milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Yo. Mercutio is sitting crosslegged by the fireplace, staring into the fire. One hand is tossing and catching a dagger - he doesn't seem to even be looking at it.

He's humming very quietly, a Veronan children's song.

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Mercutio's lips twitch too.

"Well, how can I be angry when my dear dead friend laughs?"

He flops onto his back.

"I will regain what is mine. In a moment."

He's not overly perturbed by the idea of an armed Patrick. In fact, he's rather interested by the concept.

"What was the purpose of thy death, then? Surely th'art a main character in thy story?"

". . .It wasn't a story. It was slander."

His jaw is tight.

"There was no purpose to my life. Why should there have been purpose in my death?"

"There is a story, then? Hmmmm."

He smiles wide.

"I shall see if Lady Bar has a copy."

"I was in the midst of searching for Mr. Ellis before my unfortunate end. I needed to speak to him concerning what he had written. Fiction or not. It was my good name that he was dragging through the weeds."

"Imagine. Calling me an American Psycho." He runs his tongue over his teeth, "Thus. Unfinished business."

"...I think that is a rather apt title, frankly."

He eyes Patrick.

"I can see nothing factually wrong with it, at least."

". . .I didn't do any of those things."

"I don't know what he wrote."

He smiles.

"What are the vicious slanders?"

"No."

Patrick would rather not speak about it. Because he would get angry. Getting angry wouldn't help at all because he does not have his usual means of expressing it-- not anymore-- being sans pulse and breath. Instead he forces himself to be blank and dead, muttering.

"It was all lies."

"At least the title was true."

He grins.

"I find it interesting, your state of non-aliveness."

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