He shook in your arms as he screamed, unable to protect himself from the dark screams anymore. The terror that ripped through him, the pain, was enough to make you want to listen to him, and then follow him into the darkness. He’d been so calm when he explained what he was doing, what he had to do, to save everyone.
He walked in knowing that he was going to die, your Mituna, your moirail, your best motherfucking friend. You went with him because he’d asked you, because he couldn’t ask Latula.
“I can’t make her watch me fucking die, man, shit” he had said with his silly lisp, and you know that were the tables turned, you couldn’t make your little kitty do it either. Besides, he’d made you promise.
He knew what his life would be like after, he knew it would be agony and pain. He asked you to kill him so he didn’t have to endure it, and you’d nodded, thinking that the mirthful messiahs would give you the strength to put your wickedest, raddest palebro out of his misery.
He was so small in your arms; short and light and frail, shaking like a grub and screeching for you to put him out of his pain.
You love him too much. His sarcasm, his stupid toothy grin, the way he says everything is radical and his stupid jokes, you love it all. The chances of you all making it out of here alive are almost zero to motherfucking zero and you still love him to motherfucking much to kill him.
You’re acting before you’re thinking about consequences, your chucklevoodoos working their miracles as you reach into the head of your moirail and rip everything out that could hurt him. You rip away the psiionics and you know that some threads are being pulled out, some seams are coming loose and pulling apart. This is all you can do to help him as you shatter the glass that is his delicate mind, trying to put the pieces back together and failing miserably.
When you’re done, he’s staring at you, still shaking but not screaming. The tears are dried to his face. He struggles, and you can see the cracks, running along his skin like veins, leading from his hair to his eyes. You bet those ugly cracks go all the way to the base of his horns.
His voice is strained and stuttered as he fights to find his words.
You slowly rub your hand in a circle over your heart. “I’m sorry.” He stares at you blankly, and you feel fresh tears fall down your face as you look at the broken husk of your moirail. Your fingers move, a simple sign that he wouldn’t ever forget (you hope.)
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