A decent into hell in the most literal form. Steps made from an unfathomable substance that looks like tar, dripping to the bottom, and hard as diamond. The ceilings are high above, spikes protruding from the earth, way down, threatening to crumble and spill into the darkness.
Time passes and slows down as he makes his decent. It feels like forever and like no time has passed when he came to the end of the stairs, the floor in black and white checkered marble. His boots thundering in the hall, the high ceilings morphing into an elegant tower with each cautious step, like a gothic cathedral. A chandelier made of elegant crystal dyed black, hung overhead, the shards sharp and tinted red, swaying dangerously in invisible wind.
His bright green eyes caught movement in the middle of the room, off to the far right, where he saw a man sitting on top of an elegant throne. It was also made of the same unrecognizable material, but it gleamed in inky black, the back of the chair, tall and spiked, almost resembling a cathedral itself.
But it wasn't the throne that caught his eye the most, no matter the oddness of it, but it was the man that sat on it.
He wore his hair long, nearly to his waist, colored silver that looked to shimmer with each well placed move. With skin, white as death itself, his eyes glowed in their sockets, unearthly, the color of sunset at midnight. So eerily familiar.
He stood frozen, watching as the man stood, black cloak flowing with each fluid movement until they both stood face to face. The man with the green eyes standing warily, reminding himself why he was here, and who he needed to bargain with.
"And what brings on this visit from you, the one with hair like the starry-midnight sky and eyes that bring my mind to recall the heavens as their wide blue skies scream out for repentance?" Asked the man, eyes flickering with curiosity, His right hand ghosting at the side of the boy's face.
Pushing his mind from the spell weaving in his head, conjured by only this man's voice he knew he had found Him, "My name is Alec, I've come to find someone I've lost, to be with him again."
"Almost a boring story," the man spoke airily, "but a brighter one, oh Alexander," He said, practically purring at a new opportunity, "I believe you are looking for the one you know as Magus, the one with your hair and eyes of a Cheshire cats, and a personality to match. You two were in love, I do believe that is it, Alexander," His eyes grew giddy, yet His posture remained professional, thin lips set in a smirk.
"We were, and I want us to have that chance, to let it grow."
He nodded, as if He understood, "His life ended early, your love sooner. I do not control when a person dies, only what becomes of them. I assure you she is safe, barley an evil ounce of blood in his veins, his mind twisted yes, but whose isn't? Yet, the angels would have me cut out his tongue, or increase the medication because that boy isn't right in the head; no one is really, or for him to change. He fits perfectly here, no need to be up there, but I'll wear it on my sleeve with the promise that He is perfectly fine, I enjoyed him too much to let her suffer."
"Can you let me bring him back," Alec asked, trying not to plead, at the same time growing impatient, trying to keep a calm head. It was for Magnus, his Magnus.
"Yes, yes of course Alexander. I think a deal will suffice. Yes, a deal would do us both some good."
"How do I know I can trust you?"
"Would I lie to you Alexander, I could give it to you in spades, or do you need something to believe?"
"I just want to know that you'll do it."
"That boy is not right in the head, the world could use that, and worlds could use the two of you."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to bring me one thousand souls of one thousand evil men. Bring them to me and you can have your love. Pretty easy, simple really."
Alec faltered, "How-how do you expect me to bring you one thousand souls?"
"You kill them of course. Come now Alexander, "He tut-tut cheekily, "what is one thousand evil men for your lover? Nothing will come of you. Mortal punishment won't exist, nor will immortal so long as you complete this one little task for me."
"You wanted him back so badly, now here's your chance, it's your choice Alexander."
Rain in England leads minds to fall into nostalgia, falling into contemplating your life. Rain in New York, where everyone is rushing more, less concentrated with moonlight dangers, brings the mind to a thirsty hunger, followed by the worlds demanding for blood and violence.
Hidden in the cover of the dank dark alley he watched as a man brought in his prey, a woman in skimpy clothing and a fight for survival, even if it tore a person of dignity. The man, now groping, harsh and cruel, left himself vulnerable to the murder scene.
Hair dripping wet fell across his high collared trench coat, boots clicking down the cobble stone, hands in pockets, watching with eyes of a sinner's heart.
With a jerk of his hand he pulled the man off of the woman, ignoring both of their cries. A flick of his wrist he had the man against the brick, knife to his grubby throat. He grabbed at the man's pockets, pulling out a wallet and tossed it to the side.
"Take it and leave, you don't need to see this," he didn't turn around and waited until he heard her steps dissipate into the rain.
Another jerk of his hand and the blade slit straight through the scruffy soft skin, barley an edge to the line. A step back and the body fell, convulsing on the ground, mud splattering on his face, liquids draining into the sewer, washed away with the rain.
"Number three hundred and fifty six," he said to himself, hiding his dagger under his coat, voice lost and drowned out. He took the time to take out a little black book, all of the names written down; they only go so far to bury them in your mind. Slipping in an old photograph, he marked his place.
Alex let himself marvel in the rain. It got better…easier over time.
The first kill was the hardest. He had found a man, abusive toward his wife, and drunk outside of a pub. It was an eternal debate the whole time he watched the man. He knew he would have to finish what he started but he didn't know if he would be able to do it, either physically or emotionally be able to kill someone.
He shook as he held the knife in his hands from the devil to kill the men. When He gave him the silver weapon it looked as though it were forged by the demons themselves. It suited the purpose, there was no denying that it even held the aura that it was sculpted for killing so many men, it was nerve wracking to think too much about it. At that point he was still shaken up about what he was actually planning to do, it made his stomach churn.
And with an unsteady hand and an unwilling heart he attempted his first kill. It took too long and it was sloppy. The body shook, his fists fought, eyes mad in a drunken rage. There were so many stabs and the blood was everywhere, an inexperienced kill at best, if he didn't have the word of the leader of hell he could have easily been caught.
It got cleaner, more efficient, less messy in both the body he left behind and in the emotions that would be attached to killing. He still felt them, those pesky emotions, but he didn't let it affect him as they once did.
He often wondered if Magnus would take him after he knew what he had done for him. He was rational but knew the ways of the world and what you could find in it. Deep in his heart of hearts he knew he would love him, he would take his hand and they would have their love grow.
That knowledge was what kept him sane in the dead of night while he stared at shining stars and the lives he stole from the unworthy. It let him venture into the bright lights that cast a shadow without bursting into flames and ash. It carried him through the day and guided the extension of his arm.
Another night, a different destination. He was headed to an apartment, it was set above a simple flower shop, owned by a kind old lady and her grandson, but he wasn't after either of them. Alex had a different target. A man was living in the unused apartment above the shop. A wanderer looking for a place to stay, who found a kind woman with an attractive employee to help him find just that, and more.
This man was known for kidnapping youths, torturing them, and after he was done playing he'd leave them dead. Each and every single one of them was so young, between twelve and seventeen. This boy was sixteen, too young to die, and like his grandmother, too kind. This man had to be killed before he made his move. Save another life, maybe dozens more. Alec just had to end one life.
No one was outside at this time of night, not in a somewhat small town like this, so he moved silently and like a ghost in the mist, slipping through shadows in a silent scream.
Nothing was heard but the echoing of skin touching against metal rails as he climbed upon the fire escape, landing with a light clank on the landing, the window to his left. It was glass boarded by old wood left loose, easy to open.
The window was just big enough for Alec to climb into, the swish of his jackets blowing in the light breeze. He was in the bedroom and a light was emanating from a door inside the room, the bathroom.
Not a sound was made walking across the thick carpet. There wasn't much furniture, save for a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe, so it made maneuvering fairly simple.
A faint buzzing sound was coming from the inside; he recognized it as an electric shaver. Alec tapped the door, letting it swing open by itself. When the man didn't notice he slipped through the doorway. Slipping right behind him in the cramped confides, still unnoticed like a wavering phantom of revenge.
Alec waited his patience steady from experience. The man looked in the mirror, clouded eyes of musky brown meeting poisoned eyes, face in sudden shock, falling into confusion, but Alec caught his eyes as well, but he saw the strength and ruthlessness he used to kill, he caught it in a second and before it could transmit into body language, his knife was at the ready and already slashing at the neck.
This man was thin, the silver sliding cleanly through flesh, mouth gaping open like a fish, open and trying for air, getting none in return.
There was a thud as knees, then whole body fell onto the linoleum floor, the blue and white flower pattern line with blood through the small cracks, a puddle of red foam around the body, splaying out to make a sea.
Alec lifted his head toward the mirror, disregarding the man completely, the clean reflection was now dotted with red from when he pulled away from the neck, specks flecking onto the clean reflective surface.
"Number five hundred and twenty seven, left bleeding on the bathroom floor."
"You're something different, did you know that Alexander?" Asked a familiar voice, hollow and full of entertainment."
Alec turned around, he had just discarded his coat and leather gloves, he wore his V-neck sweater, black skinny jeans, and combat boots. He was looking out his window, marveling in the stillness and quiet, the harvest mood high in the burnt sky.
"How am I different from anyone else?"
He began walking, a steady and slow beat on the floor, heals thudding on the carpet, "You were touched by the angels Alexander, and now you've fallen from grace. You claim the bodies and souls, but it's not for money, or for any sort of fame and glory. Your whole life and you've practically avoided the light, but you were still saved," He paused, staying a few feet distance from Alec.
"They can preach all they want, they can't save us, we're the shotgun sinners and crazy-eyed jokers and in the night we walk with the dead. Any life is nothing but a dream for the dead, in life nobody really cares if you're losing yourself. Are you losing yourself Alexander?"
"I'm still me, I've just gained more experience with life and death," replied Alec, attempting to keep up with the twists and turns of the conversation.
"Yes, yes, you have, but a match has been struck to incinerate who you are, it goes hand and hand with the blade you stain. I know about this hurt and the killing jar, after all, we're both two men as God himself has made us."
"Do you remember the day when we met," he asked Alec suddenly, "How I warned you that this gets harder. Well, did it?"
A young boy stood over a freshly covered grave. Suit one or two sizes too big, not crying or shaking, he stood there silent, only too aware of who he was looking down on, how she would never be back.
He sat down, not really caring about how he'll probably get mud all over his clothes. The sky was dark that day, not black, but covered in multiple shades of gray, clouds puffy as if they had been crying for a long period of time; they completely prevented the sun from warming up saddened hearts.
Ebony hair flew in the wind, he didn't want to go back, the mansion was less of a house and more like a tomb, and he hated it. So there he sat, barley flinching from the cold or when he felt the presence of someone standing stiffly behind him.
"This only gets harder," whispered a voice in the wind.
"Dying," asked a childish voice, devoid of any emotion, beyond what a child was capable of.
"Death, life, it's all the same really, but it never gets any easier for the living."
"What about the dead?"
"That's were life begins to get better, when you slip into tragedy is when you see things that used to be ugly, grotesque things as the most lovely and beautiful."
The boy turned around, but remained seated on the cemetery ash, and with curious eyes he looked up to who he was speaking to, catching the eyes of someone he'd never seen before, eyes that stared deep into the soul, glowing deep in the stormy weather.
"What will you do? Remain ignorant to what lies inside of you, or will you accept it, even before your time comes? Find another who is as twisted as the rest of us, but you would march down the staircase to the land that is mistaken by the leaders of the self-proclaimed 'pure' to be with them again? A person always has the choice to increase their medication or embrace the sinner that most keep hidden within their closets as though that changes everything about who they are.
"I remember, you were right, there is a beauty in life when you know death, but I thought you have to die first, I was wrong," he closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for a reply, when he opened them he had those eyes of a black Tulip, holding emotions he could barely recognize, unsure if he was not used to them or He was good at concealing them from being revealed in their full extent.
"You are like shooting a bullet through a flock of doves, hidden amongst the masses; it's just a lucky chance to find someone like you. Your pages are all torn and frayed, it takes a unique person to read your book," He leaned in closer, hollow point lips to Alec's ear, "You're beautiful, Alexander, and I'm a total wreck, but those two go hand in hand. That's why you and Magnus were so good together, he was, is, beautiful, and you're a total wreck. So long and good-night Alexander."
An acclaimed killer to the public, but hidden amongst their ranks. He had his signature, the brutality, a struggle for dominance, a life or death struggle, a victim with a mourning mother and forgotten father. They were left with a forced smile, sharpened by the blade that marked them, carved their face in a sinister grin before a final blow to the chest cavity, splitting arteries of the heart.
Cocky and boastful, drinking the god's wine created using only the ripest and most intoxicating of grape vines.
Men never learn, but yet you couldn't underestimate them lest you fall into the role of prey, pushed from the pedestal of predator.
Shrouded in the alley night a figure emerged from its depths grabbing and holding tightly on a thickly muscled neck. What wasn't expected was the power of the man and before the demon marked knife could kill, his body was slammed into the brick wall, his head cracking against the stone, disorienting Alec momentarily, just enough that his grip slackened and the man was able to push off of his hold and turn the tables, strong hands knocking the knife away and gripping onto pale wrists hidden under the leather sleeves and gloves, attempting to embed them into the wall.
When Alec could refocus on the picture in front of him he was staring into oddly sober eyes, the burning flame of murder bright. Finding himself in such a vulnerable situation his heart began to race, pumping adrenaline through his system, but it was hard to maneuver when his hands were secured above his head, both strong wrists held firm by an even stronger hand.
He ceased his attempts when he felt something cold and hard against his neck, knowing instantly what it was he quit moving, trying to even out his breathing.
"Such a pretty face," hissed the voice from a cobra's tongue, "I can only imagine how you would look with a smile on your face," he leered down at Alex, placing the blade on the left side of his mouth, digging ever so lightly.
Alec calmed himself, closing his eyes when he felt the blade go in, a warm liquid flowing into his mouth, a deep copper taste filling his senses even as he counted to three in his head. When three was hit he brought up his knee into the man's crouch, taking hold of the knife and making quick work of the throat, taking the time to watch the blood flood out of his body, writing down the name of eight hundred and twenty eight.
He rested on his bed, the sheet rumpled over his legs, covered in loose sweats, one leg stretched out, the other close to his chest, his chin resting on his knee, eyes lost in contemplating thought.
In front of him was a picture of the body he missed, remembering the collision of his kiss that was so hard not to miss.
"I'm so far from you, the very hurt you sold and I'm barley holding on tonight. I'm not okay without you, and I miss you more than I did yesterday. I'll kiss your lips again once I make it through this."
Boots tapped in the hallowed halls of the church. White tiled floors, white painted wooden pews, high peaked while ceilings. Everything was white, all white. The only thing that wasn't that putrid color was the man walking out of a side door, black robe and the collar of a holy man.
"I'm not much of a poet; I'm more of a criminal in this world."
The man jumped and saw Alec, a dark and unholy mark in the pristine chapel.
"And what do you mean by this my son?"
"I've killed and taken the souls of nine hundred and nighty eight evil men. I've sold my soul to a man of unearthly wisdom and insight. I've done this all for love."
"We are often led astray by emotions and needs," said the priest, taken aback but nonetheless calm and composed.
"You would know all about letting yourself become overpowered by emotions, even of the deadly sins. Lust is an interesting thing father, especially when it is forbidden and dirty, it makes everything all the sweeter."
His eyes flickered, faltering back as Alex advanced.
"What do you want from me?"
"It's not what I want form you father, it's what I can bring back into my life by ending yours," he said simply, drawing out his weapon, smirking, face twisted from the scar pulled on the side of his left cheek, when the priest hit the wall, "Nowhere to run now I'm afraid, nothing to worry about, we all get sorted into hell, some of us will just end up burning and rotting rather than living as the dead."
He ended this as quickly as all of the others, he watched the light fade into nothing but a dim flicker of death, body splayed out under the cross, blood spilling like a water fall down the steps.
Not so white anymore.
He sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, playing with the dagger.
"Another night and I'll see you, this knife in my hands, the stains that will never come off the sheets; we'll love and laugh again. It's better off this way. Could I? Should I? If I died we'd be together, with this last night I could lie next to you."
He took the knife in a steady hand and with a deep breath he pulled up his sleeve to reveal the white flesh as he let the sharpened blade slide through the thin skin, deep into the blue vein tearing red as it met oxygen.
Alec let himself go, fall down through the hazy fog, letting his eyes glaze over life, unfocused on the gleaming rubies dripping from the knife that he had come to know.
"I've lost my fear of falling, I will be with you."
When he opened his eyes he opened them to meet with a stormy sky, such a beautiful light he had missed.
"You did all of that for me, went through so much," he whispered, hands holding each side of his face, holding him so that he could see him lying next to him, on the bed of dead rose satin. He pecked his lips with a chaste kiss, "I missed you," he said, tracing the scar on his face, "So much pain, I'm so sorry," he whispered, voice soft like the devil's choir before a crescendo into the night.
"Don't be," he whispered, voice hoarse, "I love you, I would have done anything for you."
"And now you're here, with me, just like He promised."
"Yah," Alec mumbled, carding his fingers through his hair, "I missed your kiss, you made it so hard to miss."
"Well now we have all of eternity," he said, lips curling into his signature smile.
"Forever," he agreed, smiling back, a genuine smile that was no longer stitched with a mocking bitterness that never seemed to tear away.
"Forever," whispered a satisfied voice from the air, looking down upon the two demolition lovers, content that Alex had known what do to, what so many others who had the same task had failed to accomplish, never seeing the evil inside of them, the bloody side of themselves that would set them free.
Author's Note: So, originally this was a class assignment, we had to write something based off of a song, and I went a step ahead and wrote it based off of the whole Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge album by My Chemical Romance, and I thought it would make a good (somewhat) Malec fic, even though it was originally between the characters; Alex and Katie.
So I hope you liked it, I had a lot of fun writing this.