"I didn't actually think you'd do it."
Basile dropped the gun immediately and covered his mouth. It had been a moment of weakness in a boy who had been taught for years to kill without remorse. He’d gotten quite good at it, until this moment.
The truth was, he wasn’t sure whether it was he who had pulled the trigger, or Montparnasse, a character he wore like a second skin. Where one ended and the other began had been confusing to him for a while now, and he had never told Claquesous. Maybe that was what had led him to this point. The confusion, the lack of guidance. He should have told Claquesous and let the other sort it for him. He was no good at figuring things out on his own. He had left his independence behind at ten years old, when they had met.
He immediately knelt next to the bleeding body on the floor, gasping for breath he couldn’t seem to find. He was panicking, he realized, in some sort of absent-minded haze—a moment of clarity in which his mind removed him from the situation so he could handle the sight of a dying Claquesous.
And all too suddenly it was real again, and there was screaming in his head, but it wouldn’t reach his lips. Instead he choked on his own breath and weakly tipped forward, his head on Claquesous’ chest. “I di-didn’t…” he started, his voice shaky and weak. “Let me take it back…” he pleaded quietly.
In the past, every time he had made a mess of things, he had turned to Claquesous, and he found himself wishing now that he could do the same. He wanted to ask him for help, ask him how to fix things, but this was the one problem there was no fix to. He had dedicated the last nine years to being a living, breathing mask for the other, and he had never minded much, until all the sudden it had hit him all at once that there was hardly any Basile left to him at all, and he had taken it out on the man who had given him Montparnasse.
But oh, it was not freedom he felt now. In killing Claquesous, he knew he had killed Basile as well.
For years, no one had seen the boy beneath the criminal except for the one who had found him on the streets in the first place. He had no idea how to be Basile for anyone else, and he would not dare let Claquesous’ death be marked by any further betrayal. He could not let the identity Claquesous had fought so hard to keep hidden be revealed in death.
He would burn the body, he decided, in secret. In his mask. Even he would not look on the face beneath. He released a sudden shriek of mourning, of regret. He had taken from himself the only two things he had ever held dear—Claquesous, who had been his mentor and the only person he had been close with since childhood, and Basile. There would be no more Basile, of that he was certain. To keep Claquesous’ secrets, he knew he would have to continue on as Montparnasse. For now, just for these last few moments, however, he put aside the act for the last time, allowing himself to scream and to cry and to beg.
When his energy was spent, however, he wiped his face and stood, his gaze cold now, and a little emptier than it had been before. He lit himself a cigarette, then bent down to begin burning Claquesous’ clothes. He took a few steps away and watched just to make sure the fire started properly, then left. Let the whole damn house burn with him, and every piece of pretty clothing he had been given through the years with it. He wanted no reminders.
