A/N: This is for my friend lizadale on Tumblr, because she said the words 'murder suicide' and how could I not? I've never written in second person before so I'm sorry if the verb tenses are weird, I have had to correct so many of them.
This is an alternate ending for her AU where Luigi is in possession of the Chaos Heart and it's not at all being kind to him. Dimentio wants to kill him and take it from him, but he waits until it's weaker and gains Luigi's trust in the meanwhile but also falls in love with him (oops).
You don't necessarily have to read it to understand this, but you should anyway because finally, some good fucking food! (And it's definitely not quite this depressing, I'm just Extra.) Please go check out her art and writing, I beg you!
lizadale. tumblr (dotcom) /post/190284520053/out-of-curiosity-how-did-dimentio-end-up-dying
lizadale. tumblr (dotcom) /post/190124168758/ok-warning-for-a-lot-of-death-mentionmore
"My world has turned so cold but I won't cry
Cause icicles don't soften when they die
So why should I?
Why should I?
Oh, icicles don't soften when they die
They sharpen into sabers
And they stab you in the eye
Icicles don't soften when they die
They sharpen into sabers
And they stab you in the eye"
Icicles – The Scary Jokes
You kneel beside him in the living room. Blood should be soaking into the carpet, into the knees of your pants, but you'd been too precise. You hadn't even left a hole.
Polterpup is howling and viciously biting every part of you it can reach, but you barely feel it. Just a tickle of ice. With an absent wave of your hand, you send it away, like he taught you, to somewhere else. You don't really know where, you just want things to be a little quieter. (It didn't really help; the voices in your head are screaming too loudly.)
Luigi's eyes are closed, as if he's merely getting a rare good night's sleep. But his chest isn't moving, it isn't moving and hands are clawing up your throat.
He'd looked up at you as you stood there with your heel crushing his windpipe, and he'd simply closed his eyes. Hadn't even defended himself, even though you know he could have destroyed you with ease. Had been patiently waiting for it (there had been nothing but relief).
You recall the time in the kitchen when you had tried to do it, but had been so disturbed by his apathy that you'd halted immediately. He'd looked at you with disappointment, asked you why you'd stopped, and had gone back to washing the dishes when you didn't answer.
It's his fault, you try to tell yourself. He wanted you to do it. You merely granted his wish.
The weight of it is still yours.
Huh. You don't remember vomiting, but you must have at some point, because the room stinks and your throat feels like fire.
The ground gives a rough shake, and the house creaks pitifully. You don't have to look outside to know that the sky is filling with a ravenous vortex.
In all of your three-thousand-year-old wisdom, you have completely missed your opportunity to contain the Chaos Heart. You didn't even try; you forgot all about it in the terror of what you'd just done.
An unhinged laugh escapes you at the thought that the third time wasn't the charm. You don't stop laughing, you can't, because all you can think about is how disappointed he would be with you. You were supposed to catch the Heart, you were supposed to ensure that there would be something reborn after everything was gone. You didn't try, and now it was out of your control.
You clap your hands over your mouth to try and stop it, but that only muffles it. Your face is wet.
Some disassociated part of you wonders if the Heart will recognize you, if it will skip past you just to fuck you over. You don't care that the world is ending, because yours is already gone.
Do it, the voice in your head had said. End it now, before you lose yourself any further. So you'd done it, and realized too late that you'd done exactly the opposite of what you should have.
The house trembles again and something outside falls over with a crash. Without the Dark Prognosticus and Blumiere's tender heart to hinder it, The Void is progressing with its destruction of the universe at a vicious rate.
You were so terrified of becoming like him that you'd walked right into a trap you made for yourself. Right now, you understood him better than you ever had before, understood why he had wanted to tear everything apart and leave nothing but burning scraps behind.
If you did have the Heart right now, you weren't sure what you would do with it. You weren't sure if you would try to destroy it for torturing him, or if you would use it to obliterate everything that had hurt you instead.
Luigi had asked you that question, over and over again. "What are you going to do with it?" and you never responded because you didn't know. By the time you had grown well enough to start planning, you hadn't been quite so sure anymore.
You stare at his face, and you're finally able to stop laughing. You suck in a ragged breath, unable to comprehend how his expression could be so utterly serene. You hate him you hate him he used you and the months you spent here with him are a confused, howling jumble.
It's too late to think about the meanings of things anymore.
it couldn't be
Shaking, you lean closer to him, ever so slowly, watching him as if he was is the kind of person who would play such an awful prank. You rest your head on his chest and listen.
You hear nothing.
You hear nothing.
You hear nothing.
You screech and you sob until your voice breaks.
You promise that you'll do better,
that you'll try harder,
that you'll start doing things for yourself
and start helping out around the house
and you'll wrap your own feet and never ever float again
you could take it back.
You bury your face against his neck and squeeze him tightly to you. The sheer familiarity of him stabs you in the chest like an icicle.
You beg him to hold you, but he doesn't.
He's not all that warm anymore.
Everything hurts, everything hurts because you love him and you are just a stupid bastard and, oh god, you never knew anything could hurt this badly. You want to tear out your own traitor heart and throw it across the floor.
(And why not?)
And why not.
Curling against him even more tightly, you try to focus. His shirt is soaked with your tears and nothing more. Your sweatshirt (his sweatshirt really) is wet too; you think about how you stole it because it felt like a hug and it didn't pull on your limiters. You think about how he eventually gave up yelling at you to give it back and just let you have it. He'll never yell at you again.
You'll never hear his voice again.
You'll never feel him pressed against your back with his arms around you again.
You'll never take him out to eat at Brooklyn, you'll never pester him to feed you, you'll never get to kiss him and-
He'll never invite you to dance with him or baffle you with his lessons or drag you into a haunted mansion or-
(So stop it)
You stop it.
You wind your magic around your own heart and rearrange it, just like you did to him. And you are wrong about it not hurting him, or maybe you just didn't care about being precise this time.
Blood oozes from your chest and mouth and stains him. It hurts badly, but compared to his death it is but an ache. Ice creeps into your body, and spots spark into your vision. The last breath you take gurgles in your lungs.
You close your eyes and feel him there beside you. You wonder if you've actually saved him, if you've ended his suffering like some wretched angel of mercy.
You hope so.
You hope that you might have done one thing right in your life.
(You don't hear the sounds of the house being torn apart.)