too late.
Nixon died begging for his life.
A knife in his stomach. His hair matted with blood from a head wound. Dark, dark bruises littering his elbows, his knees — the palms of his hands were bleeding from broken glass thrown at him. One too many mistakes. He’d made one too many mistakes, spoke out one too many times… He couldn’t have kept his fucking mouth shut, could he?
Pain. Nixon remembered pain, the searing agony as blood gushed from the wound on his abdomen. And then the pain as his head was yanked back, the same knife leaving scars as it trailed up his chest. He’d started begging then, kicking his feet like a child while trying to get out of Sebastian’s grasp. The other was always so much stronger than he was. Any attempts he made were useless, but he’d needed to try.
He’d made the mistake of saying that someone would save him.
Sebastian had laughed, the sound cruel and chilling, and had sent shivers up and down Nixon’s bruised spine. He’d laughed while pressing the blade to Nixon’s throat, making slice after slice to parts where it didn’t matter. Nixon remembered sobbing, desperate, needing more than anything to get away from him.
He’d screamed as the blade found its perfect position between his ribs. Sebastian grinned against the curve of his neck, kissing his bruised skin. Nixon remembered seeing the door open just as the knife was buried in his heart. You will always be mine. The words his ex-lover spoke had been the last he’d heard. A crumpled, broken mess bleeding on the floor. Someone screaming in devastation, in fury, before feeling their hands caress his skin one last time.
Nixon never saw who came to his rescue.
