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It's a miracle Talbot doesn't rip his hand out of Pyrrha's hair. Instead, his fingers only twitch in a flash of hesitation and continue gathering red strands. The motion becomes an automatic process and quickly turns forgotten.
His eyes never leave the spot of flesh right behind Pyrrha's ear. The smooth, unmarked skin just below the hairless mess of a scar. Unmarked.
Right where their matching tattoo of five years should have been.
The tie comes off his wrist and with a quick twist of his hands, soon enough Talbot can step back from...
It's Pyrrha. Same shade of hair, same clothes he went to bed with. Voiced the exact same warbled greeting when he'd wandered into the kitchen that he receives each morning.
His eyes flick at the knife in Pyrrha's hand, chopping away at carrots, then back to the marred ear with no black-inked promise in sight. It is so small, so easy to miss.
The matching spot behind his ear burns into his skull.
Pyrrha's head tilts towards him and within an instant, something much deeper within him washes away all the tension in Talbot's shoulders. He cracks a grin.
"Better?"
A sickly chill blossoms from his chest when he meets Pyrrha's eyes. The deep forest green with a ring of gold.
Down to the mole right under his eyelid.
Pyrrha gives his head a testing shake, his bangs billowing, "I love that it's long enough for me to do that now."
Pyrrha shows his crooked teeth in a warm smile.
Talbot is losing his mind.
Chop chop crunch.
"I like it," his mouth moves, "looks nice."
He tucks his chilled fingers under his arms—to hold his ribs from tearing open—and leans against the far counter.
He forces his eyes to stop jerking back to Pyrrha's ear.
Same clothes.
Same—
Barefoot with an inch of a wet ring on the leg cuffs of his pajamas.
A glance out the window next to Pyrrha's head.
Chop chop chop.
To the intense white glare of a foot of snow washing the horizon from last night's storm.
Talbot's knees wobble and he covers it by standing. Pyrrha searches him, a frown pulling across his face.
Fucking run!
Talbot nods and turns.
What? What? Excuse!
His lips move, thoughts stumbling—
pull it together!
"Gonna run outside quick, check for damage. While you make breakfast." Stop! Too awkward!
His back is turned, his feet are moving. He can't force a smoother walk.
"You okay, Tabs?"
His jaw trembles to suppress a scream. Something—his very soul for all he can gather—cracks in half. It sears him into the very framework of his spirit and carves a hole in his chest.
Talbot uncrosses his arms from squeezing his middle, but it only makes his breath tighter. He throws a quick glance over his shoulder—hasn't moved, keep walking.
"Yeah, just rattled, I guess. It was a pretty bad snow."
His numb fingers carefully tie the laces to his boots, but his vision swims too much to correct the tremble. Blink.
Where? Where?
he's dead he's dead go find him!
"Okay, just don't take too long, I'm nearly done with prep."
One glance. Just one.
Pyrrha gives him a worried look-over, but turns back to the mess of orange on the cutting board. Something wicked stuffs the hole in his chest, a disgusting, haunting urge to head back into the kitchen and cling to any semblance of normality for as long as he can, but—
That's not Pyrrha.
"I won't be," Talbot throws back, not bothering with the buttons of his jacket.
The handle feels warm beneath his iced fingers and the next thing he feels is a wave of crisp air shocking his lungs. He squints into the winter glare and jumps at the sound of the door thudding shut behind him, as piercing as a gunshot. He takes a warbling, stuttering breath.
His rabbit heart begs him to move, but Talbot spares a glance down. The snow is undisturbed with not a single mark besides the haphazard tracks of an early-morning mouse.
He walks, and a wave of gooseflesh prickles his skin.
he's gone he's gone he's gone you didn't protect him where is pyrrha
His feet lead him to the garage with his hand wrapped around the keys in his pocket, digging his thumb hard into the ridges.
The front door creaks open behind him.