Work Text:
There is some part of him that knows that he should do something to stop this. That there is something wrong here as they stand here in wait with the stage on fire, and his love in tears only a few feet away from him and yet he does not step forward. Maybe it is because he knows what will happen if he interferes. It is the same thing every time and he remembers the pain of trying to help them when they were alone.
He remembers.
On the left side of the stage as his guitar is taken from him, he remembers.
He remembers how he got this ache in his bones. He has had it for as long as he can remember but that memory is not very far back. He is too kind for his own good. He can ignore the urge to help but it always overcomes him, and that is why this happened.
It has before. He has interfered before. Not on stage, no, he knows enough each time to know that is a death wish even if he belongs to the Grand Immortal Dictator. They may not fully belong to him, just Draag itself, but he knows enough to know that belonging to him will not save him.
He has helped before when they were alone, when his love was hurt, tending quietly to the others wounds as he would like to be. He remembers being soft, and maybe being too soft is why he had been punished, why he got these aches. Maybe, he remembers too well. Maybe, If he pretends that he does not remember then they will let him remember this time. Maybe this time he will get to keep a clear memory of his love singing next to him, of being able to disguise a kiss to their locks with a half hug.
Another guitar, bulkier, one carved with lacquered wood and an ache of something he should remember, is hung on his shoulders. He knows he will not remember this. He will forget this all again, and awake in the cells with enough memories to know who he is, where he is and who he loves. He knows that he is not supposed to love. Maybe, if he didn’t then they would stop hurting him after each time but he thinks that it is too ingrained in his being.
He is not sure he would still be here without the love he has.
There is something that tells him to play. He is not sure if it is his heart or his soul. Maybe that is why they have not taken away his ability to love because it would take his ability to play as well because to take away his love would take away his soul as well and it seems that is where the notes to these songs reside. It does not matter what they say to him in these moments because he plays, plucking the strings in a familiar tune, while his love sings. He listens to the same song that he listened to not an hour ago, listening to his love's voice grow quiet, almost mournful in the changed key.
They both know what is going to happen in a few minutes, or maybe it is hours. Some part of him has lost the ability to question it all. It may be the pills, the pills that take him into this space while they play. They are wearing off and he knows it. They always begin to wear off before the last song. He knows that he should be taking more. Yet, he does not say anything. He will not say anything, continuing to do his job.
If he thinks enough, then he can remember a time before the pills. A time before them when he did not get punished for holding his love. A time before they played every night or maybe it’s every week.
He remembers.
He should not remember, but another memory is slipping through the cracks. A memory of last time, of the blood seeping into the wings of the stage, of his love being given back to him coated in it, none of it his own. The feeling of the blood had been cold to the touch, only warmed by his own body heat. He remembers looking into the adjacent cell and watching another man get tossed in, limp, dead. He knows the blood on his love is the man's but he says nothing.
He knows that tonight will end in bloodshed as well, just as it will every night, just as it has as far back as he can remember. He remembers the blood. He remembers the stains on the ground of the stage. He is not supposed to remember the blood.
Maybe that is why he allows himself to be guided offstage, his love follows him as he always does. He gently touches the man's elbow, urging him closer before remembering. He knows what will happen after this and yet, a sense of unease does not fill his stomach. There is something different about tonight. The way things had gone was different. He does not have the memories to prove it but he knows in his soul that things have changed. That things are different.
He watches just as he always does as his guitar is taken from him again. He watches as his love is helped into a coat. He watches from the side, a side where he is alone with only the Guards watching his every move. His every move is watched, and he knows it. It is why he chooses the safe way out and stays still. His body tells him the safe way out is to not interfere, the bruises he can feel on his shins and the ache in his shoulders are evident of this.
He knows the safe way out is to not interfere and yet he cannot help but tense when his love is handed a dagger. He knows. He remembers the blood. He should not remember the blood.
Maybe that is why when he watches the hand raise, he knows he cannot interfere. There is an ache to take a step, to interfere before his love can get hurt. He knows that he should not though. It only ends in pain from what he knows of the pains still going through his body. He remembers the blood from then too.
The laughter echoes above the screams of the dying man. The laughter is forced and He can hear it. It sounds almost choked, like his love is holding back sobs.
He watches as his love leans down and stabs and stabs and stabs, blood blooming on his face and chin. The screams have stopped, it's almost overkill. The man is surely dead, blood staining everything and dripping down his love's face.
His love's laughter turns into screams, screaming into the man's face and at their handler. He knows the consequences as his feet move.
It was not intentional. They move on their own, taking him closer to his love, quicker as boots run after him. The screams stop as He nears, watching as the fabric of cloth and skin are torn open worse than they already are. The flesh before him is riddled with blood, he thinks it is only blood even with the bits of skin. He watches as the dagger is used to carve out a piece of skin, of bloody flesh dripping back down onto the prison uniform the man wears. He watches and listens as the piece of flesh is shoved into his love's mouth. The blood slides down their chin, mixing with tears.
There is blood everywhere.
There is blood on him and he has not touched the body.
His love chews and he can hear it. He can hear the sounds of skin separating from meat, or maybe fat. He does not know the human body that well. The sounds of his loves teeth meeting, and grinding the fat into something they can swallow. His love swallows and looks up at him, almost pleading, like he wishes for him to understand. His eyes are glassy, not with death, but more tears that have not fallen. He moves his hand, pressing it against his loves face, feeling his jaw unclench as he wipes away his tears. The tears are red, mixing with the blood. He has had blood on him before. He has had this man's blood on him before.
The guards do not know what they are doing. They cannot see what his love has done, and he knows it. They stopped going after him the moment that his love stopped screaming. They think they are following orders still, the orders to kill the man with the glasses. He is not. He should be offstage. He supposes they have not done anything yet because he is not doing anything. Or maybe they will wait for after.
The man is already dead. He knows it. Yet, he lets go of his loved face and watches as he carves another chunk off with the dagger. There is a shine of bone in the body, it disappears quickly, replaced by something crimson.
He thinks he gets it. The man will always die. Just as they will always forget. Maybe, this way, the man will truly die and he can be at rest. If there is no matter to reconstruct, to reanimate, to give life to him in their sick ways, maybe this will all be over. Maybe, this way, their lives can also end instead of being stuck in this cycle of hell. The cycle he can barely remember, but he knows it exists. He knows it does.
Still, if this kills him and his love, he will be fine with that.
Maybe that is why he accepts the chunk of meat that his love is holding in front of his face. Or maybe it is because it is his love that is offering it to him.
The taste is of Iron. It explodes on his tongue alongside the soft warmth. It is not hot, only warm, somehow, it tastes almost like the meager food they are served in between shows. The blood is the only thing that changes. Biting down, the texture is almost waxy, it is the only thing he knows how to describe it with. Chewy in a way that gives way to the taste of more blood, and a more metallic taste.
For a moment all he tastes is the blood, and for a moment it tastes almost sweet.
His heartbeat is deafening in his ears, the flesh in his mouth is not beating. The fat texture against his teeth is odd, he cannot chew it properly but he feels he must, just for the proper rites. He must just for the possibility that they can leave, even in death. Just for the possibility with enough gone that they will be able to end all of this. He does not care if they die.
They know something is wrong. The guards know something is wrong as they watch him chew.
His mouth feels thick with blood. It's almost like when he bites the inside of his cheek instead of speaking. That is the texture, not the food they are fed, even if familiar. Disgust is rising in his gut, threatening to spill out at the knowledge that he is eating human flesh, and yet he cannot stop himself from caring. He cannot stop himself from chewing, the damned texture that almost makes him throw up.
His love is stabbing again, there is not a lot of blood left. Almost all of it is on the floor, or on his love or on him. He has blood on him. Some of it drips down his chin, catching on the bits of his beard, staying and drying. They will hate that they have to clean his beard.
The flesh is as chewed as he can get it. He swallows as a hand touches his arm, as his love leans down towards the man and bites into his rib cage. Something snaps and he watches as bloody teeth bite at one of the man's organs as hands pull at his love.
He makes a mistake. He pulls his arm out of the hand of the Guards and grabs his love, pulling them towards him instead of the Guards. He should let them take him. He should back off like he always does. He is already going to get punished. It is already going to happen even if the man never wakes. Even dead, they will beat him.
His love is warm, body heat escaping through his clothes. He is warm, eyes darting everywhere as he backs them up, holding on tightly to their waist and arm. He tries to protect them but he knows it is worth nothing in the end. There is blood, but there is blood everywhere. He does not want to go back. He does not want to forget again. He does not want to go back to where the only things he knows are notes ingrained in his soul and innate urge to protect his love.
Yet, they grow closer.
And, he can see them giving something to the man on the stretcher. He can see the flesh being stitched back together, and he knows. He knows that it is for nothing. He knows that it will always be for nothing because they are stuck. They are stuck and they will always be stuck.
He will not remember this in a few hours or maybe a few days, but his body will remember, and he knows that this time, they will make it hurt.