Chapter Text
The word die always had a weight in his life, perhaps the fact of being part of the brotherhood of assassins gave meaning to that feeling; however, since he was small and young he could feel death near his neck, breathing with such a clear tranquility that he could already say that this was a gentle breeze that his life was heading, not only the death of his victims was what his shoulders carried, but his own possible death at each mission he left. That was what he was, suicidal. What else could be expected, a chaotic world where he was born and raised was all he knew, learning that he who is slow may have the opportunity to see his own blood leave his body and do a dance on his last breaths.
Oh yes, blood, something that should not be common, however, it was for him, a metallic scent so addictive to his work that there came a time, no matter how much his clothes and body cleaned, that bittersweet feeling was impregnated in his nasal organs and now it was something as natural as the scent of gunpowder from the weapons which mostly pointed at him when he saw himself in the presence of his enemies. He should say that he felt like a reaper wherever his footprints were left or his presence was witnessed, the eyes of his victims always opened with vehemence before his attack, sometimes he wondered if those eyes could see how the implacable edge of his weapon approached to slice their throats or if perhaps they saw that thick blood coming out of their bodies in a hint of desperation to regain their life or beg for it before his being.
Begging, pleading, that desperation, how would that feel? His own life was indifferent to him because he knows well that he did everything he was taught and blindly followed his code of honor. Losing his companions made him experience the loss of a loved one, yet that unbridled anguish of wanting to live he still could not feel it and saw it unlikely to feel for an amphibious hybrid with a lifestyle like him.
Or so he thought, until now.
Heat, his body exhaled an immeasurable heat as he felt his blood dripping from his belly and staining his clothes, he could feel his hand moving restlessly digging into his wound trying to stop that painful bleeding, he could hear with painful clarity as his skin bumped against itself and snapped. He was hearing it, his breathing was agitated as if it was choppy, he could feel how he stopped himself at every attempt to calm down and with embarrassment he felt his saliva falling slightly from his mouth at the constant of being open in an attempt to breathe; right now his throat hurt at its dryness perceiving that aroma of gunpowder and blood emanating so close, his chest was beating fiercely in a sharp pain feeling his body trembling at the limit of its capacity. That aroma of blood was so familiar he never thought to smell it so nostalgically.
He doesn't know how he got there, or how he ended up in that state or if someone was attacking, he could only feel at the very edge and for the first time he felt that which he thought he didn't have the capacity to perceive.
Fear of dying. Fear of his blood, fear of leaving.
A shadow was approaching, he heard its slow and silent footsteps, his eyes were too swollen from the blows to see who it was in particular, however, the scent of gunpowder was unmistakable among the fog of his senses, that metallic scent of blood dripped like an essence that mixed with that aroma similar to that of pyrotechnics.
The last time he saw fireworks was when he was a little tadpole, some friends of his brotherhood took him to be able to see that spectacle of a party of Eden, hidden in the shadows they could appreciate those lights that left a scent that he would later know brazenly in caliber weapons.
He wished he could see them again, although he had no one left to appreciate them in company.
Nobody.
“Ramon,” his mouth faltered at the mention of his partner he used to admire on television.
And then fear ran down his spine feeling like an electricity of weakness as he heard the shot that would lodge in his forehead before everything went black.
He woke up letting out a huge exhale of surprise, his eyes opened and moved around the room looking for something out of the ordinary, the beating of his heart was rampant so his senses were alert. Smell, sight, hearing, touch, even taste. Feeling his sensors at the surface of his skin he could perceive an unpleasant scent that was going to his mouth, the feeling was unpleasant and he hated to perceive it, even more if it was from that guy.
Tobacco.
“Cet idiot,” he mumbled angrily, feeling paranoid.
As soon as he took a step to the ground, his body crumbled in pain, an indentation was present in his lower belly so he inspected himself and saw his stomach with a white bandage stained with blood, he tried to move but the pain increased and he emitted an involuntary moan.
Out of nowhere footsteps were heard, accelerated footsteps ran to his door, to which Bullfrog tried to find a comfortable position managing only to make more moans of agony.
The door burst open, revealing Ramon totally disheveled in a makeshift ponytail.
“Bullfrog! I fucking told you to stay in bed!” As if he had knowledge about which place to touch on the amphibian's body, he moved closer so that he could return it to its place.
The one who had been scolded for moving said nothing, he just stood still, letting himself be attended to and looking at everything, trying to make sure that nothing was dangerous. The anxiety was growing and that was noticed by his companion, who, seeing him trembling and looking at every place in the house with threat, could not help but let out a growl of frustration.
“Again?” His short words were enough to penetrate the hybrid's insecurity.
“I don't know what's happening," he whispered, intoning his characteristic French accent, "I know it's a horrible dream, it makes me anxious but when I wake up I don't remember anything, I'm just scared, I can't sleep well anymore without having this nightmare that I can't remember.”
Ramon finished tucking him in, his mouth escaped with a click of his tongue trying to find some word that could calm that poor paranoid little frog.
Those nightmares had started two weeks ago, he remembers the first time he heard him scream and went over to see what was happening. What greeted him was a dagger crashing close to his face and sticking in the wood of the door frame. Bullfrog's eyes were dilated and tears ran down his cheeks as his chest heaved in breaths. Since then those dreams he didn't remember were constant forcing his companion to refuse to sleep which made him weakened and wounded on a last mission he was given returning to the brink of fever.
"Look, I know you don't want to sleep because of that, I don't know what the fuck is going on in your head but for now you're fucked and you should stay in bed until you heal." He rolled his eyes not knowing what to say at a time like this, maintaining a disinterested stance was difficult for him right now.
“I hate being in bed," Bullfrog complained, waving his hands in despair and then crossing them with a small pout.
Ramon smiled at that comment and could not help but feel a certain charm in that half-childish attitude.
“With me you wouldn't hate it, sweetness. I have a certain gift for you to enjoy it," he winked pretentiously, approaching his face trying to make him a little desperate.
What surprised him about this opportunity was to see Bullfrog stand still looking at him and then shake his head to avert his gaze to a point at the bedroom exit door.
“I told you I hate tobacco, don't smoke that here," he dodged the previous comment by pointing out that detail.
Ramon remembered his little nervous twitch that he used to do at night when he was very tense, he supposed that Bullfrog being sedated by the medicines and anesthetics could not notice it but that frog could have the sharpest instincts in the world.
“Oh, it was only for a while, I turned it off as soon as I heard you complain," he raised his hand, running it through his hair trying to comb it, "you know I like to hear you moan, but I prefer it to be of pleasure rather than of-”
He couldn't finish because a knife quickly passed close to his cheek until it stuck in the wall leaving a hollow sound.
“Arrêter une fois,” he said firmly, his breathing hitching as if he had an adrenaline overload.
"I didn't understand but your knife made the rest clear, take care," he waved his hand in a gesture of disinterest but emitting a smile as soon as he stepped out of the amphibian's range of view.
The last thing he managed to see as the knife grazed his cheek with an icy air was a pair of flushed cheeks with a cold, murderous stare.
"This is new," the former celebrity hissed to himself as he left the room, feeling a certain overload of electricity in his body as he remembered that look and those flushed cheeks, "and very good."
His body trembled, his heart pounded. No sooner was he far away from his partner's room than his smile widened and he leaned back on the couch feeling his chest quicken. Could it be? He glanced in the direction of the hallway that led to Bullfrog's room and sighed feeling his cheeks burn.
"At last damn it, I finally made it." Ramon went back to combing his hair like a nervous tic unable to remove that smile.
Maybe at last his flirtations disguised as annoyance might be catching on with his fucking appetizing partner, who doesn't know when he started seeing him differently.
Meanwhile the young amphibian felt his heart leap as he looked at the knife embedded in the wall, his eyes watering as he gradually realized the meaning of things, his hands trembling as he clutched at the sheets and his cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“No, not now," he checked his pulse, it was trembling, even as he threw that knife, his hands hesitated and he felt how his trembling almost hit Ramón's cheek, "No!”
There’s a rule in the assassins' guild, an oath that no one takes but the assassin himself, a secret oath, a dictated law that everyone knows but no one says.
The assassin belongs to death as death belongs to the assassin, they are two entities united since the birth of their work, their hands join in a deadly courtship before each mission set and disperse like a kiss to the sky to join again as dust. An assassin should not fear death, death is his friend, his lover, his way of life in an ironic context. If an assassin fears to kill or to die, it is his end, that is why nothing should tie him to the world, nothing should divert him from his motive to practice.
And love can be a double-edged sword for a killer. More so, if that killer is afraid of his best friend, death.
“Je suis damnée,” he hissed feeling pain as he hugged himself. "Not from him..."
Since then, the nightmares have increased, each and every one, without being able to be remembered.