[His mind works in rapidfire even as the crack of his teeth against each other shoot sparks up into his skull. With such insistence in any other context, Solomon would have to wonder if this man knew of his history, of those stupid little nicknames. But now is past the time of idle chatter.]
...You're... you're making a mistake, Danya. You really are.
[He wheezes for breath, trying not to take in the blood that slowly fills the back of his mouth.]
If you're that determined to keep me in the dark... then I'd say you can take... t-take that comeuppance and choke on it.
[A mistake. He knows it even before Solomon says it, familiar with the way it feels to be committing wrongs against someone who simply does not deserve it. Wrong man, wrong accusation. But Nishi's already knee-deep in it, and when he's sunk this low, he knows there's no clawing his way back out.
He hates himself for it. Hates how familiar it feels, to be burning down the wrong bridge all over again, but hate isn't enough to stop him.]
Take this personally. Hate me. Condemn me.
[The words are low, harsh, and then Nishi's hand is at Solomon's throat. He squeezes, not enough to kill, but more than enough to make Solomon's protests dissolve into choked wheezes. It's mercifully short, just long enough for Solomon's eyes to flutter and grow dull, for consciousness to leave him.
Nishi lets go, leaving Solomon crumpled on the grass like a discarded doll. For a long moment, Nishi only stands there, chest heaving, his own hands trembling as though they belonged to someone else. The mask doesn't hide the sweat, the shallow rasp of his breath, or the fact that he looks visibly unwell.]
One more mistake, among many. I wonder how many I've made now.
[He staggers away, legs unsteady, leaving Solomon sprawled in the grass behind him. There's no triumph here, only the taste of bile, and the certainty that what he's done will follow him, like everything else, for the rest of his life.]
It echoes like a cry for help given far too late. The struggle stays brief. A jerking of his arms, a redness to his face, brassy eyes losing focus and slipping into dark as his body goes limp.
When he finally comes to, Nishi is long gone. His face and neck and throat scream from injury and the flow of blood, his limbs ache from the pin of his body.
But he still pushes himself up, coughing out vibrant red like so many of the flowers of the gardens, and drags himself away.
Perhaps this changed things. More than he'd expected. But he still has a job to do.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
...You're... you're making a mistake, Danya. You really are.
[He wheezes for breath, trying not to take in the blood that slowly fills the back of his mouth.]
If you're that determined to keep me in the dark... then I'd say you can take... t-take that comeuppance and choke on it.
I will not confess to a sin I have not done.
no subject
He hates himself for it. Hates how familiar it feels, to be burning down the wrong bridge all over again, but hate isn't enough to stop him.]
Take this personally. Hate me. Condemn me.
[The words are low, harsh, and then Nishi's hand is at Solomon's throat. He squeezes, not enough to kill, but more than enough to make Solomon's protests dissolve into choked wheezes. It's mercifully short, just long enough for Solomon's eyes to flutter and grow dull, for consciousness to leave him.
Nishi lets go, leaving Solomon crumpled on the grass like a discarded doll. For a long moment, Nishi only stands there, chest heaving, his own hands trembling as though they belonged to someone else. The mask doesn't hide the sweat, the shallow rasp of his breath, or the fact that he looks visibly unwell.]
One more mistake, among many. I wonder how many I've made now.
[He staggers away, legs unsteady, leaving Solomon sprawled in the grass behind him. There's no triumph here, only the taste of bile, and the certainty that what he's done will follow him, like everything else, for the rest of his life.]
no subject
It echoes like a cry for help given far too late. The struggle stays brief. A jerking of his arms, a redness to his face, brassy eyes losing focus and slipping into dark as his body goes limp.
When he finally comes to, Nishi is long gone. His face and neck and throat scream from injury and the flow of blood, his limbs ache from the pin of his body.
But he still pushes himself up, coughing out vibrant red like so many of the flowers of the gardens, and drags himself away.
Perhaps this changed things. More than he'd expected. But he still has a job to do.]