WOULD YOU FORGIVE ME MY SINS? [nicolas]

[ciaran niall grahame]

would you mind if I killed you?
WOULD YOU MIND IF I TRIED TO?

ooc: i have no fancy template and can't make them and i'm sorry. xD

It hadn't been his intention to die only to come back here, and at first, he'd had it in mind that this had truly been Hell--that he had died only to return to the place he had once loathed the most; the place that had driven his mind to the breaking point. He had even suffered a brief moment of bitter panic when he had reached up to discover the two horns that curled up from his forehead, not overly long but enough so that Ciaran had suffered a brief stint of almost mad laughter while he repeated to himself that this must be Hell; that he had been sent here for crimes he could not atone for and became an abomination, a daemon, as a result of human sins he could never hope to put behind him.

If there truly was a god, Ciaran cursed his name, for surely there could be no crueler a master than he.

It hadn't taken him long after waking to learn that this place was some kind of purgatory, and that the other occupants of the place were dead as well, changed, as he was, into half-creatures of myth and story. There were others like him, even, he was assured before he had fled, trying to find the quietest place he could and just avoid people at all costs. His efforts had redoubled when he had learned, shortly thereafter, that not only was he here for an undetermined amount of time, but that his brother was here as well.

At the thought of his brother, Ciaran shuddered, his breath uneven as he pressed the top of his face to his knees, which he had drawn up around himself. He had hid in one of the darkest corners of the library, determined to avoid his brother at any costs for the moment, determined to avoid the hatred he knew must have replaced the look of affection that had once lingered there. Ciaran deserved no less, and he welcomed the crushing guilt that squeezed his chest in its vice-like grip, accompanied by the dark cloud that seemed to hover over his mind at every waking moment. After all, it was all his fault that Nicolas was here, trapped in a fire that Ciaran had set in a fit of--of something, something that had made his mind snap but that he could not remember now. Perhaps, then, it hadn't been a specific thing, but rather an accumulation of actions that had pressed upon his mind until he could no longer take the strain. There had been the other kids at his school, yes, back when he was seventeen and almost entirely alone, the strange pretty-boy the other seniors had taunted; the recluse no girl had wanted to befriend.

He had always been like that, though. It was hardly new, and for much of his life Ciaran had altered between having either a singular friend or no one save his brother, and that had always been all right, the lack of friends never bothering him.

Ciaran could feel his mind clouding over then, and he closed his eyes in an attempt to force the memories to the surface, but they slithered away easily, and it was as if he was trying to grab at mist, his hands coming up empty but damp.

In the end, though, he supposed it didn't matter. The reason no longer mattered. He was dead, his brother was dead, and in the end, it had been Ciaran who had put them both there, following his brother to the grave two years after they had spread his ashes into the air. His only true blessing was that their father had never found out, but when the investigators had procured their accidental ruling, Ciaran had not been surprised to find the guilt on his conscience increase. Yet he had carried the secret to his grave, and now he was left at the mercy of a brother he still loved more than anyone else.

"Aye, let's see how long it takes you to destroy this too, Ciaran," he told himself, raising his head and reaching up a hand to curl around the thicker base of the horns on his forehead. He smiled wryly then, bitterness exuding from every pore, absently rubbing the newly-acquired apendage, something he found he did more and more lately. He deserved these horns, he thought to himself. It was better to come back as such a creature as daemon, for surely he would have attempted to see if he could die in purgatory had he been reborn with the fluttering angel wings.

No, this was better. If nothing else, it was a reminder of his crimes; a reminder that, while he may be dead, God's cruelty had not ceased. He would bear these markings, and the others would think what they would.

It would be no less than what he deserved.

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WISH THAT I HAD OTHER CHOICES
than to harm the one I love

[NICOLAS WYLIE GRAHAME]

the person that you take a bullet for

"Aye, let's see how long it takes you to destroy this too, Ciaran."

never, ever since he'd arrived had nicolas wished his brother would be here with him. well, okay, he had - but not vindictively. it had been the kind of wishing that happens late at night, when he was curled up in his dorm bed and facing the wall, surprised at how lonely the whole thing felt. people were pretty nice here. they were interested in who he was and how he'd ended up here and, just the other day, nicolas had discovered his brute strength by accidentally snapping the handle off of the pot while he was cooking in his dorm. he'd apologized to evan, of course, but he couldn't help but marvel. if i'd had this strength before, maybe i would have been able to keep ciaran safe, he'd thought.

but despite how nice everyone was and how sociable and understanding his roommate was, nicolas had never felt lonelier in his entire life. and it only took a matter of a few seconds for him to figure out why; it was because ciaran wasn't there. because his little brother didn't come knocking on his door every night, clambering into bed next to him and curling up against him like he was the safest shelter in the world. what would ciaran do, now that he wasn't there to be his safe haven? did the boy sleep alone in nic's old bed, or was he even grieving? nicolas couldn't be sure. part of him wanting ciaran to be grieving, and part of him wanted ciaran happy. it was a constant struggle.

the same struggle was being applied now, as nicolas made a grand effort to keep the books in his hand as opposed to dropping them right there. the sight of ciaran in the library - in the dirge - meant that he would have his brother back, but also meant that ciaran was dead. nicolas' heart twisted in violently his chest.

"ciaran?" his brothers name came tentatively out of his mouth, as if he both didn't want to hope and was desperately hoping all the same. his fingers clutched so tightly at his books that they went white with the strain, and when he tried to swallow the movement was thick and uncomfortable in his throat. "what are you - why?"

the books clattered to the floor when a thought struck him. had their father done something? had their father killed ciaran? his rage at the thought won over the shyness and he grabbed his young brother unthinkingly by the arm, his voice never once raised but rather kept low and quiet for intensity.

Ní thuigim-" he loosened his hold on ciaran's arm, but kept his hand there. "did - father didn't touch you, did he? please, tell me he didn't-"

is behind the trigger

#ciaran. ###. cries. © zoe.

[ciaran niall grahame]

would you mind if I killed you?
WOULD YOU MIND IF I TRIED TO?

Ciaran froze. There wasn't even a moment's hesitation, no internal grapple between his fight or flight instincts--he just stopped, as his heart and his lungs had collectively stopped working, preventing him from doing anything for a few agonising moments even as his breathing picked up again, more rapid and panicked than it had been in two years, since he had tumbled out of the burning house, skin and clothes singed and smoking, to find that his brother hadn't made it out. In his haze, he had tried to go back in, but had been forcefully restrained and eventually drugged into a stupor. It had been the last time he had spoken for nearly a year, and his last words had been screaming his brother's name.

It was only fitting now that some of his first words here would contain it, too.

He couldn't respond to the sound of Nicolas' voice, and he kept his head turned towards the window, not daring to look him in the face, into his eyes, such a unique colour that Ciaran would have known them anywhere, even in the darkest of caverns. Part of his mind tried to soothe him and convince him that it was just him imagining things again, as he had imagined so many times before in life, times when he would wake up to an empty, cold bed, uncurling himself slowly from the middle of the mattress, where he had built situated himself during the night. Sometimes it would be his own bed, and sometimes it would be Nicolas' room, but always he would sleep wrapped in one of the sheets from his brother's bed, something to calm his mind even as his mind began to suffer from accumulated sleepless days and nights.

He had to close his eyes to his brother's questioning tone, to the strain of hope he had to believe his mind was making him hear. It was his fault that Nicolas was here in the first place, and surely even the strength of their relationship could not extend to cover the fact that Ciaran had killed him. But he couldn't continue the train of thought when he heard the clatter of a book, and his head whipped around to meet his brother's face just in time for Nicolas to grab his arm in a familiar gesture, but there it is, there's the anger, God Nicolas I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, so very sorry please forgive me...

His hands twitched to rise, to rest anywhere on Nicolas' body, to feel him again and to ensure that he was really there, that he was really solid, and he felt the familiar swell of guilt, and he thought to himself that he deserved his brother's anger, until--

Until Nicolas' voice turned more frantic, and his hold loosened, and Ciaran sat back and listened to the quiet intensity in his voice, in his words as he asked whether it was father that had killed him, whether father had known and had brought him here.

Ciaran could feel himself crumble instead, and one of his hands rose to curl around the first part of Nicolas' arm that he could reach.

"Deartháir..." he whispered, unable to make his voice any higher, or anymore forceful at that moment. "Gods, no, he didn't--" Ciaran broke off when a bitter laugh, broken and filled with so many unspoken things. "He didn't know. Nobody knew. I'm sorry, Nicolas, I--I'm so sorry..."

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WISH THAT I HAD OTHER CHOICES
than to harm the one I love

[NICOLAS WYLIE GRAHAME]

the person that you take a bullet for

life had never necessarily been grand for the two of them, but the humbling idea of this fact was that at least they'd had each other. after ciaran had been born, their beautiful mother - who had always been the one good thing to balance out their father - had walked off early one morning and let herself be swallowed up by the chilly ocean tide. their father had been the one to spot her body, floating atop the dark blue waves; and that, nicolas thought, had been the day that their father changed forever.

before their mother's death, their father had been a reserved but polite man. he spoke mostly kindly to everyone he met; he was opinionated, but believed that every man ought to keep his opinions to himself unless asked specifically - and even then, be reluctant to bring up anything such as religion or politics at a dinner table. but after their mother's death, their father had thrown himself into his religion. he had always been a pastor, for as long as nicolas could remember, but never a zealous one - until their mother had died, and he spent more time working out what god had planned than what his children needed.

but all of that was at the back of nicolas' mind. somehow, ciaran's reaction - shyness, reserved tones and averted glances - dug deeper at his heart than anything else. hadn't ciaran missed him? or had his younger brother finally discovered what life was like without nicolas, and had been pleased with it? he couldn't tell - ciaran wouldn't look at him long enough to give him a chance to read his gaze like he was so accustomed to doing, and he swallowed thickly and loosened his hold even more. what if ciaran had been happy without him? what would that mean?

but the apology came just as fast as the pain, and nicolas shook his head. "don't apologize, ciaran," he ordered firmly. his lips pressed into a thin line, and he took a moment - because perhaps ciaran had been happy without him, but nicolas had spent the moments away from his brother wondering if his brother was alright - before he pulled ciaran close against his chest, holding him tight and burying his face into the younger boy's hair. he took in a sharp little breath, shutting his eyes and keeping his arms wrapped firmly around his younger brother and better half.

"i was so worried about you," he murmured at last, not pulling back. "i didn't want to think about what might have happened - why are you here?"

is behind the trigger

#ciaran. ###. cries. © zoe.