thearena | [Closed] Every Heart Must Cease to Beat

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[Closed] Every Heart Must Cease to Beat

Who| Albert and Jet
What| Jet decides it's time for him to die
Where| Wherever they've holed up on the first floor
When| Late week 3
Warnings/Notes| Dying happens here. Swords go places. Cyborg angst.

It was morning, he could tell because he'd heard the grate covering the store rise up only a few minutes before. Any minute now, the remaining tributes would stir and another day would begin. Another day of sitting in near-silence, listening to Albert's breathing to keep himself sane and to remind himself that his partner was actually doing better since the explosion.

Another day of being useless, a hindrance to the German who would probably be doing so much better with someone who could actually take care of him or, at least, who he didn't have to protect as well as himself. Another day of listening to that canon, sounding more often these days, and knowing that each death was one less person to win.

He didn't truly think they could win holed up here, there would surely be someone who would come along at some point...and yet there was a voice that whispered 'what if' and that was enough to make him wonder. What if they did end up the last two? Then what? Jet couldn't kill himself, he already knew that and the thought of Albert killing himself to get Jet out of the games...it made him sick to think about. It made him sicker to know his partner would probably do it.

He couldn't let that happen. Any of it. Albert couldn't be allowed to kill himself...and Jet couldn't bare the thought of living in this darkness for the rest of his life. He was slowly going crazy as it was, he could feel it. Every time Albert fell asleep or left for supplies, any time Jet was alone, that static would pour into his brain and make it hard to think. He would become more and more paranoid about his surroundings, wondering who might be just behind him or just a head of him without the blond knowing. Sometimes he would just stop and desperately listen or the sound of another person or even just a sound that reminded him the world was really out there because here, in the dark and quiet of his own mind, he wasn't sure.

"...Al?" He hated himself the moment his partner's name left his mouth. He didn't want to wake the older man, he needed his sleep, but...Jet needed to hear his fiance's voice and know he was still there despite being able to hear his breathing clearly. It wasn't enough.

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"I'm awake," though by the sound of his voice it's not all that awake. He'd been dozing on and off for at least an hour, already most of the way towards consciousness when the grate rattled into the ceiling obnoxiously, leaving them open for attack once more. He's not sure he cares, or if he even expects being attacked. Mostly the tributes have kept to themselves barring a few incidents; his own injuries have been because of one misunderstanding and the rest traps, the arena itself, or the fight he'd instigated with Nasir.

He wonders if the Syrian's been killed yet.

Albert rustles a bit, sitting up and putting his hand on Jet's arm to let the blond know where he is. Jet's been a godsend to him since the bomb. True, they haven't really been terribly mobile thanks to both their injuries, but with Jet here to fuss over him and take Albert's mind off of just how much every inch of him hurts - with Jet here to be strong for - Albert is doing alright.

But he's been worried too, worried since Jet keeps clinging more than usual, having surly outbreaks of bad mood or downright vitriol. He hasn't been like this since all those years ago when they'd escaped Black Ghost, full of fear that he buried in anger or behind terrible jokes and impulsive decisions. Jet's backsliding and Albert isn't sure how to help.

"Did you sleep?"

Jet's hand found Albert's wrist, taking a small amount of comfort from the contact despite his fraying nerves.

"Yeah."

He hadn't, not really. His body's 'alert system' had been going haywire since the explosion, waking Jet up as though there was something to notice when there was absolutely nothing. He'd spent hours awake, listening to Albert and curling in close to him even as he knew the gate was closed and no one could get to them. It had left him increasingly tired, which only made him more irritable and impatient with himself. Albert had borne the brunt of Jet's temper needlessly off and on since Jet had lost his sight and he'd had yet to think of a good way to express his remorse about it beyond fussing at his partner and taking care of him as much as the blond could.

He wished he could do more.

"How're you feeling?"

"Better." Hardly. His leg has started throbbing and itching something fierce where they'd had to remove the bit of table. Maybe it means its healing, maybe it's infected, he'll have to look later. His headaches have gotten worse too, but at least his nose doesn't bleed every time he sits up. But he's staunch in his not wanting to worry Jet further, not when he's like this, so he says nothing of either.

"I think I might be able to do a food run today," he lets Jet's fingers coast over his wrist for a moment, then curls his own around the longer digits. "So you won't have to put yourself in danger."

He pulled a face at that. "No matter who goes, we're both in danger." Then, quieter, a touch more bitter. "Don't pull that."

If he went, he put himself in danger because he wouldn't be able to see any coming, but then he'd be leaving Albert alone in the store. If Albert went, he was vulnerable and just as likely a target as Jet and then the blond was left in the store alone instead, a sitting duck. It was just layer after layer of frustration.

And then there was that little notion that had started at the back of his mind and had slowly inched forward as time went on, that Albert's hunt for food would be a lot easier if there wasn't the worry for Jet's safety or the need to get food for two. But the moment the thought crosses his mind, he feels guilty for it and his head bows as though the notion has weight. It sort of does. That line of thought isn't his beat, but with the knowledge that it (likely) wouldn't be permanent, it felt a little more justifiable. Hell, it was justifiable, who were they kidding trying to keep Jet alive? So he'd have a chance at winning? He didn't want to win like this, winning was the last thing he'd ever want if the trade was his sight. And there certainly wasn't as good a chance for Albert to win if he had to carry Jet's weight and Albert winning was something Jet always wanted, he wanted his partner free from this cycle and right now, Jet was the definite trap keeping him there.

He was silent, more silent than he'd been, all of his arguments and thoughts stoppered in his throat by the one fact that he would need to vocalize the idea to his partner. After all, he knew the German and Albert wasn't likely to just let Jet get killed by someone else and if Jet ran off to find Bucky and call in that raincheck then Albert would never forgive him.

If he could just do it on his own, he would.

"Al..." He winced as though he could already feel the pain this conversation would cause the older man. He didn't want to do this...but he couldn't do this anymore either.

"I've been thinking..."

"Well someone has to do it and I feel better if it's me." He can look out for explosives, if that's to be pulled again, or any other dangers. It's a thin reason though, Jet is right, but really he does feel better if Jet is ensconced somewhere with even the illusion of safety.

Jet bows his head and Albert wonders if his tone was too harsh. He wonders that too much, lately, and like other times he tightens his grip on Jet's hand as if he's worried about his partner slipping away from him.

By the look on the American's face, the tone of his voice when he speaks next, he might be right. His stomach tightens in a reaction that has nothing to do with his injuries.

"What is it?"

Albert's hand tightens on his and his stomach twists so tightly that he very nearly chickens out. But he can't, he just can't.

"That...that it might be better if we go ahead and stop pretending keeping me around's a good idea. That it's time to go ahead and end this before someone else does...or, worse, no one does."

His words fall from his lips like lead and yet, even when they're out of his head, he only feels heavier. But Albert has this way of shutting conversations down so fast and so hard that arguing feels pointless, Jet can't let that happen now that it's out there. If he doesn't convince him now, he won't be able to again. So he doesn't grant Albert time to reply.

"I don't want to win like this, I don't even want to risk winning like this. I'm losin' it like this, I can feel it, if I won and didn't get my sight back..." He shook his head but, again, didn't pause long enough for Albert to respond.

"I'm useless like this, I'm just weighing you down and I think we both know there's no way you'll win if you've got me being your ball and chain. You could protect yourself and only need food for yourself, you'd have a better shot at winning."

His expression turned from one of guilty resolution to remorseful shame as his mind turned to his behavior ever since he'd been blinded. "I know you know I'm right. Besides, I've been more and more of a jackass when you're just trying to take care of me and I don't want to be like that."

Now he paused, letting it sink in a moment before he gave his last argument.

"I don't care how you want to do it or who you want to do it...but it'd be kinder if you let me go. I don't want to be helpless anymore."

He's about to protest, about to end what Jet's going to say before he ever says it, but the blond doesn't give him a chance and the words are spilling out like water, unstoppable and reflecting every worried doubt and fear that Albert's kept locked up tight in some far corner of his mind never to be voiced. He can't. He won't.

Jet says he feels weighted by those words and on Albert they fall like stones, pushing down on his chest, taking his breath, his life, all of it away and leaving him an empty, crumpled shell. "I can't protect myself well, not like this."

It's a flimsy argument, but the only one he has left. Desperate, he clings to it as if it can keep him afloat, emotion all out of his expression and voice as if this were a perfectly reasonable discussion that didn't make the world feel as if it's caving in around his ears. "We should both go."

Albert's hand grips Jet's so tightly he trembles.

"And I can't protect you at all."

But any other argument died on his lips as pure panic clawed into his chest and down through to his stomach, shredding everything inside him as it went. Jet couldn't kill Albert of his own volition, not in a million years, which meant Albert was thinking about offing himself; the one thing Jet feared more than being blind.

Anger flared in response to the overwhelming fear and panic welling up in him. "No! You promised me! You promised you'd never do that and I don't care if this is an arena and we'd come back anyway, that promise holds here too, got it!? You can't-"

Jet's hand gripped just as tightly back while the other reached for his partner's shirt and viciously crumpled the fabric in his fist once it was found.

"Please, Al, you gotta try. You could still win!"

It was immensely selfish, he knew that, but he didn't apologize for it, he couldn't. He couldn't remain blind, but he'd never forgive Albert or himself if he let the German kill himself. Both prospects together scared him more than dying ever could.

"But you want me to kill you?" His voice sounds like great slabs of ice thudding down on the floor; heavy, chill, and cracking sharply. He recognizes it, his way of lashing out because it's the last thing on Earth he would ever want, not after he'd nearly done it before and still loathes himself for the act.

It's different though, here. They're sane - at least as sane as they can be - and Jet is right. He's going out of his mind without his sight. Albert can see the signs, watching his partner crumple in on himself as if he were made of paper. It's painful to watch, even more painful to try and deny, but is it really so much better to die?

Is it really so much better to live?

But he can't get past it right then, in that moment. He needs a push out of where he's stuck, going around and around in his head that he can't continue without Jet but he can't really continue with him either. Reason argues with emotion, logic with love, and the only words that come to him are that history repeats itself. Over and over.

Over and over again.

He takes a deep breath, full of aching frost. "Think of what you're asking me to do, Jet..."

Whereas Albert is ice, Jet is fire. His grip tightens and his temper flares, causing his tone to heat up as it's kindled by fear and pain. Not pain for himself, but pain for the man in front of him, the man he's hurting. But how much more would they hurt if they continued to be stubborn?

"So, what, you wanna just keep me hanging out here? Why? So you can watch me go nuts and leave you helpless to do anything? Is that better?

I'm not asking you to kill me, I'm asking you to let me die. Bucky already offered to do it, just let me find him and it doesn't have to be on you."

It was a little harsh, but he didn't know what else to do. He was close to giving up and letting Albert win, but there was a desperate ember of fear setting everything ablaze over and over, as though no attempts to smother it could touch it.

The fire was still there, simmering beneath his words when he spoke next, but tiredness had crept into his tone; he didn't want to argue with his partner anymore, he just wanted things to stop being a mess.

"You know I'm with you to the end of the world. At the final curtain call, it'll be you and me, together like we're supposed to. But this ain't that time yet, this isn't permanent....and I'm not strong enough to keep going...and I will not leave you to take my abuse and watch me be so weak."

Maybe, if their deaths were permanent, he'd hang on even though he knew it was hopeless, but there was a safety net that made him just want to fold.

"I can't let anyone else do it, no matter what they said." He argues but he knows he'll lose this battle, he knows because of the weariness that sneaks into Jet's voice, he knows because Jet never calls himself weak.

He knows because he's heard himself give similar arguments to Jet in dark times before, but Jet can always overcome them. He's not Jet. He's not possessed of that gift for life and hope.

He doesn't say anything else, just rests his forehead against Jet's in sorrow, holding one of the younger man's hands to his chest as if feeling his heartbeat will somehow convince him to not go through with it, to try and stay.

But it's selfish of him, isn't it? Selfish of Albert to force him to stay when he hates this so much, with every fiber Albert can see that Jet resents his blindness, hates his powerlessness and while the German has every confidence his partner could work through it, the point is he doesn't have to.

It's all logical, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.

"How?" It's barely a whisper but still falls like a stone slab, heavy with sorrow, but it's not a plea for how he can manage it, it's a question of the way Jet wants to go.

He'll do it. He doesn't have to like it, doesn't have to want it, but he'll do it.

Jet hears a cracking and he could almost swear that it was that fire of anger crackling lively in his chest...but it's gone now and while the sound came from his chest, it wasn't the fire going out.

His heart broke for his partner, any other circumstance and he wouldn't be able to ask this of the German, Jet would never be so cruel...but if Albert won't let it be someone else, then it has to be him. Jet pressed back against his fiance's forehead and let his hand rest there on that broad chest. The heartbeat he could feel against his palm brought comfort and peace into Jet's previously static-filled mind. As long as Albert was still alive, still trying, everything else would be fine. This would be fine too.

"I've got a knife still and there's that sword. Whatever way you choose is fine. I trust you."

If they had a real gun, Jet would just suggest that: something nice and quick, a flash of pain and he'd wake up with his sight in the capitol. Of course, blades could be quick too and he knew Albert wouldn't let him suffer long.

His free hand carefully came up to Albert's hair and slid down to his face.

"Thank you, Al."

"Don't you dare thank me for this." His voice rumbles like the movement of a glacier and Jet's fingers join the tears that have started making slow tracks on his face. It's bad enough to have to do it, but for Jet to be grateful when all Albert can think is how - if he ever does die - this solidifies his place in Hell. They'd called him a God of Death once, a reaper, a moniker the Black Ghost scientists had adopted for him as a joke either because he was the most destructive model or because he constantly was trying to die on them. Now, maybe, they're making it true.

He doesn't like it, hates it with every fiber of his being, but the alternative...

He loosens the sabre from its sheath, a sibilant scrape all that accompanies the metal dragging out naked from its housing. He knows anatomy, knows where the sword will have to find a home to end things quickly, but he can't help wishing he had a proper gun instead. It's so much less personal. A gun can kill without a thought, even as an accident in unlearned hands, but a sword means intent. You have to know where to strike, have to want it or else the process of dying becomes arduous.

But this isn't an impersonal death. He can't remove himself from this. Perhaps, in time, when they're together again in the Capitol he can convince himself of its necessity with the same assurance Jet seems to have, but right now all it seems is terrifying and heartbreaking. And still he presses the point of the blade over the left side of Jet's chest, no weight behind it yet.

He wants to tell Jet he loves him, wants to somehow make this less frightening, but no words come from his dry throat and he swallows hard, forehead again pressed to his partner's as if somehow that will allow him to escape his sorrow.

Jet's fingers brush at the tears and his pulse quickens upon hearing the sword drawn. This was his choice, one he only regretted for the pain it was causing the man he loved, but there was still a ribbon of fear that laced through him and wound around his heart. He feared death, even with as many times as he'd met it, he feared the nothing he'd always experienced in death more than the process of dying. Dying wasn't scary, not waking up was.

But he didn't say anything, just smiled a bit as the blade touched his chest. He pressed up a bit and kissed his partner, a light but gentle touch that said the 'I love you' that was on his tongue.

"I'll see you on the other side, Al."

His left arm held at his side to keep it out of the way and his right hand still brushing along the other man's cheek, Jet braced himself and waited, prepared for the feeling of sharp steel cutting through flesh and bone and the muscle that fed blood to the rest of his body, stopping it's movement in it's track.

He can't speak still, even as he repositions the sword, holds the blade in his hand so he doesn't have to move his forehead against Jet's despite how it cuts into his palm. It's not as if it matters, there's enough there to get the job done and on some level he wants that pain, some kind of punishment to offset what he's about to do. It isn't enough to pay for this with Jet's absence, to suffer emotionally. He needs a physical manifestation.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry.

The tip of the blade punctures Jet's shirt, blood welling from the wound almost immediately.

I should have prevented this, I should have refused.

It slides in smoothly, between his ribs to slice through tissue and muscle, straight into the very top of Jet's beating heart.

I should have stopped Nasir, I should have been with you, I should have-

He can't stop the tears coming any more than he can stop Jet dying now. It's done. And he hates himself for it.

I'm so sorry, please forgive me...

The sword bit into his skin and tore through his chest, sending pain through his torso and to his fingertips that outwardly manifested itself in a harsh flinch and a grunt, though both passed quickly leaving only calm peace in Jet's face as his hand fell from his partner's face.

The pain was fading along with his thoughts as his heart struggled to beat a few times more before giving out, leaving the blood to drain from his brain and take his life with it. His body fell forward, forehead leaving the German's as gravity took over and his pale skin steadily lost it's warmth.

Albert's left holding the empty shell of his fiance, clutching the limp body to his chest for a long moment as he silently weeps, unable to stem the flow until its passed. How many times would he have to see Jet die? Falling as so much stardust, bleeding out in his arms, breathing his last against Albert's cheek. He feels as if he may break apart the grief is so heavy to bear. He'll see Jet back in the Capitol when this is done, he knows he will - or he doesn't, but he hangs onto it because it's all he has left to hope for in this moment. And it seems like such a small consolation after this time being responsible for taking his life.

He's so frightened and for once the cameras can see it. He has no stalwart mask to hide behind, not with ugly tears running down his nose and chin. He's terrified of loss, terrified that Jet won't be waiting, or worse that he will with resentment and condemnation despite his asking Albert to deal with blow. He hates himself for it, why shouldn't Jet?

It takes a long time for Albert to finally lay Jet's body down, hands folded over his chest and eyes closed as if just resting. In the crook of his arm, Albert lays one of the small songbird plushes, the ones that are meant to stand for Jet in the Build-a-Buddy shop. Albert's not sure why he does it, maybe so Jet isn't left alone even knowing that makes little sense and that Jet is no longer there, no longer inhabiting the body that had become his prison in recent weeks.

With one last brush of his fingers through golden hair, Albert rises, wiping at his face with the back of his hand and accomplishing little with the motion. He stares for a moment, tears finally stopped but grief still etched on his face like an epitaph. "I'll see you on the other side, Sparrow."

His steps are slow and limping as he turns to go, but he doesn't look back as he leaves.

Edited 2014-09-28 15:46 (UTC)

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[Closed] Every Heart Must Cease to Beat

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