to let himself be embarrassed.
He smoothed his expression to be one of graceful calm that he often wore, and straightened his back. He would not lose his dignity in front of this man.
Never mind the fact that besides Robin, Boothill had perhaps seen him at his most vulnerable the past few months.
Robin. Sweet, lovely, kind Robin.
Sunday had been so successful in forcing his memories of his dear sister to recede in his mind. He’d been doing so well; he had received countless condolences, but not one of them threatened to break down his carefully constructed mask.
But in this awfully decorated, tacky room, Boothill stood before him and simply stared at him.
And it made Sunday want to cry again.
Instead of making a further fool of himself, Sunday said, “You can leave now.”
His voice came out in a hoarse whisper, so unlike his usual tone.
Boothill looked like he wanted to object, but Sunday was so, so tired.
“I want to be alone,” he said. Whether or not it was true was a different issue entirely. Sunday didn’t know what he wanted.
Still, Boothill nodded after a moment. He picked up his hat that had fallen to the floor earlier and walked over to the open window, readying himself to jump. Sunday had long since stopped questioning how Boothill was able to jump out the window every time without injuring himself.
Boothill hesitated before jumping and turned back around, fixing his gaze on Sunday.
“Robin was a pain in my ass. She knew we were hooking up, and all the memories I have of her are of her glaring at me. She probably hated me.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Robin,” Sunday said. He strangely trusted that Boothill didn’t mean any offense.
Boothill nodded. He looked out at the city lights of Penacony, reflecting off of the towering buildings in the distance, then looked back.
“I hope you know that whatever killed your sister will pay.”
“Alright, Boothill.”
“I mean it, angel. Mark my words.” He hardened his gaze. “I’ll kill them myself if I have to. I’ll hurt them, like they hurt her. I promise.”
Sunday stared, and the corners of his lips turned upwards. He felt sick, he felt vile, but he didn’t care.
Boothill grinned in return, his sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. “And that’s a promise you can count on me keeping.”
And with that, he was gone.
Sunday hated the bloodlust that rose up inside him, but there was a certain thrill to it that was addicting. Boothill brought out a certain side of him that he’d been trying to avoid confronting, but desperate times, desperate measures.
The anger from before smoothed over into a calmness that Sunday knew well.
A still layer of water, covering up a terrible current raging just below.
A clear sky, hiding away the rolling clouds moments away from unleashing a thundering hell.
The silence just before a predator lunges at its prey.
Sunday smiled joylessly, the perfect image of serenity.
Quiet, tranquility.
The calm before the storm.