“Remember that you were loved by me and you made my life a happy one.” - Dorisi
Its metal, so Sonny knows it should feel cool to the touch, but instead, it sears a ring into his skin, pressed against his forehead, white hot. He parts his lips, body trembling, trying to figure out what exactly is the right thing to say in this situation. He doesn’t know, because a part of him wants to beg for his life, beg for absolution, and it’s fitting that he’s already on his knees, and the white hot sear marks the Father in the sign of the cross.
But he doesn’t beg for his life, doesn’t say anything, maybe because there’s a part of him that isn’t sure he wants to live anymore, part of him that feels like he’s already on borrowed time, that he was supposed to die years ago, in a situation so similar to this. But Mike had taken his place instead, volunteered, consciously or not.
The pressure against his forehead doesn’t feel like metal anymore, it feels like skin, like a single fingertip pressed against his forehead, tracing down his cheek, catching under his chin. Sonny lifts his head, ever so slightly, and there’s no gun in his line of sight, no perpetrator ready to end him. There’s just Mike, a look of soft affection on his face, a soothing sort of sympathy.
“Sonny,” he whispers softly, and Sonny can’t believe his ears, but the familiarity blossoms in his stomach, a blooming warmth that drifts through his veins. “Why were you so careless?” Mike whispers gently, his tone laced with the sort of concern that has Sonny doubting every action he’s taken up until this moment, but he doesn’t have the answer, not the right one.
“I miss you,” Sonny chokes out, the sob still trapped in his throat, eyes welling. “It was supposed to be me then, I shouldn’t have let you go.”
Mike’s thumb traces Sonny’s chin, over his bottom lip, and he cocks his head, a soft sigh through parted lips. “It wasn’t your fault,” he offers with tender reassurance. “Remember that you were loved by me and you made my life a happy one.”
The explosive sound of the gun shot has Sonny flinching away, eyes screwed shut and terrified to open them. He’s alive, he’s sure of that much, can feel the hot, sticky drip of blood against his skin, but no pain to go with it. And when he opens his eyes, Mike’s gone from him again. He reaches up, slowly, fingertips brushing over his forehead. He can still feel the delicate sensation, like someone other than himself still has their fingertip pressed against his skin, and he doesn’t say it, but he means it. “I will.”











