Verando's POV- 

Don't go. 

Alpha rattles his cage, pacing, pawing, and whimpering in the back of his mind. It's a silent plea, we're still in here. Four beings were sharing this one body, Alpha, Fenrir, Verando, and the creature he became when the power turned on that frankly terrified all three of them. Leaving him behind felt like leaving him alone with the monster, to fend for himself and fight off the self-destruction. 

"See? They don't like who we are, I told you, mortals are fickle." Fenrir grumbles behind his seal. 

"Nic." Alpha whines. 

"Finish them off. We know where they are, nobody would know if we left. "

Standing abruptly, he clutches the side of his head only to quickly retract from the blood-soaked palm. The dismembered head lay on the floor just where he'd dropped it, nothing about the scene had become any less grotesque with everyone leaving. This was where he belonged, surrounded by the reminder that he was no longer fit for polite company. 

"I hit him. I almost killed him." The reminder plays on repeat, Alpha lashes out, snapping his jaws furiously. It's so loud and yet so quiet all at the same time. 

"So what?" Fenrir retorts, disgusted. "He is never going to want you again. I told you, I'm relentless. Nobody is going to want you. Besides, doesn't it feel good?"

Shuddering, his body ached from the brutal punishment delivered by Anubis, though he could feel his ribcage slowly shifting back into place in an attempt to correct the broken bones and heal the torn muscles. This body was built to put itself back together, unlike his old one that had sustained so much damage. 

It was a cruel reminder of just how permanent this was, that there was no way out. The stoney, firm skin of his body didn't even bruise. But, thinking back on it, Anubis was more so hoping to scare off the witnesses than to hurt him. If he wanted to hurt him, the damage would have been much more severe. 

Anubis was playing the same game as Fenrir, do as I say or I'll hurt everyone around you until nobody can stomach you.

"Nic." Alpha reminds him again, whining, pawing, always searching. 

"Hungry," Fenrir adds in his complaint dismissively. 

Lighting a cigarette, he trudges up the stairs, uncaring about the smoke smell as he spots the book I had so carefully covered up. With a snort, it was only proper that this was something he couldn't do right, as well. 

"Left it open like an idiot." Verando takes another drag on his cigarette, staring at the blazing end in the dark as he considers setting the book ablaze. 

Would that be enough to snuff him out? Could he get out of this hell deal if he burned the whole thing down? Wouldn't everyone be better off? 

"Do it." The monster rejoices. "I bet it would hurt. I bet we would suffer."

It felt like being trapped in an echo chamber, he was so tired, so fed up with the constant noise. Yet, drowning them o ut, made him all too aware of how quiet everything was when he was alone.

His ears ring, pricking his senses that he wasn't alone.

"Hello, Steffan." Verando addresses the strigoi in a monotoned exhale, letting the smoke blow from his nose. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

"Oh, I'm just watching you wallow." The strigoi curtsiess. "You are Death now, maybe I shouldn't be so accessible. Surely my number was up a long time ago." With a playful smile, Steffan glances back and forth between the cancer stick and the book. "You look like you're going to make more poor decisions. Considering adding pyromaniac to your list?"

Yes. 

In a makeshift smile that doesn't catch his eyes or cheeks, Verando drowns out the snark with sarcasm before letting his expression return to the stone features of a man at his limit. "Now why on earth would I do that?"

"Hurt Nic." Alpha retorts shortly, agreeing with the position that the keeper of this body needs punishment. 

Considering this, Steffan walks over to the book, curious as he uses a flip of his hand to turn the page, though it seems to amuse him that he couldn't see the text for he chuckles lightly. "What a tricky little book. Hiding all the good secrets. That's quite a face you're making, you know."

 Glancing over his shoulder, the Strigoi considers the warlord, finally allowing the concern to cloud his face. "You got drunk on endorphins, went on a murdering spree, and nearly killed your husband and a Siren, I think anyone would find this as a low point, at least for the week. It is only Friday, however."

"Plenty of time for more tomfoolery." Verando considers another cigarette but decides against it. Any more and it would smell, everyone would know he wasn't coping well more than they already did.

 Verando the recovering drug addict.

Verando smoking means he's not coping, why can't he quit? 

Of course, he's drinking, he can't hold his liquor. 

"Why are you here, Steffan? Can't you see I'd like to be alone with my insanity?" There was only so much room to sort through the trash, and when he got too tired, it was so hard to fight them off.  

As the silence ticks away, the room is still, as if two slabs of stone occupied the space. They sit unmoving, for eternity if they must, because they have left the mortal realm and entered this dead space of unliving hell.  It's as if Steffan were attempting to pull some sort of deep thought out of him, by being quizzical and humourous without pointing fingers. Unfortunately for the Strigoi, he'd run entirely out of desire for betterment with this latest foible. 

"It's because you're fragile. Nobody wants to piss off the psycho." The monster chuckles, making the corner of his mouth turn down.

"I don't think anyone has welcomed you to the club of the unliving. Unfortunately, we don't have greeting cards anymore, and funerals are optional, but we do have emotional baggage that I see you've helped yourself to." Hesitating when he sees Verando is unimpressed by his attempts, Steffan snags the long trellis of his hair, carefully starting the process of braiding it. 

It was the first time he'd seen the Strigoi look so unsure of himself, perhaps he truly was afraid of the man and the voices were right. Yet, fear is not the emotion he was picking up on. Steffan's expression was kind, though guarded, if he allowed himself to analyze it, he could decipher that the man was trying desperately to figure out the best approach to reach the forlorn lycan. 

While he wanted to shove him away, to scare him off, a part of him was grateful for the attempt. Convinced as he was that no sentiment could make this better, sharing space with someone genuinely concerned helped him not feel so damn alone.

"When everyone else leaves and goes to bed, there's nothing left for people like us but to lie awake and think about all the fucked up shit we've done. I've been in low places, I just assumed after this whole fiasco you might like company, and maybe a bit of guidance to fix your house?"

This revelation catches him off guard and Verando shifts awkwardly, wanting to fidget, yet he is too disgusting to even consider touching himself or anything else. "I assumed I'd just use mortal tools and mortal money. People can be motivated to clean just about anything with money."

"Yes, but there are witnesses. You destroyed it, I imagine you could take it back... or, you could summon someone to do it for you. Spirits that weren't human, beings that live to serve creatures like us. I'm sure you remember my little pet?"

The idea of spilling his darkest thoughts to Steffan felt oddly wrong, the two weren't all that close, when in fact, Steffan was a nuisance he had accepted due to my insistence on being the Strigoi's friend. The idea of taking it further and asking some sort of spirit for assistance was enough to turn him off on the whole bid. 

"Go home, Steffan. I can handle this on my own." Stepping out of his comfort zone had done enough trauma to him for one day, what he needed now was to cater to the itch. Over all else, than the depression and the voices, he was desperate to be clean. It was as if he could crawl out of his skin from the feeling of the blood drying on his body, yet he was so hot that he was sticky as well. 

A texture nightmare. 

Shaking his head, he pulled off his coat to reveal the tattered button-up. One thing he could trust Steffan with, however, was his body. He knew the man wouldn't dare touch him, it gave him quite permission to pursue his next vice. 

"Not interested?" The strigoi pried, following him to the doorway of the bathroom as Verando pulled off his shirt. 

"Steffan, you being here with me feels like a betrayal to Nic and I don't need you wrapped up in all of this. Nic needs you now way more than I do and if you knew what I'd done... I almost killed him. If someone interrogates you-" Just leave me alone. You can't help, nothing helps. 

The flamboyant male holds up his hand, suddenly very serious. "Listen to me, you big bastard. I'm going to tell you this one time because that is the most ridiculous statement I've heard you say to date. What happens in the space held by undead beings is something that so few understand, you're not telling me your kinks and filthy wishes, Randy. 

I'm not asking you to cut yourself open and show me the gooey bits, I just want to know what you need from someone who thinks you're kind of a serial killer psycho... but that you're also just a good guy in a shitty situation."

"Well that's incorrect in that, I'm not a good guy. I slaughtered twenty people today and practically bathed in their blood." Verando gestures to himself, unhooking his belt as he sets the still-steaming karambits on the counter.

While it was true Steffan was terrified, he also trusted that the man I chose to marry was a reasonable one who was at the end of his rope. While I had more ability than any other magic user Steffan had met, I lacked experience in what it felt like to deal with the insanity that came with this side of life. 

The crippling anxiety of knowing you'd never sleep again, the quiet that wasn't quite enough to be peaceful yet was too still to be comfortable. Coupled with the emptiness of missing your humanity; fear or not, I needed Verando to be okay. It was Steffan's self-appointed job to help that happen. 

"Blood is amazing for the complexion, so much protein," Steffan assures him, leaning against the door frame. "So, Mr.Logic, stop for a second and take an evaluation. Look at your blades, they're smoking. I think you need to live in this for just a moment and if you can, you'll find your ounce of control-"

"It's hot, Steffan." Verando retorts shortly, once more gesturing to his slightly glistening body, causing a bit of the blood staining to streak. "I'm hot. I'm bloody well exhausted, yet I can't even sleep. Steffan, I truly just want to be left alone." 

He couldn't take another failure, another attempt that showed him just how bad he was at this, how hopeless this cause was. 

"Eh, not my type. Anyways. You're hot because you're still conjuring hell's fire. Your blades are telling you you are active, you're still on, Verando. You need to turn it off, this is a great opportunity and I won't let you squander it."

It's enough to make his teeth grit, his fists tightening, crunching the knuckles as his body becomes rigid. "If I keep failing I'm going to cost us everything." His voice is short, and hard, eyes burning at the insinuation that somehow he was doing this on purpose. "I can't keep failing Steffan, I can't..."

The thought caused his chest to throb, even though there was no heart there, being separated from me was almost as hard as realizing he couldn't control himself when the blood lust took hold. "I can't lose him. I know he thinks I'm not trying, that I'm fucking off, but I'm trying so bloody hard to get this right. I don't want to ever hurt him like that again.. and if it means using as little as possible-"

Patience clouds the deep red eyes, waiting for the fists to unclench as the lycan jerks at his pants and belt. He wanted Steffan to stop staring, to just go away and leave him here to- to what?  Fumbling with the button only to accidentally rip them, it's the last straw of what was holding him together. 

Slamming his hands on the counter, the marble cracks, steaming under his fingertips. It felt strange, a burning deep inside of his body, and yet every vein, every nerve, felt electrically charged. As if at any moment he could combust, all the while, a delicious stretch rippled through every fiber as if his body was the perfectly coiled spring. He could kill again, so easily, and it would feel... good.

"This is how you destroy a group of civilians. STOP." Steffan demands of him, warning him with his eyes as the lycan forces himself to remain still despite his body fighting to unravel itself. "Telling you that your blinkers on doesn't mean I think you don't know how to drive, honey. This is not criticism, you can not fix what you don't accept. Death is a direct response to your emotions, but it is not wielded with emotion. You can kill someone by being pissed off, sure, if you want to stay unpredictable.

But, if you want to fix this, it's going to take learning to compartmentalize. Just like controlling the wolf. Magic can't be reasoned with, but you can use logic to define rules for it."

Try harder, do better, attempt this, feel for that, there was nothing to feel or see, nothing he could grasp onto that gave him any leverage of this ability. "I can't do this fairy wedding bullshit-"

Putting his hands on his hips, Steffan raises his eyebrows, offended and amused all at the same time. Quick to strike back, he cocks his head defiantly, before speaking in a tone as if he was talking to an invalid. "You learned to suck a cock, didn't you? "

Taken aback, Verando pulls his lips into a thin line. 

Steffan returns the look with expectation, "Well? Did mommy and daddy teach you how to fondle a penis? No? Well good, that means you can learn to do something nobody thought you could or should with the right amount of motivation. Magic is not a dick, Verando, don't take it so hard. Now, get your shit together, and let's talk about our emotions like real men."

"I-" What could he say? It'd totally caught him off guard, he'd never expected such vulgarity from Steffan. Staring at himself in the mirror, seeing the dark circles under his eyes and the blood drenching his body, he looked horrifying. No wonder everyone ran away. "I look like a damned mess." He finally allows, with a heavy exhale, yet an unsuspecting chuckle bubbles to the surface. 

Unable to stop it, he slowly starts to laugh, he might have truly gone mad or maybe there was just no other emotion left to have. Either way, it was welcome over the alternative. At the same moment, the smoke emanating from the karambits snuffs out as if they had been blown out. His body felt suddenly heavier, chilled where he'd been blazing, it was almost enough to buckle his knees with the extreme change. 

"There. Congratulations, you've turned it off."