Work Text:
He waits for the explosion of air bubbles, the rise of foam and splash when Kant resurfaces, limbs flailing as he desperately gasps for oxygen.
But it doesn’t happen. The silence drags on. It may only be a matter of seconds, but it feels like a lifetime as Bison’s gaze stays locked on that one spot.
Don’t fall for it, Bison’s brain supplies. He’s going to come back up in just a moment, you’ll see. They’re not even that far away from shore.
Bison’s nails dig into his palm. How long can a person hold their breath underwater? A minute or two at the most? But that’s irrelevant when the person in question has a fear of drowning and is likely to be compromised by panic.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I’m afraid of the ocean? Something happened when I was a kid. I almost drowned. Now I’m still afraid of it.“
And Kant’s hands were tied up. Four knots in total so there would be no chance of him breaking free. Bison made sure of it.
“It must have been traumatising.”
Precisely. It’s why he chose the beach in the first place.
The gun clatters against the boat as Bison dives overboard.
----------
He stares at Kant's pale face, unmoving, like the rest of him.
“...Kant?” his voice comes out small. Tentative. He sounds embarrassingly hoarse. He tells himself it’s because he was yelling before.
This isn’t what I wanted- I still haven’t-
Haven’t what?
His eyes burn. He shivers despite the humidity. He has about ten minutes give or take to attempt resuscitation, if that, before Kant’s well and truly gone - and that window gets smaller the longer he stays frozen.
He’s dead. Repeats it a few times for good measure. You got what you wanted. He tries to accept that simple fact. Swallow it down and rejoice in it. But he doesn’t feel the sense of satisfaction he’d hoped for. Nor any relief or rousing accomplishment. Instead, an invisible vice closes round his windpipe, as if he’s the one unable to breathe.
He suddenly pictures Babe sitting at home, nestled in between the sofa cushions with one of Shakespeare’s plays propped in his hand, waiting for Kant to return. He thinks about the way Kant likes to fondly ruffle Babe’s hair when he waltzes between the kitchen cabinets to rustle up something for dinner, casting a smile in Bison’s direction like he knows he’s watching. The sight of it awakened something in him he hadn’t been able to name.
A bright, hot poker of ire flares, prods and pokes at the back of his skull. And yet Kant remains perfectly still. Peaceful in his unconsciousness. Insultingly so.
This isn’t fucking fair. Why is it that you get the easy way out? When I deserve… something. Anything.
An explanation? An apology? Why did it even matter? He still lied to you. He still betrayed you. He chose.
And isn’t that just the bit that bites most?
Kant had offered him little to nothing before he’d jumped, and that only succeeded in making the anger hungrier. Just like it did when Kant had been hunched over his bedside, crying about lying to him. The tears were almost an insult.
You don’t get to cry. If you had even the slightest bit of decency, you’d tell me why. Why did you do it? What the hell was even in it for you?
Though Kant had offered to explain once he was on land, Bison hadn’t afforded him the luxury. He wanted the answers now. Right then and there. He had a gun pointed to his head for god sake, wasn’t that enough to get him to talk? In Bison’s experience, people loved to talk when they were staring death in the face. It was one of the more annoying parts of the job.
“I was forced to.”
Bison swallows down hard.
Why didn’t you hear him out? …Were you afraid of the answer?
No. He just didn’t want to give Kant any opportunity to blindside him again. To worm his way through Bison’s defences. So what if he had reasons? Those reasons were a moot point as far as he was concerned, as it would only be delaying the inevitable anyway.
Wake up.
He wants to laugh coldly. You can stop pretending to be dead so I get to kill you all over again.
The right way.
On some level, Bison knows he’s being wildly irrational. Kant’s already dead, he insists sternly, hoping the message will actually register in his brain this time. He can’t get any deader. What’s wrong with you?! So let him stay dead. Leave him be.
Do nothing. Just as you are now.
That’s all it takes, and it’ll soon be over.
Bison notices Kant’s left hand is closed into a ball, and something against his better judgement urges him to pry those fingers open.
An offering.
“Open it.”
There’s no playful resistance this time.
For some reason, he isn’t surprised when he finds the necklace safely tucked up in Kant’s palm like it was on his birthday. And yet, the sight of it still knocks the wind out of him for a brief moment, makes him feel sick and clammy in all the wrong ways.
“It’ll make you think of me every time you put it on.”
No.
I don’t want it.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
This isn’t…
I wasn’t… didn’t…
Before he can think twice, he scrambles over to tilt Kant’s head back. Kant’s lips are wet and cold when he presses down, exhales, and proceeds to bear his weight down into the hands placed at the centre of Kant’s ribcage.
He scruntinises Kant’s face, waits for a reaction that doesn’t come, and repeats the whole process again. And again. Dread tightens it’s chokehold around his neck as he presses down harder. More frantically.
He wants to scream.
“I’ll go anywhere as long as I’m with you.”
“I love you, Bison.”
When the man doesn’t so much as twitch, he practically beats his fist over Kant’s chest, hard enough to break a rib, maybe several of them.
I hate you. I hate you so fucking much.
He jolts when Kant finally lets out a choked gasp, water spilling from his lips and over his jaw, as he flinches to one side and takes a sharp inhale of breath, coughing and spluttering noisily back to life.
Bison collapses on the sand.
You love him.
He wants to sob but he forces it down the abyss that Kant was not supposed to return from.
You fool.
You complete and utter fool.