2P GerIta: Fallen

1

I stared at the smaller man as he was thinking, scowling off into space the way he did whenever he was not focused on any particular thing, but was instead just pissed off and impatient with the entire world in general.

I studied the way his mouth was twisted, how his eyes were far off but still cold, his jaw clenched, his body tensed but without any particular reason - it really was about as relaxed as he got most days, most of the time. Even in sleep he often wore a hard expression, unless one of his rare smiles graced his face as he dreamed of torturing someone who would scream endlessly at the pain.

I noticed the way the sunlight hit his hair, and made it gleam. I observed him absentmindedly - subconsciously - cleaning the blood off of the knife he was handling, without him even once acknowledging it with a glance.

With my eyes, I traced his lithe body, his typically-stressed form, followed along his calmly cruel expression; there was not a part of him I was unfamiliar with, having been his ally and his right-hand man for years now. I knew practically every side to this man, from his quick, frequent tempers, to his deliciously sadistic bloodlust, to his well-hidden, specially-reserved tenderness he kept for only his knives and his expertly-crafted food, and occasionally his flamboyant brother in instances when he could be deemed less insufferable by this mesmerizing, haunting man.

I knew how he looked when he was yelling, training, eating, sleeping, dreaming, scheming. I knew what it felt like to have him hit me, whip me, congratulate me, celebrate with me. I knew how he smiled at pain and frowned over small deviances, how he delivered a blow mercilessly and precisely, and how he held a knife as skillfully and delicately as a painter held their brush, twirling it easily between his long fingers.

I knew all there was to know about the cruel, heartless man, including the small breaches in his frozen life. And I was well aware - painfully so - that he would hold only contempt for the knowledge of what had settled in me, coming to root itself in my very core of being, right around my life to develop, as if it had always been there. And maybe it had.

Because I knew just as I knew everything about him, that I was in love with Luciano Vargas, hopelessly, completely, and with no regret other than it would take work to have him fall for me as I had fallen already for him. It would be painful and aggravating, if not impossible and able to destroy me.

I looked forward to it with great pleasure.

For now though, I just watched in silent admiration as he continued to clean crimson off the glinting, sharp silver in his hand, and I couldn't help but smile as well when I saw the expression cross his face as he must have replayed the screams of his victim in his head.

Yes, loving Luciano Vargas was intoxicating and dangerous, and likely highly lethal, entirely deadly. But I could only love it - love him - all the more.