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His stomach is completely split open. His intestines were only halfway exposed to the cold air, the rest in a pile contained by Ace’s arms. Ace grits his teeth, a smile still etched although pained, and shifts his grip. He’s been leaning against a building, the shack he assumes, with a startlingly clear view of the parts of himself no light was meant to touch. Ace’s hands are drenched in blood, which allows the slide of his guts, threatening to spill over and bloody the ground. The circumstances of his situation come back to him, sifting through the hazy fog that the dull pain creates.
Ace had asked for it. Practically forced it against the perpetrator’s will. It wasn’t unusual for his body to undergo massive amounts of trauma. It was just the name of the death game he had been forced to play. In usual situations, large gaping wounds would have been thrust upon him, blood dripping from cuts and pained screams ripped from cracked lips. Both in this death loop and his life before it, Ace wasn’t a stranger to pain. Welcomed it wholeheartedly during intimate moments, and knew it would be a constant when he was met face-to-face with debt collectors. But even then, he would’ve said a safeword or two if a partner had genuinely suggested cutting him open.
Just shows how much running for his life for an Entity’s amusement changed him.
Ace hears a gunshot—the telltale sign of a sharpened spear slamming against rocks—and he sighs, shifting to slouch lower. Upon his request, Deathslinger chased out the rest of the survivors, his friends, who only stayed behind to try to help him out of a situation Ace created. It wasn’t an act of selflessness on Ace’s part or an attempt to avoid embarrassment. He’s sure that they’ve seen much worse, anyway. Hell, he doesn't even care for the traditional masculine ideas that David, along with others, was so keen on upholding.
Ace asked to be alone with the killer who did this to him because… well, maybe it was out of one of his impulses.
He glances down at himself. It still didn’t feel real. It probably wouldn’t feel real for a while, given that Ace has officially lost feeling in everything below his knees. The fact that he’s holding his guts, like a bag of potatoes. He would laugh if he could muster up the energy.
Beads of sweat roll down his temple, and he resists the urge to wipe them away.
Leather boots, one footstep heavier than the other, crush the grass underneath them, and Ace glances up to see Deathslinger. The smile on his face only grows. Deathslinger strides up to Ace, crouching down when he gets close enough, the rifle on his back shifting with the gravity change. The blood on it is solely Ace’s, and that realization brings more warmth to his heart than it ought to.
Deathslinger seems almost shy, eyes darting from the mess in Ace’s arms to his face to the glint of a silver ring around one of Ace’s fingers. (Ace remembers how the ring would play the role of a grieving divorcee.) Finally, they land to the right of Ace’s ear, probably analyzing the peeling paint from the shack’s wood.
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous now,” Ace says, a teasing lilt to his otherwise shaky voice. Maybe, the blood loss is affecting him more than he thinks. His head is surely quieter now, although with a consistent pounding, “You did this to me.”
It seems the wrong words to say as Deathslinger’s mouth flattens into a thin line. He finally peels his eyes away from the shack to focus on Ace, the ghastly white of his eyes captivating him. Ace always thought they were pretty in a very specific way.
“You told me,” He says at first, a flicker to his eyes that expresses deep-bone exhaustion. “I told you, what you did weren’t necessary, at all. The Entity’s always angry, it’s best to keep yer head down and keep it movin’.”
Ace rolls his eyes. The numbness had crawled up to his hips while Deathslinger chastised him. He genuinely couldn’t feel his legs anymore, couldn’t even twitch if he wanted to, and that fact should strike fear in his heart. It didn’t. It was strangely freeing, as if Ace could float away, higher than his body, and touch the clouds in the sky. Now he’s sure it’s the blood loss talking.
“Don’t give me that. I saw the way you were limpin’. Like a kicked puppy.”
Despite Ace’s blasé description, Deathslinger looked like a dead man walking. When Ace heard the gunshot at the beginning of the trial, his heart leaped into his throat, and a familiar buzzing in his chest started tenfold. He was excited, sue him. They hadn’t gotten placed together for a trial in a while, and it was a long time coming. When Ace snuck away from generators and searched for him, itching to get into a long chase with the killer, he spotted him around the central building in the middle of the playing field.
Instead of standing tall and intimidating, he drooped. The grip of his weapon slipped and his aim shoddy, whereas he was firm and confident before. When Meg ran him through the building, the chase took longer than usual, and the moment she threw a pallet on top of him, instead of shrugging it off, Deathslinger faltered. Instead of breaking it with strong, powerful swings, it took all of Deathslinger’s energy to make a dent. He looked like shit. As worse as Ace felt after losing gamble after gamble, and needing to fulfill carnal desires just for a place to sleep.
So, Ace offered himself up. Something easy to wet Deathslinger’s rifle.
“Just like now,” Ace comments again, stealing Deathslinger’s eyes from his slippery and glistening guts. It makes him downright giddy, the buzzing back in his chest and spreading down to his useless legs. Although, that might’ve been pinpricks from sitting in one position for too long.
Deathslinger ignores his comment. “And what? Offerin’ yerself up like a pig with an apple in his mouth will make it happy, will it?”
“C’mon, slinger,” Ace whines and jostles the mess of organs in his hands. One rope slips from his grasp, slopping against his pant leg, and he grimaces at the noise it makes, “I’m bleedin’ out here… you gotta be nice, now.”
Deathslinger’s eyes rake down his torso and gaze at the mess again. It only fans the flames licking at Ace’s skin, and he tells himself it’s because of the wound. It’s not like he’s entirely wrong. Another fat bead of sweat rolls down his temple. Ace’s so sure he looks so attractive, covered in his blood and sweat.
“You’re a pain in the ass, Visconti.”
A glint of red reflects in Deathslinger’s eyes. Ace knows that Deathslinger’s a seasoned murderer, even before he was kidnapped by the Entity. Ace managed to squeeze out brief memories of Deathslinger’s past: stories about inventions fit for torture and mutilation, people he met bounty-hunting, during his stay at some penitentiary, or just on the road. He knows that Deathslinger has seen countless corpses, been the cause of even more dismembered and disemboweled bodies, of viscera staining the ground red, their blood on his hands and gun. Especially now, with him hunting down Ace and others like they were cattle for a ruthless Entity, which only brings him further pain in return.
However, something wells up inside of Ace now, maybe smug confidence, at the thought that Ace is all he sees now. Only Ace’s blood on his gun, pooling on the ground underneath his boots, only his entrails on display for Deathslinger to see. If he tore apart another survivor, Ace has half a mind to accuse him of cheating.
God, the blood loss must really be getting to him now.
And that’s what must be happening, to fuel this vivid delusion Ace has now of Deathslinger softly touching the rope of organ that slipped from his grasp. He holds it gently, trying his best not to obstruct anything, although it hardly matters now, and places it back in Ace’s arms. He must’ve noticed how much Ace can't move his arms to hold them, as Deathslinger shifts his weight. Deathslinger leans on his better leg, scooping Ace’s entrails from his hands, and funneling it back into the open wound. Ace grits his teeth, and a slippery hand shoots out to grip Deathslinger’s forearm.
It’s indescribable, the feeling of another man’s hands inside of him like this, and touching parts of his body that have never been caressed. The pain makes his vision blank, and his fingers twist themselves further in the fabric of Deathslinger’s sleeve.
The moment passes and sight returns to Ace. He heaves out a groan and goosebumps break out on his clammy skin. Deathslinger might have another contender in the ‘looks-and-feels-like-shit’ contest. He’s teetering on the edge of puking all over himself with Deathslinger’s hands still on his lower abdomen, doing a better job of holding him together than Ace. He swears he can feel the wriggling of his intestines as they attempt to find their proper place.
“You look like a right mess, Visconti. Ain’t no wonder you were eager to let all yer friends go on without you.”
Ace looks down as Deathslinger removes one bloody hand— covered in his blood, Ace feels the need to reiterate this fact— from containing his guts to pluck at his pants, which are plastered to him like a second skin. He sees, rather than feels, Deathslinger rubs into the fabric with the pad of his fingers. Ace blinks to himself. He can’t feel anything below his rib cage.
“What did I say about being nice to me?”
Deathslinger clicks his tongue against his teeth, “Didn’t say you look bad. I know you pride yourself on lookin’ pretty, sure.”
Something wriggles up from the depths of his chest and sits in the center of his mouth. At first, Ace’s afraid that it might be vomit, his body finally catching up to make its discomfort well-known, but immediately as that thought appears, it’s banished. Anyhow, if he had more excess blood lyin’ around, he’s sure it would rise to his cheeks.
Over his deflating stomach, Ace could see Deathslinger still petting away at his cold thigh. It’s strange to feel both so hot and cold. His jeans already clung tight to his skin, only further aided by the blood, Ace could see every inch of his lower half, the rise and fall of his hips and legs. Not to mention an obvious bulge centered between his legs. Deathslinger absentmindedly rubs against him further, maybe just for the texture of it, as the back of his hand brushes along the length of it.
Another thought floats through his mind: Could Ace gather enough blood to pop a boner?
Ace leans back against the shack. Just holding himself up tires him out, and he huffs out a breath. With the last of his energy, Ace fingers open his wound, letting out a weak dribble of blood bubble over. It feels colder than it once was.
“Caleb… It’s like we’re pregnant.”
The words just fall out of his mouth. Deathslinger stops his stroking, whether because of the use of his name or the implication of pregnancy, and gapes at him. He would be cackling in his face if he had the energy, but he manages a weak chuckle. Ace can’t feel anything below his neck, and the thing he misses most is Deathslinger’s touch.
“Now I know yer fallin’ ill.”
Ace’s eyes flutter close briefly, taking a stuttering breath, before opening them again. The killer splits into two before joining back into one. All pretenses leave his mind and all he wants is to cuddle closer to Caleb.
“What’re you hoping for? A girl or a mini slinger?” Ace coughs. He wants to move closer toward the warmth that Caleb oozes. But he can’t even think about moving his stiff body without his eyes rolling toward the back of his head. “I don’t know if it’s better if they take after you or me. A chronic gambler or a ruthless killer.”
Caleb guffaws, the sound heavenly to Ace alone, “You and me with a few young’uns? Don’t joke.”
“M’not… you don’t wanna have kids with me?” Ace almost whines, with a touch more sincerity that surprises even him.
Caleb falls silent. Ace’s head rolls to the side and his breathing gets even more shallow. He doesn’t want to go just yet, wanting to grip tight onto the strings of consciousness. He’s not sure why it’s suddenly so important to him to hear Caleb’s answer.
“A girl. Would like it if she took after yourself, actually,” Caleb finally says, and Ace rolls his head back to keep him in sight. His tone is quiet and soft, and it takes all of Ace’s focus and energy to zero in on him, “It’s better than a murderer,” Ace sees Caleb move his hand out of the corner of his eyes, and he knows he’s caressing him again, “I ain’t big about family. Never lived like it.”
The ability to speak, one of Ace’s favorite things to do, leaves him, and he can’t tell Caleb to keep going. Thankfully, it’s like he read his mind.
“She’ll make a better gambler than you,” Caleb laughs, and Ace internally pouts. He’s been losing pretty badly at their weekly poker nights, which should be impossible since he’s cheating. It just now occurs to him that Caleb might also be cheating. “Just as bold, though.”
Caleb’s words wash over him, and Ace’s eyes flutter open and close as if he’s nodding off. His body twitches and slumps over in Caleb’s arms, his guts spilling over the edge and exposed to open air. He can’t find it in himself to care, not when the pressure against his rigid body grounds him. It’s comfortable, dying in Caleb’s arms. The moonlight catches on Ace’s silver ring, and he wants to smile, the images in his mind taking over his weakening vision.
Ace doesn’t want to go, not yet. He needs to stay awake a little longer, just to hear if Caleb has any ideas for baby names. His brain is far too foggy to pick out his words and understand their meaning. The misty tendrils he recognizes as extensions of the Entity reach into his addled brain, blinding his eyesight and robbing his body of the pressure of Caleb’s body against his own. Ace thinks he groans, but there’s no way of knowing. The only constant is the murmured sound of Caleb’s voice and the further added confusion dying always brings.
Ace thinks he would like a girl too.