Work Text:
Loneliness was grey. Grey and bloody red. The dull grey of his own morals and Ango’s suit. The deep red of freshly spilled blood and the dingy red-brown of blood caked on the floor and on his clothing. The greys were always dark and dull. The reds never vibrant.
It was the irony stench of murder and the odor of stale air. It was bullets lodging into another man’s chest or head. The tingling of bullets hitting the dirty ground. It was salty tears running their paths down his face.
Loneliness was his closest friend, the only person who would ever understand him, dying in his arms. It was making a promise he thought he could never keep.