Chapter 6: Fractured Silence & Wounded Confessions

Eric was running as though a mad dog was hot on his heels, its eyes clouded with the smoke of obsession and relentless greed to capture the one person it deemed tainted. Each breath he drew was like a shard of glass in his throat, sharp and cutting, as he bolted down the stairwell with a speed that felt inhuman. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he descended the steps, driven by a singular, desperate need to escape.

The ground floor loomed ahead, and Eric's mind raced with the idea of pushing through the stairwell door into the main lobby. Beyond it lay the safety of humanity—a bustling world where people continued their lives, blissfully unaware of the hunter's chase unfolding just beyond those walls. But as his hand reached for the cold, metal handle, a sudden thought struck him like a thunderbolt. His instincts screamed at him to divert, and without a moment's hesitation, he veered to the right and shoved open the door that led to the back alley.

The door creaked open, a sound so foreign in the silence of the night that it sent a shiver down Eric's spine. It was usually kept locked after dark, a barrier against the shadows that lurked in these narrow, forgotten spaces of the city. But tonight, it opened with surprising ease, as if some unseen force had willed it to be so. Was luck on his side? Or was someone else pulling the strings in this twisted game? Eric didn't know, and he certainly didn't have the luxury of time to ponder such questions. His only goal was to flee from the beast that chased him as if his very life depended on it.

As he stepped into the alley, the biting cold hit him like a slap to the face, slicing through the thin fabric of his shirt and chilling him to the bone. The alley was dimly lit, bathed in the weak, flickering light of a distant streetlamp that barely pierced the thick fog clinging to the city streets. The walls of the buildings loomed high on either side, casting deep shadows that seemed to close in on him, suffocating and oppressive.

Zeke was not far behind. He reached the ground floor only moments after Eric, his breath ragged and labored from the chase. The stairwell doors were shut tight, but Zeke paused for only a second, his instincts screaming at him to choose. And then, as if guided by some dark deity that revels in the torment of man, he moved towards the door on the right. His left hand pushed it open with a force born of desperation, and he stepped into the alley, his eyes immediately locking onto the figure of Eric, who was sprinting towards the far end of the narrow passage.

The sight of Eric—fleeing, fragile, and alone—fueled Zeke's desperation. He chased without hesitation, his heartbeat thundering in his ears as he closed the distance between them. Eric was running for more than just his life; he was running for his sanity, for a shred of peace that had long eluded him. The alley seemed to stretch endlessly before him, a bleak and winding path through pain and anguish.

As Eric neared the corner that would take him out of this suffocating labyrinth, the dreaded mark of the "Blutgeist Fluch" began to glow with a sickly, starlit sheen. The light was pale, almost ethereal, but it burned with an intensity that sent waves of agony through Eric's body. The pain began as a searing heat radiating from his left shoulder, just above his heart, and spread like wildfire, each pulse like a thousand needles piercing his skin, drawing blood that ran cold as ice. His heart, once racing with fear, now beat so slowly it felt like it might stop altogether. The glow was gone after a few moments as it was never there.

Eric's legs faltered under the weight of the curse, his steps growing sluggish and unsteady, as if he were an old man struggling to outrun a wild beast. The world around him blurred as his vision darkened at the edges, the pain nearly blinding him to everything but his desperate need to keep moving. He didn't want to be caught, not again. He needed to become something intangible, like the cold wind that swept through the night—unseen, untouchable, gone.

But Zeke was closing in, driven by a force even more powerful than the curse that bound them. He saw Eric stumble, his strength ebbing away like the last vestiges of a dying flame. Zeke's heart ached at the sight, torn between the pain of his own curse mark and the overwhelming need to reach out, to touch, to claim. The mark burned fiercely on his own body, every step closer to Eric intensifying the agony, yet Zeke pushed through it, his determination unwavering.

His obsession, his unrelenting desire, was more potent than any curse, more intoxicating than any pain. Where Eric ran from the bond, Zeke ran towards it, fueled by a passion that defied reason and a longing that was as deep as the ocean and as dark as the night. He could feel the chaotic swirl of emotions within him—yearning, guilt, pain, and that same maddening obsession that had driven him to this point. He didn't want to let go of it, didn't want to be free of this twisted, poisonous love.

Zeke finally caught up to Eric just as he collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving pavement of the alley. Eric's body was curled in on itself, his left hand clutching his shoulder where the curse mark burned beneath his skin, while his right hand was braced against the ground, struggling to hold up his weight. His face was hidden beneath a curtain of thick, silky hair that fell over his forehead, the blue-tipped strands glowing faintly in the dim light like the last traces of color in a dying world.

Zeke's heart shattered at the sight of him, at the sight of the one he had hurt so deeply. His own curse mark throbbed with a pain that mirrored Eric's, but Zeke barely registered it. His entire being was focused on the man before him, the man who was everything to him—his reason to live, his cause to die.

Kneeling before Eric, Zeke reached out with trembling hands, desperate to touch, to comfort, to do anything to ease the torment he had caused. His hand hovered just above Eric's, the one braced against the ground, before he dared to touch. But the moment his fingers brushed Eric's skin, the other man recoiled as if struck by a bolt of lightning, snatching his hand away as though Zeke's touch burned him.

For a moment, their eyes met. Zeke's eyes were wild, filled with a whirlwind of emotions that he could barely control. But in Eric's eyes, there was nothing but cold, empty disdain, a void that swallowed all the warmth Zeke so desperately sought.

Eric didn't give Zeke the satisfaction of a reaction. He slowly lifted himself from the ground, his movements stiff and pained, the sweat on his brow betraying the agony that still radiated from his curse mark. His right hand remained clutched to his shoulder, the burning sensation still raging beneath his skin, but with sheer force of will, he rose to his full height. He stood tall, his hands dropping to his sides, his frame imposing even in his weakened state.

Zeke followed suit, rising to his feet to face Eric head-on. They stood there, the two of them alone in the alley that now felt like the last refuge of a dying world. The night pressed in around them, thick and suffocating, the wind howling like a banshee as it whipped through the narrow passage, stealing away the warmth from their bodies.

Eric's eyes were like shards of ice, cold and unforgiving. They held no emotion, no trace of the man Zeke had once known. He was done running. He had been doing it for three years, and now, standing here in this forsaken alley, he was tired. So tired. If confrontation was inevitable, then he would face it head-on, devoid of the fear and weakness that had plagued him for so long. The burning in his eyes was the only fire left within him, but it was a fire of destruction, not of passion.

Zeke knew Eric wouldn't run anymore. He knew it in the way Eric stood there, so still, so empty. But as he searched those cold, honey-colored eyes for something—anything—that might give him hope, he found nothing. The night was deep, and the city moved on without them, oblivious to the storm of despair that raged in this desolate alley. And as they faced each other, the wind carrying away the last remnants of their warmth, it became clear that there was no going back. This was their reality—cold, cruel, and unrelenting.

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The alley was suffocatingly still, as if the world had stopped breathing. Shadows clung to the damp walls, stretching like the fingers of some unseen phantom, but Zeke could only see the man before him. Eric—so close that he could reach out and touch him, yet so distant it felt like a cruel mirage. Zeke's heart pounded in his chest, an erratic rhythm of fear and longing, his body a mere shell weighed down by the ghost of what he once was.

He had waited for this moment—dreamed of it, tortured himself with it—yet now that Eric stood before him, the words he had meticulously crafted over countless sleepless nights crumbled to ash. The blue tips of Eric's hair had dulled, the color bled out as if it could no longer bear to shine. Eric had let himself fade, let the world around him die. He had been the sun, and without him, Zeke had plunged into a cold, endless night. Zeke could feel the hatred radiating from Eric like a toxic cloud, wrapping around his heart and squeezing it until he could hardly breathe.

Zeke's throat tightened. He felt as if he were drowning, each second dragging him deeper into a void where the air was thick with unsaid apologies and unspoken desires. Eric shifted, the movement slicing through the tension like a blade. He took a step forward, intending to walk past Zeke as if he were a shadow, a figment of a past better left forgotten. But Zeke's body reacted before his mind could catch up. His hand shot out, grasping Eric's wrist with a grip that was all desperation and raw, unfiltered need. The touch sent a jolt through Zeke's body, as if he had touched a live wire, but Eric's reaction was ice cold.

With a violent jerk, Eric tore his wrist free, his face hardening into something even more distant and unfeeling. But it was his eyes—those eyes Zeke had once loved so fiercely—that shattered him. They were empty, reflecting nothing but disdain, as if Zeke were nothing more than filth from the past.

"You came to that building, didn't you? I saw you there." Zeke's voice was a tremor, the words barely escaping his tight throat. He wanted so desperately for Eric to acknowledge him, to say something—anything—that would confirm Zeke's existence. But Eric's eyes remained fixed on some point beyond Zeke, as if he were staring into a future that Zeke could never be a part of.

Eric's silence was like a dagger to Zeke's heart. It twisted and turned, slicing through his hope until there was nothing left but raw, bleeding despair. His hands shook, and he bit down hard on his lip to keep himself from crumbling completely. He had to say something—anything—to break the unbearable quiet that was driving him mad.

"Eric, please… Can you at least look at me?" His voice was fragile, laced with a desperation that bordered on madness. His heart pounded so violently he feared it might burst,. All he wanted was for Eric to acknowledge him, to see him again, to look at him with anything other than that cold, dead stare. He would take anger, hatred, even violence—anything was better than this suffocating indifference.

"Please, Eric… just look at me. You can curse me, hit me, do whatever you want. I won't fight back. I won't complain. Just… please…" Zeke's voice cracked, his breath hitching as tears he hadn't allowed himself to shed threatened to spill over.

Zeke was drowning in a sea of his own emotions. For three agonizing years, he had lived with the ghost of Eric's absence, a specter that haunted his every step, his every breath. He had tried to numb the pain with alcohol, with drugs, with anything that would dull the sharp edge of his longing, but nothing had worked. The pain was still there, gnawing at him, a relentless ache that had become a part of him.

Eric stood motionless, his expression a blank canvas, devoid of the anger or hatred that Zeke had once known. Eric didn't flinch, didn't react.

"I beg you, Eric… just look at me. I can't live like this… I won't ask for anything else… just…" Zeke's voice was a broken whisper, his hands shaking as he reached out again, grasping Eric's wrists with a grip that was both desperate and unrelenting. He tugged at him, trying to pull him back from the edge of the void that had consumed them both.

Eric's body jerked with the force of Zeke's pull, the sudden movement snapping him back to the present. His eyes flickered, the first sign of life Zeke had seen in them, but it was a flicker of something dark, something that made Zeke's heart stutter in his chest. Eric tried to pull away, but Zeke's grip tightened, his fingers digging into Eric's skin as if letting go would mean losing him forever.

But Eric was done. Done with the past, done with the pain, done with the man who had dragged him into a nightmare he had fought so hard to escape. He just wanted to forget, to move on, to leave Zeke behind in the darkness where he belonged.

Zeke's knees hit the cold pavement with a dull thud, the sharp sting barely registering against the storm raging inside him. He was now kneeling before Eric who was standing there indifferently trying to break free from Zeke's grip. But his hands gripped Eric's wrists with desperation, his knuckles white, his fingers trembling. The indifference in Eric's gaze was like a knife twisting in Zeke's chest, each twist more agonizing than the last. He could feel himself unraveling, the thin thread of his sanity snapping under the strain.

That Eric, the one who had fought him tooth and nail, who had matched him word for word, was gone. In his place was this cold, empty shell that refused to give Zeke even a flicker of recognition. It was worse than any curse, worse than any blow Eric could have struck him with. It was a rejection so complete, so absolute, that it left Zeke gasping for breath, his chest tight with the agony of it.

And with each passing second, with each moment that Eric refused to acknowledge him, Zeke felt himself slipping further and further into the darkness, into a place where nothing made sense, where everything was pain and fear and loss.

A dark, twisted thought began to take root in Zeke's mind, fueled by the fear and obsession that had consumed him for so long. It grew, coiling around his heart like a serpent, tightening its grip with each passing second. The thought was monstrous, terrifying, but Zeke was too far gone to resist it. He was drowning in his own desperation, and this—this was the only lifeline he had left.

"Eric…" Zeke's voice, once laced with pleading, now dripped with something far darker, more insidious. "You can't leave me like this. Ignore me, hate me all you want—but don't think for a second that you can escape. Wherever you go, I'll be there. You'll never outrun me." His words were venomous, laced with a twisted affection that only made his desperation more palpable.

He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed against Eric's skin. "We're bound, Eric. Fates entwined, cursed together in this… twisted reality." Zeke's voice dropped to a near-growl, the possessiveness in his tone undeniable. He watched, satisfied, as the word "cursed" hung heavy between them, sinking into the void between their bodies.

Eric's eyes flickered, just for a moment—a glimmer of something unreadable. But Zeke saw it, and it fueled the manic intensity that had already taken hold of him. He wasn't losing Eric. He couldn't. The idea of it was unthinkable, a nightmare he couldn't wake up from.

"There's no escape, Eric," Zeke's voice was insistent, a frenzied edge creeping in. "This curse, this bond—it's stronger than your hatred, stronger than your will. No matter how much you fight it, fight me, you'll never be free. We're bound together, now and forever." His voice broke slightly, trembling with the weight of his obsession. "You can't run from this, Eric. You can't run from me. And I… I won't ever let you go."

Zeke's words hung in the air, thick with a cocktail of emotions—fear, desperation, and a yearning so deep it was incomprehensible. His grip on Eric tightened, as if the physical connection could somehow anchor them both in this moment, in this shared nightmare.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Eric's eyes met Zeke's. Cold, detached—like staring into the depths of a frozen abyss. The glance was brief, but it sent a shiver down Zeke's spine. Eric's face remained impassive, his expression unchanging as Zeke's words crashed against him like waves against a stone wall. The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with unspoken tension. And then, in a voice as frigid as the night around them, Eric finally spoke, each word carefully measured, cutting through the storm of Zeke's emotions like a razor's edge.

"Even if I can't break free," Eric's tone was calm, detached, as if discussing something trivial, "I will never come to you. Not even if I have to spill my own blood."

Zeke's breath hitched, his heart hammering in his chest as Eric's words sliced through him, sharp and unforgiving. Panic surged through him, and before he could stop himself, he acted. With a maddening speed, he grabbed the back of Eric's neck, pulling him close with a force that spoke of desperation and a deep, unyielding need. His fingers, shaking, tore at Eric's shirt, ripping it open with a brutal efficiency, exposing the mark on Eric's left shoulder—their cursed bond, etched into his skin like a brand.

Eric recoiled from Zeke's touch, the sensation of his skin against Zeke's igniting a surge of disgust. Flashbacks of that night flashed through his mind, dark and haunting, that rendered him fearful of even slight touch of another skin. He felt suffocated, his breath catching in his throat as if tainted by the very contact. He felt dirty, filthy under Zeke's touch. Despite his internal turmoil, Eric's face remained a mask of cold detachment. He struggled to free himself from Zeke's hold, but Zeke's grip tightened, pulling them within mere inches of each other. In a low, husky voice, Zeke forced Eric to look at his left shoulder.

"Look at this… the curse," Zeke hissed, his voice low and fevered, as if the sight of the mark alone could prove something, could bind Eric to him in a way that nothing else could. "It's the mark of our bond, our fate—sealed in blood and pain. You belong to me, Eric. And I… I'm bound to you, for eternity. There's no escape from this. No escape from us."

Eric's gaze remained cold, unfeeling, as he turned his head away, refusing to give Zeke the satisfaction of a response. His silence was louder than any words, a rejection more final than anything Zeke could imagine.

"I won't come to you," Eric interrupted, his voice flat, emotionless. "Live your life however you wish, and keep me out of it."

Zeke's world tilted, the ground beneath him shifting as Eric's words sank in, their cold finality shattering something deep inside him. "No… No, you can't do this," Zeke's voice cracked, his hands trembling as he clutched Eric's collar, the fabric slipping through his fingers like the last vestiges of his sanity. Without thinking, driven by an obsession he couldn't control, Zeke's hand moved to the mark on Eric's shoulder. His fingers brushed against the cursed skin, and Eric flinched—just barely, but enough for Zeke to feel it. Zeke's gaze fixed on the curse as he brought his head closer.

He leaned in, his lips trembling as he pressed them to the mark. His kisses were slow, deliberate, tracing the outline of the mark with a possessiveness that was as intoxicating as it was terrifying. Eric's skin burned under Zeke's touch, a searing reminder of everything he despised, everything he wanted to escape from. Each touch felt like a violation to Eric, pushing him closer to the edge of his sanity.

The moment shattered when Eric, with a strength born of fury and desperation, shoved Zeke away with a force that sent him crashing into the wall behind him. Zeke's back hit the cold brick with a sickening thud, pain radiating through him, but he barely registered it. His eyes remained locked on Eric, wild with a mix of longing and madness.

Eric, breathing heavily, clutched his shirt tightly to his chest, covering the exposed skin as if Zeke's touch had defiled it. His eyes, dark with rage, glared at Zeke. But he said nothing, his silence a testament to the depths of his hatred.

Zeke made a move to step forward, to reach for Eric again, but he froze as the door to the alley opened, revealing a man dressed in cleaning service clothes, holding two bags of garbage. The intrusion was jarring, a stark reminder of the world outside their twisted little universe.

Eric reacted first, his movements quick and deliberate. He tightened his grip on his shirt, hiding the torn buttons as he walked past Zeke and the cleaner in a blur, disappearing into the building before Zeke could even process what was happening.

For a moment, Zeke stood frozen, his mind racing, trying to make sense of it all. Eric was gone, but the burning imprint of his presence remained, seared into Zeke's soul. He knew he couldn't follow, not here, not now. But the knowledge that Eric was close, that he hadn't truly escaped, was enough for now.

Zeke touched his lips, still tingling from the contact with Eric's skin, a faint smile creeping across his face as his eyes burned with a dangerous mix of longing and pain. He turned and walked out of the alley, his thoughts already spiraling into plans, into dark fantasies of a future where Eric would be his, in heaven or in hell.

As Eric reached his apartment, he slammed the door shut and sank to his knees, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The memory of Zeke's touch clung to him, burning into his skin like acid. With a trembling hand, he tore his shirt off, throwing it aside as if it were a venomous snake. He curled into himself, hugging his knees to his chest as he tried to steady his breathing.

But the memories came flooding back, relentless and cruel, dragging him back to the past, to the moment when Zeke had first entered his life like a storm, tearing everything apart. The weight of it all pressed down on him, suffocating him, threatening to drown him in a sea of despair.

But he refused to give in, refused to let that madman win. Even as the past clawed at his mind, even as the shadows of his nightmares loomed large, he held on to one truth—he would never belong to Zeke, not in life, not in death.

But as he sat there, trembling and alone in the darkness of his apartment, the weight of the curse bore down on him, and for the first time in a long time, Eric allowed himself to think of past. Silent tears fell, mingling with the cold sweat on his skin, as the night closed in around him, oppressive and unyielding, like the chains that bound him to a fate he never asked for.