khr; d18; pointblank.
He hands you a gun and tells you to aim and fire, but nothing more than that. The barrel feels heavy pressed up against your palm, and you’re surprised by the weight, by the resistance you can feel from the otherwise flimsy-looking trigger when your finger tip grazes up against it.
“No,” you tell him, handing him the weapon by shoving it a bit too forcefully against his ribs - you can tell by the look on his face that he’s more than relieved that he hadn’t released the safety just yet. “I can do without it.”
“Not long distance, you can’t,” he protests, and you feel your eyes narrowing into sharp slits as you keep your glare directed at his face. “Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that I’m not confident in your ability to handle yourself,” - you raise an eyebrow here, noting with a bit of confusion and irritation how genuine he sounds as he says this - “but they’ll have these, too, you realize. Guns, I mean. Sometimes it’s less about skill and more about the timing, y’know?”
“I won’t get shot.” Obviously, and the conversation is done. You shrug him off, walking off in the opposite direction (and as far away from him as you can get) as you always opt to do.
But even then, you can’t quite ignore the smile that you can detect in Dino Cavallone’s voice -- the way it sounds off and tinged with something like exasperation.
“Sure you won’t.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The gun barks into life in your hand, the recoil odd and off, like the feeling of your tonfa rebounding back towards you when the wall you just cracked happened to be particularly formidable. The bullet hits its mark, right between the man’s eyes, but all you are able to process is that sudden jerk of the sniper’s skull backwards, the way his body follows like dead weight tethered to a steel ball.
Your heart is thumping - b-dmp, b-dmp - within your ribs and up inside your throat. You swallow it down when the blood begins to seep into the lines between the tiles on the floor, red and red washing over the once white-washed ground, over the once white-washed view that flashed into your vision when the sound of the shot bounced against your eardrums. And although your suit’s already saturated on the stuff, it’s a sickening sight to bear witness to, seeing the way the blood almost dribbles down from that clean hole within the stranger’s head.
You’re used to splatters and you’re used to splashes - to the warmth of it dripping into the gaps between your fingers - but you’re most certainly not used to this.
“Kyouya,” Dino calls, and without thinking, you turn to him, your fingers twitching around the gun’s handle and the remaining tonfa in your other hand. When you shift your feet, your shoe catches the edge of your other weapon on the floor and the resulting clatter makes you dizzy, makes you blink and wonder what you did and why you did it.
Even with your thoughts scrambling for a proper place within your skull, you can still detect in the smile on the blonde Italian’s face, a hint of regret - something more infuriating than the carefully crafted semblance of gratitude that shines within his eyes.
“Thanks,” he says, and you almost want to shoot him for all he’s done for you, but you can’t. You can’t do anything but clench your teeth and wait for the weight to settle down into its proper place on top of your shoulders; you’re useless to do anything, now, with everyone else dead and just the two of you left.
As if on cue, Cavallone’s men come flooding in, and you feel like a fool now that you understand what had just taken place.
You look at Dino, he looks at you, and the expression on his face almost makes him look remorseful despite the way his next statement seems to hit you right between your eyes.
“Sorry.”
“No,” you tell him, handing him the weapon by shoving it a bit too forcefully against his ribs - you can tell by the look on his face that he’s more than relieved that he hadn’t released the safety just yet. “I can do without it.”
“Not long distance, you can’t,” he protests, and you feel your eyes narrowing into sharp slits as you keep your glare directed at his face. “Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that I’m not confident in your ability to handle yourself,” - you raise an eyebrow here, noting with a bit of confusion and irritation how genuine he sounds as he says this - “but they’ll have these, too, you realize. Guns, I mean. Sometimes it’s less about skill and more about the timing, y’know?”
“I won’t get shot.” Obviously, and the conversation is done. You shrug him off, walking off in the opposite direction (and as far away from him as you can get) as you always opt to do.
But even then, you can’t quite ignore the smile that you can detect in Dino Cavallone’s voice -- the way it sounds off and tinged with something like exasperation.
“Sure you won’t.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The gun barks into life in your hand, the recoil odd and off, like the feeling of your tonfa rebounding back towards you when the wall you just cracked happened to be particularly formidable. The bullet hits its mark, right between the man’s eyes, but all you are able to process is that sudden jerk of the sniper’s skull backwards, the way his body follows like dead weight tethered to a steel ball.
Your heart is thumping - b-dmp, b-dmp - within your ribs and up inside your throat. You swallow it down when the blood begins to seep into the lines between the tiles on the floor, red and red washing over the once white-washed ground, over the once white-washed view that flashed into your vision when the sound of the shot bounced against your eardrums. And although your suit’s already saturated on the stuff, it’s a sickening sight to bear witness to, seeing the way the blood almost dribbles down from that clean hole within the stranger’s head.
You’re used to splatters and you’re used to splashes - to the warmth of it dripping into the gaps between your fingers - but you’re most certainly not used to this.
“Kyouya,” Dino calls, and without thinking, you turn to him, your fingers twitching around the gun’s handle and the remaining tonfa in your other hand. When you shift your feet, your shoe catches the edge of your other weapon on the floor and the resulting clatter makes you dizzy, makes you blink and wonder what you did and why you did it.
Even with your thoughts scrambling for a proper place within your skull, you can still detect in the smile on the blonde Italian’s face, a hint of regret - something more infuriating than the carefully crafted semblance of gratitude that shines within his eyes.
“Thanks,” he says, and you almost want to shoot him for all he’s done for you, but you can’t. You can’t do anything but clench your teeth and wait for the weight to settle down into its proper place on top of your shoulders; you’re useless to do anything, now, with everyone else dead and just the two of you left.
As if on cue, Cavallone’s men come flooding in, and you feel like a fool now that you understand what had just taken place.
You look at Dino, he looks at you, and the expression on his face almost makes him look remorseful despite the way his next statement seems to hit you right between your eyes.
“Sorry.”