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CHARACTERS: Mordred (modraed) & Famine (eatasam)
DATE/TIME: Sunday morning
LOCATION: Remote shooting range
RATING: Highish
WARNINGS: Implied violence. Attempted murder, and mentions of suicide.
SUMMARY: Mordred has a plan, but he needs a certain someone to carry it out.
The car ride up to the outdoor shooting range that Mordred favored was mostly quiet. Not a bad lack of noise, but the comfortable sort of silence that exists when there's no need for words. While Mordred was behaving more or less like his usual self Famine might have been able to notice the subtle clues that would indicate something about the man wasn't right; the tension in his jaw, the whiteness of his knuckles as they clenched the steering wheel, and the slight wildness that was lingering in his eyes.
Parking the car, he reached back to grab the case holding his handgun. He'd only brought one because the others were still at Agravaine's and he was loathe to go to his brothers' apartment without him there. Getting out, he waited for Famine before locking the car, indicating for the younger man to follow him.
Silences while driving, or silences in general, were things that Famine didn't really mind. If someone didn't want to talk, then they didn't want to talk. He might have expected the ex-knight to say more considering how insistent he'd been to reach out to the horseman, but he didn't pry. Only glanced over once in a while, silent and observing.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he trailed after Mordred as prompted, a step or two behind him in the next silence that ensued. Words told a lot, but silence could speak even louder in the absence of them. He was no mind-reader, not even an expert at body language, but he knew something was up. A something that tickled the back of his neck.
Danger.
Walking up a short incline, Mordred led the way to an older-looking brick wall set up with a variety of tin cans and glass bottles. He shot a slight grin in Famine's direction as he set down the case, crouching beside it and pulling out two sets of goggles. Holding one up to the horseman, he cleared his throat.
"Thank you for agreeing to see me today. I just needed to get out of the hospital." He offered up a look that inferred he expected Famine to understand, though even if he didn't Mordred really didn't care. He had brought them out here for a reason, one that he was certain Famine would have little difficulty pulling off.
If there was anyone he trusted that would be capable of killing him, it was a horseman.
"I hate hospitals," the slighter boy supplied, accepting the goggles and giving them a raised eyebrow. Not because he cared if they looked hilarious on him, but because he didn't know one needed goggles to go target shooting. Maybe he didn't watch enough television. He could understand the need to get away from all the machines, the squeak of gurneys, the annoying crying. Though more importantly, as a horseman of the Apocalypse, the concept of saving a life and preserving it, as opposed to simply taking it and leaving it be was something of a conundrum for him.
He wouldn't bat an eyelash if a mortal died, but his own fellow horsemen would not get the same treatment. If War was bleeding in his arms, would he let her bleed to death, or save her? That was a fate he didn't want to think about.
Famine let his eyes roam the area, jumping from wall to bottles, and then back to Mordred's face. There was a question in his gaze, but it went unvoiced.
"As do I," the former knight responded, pulling out the gun and sliding the cartridge in with a practiced ease. Standing, he flicked off the safety and held up the gun to show it to Famine. "Walther, P-twenty-two series. Have you ever shot one before?" He felt it was best to get that out of the way before assuming they both knew what they were doing. While it would be silly to say he didn't want there to be any accidents, considering, he would be honest in saying he wouldn't want Famine to inadvertently hurt himself. Though for a religious man like Mordred the irony of meeting his end at the end of a horseman seemed oddly fitting, while that horseman meeting his demise due to a rookie mistake would not.
Noticing the question in the redhead's eyes, Mordred pulled on his goggles and took aim at a tin can, squeezing off two rounds and watching as they sent the can flying off the wall. He smirked, probably the most alive he'd looked so far.
"We'll be doing some plinking, since I didn't think you'd want to go shooting ducks or something equally insipid." Not that he felt Famine wouldn't, just that this would be easier.
He'd received a shake of the head at the inquiry, and more silence until the shots had gone off and the cans had gone a-flying. Famine snorted, though, at the duck comment. "I'd be lying if I said I've never wanted to shoot a bird. Pigeons are fucking annoying."
His childhood had seen many rocks thrown at wild animals. Among other things. He hadn't exactly been a normal child, one who participated in normal childish things. Once, he'd even picked a bird apart with a rock, out of some morbid curiosity to see what organs lay inside.
Death would always be an inevitable part of his life, no matter the reincarnation. There was no avoiding it, just like there was no stopping it. And having been accustomed to it, he knew, like he knew of the danger lingering on the wind, that something bad was going to happen that day.
Eyebrows raising slightly at the head shake, Mordred was actually surprised to discover that Famine had no experience with a handgun. He'd assumed the horseman had handled at least one gun over the course of his life, even if it was just a BB gun.
"I agree, pigeons are annoying. If you end up liking handling a gun it's not exactly difficult to get a license to carry, depending upon whether or not you have a police record." He had the impression that Famine didn't, though he wasn't actually sure. "Well then, come here, and I'll teach you the basics." He offered the gun after setting the safety.
Once he was sure Famine could successfully hit a target he'd enact his plan, though it wasn't too early to start. "I'm surprised your siblings let you out of your cage to spend time with me, aren't they a bit touchy about you screwing about outside the inner circle?"
Slender fingers slid around the pistol's grip, holding it firmly, but not up at a target just yet. Instead, Famine glanced up at said target. "Pestilence wasn't home when I left. And it's not like I would've told him I agreed to meet you so you could fuck me in the back of your car, though I'm sure that's what he would've imagined anyway." They were, as it so happened, extremely possessive of one another. That would never change.
But as long as one knew where to draw the line when it came to loyalty, he could be alright with his siblings messing around. After Pestilence's little fuck up, however, he'd made it his goal to check out every mortal or immortal his siblings became interested in, and only then would he approve of them.
They were the only family they had. Not family by blood, but by a purpose, a cause. Tied together by death and destruction. All four of them were killing machines, released only to bring the world to an end.
And maybe that was why Mordred could trust him so wholly to do the deed.
Laughing shortly as he reached out and adjusted Famine's grip on the gun, tweaking here and there and making sure everything looked as it should be, Mordred let his fingers brush against the other man's for a beat longer than what could be considered comfortable for anyone regardless of their relationship. "Should we go do that then, so you can assure him the reality was far better than anything his imagination could conjure up?" He kept his voice low as he murmured the statement, taking the opportunity to straighten the shorter man's posture.
He was both amused and saddened that Famine could speak of his relationship with his siblings with such surety when he himself currently had no idea where he stood with anyone anymore. The bonds he had felt the strongest had changed the instant his favorite brother asked for someone else, and nothing could change that.
He felt hollow, as though even being here attempting to enjoy Famine's company was just an act. He willed the horseman to catch on quickly as he tried to think of ways to anger him enough that giving him a loaded gun would lead to the inevitable wanted conclusion. "That sister of yours, War, is quite the hot piece. I bet she's a biter, eh?"
Not that he had any interest in diddling Famine's family members. He just wanted to see what reaction he'd get to hinting he might consider it.
Famine might have rolled his eyes if he'd been an eye roller, but instead turned his head to catch the other's gaze for a second. "We can go polish off your gun when we're done here," he jokingly offered, not attempting the smile that was already in his eyes.
But it was gone by the time War's name had come up. Talking about his siblings could be a real soft spot for him, he who rarely got miffed by words alone, though for now, Mordred hadn't said enough to encourage him to put a bullet through his cranium.
A shot rang out, the bullet just barely missing one of the cans and nicking it instead to send it to the right about half an inch.
"She is. At least with me."
Mordred grinned with an almost boyish cuteness at the response, enjoying the easy banter he could engage in when around Famine. "Something tells me I might need to teach you how to properly polish a sophisticated weapon like mine, with how long it's been." Not that they'd be getting around to anything like that today.
The way the other man reacted to the comment about his sister was enough to give Mordred hope that he was starting to hit a nerve, but he decided to keep poking around. In a strange way he was enjoying the challenge of seeing if he could get Famine to crack, but when it really came down to it part of him felt terrible for putting a friend in this position.
"Not bad, you hit the target at least." Mordred kept his voice thoughtful. "Try closing one eye, and taking a breath before squeezing the trigger."
He waited a moment before commenting again. "Think she might be like that with me?"
The slow look that Famine gave him was indicative enough that he was going down a dangerous path, talking so casually about his sister like that. As though he was asking to get pistol whipped. Normally, Mordred knew well enough to keep away from the topic of the other horsemen, allowing the one next to him to make most of the commentary, but this? Was strange.
Somehow, it felt like he'd walked into a trap of some sort.
"She'd rather slit your throat," he pointed out in a guarded, almost suspicious, tone, tearing his gaze away in order to follow those instructions. The can went down this time, toppling over the side of the wall.
Ah yes, there it was - the type of look that Mordred just knew was a precursor to some sort of violent retribution. The tone that accompanied Famine's words gave Mordred the impression that his companion was growing aware of the fact that this might be an attempt on Mordred's part to bait him, but that wasn't going to stop the former knight from continuing.
"Pity, that. Of all you horsemen she's the only one other than you I'd consider shagging."
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of smokes and lighting one up, casually offering it to the other man as he clapped. "You hit it, on your second try. I'm impressed. Think you could do that with a moving target?"
The cigarette was glanced at, but otherwise ignored. Famine might have been many things, but he wasn't stupid. Details could often escape him, though he could pick up on something after a while -- like someone he considered a friend making unnecessary comments about the other horsemen when he knew it would provoke an unkind reaction.
He'd thought they'd had a mutual respect for one another, and in that sense he hadn't said anything about the man's brothers, but evidently he'd been wrong.
The barrel of the gun was directed toward the ground, those green eyes wary and watchful. Distrustful.
"Are you going to get up on the wall to dance and let me shoot at you?" It was said casually enough so as not to imply that Mordred would suffer a similar fate sometime soon anyway.
The comment, casual as it was, earned a round of sardonic laughter from Mordred. Shaking his head as he look a long puff from the cigarette, he idly wondered if his friendship with Famine would have been able to stand the test of time. He honestly hoped that had things been different it would have, but now that he was contemplating the end of his days he couldn't allow such thoughts to hold him back.
He'd thought of Famine as a kindred spirit, someone who he could be himself around without worrying that the other would judge him too harshly. And even if he did, those judgments could be a wake-up call to him, helping him see what fat he needed to trim to become exactly who he wanted to be.
"Fuck no, if you want to shoot me I'd rather you just come over here and do it." He stared at Famine with a manic glee dancing in his eyes. "Better chance of you not missing that way, though I am bigger than a tin can."
A short silence lapsed before the slim horseman reached up to remove the goggles from his face and drop them to the ground below. So that's what it was. Finally, it had dawned on him, and maybe it was expected of him to catch on.
"You didn't bring me here to shoot at a bunch of cans, did you?" It wasn't a question, but moreso a statement. An assertion of what had occurred to him while he stood there, the only one with a gun in his hand. That something that didn't sit right had been realized: the comments on Brooklyn's post, the mention of going for a 'dip' when he couldn't swim.
"Did you bring me here to shoot you?"
A slow clap was the only response he felt fit to give as he finished off the cigarette, the column of ash falling from where the cancer stick was perched between his lips. Pulling off his own goggles as he let go of the smoke and stubbed it out with his boot, Mordred gave a slight shrug before he trusted himself to speak.
"The cans could be considered practice, so in a way I did." It wasn't as if he could have just asked the other man to shoot him, a situation like this needed to be handled with a bit of delicacy, and if Famine had been aware of the true intent of the trip before agreeing he might have changed his mind. In his mind Mordred deserved this; for not protecting Vaine, for not dying when he should have, for generally being himself.
"Can't very well shoot myself, now can I?"
Famine quietly watched him, as though he'd find an answer written somewhere in Mordred's face. It was bizarre, being asked out here so suddenly to kill him. What sort of issues would a person have to go through to consider death their only remaining option? Maybe they were reincarnations, but that didn't ensure they'd come right back in the next year, in the next ten years.
They were recycled beings, constantly being killed and reborn, killed and reborn. But to end it this way? He didn't understand.
His eyebrows furrowed into the slightest of frowns. "People do it all the time."
Mordred wasn't exactly in his right mind, possibly not even in his left one either, so the only answers that Famine might find in his face were swallowed by the demons that had taken up permanent residence in his addled brain. His smile a bit too bright as he laughed in a disturbingly cheerful cadence, quirked ever-so-slightly at the statement.
This was not what he had expected to happen, Famine to be arguing with him. Then again, he realized a little too late he probably should have continued baiting him first.
"Yes, they do, but I cannot. You have to do it for me." He stalked over to the shorter man, grabbing his hand and forcing the gun up towards his face. "If I do it then it's a sin."
Not for the first time that day, Famine's gaze hardened, but he didn't yank his hand back, merely tightened his hold on the grip. "Didn't stop you from trying to drown yourself in the Hudson." Which was why this decision made little sense to him, but he didn't dwell on it. He didn't care about sinning. He didn't care about church. That was for Hayden to care about.
The boy straightened his wrist, pressing the cold barrel of the gun into the other's forehead. "And I don't appreciate being used, Mordred."
Brushing off the remark, Mordred's eyes danced merrily as a self-righteous smirk curved his lips. It was an astute observation on Famine's part, but like everything he undertook Mordred had an explanation. "That wasn't the same, I knew that nobody there would let me drown. I was simply testing my resolve." He wouldn't give his destiny the satisfaction of having him die on their terms anyway; this was his way of taking his life into his own hands.
The coolness of the gun against his forehead gave Mordred the first taste of peace he'd had in nearly a week. "Then you'll have no problem making me pay for trying it, right Famine?"
There was a look in the horseman's eyes that could have been mistaken for sadness. Or as close the sadness as he would allow. Pitiless as he could be, Mordred was one of the first people he could have considered a friend. They were like kindred spirits, similar in some ways, complementary in others.
But Famine never hesitated with anything, and something like remorse wouldn't hold him back.
"It's too bad we have to stop being friends. I liked you," he revealed, adjusting his finger on the trigger.
And then he pulled it.
Conversely, on the knight's face was an almost blissful look, as though he was preparing to go to sleep. Nodding slightly as he acknowledged the look in Famine's eye, Mordred wished there was some way he could assure the horseman that he felt the same. Words were failing him, and at the risk of sounding trite he knew nothing he could say would change the outcome.
To Mordred the idea of Famine clinging to any remorse for long would have been fascinating if he wasn't confused by the sentiment. "I liked you as well, hence why I want you to do this," he murmured tenderly, closing his eyes.
He could hear the click of the trigger, the soft hiss of the firing pin being ignited, and then... nothing. Worried blue eyes flew open as he wrenched the gun from Famine's grip, staring down the barrel for a few moments before he just started laughing.
Feeling rather the opposite of amused, Famine remained just where he was, closing that now-free hand up. Of all the possibilities he'd imagined outside of Mordred crumpling from a bullet hole to the temple, the gun malfunctioning hadn't occurred. He had no idea what it meant, that the bullet just hadn't come out, but evidently it hadn't been from a lack of experience.
Whatever it was, the knight had the gun in his possession. And he wasn't about to wrestle it from him to try again.
"Obviously someone else likes you as well." A hand was dipped into his back pocket to pull out his own cigarettes. "It's not your day to die, Sir Mordred," he muttered around a stick, lighting it up soon after.
Laughter quickly turned to tears, which Mordred allowed to run unchecked down his face as he quickly dismantled the gun to see a bullet still sitting in the chamber. Crouching down to get his cleaning supplies, he was able to dislodge the ineffective piece of metal and examine it, shaking his head as he looked up at Famine with an incredulous expression on his face, as if unsure about what had just occurred.
"It was a squib," he breathed out, assuming Famine would know what it meant. Standing, he grasped the horseman's wrist and turned his hand palm up, dropping the spent round into it.
"The bullet was a fucking dud." He was now laughing again, tears still streaming down his cheeks as he seemed incapable of comprehending the situation. "How can this be? I wanted it so badly, Famine..." he choked out, one hand grasping at his own hair. "I'm just so sick of all of it, but if it's not my time then so be it..." he said, his tone lacking conviction.
Of course, the younger man didn't know. He assumed, however, that this 'squib' must have been the bullet that didn't exit the gun, the one that should've gone through Mordred's head, and it was confirmed with the other's next words. Well, so be it, as he said. Famine tucked the round into his jeans pocket, as though intending to keep it for later, which he did.
The burning cigarette was held off to the side for a moment, tendrils of smoke swirling in the air. Tears. What the fuck. "You know, Death would have been more suited for this. She's the last horseman, the taker of last breaths. Do you have an inappropriate comment you'd like to make about her, too?"
Fire seared at the tip with an inhale as Famine watched him carefully, still slightly on edge and expecting further goading. In which case he would introduce his fist to that tear-streaked face.
Embarrassed now, the older of the two let go of his hair and swiped hastily at the moisture still clinging to his cheeks. He couldn't believe that he was so overcome that he'd started crying in front of Famine, such weak actions completely contrary to the sudden resolve he was feeling after all that. It was like the horseman had said, someone else obviously liked him as well, and that someone else was giving him another chance to not waste his life so foolishly.
The madness that had gripped his heart so tightly before seeped from his eyes as Mordred slouched, lighting up a fresh smoke. "I don't know Death like I know you, and as such don't trust her. And I'd apologize for all that crap I spewed, but it got the desired result." He did have the grace to shrug as he met Famine's eyes once again, the unspoken regret for his words visible in his eyes.
For a minute all Mordred could do was puff on his cigarette as he studied Famine's face, wondering if he had wrecked the only real friendship he had managed to develop. Were he in Famine's shoes he'd have been walking away by now, but then again he always was the type to act without thinking.
It took a few paces and a couple of fluid movements to reach up and snag the scarf wrapped around Mordred's neck, to yank him a touch closer so that their one and a half inch difference was no longer one inch.
"Let me make this clear for you," Famine started in a low, dangerous tone. One that suggested an unhappiness in that deadpan expression. "If you want to keep trusting me, that's fine. So trust this: if you ever bring my siblings up in a way that I don't like again, even if it's a joke, I'm going to rip your nails from your fingers and make you swallow them."
The knight was brought so close that their faces were only mere inches apart.
"Do we have an understanding?"
It took every ounce of will the knight had to keep himself from smirking or showing any sign that he wasn't even the least bit amused by Famine's actions, though he schooled his expression into a properly chastened one out of a need to appease the horseman so that he wouldn't yank the now-tentative friendship they both claimed to feel away.
"We do, you've made your point quite effectively," Mordred responded, no hint of the inner mirth he was feeling evident in his voice. "I would expect nothing less from a devoted and loyal sibling such as yourself, and might I say I could only dream of having siblings who would be as fierce as you and yours have proven yourselves to be. Woe betide anyone who doesn't understand the depths of your familial bonds."
The horseman might have been surprised to know that the sincerity in Mordred's tone was genuine.
"I envy your siblings, and you, for your closeness."
The scarf wasn't released quite yet, though the hold on it lessened. "When you're standing at the end of the world, you value the people who stand next to you when you're there. The people who will always have your back no matter what stupid thing you do, who'll do anything to protect you."
Famine dropped his cigarette to snuff it out. "War, Pestilence, Death and I have to be close because we're really all each other has." Though the words themselves might have sounded despairing, he felt anything but.
He glanced up into those lovely blues again. "So who do you want standing next to you when the world ends, Mordred?"
The question, especially followed by the simple declaration that had come before it, gave Mordred pause. If this had been asked of him even just a week ago he wouldn't have needed to think before giving an answer, but after everything that had happened now he wasn't so sure.
Mordred's eyes darkened slightly in response to his inner-turmoil, brow furrowing as he considered what he was about to say. "I wish I could say that I'd want my brother Agravaine there, since he was always the one who I thought myself closest to, but I know now that's not the case." He smiled sadly, as if accepting this as fact.
"Truth to be told, when my world ended the first time I was alone, and that's how I expect things to be when the time comes again, Famine."
Those fingers slid away from his neck, brushing coat on the way down. "How often do you do this, feel sorry for yourself? It doesn't change anything." Famine sounded far from pitying -- it was that he didn't understand the concept of loneliness when he had the other horsemen. Of feeling sorry for oneself, or like there was nothing else to live for.
It was bizarre how he could feel connected to Mordred, and yet be completely different from him in so many ways.
Human as he now was, it wouldn't change the fact that once, he was nothing but a creature of darkness, summoned from a scroll to deliver death and chaos at the end of days. There were a handful of emotions, of concepts that he couldn't always grasp outside of what he accepted to be natural with the other horsemen: friendship, shame, love, sorrow, self-pity, hesitation, remorse. Though his conscience had shone through earlier, it hadn't stopped him from attempting to put a bullet in Mordred's head.
After all, he was only human. As unfortunate a fate that appeared to be.
Automatically reaching up to make sure nothing was out of place, he glanced at his companion. "Usually once a year, around my birthday. I shouldn't be alive, you know," Mordred said by way of explanation -- it felt almost nice to be asked about it and to have a reason to discuss it. He'd attempted to speak to others about it but most shied away from the topic or used basic platitudes to explain what he knew shouldn't be but was. It was less self-pity and more a need to tempt fate that he was feeling, though fate never seemed to get it right.
It wasn't as though he expected understanding from Famine, though that didn't make him any less willing to discuss his motivations.
Despite the ways he had changed from the angry bastard he had been before there would always be that ache for the life he felt was stolen from him. There would always be those questions that while pointless to consider plagued his dreams and whispered at him from the back if his mind as if they could somehow be answered this time. Incessant questions like would his father knowing of his existence earlier have changed anything, and would he have been happier being a son of Lot and not who he was? Unlike Famine, who had the other horsemen to lean upon, there was no one out there from his own time who could understand and empathize with him over what growing up Mordred was like.
Much as he loathed it, he was a child of prophecy, the one who brought down Camelot.
It was different for Famine, who technically had no 'growing up' phase. He'd been released from a seal in a book, full-grown and accompanied by his black steed. The only real suffering he knew was the suffering he caused others. This mortal life was something else, but still he was indifferent to the troubles he went through as a child. Name-calling, teasing -- kids being kids. He'd been impassive to most to it, maybe a bit more cold-hearted and frightful than a young boy should have been.
Some could probably say that he was still as frightful.
He tilted his head slightly at Mordred's words. "I can try shooting you again." It was said with such nonchalance, it was as though he didn't just suggest homicide. "Right in the heart, so it wouldn't miss," he elaborated further, pressing a palm to the knight's heart through his coat.
"Though I've always been more of a hands-on person, if you'd prefer to get strangled instead." The other hand drifted up, slender fingers hovering dangerously by Mordred's covered throat. Teasing, but likely to strike out with a snake's speed if needed.
No matter what life of Mordred's one might consider, the fact remained that he never really had a true childhood. There was always some wrinkle in his life that made him have to grow up sooner than he would have liked to. He had always been mature for his age even before he knew what that meant, and had more to deal with than just petty playground squabbles. He never really cared about the usual kid pasttimes, preferring to work and prove himself instead.
Even now, his ideas of what counted as fun were a bit screwy.
A lopsided grin twisted his lips at Famine's words. "I'd rather you not, I'm over that urge now. " He did however nod slightly, as if he was touched the horseman would offer to try again. "While I've not doubt you could do it I should probably clean the gun first." Though, he couldn't deny wondering what would happen if they tried again.
"I'll keep that in mind for next time I decide to see about ending my life." Not that he assumed the offer would stand for that long. Famine seemed the type to get bored easily. "I suppose I should thank you for coming out here with me, even if I got you here under false pretences."
Famine let his hovering hand fall away, like he'd been disappointed by the answer. His other, however, remained against the taller boy's heart, as if he was hoping to feel it beat against his palm. To feel that life, the one that still remained, in his hand.
Life could be so fleeting, really.
"You could have said it straight out," he reasoned, straightening his neck again. "What happened to 'Hi Famine, you feel like coming out to shoot me in the face?'"
Mordred nearly reached out for that hovering hand, wanting to take it and press his lips to the cool palm, but he didn't. Instead, he let one hand cover the one over his heart, as if feeling the light pressure of the other's hand against his chest was keeping him rooted in reality for the moment. It was almost as if he was reading more into the gesture than what it really meant.
That small bit of contact, however slight it was, made him feel more alive.
"Much as that would have been easier imagine your disappointment if I couldn't go through with it," he responded, matter-of-factly. "I didn't want to give you the chance to say no."
The slight horseman took a step closer, moving until their faces were literally a breath apart. His fingers clenched into the material of Mordred's coat, gripping tight, though not yanking him forward to eliminate all proximity.
"I would have shot you anyway," came his whisper, quiet and sincere. A week prior, his sister had called him a sadist, and she was right -- he preferred to see others in pain, moreso than he enjoyed being in pain himself. But terrifying as he might have been as a child, he'd never killed a live person. Small animals had been his main target, even when he wished for the demise of many.
If Mordred had asked it to his face to shoot him, he would have said yes. And if he had gotten cold feet, the answer would not have changed. The idea of killing someone who had nothing left to live for was not as exciting as the prospect of taking a life that didn't wish to be taken.
Mortal as he was in this life, he would always be the black horseman at heart.
The display from the horseman surprised the knight, mainly because he was unsure of where they stood now. Had he lost a friend, or did they just hit a bump in the road? He couldn't say, as his understanding of these types of relationships was rudimentary at best.
"That doesn't surprise me," was all Mordred could think to say in that moment. The words, and the honesty behind them, were all he needed to hear to know that regardless of how this turned out he'd made the right choice in trusting the horseman over someone who might have attempted to talk him out of what he'd been planning. And all things considered, there was a part of Mordred which still very much wanted to die, just the gun had decided it wasn't his time.
Still, the idea of asking Famine to his face to do the job hadn't struck Mordred as being the right way to go about it, more due to wanting the moment itself to be more primal than planned. If Famine had been aware of the plan it would have made things feel awkward to Mordred.
If it hadn't been for the random misfire of the gun, this would have been a well-planned death attempt.
Famine retracted completely, backing up about three steps as though he hadn't just invaded the man's personal space. Not that it was much personal when he'd shared it with him before. He might have been tempted to grab another smoke, but decided his nicotine addiction could wait for another half hour.
"So what now?" he questioned in the direction of the row of bottles, unconsciously trying to figure out how often this place had been used for target practice. Eventually, his gaze fell to the gun case.
Mordred sighed imperceptibly, already missing the brief contact he'd had with the horseman. He felt more than ever like he needed the little gestures that showed without words that someone might care for him even though he knew that he wasn't anything of import to the other man. It still felt nice, in its own way, to have someone there who didn't seem judgmental about what had just gone on.
"I suppose I could give the gun a quick cleaning and we could use up the rest of the ammo." As he spoke he picked up the weapon again, pulling out the cartridge and checking to see how many bullets were left. "I'd even let you shoot me in the leg or something."
It was interesting how, after what had transpired, they could fall back into the motions of normalcy. Not one to ever feel awkward, Famine merely accepted that the opportunity had passed, and that the only thing left on his mind was whether or not War and Pestilence would be upset he couldn't paint the grass with the knight's brain.
The offer had green eyes shifting back over to Mordred face's, and then eventually down to his upper thigh.
Yeah, that could be acceptable.
DATE/TIME: Sunday morning
LOCATION: Remote shooting range
RATING: Highish
WARNINGS: Implied violence. Attempted murder, and mentions of suicide.
SUMMARY: Mordred has a plan, but he needs a certain someone to carry it out.
The car ride up to the outdoor shooting range that Mordred favored was mostly quiet. Not a bad lack of noise, but the comfortable sort of silence that exists when there's no need for words. While Mordred was behaving more or less like his usual self Famine might have been able to notice the subtle clues that would indicate something about the man wasn't right; the tension in his jaw, the whiteness of his knuckles as they clenched the steering wheel, and the slight wildness that was lingering in his eyes.
Parking the car, he reached back to grab the case holding his handgun. He'd only brought one because the others were still at Agravaine's and he was loathe to go to his brothers' apartment without him there. Getting out, he waited for Famine before locking the car, indicating for the younger man to follow him.
Silences while driving, or silences in general, were things that Famine didn't really mind. If someone didn't want to talk, then they didn't want to talk. He might have expected the ex-knight to say more considering how insistent he'd been to reach out to the horseman, but he didn't pry. Only glanced over once in a while, silent and observing.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he trailed after Mordred as prompted, a step or two behind him in the next silence that ensued. Words told a lot, but silence could speak even louder in the absence of them. He was no mind-reader, not even an expert at body language, but he knew something was up. A something that tickled the back of his neck.
Danger.
Walking up a short incline, Mordred led the way to an older-looking brick wall set up with a variety of tin cans and glass bottles. He shot a slight grin in Famine's direction as he set down the case, crouching beside it and pulling out two sets of goggles. Holding one up to the horseman, he cleared his throat.
"Thank you for agreeing to see me today. I just needed to get out of the hospital." He offered up a look that inferred he expected Famine to understand, though even if he didn't Mordred really didn't care. He had brought them out here for a reason, one that he was certain Famine would have little difficulty pulling off.
If there was anyone he trusted that would be capable of killing him, it was a horseman.
"I hate hospitals," the slighter boy supplied, accepting the goggles and giving them a raised eyebrow. Not because he cared if they looked hilarious on him, but because he didn't know one needed goggles to go target shooting. Maybe he didn't watch enough television. He could understand the need to get away from all the machines, the squeak of gurneys, the annoying crying. Though more importantly, as a horseman of the Apocalypse, the concept of saving a life and preserving it, as opposed to simply taking it and leaving it be was something of a conundrum for him.
He wouldn't bat an eyelash if a mortal died, but his own fellow horsemen would not get the same treatment. If War was bleeding in his arms, would he let her bleed to death, or save her? That was a fate he didn't want to think about.
Famine let his eyes roam the area, jumping from wall to bottles, and then back to Mordred's face. There was a question in his gaze, but it went unvoiced.
"As do I," the former knight responded, pulling out the gun and sliding the cartridge in with a practiced ease. Standing, he flicked off the safety and held up the gun to show it to Famine. "Walther, P-twenty-two series. Have you ever shot one before?" He felt it was best to get that out of the way before assuming they both knew what they were doing. While it would be silly to say he didn't want there to be any accidents, considering, he would be honest in saying he wouldn't want Famine to inadvertently hurt himself. Though for a religious man like Mordred the irony of meeting his end at the end of a horseman seemed oddly fitting, while that horseman meeting his demise due to a rookie mistake would not.
Noticing the question in the redhead's eyes, Mordred pulled on his goggles and took aim at a tin can, squeezing off two rounds and watching as they sent the can flying off the wall. He smirked, probably the most alive he'd looked so far.
"We'll be doing some plinking, since I didn't think you'd want to go shooting ducks or something equally insipid." Not that he felt Famine wouldn't, just that this would be easier.
He'd received a shake of the head at the inquiry, and more silence until the shots had gone off and the cans had gone a-flying. Famine snorted, though, at the duck comment. "I'd be lying if I said I've never wanted to shoot a bird. Pigeons are fucking annoying."
His childhood had seen many rocks thrown at wild animals. Among other things. He hadn't exactly been a normal child, one who participated in normal childish things. Once, he'd even picked a bird apart with a rock, out of some morbid curiosity to see what organs lay inside.
Death would always be an inevitable part of his life, no matter the reincarnation. There was no avoiding it, just like there was no stopping it. And having been accustomed to it, he knew, like he knew of the danger lingering on the wind, that something bad was going to happen that day.
Eyebrows raising slightly at the head shake, Mordred was actually surprised to discover that Famine had no experience with a handgun. He'd assumed the horseman had handled at least one gun over the course of his life, even if it was just a BB gun.
"I agree, pigeons are annoying. If you end up liking handling a gun it's not exactly difficult to get a license to carry, depending upon whether or not you have a police record." He had the impression that Famine didn't, though he wasn't actually sure. "Well then, come here, and I'll teach you the basics." He offered the gun after setting the safety.
Once he was sure Famine could successfully hit a target he'd enact his plan, though it wasn't too early to start. "I'm surprised your siblings let you out of your cage to spend time with me, aren't they a bit touchy about you screwing about outside the inner circle?"
Slender fingers slid around the pistol's grip, holding it firmly, but not up at a target just yet. Instead, Famine glanced up at said target. "Pestilence wasn't home when I left. And it's not like I would've told him I agreed to meet you so you could fuck me in the back of your car, though I'm sure that's what he would've imagined anyway." They were, as it so happened, extremely possessive of one another. That would never change.
But as long as one knew where to draw the line when it came to loyalty, he could be alright with his siblings messing around. After Pestilence's little fuck up, however, he'd made it his goal to check out every mortal or immortal his siblings became interested in, and only then would he approve of them.
They were the only family they had. Not family by blood, but by a purpose, a cause. Tied together by death and destruction. All four of them were killing machines, released only to bring the world to an end.
And maybe that was why Mordred could trust him so wholly to do the deed.
Laughing shortly as he reached out and adjusted Famine's grip on the gun, tweaking here and there and making sure everything looked as it should be, Mordred let his fingers brush against the other man's for a beat longer than what could be considered comfortable for anyone regardless of their relationship. "Should we go do that then, so you can assure him the reality was far better than anything his imagination could conjure up?" He kept his voice low as he murmured the statement, taking the opportunity to straighten the shorter man's posture.
He was both amused and saddened that Famine could speak of his relationship with his siblings with such surety when he himself currently had no idea where he stood with anyone anymore. The bonds he had felt the strongest had changed the instant his favorite brother asked for someone else, and nothing could change that.
He felt hollow, as though even being here attempting to enjoy Famine's company was just an act. He willed the horseman to catch on quickly as he tried to think of ways to anger him enough that giving him a loaded gun would lead to the inevitable wanted conclusion. "That sister of yours, War, is quite the hot piece. I bet she's a biter, eh?"
Not that he had any interest in diddling Famine's family members. He just wanted to see what reaction he'd get to hinting he might consider it.
Famine might have rolled his eyes if he'd been an eye roller, but instead turned his head to catch the other's gaze for a second. "We can go polish off your gun when we're done here," he jokingly offered, not attempting the smile that was already in his eyes.
But it was gone by the time War's name had come up. Talking about his siblings could be a real soft spot for him, he who rarely got miffed by words alone, though for now, Mordred hadn't said enough to encourage him to put a bullet through his cranium.
A shot rang out, the bullet just barely missing one of the cans and nicking it instead to send it to the right about half an inch.
"She is. At least with me."
Mordred grinned with an almost boyish cuteness at the response, enjoying the easy banter he could engage in when around Famine. "Something tells me I might need to teach you how to properly polish a sophisticated weapon like mine, with how long it's been." Not that they'd be getting around to anything like that today.
The way the other man reacted to the comment about his sister was enough to give Mordred hope that he was starting to hit a nerve, but he decided to keep poking around. In a strange way he was enjoying the challenge of seeing if he could get Famine to crack, but when it really came down to it part of him felt terrible for putting a friend in this position.
"Not bad, you hit the target at least." Mordred kept his voice thoughtful. "Try closing one eye, and taking a breath before squeezing the trigger."
He waited a moment before commenting again. "Think she might be like that with me?"
The slow look that Famine gave him was indicative enough that he was going down a dangerous path, talking so casually about his sister like that. As though he was asking to get pistol whipped. Normally, Mordred knew well enough to keep away from the topic of the other horsemen, allowing the one next to him to make most of the commentary, but this? Was strange.
Somehow, it felt like he'd walked into a trap of some sort.
"She'd rather slit your throat," he pointed out in a guarded, almost suspicious, tone, tearing his gaze away in order to follow those instructions. The can went down this time, toppling over the side of the wall.
Ah yes, there it was - the type of look that Mordred just knew was a precursor to some sort of violent retribution. The tone that accompanied Famine's words gave Mordred the impression that his companion was growing aware of the fact that this might be an attempt on Mordred's part to bait him, but that wasn't going to stop the former knight from continuing.
"Pity, that. Of all you horsemen she's the only one other than you I'd consider shagging."
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of smokes and lighting one up, casually offering it to the other man as he clapped. "You hit it, on your second try. I'm impressed. Think you could do that with a moving target?"
The cigarette was glanced at, but otherwise ignored. Famine might have been many things, but he wasn't stupid. Details could often escape him, though he could pick up on something after a while -- like someone he considered a friend making unnecessary comments about the other horsemen when he knew it would provoke an unkind reaction.
He'd thought they'd had a mutual respect for one another, and in that sense he hadn't said anything about the man's brothers, but evidently he'd been wrong.
The barrel of the gun was directed toward the ground, those green eyes wary and watchful. Distrustful.
"Are you going to get up on the wall to dance and let me shoot at you?" It was said casually enough so as not to imply that Mordred would suffer a similar fate sometime soon anyway.
The comment, casual as it was, earned a round of sardonic laughter from Mordred. Shaking his head as he look a long puff from the cigarette, he idly wondered if his friendship with Famine would have been able to stand the test of time. He honestly hoped that had things been different it would have, but now that he was contemplating the end of his days he couldn't allow such thoughts to hold him back.
He'd thought of Famine as a kindred spirit, someone who he could be himself around without worrying that the other would judge him too harshly. And even if he did, those judgments could be a wake-up call to him, helping him see what fat he needed to trim to become exactly who he wanted to be.
"Fuck no, if you want to shoot me I'd rather you just come over here and do it." He stared at Famine with a manic glee dancing in his eyes. "Better chance of you not missing that way, though I am bigger than a tin can."
A short silence lapsed before the slim horseman reached up to remove the goggles from his face and drop them to the ground below. So that's what it was. Finally, it had dawned on him, and maybe it was expected of him to catch on.
"You didn't bring me here to shoot at a bunch of cans, did you?" It wasn't a question, but moreso a statement. An assertion of what had occurred to him while he stood there, the only one with a gun in his hand. That something that didn't sit right had been realized: the comments on Brooklyn's post, the mention of going for a 'dip' when he couldn't swim.
"Did you bring me here to shoot you?"
A slow clap was the only response he felt fit to give as he finished off the cigarette, the column of ash falling from where the cancer stick was perched between his lips. Pulling off his own goggles as he let go of the smoke and stubbed it out with his boot, Mordred gave a slight shrug before he trusted himself to speak.
"The cans could be considered practice, so in a way I did." It wasn't as if he could have just asked the other man to shoot him, a situation like this needed to be handled with a bit of delicacy, and if Famine had been aware of the true intent of the trip before agreeing he might have changed his mind. In his mind Mordred deserved this; for not protecting Vaine, for not dying when he should have, for generally being himself.
"Can't very well shoot myself, now can I?"
Famine quietly watched him, as though he'd find an answer written somewhere in Mordred's face. It was bizarre, being asked out here so suddenly to kill him. What sort of issues would a person have to go through to consider death their only remaining option? Maybe they were reincarnations, but that didn't ensure they'd come right back in the next year, in the next ten years.
They were recycled beings, constantly being killed and reborn, killed and reborn. But to end it this way? He didn't understand.
His eyebrows furrowed into the slightest of frowns. "People do it all the time."
Mordred wasn't exactly in his right mind, possibly not even in his left one either, so the only answers that Famine might find in his face were swallowed by the demons that had taken up permanent residence in his addled brain. His smile a bit too bright as he laughed in a disturbingly cheerful cadence, quirked ever-so-slightly at the statement.
This was not what he had expected to happen, Famine to be arguing with him. Then again, he realized a little too late he probably should have continued baiting him first.
"Yes, they do, but I cannot. You have to do it for me." He stalked over to the shorter man, grabbing his hand and forcing the gun up towards his face. "If I do it then it's a sin."
Not for the first time that day, Famine's gaze hardened, but he didn't yank his hand back, merely tightened his hold on the grip. "Didn't stop you from trying to drown yourself in the Hudson." Which was why this decision made little sense to him, but he didn't dwell on it. He didn't care about sinning. He didn't care about church. That was for Hayden to care about.
The boy straightened his wrist, pressing the cold barrel of the gun into the other's forehead. "And I don't appreciate being used, Mordred."
Brushing off the remark, Mordred's eyes danced merrily as a self-righteous smirk curved his lips. It was an astute observation on Famine's part, but like everything he undertook Mordred had an explanation. "That wasn't the same, I knew that nobody there would let me drown. I was simply testing my resolve." He wouldn't give his destiny the satisfaction of having him die on their terms anyway; this was his way of taking his life into his own hands.
The coolness of the gun against his forehead gave Mordred the first taste of peace he'd had in nearly a week. "Then you'll have no problem making me pay for trying it, right Famine?"
There was a look in the horseman's eyes that could have been mistaken for sadness. Or as close the sadness as he would allow. Pitiless as he could be, Mordred was one of the first people he could have considered a friend. They were like kindred spirits, similar in some ways, complementary in others.
But Famine never hesitated with anything, and something like remorse wouldn't hold him back.
"It's too bad we have to stop being friends. I liked you," he revealed, adjusting his finger on the trigger.
And then he pulled it.
Conversely, on the knight's face was an almost blissful look, as though he was preparing to go to sleep. Nodding slightly as he acknowledged the look in Famine's eye, Mordred wished there was some way he could assure the horseman that he felt the same. Words were failing him, and at the risk of sounding trite he knew nothing he could say would change the outcome.
To Mordred the idea of Famine clinging to any remorse for long would have been fascinating if he wasn't confused by the sentiment. "I liked you as well, hence why I want you to do this," he murmured tenderly, closing his eyes.
He could hear the click of the trigger, the soft hiss of the firing pin being ignited, and then... nothing. Worried blue eyes flew open as he wrenched the gun from Famine's grip, staring down the barrel for a few moments before he just started laughing.
Feeling rather the opposite of amused, Famine remained just where he was, closing that now-free hand up. Of all the possibilities he'd imagined outside of Mordred crumpling from a bullet hole to the temple, the gun malfunctioning hadn't occurred. He had no idea what it meant, that the bullet just hadn't come out, but evidently it hadn't been from a lack of experience.
Whatever it was, the knight had the gun in his possession. And he wasn't about to wrestle it from him to try again.
"Obviously someone else likes you as well." A hand was dipped into his back pocket to pull out his own cigarettes. "It's not your day to die, Sir Mordred," he muttered around a stick, lighting it up soon after.
Laughter quickly turned to tears, which Mordred allowed to run unchecked down his face as he quickly dismantled the gun to see a bullet still sitting in the chamber. Crouching down to get his cleaning supplies, he was able to dislodge the ineffective piece of metal and examine it, shaking his head as he looked up at Famine with an incredulous expression on his face, as if unsure about what had just occurred.
"It was a squib," he breathed out, assuming Famine would know what it meant. Standing, he grasped the horseman's wrist and turned his hand palm up, dropping the spent round into it.
"The bullet was a fucking dud." He was now laughing again, tears still streaming down his cheeks as he seemed incapable of comprehending the situation. "How can this be? I wanted it so badly, Famine..." he choked out, one hand grasping at his own hair. "I'm just so sick of all of it, but if it's not my time then so be it..." he said, his tone lacking conviction.
Of course, the younger man didn't know. He assumed, however, that this 'squib' must have been the bullet that didn't exit the gun, the one that should've gone through Mordred's head, and it was confirmed with the other's next words. Well, so be it, as he said. Famine tucked the round into his jeans pocket, as though intending to keep it for later, which he did.
The burning cigarette was held off to the side for a moment, tendrils of smoke swirling in the air. Tears. What the fuck. "You know, Death would have been more suited for this. She's the last horseman, the taker of last breaths. Do you have an inappropriate comment you'd like to make about her, too?"
Fire seared at the tip with an inhale as Famine watched him carefully, still slightly on edge and expecting further goading. In which case he would introduce his fist to that tear-streaked face.
Embarrassed now, the older of the two let go of his hair and swiped hastily at the moisture still clinging to his cheeks. He couldn't believe that he was so overcome that he'd started crying in front of Famine, such weak actions completely contrary to the sudden resolve he was feeling after all that. It was like the horseman had said, someone else obviously liked him as well, and that someone else was giving him another chance to not waste his life so foolishly.
The madness that had gripped his heart so tightly before seeped from his eyes as Mordred slouched, lighting up a fresh smoke. "I don't know Death like I know you, and as such don't trust her. And I'd apologize for all that crap I spewed, but it got the desired result." He did have the grace to shrug as he met Famine's eyes once again, the unspoken regret for his words visible in his eyes.
For a minute all Mordred could do was puff on his cigarette as he studied Famine's face, wondering if he had wrecked the only real friendship he had managed to develop. Were he in Famine's shoes he'd have been walking away by now, but then again he always was the type to act without thinking.
It took a few paces and a couple of fluid movements to reach up and snag the scarf wrapped around Mordred's neck, to yank him a touch closer so that their one and a half inch difference was no longer one inch.
"Let me make this clear for you," Famine started in a low, dangerous tone. One that suggested an unhappiness in that deadpan expression. "If you want to keep trusting me, that's fine. So trust this: if you ever bring my siblings up in a way that I don't like again, even if it's a joke, I'm going to rip your nails from your fingers and make you swallow them."
The knight was brought so close that their faces were only mere inches apart.
"Do we have an understanding?"
It took every ounce of will the knight had to keep himself from smirking or showing any sign that he wasn't even the least bit amused by Famine's actions, though he schooled his expression into a properly chastened one out of a need to appease the horseman so that he wouldn't yank the now-tentative friendship they both claimed to feel away.
"We do, you've made your point quite effectively," Mordred responded, no hint of the inner mirth he was feeling evident in his voice. "I would expect nothing less from a devoted and loyal sibling such as yourself, and might I say I could only dream of having siblings who would be as fierce as you and yours have proven yourselves to be. Woe betide anyone who doesn't understand the depths of your familial bonds."
The horseman might have been surprised to know that the sincerity in Mordred's tone was genuine.
"I envy your siblings, and you, for your closeness."
The scarf wasn't released quite yet, though the hold on it lessened. "When you're standing at the end of the world, you value the people who stand next to you when you're there. The people who will always have your back no matter what stupid thing you do, who'll do anything to protect you."
Famine dropped his cigarette to snuff it out. "War, Pestilence, Death and I have to be close because we're really all each other has." Though the words themselves might have sounded despairing, he felt anything but.
He glanced up into those lovely blues again. "So who do you want standing next to you when the world ends, Mordred?"
The question, especially followed by the simple declaration that had come before it, gave Mordred pause. If this had been asked of him even just a week ago he wouldn't have needed to think before giving an answer, but after everything that had happened now he wasn't so sure.
Mordred's eyes darkened slightly in response to his inner-turmoil, brow furrowing as he considered what he was about to say. "I wish I could say that I'd want my brother Agravaine there, since he was always the one who I thought myself closest to, but I know now that's not the case." He smiled sadly, as if accepting this as fact.
"Truth to be told, when my world ended the first time I was alone, and that's how I expect things to be when the time comes again, Famine."
Those fingers slid away from his neck, brushing coat on the way down. "How often do you do this, feel sorry for yourself? It doesn't change anything." Famine sounded far from pitying -- it was that he didn't understand the concept of loneliness when he had the other horsemen. Of feeling sorry for oneself, or like there was nothing else to live for.
It was bizarre how he could feel connected to Mordred, and yet be completely different from him in so many ways.
Human as he now was, it wouldn't change the fact that once, he was nothing but a creature of darkness, summoned from a scroll to deliver death and chaos at the end of days. There were a handful of emotions, of concepts that he couldn't always grasp outside of what he accepted to be natural with the other horsemen: friendship, shame, love, sorrow, self-pity, hesitation, remorse. Though his conscience had shone through earlier, it hadn't stopped him from attempting to put a bullet in Mordred's head.
After all, he was only human. As unfortunate a fate that appeared to be.
Automatically reaching up to make sure nothing was out of place, he glanced at his companion. "Usually once a year, around my birthday. I shouldn't be alive, you know," Mordred said by way of explanation -- it felt almost nice to be asked about it and to have a reason to discuss it. He'd attempted to speak to others about it but most shied away from the topic or used basic platitudes to explain what he knew shouldn't be but was. It was less self-pity and more a need to tempt fate that he was feeling, though fate never seemed to get it right.
It wasn't as though he expected understanding from Famine, though that didn't make him any less willing to discuss his motivations.
Despite the ways he had changed from the angry bastard he had been before there would always be that ache for the life he felt was stolen from him. There would always be those questions that while pointless to consider plagued his dreams and whispered at him from the back if his mind as if they could somehow be answered this time. Incessant questions like would his father knowing of his existence earlier have changed anything, and would he have been happier being a son of Lot and not who he was? Unlike Famine, who had the other horsemen to lean upon, there was no one out there from his own time who could understand and empathize with him over what growing up Mordred was like.
Much as he loathed it, he was a child of prophecy, the one who brought down Camelot.
It was different for Famine, who technically had no 'growing up' phase. He'd been released from a seal in a book, full-grown and accompanied by his black steed. The only real suffering he knew was the suffering he caused others. This mortal life was something else, but still he was indifferent to the troubles he went through as a child. Name-calling, teasing -- kids being kids. He'd been impassive to most to it, maybe a bit more cold-hearted and frightful than a young boy should have been.
Some could probably say that he was still as frightful.
He tilted his head slightly at Mordred's words. "I can try shooting you again." It was said with such nonchalance, it was as though he didn't just suggest homicide. "Right in the heart, so it wouldn't miss," he elaborated further, pressing a palm to the knight's heart through his coat.
"Though I've always been more of a hands-on person, if you'd prefer to get strangled instead." The other hand drifted up, slender fingers hovering dangerously by Mordred's covered throat. Teasing, but likely to strike out with a snake's speed if needed.
No matter what life of Mordred's one might consider, the fact remained that he never really had a true childhood. There was always some wrinkle in his life that made him have to grow up sooner than he would have liked to. He had always been mature for his age even before he knew what that meant, and had more to deal with than just petty playground squabbles. He never really cared about the usual kid pasttimes, preferring to work and prove himself instead.
Even now, his ideas of what counted as fun were a bit screwy.
A lopsided grin twisted his lips at Famine's words. "I'd rather you not, I'm over that urge now. " He did however nod slightly, as if he was touched the horseman would offer to try again. "While I've not doubt you could do it I should probably clean the gun first." Though, he couldn't deny wondering what would happen if they tried again.
"I'll keep that in mind for next time I decide to see about ending my life." Not that he assumed the offer would stand for that long. Famine seemed the type to get bored easily. "I suppose I should thank you for coming out here with me, even if I got you here under false pretences."
Famine let his hovering hand fall away, like he'd been disappointed by the answer. His other, however, remained against the taller boy's heart, as if he was hoping to feel it beat against his palm. To feel that life, the one that still remained, in his hand.
Life could be so fleeting, really.
"You could have said it straight out," he reasoned, straightening his neck again. "What happened to 'Hi Famine, you feel like coming out to shoot me in the face?'"
Mordred nearly reached out for that hovering hand, wanting to take it and press his lips to the cool palm, but he didn't. Instead, he let one hand cover the one over his heart, as if feeling the light pressure of the other's hand against his chest was keeping him rooted in reality for the moment. It was almost as if he was reading more into the gesture than what it really meant.
That small bit of contact, however slight it was, made him feel more alive.
"Much as that would have been easier imagine your disappointment if I couldn't go through with it," he responded, matter-of-factly. "I didn't want to give you the chance to say no."
The slight horseman took a step closer, moving until their faces were literally a breath apart. His fingers clenched into the material of Mordred's coat, gripping tight, though not yanking him forward to eliminate all proximity.
"I would have shot you anyway," came his whisper, quiet and sincere. A week prior, his sister had called him a sadist, and she was right -- he preferred to see others in pain, moreso than he enjoyed being in pain himself. But terrifying as he might have been as a child, he'd never killed a live person. Small animals had been his main target, even when he wished for the demise of many.
If Mordred had asked it to his face to shoot him, he would have said yes. And if he had gotten cold feet, the answer would not have changed. The idea of killing someone who had nothing left to live for was not as exciting as the prospect of taking a life that didn't wish to be taken.
Mortal as he was in this life, he would always be the black horseman at heart.
The display from the horseman surprised the knight, mainly because he was unsure of where they stood now. Had he lost a friend, or did they just hit a bump in the road? He couldn't say, as his understanding of these types of relationships was rudimentary at best.
"That doesn't surprise me," was all Mordred could think to say in that moment. The words, and the honesty behind them, were all he needed to hear to know that regardless of how this turned out he'd made the right choice in trusting the horseman over someone who might have attempted to talk him out of what he'd been planning. And all things considered, there was a part of Mordred which still very much wanted to die, just the gun had decided it wasn't his time.
Still, the idea of asking Famine to his face to do the job hadn't struck Mordred as being the right way to go about it, more due to wanting the moment itself to be more primal than planned. If Famine had been aware of the plan it would have made things feel awkward to Mordred.
If it hadn't been for the random misfire of the gun, this would have been a well-planned death attempt.
Famine retracted completely, backing up about three steps as though he hadn't just invaded the man's personal space. Not that it was much personal when he'd shared it with him before. He might have been tempted to grab another smoke, but decided his nicotine addiction could wait for another half hour.
"So what now?" he questioned in the direction of the row of bottles, unconsciously trying to figure out how often this place had been used for target practice. Eventually, his gaze fell to the gun case.
Mordred sighed imperceptibly, already missing the brief contact he'd had with the horseman. He felt more than ever like he needed the little gestures that showed without words that someone might care for him even though he knew that he wasn't anything of import to the other man. It still felt nice, in its own way, to have someone there who didn't seem judgmental about what had just gone on.
"I suppose I could give the gun a quick cleaning and we could use up the rest of the ammo." As he spoke he picked up the weapon again, pulling out the cartridge and checking to see how many bullets were left. "I'd even let you shoot me in the leg or something."
It was interesting how, after what had transpired, they could fall back into the motions of normalcy. Not one to ever feel awkward, Famine merely accepted that the opportunity had passed, and that the only thing left on his mind was whether or not War and Pestilence would be upset he couldn't paint the grass with the knight's brain.
The offer had green eyes shifting back over to Mordred face's, and then eventually down to his upper thigh.
Yeah, that could be acceptable.